Mother Eve

In the holidays I went once to the house in which, years before, Max Demian and his mother had lived. An old lady was walking in the garden. I entered into conversation and learned that the house belonged to her. I enquired after the Demians. She remembered them very well. But she did not know where they were living at that moment. As she felt my interest, she took me into the house, searched through a leather album and showed me a photograph of Demian’s mother. I scarcely had any recollections of what she was like. But when I saw the little picture my heart stood still. It was my dream picture! There it was, the tall, almost masculine woman’s figure, resembling her son, with traits of motherliness, traits which denoted severity, and deep passion, beautiful and alluring, beautiful and unapproachable, demon and mother, destiny and mistress. That was she!

During the holidays, I visited the house where Max Demian and his mother had lived years before. An old woman was walking in the garden. I started talking with her and learned that she owned the house. I asked about the Demians. She remembered them very well, but she did not know where they were living now. Seeing my interest, she took me inside. She searched through a leather album and showed me a photograph of Demian’s mother. I could barely remember what she looked like. But when I saw the little photograph, my heart stood still. It was the image from my dream! There she was, the tall, almost masculine woman who resembled her son. She had a motherly quality, but also signs of severity and deep passion. She was beautiful and alluring, beautiful and unapproachable, demon and mother, destiny and mistress. That was her!

I was filled with a wild wonder, when I learned that my dream picture lived on earth! There was a woman, then, who looked like that, who bore my fate in her features! Where was she? Where? And she was Demian’s mother!

I was filled with wild wonder when I learned that the image from my dream existed in real life! There was a woman who looked like that, whose features bore my fate! Where was she? Where? And she was Demian’s mother!

I started on my travels soon after. A strange journey! I went restlessly from place to place as impulse directed, always in search of this woman. There were days when I met shapes which reminded me of her, and which resembled her. These shapes led me on through the streets of strange towns, into railway stations, into trains, as in a tangled dream. There were other days when I saw how useless my search was. Then I sat inactive, anywhere, in a park or the garden of a hotel, in a waiting room; I looked into myself and tried to make the picture live in me. But it was now shy and elusive. I could not sleep, I only nodded for a quarter of an hour or so on railway journeys through country unknown to me. Once in Zürich, a woman followed me, a pretty, rather forward woman. I scarcely noticed her and went on, as if she were air. I would rather have died at once, than have shown sympathy for another woman, even if only for an hour.

I set out on my travels soon after. It was a strange journey! I moved restlessly from place to place, following my impulses and always searching for this woman. Some days I saw figures that reminded me of her and looked like her. They led me through the streets of unfamiliar towns, into railway stations and onto trains, as if in a tangled dream. On other days, I saw how useless my search was. Then I sat doing nothing, wherever I happened to be, in a park, a hotel garden, or a waiting room. I looked inside myself and tried to bring her image to life in my mind. But now the image was shy and elusive. I could not sleep. I only dozed for fifteen minutes or so at a time on train journeys through unfamiliar countryside. Once in Zürich, a woman followed me. She was pretty and rather forward. I barely noticed her and went on as if she were air. I would rather have died on the spot than have shown affection for another woman, even for an hour.

I felt that my destiny was leading me on. I felt that fulfillment was nigh. I was mad with impatience, to think that I could do nothing to help myself. Once at a station, I think it was at Innsbruck, I saw, at the window of a train which was just moving out, a form which reminded me of her, and I was miserable for days. And suddenly the form appeared again to me at night in a dream. I woke up with a feeling as of shame, realizing the fruitlessness and senselessness of my chase, and I went home by the most direct route.

I felt that my destiny was leading me on. I felt that fulfillment was near. I was frantic with impatience at being unable to do anything to help myself. Once, at a station, I saw a figure at the window of a train that was just pulling out. I think the station was in Innsbruck. The figure reminded me of her, and I was miserable for days. Then, one night, the figure suddenly appeared again in a dream. I woke up feeling ashamed. I realized that my search was pointless and made no sense, so I took the most direct route home.

A couple of weeks later I matriculated in the University of H——. Everything disappointed me. The course of lectures I followed, on the history of philosophy, was just as vain and mechanical as the common ground of student life. Everything was so much according to pattern, one person did as the other, and the boyish faces, although inflamed with a forced gaiety, looked so distressingly vacant. It was like the gloss of a ready-made article! But I was free, I had the whole day to myself, and lived quietly in a beautiful old building outside the town. I had a couple of volumes of Nietzsche on my table. I lived with him, feeling the loneliness of his soul, sensing his destiny, which impelled him onwards unceasingly. I suffered with him, and was happy that there had been one who had gone his way so inflexibly.

A couple of weeks later, I enrolled at the University of H——. Everything disappointed me. The lectures I attended on the history of philosophy seemed pointless and mechanical, just like student life in general. Everything followed a pattern. Everyone did what everyone else did. The boyish faces, though flushed with forced cheerfulness, looked painfully vacant. It was like the glossy finish on a mass-produced item! But I was free. I had the whole day to myself and lived quietly in a beautiful old building outside town. I had a couple of Nietzsche’s books on my table. I lived with him, feeling the loneliness of his soul and sensing the fate that drove him constantly onward. I suffered with him and was glad that someone had followed his own path so steadfastly.

Late one evening I wandered through the town; an autumn wind was blowing and I heard the student societies singing in their taverns. Tobacco smoke rose in clouds through the open windows; songs were being roared out, loudly and tensely; but the noise did not soar up, it fell dully on the ear, and was lifelessly uniform.

Late one evening, I wandered through town. An autumn wind was blowing, and I heard student societies singing in their taverns. Clouds of tobacco smoke rose through the open windows. The songs were loud and strained, but the sound did not rise. It fell dully on the ear, lifeless and monotonous.

I stood at a street corner and listened. From two cafés the flood of song rolled forth into the night. Everywhere community, everywhere this huddling together, everywhere this unloading of the burden of destiny, this flight into the warm proximity of the herd!

I stood on a street corner and listened. Songs poured into the night from two cafés. Everywhere people gathered, huddling together, shedding the burden of destiny, fleeing into the warmth of the herd!

Two men passed me by slowly. I caught a phrase of their conversation.

Two men walked slowly past me. I caught a few words of their conversation.

“Isn’t it just like an assembly of youths in a nigger village?” said one. “They all do the same things. Even tattooing is in fashion. Look, that’s the young Europe.”

“Doesn’t it look just like a gathering of young people in a nigger village?” one person said. “They all do the same things. Even tattoos are fashionable. Look, that’s young Europe.”

The voice rang suggestively in my ear. I followed behind the two in the dark street. One of them was a Japanese, small and elegant. I saw his yellow smiling face shine under the lamp.

The voice echoed suggestively in my ear. I followed the two men down the dark street. One was a Japanese man, small and elegant. I saw his yellow, smiling face shine under the lamp.

The other spoke again.

The other person spoke again.

“Well, I don’t suppose it’s any better with you in Japan. People who do not follow the herd are everywhere rare. There are a few here, too.”

“Well, I don’t suppose things are any better for you in Japan. People who don’t follow the crowd are rare everywhere. There are a few here, too.”

Every word went through me. I felt pleasure and dread. I recognized the speaker. It was Demian.

Every word struck me deeply. I felt both pleasure and fear. I recognized the voice. It was Demian.

In the windy night I followed him and the Japanese through the dark streets, listening to their conversation and enjoying the ring of Demian’s voice. It had the old tone, the old, beautiful sureness and tranquillity, and it had the same power over me. Now everything was right. I had found him.

On that windy night, I followed Demian and the Japanese man through the dark streets. I listened to their conversation and enjoyed the sound of Demian’s voice. It had the same familiar, beautiful confidence and calm, and it had the same power over me. Now everything was right. I had found him.

At the end of a street in the suburbs the Japanese took leave and closed a house door behind him. Demian took the way back. I had remained standing, and awaited him in the middle of the street. With beating heart I saw him approaching erect and walking with an elastic step. He wore a brown raincoat and carried a thin stick, hanging from his arm. He advanced without altering his regular stride until he got right up to me. He took off his hat, displaying his old, bright face with the determined mouth and the peculiar brightness on the broad forehead.

At the end of a suburban street, the Japanese man said goodbye and closed a house door behind him. Demian turned back. I stayed where I was, waiting for him in the middle of the street. My heart was beating as I watched him approach, walking upright with a spring in his step. He wore a brown raincoat and carried a thin stick hanging from his arm. He kept the same steady pace until he reached me. He took off his hat, revealing his familiar, bright face, his determined mouth, and the peculiar brightness on his broad forehead.

“Demian!” I called.

“Demian!” I called.

He stretched out his hand to me.

He reached out his hand to me.

“So it’s you, then, Sinclair? I expected you.”

