Soul of the Age (18 page)

But these physical ailments are not very significant, since most of them are merely symptoms of an inner malaise, a process of dissolution, which has been going on inside me for years, and has now reached a stage where it will erupt, and a solution has to be found, otherwise it would be pointless continuing. I have no idea where this path is heading—it will either lead me back to the “world” or make me even more isolated and withdrawn. At the moment, I feel that my once lively instincts and thought processes are shriveling; something new is germinating, it's still indistinct, and I feel greater anxiety than joy. The painful pressures exerted by that awful war have actually quickened this growth.

I'm really looking forward to hearing all the news from my wife. I often think of you as a friend, and wish you well.

TO HANS STURZENEGGER

Bern, December 25, 1916

[ … ] Those ranting barbarians we have to listen to nowadays allege that our prewar lives were absolutely sybaritic and emotionally vapid, whereas now we are again faced with real life and genuine emotions. How stupid and deceitful! I now know from experience that it's not only more attractive to write a poem or sing a song, it's infinitely cleverer and also more valuable than winning a battle or giving a million to the Red Cross. The highly “organized” world inhabited by politicians and generals is absolutely worthless, and the craziest dream of an artist is of greater value. Take the word of this poor wretch of a poet who has been preoccupied over the past fourteen months with nothing but business, politics, management and organization.

So I was doubly happy and grateful to receive that wonderful picture from you; it makes me think even more fondly of you. Ah, the beach at Penang, with the archipelagoes in the distance and the numerous bays! If we didn't carry the best of it around with us, the nostalgia could make us ill.

Come to Bern sometime! And if peace ever returns, I shall arrive on your doorstep and frighten you with an exhibition of my own pastel paintings; I no longer have any time to write and think, so I have started painting in my free moments, and have taken up charcoal and paint for the first time in nearly forty years. I'm no competition for you, since my subject isn't nature, only dreams.

 

Bern, January 3, 1917

I would like to thank you for your kind letter, even though it isn't easy to answer.

When the preacher says: “Heed the voice within you,” he is often asked: “Well, what does the voice say? Can't you explain it to us?” The preacher cannot do so, since he is evoking a very different voice; the obligations he is talking about have nothing to do with marks and pfennigs; he is asking each of us to listen to our inner voice and reflect on what it says.

Quite a few other people have written asking the same question: “What should we do now?” My response has always been: “There's no way I can tell you that! I don't know what your conscience is saying and how much energy you can draw on. I'm not in a position to ask anything of you, but you yourself certainly can!” And if you focus on that voice, you will eventually find your own path, just as I've been finding it again or searching for it anew, day by day and week by week, for two and a half years now. One person will content himself with occasional good works, some will get together with their friends, others will refuse to do military service, yet another will try to do more and make a laudable attempt to knock off Sonnino
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in Italy or Tirpitz
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in Berlin. That's a matter for each individual to decide. If I shot Sonnino, I would be committing a crime, because the act would violate a deep-seated conviction of mine. But there are individuals who would be perfectly free to carry out such deeds. They would, of course, have to be prepared to face the consequences. I have realized for a long time that my position on these issues (also with regard to my official duties) may eventually cause me to sever my links to my country of origin, my official position, my family, my previous reputation, etc., and, if necessary, I'm determined to go ahead and do just that.

All I can say at the moment about my position on the issue is this: I feel that writers, artists, etc., such as myself, act as the antennae or early-warning posts of mankind and are the first to sniff any new developments. The artists then describe that new world, even though nobody is willing to believe in it yet, and they themselves cannot implement it. A letter from Romain Rolland arrived at the same time as yours, and in it he simply says: “
Notre espoir même et notre foi sont un des piliers de l'avenir.
”
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I have confidence in the power of an idea, since I feel ideas aren't just crazy notions, but intuitions about what lies in store for mankind.

