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Again ice was floating down the rivers, and a st of violets rose from uhe rotten leaves. Goldmund walked through the colorful seasons: his insatiable eyes drank in the forests, the mountains, the clouds; he wandered from farm to farm, from village to village, from woman to woman. Many a cool evening hed sit anguished, with ag heart, under a lighted window; from its rosy shimmer radiated all that was happiness and home and pea earth, all that was lovely and unreachable for him. Everythied itself over and over, all the things he thought he had e to know so well; everythiurned, a different each time: the long walks across field ah, or along stony roads, sleeping in the summer forest, strolls through villages, trailing after bands of young girls ing home, hand in hand, from turning over the hay athering hops; the first shudder of autumn, the first angry frosts—everything came back: owice, endlessly the colorful ribbon rolled past his eyes.Much rain, muow had fallen on Goldmund. One day he climbed uphill through a sparse beech forest already light green with buds. From the mountain ridge he saw a new landscape lying at his feet; it gladdened his eyes and a flood of expectations, desires, and hopes gushed through his heart. For several days he had known that he was close to this region; he had been looking forward to it. Now, during this noon hour, it came as a surprise and his first visual impression firmed and strengthened his expectations. Through gray trunks and softly swaying branches he looked down into a valley lying green and brown, furrowed by a wide river that shimmered like blue glass. He felt that his pathless roaming through landscapes of heath, forest, and solitude, with an isolated farm here and there, or a shabby village, was over for a long time. Dowhe river flowed, and along the river ran one of the most beautiful and famous roads in the empire. A rid bountiful land lay there, barges and boats sailed there, the road led to beautiful villages, castles, cloisters, and prosperous towns, and anyone who so desired could travel along that road for days and weeks and not fear that it would suddenly peter out in a forest or in humid reeds like those miserable peasant paths. Something new lay ahead and he was looking forward to it.
That evening he came to a beautiful village, wedged between the river and red vineyards along the wide highway. The pretty woodwork on the gabled houses ainted red; there were arched entranceways and narrow alleys full of stoeps. A fe threw a red fiery glow across the street; he heard the clear ringingbbr></abbr> of the anvil. Goldmund snooped about in every alley and er, s cellar doors for the smell of wine barrels and along the riverbank for the cool fish odor of the water; he ied churd cemetery and did not fet to look food barn for the night. But first he wao try his luck at the priests house and ask for food. A plump, red-headed priest asked him questions and Goldmund told him the story of his life, with a few omissions and additions. Thereupon he was given a friendly reception and spent the evening in long versation ood food and wihe day he tinued his journey on the highway, along the river. He saw barges and rafts float by; he passed horse carts, and some of them gave him a ride for a stretch of the way. The spring days sped by, filled with color: villages and small towns received him; women smiled behind garden fences, k in the browh, planting bulbs; young girls sang in the village streets in the evening.
A young servant girl in a mill pleased him so much he spent two days in the area and tried to get to know her. She liked to laugh and chat with him; he thought he would have been happy to work at the mill and stay there forever. He sat with the fishermen; he helped the carters feed and b their horses, was given bread a and a ride in exge. The sociable world of travelers did him good after the long loneliness; with a good meal every day, after so much hunger, he gladly let himself be carried along by the joyous wave. It swept him on, and the closer he got to the bishops city, the more crowded and joyful the highway became.
In one village he took an evening stroll along the river, with the trees already in leaf. The water ran quietly, mightily; the current sighed and gushed uhe ing roots of trees; the moon came up over the hill, casting light on the river and shadows uhe trees. He came upon a girl who was sitting there, weeping: she had quarreled with her lover; he had walked off a her. Goldmund sat down beside her and listeo her sorrowful tale; he caressed her hand, told her about the forest and the deer, forted her a little, made her laugh a little, and she permitted him a kiss. But at that point her young man came back looking for her; he had calmed down ated the quarrel. When he found Goldmund sitting beside her, he threw himself upon him and hammered at him with both fists. Goldmund had difficulty defending himself, but finally he fought the fellow off, and watched him run cursing toward the village; the girl had long since fled. But Goldmund did not trust the truce; he renounced his bed for the night and wandered on half the night in the moonlight, through a silent silver world, extremely tent, glad of his strong legs, until the dew washed the white dust from his shoes and he suddenly felt tired, lay down uhe ree, and fell asleep. It was broad daylight when he was awakened by something tig his face. He brushed i<q></q>t aside with a sleepy, groping hand, fell asleep again, was once more awakened by the tig; a peasant girl was standing there, looking at him, tig him with the tip of a willow switch. He stumbled to his feet. With a smile they o each other; she led him into a shed, where the sleeping was more fortable. There they lay together for a while, then she ran off and came back with a small pail of milk, still warm from the cow. He gave her a blue hair ribbon he had retly found ireet, and they kissed once more before he wandered on. Her name was Franziska; he was sorry to leave her.