“So it’s you, Sinclair? I expected you.”

“Did you know I was here?”

“Did you know I was here?”

“I did not know for certain, but I hoped it might be true. I saw you first this evening. You have been behind us the whole time.”

“I wasn’t sure, but I hoped it was true. I first saw you this evening. You’ve been behind us the whole time.”

“You recognized me then at once?”

“You recognized me right away then?”

“Of course. You’re very much changed to be sure; but you have the sign. We used to call it the mark of Cain, if you recollect. It is our sign. You have always had it; for that reason I became your friend. But now it is clearer.”

“Of course. You’ve changed a great deal, but you have the sign. We used to call it the mark of Cain, if you remember. It is our sign. You’ve always had it. That’s why I became your friend. But now the sign is clearer.”

“I did not know. Or rather I did. I once painted a picture of you, Demian, and was astonished that it was also like me. Was that the sign?”

“I didn’t know. Or rather, I did. I once painted a picture of you, Demian, and was surprised that it looked like me too. Was that the sign?”

“That was it. It’s fine that you are here now! My mother will be glad as well.”

“That was it. I’m glad you’re here now! My mother will be glad too.”

I started.

I started.

“Your mother? Is she here? She doesn’t know me a bit.”

“Your mother? Is she here? She doesn’t know me at all.”

“Oh, she knows of you. She will know, without even my asking her, who you are. You haven’t let me hear from you for a long time.”

“Oh, she knows about you. She’ll know who you are without me even asking her. I haven’t heard from you in a long time.”

“Oh, I often wanted to write, but nothing came of it. For some time past I have felt I should find you. I was waiting for it every day.”

“Oh, I often wanted to write, but I never did. For a while now, I’ve felt I would find you. I’ve been waiting for it every day.”

He pushed his arm through mine and we went on. Tranquillity seemed to emanate from him and pass on to me. We were soon chatting together as formerly. We mentioned our schooldays, the confirmation class and that unlucky meeting of ours in the holidays—only no mention was made of the earliest and closest bond between us, of the affair with Frank Kromer.

He linked his arm through mine, and we walked on. He seemed to radiate a calm that passed on to me. Soon we were chatting as we used to. We talked about our schooldays, confirmation class, and our unlucky meeting during the holidays. But we said nothing about the earliest and closest bond between us, the affair with Frank Kromer.

Unexpectedly we found ourselves in the middle of a singular and ominous conversation. Having recalled Demian’s discourse with the Japanese, we spoke of student life in general and from that we had branched off to something else, which seemed to be rather out of the way of the former trend of our talk. Nevertheless, from Demian’s manner of introducing the subject, there seemed to be no lack of coherence in our conversation.

Unexpectedly, we found ourselves in the middle of a strange and ominous conversation. We had recalled Demian’s conversation with the Japanese and then talked about student life in general. From there, we moved on to another subject that seemed rather far removed from what we had been discussing. Yet the way Demian introduced it made the conversation seem perfectly coherent.

He spoke of the spirit of Europe, and of modern tendencies. Everywhere, he said, reigned a desire to come together, to form herds, but nowhere was freedom or love. All this life in common, from the student clubs and choral societies to the state, was an unnatural, forced phenomenon. The community owed its origin to a sense of fear, of embarrassment, to a desire for flight; inwardly it was rotten and old, and approaching a general break-up.

He spoke about the spirit of Europe and modern trends. Everywhere, he said, people wanted to come together and form herds. But nowhere was there freedom or love. All this shared life, from student clubs and singing societies to the state, was unnatural and forced. Community arose from fear, embarrassment, and a desire to escape. Inside, it was rotten and old, and it was nearing a complete breakdown.

“Community,” Demian said, “is a beautiful thing. But what we see blossoming everywhere is by no means that. It will arise anew from the mutual understanding of individuals, and after a time the world will be remodeled. What is now called community is merely a formation of herds. Mankind seeks refuge together because men have fear of one another—the masters combine for their own ends, the workmen for theirs, and the intellectuals for theirs! And why are they afraid? One is only afraid when one is not at one with oneself. They are afraid because they have never had the courage to be themselves. A community of men who are afraid of the unknown in themselves! They all feel that the laws of their life no longer hold good, that they are living according to outworn commandments. Neither their religion nor their morals conform to our needs. For a hundred years and more Europe has simply studied and built factories. They know exactly how many grams of powder it takes to kill a man, but they do not know how to pray to God. They have no idea how to amuse themselves, even for an hour. Look at these students drinking in their tavern! Or take any place of amusement where rich people go! Hopeless! My dear Sinclair, no cheerfulness, no serenity can come of all that. These creatures, who move about so uneasily in crowds, are full of fear and full of wickedness, no one trusts the other. They adhere to ideals which have ceased to exist, and they stone everyone who proposes a new one. I feel that there are troubles ahead of us. They will come, believe me, they will come soon! Of course the world won’t be bettered! Whether the workmen kill the manufacturers, or whether the Russians and Germans shoot at one another, it will only be a change of proprietors. But it will not be in vain. It will free the world from the chains of present-day ideals, there will be a clearing away of Stone-Age gods. The world, as it is now, wants to die, it wants to perish, and it will.”

“Community,” Demian said, “is a beautiful thing. But what we see springing up everywhere is nothing like it. Community will grow again from understanding between individuals. In time, the world will be reshaped. What people now call community is just the forming of herds. People band together for safety because they fear one another. The masters join forces for their own purposes, the workers for theirs, and the intellectuals for theirs! And why are they afraid? You are only afraid when you are not at peace with yourself. They are afraid because they have never had the courage to be themselves. A community of people who fear the unknown within themselves! “They all feel that the laws they live by no longer hold true. They feel they are living by outdated commandments. Neither their religion nor their morals meet our needs. For more than a hundred years, Europe has done nothing but study and build factories. They know exactly how many grams of gunpowder it takes to kill a man, but they don’t know how to pray to God. They have no idea how to enjoy themselves, even for an hour. Look at these students drinking in their tavern! Or look at any place where rich people go for entertainment! Hopeless! My dear Sinclair, none of that can bring cheerfulness or peace of mind. “These creatures move so uneasily in crowds. They are full of fear and wickedness, and none of them trusts another. They cling to ideals that no longer exist, and they stone anyone who suggests a new one. I feel that trouble lies ahead of us. It will come, believe me, it will come soon! Of course, the world won’t be any better! Whether the workers kill the factory owners or the Russians and Germans shoot at one another, it will only mean a change of owners. But it won’t be in vain. It will free the world from the chains of today’s ideals. It will clear away Stone-Age gods. The world as it is now wants to die. It wants to perish, and it will.”

“And what will happen to us then?” I asked.

“And what will happen to us then?” I asked.

“To us? Oh, perhaps we shall perish as well. They can also murder people in our position. Only we shall not be entirely wiped out. The will of the future will realize itself from what remains of our influence, or with the aid of those of us who survive. The will of humanity will make itself felt, which our Europe has for a long time past tried to drown in its sale yard of scientifically manufactured articles. And then it will be seen that there is nothing in common between the will of humanity and that of our present-day communities, of the states and peoples, of the societies and churches. But what nature wills with man, is written in the individual few, in you and in me. It is found in Jesus, in Nietzsche. For these (the only important currents of thought which naturally can alter their course each day) there will be place when the present-day communities break up together.”

“What will happen to us? Oh, perhaps we will perish too. They can murder people in our position as well. But we will not be completely wiped out. The will of the future will be fulfilled through what remains of our influence or with the help of those who survive. The will of humanity will make itself felt. For a long time, our Europe has tried to drown it out in its marketplace of scientifically manufactured goods. Then people will see that the will of humanity has nothing in common with the will of our present communities, states, peoples, societies, and churches. But what nature wants for humanity is written in a few individuals, in you and me. It is found in Jesus and in Nietzsche. When today’s communities all break apart, there will be room for these currents of thought. They are the only important ones, though naturally they can change course each day.”

It was late when we made a halt before a garden by the river.

It was late when we stopped in front of a garden by the river.

“We live here,” said Demian. “Come and see us soon! We shall expect you.”

“We live here,” Demian said. “Come visit us soon! We’ll expect you.”

I cheerfully wended my long way home through the night, which had become cold. Here and there brawling students were lurching through the town. I had often felt, sometimes with a feeling of privation, sometimes with scorn, the contrast between their curious sort of gaiety and my lonely life. But now, tranquil and strong in a sense of secret power I felt as never before how little that affected me, how far removed was their world from mine. I reminded myself of officials of my native town, worthy old gentlemen, who clung to memories of the semesters they had passed in drinking, as they would to memories of a blissful paradise, and who practised a cult, calling up reminiscences of the vanished “freedom” of their University life with all the seriousness which some poet or other romantic would devote to an account of his childhood. Everywhere the same! Everywhere they sought “liberty” and “happiness” behind them, in the past, for fear of being reminded of their own responsibility, of being warned they were not striking out for themselves, but merely going the way of all the world. Two or three years passed in drinking and jollification, and then they crept under the common shelter and became serious gentlemen in the service of the state. Yes, it was rotten, our whole system was rotten and these student sillinesses were less stupid and not so bad as a hundred others.

