Soul of the Age

by Hermann Hesse

  PS: I received a letter from a pious old lady, a faithful reader, who commented on my letter to Dr. Weber in the Neue Zürcher Zeitung of June 23: “When the person who has broken loose kills his defenseless brother, who shall ensure the continued existence of the divine plan?”

  I responded as follows: Ideas like that call for systematic thought rather than a few plausible phrases. What if Abel had surprised Cain and killed him in self-defense, would that in any way salvage the divine plan?

  TO HANS CONRAD BODMER

  Montagnola, July 2, 1951

  My dear friend Bodmer,

  Of late, whenever I have gone down to the cellar to fetch a bottle of wine, I have felt depressed, because of various worries and ailments, and also somewhat anxious, because we were running out of wine. But now I’m wealthy again and, thanks to your kind gift, no longer have to feel any trepidation when entering the cellar. I wish to thank you for this present on my seventy-fourth birthday, as well as for the countless others over the years.

  Fame, the most acute of my old-age ailments, has become wondrously complex of late; it’s assailing me in a novel manner. At the very moment when I was under attack from a section of the daily press, due to certain political misunderstandings—in Ticino as well, unfortunately—I was being deluged with honors. I couldn’t accept them, and my refusal may well attract further salvos.

  Even though I had already rejected an offer of membership, the West German Academy wanted to make me and some other Swiss corresponding foreign members, and I found it rather difficult to decline the invitation politely. Then the East German press came up with the alarming suggestion that I should be awarded the National Prize. At first, there was no need to say anything.

  But in the past few days the East has begun breathing down my neck. The two key figures in East German literature, the president of the East German Academy434 and the president of the Cultural Federation,435 came to Switzerland for the PEN Club meeting, and called by phone to say they would come by to offer me honorary membership in their Academy. Ninon did what she could to ward off the ceremonious double visit and that ominous honor, and acquitted herself very well. Of course, these “honors” from the East don’t mean that they hold me in high regard over there.

  Then I finally received an agreeable, touching offer: The International Union for Cultural Cooperation wanted to enroll me alongside Albert Schweitzer and Nobel Peace laureate Lord Boyd Orr.436 That would certainly have been great company.

  So there I was, an old shark swimming in the dull waters of contemporary events, surrounded by bait from East and West, and still refusing to bite.

  Goodbye, our fond regards also to your dear wife, Elsy.

  TO ERNST MORGENTHALER

  [January 1952]

  My dear friend,

  I enjoyed your welcome letter, as I always do, and felt almost vain reading what you wrote about Normalia.437 Jean Paul and Kafka are good—better than good—company, and I only feel worthy of them at very rarefied moments.

  We greatly enjoyed your account of Thomas Mann and his lecture. As for his appearance and clothing, although I always found him utterly soigné and elegant, I never felt that he was “virtually a fop.” He is, besides many other things, the offspring of a Hanseatic patrician household, and either considers a certain decorum a necessity of life or, having been surrounded by it since early childhood, just regards it as self-evident. Wonderful, the way the first words of his lecture canceled the natty impression he had made on you. I never heard him lecture in public, but have heard him addressing a very small group here on a few occasions, and also twice when we met in the Engadine. He speaks exactly as he reads, always pronouncing words extremely carefully, with some mimicry and considerable distance and irony, and his manner is always so jocose and roguish that we would be captivated right away if we hadn’t already fallen for him for other reasons.[ … ]

  PS: From my answer to a lady in Weddingen (District of Goslar) who finds modern art, especially music, too cold and rational:

  “… Art shouldn’t be subject to constraints. The lover of art who doesn’t feel at ease when confronted with contemporary art ought not attack it, nor should he force himself to take pleasure in it. Since there are works from approximately three centuries available for our enjoyment, we ought not ask contemporary musicians to renounce their experiments and novel directions, which enrich rather than impoverish art. And if contemporary music occasionally sounds cool and calculated, we ought to keep in mind that it is a reaction against a half century of music that may have been rather too sweet and sensual. (Wagner, Tchaikovsky, Strauss, to name but a few).”