That evening he found shelter in a cloister, and the m he went to mass. A thousand memories welled up in his heart; the cool stone air of the dome and the flapping of sandals in the marble corridors felt movingly familiar. After mass, when the cloister church had grown quiet, Goldmund remained on his knees. His heart was strangely moved; he had had many dreams that night. He felt the urge to unburden himself of his past, to ge his life somehow, he knew not why; perhaps it was only the memory of Mariabronn and of his pious youth that moved him. He felt the urge to fess and purify himself. Many small sins, many small vices had to be admitted, but most heavily he felt burdened by the death of Viktor, who had died by his hand. He found a father and fessed to him, especially the kabs in poor Viktors ned back. Oh, how long since he had been to fession! The number a of his sins seemed siderable to him; he was willing to do a stiff penance for them. But his fessor seemed familiar with the life of the wayfarers: he was not shocked; he listened calmly. Ear and friendly, he reprimanded and warned without speaking of damnation.
Relieved, Goldmund stood up, prayed in front of the altar as the father had ordered and was about to leave the church when a ray of sunshihrough one of the windows. His eyes followed it; in a side chapel he saw a statue that spoke to him sly and attracted him so much that he turoward it with loving eyes and looked at it with reverend deep emotion. It was a wooden madonna. Delicately, gently she leaned forward; the blue cloak hung from her narrow shoulders; she stretched out a delicate, girlish hand, and the expression of her eyes above the grieving mouth and the gracefully rounded forehead were so alive aiful, so deeply permeated with spirit that Goldmund thought he had never seen anything like it anywhere before. He could not look enough at the mouth, at the lovely angle of the ined neck. It seemed to him that he saw something standing there that he had often seen in dreams and inklings, something he had often wished for. Several times he turo go; again and agaiatue drew him back.
When he finally turo leave, the father fessor was standing behind him.
"Do you find her beautiful?" he asked in a friendly tone.
"Inexpressibly beautiful," said Goldmund.
"Thats what some people say," said the priest. "Others say that this is no mother of God, that she is muodern and worldly, that the whole thing is untrue and exaggerated. There is a great deal of troversy about it. So you like her; Im glad. Weve had her only for a year, a donation from a beor of our order. She was made by Master Niklaus."
"Master Niklaus? Who is he, where does he live? Do you know him? Tell me about him, please! What a magnifit, blessed man who create a work like that."
"I dont know much about him. He is a carver in our bishops city, a days journey from here; he has a great reputation as an artist. Artists usually are no saints, hes probably no saiher, but he certainly is a gifted, high-minded man. I have seen him a few times …"
"Oh, you have seen him! What does he look like?"
"You seem pletely fasated with him, my son. Well, go to see him then, and give him regards from Father Bonifazius."
Goldmund thanked him exuberantly. The father walked off with a smile; for a long time Goldmund stood before the mysterious statue, whose bosom seemed to heave and in whose fauch pain and sweetness were living side by side that it made his heart ache.
He left the church a ged man. His feet carried him through a pletely ged world. Sihat moment in front of the sweet saintly wooden figure, Goldmund possessed something he had not possessed before, something he had so often mocked or envied in others: a goal! He had a goal. Perhaps he would reach it; perhaps his whole, ragged existence would grow meaningful and worthwhile. This new feeling filled him with joy and fear and gave wings to his steps. The gay, beautiful highway on which he was walking was no longer what it had been the day before, a festive playground, a cozy place to be. Now it was only a road that led to the city, to the master. Impatiently he hurried on. He arrived before evening: towers rose from behind walls; he saw chiseled escuts and painted signs over the city gates, entered with poundi, hardly notig the noise and bustle ireets, the knights on their horses, the carts and carriages. her knights nor carriages, city nor bishop mattered to him. He asked the very first perso where Master Niklaus lived, and was deeply disappointed when the man didnt know who Master Niklaus was.
