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The best things I gained
from my remaining weeks in St. ------were the hours spent with Pistorius at the organ or in front of his fire.
We were studying a Greek text about Abraxas and he read me extracts from a translation of the Vedas and
taught me how to speak the sacred "om. " Yet these occult matters were not what nourished me inwardly.
What invigorated me was the progress I had made in discovering my self, the increasing confidence in my
own dreams, thoughts, and intimations, and the growing knowledge of the power I possessed within me.
	Pistorius and I understood each other in every possible way. All I had to do was think of him and I could be
certain that he--or a message from him--would come. I could ask him anything, as I had asked Demian,
without his having to be present in the flesh: all I had to do was visualize him and direct my questions at him
in the form of intensive thought. Then all psychic effort expended on the question would return to me in kind,
as an answer. Only it was not the person of Pistorius nor that of Max Demian that I conjured up and addressed,
but the picture I had dreamed and painted, the half-male, half-female dream image of my daemon. This being
was now no longer confined to my dreams, no longer merely depicted on paper, but lived within me as an
ideal and intensification of my self. 	The relationship which the would-be suicide Knauer formed with me was
peculiar, occasionally even funny. Ever since the night in which I had been sent to him, he clung to me like a
faithful servant or a dog, made every effort to forge his life with mine, and obeyed me blindly. He came to me
with the most astonishing questions and requests, wanted to see spirits, learn the cabala, and would not believe
me when I assured him that I was totally ignorant in all these matters. He thought nothing was beyond my
powers. Yet it was strange that he would often come to me with his puzzling and stupid questions when I was
faced with a puzzle of my own to which his fanciful notions and requests frequently provided a catchword and
the impetus for a solution. Often he was a bother and I would dismiss him peremptorily; yet I sensed that he,
too, had been sent to me, that from him, too, came back whatever I gave him, in double measure; he, too, was
a leader for me--or at least a guidepost. The occult books and writings he brought me and in which he sought
his salvation taught me more than I realized at the time. 	Later Knauer slipped unnoticed out of my life. We
never came into conflict with each other; there was no reason to. Unlike Pistorius, with whom I was still to
share a strange experience toward the end of my days in St. 	On one or on several occasions in the course of
their lives, even the most harmless people do not altogether escape coming into conflict with the fine virtues
of piety and gratitude. Sooner or later each of us must take the step that separates him from his father, from his
mentors; each of us must have some cruelly lonely experience--even if most people cannot take much of this
and soon crawl back. I myself had not parted from my parents and their world, the "luminous" world in a
violent struggle, but had gradually and almost imperceptibly become estranged. I was sad that it had to be this
way and it made for many unpleasant hours during my visits back home; but it did not affect me deeply, it was
bearable. 	But where we have given of our love and respect not from habit but of our own free will, where we
have been disciples and friends out of our inmost hearts, it is a bitter and horrible moment when we suddenly
recognize that the current within us wants to pull us away from what is dearest to us. Then every thought that
rejects the friend and mentor turns in our own hearts like a poisoned barb, then each blow struck in defense
flies back into one's own face, the words "disloyalty" and "ingratitude" strike the person who feels he was
morally sound like catcalls and stigma, and the frightened heart flees timidly back to the charmed valleys of
childhood virtues, unable to believe that this break, too, must be made, this bond also broken. 	With time my
inner feelings had slowly turned against acknowledging Pistorius so unreservedly as a master. My friendship
with him, his counsel, the comfort he had brought me, his proximity had been a vital experience during the
most important months of my adolescence. God had spoken to me through him. From his lips my dreams had
returned clarified and interpreted. He had given me faith in myself. And now I became conscious of gradually
beginning to resist him. There was too much didacticism in what he said, and I felt that he understood only a
part of me completely. 	No quarrel or scene occurred between us, no break and not even a settling of accounts.
