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It grew cool over the fields. The moon climbed higher by the hour. The lovers lay on their softly lighted bed, absorbed in their games, dozing off together, turning toward each other anew upon awakening, kindling each other, entangled once more, falling asleep once more. They lay exhausted after their last embrace. Lise had led deep into the hay, breathing heavily. Goldmund was stretched out on his back, motionless; for a long time he stared into the moon-pale sky; a deep sadness rose in both, which they escaped in sleep. They slept profoundly, desperately, greedily, as though for the last time, as though they had been o stay awake forever and had to drink in all the sleep in the world during these last hours.When Goldmund awoke, he saw Lise busy with her black hair. He watched her for a while, absent-minded, still half asleep.
"Youre awake?" he said finally.
Her head turned with a start.
"Ive got to go now," she said, embarrassed and somewhat sad. "I didnt want to wake you."
"Well, Im awake now. Must we move on so soon? After all, were homeless."
"I am," said Lise. "But you belong to the cloister."
"I no longer belong to the cloister. Im like you, pletely alone, with o go. But Ill go with you, of course."
Lise looked away.
"You t e with me, Goldmund. I must go to my husband; hell beat me, because I stayed out all night. Ill say I lost my way. But he wont believe me."
Goldmund remembered Narcissuss predi. So thats how it was.
"Ive made a mistake then," he said. "I had thought that you and I would stay together. —Did you really want to let me sleep and run off without saying farewell?"
"Oh, I was afraid you might get angry a me, perhaps. That my husbas me, well, thats how things are, thats normal. But I didnt want you to beat me, too."
He held on to her hand.
"Lise," he said, "I wo you, not now, not ever. Wouldnt you rather stay with me than with your husband, since he beats you?"
She tugged to get her hand free.
"No, no, no," she said with tears in her voice. And since he could feel that her heart ulling away from him, that she preferred the other mans blows to his good words, he let go of her hand, and now she really began to cry. At the same time she started to run. Clasping both hands over her streaming eyes, she ran off. He stood silently and watched her go. He felt sorry for her, running off across the mowed meadows, summoned and drawn by who kneower, an unknown power that set him thinking. He felt sorry for her, and a little sorry for himself as well; he had not been lucky apparently; alone and a little stunned, he sat in the hay, abandoned, deserted. But he was still tired and eager for sleep; never had he felt so exhausted. There was time to be unhappy later. Immediately he went back to sleep and woke only when the sun stood high and made the air hot around him.
He felt rested now; quickly he got up, ran to the brook, washed, and drank. Memories came gushing forth; love images from the night exhaled their perfume like unknown flowers, evoked male, tender feelings. His thoughts ran after them as he began to walk briskly. Once more he felt, tasted, smelled, touched everything over and over. How many dreams the unknown woman<mark>..</mark> had fulfilled for him, all the buds she had brought to fl, stilled so many ws and longings, roused so many new ones in their place!
Field ah lay before him, dry, fallow stretches and dark forest. Beyond it might be farms and mills, a village, a town. For the first time the world lay open before him, wide and waiting, ready to receive him, to do him good or harm. He was no longer a student who saw the world through a window; his walking was no longer a stroll ending with the iable return. Now the wide world had bee a reality, he art of it, it tained his fate, its sky was his sky, its weather his weather. He was small in this large world, no bigger than a horse, an i; he ran through its blue-green infinity. No bell called him out of bed, to mass, to class, to meals.
Oh, how hungry he was! Half a loaf of bread, a bowl of milk, some gruel soup—what <tt></tt>deliemories! His stomach had e awake. He passed a field, with half-ripe ears. He stripped them with fingers ah; avidly he chewed the tiny, slimy kernels, plucked more and still more, stuffed his pockets with ears of . Later he found hazelnuts. They were still quite green, but he bit into them joyfully, cracked their shells, and put a handful in his pocket.
