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.
"Praised be the Lord," said the priest and placed the dlesti the table. Goldmund murmured the respoaring straight ahead.The priest said nothing. He waited and said nothing, until Goldmund grew restless and seargly raised his eyes to the man in front of him.
This man, he now saw to his fusion, was not only wearing the habit of the fathers of Mariabronn, he also wore the insignia of the office of Abbot.
And now he looked into the Abbots face. It was a bony face, firmly, clearly cut, with very thin lips. It was a face he knew. As though spellbound, Goldmund looked into this face that seemed pletely formed by mind and will. With unsteady hand he reached for the dlestick, lifted it and held it closer to the strao see his eyes. He saw them and the dlestick shook in his hand as he put it ba the table.
"Narcissus!" he whispered almost inaudibly. The cellar began to spin around him.
"Yes, Goldmund, I used to be Narcissus, but I abahat name a long time ago; youve probably fotten. Sihe day I took the vows, my name has been John."
Goldmund was shaken to the roots of his being. The whole world had ged, and the sudden collapse of his superhuman effort threateo choke him. He trembled; dizziness made his head feel like ay bladder; his stomach tracted. Behind his eyes something burned like scalding sobs. He loo sink into himself, to dissolve in tears, to faint.
But a warning rose from the depths of the memories of his youth, the mem<tt>９9ｌｉb?t>ories that the sight of Narcissus had jured up: once, as a boy, he had cried, had let himself go in front of this beautiful, strict face, these dark omnist eyes. He could never do that again. Like a ghost, Narcissus had reappeared at the stra moment of his life, probably to save his life—and now he was about to break into sobs in front of him again, or faint? No, no, no. He trolled himself. He subdued his heart, forced his stomach to be calm, willed the dizziness out of his head. He could not show any weakness now.
In an artificially trolled voice, he mao say: "You must permit me to go on calling you Narcissus."
"Do, my friend. And dont you want to shake my hand?"
Again Goldmund dominated himself. With a boyishly stubborn, slightly ironie, like the one he had occasionally taken in his student days, he forced out an answer.
"Five me, Narcissus," he said coldly and a trifle blasé. "I see that you have bee Abbot. But Im still a vagrant. And besides, our versation, as much as I desire it, wont unfortunately last very long. Because, Narcissus, Ive beeeo the gallows, and in an hour, or sooner, Ill probably be hanged. I say this only to clarify the situation for you."
Narcissuss expression did not ge. He was much amused by the boyish boasting streak in his friends attitude and at the same time touched. But he uood and keenly appreciated the pride that kept Goldmund from collapsing tearfully against his chest. He, too, had imagiheir reunion differently, but he had no obje whatsoever to this little edy. Goldmund could not have charmed his way bato his heart any faster.
"Well yes," he said, with the same pretended casualness. "But I reassure you about the gallows. Youve been pardoned. I have beeo tell you that, and to take you away with me. Because you ot remain in this city. So well have plenty of time to chat with each other. Now will you shake my hand?"
They shook hands, holding on for a long time, pressing hard and feeling deeply moved, but their words stayed brittle and playful for a while longer.
"Fine, Narcissus, lets leave this scarcely honorable retreat, and Ill join your retinue. Are you traveling baariabronn? You are. Wonderful. How? On horseback? Splendid. Then it will be a question of getting a horse for me."
"Well get a horse for you, amicus, and in two hours well be on our way. Oh, but what happeo your hands! For heavens sake, they are pletely raw and swollen, and bleeding! Oh, Goldmund, what have they doo you!"
"Never mind, Narcissus. I did that to my hands myself. They had tied me up and I had to get free. It wasnt easy. Besides, it was rather ceous of you to e in here without an escort."
"Why ceous? There was no danger."
"Oh, only the slight danger of being murdered by me. Because thats what I had plao do. They had told me a priest would e. Id have murdered him and fled in his robes. A good plan."
"You didnt want to die then? You wao fight?"
"Indeed I did. Of course I could hardly guess that the priest would be you."
"Still," Narcissus said hesitantly, "that was a rather ugly plan. Would you really have been capable of murdering a priest whod e to fess you?"