I uttered only a single--actually harmless--phrase, yet it was in that moment that an illusion was shattered. 	A
vague presentiment of such an occurrence had oppressed me for some time; it became a distinct feeling one
Sunday morning in his study. We were lying before the fire while he was holding forth about mysteries and
forms of religion, which he was studying, and whose potentialities for the future preoccupied him. All this
seemed to me odd and eclectic and not of vital importance; there was something vaguely pedagogical about it;
it sounded like tedious research among the ruins of former worlds. And all at once I felt a repugnance for his
whole manner, for this cult of mythologies, this game of mosaics he was playing with secondhand modes of
belief. 	"Pistorius, " I said suddenly in a fit of malice that both surprised and frightened me. "You ought to tell
me one of your dreams again sometime, a real dream, one that you've had at night. What you're telling me
there is all so--so damnedantiquarian. " 	He had never heard me speak like that before and at the same moment
I realized with a flash of shame and horror that the arrow I had shot at him, that had pierced his heart, had
come from his own armory: I was now flinging back at him reproaches that on occasion he had directed
against himself half in irony. 	He fell silent at once. I looked at him with dread in my heart and saw him
turning terribly pale. 	After a long pregnant pause he placed fresh wood on the fire and said in a quiet voice:
"You're right, Sinclair, you're a clever boy. I'll spare you the antiquarian stuff from now on. " He spoke very
calmly but it was obvious he was hurt. What had I done? 	I wanted to say something encouraging to him,
implore his forgiveness, assure him of my love and my deep gratitude. Touching words came to mind--but I
could not utter them. I just lay there gazing into the fire and kept silent. He, too, kept silent and so we lay
while the fire dwindled, and with each dying flame I felt something beautiful, intimate irrevocably burn low
and become evanescent. 	"I'm afraid you've misunderstood me, " I said finally with a very forced and clipped
voice. The stupid, meaningless words fell mechanically from my lips as if I were reading from a magazine
serial. 	"I quite understand, " Pistorius said softly. "You're right. " I waited. Then he went on slowly:
"Inasmuch as one person can be rightagainst another. " 	No, no! I'm wrong, a voice screamed inside me--but I
could not say anything. I knew that with my few words I had put my finger on his essential weakness, his
affliction and wound. I had touched the spot where he most mistrusted himself. His ideal way "antiquarian, "
he was seeking in the past, he was a romantic. And suddenly I realized deeply within me: what Pistorius had
been and given to me was precisely what he could not be and give to himself. He had led me along a path that
would transcend and leave even him, the leader, behind. 	God knows how one happens to say something like
that. I had not meant it all that maliciously, had had no idea of the havoc I would create. I had uttered
something the implications of which I had been unaware of at the moment of speaking. I had succumbed to a
weak, rather witty but malicious impulse and it had become fate. I had committed a trivial and careless act of
brutality which he regarded as a judgment. 	How much I wished then that he become enraged, defend himself,
and berate me! He did nothing of the kind--I had to do all of that myself. He would have smiled if he could
have, and the fact that he found it impossible was the surest proof of how deeply I had wounded him. 	By
accepting this blow so quietly, from me, his impudent and ungrateful pupil, by keeping silent and admitting
that I had been right, by acknowledging my words as his fate, he made me detest myself and increased my
indiscretion even more. When I had hit out I had thought I would strike a tough, well-armed man--he turned
out to be a quiet, passive, defenseless creature who surrendered without protest. 	For a long time we stayed in
front of the dying fire, in which each glowing shape, each writhing twig reminded me of our rich hours and
increased the guilty awareness of my indebtedness to Pistorius. Finally I could bear it no longer. I got up and
left. I stood a long time in front of the door to his room, a long time on the dark stairway, and even longer
outside his house waiting to hear if he would follow me. Then I turned to go and walked for hours through the
town, its suburbs, parks and woods, until evening. During that walk I felt for the first time the mark of Cain on
my forehead. 	Only gradually was I able to think clearly about what had occurred. At first my thoughts were
full of self-reproach, intent on defending Pistorius. But all of them turned into the opposite of my intention. A
thousand times I was ready to regret and take back my rash statement--yet it had been the truth. Only now I
managed to understand Pistorius completely and succeeded in constructing his whole dream before me. This
dream had been to be a priest, to proclaim the new religion, to introduce new forms of exaltation, of love, of
worship, to erect new symbols. But this was not his strength and it was not his function. He lingered too
fondly in the past, his knowledge of this past was too precise, he knew too much about Egypt and India,
Mithras and Abraxas. His love was shackled to images the earth had seen before, and yet, in his inmost heart,
he realized that the New had to be truly new and different, that it had to spring from fresh soil and could not be
