CHAPTER TEN

ONCE more the ice drove down the streams, and violets thrust up through the earth, scenting the air where leaves had rotted, and Goldmund trudged again through the pied seasons, his senses drinking their fill of woodland, mountain, and cloud, as he strayed from village to village, castle to castle, wench to wench, sitting to rest in the cool of many evenings, sad at heart, under lighted windows, where far off, in a gleam of candlelight, there shimmered, clear, remote, and unobtainable, all that the night can show to vagrants in this world's comfort, happiness, and peace.

Again and again it all returned – once, twice, thrice – all he had believed he knew so well. Yet each time he saw it it had changed: the long trudge over field and moorland, or on stony paths; the summer's sleep in forests; the loitering up a village street, at the heels of wenches arm in arm, on their way back from hay-making or hop-picking; the first shudder of autumn, and evil nip of early frost: it all passed and returned, like an endless particoloured ribbon across his eyes.

Much rain and snow had fallen on Goldmund when he clambered one day to the summit of the steep side of a beechwood, full of light, yet thick already with clear, green buds, and above, through branches at the crest, peered down on another countryside stretching away before him, rejoicing his heart, filling him with desire and expectancy. For days he had known himself near it, and had spied about for what he saw. Now, on this midday tramp, it had come when he least awaited it, delighting him and strengthening his longing. He looked down from between grey trunks and gently-stirring foliage on the brown and greenish valley spread beneath, in its midst a wide, blue, glassy river. Now he would be done with field-paths, with straying here and there across the land in the mystery of forest and heath, with only very rarely any castle or some poor village to receive him. There, through the valley, flowed the river, and stretching away along its banks, the finest, broadest, most famous highway in the Empire, with rich, fat country on either side, and rafts and galleons on its waters, while the road led on into fair villages, to castles, cloisters, and wealthy towns.

And whoever would might walk for days along it, with no fear in his heart of losing it suddenly, in the thick of woodland, or in a marsh, as he might the wretched field-tracks of the peasants. Here was a new thing to please his heart.

And by sundown he had reached a merry village, set between the river and red vineyards, its fair timber and gables striped in scarlet, with many arched doors to the houses, and narrow alleys, built up steps. A smithy threw its glow across the street, with a clear ring of hammer on anvil. The vagrant looked in every nook and corner, snuffing up the musty reek of wine and casks at tavern doors, the cool, fishy smell of the riverbank, visiting God's house and His acre, not forgetting to spy out a warm barn for the night. But first he would beg his victuals at the priest's house. There he found a fat rosy priest, who asked him of his life, which Goldmund told, adding a little here and there, and leaving out whatever he felt unseemly. On this he was given an honest welcome and, with good fare and wine in his belly, had to pass the evening with the reverence, telling him stories of this and that. Next day he jogged on along the highway, beside him the river with its rafts, and barges laden up with merchandise, which he hailed, and some took him a stretch of his way. Spring days sped past him, crowded with images: villages and little towns welcomed him, women smiled through garden trellises, or knelt on the brown soil and dug-in plants: girls sang at sundown in village streets.

A young miller's wench pleased him so greatly that he stayed two days in her neighbourhood to court her: she was always ready to laugh and chatter with him, and he longed to be a miller's boy, and live in the mill with her for ever. He sat with fishermen, and helped the carters to feed their beasts and comb them, earning meat and bread, and a lift, for his pains. This friendly traveller's world rejoiced him; he was pleased, after so much loneliness and deep meditation in the woods, to gossip with well-fed and garrulous people, eating his fill every day, after many months of spare diet. He let the smooth, gay stream bear him along and, the nearer they came to the Bishop's city, the richer and jauntier grew the high road.

Once, as night drew in, he loitered down a village street by the river's edge, under fair trees, thick with their leaves. The river flowed calm and mighty, sighing, and lapping the bank beneath their roots: over a hillock rose the moon, glittering on the stream, and drawing out shadows from the trees. There he found a girl, who sat weeping. She had had a quarrel with her boy, now he had run off and left her. Goldmund sat beside her, hearing her plaint, stroking her hands, and telling her of the deer out in the forest, and she did not say no to a kiss. But then her boy came back to seek her, who had cooled down, and was sorry for their strife, found Goldmund sitting with his love, and flung himself on to him at once, pummelling him hard with both his fists. Goldmund had some trouble to beat him, but managed in the end to fight him off, and the lad ran cursing through the village. The girl had long since run away.

