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Narcissuss long siege had not succeeded in bringing Goldmunds secret out into the open. For a long time he had apparently labored in vain to awaken him, to teach him the language in which the secret could be told.Goldmunds description of his home and childhood gave no clear picture. There was a shadowlife, faceless father whom he veed, and then there was the legend of a mother who had vanished, or perished, long ago, who was nothing but a pallid name. Narcissus, the experienced reader of souls, had gradually e that Goldmund was one of those people part of whose lives have been lost; pressure of circumstances or some kind of magic power has obliterated a portion of their past. He realized that nothing would be gained by mere questioning and teag, that he had overestimated the power of logid spoken many useless words.
But the love that bound him to his friend and their habit of spending much time together had not been fruitless. In spite of the vast differences of their characters, each had learned much from the other. Beside the language of reason, a language of the soul had gradually e into beiween them; it was as if, brang off the main street, there are many small, almost secret lanes. Gradually the imaginative power of Goldmunds soul had tracked such paths into Narcissuss thoughts and expressions, making him uand—and sympathize with—many of Goldmunds perceptions and feelings, without need for words. New links from soul to soul developed in the warm glow of love; words came later. That is how, one holiday, in the library, there occurred a versatioween the friends that her had expected—a versation that touched at the core and purpose of their friendship and cast new, far-reag lights.
They had been talking about astrology, a forbidden sce that was not pursued in the cloister. Narcissus had said that astrology was an attempt te and order the many different types of human beings acc to their natures ainies. At this point Goldmund had objected: "Youre forever talking of differences—Ive finally reized a pet theory of yours. When you speak of the great differehat is supposed to exist between you and me, for insta seems to me that this difference is nothing but your straermination to establish differences."
Narcissus: "Yes. Youve hit the nail on the head. Thats it: to you, differences are quite unimportant; to me, they are what matters most. I am a scholar by nature; sce is my vocation. And sce is, to quote your words, nothing but the determination to establish differences. Its essence couldnt be defined more accurately. For us, the men of sothing is as important as the establishment of differences; sce is the art of differentiation. Disc in every man that which distinguishes him from others is to know him."
Goldmund: "If you like. One man wears wooden shoes and is a peasant; another wears a and is a king. Those are differences, I grant you. But children see them, too, without any sce."
Narcissus: "But when peasant and king are dressed alike, the child o loell one from the other."
Goldmund: "her sce."
Narcissus: "Perhaps it . Not that sce is more intelligent than the child, but it has more patie remembers more than just the most obvious characteristics."
Goldmund: "So does any intelligent child. He will reize the king by the look in his eyes, or by his bearing. To put it plainly: you learned men are arrogant, you always think everybody else stupid. One be extremely intelligent without learning."
Narcissus: "I am glad that youre beginning to realize that. Youll soon realize, too, that I dont mean intelligence when I speak of the differeween us. I do not say, you are more intelligent, or less intelligent; better or worse. I merely say, you are different."
Goldmund: "Thats easy enough to uand. But you dont speak only of our differen character; you often speak also of the differences in fate, iiny. Why, for instance, should your destiny be different from mine? We are both Christians, we are both resolved to lead the life of the cloister, we are both children of ood Father in heaven. oal is the same: eternal bliss. Our destiny is the same: the return to God."
Narcissus: "Very good. True, in the view of dogma, one man is exactly like another, but not in life. Take Our Saviours favorite disciple, John, on whose breast he rested his head, and that other disciple who betrayed him—you hardly say that they had the same destiny."
Goldmund: "Narcissus, you are a sophist. Well never e together on that kind of road."
Narcissus: "No road will bring us together."
Goldmund: "Dont speak like that."
Narcissus: "Im serious. We are not meant to e together, not any more than sun and moon were meant to e together, or sea and land. We are sun and moon, dear friend; we are sea and land. It is not our purpose to bee each other; it is tnize each other, to learn to see the other and honor him for what he is: each the others opposite and plement."
Goldmund erplexed. He bowed his head, and his face was sad.
Finally he said: "Is that why you so often dont take my thoughts seriously?"