I walked cheerfully along the long way home through the night, which had grown cold. Here and there, rowdy students staggered through the town. I had often noticed the contrast between their strange kind of cheerfulness and my lonely life. Sometimes it made me feel deprived, and sometimes it filled me with scorn. But now I was calm and strong, with a sense of secret power. I felt more clearly than ever how little their cheerfulness affected me, how far their world was from mine. I thought of officials in my hometown, respectable old gentlemen. They clung to memories of semesters spent drinking as if they were memories of a blissful paradise. They made a ritual of recalling the lost “freedom” of their University life. They did so as seriously as a poet or some other romantic might describe his childhood. It was the same everywhere! Everywhere people looked for “liberty” and “happiness” behind them, in the past. They were afraid of being reminded of their own responsibility. They feared being warned that they were not making their own way, but merely going along with everyone else. After two or three years of drinking and having fun, they slipped into the common shelter. Then they became serious gentlemen in the service of the state. Yes, it was rotten. Our whole system was rotten, and these student antics were less stupid and not as bad as a hundred others.

However, when I reached my distant dwelling and went to bed, all these thoughts had flown. Everything else was in suspense as I looked forward to the fulfillment of the promise made to me that day. As soon as I wished, in the morning if I liked, I could see Demian’s mother. Let the students hold their drinking bouts and tattoo their faces, let the world be rotten and on the brink of ruin—what had that to do with me? I was waiting for one single thing, that my fate might meet me in a new picture.

But when I reached my faraway home and went to bed, all those thoughts vanished. Everything else was on hold as I looked forward to the promise made to me that day being fulfilled. I could see Demian’s mother whenever I wanted, even in the morning if I liked. Let the students get drunk and tattoo their faces. Let the world be rotten and on the brink of ruin. What did any of that have to do with me? I was waiting for one thing alone: for my fate to meet me in a new image.

I woke up late in the morning from a deep sleep. The day broke for me as a solemn festal day, such as I had not experienced since the Christmas celebrations of my boyhood. I was full of a deep unrest, yet entirely without fear. I felt that an important day had broken for me. I saw and felt the world around me changed: it was full of secret portent, expectant and solemn. Even the gently falling autumn rain was beautiful, full of the quiet, glad, serious music of a festal day. For the first time the outer world was in tune with my inner world—then it is a feast-day for the soul, then living is worth while! No house, no shop window, no face in the street disturbed me. Everything was as it had to be, but did not wear the empty features of every day and of the habitual. It was like expectant nature, standing full of awe to meet its fate. Thus, as a little boy, I used to see the world on the morning of a great feast-day, at Christmas or at Easter. I had not known that this world could still be so beautiful. I had been accustomed to living shut up in myself, and to content myself with the idea that my understanding for the outside world had been lost, that the loss of glistening colors was inevitably connected with the loss of childish vision.

I woke late in the morning from a deep sleep. The day began like a solemn holiday, unlike any I had experienced since the Christmases of my childhood. I felt deeply restless, but not afraid. I sensed that this would be an important day for me. The world around me looked and felt different. It was full of hidden meaning, expectant and solemn. Even the gently falling autumn rain was beautiful. It seemed full of the quiet, joyful, serious music of a holiday. For the first time, the world outside was in harmony with the world inside me. When that happens, the soul has a holiday, and life is worth living! No house, shop window, or face in the street disturbed me. Everything was as it had to be, but nothing looked as empty as it did on ordinary, familiar days. The world was like nature waiting in awe to meet its fate. As a little boy, I used to see the world this way on the morning of a great holiday, at Christmas or Easter. I had not known the world could still be so beautiful. I had grown used to living shut up inside myself. I had accepted the idea that I had lost my understanding of the outside world. I thought the loss of its shining colors was an inevitable part of losing a child's way of seeing.

So the hour came when I found again that garden in the suburbs, at the gate of which I had taken leave of Max Demian the night before. Concealed behind trees in a grey mist of rain stood a little house, bright and homely, tall flowers stood behind a big glass partition, and behind shining windows were dark room walls with pictures and bookcases. The front door led immediately into a little hall, and a silent old servant, black, with white apron, showed me in and took my raincoat from me.

At last, I found the garden in the suburbs again. I had said goodbye to Max Demian at its gate the night before. A small, bright, homely house stood behind the trees in the gray mist of rain. Tall flowers stood behind a large glass partition. Through the shining windows, I could see dark walls with pictures and bookcases. The front door opened directly into a small hall. A silent old servant, dressed in black with a white apron, showed me in and took my raincoat.

She left me alone in the hall. I looked about me. I looked round; and immediately I was in the middle of my dream. On the dark wood wall above a door, under glass and in a black frame, hung a picture I knew well, my bird with the golden yellow hawk’s crest, forcing its way out of the sphere. Much moved, I remained standing. My heart felt glad and sorry, as if in that moment everything I had done and had experienced came back to me as answer and fulfillment. Like a lightning flash a crowd of pictures passed through my soul: my home, the house of my father, with the old stone crest over the arch of the door, the boy Demian drawing the crest, myself as a boy, fearsome under the evil spell of my enemy Kromer, myself, as a youth, at the table in my little room at school painting the bird of my dream, the soul caught in a web of its own weaving, and everything, everything up to this moment found echo in me again, and was confined, answered, approved.

She left me alone in the hall. I looked around and found myself in the middle of my dream. A picture I knew well hung above a door on the dark wooden wall. It was behind glass in a black frame. It showed my bird with its golden yellow hawk’s crest, forcing its way out of the sphere. Deeply moved, I stood there. My heart felt both glad and sad. It was as if everything I had done and experienced had returned to me in that moment as an answer and a fulfillment. A flood of images flashed through my soul like lightning: my home, my father’s house, with the old stone crest above the doorway, the boy Demian drawing the crest, myself as a boy, terrified under the evil spell of my enemy Kromer, and myself as a young man, painting the bird from my dream at the table in my little schoolroom. I saw the soul caught in a web of its own making. Everything, everything up to this moment, echoed within me again and was confirmed, answered, and approved.

With misty eyes I stared at my picture and read in the book of my soul. My glance dropped. In the open door under the picture of the bird stood a tall lady in a dark dress. It was she.

With tears in my eyes, I stared at my picture and read in the book of my soul. I looked down. A tall woman in a dark dress stood in the open doorway beneath the picture of the bird. It was her.

I could not utter a word. The beautiful woman smiled at me in a friendly way beneath features like her son’s, timeless and without age, full of an animated will. Her look was fulfillment, her greeting meant home-coming. In silence I stretched out my hands to her. She seized both mine with her strong, warm ones.

I couldn’t say a word. The beautiful woman smiled at me warmly. Her features were like her son’s, timeless and ageless, full of lively determination. Her look was fulfillment, and her greeting meant coming home. Silently, I reached out my hands to her. She took them both in her strong, warm hands.

“You are Sinclair. I knew you at once. I am very glad to see you!”

“You’re Sinclair. I recognized you right away. I’m very glad to see you!”

Her voice was deep and warm, I drank it in like sweet wine. And now I looked up in her tranquil face, into the black eyes of unfathomable depth. I looked at her fresh, ripe mouth, queenly forehead, which bore the sign.

Her voice was deep and warm, and I drank it in like sweet wine. Now I looked up at her calm face, into her black eyes of endless depth. I looked at her fresh, ripe mouth and her regal forehead, which bore the sign.

“How glad I am!” I said to her and kissed her hands. “I believe I have been on my way all my life long—but now I have come home.”

“I’m so glad!” I said to her, kissing her hands. “I believe I’ve been on my way all my life, but now I’m home.”

She smiled in a motherly way.

She smiled like a mother.

“One never comes home,” she said gently. “But where friendly roads converge, the whole world looks for an hour like home.”

“You never really come home,” she said gently. “But where friendly roads meet, the whole world feels like home for an hour.”

She gave expression to what I myself had felt on my way to her. Her voice and her words were like those of her son, and yet quite different. Everything was more mature, warmer, more assured. But just as Max in years past had made on no one the impression of being a mere boy, so his mother did not look like the mother of a grown-up son, so young and sweet was the breath of her face and hair, so smooth her golden skin, so blossoming her mouth. More queenly still than in my dream she stood before me. Her presence was love’s happiness, her look was fulfillment.

