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1Outside the entrance of the Mariabronn cloister, whose rounded arch rested on slim double ns, a chestnut tree stood close to the road. It was a sweet chestnut, with a sturdy trunk and a full round that swayed gently in the wind, brought from Italy many years earlier by a monk who had made a pilgrimage to Rome. In the spring it waited until all the surrounding trees were green, and even the hazel and walnut trees were wearing ruddy foliage, before sprouting its own first leaves; then, during the shortest nights of the year, it drove the delicate white-green rays of its exotis out through tufts of leaves, filling the air with an admonishing and pu fragrance. In October, after the grape and apple harvests, the autumn wind shook the prickly chestnuts out of the trees burnished gold ; the cloister students would scramble and fight for the nuts, and Priory, who came from the south, roasted them in the firepla his room. The beautiful treetop—secret kin to the portals slender sandstone ns and the stone ors of the window vaults and pillars, loved by the Savoyards and Latins—swayed above the cloister entrance, a spicuous outsider in the eyes of the natives.
Geions of cloister boys passed beh the fn tree, carrying their writing tablets, chatting, laughing, ing, and squabbling, barefoot or shod acc to the season, a flower or a nut betweeeeth or a snowball in their fists. There were always newers; and the faces ged every few years, yet most of them resembled one another, if only for their blond and curly hair. Some stayed for life, being novices and monks; they had their hair shorn, donned habit and cture, read books, taught boys, grew old, died. Others after finishing their studies were taken home by their parents to castles, or to merts and artisans houses, and the out into the world and lived by their wits or their crafts. They returo the cloister occasionally as grown men, bringing their little sons to be taught by the priests, stood for a while smiling pensively at the chestnut tree, then vanished once more. The cells and halls of the cloister, betweehick round window vaults and the trim double ns of red stone, were filled with life, with teag, learning, administration, ruling; many kinds of arts and sces—the pious and worldly, the frivolous and somber—were pursued here, and were passed on from one geion to another. Books were written and annotated, systems ied, a scrolls collected, new scrolls illumihe faith of the people fostered, their credulity smiled upon. Erudition and piety, simplicity an<footer>９9liｂ?</footer>d ing, the wisdom of the testaments and the wisdom of the Greeks, white and black magic—a little of each flourished here; there was room enough for everything, room for meditation aance, fariousness and the good life. Oerest would usually outweigh another, predominating in accord with the personality of the incumbent abbot or the tendency of the day. At times the cloisters reputation for exorcism and demoing would attract visitors; at other times the cloister would be known for its fine music, or for a holy monk who had the power to heal and perform miracles, or for the pike soup and stag-liver pies served in the refectory. And among the throng of monks and pupils, whether pious or lukewarm, fasting or fat, who came and lived there and died, there would always be one or another who ecial, whom all loved or all feared, who seemed to be chosen, of whom people spoke long after his poraries had been fotten.
Even now the cloister of Mariabronn had in its midst two persons who were out of the ordinary, one old and one young. Among the many brethren who flocked to the dormitories, chapels, and classrooms were two of whom all were aware, whom all respected: Abbot Daniel and Brother Narcissus. Though the latter had only retly entered on his novitiate, he had, because of his gifts, been appointed a teacher, mainly of Greek, against all tradition. These two, the aging Abbot and the novice, had special standing in the house; they aroused curiosity and were watched, admired, envied, and sometimes slandered.
Most brothers loved the Abbot for his kindness, simplicity, and humility. Only the learned were a trifle desding in their affe for him, because, for all his saintliness, Abbot Daniel would never be a scholar. He had the simplicity of wisdom, but his Latin was modest and he knew no Greek whatsoever.
The few who permitted themselves an occasional smile at their Abbots simplicity were all the more enamored of Narcissus, the handsome prodigy who possessed elegant Greek, impeccable manners, quietly peing thinkers eyes, aiful, sharply outlined lips. The scholars admired him for his extraordinary Greek; almost all the others, for his nobility and refi. Many quite simply loved him, but there were iably those who resented his extreme reserve, self-trol, and exquisite manners.
