An English-language resource for people interested in Jakob Wassermann.

As a first point of reference, the excellent German website http://www.jakob-wassermann.de/ has a wealth of information. It is well worth a visit, even if your German is as poor as mine.

Details about Wassermann's life and work are hard to obtain in English: I hope this helps, in part, to correct that.

Comments, suggestions, and corrections are more than welcome. Contact.

Monday, 11 July 2011

Jakob Wassermann, Faber, or The Lost Years






















Faber, or The Lost Years - first published in Germany in 1924 - was the fourth and final volume of the ‘Wendekreis’ series. An English translation appeared in 1930.

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The novel begins in July 1919. The protagonist, Eugene Faber, returns to his native city after five and a half years’ absence. Captured in the first month of the war, then imprisoned in Siberia, from where he subsequently escaped to China, he has slowly made his way back to Germany.

He is among the ‘last stragglers’ to return home; yet in contrast to the excitement and ‘excessive sentimentality’ of his comrades, Faber shows a curious reserve. Asked if his wife will meet him at the train station, he declines to answer. Later, instead of going home, he takes a room at a hotel. He visits an old friend, Jacob Fleming, ostensibly to renew their friendship, but really to ply the other man for information.

During the ‘lost years’ something has happened to Faber’s wife, Martina. From their intermittent correspondence Faber has sensed a change in his wife, a subtle yet significant transformation. Behind this transformation is the mysterious figure of ‘The Princess’, a wealthy, charismatic philanthropist.

Hoping to understand the true nature of the Princess’ influence, Faber assumes an ‘affected and carefully planned calmness.’ He circles his wife, wary of approaching her, fearful he might lose her entirely to the Princess.

When at last he and Martina are reunited, it becomes clear their marriage is now irremediably altered. The ‘complete harmony’ which existed prior to Eugene’s absence has disappeared. What was formerly effortless now becomes forced, and their estrangement deepens.

The presence of another woman, Faith - a sort of live-in housekeeper and nanny to Eugene’s and Martina’s son – further complicates the situation. While Martina is out all day helping the Princess, Eugene and Faith are at home together. Almost inevitably, they fall in love. Martina guesses, yet says nothing. For Faber, this is intolerable. Having avoided the Princess he now agrees to meet her. The stage seems set for a battle of wills. However the outcome is far more surprising and far more subtle.

Far from the charlatan Faber imagines her to be, the Princess has an unmistakable spiritual authority. Her philanthropy is likewise genuine – shockingly so, for Faber, who now sees, first-hand, the very real social evils with which the Princess and Martina are trying to contend. Stripped of his scepticism, Faber is touched to ‘his very inmost self’ by what the Princess has to say:

‘ “I was guarding your most precious treasure, the sum total of your existence; I realised this to the fullest extent. When you returned I would have to give back a possession just as precious to me and irreplaceable; I would have to open the hand that held it; I would have to sever my heart from that to which it had grown fast. I had no doubts about that. And then you came. I was prepared to have Martina step before me and say, according to her feelings: ‘Now I have again my true mission, let me go free.’ I expected it day after day. I waited in vain. In place of that her being changed in a way that troubled me more and more. No one but myself suspected it; I saw her perplexity and how it almost smothered her... And yet nothing had happened between you and Faith at that time. She fell into my arms and wept her heart out. I had never heard her weep. It was unspeakable, her weeping. I determined that we two, you and I, must come to an understanding... I want to turn to you, to have you find a solution within yourself. Everything hangs on that, solely on that.” ’

Faced with the realisation that he is responsible - through his own reserve - for Martina’s estrangement, Faber must decide how to act in order to save his marriage. Rather than keep on trying to restore what he has lost, he sees he must now accept the new, altered relationship:

‘ “It follows that I must win Martina or take myself out of the world. If I am to win her there is perhaps but one way, and that is to separate myself from her. To give up my right to her. Perhaps I must first withdraw my hand, my greedy hand... perhaps I must first loosen what I would like to bind. Perhaps that is the remedy, Princess. What do you think?” ’

To which the Princess replies:

‘ “It may be. There is something convincing in what you say. There is hardly likely to be any other way. To loosen, in order to bind: yes, it may be, that is the way.” ’

Both the Princess and Faber effectively renounce their claims to Martina, leaving her free to decide for herself. Her decision remains unresolved, however, because the novel ends on a typically ambivalent note.