Narcissus hesitated before he answered. His voice was clear and hard when he said: "Yes, that is why. I take only you seriously, dear Goldmund; youll have to get used to that. Believe me, there isnt an intonation in your voiot a gesture, not a smile that I dont take seriously. But your thoughts I take less seriously. I take seriously all that I find essential and necessary in you. Why do you articular attention paid to your thoughts, when you have so many ifts?"
Goldmund smiled bitterly: "Youve always sidered me a child; Ive said it before."
Narcissus remained firm: "Part of your thought I sider a childs thought. Remember what we said earlier: an intelligent child need not be less intelligent than a learned scholar. But when the child wants to assert its opinion in matters of learning, then the scholar doesnt take it seriously."
Goldmund said with violence: "You smile at me even when we dont discuss matters of learning! For instance, you always act as though all my piety, my efforts to advance my studies, my desire to bee a monk were so many childish fantasies."
Narcissus looked at him gravely: "I take you seriously when yoldmund. But youre not always Goldmund. I wish nothing more than to see you bee Goldmund through and through. You are not a scholar, you are not a monk—scholars and monks have a coarser grain. You think youre not learned ical or pious enough for me. On the trary, you are not enough yourself."
Perplexed and even hurt, Goldmund had withdrawn after this versation. A a few days later he himself wished to hear more. And this time Narcissus was able to give Goldmund a picture of their different natures that he found more acceptable.
Narcissus had talked himself into a fever; he felt that Goldmund ting his words more openly and willingly, that he had power over him. His success made him give in to the temptation to say more than he had intended; he let himself be carried away by his own words.
"Look," he said, "I am superior to you only in one point: Im awake, whereas you are only half awake, or pletely asleep sometimes. I call a man awake who knows in his scious reason his innermost unreasonable force, drives, and weaknesses and knows how to deal with them. For you to learn that about yourself is the potential reason for your havi me. In your case, mind and nature, sciousness and dream world lie very far apart. Youve fotten your childhood; it cries for you from the depths of your soul. It will make you suffer until you heed it.
"But enough of that! Being awake, as Ive already said, makes me strohan you. This is the one point in which I am superior bbr></abbr>to you and that is why I be useful to you. In every other respect you are superior to me, my dear Goldmund—or rather, you will be, as soon as youve found yourself."
Goldmund had listened with astonishment, but at the words "youve fotten your childhood" he flinched as though pierced by an arrow. Narcissus didnt notice; he ofte his eyes closed for long moments while he spoke, or hed stare straight ahead, as though this helped him to find his words. He did not see Goldmunds face twitch suddenly.
"I … superior to you!" stammered Goldmund, feeling as though his whole body had been lamed.
"Why, yes," Narcissus tinued. "Natures of your kind, with strong, delicate sehe soul-oriehe dreamers, poets, lovers are almost always superior to us creatures of the mind. You take your being from your mothers. You live fully; you were endowed with the strength of love, the ability to feel. Whereas we creatures of reason, we dont live fully; we live in an arid land, even though we ofteo guide and rule you. Yours is the plenitude of life, the sap of the fruit, the garden of passion, the beautiful landscape of art. Your home is the earth; ours is the world of ideas. You are in danger of drowning in the world of the senses; ours is the danger of suffog in an airless void. You are an artist; I am a thinker. You sleep at the mothers breast; I wake in the desert. For me the sun shines; for you the moon and the stars. Your dreams are of girls; mine of boys …"
Goldmund listened, wide-eyed. Narcissus spoke with a kind of rhetorical self-intoxication. Several words struund like swords. Toward the end he grew pale and closed his eyes, and when Narcissus became aware of it and asked with sudden fear what was wrong, the deathly pale boy said: "Once I broke down in front of you and burst into tears—you remember. That must not happen again. Id never five myself—or you! Please go away at ond let me be alone. Youve said terrible words to me."
Narcissus was overe. His words had carried him away; he had felt that he eakier than usual. Now he saw with sternation that some of his words had deeply affected his friend and somehow pierced him to the quick. He found it hard to leave him at that moment aated a sed or two, but Goldmunds frow him no choice. fused, he ran off to allow his friend the solitude he needed.
