Soul of the Age (25 page)

TO HIS SON HEINER

Montagnola, May 5, 1924

Your letter arrived early yesterday; thank you for writing so quickly.

My last lines were rather moody and cantankerous. I wouldn't have expressed my feelings in that manner if I could have chosen when to write the letter, but I couldn't keep you waiting, because of the permission slip.
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I was angry because I had been expecting to see you here during your vacation. I canceled a trip, put off several visits, and even gave up a full day's painting excursion so as not to miss you. But all to no avail. It wasn't my fault that I suddenly had to leave on an important trip.
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If, instead of just dropping by at the last minute, you had had the courtesy to let me know of your visit a few days in advance, you would have spared us both a considerable amount of aggravation.

Moreover, I had attempted to make your Confirmation—it was you, after all, who had wanted it—as pleasant an experience as possible, for your sake. Having guessed from a hint in one of your letters that you would like Mama to attend your Confirmation, I scraped money together so she could travel,
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and sent it to her in time. Yet I only discovered indirectly, through Mama, that you had suddenly decided you didn't want to be confirmed; I didn't hear a word about it from you.

And then there is the small present of money that I sent you recently. It was somewhat discouraging not to get even a word of thanks.

As a father, I not only have a right, but also a duty, to tell you that your inconsiderate behavior has offended me and that you should be a little more civil toward me. If you want to get through life, you will have to learn better manners and show others a bit more consideration. That's all I have ever asked for, and you're not being serious when you imply ill-humoredly that I'm forcing you to undergo religious instruction, attend church, etc., or wish to castigate you for being a freethinker.

Thank you for your letter, which I liked despite those intemperate passages. But look, everything turns out better, especially when people don't get along all that easily, if one tries to be polite and considerate! That's why I'm asking you once again to have the decency to let me know about your various trips and vacations, and visits here, so that I can plan things accordingly, and at least tell me you have received any presents I send. Those are little conventions in life that one has to learn, just like reading and writing. It would be boring if the only thing I did as a father was pay the bills.

Enough said about that. The only other thing I wanted to say is that I certainly don't expect you to mount a hypocritical display of emotions you don't really feel. I would prefer to get an honest letter, even if it is a bit crude, than none at all, or one that says nothing.

I also wish to tell you that I'm fond of you and am interested in everything you do. I'm certain this will mean more and more to you as the years go by. A lot of things came between us, such as the problems with the marriage and separation, and Mama's long and frequent bouts of illness, but you're still my son and, if I were to die tomorrow, you would always remain my son and carry within you a portion of my being and my intellect. I sincerely hope that in the years to come we can develop a better and mutually satisfying relationship.

My dear son, I'm sending you a fond kiss, and shake your hand in the conviction that we shall never lose touch with each other.

With good wishes. Your father

TO GEORG ALTER

Montagnola, July 5, 1924

Thanks for your fine letter. It was nice of you to think of my birthday. It was not my fiftieth yet; I still have quite a few years to go, and hope that by that point I shall have acquired enough wisdom to make the celebration tolerable for me and those around me. My young wife, who lives most of the time in Basel, arrived for my birthday along with her mother, and we bought flowers and a cake; it was nice. Two sons from my first marriage had just visited me. The eldest is already over eighteen; he hasn't a clue about the so-called problems and ailments of our age, wants to become a painter, and was outdoors with me every day, working assiduously on his watercolors.

I'm pleased to hear that you are rereading my fairy tales,
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but I don't understand why that requires a background in anthroposophy! I managed to write them without anything of the kind.

I was most pleased to hear you will soon be leaving Berlin and heading for the more tranquil south. That will surely do you some good! I can fully understand why you feel disgusted with the situation in Germany and the current mentality among German youth. But there is a magical solution: we can always shake off our dependence on the external world and nourish the soul with whatever we consider beautiful, alive, and sacred, whether that happens to be Buddha, Jesus, Socrates, Goethe, music, or nature. I admire the fidelity and quiet devotion with which you pursue those ideals, and believe you will find out how to prevent the external world from becoming a serious source of torment.

It's hot; the big, white blossoms of a big, dark magnolia are peeking into my room. There is a vase full of wildflowers beside me. But even though all of this is very beautiful, there are certain things about my external condition that I would wish differently, especially in regard to my health. But, even the way things are, the life here is good and beautiful.

I think about you from time to time, and always wish you well.

TO ALICE LEUTHOLD
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[
December 1924
]

Me oh my, what has come over me! So I forgot to send you my current winter address? Hesse, who is usually so organized and punctual? It's yet another sign of rapid aging. What is coming up in January, my golden or silver anniversary? I feel, in any case, that something like twenty-five years must have passed since we had that festive meal in Basel.
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On orders from my dear spouse, I'm spending the winter in Basel and have a nice, quiet attic room in the city, near St. Johann's Gate. I am living in my cell, Ruth in hers—i.e., in the Hotel Krafft—and in the daytime we go about our serious activities. I sit at work in the university library all day long, even though the pain in my eyes is quite atrocious. And in the evening I turn up in Frau Hesse's apartment, where I find some dinner ready, and we spend the evening together, along with the cat, dog, and parrot. The latter, Koko, is an especially good friend of mine, and makes me feel very attached to the house. Then in the nighttime fog I head off along the Rhine toward my part of town. Schoeck was telling quite a yarn if he really said I had been to Munich. It's true I visited Stuttgart with Ruth, and performed my party piece there. I always have a nice time in Stuttgart, the only city where I enjoy reading in public, where I can stand in front of an overcrowded room and feel that people understand me, that I am talking to friends. The most important part of the trip occurred after I had acquitted myself of that duty. We went to Ludwigsburg, where I have a brother;
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Ruth and I stayed in the royal castle, in gigantic chambers with twenty-foot ceilings, and for two evenings Ruth, along with my brother and his son, sang the entire
Magic Flute.
She has made great strides forward, and I find her singing increasingly impressive.

