FOUR
TWO
ORDERS
IN
A GOOD many respects Joseph Knecht's situation was once again similar to that
in his Latin school days after the Music Master's visit. Joseph himself would scarcely have imagined
that the appointment to Mariafels represented a special distinction and a large
first step on the ladder of the hierarchy, but he was after all a good deal
wiser about such matters nowadays and could plainly read the significance of
his summons in the attitude and conduct of his fellow students. Of course he had belonged for some time to
the innermost circle within the elite of the Glass Bead Game players, but now
the unusual assignment marked him to all and sundry as a young man whom the
superiors had their eye on and whom they intended to employ. His associates and ambitious fellow players
did not exactly withdraw or become unfriendly - the members of this highly
aristocratic group were far too well-mannered for that - but an
aloofness nevertheless arose.
Yesterday's friend might well be tomorrow's superior, and this circle
registered and expressed such gradations and differentiations by the most
delicate shades of behaviour.
One exception was Fritz Tegularius, whom
we may well call, next to Ferromonte, Joseph Knecht's closest friend throughout
his life. Tegularius, destined by his
gifts for the highest achievements but severely hampered by certain
deficiencies of health, balance, and self-confidence, was the same age as
Knecht at the time of Knecht's admission to the Order - that is, about
thirty-four - and had first met him some ten years earlier in a Glass Bead Game
course. At the time Knecht had sensed
how strong an attraction he exerted upon this quiet and rather melancholy
youth. With that psychological instinct
which he possessed even then, although without precisely knowing it, he
likewise grasped the essence of this love on the part of Tegularius. It was friendship ready for unconditional
devotion, a respect capable of the utmost subordination. It was imbued with an almost religious
fervour, but overshadowed and held in bounds by an aristocratic reserve and a
foreboding of inner tragedy. In the
beginning, still shaken and oversensitive, not to say suspicious, as a result
of the Designori episode, Knecht had held Tegularius at a distance by
consistent sternness, although he too felt drawn to this interesting and
unusual schoolfellow. For a
characterization of Tegularius we may use a page from Knecht's confidential
memoranda which, years later, he regularly drew up for the exclusive use of the
highest authorities. It reads:
"Tegularius. Personal friend of the
writer. Recipient
of several honours at school in Keuperheim. Good classical philologist, strong interest
in philosophy, worked on Leibniz,
"I should like to cite an example
to illustrate T.'s brilliance as a Glass Bead Game player. During the early days of my friendship with
him, when both of us were already finding little more to learn by way of
technique in our courses, he once - it was a moment of unusual trust - allowed
me to look at several games he had composed.
I saw at a glance that they were brilliantly devised and somehow novel
and original in style, asked to borrow the sketches for study, and discovered
that these Game compositions were true literary productions, so amazing and
singular that I feel I should speak of them here. These Games were little dramas, in structure
almost pure monologues, reflecting the imperilled but brilliant life of the
author's mind like a perfect self-portrait.
The various themes and groups of themes on which the Games were based,
and their sequences and confrontations, were brilliantly conceived, dialectically
orchestrated and counterpoised. But
beyond that, the synthesis and harmonization of the opposing voices was not
carried to the ultimate conclusion in the usual classical manner; rather, this
harmonization underwent a whole series of refractions, of splintering into
overtones, and paused each time, as if wearied and despairing, just on the
point of dissolution, finally fading out in questioning and doubt. As a result, these Games possessed a stirring
chromatics, of a kind never before ventured, as far as I know. Moreover, the Games as a whole expressed a
tragic doubt and renunciation; they became figurative statements of the
dubiousness of all intellectual endeavour.
At the same time, in their intellectual structure as well as in their
calligraphic technique and perfection, they were so extraordinarily beautiful
that they brought tears to one's eyes.
Each of these Games moved with such gravity and sincerity towards
solution, only at the last so nobly to forgo the attempt at solution,
that it was like a perfect elegy upon the transitoriness inherent in all
beautiful things and the ultimate dubiety immanent in all soaring flights of
the intellect.
"Item: I would recommend
Tegularius, if he should outlive me or my term in office, as an extremely fine,
precious, but imperilled treasure. He
should be granted maximum freedom; he should be consulted on all important
questions concerning the Game. But
students should never be placed in his sole guidance."
In the course of the years this
remarkable man had become Knecht's true friend.
He admired Knecht's capacity for leadership as well as his mind, and
showed a touching devotion towards him.
In fact, much of what we know about Knecht has been handed down by
Tegularius. In the innermost circle of
younger Glass Bead Game players he was perhaps the only one who did not envy
his friend for the important assignment he had received, and the only one for
whom Knecht's absence for an indefinite time meant an almost unbearable anguish
and sense of loss.
Joseph himself rejoiced in the new state
of affairs as soon as he recovered from the shock of suddenly being shorn of
his beloved freedom. He felt eagerness
to travel, pleasure in activity, and curiosity about the alien world to which
he was being sent. Incidentally, he was
not allowed to depart for Mariafels without preparation; first he was assigned
to the "Police" for three weeks.
That was the students' name for the small department within the Board of
Educators which might be called its Political Department or even its Foreign
Ministry, were these not somewhat grandiose names for so small an affair. These he received instruction in the rules of
conduct for brothers of the Order during their stays in the outside world. Dubois, the head of this office, personally
devoted an hour to him nearly every day.