So maybe you won't ever have to ask me “for forgiveness for having been so petty.” Your attitude is plausible, and certainly cleverer and more reasonable than mine; it may well prevail during our lifetime. But regardless of when that new world comes about, every great new idea of mankind, every big change in the world will be introduced, in the manner I suggested, by people brave enough to trust their own hopes and premonitions rather than by shrewd operators who rely on all the usual political tactics, etc.

One example should suffice: Everybody is making fun of conscientious objectors! I consider this phenomenon one of the promising symptoms of our age, even though some individuals come up with odd justifications for their decision. And now, finally, a motion is being introduced which would allow those who reject military service on moral grounds to perform alternative civilian duties. It may not pass today, but will at some point. A time may come when there will only be three soldiers for every ten doing civilian duties, and war, insofar as it still exists, will be waged solely by rowdies and bullies. But none of this would have happened had certain individuals not felt so strongly about the issue and staged a brave protest against the status quo through their refusal to serve.

And the same thing will be repeated everywhere. Those causes for which people are prepared to risk their lives will ultimately prevail. Thousands volunteered to fight in 1914, but not a soul will in 1918!

Well, enough said for now, I've lots of work on my hands. My dear Sturz, you're a civilian and have read a lot about the war, but you have no firsthand experience of it. Nor have I; I haven't suffered any injuries, my house hasn't been destroyed, but I have spent two and a half years of my life trying to help some victims of war, the prisoners, and my experience with this small aspect of warfare has given me some insight into the meaningless abomination that is war.

I'm not bothered by the enthusiasm for the war that ordinary people in several countries have been displaying. The populace has always behaved stupidly. When given a choice between Jesus and the murderer, they immediately chose Barabbas. Perhaps they will always choose Barabbas. But I do not have to follow their example.

All the best for the New Year! I'm overwhelmed with work, but there are plenty of interruptions since I'm, unfortunately, not particularly healthy and occasionally have splitting headaches all day long. Let's remain friends, even though we don't see eye to eye on such matters. You'll always be a kind, decent fellow, no matter how hard you try to act like a cautious Swiss citizen with an eye on a seat in the National Council. I'm willing to go along with that as far as I can, and in any case I'm not making moral demands on anybody other than myself.

TO WALTER SCHÄDELIN
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Minusio, April 21, 1917

[ … ] I am spending entire days painting and drawing; in good weather I'm outdoors from 9 or 10 till 5 or 6, painting a watercolor a day, sometimes two; the results are still rather pathetic, but I'm not in the least bit discouraged.

Painting is so wonderful. I used to think that I had eyes in my head and could see the world as I strolled by. But that's just a start. To escape from the accursed world of the will, you just have to sit down in a valley surrounded by cliffs, clear your mind of absolutely everything, and absorb the magic of the physical world. Although it's impossible to capture all of that in paint, you can watch the marvelous surface of life as the lights grow dim and the shadows begin to dance! In the evenings, you're dizzy from tiredness and you may fall asleep after looking critically at your unsuccessful sketch in the lamplight, but in any case you remember a piece of moss on a rock, a thin web of shadows under the blackberry bush, and realize that you will have to paint again tomorrow.

Then the mail arrives, a somewhat outdated newspaper with news of war, avalanches, and starvation. Surely painting is preferable?

TO FELIX BRAUN
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Bern, June 7, 1917

I was delighted by your kind greetings, which arrived just about on my fortieth birthday. Thank you very much.

You may well be justified in criticizing
Rosshalde.
Critics are entitled to adopt that attitude. But, speaking for myself at least, I think poets ought to steer clear of it. I only aspire to formal perfection when it's possible to create a closed form, as in poetry. In larger works, which reflect the sum of my feelings and experiences over many years, I only set myself a single aesthetic requirement: the emotions must be genuine, the language pure and exact. Our literature may need to stutter before it can speak; the latest literary arrivals suggest something along these lines: their rhapsodies can sound cheeky and maladroit, but by and large I take them quite seriously.

