Demian

by Hermann Hesse

I call him to mind, as I close my eyes, and I see his picture emerge. Where was it? Ah, now I have it again. It was in the street, in front of our house. There one day I saw him standing, a note book in his hand. I saw that he was drawing. He was drawing the old crest with the bird over the door of our house. And I stood at a window, concealed behind a curtain, and gazed at him. I saw with astonishment his attentive, cool, bright features turned to the crest, the features of a man, of a research worker, or an artist, superior and full of will-power, oddly bright and cool, with knowing eyes.

And again I can see him. It was a little later, in the street; we had come out of school and were all standing round a horse that had fallen down. It lay, still harnessed to the shaft, in front of a peasant’s cart, and sniffed the air pitifully with open nostrils, while blood flowed from an invisible wound, so that the white dust in the street darkened as it became slowly saturated. As I, with a feeling of nausea, turned my gaze away, I saw Demian’s face. He had not pressed forward, he stood furthest back of all, rather elegant, quite at his ease, as was proper to him. His gaze seemed to be directed at the horse’s head, and expressed again that deep, quiet, almost fanatical and yet calm attentiveness. I could not resist watching him some considerable time, and I remember feeling, though quite unconsciously, that there was something very peculiar about him. I saw Demian’s face, I saw not only that he had not the face of a boy, but that of a man; I saw still more, I thought I saw, or felt, that it was not the face of a man either but something else besides. There seemed to be also something of the woman in his features, and particularly it seemed to me for a moment, not manly or boyish, nor old or young, but somehow or other a thousand years old, not to be measured by time, bearing the stamp of other epochs. Animals could look like that, or trees, or stones—I did not realize that precisely, I did not experience the exact sensation which I, a grown-up person, am now describing, but what I felt then approximated in some way to what I have just related. Perhaps he was beautiful, perhaps he pleased me, perhaps even he was repugnant—I could not then determine. I saw only that he was different from us, he was like an animal, or a spirit, or a picture, I know not what he was like, but he was different, inconceivably different from us all.

My reminiscence tells me nothing more, and perhaps even what has been described has arisen, in part, from later impressions.

Until I was several years older, I did not come into close contact with him again. Contrary to custom, Demian had not been confirmed with the boys of his year, and in consequence fresh rumors concerning him were set afloat. In school they were again saying that he was really a Jew, or no, a heathen, and others pretended to know that he and his mother professed no religion, or that they belonged to a bad sect in mythology. In connection with this I seem to remember that he was suspected of living with his mother as with a mistress. Presumably the facts were that he had been, up to that time, brought up without any denominational creed, and that it was now thought that this might be disadvantageous for his future career. In any case, his mother now decided after all to allow him to be prepared for confirmation, two years later than the boys of his own age. Hence it came about that for months he was my classmate in the confirmation class.

For a time I kept out of his way, I did not want to have anything to do with him; too many mysterious rumors had become attached to his name. But above all things I was worried by a sense of obligation, implanted in me since my affair with Kromer. And just at that time I had enough to do with my own secrets. For the confirmation class coincided with the period when I was definitively enlightened on matters of sex, and in spite of my good will, my interest in the pious instruction was on that account greatly diminished. The things of which the clergyman spoke lay far from me in a still, sacred unreality; they may have been quite beautiful and valuable, but in no way real and stirring, as were in the highest degree, these other things.

The more indifferent I became, under these conditions, to our spiritual instruction, the more was my interest drawn towards Max Demian again. Something or other seemed to unite us. As nearly as I remember it began in class early one morning, while the light was still burning in the schoolroom. The clergyman taking the confirmation class happened to be talking about Cain and Abel. I hardly paid any attention, I was sleepy and scarcely listened. Then with raised voice the clergyman began to speak fervently of Cain’s sign. At this moment I felt a sort of contact or exhortation and looking up I saw Demian’s face turned toward me from a row of desks in front, with a bright speaking look, which could have expressed scorn as much as seriousness. He looked at me for a moment only, and suddenly I was listening intently to the clergyman’s words. I heard him speak of Cain and the mark on his forehead, and suddenly I felt deep within me the knowledge that the story could have a different signification, that it could be looked at from another view, that it was possible to be critical.

From that instant the bond of communication between Demian and myself was again established. And oddly enough, scarcely had this sense of a certain solidarity between us presented itself to my mind, than I saw it transferred as if by magic from the ideal world to the world of space. I did not know whether he had been able to arrange it himself, or whether it was pure chance—at that time I believed firmly in chance—but a few days after I noticed Demian had suddenly changed his place and was now sitting directly in front of me. (I recollect still how pleasant it was, in the midst of the miserable workhouse atmosphere of the overcrowded schoolroom, to sense the delicate, fresh aroma of soap from his neck in the morning.) A few days later he had changed again, and now sat next to me. And there he stayed, occupying the same place through the whole of that winter and spring.

Morning lessons had quite changed. They were no longer sleepy and boring. I looked forward to them. Sometimes we both listened to the clergyman with the greatest attention. A glance from my neighbor would suffice, calling my attention to a strange story or a peculiar text. And another glance from him, a very decided one, acted on me as an admonition, arousing criticism and doubt.

But very often we were bad pupils and heard nothing of the lesson. Demian was always courteous towards masters and schoolfellows. I never saw him commit a schoolboy prank, never heard him laugh out loud or talk in class; he never drew on himself the master’s blame. But noiselessly, rather by signs and glances than by whispered words, he knew how to let me share in his own occupations. These were, in part, of a peculiar nature.

For instance, he told me which of the fellows interested him; and in what manner he studied them. He judged many of them with accuracy. He used to say to me before the lesson: “When I signal to you with my thumb, so and so will look round at us, or will scratch his neck, etc.” Then during the lesson, when I scarcely gave a thought to what he had told me, Max would attract my attention by suddenly bending his thumb. I would look up quickly at the boy already designated, and every time, as if attached to a wire, the fellow would make the gesture required of him. I bothered Max to try this on the master, but he did not want to do it. But once, when I came into class and told him I had not done my preparation, and that I hoped the clergyman would not question me that day, he helped me. The master looked round for a boy to recite a portion of the catechism, and his roving eye rested on me. He approached me slowly, stretched out his finger in my direction, and already had my name on his lips—when suddenly he became absent-minded or uneasy, put his hand to his collar, stepped up to Demian who looked fixedly into his face. He seemed to want to ask him something but he turned away, to our surprise, coughed a little, and put his question to another boy.