Soul of the Age Read online

  Well, all winter we rise at 6:30, have to be ready by 6:50. Things can get quite hectic in the bathroom; almost all of us wash thoroughly.

  At 6:50 we have precatio (prayers). (NB: There are many more of those Latin words from the monastic era—e.g., dormitorium, precatio, recreatio, etc.) During the service, we sing one verse of a hymn first, accompanied on the piano by one of the seminarians. Then the tutor reads aloud the meditation on a passage from the Bible, then comes a prayer, and then more singing. Here’s how the singing works: If we sing the first verse of “God Is Faithful” on Monday morning, we sing the second verse after recollection. In the evening we sing the first or second verse of “Command Thy Ways.” Then, on Tuesday morning, we sing the 3rd and 4th verse of “God Is Faithful” and in the evening the 3rd and 4th verse of “Command” and so on, until the chorale is over. After prayers comes breakfast—a rather skimpy amount of milk, not that we get enough coffee to give anybody a stomachache either. In addition, each person gets 1½ rolls. My money is running out fast; had to pay 30 pfennigs for the famulus and bursar; 64 pfennigs for fire insurance at the seminary. Then one needs an enormous quantity of copy books, including three for Ovid alone! We have 41 hours of lessons a week, and that’s not counting the hours set aside for disputation and homework. But we also get opportunities to go outside—e.g., from 12:30 to 2 o’clock.

  I’d appreciate it a lot if at some point you could send me a batch of ordinary scratch pads. There are lots of things I cannot get my hands on here. I don’t have much money left, only spent 11 pfennigs on myself for beer once. Many things are very expensive here, and the famulus occasionally adds a surcharge to make up for his trouble. I can eat my fill at lunch and dinner, then there’s afternoon snack. Please do remember to send me as many scratch pads as possible, when convenient, of course. I can put the holes in them.

  I wasn’t exactly displeased to hear we shall not be having French for a while. There will be Hebrew lessons during the French periods. The teachers, particularly the tutors, are mostly very responsive when we have any questions or requests. In my next letter, if it amuses me, I shall describe for you our daily routine (not the timetable) at the seminary. Yesterday evening I had to draw on my supply of marmalade, and, lo and behold, almost everybody has one to three caches of preserves. They hadn’t yet dared own up to them. We’re getting better used to one another. I’m in the largest room (Hellas). In our room, we have the top student in the class, the second as well, also the treasurer, the librarian, and this week I am the “censor,” i.e., guardian of the honor code (until Saturday evening).

  Greetings and a kiss

  February 14, 1892

  Many thanks for the package. I was feeling well when it arrived, and treated myself to those delicious items right away—not all by myself, a friend came to my aid (cf. Odyssey, beta 16).

  I think often of noble Polly, such a charming child. I’m glad to hear he’s well. Let’s hope he won’t be on the warpath come Easter. A special thanks to Hans and Marulla for the waffles; Mother should give each of them a special kiss from me!

  I’m feeling glad, cheerful, content! I find the atmosphere at the seminary very appealing. Especially the close, open relationship between pupil and teacher, but also the way the pupils relate to one another. Fights rarely last for very long. The other day I couldn’t understand some passages in Klopstock, so I went immediately to the tutor and asked him. Nothing much is at stake usually, but contacts like that forge a wonderfully solid bond; there’s no sense of constraint whatsoever. While in Göppingen, I was frequently ill-humored and incommunicative for days on end; there was certainly no common bond like that there, apart from the sheer drudgery. There was also considerable mockery of decency, willpower, ideals, etc.; here there’s none of that. Nobody dares make fun of art, science, etc. And what a splendid monastery! There is something rather special about discussing linguistic, religious, or artistic matters in one of those majestic cloisters. And it’s no longer just a case of two boys chattering: we really delve into the facts, generally ask the teachers questions, and read some relevant literature. I’d like to describe my fellow boarders; I’m sure you’d be interested in hearing about the kind of people I spend my time with.

  Well, first my neighbor Hartmann.1 He’s a hardworking youth; he likes things to be neat and tidy, and hasn’t lost the indolent dignity of the inhabitant of the capital. He has a very elegant, graceful way of pocketing his pince-nez, and occasionally ventures a witticism. But he can’t be made to change his mind, once he has made it up.

