Beatrice

Without having seen my friend again, I traveled at the end of the holidays to St. ——. Both my parents came with me, and handed me over with all possible care to the protection of a master of the school, in whose house I was to board. They would have been numb with horror, had they only known to what sort of fate they were leaving me.

At the end of the holidays, I traveled to St. ..., without seeing my friend again. Both my parents came with me. They took every care to leave me in the protection of a schoolmaster, in whose house I was to board. They would have been numb with horror if they had known what kind of fate they were leaving me to face.

It still hung in the balance whether I should become with time a good son and a useful citizen, or whether my nature would break out in other directions. My last attempt to be happy under the roof of my father’s house and the spirit prevailing there had lasted for a considerable period, and at times had almost succeeded, only in the end to fail completely.

It was still uncertain whether I would eventually become a good son and a useful citizen, or follow a different path by nature. My last attempt to be happy in my father’s house, under its prevailing spirit, had lasted quite a while. At times it had almost succeeded, but in the end it failed completely.

The curious emptiness and isolation which I had begun to feel for the first time in the holidays after my confirmation (how I learned to know it later, this emptiness, this thin atmosphere) did not pass immediately. The parting from home was for me peculiarly easy. I was really rather ashamed of not being sadder—my sisters wept without reason, I could not. I was astonished at myself. I had always been an emotional child, and at bottom, tolerably good. Now I was quite changed. I was completely indifferent towards the outside world. For days together my sole occupation was hearkening to my inner self, listening to the flood of dark, forbidden instincts which roared subterraneously within me. I had grown very quickly in that last half-year, and appeared lanky, thin and immature. The amiability of boyhood had completely disappeared from my character; I realized myself that it was impossible to like me thus, and I by no means loved myself. I had often a great longing for Max Demian; on the other hand, I hated him not seldom, and looked upon him as responsible for the moral impoverishment of my life, to which I resigned myself as to a sort of nasty disease.

The strange emptiness and isolation I had first felt during the holidays after my confirmation did not go away immediately. How well I came to know that emptiness, that thin atmosphere, later on. Leaving home was unusually easy for me. I was actually rather ashamed that I wasn't sadder. My sisters wept for no reason, but I couldn't. I was astonished at myself. I had always been an emotional child and, deep down, reasonably good. Now I had changed completely. I was completely indifferent to the outside world. For days on end, I did nothing but listen to my inner self. I listened to the flood of dark, forbidden instincts roaring deep inside me. I had grown very quickly over the previous six months and looked lanky, thin, and immature. The friendliness of boyhood had completely vanished from my character. I could see that it was impossible to like me as I was, and I certainly didn't love myself. I often longed for Max Demian. At other times, though, I hated him and held him responsible for the moral emptiness of my life. I accepted that emptiness as I would a nasty disease.

In the beginning I was neither liked nor respected in our school boarding house. First they ragged me, then kept out of my way, looking upon me as a rotter and an eccentric character; I was pleased with myself and I even overplayed my part, withdrawing into my solitary self, growling occasional cynicisms. Superficially I appeared to despise the world in most manly fashion, whereas in reality I was secretly consumed by melancholy and despair. In school I could fall back on a knowledge amassed at home. The form I was in was not so advanced as the same form in the school I had just left, and so I acquired the habit of despising my school contemporaries, regarding them as mere children.

At first, I was neither liked nor respected at our school boarding house. The other boys teased me, then avoided me, seeing me as a nasty person and an oddball. I was pleased with myself and even played up the role. I withdrew into myself and occasionally muttered cynical remarks. On the surface, I seemed to despise the world in a very manly way. In reality, I was secretly consumed by sadness and despair. At school, I could rely on what I had learned at home. My class was not as advanced as the equivalent class at my previous school. So I grew used to looking down on my schoolmates, seeing them as mere children.

This attitude lasted a year and longer. My first holiday visits at home brought no change, I went gladly away again.

This attitude lasted for more than a year. My first holiday visits home changed nothing. I was glad to leave again.

It was in the beginning of November. I had formed the habit of taking short, meditative walks in all kinds of weather, during which I often experienced a sort of joy, a joy full of melancholy, contempt of the world and contempt of self. I was sauntering thus one evening through the damp, foggy twilight in a suburb of the town. The broad drive of a public park stood completely deserted, inviting me to enter. The road lay thick with fallen leaves, into which I dug voluptuously with my feet. It smelt damp and bitter; in the distance the trees stood up tall and shadowy, ghostlike in the fog.

It was early November. I had gotten into the habit of taking short, thoughtful walks in all kinds of weather. On these walks, I often felt a kind of joy, full of sadness and contempt for the world and myself. One evening, I was strolling through the damp, foggy twilight in a suburb of the town. The wide path through a public park was completely deserted, inviting me in. The path was thick with fallen leaves, and I dug my feet into them with delight. The air smelled damp and bitter. In the distance, the trees stood tall and shadowy, like ghosts in the fog.

At the end of the drive I stood still and undecided, staring into the black foliage, scenting eagerly the damp odor of decomposition and death, which seemed to be in harmony with my own mood. Oh, how insipid life tasted!

At the end of the driveway, I stood still, unsure what to do. I stared into the dark leaves, eagerly breathing in the damp smell of decay and death. The smell seemed to match my mood. Oh, how dull life tasted!

A man, with the collar of his raincoat blowing about him, came out of a side path. I was just going on when he called to me.

A man came out of a side path, his raincoat collar blowing around him. I was about to walk on when he called to me.

“Hello, Sinclair!”

“Hello, Sinclair!”

It happened to be Alphonse Beck, the senior boy of the house. I was always glad to see him and had nothing against him, except that he always treated me as he did all the younger boys, in an ironical and grandfatherly manner. He passed for being as strong as a bear, was said to have great influence on the house master, and was the hero of many school stories.

It happened to be Alphonse Beck, the oldest boy in the house. I was always glad to see him and had nothing against him. But he treated me as he treated all the younger boys, with an ironic, grandfatherly air. He had a reputation for being as strong as a bear. He was said to have great influence over the house master and was the hero of many school stories.

“What are you doing here?” he asked affably, in the tone the seniors always used when they condescended on occasion to talk to us. “Composing verse, I bet?”

“What are you doing here?” he asked pleasantly. He used the tone the seniors always used when they occasionally stooped to talk to us. “Writing poetry, I bet?”

“Shouldn’t dream of it,” I disclaimed gruffly.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said gruffly.

He laughed, came up to me, and we chatted together in a manner to which I had not been accustomed for some time past.

He laughed and came over to me. We chatted in a way I hadn't been used to for some time.

“You needn’t be afraid, Sinclair, that I shouldn’t understand. I know the feeling, when one goes for a walk on a foggy evening—the thoughts autumn inspires in one. And one writes poetry about dying nature, of course, and spent youth; which is very much like it. Read Heinrich Heine?”

“Don’t be afraid that I won’t understand, Sinclair. I know the feeling you get walking on a foggy evening, and the thoughts autumn brings. And of course, you write poetry about dying nature and youth that has passed. It’s much the same thing. Have you read Heinrich Heine?”

“I am not so sentimental,” I said in self-defense.

“I’m not that sentimental,” I said defensively.

“Oh, all right. But in this weather, I think, it does a man good to find a quiet place where one can take a glass of wine or something. Are you coming with me for a bit? I happen to be quite alone. Or wouldn’t you care to? I wouldn’t like to lead you astray, old man, if you are one of those model boys.”

“Oh, all right. But in this weather, I think it does a man good to find a quiet place for a glass of wine or something. Will you come with me for a while? I’m all alone. Or would you rather not? I wouldn’t want to lead you astray, old man, if you’re one of those model boys.”