"Not you, Narcissus, of course, and probably no priest who wore the habit of Mariabronn. But any other kind of priest, yes, I assure you." Suddenly his voice grew sad and dark. "It would not have been the first man Ive murdered."
They were silent. Both felt embarrassed.
"Well, well talk about that some other time," Narcissus said in a cool voice. "You fess to me some day, if you feel like it. Or you tell me about your life. I, too, have this and that to tell you. Im looking forward to it. Shall we go?"
"One moment more, Narcissus! I just remembered something: I did call you John once before."
"I dont uand."
"No, of course you dont. How could you? It happened quite a number of years ago. I gave you the name John and it will be your name forever. I was for a time a carver and a sculptor, and I think Id like to bee one again. The first statue I carved in those days was a wooden, life-size disciple with your face, but its name is not Narcissus, it is John, a St. John uhe cross."
He rose and walked to the door.
"So you did think of me?" Narcissus asked softly. Goldmund answered just as softly: "Oh yes, Narcissus, I have thought of you. Always, always."
He gave the heavy cellar door a strong push, and the fallow m looked in. They spoke no more. Narcissus took him to his guest chamber. There a young monk, his panion, was busy readying the baggage. Goldmund was given food, and his hands washed and bandaged. Soon the horses were brought out.
Mounting, Goldmund said: "I have one more request. Let us pass by the fish market; I have an errand there."
They rode off and Goldmund looked up at every castle window to see if Agnes might perhaps be visible. He did not see her. They rode to the fish market; Marie had worried a great deal about him. He bade farewell to her and to her parents, thahem a thousand times, promised to e bae day, and rode off. Marie stood in the doorway of her house until the riders were out of sight. Slowly she limped baside.
They rode four abreast: Narcissus, Goldmund, the young monk, and an armed groom.
"Do you still remember my little horse Bless?" Goldmund asked. "He was in your stable at the cloister."
"Certainly. But you wont find him there any more, and you probably didnt expect to. Its been at least seven ht years since we had to do away with him."
"And you remember that?"
"Oh yes, I remember."
Goldmund was not sad about Blesss death. He was glad that Narcissus knew so much about Bless, Narcissus who had never cared about animals and probably had never known another cloister horse by hat made him very glad.
"With all the people in your cloister," he began again, "youll laugh at me for asking first about that poor little horse. It wasnt nie. Actually I had wao ask about something else entirely, about our Abbot Daniel. But I suppose that he is dead since you are his successor. And I didnt io speak only of death to begin with. Im not well ined toward death at the moment, because of last night, and also because of the plague, of which I saw altogether too much. But now that were on the subject, and since well have to speak about it some time, tell me when and how Abbot Daniel died. I revered him very much. And tell me also if Father Anselm and Father Martiill alive. Im prepared for the worst. But Im glad the plague spared you at least. I never imagihat you might have died; I firmly believed that we would meet again. But belief deceive, as I was unfortunate enough to learn by experience. I could not imagihat my master Niklaus, the image carver, would be dead either; I ted on seeing him again and w with him agaiheless, he was dead when I got there."
"All is quickly told," said Narcissus. "Abbot Daniel died eight years ago, without illness or pain. I am not his successor; Ive been Abbot only for a year. Father Martin was his successor, the former head of our school. He died last year; he was almost seventy. And Father Anselm is no longer with us either. He was fond of you, he often spoke of you. During his last years he could no longer walk at all, and lying in bed was a great torture to him; he died of dropsy. Yes, aoo had the plague; many died. Lets not speak of it. Have you any other questions?"
"Certainly, many more. Most of all: how do you happen to be here in the bishops city at the governors palace?"
"That is a long story, and youd be bored with it; it is a matter of politics. The t is a favorite of the Emperor and his executor in many matters, and at this moment there are many things to be set thts between the Emperor and ious order. I was one of the delegates sent to treat with the t. Our success was small."
He fell silent and Goldmund asked nothing more. He had o know that last night, when Narcissus had pleaded foldmunds life, that life had been paid for with a number of cessions to the ruthless t.
They rode; Goldmund sooired and had difficulty staying in the saddle.