Martina confronts Faith and effectively bestows her blessing on any future relationship between Faith and Eugene. Faith immediately protests. But before the issue can be settled Eugene appears and tells them he is leaving:

‘ “I am going to leave the house. I cannot take Faith with me. Take Faith! Would Faith go with me? And leave you alone, Martina, alone with the child? She would never do that. And can I remain with you, Martina, and see Faith cast off through my fault? Absurd idea. You two must not part. At least not until one of you knows that the flame which she innocently kindled and which has made a new man of me has died out, and the other is ready to feed the fire that nourishes three human lives by its warmth... I will wait, and wait patiently for this future, even if twenty years must go by before it comes to pass...” ’

Faber leaves, Faith stands motionless ‘sunk in thought’, while Martina dashes wildly about the house. The novel ends as Martina throws her arms around Faith and cries

‘... in a tone divided between suffering and rejoicing, childlike suffering and radiant, mystical rejoicing: “Faith, wake up! Faith, wake up! Do you know about it? Have you heard? He has gone, my beloved! My very best-beloved has gone from me...”

And she kissed Faith and laughed and sobbed at once. She seemed as if demented.

Faith, amazed, watched her with a troubled look and bowed her head.’

Compared to some of Wassermann’s other novels, the plot of Faber seems slight – hardly enough, in fact, to warrant a 347 page treatment. Yet the novel never feels sluggish or padded; partly due to Wassermann’s skill as a writer, but mainly because there are broader themes which hold our attention.

The anxiety of men returning from war to find their wives and girlfriends changed is a familiar theme: more common after the Second World War than after the First, but nevertheless a recognisable concern. Here, Wassermann addresses the crisis – essentially a paternalistic one – from both sides: Faber’s fear that Martina may have become more independent during his absence is proved to be well-founded; yet her greater independence, though empowering (in the sense that it helps her cope and reveals a strength and determination she was not aware of ) does not exclude her need for her husband. It is possible, at the same time, to be both independent and to rely on another person, Wassermann suggests. After all, men have acted that way for centuries. To deny the same power – or at least, potentiality - to women is absurd. Faber’s tragedy is that he realises this too late; only after he has convinced himself that Martina no longer needs him.

Linked to this is the idea of possession. Believing he has a ‘right’ to Martina – believing, in other words, that he owns her – Faber finds the influence of the Princess tantamount to theft. Hence his – as it transpires, wholly unwarranted – animosity. The Princess loves Martina. For that reason, though she knows it will result in suffering, she is prepared to let Martina go. Faber, on the other hand, is not (or not at first). This might seem as if Wassermann is saying that a man’s love is essentially possessive and self-aggrandising, whereas a woman’s is essentially self-sacrificing; however, these ‘essences’ are also thrown into question. Faber is capable of change: he decides to let Martina go in order to win her back. Martina, conversely, realises she has lost a possession when Faber leaves, and experiences a profound anxiety over this loss. Again, Wassermann is suggesting that supposed opposites can be reconciled, that contradictions can be contained. Love is both possessive and selfless; the loved object present when absent, absent when present. Moreover, a third person may be involved – in this case, Faith – without in any way diminishing the nature or quality of that love. The love triangle is truly that: each loving the other two.

An alternative ending might have been for Faber to live with both women, yet not only would this have seemed scandalous, even prurient, it would also have lessened the novel’s impact. A ménage-a-trois would have reduced the problem to a merely social one; it might have shocked (and secretly delighted) a bourgeois audience, but in its implication that we can get what we want from life if only we subvert certain prejudices it would have painted a false picture. Life delights in revealing our powerlessness; it mocks all our solutions: without this realisation tragedy loses its power.

Wassermann’s characters are trapped. Love does not release them, it only tightens the bonds. The only possible thing to do – as Faber eventually sees – is to try to cut oneself free, then wait and hope that those we love will do the same.