This conscientious man seemed worried that an altogether untried young
man without the faintest knowledge of the world should be sent to such a
foreign post. He made no attempt to
conceal his disapproval of the Magister Ludi's decision, and took extra pains
to inform this new member of the Order on the facts of life in the outside
world and the means for effectively combating its perils. His sincere paternal solicitude fortunately
was matched by Joseph's willingness to be instructed. The result was that during those hours of
introduction into the rules of intercourse with the world, the teacher
conceived a real affection for Joseph Knecht, and finally felt able to dismiss
him reassured and fully confident that the young man would be able to carry out
his mission successfully. Dubois even
tried, more out of personal good will than the demands of politics, to give
Joseph a kind of additional assignment on his own behalf. As one of Castalia's few
"politicians", Dubois was one of that tiny group
of officials whose thoughts and studies were largely devoted to sustaining the
legal and economic continuance of Castalia, to regulating its relationship to
the outside world and the problems that arose from its dependence on the
world. The great majority of Castalians,
the officials no less than the scholars and students, lived in their
At the end of their last talk Dubois
said to him: "I think I can let you go now. You are to adhere strictly to the assignment
his honour the Magister Ludi has given you, and no less strictly to the rules
of conduct we have taught you here. It
was a pleasure to me to be able to help you.
You will see that the three weeks we have kept you were not time lost. And if you should ever want to recompense me
for my contribution to your education, I can suggest a way. You will be entering a Benedictine abbey, and
if you stay there a while and commend yourself to the Father, you will probably
hear political conversations and sense political currents among the venerable
Fathers and their guests. If you would
occasionally inform me about such matters, I would be grateful. Please understand me aright: you are
certainly not to regard yourself as a kind of spy or in any way misuse
confidences. You are not to pass along
anything that goes against your conscience.
I guarantee that we will use any information we may receive only in the
interest of our Order and Castalia. We
are not real politicians and have no power at all, but we too are dependent on
the world, which either needs or tolerates us.
Circumstances may arise in which we might profit by knowing that a
statesman is making a retreat in a monastery, or that the Pope is said to be
ill, or that new candidates have been added to the list of future
cardinals. We are not dependent on your
information - we have quite a variety of sources - but one little source more
can do no harm. Go now, you need not say
yes or no in this matter. For the
present all that is needed is for you to comport yourself well in your official
assignment and do us honour among the spiritual Fathers. Bon voyage."
In the Book of Changes, which
Knecht consulted by means of the yarrow stalk ritual before he set out, he
counted out the hexagram Lü, which signifies "The Wanderer", and the
augury: "Success through smallness.
Persistence is good fortune to the wanderer." He found a six for the second place, which
yielded the interpretation:
The
wanderer comes to the inn.
He
has possessions with him.
He
receives the persistent attentions of a young servant.
Knecht's leave-taking went off
cheerfully, except that his last talk with Tegularius proved to be a hard test
of both their characters. Fritz
controlled himself by extreme effort and appeared absolutely frozen in the
coolness he forced himself to display.
For him, the best he had was departing with his friend. Knecht's nature did not permit so passionate
and above all so exclusive an attachment to a friend. If need be, he could get along without one
and could direct his affections easily towards new objects and people. This parting was not a painful loss for him;
but he knew his friend well enough to know what a shock and trial it meant for
him, and he was concerned. He had given
much thought to the nature of this friendship, and had once spoken about it
with the Music Master. To a certain
extent he had learned to objectify his own experience and feelings, and to
regard them critically. In so doing he
had become aware that it was not really, or at any rate not only, his friend's
great talent that attracted him to Tegularius.
Rather, it was the association of this talent with such serious defects,
such great fragility. And he realized
that the single-mindedness of the love Tegularius offered him had not only its
beautiful aspect, but also a dangerous attraction, for it tempted him to
display his power over one weaker in strength though not in love. Therefore in this relationship he had made
restraint and self-discipline his duty to the last. Fond though he was of Tegularius, the
friendship would not have acquired so deep a meaning for him if it had not
taught him something about the dominion he had over others weaker and less
secure than himself. He learned that
this power to influence others was part and parcel of the educator's gift, and
that it concealed dangers and imposed responsibility. Tegularius, after all, was only one of
many. In the eyes of quite a few others
Knecht read silent courtship.
At the same time, during the past year
he had become far more conscious of the highly charged atmosphere in which he lived
in the Glass Bead Game village. For
there he was part of an officially nonexistent but very sharply defined circle,
or class, the finest elite among the candidates and tutors of the Glass Bead
Game. Now and then one or another of
that group would be called upon to serve in an auxiliary capacity under the
Magister or Archivist, or to help teach one of the
Game courses; but they were never assigned to the lower or middle level of
officialdom or the teaching corps. They
provided the reserve for filling vacancies in leading posts. They knew one another thoroughly; they had
almost no illusions about talents, characters, and achievements. And precisely because among the initiates and
aspirants for the highest dignities each one
was pre-eminent, each of the very first rank in performance, knowledge,
and academic record - precisely for that reason those traits and nuances of
character which predestined a candidate for leadership and success inevitably
counted for a great deal and were closely observed. A dash more or less of graciousness, of
persuasion with younger men or with the authorities, of amiability, was of
great importance in this group and could give its possessor a definitive edge
over his rivals. Fritz Tegularius
plainly belonged to this circle merely as an outsider; he was tolerated as a
guest but kept at the periphery because he had no gift for rule. Just as plainly Knecht belonged to the
innermost circle. What appealed to the
young and made them his admirers was his wholesome vigour and still youthful
charm which appeared to be resistant to passions, incorruptible and then again
boyishly irresponsible - a kind of innocence, that is. And what commended him to his superiors was
the reverse side of this innocence: his freedom from ambition and craving for
success.
Of late, the effects of his personality
had begun to dawn upon the young man. He
became aware of his attraction for those below him, and gradually, belatedly,
of how he affected those above him. And
when he looked back from his new standpoint of awareness to his boyhood, he
found both lines running through his life and shaping it. Classmates and younger boys had always
courted him; superiors had taken benevolent note of him. There had been exceptions, such as Headmaster
Zbinden; but on the other hand he had been recipient of such distinctions as
the patronage of the Music Master, and latterly of Dubois and the Magister
Ludi. It was all perfectly plain, in
spite of which Knecht had never been willing to see it and accept it in its
entirety. Obviously, his fate was to
enter the elite everywhere, to find admiring friends and highly placed
patrons. It happened of its own accord,
without his trying. Obviously he would
not be allowed to settle down in the shadows at the base of the hierarchy; he
must move steadily towards its apex, approach the bright light at the top. He would not be a subordinate or an
independent scholar; he would be a master.