As he ehe forest, he saw pines and an occasional oak or ash, and soon he found blueberries in unending abundance. He rested and ate and cooled off. Blue harebells grew in the sparse, hard forest grass; brown, sunny butterflies rose and vanished capriciously in ragged flight. Saint Genevieve had lived in a forest like this; he had always loved her story. How much he would have liked to meet her. Or he might find a hermitage in the forest, with an old, bearded father in a cave or a bark hut. Or perhaps peat diggers lived in the forest; he would have liked to speak to them. Or even robbers; they would probably not harm him. It would be pleasant to meet somebody, anybody. But he was well aware that he could walk in the forest for a long time, today, tomorrow, several days more, without meeting ahat, too, had to be accepted, if it was his destiny. It was better not to think too much, to take things as they came.
He heard a woodpecker tapping and tried to find it. For a long time he tried in vain to catch sight of the bird. At last he succeeded and watched it for a while: the bird glued to the trunk of the tree, all aloap-tap-tapping, turning its busy head this way and that. What a pity that one couldnt speak to animals. It would have been pleasant to call a greeting up to the woodpecker, to say a friendly word and learn something about its life irees perhaps, about its work and its joys. Oh, if one could only transform oneself!
He remembered how he used to draw sometimes, during his hours of leisure, how he used to draw figures with the stylus on his writing tablet, and flowers, leaves, trees, animals, peoples heads. Hed amuse himself that way for hours. Sometimes he had created creatures of his own imagination, like a small God, had drawn eyes and a mouth into the chalice of a flower, shaped figures into a cluster of leaves sprouting on a branch, placed a head on top of a tree. For whole hours those games had made him happy, spellbound, able to perform magic, drawing lihat often surprised him—a figure he had started suddenly turned into a leaf or a tree, the snout of a fish, a foxtail, someones eyebrow. Thats how one ought to be able to transform oneself, he thought, the way he had been able to transform the playful lines on his tablet. Goldmund loo bee a woodpecker for a day perhaps, or a month; he would have lived ireetops, would have run up the smooth trunks and pecked at the bark with his strong beak, keeping balah his tail feathers. He would have spoken woodpecker language and dug good things out of the bark. The woodpeckers hammering sounded sweet and strong among the eg trees.
Goldmu many animals on his way through the forest. There were quite a number of hares; at his approach theyd bound out of the underbrush, stare at him, turn and run off, ears folded back, white uhe tail. He found a long snake lying in a clearing. It didnt move; it was not a live snake, only ay skin. He picked it up and exami carefully: a beautiful gray and brown pattern ran down the back; the sun shohrough it; it was cobweb thin. He saw blackbirds with yellow beaks; frighteheyd look at him from stiff, narrow eyeballs, fly off close to the ground. There were many red robins and finches. He came to a hole, a puddle filled with thick green water, on which long-legged spiders ran in eager, frenzied fusion, absorbed in an inprehensible game. Above flew several dragonflies with deep-blue wings. And ooward nightfall, he saw something—or rather, he saw nothing except frantic leaves, branches breaking, clumps of mud slapping the ground. A large, barely visible animal came bursting through the underbrush with enormous impact—a stag perhaps, or a boar; he couldnt tell. For a long time he stood panting with fright. Terrified, he listened in the dire the animal had taken, was still listening with poundi long after everything had grown silent again.
He couldnt find his way out of the forest; he was forced to spend the night there. He picked a sleeping plad built a bed of moss, trying to imagine what it would be like if he never found his way out of the forest, if he had to stay in it forever. That would surely be a great misfortune. Living on berries was after all not impossible, nor was sleeping on moss. Besides, he would doubtless mao build a hut for himself eventually, perhaps even to make a fire. But living alone forever and ever, among the quietly sleeping tree trunks, with animals that ran away, with whom one could not speak—that would be unbearably sad. Not to see people, not to say good m and good night to anyone; no more faces and eyes to look into; nirls and women to look at, no more kisses; never again to play the lovely secret game of lips and legs, that would be unthinkable! If this were his fate, he thought, he would try to bee an animal, a bear or a stag, even if it meant forsaking the salvation of his soul. To be a bear and love a she-bear would not be bad, would at least be much better than to keep ones reason and language and all that, aate alone, sad and unloved.