From Faber, or The Lost Years, (George, Allen & Unwin, 1930, trans., Harry Hansen)

347 pages

Jakob Wassermann, Gold













Ulrike Woytich, the third of Wassermann’s ‘Wendekreis’ books, was published in Germany in 1923. An English-language translation, given the title Gold, appeared the following year.

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The novel begins in Vienna, on a December night in 1881. Fifteen-year-old Josephine Mylius is visiting the theatre for the first time. This visit – to see ‘The Tales of Hoffman’ – has been secretly arranged by her mother, Christine, as a birthday present for her favourite daughter. The secrecy is not only to give Josephine a pleasant surprise, but also to prevent Josephine’s father – a miserly antiques dealer who keeps his family’s expenditure under vigilant scrutiny – from prohibiting such a gift. Josephine’s older brother and sisters - all of whom are jealous of Josephine’s place in their mother’s heart – are likewise kept in the dark. Fearful of their reaction should they find out, Christine smuggles her daughter into the performance.

As Christine waits anxiously at home for Josephine to return she hears ‘the fire trumpet sounding down the street’, followed shortly afterwards by excited voices announcing that “The Ring Theatre is burning up!” (Wassermann, here, uses the actual historical event to locate his story). Christine rushes to the theatre, where she finds a nightmarish scene as hundreds of people flee the burning building.

‘The sky gleamed purple, the whole atmosphere was like a black face hung over with a veil of moving sparks.’

Eventually she finds her daughter, ‘exhausted and shuddering’ but unharmed. Josephine has been saved by a young woman who now has the presence of mind to find them a cab. As the cab drives them home, Christine tries to express her gratitude.

‘The unknown woman, sitting slim and quiet, opposite her, strangely with almost no damage done her, and without any excitement, waved away the thanks modestly. Then Christine asked her name. She gave it. Her name, she said, was Ulrika Woytich.’

Ulrika – seemingly a guardian angel – reveals how, before the concert, while sitting in the balcony, she had been struck by Josephine’s face; so much so that it seemed ‘a coincidence’ when she then saw her again ‘on the narrow stairway, in the dangerous crush.’ ‘Her resolve to save her had been purely instinctive’ she admits. Similarly, something uncanny - ‘a presentiment of danger’ – had driven Ulrika from her seat before the fire broke out:

‘She said she had been suddenly overcome by a violent beating of her heart, such as she had never felt before. The orchestra had just begun to play, but the tempting strains of Offenbach’s music could not quiet her; on the contrary she was frightened lest she lose consciousness and hastened as quickly as she could into the Promenade outside. While she was walking up and down, she heard a sound like a downfall of pebbles and the glass roof broke. Then every door burst open, and screaming people rushed out; in an instant she was in their midst; but had it not been for the heart attack she would have been imprisoned in the auditorium...’

Ulrika’s survival – and hence her rescue of Josephine – thus appears to be the work of fate. Christine, understandably, is won over: she accepts Ulrika’s additional offer of help, allowing the young woman to manage the immediate care of Josephine. Ulrika takes charge – seeing to Josephine’s needs, smoothing things over with the other members of the family, even standing up to Josephine’s domineering father. But in a very short time we realise that all is not as it seems. Far from being a guardian angel, Ulrika has something demonic about her: the fire at the theatre now becomes ‘a sinister omen’.

A suggestion of what is to come appears in the following passage:

‘There was one picture in Josephine’s mind that she could not banish. While she was still in the Promenade of the theatre and the first panic of the fleeing people from the auditorium burst forth, she had experienced something which made a deeper impression upon her than the devastating scenes afterward and her own danger. Among the first who rushed out upon her, for she stood right at the entrance door, was a man who held both fists high in the air; his mouth was wide open but he did not scream; his eyes, glassy with fright and fury, looked only to see how he could get ahead of others... but now it happened that he found himself completely barred on his way to the staircase by the mass of bodies. In his raving fear he tore out his pocket book, seized a package of bills with his trembling fingers and, his arm raised high, he offered them in flattering, whining, moaning tones. That was the horror of it! Money in this moment! It seemed more horrible to Josephine than all the rest; a manifestation of pollution and rottenness beside which the physical danger which threatened her seemed hardly worth consideration... Money! when humanity was passing in torture! That any one should think he could buy his way free of the general destruction! This was hell.’

