Soul of the Age

by Hermann Hesse

  The twenty-one-year-old bookdealer’s apprentice in Tübingen: “There I struggled through the three-year apprenticeship, which was anything but easy, and remained another year as the youngest employee in the store, with a salary of eighty marks monthly”

  (Above) The Petit Cénacle. Left to right: Otto Erich Faber, Oskar Rupp, Ludwig Finckh, Carlo Hammelehle, Hesse

  We were considered decadent and modern

  And we believed it complacently.

  In reality we were young gentlemen

  Of extremely modest demeanor.

  —“To the Petit Cénacle”

  (Below) Drinking Chianti in Fiesole, 1906

  People warn you against the profession of poet,

  Also against playing the flute, the drums, the violin,

  Because riffraff of this sort

  So often tend toward drinking and frivolity.

  —From Hesse’s unpublished light verse

  In accepting my book for your press, you are fulfilling an ardent wish of mine and I shall always appreciate and be grateful for what you have done. I would also like to thank you for giving such an honest account of your impression of me. I hope we can get to know each other at some point by discussing, e.g., the Proteus of “Romanticism.” Today I can only give you a hint: I was rather ill when I wrote most of my previous work and had to steal the time and mental energy from a busy professional life. For the time being I have shelved my larger plans. But I’m sure that you will eventually discover those qualities that you find lacking in me. All I can claim by way of literary assets is my painstaking reverence for language, and especially for its musical qualities. That is the keystone of my Romanticism: loving care of the language, which I envision as a rare old violin; many qualities are required for such a violin to last and continue sounding beautiful history, training, careful maintenance by expert hands. Of course what is language without the mind! Yet “morality is self-explanatory,” according to Vischer’s Auch Einer.53 Have you noticed also how sloppy, crude, and rather stilted the ordinary language of our contemporary literati is, even of poets, as if they intended to caricature Heine today, Nietzsche tomorrow.

  But enough of that! I cordially reciprocate your greetings and those of your spouse. May the time come soon when the give-and-take between our two houses will be more equitable and less embarrassing for me than hitherto.

  TO KARL ISENBERG

  Basel, January 16, 1900

  So you’re in Tübingen once again, and I’m not there to greet you. And this time I would very much like to be there since you might well find my presence more agreeable and useful than usual! I think of you a lot and can more or less put myself in your situation. I always hated the thought of having to rest and not being able to move, and yet, when suffering from nervous problems, I’ve often longed for some rest, hoping to have nothing on my mind but my own condition and ways to get better. Maybe you’re going through something similar, in spite of all your misfortune; what’s more, you do have your bride and thus you have other positive things to think about. All of us siblings are with you in spirit, but you already know that. I can’t think of anything better than various bits and pieces about myself, some news from Basel, but you may find this more entertaining than a real exchange of ideas.

  I like it here—you already know that. And you also know that Basel, even if it has no style of its own, has its own peculiar atmosphere. The city and its people possess a real treasure trove of solid traditions—in the form of money, outward appearance, and, above all, education. Moreover, I’m realizing that there is a decent amount of artistic soil amid these pious, almost puritanical people. In the interiors of these bourgeois homes, one gets to see objects that one only sees in museums or castles elsewhere. One of the most valuable things about the museum, as far as I can judge, is that it has been assembled through private donations and includes several large private collections. What one sees is not so much an assortment of individual pieces as a series of complete collections, and though the museum as a whole is one-sided, it’s also more unified than other medium-sized museums. The great cult of Böcklin during the last ten years or so is very much in evidence. The most recent acquisitions are two sculptures by Stauffer-Bern and a splendid picture by Thoma, first-rate things, in other words. As for older objects, with the exception of Holbein, there is more in private houses than in the museum, very many Italians, among them a Leonardo, some Cranachs, etc. There is a quite charming little Böcklin in the house of Wackernagel, the archivist. That house has almost become my home. I read books there with the archivist, look at pictures with his son, discuss everything freely with his wife, play games with his older daughter, and entertain these wonderful children, who are less inhibited by the niceties of a good upbringing than most Basel children and get up to pranks occasionally. I was also there for Christmas Eve.