She put into words what I had felt on my way to her. Her voice and her words were like her son’s, yet quite different. Everything about her was more mature, warmer, and more assured. In years past, no one had thought of Max as merely a boy. Just as he had seemed older, his mother did not look like the mother of a grown son. Her face and hair seemed so young and sweet, her golden skin so smooth, her mouth so full and fresh. Standing before me, she looked even more like a queen than she had in my dream. Her presence was the happiness of love, her gaze was fulfillment.

This, then, was the new picture, in which my fate displayed itself, no longer severe, no longer isolating, but mature and full of promise. I took no resolutions, I made no vows. I had attained an end, I had reached a point of vantage on the way, from which the further road displayed itself, broad and lovely, leading on to lands of promise, shaded by treetops of happiness near at hand, cooled by gardens of delight. Come what might, I was happy to know of this woman’s existence in the world, to drink in her voice, to sense her presence. Whether she would be to me mother, mistress, goddess—what mattered it as long as she was present! As long as my way lay near to hers!

This was the new picture in which I saw my fate. It was no longer harsh or isolating, but mature and full of promise. I made no resolutions or vows. I had reached a goal, a vantage point along the way. From there, I could see the road ahead, broad and beautiful, leading to lands of promise. Nearby, the road was shaded by treetops of happiness and cooled by gardens of delight. Whatever happened, I was happy to know that this woman existed in the world, to take in her voice and feel her presence. Whether she would be a mother, a lover, or a goddess to me, what did it matter? All that mattered was that she was there, and that my path ran close to hers!

She indicated my picture of the hawk.

She pointed to my picture of the hawk.

“You have never given Max more pleasure than by sending this bird,” she said musingly. “And I was pleased as well. We expected you, and when the picture arrived we knew that you were on the way to us. When you were a little boy, Sinclair, my son came one day from school and said: ‘There’s a boy who has the sign on his forehead, he must be my friend.’ That was you. You have not had an easy time of it, but we had confidence in you. Once in the holidays when you were at home, Max met you again. You were at that time about sixteen years old. Max told me——”

“You’ve never made Max happier than you did by sending this bird,” she said thoughtfully. “I was pleased too. We were expecting you, and when the picture arrived, we knew you were on your way to us. When you were a little boy, Sinclair, my son came home from school one day and said: ‘There’s a boy with the sign on his forehead. He must be my friend.’ That boy was you. You haven’t had an easy time, but we had confidence in you. Once, during the holidays, Max met you again while you were at home. You were about sixteen then. Max told me...”

I interrupted: “Oh, that he should have told you that. It was the most miserable time I have had!”

I interrupted: “Oh, he told you about that? It was the most miserable time of my life!”

“Yes, Max said to me: ‘Now Sinclair has the hardest time before him. He is making an attempt to escape to the community, he has even taken to drinking with the others; but he won’t succeed in that. His sign has become dulled, but it shines secretly.’ Was not that the case?”

“Yes, Max said to me: ‘Now Sinclair faces his hardest time. He is trying to escape into the community. He has even started drinking with the others, but he won’t succeed. His sign has faded, but it still shines in secret.’ Wasn’t that true?”

“Oh yes, it was, exactly. Then I found Beatrice, and finally a guide came to me. His name was Pistorius. For the first time it was clear to me why my boyhood was so bound up with Max’s, why I could not break away from him. Dear lady—dear mother, at that time I often thought I should have to take my life. Is the way so hard for everyone?”

“Oh yes, that was exactly it. Then I found Beatrice, and finally a guide came to me. His name was Pistorius. For the first time, I understood why my boyhood was so closely tied to Max’s, and why I couldn’t break away from him. Dear lady, dear mother, at that time I often thought I would have to kill myself. Is the way so hard for everyone?”

She let her fingers stray through my hair, as gently as if a light breeze were blowing.

She ran her fingers through my hair, as gently as if a light breeze were blowing.

“It is always hard, to be born. You know, it is not without effort that the bird comes out of the egg. Look back and ask yourself: was the way then so hard?—only hard? Was it not beautiful as well? Could you have had one more beautiful, more easy?”

“Being born is always hard. You know, a bird has to struggle to come out of its egg. Look back and ask yourself: Was the path so hard? Was it only hard? Wasn’t it beautiful too? Could you have had a more beautiful, easier path?”

I shook my head.

I shook my head.

“It was hard,” I said, as if in sleep, “it was hard, until the dream came.”

“It was hard,” I said, as if I were asleep. “It was hard until the dream came.”

She nodded and looked at me penetratingly.

She nodded and looked at me intently.

“Yes, one must find one’s dream, then the way is easy. But there is no dream which endures for always. Each sets a new one free, to none should one wish to cleave.”

“Yes, you must find your dream. Then the path is easy. But no dream lasts forever. Each dream sets a new one free. You should not cling to any of them.”

I started. Was that already a warning? Was that already a warding-off? But no matter, I was ready to let myself be led by her, and not enquire after the end.

I flinched. Was that already a warning? Was it already a way of pushing me away? But it didn't matter. I was ready to let her lead me, without asking where it would end.

“I do not know,” I said, “how long my dream is to last. I wish it would be forever. My fate received me under the picture of the bird, like a mother, and like a mistress. To it I belong and to no one else.”

“I don’t know,” I said, “how long my dream will last. I wish it would last forever. My fate welcomed me beneath the picture of the bird, like a mother and a lover. I belong to my fate and to no one else.”

“As long as the dream is your fate, so long must you remain true to it,” she said, in earnest confirmation of my remark.

“As long as the dream is your fate, you must stay true to it,” she said, earnestly agreeing with my remark.

I was very sad, and I wished ardently to die in this hour of enchantment; I felt the tears—for what an interminably long time had I not wept—rise irresistibly and overmaster me. I turned violently away from her. I stepped to the window, and looked out, my eyes blinded with tears, away over the flower-pots.

I was very sad, and I longed to die in that enchanted hour. It had been so terribly long since I had cried. Now I felt the tears rise, and I could not hold them back. I turned sharply away from her. I stepped to the window and looked out over the flowerpots, my eyes blinded by tears.

I heard her voice behind me; it rang out calmly and yet was so full of tenderness, like a cup filled to the brim with wine.

I heard her voice behind me. It rang out calmly, yet was full of tenderness, like a cup filled to the brim with wine.

“Sinclair, what a child you are! Of course your fate loves you. One day it will belong to you entirely, just as you dreamt it, if you remain true to it.”

“Sinclair, you’re such a child! Of course your fate loves you. One day, it will be entirely yours, just as you dreamed it would be, if you stay true to it.”

I had composed myself and turned my face to her again. She gave me her hand.

I had regained my composure and turned to face her again. She gave me her hand.

“I have a few friends,” she said, smiling, “very few, very close friends, who call me Mother Eve. You may call me so as well, if you like.”

“I have a few friends,” she said, smiling. “Very few, very close friends, who call me Mother Eve. You can call me that too, if you like.”

She led me to the door, opened it and indicated the garden. “You will find Max out there, I think.”

She led me to the door, opened it, and pointed to the garden. “I think you’ll find Max out there.”

I stood under the tall trees, stunned and stupefied. I knew not whether I was more awake or more dreaming than ever. Softly the rain dripped from the branches. I went slowly through the garden, which stretched far along the river bank. At last I found Demian. He stood in an open summer house. Naked to the waist, he was doing boxing exercises with a little sack of sand hung from a beam.

I stood under the tall trees, stunned and dazed. I did not know whether I was more awake or dreaming than ever. Rain dripped softly from the branches. I walked slowly through the garden, which stretched far along the riverbank. At last I found Demian. He was standing in an open summerhouse. Naked to the waist, he was practicing boxing with a small sandbag hanging from a beam.

Astonished, I remained standing there. Demian looked magnificent; his broad chest, the firm manly head, the uplifted arms were strong and sturdy. The movements came from the hips, the shoulders, the joints of the arm, as easily as if they bubbled out of a spring of strength.

I stood there, amazed. Demian looked magnificent. His broad chest, firm, manly head, and raised arms looked strong and sturdy. He moved his hips, shoulders, and arm joints easily, as if the movements bubbled up from a spring of strength.

“Demian!” I called. “What are you doing there?”

“Demian!” I called. “What are you doing there?”

He laughed gaily.

He laughed cheerfully.

“I am exercising. I have promised to box with the little Jap; the fellow is as agile as a cat, and naturally just as sly. But he won’t be able to manage me. I owe him just one little beating.”

“I’m working out. I’ve promised to box with the little Jap. He’s as agile as a cat and, naturally, just as sly. But he won’t be able to handle me. I owe him one little beating.”

He drew on shirt and coat.

He put on his shirt and coat.