As Josephine’s horror of money – and its effect on people – grows, so does Ulrika’s greed. Over the following weeks and months, Ulrika ingratiates herself, one by one, with the various members of the household. She installs herself in the house, making herself seem indispensable, all the while taking what she can, striving constantly to discover the true nature of the family’s financial situation. Cunningly and patiently, she wins the confidence of Josephine’s father, who at last admits that his miserly lifestyle conceals a vast fortune – over nine million gulden. This revelation exposes Ulrika’s true nature, and prompts her to redouble her efforts:

‘... at once there broke from her wide-opened eyes a diabolic flame, devastating, yellow, like a jaguar’s eyes... in a low, full voice she said: “Now, Ulrika, gather all your forces together. There is work and reward both for you.” ’

Slyly, she begins to sow discord between the family members; first revealing their father’s secret wealth, then encouraging Christine and the children to make up for lost time by spending as much as they can. Needless to say, the children need no further encouragement. Christine, too, begins to see her husband’s miserliness as an injustice, and soon establishes herself in a palatial new home, where she immediately adopts the role of society lady, inviting the most fashionable and influential figures in Vienna to weekly soirees (along with numerous hangers-on and freeloaders, all hand-picked by Ulrika). Ulrika’s ultimate aim is to divide and conquer the family; to encourage crises in which she can act as mediator and thus earn their (financial) gratitude.

The only people who are not deceived by her plan are Josephine and her father: the former becoming more ‘devout’ in her distaste for wealth, the latter effectively broken and marginalised now that his long-cherished secret has been revealed.

Unable to control the forces she has unleashed, Ulrika’s solution is to separate the family members physically: she marries off the two eldest daughters - Aimee and Esther - to friends of hers; Josephine’s brother, Lothar, is sent abroad after a spree of debauchery (a spree begun by Ulrika, who takes his virginity and thereby initiates him into the delights of amorality); Josephine’s father – persuaded by Ulrika that he is mortally ill – soon succumbs to this imaginary illness and dies, leaving Christine in control of the fortune.

Knowing that Christine will be easy to manipulate, Ulrika must now remove the last remaining obstacle - Josephine. Ulrika’s plan is to marry Josephine to Edward Melander, ‘a born fascinator’, as cynical and self-serving as Ulrika herself. To give himself a respectable public appearance – to disguise his personal corruption – Melander needs an innocent, devout wife. Josephine therefore seems the perfect choice. She, however, takes an immediate, instinctive dislike to Melander and refuses him. Ulrika then works on Christine – poisoning the mother against the daughter. And only then, under the combined pressure of Ulrika and her mother, does Josephine submit. She and Melander marry. Christine realises, too late, what she has done, and immediately becomes ill. As she lies dying, Ulrika – slowly and painstakingly – walks through the house labelling everything she intends to take with her. She leaves the following day, having stripped the house of its most valuable objects. Christine dies, and there the first part of the novel ends.

We expect the second part to follow on almost immediately from the first. However, Wassermann has other ideas. When we learn that the narrative has now jumped forward forty years – to February 1921 – and we discover that for thirty-six of those years Josephine has been trapped in her marriage to Melander, the effect is shocking. It outrages – quite deliberately – our sense of justice.

According to typical narrative formulae, Josephine’s ordeal should have been short-lived. Moreover, Ulrika should have received her comeuppance. Yet neither has happened. Josephine has only been freed by the death of her husband, while Ulrika is still a wealthy woman. Nor does the injustice end there: in the intervening years, Josephine has had a son who, thanks to his father’s baneful influence, has turned out corrupt and ‘evil’, and who has now fled abroad, leaving Josephine to care for a nine-year-old granddaughter, of whose existence, until that moment, she had been unaware. ‘The constant endurance of force and injustice’ which has characterised her life for the past forty years shows no sign of relenting.

