Steppenwolf
newly erected guillotine. My heart was contracted with misery and
dread, but I was ready and acquiescent. At the word of command I
stepped forward and at the word of command I knelt down. The public
prosecutor removed his cap and cleared his throat and all the other
gentlemen cleared their throats. He unfolded an official document and
held it before him and read out:
“Gentlemen, there stands before you Harry Haller, accused and found
guilty of the wilful misuse of our magic theatre. Haller has not alone
insulted the majesty of art in that he confounded our beautiful picture
gallery with so-called reality and stabbed to death the reflection of
a girl with the reflection of a knife; he has in addition displayed
the intention of using our theatre as a mechanism of suicide and shown
himself devoid of humour. Wherefore we condemn Haller to eternal life
and we suspend for twelve hours his permit to enter our theatre.
The penalty also of being laughed out of court may not be remitted.
Gentlemen, all together, one-two-three!”
On the word “three” all who were present broke into one simultaneous
peal of laughter, a laughter in full chorus, a frightful laughter of
the other world that is scarcely to be borne by the ears of men.
When I came to myself again, Mozart was sitting beside me as before.
He clapped me on the shoulder and said: “You have heard your sentence.
So, you see, you will have to learn to listen to more of the wireless
music of life. It’ll do you good. You are uncommonly poor in gifts, a
poor blockhead, but by degrees you will come to grasp what is required
of you. You have got to learn to laugh. That will be required of you.
You must apprehend the humour of life, its gallows-humour. But of
course you are ready for everything in the world except what will be
required of you. You are ready to stab girls to death. You are ready
to be executed with all solemnity. You would be ready, no doubt, to
mortify and scourge yourself for centuries together. Wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, yes, ready with all my heart,” I cried in my misery.
“Of course! When it’s a question of anything stupid and pathetic and
devoid of humour or wit, you’re the man, you tragedian. Well, I am not.
I don’t care a fig for all your romantics of atonement. You wanted to
be executed and to have your head chopped off, you Berserker! For this
imbecile ideal you would suffer death ten times over. You are willing
to die, you coward, but not to live. The devil, but you shall live!
It would serve you right if you were condemned to the severest of
penalties.”
“Oh, and what would that be?”
“We might, for example, restore this girl to life again and marry you
to her.”
“No, I should not be ready for that. It would bring unhappiness.”
“As if there were not enough unhappiness in all you have designed
already! However, enough of pathos and death-dealing. It is time to
come to your senses. You are to live and to learn to laugh. You are to
listen to life’s wireless music and to reverence the spirit behind it
and to laugh at the bim-bim in it. So there you are. More will not be
asked of you.”
Gently from behind clenched teeth I asked: “And if I do not submit? And
if I deny your right, Mozart, to interfere with the Steppenwolf, and to
meddle in his destiny?”
“Then,” said Mozart calmly, “I should invite you to smoke another of
my charming cigarettes.” And as he spoke and conjured up a cigarette
from his waistcoat pocket and offered it me, he was suddenly Mozart no
longer. It was my friend Pablo looking warmly at me out of his dark
exotic eyes and as like the man who had taught me to play chess with
the little figures as a twin.
“Pablo!” I cried with a convulsive start. “Pablo, where are we?”
“We are in my Magic Theatre,” he said with a smile, “and if you wish
at any time to learn the Tango or to be a General or to have a talk
with Alexander the Great, it is always at your service. But I’m bound
to say, Harry, you have disappointed me a little. You forgot yourself
badly. You broke through the humour of my little theatre and tried
to make a mess of it, stabbing with knives and spattering our pretty
picture-world with the mud of reality. That was not pretty of you.
I hope, at least, you did it from jealousy when you saw Hermine and
me lying there. Unfortunately, you did not know what to do with this
figure. I thought you had learnt the game better. Well, you will do
better next time.”
He took Hermine who at once shrank in his fingers to the dimensions of
a toy-figure and put her in the very same waistcoat-pocket from which
he had taken the cigarette.
Its sweet and heavy smoke diffused a pleasant aroma. I was utterly
done-up and ready to sleep for a year.
I understood it all. I understood Pablo. I understood Mozart, and
somewhere behind me I heard his ghastly laughter. I knew that all the
hundred thousand pieces of life’s game were in my pocket. A glimpse of
its meaning had stirred my reason and I was determined to begin the
game afresh. I would sample its tortures once more and shudder again
at its senselessness. I would traverse not once more, but often, the
hell of my inner being.
One day I would be a better hand at the game. One day I would learn how
to laugh. Pablo was waiting for me, and Mozart too.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
Perceived typographical errors have been silently corrected.
Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.