Abbot and novice, each bore his fate and ruled and suffered in his own way. They felt closer and more drawn to each other than to anyone else in the cloister, yet her found the way to the other or felt at ease ihers presehe Abbot treated the young man with the greatest solicitude, worried about him as though he were a rare, sensitive, perhaps dangerously precocious younger brother. The young man accepted the Abbots every order, sel, and good word with perfect equanimity, never argued or sulked, and if the Abbot was right in finding that Brother Narcissuss only sin ride, Narcissus was a master at cealing it. There was nothing to be said against him; he erfed no one was a match for him. Yet, apart from the learned, he had few friends; his distin surrounded him like a chilling draft.
Once, after fession, the Abbot said to him: "Narcissus, I admit that I am guilty of having judged you harshly. Often I have sidered yant, and perhaps I have done you an injustice. You are very much alone, my young brother, you have admirers, but no friends. I wish I had reason to scold you from time to time, but I have none. I wish you would misbehave occasionally, as young people of ye often do. But you never misbehave. I worry about you a little, Narcissus."
The young novice fixed his dark eyes on the old Abbot.
"I wish above all not to worry you, geher. It may well be that I am arrogant. If so, I beg you to punish me. Sometimes I feel an urge to punish myself. Seo a hermitage, father, or assign me lowly chores."
"You are too young for either, dear brother," said the Abbot. "Besides, you are emily gifted in speed thought. To assign you lowly chores would be wasting these God-given talents. In all probability you will bee a teacher and a scholar. Is that not your own wish?"
"Five me, father, I am not certain what my own wishes are. I shall always take pleasure in study, how could it be otherwise? But I do not believe that my life will be limited to study. A mans wishes may not always determine his destiny, his mission; perhaps there are other, predetermining, factors."
The Abbot listened gravely. Still, a smile played about his old face as he said: "Insofar as I have e to know people, we all have a slight tendency, especially while we are young, to fuse our wishes with predestination. But tell me, since you believe that you have foreknowledge of your destiny, tell me what you believe yourself destined for?"
Narcissus let his dark eyes close until they disappeared in the shadows of his long black lashes. He did not answer.
"Speak, my son," the Abbo<cite></cite>t ordered after much waiting.
In a low voice, his eyes on the ground, Narcissus began: "I believe, geher, that I am destined above all else for cloister life. I believe that I shall bee a monk, a priest, a prior, perhaps an abbot. I do not believe that this is because I wish it, I do not wish for offices. They will be laid upon me."
Both were silent for a long time.
"What gives you this belief?" the old man asked hesitantly. "What talent is there in you, other than learning, that expresses itself in this belief?"
"It is a capacity to sehe characters ainy of people," Narcissus said slowly, "not only my owiny, but that of others as well. It obliges me to serve others by ruling over them. Were I not born for cloister life, I should have to bee a judge or a statesman."
"Perhaps," he Abbot. "Have you tested your capacity tnize peoples characters ainies? Have you examples?"
"I have."
"Are you willing to give me an example?"
"I am."
"Very well. Since I do not wish to pry into the secrets of our brothers without their knowledge, you might perhaps tell me what you think you know about me, your Abbot Daniel."
Narcissus raised his lids and looked the Abbot in the eye.
"Is that an eher?"
"An order."
"I find it difficult to speak, father."
"And I, my young brother, I find it difficult to force you to speak. A I do. Speak."
Narcissus bowed his head and said in a whisper: "I know little of you, geher. I know that you are a servant of God who would rather watch oats and ring the bell in a hermitage and listen to peasants fessions than head a large cloister. I know that you have a special love for the Holy Mother of God and that most of your prayers are addressed to her. Occasionally you pray that Greek and similar subjects that are studied in this cloister do not lead the souls in your care into fusion and danger. Occasionally you pray for tinued patieh Priory. Sometimes you pray fentle end. And I think that your prayer will be heard and that your end will be gentle."
It was very still in the Abbots small office. At last the old man spoke.
"You are a romantid you have visions," said the old gentleman in a friendly voice. "But even pious, friendly visions may trick us; do not rely on them any more than I rely on them.— you see, my romantic brother, what I think about this matter in my heart?"
"Father, I see that you have very friendly thoughts about it. You are thinking the following: This youthful scholar is slightly in danger. He has visions. Perhaps he meditates too much. Perhaps I could impose penan him; it would do him no harm. But the pehat I shall impose on him, I will also impose on myself. That is what you are thinking."