This time the extreme tension in Goldmunds soul did not dissolve itself in tears. He was still, feeling deeply, desperately wounded, as though his friend had plunged a ko his breast. He breathed heavily, with mortally tracted heart, a ale face, limp hands. This was the old pain, only siderably sharper, the same inner choking, the feeling that something frightful had to be looked in the eye, something unbearable. But this time there was no relief of tears to overe the pain. Holy Mother of God, what then could this be? Had something happened? Had he been murdered? Had he killed someone? What had been said that was shtful?
He panted, pushing his breath away from him. Like a person who has been poisoned, he was bursting with the feeling that he had to free himself of something deadly, deep inside him. With the movements of a swimmer he rushed from his room, fled unsciously to the quietest, lo parts of the cloister, through passages, down stairways and out into the open. He had wandered into the innerme of the cloister, into the court of the cross. The sky stretched clear and sunny over the few bright flower beds; the st of roses drifted through the cool stony air i hesitant threads.
Without knowing it, Narcissus had aplished his long-desired aim: he had he demon by which his friend ossessed; he had called it out into the open. One of his many words had touched the secret in Goldmunds heart, which had reared up in furious pain. For a long time Narcissus wahrough the cloister, looking for his friend, but he could not find him.
Goldmund was standing under one of the massive stone arches that led from the passageway out into the little cloister garden; on ean three animal heads, the stone-carved heads of dogs and wolves, glared down at him. Pain was raging inside him, pushing, finding no way toward the light, toward reasohly fear clutched at his throat, knotted his stomach. Meically he looked up, saw the animal heads on the capital of one of the ns, and began to feel that those three monstrous heads were squatting, glaring, barking inside him.
"Im going to die any moment," he felt with terror. "Ill lose my mind and those animal snouts will devour me."
His body twitched; he sank down at the foot of the n. The pain was too great; he had reached the limit. He fainted; he drowned in longed-for oblivion.
It had been a rather unsatisfactory day for Abbot Dawo of the older monks had e to him, foaming with excitement, full of accusations, bringing up petty old jealousies, squabbling furiously. He had listeo them altogether too long, had unsuccessfully admon<q></q>ished them, and dismissed them severely with rather heavy penances. With a feeling of futility in his heart, he had withdrawn for prayer in the lower chapel, prayed, and stood up again, unrefreshed. Now he stepped out into the court a moment for some air, attracted by the smell of roses. There he found the pupil Goldmund lying in a faint oones. He looked at him with sadness, frightened by the pallor aeness of the usually winsome face. It had not been a good day, and now this to top it all! He tried to lift the young man, but was not up to the effort. With a deep sigh the old man walked away to call two younger brothers toldmund upstairs and to send Father Ao him, the cloister physi. He also sent for Brother Narcissus, who soon appeared before him.
"Have you heard?" he asked.
"About Goldmund? Yes, geher, I just heard that he has been taken ill or has had an act and has been carried in."
"Yes, I found him lying in the inner court, where actually he had no busio be. It was not an act that he fainted. I dont like this. It would seem to me that you are somehow ected with it, or at least know of it, since you are so intimate. That is why I have called you. Speak."
With his usual trol of bearing and speearcissus gave a brief at of his versation with Goldmund and of its surprisingly violent effe him. The Abbot shook his head, not without ill humor.
"Those are strange versations," he said, f himself to remain calm. "What you have just described to me is a versation that might be called interfereh another soul, what I might call a fessors versation. But youre not Goldmunds fessor. You are no ones fessor; you have not been ordained. How is it that you discussed matters with a pupil, ione of an adviser, that no o his fessor? As you see, the sequences have been harmful."
"The sequences," Narcissus said in a mild but firm voice, "are not yet known to us, geher. I was somewhat frightened by the violence of his rea, but I have no doubt that the sequences of our versation will be good foldmund."
"We shall see. I am not speaking of the sequenow, I am speaking of your a. rompted you to have such versations with Goldmund?"
"As you know, he is my friend. I have a special fondness for him and I believe that I uand him particularly well. You say that I acted toward him like a fessor. In no way have I assumed any religious authority; I merely thought that I knew him a little better than he knows himself."
The Abbot shrugged.
"I know, that is your métier. Let us hope that you did not cause any harm with it. But is Goldmund ill? I mean, is anything wrong with him? Does he feel weak? Has he been sleeping poorly? Does he eat badly? Has he some kind of pain?"
"No, until today hes beehy. In his body, that is."
"And otherwise?"