Justice, for Wassermann, is an intolerably slow process; something that can take a lifetime, if it happens at all. Forty years can pass with no sign of hope or redemption. Yet faint glimmers are there, he suggests: in the figure of Fanny, Josephine’s granddaughter; a beautiful, precocious child whose ‘cataract’ of blonde hair suggests a different kind of gold – one more valuable than the metal so coveted by Ulrika. Then, in the figure of Ulrika herself – still immensely wealthy, yet now completely withdrawn from society, hoarding her treasure with a miserliness that recalls Josephine’s father at the start of the novel. History slowly comes full circle – the text hints - and with it the elusive spectre of justice.

When Ulrika meets Fanny for the first time her covetousness is once again aroused. She yearns to possess the child, feeling an unwonted need for love. She tempts Fanny with a mechanical doll – one of the many objects that had formerly belonged to Josephine’s father. Fanny is fascinated by the doll, which can walk and talk, and nearly succumbs to the temptation. But the influence of Josephine – this time – proves stronger. Josephine’s love is non-possessive, and therefore genuine; whereas the love professed by Ulrika is in reality another aspect of her greed. Josephine denies Ulrika access to the child, which then prompts Ulrika to suggest a trade: she will give Fanny the doll, in return for Fanny’s companionship.

(The symbolism of the mechanical doll seems plain enough: for Ulrika, Fanny is herself a sort of doll, to be possessed and admired, jealously guarded, hidden from others. Fanny’s humanity is unrecognised.)

Fanny senses the threat behind Ulrika’s apparent affection and recoils. Ulrika then becomes more and more desperate to get what she wants. Her increasing monomania causes her to lose sight of her material concerns. Her immense fortune – entrusted to the management of her son-in-law, a supposed financial genius – is suddenly lost. Her son-in-law, exposed as an embezzler, commits suicide. Yet still Ulrika can think only of pursuing Fanny.

At the novel’s conclusion Ulrika and Josephine, at last face to face, effectively fight for Fanny. Josephine - the figure of renunciation and self-sacrifice – emerges victorious. Our sense of justice is finally appeased... yet not entirely. Wassermann’s happy ending is tinged with ambiguity. The consolation he offers is not an altogether easy one.

After forty years of oppression and injustice, Josephine finally accuses Ulrika. Yet rather than accept that she is to blame, Ulrika seems mystified. She cannot – or will not – see that by forcing Josephine into a loveless marriage she condemned her to a life of unhappiness and degradation. The long-awaited comeuppance is hardly that. Ulrika, faced with what she has done, basically shrugs her shoulders. There is no sense of guilt or repentance. Instead, a fundamental incomprehension remains between the two women. Even when Josephine attempts to explain that ‘all loving and all being loved is grace’, Ulrika dismisses this as ‘one of your wishy-washy pieties.’

Fanny chooses Josephine – as we know she will and must. The novel ends happily in that sense, with non-possessive love vanquishing greed. However, it is through Ulrika’s eyes that we see the novel’s final image –

‘There lay the valley before her with its gradations, its peaceful roads, its houses, its churches with their steeples, all its green and blue and red and grey, its trees and water, and life and death, and all the sadness and joyousness of the darkening world.’

Yet how much of this Ulrika takes in – how much she understands – remains open to question. She stands above the world, looking down, perhaps uncomprehendingly, perhaps scornfully, perhaps – at last – repentantly: the text does not make it clear. Moreover, Ulrika’s financial ruin is not complete – she still has a large house full of valuable objects, worth more than she will ever need. Perhaps it is her world alone that is darkening; or perhaps the wider world is failing with her; perhaps her greed is the norm, whereas Josephine’s renunciation is the exception. The conclusion does not allow us to feel complacent.

By setting the second part of the novel in what was, for him, the present day, Wassermann signals his intent to diagnose the financial malaise of post- World War One Austria (and by extension, his native Germany). Times were hard; resources were scarce; society was in turmoil. Conditions were ripe for the sort of avarice and cunning epitomised by Ulrika. Yet conditions were also ripe for the generosity and humility epitomised by Josephine. The novel is essentially dialectical: a struggle between these two opposing sides; a struggle that continues without a definite resolution.


From Gold, (Grosset & Dunlap, 1924, trans., Louise Collier Willcox)

431 pages