CHAPTER FIFTEEN

AT last he had reached his journey's end, and Goldmund, through the same gateway under which, so many years ago, he had hurried first into this city, to find a master and learn a craft, re-entered the place of his desire. He had been told that here, too, they had had the plague, and perhaps it reigned still. There had been risings and tumults, so that the Emperor had sent his Stattholder to quell them, and set up the law in its place again, protecting the lives and goods of honest citizens. The bishop had fled his city the instant he knew that the plague had entered it, and now lived out on the land, in one of his castles. Goldmund paid small heed to all this. Let it all go as it would, if only there were a city still, and his workshop! But when he reached the gates there was no more plague; the burghers were expecting their bishop's return, and with it their settled, peaceful life. He rejoiced to see these streets again, and his heart leapt, as though for a homecoming, so that he had to master himself, and frown a little.

It was all just as he had left it: the gates, the delicate fountains, the old, squat tower of the Munster, the long, slender spire of St Mary's church, the clear, bright chimes of St Lawrence, the wide and beautiful marketplace. Oh, how good to feel it had all been waiting for him! Had he not dreamed, out there, that he came back only to find it shrivelled up, one half in ashes, the other full of unfamiliar houses. He almost wept as he passed along the street, recognizing house after house. After all, perhaps these burgers were to be envied for their calm, deep knowledge that they were at home, living their safe and peaceful lives, ensconced in their workshops and houses, with wives and children, journeymen and neighbours.

It was late afternoon, sunlight lay gold over the house-fronts, with their tavern-signs, and signs of guilds, their carved doors, their rows of flowerpots on the balconies. It all looked warm; there was nothing there to remind him that through these pleasant houses death had raged, ruling the panicked fears of men. Cool, clear green and blue, the river ran like glass under echoing arches. Goldmund sat to rest on the river wall: down under layers of greenish crystal the same shadowy fish still glided; or they lay inert, their noses turned against the current, and still, out of the shadowed twilight around them, some pale gold object glittered here and there, promising much, and favouring dreams.

Though other waters had the like, and other towns and bridges were very fair, to Goldmund it seemed that not for years had he met any sight to equal this, nor ever, except here, felt anything like it. Two laughing butcher's apprentices came driving their cow across the bridge, joking, and winking at a maid who, in a niche in the wall above them, took in her washing. How soon everything changed! A short while ago the plague-fires had burned outside this city, and gruesome death-churls done their will in it. Now life flowed and hurried just as before. People could laugh – and he himself was like them, sitting there, rejoicing to see it all, as though there had been no pain or death in the world, no Lene, no Jewish maid. He felt so glad that he even loved the citizens, stood up with a smile, and went further, and not till he reached the street of Master Nicholas, by alleyways which he had trodden each day on his way to work, did his heart begin to beat, and his mind grow restless.

He quickened his pace, longing, even tonight, to speak to the Master. He must know for certain, could not brook a second's more delay: to wait another night seemed impossible. Was Nicholas angry still? Ah, it was all so long ago, it could have no meaning any more. But if he stormed, Goldmund would mollify and placate him. All would be well if only the Master were still there – he and his workshop! Running, as though, even in this last instant, he might come too late and lose some chance, he came to the house he knew so well, seized the latchet, and gave a little start, as he found the house-door locked against him. Was this ill-omened? In his day it had never happened that this door was bolted before dark. Trembling he crashed down the locker, and waited. His heart stood still.

There came the old serving-woman again, who had let him into the house that first time. Now she was no uglier than then, but older, and still more crotchety in her ways, and she did not seem to know who he was. In a low voice he demanded Master Nicholas. She squinted up, mistrustfully and stupidly.

'Master? There's no master here. Go your ways, man, no-one is admitted.' She tried to thrust him back from the doorway, but he caught her arm, and shouted in her ear: 'For God's sake, Margrit, stop your whimpering! I am Goldmund. Don't you know who it is? I must go in now to Master Nicholas.'

