The Fairy Tales of Hermann Hesse (15 page)

He let everything happen, let himself be led into and out of the cell before the judges and witnesses. Confused and sad, he gazed with sick eyes into the many angry, disturbed, and spiteful faces, and in each one of them, he saw a hidden charm and a spark of affection that glimmered from beneath the hate and distortion. All these people had loved him at one time, and he had not loved any of them. Now he begged their forgiveness and sought to remember something good about each one of them.

In the end he was imprisoned, and nobody was allowed to visit him. So he talked in feverish dreams to his mother, his first lover, godfather Binsswanger, and the Nordic lady from the ship. And when he awoke and sat alone and lost during those terrible days, he suffered all the pains of yearning and abandonment, and he longed
for the sight of people as he had never longed for any kind of pleasure in his life.

And when he was released from prison, he was sick and old, and nobody recognized him anymore. The world was still going its way. People drove and rode and walked in the streets. Fruit and flowers, toys and newspapers were sold all over. But nobody turned to speak to Augustus. Beautiful women whom he had once held in his arms while enjoying champagne and music drove by him in their carriages and left him behind in their dust.

Still, he no longer felt the terrible emptiness and loneliness that had stifled him when he had led a life of luxury. When he stopped for a moment at the gateway of a house in order to find some protection from the heat of the sun, or when he asked for a drink of water in the courtyard of some building, he was surprised to see how irritated and inhospitable the people were who had formerly responded to his proud and harsh words with gratitude and sparkling eyes. Nevertheless, the sight of each and every person delighted and touched him. He loved the children whom he saw playing and going to school, and he loved the old people sitting on benches in front of their little homes and warming their wrinkled hands in the sun. If he saw a young boy follow a girl with longing looks, or a worker taking his children in his arms when he returned home at the end of the day, or a fine smart doctor driving silently and quickly in his car and thinking about his sick patients, or a poor, simply dressed prostitute waiting by a lamppost in the evening at the edge of the city and even offering him, the outcast, her love—then all these people were his brothers and sisters. Each one of them carried the memory of a beloved mother and a better past, or a secret sign of a more beautiful and more noble destiny, and each person was dear to him and
remarkable and gave him something to think about. Indeed, he felt that nobody was worse than he was himself.

Augustus decided to wander through the world and to search for a place where it would be possible for him to be useful to people in some way and to show them his love. He had become accustomed to the fact that his appearance no longer made people happy. His cheeks were caved in; his clothes and shoes were like those of a beggar. Even his voice and gait had lost the charm that used to delight people. Children were afraid of him because of the long scraggly beard that hung down from his chin. Well-dressed people kept their distance from him because they would feel anxious and dirty if he were to come too close. Poor people were distrustful because they regarded him as an intruder who might snap up some bits of their food. Consequently, he found it difficult to be of service to anyone, but he learned how to help and was not discouraged. One time he saw a child stretching out his hand in vain to reach the doorknob of a bakery, and he gave him a boost. Sometimes there were people who were worse off than he, blind people or invalids, and he would help them on their way and do some good deed for them. And when he could not assist them, he cheerfully gave them what little he had—a bright kind look and brotherly greeting, a gesture of understanding and sympathy. Along the way he learned to tell from people’s expressions what they expected of him and what would make them happy. Some needed a loud spontaneous salutation, some a silent look, while others wanted to be left alone, undisturbed. He was amazed each day to see how much misery there was in the world and yet how content people could be, and he found it splendid and inspiring to experience over and over again how sorrow could soon be followed by joyous laughter; a death knell, by the song of children;
every predicament and mean act, by simple kindness, a joke, a comforting word, or a smile.

People seemed to arrange their lives in remarkable ways. If he turned a corner and a group of schoolboys came rushing toward him, he marveled at their courage and zest for life and at the beauty of youth that glistened in all their eyes. If they teased and annoyed him a little, it was not so bad—he could even understand it. When he saw his reflection in a store window or the water of a fountain, he found that he looked shabby and wrinkled. No, for him it was no longer a question of pleasing people or wielding power. He had experienced enough of that. For him, it was now wonderful and edifying to see how other people struggled and groped their way along those paths that he had once taken in his life, and how everyone pursued goals with zeal, vigor, pride, and joy. For him, this was a wonderful drama.

In the meantime winter came and went, and now it was summer. Augustus lay ill for a long time in a charity hospital, and there he silently and gratefully enjoyed the pleasure of seeing poor downtrodden people clinging to life with all their might and passion and overcoming death. It was marvelous to see the patience of those who were terribly sick. Then there was the vigorous passion for life and brightness in the eyes of those people who were convalescing. And it was also beautiful to see the silent, dignified faces of the dead. Most of all, he admired the love and patience of the pretty, well-kempt nurses. But this period also came to an end. The autumn wind blew, and Augustus set about wandering again as winter approached. Now a strange impatience gripped him as he saw how endlessly slowly he proceeded. He still wanted to travel all over and meet many more people face to face. His hair had turned gray, and his eyes smiled shyly behind infected red lids, and gradually he began to lose
his memory so that it seemed to him that he had never seen the world other than it was on that particular day. But he was satisfied and found the world most glorious and deserving of love.

