Demian
may have lasted a few weeks, but it seemed to me like a year, or an
eternity. I seldom had money--a five or ten pfennig piece stolen from
the kitchen table when Lina left the market basket standing there.
Each time I was blamed by Kromer, and heaped with abuse; it was I who
deceived him and kept back what was his due, it was I who robbed him
and made him unhappy! Seldom in life has need so oppressed me, seldom
have I felt a greater helplessness, a greater dependence.
I had filled up the savings box with toy money--no one made any
enquiries. But that as well could be discovered any day. I was even
more afraid of mother than of Kromer’s harsh whistle, especially when
she stepped up to me softly--was she not going to ask me about the
money box?
As I presented myself to my evil genius several times without money he
began to torment and to make use of me after a different fashion. I
had to work for him. He had to see to various things for his father.
I did that for him or he made me do something more difficult, hop on
one leg for ten minutes, or fasten a scrap of paper on to the coat of
a passer-by. Many nights these torments realized themselves in my
dreams, and I wept and broke out in a cold sweat in my nightmare.
For a time I was ill. I often vomited and felt cold, but at night I
lay in a fever, bathed in perspiration. Mother felt that something was
wrong and displayed much sympathy on my behalf, but this tortured me
because I could not respond by confiding in her.
One evening, after I had already gone to bed, she brought me a piece
of chocolate. This action was a souvenir of former years when, if I
had been good, I was often rewarded in this way before going off to
sleep. Now she stood there and held the piece of chocolate out to me.
This so pained me that I could do nothing but shake my head. She asked
what was the matter with me and stroked my hair. I could only sob out:
“Nothing! nothing! I won’t have anything.” She put the chocolate on my
bed table and went away. When she wished subsequently to question me
on the matter I made as if I knew nothing about it. Once she brought
the doctor to me, who examined me and prescribed cold ablutions in the
morning.
My state at that time was a sort of insanity. I was shy and lived in
torment like a ghost in the midst of the well-ordered peace of our
house. I had no part in the others’ lives, and could seldom, even for
as much as an hour, forget my miserable existence. In the presence of
my father, who often took me to task in an irritated fashion, I was
reserved and wrapped up in myself.
CHAPTER TWO
CAIN
Deliverance from my troubles came from quite an unexpected quarter, and
with it something new entered into my life, which has up to the present
day exercised a strong influence.
A short time before we had had a new boy at our Latin school. He was
the son of a well-to-do widow who had moved to our town. He was in
mourning and wore a crape band round his sleeve. His form was above
mine, and he was several years older, but I soon began to take notice
of him, as did all of us. This remarkable boy impressed one as being
much older than he looked. He made on no one the impression of being a
mere schoolboy. With us childish youngsters he was as distant and as
mature as a man, or rather, as a gentleman. He was by no means popular,
he took no part in the games, much less in the fooling. It was only the
self-conscious and decided tone which he adopted towards the masters
that pleased the others. His name was Max Demian.
One day it happened, as it occasionally did in our school, that for
some cause or other, another class was sent into our large schoolroom.
It was Demian’s form. We little ones were having Biblical history, the
big ones had to write an essay. While we were having the story of Cain
and Abel knocked into us, I kept looking across at Demian, whose face
fascinated me strangely, and saw his wise, bright, more than ordinarily
strong features bent attentively and thoughtfully over his task. He did
not look at all like a schoolboy doing an exercise, but like a research
worker solving a problem. I did not find him really agreeable. On the
contrary, I had one or two little things against him. With me he was
too distant and superior, he was much too provokingly sure of himself,
and the expression of his eyes was that of an adult--which children
never like--rather sad with occasional flashes of scorn. Yet I could
not resist looking at him, whether I liked him or not. But the minute
he looked in my direction I looked away, somewhat frightened. If to-day
I consider what he looked like as a schoolboy, I can say that he was
in every respect different from the others, and bore the stamp of a
striking personality and therefore attracted attention. But at the same
time he did everything to prevent himself from being remarked--he bore
and conducted himself like a disguised prince who finds himself among
peasant boys and makes every effort to appear like them.
He was behind me on the way home from school. When the others had run
on, he overtook me and said: “Hello!” Even his manner of greeting,
although he imitated our schoolboy tone of voice, was polite and like
that of a grown-up person.
“Shall we go a little way together?” he questioned in a friendly way. I
was flattered and nodded. Then I described to him where I lived.
“Oh, there?” he said laughingly. “I know the house already. There is a
remarkable work of art over your door, which interested me at once.”
I did not guess immediately to what he was referring, and was
astonished that he seemed to know our house better than I did. There
was indeed a sort of crest which served as a keystone over the arch of
the door, but in course of time it had become faint and had often been
painted over. As far as I knew, it had nothing to do with us, or with
our family.