Goldmund, not trusting this peace, gave up all thoughts of finding himself a sleeping-place, and walked on half the night by moonlight, through the quiet, silvery world, very content, rejoicing in the strength of his legs, till dew cleaned the dust off his shoes, and he, grown suddenly weary, lay down under the first tree to sleep.

The sun had long been bright when something tickled his cheek and roused him. He brushed it off with a sleepy hand, turned over and settled himself again, but was soon roused up by this same tickling. There stood a girl looking down at him, and tickling his face with the tip of an osier switch. He stumbled up; they stood and laughed at each other, and she led him to a barn, where he might sleep better, if he would. They lay together for a while, till she ran off, and came back with a bowl of milk for him, warm from her cow. He gave her a blue ribbon for her hair, which he had picked up on the road a while since, and they kissed and tumbled again before he went further. Francisca was her name, and it grieved him to part from her.

That night he begged for shelter at a cloister, and there, next morning, he heard a mass. A thousand memories came to life in him, born of the cook dank air from the vaultings, the clattering of sandals along the aisles. Most strangely he remembered his home in Mariabronn. When mass was done and the cloister church all quiet again, Goldmund still remained on his knees, his heart marvellously stirred. The night before he had had many dreams; now he felt a need to confess, and rid himself of his past, if he could do it; somehow to change his way of life, though how he could not truly say: perhaps it was only the cloister, bringing memories of his fervid youth in Mariabronn, and these had stirred his soul a little. He longed to assoil himself and do penance, telling of his many minor vices, but, above all else, of Victor's death, which still lay heavy on his mind. So he found a Pater, to whom he confessed it all, and especially his cruel dagger-thrusts, into poor Victor's nape and back. Oh, it had been long since his last confession: the number and weight of his sins loaded him so, that gladly he would have accepted any pains for them! But this confessor seemed to know the lives of vagrants, and showed neither horror nor surprise, hearing him quietly to the end, gravely and gently warning and admonishing him, without once saying he would be damned. Goldmund stood up with a light heart, prayed, and said his penance, as the Pater had directed, at the high altar, and was already on his way out of the church. Then a shaft of sunlight streamed through the window into a side-chapel, and he saw a statue, which seemed so to speak to his heart and call him to it, that he turned as though to greet a love, and stood, struck to the heart, and full of reverence. It was a Blessed Mother of God, in wood, standing there so tranquil and tender, with her blue cloak spread from her little shoulders, her soft maiden's hand stretched out to him, her eyes so bright, above the sorrowful mouth, her pure forehead curved in such living guise, so deeply lovely and half of earth, that he felt he had never before seen anything like it. He would never have done gazing at that mouth, at the tender, loving bend of the neck.

He knew that something had sprung to life in him, something half-known, and yet often seen in dreams, something he had longed for all his days. He tried many times to leave the statue, but again and again it drew him back to it. When, at last, he had torn himself free he turned, to find his confessor standing behind him.

'You think her beautiful?' asked the priest.

'Unspeakably beautiful,' said Goldmund.

'Many say that. And others that she is no true Mother of God, that she is too new-fangled and worldly for them, and everything about her false and overwrought. We hear much disputation on the matter. Well, she pleases you, and I am glad of it. She has only stood a year in our church; a doner of our house make us the gift of her. She is by Master Nicholas.'

'Master Nicholas: who is he? Where does he live? Father – oh, do you know him? Oh, I beg you, tell me what you know! He must be a great, wonderfully gifted man to be able to make a thing like that.'

'I know very little about him. He is a carver in wood, who lives in our bishop's city, a day's journey off, and has great fame at his craft. Such artists are not usually saints, nor is he, I think, but certainly a fine and gifted man. I have often seen him....'

'You have seen him? What does he look like?'

'My son, you seem to be bewitched by him. Well, seek him out yourself, then, and give him a greeting from Pater Bonifazius.'