A little while after we sat clinking our thick glasses in a little tavern in the suburbs, drinking wine of a doubtful quality. At first I wasn’t much pleased, still it was rather a novelty for me. But unaccustomed to wine, I soon became talkative. It was as if a window had been flung open within me, and the world shining in—for how long, how terribly long, had I not eased my heart by talking. I gave full play to my imagination, and once started, I related the story of Cain and Abel.

A little while later, we sat in a small tavern in the suburbs, clinking our thick glasses and drinking wine of questionable quality. At first, I wasn’t very pleased, though it was something new for me. But I wasn’t used to wine, and I soon became talkative. It was as if a window had been flung open inside me, letting the world shine in. How long, how terribly long, it had been since I’d eased my heart by talking! I let my imagination run free, and once I got started, I told the story of Cain and Abel.

Beck listened to me with pleasure—someone at last, to whom I was giving something! He clapped me on the shoulder, told me I was the devil of a good fellow and a clever rascal. How I reveled in communicating my opinions, as I relieved myself of all the pent-up thought of the past months! My heart swelled with pride at finding my talents recognized by someone older than I was. When he called me a clever rascal the effect was like a sweet, strong wine running through me. The world lit up in new colors, thoughts came to me as from a hundred sources, wit and fire blazed up in me. We spoke of masters and schoolfellows, and I thought we understood one another wonderfully well. We talked of Greeks and of pagans, and Beck wished absolutely to draw me out on the subject of women. But on this point I could not converse. I had no experience, nothing to relate. True, all that I had felt and imagined was burning within me, but I could not impart my thoughts, not even under the influence of wine. Beck knew much more about girls, and I listened to his tales with glowing eyes. The things I heard were unbelievable. What I should never have conceived to be possible entered the sphere of commonplace reality and seemed self-evident. Alphonse Beck, who was perhaps eighteen years old, was already a man of experiences. Among other things, he told me that girls liked boys to play the gallant with them, but in general were too frightened to go any further. You could hope for more success with women. Women were much cleverer. For instance, there was Mrs. Jaggelt, who sold pencils and copybooks, who was much easier to deal with. All that had happened behind the counter in her shop was unprintable in any book.

Beck listened to me with pleasure. At last, here was someone I was giving something to! He clapped me on the shoulder and called me a devilishly good fellow and a clever rascal. I reveled in sharing my opinions, letting out all the thoughts I had bottled up over the past months. My heart swelled with pride because someone older than me recognized my talents. When he called me a clever rascal, it felt like sweet, strong wine flowing through me. The world lit up in new colors. Thoughts came to me from what seemed like a hundred sources, and wit and fire blazed up in me. We talked about teachers and schoolmates, and I thought we understood each other wonderfully well. We talked about Greeks and pagans, and Beck was determined to get me talking about women. But I couldn't talk about women. I had no experience and nothing to tell. All I had felt and imagined was burning inside me, but I couldn't share my thoughts, even after drinking wine. Beck knew much more about girls, and I listened to his stories with glowing eyes. The things I heard were unbelievable. Things I would never have imagined possible now seemed like ordinary facts of life. Alphonse Beck, who was perhaps eighteen, was already a man of experience. Among other things, he told me that girls liked boys to flirt with them. But girls were generally too frightened to go any further. You could hope for more success with women. Women were much cleverer. For example, Mrs. Jaggelt, who sold pencils and notebooks, was much easier to deal with. Everything that had happened behind the counter in her shop was unfit to print in any book.

I sat on captivated; my head was swimming. To be sure, I could not exactly have loved Mrs. Jaggelt, but still, it was unheard of. It seemed as if things happened, at least to older people, of which I had never dreamed. There was a false ring about it, to be sure, everything seemed more trivial and commonplace, and did not coincide with my own ideas about love, but still, it was reality, it was love and adventure, someone sat next to me who had lived it in experience, to whom it seemed a matter of course.

I sat there, captivated, my head spinning. Of course, I could hardly have loved Mrs. Jaggelt myself, but even so, it was unheard of. It seemed that things happened, at least to older people, that I had never dreamed of. To be sure, the story had a false ring to it. Everything seemed more trivial and ordinary than I had imagined, and it did not match my own ideas about love. But still, it was real. It was love and adventure. Someone sitting next to me had experienced it firsthand, and to him it seemed perfectly ordinary.

Our conversation had reached a lower level, had deteriorated. I was no longer a clever little fellow, I was just a mere boy listening to a man. But even then—in comparison with what my life had been for months and months, this was delicious, this was heaven. Besides, as I gradually began to realize, all this was forbidden, absolutely forbidden, everything from sitting in a public house, down to the subject of our conversation. In any case, I thought I was showing spirit; I was in revolt.

Our conversation had sunk to a lower level. I was no longer a clever little fellow. I was just a boy listening to a man. But even so, compared with my life for months and months, this was wonderful. It was heaven. Besides, I gradually began to realize that all of it was forbidden, absolutely forbidden. Everything was forbidden, from sitting in a pub to the subject of our conversation. In any case, I thought I was showing spirit. I was rebelling.

I can recollect that night with the greatest clearness. We both of us wended our way home at a late hour under the dimly burning gas lamps through the cool, damp night, and for the first time in my life I was drunk. It was not agreeable, it was in the highest degree unpleasant, but there was a sort of charm about it, a sweetness—it smacked of orgy and revolt, of spirit and life. Beck bravely took me in hand, and although he grumbled at me as being a bloody novice, he half carried, half dragged me home, where, by good fortune, he was able to smuggle us both through a window which stood open on the ground floor.

I remember that night with perfect clarity. We walked home late through the cool, damp night, beneath the dim gas lamps. For the first time in my life, I was drunk. It was not pleasant. It was extremely unpleasant, but it had a kind of charm, a sweetness. It had the taste of orgy and rebellion, of spirit and life. Beck bravely took charge of me. Although he grumbled that I was a bloody novice, he half carried and half dragged me home. Luckily, he was able to sneak us both in through an open window on the ground floor.

But a maddening pang accompanied the sobering up as I painfully awoke after a short heavy sleep. I sat up in bed and saw that I was still wearing my shirt. My clothes and shoes lay round about on the floor, smelling of tobacco and vomit. And between headache, nausea and a maddening thirst, a picture came before my mind on which I had not set eyes for many a long day. I saw my home, the house where dwelt my parents. I saw father and mother, my sisters and the garden. I saw my peaceful, homely bedroom, the school and the marketplace. Demian and the confirmation class—and all this was bright, lustrous, all was wonderful, godly and pure, all that, I realized now, had until yesterday belonged to me, had waited for me. But now, in this hour, it was mine no longer, it spurned me and looked upon me with disgust. All that was loving and intimate, all that I had received from my parents since the first golden days of my childhood, each kiss mother had given me, each Christmas, each godly bright Sunday morning there at home, each flower in the garden, all that was laid waste, I had trampled on it all with my foot! If the police had come for me then and had bound me and led me away to the gallows as a desecrator and as the scum of humanity, I should have acquiesced; should have gone gladly. I would have found it right and fitting.

But a maddening pain came with sobriety as I painfully woke from a short, heavy sleep. I sat up in bed and saw that I was still wearing my shirt. My clothes and shoes lay scattered on the floor, smelling of tobacco and vomit. Amid the headache, nausea, and maddening thirst, an image came to mind that I had not seen in a long time. I saw my home, the house where my parents lived. I saw my father and mother, my sisters, and the garden. I saw my peaceful, cozy bedroom, the school, and the marketplace. I saw Demian and the confirmation class. Everything was bright and radiant. Everything was wonderful, godly, and pure. I realized that all of it had belonged to me until yesterday, had waited for me. But now, at this moment, it was no longer mine. It rejected me and looked at me with disgust. All that was loving and familiar had been laid waste. This was everything my parents had given me since the first golden days of my childhood. Every kiss from my mother, every Christmas, every godly, bright Sunday morning at home, every flower in the garden. I had trampled on it all! If the police had come for me then, bound me, and led me to the gallows, I would have accepted it. They would have taken me as someone who had desecrated all of it, as the scum of humanity. I would have gone gladly. I would have found it right and fitting.

