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Goldmund khe area <samp>?9９lｉｂ.</samp>from many previous rides. The knight owned a barn beyond the frozen marsh, and farther on there was a farmhouse where he was known; hed be able to rest and spend the night in one of those places. Everything else had to wait until tomorrow. Gradually, the feeling of freedom aat took hold of him again; he had grown unaced to it. It did not have a pleasant taste on this icy, gloomy winter day; it smelled strongly of hardship, hunger, and want, ahe vastness of it, its great expas merciless harshness was almost f and soothing to his spoiled, fused heart.He walked until he felt tired. My riding days are over, he thought. Oh, wide world! A little snow was falling. In the distahe edges of the forest fused with gray clouds; infinite sileretched to the end of the world. What was happening to Lydia, that poor, anguished heart? He felt bitterly sorry for her; he thought of her tenderly as he rested under a bare, lonely ash in the middle of the deserted marshland. Finally the cold drove him on. Stiff-legged, he stood up, forced himself to a brisk pace; the meager light of the drab day already seemed to be dwindling. The slow trot across the bare fields put ao his musing. It was not a question of thinking now, or of haviions, no matter how delicate aiful; it was now a question of keeping alive, of reag a spot for the night in time, of getting through this cold, inhospitable world like a marten or a fox, and not giving out too soon, in the open fields. Everything else was unimportant.
He thought he heard the sound of distant hoofs and looked around in surprise. Could anyone be following him? He reached for the small hunting knife in his pocket and slipped off the woodeh. The rider became visible; he reized a horse from the knights stable; stubbornly it was heading toward him. Fleeing would have been useless. He stopped and waited, without actual fear, but very tense and curious, his heart beating faster. For a sed a thought shot through his head: "If I killed this rider, how well off Id be; Id have a horse and the world would be mine." But when he reized the rider, the young stableboy Hans, with his light-blue, watery eyes and the good, embarrassed boys face, he had to laugh; to murder this good dear fellow, one would have to have a heart of stone. He greeted Hans with a friendly hand and tenderly patted Hannibal, the horse, on its warm, moist neck; it reized him immediately.
"Where are you headed, Hans?" he asked.
"To you," laughed the boy with shinih. "Youve run a good distance. I t stay; Im only here to give yards and this."
&quards from whom?"
"From Lady Lydia. Well, you certainly gave us a nasty day, Master Goldmund, I was glad to get away for a while. But the squire must not know that Ive been gone, and with an errand that could e my neck. Here!"
He handed him a small package; Goldmund took it.
"I say, Hans, you dont happen to have a piece of bread in one of your pockets that you might give me?"
"Bread? I might find a crust." He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a piece of black bread. Then he wao ride off again.
"How is the lady?" asked Goldmund. "Didnt she give you any message? No little letter?"
"Nothing. I saw her only for a moment. Theres a storm at the house, you know; the squire is pag like King Saul. She told me to give you these things, and nothing else. Ive got to get baow."
"All right, all right, just a moment more! Say, Hans, you could me have your hunting knife? Ive only a small one. When the wolves e and all that—it would be better if I had something solid in hand."
But Hans would not hear of that. Hed be very sorry, he said, if something should happen to Master Goldmund. But he could not part with his jaife, no, never, not for money, nor a s either, no, no, not even if Saint Genevieve in person asked him for it. There, and now he had to get a move on, and he did wish him well, and he did feel sorry about everything.