'He's dead, I tell you,' she said grudgingly. 'We've no Master Nicholas here. Be off with you now; I haven't the time to stand here gossiping.'

Goldmund, with tumult in his soul, thrust the old woman aside, who hobbled after with many cries, and rushed down the dark passage to the workshop. That, too, was locked. He turned, and ran up the stairs, with the whining, chiding Margrit at his heels, and there, in the half-light of the landing, stood the figures Master Nicholas had assembled. He stopped, and called for Mistress Lisbeth.

The door into the oakroom opened; Lisbeth came, and when at the second glance he knew her, the sight of her pierced him to the heart. If, from the apprehension of that first minute when he found the street-door bolted against him, everything in this house had seemed bewitched, a little ghostly, as though in some uneasy dream, now, with his first sight of Lisbeth, a cold shiver ran along his spine. Lisbeth, the proud, the beautiful, had shrunk into a timid, faded gentlewoman, in a black gown, with a yellowish, sickly face, with no jewels now, with uncertain eyes and anxious mien.

'Forgive me, Mistress,' he said to her. 'Margrit did not want to let me in to you. You know me? Surely you must. I'm Goldmund. Say – is it true your father's dead?'

Her eyes said she knew him well, and that here his memory was unwelcome.

'So you are Goldmund, are you?' - in her voice he could still hear something of her pride – 'You have given yourself these pains for nothing. My father is dead.'

'But the workshop?' he had to ask her.

'The workshop? Closed. You must go elsewhere if it's work you need.'

He strove not to let her see his grief.

'Mistress Lisbeth,' he said, in a friendly voice, 'I am not come to ask you for work. I wanted to give you greeting – you, and the Master. It irks me sore to have to hear you. I can see you have had much sorrow. If your father's thankful apprentice can do you a service – name it – it would be my recompense. Ah, Mistress Lisbeth, it breaks my heart to see you so … so deeply afflicted.'

She stepped back into the shadow of the doorway.

'Thanks,' she hesitated, 'you can do him no further service, or me either. Margrit will lead you into the street.'

Her voice had an evil ring, half fear, half malice. He could feel that, if she had had the courage for it, she would have railed, and turned him from the house.

Old Margrit slammed the door behind him, and drew the bolts. Now he stood in the street and heard them still, like the double grating-down of a coffin lid.

Slowly he returned to the river wall, and leant again above the water's edge. The sun was down, a chill came off the river, the stone that touched him was like ice. The street behind had grown very silent, the current swirled around the piers; no sheen of gold off the dark waters.

'Oh,' he thought, 'if I could slip of this wall and vanish.' Once more the world was full of death, An hour went by, and the dusk had gathered into darkness. He could weep at last; the warm drops splashed his arms and knees. He wept for Master Nicholas, who was dead, for Lisbeth's beauty that had vanished, for Lene, for the Jewish maid, for Victor, for his own shrivelled, wasted days.

Late that night he found a wine-cellar, where he had often drunk and diced with apprentices. The hostess knew him again: he begged for a slice of bread, which she gave him, and along with it a friendly cup of wine. Neither bread nor wine could he taste. He slept on a bench in her tavern. Early in the morning she waked him, and he gave her thanks, and said, 'God's speed.' On his way he finished the bread she had given him.

He strayed about, and came to the Fish-Market. There stood the house where he had lodged. Two fishwives, by the fountain, hawked their wares. The fair, shimmering fish swam round and round in their tub. He saw it all in a dream, remembering his pity for the fish, his anger against the buyers and sellers. Then, so he thought, he had loitered, just as today, pitying fish, and wondering at their beauty; endless time had passed since then, and water flowed under bridges. He had been very sad, he still remembered, but stove in vain to capture the feeling that had made his heart so heavy, long ago. 'So it is,' he thought, 'sadness withers, and even our despair shrivels up. Pain, like our joys, fades out and leaves us, losing all its depths and worth, till at last a day comes when we have forgotten what stung our hearts so many years before.' Even pain crumbles away and perishes. Would this today lose all its depths and meaning – this despair that Master Nicholas was dead, in anger against him; that now there was no workshop to take him in, bring back his delight in carving shapes, and rid him of his weight of images. Yes, there could be no doubt, even this bitter longing would age and tire, his need would all be forgotten, since nothing stays with us long, not even grief.