That was the state of my feelings. I, who had gone about despising the world! I, who had been so proud in spirit and who had shared Demian’s thoughts! So I appeared a filthy pig, to be classed with the scum of the earth, drunk and befouled, disgusting and common, a dissolute beast, carried away by abominable instincts. So I appeared, I who came from those gardens whose bright flowers had been purity and sweet gentleness, I who had loved Bach’s music and beautiful poetry! I could still hear, with aversion and disgust, my own laugh, the drunken, uncontrolled, convulsive and silly laugh which escaped me. That was I!

That was how I felt. I had gone around despising the world! I had been so proud and had shared Demian’s thoughts! And now I looked like a filthy pig, no better than the scum of the earth. I was drunk and filthy, disgusting and common, a depraved beast carried away by vile instincts. That was how I looked, though I came from gardens whose bright flowers were purity and gentle sweetness. I had loved Bach’s music and beautiful poetry! I could still hear my own laugh, and it filled me with disgust. It was a drunken, uncontrolled, convulsive, silly laugh. That was me!

But in spite of everything there was a certain enjoyment in suffering these torments. I had lived for so long a blind, dull existence, for so long had my heart been silent, impoverished and shut up, that even this self-accusation, this self-aversion, this entirely dreadful feeling was welcome. At least it was feeling; flowers were flaring up, emotion was quivering therein. I experienced in the midst of my misery a confused sensation of liberation, of the approach of spring.

But despite everything, there was a certain pleasure in suffering these torments. I had lived blindly and dully for so long. My heart had been silent, empty, and closed off for so long. So even this self-blame, this self-hatred, this utterly dreadful feeling was welcome. At least it was a feeling. Flowers were bursting into bloom, and emotion was trembling within them. In the middle of my misery, I felt a confused sense of freedom, of spring approaching.

However, as far as outward appearances went, I was going fast down the hill. The first debauch was soon followed by others. There was much drinking at school, and other things not in accord with study. I was among the youngest who carried on in this way, but from being just tolerated and looked upon as a mere youngster, I soon rose to be considered as a leader and a star. I was renowned as a daredevil and could drink with the best. Once again I belonged entirely to the dark world, to the devil, and I passed in this world for being a splendid fellow.

But outwardly, I was going downhill fast. My first binge was soon followed by others. There was a lot of drinking at school, and other activities that had nothing to do with studying. I was among the youngest who behaved this way. At first, I was merely tolerated and seen as a kid, but soon I became a leader and a star. I was known as a daredevil and could drink with the best of them. Once again, I belonged entirely to the dark world, to the devil. And in that world, I was considered a splendid fellow.

But at the same time I was in a pitiful state of mind. I lived in a whirl of self-destroying debauchery, and while I was looked up to by my friends as a leader and the devil of a good fellow, as a cursed witty and spirited drinking companion, my anxious soul was full of apprehension. I remember on one occasion tears started to my eyes when, on coming out of a tavern one Sunday morning, I saw children playing in the street, bright and contented, with freshly combed hair, and in their Sunday clothes. And while I amused and often terrified my friends with monstrous cynicisms, as we sat at dirty tables stained with puddles of beer, in low public houses, I had in my heart a secret, deep reverence for everything at which I scoffed—inwardly I was weeping bitterly at the thought of my past life, of my mother, of God.

But at the same time, I was in a pitiful state of mind. I lived in a whirlwind of self-destructive excess. My friends looked up to me as a leader and a hell of a good fellow. They saw me as a devilishly witty and lively drinking companion. Yet my anxious soul was full of dread. I remember one Sunday morning, when I came out of a tavern, tears came to my eyes. I saw children playing in the street, bright and content, with freshly combed hair and dressed in their Sunday best. As we sat in seedy bars at dirty tables covered in puddles of beer, I amused my friends with outrageous cynicism. Often I terrified them too. Yet in my heart I secretly and deeply revered everything I mocked. Inside, I wept bitterly at the thought of my past life, my mother, and God.

There is a good reason for the fact that I was never one with my companions, that I remained lonely even in their midst, that I suffered in the manner above described. I was a hero of drinking bouts, with the roughest of them, I was a scoffer after their own heart. I showed courage and wit in my ideas and in my talks about masters, school, parents, the church—I listened to their smutty stories unflinchingly and even ventured one or two myself—but I was never about when my boon companions went off with girls. I remained behind alone, filled with an ardent desire for love, a hopeless longing, whereas to judge from my conversation I must have been a hardened rake. No one was more vulnerable, no one more chaste than I. And when from time to time I saw young girls pass by in the town, pretty and clean, bright and charming, they seemed to me like wonderful, pure dream women, a thousand times too good and too pure for me. For a long time I could not bring myself to enter Mrs. Jaggelt’s stationery shop, because I blushed when I saw her and thought of what Alphonse Beck had told me about her.

There was a good reason I never felt at one with my companions. It explained why I remained lonely even among them and suffered as I described above. I was a champion drinker, as rough as the roughest of them. I mocked things just as they liked. I showed courage and wit in my ideas and in my talk about teachers, school, parents, and the church. I listened to their dirty stories without flinching and even dared to tell one or two myself. But I was never around when my drinking companions went off with girls. I stayed behind alone, filled with a fierce desire for love and a hopeless longing. Yet from the way I talked, I must have seemed like a hardened womanizer. No one was more vulnerable or more chaste than I was. From time to time, I saw young women passing through town, pretty and clean, bright and charming. They seemed to me like wonderful, pure women from a dream, a thousand times too good and too pure for me. For a long time, I could not bring myself to enter Mrs. Jaggelt’s stationery shop. I blushed when I saw her and thought of what Alphonse Beck had told me about her.

The more I realized how different I was from the members of my new set, how isolated I was in their midst, the less easy was it for that very reason to break with them. I do not really know whether the toping and bragging ever caused me much pleasure, and I could never so accustom myself to hard drinking that I did not feel the painful consequences after each bout. I was as if coerced into doing this. I did it because I had to, because I was otherwise absolutely ignorant of a course to follow, I knew not where to begin. I was afraid of being long alone. I was frightened of the many tender, chaste, intimate moods to which I constantly felt myself inclined, I was afraid of the tender notions of love which so often came to me.

The more I realized how different I was from my new circle, the more isolated I felt among them. And for that very reason, it became harder to break away from them. I don't really know whether all the drinking and bragging ever gave me much pleasure. I could never get used to drinking heavily, and I felt the painful effects after every binge. It was as if I were being forced to do it. I drank and bragged because I had to. I had absolutely no idea what else to do or where to begin. I was afraid of being alone for long. I was frightened by the tender, innocent, intimate moods I was constantly drawn to. I was afraid of the tender thoughts of love that came to me so often.

One thing I lacked most of all—a friend. There were two or three schoolfellows whom I liked very much. But they belonged to the good set and my vices had for a long time been a secret to no one. They avoided me. With all I passed for a hopeless gamester under whose feet the very earth quaked. The masters knew much about me, severe punishments were several times inflicted on me, my final expulsion from the school was waited for with more or less certainty. I knew that myself; for a long time I had ceased to be a good pupil; I got through my work by hook or by crook, with the feeling that the state of affairs could not last much longer.

More than anything, I lacked a friend. There were two or three classmates I liked very much. But they belonged to the respectable crowd, and my vices had long been common knowledge. They avoided me. Everyone thought I was a hopeless gambler who shook the very ground beneath his feet. The teachers knew a lot about me. They punished me severely several times, and people expected my eventual expulsion with varying degrees of certainty. I knew it too. I had long since stopped being a good student. I got through my work however I could, feeling that things could not go on much longer.

