CHAPTER NINETEEN

THIS work kept Goldmund busy for two years, and from the second of these he had Erich all day as his assistant. In the wooden balustrade of his staircase he had planted another little Paradise, carving with delight an innocent wilderness of leafy trunks and tufted herbs, with birds on branches, and the heads and bodies of lurking beasts peeping out everywhere through the stems. In the midst of this peaceful, sprouting garden he set forth scenes from the lives of Patriarchs. There were few days now on which he felt it impossible to carve, when restless and weariness of mind kept him away from the workshop. When such fits were on him he would set Erich a task for the day, and stray out alone into the fields, at times on horseback, to taste a little vagrancy and freedom, seek out a peasant's daughter in one of the villages, hunt, or lie for hours in the long grass, staring up at the vaultings of the forest, through a wilderness of fern and broom. Then he could work with fresh zest, carving with joy his plantation of herbs and trees, gently enticing men's faces out of the wood, cutting out a mouth in a few firm strokes, the line of an eye, or a folded beard. Apart from Erich only Narziss had seen the work, and he often came over to the workshop, which at times seemed his favourite room in the cloister.

Here he would sit and watch it all, amazed and delighted. Here at last, flowering in this work, were all the things his friend had kept so long in his child-like, defiant, suspicious heart. They blossomed here on every side – a creation, a little, sprouting world; a game perhaps, but certainly no worse a game than the one with grammar, logic, and theology. One day he said abstractedly:

'I am learning a great deal from you, Goldmund. I begin to see what it is that artists do. Till now it never seemed to me that their art, in comparison with my thought and science, was a thing to be taken very seriously. I would think more or less in this way: Since man, after all, is a dubious alloy of matter and spirit, and since his spirit can bring him to the knowledge of eternity, whereas matter can only draw him down into death, and fetter his soul to all that perishes, he should strive away from the senses, to the spirit, and so exalt his life, and give it a meaning. Only now do I begin to perceive how many paths lead us to knowledge, that study is not our only way to it, and perhaps not the best to follow. Certainly it is mine, and I must keep to it. But I see you by the opposite way, the way which leads through the senses, reach as deep a knowledge as any that most thinkers achieve, of the essence and secret of our being, and a far more living mode of setting it forth.'

'Now you understand,' said Goldmund, 'why it is that I cannot conceive of any thought without its image.'

'That I understood long ago. Thought is an eternal simplification – a seeing out, beyond the things of the eye; the attempt to construct a world of pure intelligence. But you craftsmen take the most perishable of all things to your hearts, and, in their very transience and corruption, you herald the meaning of the world. You never look beyond or above it, you give yourselves up to it, and yet, by your very devotion, you change it into the highest of all, till it seems the epitome of eternity. We thinkers strive to reach our God by drawing the world away from before His face. You come to Him, loving His creation, and fashioning it all over again. Both these are imperfect, human works; yet, of the two, art is the more innocent.'

'That I cannot tell you, Narziss. But it seems that you thinkers and theologians can succeed far better than I do in coming to grips with life, and holding despair at arm's length. I have long since ceased to envy you your science, my friend, but I envy your calm, your peace, your even temper.'

'There's nothing to envy, Goldmund. There is no peace, in the sense in which you mean it. No doubt there is a peace, but not that peace which abides, and never forsakes us. On earth there is only that peace which we must conquer over and over again, from day to day, in every fresh assaults and victories. You have never seen me assailed. You know nothing of my doubts at study, my torments in my cell at prayers. It is good that you do not. All you can see is that I am less subject to moods than you, and so you think I must be at peace. But life every true life, it is all battle and sacrifice. Like your life also, o amice.'

'We need not quarrel as to that. But neither do you see every struggle in my heart. I do not know if you understand what I feel when I think that soon my work will be finished. It will be carried away and set up, people will praise me for it, and then I shall go back to my empty workshop, sad for all its imperfections, and the many things others can never see in it, with my heart as empty and desolate as the place.'

'That may be so,' said Narziss, 'and neither of us can ever quite understand the other. Yet all men of goodwill have this in common – that our works in the end put us to shame; that always we must begin them afresh. And our sacrifice be eternally renewed.'