As he stood there, watching the fish and thinking all this, he heard a shy, friendly voice beside him.

'Goldmund,' it said very softly, and he turned to see a timid, sickly girl, with wide and beautiful eyes, who had said his name. He did not know her.

'It is you, Goldmund?' she asked in her small, shy voice. 'Since when have you been back in the city, then? Don't you know me, Goldmund. I'm Marie.'

But still he could not remember. She had to say how she was the daughter of the guilder in whose house he had lodged in the Fish-Market; how, early one morning, before he left them, she had risen from her bed to warm his milk in the kitchen. She blushed in telling him all this.

Now he remembered; yes, it was Marie, the little, sickly maid who had limped, and been so quiet and timid as she served him. He remembered it all; she had come to him in the early morning cool, and been very sorry to see him go from them. She had brought him milk, and when he kissed her in exchange for it she had taken his kiss as reverently and quietly as if it had been the Blessed Host. He had never once thought of her since.

In those days she had been a child. Now she was grown into a woman with beautiful eyes, though still she limped and seemed a little doleful. He took her hand. It was good to find someone in the town who knew him still, and still had any love for him.

Although he protested, Marie led him into their house. In the living-room, where still his picture hung and his ruby glass stood over the chimney-piece, her parents bade him stay with them to dinner, and pressed him to remain a couple of days. All seemed very glad to see him again. Here, too, he learned how things had gone with Master Nicholas. The Master had not died of the plague, they said, it had been Mistress Lisbeth who sickened of it. She had lain near death; her father had worn himself out with grief and care of her, and died before she was quite well again. Her life was saved, but not her beauty.

'Now the workshop stands empty,' said the guilder, 'and for a good carver there would be a snug home, and money enough. Consider it, Goldmund. She would not say “no” to you. She has no choice now.'

He learned this and that of the plague-time; how first the rabble had fired a hospice, and then burned and looted a few rich houses, till for a while there was no safety or order within the walls, since the bishop and his men had taken flight. But then the Emperor, who happened to be near the city, had sent his stattholder. Count Heinrich. Well, sure enough, this lord was resolute, and had soon brought the city to submission, with his riders, and his band of archers. But now it was time to be quit of him, and the city wanted its bishop back again: this count had laid contributions on the citizens, and they wearied both of him and Agnes, his doxy. She was a proper devil's piece. But soon they would be gone, both he and she; the city fathers had long grown weary of them, and of having, in place of their good bishop, this courtier and captain on their backs, a kaiser's minion, who received ambassadors and churchmen like a prince.

Then he guest was asked to tell of his travels. 'Alas,' he answered them, 'no man could speak of it well. I went on and on, and in every place there was the plague; I saw corpses rotting by the roadside, and in cities the folk were mad, and evil with fear. I came out whole, and perhaps one day I shall forget it. Now I am here, to find my Master dead. Let me bide with you, and rest a few days, before I go on my way again.'

But it was more than need that made him ask it. He stayed because he was sick at heart, and irresolute; because the city, with its memory of better days, was dear to him, and poor Marie's love soothed his heart. He could not love her in exchange, could give her nothing save friendship and gentleness, yet her humble longing seemed to cherish him.

And, more than all, his burning wish to make images held him back: even without a shop to work in, as a journeyman even, he longed to stay in the city.