There are many ways by which God can make us feel lonely and lead us to a consciousness of ourselves. With me it was in this way: it was like a bad dream, in which I saw myself ostracized, foul and clammy, creeping restlessly and painfully over broken beer glasses, down an abominably unclean road. There are such dreams, when you imagine you have set out to find a beautiful princess, but you stick in stinking back streets full of rubbish and dirty puddles. So it was with me. In this scarcely refined way I was destined to become lonely and to put between myself and my childhood a locked door of Eden over against which stood merciless sentinels on guard in beaming rays of light. It was a beginning, an awakening of that homesickness, that longing to return to my true self.

There are many ways God can make us feel lonely and bring us to know ourselves. For me, it happened like this: it was like a bad dream. I saw myself cast out, filthy and clammy, crawling restlessly and painfully over broken beer glasses along a horribly dirty road. There are dreams like that. You imagine you have set out to find a beautiful princess, but you get stuck in stinking back streets full of trash and dirty puddles. That was how it was for me. In this far from graceful way, I was destined to become lonely. A locked gate of Eden would stand between me and my childhood, with merciless guards standing watch in brilliant rays of light. It was a beginning, the awakening of a homesickness, a longing to return to my true self.

I was terribly frightened when my father, alarmed by a letter from my house master, appeared for the first time in St. —— and faced me unexpectedly. When he came for the second time, towards the end of that winter, I was hard and indifferent, I let him heap blame on me, I let him beg me to think of my mother, I was unmoved. Finally he grew very angry and said that if I did not turn over a new leaf he would have me disgraced and chased out of the school, and would have me placed in a reformatory. Little I cared! When he went away I felt sorry for him, but he had accomplished nothing; he had found no approach to me, and for a few moments I felt that it served him right.

I was terrified when my father first came to St. ... and confronted me unexpectedly. A letter from my house master had alarmed him. When he came a second time, near the end of that winter, I was hardened and indifferent. I let him pile blame on me. I let him beg me to think of my mother. I was unmoved. Finally, he became very angry. He said that if I didn’t change my ways, he would have me disgraced and expelled from school. He would also have me sent to a reformatory. I didn’t care! When he left, I felt sorry for him, but he had achieved nothing. He had found no way to reach me, and for a few moments I felt that he deserved it.

I was indifferent as to what might become of me. In my peculiar and unlovely manner, with my carrying on and my frequenting of public houses, I was at odds with the world—this was my way of protesting. I was ruining myself thereby, but what of it? Sometimes the case presented itself to me in this wise: If the world had no use for such as me, if there was no better place for us, if there were no higher duties, then people like myself simply went to the devil. So much the worse for the world.

I didn't care what happened to me. In my strange, unpleasant way, I defied the world by acting up and spending time in pubs. That was how I protested. I was ruining myself, but what did that matter? Sometimes I saw it this way: If the world had no use for people like me, if there was no better place for us, if there were no higher duties, then people like me simply went to the devil. So much the worse for the world.

The Christmas holidays of that year were exceedingly unpleasant. My mother was terrified when she saw me again. I had grown taller, and my thin face looked gray and ravaged by dissipation, with flabby features and inflamed rings round the eyes. The first indications of a moustache, and the spectacles which I had but lately taken to wearing, made me look stranger still. My sisters started back and giggled when they saw me. It was all very pleasant. Unpleasant was the conversation with my father in his study, unpleasant the greeting of a couple of relations, unpleasant above all things was Christmas night. That has been since my birth the great day of our house, the evening of festivity and love, of gratitude, of the renewal of the bond between my parents and myself. This time everything was depressing and embarrassing. As usual my father read the portion of the gospel about the shepherds in the field “keeping watch over their flock by night”; as usual my sisters stood radiantly before the table on which the presents were laid out. But my father’s voice was sad, and he looked old and constrained. Mother was unhappy; for me everything was equally painful and unwished for, presents and good wishes, Gospel and Christmas tree. The ginger-bread smelt delicious and exhaled thick clouds as of sweet remembrances. The Christmas tree was fragrant and told of things which existed no longer. I longed for the end of the evening and of the holidays.

The Christmas holidays that year were extremely unpleasant. My mother was terrified when she saw me again. I had grown taller, and my thin face looked gray and worn from too much indulgence. My features were slack, and I had inflamed rings around my eyes. The first signs of a mustache and the glasses I had recently started wearing made me look even stranger. My sisters recoiled and giggled when they saw me. It was all very pleasant. The conversation with my father in his study was unpleasant. So was greeting a couple of relatives. But Christmas night was the most unpleasant of all. Ever since I was born, Christmas night had been the great occasion in our home. It was an evening of celebration and love, of gratitude and renewed closeness between my parents and me. This time, everything was depressing and embarrassing. As usual, my father read the passage from the Gospel about the shepherds in the field “keeping watch over their flock by night.” As usual, my sisters stood beaming before the table where the presents were laid out. But my father’s voice was sad, and he looked old and ill at ease. Mother was unhappy. Everything was equally painful and unwelcome to me: the presents and good wishes, the Gospel and the Christmas tree. The gingerbread smelled delicious, giving off thick clouds of scent, like sweet memories. The Christmas tree was fragrant and spoke of things that no longer existed. I longed for the evening and the holidays to end.

So passed the whole winter. It was not long before I was severely reprimanded by the faculty and threatened with expulsion. It could not last much longer. Well it made no difference to me.

The whole winter passed this way. Before long, the teachers gave me a severe warning and threatened to expel me. It couldn't go on much longer. Well, it made no difference to me.

I had a special grudge against Max Demian, whom I had not seen for the whole of this period. In my first term at St. —— I had written to him twice, but had received no reply; for that reason I had not paid him a visit in the holidays.

I had a particular grudge against Max Demian, whom I had not seen during this whole period. In my first term at St. ___, I had written to him twice, but he had not replied. So I had not visited him during the holidays.

In the same park, where I had met Alphonse Beck in the autumn, it chanced that in the first days of spring, just as the thorn hedges were beginning to turn green, a girl attracted my attention. I was out for a walk by myself, full of gnawing cares and thoughts, for my health was bad. Besides that I was in continual financial embarrassment. I owed various sums to my friends and had to invent excuses to procure some money from home. In several shops I had run up accounts for cigars and such things. Not that these cares were very pressing—if the end of my school career was approaching, and if I drowned myself or was sent to a reform school, these trifles would not make much difference either. But I was nevertheless constantly facing these unpleasant things and I suffered from it.

In the first days of spring, a girl caught my attention in the park where I had met Alphonse Beck that autumn. The thorn hedges were just beginning to turn green. I was walking alone, troubled by nagging worries and thoughts, because my health was poor. I was also constantly short of money. I owed various sums to my friends and had to make up excuses to get money from home. I had also run up bills for cigars and other things at several shops. These worries were not really very pressing. If my school career was coming to an end, and if I drowned myself or was sent to a reform school, these small debts would not make much difference either. But I still had to face these unpleasant things constantly, and I suffered because of them.

On that spring day in the park I met a girl who had a strong attraction for me. She was tall and slender, elegantly dressed, and had a wise, boyish face. She pleased me at once, she belonged to the type that I loved, and she began to work upon my imagination. She was scarcely older than I, but she was more mature; she was elegant and possessed a good figure, already almost a woman, but with a touch of youthful exuberance in her features, which pleased me exceedingly.

On that spring day in the park, I met a girl who attracted me strongly. She was tall and slender, dressed elegantly, and had a wise, boyish face. I liked her at once. She was the type I loved, and she began to stir my imagination. She was barely older than I was, but she was more mature. She was elegant and had a good figure. She was already almost a woman, but her face had a touch of youthful energy that I loved.

It was never my good fortune to approach a girl with whom I could have fallen in love, neither was it my luck in this case. But the impression was deeper than all the former ones, and the influence of this infatuation on my life was powerful.

I was never lucky enough to get close to a girl I could have fallen in love with. I was no luckier this time. But she made a deeper impression on me than any of the others, and my infatuation powerfully affected my life.