After a long while Narcissus asked: "But is it true that you were arrested for theft? The t said you had sneaked into the inner rooms of the castle, where you were caught stealing."
Goldmund laughed. "Well, it really looked as though I were a thief. But I had a meeting with the ts mistress; he doubtless khat, too. Im surprised that he let me go at all."
"Well, he wasnt above a little bargaining."
They could not cover the distahey had set themselves for that day. Goldmund was too exhausted; his hands could no longer hold the reins. They took rooms in a village for the night; he ut to bed running a slight fever, and they kept him ihe day, too. But then he was strong enough to ride on. Soon his hands were healed and he began to enjoy riding. How long since he had last ridden! He came to life again, grew young and animated, rode many a race with the groom, and during hours of versation assaulted his friend Narcissus with hundreds of impatient questions. Calmly, yet joyously, Narcissus responded. Again he was charmed by Goldmund. He loved these vehement, childlike questions, all asked with unlimited fiden his own ability to ahem.
"One question, Narcissus: did you also burn Jews?"
"Burn Jews?<q>.</q> How could we? There are no Jews where we are."
"All right. But tell me: would you be capable of burning Jews? you imagine such a possibility?"
"No, why sho<tt></tt>uld I? Do you take me for a fanatic?"
"Uand me, Narcissus. I mean: you imagihat, iain circumstances, you might give the order to kill Jews, or sent to their being killed? So many dukes, mayors, bishops, and other authorities did give such orders."
"I would not give an order of that kind. Oher hand it is ceivable that I might have to witness and tolerate such cruelty."
"Youd tolerate it then?"
"Certainly, if I had no power to prevent it. You probably saw some Jews being burned, didnt you, Goldmund?"
"I did."
"Well, and did you prevent it? You didnt. You see."
Goldmund told the story of Rebekka i detail; he grew hot and passionate in telling it.
"And so," he cluded violently, "what is this world in which we are made to live? Is it not hell? Is it not revolting and disgusting?"
"Certainly, thats how the world is."
"Ah!" Goldmund cried with indignation. "And how often you told me that the world was divihat it was a great harmony of circles with the Creator enthroned in its midst, that what existed was good, and so forth. You told me Aristotle had said so, or Saint Thomas. Im eager to hear you explain the tradi."
Narcissus laughed.
"Your memory is surprising, a has deceived you slightly. I have always adored our Creator as perfect, but never his creation. I have never dehe evil in the world. No true thinker has ever affirmed that life oh is harmonious and just, or that man is good, my dear friend. On the trary. The Holy Bible expressly states that the strivings and doings of ma are evil, and every day we see this firmed anew."
"Very good. At last I see what you learned men mean. So man is evil, and life oh is full of ugliness and trickery—you admit it. But somewhere behind all that, in your thoughts and books, justid perfe exist. They exist, they be proved, but only if they are never put to use."
"You have stored up a great deal of anger against us theologians, dear friend! But you have still not bee a thinker; youve got it all topsy-turvy. You still have a few things to learn. But why do you say we dont put justice to use? We do that every day, every hour. I, for instance, am an abbot and I govern a cloister. Life in this cloister is just as imperfed full of sin as it is in the world outside. A we stantly set the idea of justice against inal sin and try to measure our imperfect lives by it and try to correct evil and put ourselves in everlastiionship with God."
"All right, Narcissus. I dont mean you, nor did I mean that you were not a good abbot. But Im thinking of Rebekka, of the burned Jews, the mass burials, the Great Death, of the alleys and rooms full of stinking corpses, of all the gruesome looting, the haggard, abandoned children, of dogs starved to death on their s—and when I think of all that ahese images before me, then my heart aches and it seems to me that our mothers have borne us into a hopeless, cruel, devilish world, and that it would be better if they had never ceived, if God had not created this horrible world, if the Saviour had not let himself be o the cross in vain."
Narcissus gave Goldmund a friendly nod.
"You are quite right," he said warmly. "Go ahead, say it all, get it all out. But ihing you are quite wrong: you think that the things you have said are thoughts. But actually they are feelings. They are the feelings of a man preoccupied with the horror of life, and you must not fet that these sad, desperate emotions are balanced by pletely different ones! When you feel happy on a horse, riding through a pretty landscape, or when you sneak somewhat recklessly into a castle at night to court a ts mistress, then the world looks altogether different to you, and no plague-stri house or burned Jerevent you from fulfilling your desire. Is that not so?"
