 Damien, by Hermann Hess, translated from the German by N. H. Pridee, and published in 1923. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit us at LibriVox.org. This book is read for you by Michelle Fry, Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Welcome to Damien, the story of Emil Sinclair's youth. I wanted only to try to live in obedience to the promptings which came from my true self. Why was that so very difficult? In order to tell my story, I must begin far back. If it were possible, I should have to go back much further still to the earliest years of my childhood and even beyond to my distant ancestry. Others in writing novels usually act as if they were God and could by a broadness of perception comprehend and present any human story as if God were telling it to himself without veiling anything and with all the essential details. That I cannot do any more than can the authors themselves. But I attach more importance to my story than can any other writer to his because it is my own and it is the story of a human being, not that of an invented, possible, ideal or otherwise non-existent creature, but that of a real, unique living man. What that is, a real living man, one certainly knows less today than ever. For men are shot down in heaps, men of whom each one is a precious, unique experiment of nature. If we were nothing more than individuals, we could actually be put out of the world entirely with a musket ball and in that case there would be no more sense in relating stories. But each man is not only himself, he is also the unique, quite special and in every case the important and remarkable point where the world's phenomena converge in a certain manner never again to be repeated. For that reason the history of everyone is important, eternal, divine. For that reason every man so long as he lives at all and carries out the will of nature is wonderful and worthy of every attention. In everyone has the spirit taken shape, in everyone creation suffers, in everyone is a redeemer crucified. Few today know what man is, many feel it and for that reason die the easier as I shall die the easier when I have finished my story. I must not call myself one who knows, I was a seeker and am still, but I seek no more and the stars are in books, I am beginning to listen to the promptings of those instincts which are coursing in my very blood. My story is not pleasant, it is not sweet and harmonious like the fictitious stories, the smacks of nonsense and perplexity, of madness and dreams like the lives of all men who do not wish to delude themselves any longer. The life of everyone is a way to himself, the search for a road, the indication of a path. No man has ever yet attained to self-realization, yet he strives thereafter, one ploddingly, another with less effort, each as best he can. Each one carries the remains of his birth, slime and egg shells of a primeval world, with him to the end. Many a one will remain a frog, a lizard, an ant. Many a one is top part man and bottom part fish, but everyone is a projection of nature into manhood. To us all the same origin is common, our mothers. We all come out of the womb. But each of us an experiment, one of nature's litter, strives after its own ends. We can understand one another, but each one is able to explain only himself. I will begin my story with an event of the time when I was ten or eleven years old and went to the Latin school of our little town. Much of the old time fragrance is wefted back to me, but my sensations are not unmixed as I pass and review my memories. Dark streets and bright houses and towers, the striking of clocks and the features of men, comfortable and homely rooms, rooms full of secrecy and dread of ghosts. I sense again the atmosphere of cozy warmth, of rabbits and servant girls, of household remedies and dried fruit. Two worlds pass there one through the other, from two poles came forth day and night. The one world was my home, but it was even narrower than that for it really comprised only my parents. This world was for the most part very well known to me. It meant mother and father, love and severity, good example and school. It was a world of subdued luster, of clarity and cleanliness. Here were tender friendly words, washed hands, clean clothes and good manners. Here the morning hymn was sung and Christmas was kept. In this world were straight lines and paths which led into the future. Here were duty and guilt, evil conscience and confession, pardon and good resolutions, love and adoration, Bible texts and wisdom. To this world our future had to belong. It had to be crystal pure, beautiful and well-ordered. The other world however began right in the midst of our own household and was entirely different, had another odor, another manner of speech and made different promises and demands. In this second world were servant girls and workmen, ghost stories and breath of scandal. Here was a gaily colored flood of monstrous, tempting, terrible and enigmatic goings on. Things such as the slaughterhouse and prison, drunken men and scolding women, cows in birth throes, plunging horses, tales of burglaries, murders, suicides. All these beautiful and dreadful, wild and cruel things were round about, in the next street, in the next house. Policemen and tramps passed to and fro, drunken men beat their wives, crowds of young girls flowed out of factories in the evening. Old women were able to bewitch you and make you ill, robbers dwelt in the wood, incendiaries were rounded up by mounted policemen. Everywhere see the dendrit, this second passionate world, everywhere except in our rooms where mother and father were. And that was a good thing. It was wonderful that here in our house there were a peace, order and repose, duty and a good conscience, pardon and love, and wonderful that there were also all the other things, all that was loud and shrill, sinister and violent, yet from which one could escape with one bound to mother. And the oddest thing was how closely the two worlds bordered each other, how near they both were. For instance, our servant Lena, as she sat by the sitting room door at evening prayers and sang the hymn with her bright voice, her freshly washed hands, laid on her smoothed out apron, belonged absolutely to father and mother, to us, to what was bright and proper. Immediately after, in the kitchen or in the woodshed, when she was telling me the tale of the headless dwarf, or when she quarreled with the women of the neighborhood in the little butcher's shop, then she was another person, belonged to the other world, and was enveloped in mystery. It was the same with everything and everyone, especially with myself. To be sure I belonged to the bright respectable world, I was my parents' child, but the other world was present in everything I saw and heard, and I also lived in it. Although it was often strange and foreign to me, although one had there regularly a bad conscience and anxiety, sometimes I even liked to live in the forbidden world best, and often the homecoming into the brightness, however necessary and good it might be, seemed almost like a return to something less beautiful, to something more uninteresting and desolate. At times I realized this, my aim in life was to grow up like my father and mother, as bright and pure, as systematic and superior. But the road to attainment was long. You had to go to school and study and pass tests and examinations. The road led past the other dark world and through it, and it was not improbable that you would remain there and be buried in it. There were stories of prodigal sons to whom that had happened. I was passionately fond of reading them. There the return home to father and to the respectable world was always so liberating and so sublime I quite felt that this alone was right and good and desirable. But still that part of the stories which dealt with the wicked and the profligate was by far the most alluring, and if one had been allowed to acknowledge it openly, it was really often a great pity that the prodigal repented and was redeemed. Nor did one did not say that, nor did one actually think it. It was only present somehow or other as a presentiment or a possibility, down deep in one's feelings. When I pictured the devil to myself, I could quite well imagine him down below in the street openly or in disguise or at an annual fair or in the public house, but I could never imagine him with us at home. My sisters also belonged to the bright world. It often seemed to me that they approached more nearly to father and mother, that they were better and nicer-mannered than myself, without so many faults. They had their failings. They were naughty, but that did not seem to me to be deep-rooted. It was not the same as for me, for whom the contact with evil was strong and painful, and the dark world so much nearer. My sisters, like my parents, were to be treated with regard and respect. If you had had a quarrel with them, your own conscience accused you afterwards as the wrong doer and the cause of the squabble as the one who had to beg pardon. For in opposing my sisters I offended my parents, the representatives of goodness and law. There were secrets which I would much sooner have shared with the most depraved street urchins than with my sisters. On good bright days, when I had a good conscience, it was often delightful to play with my sisters, to be gentle and nice to them, and to see myself under a halo of goodness. That was how it must be if you were an angel. That was the most sublime thing we knew, to be an angel surrounded by sweet sounds and fragrance, like Christmas and happiness. But oh, how seldom were such days and hours perfect! And when we were playing one of the nice, harmless, proper games, I was so vehement and impetuous, and