drawn from museums and libraries. His function was perhaps to lead men to themselves as he had led me. To
provide them with the unprecedented, the new gods, was not in him. 	At this point a sharp realization burned
within me: each man has his "function" but none which he can choose himself, define, or perform as he
pleases. It was wrong to desire new gods, completely wrong to want to provide the world with something. An
enlightened man had but one duty--to seek the way to himself, to reach inner certainty, to grope his way
forward, no matter where it led. The realization shook me profoundly, it was the fruit of this experience. I had
often speculated with images of the future, dreamed of roles that I might be assigned, perhaps as poet or
prophet or painter, or something similar. 	All that was futile. I did not exist to write poems, to preach or to
paint, neither I nor anyone else. All of that was incidental. Each man had only one genuine vocation--to find
the way to himself. He might end up as poet or madman, as prophet or criminal--that was not his affair,
ultimately it was of no concern. His task was to discover his own destiny--not an arbitrary one--and live it out
wholly and resolutely within himself. Everything else was only a would-be existence, an attempt at evasion, a
flight back to the ideals of the masses, conformity and fear of one's own inwardness. The new vision rose up
before me, glimpsed a hundred times, possibly even expressed before but now experienced for the first time by
me. I was an experiment on the part of Nature, a gamble within the unknown, perhaps for a new purpose,
perhaps for nothing, and my only task was to allow this game on the part of primeval depths to take its course,
to feel its will within me and make it wholly mine. That or nothing! 	I had already felt much loneliness, now
there was a deeper loneliness still which was inescapable. 	I made no attempt at reconciliation with Pistorius.
We remained friends but the relationship changed. Yet this was something we touched on only once; actually
it was Pistorius alone who did. He said: 	"You know that I have the desire to become a priest. Most of all I
wanted to become the priest of the new religion of which you and I have had so many intimations. That role
will never be mine--I realize that and even without wholly admitting it to myself have known it for some time.
So I will perform other priestly duties instead, perhaps at the organ, perhaps some other way. But I must
always have things around me that I feel are beautiful and sacred, organ music and mysteries, symbols and
myths. I need and cannot forgo them. That is my weakness. Sometimes, Sinclair, I know that I should not have
such wishes, that they are a weakness and luxury. It would be more magnanimous and just if I put myself
unreservedly at the disposal of fate. But I can't do that, I am incapable of it. Perhaps you will be able to do it
one day. It is difficult, it is the only truly difficult thing there is. I have often dreamed of doing so, but I can't;
the idea fills me with dread: I am not capable of standing so naked and alone. I, too, am a poor weak creature
who needs warmth and food and occasionally the comfort of human companionship. Someone who seeks
nothing but his own fate no longer has any companions, he stands quite alone and has only cold universal
space around him. That is Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, you know. There have been martyrs who gladly
let themselves be nailed to the cross, but even these were no heroes, were not liberated, for even they wanted
something that they had become fond of and accustomed to--they had models, they had ideals. But the man
who only seeks his destiny has neither models nor ideals, has nothing dear and consoling! And actually this is
the path one should follow. People like you and me are quite lonely really but we still have each other, we
have the secret satisfaction of being different, of rebelling, of desiring the unusual. But you must shed that,
too, if you want to go all the way to the end. You cannot allow yourself to become a revolutionary, an
example, a martyr. It is beyond imagining --" 	Yes, it was beyond imagining. But it could be dreamed,
anticipated, sensed. A few times I had a foretaste of it--in an hour of absolute stillness. Then I would gaze into
myself and confront the image of my fate. Its eyes would be full of wisdom, full of madness, they would
radiate love or deep malice, it was all the same. You were not allowed to choose or desire any one of them.
You were only allowed to desireyourself, only your fate. Up to this point, Pistorius had been my guide. 	In
those days I walked about as though I were blind. I felt frenzies--each step was a new danger. I saw nothing in
front of me except the unfathomable darkness into which all paths I had taken until now had led and vanished.
And within me I saw the image of the master, who resembled Demian, and in whose eyes my fate stood
written. 	I wrote on a piece of paper: "A leader has left me. I am enveloped in darkness. I cannot take another
step alone. Help me. " 	I wanted to mail it to Demian, but didn't. Each time I wanted to, it looked foolish and
senseless. But I knew my little prayer by heart and often recited it to myself. It was with me every hour of the
day. I had begun to understand it. 	My schooldays were over. I was to take a trip during my vacation--my
father's idea--and then enter a university. But I did not know what I would major in. I had been granted my
wish: one semester of philosophy. Any other subject would have done as well.