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It was a curious friendship that had beguween Narcissus and Goldmund, ohat pleased only a few; at times it seemed to displease evewo friends.At first it was Narcissus, the thinker, who had the harder time of it. All was mind to him, even love; he was uo give in to an attra without thinking about it first. He was the guiding spirit of this friendship. For a long time he alone sciously reized its destiny, its depth, its significe. For a long time he remained lonely, surrounded by love, knowing that his friend would fully belong to him only after he had been able to lead him toward reition. With glowing fervor, playful and irresponsible, Goldmund abandoned himself to this new life; while Narcissus, aware and responsible, accepted the demands of fate.
Foldmund it was a release at first, a valesce. His youthful need for love had been powerfully aroused, and at the same time hopelessly intimidated, by the looks and the kiss of a pretty girl. Deep inside himself he felt the life he had dreamed of up to now, all his beliefs, all the things for which he felt himself destined, his entire vocation, threate the root by the kiss through the window, by the expression of those dark eyes. His father had decided that he was to lead the life of a monk; and with all his will he had accepted this decision. The fire of his first youthful fervor buroward a pious, ascetic hero-image, and at the first furtive enter, at lifes first appeal to his senses, at the first being of femininity he had felt that there was an enemy, a demon, a danger: woman. And now fate was him salvation, now in his most desperate his friendship came toward him and offered his longing a new alter for reverence. Here he ermitted to love, to abandon himself without sinning, to give his heart to an admired older friend, more intelligent thao spiritualize the dangerous flames of the seo transform them into nobler fires of sacrifice.
But during the first spring of this friendship he ran up against unfamiliar obstacles, ued, inprehensible ess, frightening demands. It never occurred to him to see himself as the tradi, the exact opposite of his friend. He thought that only love, only sincere devotion was o fuse two into oo wipe out differences and bridge trasts. But how harsh and positive this Narcissus was, how merciless and precise! I abando, grateful wandering together in the land of friendship seemed unknown and undesirable to him. He did not seem to uand, to tolerate dreamy strolls on paths that led in no particular dire. When Goldmund had seemed ill, he had shown , and loyally he helped and advised him in all matters of school and learning; he explained difficult passages in books, opened new horizons in the realm of grammar, logid theology. Yet he never seemed genuinely satisfied with his friend, or to approve of him; quite often he seemed to be smiling, seemed not to take him seriously. Goldmuhat this was not mere pedantry, not just the dession of someone older and more intelligent, but that there was something else behind it, something deeper and important. But he was uhis deeper something, and this friendship often made him feel sad and lost.
Actually Narcissus reized his friends qualities only too well; he was not blind to the buddiy, the vital force of nature in him, his fl opulence. He was bent on feeding Greek to a fervent young soul, on repaying an i love with logi the trary, he loved the blond adolest altogether too much, and this was dangerous for him, because loving, to him, was not a natural dition but a miracle. To fall in love was not permitted him; he could not be tent with the joyful plation of those eyes, with the nearness of this golden light. Not even for a sed could he let this love dwell upon the senses. Because where Goldmu himself destined for monkish asceticism and a lifelong striving for saintliness, Narcissus was truly destined for that life. To him, loving ermitted only in its highest form. Narcissus did not believe in Goldmunds calling to be an ascetic. He knew how to read people more clearly than most, and here love increased his clarity. He reized Goldmunds nature and uood it deeply, in spite of the trasts, because it was the other, the lost half of his own. He saw that this nature was armored by a hard shell, by fantasies, faults of upbringing and paternal words; he had long sehe whole, unplicated secret of this young life. He was fully aware of what he must do: reveal this secret to its bearer, free him from the shell, give him back his true nature. It would be hard, and the hardest was that perhaps it would make him lose his friend.