At the onset of winter he arrived in a city, and the snow drifted through the dark streets. Though it was late, a few boys were still walking around, and they threw some snowballs at the wanderer. Otherwise, a veil of silence covered the city. Augustus was very tired. He came to a narrow street, which seemed very familiar to him, and then to another. Suddenly he was standing in front of his mother’s house, and right next door was his godfather’s dwelling. Both were small and old, covered by the cold snow. A light was burning in one of the windows of his godfather’s house. It glimmered red and seemed peaceful in the winter night.

Augustus entered and knocked at the living-room door. The little man came toward him and led him into the room without saying a word. It was warm and quiet there, and a small bright fire burned in the fireplace.

“Are you hungry?” asked his godfather. But Augustus was not hungry. He only smiled and shook his head.

“But you’re certainly tired.” His godfather spoke again, and he spread his old fur rug on the floor. The two old men squatted next to one another and looked into the fire.

“You’ve come a long way,” said his godfather.

“Oh, it was very beautiful, but I’ve become a little tired. May I sleep here? I’ll move on tomorrow.”

“Yes, you may. But how would you like to see the angels dance again?”

“The angels? Oh yes, I certainly would, if I become a child once more.”

“We haven’t seen each other for a long time,” his godfather continued. “You’re so handsome. Your eyes are kind and gentle again, as they were in the old days, when your mother was still alive. It’s nice of you to visit me.”

The wanderer, clad in torn clothes, was slouched over as he sat quietly next to his friend. He had never been so exhausted, and the pleasant warmth and glow of the fire made him so confused that he could no longer clearly distinguish between today and yesterday.

“Godfather Binsswanger,” he said, “I’ve been naughty again, and Mother cried at home. You must talk to her and tell her that I’m going to be good again. Will you do that?”

“I will,” responded his godfather. “Don’t get upset. She loves you very much.”

Now the fire dwindled, and Augustus stared into the dim glow with large sleepy eyes, just as he had done a long time ago in his childhood. His godfather placed Augustus’s head on his lap, and some soft and blissful music sounded through the room. Then a thousand beaming spirits came floating through the air and circled gracefully around each other in pairs. And Augustus watched and listened with the keen sensitivity and openness of a child to the paradise regained.

It seemed to him at one point that he heard his mother calling him, but he was too tired to answer and his godfather had promised to talk to her. And when he fell asleep, his godfather folded his hands and listened to his heart until it stopped beating and the room was completely enveloped by the night.

T
here is a story told about the Chinese poet Han Fook, who, as a young man, had been inspired by a wondrous urge to learn all he could and become perfect in everything that was in any way related to the art of poetry. At that time he was still living in his hometown on the Yellow River and by his own wish had become engaged to a young woman from a good family, with the help of his parents who loved him dearly. The wedding date was soon to be set on a day that promised to be auspicious. Han Fook was then about twenty years old. He was a handsome and modest young man, pleasant in his manners and well rounded in his education. In spite of his youth, he had already made a name for himself with many an excellent poem, and he was known in the literary circles of this region. Without being exactly rich, he could nevertheless expect to have enough money to
lead a comfortable life, and this money would be increased through the dowry of his bride. Moreover, since this bride was very beautiful and virtuous, nothing whatsoever seemed to be missing to complete the young man’s happiness. Nevertheless, he was not entirely content, for his heart’s desire was to become a perfect poet.

One evening while the festival of lanterns was being celebrated on a bank of the river, Han Fook happened to be wandering alone on the other side. He leaned against the trunk of a tree that protruded over the water and looked at the thousand lights swimming and shimmering in the reflection in the river. He saw men and women and young girls on boats and barges greeting one another. They were dressed in festive costumes and beamed like beautiful flowers. He heard the faint murmuring of the glittering water, the melodies of the singers, the hum of the zither, and the sweet tones of the flute players. And high above all of this, he saw the blue night hover like the arch of a temple. The young man’s heart pounded while he stood there as a lonely spectator, and he became enraptured by all this beauty. Yet as much as he longed to cross the river and become part of everything, to be near his bride and his friends and enjoy the festivities, he also desired just as passionately to absorb all of this as a keen observer and to capture it in a totally perfect poem: the blue of the night and the play of light on the water, as well as the enjoyment of the people and the yearning of the silent onlooker leaning against the trunk of the tree on the bank. He sensed that there would never be a festive occasion or any pleasure in the world that would make him feel entirely at ease and cheerful. Even in the midst of life he would remain solitary and, to a certain degree, a spectator and stranger. He felt, among other things, that his soul was formed in such a way that compelled him to feel both the beauty of earth and the strange
longing of the outsider at the same time. He became sad about that, and as he pondered this matter, he came to the conclusion that true happiness and deep fulfillment could be his only if he were to succeed one time in capturing the world so perfectly in his poems that he would possess the world itself, purified and eternalized, in these images.

Han Fook hardly knew whether he was still awake or had fallen asleep when he heard a slight rustling and saw a stranger standing next to the trunk of the tree. The man was old and venerable and dressed in a violet robe. Han Fook stood up straight and greeted him with the respect due to wise and distinguished men. But the stranger only smiled and recited a few verses that expressed everything that the young man had just felt so perfectly and beautifully and in such exact accord with the rules of the great poets that the young man’s heart stood still in amazement.

“Who are you?” he exclaimed with a deep bow. “You who can peer into my soul and recite such poems that are more beautiful than any I have ever heard from my teachers?”

Once again the stranger smiled the smile of a man of great accomplishment and said, “If you want to become a poet, come to me. You’ll find my hut at the source of the Great River in the northwestern mountains. My name is Master of the Perfect Word.”