A few weeks later Goldmund's work was ready, and set up. All happened now just as it had happened years ago. The work became the possession of other men, was seen, judged, praised, and he was honoured for it. But his heart and workshop seemed deserted, nor could he tell if all his labour had been for anything of worth. On the day of its unveiling he dined in the abbot's refectory. There was a banquet, with the oldest wine in the house. Goldmund ate the delicate fish and the venison, but, more than by the rare old wine, he felt warmed and cheered by Narziss' pleasure, who honoured him, and acclaimed his work.

Another work, ordered and desired by the abbot, was already conceived, and the drawings made; an altar for the Lady Chapel at Neuzell, a cloister-church, served by a father from the monastery. For this altar he intended a Mother of God, whom he would use to rescue for ever one unforgettable memory of his youth, the knight's shy, lovely daughter, Lydia. For the rest the work meant very little to him, though it seemed a good opportunity to let Erich try his hand as journeyman. Should the boy succeed he would have a good workman to second him, one who could replace and set him free for such works as alone lay near his heart. He went with Erich to assemble wood for the altar, and let him prepare it. Goldmund would often leave him alone to work, and go off for a day in the forest. He had begun to stray far from the cloister, and once, when he had been gone for several days, Erich told the abbot of his absence, who began to fear that he had run away again for ever. He returned, worked for a week at the Lydia-madonna, and set out again.

He was restless. His life, since the great work was finished, had fallen into the old disorder. He no longer cared to go to early mass, and was deeply wearied and dissatisfied. Now he would often think of Master Nicholas, and wonder if he too would not soon have become very like him, busy, gruff, and skilful, and yet a slave, without youth in his heart. A recent experience set him thinking. One day in the woods he had met a little peasant, Francisca, who pleased him so that he did his best to charm her, using every device to make her his. The maid had listened to all his stories; she had laughed very happily at his jokes; but his love she refused, and so for the first time he perceived that, to a young maid, he seemed an old man. He had not gone back to see her, and had not forgotten it. Francisca was right; he had changed, he himself could feel it, and truly not because of his few grey hairs, come too early, nor the little wrinkles about his eyes – it was something deeper, something in his mind and spirit. He felt himself old, and grown strangely akin to Master Nicholas, considered himself glumly in the looking-glass, and shrugged his shoulders at the sight. He had become safe and tame like other burghers, no hare or eagle now, but a house-dog. Whenever he wandered in the fields he would find himself seeking out old memories, his happiness and freedom – as mistrustful and eager as a dog on a false scent. A day or two of frolic away from the cloister was enough to make him feel a truant, remembering that wood stood ready in his workshop – uneasily responsible for the altar, for Erich, his journeyman. He was no longer free, no longer young.

And so he made a firm resolution. When this Lydia-madonna was finished he would take the roads for the third time. It was bad to live so long with men. Men were good enough to talk to, they could understand a craftsman's work, and reason cleverly on it. But for all the rest, for tenderness and delight, play and gossiping, pleasure, without need for thought – for these there must be women and vagabondage, the roads with their changes and adventure, and none of it all could prosper near a monastery. Everything here, and all the surroundings of the cloister, had made his heart a little grey and serious, a little masculine and heavy, had infected him and got into his blood.

The thought of another journey cheered him. He stuck hard to his work, to be sooner free of it, and, as Lydia's shape emerged by degrees from the wood – as he carved the long folds of the gown, in straight lines down from her delicate knees – a deep and poignant happiness shot through him, a melancholy devotion to her image, this firm, timid shape of a young maid, and all the memories it brought of her, of youth, first love, and first delight. He worked very slowly and carefully, feeling this shape at one with all the pleasure in his heart, with his joy and the gentlest of his memories. It was exquisite to shape the bend of her neck, her smiling, dolorous mouth, her lovely hands, the long fingers, and beautiful arched cups of the fingernails. Erich, too, whenever he had time to look at it, would stare, in loving bewilderment, at the figure.

When they were nearly ready he showed his figure to the abbot.

Narziss said:

'This is your fairest work, Goldmund. We have nothing in the cloister to equal it. I must tell you that in these last months I have often been troubled about your happiness. I have seen you so restless and full of pain, and when you went off and stayed out longer than a day, I often feared you would never come back to us. Now you have made us this lovely figure. My friend, I am very proud and glad.'

'Yes,' answered Goldmund, 'the figure has turned out a good one. But, Narziss, listen. To shape that figure it needed the whole of my youth, it needed all my vagrancy and loves, and every woman I ever knew. That is the source of my work, and soon the fountain will dry up, for my heart grows withered. I will finish this Maria, and then I would beg for a long holiday – I cannot tell you how long. I must go out again, and find my youth, and all the things that made life dear to me. Can you understand? Well then, you know I am your guest, and have never taken payment for my work.'