I so annoyed my sisters that we quarreled and were unhappy. Then when I was carried away by anger, I did and said things, the wickedness of which I felt deep and burning within me, even while I was doing and saying them. Then came sad, dark hours of remorse and contrition, the painful moment when I begged pardon, then again a beam of light, a peaceful, grateful happiness without discord, for minutes or hours. I used to go to the Latin school. The sons of the mayor and of the head forester were in my class, and sometimes used to come to our house. They were wild boys, but still they belonged to the world of goodness and of propriety. In spite of that, I had close relations with neighbors' boys, children of the public school, whom in general we despised. With one of these I must begin my story. One half-holiday I was little more than ten at the time. I went out with two boys of the neighborhood. A public school boy of about thirteen years joined our party. He was bigger than we were, a course and robust fellow, the son of a tailor. His father was a drunkard, and the whole family had a bad reputation. I knew Frank Cromer well. I was afraid of him, and was very much displeased when he joined us. He had already acquired manly ways and imitated the gait and manner of speech of the young factory-hands. Under his leadership we stepped down to the bank of the stream and hid ourselves from the world under the first arch of the bridge. The little bank between the vaulted bridge wall and the sluggishly flowing water was composed of nothing but trash, of broken china and a garbage, of twisted bundles of rusty iron wire and other rubbish. You sometimes found there useful things. We had to search the stretch under Frank Cromer's direction and show him what we found. He then either kept it himself or threw it away into the water. He bid us note whether the things were of lead, brass, or tin. Everything we found of this description he kept for himself, as well as an old horn comb. I felt very uneasy in his company, not because I knew that father would have forbidden our playing together had he known of it, but through fear of Frank himself. I was glad that he treated me like the others. He commanded, and we obeyed. It seemed habitual to me, although that was the first time I was with him. At last we sat down. Frank spat into the water and looked like a full-grown man. He spat through a gap in his teeth, directing the sputum in any direction he wished. He began a conversation, and the boys vied with one another in bragging of schoolboy exploits and pranks. I was silent, and yet, if I said nothing, I was afraid of calling attention to myself and inciting Cromer's anger against me. My two comrades had, from the beginning, turned their backs on me and had sided with him. I was a stranger among them, and I felt my clothes and manner to be a provocation. It was impossible that Frank should like me, a Latin schoolboy and the son of a gentleman, and the other two I felt, as soon as it came to the point, would disown me and leave me in a lurch. At last, through mere fright, I also began to relate a story. I invented a long narration of theft, of which I made myself the hero. In the garden, by the mill on the corner, I recounted, I had one night with the help of a friend, stolen a whole sack of apples, and those, none of the ordinary sorts, but russets and golden pippins, the very best. In the danger of the moment, I had recourse to the telling of this story, which I invented easily and recounted readily. In order not to have to finish off immediately, and so, perhaps, be led from bad to worse, I gave full scope to my inventive powers. One of us, I continued, always had to stand sentinel, while the other was throwing down apples from the tree, and the sack had become so heavy that at last we had to open it again and leave half the apples behind. But we returned at the end of half an hour and took the rest away with us. I hoped, at the end, to gain some little applause, I had warmed to my work and had let myself go in my narration. The two small boys waited, quiet and expectant, but Frank Cromer looked at me penetratingly through half-closed eyes and asked me in a threatening tone. Is that true? Yes, I said. Really and truly? Yes, really and truly, I asserted defiantly, though inwardly I was stifling through fear. Can you swear to it? I was terribly frightened, but I answered without hesitation, yes. Then say, I swear by God and all that's holy. I said, I swear by God and all that's holy. Aghwan, said he, and turned away. I thought that everything was now all right and was glad when he got up and made for the town. When we were on the bridge, I said timidly that I must go home now. Don't be in such a hurry, laughed Frank. We both go the same way. He dawdled on, and I did not tear myself away, especially as he was actually taking the road to our house. As we arrived, I looked at the heavy brass knocker, the sun on the window and the curtains in my mother's room. And I breathed a sigh of relief, home at last. What a blessing it was to be at home again, to return to the brightness and peace of the family circle. As I quickly opened the door and slipped inside, ready to shut it behind me, Frank Cromer forced his way in as well. He stood beside me in the cool dark stone corridor, which was only lighted from the courtyard, held me by the arm and said softly, not so fast, you. Terrified, I looked at him. His grip on my arm was one of iron. I tried to think what he had in his mind, whether he was going to maltreat me. I wondered if I should scream whether anyone would come down quickly enough to save me. But I gave up the idea. What's the matter? I asked, what do you want? Nothing much. I only want to ask you something, something the others needn't hear. Well, what do you want me to tell you? I must go upstairs, you know. You know, don't you? Who's orchard that is, by the mill on the corner? Said Frank softly. No, I don't know. I think it's the millers. Frank had wound his arm around me, and he drew me quite close to him, so that I had to look up directly into his face. His look boated ill, he smiled maliciously, and his face was full of cruelty and power. Now, kid, I can tell you who's the garden is. I have known for a long time that the apples had been stolen, and I also know that the man said he would give two marks to anyone who would tell him who stole the fruit. Good heavens, I exclaimed, but you won't tell him anything. I felt it was useless to appeal to his sense of honor. He came from the other world. For him, betrayal was no crime. I felt that for a certainty. In these matters, people from the other world were not like us. Say nothing, left Kroemer. Look here, my friend. You think I am minting money and can make two shilling pieces myself? I'm a poor chap, and I haven't got a rich father like yours. And when I get the chance of earning two shillings, I must take it. He might even give me more. Suddenly he let me go free. Our house no longer gave me an impression of peace and safety. The world fell to pieces around me. He would report me as a criminal. My father would be told. Perhaps even the police might come for me. The terror of utter chaos menaced me. All that was ugly and dangerous was aligned against me. The fact that I had not stolen at all did not count in the least. I had sworn to it besides. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I burst into tears. I felt I must buy myself off. Despairingly, I searched all my pockets, not an apple, not a pen knife, absolutely nothing. All at once I thought of my watch. It was an old silver one which wouldn't go. I wore it for no special reason. It came down to me from my grandmother. I drew it out quickly. Cromer, I said. Listen, you mustn't give me away. That wouldn't be nice of you. Look here, I'll give you my watch. I haven't anything else. Worst luck. You can have it. It's a silver one. The mechanism is good. There is only one little thing wrong. That's all. It needs repairing. He smiled and took the watch in his big hand. I looked at his hand and felt how coarse and hostile it was, how it grasped at my life and peace. It's silver, I said timidly. I wouldn't give a star for your silver and your old watch. He said with deep scorn, get it repaired yourself. But Frank, I exclaimed, quivering with fear lest he should go away. Wait a minute. Do take the watch. It's really silver, really and truly. And I haven't got anything else. He gave me a cold and scornful look. Very well, then, you know who I am going to. Or I can tell the police. I know the sergeant very well. He turned to go. I held him back by the sleeve. I could not let that happen. I would much rather have died than bear all that would take place if he went away like that. Frank, I implored horse with emotion, please don't do anything silly. Tell me it's only a joke, isn't it? Oh yes, a joke, but it might cost you dear. Do tell me, Frank, what to do? I'll do anything. He examined me critically through his screwed up eyes and laughed again. Don't be silly, he said with affected affability. You know as well as I do. I've got the chance of earning a couple of marks. And I'm not such a rich fellow that I can afford to throw it away. You know that well enough. But you're rich. Why, you've even got a watch. You need only give me just two marks, and everything will be all right. I understood his logic. But two marks? For me, that was as much and just as unobtainable as 10, as 100, as 1,000 marks. I had no money. There was a money box that my mother kept for me with a couple of 10 and five fennel pieces inside, which I received from my uncle when he paid us a visit, or from similar sources. I had nothing else. At that age, I received no pocket money at all. I have nothing, I said sadly. I have