“You have already seen mother?” he asked.

“Have you already seen Mother?” he asked.

“Yes, Demian, what a marvellous mother you have! Mother Eve! The name suits her perfectly; she is like the mother of all being.”

“Yes, Demian, what a wonderful mother you have! Mother Eve! The name suits her perfectly. She is like the mother of all existence.”

He gazed for an instant musingly in my face.

He looked thoughtfully at my face for a moment.

“You know her name already? You ought to be proud, young friend. You are the only one to whom she has said it in the first hour’s acquaintance.”

“You already know her name? You should be proud, young friend. You are the only person she has told her name to within an hour of meeting.”

From this day on I went in and out of the house like a son and a brother, but also like a lover. When I closed the gate behind me, even when I saw the tall trees of the garden emerge in the distance, I was happy. Outside was “reality,” outside were streets and houses, human beings and institutions, libraries and lecture rooms—here inside were love and the life of the soul, here was the kingdom of fairy stories and dreams. And yet we lived by no means shut off from the world. In thought and word we often lived in its midst, only on another plane. We were not separated from the majority of creatures by boundaries, but rather by a different sort of vision. Our task was to be, as it were, an island in the world, perhaps an example, in any case to proclaim that it was possible to live a different sort of life. I, who had been isolated for so long, learned to what extent community of feeling is possible between people who have experienced complete loneliness. I no longer desired to be back at the tables of the happy, at the feasts of the merry. I no longer felt envious or homesick when I saw others living in community. And slowly I was initiated into the mystery of those who bore “the sign.”

From that day on, I came and went from the house like a son and a brother, but also like a lover. I was happy when I closed the gate behind me. I was happy even when I saw the tall garden trees in the distance. Outside was “reality.” Outside were streets and houses, people and institutions, libraries and lecture halls. Inside were love and the life of the soul. Here was the kingdom of fairy tales and dreams. Yet we were not cut off from the world. In our thoughts and conversations, we were often in the midst of the world, only on another plane. What separated us from most people was not a boundary, but a different way of seeing. Our task was to be, in a sense, an island in the world. Perhaps we were to be an example. In any case, we were to show that a different kind of life was possible. I had been alone for so long. Now I learned how deeply people who have experienced complete loneliness can share one another’s feelings. I no longer wanted to return to the tables of the happy or the feasts of the merry. I no longer felt envy or longing when I saw others sharing a life together. And slowly, I was let into the mystery of those who bore “the sign.”

We, who bore the sign, were probably justly considered by the world as peculiar—yes, mad even, and dangerous. For we were awake, or were waking, and our endeavor was to be more and more completely awake, whereas the others strove to be happy, attaching themselves to the herd, the opinions and ideals of which they made their own, taking up the same duties, making their life and happiness depend on common interests. True, there was a certain greatness, a vigorousness, in their endeavor. But whereas, from our point of view, we who bore the sign carried out the will of nature as individuals and as men of the future, the others persisted in a stubbornness which hindered all progress. For them mankind, which they loved just as we did—was something already complete, which must be maintained and protected. For us mankind was a distant future, to which we were all on the way. No one could image this future, neither did its laws stand written in any book.

We who bore the sign were probably rightly considered strange by the world, even mad and dangerous. For we were awake, or waking up, and we were trying to become more and more fully awake. The others, however, sought happiness by joining the herd. They adopted its opinions and ideals and took on the same duties. They made their lives and happiness depend on shared interests. True, there was a certain greatness and vigor in their efforts. But from our point of view, we who bore the sign carried out nature’s will as individuals and as men of the future. The others, meanwhile, clung stubbornly to beliefs that held back all progress. They loved humanity just as we did, but they saw it as already complete, something to maintain and protect. For us, humanity was a distant future toward which we were all moving. No one could imagine this future, and its laws were not written in any book.

Besides Mother Eve, Max and myself, there belonged to our circle in a greater or lesser degree of intimacy many seekers of very various sorts. Many of them were going along their own special paths, had set up special aims and adhered to special opinions and duties. Amongst these were astrologers and cabbalists, also an adherent of Count Tolstoy, and all kinds of tender, timid, sensitive people, followers of new sects, men who practised Indian cults, vegetarians and others. With all these we had really nothing of a spiritual nature in common, except the esteem which each accorded the secret life-dream of the other. Some were in closer contact with us, such as those who traced the searchings of mankind after gods and new ideals in the past, and whose studies often reminded me of my friend Pistorius. They brought books with them, translated for us texts from ancient tongues and showed us illustrations of ancient symbols and rites. They taught us to see how all the ideals of mankind up to the present have their origin in dreams of the subconscious soul, dreams in which humanity is, as it were, feeling its way forward into the future, guided by premonitions of the future’s potentialities. So we went through the religious history of the ancient world with its thousand gods, to the dawn of Christianity. The confessions of the isolated saints were known to us, and the changes of religion from race to race. And from all the knowledge we thus acquired resulted a criticism of our era and of present-day Europe, of this continent which through enormous exertions had created powerful new weapons for humanity, only to fall finally into a deep spiritual devastation, the effects of which were at last being felt. For it had gained the whole world, only to lose its own soul.

Besides Mother Eve, Max, and me, many seekers of different kinds belonged to our circle. Some were closer to us than others. Many followed their own paths, with their own goals, opinions, and duties. Among them were astrologers, cabbalists, and a follower of Count Tolstoy. There were also all kinds of gentle, timid, sensitive people, followers of new sects, practitioners of Indian cults, vegetarians, and others. We had nothing truly spiritual in common with any of them, except that we each respected the others’ secret dreams for their lives. Some were closer to us. Among them were people who studied humanity’s past search for gods and new ideals. Their studies often reminded me of my friend Pistorius. They brought books, translated texts from ancient languages for us, and showed us illustrations of ancient symbols and rites. They taught us to see how all human ideals so far have come from dreams of the subconscious soul. In these dreams, humanity seems to feel its way toward the future, guided by premonitions of its possibilities. So we studied the religious history of the ancient world, with its thousand gods, up to the dawn of Christianity. We knew the confessions of solitary saints and the ways religion changed from one race to another. From all this knowledge, we came to criticize our era and present-day Europe. Through enormous effort, Europe had created powerful new weapons for humanity. But in the end, the continent had fallen into deep spiritual devastation, whose effects were finally being felt. For Europe had gained the whole world, only to lose its own soul.

There were with us believers as well, advocates of doctrines of salvation, in the efficacy of which they were very hopeful. There were Buddhists who wished to convert Europe, and disciples of Tolstoy, and of other confessions. We in our narrow circle listened, but accepted none of these doctrines except as symbols. We who bore the sign had no cares as regarded the formation of the future. To us every confession, every doctrine of salvation appeared in advance dead and useless. Our whole duty, our destiny, was, we felt, to attain to self-realization, in order that in us nature might find scope for its full activities, and that the unknown future might find us ready to fill any rôle which should be allotted us.

There were believers among us too. They believed in doctrines of salvation and had great hopes for their power to save. There were Buddhists who wanted to convert Europe, as well as followers of Tolstoy and other faiths. Those of us in our small circle listened, but accepted these doctrines only as symbols. We who bore the sign did not concern ourselves with shaping the future. To us, every faith and every doctrine of salvation seemed dead and useless from the start. We felt that our whole duty and destiny was to realize our true selves. Then nature could work fully within us, and we would be ready for any role the unknown future assigned us.

Whether we expressed our opinion in so many words or not, it was clear to all of us that a break-up of the present-day world was approaching, to be followed by a new birth. Demian said to me on more than one occasion: “What will come is beyond conception. The soul of Europe is an animal which has been chained up for an immeasurably long period. When it is set free, its first movements will not display much amiability. But the way it will take, whether direct or indirect, is not of importance, provided that the soul’s true need is realized, this soul which has been deluded and dulled for so long. Then our day will come, then we shall be needed, not as guides or new law-givers—we shall not live to see the new laws—but rather as volunteers, as those who are ready to follow and to stand wherever fate shall call us. Look, all men are ready to perform the incredible, when their ideals are threatened. But no one comes forward when a new ideal, a new, perhaps dangerous and uncanny impulse of spiritual growth declares itself. We shall be of those few who are there, ready to go forward. For that purpose have we been singled out just as Cain was marked with the sign to inspire fear and hate, to drive the men of his time out of a narrow idyllic existence into the broad pastures of a greater destiny. All men whose influence has affected the march of humanity, all such, without differentiation, owe their capabilities and their efficacy to the fact that they were ready to do the bidding of destiny. That applies to Napoleon and Bismarck. The immediate purpose to which they direct their energies does not lie within their choice. If Bismarck had understood the social democrats and had thrown in his lot with them, he would have been a prudent fellow, but he would never have been the instrument of fate. The same applies to Napoleon, to Caesar, to Loyola, to all of them! One must always look at such things from the point of view of biology and evolution! When the changes which took place in the earth’s surface transferred to the land animals which lived in water, and vice versa, then those specimens which were ready to fulfill their functions as instruments of fate, brought new and unheard-of things to pass and were able, through new adaptations, to save their kind. Whether these specimens were the same that had previously been conservatives and preservers of the status quo or the eccentrics and revolutionaries, is not known. They were ready to be used by fate, and for that reason were able to help their race through a new stage of evolution. That we do know. For that reason we want to be ready.”