With infinite caution he drew closer to his goal. Months went by before a serious approach became possible betweewo, a deep-reag versation. In spite of their friendship, they were so far apart, the b was so taut between them: a seeing man and a blind man, they walked side by side; the blind mans unawareness of his own blindness was a solation only to himself. Narcissus made the first breakthrough wheried to discover what the experience had been that had driven the boy toward him at a weak moment. It turned out to be less difficult than he had expected. Goldmund had lohe o fess the experience of that night, but there was no one, outside the Abbot, whom he trusted enough, and the Abbot was not his fessor. And when Narcissus reminded his friend, at a moment he judged favorable, of the very beginnings of their bond aly hi the secret, Goldmund immediately said, "If only you were an ordained priest and able to fess me; I would have liked to free myself of that matter in fession and I would gladly have done penance for it. But I couldnt tell my fessor."
Carefully, shrewdly, Narcissus dug deeper; the vein had been found. "You remember the m when you seemed to be ill," he ventured. "You t have fotten, sihat was when we became friends. I think of it often. Perhaps you didnt notice, but I was rather helpless that m."
"You helpless!" cried his friend, incredulous. "But I was the helpless o was I who stood there, swallowing, uo utter a word, who finally began to weep like a child! Ugh, to this day I feel ashamed of that moment; I thought I could never face you again. You had seen me so disgracefully weak."
Narcissus groped ahead.
"I uand," he said. "It must have been unpleasant for you. Such a firm, ceous boy breaking into tears in front of a stranger, and a teacher at that, it was quite out of character. Well, that m I merely thought you were ill. Ihroes of a fever, even a man like Aristotle may behave strangely. But you were not ill. You had no fever! And that is why you feel ashamed. No one feels ashamed of succumbing to a fever, does he? You felt ashamed because you had succumbed to something else, to something that overpowered you? Did something special happen?"
Goldmuated a sed, then he said slowly: "Yes, something special did happes pretend youre my fessor; sooner or later this thing must be told."
With bowed head, he told his friend the story of that night.
Smilingly, Narcissus replied: "Well yes, going to the village is of course forbidden. But one do all kinds of forbidden things and laugh them away, or one fess them and that is that; they need no longer one. Why shouldnt you it these little foolishnesses like other students? W.? is so terrible about that?"
Angrily, without holding back, Goldmund burst out: "You do talk like a saster! You know very well what it is all about! Of course I dont see a great sin in breaking the house rules for oo play a student prank, although its ly part of the preparatory training for cloister life."
"Just a moment, my friend," Narcissus called sharply. "Dont you know that many pious fathers went through precisely that kind of preparatory tra<tt></tt>ining? Dont you know that a wastrels life may be one of the shortest roads to sainthood?"
"Oh, doure!" protested Goldmund. "It wasnt a trifling disobediehat weighed on my sce. It was something else. It was that girl. I t describe the sensation to you. It was a feeling that if I gave in to the e, if I merely reached out to touch the girl, Id never be able to turn back, that sin would swallow me like the maw of hell and not give me up ever. That it would be the end of every beautiful dream, of all virtue, of all love of God and good."
Narcissus nodded, deep in thought.
"Love of God," he said slowly, searg for words, "is not always the same as love of good, I wish it were that simple. We know what is good, it is written in the as. But God is not tained only in the as, you know; they are only an infinitesimal part of Him. A man may abide by the as and be far from God."
"But dont you uand?" Goldmund plained.
"Certainly I uand. You feel that woman, sex, is the essence of everything you call world or sin. You think yourself incapable of all other sins; or, if you did it them, you think they would not crush you, that you could fess them and be whole again."
"Yes, that is exactly how I feel."
"You see, I do uand. Youre not so terribly wrong after all; the story of Eve and the serpent is certainly no idle tale. A you are nht about this, my dear friend. You would be right if you were the Abbot Daniel, or your bapt<s>藏书网</s>ismal saint, the holy Chrysostom, or a bishop, or a priest, even a simple monk. But you arent. You are a student, and although you wish to remain in the cloister for life, or your father wishes it for you, still you have not taken any vows; you have not been secrated. If some pretty girl were to tempt you one of these days and you were to give in to the temptation, you would not have broken any vows."