Before falling asleep in his bed of moss, he listeo the many inprehensible, enigmatiight sounds of the forest, with curiosity and fear. They were his panions now. He had to live with them, grow aced to them, pete with them, get along with them; he beloo the foxes and the deer, to pine and fir. He had to live with them, share air and sunshih them, wait for daybreak with them, starve with them, be their guest.
Then he fell asleep and dreamed of animals and people, was a bear and devoured Lise amid caresses. In the middle of the night he awoke with a deep fear he couldnt explain, suffered infinite anguish in his heart and lay thinking for a long time, deeply disturbed. He realized that yesterday and today he had goo sleep without saying his prayers. He got up, k beside his moss bed, and said his evening prayer twice, for yesterday and today. Soon he was asleep again.
In the m he looked about the forest with surprise; he had fotten where he was. Now his fear of the forest began to dwindle. With new joy he entrusted himself to the life around him; and all the while he tio walk, taking his dire from the sun. At one point he came to a pletely smooth stret the forest—hardly any underbrush, nothing but very thick old straight pines. After he had walked around these ns for a while, they began to remind him of the ns in the main cloister church, the very same churto which he had watched his friend Narcissus disappear through the dark portal the other day—how long ago? Was it really only two days ago?
It took him two days and two nights to reach the end of the forest. Joyfully he reized signs of human habitation: cultivated land, strips of field with barley and oats, meadows through which a narrow footpath had been trodden; he could see ses of it here and there. Goldmund pulled out a few stalks of barley and chewed on them. With friendly eyes he looked at the tilled land; everythi warm and human to him after the long wilderness of the woods: the little footpath, the oats, the wilted, bleached flowers. Soon he would meet people. After a short hour he came to a crucifix at the edge of a field; he k and prayed to the feet. ing around the protruding nose of a hill, he suddenly found himself in front of a shady lime tree. Delighted, he heard the music of a well from which water ran through a wooden pipe into a long wooden trough. He drank cold delicious water and noticed with joy a couple of thatched roofs seemingly ing out of the elderberry trees; the berries were already dark. The lowing of a cow touched him still more than all these signs of friendliness; it sounded so pleasantly warm and hospitable, like a greeting that had e to meet him, a wele.
He iigated a bit and then approached the hut from which the lowing had e. Outside the door, in the mud, sat a small boy with reddish hair and light-blue eyes. Ahen pot was beside him, filled with water, and with its mud and water he was making a dough. His bare legs were already smeared with it. Happy and ear, he khe wet mud between his hands, watched it squish through his fingers, made it into balls, used one knee for pressing and shaping.
"God bless you, little boy," Goldmund said in a very friendly voice. The little boy looked up, saw the stranger, opened his mouth, puckered his plump face, and ran bawling, on all fours, through the doldmund followed him and came into a kit; it was so dark after the bright noon glare, he could not see anything at first. He said a Christiaing, just in case, but there was no reply; but the screaming of the frightened child was finally answered by a thin old voice that forted the boy. Finally, a tiny old woman stood up in the darkness and came closer; she held a hand to her eyes and looked at the stranger.
"God bless you, mother," Goldmund cried. "May all the dear saints bless your kind face; I haven t seen a human being in three days."
The little old woman gaped at him, a bit simple, from farsighted eyes, not uanding.
"What is it you want?" she asked suspiciously.
Goldmund took her hand and stroked it lightly.
"I want to say God bless you, little grandmother, a awhile, and help you make the fire. And I wont refuse a piece of bread if you offer me one, but theres time for that."
He saw a bench built into the wall and sat down on it, while the old woman cut off a piece of bread for the boy, who was now staring at the stranger with i and curiosity, but still ready to cry and run off at any moment. The old woman cut a sed piece from the loaf and brought it over to Goldmund.
"Thank you," he said. &qu<dfn></dfn>ot;May God reward you."
"Is your belly empty?" asked the woman.
"Not really. Its full of blueberries."
"Well, eat then. Where do you e from?"
"From Mariabronn, from the cloister."