For two whole days Goldmund did nothing but draw. Marie had procured him pens and paper for it, and now, hours after hour, he sat in his room, filling the wide reams with scribbled shapes, though some were careful and full of thought. He made many studies of Lene's head, as he had seen it after the death of the vagabond, smiling with triumphant love, exulting in the sight of death; of Lene's head, as it had looked on the night before she died, eager to return into the earth, already almost crumbling into formlessness. He drew a little boy he had once seen dead, stretched on the threshold between two rooms, on his way to his parents, with clenched fists. He drew a wagon full of corpses, with three thin jades wearily tugging it, and churls running beside to urge it on, long poles in their hands, and with squinting eyes, glittering through the slits in the black plague-masks. Over and over again he drew Rebecca, the dark slim Jewess, whose eyes were fire, with her small, proud mouth, her face full of misery and defiance, her pure young body, shaped, it seemed, for nothing but love. He drew himself, as a wanderer, a lover, a fugitive, with reaping death hard at his heels; as a dancer at the feasts of the plague-stricken. Eagerly he bent over the paper, to fix, in long firm strokes, the features of the pretty, disdainful Lisbeth he had known, the broken grimaces of old Margrit, the admired form of Master Nicholas. And several times, in dim, uncertain outlines, he suggested another face, a woman's – mother earth, with hands folded in her lap, the ghost of a smile under heavy lids. This knowledge of the power in his hands, the mastery he had of all these faces, comforted him more than any words. In two days he had covered every sheet that Marie brought him, while from the last he cut out a space, and on this, in a few clear strokes, drew Marie – her face with the beautiful eyes, and lips that renounced. This he gave her.

This work had appeased him. For as long as he could stay there drawing he had not known where he sat, or what he suffered. His world had been nothing but a table, the white paper, a rush-light at dusk. Now he awoke to remember that his Master was dead, and that he must set forth on the roads again, and so began to stray about the city, with a strange sense of welcome and farewell.

On one of these walks he met a lady, whose sight alone resolved the tumult in his mind. A fair woman, with light, gold hair, on horseback; with inquisitive, rather cold blue eyes, beautiful and strong, with a fresh, clear skin, a face all eagerness for life, greed to enjoy and rule, self-reliance, and sensual curiosity. She sat her horse with an air of mastery and disdain, the look of one who commands by habit; yet with nothing reserved or guarded in her face and, beneath the rather cold light in her eyes, nostrils, which seemed flutteringly eager to welcome every saviour life could offer her, while her firm beautiful lips seemed to promise that she could give and take without stint. The sight of her made Goldmund feel alert – suddenly eager to measure himself against this woman's pride. To win and master her seemed to him a glorious achievement, nor would he have thought it a bad death to forfeit his head in the attempt. At once he knew this strong, golden woman as his equal, riches in her senses and her heart, with the strength in her to weather any storm, as wild in her loves as she was tender, sensing the very tack and beat of passion from ancient inherited knowledge of the blood. She rode on past him, and he watched her. Between her dark blue bodice and rough gold hair her firm, white neck rose proud and strong, yet cased in the delicate skin of a child. She was, he thought, the fairest woman he had seen, and he longed to feel her neck under his hands, and pluck the cold, blue mystery out of her eyes. Nor was he long in learning her name. He heard at once that she was Agnes, the stattholder's leman, who lived with him in the bishop's palace. The news did not alter his purpose, since she might have been the empress herself. He stopped, to bend over a fountain, and see his image in the water. The face he saw matched hers, as brother to sister, but his was far too wild and unkempt. Within the hour he had hunted up a barber and, by persuasion, had himself oiled and combed, and his beard cut.

He spent two days in pursuit of her. Agnes would ride out of the palace, to see this fair-haired stranger at the gates, who stared at her with longing in his eyes. She would canter her horse around the bastions, and the stranger would be waiting under the elms. Agnes would have been at the goldsmith's and, as she left his workshop, meet the stranger. Her proud blue eyes measured him sharply, yet her nostrils quivered a little as she stared. Next day, on her early ride, she met him again, and smiled a challenge as she passed. With her he saw the count, the stattholder, a bold and stately man, and a serious enemy. But his hair had grey in it already, and creases of care under the eyes. Goldmund could feel himself a match for him.

These days filled him with delight, he rejoiced in a sense of new-won youth. It was very good to draw this woman on, and challenge her, good to risk his freedom for this beauty. Best and pleasantest of all was his sense of setting his life on this one throw.