Goldmund poured forth his thanks. The Pater left him with a smile, but he stood on a while longer, held by this mysterious image, whose breasts seemed to breathe, and in whose face such pain and sweetness dwelt together that both were clutching at his heart. He went from the church transfigured, out into a world utterly changed. Since his sight of this sweet and blessed Mother of God, Goldmund had a thing he had never known, a thing he had often smiled at, or envied, in others: an aim. Yes, he had an aim, and would reach it, and so, perhaps, his whole confused existence might take on new meaning and unity. The knowledge brought both joy and fear. The fair road was no longer what it had been, a playground, a good place to enjoy, and loiter in; it was nothing now but a road to the city; to the Master! He hurried on, and by sunset the city lay before him, its towers glittering above walls. He saw painted shields and chiselled escutcheons over the gates, ran under them with a pounding heart, scarce heeding the bustle of the streets, the mounted knights, the carts and litters. Neither knights nor litters, city nor bishops, were of worth to him. He asked the first citizen at the gate to direct him to the house of Master Nicholas, and was bitterly grieved that he knew nothing of him. Then he came on a square of lordly houses, some gilt, some painted and decked with images. Tall and magnificent over a doorway, was set the statue of a lansquenet, painted in strong and glorious colours. He was not so beautiful as the image in the cloister church, yet he stood with such an air, jutting his calf, thrusting his bearded chin into the world, Goldmund almost knew for certain that here was a work of this same Master Nicholas.

He ran into the house, fell down steps, knocked at doors, and so came into the presence of a gentleman, in a velvet, fur-trimmed gown, who asked him his business. He inquired for the house of Master Nicholas. What errand had he for him? the gentleman asked, and Goldmund had pains to master himself, and answer merely he had a message for him. The gentleman named the street the master dwelt in, but when Goldmund had found his way there it was night. Overjoyed, but still uneasy, he stood before the Master's house, and would much have liked to go straight into it. Then he remembered that it was late, and he all begrimed and sweating from his journey, so forced himself to tarry a little longer, though for a while he could not bear to go from the door.

He saw light come into the window and, just as he was about to turn away, a figure came over to lean out of it, a very beautiful girl, with yellow hair, through which the light of the tapers, in the room behind her, shimmered down.

Next day when the town was awake and noisy again, Goldmund washed his face, in the cloister where he had slept, knocked the dust off his clothes and shoes, and found his way back to this same street. He beat on the house-door: there came a serving-woman, who seemed unwilling to lead him straight in to her master, but he managed to soften her old heart, and in the end she led him through the house. In his little work-room stood Master Nicholas, a tall, bearded man in a leather apron; of forty or fifty odd, it seemed to Goldmund. He stared with sharp, light blue eyes at the stranger, and curtly asked what was his will. Goldmund gave him greeting from Pater Boniface.

'And is that all?'

'Master,' said Goldmund, sick at heart, 'I saw your Mother of God, out there in the cloister. Oh, I beg you not to look so unfriendly; it is sheer love and reverence brings me to you. You do no scare me. I have lived too long on the roads in frost and snow, and known too much hunger for that. There is no man in the world could make me afraid. Yet I fear you, Master.... Oh, I have only one great wish, and my heart is so full with it that it pains me.'

'And what kind of wish may that be?'

'To be your apprentice, and learn from you.'

'You are not alone in that, young man. But I want no apprentices in my house, and already I have two journeymen to help me. Where do you come from, then, and who are your parents?'

'I have none, and I come from nowhere. I was a scholar in a cloister, where I learned Latin and Greek. Then I ran off, and, since, I have lived on the roads.'

'And what is it makes you feel you would be a woodcarver? Have you tried your hand at anything like it? Have you any drawings to show me?'

'I have made many drawings and lost them all. Yet I can tell you why I would learn your craft. I have watched many faces and shapes, and afterwards thought of them. Some of my thoughts have never ceased to plague me, and still they give me no peace. I have seen how always, in every shape, a certain form, a certain line, repeats itself; how a forehead seems to tally with a knee, a hip with a shoulder; and how the essence of all this is the very being and temper of the person, who alone could have such a knee, or shoulder, or forehead. And this, too, I have noted, which I saw one night, as I helped a woman bear her child: that the sharpest pain and sweetest pleasure seem to have almost one expression.'

The Master glanced keenly at Goldmund.

'Do you know what you say?'

'Yes, Master, and so it is. It was just this which, to my own delight and commotion, I found expressed in your Holy Mother of God, and that is why I come to you now. Oh there is such grief in that pure face of hers, and yet all her pain is as though transmuted to smiles and joy. When I saw that, it ran like a fire through me. All I had thought or dreamed for years seemed confirmed by it. Suddenly my dreams had ceased to be idle, and I saw at once what to do, and where I must go. Good Master Nicholas, I beg you from my heart not to turn me from you.'