  A CIRCULAR LETTER438

  July 1952

  Dear friends,

  A circular letter was never more called for than now; it will have to answer a large portion of the roughly 1,200 letters that I received on the occasion of my seventy-fifth birthday. And I have never had such difficulty sitting down to write. That may be due to old age, the incredible heat wave, all the mail with which I have to contend. In any case, you ought not expect too much from this letter; it’s only intended as a thank-you note and brief account of the occasion.

  “What one wishes for in youth, one receives in excess as an old man,” says Goethe, and it’s happening to me too. Some, not all, of my most intense dreams as a boy and adolescent have been fulfilled, some in such “excess” that I now find them embarrassing and distressing. My wildest fantasies as a child never encompassed these presents and honors: a marketplace in my charming little hometown adorned with flags, a concert by the town’s musicians, a ceremonial speech, the unveiling of a plaque on the house where I was born (it’s often confused with the other childhood house mentioned in many of my stories, which is on the far side of Nagold Bridge), and also congratulations from the mayors of many cities, including ones that named a street after me, congratulations from school classes in Germany and Switzerland, the awarding of honorary titles, festivals—with or without music—in theaters, town halls, schools, speeches by federal presidents, famous writers, professors. That’s not what I had expected or wanted, and whenever I was in a good mood the following thought would occur to me: “All that is missing now is a stone pedestal two meters high and a little ladder; then I could get up there and begin my new life as a monument.”

  (Above) Ninon Dolbin shortly after first meeting Hesse

  (Below) With his wife, Ninon

  (Above) “I divide my days between the study and garden work, the latter is intended for meditation and spiritual digestion and thus is usually undertaken in solitude”

  —Letter, 1934

  (Below) Hesse, about 1951

  But not all the presents, acclamations, and honors called for such embarrassed jokes on my part. I found the following events delightfully soothing: My eldest granddaughter recited some poems during the largest and most ceremonial birthday celebration; Rudolf Alexander Schröder, a wonderful, greatly esteemed person, delivered the ceremonial address and presented me with a most beautiful watercolor, which he had painted himself; the beautiful edition of the Complete Works, put together with great care by my friend Suhrkamp, sold out immediately; I was presented with a few letters written by my grandfather Gundert; many of my friends offered to come here on July 2 to ward off possible intruders; not to mention all those kind, beautiful, and, occasionally, funny letters.

  But the whole thing was a bit much. Too many things had arrived from heaven in a downpour; these bountiful blessings overwhelmed my heart and mind. Their very excess proved somewhat burdensome, even frightening, enough to induce a fear of envious gods. And on the morning of my birthday, after the postmen had already come several times, we were somewhat overawed and depressed just standing there in the house, which seemed to have shrunk, since every table and sideboard was laden with flowers and piles of letters, and there were books all over the studio, library, and corridor. We didn’t think we could handle the situation and felt we didn’t deserve all these presents. At several po
ints we were ready to turn down all the other gifts on their way to us. Then we tore ourselves away from this excess of good fortune, just broke loose, leaving everything lying there, got into the car and drove away, through sweltering Lugano, sweltering Bellinzona, up to sweltering Misox, which I was seeing for the first time. We glanced up at the powerful waterfalls, the castles, and the churches, and although we didn’t feel any lessening of the sweltering heat, not even in Mesocco, it was good to see a growing distance between us and that roomful of gifts, which old age bestows in such excess. Two overburdened, exhausted people were transformed into a couple out celebrating a birthday. The car exerted itself, and almost got us as far as the inn, recommended by somebody in Mesocco, before it broke down; the repairs allowed us time for a snack, and the opportunity to begin celebrating the real, private festivity, which we had planned ahead of time. Even though we had rather dishonorably abandoned that menacing excess, a portion of it was with us all along: an elite batch of letters, carefully selected by Ninon. We began reading them after the meal. Oh, such splendid, wonderful, beautiful letters, from Peter the Faithful, Frau Elsy, the lord of the manor in Bremgarten, Alice,439 E. Korrodi, and Fritz Strich, and so many others! There was also a letter from a worker in the canton of Solothurn, which read:

  An open journal

  Before my eyes.