On the morning of the third day, Agnes rode forth from the castle yard followed by a groom on horseback. She looked at once, a little restlessly, for the stranger, as though she were eager to do battle. Her groom was sent ahead with a message, and she walked her horse slowly after him, under the gateway, to the bridge, and over it. Only once did she look behind her to see that the stranger was at her heels. In the street to St Vitus, the pilgrims' church, at that time of day almost deserted, she reined up, and waited his approach. She had nearly half an hour to wait for him, since he followed her very slowly, refusing to approach her breathless. He came, smiling and radiant, with a little bunch of red hips and haws between his teeth. She had slid from her horse, and tethered it, and now stood with her back against the ivy that climbed up the steep church bastion. She looked her pursuer in the eyes. He faced her gaze, and doffed his cap.

'Why do you hunt me?' she asked him. 'What do you want of me?'

'Oh, he replied, 'I would as lief make you a gift as take one. It is myself I would offer you, fair woman, and then you shall do as you will with me.'

'Well, I shall see what use I can put you to! But if you thought you could come out plucking flowers without danger, you were wrong. I can only love those who risk their lives for me if they must.'

'Mine is yours to command.'

Slowly she drew a thin gold chain from her neck.

'What do they call you?'

'Goldmund.'

'Goldmund – good; I must taste how golden is that mouth of yours. Now listen well. You are to bring this chain at dusk to the palace, and say you found it. You will not let it leave your hands. I must have it back from you alone. You are to come to me just as you are, even though they take you for a beggar. If any of the palace-rabble come sniffing you, bear with them. Know that only two of my people are trustworthy, the squire, Max, and Bertha, my woman. One of these two you must seek out, and have yourself led to me. Be on your guard against all the others, and the count himself; they are your enemies. You are warned; it may cost you your neck.'

She held out her hand for him to kiss, and he took it smiling, stroked it against his cheek, and kissed it tenderly. Then he hid her chain and left her, walking downhill into the city, with city and river spread beneath him. The vines were already stripped: one gold leaf fluttered past another off the trees. He smiled again and nodded at these streets, lying there so snug and friendly. Only a few days back he had been all sorrow, sick at heart that even pain and grief pass over us, leaving no trace. Now these were gone indeed; they had fluttered down, like the gold leaves off the branches, yet never, he thought, had love promised so much as it did in the eyes of this woman, whose tall beauty and golden fullness of life put him in mind of the image of his mother, as he had seen it long ago as a child in Mariabronn, when first he knew he carried it in his heart. Even two days since he would not have believed that the world could ever again seem young and vivid, nor the sap of life rise in him so mightily, with all the eager pleasure of his youth, setting new fire in every vein. How glorious to know he was still alive, to know that death had passed him by, in all the crazy horror of these months.

That evening he stole into the palace. Its great courtyard was full of stir and bustle, palfreys were being stripped of their trappings, messengers hurried to and fro, while a little procession of monks and ghostly dignitaries followed servants through the doors, and up the staircase. Goldmund tried to enter after them, but found that a porter barred his way.

He brought out his chain, saying that he had commission to give it to none but the Lady Agnes, or her tire-woman. They gave him a groom to take him further, who left him in one of the long passages. Then came a nimble, beautiful woman, who whispered, as she hurried past, 'Are you Goldmund?' - and beckoned him to follow in her wake. She vanished quickly through a side door, came back after a while, and called him in. He found himself in a little room, with a scent of fur and sweet essences, and hung about with robes and mantles; women's hats were set out on wooden stands, and many pairs of shoes in an open trough. Here he stood waiting a long half-hour, sniffed at the scented robes that hung about him, stroking their fur, and smiled inquisitively on all the pretty gauds that dangled down.

At last the inner door was opened and there came, not the tire-woman but Agnes, in a sky-blue robe, with white fur at her neck. Slowly she approached the waiting Goldmund, step by step, and her deep blue eyes measured him gravely.