That he grasped this later than others in a similar position gave him
that indescribable extra magic, that note of innocence.
But why was it that he realized it so
late, and so reluctantly? Because he had not sought it at all, and did not want it. He had no need to dominate, took no pleasure
in commanding; he desired the contemplative far more than the active life, and
would have been content to spend many years more, if not his whole life, as an
obscure student, an inquiring and reverent pilgrim through the sanctuaries of
the past, the cathedrals of music, the gardens and forests of mythology,
languages and ideas. Now that he saw
himself being pushed inexorably into the vita activa he was more than
ever aware of the tensions of the aspirations, the rivalries, the ambitions among those around him. He felt his innocence threatened and no longer
tenable. Now, he realized, he must
desire and affirm the position that was being thrust upon him; otherwise he
would be haunted by a feeling of imprisonment and nostalgia for the freedom of
the past ten years. And since he was not
as yet altogether ready for that affirmation, he felt his temporary departure
from Waldzell and the Province, his journey out into the world, as a great
relief and release.
The monastery of Mariafels, through the
many centuries of its existence, had shared in the making and the suffering of
the history of the West. It had
experienced periods of flowering and decline, had passed through rebirths and
new nadirs, and had been at various times and in assorted fields famous and
brilliant. Once a centre of Scholastic
learning and the art of disputation, still possessing an enormous library of
medieval theology, it had risen to new glory after periods of slackness and
sluggishness. It then became famous for
its music, its much-praised choir, and the Masses and oratories composed and
performed by the Fathers. From those
days it still retained a fine musical tradition, half a dozen nut-brown chests
full of music manuscripts, and the finest organ in the country. Then the monastery had entered a political
era, which had likewise left behind a tradition and a certain skill. In times of war and barbarization Mariafels
had several times become a little island of rationality where the better minds
among the opposed parties cautiously sought each other out and groped their way
towards reconciliation. And once - that
was the last
The respect and politeness with which he
was received went so far beyond his expectations that he felt rather
embarrassed. This was, after all, the
first time that Castalia had offered the monastery a Glass Bead Game player of
high distinction for an indefinite period. Joseph had learned from Dubois that he was not
to regard himself as an individual, especially during the early period of his
stay, but solely as the representative of Castalia, and that he was to accept
and respond both to courtesies and possible aloofness solely as an
ambassador. That attitude helped him
through his initial constraint.
He likewise soon overcame the feelings
of strangeness, anxiety, and mild excitability which troubled his first few
nights and kept him from sleeping. And
since Abbot Gervasius displayed a good-natured and merry benevolence towards
him, he quickly came to feel at ease in his new environment. The freshness and vigour of the landscape
delighted him. The monastery was
situated in rough, mountainous country, full of abrupt cliffs and pockets of
rich pasture where handsome cattle grazed.
He savoured with deep pleasure the massiveness and size of the ancient
buildings, in which the history of many centuries could be read. He enjoyed the beauty and simple comfort of
his apartment, two rooms on the top floor of the guest wing. For recreation he went on exploratory walks
through the fine little city-state with its two churches, cloisters, archives,
library, Abbot's apartment, and courtyards, with its extensive barns filled
with thrifty livestock, its gurgling fountains, gigantic vaulted wine and fruit
cellars, its two refectories, the famous chapter house, the well-tended gardens
and the workshops of the lay brothers: cooper, cobbler, tailor, smith, and so
on, all forming a small village around the largest courtyard. He was granted entry to the library; the
organist showed him the great organ and allowed him to play on it; and he was
strongly attracted to the chests in which an impressive number of unpublished
and to some extent quite unknown music manuscripts of earlier ages awaited
study.
The monks did not seem to be terribly
impatient for him to begin his official functions. Not only days but weeks passed before anyone
seriously brought up the real purpose of his presence there. From his first day, it was true, some of the
Fathers, and the Abbot himself in particular, had been eager to chat with
Joseph about the Glass Bead Game. But
no-one said anything about instruction or any other systematic work with the
Game. In other respects, too, Knecht
felt that the manners, style of life, and general tone of intercourse among the
monks was couched in a tempo hitherto unknown to him. There was a kind of venerable slowness, a
leisurely and benign patience in which all these Fathers seemed to share,
including those whose temperaments seemed rather more active. It was the spirit of their Order, the
millennial pace of an age-old, privileged community whose orderly existence had
survived hundreds of vicissitudes. They
all shared it, as every bee shares the fate of its hive, sleeps
its sleep, suffers its sufferings, trembles with its trembling. This Benedictine temper seemed at first
glance less intellectual, less supple and acute, less active than the style of
life in Castalia, but on the other hand calmer, less malleable, older, more
resistant to tribulation. The spirit and
mentality of this place had long ago achieved a harmony with nature.
With curiosity and intense interest, and
with great admiration as well, Knecht submitted to the mood of life in this
monastery, which at a time before Castalia existed had been almost the same as
it was now, and even then fifteen hundred years old, and which was so congenial
to the contemplative side of his nature.
He was an honoured guest, honoured far beyond his expectations and
deserts; but he felt distinctly that these courtesies were a matter of form and
custom and not specially addressed to him as a person, nor to the spirit of
Castalia or of the Glass Bead Game.
Rather, the Benedictines were displaying the majestic politeness of an
ancient power to a younger one. He had
been only partly prepared for this implicit superiority, and after a while, for
all that his life in Mariafels was proving so agreeable, he began to feel so
insecure that he asked his authorities for more precise instructions on how to
conduct himself. The Magister Ludi in
person wrote him a few lines: "Don't worry about taking all the time you
need for your study of the life there.