  I see it says

  Your birthday is here.

  Best wishes for many years

  And a sunny life still

  From a very ordinary man

  With nothing else to give.

  It was quite a while before the convalescent car pulled up outside, and by then we were very much looking forward to the things we had promised ourselves from this trip: a little mountain air, shade, a cool spot. Ninon was undaunted and drove with gusto up the many steep curves; a splendid, fresh breeze was already blowing in our direction from San Giacomo, and soon we were lying in the shade under fir trees. We read as much of that anthology of letters440 as we desired, and I would have liked to respond immediately to each of these friends, to thank them, say something nice, and give them an account of our day. This circular letter will have to act as a substitute.

  Goodbye, friends, thank you and best regards, yours

  TO INA SEIDEL441

  [Summer 1953]

  It’s nice to be able to exchange a few presents from time to time. I felt that your kind letter, the two fine, contemplative poems, and the fine, sad picture addressed me clearly, as a colleague, and I wish to thank you for them. I have also been reading some of H. W. Seidel’s letters.442 And I intend to read more.

  Oh no, so you too are having problems with your hands! I have an advanced form of arthritis, and even though Irgapyrin and vitamins are keeping it in check, it’s often unbearable.

  This hasn’t been a great year for us so far. My wife got back from her third, very strenuous, trip to Hellas in the fall of 1952, but she hasn’t fully recovered yet; our household and daily existence are in a bit of a shambles. There are some distractions to lessen our discomfort for a while. A very young fellow from America was here recently; he works in a factory, took a year off to study and learn German, has read many of my things in German, and told us that he translated Siddhartha into English. We were taken aback and informed him that an English edition had appeared long ago, but he just laughed and said it didn’t matter, he had translated it for his own amusement.

  We want to go to the Engadine as soon as possible, even if we have to freeze. But my wife has always recuperated best in the mountains, the higher the better.

  Goodbye. I hope the summer brings some fine, delightful experiences your way. That is just what we need, since conditions are as you describe them in your poem “Das Gedicht.”443

  TO A FRIEND444

  End of September 1953

  Thanks for your letter and Lehmann’s new poem.

  Those are certainly two characteristic models of new and old-fashioned poems. Now, that contrast would be all very natural if Lehmann were forty years younger than I, but he’s only five or six years my junior.

  Your comments about the poem445 touch on the central issue: Why do we allow an old-fashioned and rather senile poem to take liberties that wouldn’t be acceptable in the poem of a younger person? Why aren’t the words of this poem marked, to any appreciable extent, by the devaluation that has afflicted poetic language of this kind over the last two generations?

  None of us—neither you, I, nor our friends—can resolve that question. We wouldn’t be capable of reading my verse as though I hadn’t penned it, as if there weren’t a long life and a sizable body of work behind it. But I fear and suspect the following: If we were capable of that, or handed my verse to some reader who is receptive to poetry but never came across my work, then he would judge the poems to be well intentioned, but reactionary and ineffective. They really fail to live up to what is demanded of poetry nowadays, and for a person without any parti pris my words would seem more like inflated money than gold.

  Well, we don’t have to resolve the issue. What would happen to us, and indeed to philosophy, if instead of striving for truth, we were actually in possession of it?

  Writing the last line, I realized that I wasn’t saying anything new or original, but simply varying a classical saying of Lessing’s. It seems as if I can never escape from the hallowed values and sayings. We just have to accept that …

  TO H. SADECKI

  [Fall 1953]