They shook hands and the boy rode off. Goldmund looked after him with a strange pain in his heart. Then he unpacked the things, happy to have the strong calfs-leather cord that held them together. Inside he found a knitted undervest of thick gray wool, which apparently Lydia had made for him herself, and there was also something hard, well ed in the wool, a piece of ham: a small slit had been cut into the ham and a shiny gold piece had been stuto the slit. There was no written message. He stood in the snow, undecided, holding Lydias gifts in his hands. Theook off his jacket and slipped into the knitted vest; it felt pleasantly warm. Quickly he put his jacket ba, hid the gold pie his safest pocket, wound the cord around his waist, and tinued his walk across the fields. It was time he reached a place to rest; he had growired. But he didnt feel like going to the farmhouse, although it would have been warmer and hed probably also have found some milk there; he didnt feel like chatting and being asked questions. He spent the night in the barn, tinued on his way early the m, in frost and sharp wind, driven to long marches by the cold. For many nights he dreamed of the knight with his sword and of the two sisters; for many days loneliness and melancholy weighed on his heart.
The following evening he found a place for the night in a village, where the peasants were so poor they had no bread, only gruel. Here, new adventures awaited him. During the night, the peasant woman whose guest he was gave birth to a child. Goldmund resent while it happehey had waked him iraw to e and help, although there was nothing for him to do finally, except hold the light while the midwife went about her business. For the first time he witnessed a birth. With astonished, burning eyes he gazed at the face of the woman in labor, richer suddenly by this new experie any rate the expression in the womans face seemed most remarkable to him. In the light of the torch, as he stared with great curiosity into the face of the screaming woman, lying there in pain, he was struck by something ued: the lines in the screaming womans distorted face were little different from those he had seen in other womens faces during the moment of loves ecstasy. True, the expression of great pain was more violent and disfiguring than the expression of ultimate passion—but essentially it was not different, it was the same slightly grinning tra, the same sudden glow ainiraculously, without uanding why, he was surprised by the realization that pain and joy could resemble each other so closely.
A another experience awaited him in that village. The m after the birth, he ran into the neighbors wife, who soon replied to the amorous questioning of his eyes. He stayed a sed night and made the woman very happy si was the first time in many weeks of excitation and disappoihat his desires were finally stilled. This delay led to a new experience: he found a panion on that sed day in the village, a lanky, daring fellow named Viktor, who looked half like a priest and half like a highway robber.
Viktreeted him with scraps of Latin, claiming to be a traveling student, although he was long past his student years. He wore a pointed beard and treated Goldmund with a certaiiness and highway humor that quickly won the younger man.
To Goldmunds questions, where he had studied and where he was headed, this strange fellow replied: "By my destitute soul, I have visited enough places of high learning. Ive been to Cologne and to Paris, and few scholars have expressed deeper thoughts oaphysics of liverwurst than I in my dissertation at Leyden. Sihen, amicus, I, poor bastard that I am, have crossed and recrossed the German Empire in all dires, my dear soul tortured by immeasurable hunger and thirst. Viktor, the peasant terror, they call me. My profession is teag Latin to young wives and trig sausages out of eys and into my belly. My goal is the bed of the mayors wife, and if the crows dont chew me up beforehand, Ill hardly be able to avoid the obligation of dedig myself to the tiresome profession of archbishop. It is better, my dear young colleague, to live from hand to mouth thaher way round, and, after all, a roasted hare has never felt better than in my humble stomach. The king of Bohemia is my brother, and our father in heaven feeds him as he does me, although he insists that I lend him a hand, and the day before yesterday this father, hardhearted as fathers are, tried to misuse me in order to save the life of a half-starved wolf. If I hadnt killed the beast, you, my dear colleague, would not have the honor of making my fasating acquaintance. In saecula sae, amen."