He came to a square surrounded by stately houses, many painted or decorated with images. Over the door of a house stood the figure of a la in robust, laughing colors. It was not as beautiful as the statue in the cloister church, but it had such a way of pushing out its calves and stig its bearded into the world that Goldmund thought this figure might have been made <samp>?</samp>by the same master. He walked into the house, k doors, climbed stairs; finally he ran into a squire in a fur-trimmed velvet coat and asked him where he might find Master Niklaus. What did he want from him, the squire asked iurn. Goldmund had difficulty holding himself back, to say merely that he had a message for him. Thereupon the squire told him the name of the street on which the master lived. By the time Goldmund had asked his way there, night had fallen. Anxious but happy, he stood outside the masters house, looking up at the windows; he almost ran up to the door. But it was already late, he was sweaty and dusty from the days march. He mastered his impatiend waited. For a long time he stood outside the house. He saw a light go on in a window, and just as he was about to leave, he saw a figure step to the window, a very beautiful blond girl with the gentle shimmer of lamplight flowing through her hair from the back.
The m, after the city had awakened and bee noisy, Goldmund washed his fad hands in the cloister where he had been a guest for the night, slapped the dust from his clothes and shoes, found his way back to the masters street and k the door of the house. A servant appeared who first refused to lead him to the master, but he mao soften the old womaance, and finally she led him into a small hall. It was a workshop and the master was standing there, a leather apron around his waist: a bearded, tall man of forty or fifty, Goldmund thought. He sed the stranger with pierg, pale blue eyes and asked curtly what he desired. Goldmund delivered Father Bonifaziuss greetings.
"Is that all?"
"Master," Goldmund said with baited breath, "I saw your madonna in the cloister there. Oh, dont give me su unfriendly look; nothing but love and veion have brought me to you. I am not a fearful man, I have lived a wanderers life, sampled forest, snow, and hunger; Im not afraid of anyone, but I am afraid of you. I have only a single gigantic desire, which fills my heart to the point of pain."
"And what desire is that?"
"To bee your apprentid learn with you."
"You are not the only young man to wish that. But I dont like apprentices, and I already have two assistants. Where do you e from and who are your parents?"
"I have no parents, I e from nowhere. I was a student in a cloister, where I learned Latin and Greek. Then I ran away, and for years I have wahe roads, until today."
"And what makes you think you should bee an image carver? Have you ever tried anything similar before? Have you any drawings?"
"Ive made many drawings, but I no longer have them. But let me tell you why I wish to learn this art. I have done a great deal of thinking and seen many faces and figures and thought about them, and some of these thoughts have tormented me and given me no peace. It has struck me how a certain shape, a certain line recurs in a persons structure, how a forehead corresponds to the knee, a shoulder to the hip, and how, deep down, it corresponds to the nature and temperament of the person who possesses that khat shoulder, that forehead, and fuses with it. And ahing has struck me: one night, as I had to hold a light for a woman who was giving birth, I saw that the greatest pain and the most inteasy have almost the same expression."
The master gave the stranger a pierg look. "Do you know what you are saying?"
"Yes, Master, it is the truth. And it was that precisely that I found expressed in your madonna, to my utter delight and sternation, that is why I have e. Oh, there is such suffering in the beautiful delicate face, and at the same time all the suffering is also pure joy, a smile. When I saw that, a fire shot through me; all my year-long thoughts and dreams seemed firmed. Suddenly they were no longer useless; I knew immediately what I had to do and where I had to go. Dear Master Niklaus, I beg you with all my heart, let me learn with you!"
Niklaus had listetentively, without making a friendlier face.
"Young man," he said, "you know surprisingly well how to speak about art, and it puzzles me that, young as you are, you have so much to say about ecstasy and pain. Id gladly chat with you about this some evening over a mug of wine. But look: to speak pleasantly and intelligently with each other is not the same as living and w together for a couple of years. This is a workshop. Work is carved here, not versation. What a man may have thought up and know how to express does not t here; here only what he make with his hands ts. You seem to mean what you say. Therefore Ill not simply send you on your way again. Well see if you do anything at all. Did you ever shape anything in clay or wax?"