no money at all. But I'll give you everything I have. I've got a book about Red Indians and also soldiers and a compass. I'll get that for you. But Cromer only screwed up his evil mouth and spat on the ground. Quit your drawing, he said commandingly. You can keep your old trash yourself. A compass, don't make me angry, do you hear? And hand over the money. But I haven't any. I never get money. I can't help it. Very well then, you'll bring me the two marks in the morning. I shall wait for you in the market after school. That's all. If you don't bring any money, look out. Yes, but where shall I get it then? Good Lord, if I haven't any. There's enough money in your house. That's your business. Tomorrow after school then. And I'll tell you if you don't bring it. His eyes darted a terrible look at me. He spat again and vanished like a shadow. I could not go upstairs. My life was ruined. End of chapter one, part one, two worlds. Chapter one, part two of Damien by Herman Hess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Michelle Fry, Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Chapter one, two worlds, part two. I wondered if I should run away and never come back or go and drown myself. But these thoughts were not clearly formulated. I sat crouched in the dark on the bottom step and I surrendered myself to my misfortune. There Lena found me in tears as she came down with a basket to get wood. I begged her to say nothing on her return and I went up. My father's hat and my mother's sunshade hung on the rack near the glass door. All these things reminded me of home and tenderness. My heart went out to them imploringly and grateful for their existence. I felt like the prodigal son when he looked into his old, homey room and sensed its familiar atmosphere. All this, the bright father and mother world was mine no longer and I was buried deeply and guiltily in the strange flood, ensnared in sinful adventures, beset by enemies and dangers, menaced by shame and terror. The hat and sunshade, the good old sandstone floor, the big picture over the hall cupboard and the voice of my elder sister in the living room. All this was dearer and more precious to me than ever but it was no longer consolation and secure possession. All of it was now a reproach. All this belonged to me no more. I could share no more in its cheerfulness and peace. I carried mud on my shoes that I could not wipe off on the mat. I brought shadows in with me of which the home world had no knowledge. How many secrets had I already had? How many cares? But that was play, a mere nothing compared with what I was bringing in with me that day. Fate was overtaking me. Hands were stretched out after me from which even my mother could not protect me of which she was to be allowed no knowledge. It was all the same whether my offense was thieving or a lie had I not taken a false oath by God. My sin was not this or that. I had tendered my hand to the devil. Why did I follow him? Why had I obeyed Kroemer more than ever I did my father? Why had I falsely invented the story of the theft? Why had I plumbed myself on having committed a crime as if it had been a deed of heroism? Now the devil had me by the hand. Now the evil one was pursuing me. For a moment I felt no further dread of the morrow but I had the terrible certainty that my way was leading me further and further downhill and into the darkness. I realized clearly that from my wrongdoing other wrongdoings must result that the greetings and kisses I gave to my parents would be a lie that a secret destiny I should have to conceal hung over me. For an instant confidence and hope came to me like a lightning flash as I gazed at my father's hat. I would tell him everything, would accept his judgment and the punishment he might meet out. He would be my confidant and would save me. Confession was all that would be necessary. As I had made so many confessions before, a difficult bitter hour, a serious remorseful plea for forgiveness. How sweetly that sounded, how tempting that was, but nothing came of it. I knew that I should not do it. I knew that I had now a secret that I was burdened with guilt for which I myself would have to bear the responsibility alone. Perhaps I was at this very moment at the crossroads. Perhaps from this hour henceforth I should have to belong to the wicked, forever share secrets with the bad, depend on them, obey them and become as one of themselves. I had pretended to be a man and a hero. Now I had to take the consequences. I was glad that my father, as he entered, found fault with my wet boots. It diverted his attention from something worse and I allowed myself to suffer his reproach, secretly thinking of the other. That gave birth to a peculiar new feeling in me, an evil cutting feeling like a barbed hook. I felt superior to my father. I felt for an instant's duration a certain scorn of his ignorance, his scolding over the wet boots seemed to me petty. If you only knew, I thought and looked upon myself as a criminal who was being tried for having stolen a loaf of bread while they ought to confess to having committed murder. It was an ugly and repugnant feeling, yet strong and not without a certain charm and it changed me to my secret and my guilt more securely than anything else. Perhaps Kroemer had already gone to the police and given me away, I thought, and a storm is threatening to break over my head while here I am looked upon as a mere child. This was the important and permanent element of the whole event up to this point of my narration. It was the first cleft in the sacredness of parenthood. It was the first split in the pillar on which my childhood had reposed and which everyone must overthrow before he can attain to self-realization. The inward, fundamental basis of our destiny is built up from these events which no outsider observes. Such a split or cleft grows together again, heals up and is forgotten. But in the most secret chamber of the soul it continues to live and bleed. I myself felt immediate terror in the presence of this new feeling. I would have liked to embrace my father's feet there and then to beg his forgiveness, but one cannot beg pardon for something fundamental and a child knows and feels that as well and as deeply as any adult. I felt the need to think over the affair and to consider ways and means for the morrow, but I did not get around to it. My whole evening was taken up solely in the customing myself to the changed atmosphere of our living room. Clock and table, Bible and looking glass, bookcase and pictures seemed all to be saying goodbye to me. With freezing heart I had to stand by and watch my world, the good happy time of my life sever itself from me to be relegated to the past. I was forced to realize that I was being held fast to new sucking roots in the darkness of the unfamiliar world outside. For the first time I tasted death and death tasted bitter for it is birth with the terror and fear of a formidable renewal. I was glad to be lying at last in bed, but first I had passed through purgatory in the form of evening prayers and we had sung a hymn, one of my favorite ones. Alas, I did not join in and each note was gall and poison for me. I did not join in the common prayer either when my father gave the blessing and when he finished be with us all, I tore myself convulsively from the circle. The grace of God was with them all, but with me no longer. Cold and very tired, I went away. After I had lain a while in bed, wrapped around in warmth and safety, my troubled heart strayed back once again and fluttered uneasily in the past. Mother had wished me good night as she always did. Her steps sounded yet in the room, the light of her candle gleamed through the crack in the door. Now, I thought, now she will come back again. She has felt my need, she will give me a kiss and will ask in tones kind and full of promise, what is the matter? Then I can weep, the lump in my throat will melt away. I will throw my arms about her and will tell her and everything will be all right. I shall be saved. And when the crack in the door had become dark again, I still listened for a while and thought, she must come, she must. Then I came back to reality and looked to my enemy in the face. I saw him clearly. He had one eye closed, his mouth left uncouthly. While I gazed at him and the inevitable nodded my heart, he became bigger and more ugly and his wicked eye lit up devilishly. He was close beside me until I dropped off to sleep. But I did not dream of him nor of the day's events. I dreamed instead that we were in a boat. My parents, my sisters and I, lapped in peace into the brightness of a holiday. I woke up in the middle of the night with the aftertaste of bliss. I still saw the white summer dresses of my sisters glistening in the sun and then fell from my paradise back to reality and the enemy with the wicked eye stood opposite me. I looked ill when mother came in quickly in the morning and told me how late it was and wanted to know why I was still in bed. And when she asked what was the matter with me, I vomited. But I seemed to have gained a point. I rather liked to be somewhat ill and to be allowed to spend the morning in bed drinking chamomile tea, to listen to mother clearing up in the next room and to hear Lena outside in the corridor opening the door to the butcher. To stay away from morning school was rather like a fairy story and the sun which played in the room was not the same you saw through the green curtains at school. But today all this had lost its charm for me. It had a false ring about it. If I had died, but I was only slightly ill as I had often been before and nothing was gained by that. It prevented me from going to school but it did not protect me in any way from Cromer who would be waiting for me in the