"Are you a preacher?"
"No. Im a student. Im traveling."
She looked at him, half chiding, half simple, and shook her head a little on her long, wrinkled neck. She let Goldmund take a few bites ahe boy back outside into the sunshihen she came bad asked curiously: "Have you any news?"
"Not much. Do you know Father Anselm?"
"No. Why, whats with him?"
"Hes ill."
"Ill? Is he going to die?"
"Who knows? He has it in the legs. He t walk too well."
"Is he going to die?"
"I dont know. Maybe."
"Well, let him die. I must y soup. Help me chop the kindling."
She handed him a pine log, nicely dried beside the hearth, and a knife. He cut kindling, as much as she wanted, and watched her lay it on the ashes, and bend over it, and wheeze and blow until the fire caught. Acc to a precise, secret system, she piled now pine, now beechwood. The fire shone brightly in the opeh. A big black kettle hung in the ey on a sooty ; she pushed it into the flames.
At her behest Goldmund drew water from the well, skimmed the milk pail. He sat in the smoky twilight and watched the play of the flames and the bony, wrinkled face of the old pearing and disappearing above them in the red glow; he could hear the cow rummage and thump oher side of the wall. He liked everything. The lime tree, the well, the flickering fire uhe kettle, the snuffing and mung of the feeding cow, the dull thuds she made against the wall, the half-dark room with table and bench, the small, a womaures—all this was beautiful and good, smelled of food and peace, of people and warmth, of home. There were also two goats, and the old woman told him that they had a pigsty in the back; the old woman was the farmers grandmother, the great-grandmother of the little boy. His name was Kuno. Every so often he came inside; he didnt say anything and still looked a little frightened, but he was no longer g.
The farmer arrived, and his wife; they were greatly surprised to find a stranger in the house. The farmer was all set to start cursing. Di<samp></samp>strustfully, he gripped the young man by the arm and pulled him toward the door to see his fa the daylight. Then he laughed, gave him a well-meaning slap on the shoulder, and invited him to eat with them. They sat down; each dipped his bread into the ilk bowl until the milk was almost gone and the farmer drank up what was left.
Goldmund asked if he might stay until tomorrow and sleep uheir roof. No, said the man, there wasnt enough room, but there was enough hay lying around all over the place, outside, for him to find a bed.
The farmers wife sat with the boy by her side.
She did not take part in the versation; but during the meal her inquisitive eyes took possession of the stranger. His curls and eyes had made an impression on her and she noticed with pleasure his lovely white ned smooth, elegant hands with their free, beautiful gestures. How distinguished and imposing he was, and so young! But most of all she felt drawn by the strangers voice. She fell in love with the singing uohe radiating warmth ale wooing in the young mans voice; it sounded like a caress. She would have liked to go on listening to his voice much longer.
After the meal, the farmer busied himself iable. Goldmund had goside to wash his hands uhe well; he was sitting on its low edge, cooling himself and listening to the water. His mind was undecided; there was nothing for him to do here any more, yet he regretted having to move on so soon. Just then the farmers wife came out with a bucket in her hand; she placed it uhe gullet a run full. Half loud she said: "If youre still arouonight, Ill bring you some food. Theres hay back there, behind the long barley field; it woaken in before tomorrow. Will you still be there?"
He looked into her freckled face, watched her strong arms lift the bucket; her clear large eyes looked warm. He smiled at her and nodded; she was already walking away with the full bucket, disappearing in the darkness of the door. He sat, grateful and deeply tent, listening to the running water. Some time later he went in, looked for the farmer, shook hands with him and with the grandmother, and thahem. The hut smelled of fire, soot, and milk. A moment ago it had still beeer and home; now it was already fory. With a farewell, he went out.
