CHAPTER ONE

ISOLATED here in the North, planted long ago by a Roman pilgrim, a chestnut grew, strong and solitary, by the colonnade of rounded double arches at the entrance to the cloister of Mariabronn: a noble, vigorous tree, the sweep of its foliage drooping tenderly, facing the winds in bold and quiet assurance; so tardy in spring that when all glowed green around it and even the cloister nut trees wore their russet, it awaited the shortest nights to thrust forth, through little tufts of leaves, the dim exotic rays of its blossom, and in October, after wine and harvests had long been gathered, let drop the prickly fruits from its yellowing crown; fruits which did not ripen every year, for which the cloister schoolboys fought one another, and which Gregory, the Italian sub-prior, burned amid the logs of his fireplace. The lovely tree, aloof and tender, shadowed the entrance to the cloister, a delicate, shuddering guest from a warmer clime, secretly akin to the slender double columns of the gateway, the pillars and mouldings of the window arches, loved by all Latins and Italians, gaped at, as a stranger, by the inhabitants.

Many generations of cloister schoolboys had trooped past beneath this stranger tree, laughing, gossiping, playing, squabbling, shod or barefoot, according to the season of the year; each with his writing-tablet; boys with a flower between their lips, boys cracking nuts, boys with snowballs. Always there were new ones; every second year brought in fresh faces though most – tousled and yellow-haired – were very like the boys that had passed. Some stayed and turned into novices, then monks, and their yellow hair was shorn. They wore the habit and the cord, read books, taught boys, grew old and died. Others, at the end of their school-days, were fetched back home by their parents, into knights' castles, merchants' or craftsmen's houses; they were let loose into the world, to run wild or work in it. Sometimes, turned into men, they would come back and look at the cloister, bringing little sons to put them to school with the patres, stand smiling for an instant, full of thoughts, as they saw the chestnut, and then go out again and vanish. In the cells and schoolrooms of the cloister, between the strong, double redstone pillars and rounded arches, monks lived, taught, administered, studied, ruled. Every branch of science was pursued there, and inherited by each new generation: divine and worldly lore, the dark and the light. Books were written and annotated, systems evolved, the writings of the ancients collected, missals illuminated, the people's belief fostered, the people's credulity smiled upon. Here there was all, and room for everything, belief and learning, depths and simplicity, the wisdom of the Greeks and the Evangelists, black magic and white – all had their uses. There was room for repentance and solitude; room for good living and company. It depended on the ruling abbot, on the tendency prevalent at the time, which of these came uppermost for the moment, eclipsing the others. For a while the cloister of Mariabronn was renowned for its exorcists and devil-chasers; for a while for the beauty of its plain chaunt; then for a saintly father who healed and wrought miracles; then for its pike broth and stag's liver pasty – each in its time. And ever in this throng of monks and scholars there were lukewarm and fervid fasters and rioters; always among the many who lived and died there, there had been, here and there, an individual, one set apart from all the rest, whom all loved, or all feared, one who had seemed of the elect, who for long was remembered and talked of when the rest of his generation had been forgotten.

And in this age also there lived in the cloister at Mariabronn two set apart and chosen, one old, one young. Of the many monks who had thronged the church, the dormitories and study-rooms, there were two, remarked by all, whom all were watching – Abbot Daniel and the teaching novice, Narziss, only recently entered into the novitiate, yet already, against all tradition, and because of his exceptional gifts, employed, in Greek especially, as a teacher. These two, the novice and the abbot, were respected and heeded by all the house. They were watched and aroused curiosity, admired and envied, slandered in secret.

Most brothers loved the abbot; he had no enemies. He was full of goodness, humbleness, simplicity. Only the learned in the cloister strewed a pinch of scorn into their love of him. This abbot, they would say, might be a saint; certainly he would never be a scholar. His was that simplicity which is wisdom, but his Latin was poor, and Greek he altogether lacked.

Those few who were ready on occasion to smile at the simpleness of the abbot were all the readier therefore to let themselves be charmed by Narziss – the wondrous boy, the beautiful young man with the elegant Greek, the manners and bearing of a knight, the penetrating, quiet eyes of a thinker, the thin, shapely, firmly outlined lips, whose brilliant dialectic attracted scholars. Almost all the others loved him for the sake of his fineness and nobility. He enchanted many: many took no offence at the fact that he was always so still and self-contained, so full of courtesy.