'I have offered it you often,' exclaimed Narziss.

'Yes, and now I will take it. I will let them make me new clothes, and when they are ready I will come to you and ask you for a horse, to ride out again, and a few gold thalers for the journey. Say nothing against it, Narziss, and don't look sad! It is not that I have ever been unhappy here – I could never have found a better life – it is something else. Will you do as I ask you?'

They said little more of this. Goldmund had them cut him a plain jerkin and riding-boots, and, as summer approached, he finished his madonna, as though she were the last work he would do. As he set the careful finishing strokes to her hair and hands, and sorrowful face, it almost seemed as though he were delaying his own departure, as though he put it off again and again for one last delicate glimpse of Lydia's beauty. Day after day went by, and still he had this or that to set to rights. Narziss, though this parting grieved him, would often smile at Goldmund's passion, which seemed to hold him so fast to God's own Mother.

Then one day Goldmund surprised him by coming suddenly in, to take his leave. He had made up his mind overnight. In his new jerkin, boots, and cap, he came to ask the abbot's blessing. He had confessed, a while since, and received the Sacrament. This parting lay heavy on them both, though Goldmund pretended to more ruffling indifference than he felt.

'Shall I ever see you again?' asked Narziss.

'Oh yes, surely you will – unless your good horse breaks my neck. Why, there'd be none left to call you “Narziss”, and trouble your mind. You'll see me again, never fear. Don't forget to keep an eye on Erich, though. And let nobody meddle with my new statue. She must stand in my chamber, as I told you, and never let the key out of your hand.'

'Are you glad to set out?'

Goldmund screwed up his eyes.

'Well, there's no denying I liked the thought of it. But now that I start to ride away it isn't so good as I hoped. You'll laugh at me, and say I'm a fool, but I don't find it easy to leave you all; and yet this dependence on you displeases me. I feels like a sickness. Young, healthy folk aren't like that. Master Nicholas was, though. Oh, why do we waste so many words. Bless me, Narziss. I want to go.'

He rode off.

Narziss' thoughts could never leave his friend; he feared for him, and yet longed for his return. Would the golden bird ever fly back to his hand, the vagrant? God keep him, and bring him safe home. How many cares this yellow-haired boy had brought him, who complained all the while of getting old, and yet looked at him through such guileless eyes. How he feared for him now. This butterfly had gone his own zigzag path, into danger perhaps, to death or new imprisonment. He trembled, yet he rejoiced. Deep down it filled him with delight that the forward child should have been so hard to curb, that he had such whims there was no holding him.

Every day, at one hour or the other, the abbot's thoughts returned to Goldmund, in care and longing, love and gratitude, at times in doubt, and self-reproach. Ought he not, perhaps, to have given more outward signs of his love, shown Goldmund how little he wished him other than he was, how both he and his carving had enriched him? He had said so little, perhaps too little, of all this. Who could tell if he might not have managed to keep him.

But Goldmund had not only enriched his life; he had made him poorer too, poorer and weaker, and certainly it was good to have kept that secret. This world in which he had his home, this cloister, his learning and his office, the whole well-grounded structure of his thought – had it not been shaken to its base, his faith in it almost destroyed, by his life with Goldmund? No doubt that, seen from a cloister, with the certainty of reason and morality, his ways had been better, and far more just: his ordered days of rigid service, his sacrifice, for ever renewed, his perpetual strivings after clarity, and the greater justice it would bring: a far better life than any this vagabond could boast, this artist and lecher.

But seen from above – as God might see it – were this patterned order and morality, this giving up of the world, and the joys of sense, this aloof withdrawal from the blood and mire into prayer and philosophy, any better? Were men really made to live an ordered life, its virtues and duties set to the ringing of a bell? Was man created to study Aristotle and the Summa, to know Greek, extinguish his senses, flee the world? Had not God made man with lusts and pride in him, with blood and darkness in his heart, with the freedom to sin, love, and despair? Whenever Narziss thought of Goldmund such questions were foremost in his mind.

