百度搜索 Narcissus and Goldmund 天涯 或 Narcissus and Goldmund 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.
Before summer had wilted pletely, life i came to an end in a way they had not imagined. One day Goldmund was roaming about the area with a slingshot, hoping to wing a partridge or some other fowl; their food had grown rather scarce. Lene was not far away, gathering berries, and from time to time hed pass near her and see her head, her brown neck rising out of her linen shirt, or hear her sing. Once he stole a few of her berries; then he wandered off and lost sight of her for a while. He thought about her, half tenderly, half annoyed, because she had agaiioned autumn and the future. She said that she thought she regnant and she could not let him go off again. Now it will soon be over, he thought. Soon Ill have had enough and wander on alone. Ill leave Robert, too. Ill try to get back to the big city when the cold begins, to Master Niklaus. Ill spend the wihere a spring Ill buy myself a new pair of shoes and walk and walk until I reach our cloister in Mariabronn and say hello to Narcissus. It must be ten years since I last saw him, and I must see him again, if only for a day or two.An unfamiliar sound roused him from his thoughts, and suddenly he realized that all his thoughts and desires were already far away from here. He listened ily. The sound of fear repeated itself; he thought he reized Lenes void followed it, irritated that she was calling him. Soon he was close enough—yes, it was Lenes voice. She was calling his name as though i distress. He ran faster, still somewhat annoyed, but pity and waihe upper hand as her screaming tinued. When he was finally able to see her, she was kneeling in the heather, her blouse pletely torn, screaming.. and wrestling with a man who was trying to rape her. Goldmund ran forward with long leaps. All his pent-up anger, his restlessness, his sorrow broke out in a howling rage against the unknown attacker. He surprised the man as he tried to pio the ground. Her naked breasts were bleeding, and avidly the stranger held her in his grip. Goldmund threw himself upon him, his furious fingers grabbing the mans throat. It felt thin and stringy, covered with a woolly beard. With glee Goldmund pressed the throat until the ma go of the girl and hung limply between his hands; still throttling him, Goldmund dragged the exhausted, half-dead man along the ground to a few gray ribs of rock protruding from the earth. He raised the defeated man, heavy though he was, twice, three times in the air and smashed his head against the sharp-edged rocks, broke his neck, and threw the body down. His anger was still not fully vented; he would have liked to mahe man further.
Radiant, Le and watched. Her breasts were bleeding; she was still trembling all over and panting, but she soon gathered herself together. With a forlorn look of lust and admiratioched her powerful lover dragging the intruder through the heather, throttling him, breaking his neck, and throwing his corpse down. Like a dead snake, limp and distorted, the body lay on the ground, the gray face with u beard and thinning hair falling pitifully to one side. Triumphant Le up and fell against Goldmunds heart, but suddenly she turned pale. Fright was still in her; she felt sick. Exhausted, she sank into the blueberry bushes. But soon she was able to walk to the hut with Goldmund. He washed her breasts; one was scratched and the other bore a bite wound from the marauders teeth.
The adventure excited Robert enormously. Hotly he asked for details of the bat. "You broke his neck, you say? Magnifit! Goldmund, you are a terrifying man."
But Goldmund did not feel like talking about it any more; he had cooled off. As he walked away from the dead man, poor boasting Viktor had e to his mind. This was the sed person who had died at his hand. In order to shut Robert up, he said: "Now you might do something too; go over a rid of the corpse. If its too difficult to dig a hole for it, then drag it over to the reeds, or else cover it up with stones ah." But Robert turned down the proposal. He wanted no erce with corpses; you could never be sure they werent ied with the plague.