Abbot and novice, each in his fashion, bore on him the signs of special grace. Each in his own way ruled, each suffered with his own peculiar pain; each felt drawn to the other, more akin to him than to any in the cloister.

Yet neither, though he sought, could find the other, neither could be quite thawed by the other's presence. The abbot treated the novice with perfect courtesy, with every gentle consideration, chiding him as one might a younger brother, a strangely delicate, perhaps too dangerously precocious younger brother. The novice, in perfect obedience, heeded the abbot's every rule and counsel; he never disputed, never sulked, and, if his superior's judgement of him was right, and his only temptation was to pride, he could hide this sole fault to perfection. Nothing could be brought against him. He was perfect, but self-contained. There was only this: that few save scholars could be close friends with him; that his own distinction seemed to wrap him round, like a chill breath.

Once, when he had confessed, the abbot said: 'Narziss, I am guilty of having passed rash judgements on you. I had thought you proud, and perhaps I did you an injustice. You are much alone, brother; you have many to admire you, but no friends. I wished to find the pretext to chide you a little. But I find none. I wanted to see you as disobedient, as young men of your age so easily are. But you never disobey. Sometimes, Narziss, you make me uneasy.'

The young man turned his dark eyes on the old.

'Father, I want above all to bring you no sorrow. And it may well be that I am proud. I beg you to punish me for that. At times I have a longing to punish myself. Send me into solitude, father; or let me do the work of a lay brother.'

'You would be too young for either, dear brother,' the abbot answered, 'and you are wonderfully gifted, my son; in speech and thought. By giving you the tasks of a lay brother I should misuse and desecrate these high gifts. You seem made to be a teacher and scholar. Is that your own wish?'

'Forgive me, father; I am not very clear as to my wishes. I shall always take pleasure in science; how could it be otherwise? But I do not think that learning will be my only service. It may not always be a man's wishes that determine his destiny and his action. He may be predestined.'

The abbot grew more serious. Yet his old face smiled as he answered. 'Insofar as I have learned to know men, I have seen that in our youth we are all of us a little inclined to call our own wishes predestination. To what do you feel yourself predestined?'

Narziss half-closed his dark eyes, till they vanished into the shadow of the lashes. He did not answer. There was a long silence.

'Speak, my son,' the abbot commanded him. In a low voice, his eyes to the ground, Narziss began his answer:

'Father, I feel sure that above all else I am destined to the life of this cloister. I know that I shall become a monk, a priest, a sub-prior; perhaps an abbot. My own wish is not for dignities, yet I know they will be laid upon me.'

They both were silent.

'What gives you this belief?' the old man asked, uncertainly. 'Apart from your learning, what can it be in you that warrants you to speak these word?'

Narziss was slow with his reply: 'It is because I have in me perception of the ways and dispositions of men: not mine only, but those of others. This quality in me forces me to serve men by ruling them. Had I no vocation to the habit, I should have to become a judge; a ruler.'

'That may be so,' the abbot nodded, 'but have you proved this faculty of yours for knowing men and their fates by any instance? Are you ready to give me an example?'

'Yes, I am ready.'

'Good, then – and since I would not pry into the hearts of the brothers without their knowledge, perhaps you will tell me, your abbot, what you know of me?'

Narziss raised his eyes to fix the superior.

'You command me, father?'

'Yes, I command.'

'It is hard to speak, father.'

'And I too, brother, find it hard to command your obedience in this matter. And yet I do. So speak then.'

Narziss hung his head and whispered.

'I know very little of you, father. I know that you are one of God's servants; that you would rather herd goats, or ring in to matins in a hermitage or shrive the peasants, than rule as the head of a great cloister. I know your especial devotion to Our Lady, and that it is to her you pray the most. At times you pray that the Greek and other learning in this cloister may not draw the souls under your care from God; at others that you may be patient with Gregory, the sub-prior. And at times for a peaceful end. In this I think you will be heard, and that your end will be a gentle one.'

It was very still in the abbot's little parlour, till at last the old man began to speak.

'You are a dreamer who has visions,' he answered in a friendly voice. 'Even pious and fair visions can trick us. I put no trust in them, nor must you. Now, brother dreamer, cam you see how I feel all this in my heart?'

'Father, I can see you think very pleasantly of it. This is how you think: “This young scholar is in some small peril; he has had a vision, and perhaps he meditates too much. Perhaps it would do him no harm if I laid a penance on him, and I will take the same on myself.” That is what you have just been thinking.'