'You have had to wait,' she said in a low voice, 'but I think we are safe at last. An embassy of prelates is with the count. He must sup with them, and they will have much business together. Priests always draw out their sessions. This hour is yours and mine. Welcome, Goldmund.'

She stood beside him, her greedy lips bent close, and without more words they greeted in a kiss. Softly his fingers stroked her nape. She led him out of the wardrobe into her sleeping-chamber, high, and bright with many tapers. Food had been set out on one of the tables. They sat, and she spread butter on wheaten cakes for him, with fresh and gold wine in a high, blue-tinged glass. They ate and drank, both from the same azure cup, their hands caressing, by way of trial.

'What made you fly into my nest,' she asked him, 'my pretty bird? Are you a soldier or a spielmann; or are you some poor vagabond off the roads?'

'I am all that you will,' he answered softly, 'and am all yours. I am a spielmann, if you will, and you are my sweet lute, so that when I touch your neck with my fingers, and play on you, we can hear the angels, how they sing! Come my heart – I am not here to eat your wheaten cakes and drink your wine. I came only for you.'

Gently he unclasped the white fur at her neck and unsheathed her body. Though around them priests and courtiers might hold session, servants come creeping up the passages, the sickle moon drop far into the branches in the courtyard, these two knew nothing of all this. For them the trees of Paradise were in blossom. Drawn and clasped to one another, they lost themselves within its scented night, saw the white, shimmering secrets of its flowers, plucking its fruits, for which they thirsted, with gentle, ever-grateful hands. Never before had spielmann struck such a lute, or lute known fingers so strong and cunning.

'Goldmund,' she whispered, full of ecstasy. 'Oh, what a sorcerer have I found. I would have a child of you, my sweet goldfish. Or better, I would die under your kisses.'

Deep in his throat he hummed a song of joy to her, as he saw the hardness melt in her deep, blue eyes. Felt how love weakened all her body. In a gentle shudder, like a death-pang, her eyes drank his love into their depths, filmed, as with the trembling sheen of the glittering scales of dying fish, faint gold, like the magic shimmer in deep water. All human joy seemed gathered into that hour.

Then at once, as she still lay trembling with closed eyes, he stole from the bed, and slipped into his clothes. He bent over her with a sigh, and whispered:

'I must leave you, my jewel. Your count mustn't come and kill me. Why should I die, when first I would make us happy again – once more – a hundred times more.'

She lay there silent till he was ready. He drew the soft coverlet over her, kissed her eyes.

'Goldmund,' she sighed. 'Oh, must you leave me? Come tomorrow. If there's danger I'll send to warn you. Come soon. Come soon.'

She tugged the bell-cord. Her tire-woman came to the wardrobe door to guide him, and led him quickly from the palace. He would have liked to give her a god ducat; for a minute he was ashamed of his poverty.

Late that night he stood in the Fish-Market, looking up at the windows of his lodging. They would all be asleep, and it seemed he must lie down in the square. But, strangely, he found the house-door open, and crept in, shutting it softly after him. The way to his room lay through the kitchen. There was light there, and he found Marie, sitting, with her tiny lamp, at the table. She had nodded off to sleep as she waited for him. She started up as he came through.

'Oh,' he said, 'Marie – are you up still?'

'Yes,' she told him, 'or else you would have found the house locked up.'

'I'm sorry you waited for me, Marie. It's so late now. Don't be angry.'

'I'm never angry with you, Goldmund. I only feel a little sad.'

'Sad you shall never be. Why sad?'

'O, Goldmund, how I wish I were strong and beautiful. Then you need never go out at night, courting other women in strange houses. You would stay with me; and perhaps you would sometimes be a little kind to me.'

Her gentle voice had neither hope nor bitterness in it, only sorrow. He stood uneasily. She irked him, and he could find no words to answer her. With a gentle hand he stroked her hair, and she was silent, trembling a little as she felt him. She wept a while, then dried her eyes and said shyly:

'Go to bed now, Goldmund. I've only been saying a lot of foolishness. I felt so sleepy. Good night.'