Nicholas was surly still, and yet he had listened very carefully. 'Young man,' he said, 'you can talk astoundingly well of image-making, and at your age, too, I am amazed that you have such things to say of pain and pleasure. I should much like to sit out an evening with you, drink a cup of wine, and discuss all this. But hear you: to talk well and pleasantly together is one thing, to live and work together for years, is another. This is my workshop, and here I work, I do not gossip. Here it matters nothing what one has thought, or how well he knows how to speak of it, but only what he can do with his own two hands. You seemed to mean what you were saying, and so I will not send you packing at once. Let us see if there is anything behind it. Did you ever try to model in wax or clay?'

At once Goldmund thought of a certain dream, dreamed by him a long while since, when he had made little clay men and women, that rose up and grew into giants. But he did not tell it, only saying humbly that he had never tried such a work.

'Good. Well, then, you must draw me something. There is a table, you see, and paper and charcoal. Sit there and draw. Take your time with it. If you please you can stay till midday or evening. And now we have talked enough. I must do my work; go and do yours.'

On the bench which Master Nicholas pointed out to him Goldmund sat down before the drawing-table. He could not set to work at once, but remained, like a quiet and eager scholar, eyeing his master with timid reverence, who soon had turned away and forgotten him, standing, hard at work on a small clay figure.

He was not as Goldmund had pictured him: he was grimmer, elder, and more decided, far less delightful and winsome; by no means happy.

His sharp, inflexible eyes were on his modelling, so that Goldmund, freed from his uneasiness, could carefully note the Master's shape. This man, he thought, might also have been a scholar had he wished it; an austere seeker out of truths, given to a work which many predecessors began before him, which one day he must leave to those that would follow; a hard, eternal work, into which the labour and devotion of generations had been poured.

So he read this Master's face. Much patience and painfully got learning, much thought on what was known already, humility, and ultimate doubt of the value of all human seeking, yet, with them, a belief in what he did, all could be seen in the outlines of the head.

Yet again the shape of the hands belied it: between them and the face there was contradiction. These hands touched the clay they moulded with firm, but very tender, fingers, stroking it as a lover might his mistress, full of desire, of dainty, tender compulsion, greedy, yet never distinguishing between what they took and what they gave, at once reverent and lustful, as sure and masterly in their motion as though from some very ancient, deep experience. Goldmund, full of wondering delight, sat watching these inspired, well-graced hands. He felt tempted to make a drawing of Master Nicholas, but would not, because of this contradiction between his face and hands, which lamed him.

When for close on an hour he had watched Nicholas at his work, striving to unearth the man's secret, his mind full of questing thoughts, another imaged shaped itself slowly in him, coming to life before his soul: the image of the man he had known best, had loved and reverenced most in all his life. This image was a perfect whole, without any flaw or division in it, although it, too, was many-faceted, and bore on it the scars of a deep struggle. It was that of his friend, Narziss.

Clearer and clearer its shape defined itself, printing its lines upon his thought, showing him the hidden law informing this beloved being: the fair head, chiselled by intellect, the controlled, beautiful lips, made firm-set and shapely to serve the spirit, the shadow of pain about the eyes, the lean shoulders, emaciated in their struggle against the flesh; the long neck, and gentle, lovely hands. Never since the day he broke from the cloister had Goldmund seen his friend so clearly, or known his spirit so complete.

As in a dream, yet full of preparation and foresight, he began to make a careful drawing, with loving fingers stroking in the outline of the head, as it stood already in his heart, forgetting the Master, forgetting himself, and where he sat. He did not see how the light in the workshop slowly changed, or that Nicholas had several times glanced across at him. He finished his drawing, like a task imposed by his love, to raise up out of his heart, and fix for all time, the picture within him of his friend.

Nicholas came over to the drawing-table.

'It is midday, and so now I go to dinner. Come with me if you like. You have finished something; let me see.'

|He stood over Goldmund and glanced down, thrust him aside and took up the sheet of paper, carefully, in expert hands. Goldmund, roused up from his dream, now stared in apprehension at the Master, as Nicholas stood examining his drawing, with a sharp gaze, though light blue eyes.

'Who is this you have drawn?' he asked after a while.

'My friend, a scholar, a young monk.'

'Good. Now wash your hands. The fountain stands out there in the courtyard. Then we will go to dinner. The journeymen do not eat with us today; they have work to do out in the city.'

`Goldmund hurried off obediently, found courtyard and fountain, and washed himself. He would have given much to know the Master's thoughts. When he returned, Nicholas had left the workshop, though he heard him move in the next room. When he came back he, too, had washed himself, and now, instead of his leather apron, wore a fine doublet of cloth, and looked very fair and majestic in it. He led the way up a staircase; its banister-posts bore small carved angels' heads in nut wood, over a landing where stood old and new wooden images, and on, through a pleasant room, its four walls and ceiling of hard woods, to a laid table, set in the window. A young girl came running into the room. Goldmund knew here at once for the yellow-haired maid of the night before.