Suddenly I had again a picture standing before me, a revered picture—ah, and no need, no impulse was so deep or so strong in me as the desire to revere, to adore. I gave her the name of Beatrice, of whom, without having read Dante, I knew something from an English painting, a reproduction of which I had in my possession. The picture was of an English pre-Raphaelite girlish figure, very long-limbed and slender, with a small, long head and spiritualized hands and features. My beautiful young girl did not completely resemble this, although she had the same slenderness and boyish suppleness of figure, which I loved, and something of the spiritualization of the face, as if her soul lay therein.

Suddenly, an image stood before me again, an image I revered. Ah, no need or impulse in me was deeper or stronger than the desire to revere, to adore. I named her Beatrice. Though I had not read Dante, I knew something about Beatrice from an English painting. I owned a reproduction of it. The painting showed a girlish figure in the English Pre-Raphaelite style. She was slender and long-limbed, with a small, long head and spiritual-looking hands and features. My beautiful young girl did not look exactly like the figure in the painting. But she had the same slender, boyishly supple figure that I loved. Her face also had something of that spiritual quality, as if her soul lay in it.

I never spoke a single word to Beatrice. Yet at that time she exercised the deepest influence over me. Her picture fastened itself on my mind; in my imagination she opened a sanctuary for me, she caused me to pray in a temple. From one day to another I remained absent from the drinking bouts and the nightly excursions. Once more I could bear being alone, I read gladly, I liked to go for walks again.

I never said a single word to Beatrice. Yet at that time, she had the deepest influence on me. Her image stayed fixed in my mind. In my imagination, she opened a sanctuary for me and led me to pray in a temple. From one day to the next, I stopped joining the drinking bouts and nighttime outings. Once again, I could bear being alone. I enjoyed reading and liked going for walks again.

I was much scoffed at for my sudden conversion. But I had now something to love and to worship, I had again an ideal, life was once more full of suggestion, of gaily colored secret nuances, that made me insensible to the jeers of my companions. I again felt at home with myself, although I was now the servant and slave of a picture which I revered.

I was often mocked for my sudden conversion. But now I had something to love and worship. I had an ideal again. Life was once more full of possibilities and bright, secret shades of meaning. They made me indifferent to my companions' jeers. I felt at home with myself again, although I was now the servant and slave of a picture I revered.

I cannot think of that time without a certain emotion. With earnest striving, I again endeavored to build a “bright world” out of the ruins of that period of my life which had broken up around me, I again lived entirely and single-mindedly in the desire to put away the dark and the bad, and to dwell completely in the light, on my knees before my gods. Still, this “bright world” I built up was to a certain extent my own creation. It was not the action of flying back or of crawling back to mother, to a security without responsibilities. It was a new service upon which I entered, invented by myself for my own requirements, with responsibilities and discipline of self. The sex consciousness from which I suffered and before which I was in constant flight was now transmuted in this sacred fire to spirit and devotion. The grim and horrible would disappear, I should groan through no more agonizing nights, there would be no more heart-beatings in front of lewd pictures, no more listening at forbidden doors, no more lasciviousness. Instead of all this, I set up my altar, with the picture of Beatrice, and in dedicating myself to her I dedicated myself to the spirit and to the gods. That part of myself which I withdrew from the powers of darkness I brought as a sacrifice to the powers of light. Not lust was my aim, but purity; not happiness, but beauty and spirituality.

I cannot think of that time without feeling a certain emotion. I worked earnestly to build a “bright world” again from the ruins of that period of my life. Once again, I lived entirely and single-mindedly for the desire to put away the dark and the bad. I wanted to live completely in the light, on my knees before my gods. Yet the “bright world” I built was, to some extent, my own creation. I was not fleeing or crawling back to my mother, to a life of security without responsibilities. I was entering a new kind of service, one I had invented to meet my own needs. It brought responsibilities and self-discipline. My awareness of sex had caused me suffering, and I had constantly fled from it. Now, in this sacred fire, it was transformed into spirit and devotion. The grim and horrible would disappear. I would no longer groan through agonizing nights or feel my heart pounding before lewd pictures. I would no longer listen at forbidden doors or give in to lustful desires. Instead, I set up my altar with the picture of Beatrice. By dedicating myself to her, I dedicated myself to the spirit and to the gods. The part of myself I took back from the powers of darkness, I offered as a sacrifice to the powers of light. My aim was not lust, but purity, not happiness, but beauty and spirituality.

This cult for Beatrice completely changed my life. A precocious cynic but a short while before, I had now become a servant in the temple, whose aim it was to be a saint. I not only renounced the evil life to which I had accustomed myself, but I endeavored to change everything, to set myself a standard of purity, nobility and dignity, which I even applied to eating and drinking, to my manner of speech and dress. I began each morning to wash with cold water, to the use of which I had, in the beginning, to force myself. I behaved with gravity and dignity, carried myself erect and acquired a slower and more dignified gait. To an observer it might have seemed rather ludicrous, but to me it was the performance of a divine worship.

My devotion to Beatrice completely changed my life. Only a short time before, I had been a precocious cynic. Now I had become a servant in the temple, aiming to be a saint. I gave up the sinful life I had grown used to. But I also tried to change everything about myself. I set a standard of purity, nobility, and dignity. I applied this standard even to how I ate and drank, spoke and dressed. Every morning, I began washing with cold water. At first, I had to force myself to do it. I acted with seriousness and dignity, stood upright, and walked more slowly and with greater dignity. To an observer, I might have seemed rather ridiculous, but to me, it was an act of divine worship.

Of all the ways in which I sought to find expression for my new faith, one bore fruit. I began to paint. To start with, the English picture of Beatrice I had in my possession did not bear a sufficient resemblance of Beatrice. I wanted to try to paint her for myself. Full of new pleasure and hope I carried into my room—I had recently been given a room to myself—beautiful paper, colors, and a paint-brush. I made ready my palette, porcelain bowls, glass and pencils. The fine water colors in little tubes which I had bought captivated me. There was a bright chromic green which I think I can see yet as it flashed out for the first time from the little white tube.

Of all the ways I tried to express my new faith, one proved fruitful. I began to paint. At first, the English picture of Beatrice I owned did not look enough like her. I wanted to try painting her myself. Full of fresh pleasure and hope, I carried beautiful paper, paints, and a brush into my room. I had recently been given a room of my own. I set out my palette, porcelain bowls, glass, and pencils. The fine watercolors I had bought in little tubes captivated me. There was a bright chromium green that I think I can still see. It flashed out of the little white tube for the first time.

I began with caution. To paint a face was difficult; I wished first of all to try something else. I painted ornaments, flowers, and small landscapes from imagination, a tree near a chapel, a Roman bridge with cypresses. I often lost myself completely in this pastime, I was as happy as a child with a box of paints. At last I began to paint Beatrice.

I started cautiously. Painting a face was difficult, so I wanted to try something else first. From my imagination, I painted designs, flowers, and small landscapes. I painted a tree near a chapel and a Roman bridge with cypress trees. I often lost myself completely in painting. I was as happy as a child with a box of paints. At last, I began to paint Beatrice.

The first few attempts were abortive, and I threw them away. The more I tried to conjure up in my mind the face of the girl, whom I met from time to time in the street, the less I seemed able to transfer my impressions to paper. Finally I gave up the idea, and began simply to paint a face according to the guidance of my imagination, a face which gradually grew out of the one already begun, as if by itself, at the mercy of color and brush. The result was a face I had dreamed of, and I was not ill pleased with it. Yet I made another essay immediately, and each new picture was clearer, and approached more nearly to the type, but was by no means like the reality.

My first few attempts failed, and I threw them away. I saw the girl in the street from time to time. But the harder I tried to picture her face, the less able I seemed to capture it on paper. Finally, I gave up and began painting a face from my imagination. It gradually emerged from the face I had already started, as if on its own, guided by paint and brush. The result was a face I had dreamed of, and I was fairly pleased with it. Still, I tried again immediately. Each new picture was clearer and came closer to the ideal, but was still nothing like the real girl.