Profit by your days, learn, try to make yourself well liked and useful,
insofar as you find your hosts receptive, but do not obtrude yourself, and
never seem more impatient, never seem to be under more
pressure than they. Even if they should
go on treating you for an entire year as if each day were your first as a guest
in their house, enter calmly into the spirit of it and behave as if two or even
ten years more do not matter to you.
Take it as a test in the practice of patience. Meditate carefully. If time hands heavy on your hands, set aside
a few hours every day, no more than four, for some regular work, study, or the
copying of manuscripts, say. But avoid
giving the impression of diligence; be at the disposal of everyone who wishes
to chat with you."
Knecht followed this advice, and soon
began feeling more relaxed. Hitherto he
had been thinking too much of his assignment to act as instructor to amateur
Glass Bead Game players - the ostensible reason for this mission here - whereas
the Fathers of the monastery were treating him rather as the envoy of a
friendly power who must be kept in good humour.
And when at last Abbot Gervasius recollected the assignment, and brought
him together with several of the monks who had already had an introduction to the
art of the Glass Bead Game and hoped he would give them a more advanced course,
it turned out to his astonishment and his intense disappointment that the noble
Game was cultivated in a most superficial and amateurish way at this hospitable
place. He would evidently have to
content himself with a very modest level of knowledge of the Game. Slowly, though, he came to realize that he
had not really been sent here for the sake of lifting the standards of the
Glass Bead Game in the monastery. The
assignment of coaching the few Fathers moderately devoted to the Game and
equipping them with a modest degree of skill was easy, much too easy. Any other adept at the Game, even if he were
still far from belonging to the elite, would have been equal to the task. Instruction, then, could not be the real
purpose of his mission. He began to
realize that he had probably been sent here less to teach than to learn.
However, just as he thought he had
grasped this, his authority in the monastery, and consequently his
self-assurance, was unexpected reinforced.
This came in the nick of time, for in spite of all the charms of being a
guest there, he had already at times begun to feel his stay as something like a
punitive transfer. One day, however, in
a conversation with the Abbot he inadvertently made some allusion to the
Chinese I Ching. The Abbot showed
marked interest, asked a few questions, and could not disguise his delight when
he found his guest so unexpectedly versed in Chinese and the Book of
Changes. The Abbot, too, was fond of
the I Ching. He knew no Chinese,
and his knowledge of the book of oracles and other Chinese mysteries was
limited - in all their scholarly interests the present inmates of the monastery
seemed content with a harmless smattering.
Nevertheless, this intelligent man, who was so much more experienced and
worldly-wise than his guest, obviously had a real feeling for the spirit of
ancient Chinese attitudes towards politics and life. A conversation of unusual liveliness ensued. For the first time real warmth was injected
into the prevailing tone of remote courtesy between host and guest. The consequence was the Knecht was asked to
give the Abbot instruction in the I Ching twice a week.
While his relationship to his host, the
Abbot, thus increased in liveliness and meaning, while his friendly fellowship
with the organist throve and the small ecclesiastical state in which he lived
gradually became familiar territory to him, the promise of the oracle he had
consulted before leaving Castalia also neared fulfilment. As the wanderer who carried his possessions
with him, he had been promised not only the shelter of an inn but also
"the persistent attentions of a young servant". The wanderer felt justified in taking the
consummation of this promise as a good sign, a sign that he in truth had
"his possessions with him". In
other words, far away from the schools, teachers, friends, patrons, and
helpers, far from the nourishing and salutary home atmosphere of Castalia, he
carried within himself the spirit and the energies of the Province, and with
their aid he was moving towards an active and useful life.
The foretold "young servant",
as it turned out, appeared in the shape of a seminary pupil named Anton. Although this young man subsequently played
no part in Joseph Knecht's life, in Joseph's peculiarly divided mood during his
sojourn in the monastery the boy seemed a harbinger of new and greater
things. Anton was a close-mouthed
youngster, but temperamental and talented looking, and almost ready for
admission into the community of monks.
Joseph's path often crossed his, whereas he scarcely knew any of the
other seminary pupils, who were confined in a wing by themselves, where guests
were not admitted. In fact it was
obvious that they were being kept from contact with him. Seminary pupils were not permitted to
participate in the Game course.
Anton worked as a helper in the library
several times a week. Here it was that
Knecht met him, and occasionally had a few works with him. As time went on, it became evident to Knecht
that this young man with the intense eyes under heavy black brows was devoted
to him with that enthusiasm and readiness to serve so typical of the boyish
adoration he had encountered so often by now.
Although every time it happened he felt a desire to fend it off, he had
long ago come to recognize it as a vital element in the life of the Castalian
Order. But in the monastery he decided
to be doubly withdrawn; he felt it would be a violation of hospitality to exert
any sway over this boy who was still subject to the discipline of religious
education. Moreover, he was well aware
that strict chastity was the commandment here, and this, it seemed to him,
could make a boyish infatuation even more dangerous. In any case, he must avoid any chance of
giving offence, and he governed himself accordingly.
In the library, the one place where he
habitually met Anton, he almost made the acquaintance of a man he had at first
almost failed to notice, so modest was his appearance. In time, however, he was to know him very well
indeed, and to love him for the rest of his life with the kind of grateful
reverence he felt, otherwise, only towards the now retired Music Master. The man was Father Jacobus, perhaps the most
eminent historian of the Benedictine Order.
He was at that time about sixty, a spare, elderly man with a sparrow
hawk's head on a long, sinewy neck. Seen
from the front, his face had something dull and lifeless about it, since he was
chary of gazing outward; but his profile, with the boldly curved line of the
forehead, the deep furrow above the sharp bridge of the hooked nose, and the
rather short but attractively shaped chin, suggested a definite and original
personality.
This quiet old man - who, incidentally,
on closer acquaintance could be extremely vivacious - had a table of his own in
a small room off the main hall of the library.