"No written vows!" Goldmund cried heatedly. "But an unwrittehe most sacred, something I carry inside me. t you see that this may apply to many others but not to me? You have not been secrated either, nor have you taken any vows yet, but you would never permit yourself to touch a woman! Or am I mistaken? Isnt that how you are? Or arent you the man I thought you were? Didnt you long ago, in your heart, make the vow that has not yet been made with words before superiors, and dont you feel bound by it forever? Arent you exactly like me?"
"No, Goldmund, I am not like you, not in the way you think, although I, too, am keeping an unspoken vow—in that respect you are right—but I am in no way like you. Some day you will think of what I am going to say to you now: our friendship has no other purpose, no other reason, than to show you how utterly unlike me you are."
Goldmund was stunned; Narcissuss expression and toted no tradi. He was silent. Why had Narcissus said these words? Why should Narcissuss unspoken vow be more sacred than his own? Didake him at all seriously? Did he see nothing but a child in him? The fusions and griefs of this strange friendship were beginning all ain.
Narcissus no longer had any doubt about the nature of Goldmunds secret. It was Eve who stood behind it, the inal mother. But how was it possible that the awakening of sex met with such bitter antagonism in such a beautiful, healthy, fl adolest? There must be a secret enemy who had mao split this magnifit human being within himself and turn him against his natural urges. This demon had to be discovered, had to be jured up and made visible; only then could it be defeated.
Meanwhile Goldmund had been more and more ed by his classmates, or rather they felt ed by him, betrayed. His friendship with Narcissus pleased no ohe slanderers, those who had themselves been in love with one or the other, said the whole thing was against nature. Even those who were certain that no vice could be suspected here shook their heads. No one wao see these two friends together. It seemed that they were setting themselves apart from the others by this friendship, arrogantly, as though they were aristocrats for whom the others were not good enough; that was unbrotherly, not in keeping with the cloister spirit, not Christian.
Many things about the two—rumors, accusations, slander—reached Abbot Daniel. He had seen many friendships between young men in over forty years of cloister life; they beloo cloister life and were a pleasant tradition, sometimes amusing, sometimes a danger. He waited, watched, did not intervene. Such a violent, exclusive friendship was rare, probably not undangerous, but since he did not for an instant doubt its purity, he decided to let it take its course. If it had not been for Narcissuss exceptional position among students and teachers, the Abbot would not have hesitated to place a few separating rules betweewo. It was not good foldmund to have withdrawn from his classmates and to be in close association only with someone older, with a teacher. But was it permissible to disturb the extraordinary, highly gifted Narcissus, whom all teachers sidered their equal if not their superior, in his privileged career and relieve him of his teag position? Had Narcissus not proved himself as a teacher, had this friendship led to partiality and fulness, the Abbot would have demoted him immediately. But there was nothing to be held against him, only rumors and others jealous suspis. Moreover, the Abbot knew of Narcissuss special gifts, of his curiously peing, perhaps slightly presumptuous, insight into people. He did not overestimate these gifts, he would have preferred Narcissus to have ifts; but he did not doubt that Narcissus had noticed something unusual iudent Goldmund, that he knew him far better than he, or anyone else in the cloister. He himself, the Abbot, had not noticed anything unusual about Goldmund, apart from his winning nature, and perhaps a certain eagerness, a somerecocious zeal that made him duct himself, still a student and a boarder, as though he beloo the cloister and was one of the brothers. He saw no reason to fear that Narcissus would ence this immature though toug zeal or that he would spur it on. He feared rather, foldmund, that his friend might i him with a certain spiritual pride and erudite arrogance; but this danger seemed unlikely for this particular pupil; it was all right to wait and see. Whehought how much simpler it was for a superior, how much more peaceful and fortable, to rule over average rather than strong or exceptional characters, he had to sigh and smile. No, he was not going to let himself be ied by suspis; he did not wish to be ungrateful for the two exceptional human beirusted to his care.