More and more I accustomed myself, in a dreamy sort of way, to draw lines with my brush, to fill in surfaces. My sketches grew out of a few strokes of the brush, out of the unconscious. At last one day I finished a face, almost unconsciously, which made a stronger appeal to me than the former ones. It was not the face of the girl, for I had long since given up the idea of trying to paint my Beatrice to the life. It was something else, something unreal, and yet not of less value for me on that account. It looked more like the head of a youth than of a girl. The hair was not blond like that of my pretty girl, but brown with a tinge of red; the chin was strong and firm, but the mouth was red as a blossom. The features were rigid, like a mask, but impressive and full of secret life.

More and more, I grew used to making lines with my brush and filling in shapes, almost as if dreaming. My sketches grew from a few brushstrokes, emerging from my unconscious. At last, one day, I finished a face almost without realizing it. It appealed to me more strongly than the others. It was not the girl’s face. I had long since given up trying to paint my Beatrice exactly as she looked. The face was something else, something unreal, but no less valuable to me for that. It looked more like a boy’s face than a girl’s. The hair was brown with a reddish tint, not blond like my pretty girl’s hair. The chin was strong and firm, but the mouth was red as a flower. The features were stiff, like a mask, but striking and full of hidden life.

As I sat before the finished sketch, it made a peculiar impression on me. It seemed to me a sort of picture of a god or of a sacred mask, half man, half woman, ageless, the expression being at once dreamy and strong-willed, stiff and yet secretly alive. This face seemed to have something to say to me, it belonged to me; its look was rather imperative, as if requiring something of me. And there was a certain resemblance to someone or other, to whom I knew not.

As I sat before the finished sketch, it struck me as strange. It seemed like an image of a god or a sacred mask, half man, half woman, and ageless. Its expression was both dreamy and strong-willed, stiff yet secretly alive. The face seemed to have something to say to me. It belonged to me, and its gaze was almost commanding, as if it demanded something of me. It also resembled someone, but I did not know who.

The picture played an important rôle for a while, sharing my thoughts and my life. I kept it concealed in a drawer, in order that one should not get possession of it and so be able to sneer at me. But as soon as I found myself alone in my little room I took out the picture and communed with it. Each evening I pinned it on to the wall over against my bed, and gazed at it until I dropped off to sleep. In the morning it was the first object which met my gaze.

For a while, the picture played an important role in my thoughts and my life. I kept it hidden in a drawer so no one could get hold of it and make fun of me. But as soon as I was alone in my little room, I took out the picture and spent time with it. Each evening I pinned it to the wall opposite my bed and gazed at it until I fell asleep. In the morning, it was the first thing I saw.

Just at that time I began again to dream a great deal, as I had constantly done when a child. It seemed to me that for years I had had no more dreams. Now they came again, quite a new kind of pictures, and often and often the painted image appeared therein, living and speaking, friendly or inimical, with the features sometimes twisted into a grimace, sometimes infinitely beautiful, harmonious and noble.

Around that time, I began dreaming a lot again, as I had throughout my childhood. It seemed to me that I had not dreamed for years. Now the dreams returned, bringing entirely new kinds of images. Again and again, the painted image appeared in them, alive and speaking, sometimes friendly, sometimes hostile. Its features were sometimes twisted into a grimace, and sometimes infinitely beautiful, harmonious, and noble.

And one morning, as I awoke out of such a dream, I suddenly realized who was the original of the picture, I recognized it. It gazed at me in such a fabulously well-known way, and seemed to be calling my name. It seemed to know me, like a mother, seemed to love me as if since the beginning of time. With beating heart I stared at the paper, at the thick brown hair, at the half-womanly mouth, the strong forehead with the wonderful brightness (it had dried that way of itself) and more and more I felt in me the knowledge, the certainty of having somewhere met the original of the picture.

One morning, I woke from such a dream and suddenly realized who the picture was based on. I recognized the face. It gazed at me with an almost impossibly familiar look and seemed to be calling my name. It seemed to know me like a mother and to have loved me since the beginning of time. My heart pounding, I stared at the paper. I studied the thick brown hair, the almost feminine mouth, and the strong forehead with its wonderful brightness. The forehead had dried that way on its own. More and more, I felt certain that I had met the person in the picture somewhere before.

I sprang out of bed, placed myself in front of the face, and gazed at it from the closest proximity, straight into the wide open, greenish, staring eyes, the right eye somewhat higher than the other. And all at once this right eye twitched perceptibly, but still decidedly, and from this twitching I recognized the picture....

I jumped out of bed and stood in front of the face. I stared at it from very close up, straight into its wide-open, greenish eyes. The right eye was slightly higher than the other. Suddenly, the right eye twitched slightly but unmistakably, and from that twitch I recognized the picture....

How was it that I had found it out so late? It was Demian’s face. Later I often and often compared the picture with Demian’s real features, as they had remained in my memory. They were not quite the same, although there was a resemblance. But it was Demian, nevertheless.

How had I taken so long to recognize it? It was Demian’s face. Later, I compared the picture again and again with my memory of Demian’s real features. They were not quite the same, though they looked alike. But it was Demian, all the same.

Once, on an evening in early summer the red sun shone obliquely through my window, which looked towards the west. In the room the dusk was gathering. I suddenly had the idea of pinning the picture of Beatrice, or of Demian, to the cross-bar of the window and of gazing at it, while the evening sun was shining through. The whole outline of the face disappeared, but the reddish ringed eyes, the brightness of the forehead and the strong red mouth glowed deeply and wildly from the surface of the paper. I sat opposite it for a long time, even after the light had died away. And by degrees the feeling came to me that this was not Beatrice or Demian but—myself. The picture did not resemble me—it was not meant to, I felt—but there was that in it which seemed to be made up of my life, something of my inner self, of my fate or of my dæmon. My friend would look like that, if I ever found another. My mistress would look like that, if ever I had one. My life and death would be like that. It had the ring and rhythm of my fate.

One evening in early summer, the red sun shone at an angle through my west-facing window. Dusk was gathering in the room. Suddenly, I had an idea. I pinned the picture of Beatrice, or of Demian, to the crossbar of the window. I gazed at it as the evening sun shone through it. The whole outline of the face disappeared. But the red-ringed eyes, the bright forehead, and the vivid red mouth glowed deeply and wildly from the paper. I sat facing the picture for a long time, even after the light had faded. Gradually, I came to feel that the picture was not of Beatrice or Demian, but of myself. The picture did not look like me. I felt it was not meant to. But there was something in it that seemed to be made up of my life. It seemed to hold something of my inner self, my fate, or my dæmon. If I ever found another friend, my friend would look like that. If I ever had a mistress, she would look like that. My life and death would be like that. The picture had the sound and rhythm of my fate.

In those weeks I had begun to read a book which made a deeper impression on me than anything I had read before. Even in later years I have seldom chanced upon books which have made such a strong appeal to me, except perhaps those of Nietzsche. It was a volume of Novalis, containing letters and apothegms. There was much that I did not understand. But the book captivated me and occupied my thoughts to an extraordinary degree. One of the aphorisms now occurred to me. I wrote it with a pen under the picture: “Fate and soul are the terms of one conception.” That I now understood.

During those weeks, I began reading a book that impressed me more deeply than anything I had read before. Even in later years, I rarely found books that appealed to me so strongly, except perhaps Nietzsche’s. It was a volume of Novalis, containing letters and sayings. Much of it was beyond my understanding. But the book captivated me and occupied my thoughts to an extraordinary degree. One of its sayings now came to mind. I wrote it in pen under the picture: “Fate and soul are the terms of one conception.” I understood that now.

I frequently used to meet the girl I called Beatrice. I felt no emotion on seeing her, but I was often sensible of a harmony of sentiment, which seemed to say: we are connected, or rather, not you and I, but your picture and I; you are a part of my destiny.