Though the monastery possessed such priceless books, he seemed to be the
only really serious working scholar in the place. It was, by the way, the novice Anton who by
chance called Joseph Knecht's attention to Father Jacobus. Knecht had noticed that the room in which the
scholar had his table was regarded almost as a private domain. The few users of the library entered it only
if they had to, and then moved softly and respectfully on tiptoe, although the
Father bent over his books did not appear to be easily disturbed. Knecht, of course, quickly imitated this
circumspection, and thereby remained at a remove from the industrious old man.
One day, however, when Anton had brought
Father Jacobus some books, Knecht noticed how the young man lingered a moment
at the open door of the study, looking back at the scholar already absorbed in
his work again. There was adoration in
Anton's face, an expression of admiration and reverence mingled with those
emotions of affectionate consideration and helpfulness that well-bred youth
sometimes manifests towards the paltriness and fragility of age. Knecht's first reaction was delight; the
sight was pleasing in itself, as well as evidence that Anton could so look up
to older men without any trace of physical feeling. A rather sarcastic thought followed
immediately, a thought Joseph felt almost ashamed of: how poor the state of
scholarship must be in this institution that the only seriously active scholar
in the place was stared at as if he were a fabulous beast. Nevertheless, Anton's look of reverent
admiration for the old man opened Knecht's eyes. He became aware of the learned Father's
existence. He himself took to throwing a
glance now and then at the man, discovered his Roman profile, and gradually
found out one thing and another about Father Jacobus which seemed to suggest a
most extraordinary mind and character.
Knecht had already learned that he was a historian and regarded as the
foremost authority on the history of the Benedictine Order.
One day the Father spoke to him. His manner of speech had none of the broad,
deliberately benevolent, deliberately good-natured, somewhat avuncular tone
which seemed to be the style of the monastery.
Speaking in a low and almost timorous voice, but placing his stresses
with a wonderful precision, he invited Joseph to visit him in his room after
vespers. "You will find in me," he said, "neither a specialist on the history of
Castalia nor a Glass Bead Game player.
But since, as it now seems, our two so different Orders are forming
ever-closer ties of friendship, I should not wish to exclude myself, and would
be happy to take personal advantage now and then of your presence among
us."
He spoke with utter seriousness, but his
low voice and shrewd old face conferred upon his all-too-polite phrases that
wonderful note of equivocation, ranging through the whole compass from
earnestness to irony, from deference to faint mockery, from passionate
engagement to playfulness, such as may be sensed when two holy men or two
princes of the Church greet each other with endless bows in a game of mutual
courtesies and trial of patience. This
blending of superiority and mockery, of wisdom and obstinate ceremonial, was
deeply familiar to Joseph Knecht from his studies of Chinese language and
life. He found it marvellously
refreshing, and realized that it was some time since he had last heard this
tone - which, among others, the Glass Bead Game Master Thomas commanded with
consummate skill. With gratitude and
pleasure, Joseph accepted the invitation.
That evening he called at the Father's
rather isolated apartment at the end of a quiet side-wing of the
monastery. As he stood in the corridor,
wondering which door to knock at, he heard piano music, to his considerable
surprise. It was a sonata by Purcell,
played unpretentiously and without virtuosity, but cleanly and in impeccable
tempo. The pure music sounded through
the door; its heartfelt gaiety and sweet triads reminded him of the days in
Waldzell when he had practised pieces of this sort on various instruments with
his friend Ferromonte. He waited,
listening with deep enjoyment, for the end of the sonata. In the still, twilit corridor it sounded so
lonely and unworldly, and so brave and innocent also, both childlike and
superior, as all good music must in the midst of the unredeemed muteness of the
world. He knocked at the door. Father Jacobus called "Come in",
and received him with unassuming dignity.
Two candles were still burning by the small piano. "Yes," Father Jacobus said in
answer to Knecht's question, "I play for a half-hour or even an hour every
night. I usually call a halt to my day's
work when darkness falls and would rather not read or write during the hours
before sleep."
They talked about music, about Purcell,
Handel, the ancient musical tradition among the Benedictines - of all the
Catholic Orders the one most devoted to the arts. Knecht expressed a desire to know something
of the history of the Order. The
conversation grew lively and touched on a hundred questions. The old monk's historical knowledge seemed to
be truly astounding, but he frankly admitted that the history of Castalia, of
the Castalian idea and Order, had not interested him. He had scarcely studied it, he said, and did
not conceal his critical attitude towards this Castalia whose
"Order" he regarded as an imitation of the Christian models, and
fundamentally a blasphemous imitation since the Castalian Order had no
religion, no God, and no Church as its basis.
Knecht listened respectfully, but pointed out that other than
Benedictine and Roman Catholic views of religion, God and the Church were
possible, and moreover had existed, and that it would not do to deny the purity
of their intentions nor their profound influence on the life of the mind.
"Quite so," Jacobus said. "No doubt you are thinking of the
Protestants, among others. They were
unable to preserve religion and the Church, but at times they displayed a great
deal of courage and produced some exemplary men. I spent some years studying the various
attempts at reconciliation among the hostile Christian denominations and
churches, especially those of the period around 1700, when we find such people
as the philosopher and mathematician Leibniz and that eccentric Count
Zinsendorf endeavouring to reunite the inimical brothers. Altogether, the eighteenth century, hasty and
shallow though it often seems in its judgements, has such a rich and many-faceted
intellectual history. The Protestants of
that period strike me as particularly interesting. There was one man I discovered, a
philologist, teacher, and educator of great stature - a Swabian Pietist, by the
way - whose moral influence can be clearly traced for two hundred years after his
death. But that is another subject. Let us return to the question of the
legitimacy and historical mission of real Orders...."
"Oh no," Joseph Knecht broke
in. "Please say more about this
teacher you have just mentioned. I
almost think I can guess who he is."
"Guess."