market at 11 o'clock. And to mother's friendliness was this time without comfort. It was burdensome and painful. I soon pretended to be asleep again and thought the matter over but all to no purpose. I had to be in the market at 11 o'clock. For that reason I got up at 10 and said that I was better. As usual in such cases I was told that either I must go back to bed or go to school in the afternoon. I said I would rather go to school. I had formed a plan. I dared not go to Cromer without money. I had to get possession of the little savings box which belonged to me. There was not enough money in it far from enough I knew but it was still a little and something told me that a little was better than nothing for at least Cromer had to be appeased. I felt horrible as I crept in my socks into my mother's room and took my box from her writing table but it was not so horrible as the previous days experience. My heart beat so fast I nearly died and it was no better when I found at the first look down below on the stairs that the box was locked. It was easy to break it open. It was only necessary to cut through a thin plate of tin but the action caused me pain for only in doing this was I committing theft. Up to then I had only taken lumps of sugar and fruit on the sly. Now I had stolen something although it was my own money. I realized I had taken a step nearer Cromer and his world that I was slipping gradually downwards and I adopted an attitude of defiance. The devil could run away with me if he liked. There was no way out. I anxiously counted the money. It had sounded so much in the box. Now in my hand it was measurably little. There were 65 fennigs. I hid the box in the basement, held the money in my closed fist and went out of the house with a feeling different from any with which I had ever left the portal before. Someone called me from above I thought but I went quickly on my way. There was still plenty of time. I sneaked by a roundabout way through the streets of a changed town beneath clouds I had never seen before by houses which seemed to spy on me and people who suspected me. On the way I recollected that one of my school friends had once found a thaller in the cattle market. I would have liked to pray to God to work a miracle and allow me to make such a treasure trove but I had no longer the right to pray and even then the box would not be made whole again. Frank Cromer saw me in the distance. However he came along very slowly and seemed not to be looking out for me. As he approached me he beckoned me commandingly to follow. He passed on tranquilly without once looking round went down straw street and over the bridge and stopped on the outskirts of the town in front of a new building. No one was working there. The walls stood bare without doors or windows. Cromer looked around and then went through the doorway. I followed him. He stepped behind the wall back into me and stretched out his hand. That makes 65 finnings he said and looked at me. Yes I said timidly that's all I have. It's too little I know but it's all I haven't anymore. I thought you were cleverer than that he exclaimed blaming me in what were almost mild terms between men of honor there must be honest dealing. I will not take anything from you except what is right. You know that take your finnings back there. The other you know who doesn't try to beat me down. He pays but I have absolutely nothing else. That was my money box. That's your affair but I don't want to make you unhappy. You still owe me one mark 35 finnings. When can I have it? Oh you'll soon have it certainly Cromer. I don't know yet perhaps tomorrow or the day after. I shall have some more. You understand that I can't tell my father don't you? That's no concern of mine. I don't want to harm you. If I liked I could get the money before noon you see and I'm poor. You wear nice clothes and you get something better to eat for dinner than I do but I won't say anything. I am willing to wait a few days. The day after tomorrow in the afternoon I will whistle for you then you will bring it along. You can recognize my whistle? He gave me a whistle that I had often heard before. Yes I said I know it. He went away as if I didn't belong to him. It had been only a transaction between us nothing further. Even today I believe Cromer's whistle would terrify me if I heard it again suddenly. From then on I heard it often. It seemed I heard it continually and always. No place, no game, no work, no idea in which this whistle would not sound. I was dependent on it. It was now the messenger of my fate. On mild glowing autumn afternoons I was often in our little flower garden which I loved dearly. A peculiar impulse made me take up again boyish games which I had played formerly. I played as if it were that I was a boy who was younger than I was and still good and free, innocent and secure. But in the middle of the game always expected and yet always terribly disturbing and surprising sounded Cromer's whistle destroying the picture my imagination had painted. Then I had to go. I had to follow my tormentor to evil and ugly places had to render an account and let myself be done. The whole business may have lasted a few weeks but it seemed to me like a year or an eternity. I seldom had money, a five or 10 fending piece stolen from the kitchen table when Lena left the market basket standing there. Each time I was blamed by Cromer and heaped with abuse. It was I who deceived him and kept back what was his do. It was I who robbed him and made him unhappy. Seldom in life has me 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 inquiries but that as well could be discovered any day. I was even more afraid of mother than of Cromer'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 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 10 minutes or fasten a scrap of paper onto 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 estate at that time was a sort of insanity. I was shy and lived in torments like a ghost in the midst of the well-ordered piece of our house. I had no part in 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. End of chapter one, Two Worlds. Chapter two, part one of Damien by Herman Hess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Michelle Fry, Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Chapter two, Kane, part one. 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 crepe 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 gentle man. He was by no means popular. He took no part in 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 Damien. One day it happened as it occasionally did in our school that for some cause or other another class was sent into our large school room. It was Damien'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 Damien 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 today 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 liked 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 Damien 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 like the story very much. Damien tapped me on the shoulder. No need to pretend with 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 masters, 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. Hmm. 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 insofar 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. A strong man killed a weak one. One may doubt, of course, whether it was really his brother or not. It's 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'm keeping you from going in. Goodbye, 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, able, 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? Damien'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 Cromer 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 won, every murderer could look upon himself as a favorite of God. No, it was nonsense. But Damien had a nice way of saying such things so easily and pleasantly as if everything were self-evident and then his eyes. My ideas were certainly a little upset or rather they were very much confused. I had lived in a bright, clean world. I myself had been a sort of Abel and now I was so firmly fixed in the other and had sunk so deeply. But really, what could I do to help it? What was my position now? A reminiscence glowed in me which for the moment almost took away my breath. I remembered that wretched evening from which my present misery dated when I looked for an instant into the heart of my father's bright world and despised his wisdom. Then I was Cain and wore the sign. I imagined that it was in no way shameful but a distinction and in my wickedness and unhappiness I stood on a higher level than my father, higher than good and pious people. It was not in such a clear thinking way that my experience then presented itself to me but all this was contained therein. It was only a flaming up of feeling, of strange emotions which caused me pain and yet filled me with pride. When I considered the matter I saw how strangely Damien had spoken of the fearless and the cowards, how curiously he had explained the mark on Cain's forehead, how singularly his eyes had lit up those peculiar eyes of a grown person and indistinctly it shot through my brain. Is not he himself, this Damien, a sort of Cain? Why did he defend him if he did not feel like him? Why had he this force in his gaze? Why did he speak so scornfully of the others, of the fearsome who are really the pious and the well-considered of God? This thought led me to no definite conclusion. A stone had fallen into the well and the well was my young soul and this business with Cain, the murderer and the sign was for a long, a very long time the point from which my seeking after knowledge, my doubts and my criticisms took their departure. I noticed that the other