I often saw the girl I called Beatrice. I felt no emotion when I saw her, but I often felt a harmony between us. It seemed to say: we are connected, or rather, not you and I, but your image and I. You are part of my destiny.

My longing for Max Demian was again eager. I had had no news of him for several years. On one occasion only I had met him in the holidays. I see now that I have failed to mention this short meeting in my narrative, and I see that this was owing to shame and self-conceit on my part. I must make up for it now.

I longed for Max Demian eagerly again. I had heard nothing from him for several years. I had met him only once during the holidays. I now realize that I left this brief meeting out of my story because of my own shame and pride. I must make up for that now.

So then, once in the holidays, I was parading my somewhat tired, blasé self through the town. As I was sauntering along, swinging my stick and examining the old, unchanged features of the bourgeois Philistines whom I despised, I met my one-time friend. Scarcely had I caught sight of him when I started involuntarily. With lightning rapidity my thoughts were carried back to Frank Kromer. I hoped and prayed Demian had really forgotten the story! It was so disagreeable to be under this obligation to him—simply owing to a silly, childish affair—still, I was under an obligation....

Once during the holidays, I was showing off my rather tired, world-weary self around town. I strolled along, swinging my stick and studying the same old faces of the narrow-minded middle-class people I despised. Then I met my former friend. As soon as I saw him, I flinched without meaning to. My thoughts flew back to Frank Kromer. I hoped and prayed Demian had really forgotten the story! I hated being in his debt over a silly childhood incident. But I was in his debt....

He seemed to be waiting to see whether I would greet him. I did, as calmly as possible under the circumstances, and he gave me his hand. That was indeed his old handshake! So strong, warm and yet cool, so manly!

He seemed to be waiting to see if I would greet him. I greeted him as calmly as I could under the circumstances, and he held out his hand. It was his old handshake, all right! So strong, warm yet cool, so manly!

He looked me attentively in the face and said: “You’ve grown a lot, Sinclair.” He himself seemed quite unchanged, just as old, just as young as ever.

He looked closely at my face and said, “You’ve grown a lot, Sinclair.” He seemed completely unchanged, just as old, just as young as ever.

He proposed we should go for a walk, and we talked of secondary matters, not of the past. I remembered that I had written to him several times, without having received an answer. I hoped he had forgotten this as well, those silly, silly letters. He made no mention of them.

He suggested we go for a walk, and we talked about minor things, not the past. I remembered that I had written to him several times, but he had never answered. I hoped he had forgotten those letters too. They were so silly, so silly. He didn't mention them.

At that time there was no Beatrice and no picture, I was still in the period of my dissipation. Outside the town I invited him to come with me into an inn. He came. With much ostentation I ordered a bottle of wine and filled a couple of glasses. I clinked glasses with him, showing him how conversant I was with student drinking customs, and I emptied my first glass at a gulp.

At that time, there was no Beatrice and no picture. I was still living a life of excess. Outside town, I invited him to join me at an inn. He came. Making a great show of it, I ordered a bottle of wine and filled two glasses. I clinked glasses with him, showing off how well I knew student drinking customs, and downed my first glass in one gulp.

“Do you frequent public houses often?” he asked me.

“Do you often go to pubs?” he asked me.

“Oh yes,” I said with a drawl, “what else is there to do? It’s certainly more amusing than anything else; after all.”

“Oh yes,” I said slowly, “what else is there to do? After all, it’s more fun than anything else.”

“You think so? Perhaps. It may be so. There’s certainly something very pleasing about it—intoxication, bacchanalian orgies! But I find, with most people who frequent public houses, this sense of abandon is lost. It seems to me there is something typically Philistine, bourgeois, in the public house habit. Of course, for just one night, with burning torches, to have a proper orgy and drunken revel. But to do the same thing over and over again, drinking one glass after another—that’s hardly the real thing. Can you imagine Faust sitting evening after evening drinking at the same table?”

“You think so? Perhaps. It may be so. There’s certainly something very appealing about it: getting drunk, bacchanalian orgies! But I find that most people who go to pubs lose that sense of abandon. It seems to me there’s something typically Philistine, bourgeois, about the habit of going to pubs. Of course, for one night, with burning torches, you could have a proper orgy and a drunken revel. But doing the same thing over and over, drinking one glass after another, is hardly the real thing. Can you imagine Faust sitting at the same table drinking night after night?”

I drank, and looked at him with some enmity.

I drank and looked at him with some hostility.

“Yes, but everyone isn’t a Faust,” I said curtly.

“Yes, but not everyone is a Faust,” I said sharply.

He looked at me with a somewhat surprised air.

He looked at me with a slightly surprised expression.

Then he laughed, in his old superior way. “What’s the good of quarreling about it? In any case the life of a toper, of a libertine, is, I imagine, more exciting than that of a blameless citizen. And then—I have read it somewhere—the life of a profligate is one of the best preparations for a mystic. There are always such people as Saint Augustine, who become seers. Before, he was a sort of rake and profligate.”

Then he laughed in his old, superior way. “What’s the point of arguing about it? In any case, I imagine a drunk or a person who lives for pleasure has a more exciting life than a blameless citizen. And I’ve read somewhere that a life of excess is one of the best preparations for becoming a mystic. There are always people like Saint Augustine who become seers. Before that, he was something of a womanizer and lived a life of excess.”

I was distrustful and wished by no means to let him take a superior attitude towards me. So I said, with a blasé air: “Well, everyone according to his taste! I haven’t the slightest intention of doing that, becoming a seer or anything.”

I didn’t trust him, and I was determined not to let him act superior to me. So I said casually: “Well, to each his own! I have no intention of becoming a seer or anything like that.”

Demian flashed a glance at me from half-closed eyes.

Demian glanced quickly at me through half-closed eyes.

“My dear Sinclair,” he said slowly, “it wasn’t my intention to hurt your feelings. Besides—neither of us knows to what end you drink. There is that in you, which orders your life for you, and which knows why you are doing it. It is good to realize this; there is someone in us who knows everything, wills everything, does everything better than we do ourselves. But excuse me, I must go home.”

“My dear Sinclair,” he said slowly, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Besides, neither of us knows why you drink. There is something in you that directs your life and knows why you drink. It is good to realize this. There is someone in us who knows everything, wants everything, and does everything better than we do ourselves. But excuse me, I have to go home.”

We did not linger over our leave-taking. I remained seated, very dejected, and emptied the bottle. I found, when I got up to go, that Demian had already paid for it. That made me more angry still.

We said goodbye quickly. I stayed seated, feeling very down, and finished the bottle. When I got up to leave, I found that Demian had already paid for it. That made me even angrier.

This little event recurred to my thoughts, which were full of Demian. And the words he had spoken in the inn came back to my mind, retaining all their old freshness and significance: “It is good to know there is one in us who knows everything!”

This small event came back to me as my thoughts were full of Demian. I remembered what he had said in the inn. His words still felt as fresh and meaningful as ever: “It is good to know there is someone inside us who knows everything!”

I looked at the picture hanging in the window, now quite dark. The eyes glowed still. It was Demian’s look. On it was the look of the one inside me, who knows all.

I looked at the picture hanging in the window, now quite dark. The eyes still glowed. It was Demian’s look. It was also the look of the one inside me who knows all.

Oh, how I longed for Demian! I knew nothing of his whereabouts, for me he was unattainable. I knew only that he was supposed to be studying somewhere or other, and that after the conclusion of his school career his mother had left the town.

Oh, how I longed for Demian! I didn't know where he was, and I couldn't reach him. I only knew he was supposed to be studying somewhere. After he finished school, his mother had left town.