  Besides, I’m sharing quarters with an artist, the architect Jennen, but we seldom chat about art, since he hates talking as much as he hates writing, hardly ever reads a book, and gazes at the world through charming, bright childlike eyes; I have never seen the likes of them. We have rented three rooms together for a few months. But I don’t often see him at home; in the evenings he is always gallivanting about with company or else doing sketches. He is working on the new Gothic town hall.

  When I walk through those very familiar streets in the Spalen district, I sometimes think of the way you used to stroll along there as a high school student, while I was still a cheeky kid in kindergarten. And you have now reached quite a ripe old age![ … ]

  TO JOHANNES AND MARIE HESSE

  Basel, July 10, 1900

  My dearly beloved,

  [ … ] My ultimate goal is beauty, or “art,” if you like; I don’t believe my path is any different from yours until one gets to the decisive turning point toward a specifically Protestant form of Christianity. I can probably now accept some kind of belief in God—i.e., a belief that there is positive order in the world—but from then on the form and purpose of religion seems to be either too murky or too ignoble. I cannot believe that Luther, say, lived more nobly and died in a more blessed state than, e.g., the pagan Titian. Whereas Luther had a marvelous, hot-tempered but unpolished mind, Titian attained the kind of harmony and perfection of which the not so gentle reformer could scarcely dream.

  But we don’t want our words going round and round in circles again; we’re actually closer to one another than we realize [ … ]

  [Vitznau, mid-September 1900]

  Thanks a lot for Mama’s letter, which arrived yesterday! I have some free time to write today since I need a whole day’s rest, and cannot go hiking, etc. Yesterday, I treated myself to a ten-hour boat trip (8 to 6 o’clock) from here to Gersau, Treib, Brunnen, Rütli, Sisikon, and back again. Apart from a half-hour walk on the Rütli, I spent the entire ten hours all by myself in my boat, and so I could see the lake in every kind of light, etc. After rowing in the fog for the first half hour, the mountains started, coming into view, first the beautiful Oberbauen, which I really love, then Bürgenstock, Stanser, and Buochser Horn, then Frohnalpstock and shortly beyond Gersau the Mythen, from Brunnen past Urirotstock, the Gais Mountains, etc., between them in the distance Glärnisch, at the rear to the left Hohfluh, Vitznauer Stock, and Rigi. I took along a pair of extra oars, a small bottle of wine, and three breakfast rolls, and never left the boat all day. Everything went beautifully until Rütli, then (about 11:30 o’clock) one of the famous storms on Lake Urn caught me off guard. At first I thought it was fun, but got worried when my boat started bouncing about and confusing right side up with upside down. After the storm had seemingly reached its peak—by then I had lost an oar—I took a cue from Epicurus: Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we shall die. I used the last sip of wine to wash down the last half of a roll, then after vain attempts with countless matches, I finally lit a cigar and took my boots off so I could swim, if worse came to worst. Although that proved unnecessary, I drifted for about two, and a half hours until I
finally took a few risks battling high waves and came ashore at Sisikon. So, unfortunately, I never got as far as Flüelen. In Sisikon, I waited for a half hour (in the boat), then fought my way slowly to Brunnen, and from there things went smoothly again. Aside from these emergencies, the trip was indescribably beautiful: I rowed into every attractive inlet that struck my fancy; sometimes the sun was beating down on me in the middle of the lake; at times I was shaded by oaks and beech trees beside the shore. I’d never have thought I could keep rowing for ten hours. Of course, I could hardly move a limb yesterday evening, but the only trace I feel today is a certain heaviness in my shoulders and hands. I’m off to Basel the day after tomorrow.

  The dining-room bell is ringing—an agreeable sound in hotels—and after the meal I shall be too tired to write—so adieu. I’m gazing out the window again; the lake is sunny, dark green with blue edges, and the mountains are all clear. I have to wash the blue ink from my fingers and go eat.

  TO RUDOLF WACKERNAGEL-BURCKHARDT54

  Calw, October 19, 1902

  This is the first time in months that I have been allowed to write a letter and am up to it. My eyes have been giving me trouble since June, and I’ve been hanging around in Calw since late August, and have only recently been allowed to read and write a bit. Even though the fall was beautiful and I was quite active as a fisherman, I spent most of the time thinking things over. Illness and involuntary leisure are more conducive to thought than many a doctoral thesis.