The abbot rose. He dismissed the novice with a smile.

'It is well,' he said. 'Do not take your visions too much in earnest, young brother. God requires much besides visions of us. Let us say you have pleased an old man by telling him he will have an easy death, and that the old man's heart rejoiced for an instant to hear your promises. That is enough. Tomorrow, after early mass, you will say a rosary, and say it with humility and devotion; and so will I. Now go, Narziss, we have said enough.'

On another day Abbot Daniel had to sit in judgement on Narziss and the youngest of the teaching-fathers, who could not manage to agree on a certain point in the plan of studies. Narziss urged, very zealously, the necessity for certain alterations, and could, moreover, defend them on persuasive grounds. But Pater Lorenz, spurred on by a kind of envy, refused his consent to them, till their every conference was followed by uneasiness, sullenness, and silence, when Narziss, feeling himself in the right, would broach the subject afresh. At last, sore at heart, Pater Lorenz said to him:

'Well, Narziss, let us end our dispute. You know that in this not you but I should decide. It is for you to bend yourself to my will, who are not my fellow-teacher, but my helper. Yet since this matter seems to weigh so heavy on you, and since, although I am your superior, I am beneath you in knowledge and in gifts, I will not pretend to have the last word, but let us take our dispute to our father, the abbot, and ask him to settle between us.'

This, therefore, they did, and Abbot Daniel heard these two scholars kindly and patiently, as they argued on the teaching of grammar. When both had spoken all their thoughts, the old man looked at them humorously, and shook his white head a little as he spoke.

'Dear brothers, you can neither of you suppose that I know as much as you of these things. It is very commendable in Narziss that the school should lie so close to his heart, and that so he seeks to better our plan of studies. But if his superior thinks otherwise, Narziss has only to obey and be silent, since all betterment in the school would weigh as nothing if good order and obedience in the house were destroyed by it. I blame Narziss for not having known how to subject himself; and my wish for you two young scholars is that you may never lack a superior whose wits are duller than your own. No salve for pride is better than that.'

With this pleasant jest he dismissed them, yet certainly did not omit in the following days to observe the two very carefully, and himself discover if between them peace and good understanding reigned once more.

Then it came about that a new face appeared in the cloister, which had seen so many faces come and go, and that this new face was not among those that pass unnoticed, and when they are gone, are soon forgotten. It was a little boy, long since announced by his father, who brought him, on a day in spring, to put him to school in the cloister. Under the chestnut tree they tethered their horses, and the porter had come out through the gate to meet them. The boy looked up at the still bare branches of the tree. 'I have never seen such a tree as that till now,' he said, 'a rare, beautiful tree, and I wish I knew what they call it.'

The father, an elderly man, with a peaked, care-lined face, did not heed the words of his little son. But the porter, pleased already with the boy, told him the name of the tree. The little boy thanked him graciously, gave him his hand, and said to him: 'My name is Goldmund, and I am to go to school here.' The porter smiled and led the newcomers through the gates and on up the broad stone steps. Goldmund entered the cloister without dismay, feeling that here he had met two beings, the tree and the porter, with whom he could easily be friends.

The Pater who governed the school received them, and towards evening, the abbot himself. To both of these this knight, in the service of the Emperor, presented Goldmund, his son, and was asked to stay a while in the guest house. But only for one night would he use his privilege, saying that next day he must ride back. As his gift to the cloister he left one of the horses that had borne them to it, and this was accepted by the monks. His talk with the priests was smooth and cold, but both Pater and Abbot looked with pleasure at the silent, respectful Goldmund; this pretty, fine-bred boy had pleased them at once. Next day, with few regrets, they watched the father ride off again, and were glad indeed to think they kept his son. Goldmund was taken to see his teachers, and given a bed in the scholars' dormitory. He took leave of his sire with fear and reverence in his eyes, standing and gazing out after him, till have only my father.'

'Well, here you'll find playfellows and learning, and new sports you never knew before; and this and that. You'll see fast enough. And if you need one that means well by you, come to me.'

Goldmund smiled. 'Oh, many thanks, brother porter. And now, if you would be my friend, show me quick the little horse that bore me hither. I would like to greet him, and see if he too is glad to live here.'