  Then there’s my other neighbor, Hinderer,2 a tiny man with the tiny eyes of a mouse. He’s light as a butterfly, laughs often but thinks little, also good-natured, musical. He recently ran a few little rubber bands across a small board, and then tuned them; he can play folk tunes, harmonies, and even dance music on it. He’s old Holzbog’s pet; he’s notatus in the class book. He goes out walking a lot, is moderate by nature, and has been reading E. Tegnér’s Fritjof Saga for quite some time.

  Of course, I spend most of my time with my friend Wilhelm Lang.3 He’s a hard worker, his desk is inscribed with the motto “Ora et labora!” He is extraordinarily practical, can make all sorts of things out of a little piece of wood, some twine, paper, etc. He sketches very nicely, especially ornaments, reads Schiller a lot, is a model schoolboy. He’s a little smaller than I am, dresses like me, has a nice, cheerful face, and wears chokers. He’s always well supplied with apples and butter, which are consumed with considerable help from me. He has a beautiful handwriting, acts as treasurer of the senior class, and on Saturday leaves half his bratwurst uneaten. He’s a bit reserved, loves peace and quiet, rarely gets into fights.

  Then there is Franz Schall.4 He’s about my height, a serious and industrious fellow. Some call him a philistine, but he’s thoughtful, has a finely developed sense of justice. To him duty is all. He’s fond of aesthetic things, Schiller’s prose, etc.

  I should also mention Zeller.5 He’s big, broad, frightfully strong. He’s an enthusiast, likes philosophy, is crazy about Herder. He knows Christ as “the friend” rather than the Son of God, and is skeptical about the existence of the devil and evil forces of that nature. Moreover, he’s talented, has a good prose style, writes occasional poetry infrequently, and has a very good feeling for music. He evidently feels superior on account of his penchant for philosophy, etc. When asked to prove his ideas, he says with a mixture of condescension and annoyance, “That’s still quite over your head!” He’s clever, not at all sly. He’s not interested in intrigue, and is rather intense, has a strange, comical sort of dignity, founded a “literary association,” which has lots of external paraphernalia, statutes, etc. Zeller is a good judge of people, especially men; he despises childishness in any form, and perhaps all that is childlike as well, and that’s no good.

  Häcker,6 a sharp-witted preacher’s son, is talented, funny, likes nibbling, grimaces a lot, and tells lots of very witty jokes in a most solemn and stoical manner. He often regales us with funny historical scenes, and can transform Homer into a street minstrel. He is kind-hearted, not particularly industrious, dignified, given to pathos. He can declaim philosophical essays on omelettes or herring salad; he never reads the classics.

  I’m not close to Robert Gabriel7 and mention him only because he has such talent for drawing. He can sketch landscapes, buildings, and many biblical scenes, also expressive portraits of Christ’s face, etc.

  Rümelin8 may be the most talented of all: a cheerful day scholar, mathematician, musician, quite practical, too.

  Saturday, March 12, 1892

  It’s nearly five o’clock. I’m sitting out my sentence,9 on bread and water; the detention began at half past twelve and will continue until eight-thirty. I’m on bread and water, but can do as I wish otherwise. I’ve been buried in Homer, the splendid passage in the Odyssey, epsilon 200ff. I’m doing all right, i.e., am terribly weak and tired, physically and mentally, but improving gradually. The detention ro
om is so big I can walk about quite easily; before me I have a table, a desk, two chairs, a warm stove, books, pen, ink, paper, and a lamp.

  The first part of the written final exam was held this morning. The Latin thesis was difficult; the Latin passage was taken from Livy V, II, and the Hebrew was easy. Next Wednesday it’ll be French (!) and mathematics (!).

  I’m being treated very gently and considerately by Professor Paulus and, especially, the two tutors. It was such a relief to be able to drop the violin lessons—permission came right away. I believe I should like to keep up music by taking private lessons. Anyhow, my idea is to accept the abilities I have and make the most of them. I’m not musical, that I realize; I don’t have what it takes to be a good violinist. I have also written Theo today.