Goldmund found himself thinking of a dream he had long ago in which he had modeled small clay figures that had stood up and grown into giants. But he did not mention it and said that he had ried.
"Good. Youll draw something then. There is a table; youll find paper and charcoal. Sit down and draw, take your time, you stay till noon or evening. Perhaps that will tell me what yood for. Now then, we have talked enough. Ill do my work; youll do yours."
Goldmund sat in the chair Niklaus had indicated to him, in front of the drawing table. He was in no hurry to aplish his task. First he sat, waiting and silent like an appreheudent. With curiosity and love he stared toward the master, whose back was half turned and who tio work at a small clay figure. Attentively he studied this man, whose stern, already slightly graying head and hard, though noble and animated artisans hands held such graceful magic. He looked different than Goldmund had imagined: older, more modest, soberer, much less radiant a-winning, and not in the least happy. The merciless sharpness of his probing eyes was now trated on his work. Freed from it, Goldmund miook in the masters entire figure. This mahought, might also have been a scholar, a quiet ear searcher, who has dedicated himself to a task that many predecessors have begun before him, that he will one day leave to his successors, a tenacious, long-lived never-ending work, the accumulation of the effort and dedication of many geions. At least this was what Goldmund read from the masters head: great patience, years of study and thinking, great modesty, and an awareness of the dubious value of all human uaking, but also faith in his mission. The language of his hands was something else again; there was a tradi between the hands and the head. These hands reached with firm but extremely sensitive fingers into the clay they were molding. They treated the clay like a lovers hands treat the willing mistress: lovingly, with tenderly swayiion, greedy but without distinguishiween taking and giving, filled with desire but also with piety, masterful and sure as though from the depth of a experience. Goldmund watched these blessed hands with delighted admiration. He would have liked to draw the master, had it not been for the tradi between fad hands which paralyzed him.
For about an hour he watched the steadily w artist, full of searg thoughts about the secret of this man. Then another image began to form inside him, to bee visible in front of his soul, the image of the man he knew best of all, whom he had loved deeply and greatly admired; and this image was without flaw or tradi, although it too bore many lines and recalled many struggles. It was the image of his friend Narcissus. It grew more and more tangible, became ay, a whole. The inner law of the beloved person appeared more and more clearly in his picture: the noble head shaped by the mind; the beautiful trolled mouth, tightened and ennobled by the service to the mind; the slightly sad eyes; the haggard shoulders animated with the fight for spirituality; the long neck; the delicate, distinguished hands. Not since his departure from the cloister had he seen his friend so clearly, possessed his image so pletely within him.
As though in a dream, will-less a eager, Goldmund cautiously began to draw. With loving fingers he brushed reverently over the figure that lived in his heart; he fot the master, himself, and the place at which he sat. He did not notice the light slowly wandering across the workshop, or the master looking over at him several times. Like a sacrificial ritual he aplished the task that had been given him, that his heart had given him: to gather his friends image and preserve it the way it lived in his soul today. Without thinking of it, he felt he aying back a debt, showing his gratitude.
Niklaus stepped up to the drawing table and said: "Its noon. Im going to eat; you e along. Lets see—did you draw something?"
He stepped behind Goldmund and looked at the large sheet. Then he pushed him aside and carefully took the sheet in his able hands. Goldmund had e out of his dream and was now looking at the master with anxious expectation. The master stood, holding the drawing in both hands, looking at it very carefully with his sharp stern light-blue eyes.
"Who is the man you have drawn here?" he asked after a while.
"My friend, a young monk and scholar."
"Fine. Wash your hands, theres a well in the yard. Then well go a. My assistants arent here, theyre w outside the city."
Obediently Goldmu out, found the courtyard and the well, washed his hands and would have given much to know the masters thoughts. When he came back, the master was gone; he heard him rummaging about in the adjoining room. When he reappeared, he too had washed himself and wore a beautiful cloth jacket instead of the apron; he looked solemn and imposing. He led the way, up a flight of stairs—there were small carved angels heads on the walnut banister posts—lined with old aatues, into a beautiful room with floor, walls, and ceiling of polished wood; a table had been in the window er. A young girl came running in. Goldmund knew her; it was the beautiful girl of the evening before.
"Lisbeth," the master said, &qu another plate. Ive brought a guest. He is—well, I dont even know his ."
Goldmund said his name.
"Goldmund then. Is dinner ready?"
