This article is excerpted from Hermann Hesse's Steppenwolf
The image originates from the internet
Steppenwolf is one of the famous works of the famous Twentieth-century Swiss-German writer Hermann Hesse (1877-1962), published in June 1927.
Steppenwolf depicts the spiritual crisis of a middle-aged artist. The protagonist of the novel, Harry Harrell, calls himself Steppenwolf, a "Steppenwolf who came to our town in a lost way and came to the herd." Steppenwolf was at odds with this society, and in his view, everything around him was nothing more than a game. He felt very miserable and lonely, he was restless and homeless, "Ah, in our world... How difficult it is to find traces of the gods! In this world, I don't have a trace of happiness, and in such a world, how can I not be a steppenwolf, a sloppy hermit. ”
A picture from my memory flashed in my mind, shaking rapidly and fleetingly: Hermina sat at a table in a restaurant, suddenly stopped her knife and fork, and began to talk endlessly. With a terrible look of seriousness in her eyes, she told me that she could only make me love her if I killed her with my own hands. A great wave of fear and darkness came to my heart, and suddenly, everything appeared before my eyes again, and I felt pain and dazedness in my heart. Desperately, I put my hand in my pocket, trying to take out the pieces, change some magic, change the way I put my board. However, there was not a single chess piece in my pocket, and I pulled out a knife. Scared to death, I ran up in the hallway, passed a door, and suddenly came to the big mirror and looked into it. In the mirror was a beautiful big wolf, as tall as mine, standing quietly, a pair of uneasy eyes shooting out a shy gaze. Its sparkling eyes looked at me, grinning, revealing its blood-red tongue.
Where is Pablo? Where is Hermina? Where is the wise man who speaks the truth about the structure of the characters?
I looked in the mirror again. I was crazy just now. In the tall mirror there was no wolf spitting out its tongue at all. Reflected in the mirror was me, Harry, with a gray face, abandoned by all games, tormented by all iniquities, with a terrible pale face, but still a person, a man with whom he could speak.
"Harry," I said, "what are you doing here?" ”
"Don't do anything," said the one in the mirror, "I'm just waiting." I'm waiting to die. ”
"Where is the death?"
"It's coming," said the one. At this moment, I heard the sound of music coming from the empty room inside the theater, which was both beautiful and terrible, the music of "Don Juan" that accompanied the appearance of the stone guests. The icy voice came from the other shore, from the Immortals, and it came horribly through the dark house.
"Mozart!" I thought, with this shout, I called out the loveliest and noblest picture of my inner life.
At this time, there was a burst of laughter behind me, a hearty and cold laugh. This laughter comes from the other shore that man does not know, from the other shore of the suffering, which is full of divine humor. Hearing this laughter, my whole body was cold and I felt happy at the same time. I turned around, and Mozart walked toward me, and he walked past me with a smile, and walked slowly to a box door, and he looked calm, opened the door and walked in. I eagerly walked over to him, the god I had worshipped in my youth, the goal of love and reverence that I had pursued all my life. The music is still ringing. Mozart stood by the railing of the box, the vast hall was dark and nothing could be seen.
"You see," said Mozart, "without a saxophone." Although I certainly don't want to belittle this beautiful instrument. ”
"Where are we?" I asked.
We are watching the last scene of Don Juan, where Le Poliero is already on his knees. It's a great scene and the music can also be listened to. Although there are all kinds of very human things in the music, you can still feel the smell of the other shore, and you can listen to the laughter - right?
This is the last great piece of music that people have composed, I say as solemnly as a faculty member. And, of course, then Schubert, Hugo Wolff, and certainly not to forget the poor and lovely Chopin. You frown, music master? Oh, and of course Beethoven, he's wonderful too. But all of this, as beautiful as it is, already contains cracks, contains elements of disintegration, and since the advent of Don Juan, mankind has not created a seamless masterpiece.
"Don't worry too much," Mozart laughed and said sarcastically. "You're probably a musician yourself?" Besides, I've given up my profession and am enjoying my old age. Just for fun, I occasionally look at these kinds of things. ”
He raised his hand as if in command, and a bright moon rose somewhere, perhaps some other silver-white star, and I looked from the railing into the unfathomable space below, where the clouds were shrouded in mist, the mountains and the coast loomed, and below us a desert-like plain stretched out into the distance. We saw on the flat ground a solemn old man with a long beard and a sad face, leading a mighty procession of thousands of men dressed in black. His look was very sad and desperate. Mozart said: "You see, this is Brahms. He was pursuing detachment, but it would have to wait a long time. ”
I have heard that these thousands of men dressed in black are all actors and performers of his songs and pieces, and that, according to God's judgment, they are superfluous in His total score.
"The composition is too bloated and too much material is wasted," Moza said.
Then we saw Richard Wagner leading another mighty procession, and we felt how the thousands of tired men had pulled him and absorbed him into the ranks; we saw him walking slowly with weary steps.
"When I was younger," I said sadly, "these two musicians were two of the greatest extremes imaginable. ”
Mozart laughed.
"Yes, it has always been so. From a distance, this class of opposites is usually increasingly similar. Moreover, bloat was not the personal fault of Wagner and Brahms, it was the fault of their time. ”
"What do you say? Do they have to pay such a heavy price for this? I shouted accusatorily.
"Of course, this is the legal process. Only if they have paid off the debts of their time can they see how much of their personal debts are left and whether they are worth settling. ”
"However, there is nothing they can do about it!"
"Of course there's nothing they can do. Adam ate the forbidden fruit, and what could they do, but had to atone for it. ”
"It's terrible."
"Yes, life has always been terrible. There is nothing we can do about it, but we are responsible for it. Man is born guilty. You don't know this, and it seems that the religious class you take is different. ”
I felt miserable and felt very uncomfortable. I saw myself become a weary pilgrim, walking on the desert on the other side, carrying on my shoulders many superfluous books that I had written, carrying all the articles I had written, all the essays, followed by a long procession of workers who had to type for me and the readers who had to swallow my words. My God! Moreover, Adam and the Forbidden Fruit, as well as all other ancestral sins, are still there. All this is to be repented of and atonened, what a boundless purgatory! The question is raised only after all these sins have been redeemed: whether there is still something personal and self-contained, whether my actions and their consequences are just empty bubbles on the ocean, just meaningless games in the long river of history.
This article is reproduced for Peking University Public Communications
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