The porter led him at once into the stable, near the granary. There in the soft dusk it smelt sharp of horses, of oats and horse-dung; and Goldmund found his little brown horse in its stall, the horse that bore him to the cloister. He put his arms around the beast's neck; it had known its master already, and stretched out its head to him. And Goldmund set his cheek to the wide dappled forehead of the pony, which he stroked softly, and whispered in his ear. 'God keep you, Bless, my little horse, my brave one. How is it with you? Do you love me still? Do you think of our home? Have you your bellyful? Little Bless, my little horse, my friend, how glad I am to have you stay with me. I will often come to see you.'

He took from his wallet the piece of morning bread, which he had kept for his horse, and broke it to give him. Then he took leave, following the porter through the courtyard, as wide as the marketplace of a great city, and grown about with its lime trees. At the inner gate he thanked and gave his hand to the porter, then found he no longer knew the way to his schoolroom, though yesterday they had shown him the direction. He laughed a little and flushed red, turned, and begged the porter to guide him, and he was very glad to do so. So Goldmund came among his mates, where a dozen of lads and junkers sat on benches, and the teaching novice, Narziss, turned his head. 'I am the new scholar, Goldmund,' said the boy.

Narziss gave him a short greeting, pointed, without a smile, to a place on the hindmost bench, and continued at once with his lesson.

Goldmund sat down. He was astonished to see so young a teacher, not many years older than he; astonished, too, and very glad, to find this young teacher so handsome, so grave, with such fine manners, and yet so winsome and worthy his love. The porter had been very kind to him, the abbot had welcomed him with gentleness; there in his stall stood Bless, and a little of home along with him, and here was this wonderful young monk, as grave as a scholar, as fine as a prince, with his cold, clear voice, compelling his hearers. Goldmund listened gladly, though not understanding what the matter was. He felt at peace. He had come among good men, and was ready to love them in exchange, and strive to make of them his friends. This morning in his bed, after he woke, he had felt so ill at ease, still weary with the long journey, and constrained to weep as he said Godspeed to his father. But now all was well and he was happy. Again and again he eyed the teacher, rejoicing in his strength and slimness, his cold, yet glowing eyes, his firm-drawn lips which uttered each syllable so clearly, his soaring, never-wearying voice.

But when the lesson was done, and the noisy scholars started up, Goldmund awoke to know with shame that he had sat there dozing a long while. Nor was he the only one to mark it; his neighbours on the bench had seen it, too, and whispered it around to their fellows. Scarce had the young Magister left his schoolroom than Goldmund's shouting companions surrounded him.

'Awake yet?' said one with a grin.

'A fine scholar,' mocked another. 'Here's one will be a shining Church light. Bis first lesson sends him to sleep.'

'Carry the babe to bed,' proposed a third, and they pounced on his arms and legs, and lifted him, high, with shouts of mockery.

They had scared him so that Goldmund began to grow angry. He struck out around him on all sides, trying to free himself, and earned some clouts, till he ended by sprawling on the ground, though one still had him by the foot. From him he kicked himself loose, and was soon engaged in a bout with him. His enemy was a tall, strong lad, and all gathered in to watch the battle. But Goldmund stood his ground; he had several times clouted his strong enemy, and won himself friends among his fellows before any so much as knew his name. Suddenly they all ran off and were scarce gone than along came Pater Martin, the brother-schoolmaster, and stood looking down on Goldmund, left alone. He gazed in doubt at the boy, whose blue eyes answered him perplexed, his face a little flushed and dismayed.

'Well, and how is it with you?' he asked him. 'You are Goldmund – are you? Have those scamps been doing you any harm?'

'Oh no,' said the boy, 'I held my own with them.'

'But with which?'

'How can I tell? I know none here yet. One of them fought me.'

'Oho! And did he begin it?'

'How should I know? No, I think it was I began it. They set on me, and so I grew angry.'

'Well, sir, this is a fine beginning. Listen to me. If you fight again in the schoolroom you'll be whipped for it. And now – be off with you to supper.'

With a smile he stood looking after Goldmund, as the boy ran off, abashed, after the others, trying, as he ran, to smooth down his yellow hair with his fingers.

Goldmund agreed that his first deed here in the cloister had been a very rash and rebellious one. He felt ashamed, as he sought and joined his fellows at supper. But they welcomed him among them with respect, he made knightly peace with his enemy, and from that day on knew himself well liked by the scholars.