Soul of the Age (51 page)

The response to my article last fall on war psychosis was exactly as you suspected. Some touching responses from people who agreed with me, but they were far outnumbered by the letters of denunciation. That kind of thing hardly affects me anymore, but I am a little hurt by what is happening to the “Glass Bead Game,” once my nice, exclusive little property. The extreme nationalists in West Germany are employing it as a term of abuse in their pamphlets and announcements. But this is just something else to be endured and forgotten.

My book of letters, which should have appeared around Easter, is coming out late through my own fault, but it will be here by early summer and a copy will also reach you in Pacific Palisades.

TO OSKAR JANCKE

Montagnola, early June 1951

I'm distressed that you have once again placed me in the unpleasant position of having to decline an invitation.
431
I have already informed you in some detail about my attitude toward the Academy. That shall have to suffice.

Meanwhile, another matter has underlined my reservations about the Academy.

A few months ago, after I was awarded the Raabe Prize, the journal of the Academy published a protest by Herr von Schulenburg. I don't know what the exact wording was, but I have been able to gauge its import and tone from several letters about the issue which I subsequently received from Germany.

I believe that the protest was raised on the grounds that the Raabe Prize had been awarded to a Swiss. I understand that objection, which has something to be said for it, even though Herr von Schulenburg, who has lived a number of years in Switzerland, may not be the right person to raise the issue.

Apparently, he justified his criticism of the award by attributing to me a statement he had actually fabricated. That is repulsive behavior, which the editors of your periodical ought not to have tolerated.

Moreover, it never seems to have occurred to anybody in the Academy or on the editorial staff of your journal that they should at least have alerted me to the attack. They printed Schulenburg's libelous words, but I only heard about the matter long afterward, from a third party.

As for the German prizes I have received, I never used a single penny of the Goethe or Raabe Prize, and gave the money away as presents to people in Germany. Should I be offered another German prize, I shall turn it down, citing your journal.

You will no doubt understand why this ridiculous Schulenburg affair has further strengthened my prior resolve, which I announced a long time ago, to decline the offer of membership in the Academy.

Thank you very much for the invitation to the Bürgenstock. But I haven't attended any official social occasions in years.

TO PETER SUHRKAMP

June 25
[
1951
]

My dear friend,

I have been having an odd time with the volume of letters.
432
I found out from the first review, in the
Neue Zürcher Zeitung,
that the letter on the fear of war does appear in the book, even though I told you and Ninon that you should definitely not include it. Ninon denies vehemently that I ever said anything of the sort; she finds it hard to understand why I feel so embarrassed, but now, in Weber's review and the lines he appended to my reply, this letter has been singled out by the
Neue Zürcher Zeitung
and used as an argument in favor of armaments. Never again, for as long as I have my wits about me, shall I allow my name on any book I haven't edited myself. And while somebody in Zurich is using me to promote rearmament, a section of the Swiss press is conducting a small witch hunt against me, unfortunately in Ticino as well, as though I were a communist, or a fellow traveler at least.

Since winter, since I got back from Baden, my condition has been declining a little every month; life tastes of bile.

Thanks for letting me know about your move!
433
My doctor has finally given his approval for the Engadine, so we shall travel to Sils during the second part of July, stay there until mid-August, and then go to Bremgarten for ten to fourteen days.

 

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 Academy
434
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 LETTER
438

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 points 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: