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Up to now, the few things Goldmund knew of his mother had e from what others had told him. Her image had almost faded from his memory. Of the little he thought he knew of her, he had told Narcissus o nothing. Mother was a subject he was forbidden to mention—something to be ashamed of. She had been a dancer, a wild beautiful woman of hough poor, birth; Goldmunds father said that he had lifted her from poverty and shame; and since he couldnt be sure she was not a heathe<s></s>n, he had arrao have her baptized and instructed in religion; he had married her and made her respectable. But after a few years of domesticated and ordered existence, she had remembered her old tricks and crafts, had started to make trouble and seduce men, had strayed from home for days and weeks at a time, had acquired the reputation of a witch, and, after her husband had goo find her and taken her back to his house several times, she had finally disappeared forever. Her reputation had stayed alive, a wicked reputation that flickered like the tail of a et, until it had beeinguished. Slowly her husband recovered from the years of disorder, fear, and shame, of the never ending surprises she sprang on him. In place of the unredeemed wife, he educated his little son, who greatly resembled his mother iures and build; he grew nagging and bigoted, instilling in Goldmund the belief that he must offer up his life to God to expiate his mothers sins.This was the tale Goldmunds father told of his lost wife, although he preferred not to speak of her. He had hi it to the Abbot the day he brought Goldmund to the cloister. It was all known to the son as a terrible legend, but he had learo push it aside and had almost fotten it. The real image of his mother had been pletely fotten and lost, an altogether different image that was not made of his fathers and the servants tales and dark wild rumors. He had fotten his own true living mother-memory. And now this image, the star of his earliest years, had risen again.
"I t uand how I could have fotten," he said to his friend. "Never in my life have I loved anyone as much as I loved my mother, unditionally, fervently. Never did I vee or admire anyone as I did her; she was sun and moon to me. God only knows how it ossible to darken this radiant image in my soul, to ge her gradually to the evil, pallid, shapeless witch she was to my father and to me for many years."
Narcissus had retly pleted his novitiate and had dohe habit. His attitude toldmund was strangely ged. Because Goldmund, who had often before rejected his friends hints and sel as cumbersome superiority ary, was now, since his deep experience, filled with astonished admiration of his friends wisdom. How many of his words had e true like prophecies, how deeply had this uny man seen inside him, how precisely had he guessed the secret of his life, his hidden wound, how deftly had he healed him!
At least Goldmund seemed to be healed. Not only had the fainting spell been without evil sequences, but all that was unformed and unauthenti Goldmunds character had somehow melted away, his mistaken vocation to monkhood, his belief that he was obliged to render particular service to God. The young man seemed to have grown younger and older all at once. He owed it all to Narcissus.
But Narcissus was now dug himself with a strange caution toward his friend. He looked upon him with great modesty, no longer in the least desding or instrug, while Goldmund admired him more than ever. He saw Goldmund fed from secret sources to which he, himself, had no access; he had been able to further their growth, but had no part ihough he was glad to see his friend freeing himself of his guidance, he also felt sad. He saw that this friendship, which had meant so mu, was nearing its end. He still knew more about Goldmund than Goldmund knew about himself. Goldmund had rediscovered his soul and was ready to follow its call, but he did not know where it would lead him. Narcissus khis a powerless; his favorites path led tions in which he himself would ravel.