"I thought at first of Francke of
Halle, but since you say he was a Swabian I can think of none other than Johann
Albrecht Bengel."
Jacobus laughed. An expression of pleasure transfigured his
face. "You surprise me, my
friend," he exclaimed. "It was
indeed Bengel I had in mind. How do you
happen to know of him? Or is it normal
in your astonishing Province that people know such abstruse and forgotten
things and names? I would vouch that if
you were to ask all the Fathers, teachers, and pupils in our monastery, and
those of the last few generations as well, not one would know this name."
"In Castalia, too, few would know
it, perhaps no-one besides myself and two of my
friends. I once engaged in studies of
eighteenth-century Pietism for private reasons, and as it happened I was much
impressed by several Swabian theologians - chief among them Bengel. At the time he seemed to me the ideal teacher
and guide for youth. I was so taken with
the man that I even had a photo made of his portrait in an old book, and kept
it above my desk."
Father Jacobus continued to
chuckle. "Our meeting is certainly
taking place under unusual auspices," he said. "It is remarkable that you and I should
both have come upon this forgotten man in the course of our studies. Perhaps it is even more remarkable that this
Swabian Protestant should have been able to influence both a Benedictine monk
and a Castalian Glass Bead Game player.
Incidentally, I imagine that you Glass Bead Game is
an art requiring a great deal of imagination, and wonder that so stringently
sober a man as Bengel should have attracted you."
Knecht, too, chuckled with
amusement. "Well," he said,
"if you recall that Bengel devoted years of study to the Revelation of St.
John, and what sort of system he devised for interpreting its prophecies, you
will have to admit that our friend could be the very opposite of sober."
"That is true," Father Jacobus
admitted gaily. "And how do you
explain such contradictions?"
"If you will permit me a joke, I
would say that what Bengel lacked, and unconsciously longed for, was the Glass
Bead Game. You see, I consider him among
the secret forerunners and ancestors of our Game."
Cautiously, once again entirely in
earnest, Jacobus countered: "It strikes me as rather bold to annex Bengel,
of all people, for your pedigree. How do
you justify it?"
"It was only a joke, but a joke
that can be defended. While he was still
quite young, before he became engrossed in his great work on the Bible, Bengel
once told friends of a cherished plan of his.
He hoped, he said, to arrange and sum up all the knowledge of his time,
symmetrically and synoptically, around a central idea. That is precisely what the Glass Bead Game
does."
"After all, the whole eighteenth
century toyed with the encyclopaedic idea," Father Jacobus protested.
"So it did," Joseph
agreed. "But what Bengel meant was
not just a juxtaposition of the fields of knowledge and research, but an
interrelationship, an organic denominator.
And that is one of the basic ideas of the Glass Bead Game. In fact, I would go further in my claims: if
Bengel had possessed a system similar to that offered by our Game, he probably
would have been spared all the misguided effort involved in his calculation of
the prophetic numbers and his annunciation of the Antichrist and the
"It is fortunate you are not a
historian," Jacobus commented.
"You tend to let your own imagination run away with you. But I understand what you mean. I am myself a pedant only in my own
discipline."
It was a fruitful conversation, out of
which sprang mutual understanding and a kind of friendship. It seemed to the Benedictine scholar more
than coincidence, or at least a very special kind of coincidence, that the two
of them - each operating within his own, Benedictine or Castalian, limitations
- should have discovered this poor instructor at a Württemberg monastery, this
man at once fine-strung and rock-hard, at once visionary and practical. Father Jacobus concluded that there must be
something linking the two of them for the same unspectacular magnet to affect
them both so powerfully. And from that
evening on, which had begun with the Purcell sonata, that link actually existed.
Jacobus enjoyed the exchange of views with so well trained yet so supple
a young mind; that was a pleasure he did not often have. And Knecht found his association with the
historian, and the education Jacobus provided, a new stage on the path of
awakening - that path which he nowadays identified as his life. To put the matter succinctly: from Father
Jacobus he learned history. He learned
the laws and contradictions of historical studies and historiography. And beyond that, in the following years he
learned to see the present and his own life as historical realities.
Their talks often grew into regular
disputations, with formal attacks and rebuttals. In the beginning it was Father Jacobus who
proved to be the more aggressive of the pair. The more deeply he came to know his young
friend's mind, the more he regretted that so promising a young man should have
grown up without the discipline of a religious education, rather in the
pseudo-discipline of an intellectual and aesthetic system of thought. Whenever he found something objectionable in
Knecht's way of thinking, he blamed it on that "modern" Castalian
spirit with its abstruseness and its fondness for frivolous abstractions. And whenever Knecht surprised him by
wholesome views and remarks akin to his own thought, he exulted because his
young friend's sound nature had so well withstood the damage of Castalian
education. Joseph took this criticism of
Castalia very calmly, repelling the attacks only when the old scholar seemed to
him to have gone too far in his passion.
But among the good Father's belittling remarks about Castalia were some
whose partial truth Joseph had to admit, and on one point he changed his mind
completely during his stay in Mariafels.
This had to do with the relationship of Castalian thought to world
history, any sense of which, Father Jacobus said, was totally lacking in
Castalia. "You mathematicians and
Glass Bead Game players," he would say, "have distilled a kind of
world history to suit your own tastes.
It consists of nothing but the history of ideas and of art. Your history is bloodless and lacking in
reality. You know all about the decay of
Latin syntax in the second or third centuries and don't know a thing about
Alexander or Caesar or Jesus Christ. You
treat world history as a mathematician does mathematics, in which nothing but
laws and formulas exist, no reality, no good and evil, no time, no yesterday,
no tomorrow, nothing but an eternal, shallow mathematical present."
"But how is anyone to study history
without attempting to bring order into it?" Knecht asked.
"Of course one should bring order
into history," Jacobus thundered.