  I’m going to visit Herr Mährlen tomorrow and shall give him your regards. Unfortunately, they’re moving to Stuttgart on St. George’s; Herr Mährlen hopes it will be easier for him to find a position there. They always treated me in a very loving, friendly manner, and I’m grateful to them for those many wonderful hours.

  Please give my regards to Grandfather, Aunt Jettle, Herr Claassen, and particularly Uncle Friedrich, whom you should also thank on my behalf for his visit here, which I greatly enjoyed. I’ve had a headache since two o’clock; it’s so hot here, my head is on fire, goodbye.

  With a kiss

  I just read this on the wall of the detention room: “Karl Isenberg, May 28, 1885.”

  I would be pleased if you could send me a little money by and by. I spent a bit in those twenty-three hours, and have also had a few other larger expenses. I don’t see how my funds can possibly last until April.

  March 20, 1892

  Thanks for the letter and money. My vacation starts in three or four weeks; I don’t know exactly for how long. From one to four yesterday we were out on one of those field trips that always leave my feet and head crippled for a few days. I didn’t have much of a headache during the actual excursion, but now it’s even worse. I’m so tired, so lacking in energy and willpower. I’m merely preparing the assignments, not doing anything of my own. I’m so glad when I get a moment’s peace and quiet, and don’t have to think at all. But there are few such moments. I’m not so much ill as pinned down by some rather uncharacteristic weakness. I hardly even get annoyed anymore, and I cannot enjoy things either, not even the golden sunlight or the approaching vacation. But I love to sit atop the vine-covered hill for a quarter of an hour or so, when the east wind is blowing. There are no houses or people around, and I have nothing on my mind, am totally passive, just enjoy the gale, which cools my eyes and temples. Klopstock’s divine Messiah and even Homer’s immortal song no longer hold me in thrall; I have left my Schiller all alone, and rarely read the mammoth dirge in Klopstock’s odes.

  My feet are always like ice, whereas there is a fire blazing deep within my head somewhere. Although I seldom have anything much on my mind during my free time, I occasionally think of Herwegh’s10 beautiful poem:

  I wish to leave like the sunset

  Like the final embers of day …

  The hardest part came yesterday, having to say goodbye to my Wilhelm, the person who really grew to know and understand me completely, who still loved me after my fall and kept on sharing my joys and my sorrows, even though everybody else had nothing but contempt for me. Yesterday, he showed me a letter from his pious, upright father, which demonstrated clearly that his parents despise me, too. The letter was a virtual order calling for immediate separation. It was a beautiful evening; the moon was shining into the ancient hall, as we strolled along, sunk in conversation. I have lost the person I loved most of all; it was to him that I devoted my free time, songs, thoughts. Leaving the oratory after this prolonged farewell, I could hear the soft chimes of Rümelin’s wonderful voice coming from the music room: “God forbid, that would’ve been simply too good to be true.”

  You will perhaps smile as you read these lines, but believe me, it’s hard to stand by the coffin of a friend, and ten times harder to lose a friend who is still alive.

  Bad Boll, May 23, 1892

  Thanks for the parcel, especially the clothes and the book about games.11

  Theo has probably told you a little about my life here. I haven’t been feeling all that well lately. Lack of sleep at night has become a real problem. My head feels so hot; I feel an indeterminate, constricting pain most of the time, especially in my chest and forehead, and I haven’t made many contacts here. Oh, I’d so love to tell you that I’m doing fine, that I’m singing and leaping about merrily, cheerfully, energetically, but even writing this is difficult. Things are better here than at Maulbronn.

  Even though I was in terrible shape in the seminary, I liked to imagine that the principal items—that is, instruction, room, and board—were provided by others, like wages almost. But here I feel oppressed by the thought that you are having to pay for this pleasant, convalescent life. Oh, if that weren’t the case, I would so love to remain here forever. I love the splendid air, beautiful region, good company, and free and easy atmosphere.