Whether we said so openly or not, we all understood that the world as we knew it was nearing collapse. A new world would be born afterward. Demian said to me more than once: “What is coming is beyond imagination. The soul of Europe is an animal that has been chained up for an immeasurably long time. When it is set free, its first movements will not be very friendly. But the path it takes, whether direct or indirect, does not matter. What matters is that the true need of this soul, so long deceived and dulled, is fulfilled. “Then our day will come. Then we will be needed, not as guides or givers of new laws. We will not live to see the new laws. We will be needed as volunteers, ready to follow and to stand wherever fate calls us. Look, all men are ready to do the incredible when their ideals are threatened. But no one steps forward when a new ideal appears, a new impulse toward spiritual growth that may be dangerous and uncanny. “We will be among the few who are there, ready to go forward. We have been singled out for that purpose, just as Cain was marked with a sign. His sign was meant to inspire fear and hatred, and to drive the men of his time out of their narrow, idyllic lives into the broad pastures of a greater destiny. All men who have influenced the course of humanity, without exception, owe their abilities and effectiveness to their readiness to do fate’s bidding. “That applies to Napoleon and Bismarck. They do not choose the immediate purpose toward which they direct their energies. If Bismarck had understood the social democrats and joined them, he would have been a sensible fellow. But he would never have been an instrument of fate. The same applies to Napoleon, to Caesar, to Loyola, to all of them! “One must always look at such things from the point of view of biology and evolution! Changes in the earth’s surface once moved water animals onto land, and land animals into water. Those creatures that were ready to serve as instruments of fate brought about new and unheard-of things. By adapting in new ways, they were able to save their kind. We do not know whether these creatures had previously been conservatives who preserved the status quo, or eccentrics and revolutionaries. We do know that they were ready to be used by fate. For that reason, they were able to help their kind through a new stage of evolution. That is why we want to be ready.”

Mother Eve was often present when such conversations took place, but she did not join in. For each of us who chose to express his thoughts she was as it were a listener and an echo, full of confidence, full of understanding. It appeared as if our ideas all emanated from her and returned to her again. My happiness consisted in sitting near her, in hearing her voice from time to time, and in participating in that atmosphere of maturity and of the soul, which surrounded her.

Mother Eve was often present during these conversations, but she did not join in. Whenever one of us chose to share his thoughts, she seemed to listen and echo them, full of confidence and understanding. It was as if all our ideas came from her and returned to her again. My happiness came from sitting near her, hearing her voice now and then, and sharing in the atmosphere of maturity and soulful depth that surrounded her.

She felt immediately when a change was taking place in me, when my soul was troubled, or when a renewal was in progress. It seemed to me as if the dreams I had in my sleep were inspired by her. I often related them to her. She found them quite comprehensible and natural, there were no peculiarities which she could not follow clearly. For a time I had dreams which were like reproductions of the day’s conversation. I dreamed that the whole world was in revolt, and that I, alone or with Demian, tensely waited the signal of fate. Fate remained half concealed, but bore somehow or other the traits of Mother Eve—to be chosen or rejected by her, that was fate.

She sensed immediately when I was changing, when my soul was troubled, or when I was being renewed. It seemed to me as if she inspired my dreams. I often told her about them. She found them quite understandable and natural. There was nothing strange in them that she could not follow clearly. For a while, my dreams seemed to repeat the day’s conversations. I dreamed that the whole world was in revolt. Alone or with Demian, I waited tensely for a signal from fate. Fate remained half hidden, but somehow bore Mother Eve’s features. To be chosen or rejected by her was fate.

Sometimes she said with a smile: “Your dream is not complete, Sinclair, you have forgotten the best part”—and it sometimes happened that I recalled it then, and I could not understand how I had come to forget any of it.

Sometimes she smiled and said, “Your dream isn’t complete, Sinclair. You’ve forgotten the best part.” Sometimes I would remember it then, and I couldn’t understand how I had forgotten any of it.

At times I was discontented and was tormented by desire, I thought I could not bear to see her near me any longer without taking her in my arms. She noticed that immediately. Once, when I had stayed away for several days and had returned distraught, she took me aside and said: “You should not give yourself up to wishes in which you do not believe, I know what you wish. You must give up these desires, or else surrender yourself to them completely. If one day you are able to ask, convinced that your wishes will be fulfilled, then you will find satisfaction. But you wish, and repent again, and are afraid. You must overcome all that. I will tell you a fairy-tale.”

At times I was unhappy and tormented by desire. I thought I could no longer bear being near her without taking her in my arms. She noticed at once. Once, I stayed away for several days and returned distraught. She took me aside and said: “You should not give in to wishes you do not believe in. I know what you wish for. You must give up these desires, or surrender to them completely. If one day you can ask, convinced that your wishes will be fulfilled, you will find satisfaction. But you wish, then regret it and feel afraid. You must overcome all of that. I will tell you a fairy tale.”

And she told me of a youth who was in love with a star. He stood on the sea-shore, stretched out his hands, and prayed to the star. He dreamed of it and all his thoughts were of it. But he knew, or thought he knew, that a star could not be embraced by a man. He held it to be his fate to love a star without hope of fulfillment, and he created from this thought a whole life-poem about renunciation, and mute, faithful suffering which should better him and purify him. But his dreams all went up to the star. Once again he stood at night by the sea-shore, on a high cliff. He gazed at the star, and his love for it flamed up within him. And in a moment of great longing he made a spring, throwing himself into space to meet the star. But at the moment of leaping, the thought flashed through his mind: it is impossible! And so he was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. He did not know how to love. Had he had the strength of soul, at the moment of leaping, to believe in the fulfillment of his wish, he would have flown up and have been united with the star.

And she told me about a young man who was in love with a star. He stood on the shore, stretched out his hands, and prayed to the star. He dreamed of the star, and all his thoughts were of it. But he knew, or thought he knew, that a man could not embrace a star. He believed he was destined to love the star without hope of fulfillment. From this thought, he created an entire life story about giving up hope and suffering silently and faithfully. He believed this would make him better and purify him. But all his dreams still reached up to the star. Once again, he stood at night on a high cliff by the sea. He gazed at the star, and his love for it blazed within him. In a moment of great longing, he leaped into the air to meet the star. But as he jumped, a thought flashed through his mind: it is impossible! And so he was shattered on the rocks below. He did not know how to love. If he had been strong enough in spirit to believe his wish would come true as he leaped, he would have flown up and joined the star.

“Love must not beg,” she said, “nor demand either. Love must have the force to be absolutely certain of itself. Then it is attracted no longer, but attracts. Sinclair, I am attracting your love. As soon as you attract my love, I shall come. I do not want to make a present of myself. I want to be won.”

“Love must not beg,” she said, “or make demands. Love must be strong enough to be completely sure of itself. Then it is no longer drawn to others, but draws them to it. Sinclair, I am drawing your love to me. As soon as you draw my love to you, I will come. I don’t want to give myself away. I want to be won.”

On a later occasion she told me another fairy-story. There was a lover, who loved without hope of success. He withdrew entirely into himself and thought his love would consume him. The world was lost to him, he saw the blue sky and the green wood no longer, he did not hear the murmuring of the stream, or the notes of the harp; all that meant nothing to him, and he became poor and miserable. But his love grew, and he would much rather have died and have made an end of it all than renounce the chance of possessing the beautiful woman whom he loved. Then he suddenly felt that his love had consumed everything else in him, it became powerful and exercised an irresistible attraction, the beautiful woman had to follow, she came and he stood with outstretched arms to draw her to him. But as she stood before him, she was completely transformed, and with a thrill he felt and saw that he had drawn into his embrace the whole world, which he had lost. She stood before him and surrendered herself to him, sky and wood and brook, all was decked out in lovely new colors, all belonged to him, and spoke his tongue. And instead of merely winning a woman, he had taken the whole world to his heart, and each star in the heaven glowed in him, and twinkling, communicated desire to his soul. He had loved, and thereby had found himself. But most people love only to lose themselves thereby.