Goldmunds eagero learn had decreased siderably, as had his desire tue with his friend. Shamefacedly he remembered some of their former discussions. Meanwhile Narcissus began to feel the need for seclusioher because he had pleted the novitiate or because of his experieh Goldmund, he felt drawn to fasting and long prayers, frequent fessions, voluntary penitence, and Goldmund uood this, could almost share in it. Since his cure, his instincts had been sharpened. Although he had no inkling of where his future would lead him, he did feel strongly, often with anguishing clarity, that his destiny was shaping itself, that this respite of innod calm was ing to an end, that all within him was taut and ready. These premonitions were often blissful, kept him awake half the night like a sweet infatuation; at other times they were full of darkness and suffocation. His long-lost mother had e ba: that was deep happiness. But where was her entig call leading him? Into uainty aa, into need, perhaps into death. It did not lead to quiet, mildness, security, to the monks cell, to collective cloister life. Her call had nothing in on with his fathers orders, which he had for so long fused with his own wishes. Goldmunds piety fed on this emotion; it was often as strong and burning as a violent physical sensation. He would repeat long prayers to the holy Mother of God,<bdo>.</bdo> letting flow the excessive feelings that drew him toward his own mother. But often his prayers would end in those strange, magnifit dreams of which he had so many now: day-dreams, with half-awake senses, dreams of her with all his senses participating. The mother-world would spray its fragrance about him, look darkly from enigmatic eyes of love, rumble deep as an o, like paradise, stammer caressing, senseless endearments, or rather endearments that filled his senses with a taste of sweetness and salt and brushed his hungry lips and eyes with silken hair. His mother meant not only all that was graceful; not only were her gentle look of love and sweet, happiness-promising smile caressing solations; but somewhere beh this entig exterior lay much that was frightful and dark, greedy and fearful, sinful and sorrowful, all that gave birth and all death.
The adolest would sink deeply into these dreams, into these many-threaded webs of soul-inhabited senses. Entingly they resurrected not only the beloved past: childhood and mother love, the radiantly golden m of life; but in them also the future swung, menag, promising, being, dangerous. At times these dreams, in which mother, Virgin, and mistress all fused into one, seemed horrendous crimes to him afterwards, blasphemies, deadly, unpardonable sins; at other times he found in them nothing but harmony and release. Life stared at him, filled with secrets, a somber, unfathomable world, a rigid forest bristling with fairy-tale dangers—but these were mother secrets, they came from her, led to her, they were the small dark circle, the tiny threatening abyss in her clear eye.
So much of his fotten childhood surged up during these mother dreams, so many small flowers of memory bloomed from the endless depth of fetfulness, golden-faced premonitioed memories of childhood emotions, of is perhaps, or perhaps of dreams. Occasionally hed dream of fish, blad silver, swimming toward him, cool and smooth, swimming into him, through him, ing like messengers bearing joyous news of a mracious, more beautiful reality and vanishing, tails flipping, shadowlike, gone, having brought new enigmas rather than messages. Or hed dream of swimming fish and flying birds, and each fish or bird was his creature, depended on him, could be guided like a breath, radiated from him like an eye, like a thought, returo him. Or hed dream of a garden, a magic garden with fabulous trees, huge flowers, and deep blue-dark caves; the eyes of unknown animals sparkled in the grass, smooth-muscled serpents slid along the branches; giant moist-glistening berries hung from vine or bush, hed pick them and theyd swell in his hand and leak warm juices like blood, or they had eyes which theyd move with iion; groping, hed lean against a tree, reach for a branch, and see and feel between trunk and branch a curli of thick tousled hair like the hair i of an arm. Once he dreamed of himself, or of his name-saint, he dreamed of Goldmund of Chrysostom, who had a mouth of gold, who spoke words with his golden mouth, and the words were small swarms of birds that flew off in fluttering groups.
Once he dreamed that he was tall and adult but sat on the floor like a child, that he had clay in front of him and was modeling clay figures, like a child: a small horse, a bull, a tiny man, a tiny woman. The modeling amused him and he gave the animals and men ridiculously large genitals; it seemed wonderfully witty to him in his dream. Then he grew tired of the game and walked off a something alive at his back, something soundless and large that was ing nearer and when he looked around he saw with great astonishment and shock, but not without joy, that his small clay figures bad grown and e to life. Huge mute giants, they marched past him, tinuing to grow, monstrous, silent; th, they traveled on into the world.
He lived in this dream world more than in the real ohe real world: classroom, courtyard, library, dormitory, and chapel were only the surface, a quivering film over the dream-filled superreal world of images. The smallest i could pierce a hole in this thin skin: a sudden hint in the sound of a Greek word during a tedious lesson, a whiff of st from Father Anselms herb satchel, the sight of a garland of stone leaves protruding from the top of a n in a window vault—these small stimulants were enough to puncture the skin of reality, to unleash the raging abysses, streams, and milky ways of an image world of the soul that lay beh peacefully barrey. A Latin initial ged to his mothers perfumed face, a long note in the Ave became the gate to Paradise, a Greek letter a galloping horse, a rearing serpent that quickly slithered off through the flowers, leaving the rigid page of grammar in its place.