The Abbot rose and smiled. He waved to the novice to take his leave.
"All right," he said. "Do not take your visions altogether too seriously, my yo<details>藏书网</details>ung brod demands much else of us besides visions. Let us assume that you have flattered an old man by promising him an easy death. Let us assume that, for an instant, the old man was glad to hear this promise. That is suffit for now. You will say a rosary tomorrow m, after early mass. You will say it humbly and with devotion, not superficially. And I shall do the same. Go now, Narcissus, there have been words enough."
On another occasion Abbot Daniel had to settle a disagreemeween the you of the teag fathers and Narcissus on the point of the teag method. Narcissus passionately urged the introdu of certain ges and justified them with ving arguments; but out of a kind of jealousy Father Lorenz refused to hear of any ges, and eaew discussion would be followed by days of ill-humored silend sulking, until Narcissus, who was sure he was right, would broach the subjece more. Finally Father Lorenz, mildly offended, said: "Well, Narcissus, let us put ao this quarrel. As you know, the decision is mine and not yours. You are not my colleague, you are my assistant, you must do as I say. But sihis matter seems so important to you and since I am your superior only by rank and not by knowledge or talent, I will not take the decision upon myself. We shall submit the matter to our father the Abbot a him decide."
This they did. Abbot Daniel listened with geience as the two learned men argued about their ceptions of the teag of grammar.
After each had stated his point of view and defe, the old man looked at them with an amused air, shook his gray head softly, and said: "My dear brothers, her of you thinks that I know as much of these matters as you do. I end Narcissus for having a keen enough i in the school to want to improve the teag method. However, if his superior holds a different opinion, Narcissus must be silent and obey, because no improvement of the school would make up for the slightest disturbance of order and obedien this house. I reprove Narcissus for not knowing how to give i<q>藏书网</q>n. And I hope that you two young scholars may never lack superiors who are less intelligent than you; it is the best cure for pride." With this amiable jest he dismissed them. But during the few days he did not fet to keep an eye owo teachers to see if harmony had beeored.
And then it happehat a new face appeared in this cloister which had seen so many faces e and go, a new face that did not pass unremarked and unremembered. An adolest, previously enrolled by his father, arrived one day in spring to study at the cloister school. Father and sohered their horses uhe chestnut tree; the porter came out to meet them.
The boy looked up at the tree still bare with winter. "Ive never seen a tree like that," he said. "What a strange, beautiful tree. I wonder what it is called."
The father, an elderly gentleman with a worried, slightly pinched face, paid no attention to his sons question. But the porter, who liked the boy immediately, told him the trees he young man thanked him in a friendly voice, held out his hand, and said: "I am Goldmund, Ill be going to school here." The porter smiled ahe newers through the portal and up the wide stoeps, and Goldmuered the cloister with fidence, feeling that he had already met two beings in his new enviro with whom he could be friends, the tree and the porter.
Father and son were received first by the priest who headed the school, then, toward evening, by the Abbot himself. Both times the father, who was in the service of the Emperor, introduced his son Goldmund and was io stay for a while as a guest of the cloister. But he accepted only for a night, saying that he had to ride back the day. He offered one of his two horses to the cloister as a gift, and it ted. His versation was courteous and cool; but both abbot and priest looked with pleasure upon the respectfully silent Goldmund. They had taken an immediate liking to the delicate, good-looking boy. Withret, they let the father depart the following day; they were glad to keep the son. Goldmund was taken to see the teachers and given a bed iudents dormitory. Sad-faced and r<cite></cite>espectful, he said goodbye to his father and stood gazing after him until he had disappeared through the narrow arched gate of the cloisters outer wall, between the granary and the mill. A tear hung on his long blond lashes when he finally turned away; but the porter was there to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder.
"Young master," he said solingly, "dont be sad. Most everyone is a little homesick at first, for his father, his mother, his brothers and sisters. But youll see: life isnt bad here either, not bad at all."
"Thank you, brother porter," said the boy. "I have no brothers or sisters, and no mother; my father is all I have."
"Youll find sates here to make up for him, and books and musid new games you never played before, all kinds of things, youll see. And if you feel the need for a friend, e to me."
Goldmund smiled at him. "Thank you very much. Would you do me a favor then, please, and show me where I find the horse my father left behind. Id like to say hello to him and see if he is happy here."