Later, she told me another fairy tale. There was a man who loved a woman without hope of winning her. He withdrew completely into himself and thought his love would consume him. He had lost the world. He no longer saw the blue sky or the green woods. He no longer heard the murmuring stream or the notes of the harp. All of it meant nothing to him, and he became poor and miserable. But his love grew. He would much rather have died and ended it all than give up the chance of possessing the beautiful woman he loved. Then he suddenly felt that his love had consumed everything else in him. It became powerful and drew her irresistibly toward him. The beautiful woman had to follow its pull. She came, and he stood with his arms outstretched to draw her to him. But when she stood before him, she was completely transformed. With a thrill, he felt and saw that he had drawn the whole world he had lost into his embrace. She stood before him and gave herself to him. The sky, the woods, the stream, all were dressed in beautiful new colors. Everything belonged to him and spoke his language. Instead of merely winning a woman, he had taken the whole world to his heart. Every star in the sky glowed within him and, as it twinkled, stirred desire in his soul. He had loved, and through love he had found himself. But most people love only to lose themselves.

My whole life seemed to be contained in my love for Mother Eve. But every day she looked different. Many times I felt decidedly that it was not her person for which my whole being was striving, but that she was a symbol of my inward self, and that she wished only to lead me to see more deeply into myself. I often heard words fall from her lips, which sounded like answers to the burning questions asked by my subconscious self. Then again there were moments when in her presence I burnt with desire, and afterwards kissed objects she had touched. And by degrees sensual and unsensual love, reality and symbol merged into one another. Then it happened that I could think of her at home in my room with quiet fervor. I thought I felt her hand in mine and my lips pressed to hers. Or I was at her house, gazing up into her face, talking with her and listening to her voice; and I did not know whether it was really she, or whether it was a dream. I began to foresee how one can have a lasting and immortal love. In reading a book I had acquired new knowledge, and it was the same feeling as a kiss from Mother Eve. She stroked my hair and smiled at me, I sensed the perfume of her warm ripe mouth, and I had the same feeling as if I had been making progress within myself. All that was important and fateful for me seemed to be contained in her. She could transform herself into each of my thoughts, and every one of my thoughts was transformed into her.

My whole life seemed to be contained in my love for Mother Eve. But every day she looked different. Often I felt sure that it was not her as a person that my whole being longed for. She was a symbol of my inner self, and she only wanted to help me look deeper into myself. I often heard her say things that sounded like answers to the burning questions my subconscious was asking. At other times, I burned with desire in her presence. Afterwards, I kissed objects she had touched. Gradually, sensual and non-sensual love, reality and symbol merged into one another. Then I found I could think of her in my room at home with quiet passion. I thought I could feel her hand in mine and my lips pressed to hers. Or I was at her house, looking up at her face, talking with her and listening to her voice. I did not know whether it was really her or a dream. I began to see how someone could have a lasting, immortal love. When I learned something new from a book, it felt the same as a kiss from Mother Eve. She stroked my hair and smiled at me. I caught the scent of her warm, ripe mouth, and I felt as if I had made progress within myself. Everything important and fateful to me seemed to be contained in her. She could become any one of my thoughts, and every one of my thoughts became her.

I feared that it would be torture to spend the two weeks of the Christmas holidays, separated from Mother Eve, with my parents at home. But it was no torture, it was lovely to be at home and to think of her. When I returned to H—— I remained away from her house another two days, in order to enjoy the security and independence of her actual presence. I also had dreams in which my union with her was accomplished by way of allegory. She was a sea, into which I, a river, flowed. She was a star, and I myself was a star on my way to her. We felt drawn to one another. We met, and remained together always, turning blissfully round one another in close-lying orbits, to the music of the spheres.

I feared it would be torture to spend the two weeks of Christmas vacation at my parents’ home, away from Mother Eve. But it was not torture. It was lovely to be home and think of her. When I returned to H..., I stayed away from her house for another two days. I wanted to enjoy the security and independence of having her there. I also dreamed of being united with her through images. She was a sea, and I was a river flowing into her. She was a star, and I was a star traveling toward her. We felt drawn to each other. We met and stayed together forever, circling blissfully around each other in close orbits, to the music of the spheres.

I related this dream to her, when I visited her again after the holidays.

I told her about this dream when I visited her again after the holidays.

“It is a beautiful dream,” she said softly. “See that it comes true!”

“It’s a beautiful dream,” she said softly. “Make sure it comes true!”

There came a day in early spring that I shall never forget. I entered the hall. A window stood open and the heavy scent of hyacinths, wafted by a warm breath of air, permeated the room. As no one was to be seen, I went upstairs to Max Demian’s study. I knocked softly on the door and entered without waiting for permission, as I was in the habit of doing with him.

There was a day in early spring that I will never forget. I entered the hall. A window was open, and a warm breeze carried the heavy scent of hyacinths throughout the room. Since no one was in sight, I went upstairs to Max Demian’s study. I knocked softly and entered without waiting for permission, as I usually did with him.

The room was dark. The curtains were all drawn. The door to a little room adjoining stood open, where Max had set up a chemical laboratory. From there came the bright, white light of the spring sun, shining through rain clouds. I thought no one was there and pulled back one of the curtains.

The room was dark. All the curtains were closed. The door to a small adjoining room stood open. Max had set up a chemistry lab there. Bright, white spring sunlight shone through rain clouds into the lab. I thought no one was there and pulled back one of the curtains.

There I saw Max Demian, sitting on a stool by a curtained window. His attitude was cramped and he was oddly changed. The thought flashed through me: You have seen him like this once before! His arms were motionless at his side, his hands in his lap; his face inclined slightly forward, with open eyes, was without sight, as if dead. In the eyes there glimmered dully a little reflex of light, as in a piece of glass. The pale face was self-absorbed and without any expression, save that of great rigidity. He looked like a very ancient mask of an animal at the door of a temple. He appeared not to be breathing.

There I saw Max Demian sitting on a stool by a curtained window. His posture was cramped, and he looked strangely different. A thought flashed through my mind: You have seen him like this once before! His arms hung still at his sides, and his hands rested in his lap. His face tilted slightly forward. His eyes were open but unseeing, as if he were dead. A faint light glimmered in his eyes, as it might in a piece of glass. His pale face seemed turned inward and expressionless, except for a look of intense rigidity. He looked like a very old animal mask at the door of a temple. He did not seem to be breathing.

The recollection came to me—thus, exactly thus, had I once seen him, many years ago, when I was still quite a boy. Thus had his eyes stared inwards, thus his hands had been lying motionless, close to one another, a fly had been crawling over his face. And he had then, six years ago perhaps, looked just as old and as ageless, not a wrinkle in his face had changed.

I remembered that I had seen him exactly like this once before, many years ago, when I was still a boy. His eyes had stared inward just like this. His hands had lain motionless, close together, and a fly had crawled over his face. He had looked just as old and ageless then, perhaps six years ago. Not a single wrinkle on his face had changed.

I was frightened, and went softly out of the room and down the stairs. In the hall I met Mother Eve. She was pale and seemed tired: I had not seen her like that before. A shadow came through the window, the bright white sun had suddenly disappeared.

I was frightened and quietly left the room and went downstairs. In the hall, I met Mother Eve. She was pale and looked tired. I had never seen her like that before. A shadow fell across the window. The bright white sun had suddenly disappeared.

“I went into Max’s room,” I whispered hastily. “Has anything happened? He is asleep, or absorbed, I don’t know what; I once saw him like that before.”

“I went into Max’s room,” I whispered quickly. “Has something happened? He’s asleep or lost in thought. I don’t know. I’ve seen him like that once before.”

“But you didn’t wake him?” she asked quickly.

“But you didn’t wake him?” she asked quickly.

“No. He did not hear me. I came out immediately. Mother Eve, tell me, what is the matter with him?”

“No. He didn't hear me. I came out right away. Mother Eve, tell me, what's wrong with him?”

She passed her hand over her forehead.

She ran her hand over her forehead.

“Don’t worry, Sinclair, nothing has happened to him. He has retired into himself. It will not last long.”

“Don’t worry, Sinclair. Nothing has happened to him. He has withdrawn into himself. It won’t last long.”

She got up and went out into the garden, although it had begun to rain. I felt that I must not follow her. So I walked up and down in the hall, inhaling the scent of the hyacinths which dulled my senses, and gazing at my picture of the bird over the door. I felt oppressively the odd shadow which seemed to fill the house that morning. What was it? What had happened?

She got up and went out into the garden, although it had started to rain. I felt I must not follow her. So I walked up and down the hall, breathing in the scent of the hyacinths. The scent dulled my senses. I gazed at my picture of the bird above the door. I felt weighed down by the strange shadow that seemed to fill the house that morning. What was it? What had happened?

Mother Eve came back soon. Rain drops hung in her dark hair. She sat down in her easy chair. She was very tired. I went to her, bent down and kissed the raindrops in her hair. Her eyes were bright and soft, but the raindrops tasted like tears.