He rarely spoke of it, only occasionally did he give Narcissus a hint of his dream world.
"I believe," he once said, "that the petal of a flower or a tiny worm oh says far more, tains far more than all the books in the library. One ot say very much with mere letters and words. Sometimes Ill be writing a Greek letter, a theta or an omega, and tilt my pen just the slightest bit; suddenly the letter has a tail and bees a fish; in a sed it evokes all the streams and rivers of the world, all that is cool and humid, Homers sea and the waters on which Saier wandered; or it bees a bird, flaps its tail, shakes out its feathers, puffs itself up, laughs, flies away. You probably dont appreciate letters like that very much, do you, Narcissus? But I say: with them God wrote the world."
"I do appreciate them greatly," Narcissus said sadly. "Those are magic letters, demons be exorcised with them. But for the pursuit of sce they are, of course, unsuitable. The mind favors the defihe solid shape, it wants its symbols to be reliable, it loves what is, not what will be, what is real and not what is possible. It does not permit ao ge to a serpent or a bird. The mind ot live in nature, only against nature, only as its terpart. Do you believe now that youll never be a scholdmund?"
Yes, Goldmund had long since begun to believe it, resigned himself to it.
"Im no longer i on striving for a mind like yours," he said, half jokingly. "I feel about mind and learning the way I did about my father: I thought I loved him very mud wao bee like him and swore by everything he did. But as soon as my mother reappeared, I khe meaning of love again and my fathers image had suddenly shruo hers and bee joyless, almnant. And now Im ined tard all things of the mind as father-things, as unmotherly, and mother-hostile, and to feel a slight pt for them."
He spoke in a joking tone, a he was not able t a happy expression to his friends faarcissus looked at him in silence; his look was like a caress. Then he said: "I uand you very well. Theres no need for us to quarrel ever again; you are awakened, and now yhe differeween us, between mother-heritage and father-heritage, the differeween soul and mind. Soon youll probably also realize that cloister life and striving for monkhood were a mistake for you, an iion of your fathers. He wanted you to atone for your mothers memory, or perhaps avenge himself on her in this way. Or do you still believe that its your destiny to remain in the cloister all your life?"
Goldmund looked pensively at his friends hands. How distinguished they were, severe as well as delicate, bony and white. No one could doubt that they were the hands of an ascetid a scholar.
"I dont know," he said in the lilting, slightly hesitant voice he had retly acquired and that seemed to dwell lengthily on every sound. "I really dont know. You judge my father somewhat harshly. He has not had an easy life. But perhaps youre right in this too. Ive been in the cloister school for over three years, and hes never e to see me. He wants me to stay here forever. Perhaps that would be best, I thought I wa myself. But today Im no longer sure what I really want and desire. Before, everything was simple, as simple as the letters in my textbook. Now nothing is simple any more, not eveters. Everything has taken on many meanings and faces. I dont know what will bee of me, I t think about that now."
"Nor need you," said Narcissus. "Youll find out where your road will lead you. It began by leading you back to your mother, and it will bring you closer to her still. As for your father, Im not judging him too harshly. Would you want to go ba?"
"No, Narcissus, certainly not. If I did, it would have to be as soon as I finished schoht now perhaps. Since Im not going to be a scholar anyhow, Ive learned enough Latin and Greek and mathematio, I dont want to go bay father …"
Deep in thought, he stared ahead of him. Suddenly he cried out to Narcissus: "How oh do you do it? Again and again you say words to me, or pose questions that shine a light into me and make me clear to myself. You merely asked if I wao go bay father, and suddenly I khat I didnt want to. How do you do it? You seem to know everything. Youve said so many words that I didnt quite grasp when I heard them but that became so important to me afterwards! It was you who said that I take my being from my mother, you who discovered that I was living under a spell and had fotten my childhood! What makes you know people so well? Couldnt I learn that too?"