Oddly enough, my former self and past deeds have begun to affect me slowly, in retrospect. I felt entirely isolated, and was actually suffering from a near-fatal illness, even though I only spotted the external symptoms after my recovery. People said I was too prolific at a time when that was no longer the case, since I could barely write anymore. The war has put me in an awful situation, which is fraught with inner turmoil, a situation I can neither describe nor turn into literature, yet by the time my friends and the world at large begin pestering me with questions and reproaches, I shall probably have something to show them.

In the meantime, I have set literature aside; it would be incompatible, in any case, with my wartime duties. I'm also cooped up a lot because of a protracted illness. I found my own way of coping with these woes, which were often unbearable: I have taken up painting and drawing for the first time. I don't care whether my painting has any objective value; for me, it's a way to bathe in the solace that art affords, and which I was no longer finding in literature—devotion without lust, love without expectations.

Although the war has changed the way I—and indeed everybody else—relate to the world, it hasn't made a political animal of me. Quite the opposite. I see the line dividing the inner and outer worlds even more clearly than usual, and am interested solely in the former.

I responded to your letter because I was struck by its warm, affectionate tone. There is, however, a much less personal matter that I thought I would mention. I'm supplying the almost 200,000 German prisoners in France with reading matter. Requests for books pile up each day; they're often quite moving; our limited funds are quite inadequate. So I'm asking some of my friends to help out. As a writer, you probably don't have any money, but you have some connections. Maybe you could send me copies of your own books, and perhaps you could procure some other good books if you raised the matter with your friends. But don't feel any obligation. Only if you really feel like it. We get numerous requests each day for good contemporary literature, but I have to restrict myself to paperbacks from publishers such as Reclam. Some writers, Hauptmann, Wassermann, Thoma, and others, have already responded to my appeal, donating in some cases as many as fifty to one hundred copies, but we would be happy with less.[ … ]

I'm not trying to badger you! If this doesn't strike a chord, just forget about it. On the other hand, if something useful does occur to you, go ahead and do it!

TO ROMAIN ROLLAND

Bern, August 4, 1917

I was deeply pleased to receive your kind greetings. I have been constantly ill and isolated ever since. Life has become difficult and leaves a bitter taste. Whenever possible, I turn from present-day events to timeless issues, and cherish poetry all the more. I have failed in my attempt to introduce love into political matters. I don't consider “Europe” an ideal. While people continue killing one another, under European leadership, I remain suspicious of all such divisions between human beings. I don't believe in Europe, but rather in humanity, in the kingdom of souls on earth, in which every people participates, and I think we are indebted to Asia for its noblest manifestations.

Dear Herr Rolland, you're one of the few people whose names I associate with hope and substance.

TO HIS SISTER MARULLA

Bern, December 10, 1917

[ … ] While celebrating Bruno's twelfth birthday yesterday, I realized I must have forgotten your birthday. Everything has been horribly frantic, and is still. Since the end of August, I have been busy preparing for the POWs' Christmas, also a somewhat sentimental occasion, and yet haven't had time to prepare Christmas surprises for my own children. I shall soon have to give up this silly racket.

I'm even starting my own publishing house:
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I spend thousands of francs buying paper, then print the booklets for the prisoners myself, since we can no longer get them from Germany. I'm also office manager of a branch of the POW welfare organization. I supervise several POW camps, edit
Der Sonntagsbote,
and manage the literary side of the book depot. Moreover, when we run out of money, I'm the one who has to go begging. I have raised more than ten thousand marks. As you can see, we too are sick and tired of the entire mess. There are some prospects for peace again, but I don't have much faith in that. Yesterday was Bruno's twelfth birthday; he has been in bed for ten days with a small wound in the leg, which developed an infection. Things seemed quite serious for several days, there were signs of blood poisoning. There is still a little pus coming out. But he is quite cheerful and has kept busy reading and doing handicrafts. Heiner is in good health. We want the youngest to spend Christmas here. He is always in Kirchdorf; I hardly know him anymore, since I almost never get to see him. Mia visits him from time to time. He is doing reasonably well over there, but gets very irritable and nervous whenever we decide to take him back with us. This has been going on for years now.