Goldmund was still unfamiliar with the gallows humor and wayfaring Latin of this wanderer. He felt a bit scared of the lanky, bristly rascal and the rasping laughter with which he applauded his own jokes, yet there was something about this hard-boiled vagrant that did please him, and he readily let himself be persuaded to tihe journey with him, because, whether the vanquished wolf was boasting or the truth, two were indisputably strohan one and had less to fear. But before tinuing the journey, brother Viktor wao speak a bit of Latin to the people, as he called it, and installed himself in the house of one of the poorer peasants. He did not follow the practiund had so far applied on the road, wherever he had been the guest of a farmhouse or a village; Viktor went from hut to hut, chatted with every woman, stuck his o every stable and kit, and did not seem willing to leave before each house had paid him a toll and a tribute. He told the peasants about the war in Italy and sang, beside their hearths, the song of the battle of Pavia. He reended remedies for arthritis and loose teeth to the grandmothers; he seemed to know everything, to have been everywhere. He stuffed his shirt above the belt full to bursting with the pieces of bread, nuts, and dried pears the peasants had given him. With surprise Goldmund watched him wage his campaign, listeo him nhten, now flatter the people, boast and win their admiration, speak broken Latin and play the scholar, and the moment impress them with brash, colorful thieves slang, saw how, in the middle of a tale or learalk his sharp, watchful eyes recorded every face, every table drawer that ulled open, every dish, every loaf of bread. He saw that this was a seasoned adventurer who had been exposed to all walks of life, who had seen and lived through much, who had starved a good deal, and shivered, and grown shrewd and impudent iter struggle for a meager, dangerous existence. So this was what became of people who led a wanderers life for a long time! Would he, too, be like that one day?
The m, as they moved on, for the first time Goldmund had a taste of walking in pany. For three days they were on the road together, and Goldmund found this and that to learn from Viktor. Applying everything to the three basieeds of the homeless—skirtih, finding a place for the night, and a source of food—had bee an instinct with Viktor. He had learned much during the many years of roaming the world. The proximity of human habitation by almost invisible signs, even in winter; at night, to i every nook and y in forest or field as a potential resting or sleeping place; to sense instantly, upoering a room, the degree of prosperity or misery of the owner, as well as the degree of his goodheartedness, or his curiosity, or fear—these were tricks which Viktor had long since mastered. He told his young panion many instructive things. Onund replied that he would not like to appro?９9lib?ach people from such a purposeful point of view and that, although he was unfamiliar with all these tricks, he had only rarely been refused hospitality upon his friendly request. Lanky Viktor laughed and said good-humoredly: "Well sure, little Goldmund, you may not have to, youre so young and pretty, you look so i, your face is a good reendation. The women like you and the men think: Oh Lord, hes harmless, he wouldnt hurt a fly. But look here, little brother, a mas older, the baby face grows a beard and wrinkles, your pants wear out and before you know it you are an ugly, unwele guest, and instead of youth and innoothing but hunger is staring out of your eyes. At that point youve got to be hard, youve got to have learned a few things about the world; or else youll soon find yourself lying on the dung heap and the dogsll e and pee on you. But I dont think that youll be running around for too long anyhow, your hands are too delicate and your curls too pretty, youll crawl back to where life is easier, into a nice warm jugal bed ood fat cloister or some beautifully heated writing room. And your clothes are so fine, you could be taken for a squire."
Still laughing, he ran his hands oldmunds clothes. Goldmund could feel these hands grope and search along every seam and pocket; he drew bad thought of his gold piece. He told of his stay at the knights house, that he had earned his fine clothes by writing Latin. Viktor wao know why he had left such a warm in the middle of winter, and Goldmund, who was not aced to lying, told him a little about the knights two daughters. This led to their first quarrel. Viktor thought Goldmund an inparable fool for having run off ahe castle and the ladies to the care of the good Lord. That situation had to be remedied, hed see to that. Theyd visit the castle; of coldmund could not be seen there, but he should leave that to him. Goldmund was to write a little letter to Lydia, saying this and that, and he, Viktor, would take it to the castle and, by the Saviours wounds, he would not e back without a little something of this and that, money and loot. And so on. Goldmund refused and finally became violent; he did not want to hear another word about the matter, nor did he tell Viktor the name of the knight or the way to the castle.
When Viktor saw him so angry, he laughed again and played the jovial panion. "Well," he said, "dont bite your teeth out! Im merely telling you that youre letting a good catch slip through our fingers, my boy. Thats not very nid brotherly of you. But you dont want to, youre a nobleman, youll return to your castle on a high horse and marry the lady! Boy, your head is bursting with nonsense! Well, its all right with me, lets walk on and freeze our toes off."