“I don’t know anything about it,” I said timidly. “It’s a bird, or
something like it; it must be very old. They say that the house at one
time belonged to the abbey.”
“Very likely,” he nodded. “We’ll have another good look at it. Such
things are often interesting. It is a hawk, I think.”
We continued our way. I was considerably embarrassed. Suddenly Demian
laughed, as if something funny had struck him.
“Oh, I was present at your lesson,” he said with animation. “The story
of Cain, who carried the mark on his forehead, was it not? Do you like
it?”
Generally I used not to like anything of all the things we had to
learn. But I did not dare to say so--it was as though a grown-up person
were talking to me. I said I liked the story very much.
Demian tapped me on the shoulder. “No need to impose on me, old fellow.
But the story is really rather remarkable. I think it is much more
remarkable than most of the others we get at school. The master didn’t
say very much about it, only the usual things about God and sin, et
cetera. But I believe----” he broke off, smiled, and questioned: “But
does it interest you?”
“Well,” he continued, “I think one can conceive this story of Cain
quite differently. Most things we are taught are certainly quite true
and right, but one can consider them all from a different standpoint
from the master’s, and most of them have a much better meaning then.
For instance, we can’t be quite content with the explanation given us
with regard to this fellow Cain and the mark on his forehead. Don’t
you find it so, too? It certainly might happen that he should kill
one of his brothers in a quarrel, it is also possible that he should
afterwards be afraid, and have to come down a peg. But that he should
be singled out into the bargain with a decoration for his cowardice,
which protects him and strikes terror into everyone else, that is
really rather odd.”
“Certainly,” I said, interested. The case began to interest me. “But
how else should one explain the story?” He clapped me on the shoulder.
“Quite simply! The essential fact, and the point of departure of the
story, was the sign. Here was a man who had something in his face which
terrified other people. They did not dare to molest him, he made a big
impression on them, he and his children. Perhaps, or rather certainly,
it was not really a sign on his forehead like an office stamp--things
are not as simple as that in real life. I would sooner think it was
something scarcely perceptible, of a peculiar nature--a little more
intelligence and boldness in his look than people were accustomed to.
This man had power, other people shrank from him. He had a ‘sign.’
One could explain that as one wished. And one always wishes what is
convenient and agrees with one’s opinions. People were afraid of Cain’s
children, they had a ‘sign.’ And so they explained the sign not as it
really was, a distinction, but as the contrary. The fellows with this
sign were said to be peculiar, and they were courageous as well. People
with courage and character are always called peculiar by other people.
That a race of fearless and peculiar men should rove about was very
embarrassing. And so people attached a surname and a story to this
race, in order to revenge themselves on it, in order to compensate
themselves more or less for all the terror with which it had inspired
them. Do you understand?”
“Yes--that means to say, then--that Cain was not at all wicked? And the
whole story in the Bible isn’t really true?”
“Yes and no. Such ancient, primitive stories are always true, but they
have not always been recorded and explained in the proper manner. In
short, I mean that Cain was a thundering good fellow, and this story
got attached to his name simply because people were afraid of him. The
story was merely a report, something people might have set going in a
gossiping way, and it was true in so far as Cain and his children did
actually wear a sort of ‘sign’ and were different from most people.”
I was much astonished.
“And do you believe then, that the affair of the murder is absolutely
untrue?” I asked, much impressed.
“Not at all! It is certainly true. The strong man killed a weak one.
One may doubt of course whether it was really his brother or not. It
is not important, for, in the end, all men are brothers. A strong man,
then, has killed a weak one. Perhaps it was a deed of heroism, perhaps
it was not. But in any case the other weak people were terrified,
they lamented and complained, and when they were asked: ‘Why don’t
you simply kill him as well?’ they did not answer, ‘Because we are
cowards,’ but they said instead: ‘You can’t. He has a sign. God has
singled him out!’ The humbug must have arisen something after this
style---- Oh, I am keeping you from going in. Good-bye, then!”
He turned into Old Street and left me alone, more astonished than I
had ever been before. Scarcely had he gone when everything that he
had said seemed to me quite unbelievable! Cain a noble fellow, Abel a
coward! Cain’s sign a distinction! It was absurd, it was blasphemous
and infamous. What was God’s part in the matter? Had he not accepted
Abel’s sacrifice, did he not love Abel? Demian’s story was nonsense!
I suspected him of making fun of me and of wishing to mislead me. The
devil of a clever fellow, and he could talk, but--well----
Still, I had never thought so much about any of the Biblical or other
stories before. And for some time past I had never so completely
forgotten Frank Kromer, for hours, for a whole evening. At home I
read through the story once again, as it stands in the Bible, short
and clear. It was quite foolish to try to find a special, secret
meaning. If it had one, every murderer could look upon himself as a
favorite of God! No, it was nonsense. But Demian had a nice way of
saying such things, so easily and pleasantly, as if everything were
self-evident--and then his eyes!