"His soul is ailing. As you know, he is at an age when struggles with sex begin."
"I know. He is seventeen?"
"He is eighteen."
"Eighteen. Well, yes, that is late enough. But these struggles are natural; everybody goes through them. That is no reason to say that he is ailing in his soul."
"No, geher. That is not the only reason. But Goldmunds soul has been ailing for a long time; that is why these struggles hold more danger for him than for others. I believe that he suffers because he has fotten a part of his past."
"Ah? And art is that?"
"His mother, and everything ected with her. I dont know anything about her, either. I merely know that there must lie the source of his illness. Because Goldmund knows nothing of his mother apparently, except that he lost her at an early age. I have the impression that he seems ashamed of her. A must be from her that he ied most of his gifts, because his description of his father does not make him seem a man who would have such a wialented, inal son. Nothing of this has been told me; I deduced it from signs."
At first the Abbot had smiled slightly at this precocious, arrogant-sounding speech; the whole matter was a troublesome chore to him. Now he began to think. He remembered Goldmunds father as a somewhat brittle, distrustful man; now, as he searched his memory, he suddenly remembered a few words the father had, at that time, uttered about Goldmunds mother. He had said that she had brought shame upon him and run away, and that he had tried to suppress the mothers memory in his young son, as well as any vices he might have ied from her. And that he had most probably succeeded, because the boy was willing to offer his life up to God, in ato for his mothers sins.
Never had Narcissus pleased the Abbot less than today. A—how well this thinker had guessed; how well he really did seem to know Goldmund.
He asked a final question about the days occurrences, and Narcissus said: "I had not inteo upset Goldmund so violently. I reminded him that he does not know himself, that he had fotten his childhood and his mother. Something I said must have struck him arated the darkness I have been fighting so long. He seemed beside himself; he looked at me as though he no longer knew himself or me. I have often told him that he was asleep, that he was not really awake. Now he has been awakened, I have no doubt about that."
He was dismissed, without a scolding but with an admonition not to visit the sick boy for the time being.
Meanwhile Father Anselm had ordered the boy put to bed and was sitting beside him. He had not deemed it advisable to shock him bato sciousness by violent means. The boy looked altogether too sick. Out of his kind, wrinkled face, the old man looked fondly upon the adolest. Meanwhile he checked his pulse abeat. The boy must have eaten something impossible, a bunch of sorrel, or something equally silly; that kind of thing happened sometimes. The boys mouth was closed, so he couldnt check his tongue. He was fond of Goldmund but had little use for his friend, that precocious, overly young teacher. Now it had e to this. Brother Narcissus surely had something to do with this stupid mishap. Why had this charming, clear-eyed youhis dear child of nature, picked the arrogant scholar, the vain grammarian, who valued his Greek more highly than all living creatures of this world!
When the door opened much later, and the Abbot came in, Father Anselm was still sitting beside the bed, staring into the boys face. What a dear, trusting young face this was, and all one could do was to sit beside it, wishing, but probably uo help. It might all be due to a colic, of course; he would prescribe hot wine, perhaps some rhubarb. But the longer he looked into the greenish-pale, distorted face, the more his suspis leaoward another cause, a much more serious one. Father Anselm was experienced. More than once, in the course of his long life, he had seen men who were possessed. He hesitated to formulate this suspi even to himself. He would wait and observe. But if this poor boy had really been hexed, he thought grimly, we probably wont have to look far for the culprit, and he shall not have an easy time of it.
The Abbot stepped up to the bed, bent over the sick boy, aly drew bae of the eyelids.
" he be roused?" he asked.
"Id rather wait a bit longer. His heart is sound. We must not let anyone in to see him."
"Is he in danger?"
"I dont think so. There arent any wounds, no trace of a blow or fall. He is unscious because of a colic, perhaps. Extreme pain cause loss of sciousness. If he had been poisoned, hed be running a fever. No, hell e to and go on living."
"Do you think it could be his soul?"
"I wouldnt rule that out. Do we know anything? Has he had a shock perhaps? News of someones death? A violent dispute, an insult? That would certainly explain it."
"We know of nothing. Make sure that no one is allowed to see him. Please stay with him until he es to. If anything should g, call me, even if its in the middle of the night."