Goldmund remained grumpy and silent until evening, but sihey came her upon a house nor upon people that day, he gratefully let Viktor pick a place for the night, let him build a windbreak between two trees at the edge of the forest and make a bed with an abundance of pine brahey ate bread and cheese from Viktors full pockets. Goldmu ashamed of his anger and tried to be polite and helpful; he offered his panion his woolen jacket for the night. They agreed to take turns keeping watch against the animals, and Goldmund took over the first vigil while Viktor lay down on the pine branches. For a long time Goldmund stood quietly with his back against a fir trunk in order not to keep the other man from falling asleep. Then he felt cold and began to pace. He ran bad forth at greater and greater distances, saw the tips of firs jut sharply into the pale sky, felt the deep silence of the solemn and slightly awesome winter night, heard his warm livi beat lonely in the cold, echoless silence, walked quietly bad listeo the breathing of his sleeping panion. More powerfully than ever he was seized by a feeling of homelessness, without a house, castle, or cloister wall between him and the great fear, running naked and alohrough the inprehensible, hostile world, alone uhe og stars, among the watchful animals, the patient, steady trees.
No, he thought, he would never bee like Viktor, even if he wandered for the rest of his life. He would never be able to learn Viktors way of fighting the horror, his sly, thievish squeaking by, his loud brazes and wordy humor. Perhaps this shrewd, impudent man was right; perhaps Goldmund would never pletely bee his equal, never altogether a vagrant. Perhaps he would some day creep back behind some sort of wall. Although even then he would remain homeless and aimless, never feel really safe and protected, the world would always surround him with mysterious beauty and eeriness; again and again he would be made to listen to this silen which his heartbeat sounded anguished and fleeting. Few stars were visible, there was no wind, but high the clouds seemed to be moving.
After a long time Viktor awoke—Goldmund had not felt like waking him—and called to him. "e," he called, "your turn to cate sleep, or youll be no good tomorrow."
Goldmund obeyed; he stretched out on the pine bed and closed his eyes. He was extremely tired but did not fall asleep. His thoughts kept him awake, and something else besides thoughts, a feeling he did not admit to himself, an uneasiness and distrust that had to do with his panion. It was inceivable to him now that he had told this crude, loud-laughing man, this jester and brazen beggar, about Lydia. He was angry with him and with himself and wondered how he could find a way and an opportunity to get rid of him.
After an hour or so, Viktor bent over him and again began feeling his pockets and seams; Goldmund froze with rage. He did not move, he merely opened his eyes and said disdainfully: "Go away, I have nothing worth stealing."
His words shocked the thief; he grabbed Goldmund by the throat and squeezed. Goldmund fought bad tried to get up, but Viktor pressed harder, kneeling on his chest. Goldmund could hardly breathe. Violently he writhed and jerked with his whole body, and when he could not free himself, the fear of death shot through him and made his mind sharp and lucid. He mao slip one hand in his pocket, pull out his small hunting knife, and while the other man tirangling him he thrust the knife several times into the body that was kneeling on him. After a moment, Viktors hands let go; there was air again and Goldmund breathed it deeply, wildly, sav his rescued life. He tried to sit up; limp and soft, his lanky panion sank into a heap on top of him with a ghastly sigh. His blood ran oldmunds face. Only now was he able to sit up. In the gray shimmer of the night he saw the long man lying in a huddle; he reached out to him and touched only blood. He lifted the mans head; it fell back, heavy and soft like a bag. Blood spilled from his chest and neck; from his mouth li<s>藏书网</s>fe ran out in delirious, weakening sighs.
"Now I have murdered a man," thought Goldmund. Again and agaihought it, as he k over the dying man and saw pallor spread over his face. "Dear Mother of God, I have killed a man," he heard himself say.