boys also occupied themselves a good deal with Damien. I had not told anyone of his version of the story of Cain but he appeared to interest the others as well. At least many rumors concerning the new boy became current. If only I still knew all of them, each would help to throw fresh light on him, each would serve to interpret him. I only remember the first rumor was that Damien's mother was very rich. It was also said that she never went to church, nor the son either. Another rumor had it that they were Jews but they could just as easily have been in secret Mohammedans. Furthermore, tales were told of Max Damien's strength. So much was certain that the strongest boy in his form who challenged him to a fight and who at his refusal branded him a coward suffered a terrible humiliation at his hands. Those who were there said that Damien had simply taken him by the nape of the neck with one hand and had brought such a pressure to bear that the boy went white and afterwards crawled away and that for several days he was unable to use his arm. For a whole evening a rumor even ran that he was dead. For a time everything was asserted and believed everything that was exciting and wonderful. Then there was a satiety of rumors for a while. A little later knew one circulated which asserted that Damien had intimate relations with girls and knew everything. Meanwhile, my affair with Frank Kroemer took its inevitable course. I could not get away from him for although he left me in peace for days together I was still bound to him. In my dreams he lived as my shadow and thus my fantasy credited to him with actions which he did not in reality do. So that in dreams I was absolutely his slave. I lived in these dreams. I was always a deep dreamer more than in reality. These shadowy conceptions wasted my strength and my life force. I often dreamed among other things that Kroemer ill treated me, that he spat on me and knelt on me and what was worse that he led me to commit grave crimes or rather I was not led but simply forced through his powerful influence. The most terrible of these dreams from which I woke up half mad presented itself as a murderous attack on my father. Kroemer whetted a knife and put it in my hand as we were standing behind the trees of a lane and lying in wait for someone whom I knew not. But when someone came along and Kroemer through a pressure of the arm informed me that this was the man whom I was to stab it turned out to be my father. Then I woke up with all these troubles. I still thought a great deal about Cain and Abel but much less about Damien. It was strangely enough in a dream that he first came in contact with me again. I dreamed once more of assault and ill treatment which I suffered but instead of Kroemer this time it was Damien who knelt upon me and what was quite new and profoundly impressive everything that I suffered resistingly and in torment at the hands of Kroemer I suffered willingly from Damien with a feeling which was composed as much of joy as of fear. I had this dream twice then Kroemer occupied his old position in my thoughts. For a long time I have not been able to separate what I experienced in these dreams from what I underwent in reality. But in any case my evil relation with Kroemer took its course and was by no means at an end when I had at last by petty thefts paid the boy the sum owed. No, for now he knew of these thefts as he always asked me where the money came from and I was more in his hands than ever. He frequently threatened to tell my father everything and my terror then was scarcely as great as the profound regret that I had not myself done that in the beginning. However miserable as I was I did not repent of everything, at least not always and sometimes felt I thought that things could not have helped being as they were. The hand of fate was upon me and it was useless to want to break away. I conjecture that my parents suffered not a little in these circumstances. A strange spirit had come over me I no longer fitted into our community which had been so intimate and for which I often felt a maddening homesickness as for a lost paradise. I was treated particularly by my mother more like a sick person than like a miserable wretch but the actual state of affairs I was able to observe best in the conduct of my two sisters. It was quite evident from their behavior which was very considerate and which yet caused me endless pain that I was a sort of person possessed who was more to be pity than blamed for his condition but yet in whom evil had taken up residence. I felt that I was being prayed for in a different way from formerly and realized the fruitlessness of these prayers. I often felt burning within me an intense longing for relief an ardent desire for a full confession and yet I realized in advance that I should not be able to tell everything to father and mother properly in explanation of my conduct. I knew that I should be received in a friendly way that much consideration and compassion would be shown me but that I should not be completely understood. The whole affair would have been looked upon as a sort of backsliding whereas it was really the work of destiny. I know that many people will not believe that a child scarcely 11 years old could feel thus but I am not relating my affairs for their benefit. My narration is for those who know mankind better. The grown up person who has learned to convert part of his feelings into thoughts feels the absence of these ideas in a child and comes to believe that the experiences are likewise lacking but they have seldom been so vivid and not often in my life have I suffered as keenly as then. One rainy day I was ordered by my tormentor to castle place and there I stood waiting and digging my feet in the wet chestnut leaves which were still falling regularly from the black dripping branches. Money I had none but I had brought with me two pieces of cake that I had stolen in order to at least be able to give chrome or something. I had long since been accustomed to stand about in any odd corner waiting for him often for a very long time and I put up with the unalterable. Cromer came at last. That day he did not stay long. He poked me several times in the ribs, left, took the cake and even offered me a moldy cigarette which however I did not accept. He was more friendly than usual. Oh he said as he went away before I forget. Next time you can bring your sister along. The elder one. What's her name? Now tell the truth. I did not understand and gave no answer. I only looked at him wonderingly. Don't you get me? You must bring your sister along. But Cromer that won't do. I mustn't do that and besides she wouldn't come. I thought this was only another pretext for vexing me. He often did that requiring me to do something impossible and so terrifying me and often after humiliating me he would by degrees become more tractable. I then had to buy myself off with money or with some other gift. This time he was quite different. He was really not at all angry at my refusal. Well, he said eerily, you'll think about it, won't you? I should like to make your sister's acquaintance. It will not be so difficult. You simply take her out for a walk and then I come along. Tomorrow I'll whistle for you and then we can talk more about it. When he had gone, a glimpse of the meaning of his request dawned on me. I was still quite a child, but I knew by hearsay that boys and girls, when they were somewhat older, did things which were forbidden, things of a secret and scandalous nature. And now I should also have to. It was suddenly quite clear to me how monstrous it was. I immediately resolved never to do that. But I scarcely dared think of what would happen in that case and how Kromer would revenge himself on me. A new torment began. I had not yet been tortured enough. End of chapter two, part one, Cain, chapter two, part two of Damien by Herman Hess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Michelle Fry, about in Rearage, Louisiana. Chapter two, Cain, part two. I walked disconsolately across the empty square, my hands in my pockets, fresh torments, a new servitude. Suddenly a fresh deep voice called to me. I was terrified and began to run on. Someone ran after me. A hand gripped me from behind. It was Max Damien. I let myself be taken prisoner. I surrendered. It's you, I said, uncertainly. You frightened me so. He looked at me and never had his glance been more like that of an adult, of a superior and penetrating person. For a long time past we had not spoken with one another. I am sorry, he said in his courteous and at the same time very determined manner. But listen, you mustn't let yourself be frightened like that. Oh, that can happen sometimes. So it appears. But look here, if you shrink like that from someone who hasn't heard you, then this someone begins to think. It makes him curious. He wonders what can be the matter. This somebody thinks to himself, how awfully frightened you are. And he thinks further, one is only like that when one is terrified. Cowards are always frightened, but I believe you aren't really a coward. Aren't I right? Of course you aren't a hero either. There are things of which you are afraid. There are also people of whom you are afraid. And that should never be. No one should ever be afraid of other people. You aren't afraid of me. Or are you perhaps? Oh no, of course not. There you see, but there are people you are afraid of. I don't know, let me go. What do you want of me? He kept pace with me. I was going quicker with the idea of escaping. I felt his look directed on me from the side. Just assume, he began again, that I mean well with you. In any case, you needn't be afraid of me. I would very much like to try and experiment with you. It's funny and you can learn something that's