  I also reviewed those years that I more or less squandered in Basel, and often thought of you. For your house was the only one in Basel that was something of a home away from home for me, where I enjoyed myself and felt stimulated. Forgive me for not showing up at all last year; it wasn’t just that I felt moody—most of the time I really was ill. Also, I was nervous once again at the thought of all the insufferable chattering that goes on at large evening parties, and those feelings grew so pronounced that all social occasions seemed threatening to me.

  I have been working on a novel for almost a year now, and if I keep going at the current pace, it should be ready ten to twelve years from now.55 In the meantime I have chosen a new selection of my poems, which will appear shortly.56 I felt strange when it was being printed, since the proofs were lying around, yet I wasn’t allowed to read a single line! I still find reading hard, and writing even more so. It’s strange and also sad how dependent one is on one’s body—I had wanted to let you know some of my thoughts and future plans, and I now find it so difficult to write that my attitude changes and my mood goes to the dogs whenever I’m actually confronted with the physical effort. So all I can do is give you my regards and assure you of my friendship and gratitude! Besides, I hope to see you soon since I want to try returning to Basel and my work at the beginning of November.

  The first weeks of my convalescence were idyllic, very peaceful, I spent a lot of time down by my dearly beloved water (sor acqua). Our river, with its old bridges and green banks, is quite beautiful, and it’s also well stocked with fish; I stood for day57 at the waterside, rod in hand, absorbed in the reflected colors à la Lauscher.58 If it weren’t for those nasty customs officials, etc., I’d have gladly sent you a basket of fish.

  For the moment, you’ll have to make do with these laborious scribbles. They’re only meant to prove I’m still among the living. Goodbye!

  TO STEFAN ZWEIG59

  Basel, February 5, 1903

  Thanks for your nice, friendly letter. I’m absolutely delighted that I’m going to receive your book.60

  Being a rather unsteady sort of person, I find it impossible to agree to pacts or commitments of any kind. And I don’t have what it takes to keep up a literary correspondence. Besides, at the moment my eyes, which are usually bright and restless, are very weak (I couldn’t read or write for months last year). Yet it’s not as if we were proposing marriage! So, even though I’m not a letter writer, you’ll find I’m grateful for any greetings you send or any interest you show in me, and I shall be glad to let you participate occasionally in what I’m experiencing, whether the tidings be sorrowful or joyful. But on an irregular basis and without stipulations! You know what I mean?

  There’s little enough to be said about me. Apart from a couple of love affairs, my heart has been touched more by nature and by books than by people. I love the old Italian novellas and the German Romantics, even more the cities of Italy, and most of all the mountains, streams, and ravines, sea, sky and clouds, flowers, trees, and animals. Hiking, rowing, swimming, fly-fishing are what I like best. Except that I don’t pursue them as a sportsman, but seem more a lazybones, an oddball lost in his dreams. If money ever falls into my lap, I shall probably withdraw without any farewells to an Italian village in the mountains or by the sea.

  Actually, I’m not at all antisocial. I like hanging around with children, farmers, sailors, etc., and can always be counted on to go for a few drinks in sailors’ pubs, etc. But I hate the thought of places where it’s necessary to wear gloves and choose one’s words carefully, and I’ve been strictly avoiding all such social gatherings for the last two years. During the week I work in a small secondhand bookstore; in the evenings I read or play billiards, and on Sundays I rove around in the mountains and valleys, always on my own. I picked up my literary pretensions along the way.

  I did acquire some expertise in a few favorite subjects of mine: the history of German Romanticism, Tuscan decorative painting of the fifteenth century, and a few others. I also have considerable firsthand knowledge about the wines of Baden, Alsace, and Switzerland. I studied philosophy for several years, without coming up with any great insights and so I eventually gave it up.

  I haven’t been afflicted with literary success of any kind. My little volumes are stacked in neat bundles at the publishers. This has annoyed me at times, but hasn’t ever made me feel dejected, since I realize I’m an oddball and thus rather irrelevant. I don’t have what it takes to be a literary journalist, being too clumsy, proud, and lazy for that. I write because I enjoy writing, never just because I have to work. However, I do resort to journalism occasionally, for the dreary reason that I need some income.