I called up in my mind all my reminiscences of Max Demian, from the Kromer affair onwards. A great deal he had formerly said came back to me. To-day everything still had a meaning, all was of real concern to me! And what he had said at our last, not very agreeable, meeting, about the libertine and the saint, suddenly crossed my mind. Was it not just so with me? Had I not lived in filth and drunkenness, my senses blunted by dissipation, until a new life impulse, the direct contrary of the old, awoke in me, namely the desire for purity, the longing to be saintly?

I recalled all my memories of Max Demian, starting with the Kromer affair. Much of what he had said came back to me. Even now, everything still had meaning, and it all mattered deeply to me! I suddenly remembered what he had said about the libertine and the saint at our last, rather unpleasant meeting. Wasn’t it just the same with me? Hadn’t I lived in filth and drunkenness, my senses dulled by excess? And then a new urge to live had awakened in me, the exact opposite of the old one: the desire for purity, the longing to be saintly.

So I went on, from reminiscence to reminiscence. Night had long since fallen, and outside it was raining. In recollection, as well, I heard it rain; it was the hour under the chestnut trees when he first questioned me concerning Frank Kromer, so guessing my first secrets. One after another these souvenirs came to mind, conversations on the way to school, the confirmation class. And then I recollected my very first meeting with Max Demian. What had we been talking about? I could not for the moment recollect, but I took my time, I thought deeply. At last I remembered. We were standing in front of our house; after he had imparted to me his opinion about Cain. Then he spoke to me about the old, almost obliterated crest which stood over the door, in the keystone which widened as it got higher. He said it interested him and that one ought not to let such things escape one’s notice.

So I went on, moving from one memory to another. Night had fallen long ago, and it was raining outside. I heard the rain in my memory, too. It was the time under the chestnut trees when he first questioned me about Frank Kromer, guessing my first secrets. One after another, these memories came to mind: conversations on the way to school, the confirmation class. Then I remembered my very first meeting with Max Demian. What had we been talking about? For the moment, I could not remember, but I took my time and thought hard. At last, I remembered. We were standing in front of our house. He had just told me what he thought about Cain. Then he spoke about the old, nearly worn-away crest above the door. It was on the keystone, which grew wider toward the top. He said the crest interested him and that such things should not go unnoticed.

That night I dreamt of Demian and of the crest. It changed perpetually, now Demian held it in his hands, now it was small and grey, now very large and multicolored, but he explained to me that it was always one and the same. But at last he forced me to eat the crest. As I swallowed it, I felt with terror that the bird on the crest was alive inside me, my stomach was swollen and the bird was beginning to consume me. With the fear of death upon me, I commenced to struggle. Then I woke up.

That night I dreamed of Demian and the crest. The crest kept changing. At times Demian held it in his hands. At other times it was small and gray, or very large and multicolored. But he explained that it was always the same crest. Finally, he forced me to eat it. As I swallowed it, I felt the bird on the crest come alive inside me, and I was terrified. My stomach was swollen, and the bird was beginning to eat me. Afraid I would die, I began to struggle. Then I woke up.

I felt relieved. It was the middle of the night, and I heard the rain blowing into the room. I got up to close the window; and in doing so trod on a bright object which lay on the floor. In the morning I found it was my painting. It was lying there in the wet and had rolled itself up. In order to dry it I stretched it out between two sheets of blotting paper and placed it under a heavy book. When I looked at it the next day it was dry. But it had changed. The red mouth had paled and had become smaller. Now it was exactly Demian’s mouth.

I felt relieved. It was the middle of the night, and I could hear rain blowing into the room. I got up to close the window and stepped on a bright object lying on the floor. In the morning, I found that it was my painting. It had rolled up and was lying in the rainwater. To dry it, I spread it out between two sheets of blotting paper and put it under a heavy book. The next day, I looked at the painting and saw that it was dry. But it had changed. The red mouth had grown pale and smaller. Now it was exactly like Demian’s mouth.

I now began to paint a new picture, namely, that of the bird on the crest. I could not recollect any more what it really looked like, neither could I form a clear image of the whole, as even if one stood directly in front of our door, the crest was scarcely recognizable, it was so old and had several times been painted over. The bird stood or sat on something, perhaps on a flower, or on a basket or nest, or on a tree-top. I did not bother about that, and began with the part I could picture clearly. In answer to a confused prompting, I began straight away with strong colors; on my paper the head of the bird was golden yellow. I continued my work at intervals, when I was in the mood for it, and after a few days the thing was completed.

I now began to paint a new picture of the bird on the crest. I could no longer remember exactly what it looked like, or picture the whole crest clearly. Even standing right in front of our door, you could hardly make out the crest. It was so old and had been painted over several times. The bird was standing or sitting on something, perhaps a flower, a basket or nest, or the top of a tree. I did not worry about that and began with the part I could picture clearly. Following a vague impulse, I started right away with strong colors. I painted the bird’s head golden yellow. I worked on the picture from time to time, when I was in the mood, and finished it after a few days.

Now it was a bird of prey, with a sharp, bold hawk’s head. The lower half of the body was fixed in a dark terrestrial globe, out of which it was working to escape, as if out of a giant egg. The background was sky-blue. The longer I gazed at the sheet, the more it seemed to me this was the colored crest which I had visualized in my dream.

Now it was a bird of prey, with the sharp, bold head of a hawk. The lower half of its body was trapped in a dark earthly globe. It was trying to escape from the globe as if it were a giant egg. The background was sky blue. The longer I looked at the sheet, the more it seemed to be the colored crest I had seen in my dream.

It would not have been possible for me to have written a letter to Demian, even if I had known where to send it. But I decided, acting under a suggestion which came to me in a dreamy sort of way, as under all my promptings of that period, to send him the picture with the hawk—whether it would reach him or not. I wrote nothing thereon, not even my name. I carefully cut the border, bought a large paper cover and wrote on it my friend’s former address. Then I sent it off.

I could not have written a letter to Demian, even if I had known where to send it. But I decided to send him the picture of the hawk, whether it reached him or not. The idea came to me as if in a dream, like all my impulses during that time. I wrote nothing on the picture, not even my name. I carefully trimmed the border, bought a large paper envelope, and wrote my friend’s old address on it. Then I sent it off.

The approach of an examination caused me to work harder than usual in school. The masters had again received me into grace, since I had suddenly changed my vile conduct. I was not, even now, by any means a good pupil, but neither I nor anyone else seemed to remember that, half a year before, my expulsion from the school had been imminent.

An exam was coming up, so I worked harder at school than usual. The teachers had welcomed me back into their good graces because I had suddenly changed my terrible behavior. Even now, I was far from a good student. But neither I nor anyone else seemed to remember that I had been on the verge of expulsion six months earlier.

My father now wrote to me as formerly, adopting his old cheerful tone, without reproaches or threats. Yet I had no impulse to explain to him or to anyone how the change was brought about. It was merely chance that this change coincided with the wishes of my parents and the masters. It did not bring me into closer contact with the others but isolated me still more. I myself was ignorant of the tendency of the change in me, it might be leading me to Demian, to a distant fate. It had begun with Beatrice, but for some time past I had been living in quite an unreal world with my paintings and my thoughts of Demian, so that she quite disappeared from my mind, as she did from my view. I should not have been able to say a word to anyone of my dreams, of my expectations, of the inner change realized in me, not even if I had wished to do so.

My father now wrote to me as he used to, in his old cheerful tone, without reproaches or threats. Yet I felt no urge to explain to him or anyone else how the change had come about. It was only by chance that the change matched what my parents and teachers wanted. It did not bring me closer to others, but isolated me even more. I did not know where the change in me was leading. It might be leading me to Demian, to some distant fate. It had begun with Beatrice. But for some time, I had been living in an almost unreal world of paintings and thoughts of Demian. As a result, Beatrice disappeared from my mind, just as she had disappeared from my sight. I could not have told anyone a word about my dreams, my expectations, or the change within me, even if I had wanted to.

But I had not the faintest desire ever to broach the subject.

But I had no desire at all to ever bring up the subject.