  I cannot say much by way of response, even though I read your letter with the utmost care and sympathy. Thinking of my own experience, I feel that readers have a right to appropriate—or indeed reject—a book as they see fit, a case in point being the varied reactions to Goldmund. I received more letters about it than about any other book of mine, with the possible exception of The Glass Bead Game. The letters ranged all the way from extreme irritation and annoyance to utterly uncritical enthusiasm. I hadn’t looked at the book in some twenty years, but read it recently for a new edition. I describe this renewed acquaintance in a little piece, “Events in the Engadine,” which I’m sending to you. It starts on page 31. So, as you can see, my impression upon rereading it was very different from yours. I very much agreed with it. Your opinion differs from mine in one crucial respect: You’re a Christian in the sense that, for you, Christianity is unique and represents the only path to salvation. You feel that those who believe in other religions ought to be pitied, since they do not have a Savior and Redeemer. But, in my opinion at least, and judging from what I have seen, this certainly isn’t true. The life and death of a Japanese Buddhist monk or of a Hindu who believes in Krishna are as pious, trustful, and confident as those of a Christian. And, moreover, those Eastern religions have something else in their favor: They never produced any Crusades, burnings of heretics, or pogroms against the Jews; that was a specialty of Christianity and Islam. Even a Hitler or a Stalin couldn’t surpass the brutality and murderous self-righteousness of certain lines Luther wrote about the Jews. Of course, Jesus isn’t to blame for that. But one can love Jesus, yet acknowledge nevertheless that the other paths to salvation, which God has shown to man, are perfectly valid. Enough. I can rarely afford to devote so much time and energy to a single letter.

  TO WERNER HASSENPFLUG446

  October 1953

  Thanks for your letter, which I enjoyed. I’m not “accusing” most Germans—actually, I find their behavior incomprehensible—because certain youthful circles displayed such enthusiasm for an inherently rather good idea promulgated by young National Socialism, but because of what subsequently happened to that idea. One should no longer have to remind Germany that it murdered, raped, and destroyed as a result of the young generation’s decision to cast its lot with the Nazis. Even with all the goodwill in the world, one would still have to fault the young generation for failing to see through the diabolic and porcine antics of Hitler, Goebbels, Rosenberg, Streicher, etc., and for tolerating Hitler’s stupid, flat speeches and hysterical screeching. Afte
r seeing Hitler once and listening to a portion of one of his radio speeches, I figured out what was happening. Obviously, I find nationalism, the hubris of any artificially aroused patriotism, just as silly and dangerous when nations other than the Germans engage in it. But my home is in the German world and the German language, the only place where I could ever have had any impact, since I wasn’t allotted the task of preaching to the Americans or Argentinians. Those events haven’t been as totally discarded as you seem to think. The ruling class in Bavaria—the ones who raised Hitler and spoiled him—are as cheekily anti-Semitic as ever. Nationalism is certainly “over,” which also applies, for instance, to capitalism, but these observations are based on the philosophy of history rather than on history itself—i.e., naked reality. The Nazis still control Bavaria, and the communist nations have to work and starve to feed their bloated commissars, even though capitalism is “over.”

  I have no desire to start a conflict or become self-righteous; I’m just jotting down the ideas that occurred to me as I read your letter. The letter was worthwhile, I enjoyed it, thank you.

  TO ELSY AND HANS CONRAD BODMER

  December 25, 1953

  My dear friends,

  We celebrated Christmas yesterday with our guest, Frau Anni Carlsson;447 it’s morning now and soon our midday guests will be arriving: Emmy Ball’s daughter with two big children. We’re going to serve them goose and a glass of Girsberger ’47, and we shall be thinking fondly and gratefully of you, as we did yesterday evening. I thank you heartfeltly for your good, kind presents, for the good wine and the delightful surprise, that anonymous little book by Jacob Burckhardt,448 which also deeply impressed Frau Carlsson.

  A messenger arrived yesterday evening bearing carnations from a flower shop and a letter from the donor, a Munich reader previously unknown to me. We read it today and, among other things, learned of a grotesque incident: Her first, unhappy marriage was to a lecturer in philosophy. In 1922, she arrived in Lugano with him, as a very young woman, and found out that the writer H. lived in the vicinity. She asked her husband to accompany her to Montagnola. He came along, but then insisted that he had to visit the poet alone, since Hesse obviously couldn’t be expected to receive a young woman. And so the silly philosopher sat at my place for half an hour trying to be clever, while his poor wife waited outside, feeling bitter. There are still many professors like that. But now I have to fetch the wine and prepare things for the guests. Regards and thanks from an old and yet ever new friend