Lene was lying down. The bite in her breast hurt, but soon she felt better, got up again, made a fire and cooked the evening milk; she was cheerful, but Goldmu her to bed early. She obeyed like a lamb, full of admiration for him. Goldmund was somber and taciturn; Robert realized it a him alone. Much later Goldmuo bed. Listening, he bent over Lene. She was asleep. He was restless; he kept thinking of Viktor, felt anguish and the urge to move on; playing house had e to an end. Ohing made him particularly pensive. He had caught Lenes look while he bashed the man to death and tossed him down. A strange look. He khat he would never fet it: pride and triumph had radiated from her wide, horrified, delighted eyes, a deep passionate desire to participate in the revenge and to kill. He had never seen anything like it in a womans face, and had never imagined such a look. Had it not been for that look, he thought, he might have fotten Lenes fae day, after a number of years. It had made her peasant-girl face large, beautiful, and horrible. For months his eyes had not experienced anything that made him quiver with the wish: "One ought to draw that!" That look had caused this wish to quiver through him, and a kind of terror.
He could not sleep, and finally he got up and we>99ｌｉb?</a>nt outside. It was cool, and a light wind played in the birches. He paced in the dark, sat down on a stone, drowned in thoughts and deep sadness. He felt sorry for Viktor and for the man he had killed today. He regretted the lost innoce, the lost childlike quality of his soul. Had he gone away from the cloister, left Narcissus, offended Master Niklaus and renounced beautiful Lisbeth merely to camp in the heath, track stray cattle, and kill that poor fellow back there on those stones? Did all this make sense? Was it worth experieng? His heart grew tight with meaninglessness and self-pt. He let himself sink down and stared into the pale night clouds, and as he stared, his thoughts stopped; he didnt know whether he was looking into the sky or into the drab world inside him. Suddenly, just as he was falling asleep oone, a large pale face appeared like far-away lightning in the drifting clouds, the mother-face. It looked heavy and veiled, but suddenly its eyes opened wide, large eyes full of lust and murder. Goldmund slept until the dew fell on him.
The day Lene was ill. They made her stay in bed, for there were many things to be done: in the m Robert had seen two sheep in the small forest, but they had run from him. He called Goldmund, and more than half the day they hunted until they caught one of the sheep; they came back exhausted. Le very sick. Goldmund examined her and found plague boils. He kept it secret, but Robert became suspicious when he heard that Lene had still not recovered. He would not stay i. Hed find a sleeping place outside, he said, aake the goat along too: why let it get ied.
"Go to hell," Goldmund yelled at him in fury. "I dont want to see you ever again." He grabbed the goat and pulled her to his side of the juniper partition. Robert disappeared without a word, without the goat. He was sick with fear: of the plague, of Goldmund, of loneliness and the night. He lay down close to the hut.
Goldmund said to Lene: "Ill stay with you, dont worry. Youll get well again."
She shook her head.
"Be careful, love. Dont catch this siess too; you mustnt e so close to me. Dont try so hard to e. Im going to die, and Id rather die than find your bed empty one m because you have left me. Ive thought of it every m and been afraid of it. No, Id rather die."
In the m she was extremely weak. Goldmund had given her sips of water from time to time and napped a little iween. Now, in the growing light, he reized the signs of approag death in her face, it looked so wilted and flabby. For a momeepped outside to get some air and look at the sky. A few bent red fir trunks at the edge of the forest shoh the first rays of sun; the air tasted fresh and sweet; the distant hills were still shrouded in m clouds. He walked a few steps, stretched his tired legs, and breathed deeply. The world was beautiful this m. Hed probably soon be ba the road. It was time to say goodbye.
Robert called to him from the forest. Was she better? If it wasnt the plague, hed stay. Goldmund shouldnt be angry with him; he had watched the sheep in the meantime.
"Go to hell, you and your sheep!" Goldmund shouted over to him. "Lene is dying, and I too am ied."
This was a lie; he had said it to get rid of Robert. He might be a well-meaning man, but Goldmund had had enough of him. He was too cowardly for him, too petty; he had no pla this fateful, shog se. Robert vanished and did not return. The sun shone brightly.
When Goldmund came back to Lene, she lay asleep. He too fell asleep once more, and in his dream he saw his old horse Bless and the beautiful chestnut tree at the cloister; he felt as though he were gazing back upon his lost aiful home from an infinitely remote, deserted region, and when he woke, tears were running down his blond-bearded cheeks. He heard Lene speak in a weak voice. He thought she was calling out to him and sat up on his bed, but she eaking to no one. She was stammering words, love words, curses, a little laugh, and began to heave deep sighs and swallow. Gradually she fell silent again. Goldmund got up a over her already disfigured face. With bitter curiosity his eyes retraced the lihat the scalding breath of death was so miserably dist and muddying. Dear Lene, called his heart, dear sweet child, you too already want to leave me? Have you already had enough of me?