Suddenly he could not bear to stay a moment longer. He picked up his knife, wiped it across the woole which the other man was wearing, which Lydias hands had knitted for her beloved; he slipped the knife bato its woodeh and into his pocket, jumped up and ran away as fast as he could.
The death of the cheerful wayfarer lay heavy on his soul; shuddering, as the day grew light he washed away in the snow the blood he had spilled; and then he wandered about for another day and anht, aimless and anguished. Finally his bodys needs shocked him out of his fear-filled repentance.
Lost in the deserted, snow-covered landscape, without shelter, without a path, without food and almost without sleep, he fell into a bottomless despair. Hunger cried in his belly like a wild beast; several times exhaustion overcame him in the middle of a field. He closed his eyes and thought that his end had e, wished only to fall asleep, to die in the snow. But again and again something forced him ba his feet. Desperately, greedily he ran for his life, delighted and intoxicated in the midst of bitter want by this insane, savage strength of will not to die, by this monstrous force of the naked drive to live. With frost-blue hands he picked tiny, dried-up berries off the snow-covered juniper bushes and chewed the brittle, bitter stuff, together with pine needles. The taste was exgly sharp; he devoured handfuls of snow against his thirst. Breathless, blowing into his stiff hands, he sat on top of the hill for a brief rest. Avidly he looked about: nothing but heath and forest, no trace of a human being. A few crows circled above him; he looked at them angrily. No, they were not going to feed on him, not as long as there was an ounce of strength left in his legs, a spark of warmth in his blood. He got up and resumed his merciless race with death. He ran on and on, in a fever of exhaustion and ultimate effort. Strahoughts took hold of him; he held mad versations with himself, now silent, now loud. He spoke to Viktor, whom he had stabbed to death. Harshly and ironically he spoke to him: "Well, my shrewd brother, how is it with you? Is the moon shining through your bowels, old fellow? Are the foxes pulling your ears? You killed a wolf, you say? Did you bite him through the throat, or tear off his tail, or what? You wao steal my gold piece, you old guzzler! But little Goldmouth surprised you, didnt he, old friend, he tickled you in the ribs! And all the while you still had bags full of bread and sausage and cheese, you stuffed pig!" He coughed and barked mockeries; he insulted the dead mariumphed over him, he jeered at him because he had let himself be slaughtered, the fool, the stupid braggart!
But after a while his thoughts and words turned away from lanky Viktor. He saw Julie walking ahead of him, beautiful little Julie, as she had left him that night; he called tless endearments to her, tried to seduce her with delirious, shameless cajoleries, to make her e to him, to make her drop her nightgown, to ride up to heaven with him during this last hour before death, for a short moment before his miserable end. He implored and anded her high little breasts, her legs, the blond kinky hair under her arms.
Trotting through the barren, snow-covered heath with stiff, stumbling legs, drunk with misery, triumphant with the flickering desire to live, he began to whisper. Now it was Narcissus to whom he spoke, to whom he unicated his ret revelations, insights, and ironies.
"Are you scared, Narcissus," he said to him, "are you shuddering, did you notiething? Yes, my respected friend, the world is full of death, full of death. Death sits on every feands behind every tree. Building walls and dormitories and chapels and churches wont keep death out; death looks in through the window, laughing, knowing every one of you. In the middle of the night you hear laughter under your window and someone calls your name. Go ahead, sing your psalms, bury dles at the altar, say your evening prayers and your m prayers, gather herbs in your laboratory, collect books in your libraries. Are you fasting, dear friend? Are you depriving yourself of sleep? Hell lend you a hand, our old friend the Reaper, hell strip you to the bones. Run, dear friend, run as fast as you , death is giving a party in the fields, run ahat your boay together, theyre trying to escape, they dont want to stay with us. Oh, our poor bones, our poor throat and belly, our poor little scraps of brains under our skulls! It all wants to bee free, it all wants to go to the devil, the crows are sitting irees, those black-frocked priests."