Narcissus smiled and shook his head.
"No, my dear Goldmund, you ot. Some people are capable of learning a great deal, but you are not one of them. Youll never be a student. And why should <dfn></dfn>you be? You doo. You have ifts. You are mifted than I, you are richer and you are weaker, your road will be more beautiful and more difficult than mihere were times when you refused to uand me, you often kicked like a foal, it wasnt always easy, I was often forced to hurt you. I had to waken you, since you were asleep. Recalling your mother to your memory hurt at first, hurt you very much; you were found lying in the cloister garden as though dead. It had to be. No, dont stroke my hair! No, dont! I dont like it."
"t I learn anything then? Will I always remain stupid, a child?"
"There will be others to teach you. What you could learn from me, you child, you have learned."
"Oh no," cried Goldmund, "we didnt bee friends to end it now! What sort of friendship would that be, that reached its goal after a short distand then simply stopped? Are you tired of me? Have you no more affe for me?"
Narcissus ag vehemently, his eyes on the floor. Theopped in front of his friend. "Let that be," he said softly. "You know only too well that my affe for you has not e to an end."
With doubt in his eyes he studied his friend. Then he began pag once more, bad forth; agaiopped and looked at Goldmund, his eyes firm iaut, haggard face. His voice was low, but hard and firm, when he said: "Listen, Goldmund! Our friendship has been good; it had a goal and the goal has been reached; youve been awakened, I would like it not to be over; I would like it to reself once more, reself again and again, ao new goals. For the moment there is no goal. Yours is uain, I either lead you nor apany you. Ask your mother, ask her image, listen to her! But my goal is not uain, it lies here, in the cloister, it claims me at every hour. I be your friend, but I ot be in love. I am a monk, I have taken the vows. Before my secration I shall ask to be released from my teag duties and withdraw for many weeks to fast and do exercises. During that period Ill not speak of worldly matters, nor with you either."
Goldmund uood. Sadly he said: "So yoing to do what I would have dooo, if I had joihe order. And after your exercises are over and you have fasted and prayed and waked enough—then what will be yoal?"
"You know what it is," said Narcissus.
"Well, yes. In a few years youll be the novicemaster, head of the school perhaps. Youll improve the teag methods; youll enlarge the library. Perhaps youll write books yourself. No? All right, you wont. But what is yoal?"
Narcissus smiled faintly. "The goal? Perhaps Ill die head of the school, or abbot, or bishop. Its all the same. My goal is this: always to put m<cite>..</cite>yself in the pla which I am best able to serve, wherever my gifts and qualities find the best soil, the widest field of a. There is no oal."
Goldmund: "No oal for a monk?"
Narcissus: "Oh, there are goals enough. One monk may find his lifes goal in learning Hebrew, another in annotating Aristotle, or embellishing the cloister church, or secluding himself iation, or a huher things. For me those are no goals. I her want to increase the riches of the cloister, nor reform the order, nor the church. I want to serve the mind within the framework of my possibilities, the way I uand the mind; no more. Is that not a goal?"
Goldmund thought for a long while before he answered.
"Youre right," he said. "Did I hinder you mu the road toward yoal?"
"Hinder me! Oh Goldmund, no one furthered me as much as you did. You created difficulties for me, but I am no enemy of difficulties. Ive learned from them, Ive partly overe them."
Goldmund interrupted him. Half laughingly, he said: "Youve overe them wonderfully well! But, tell me: when you aided me, guided and delivered me, and healed my soul—were you really serving the mind? In so doing youve probably deprived the cloister of an eager, well-iioned novice, maybe youve raised an enemy of the mind, someone wholl strive for, think and do the exact opposite of what you deem good!"
"Why not?" said Narcissus in deep ear. "Dear friend, how little you know me still! Perhaps I did ruin a future monk in you, but in exge I cleared the path inside you for a destiny that will not be ordinary. Even if you burned down our rather handsome cloister tomorrow, or preached a mad doe of error to the world, I would not for an insta that I helped you on the road toward it."
With a friendly gesture he laid both hands on his friends shoulders.