Before leaving, the old ma once more over the sick boy. He thought of the boys father, of the day this charming blond head had been brought to him, how everyone had taken to him from the start. He, too, had been glad to see him in the cloister. But Narcissus was certainly right in one respeothing in the boy recalled his father. Ah, how much worry there was everywhere, how insuffit all our striving! Had he perhaps been ful of this poor boy? Was it right that no one in the house khis pupil as thhly as Narcissus? How could he be helped by someone who was still a novice, who had not yet been secrated, who was not yet a monk, and whose thoughts and ideas all had something unpleasantly superior about them, something almost hostile? God alone knew whether Narcissus too had not been handled wrongly all this time? Was he cealing something evil behind his mask of obedience, hedonism perhaps? Whatever these two young men would some day bee would be partly his responsibility.
It was dark when Goldmund came to. His head felt empty, dizzy. He khat he was lying in bed, but not where. He didnt think about that; it didnt matter. But where had he been? From what strange land of experience had he returned? He had been to some far-alace. He had seen something there, somethiraordinary, something sublime, but alshtful, and unfettable—a he had fotten it. Where had it been? What was it that had appeared to him, huge, painful, blissful? That had vanished again?
He listened deeply inside him, to that place from whiething had erupted today, where something had happened—what had it been? Wild tangles of images rose before him, he saw dogs heads, the heads of three dogs, and he she st of roses. The pain he had felt! He closed his eyes. The dreadful pain he had felt! Again he fell asleep.
As he awoke from the rapidly vanishing dream world that was sliding away from him, he saw it. He rediscovered the image, and trembled with pain and joy. His eyes had been opened: he saw Her. He saw the tall, radiant woman with the full mouth and glowing hair—his mother. And at the same time he thought he heard a voice: "You have fotten your childhood." But whose voice was that? He listehought, found it. Narcissuss voiarcissus? In a flash everything came back: he remembered. O mother, mother! Mountains of rubbish collapsed, os of fetfulness vahe lost woman, the indescribably beloved, was again looking at him with her regal light-blue eyes.
Father Anselm had dozed off in the armchair beside the bed; he awoke. He heard the sick boy stir, he heard him breathe. Gently he stood up.
"Is someone in the room?" Goldmund asked.
"It is I, have no fear. Ill put the light on."
He lighted the lamp, its glow fell over his well-meaning, wrinkled face.
"But am I ill?" asked the boy.
"You fainted, son. Hold out your hand, lets take a look at your pulse. How do you feel?"
"Fihank you, Father Anselm, youre very kind. Nothings wrong with me now, Im just tired."
"I bet you are. And youll ght back to sleep. But first youll have a sip of hot wis all made and ready. Lets drain a mug together, my boy, to good fellowship."
He had kept a small pitcher of hot wine in readiness.
"So we both bad a niap," laughed the physi. "A fine night nurse, huh, who t keep awake. Well, were all human. Now well take a sip of this magic potion, my boy. Nothings more pleasant than a little secret drinking in the middle of the night. Prosit."
Goldmund laughed, ked cups, and tasted the warm wi iced with amon and cloves and sweetened; he had asted such a drink before. He remembered his previous illness, when Narcissus had taken care of him. Now it was Father Anselm who was g for him. It was all so pleasant and strao be lying there in the lamplight, drinking a mug of sweet warm wih the old father in the middle of the night.
"Have you a pain in your stomach?" the old man asked.
"No."
"I thought you probably had the coliund. You dont thes see your tongue. Well, fine, your old Anselms proved his ignorance again. Tomorrow youll stay in bed and Ill e and take a look at you. Already through with your wine? Fine, may it do you good. Lets see if there is more. Half a mug each, if we share and share alike.—You really gave us a scare, Goldmund! Lying in the court like a childs corpse. And you really have no stomach ache?"
They laughed together and shared what was left of the valest wihe father joked; grat<samp></samp>efully, delightedly Goldmund looked at him. His eyes were clear again. Then the old ma off to bed.
Goldmund lay awake awhile lain the images rose up inside him; his friends words flamed up again. The blond radiant woman, his mother, appeared again in his soul. Like a warm south-wind, her image swept through him: like a cloud of life, of warmth and tenderness and innermost e. "O my mother! How was it possible, how was I able tet you!"
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