Yes, and perhaps it was not merely simpler and more human to live a Goldmund-life in the world. Perhaps in the end it was more valiant, and greater in God's sight, to breast the currents of reality, sin, and accept sin's bitter consequence, instead of standing apart, with well-washed hands, living in sober, quiet security, planting a pretty garden of well-trained thoughts, and walking then, in stainless ignorance, among them – the sheltered beds of a little paradise. It was harder perhaps, and needed a stouter heart to walk with broken shoes through forest-glades, to trudge the roads, suffer rain and snow, want and drought, playing all the games of the senses, and paying one's losses with much grief.

Goldmund at least had shown him this – that a man born to noble life can plunge very deep indeed into the sea of blood and lust which men call living, spatter himself over with mire and gore, and yet never become deformed or dwarfish, never kill the God in his mind, and though he wander for years through the blackest darkness still carry, without risk of its extinction, the light which made him a creator.

Narziss had gained deep insight into the chequered spirit of his friend, and neither his respect nor love was in any way diminished by what he saw. Ah, no – and since, under Goldmund's sinful hands, he had watched the birth of all these marvels of still, yet living, form, each shape with its inner law and perfection, these reverend faces with deep-set eyes, through which the spirit shone in all its brightness, those praying or pardoning hands, all these bold or gentle, proud or holy images, he had known indeed how much of light and of God's grace had illumined this lecherous wastrel's heart.

He had found it easy enough to seem wiser than Goldmund in their talks, oppose to the passion of his friend the ordered clarity of his mind. But was not every gesture of these figures, each eye or mouth, each tendril, leaf, or folded garment, more real, more living, more irreplaceable than all that any thinker could ever furnish? Had not this vagrant, whose heart was so full of need and contradiction, set forth, for ever and for all men, the symbols of our human need, in shapes to which the longing and delight, the fears and hopes of countless humans would turn, to seek their comfort, strength and security?

Smiling, yet full of grief, Narziss remembered all the times since their boyhood, when he had seemed to guide and admonish Goldmund. And Goldmund had heard his lessons gratefully, never once protesting or growing angry at his easy assumptions of leadership and control. Yet now these works, brought forth so quietly, from all the storm and pain of his harassed life – no words, no preachments, no admonishments, but life itself, raised up and dignified? How poor he seemed beside all these, with his science, his dialectics, his monk's morality.

Such were the thoughts that kept recurring. Just as, many years ago, he had laid warning hands on Goldmund's youth, shaking his purpose, and setting his life a new direction, so now his friend returned to trouble his spirit, forcing him to doubts and self-scrutinies. Goldmund was his equal. He had taken nothing from Narziss which he had not given again a hundred fold.

This absent friend gave him much time to think in; weeks passed, and the chestnut tree had long flowered, the clear, milky green of its blossom had long since hardened and grown dark brown. The storks on the gateway towers had long brought forth their young, and taught them to fly. The longer Goldmund tarried his return the more acutely Narziss perceived how much he was losing by his absence. He had several learned fathers as guests in the house; one skilled in Plato, a good grammarian, a couple of acute theologians. And among his monks there were one or two good and faithful souls, to whom their vocation meant something serious. But none of all these was his equal, there was none with whom he could truly measure his spirit. Goldmund had this irreplaceable gift, and now it was hard to do without it. He longed for his friend.

Often he would go across to the workshop, to encourage the journeyman, Erich, who still worked on at the altarpiece, and who also pined to see his master again. Then he would unlock Goldmund's bedchamber, in which stood the new Mother of God, carefully raise the cloths that enveloped her, and sit awhile looking at the image. He knew nothing at all of her inspiration. Goldmund had never told him the story of Lydia. But he could feel it all, could see that the features of this girl had lived many years in his friend's heart. Long ago, perhaps, he had seduced her, deceived her hope, and gone his way. But in his heart he had taken her shape, and shielded it, truer than the best of husbands, till in the end, perhaps after many years in which he had never had a sight of her, he had shaped this gracious, tender, young girl's body, and in her face, her bearing, and her hands, set forth all the gentleness and wonder, delight and longing, of their love.

The figures round the refectory-lectern had also much, for Narziss, of Goldmund's history – the history of a lecher and a wastrel, a homeless, faithless vagabond of the roads; yet all that he had left of it, there is the wood, was fair and true, and full of vivid love. How strange and secret life could be, how dark and muddy flowed the stream, how clear and beautiful what remained with us!

Narziss fought hard against himself. He won, and remained true to the way he had chosen, never abating a jot of his rigid service. But he suffered from the loss of his friend, and suffered too in the perception of how great a share, where all should have been given to God and his duty, that friend had taken in his heart.