"Certainly that is so. Because the world is so full of death and horror, I try again and again to y heart and to pick the flowers that grow in the midst of hell. I find bliss, and for an hour I fet the horror. But that does not mean that it does ."
"You expressed that very well. So you find yourself surrounded by death and horror in the world, and you escape it into lust. But lust has no duration; it leaves you again in the desert."
"Yes, thats true."
"Most people feel that way, but only a few feel it with such sharpness and violence as you do; few feel the o bee aware of these feelings. But tell me: besides this desperate ing and goiween lust and horror, besides this seesaw between lust for life and sadness of death—have you tried no other road?"
"Oh yes, of course I have. Ive tried art. Ive already told you that, among other things, I also became an artist. One day, when I had roamed the world for three years perhaps, wandering almost all the time, I saw a wooden madonna in a cloister church. It was so beautiful, the sight moved me so deeply, that I asked the name of the sculptor who carved it and searched for him. I found him, he was a famous master; I became his apprentid worked with him for a few years."
"Youll tell me more about that later. But what has art meant to you, what has art brought to you?"
"It was the overing of the transitory. I saw that something remained of the fools play, the death dance of human life, something lasting: works of art. They too will probably perish some day; theyll burn<big></big> or crumble or be destroyed. Still, they outlast many human lives; they form a silent empire of images and relics beyond the fleeting moment. To work at that seems good and f to me, because it almost succeeds in making the transitory eternal."
"I like that very much, Goldmund. I hope you will again make beautiful statues; my fiden your strength is great. I hope you will be my guest in Mariabronn for a long time a me to set up a workshop for you; our cloister has long since been without an artist. But I do not think your definition quite enpassed the miracle of art. I believe that art is more than salvaging something mortal from death and transf it into stone, wood, and color, so that it lasts a little longer. I have seen many works of art, many a saint and many a madonna, which did not seem to me merely faithful copies of a specific person who once lived and whose shapes or colors the artist has preserved."
"You are right in that," Goldmund cried eagerly. "I didnt think you were so well informed about art! The basic image of a good work of art is not a real, living figure, although it may inspire it. The basic image is not flesh and blood; it is mind. It is an image that has its home iists soul. Ioo, Narcissus, such images are alive, which I hope to express one day and show to you."
"How lovely! And now, my dear Goldmund, you have strayed unknowingly into philosophy and have expressed one of its secrets."
"Youre mog me."
"Oh no. You spoke of basic images, of images that exist nowhere except in the creative mind, but which be realized and made visible in matter. Long before a figure bees visible and gaiy, it exists as an image iists soul. This image then, this basic image, is exactly what the old philosophers call an idea."
"Yes, that sounds quite plausible."
"Well, and now that you have pledged yourself to ideas and to basic images, you are on mind-ground, in the world of philosophers and theologians, and you admit that, at the ter of the fused, painful battlefield of life, at the ter of the endless and meaningless death dance of fleshly existehere exists the creative mind. Look, I have always addressed myself to this mind in you, ever since you came to me as a boy. In you, this mind is not that of a thinker but that of an artist. But it is mind, and it is the mind that will show you the way out of the blurred fusion of the world of the senses, out of the eternal seesaw between lust and despair. Ah, my dear friend, I am happy to have heard this fession from you. I have waited for it—sihe day you left your teacher Narcissus and found the ce to be yourself. Now we be friends anew."
It seemed to Goldmund that his life had been given a meaning. For a moment it was as though he were looking down on it from above, clearly seeing its three big steps: his dependen Narcissus and his awakening; then the period of freedom and wandering; and now the return, the refle, the beginning of maturity and harvest.
The vision faded again. But he had found a fittiionship to Narcissus. It was no longer a relationship of dependence, but one of equality and reciprocity. He could be the guest of this superior mind without humiliation, sihe other man had given reition to the creative power in him. During their journey he looked forward with increasing eagero revealing himself to him, to making his inner world visible to him in works of images. But sometimes he also worried.