"In a minute, Father."
She fetched a plate, ran out and soourned with the maid, who served the meal: pork with lentils and white bread. During the meal the father spoke of this and that with the girl, Goldmund sat in silee a little a very ill at ease and apprehehe girl pleased him greatly, a stately, beautiful figure, almost as tall as her father, but she sat, well-mannered and pletely inaccessible as though behind glass, and did not speak to the stranger, or look at him.
When they finished eating, the master said: "Ill rest for half an hour. You go down to the workshop or stroll around a bit outside. Afterwards well talk."
Goldmund bowed slightly a out. It had been an hour or more sihe master had seen his drawing, and he had not said a word about it. Now he had to wait another half hour! Well, there was nothing he could do about it; he waited. He did not go into the workshop; he did not want to see his drawing again just now. He went into the courtyard, sat down on the edge of the well, and watched the thread of water trig endlessly from the pipe into the deep stone dish, making tiny waves as it fell, always carrying a little air down with it, which kept rising up in white pearls. He saw his own fa the dark mirror of the well and thought that the Goldmund who was looking up at him from the water had long since ceased being the Goldmund of cloister days, or Lydias Goldmund, or even the Goldmund of the forests. He thought that he, that all men, trickled away, ging stantly, until they finally dissolved, while their artist-created images remained ungeably the same.
He thought that fear of death erhaps the root of all art, perhaps also of all things of the mind. We fear death, we shudder at lifes instability, we grieve to see the flowers wilt again and again, and the leaves fall, and in our hearts we know that we, too, are transitory and will soon disappear. When artists create pictures and thinkers search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something that lasts lohan we do. Perhaps the woman after whom the master shaped his beautiful madonna is already wilted or dead, and soooo, will be dead; others will live in his house a at his table—but his work will still be standing a hundred years from now, and longer. It will go on shimmering in the quiet cloister church, ungingly beautiful, forever smiling with the same sad, fl mouth.
He heard the master e downstairs and ran into the workshop. Master Niklaus ag; several times he looked at Goldmunds drawing; finally he walked to the window and said, in his somewhat hesitant, dry manner: "It is ary for an appreo study at least four years, and for his father to pay for the apprenticeship." He paused and Goldmund thought the master was afraid that he could not pay him. Quick as lightning, he pulled out his knife, cut the stitches around the hidden gold piece, and held it up. Niklaus watched him in surprise and broke out laughing when Goldmund handed him the .
"Ah, is that what you thought?" he laughed. "No, young man, you keep yold piece. Listen now. I told you how uild arily deals with apprentices. But I am no ordinary master, nor are you an ordinary apprentice. Usually an apprentice begins his apprenticeship at thirtee<tt></tt>n or fourteen, fifteen at the latest, and half of his learning years are spent running errands and playing the servant. But you are a grown man; acc to ye, you could long have been journeyman or master even. uild has never had a bearded apprentice. Besides, as I told you before, I dont like to keep an apprenti my house. Nor do you look like a man who lets himself be ordered about."
Goldmunds impatience was at its peak. Every new<mark>藏书网</mark> thoughtful word from the master put him oerhooks; it all seemed disgustingly b ai. Vehemently he cried: "Why do you tell me all this, if you dont want to make me your apprentice?"
Firmly the master tinued: "I have thought about your request for an hour. Now you must have the patieo listen to me. I have seen your drawing. It has faults, but it is beautiful. If it were not beautiful, I would have given you half a guilder a you on your way and fotten about you. That is all I wish to say about the drawing. I would like to help you bee an artist; perhaps that is your destiny. But youre too old to bee an apprentice. And only an apprentice who has served his time bee journeyman and master in uild. Now you know the ditions. But you shall be allowed to give it a try. If you maintain yourself in this city for a while, you may e to me and learn a few things. There will be no obligation, no tract, you leave again whenever you choose. You may break a couple of carving knives in my workshop and ruin a couple of woodblocks, and if we see that youre no wood carver, youll have to try your skill at other things. Does that satisfy you?"
Ashamed and moved, Goldmund had heard his words.
"I thank you with all my heart," he cried. "I am homeless; Ill be able to keep alive in this city as well as in the woods. I uand that you dont wish to assume responsibility for me as for a young apprentice. I sider it a great fortuo be allowed to learn from you. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for doing this for me."
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