  I’m not sure whether I have given you a clear enough picture of myself. We don’t really know ourselves—and I’m not used to talking, especially about myself. This will have to do!

  One thing I forgot to mention is that, even though I’m usually unsociable, I make special allowances for visual artists (painters and architects). I’m always happy in studios smelling of paint and creative work, where there are architects’ plans hanging on the walls and portfolios lying around. But I have little time for literati, actors, and musicians. Whereas painters are always talking about nature, the others are always going on about their work or fellow artists, whom they envy.

  That’s all I can think of today. I think I shall put aside my self-portrait (unreadable) for now, and shall be glad to talk to you some other time about more agreeable things, such as rambles, plans for the future, and so on [ … ]

  TO ALFONS PAQUET61

  Basel, March 20, 1903

  Many thanks for your letter, which impressed me doubly, since I had to cough up a postal surcharge of 25 centimes. I hope we shall meet sometime in April; at this point I cannot propose anything more precise than that either. Finckh62 is coming to Berlin in mid or late April, and I’m planning an Italian trip for the beginning of May. Well, let’s just wait and see.

  Unfortunately, you were wrong to assume that I am or have been a student. I have never been a student and have never felt at all attracted to student life. I usually abominate both the academically minded students and the boisterous set; I thought the whole university setup was ridiculous, and feel it’s a pity so many young people think studying is the only decent career open to them. During my stay in Tübingen—I was there for a full four years and often lived with students—I got fed up with the whole thing. I’ve always loathed having to consort with students, professors, musicians, actors, and
literati, but am fond of visual artists, especially painters, and tend to socialize almost exclusively with the latter. But I’m certainly no authority on the matter, since even though I believe I’m fairly unprejudiced in all matters of the intellect, I’m certainly a real oddball when it comes to my day-to-day relations with others. If the slightest formality attaches to any social occasion, I avoid it like the plague. I’m deathly afraid of everything that seems obligatory or compulsory, no matter whether it’s a party, club, family visit, or friendship. Finckh is the only friend I have, and I’ve always been frightened of him.

  As for my profession, I’m a secondhand bookseller—i.e., my job, for about 100 francs a month, is to buy, catalogue, and, if possible, resell the books of bygone eras. I spend my spare time outdoors, in wine bars or writing a novel; I’ve been playing around for more than a year with the novel, which at present seems little more than a mass of corrections, cuts, and variants. My goal is to have so much money someday that I can drop out of literary and social circles and enjoy the life of a peaceful wanderer, strolling all alone through the beautiful countryside. My paper has run out, and I enclose most cordial greetings, yours

  TO HIS FAMILY IN CALW

  Florence, April 8, 1903

  My dear loved ones,

  Now that I have a bit of peace at last, I can fill you in a bit. Here’s why I’m in Florence.

  An artist friend of mine, Fräulein Gundrun, was about to leave Basel recently to go to Italy for good, and she invited all sorts of acquaintances and friends to travel with her to Florence for Easter. I wasn’t thinking of going, until the very last day, when another artist, Fräulein Bernoulli,63 got very excited about the idea and persuaded me to go along. I had barely enough time to change, pack some clothes, and leave with them. That was eight days ago today: 6 o’clock on Wednesday evening. The trip to Milan lasted the whole night. Since none of the three of us has any money and we’re all traveling third-class, we were rather worn out when we arrived, yet spent all of Thursday running around Milan, viewing things like the Certosa di Pavia, which I’d already seen two years ago. We were on a nonstop train to Florence (via Bologna) from 7 o’clock on Friday morning to 6 o’clock in the evening. Now we’re sitting around—i.e., running about energetically—in these beautiful surroundings. It was very strange how much at home I again felt, from the very first moment. I know every nook and cranny here, and had the feeling I was just returning after a short absence. We found a splendid old chamber for the two girls in a large sixteenth-century palace, ridiculously cheap; Since I don’t want to strain my eyes, I hardly ever go to the galleries, and hang around instead in the alleys, squares, markets, taverns, and eating houses. I love watching the townspeople, and am also taking advantage of the inexpensive, fine cuisine. Unfortunately, Fräulein Bernoulli has to leave early on Sunday.