He would have liked to run away. To wander, roam, run, breathe the air, grow tired, see new images. It would have done him good; it might perhaps have got him over his deep melancholy. But he could not leave now. It was impossible for him to leave the child to lie there alone and dying. He scarcely dared go outside every few hours for a moment to breathe fresh air. Since Lene could no longer swallow any milk, he drank it himself. There was no other food. A couple of times he led the goat outside, for it to feed and drink water and move around. Once more he stood at Lenes bed, murmured tender words to her, stared incessantly into her face, dissolate but atteo watch her dying. She was scious. Sometimes she slept, and when she woke up she only half opened her eyes; the lids were tired and limp. Around eyes and he young girl looked older and older by the hour. A rapidly wilting grandmother face sat on her fresh young neck. She spoke only rarely, said "Goldmund," or "lover," and tried to wet her swollen bluish lips with her tongue; when she did, hed give her a few drops of water. She died the following night. She died without plaining. It was only a brief quiver; than her breath stopped and a shudder ran over her. Goldmunds heart heaved mightily at the sight. He recalled the dying fish he had so often pitied in the market: they had died in just that way, with a quiver, a soft woeful shudder, that raheir skin ainguished luster and life. For a while he k beside Lehen he went out and sat down in the bushes. He remembered the goat and walked bato the hut ahe animal out. After straying a short dista lay down on the ground. He lay down beside it, his head on its flank, and slept until the day grew bright. Then he went into the hut for the last time, stepped behind the braided wall, and looked for the last time at the poor dead face. It did not feel right to him to let the dead womahere. He went out, filled his arms with dry wood and underbrush, and threw it into the hut. Theruck fire. From the hut he took nothing along but the flint. In an instant the dry juniper wall burned brightly. He stood outside and watched, his face reddened by the flames, until the whole roof was ablaze and the first beams crashed in. The goat jumped with fear and whined. He knew he ought to kill the animal and roast a piece of it a it, to have strength for his journey. But he could n himself to kill the goat; he drove it off into the heath and walked away. The smoke of the fire followed him into the forest. Never before had he felt so dissolate setting out on a journey.
Ahe things that lay in store for him were far worse than he had imagined. It began with the first farms and villages and tio grow more terrible as he walked on. The whion, the whole vast land lay under a cloud of death, under a veil of horror, fear, and darkening of the soul. And the empty houses, the farm dogs starved on their s and rotting, the scattered unburied corpses, the begging children, the death pits at the city gates were not the worst. The worst were the survivors, who seemed to have lost their eyes and souls uhe weight of horror and the fear of death. Everywhere the wanderer came upon strange, dreadful things. Parents had abaheir children, husbands their wives, when they had fallen ill. The ghouls reigned like hahey pillaged the empty houses, left corpses unburied or, following their whims, tore the dying from their beds before they had breathed their last and tossed them on the death carts. Frightened fugitives wandered about alourned primitive, avoiding all tact with other people, hounded by fear of death. Others were grouped together by aed, terrified lust for life, drinking and dang and fornig while death played the fiddle. Still others cowered outside cemeteries, u, m or cursing, with insane eyes, or sat outside their empty houses. And, worst of all, everybody looked for a scapegoat for his unbearable misery; everybody swore that he khe criminal who had brought on the disease, who had iionally caused it. Grinning, evil people, they said, were bent on spreadih by extrag the disease poison from corpses and smearing it on walls and doorknobs, by poisoning wells and cattle with it. Whoever was suspected of these horrors was lost, unless he was warned and able to flee: either the law or the mob ned him to death. The rich blamed the poor, or vice versa; both blamed the Jews, or the French, or the doctors. Iown, Goldmund watched with grim heart while the entire ghetto was burned, house after house, with the howling mob standing around, driving screaming fugitives bato the fire with swords and clubs. In the insanity of fear and bitterness, i people were murdered, burned, and tortured everywhere. Goldmund watched it all with rage and revulsion. The world seemed destroyed and poisohere seemed to be no more joy, no more innoo more love oh. Often he fled the overly violes of the desperate dancers. Everywhere he heard the fiddle of death; he soon lears sound. Often he participated in mad ies, played the lute or dahrough feverish nights in the glow of peat torches.