Narcissus pondered a great deal about his friend. His special gift of spotting aionally reizing the nature ainy of others had long siold him about Goldmund. All that was alive and radiant in this young man spoke only too clearly: he bore all the marks of a strong human being, richly endowed sensually and spiritually, perhaps an artist, but at any rate a person with a great potential for love, whose fulfillment and happiness sisted of being easily inflamed and able to give himself. Then why was this being with such rid perceptive senses so set on leading the ascetic life of the mind? Narcissus thought at great length about it. He khat Goldmunds father favored his soermination. Could the father have inspired it? ell had he cast over his son to make him believe that this was his destiny, his duty? What sort of a person was this father? Narcissus had often iionally touched on the subject of this father—and Goldmund had frequently spoken of him—a he could not imagine him, could not see him. Was it not strange and suspicious? Whenever Goldmund told a story about a trout he had caught as a boy, when he described a butterfly, imitated the call of a bird, spoke of a friend, a dog, a beggar, he created a vivid picture. Whenever he spoke of his father, one saw nothing. No, if his father had really been su important, powerful, dominant figure in Goldmunds life, he would have been able to describe him differently, to jure up vivid images of him. Narcissus did not think highly of this father, he did not like him; sometimes he wondered if he were really Goldmunds father. But what gave him such power? How had he succeeded in filling Goldmunds soul with dreams so alien to his soul?
Goldmund also brooded a great deal. He did feel warmly loved by his friend, a he often had the unpleasaion of not being taken seriously, of being treated a little like a child. And what did it mean when his friend insinuated, again and again, that he was not like him?
Yet thinking did not fill all of Goldmunds days. He was not able to think for too long at a time. There were other things to be done in the course of a day. He ofteo see the friar porter, with whom he was on excellent terms. Hed beg and coax for an opportunity to ride the horse Bless for an hour or two, and he was very popular with the few nearby cloister tenants, especially with the miller. Hed often stalk otters with the millers man, or theyd bake pancakes with the finely ground prelates flour, whiund could tell from all other kinds of flour, eyes closed, just by the smell of it. Although he spent time with Narcissus, there still remained a number of hours in which he pursued his old habits and pleasures. And usually the service was also a joy to him. He loved to sing iudent choir; he loved to say a rosary in front of a favorite altar, to listen to the solemnly beautiful Latin of the mass, to see the gold of the receptacles and ors glitter through clouds of inse, and the quiet venerable saints figures standing on ns, the evas with the beasts, St. Jacob wi<tt></tt>th his hat and pilgrims satchel.
He felt drawn toward these wood and stone figures; he liked to think that they stood i relationship to him, perhaps like immortal, omnist godfathers who protected and guided his life. He felt the same secret bond and love for the ns and capitals of the windows and doors, for the altar ors, for the beautifully profiled staves and wreaths, for the flowers and thickets of sprouting leaves that burst from the stone of the ns and unfolded so eloquently and intensely. It seemed a valuable, intimate secret to him that, outside of nature with its plants and creatures, there existed a sed, silent, man-made nature: these mes, and plants of stone and wood. He spent many of his free hours copying these figures, animal heads and leaf clusters; sometimes he also tried to draw real flowers, horses, human faces.
And he was very fond of the hymns, especially of those in honor of Mary. He loved the firm severe pace of these songs, their stantly recurring rhythms and praises. He could follow their reverent meaning adly, or he could fet their meaning and bee engrossed in the solemn ce of the verses a himself be filled by them, by the deep, drawn-out he full sound of the vowels, the pious refrains. Deep down in his heart he had no love for learning, grammar, and logic, although they, too, had their beauty. His real love was for the image-and-sound world of liturgy.
And every so often, for brief moments, hed break the estrahat had set iween him and his classmates. It annoyed and bored him in the long run to find himself surrounded by reje and ess. Every so often hed make a grumpy benpanion laugh or start a taciturn bed neighbor chatting; hed work at it for an hour, ingratiating himself and winning back a couple of friends for a while. Twice these approaches brought him, much against his iion, an invitation to "go to the village." Then hed bee frightened and quickly draw bao, he was not going to the village again, and he maet the girl with the braids, never—or almost o think of her any more.
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