Beyond the hut he found a chapel, and nearby a beautiful wooded area, a clump of sturdy old oaks in shrass. He remaihere, in their shade, strolling among the thick trunks. How stra was with women and loving! There really was no need for words. The farmers wife had said only a few words, to he place of their meeting; everything else had been said without words. Then how had she said it? With her eyes, yes, and with a certain intonation in her slightly thick voice, and with something more, a st perhaps, a subtle, discreet emanation of the skin, by whien and men were able to know at once when they desired one another. It was strange, like a subtle, secret language; how fast he had learhat language. He was very much looking forward to the evening, filled with curiosity about this tall blond woman, the looks and sounds shed have, what kind of body, gestures, kisses—probably altogether different from Lise. Where was Lise at this moment, with her taut black hair, her brown skin and little gasps? Had her husbaen her? Was she still thinking of him? Or had she found a new lover, as he had found a new woman today? How fast things happened, everywhere happiness lay in ones path, how beautiful and hot it was, and how straransitory! This was a sin, adultery. Not so long ago he would have died rather than it this sin. And now a sed woman was waiting to e to him and his sce was calm and serene; not so calm perhaps, but her adultery nor lust were troubling and burdening it. Rather a feeling of guilt for some crime one had not itted but had brought along with oo the world. Perhaps this was what theology called inal sin? It might well be. Yes, life itself bore something of guilt within it—why else had a man as pure and aware as Narcissus subjected himself to penance like a ned felon? And why did he, himself, feel this guilt somewhere deep inside him? Was he not a happy, healthy young man, free as a bird in the sky? Was he not loved by women? Was it not beautiful to feel allowed to give the woman the same profound joy she gave him? Then why was he not fully, not pletely happy? Why did this strange pairate his young joy, as it peed Narcissuss virtue and wisdom, this subtle fear, this grief over the transitory? Why was he made to muse like this, every so often, to think, when he knew he was no thinker?
Still, it was beautiful to be alive. He plucked a small purple flower in the grass, held ? to his eyes and peered into the tiny, narrow chalice; veins ran through it, hair-thin tiny ans lived there; life pulsated there and desire trembled, just as in a womans womb, in a thinkers brain. Why did one know so little? Why could o speak with this flower? But then, even human beings were hardly able to speak to each other. Even there one had to be lucky, find a special friendship, a readiness. No, it was fortuhat love did not need words; or else it would be full of misuanding and foolishness. Ah, how Lises half-closed eyes had looked almost blind at the height of ecstasy; only the white had shown through the slits of twitg lids—ten thousand learned or lyrical words could not express it! Nothing, ah, nothing at all could be expressed—a, again and again ohe urge to speak, the urge to think.
He studied the leaves of the tiny plant; how daintily, with what straelligehey were arranged around the stem. Virgils verses were beautiful, and he loved them; still, there was more than one verse in Virgil that was not half as clear and intelligent, beautiful and meaningful as the spiraled order of those tiny leaves climbing the stem. leasure, what ecstasy, what a delightful, noble, meaningful task it would be for a man to be able to create just one such flower! But no man was able to do that—no hero, no emperor, no pope or saint!
When the sun had sunk low, he got up and found the place the farmers wife had indicated. There he waited. It was beautiful to be waiting like this, knowing that the woman was on her way, bringing him so much love.
She arrived, carrying a linen cloth in which she had tied a k of bread and a piece of lard. She unk and laid it out before him.
"For you," she said. "Eat!"
"Later," he said. "Im not hungry for bread, Im hungry for you. Oh, let me see the beautiful things youve brought me."
She had brought him a great maiful things: strong thirsty lips, strong gleamih, strong arms that were red from the sun, but on the inside, below the ned further down she was white and delicate. She didnt know many words but made a sweet, luring sound ihroat, and when she felt his hands on her, his delicate, gentle hands so full of feeling, the like of which she had never felt before, her skin shivered ahroat made sounds like the purring of a cat. She knew few games, fewer games than Lise, but she was wonderfully strong; she squeezed as though she wao break her lovers neck. Her love was childlike and greedy, simple and still chaste in all its strength; Goldmund was very happy with her.
Then she left, sighing. With difficulty, she tore herself away, because she could not stay. Goldmund remained alone, happy as well as sad. Only much later did he remember the bread and the lard and ate it in solitude. Now it was pletely dark.
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