  It’s so pleasant to be able to think things over before taking the next step. It’s healthy rather than enervating or harmful. Here one can live one’s own life amidst society. That’s much the way I imagine life to be in the Orient. Clothes are all one needs, everything else is provided for. The bell tends to ring just when we’ve worked up an appetite. It’s we who decide when to go to bed, rise, etc., etc.

  Please give my greetings to all present, and to Theo, too, if he’s already there.

  Stetten, July 29, 1892

  Thanks for Papa’s letter! I can’t think of anything much to say. Of course, I wouldn’t be content with a life like this in the long run. To have to work, just so as not to be bored, teaching little children how to read, count, etc. I’m glad I’m here and also like working, but look forward to returning to my usual work, education, school life. My work here isn’t particularly well coordinated. I’m in the printing shop, gluing something together, when somebody tells me to go to the school, or takes me away from Livy and sends me into the garden, and so on. The appropriate gentlemen say I could probably start high school in the fall (mid-September). Mightn’t I pick up some important things for the future? I would prefer to attend high school in Cannstatt, where I could be in touch with the Kolbs, who are now as mother and sister to me.

  I cannot think of anything else to say; besides, I have a lesson to give five minutes from now.

  Please give my regards to the others in the family.

  Stetten, September [1] 1892

  Theo and Karl visited me today. Theo said you were depressed because of me. There’s no reason to think that I’m particularly cheerful either. There is nothing I wouldn’t be prepared to give up in exchange for death, for Lethe!

  Theo said I should beg forgiveness from you. But I shan’t do so under present circumstances, and certainly not while I’m still here in Stetten. My situation is miserable, the future is dismal, the past is dismal, and the present is diabolical! Oh, if only that unfortunate bullet had traversed my tormented brain!12

  An ill-fated year, 1892! It began gloomily in the seminary, followed by some blissful weeks in Boll, disappointment in love, then the abrupt conclusion! And now I’ve lost everything: home, parents, love, faith, hope, myself even. Quite frankly, I can see and admire the sacrifices you’re making, but actual love? No—! For me Stetten is like hell. If life were worth throwing away, if life weren’t a delusion, sometimes merry, sometimes somber—I’d like to bash my skull against these walls, which divide me from myself. And then a dismal fall and a virtually black winter. Yes, yes, fall is here, fall in nature and fall in the heart: the blossoms are dropping off, ah, and beauty flees, leaving only an icy chill. There are several hundred dehumanized lunatics here, but I’m the only one with this emotion. I almost wish I were mad. How utterly sweet it must be, a drowsy forgetfulness about absolutely everything, all the joy and the sorrow, the life and the pain
, the love and the hatred!

  However, I’ve been chatting for too long. Miserable, no, cold is what I want to be, ice-cold toward everybody, absolutely everybody. But you are my jailors, so I cannot address these complaints to you. Farewell, farewell. I wish to be alone; I’m in dread of these people. Don’t tell anybody how deathly tired I am, how unhappy! Either let me croak here, a rabid dog, or behave like parents! I cannot possibly be a son right now; I’m having to battle and defy my own misfortune; again, behave like parents but—why not kill me off more quickly instead?

  I cannot write any more. I would have to cry, and what I most want is to be dead and cold. Adieu!

  Stetten, September 11, 1892

  I was about to play something on the violin. I took up the instrument, looked out on the sunny day, when all of a sudden, and quite involuntarily, Schumann’s “Reverie” began gliding along the strings. I felt a mixture of well-being, sadness, and languor. The soft, undulating notes matched my mood. Listening to the chords, I got lost in dreams of distant, better times, those beautiful, happy days I spent in Boll. Then—all of a sudden there was a bang, a shrill discordant note: a string had snapped. I woke up from the dream and was back—in Stetten. Only one of the strings had broken, but the others were out of tune.

  That’s how things stand with me. I have left behind me in Boll all my best qualities, love, faith, and hope. And there’s such a contrast between the two places:

  In Boll, I used to play billiards in a beautiful salon with my dear, kind friends. The ivory balls roll softly, one can hear the squeaking of chalk, laughter, jokes. Or I’m sitting on a comfortable sofa, playing a game of checkers while the majestic chords of a Beethoven sonata rustle past.

  Hesse at four