“Demian!” I called.
He stretched out his hand to me.
“So it’s you, then, Sinclair? I expected you.”
“Did you know I was here?”
“I did not know for certain, but I hoped it might be true. I saw you first this evening. You have been behind us the whole time.”
“You recognized me then at once?”
“Of course. You’re very much changed to be sure; but you have the sign. We used to call it the mark of Cain, if you recollect. It is our sign. You have always had it; for that reason I became your friend. But now it is clearer.”
“I did not know. Or rather I did. I once painted a picture of you, Demian, and was astonished that it was also like me. Was that the sign?”
“That was it. It’s fine that you are here now! My mother will be glad as well.”
I started.
“Your mother? Is she here? She doesn’t know me a bit.”
“Oh, she knows of you. She will know, without even my asking her, who you are. You haven’t let me hear from you for a long time.”
“Oh, I often wanted to write, but nothing came of it. For some time past I have felt I should find you. I was waiting for it every day.”
He pushed his arm through mine and we went on. Tranquillity seemed to emanate from him and pass on to me. We were soon chatting together as formerly. We mentioned our schooldays, the confirmation class and that unlucky meeting of ours in the holidays—only no mention was made of the earliest and closest bond between us, of the affair with Frank Kromer.
Unexpectedly we found ourselves in the middle of a singular and ominous conversation. Having recalled Demian’s discourse with the Japanese, we spoke of student life in general and from that we had branched off to something else, which seemed to be rather out of the way of the former trend of our talk. Nevertheless, from Demian’s manner of introducing the subject, there seemed to be no lack of coherence in our conversation.
He spoke of the spirit of Europe, and of modern tendencies. Everywhere, he said, reigned a desire to come together, to form herds, but nowhere was freedom or love. All this life in common, from the student clubs and choral societies to the state, was an unnatural, forced phenomenon. The community owed its origin to a sense of fear, of embarrassment, to a desire for flight; inwardly it was rotten and old, and approaching a general breakup.
“Community,” Demian said, “is a beautiful thing. But what we see blossoming everywhere is by no means that. It will arise anew from the mutual understanding of individuals, and after a time the world will be remodeled. What is now called community is merely a formation of herds. Mankind seeks refuge together because men have fear of one another—the masters combine for their own ends, the workmen for theirs, and the intellectuals for theirs! And why are they afraid? One is only afraid when one is not at one with oneself. They are afraid because they have never had the courage to be themselves. A community of men who are afraid of the unknown in themselves! They all feel that the laws of their life no longer hold good, that they are living according to outworn commandments. Neither their religion nor their morals conform to our needs. For a hundred years and more Europe has simply studied and built factories. They know exactly how many grams of powder it takes to kill a man, but they do not know how to pray to God. They have no idea how to amuse themselves, even for an hour. Look at these students drinking in their tavern! Or take any place of amusement where rich people go! Hopeless! My dear Sinclair, no cheerfulness, no serenity can come of all that. These creatures, who move about so uneasily in crowds, are full of fear and full of wickedness, no one trusts the other. They adhere to ideals which have ceased to exist, and they stone everyone who proposes a new one. I feel that there are troubles ahead of us. They will come, believe me, they will come soon! Of course the world won’t be bettered! Whether the workmen kill the manufacturers, or whether the Russians and Germans shoot at one another, it will only be a change of proprietors. But it will not be in vain. It will free the world from the chains of present-day ideals, there will be a clearing away of Stone-Age gods. The world, as it is now, wants to die, it wants to perish, and it will.”
“And what will happen to us then?” I asked.
“To us? Oh, perhaps we shall perish as well. They can also murder people in our position. Only we shall not be entirely wiped out. The will of the future will realize itself from what remains of our influence, or with the aid of those of us who survive. The will of humanity will make itself felt, which our Europe has for a long time past tried to drown in its sale yard of scientifically manufactured articles. And then it will be seen that there is nothing in common between the will of humanity and that of our present-day communities, of the states and peoples, of the societies and churches. But what nature wills with man, is written in the individual few, in you and in me. It is found in Jesus, in Nietzsche. For these (the only important currents of thought which naturally can alter their course each day)
