Narcissus and Goldmund (9 page)

Strange, he thought, each of these thousand little leaves has its own miniature firmament pricked into it, like a delicate embroidery. How strange and incomprehensible everything was, the lizards, the plants, even the stones, everything. Father Anselm, who was so fond of him, was no longer able to pick his John's-wort himself; his legs bothered him. On certain days he could not move at all, and his knowledge of medicine could not cure him. Perhaps he would soon die, and the herbs in his pantry would continue to give out their fragrance, but the old father would no longer be there. But perhaps he would go on living for a long time still, for another ten or twenty years perhaps, and still have the same thin white hair and the same funny wrinkle-sheaves around the eyes; but what would have become of him, Goldmund, in twenty years?

Oh, how incomprehensible everything was, and actually sad, although it was also beautiful. One knew nothing. One lived and ran about the earth and rode through forests, and certain things looked so challenging and promising and nostalgic: a star in the evening, a blue harebell, a reed-green pond, the eye of a person or of a cow. And sometimes it seemed that something never seen yet long desired was about to happen, that a veil would drop from it all; but then it passed, nothing happened, the riddle remained unsolved, the secret spell unbroken, and in the end one grew old and looked cunning like Father Anselm or wise like Abbot Daniel, and still one knew nothing perhaps, was still waiting and listening.

He picked up an empty snail house, it made a faint tinkling sound among the stones and was warm with sun. Absorbed, he examined the windings of the shell, the notched spiral, the capricious dwindling of its little crown, the empty gullet with its shimmer of mother-of-pearl. He closed his eyes and felt the shape with probing fingers, which was a habit and a game with him. He turned the shell between loose fingers, slidingly retracing its contours, caressingly, without pressure, delighted with the miracle of form, the enchantment of the tangible. One of the disadvantages of school and learning, he thought dreamily, was that the mind seemed to have the tendency to see and represent all things as though they were flat and had only two dimensions. This, somehow, seemed to render all matters of the intellect shallow and worthless, but he was unable to hold on to this thought; the shell slid from his hand; he felt tired and drowsy. His head sank over the herbs, which smelled stronger and stronger as they wilted, he fell asleep in the sun. Lizards ran over his shoes; the plants wilted on his knees; under the maple, Bless waited and grew impatient.

From the distant forest someone came walking, a young woman in a faded blue skirt, with a red kerchief tied around black hair, and a tanned summer face. The woman came closer; she was carrying a bundle; a fire-red gillyflower shone between her lips. She noticed the sitting man, watched him from afar for a long while, curious and distrustful, saw that he was asleep, tiptoed closer on naked brown feet, stood in front of Goldmund and looked at him. Her suspicions vanished; this fine young sleeper did not look dangerous; he pleased her greatly—what had brought him out here to these fallow fields? With a smile she saw that he had been picking flowers; they were already wilted.

Goldmund opened his eyes, returning from a forest of dreams. His head was bedded softly; it was lying in a woman's lap. Strangely close, two warm brown eyes were looking into his, which were sleepy and astonished. He felt no fear; no danger shone in those warm brown stars; they looked friendly. The woman smiled at his astonishment, a very friendly smile, and slowly he, too, began to smile. Her mouth came down on his smiling lips; they greeted each other with a gentle kiss, and Goldmund remembered the evening in the village and the little girl with the braids. But the kiss was not over yet. The woman's mouth lingered, began to play, teased and tempted, and finally seized his lips with greed and violence, set fire to his blood, made it throb in his veins; in slow, patient play the brown woman gave herself to the boy, teaching him gently, letting him seek and find, setting him afire and stilling the flames. The exalted, brief joy of love vaulted above him, burned with a golden glow, sank down and died. He lay with eyes closed, his face against the woman's breast. Not a word had been said. The woman didn't move, softly she stroked his hair, gave him time to come to himself. Finally he opened his eyes.

“You!” he said. “You! But who are you?”

“I'm Lise,” she said.

“Lise,” he repeated after her, tasting her name. “Lise, you are sweet.”

She brought her mouth close to his ear and whispered into it: “Tell me, was this the first time? Did you never love anyone before me?”

He shook his head. Abruptly he sat up and looked across the fields and up into the sky.