very useful. Listen, I often practice an art which is called mind reading. There's no witchcraft in it, but it seems very peculiar if someone doesn't know how to do it. You can surprise people very much with it. Well, let us try it. I like you or I interest myself in you and I would like to find out what your real feelings are. I have already made the first step toward doing that. I have frightened you. You are then easily frightened. There are things and people of which end of whom you are afraid. Why is it? One need be afraid of no one. If you fear somebody, then it is due to the fact that he has power over you. For example, you have done something wrong and the other person knows it, then he has power over you. Do you get me? It's clear, isn't it? I looked helplessly into his face, which was serious and prudent as always and kind as well, but without any tenderness. His features were rather severe. Righteousness or something akin lay therein. I was not conscious of what was happening. He stood like a magician before me. Have you understood? He questioned again. I nodded. I could not speak. I told you mind reading looked rather strange, but the process is quite natural. I could, for example, tell you more or less exactly what you thought about me when I once told you the story of Cain and Abel, but that has nothing to do with the matter in hand. I also think it's possible that you have dreamed of me, but let's leave that out. You're a clever kid. Most of them are so stupid. I like talking now and then with a clever fellow whom I can trust. You have no objections, have you? Oh no, only I don't understand. Let's keep to our old experiment. We have found that the boy S is easily frightened. He is afraid of somebody. He apparently shares a secret with this other person, which causes him much disquietude. Is that about right? As in a dream, I lay under the influence of his voice of his personality. I only nodded. Was not a voice talking there, which could only come from myself, which knew all, which knew all in a better, clearer way than I myself? Damien gave me a powerful slap on the shoulder. That's right then. I thought so. Now just one question more. Do you know the name of the boy who has just gone away? I sank back. He had the key to my secret, the secret which twisted back inside me as if it did not want to see the light. What sort of fellow? There was no one there except myself. He laughed. Don't be afraid to tell me. He said laughingly, what's his name? I whispered, do you mean Frank Kromer? He nodded contentedly. Bravo, you're a smart chap. We shall be good friends yet. But now I must tell you something else. This Kromer or whatever his name is is a nasty fellow. His face tells me he's a rascal. What do you think? Oh yes, I thought he is nasty. He's a devil. But he mustn't know anything for God's sake. He mustn't know anything. Do you know him? Does he know you? Don't worry, he's gone and he doesn't know me. Not yet. But I should like to make his acquaintance. He goes to the public school. Yes, in which standard? In the fifth? But don't say anything to him. Please don't say anything to him. Don't worry, nothing will happen to you. I suppose you wouldn't like to tell me a little more about this fellow, Kromer. I can't, no, let me go. He was silent for a while. It's a pity, he said. We might have been able to carry the experiment still further, but I don't want to bother you. You know, don't you, that it is not right of you to be afraid of him. Such fear quite undermines us. You must get rid of it. You must get rid of it if you want to become a real man. Do you understand? Certainly, you're quite right, but it won't do. You don't know. You have seen that I know a lot more than you thought. Do you owe him any money? Yes, I do, but that isn't the essential point. I can't tell, I can't. It won't help matters then if I give you the amount you owe him. I could very well let you have it. No, no, that's not the point. And please don't say anything to anybody. Not a word. You're making me miserable. Rely on me, Sinclair. Later you can share your secrets with me. Never, never, I exclaimed vehemently. Just as you please, I only mean perhaps you will tell me something more later on. Only of your own free will, you understand. Surely you don't think I shall act like Cromer. Oh, no, but you don't even know anything about it. Absolutely nothing. But I think about it and I shall never act like Cromer, believe me. Besides, you don't owe me anything. We remained a long time silent and I became more tranquil, but Damien's knowledge became more and more of a puzzle to me. I'm going home now, he said, and in the rain he drew his coat more closely about him. I should only like to repeat one thing to you since we have gone so far in the matter. You ought to get rid of this fellow. If there's nothing else to be done, then kill him. It would impress me and please me if you were to do that. Besides, I would help you. I was again terrified. I suddenly remembered the story of Cain. I had an uncanny feeling and I began to cry softly. So much that was weird seemed to surround me. All right, Max Damien said, smiling, go home now. We will put things square, although murder would have been the simplest. In such matters, the simplest way is always the best. You aren't in good hands with your friend Cromer. I came home and it seemed to me as if I had been away a year. Everything looked different. Between myself and Cromer, there now stood something like future freedom, something like hope. I was lonely no longer. And then I realized for the first time how terribly lonely I had been for weeks and weeks. And I immediately recollected what I had on several occasions turned over in my mind that a confession to my parents would afford me relief and yet would not quite liberate me. Now I had almost confessed to another to a stranger and as if a strong perfume had wafted to me since the presentiment of salvation. Still, my fear was far from being overcome and I was still prepared for long and terrible mental wrestlings with my evil genius. So it was all the more remarkable to me that everything passed off so very secretly and quietly. Cromer's whistle remained absent from our house for a day, two days, three days, a whole week. I dared not believe my senses and lay inwardly on the watch to see whether he would not suddenly stand before me just at that moment when I should expect him no longer. But he was and remained away. This trustful of my new freedom I still could not bring myself to believe in it wholeheartedly until at last I met Frank Cromer. He was coming down the street straight in my direction. When he saw me, he drew himself together, twisted his features in a brutal grimace and turned away without more ado in order to avoid meeting me. That was a wonderful moment for me. My enemy ran away from me. My devil was afraid of me. Surprise and joy shook me through and through. In a few days Damien showed himself once again. He waited for me outside school. Hello, I said. Good morning, Sinclair. I only wanted to hear how you're getting on. Cromer leaves you in peace, doesn't he? Did you manage that? But how did you do it? How? I don't understand it. He hasn't come near me. Splendid. If he should come again, I don't think he will, but he's a cheeky fellow, then simply tell him to remember Damien. But what does it all mean? Have you had a fight with him and thrashed him? No, I'm not so keen on that. I simply talked to him as I did to you and I made it clear to him that it is to his own advantage to leave you in peace. Oh, but you haven't given him any money? No, kid, you've already tried that way yourself. I attempted to pump him on the matter, but he disengaged himself, the old embarrassed feeling concerning him came over me, an odd mixture of gratitude and shyness, of admiration and fear, of affection and inward resistance. I had the intention of seeing him again soon and then I wanted to talk more about everything, about the Cain affair as well, but I did not see him. Gratitude is not one of the virtues in which I believe and to require it of a child would seem to me wrong. So I do not wonder very much at the complete ingratitude which I evinced towards Max Damian. Today I believe positively that I should have been ruined for life if he had not freed me from Cromer's clutches. At that time also I already felt this release as the greatest event of my young life, but I left the deliverer on one side as soon as he had accomplished the miracle. As I have said, ingratitude seems to me nothing strange, so the lack of curiosity I evinced is odd. How was it possible that I could continue for a single day my quiet mode of life without coming nearer to the secrets with which Damian had brought me in contact? How could I restrain the desire to hear more about Cain, more about Cromer, more about the thought reading? It is scarcely comprehensible, and yet it is so. I suddenly saw myself extricated from the demoniacal toils, saw again the world lying bright and cheerful before me. I was no longer subject to paroxysms of fear. The curse was broken. I was no longer a tormented and condemned creature. I was a schoolboy again. My temperament sought to regain its equilibrium and tranquility as quickly as possible. And so I took pains above all things to put behind me, all that had been ugly and menacing, and to forget it. The whole long story of my guilt, of my terrifying anxiety, slipped from my memory wonderfully quick, apparently without having left behind any scars or impressions whatsoever. The fact that I likewise tried as quickly to forget my helper and deliverer, I understand today as well. Instinctively, my mind turned from the damning recollection of my awful servitude under Cromer, and I sought to recover my former