"Every science is, among other things, a method of ordering,
simplifying, making the indigestible digestible for the mind. We think we have recognized a few laws in
history and try to apply them to our investigations of historical truth. Suppose an anatomist is dissecting a body. He does not confront wholly surprising
discoveries. Rather, he finds beneath
the epidermis a congeries of organs, muscles, tendons, and bones which
generally conform to a pattern he has brought to his work. But if the anatomist sees nothing but his
pattern, and ignores the unique, individual reality of his object, then he is a
Castalian, a Glass Bead Game player; he is using mathematics on the least
appropriate object. I have no quarrel
with the student of history who brings to his work a touchingly childish,
innocent faith in the power of our minds and our methods to order reality; but first
and foremost he must respect the incomprehensible truth, reality, and
uniqueness of events. Studying history,
my friend, is no joke and no irresponsible game. To study history one must know in advance
that one is attempting something fundamentally impossible, yet necessary and
highly important. To study history means
submitting to chaos and nevertheless retaining faith in order and meaning. It is a very serious task, young man, and
possibly a tragic one."
Among the remarks of Father Jacobus
which Knecht at the time quoted in letters to his friends, here is one more
characteristic outburst:
"Great men are to youth like the
raisins in the cake of world history.
They are also part of its actual substance, of course, and it is not so simple and easy as might be thought to distinguish the
really great men from the pseudo-greats.
Among the latter, it is the historical moment itself, and their ability
to foresee its coming and seize it, that gives them the semblance of
greatness. Quite a few historian and
biographers, to say nothing of journalists, consider this ability to divine and
seize upon a historical moment - in other words, temporary success - as in
itself a mark of greatness. The corporal
who becomes a dictator overnight, or the courtesan who for a while controls the
good or ill humour of a ruler of the world, are favourite figures of such
historians. And idealistically minded
youths, on the other hand, most love the tragic failures, the martyrs, those who
came on the scene a moment too soon or too late. For me, since I am after all chiefly a
historian of our Benedictine Order, the most amazing and attractive aspects of
history, and the most deserving of study, are not individuals and not coups,
triumphs, or downfalls; rather I love and am insatiably curious about such
phenomena as our congregation. For it is
one of those long-lived organizations whose purpose is to gather, educate, and
reshape men's minds and souls, to make a nobility of them, not by eugenics, not
by blood, but by the spirit - a nobility as capable of serving as of
ruling. In Greek history I was
fascinated not by the galaxy of heroes and not by the obtrusive shouting in the
Agora, but by efforts such as those of the Pythagorian brotherhood or the
Platonic Academy. In Chinese history no
other feature is so striking as the longevity of the
Confucian system. And in our own
Occidental history the Christian Church and the Orders which serve it as part
of its structure, seem to me historical elements of the foremost importance. The fact that an adventurer contrives to
conquer or found a kingdom which lasts twenty, fifty, or even a hundred years,
or that a well-meaning idealist on a royal or imperial throne once in a while
brings greater honesty into politics, or attempts to carry some visionary
cultural project to fruition; that under high pressure a nation or other
community has been capable of incredible feats of achievement and suffering -
all that interests me far less than the ever-recurrent efforts to establish
such organizations as our Order, and that some of these efforts have endured
for a thousand or two thousand years. I
shall say nothing of holy Church itself; for us believers it is beyond
discussion. But that communities such as
the Benedictines, the Dominicans, later the Jesuits and others, have survived
for centuries and, despite their ups and downs, the assaults upon them, and the
adaptations they have made, retain their face and their voice, their gesture,
their individual soul - this is, for me, the most remarkable and meritorious
phenomenon in history."
Knecht even admired Father Jacobus's
spells of angry unfairness. At the time,
however, he had no notion of who Father Jacobus really was. He regarded him solely as a profound and
brilliant scholar and was unaware that here was someone who was conspicuously
participating in world history, and helping to shape it as the leading
statesman of his Order. As an expert in
contemporary politics as well as political history, Father Jacobus was
constantly being approached from many sides for information, advice, and
mediation. For some two years, up to the
time of his first vacation, Knecht continued to think of Father Jacobus solely
as a scholar, knowing no more of the man's life, activity, reputation, and
influence than the monk cared to reveal.
The learned Father knew how to keep his counsel, even in friendship; and
his brothers in the monastery were also far abler at concealment than Joseph
would have imagined.
After some two years Knecht had adapted
to the life in the monastery as perfectly as any guest and outsider could. From time to time he had helped the organist
modestly continue the thin thread of an ancient and great tradition in the
monastery's small chorus of motet singers.
He had made several finds in the monastic musical archives and had sent
to Waldzell, and especially to Monteport, several copies of old works. He had trained a small beginners' class of
Glass Bead Game players, among whom the most zealous pupil was young
Anton. He had taught Abbot Gervasius no
Chinese, but had at least imparted the technique of manipulating the yarrow
sticks and an improved method of meditating on the aphorisms in the Book of
Oracles. The Abbot had grown accustomed
to him, and had long since stopped trying to coax his guest into taking an
occasional glass of wine. The semiannual
reports sent by the Abbot to the Glass Bead Game Master, in reply to official
inquiries as to the usefulness of Joseph Knecht, were full of praise. In Castalia, the lesson plans and marks in Knecht's
Game course were scrutinized even more closely than these reports; the middling
level of instruction was recognized, but the Castalian authorities were
satisfied with the way the teacher had adapted to this level and, in general,
to the customs and the spirit of the monastery.
They were even more pleased, and truly surprised - although they kept
this to themselves - by his frequent and friendly association with the famous
Father Jacobus.