He was not afraid. He had first tasted the fear of death during that winter night uhe pines when Viktors fingers clutched at his throat, and later in the cold and hunger of many a hard day. That had been a death whie could fight, against whie could defend oneself, and he had defended himself, with trembling hands a, with gaping stomad exhausted body, had fought, won, and escaped. But no one could fight death by plague; one had to let it rage and give in. Goldmund had given in long ago. He had no fear. It seemed as though he was no longer ied in life, since he had left Lene behind in the burning hut, since his endless jourhrough a laated by death. But enormous curiosity drove him a him awake; he was iigable, watg the reaper, listening to the song of the transitory. He did not go out of his way. Everywhere he felt the same quiet passion to participate, to walk through hell with wide-open eyes. He ate moldy bread iy houses, sang and drank at the insas, plucked the fast-wilting flower of lust, looked into the fixed, druares of the women, into the fixed, stupid eyes of the drunk, into the fading eyes of the dying. He loved the desperate, feverish women, helped carry corpses in exge for a plate of soup, threw earth over naked bodies for two pennies. It had grown dark and wild in the world. Death howled its song, and Goldmund heard it with burning passion.
His goal was Master Niklauss city; thats where the voice of his heart drew him. The road was long and lined with decay, wilting, and dying. Sadly he journeyed on, intoxicated by the song of death, open to the loudly screaming misery of the world, sad, a glowing, with eager senses.
In a cloister he came upon a retly painted fresco. He had to look at it for a long time. A dance of death had been painted on a wall: pale boh, dang people out of life, king and bishop, abbot and earl, knight, doctor, peasant, la—everyoook along with him, while skeleton musis played on hollow bones. Goldmunds curious eyes drank in the painting. An unknown colleague had applied the lessooo had learned from the Black Death, and was screaming the bitter lesson of the iable end shrilly into everyones ear. It was a good picture, and a good sermon; this unknown colleague had seen and paihe subject rather well. A bony, ghastly echo rose from his wild picture. A was not what Goldmund had seen and experienced. It was the obligation to die that ainted here, the stern and merciless end. But Goldmund would have preferred another picture. In him the wild song of death had a pletely different sound, not bony and severe, but sweet rather, aive, motherly, ait to e home. Wherever the hand of death reached into life, the sound was not only shrill and warlike but also deep and loving, autumnal, satiated, the little lamp of life glowed brighter, more intensely at the approach of death. To others death might be a warrior, a judge or hangman, a stern father. To him death was also a mother and a mistress; its call was a mating call, its touch a shudder of love. After looking at the painted death dance, Goldmu drawn to the master and to his craft with renewed force. But everywhere there were delays, new sights and experiences. With quivering nostrils he breathed the air of death. Everywhere pity or curiosity claimed ara hour from him, ara day. For three days he had a small bawling peasant boy with him. For hours he carried him on his back, a half-starved midget of five or six who caused him much trouble and whom he didnt know how to get rid of. Finally a peat diggers wife took the boy in. Her husband had died, and she wao have a little life in the house again. For days a masterless dog apanied him, ate out of his hand, warmed him while he slept, but one m it too strayed off. Goldmund was sorry. He had bee aced to speaking to the dog; for hours hed have thoughtful versations with the animal about the evil in people, the existence of God, about art, about the breasts and hips of a knights very young daughter named Julie, whom he had known in his youth. Goldmund had naturally grown a trifle mad during his death journey: everyohin the plague region was a trifle mad, and many were pletely insane. Perhaps young Rebekka was also a trifle insane—a beautiful dark girl with burning eyes, with whom he had spent two days.