happy, contented mental outlook to regain that lost paradise which opened once more to me, the bright father and mother world, where my sisters dwelt in the fragrant atmosphere of purity in loving kindness, such as God had extended to Abel. On the very next day after my short conversation with Damien, when I was at last fully convinced of my newly born freedom and feared no longer a relapse to my condition of slavery, I did what I had so often and so ardently desired to do. I confessed. I went to mother and showed her the little savings box with the broken lock, filled with toy markpieces instead of with real money, and I told her how long I had been in the thrall of an evil tormentor through my own guilt. She did not understand everything, but she saw the money box, she saw my altered look and heard my changed voice, she felt that I was healed, that I had been restored to her. And then with lofty feelings, I celebrated my readmission into the family, the prodigal son's return home. Mother took me to father, the story was repeated, questions and exclamations of wonder followed in quick succession. Both parents stroked my hair and breathed deeply as in relief from a long oppression. It was all lovely, like the stories I had read. All discords were resolved in a happy ending. I surrendered myself passionately to this harmonious state of affairs. I could not have enough of the idea that I was again free and trusted by my parents. I was a model boy at home and played more frequently than ever with my sisters. At prayers I sang the dear old hymns with the blissful feeling of one converted and redeemed. It came straight from my heart. It was no lie this time. And yet it was not all as it should have been. And this is the point which alone can truly explain my forgetfulness of Damien. I ought to have made a confession to him. The confession would have been less touching and less specious, but for me it would have borne more fruit. I was now clinging fast to my former paradisaical world. I had returned home and had been received in grace. But Damien belonged in no wise to this world. He did not fit into it. He also, in a different way from Cromer, but nevertheless he was also a seducer. He too bound me to the second evil bad world. And of this world I never wanted to hear anything more. I could not now, and I did not wish to give up able and help to glorify Cain, now when I myself had again become an able. So much for the outward correlation of events. But inwardly it was like this. I had been freed from the hands of Cromer and the devil, but not through my own strength and effort. I had ventured a footing on the paths of the world and they had been too slippery for me. Now that the grasp of a friendly hand had saved me, I ran back without another glance round to mother's lap, to the protecting godly and tender security of childhood. I made myself younger, more dependent on the others, more childlike than I really was. I had to replace my dependence on Cromer by a new one since I was powerless to strike out for myself. So I chose in the blindness of my heart the dependence on father and mother, on the old beloved bright world, on this world which I knew already was not the sole one. Had I not done this I should have had to hold to Damian, to entrust myself to him. The fact that I did not appeared to me then to be due to justifiable distrust of his strange ideas. In reality it was due to nothing else than fear. For Damian would have required more of me than did my parents much more. By stimulation and exhortation, by scorn and irony, he would have tried to make me more independent. Alas, I know that today nothing in the world is so distasteful to man as to go the way which leads him to himself. And yet, about half a year later, I could not resist the temptation to ask my father, while we were out for a walk, what was to be made of the fact that many people declared Cain to be better than Abel. He was much surprised and explained to me that this was a conception by no means novel. It had even emerged in the early Christian era and had been professed by sects, one of which was called the Canaanites. But naturally this foolish doctrine was nothing else than an attempt of the devil to undermine our belief. For if one believes that Cain was right and Abel was wrong, then it follows that God has erred and that the God of the Bible is not the true and only God, but a false one. The Canaanites really used to profess and preach something approximating this doctrine. But this heresy vanished from among mankind a long time ago and he wondered the more that his school friend had been able to learn something on the subject. Nevertheless, he earnestly exhorted me not to let these ideas occupy my attention. End of chapter two, Cain. Chapter three, part one of Damien by Herman Hess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Michelle Frye, Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Chapter three, The Thief on the Cross, part one. I could describe scenes of my childhood spent in peaceful security at the side of father and mother, relate how I passed this period of my life playing contentedly in the midst of surroundings brightened by love and tenderness. But others have done that. I am only interested in the steps I took in life in order to attain self-realization. All the pretty resting places, happy aisles and children's paradises whose charm is not unknown to me, I leave lying behind me in the shimmer of a distant horizon and I have no desire to set foot there again. For that reason I will speak so far as I intend to dwell on the period of my childhood only of new events which overtook me and of what impelled me forward enabling me to throw off my shackles. These impulses always came from the other world. They always brought fear, coercion and a bad conscience in their train. They were always of a revolutionary tendency and a danger to the peace in which I would willingly have been allowed to remain. There came the years in which I had to discover anew that there was within me an instinct which had to lie close and concealed in the bright world of moral sanction. As to every man, the slowly awakening sense of sex came to me as an enemy and a destroyer as something forbidden, as seduction and sin. What my curiosity sought to know what caused me dreams, desire and fear, the great secret of puberty, that was not at all in keeping with the guarded happiness of my peaceful childhood. I did as everyone else. I led the double life of a child who was yet a child no longer. My conscious self lived under the condition sanctioned at home. It denied the existence of the new world whose dawn glimmered before me. But I lived as well in dreams impelled by desires of a secret nature upon which my conscious self anxiously attempted to build a new fabric as the world of my childhood fell into ruins about me. Like almost all parents, my own did nothing to help the awakening life instincts about which not a syllable was uttered. They only aided with untiring care my hopeless attempts to deny the reality and to continue my existence in a childlike world which was ever becoming more unreal and more mendacious. I do not know whether parents can do much in such a case and I make mine no reproach. It was my own affair to settle my difficulties and to find my way and I carried through the business badly like most of those who are well brought up. Every man passes through this difficulty. For the average person, this is the point in his life where the demands of his own life come most in conflict with his surroundings where the road forward has to be attained through the bitterest fighting. For many people, this is the only time in their lives that they experience the sequence of death and rebirth that is our fate when they become conscious of the slow process of the decay and breaking up of the world of their childhood when everything beloved of us leaves us and we suddenly feel the loneliness and deathly cold of the universe around us. And for very many, this pitfall is fatal. They cling their whole life long painfully to the irrevocable past, to the dream of a lost paradise the worst and most deadly of all dreams. But to return to the story, the sensation and dream pictures in which the clothes of childhood presented itself to me are not important enough to be described. The important point was that I was once again conscious of the existence of the dark world, the other world, what Frank Cromer had once been to me was now present within myself. And so from the outside as well, the other world once more gained power over me. Several years had passed since my affair with Cromer. The dramatic and guilty time of my life lay far behind me at that time and seemed to have passed like a quick nightmare into nothingness. Frank Cromer had long since disappeared from my life. I scarcely gave it a moment's thought if I chance to meet him. But the other important figure in my tragedy, Max Damian, never entirely disappeared from my life. However, for a long time he stood on the far horizon, visible but not affecting me. Only by degrees he approached me again and I came once more under the ray of his power and influence. I will try to recollect what I know of Damian in that period. Perhaps for a year or longer, I did not have a single conversation with him. I avoided him and he in no wise forced himself on me. Once or twice when we met, he nodded to me in friendly greeting. Then it seemed to me at times that there was a note of scorn or ironical reproach in his friendliness, but that might only have been imagination on my part. My relation with him and the strange influence he had exercised over me were as if forgotten by him as well as by me. I tried to recall his face as I recollect him. I see that I was conscious of his existence after all and took notice of him. I can see him going to school alone or with some of the other big boys. I see him walking among them like a stranger, lonely and still like a celestial body enveloped in a different atmosphere and subject to his own laws. No one liked him. He was intimate with no one except his mother and his relations with her did not seem like those of a child but those of a grown-up person. The masters left him as much as possible in peace. He was a good pupil but he did not go out of his way to please them. From time to time we heard in gossip of a word, a comment or a retort he had made to a master and which left nothing to be desired in the way of blunt challenge or irony. 