The porter led him to the stable beside the granary. The lukewarm twilight smelled strongly of horses, manure, and oats, and in one of the stalls Goldmund found the little brown horse that had carried him to the cloister. He ed both arms around the neck of the animal, which was stretg a looward him iing; he put his cheek to the wide dappled forehead, caressed it tenderly, and whispered into an ear: "Hello there, Bless, my dear, my good horse, are you happy? Do you love me still? Have you been fed? Do you still remember our home? Bless, my little horse, my friend, Im so glad that youve stayed, Ill e to see you often." From the cuff of his sleeve he pulled a slice of bread that he had hidden there, broke it into small pieces, a to the horse. Then he said goodbye and followed the porter across a courtyard as wide as the marketplace of a large city, shaded in places by lirees. At the inner gate he thahe porter and shook his hand. Then he realized that he no longer khe way to the classroom he had been showerday, laughed a little, blushed, and asked the porter to take him there, which the porter was glad to do. He ehe classroom, where a dozen boys and young men were sitting on benches, and the assistant teacher, Brother Narcissus, turned his head.
"I am Goldmund," he said, "the new scholar."
Narcissus o him, and briefly, without a smile, indicated a seat on the rear bend went on with the lesson.
Goldmund sat down. He was surprised to find the teacher so young, only a few years older than himself, surprised and deeply delighted to find this young teacher so handsome and refined, so ster so charming and likable. The porter had been o him; the Abbot had given him a friendly reception. Not far away iable was his Bless, a little bit of home, and now there was this surprisingly young teacher, grave as a scholar, polished as a prince, with his cool, trolled, matter-of-fact yet pelling voice. He listened gratefully, although without at first uanding the subject of the lesson. He began to feel happy. He was among good, likable men and was ready to seek their friendship. In his bed that m he had awakened with a feeling of anguish, still tired from the long journey. And saying goodbye to his father had made him cry a little. But now all was well, he was happy. Again and again, for long moments, he looked at the teacher, took pleasure iraight, slender figure; the cool, sparkling eyes; the firm lips that were f clear, precise syllables; the inspired, untiring voice.
But when the lesson was over and the pupils stood up noisily, Goldmund started and realized a little shamefacedly that he had been asleep for quite some time. And he was not the only oo realize it; the boys on the bench beside him had noticed too and passed it on in whispers. As soon as the young teacher had walked out of the room, they nudged Goldmund and pulled at him from all sides.
"Had a niap?" asked one of them with a grin.
"A fine scholar!" jeered another. "Hes going to be a true pillar of the church, falling asleep during his first lesson!"
"Lets put the baby to bed," proposed another. And they seized his arms ao carry him off with mog laughter.
Goldmund was startled; it made him angry. He struck out at them, tried to free himself, got punched several times, and was finally dropped to the ground, one of the boys still holding him by a foot. He kicked himself free, threw himself upon the boy who happeo be standing , and was soon involved in a violent fistfight. His adversary was strong; everyoched the fight eagerly. When Goldmund stood his ground and landed a few well-aimed blows, he made a few friends among his classmates before he knew a single one by name. But suddenly they all scattered and were hardly gone when Father Martin, the head of the school, entered and faced the boy, who was still standing on the same spot, alone. Astonished, he looked at the boy, whose embarrassed blue eyes were looking out of a flushed, somewhat scarred face.
"What has happeo you?" Father Martin asked "Arent you Goldmund? Have they been rough with you, the sdrels?"
"Oh no," said the boy. "I got even with him."
"With whom?"
"I dont know. I dont know anyone by . One of them had a fight with me."
"He did? Did he start it?"
"Im not sure. No, I guess I started it myself. They were teasing me and I got angry."
"An auspicious beginning, my boy. Now you listen to me. If I catch you once more fighting in the classroom, youll be punished. Now off with you to supper!"
With a smile he watched the embarrassed Goldmund run off, trying to smooth his tousled blond hair with his fingers as he ran.
Goldmund thought that his first a the cloister had been ill-mannered and foolish; rather dejectedly, he looked for his classmates at the supper table. But they weled him with friendship and respect. He made an honorable peace with the enemy and from that moment on he felt that he beloo the school.
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