He found her outside a small town, croug in the fields beside a heap of rubble, sobbing, beating her face, tearing her black hair. The hair stirred his pity. It was extremely beautiful, and he caught her furious hands ahem fast and talked to her, noting that her fad figure were also of great beauty. She was m her father, who had been buro ash with fourteen other Jews by order of the towns authorities. She had been able to flee but had now returned in desperation and was acg <s>.</s>herself for not having been burned with the others. Patiently he held on to her twisting hands and talked tently, murmured sympathetically, and protectively offered his help. She asked him to help her bury her father. They gathered all the bones from the still warm ashes, carried them into a hiding place farther away in the field, and covered them with earth. In the meantime evening had fallen and Goldmund looked for a place to sleep. In a small oak forest he arranged a bed for the girl and promised to watch over her and listeo her moan and sob after she lay down; finally she fell asleep. Theoo, slept a little, and in the m he began his courtship. He told her that she could not stay alone like this, she might be reized as a Jew and killed, or depraved wayfarers might misuse her, and the forest was full of wolves and gypsies. If he took her along, however, and protected her against wolf and man—because he felt sorry for her and was very fond of her, because he had eyes in his head and knew what beauty was—he would never allow her sweet intelligent eyelids and graceful shoulders to be devoured by animals or bur the stake. Dark-faced, she listeo him, jumped up, and ran off. He had to chase after her and catch her before he could tinue.
"Rebekka," he said, "t you see that I dont mean you any harm? Youre sad, youre thinking of your father, you dont want to hear about lht now. But tomorrow or the day after, or later, Ill ask you again. Until then Ill protect you and bring you food and I wont touch you. Be sad as long as you must. You shall be able to be sad with me, or happy. You shall always do only what brings you joy."
But his words were spoken to the wind. She didnt want to do anything that brought joy, she said bitterly and angrily. She wao do what brought pain. Never again was she going to think of anything resembling joy, and the soohe wolf ate her, the better. He should go now, there was nothing he could do, they had already talked too much.
"You," he said, "dont you see that death is everywhere, that people are dying in every house and every town, that everything is full of misery. The fury of those stupid people who burned your father is nothing but misery; it is the result of too much suffering. Look, sooh will get us too, and well rot in the field and the moles will play dice with our bones. Let us live a little before it es to that and be sweet to each other. Oh, it would be such a pity for your white ned small feet! Dear beautiful girl, do e with me. I wont touch you. I only want to see you and take care of you."
He begged for a long time. Suddenly he uood how useless it was to court her with words and arguments. He fell silent and looked at her sadly. Her pral face was taut with reje.
"Thats how you are," she finally said in a voice full of hatred and pt. "Thats how you Christians are! First you help a daughter bury her father whom your people have murdered and whose last fingernail was worth more than all of you together, and as soon as that is dohe daughter must belong to you and go off wh with you. Thats how you are. At first I thought perhaps you were a good man. But how could you be! Oh, you are pigs!"
As she spoke, Goldmund saw glowing in her eyes, behind the hatred, something that touched him and shamed him a deep to his heart. He saw death in her eyes, not the pulsion to die but the wish to die, the wish to be allowed to die, wordless obedience, abandoo the call of the universal mother.
"Rebekka," he said softly, "perhaps you are right. I am not a good person, although I meant well with you. Five me. Only now have I uood you."
He raised his cap and bowed to her deeply as though to a tess, and walked off with heavy heart; he had to let her perish. For a long time he was sad a like speaking to no one. As little as they resembled each other, that proud Jewish girl did in some ways remind him of Lydia, the knights daughter. To love suen brought suffering. But for a while it seemed to him as though he had never loved any other women, only these two, poor fearful Lydia and the shy, bitter Rebekka.
He thought of the black glowing girl for many days and dreamed many nights of the slender-burniy of her body that had beeio joy and fl a was resigo dying. Oh, that those lips and breasts should fall prey to the "pigs" and rot in the fields! Was there no power ic to save such precious flowers? Yes, there was such a magic; they tio live in his soul and would be fashioned and preserved by him. With terror and delight he realized that his soul was filled with images, that this long jourhrough the land of death had filled him with ideas for drawings and statues. Oh, how this fullness strai him, how he loo e to himself quietly, to let them pour out, to vert them to lasting images! He pushed on, mlowing and eager, his eyes still open and his seill curious, but now filled with a violent longing for paper and crayon, for clay and wood, for workroom and work.