"See here, little Goldmund, this too is part of my goal: whether I be teacher, abbot, father fessor, or whatever, never do I wish to find myself in the position of meeting a strong, valuable human being and not know what he is about, not further him. A me say this to you: whatever bees of either of us, whether we go this way or that, youll never find me heedless at any moment that you call me seriously and think that you have need of me. Never."
It sounded like a farewell; it was indeed a foretaste of farewell. Goldmund stood looking at his friend, the determined face, the goal-directed eyes; he had the unmistakable feeling that they were no longer brothers, colleagues, equals; their ways had already parted. The man before him was not a dreamer; he was not waiting for fate to call to him. He was a monk who had pledged his life, who beloo aablished order, to duty; he was a servant, a soldier ion, of the church, of the mind. Goldmund now knew he did not belong here; this had bee clear to him today. He had no home; an unknown world awaited him. His mother had known the same fate once. She had left house and home, husband and child, unity and order, duty and honor, to go out into uainty; she had probably long since perished in it. She had had no goal, aher had he. Having goals rivilege he did not share with others, Oh, how well Narcissus had reized all this long ago; hht he had been!
Shortly after the day of their versation, Narcissus seemed to have disappeared, to have bee suddenly inaccessible. Another instructor was teag his courses; his le in the library stood vat. He was still present, he was not altogether invisible, one saw him walk through the arcade occasionally, heard him murmur in one of the chapels, kneeling oone floor; one khat he had begun the great exercise, that he was fasting, that he rose three times eaight to exercise. He was still present, but he had crossed over into another world; he could be seen, although not often, but he could not be reached. Nothing could be shared with him; one could not speak with him. Goldmund knew: Narcissus would reappear, he would be standing at his le again, sit in his chair in the refectory, he would speak again—but nothing of what had been would be again; Narcissus would belong to him no longer. As he thought about this, it became clear to him that Narcissus alone had made the cloister, the monkish life, grammar and logic, learning and the mind seem important and desirable to him. His example had tempted him; to bee like Narcissus had been his ideal. True, there was also the Abbot, whom he had veed; he had loved him, too, and thought him a high example. But the others, the teachers and classmates, the dormitory, the dining hall, the school, exercises, mass, the entire cloister no longer ed him without Narcissus. What was he still doing here? He was waiting, standing uhe cloister roof like a hesitant wanderer caught in the rain who stops under any roof, a tree, just to wait, for fear of the inhospitality of the unknown. Goldmunds life, during this span, was nothing but hesitation and bidding farewell. He visited the different places that had bee dear and meaningful to him. He was surprised that there were so few persons and faces it would be hard for him to leave. Brother Narcissus and old Abbot Daniel and good dear Father Anselm, the friendly porter maybe, and their jovial neighbor, the miller—but even they had already bee unreal. Harder than that would be saying farewell to the tall stone madonna in the chapel, to the apostles of the portal. For a long time he stood in front of them, in front of the beautiful carvings of the choir pews, of the fountain in the cloister garden, the n with the three animal heads; he leaned against the lirees in the courtyard, against the chestnut tree. One day, all of this would be memory to him, a small picturebook in his heart. Even now, while he was still in its midst, it started to fade away from him, lose its reality, ge phantomlike into something that no longer was. He went in search of herbs with Father Anselm, who liked to have him around; he watched the men at work in the cloister mill; every so ofte himself be io a meal of wine and baked fish; but already it felt strao him, half like<bdo>.</bdo> a memory. Iwilight of the chapel and the penitence of his cell, his friend Narcissus ag, alive, but to him he had bee a shadow. The cloister now seemed to be drained of reality, and appeared autumnal and tra.
Only the life within him was real, the anguished beating of his heart, the nostalgic sting of longing, the joys and fears of his dreams. To them he beloo them he abandoned himself. Suddenly, in the middle of a page or a lesson, surrounded by his classmates, hed sink into himself and fet everything, listening only to the rivers and voices inside himself which drew him away, into deep wells filled with dark melodies, into colorful abysses full of fairy-tale deeds, and all the sounds were like his mothers voice, and the thousands of eyes all were his mothers eyes.
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