She also sends greetings, and often dreams of seeing the Leutholds again and even of eating rice with you again.

Should a box of those pleasant cigars, called Ehrenpreis or something like that, fall into the hands of Master Leuthold, the great Tuan,
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perhaps he would be so kind as to think of me. And we shall have to see one another again.

TO CARLO ISENBERG
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Montagnola, May 28, 1925

I'm not having any luck at the moment, and feel I ought to let you know about a part of it that also concerns you. Yesterday I got a rejection slip from the Stuttgart publishing house. In other words, the entire series of books I had planned has been scrapped; so I have to start again from scratch. The publisher pulled out because of an advertisement by the Fischer Verlag for the
Merkwürdige Geschichten
which they had spotted. Stuttgart stupidly insisted that the Fischer books would compete with our projected series for them. Well, more about that when we meet, if we're still interested in the matter by then. Although the Stuttgart publisher had signed a contract agreeing to publish our series, I offered to take back all the unpaid work I had done over the past seven months, and have done so. I shall keep you posted about further developments. The only consequence for you is that I shall have to ask you not to proceed with the other volumes in our series after you have completed
Romanticism
(which I shall certainly get another publisher to do
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), but to work first on the Schubert for Fischer, which is absolutely certain. You can imagine how thrilled I feel. However, I shall try to find another publisher and save at least part of the series.

One other piece of news: My wife, Ruth, who had been ill for months, has just had a checkup. She has TB in the lungs, and has been sentenced to a year of complete rest, which means not singing a note or taking a single step. Many of my plans will just have to fall by the wayside, the whole thing is quite crippling.

Addio,
and don't let this publisher business get you down! If I cannot salvage the planned series, then
The Romantic Mind
will have to appear on its own; in any case, Fischer has already accepted it. I hope to find a home for some of the volumes at least. But now I have to look forward to the awful bother of negotiating, and finding a publisher. Best regards to you all

TO HIS WIFE, RUTH

[
June 4, 1925
]

Beside a wood above Locarno, Thursday morning

It's hot, and I'm sitting here early in the morning, trying to find a moment of inner peace. I just said goodbye to little Martin
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an hour ago at the station. He went off with his little rucksack to friends in Bern; once again he no longer has a home to call his own, since his mother has become mentally ill again and her condition is worse than last time. She has even had awful attacks of epilepsy. I'm witnessing a most terrible tragedy and occasionally feel I'm being dragged into it. Her elder brother took his own life; the other brother went mad as a result, and is now an inmate in Friedmatt;
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and Mia has driven every one around her half crazy with her condition—her nurse, the boy, the lodgers, etc. Her spirits seemed to improve after I arrived yesterday, and I managed to have a proper talk with her, but then she got frightfully excited again, especially after saying goodbye to the boy, and the nurse is afraid she won't be able to cope with her. I have had to assume total responsibility for her and the boy, since her brother is himself ill. If Mia has to be put in an institution, there will be nobody here to look after her house, which is full of lodgers, etc. Even if I had no other worries and were in good health, I would still be consumed by all of this. For the past three weeks, I have been subconsciously exacerbating this whole business, and now I'm in it up to my neck. I'm astonished at the impact conditions like this can have on everybody in the vicinity, and am quite amazed I survived the awful period around 1918–19, and the ensuing dependence on her state of mind, without losing my own sanity. I see that the mere proximity to the situation is infecting some nice, stable people, who aren't directly involved, so much so that they're losing their composure. I shall certainly not lose my sanity this time either, another fate awaits me, but my nerves are quivering.

I shall go home again as soon as possible, maybe even tomorrow. My most important goal was to rescue the boy. Let us hope he has not yet come to any great harm.

Dear Ruth, amid all these worries, I am constantly thinking of you. Your illness has dragged you another hundred miles away from me. I don't see any way around that; we shall have to grin and bear it. I hope I can take a bath today or tomorrow at Dr. Bodmer's
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(I haven't had one in two months), and then go back home, where a big void awaits me, along with mail from publishers, etc.

Addio,
just lie there quietly in your garden, pluck a little flower, and sniff its fragrance. As you lie there in your convalescent's garden, I walk past on the other side of the wall in the sultry dust, laden with the baggage of life, and we shall both have to accept these burdens.[ … ]

Goodbye. I'm thinking of you as I stand here amid the hot dust from the roadway.

TO ROMAIN ROLLAND

Zurich
[
January 30, 1926
]

Dear Romain Rolland, my dear friend and colleague,

It was very kind of you to send that printed material to Nagi
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and to drop me a line as well.

I didn't know that
Siddhartha
had appeared in French;
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I have just found it in a bookstore here and purchased a copy. You're quite right: the dedication has been omitted!
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I feel really sorry about this. Fortunately, the translator does at least mention in the introduction that I dedicated the book to you.

I can certainly understand your attitude toward the great majority of Frenchmen; during the war I had a very similar relationship to official Germany. But I was fortunate enough in the sense that my fatherland lost the war. As a result, I'm being read by the very people who would have put me up against the wall and shot me if the outcome had been the other way around.

It's very sad that this is so. But those conditions don't deserve to be taken all that seriously. It isn't characteristic of France, or indeed of our era, it's an age-old phenomenon, and characteristic only in the sense that it is a human trait.