“Oh!” he cried, “the sun is almost down. I must get back.”

“Where to?”

“To the cloister, to Father Anselm.”

“To Mariabronn? Is that where you belong? Don't you want to stay with me a little longer?”

“I'd like to.”

“Well, stay then!”

“No, that would not be right. And I must pick more of these herbs.”

“Do you live in the cloister?”

“Yes, I'm a student. But I'll not stay there. May I come to you, Lise? Where do you live, where is your home?”

“I live nowhere, dear heart. But won't you tell me your name?—Ah, Goldmund is what they call you. Give me another kiss, little Goldmouth, then you may go.”

“You live nowhere? But where do you sleep?”

“If you like, in the forest with you, or in the hay. Will you come tonight?”

“Oh, yes. But where? Where will I find you?”

“Can you screech like a barn owl?”

“I've never tried.”

“Try.”

He tried. She laughed, satisfied.

“All right, come out of the cloister tonight and screech like a barn owl. I'll be close by. Do you like me, little Goldmouth, my darling?”

“Oh, Lise, I do like you. I'll come. Now go with God, I must hurry.”

It was twilight when Goldmund returned to the cloister on his steaming horse, and he was glad to find Father Anselm occupied. A brother had been wading barefoot in the brook and cut himself on a shard of crockery.

Now it was important to find Narcissus. He asked one of the lay brothers who waited at table in the refectory. No, he was told, Narcissus would not be down for supper; this was his fasting day; he'd probably be asleep now since he held vigils during the night. Goldmund hurried off. During the long exercises, his friend slept in one of the penitents' cells in the inner cloister. Goldmund ran there without thinking. He listened at the door; there wasn't a sound. He entered softly. That it was strictly forbidden made no difference now.

Narcissus was lying on the narrow cot. In the half light he looked like a corpse, rigid on his back, with pale, pointed face, his hands crossed on his chest. His eyes were open; he was not asleep. He looked at Goldmund without speaking, without reproach, but without stirring, so obviously elsewhere, absorbed in a different time and world, that he had difficulty recognizing his friend and understanding his words.

“Narcissus! Forgive me, dear friend, forgive me for disturbing you. I'm not doing it lightly. I realize that you ought not to speak to me, but do speak to me, I beg you with all my heart.”

Narcissus reflected, his eyes blinked violently for a moment as though he were struggling to come awake.

“Is it necessary?” he asked in a spent voice.

“Yes, it is necessary. I've come to say farewell.”

“Then it is necessary. You shall not have come in vain. Here, sit with me. I have fifteen minutes before the first vigil.”

Haggard, he sat on the bare sleeping plank. Goldmund sat down beside him.

“Please forgive me!” he said guiltily. The cell, the bare cot, Narcissus's strained face, drawn with lack of sleep, his half-absent eyes—all this showed plainly how much he disturbed his friend.

“There is nothing to forgive. Don't worry about me; there's nothing amiss with me. You've come to take leave, you say? You're going away then?”

“I'm going this very day. Oh, I don't know how to tell you! Suddenly everything has been decided.”

“Has your father come, or a message from him?”

“No, nothing. Life itself has come to me. I'm leaving, without father, without permission. I'm bringing shame upon you, you know; I'm running away.”

Narcissus looked down at his long white fingers. Thin and ghostlike, they protruded from the wide sleeves of the habit. There was no smile in his severe, exhausted face, but it could be felt in his voice as he said: “We have very little time, dear friend. Tell me only the essentials, tell me clearly and briefly. Or must I tell you what has happened to you?”

“You tell me,” Goldmund begged.

“You've fallen in love, little boy, you've met a woman.”

“How do you always know these things?”

“You're making it easy for me. Your condition,
amicus meus,
shows all the signs of that drunkenness called being in love. But speak now, please.”

Timidly Goldmund touched his friend's shoulder.