He had long since lost all sense of dire; he didnt know where he was running, what he was saying, whether he was lying or standing. He stumbled over bushes, ran into trees; falling, he groped for snow and thorns. But the drive was strong in him. Again and again it pulled him forward, spurred his blind flight. When he collapsed for the last time, it was in the same little village in which he had met the wayfaring charlatan a few days earlier, where he had held the torch during the night for the woman who was giving birth. There he lay and people came running and stood about him and talked, yet he did not hear them. The woman whose love he had enjoyed earlier reized him; she was shocked by the way he looked, and took pity. Let her husband scold her; she dragged the half-dead Goldmund into the stable.
It was not long before he was ba his feet. The warmth of the stable, sleep, and the goats milk the woman gave him to drink revived him a him recover his strength; but all ret events had been pushed ba his mind as though much time had passed sihey happened. His journey with Viktor, the cold, anguished winter night uhe pihe dreadful struggle on the bed of boughs, his panions horrible death, the days and nights lost and cold and hungry—it had all bee the past. He had almost fotten it; although it was not wiped out, it had been lived through and was nearly over. Something remained, something inexpressibly horrible but also precious, something drowned a unfettable, an experience, a taste oongue, a ring around the heart. Ihan two years he had learned all the joys and sorrows of homeless life: loneliness, freedom, the sounds of forests as, wandering, faithless loving, bitter deathly want. For days he had been the guest of the summery fields, of the forest, of the snoent days in fear of death, close to death. Fightih had beero emotion of all, the stra, knowing how small and miserable and threatened one was, a feeling this beautiful, terrifying force, this tenacity of life inside one during the last desperate struggle. It echoed, it remaiched in his heart, as did the gestures and expressions of ecstasy that so much resembled the gestures and expressions of birth-giving and dying. He remembered how the woman had screamed that night in childbirth, dist her face; how Viktor had collapsed, how quietly and quickly his blood had run out! Oh, and how he himself had felt death snooping around him on hungry days, and how cold he had been, how cold! And how he had fought, how he had struck death in the face, with what mortal fear, what grim ecstasy he had defended himself! There was nothing more to be lived th<mark></mark>rough, it seemed to him. Perhaps he could talk about it with Narcissus, but with no one else.
When Goldmund first came to his senses on his bed of straw iable, he missed the gold pie his pocket. Had he lost it during the terrible, half-unscious stumbling march during those final days of hunger? He thought about it for a long time. He had been fond of the gold piece; he did not want to think it lost. Money mebbr></abbr>ant little to him; he hardly ks value. But this gold piece had bee important to him for two reasons. It was the only gift from Lydia that was left him, sihe woole was lying in the forest with Viktor, soaked in Viktors blood. And then, keeping the gold had been the reason for defending himself against Viktor; he had murdered Viktor because of it. If the gold piece was lost, the whole experience of that ghastly night would be useless, would have no value. After much thinking about it, he fided in the peasant woman.
"Christine," he whispered to her, "I had a gold pie my pocket, and now its no lohere."
"Oh, so you noticed?" she asked with a loving smile that was both sly and clever. It delighted him so much that he put his arm around her in spite of his weakness.
"What a strange boy you are," she said tenderly. "So intelligent and refined, a so stupid. Does one run around the world with a loose gold pie ones open pocket? Oh, you childish boy, you darling fool! I found yold piece as soon as I laid you down oraw."
"You did? Where is it?"
"Find it," she laughed a him search for quite a while before she showed him the spot in his jacket where she had sewed it. She added good motherly advice too, which he quickly fot, but he never fot her loving care and the sly-kind look in her peasant face, aried hard to show her his gratitude. Soon he was able to walk again and eager to move on, but she held him back because on that day the moon was ging and the weather would be turning milder the . And so it was. By the time he left, the snow lay soiled and gray, the air was heavy with wetness. High up, one could hear the spring winds groan.
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