"Narcissus," he warned, "Im afraid you dont know whom youre bringing into your cloister. Im no monk, nor do I wish to bee one. I know the three main vows. I gladly accept poverty, but I love her chastity nor obediehese virtues dont seem very manly to me. And I have nothing at all left of piety. I havent fessed or prayed or taken union in years."
Narcissus remained calm. "You seem to have bee a pagan. But we are not afraid of that. You need not pride yourself any longer on your many sins. You have lived the usual life of the world. You have herded swine like the prodigal son; you no longer know what law and order mean. Surely youd make a very bad monk. But Im not inviting you to ehe order; Im merely inviting you to be uest and to set up a workshop for yourself in our cloister. And ohing more: dont fet that, during your adolest years, it was I who awakened you a you go into the worldly life. Whatever has bee of you, good or bad, is my responsibility as well as yours. I want to see what has bee of you; you will show me, in words, in life, in your works. After you have show, if I find that our house is no place for you, I shall be the first to ask you to leave again."
Goldmund was full of admiratioime his friend spoke in this manner, wheed the abbot, with quiet assurand a hint of mockery of people and life in the world, because then he saw what Narcissus had bee: a man. True, a man of the mind and of the church, with delicate hands and a scholars face, but a man full of assurand ce, a leader, one who bore responsibility. This man Narcissus was no lohe adolest of old times, no lohe gentle, devoted St. John; he wao carve this new Narcissus, the manly, knightly Narcissus. Many statues awaited him: Narcissus, Abbot Daniel, Father Anselm, Master Niklaus, beautiful Rebekka, beautiful Agnes, and still others, friends and enemies, alive and dead. No, he did not want to bee a brother of the order, or a pious or learned man; he wao make statues, and the thought that his youthful home was to be the home of these works made him happy.
They rode through the chill of late autumn, and one day, on a m when the bare trees hung thick with frost, they rode across a wide rolling land of deserted reddish moors, and the long s of hills looked strangely familiar, and then came a high elm wood and a little stream and an old barn at the sight of whiunds heart began to ache in happy anguish. He reized the hills across which he had once ridden with the knights daughter Lydia, and the heath across which he had walked that day of thinly falling snow, banished and deeply sad. The elm clumps emerged, and the mill, and the castle. With particular pain he reized the window of the writing room in which he had then, during his legendary youth, corrected the knights Latin and heard him tell of his pilgrimage. They rode into the courtyard; it was one of the regular stopping places of the journey. Goldmund asked the Abbot not to tell ahere his name and to let him eat with the servants, as the groom did. Thats how it was arrahe old knight was no lohere aher was Lydia, but a few of the old hunters and servants were still part of the household, and in the castle a very beautiful, proud, and domineering noblewoman, Julie, lived and reig her husbands side. She still looked wonderfully beautiful, and a little evil. her she nor the servants reized Goldmund. After the meal, in the fading light of evening he crept into the garden, looked over the fe the already wintery flower beds, crept to the stable door and looked in on the horses. He slept oraw with the groom, and memories weighed heavily on his chest; he awakened many times. Scattered and iile, the ses of his life stretched out behind him, ri magnifit images but broken in so many pieces, so poor in value, so poor in love! In the m, as they rode away, he looked anxiously up to the windows. Perhaps he could catlimpse of Julie. A few days ago he had looked just as anxiously up to the windows of the bishops palace to see if Agnes might not appear. She had not shown herself, aher did Julie. His whole life had been like that, it seemed to him. Saying farewell, esg, being fotten; finding himself alone again, with empty hands and a froze. He felt like that throughout the day, sitting gloomily in the saddle, not speaking at all. Narcissus let him be.
But now they were approag their goal, and after a few days they had reached it. Shortly before tower and roofs of the cloister became visible, they rode across the fallow stony fields in which he had, oh so long ago, gathered Johns-wort for Father Anselm, where the gypsy Lise had made a man of him. And now they rode through the gates of Mariabronn and dismounted uhe Italianut tree. Tenderly Goldmund touched the trunk and stooped to pick up one of the prickly, split husks that lay on the ground, brown and withered.
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.