“You have just said it. Although this time you didn't say it well, Narcissus, not accurately. It is altogether different. I was out in the fields, and I fell asleep in the heat, and when I woke up, my head was resting on the knees of a beautiful woman and I immediately felt that my mother had come to take me home. I did not think that this woman was my mother. Her eyes were brown and her hair was black; my mother had blond hair like mine. This woman didn't look in the least like her. And yet it was my mother, my mother's call, a message from her. It was as though an unknown beautiful woman had suddenly come out of the dreams of my own heart and was holding my head in her lap, smiling at me like a flower and being sweet to me. At her first kiss I felt something melt inside me that hurt in an exquisite way. All my longings, all my dreams and sweet anguish, all the secrets that slept within me, came awake, everything was transformed and enchanted, everything made sense. She taught me what a woman is and what secrets she has. In half an hour she aged me by many years. I know many things now. I also suddenly knew that I could no longer remain in this house, not for another day. I'm going as soon as night falls.”

Narcissus listened and nodded.

“It happened suddenly,” he said, “but it is more or less what I expected. I shall think of you often. I'll miss you,
amicus.
Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, if you can, please say a word to our Abbot, so that he does not condemn me completely. He is the only person in this house, besides you, whose thoughts about me are not indifferent to me. His and yours.”

“I know. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, one thing, please. Later, when you think of me, will you pray for me from time to time? And—thank you.”

“For what, Goldmund?”

“For your friendship, your patience, for everything. Also for listening to me today, when it was hard for you. And also for not trying to hold me back.”

“How could I want to hold you back? You know how I feel about it. —But where will you go, Goldmund? Have you a goal? Are you going to that woman?”

“Yes, I'm going with her. I have no goal. She is a stranger—homeless, it seems; perhaps a gypsy.”

“Well, all right. But do you know, my dear Goldmund, that your road with her will be extremely short? I don't think you should count on her too much. Perhaps she has relatives, a husband perhaps; who knows what kind of reception awaits you there.”

Goldmund leaned against his friend.

“I know,” he said, “although I had not thought of it yet. As I told you, I have no goal. This woman who was so very sweet to me is not my goal. I'm going to her, but I'm not going because of her. I'm going because I must, because I have heard the call.”

He sighed and was silent. They sat shoulder to shoulder, sad and yet happy in the feeling of their indestructible friendship. Then Goldmund continued: “Do not think that I'm completely blind and naïve. No. I'm happy to go, because I feel that it has to be, and because something so marvelous happened to me today. But I'm not imagining that I'll meet with nothing but joy and mirth. I think the road will be hard. But it will also be beautiful, I hope. It is extremely beautiful to belong to a woman, to give yourself. Don't laugh if I sound foolish. But to love a woman, you see, to abandon yourself to her, to absorb her completely and feel absorbed by her, that is not what you call ‘being in love,' which you mock a little. For me it is the road to life, the way toward the meaning of life. Oh, Narcissus, I must leave you! I love you, Narcissus, and thank you for sacrificing a moment of sleep to me today. I find it hard to leave you. You won't forget me?”

“Don't make us both sad! I'll never forget you. You will come back, I ask it of you, I expect it. If you are in need some day, come to me, or call to me. Farewell, Goldmund, go with God!”

He had risen. Goldmund embraced him. Knowing his friend's aversion of caresses, he did not kiss him; he only stroked his hands.

Night was falling. Narcissus closed the cell behind him and walked over to the church, his sandals slapping the flagstones. Goldmund followed the bony figure with loving eyes, until it vanished like a shadow at the end of the corridor, swallowed by the darkness of the church door, claimed by exercises, duties, and virtues. How extraordinary, how infinitely puzzling and confusing everything was! This, too—how strange and frightening: to have come to his friend with his heart overflowing, drunk with blossoming love, at the very moment his friend was in meditation, devoured by fasting and vigils, crucifying his youth, his heart, his senses—all offered up in sacrifice; at the very moment his friend was subjecting himself to the most rigorous obedience, pledging to serve only the mind, to become nothing but a minister
verbi divini!
There he had lain, tired unto death, extenuated, with his pale face and bony hands, corpselike, and yet he had listened to his friend, lucid and sympathetic, had lent his ear to this love-drunken man with the smell of a woman still on him, had sacrificed his few moments of rest between penances. It was strange and divinely beautiful that there was also this kind of love, this selfless, completely spiritualized kind. How different it was from today's love in the sunny field, the reckless, intoxicated play of the senses. And yet both were love. Oh, and now Narcissus had gone from him, after showing him once again, clearly, at the last moment, how utterly different and dissimilar they were from one another.