Mother Eve came back soon. Raindrops clung to her dark hair. She sat down in her armchair. She was very tired. I went over to her, bent down, and kissed the raindrops in her hair. Her eyes were bright and gentle, but the raindrops tasted like tears.

“Shall I go and see how he is?” I asked in a whisper.

“Should I go and see how he is?” I whispered.

She smiled weakly.

She smiled weakly.

“Don’t be a child, Sinclair!” she admonished loudly, as if to relieve her own feelings. “Go now and come back later, I cannot talk to you now.”

“Don’t be a child, Sinclair!” she scolded loudly, as if to release her own feelings. “Go now and come back later. I can’t talk to you now.”

I went. I walked out of the house and out of the town, towards the mountains. The thin rain was falling obliquely, and clouds were driving at a low altitude under heavy pressure, as if in fear. Down below there was hardly any breeze, but on the heights above a storm seemed to be raging. Several times the sun, pale and bright, broke for an instant through the steely grey of the clouds.

I went. I walked out of the house and left town, heading toward the mountains. A light rain fell at an angle. Low clouds raced overhead under heavy pressure, as if afraid. Down below, there was hardly any breeze, but a storm seemed to be raging on the heights above. Several times, the pale, bright sun broke through the steel-gray clouds for an instant.

There came a fleecy, yellow cloud driving across the sky. It collided with the grey cloud wall, and in a few seconds the wind formed a picture of the yellow and blue, of a bird of giant size, which tore itself free from the blue mêlée and with wide fluttering wings disappeared in the sky. Then the storm became audible and rain mixed with hail rattled down. A short burst of thunder with an unnatural and terrific sound cracked over the whipped landscape. Immediately after the sun broke through and on the mountains close at hand above brown woods glistened, pale and unreal, the fresh snow.

A fluffy yellow cloud swept across the sky and collided with a wall of gray clouds. Within seconds, the wind shaped the yellow and blue into the image of a giant bird. The bird tore free from the blue tangle and disappeared into the sky, its wide wings fluttering. Then the storm grew audible, and rain mixed with hail rattled down. A short burst of thunder cracked over the wind-whipped landscape with an unnatural, terrifying sound. Immediately afterward, the sun broke through. Fresh snow glistened pale and unreal on the nearby mountains, above the brown woods.

When I returned after several hours, wet from the rain and wind, Demian himself opened the front door to me.

When I returned several hours later, wet from the rain and wind, Demian himself opened the front door for me.

He took me with him up to his room. A gas flame burned in the laboratory, paper lay about, he appeared to have been working.

He took me upstairs to his room. A gas flame was burning in the laboratory, and papers were scattered around. He seemed to have been working.

“Sit down,” he invited, “you must be tired, it was a terrible storm; it’s evident, you were overtaken by it. Tea is coming at once.”

“Sit down,” he said. “You must be tired. That was a terrible storm, and I can see you got caught in it. Tea will be here soon.”

“Something is the matter to-day,” I began hesitatingly, “it can’t only be that bit of a storm.”

“Something is wrong today,” I began hesitantly. “It can’t just be that little storm.”

He looked at me penetratingly.

He looked at me intently.

“Have you seen anything?”

“Have you seen anything?”

“Yes. I saw a picture clearly in the clouds, for an instant.”

“Yes. For a moment, I clearly saw a picture in the clouds.”

“What sort of a picture?”

“What kind of picture?”

“It was a bird.”

“It was a bird.”

“The hawk? Was it that? The bird of your dream?”

“The hawk? Was that it? The bird from your dream?”

“Yes, it was my hawk. It was yellow and of giant size, it flew up into the blue-black heaven.”

“Yes, it was my hawk. It was yellow and huge. It flew up into the blue-black sky.”

Demian took a deep breath. Someone knocked at the door. The aged servant brought in tea.

Demian took a deep breath. Someone knocked on the door. The old servant brought in tea.

“Take a cup, Sinclair, do. I don’t think it was by chance you saw the bird.”

“Please, have a cup, Sinclair. I don’t think you saw the bird by chance.”

“Chance? Does one see such things by chance?”

“By chance? Do you see things like that by chance?”

“Well, no. It means something. Do you know what?”

“Well, no. It means something. Do you know what?”

“No. I only feel, it means a violent shock, the approach of fate. I think it will affect all of us.”

“No. I only feel that it means a violent shock, that fate is approaching. I think it will affect all of us.”

He walked violently up and down.

He paced back and forth violently.

“The approach of fate!” he exclaimed loudly. “I dreamed the same thing myself last night, and my mother yesterday had a premonition, portending the same thing. I dreamed I was going up a ladder, placed against a tree trunk or a tower. When I reached the top I saw the whole country. It was a wide plain, with towns and villages burning. I cannot yet relate everything, because it isn’t all quite clear to me.”

“Fate is approaching!” he exclaimed loudly. “I dreamed the same thing last night. And yesterday my mother had a premonition of the same thing. I dreamed I was climbing a ladder that stood against a tree trunk or a tower. When I reached the top, I saw the whole country. It was a wide plain, with towns and villages burning. I can’t tell you everything yet, because it isn’t all clear to me.”

“Do you interpret the dream as affecting you?” I asked.

“Do you think the dream affects you?” I asked.

“Me? Naturally. No one dreams of what does not concern him. But it does not concern me alone, you are right. I distinguish tolerably well between the dreams which indicate agitation of my own soul, and the others, the rare ones, which bear on the fate of all humanity. I have seldom had such dreams, and never one of which I can say that it was a prophecy, and that it has been fulfilled. The interpretations are too uncertain. But this I know for a certainty, I have dreamed of something which does not concern me alone. For the dream belongs to others, former ones I have had; this is the continuation. These are the dreams, Sinclair, in which I had the premonitions which I have already mentioned to you. We know that the world is absolutely rotten, but that is no reason to prophesy its ruin, or to make a prophecy of a like nature. But for several years past I have had dreams, from which I conclude, or feel, or what you will, which, then, give me the feeling that the break-up of an old world is drawing near. At first they were simply faint presentiments, but since they have become more and more significant. Even now I know nothing more than that something big and terrible is approaching, which will concern me. Sinclair, we shall go through the experiences of which we have so often talked. The world is about to renew itself. It smacks of death. Nothing new comes without death. It is more terrible than I had thought.”

“Me? Naturally. No one dreams about things that do not concern them. But you are right, the dream does not concern me alone. I can tell fairly well which dreams reflect turmoil in my own soul. The others are rare, and they concern the fate of all humanity. I have seldom had such dreams. I have never had one that I can say was a prophecy and has come true. The interpretations are too uncertain. But I know for certain that I have dreamed of something that concerns more than just me. The dream belongs with others I have had before. It is a continuation of them. These are the dreams, Sinclair, in which I had the premonitions I have already told you about. We know the world is completely rotten. But that is no reason to predict its destruction or make any similar prophecy. For several years, though, I have had dreams that lead me to conclude, or feel, or whatever you like, that an old world is nearing its end. At first, the dreams gave me only faint feelings of what was coming. But since then, they have become more and more significant. Even now, I know only that something big and terrible is approaching, and it will concern me. Sinclair, we shall go through the experiences we have so often talked about. The world is about to renew itself. It has the smell of death about it. Nothing new comes without death. It is more terrible than I had thought.”

Frightened, I looked at him fixedly.

Frightened, I stared at him.

“Can’t you tell me the rest of your dream?” I begged timidly.

“Can’t you tell me the rest of your dream?” I begged shyly.

He shook his head.

He shook his head.

“No.”

“No.”

The door opened and Mother Eve entered.

The door opened and Mother Eve came in.

“There you are, sitting together! Children, I hope you aren’t sad?”

“There you are, sitting together! Children, I hope you aren’t sad?”

She looked fresh, her fatigue had quite vanished. Demian smiled at her, she came to us as a mother comes to frightened children.

She looked refreshed. Her tiredness had completely disappeared. Demian smiled at her. She came to us like a mother coming to frightened children.

“We aren’t sad, mother. We were simply trying to solve the riddle of these new signs. But that is of no importance; what is to come, will be here all of a sudden, and then we shall learn what we need to know.”

“We aren’t sad, mother. We were just trying to solve the riddle of these new signs. But that doesn’t matter. Whatever is coming will arrive suddenly, and then we’ll learn what we need to know.”

But I did not feel happy. When I said good-bye and went down alone through the hall, I felt that the hyacinths were faded and withered, reminding me of corpses. A shadow had fallen over us.

But I wasn't happy. After I said goodbye, I walked down the hall alone. The hyacinths seemed faded and wilted, and they reminded me of dead bodies. A shadow had fallen over us.