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 notebook 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 willpower, 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 Damien'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 Damien'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 almost 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 epics. 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 Damien 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 Cromer. 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 definitely 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 clergymen 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 Damian 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 school room. The clergymen 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 clergymen began to speak fervently of Cain's sign. At this moment I felt a sort of contact or exhortation and looking up I saw Damian'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 clergymen'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 Damian and myself was again established and oddly enough scarcely had this sense of a certain solidarity between us presented itself to my mind that 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 Damian 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 school room to sense the delicate fresh aroma of soap from his neck in the morning. A few days later he had changed again and now he 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 clergymen 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. Damian was always courteous towards masters and school fellows. 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 we'll look around at us or we'll scratch his neck, et cetera. 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 around 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 Damien, 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. These jokes amused me very much, but only gradually did I notice that my friend frequently played the same game with me. It would happen that on my way home from school, I had suddenly the feeling that Damien was a little way behind me and when I turned around, there he was, sure enough. Can you really make another person think what you want him to? I asked him. He gave me information on the subject readily enough, quietly and pertinently in his grown-up manner. No, he said, that can't be done. That is to say, one hasn't a free will even if the person acts that way. Either can the other person think as he will, nor can I make him think what I want him to. But you can observe someone well and then you can say fairly exactly what he thinks or feels. In this way, you can generally predict what he will do the moment after. It's quite simple, but people merely do not know it. Naturally, it requires practice. To take an example from the butterfly world, there is a certain species of moth of which the female is much rarer than the male. The moths reproduce like other animals. The male impregnates the female who then lays the egg. Suppose you have in your possession a female of this type of moth. Naturalists have often made the experiment. Then the male moths fly in the night to this female. They even make a flight of several hours duration. Think of it, for many miles around, all the males are conscious of the whereabouts of the only female moth in the district. People have tried to explain that, but it is not easy. Moths must have a sense of smell or something like it which allows them to pick up and follow an almost imperceptible scent, like a good hound. You understand? There are such things. Nature is full of them and no one can explain them. Now, I draw the conclusion that if among this class of moths the females were as abundant as the males, then these latter would not have such a refined sense of smell. They have it simply because they have been trained like that. If an animal or a man concentrates his whole attention and his whole willpower on a certain thing, then he attains it. That's all. And it is just the same with what you have asked me. Observe a man sufficiently well and you will know more about him than he does himself. It lay on the tip of my tongue to mention the word mind reading and so to remind him of the scene with Cromer, now relegated to such a distant past. But the odd thing between us both was that neither he nor I ever made the slightest reference to the fact that several years ago he had intervened so decisively in my life. It was as if formerly there had been nothing between us or as if each of us reckoned that the other had forgotten the affair. It even happened once or twice when we were together that we met Frank Cromer in the street, but we exchanged no look, neither did we speak of him. But what has that got to do with willpower, I asked. You said there was no such thing as free will. And then you said one only had to concentrate one's will on something to be able to attain one's ends. That doesn't agree. If I am not master of my will, then I can't direct it here or there as I wish. Good question, he said, laughing. You should always ask questions you must always doubt, but the explanation is very simple. If a moth, for instance, wants to concentrate his willpower on a star or something like that, he can't do it. Only he doesn't try. He seeks only what has sense and value for him, satisfies his needs. He gets what he absolutely must have. And it is just there that the unbelievable succeeds. He develops a marvelous sixth sense that no other animal besides him has. People in our position have more elbow room, certainly, and more interests than an animal, but even we are confined to a comparatively small space beyond which we cannot go. To be sure, I can imagine this or that, or make myself believe that I absolutely want to get to the North Pole or somewhere, but I can only carry that out and wish it strongly enough when the desire lies right in myself, when my whole being is really filled with it. As soon as that is the case, as soon as you try to carry out an inward command, then you succeed. Then you can harness your will as you would a good nag. If, for instance, I resolve that our good Mr. Parsons shall not wear his spectacles for the future, then that wouldn't work. That is merely play. But when last autumn I had the fixed intention of getting myself moved to another desk, I succeeded. Someone suddenly arrived who came before me in the alphabet and who up to then had been ill. Because someone had to make room for him, it was naturally I who did it, because my willing it had made me ready to seize the opportunity. Yes, I said. That seemed to me very strange at the time. From the moment we began to get interested in one another, you managed to get nearer and nearer to me. But how was that? You did not immediately take a place next to me. For a few lessons at first you were sitting in the row of desks in front of me, weren't you? How did that come about? It was like this. I wasn't quite certain where I wanted to go when I wished to move from my first place. I only knew that I wanted to sit further back. It was my wish to move towards you, but I was not conscious of this at the time. Simultaneously, your own will was working with mine and helped me. It was only when I sat in front of you that I realized my wish was only half fulfilled. I noticed that really I had desired nothing else than to sit next to you. But on that occasion no newcomer arrived. No, but then I simply did what I wished and sat next to you without hesitation. The boy with whom I changed places was simply surprised and let me do it without further say. And the person indeed noticed once that a change had taken place. In fact, whenever he looks at me, something worries him secretly. That is to say, he knows my name is Damian and that something must be wrong that I, whose initial is D, am sitting back there among the S's. But that does not penetrate his consciousness because my will is against it because I prevent him again and again from becoming conscious of it. He notices now and then that something is wrong. He looks at me and begins to study the question, the good fellow, but I have a simple means at my disposal. I look at him very, very fixedly in the eyes. Hardly anyone can bear that. They always get restive. If you want to get something out of a person and you fix him unexpectedly with your eyes and if he doesn't get restive, then give it up. You won't get anything out of him ever. But that happens seldom. I know only one single person with whom this trick won't help me. Who is that? I asked quickly. He looked at me with eyes somewhat closed as his fashion was when he meditated. Then he looked away and gave no answer. And in spite of my lively curiosity, I could not bring myself to repeat the question. But I believe he was referring to his mother. He seemed to live on very intimate terms with her, but he never spoke about her, never invited me to his house. I scarcely knew what his mother looked like. End of chapter three, part one, The Thief on the Cross.