This association had borne all sorts of
fruits, and perhaps we may be permitted to say a word about these even at the
cost of anticipating our story somewhat; or at any rate about the fruit which
Knecht most prized. It ripened slowly,
slowly, grew as tentatively and warily as the seeds of high mountain trees that
have been planted down in the lush lowlands: these seeds, consigned to rich
soil and a kindly climate carry in themselves as their legacy the restrain and
mistrust with which their forebears grew; the slow tempo of growth belongs
among their hereditary traits. Thus the
prudent old man, accustomed to keep close watch over all possible influences
upon him, permitted the element of Castalian spirit brought to him by his young
friend and antipodal colleague to strike root only reluctantly and inch by
inch. Gradually, however, it sprouted;
and of all the good things that Knecht experienced in his years at the
monastery, this was the best and most precious of all to him: this scanty,
hesitant growth of trust and openness from seemingly hopeless beginnings on the
part of the experienced older man, this slowly germinating and even more slowly
admitted sympathy for his younger admirer as a person and, beyond that, for the
specifically Castalian elements in his personality. Step by step the younger man, seemingly little
more than pupil, listener, and learner, led Father Jacobus - who initially had
used the words "Castalian" and Glass Bead Game player only with
ironic emphasis, and often as outright invective - towards a tolerant and
ultimately respectful acceptance of this other mentality, this other Order,
this other attempt to create an aristocracy of the spirit. Father Jacobus ceased to carp at the youth of
the Order, though with its little more than two centuries the Benedictines were
the elder by some fifteen hundred years.
He ceased to regard the Glass Bead Game as mere aesthetic dandyism; and
he ceased to rule out the prospect of friendship and alliance between the two
Orders so ill matched in age.
Joseph regarded this partial conquest of
Father Jacobus as a personal cause for rejoicing. He remained unaware that the authorities
considered it the utmost of his accomplishments on his mission to
Mariafels. Now and again he wondered in
vain what was the real reason for his assignment to the
monastery. Though initially it
had seemed to be a promotion and distinction envied by his competitors, could
it not signify a form of inglorious premature retirement, a relegation to a
dead end? But then one could learn
something everywhere, so why not here too?
On the other hand, from the Castalian point of view this monastery,
Father Jacobus alone excepted, was certainly no garden
of learning or model of scholarship. He
wondered, too, whether his isolation among nothing but unexacting dilettantes
was not already affecting his prowess in the Glass Bead Game. He could not quite tell whether he was losing
ground. For all his uncertainty,
however, he was helped by his lack of ambition as well as his already quite
advanced amor fati. On the whole
his life as a guest and unimportant teacher in this cosy old monastic world was
more to his liking than his last months at Waldzell as one of a circle of
ambitious men. If fate wished to leave
him forever in this small colonial post, he would certainly try to change some
aspects of his life here - for example, contrive to bring one of his friends
here or at least ask for a longish leave in Castalia every year - but for the
rest he would be content.
The reader of this biographical sketch
may possibly be waiting for an account of another side of Knecht's experience
in the monastery, namely the religious side.
But we can venture only some tentative hints. It is certainly likely that Knecht had some
deeply felt encounter with religion, with Christianity as daily practised in
the monastery. In fact from some of his
later remarks and attitudes it is quite clear that he did. But whether and to what extent he became a
Christian is a question we must leave unanswered; these realms are closed to
our researches. In addition to the
respect for religions generally cultivated in Castalia, Knecht had a kind of
inner reverence which we would scarcely be wrong to call pious. Moreover, he had already been well instructed
in the schools on the classical forms of Christian doctrine, especially in connection
with his studies of church music. Above
all he was well acquainted with the sacramental meaning and ritual of the
With a good deal of astonishment as well
as reverence, he had found among the Benedictines a living religion which he
had hitherto known only theoretically and historically. He attended many services, and after he had
familiarized himself with some of the writings of Father Jacobus, and taken to
heart some of their talks, he became fully aware of how phenomenal this
Christianity was - a religion that through the centuries had so many times
become unmodern and outmoded, antiquated and rigid, but had repeatedly recalled
the sources of its being and thereby renewed itself, once again leaving behind
those aspects which in their time had been modern and victorious. He did not seriously resist the idea,
presented to him every so often in these talks, that perhaps Castalian culture
was merely a secularized and transitory offshoot of Christian culture in its
Occidental form, which would someday be reabsorbed by its parent. Even if that were so, he once remarked to
Father Jacobus, his, Joseph Knecht's own place lay within the Castalian and not
the Benedictine system; he had to serve the former, not the latter, and prove
himself within it. His task was to work
for the system of which he was a member, without asking whether it could claim
perpetual existence, or even a long span of life. He could only regard conversion as a rather
undignified form of escape, he said. In
similar fashion Johann Albrecht Bengel, whom they both venerated, had in his
time served a small and transitory sect without neglecting his duties to the
Eternal. Piety, which is to say faithful
service and loyalty up to the point of sacrificing one's life, was part and parcel
of every creed and every stage of individual development; such service and
loyalty were the only valid measure of devoutness.
Knecht had been staying with the
Benedictine Fathers for some two years when a visitor appeared at the monastery
who was kept apart from him with great care.
Even a casual introduction was avoided.
His curiosity roused by these procedures, he observed the stranger for
the few days of his visit and indulged in all sorts of speculations. He became convinced that the stranger's
religious habit was a guise. The unknown
held long conferences behind closed doors with the Abbot and Father Jacobus,
and was always receiving and sending urgent messages. Knecht, who by now had at least heard rumours
about the political connections and traditions of the monastery, guessed that
the guest must be a high-ranking statesman on a secret mission, or a sovereign
travelling incognito. As he reflected on
the matter, he recalled several guests of the past few months whose visits, in
hindsight, seemed to him equally
mysterious or significant. Now he
remembered the chief of the Castalian "police", his friendly mentor
Dubois, and the request that he keep an eye on such events in the monastery. And although he still felt neither the urge
nor the vocation for making such reports, his conscience troubled him for
having not written to the kindly man for so long a time. No doubt Dubois was disappointed in him. So he wrote him a long letter, tried to
explain his silence, and in order to give some substance to his letter said a
few words about his association with Father Jacobus. He had no idea how carefully and by how many
important persons his letter would be read back in Castalia.