'Lisbeth,' said the Master, 'bring a fresh platter. Here's a guest. His name is – but now I remember he never told it me.'

Goldmund named himself.

'Well, Goldmund, then. Is dinner ready?'

'In a minute, father.'

She fetched the platter, and ran out again, but soon came back with the old serving-woman, who brought them their meat: hog's flesh, lentils, and fine white bread. As he ate the father discussed this and that with his daughter, but Goldmund sat dumb, eating little and feeling very shamefaced and uneasy. The maid pleased him well; a fine, high-bred maid, as tall almost as her father, but she sat as modest and aloof as though she had been behind glass, not granting either a look or word to the stranger.

When they had done the Master said:

'Now I must rest for half an hour. Go back to the workshop, or into the streets if you will, and then we will talk of this matter.'

Goldmund left him, with a bow. An hour or more since this Master had seen his drawing, and yet he had not said a word of it. And still half an hour to wait! He would not go back to the workshop, since he did not want to see his work again, but out into the little courtyard, where he sat on the edge of the fountain, staring at the tiny thread of water, which came sparkling and splashing from its mouth, down into the deep stone trough, wrinkling, as it fell, into fine waves, drawing a little air to the depths along with it, which for ever forced it way back, rising in pearly bubbles to the surface. Perhaps, thought Goldmund, fear of death is the root of all our image-making, and perhaps, too, of all our intellect. We shrink from death, shuddering at our frail instability, sadly watching the flowers fade again and again, knowing in our hearts how soon we shall be as withered as they. So that when, as craftsmen, we carve images, or seek laws to formulate our thoughts, we do it all to save what little we may from the linked, never-ending dance of death.

The woman from whom this Master drew his madonna is faded perhaps, or dead already: he, too, will soon be dead, others will live in his house and eat at this table. But his work will stand a hundred years from now, or longer still, shimmering in the quiet dark cloister church, smiling with the same lovely mouth, as beautiful, young, and full of pain.

He heard the Master's step on the staircase, and ran back into the workshop. Master Nicholas walked up and down, with a glance, from time to time, at Goldmund's drawing, stood still, at last, at the window, and said, in his dry grudging fashion:

'The usage with our guild is this: that each apprentice should serve at least four years, and his father pay the Master a fee for him.'

Since here he paused, Goldmund thought that Nicholas was afraid of his having no apprentice-fee to offer him. In a flash he had pulled out his knife, slit the threads round the hidden ducat, and fished it up. Nicholas watched all this in surprise, and, when Goldmund tendered his ducat, began to laugh at him.

'Oho. Is that how you feel?' he chuckled. 'No, young sir, you may keep your gold-piece. I have told you how our guild treats its apprentices. But I am no ordinary master-craftsman, nor can you be any ordinary pupil, since such as they must enter the workshop by thirteen, fourteen, or fifteen years at latest; and for half his time, an apprentice must drudge for his Master, and do any labour he may be set to. But you are a grown man, and should, by your age, have been journeyman long since, or Master even. We have never seen a bearded apprentice in our guild. Besides, as I said before, I want no apprentices in my house. Nor do you look the kind of fellow he lets himself be told to come and go.'

Goldmund was at the height of his impatience; each careful word was like another turn of the rack to him, they sounded unbearably tedious and pedantic. He cried out hotly:

'Why should you say all this to me, since you have no mind to make me your apprentice?'

The Master continued unmoved, as slow as before.

'I have considered your request for an hour, and now it is for you to listen patiently. I have thought of your drawing. It has its faults, and yet it is beautiful. If it were not I should have given you half a gulden, and sent you packing, and forgotten you. I would like to help you become a carver, but, as I say, you cannot be my 'prentice. And whoever has not done his apprenticeship can never be a journeyman of our guild, and so can never be made Master. This I must say to you at once. But, if you can live outside, in the city, you shall try your hand and learn from me as you may. All this must be without indenture, leaving us free on either side. Break a few knives, if you will, and spoil a few woodblocks, and, if I see you are no carver, then you must turn to some other trade. Are you content?'

Goldmund had heard with joy and shame.

'I thank you,' he cried out, 'from my heart. I have no home, and can live here among houses as in the woods. I see you would not have to answer for me. I hold it great good fortune to have you teach me, and thank you from my soul that you grant me this.'