Summer was over. Many people assumed that the epidemic would cease with autumn or the beginning of winter. It was an autumn without gaiety. Goldmund passed regions in which there was no oo harvest the fruit. It fell off the trees and rotted in the grass. At other places savage hordes from the cities came to pillage, brutally robbing and squandering.
Slowly Goldmund neared his goal, and during the last stretch he was sometimes seized with the fear that he might be caught by the plague before he got there and die in some stable. He no longer wao die, not before tasting the joy of standing once more in a workshop and giving himself up to creation. For the first time in his life the world was too wide for him, the German Empire toe. No pretty town could entice him to stay; no pretty peasant girl retain him lohan a night.
At one point he passed a church. On its portal stood many stone figures in deep niches supported by oral small ns: very old figures of angels, disciples, and martyrs, like those he had seen many times. In his cloister in Mariabronn there had been a number of figures like this. Before, as an adolest, he had looked at them, but without passion; they had seemed beautiful and digo him, but a little too solemn and stiff and old-fashioned. Later, after he had been moved and delighted by Master Niklauss sweet sad madonna at the end of his first long journey, he had found these old solemn stone figures too heavy and rigid and fn. He had looked at them with a certain pt and had found his masters ype of art much more lively, intense, and animated. Now, returning from a world full of images, his soul marke<var>?</var>d by the scars and tracks of violent adventures and experiences, filled with painful nostalgia for sciousness and new creation, he was suddenly touched with extraordinary power by these strict, a figures. Reverently he stood before the venerable images, in which the heart of long-past days tio live on, in which, still after turies, the fears and delights of long-since-vanished geions, frozen to stone, offered resistao the passage of time. A feeling of admiration rose with a humble shudder in his unwieldy heart, and of horror at his wasted, burned-up life. He did what he had not done for an infinitely long time. He walked up to a fessional to fess and be punished.
There were a number of fessionals in the church, but no priests. They had died, or they lay in the hospital, or they had fled for fear of ination. The church was empty. Goldmunds steps echoed hollow uhe stone vault. He k before ay fessional, closed his eyes, and whispered into the grill: "Dear God, see what has bee of me. I have returned from the world. Ive bee an evil, useless man. I have squandered my youth like a spendthrift and little remains. I have killed, I have stolen, I have whored, I have gone idle and have eaten the bread of others. Dear Lord, why did you create us thus, why do you lead us along such roads? Are we not your children? Did your son not die for us? Are there no saints and ao guide us? Or are they all pretty, ied stories that we tell to children, at which priests themselves laugh? I have e to doubt you, Lord. You have ill-created the world; you are keeping it in bad order. I have seen houses and streets littered with corpses. I have seen the rich barricade themselves in their houses or flee, and the poor let their brothers lie unburied, each suspicious of the other. They slaughter the Jews like cattle; I have seen many i people suffer and die, and many a wicked man swim in prosperity. Have you pletely fotten and abandoned us, are you pletely disgusted with your creation, do you want us all to perish?"
With a sigh he stepped out through the high portal and saw the silent statues, angels and saints stand haggard and tall in their stiffly folded gowns, immobile, inaccessible, superhuman a created by the hand and mind of man. Strid deaf they stood there in their narrow niches, inaccessible to any request or question. Ahey were an infinite solation, a triumphant victory over death and despair as they stood in their dignity ay, surviving one dying geion of men after another. Ah, poor beautiful Reb<cite></cite>ekka should be up there too, and poor Lene who had burned with their hut, and graceful Lydia, and Master Niklaus! One day they would stand up there and endure forever. He would put them there. These figures that meant love and torture to him today, fear and passion, would stand before later geions, nameless, without history, silent symbols of human life.
百度搜索 Narcissus and Goldmund 天涯 或 Narcissus and Goldmund 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.