"That's the way, that's the way, my boy. Just don't let up or you'll get dragged beneath the wheel."

As he pressed Hans' hand, the relieved boy headed for the door. Then he was called back.

"Just one more thing, Giebenrath. You see quite a bit of Heilner, don't you?"

"Yes, quite a bit."

"More than of the others, I believe. Am I right?"

"But of course. He is my friend."

"But how did that happen? You are quite different from each other, aren't you?"

"I don't know. He's my friend, that's all."

"You know, don't you, that I don't much care for your friend. He is a restless, dissatisfied fellow; he may be gifted, but he does not accomplish much and does not have a good influence on you. It would make me glad if you saw a little less of him in the future. . . Well?"

"I can't do that, sir."

"You can't? Why can't you?"

"Because he's my friend. I can't just leave him in the lurch like that."

"Hm. But you could make an attempt to spend a little more time with the others, couldn't you? You're the only one who gives in to Heilner's harmful influence like that, and the consequences are beginning to show. What is it that attracts you so much to him?"

"I don't know myself. But we care for each other and it would be low and cowardly of me to leave him like that."

"I see. Well, I won't force you. But I hope that you'll free yourself from him gradually. I would like that. I would like that very much."

These last words had none of his former mildness. Hans was free to go now.

From that day on, he slaved away but he no longer made rapid progress as he used to. He had his hands full just keeping pace and not falling behind. He himself was aware that his friendship was partially responsible, but he regarded this not as a loss or obstacle but a treasure worth everything he was missing in school -- an intensified, warmer form of existence to which his previous sober and dutiful life could not hold a candle. He was like someone in love for the first time: he felt capable of performing great heroic deeds but not the daily ch.o.r.e of boring, petty work. And thus he forced himself back into the yoke again and again with despairing sighs. He could not do it like Heilner, who worked on the side and appropriated the most necessary things quickly and almost violently. Because his friend would call on him almost every evening during their off-hours, Hans forced himself to get up an hour earlier in the morning and waged a bitter battle, especially with his Hebrew grammar, as with a fiend. The only work he still enjoyed was Homer and his history lessons. Like a blind man feeling his way, he neared an understanding of the Homeric world. In history, the heroes stopped being mere names with dates; they peered at him with burning eyes, and each had living red lips and a face of his own. Even while reading the Scriptures in Greek, he was occasionally overwhelmed, even staggered, by the distinctness and proximity of the figures. Once in particular, while he read the sixth chapter of Mark, where Jesus leaves his boat with the disciples, the words leaped up:

"Straightaway they knew him, they ran up to him." Then he too could see the Son of Man leaving the boat and recognized him at once -- not by his figure or face but by the wide glowing depths of his loving eyes and by a gently beckoning or rather inviting and welcoming gesture of his beautiful, slender brown hands that seemed to be formed by the strong yet delicate soul that inhabited it. The edge of a turbulent lake and the bow of a heavy barque also appeared for a moment; then the entire picture vanished like a puff of breath in cold air.

At intervals something similar would happen and some personage or historical event would seemingly break forth hungrily from the books, yearning to live once more. Hans felt profoundly and strangely transformed by these fleeting apparitions, as though he had looked at the dark earth through a telescope or as though G.o.d had looked at him. These delicious moments were uncalled for, and vanished unlamented like pilgrims you do not dare speak to or friendly guests you dare not ask to stay because there's something alien and G.o.dly about them.

He kept these experiences to himself and did not mention them to Heilner. The latter's previous melancholy had changed into a restless and biting intellectuality which criticized the monastery teachers, companions, the weather, human life in general and the existence of G.o.d, but occasionally would also lead to cantankerousness or silly impulsive pranks. Because Heilner lived in complete opposition to the rest of the students, Hans -- who did nothing to oppose this -- became just as disa.s.sociated from them. Hans felt fewer and fewer misgivings about this state of affairs as time went on. If only the headmaster, of whom he felt an obscure fear, were not there. After having been his favorite pupil, Hans was now being treated coolly and for obvious reasons neglected. For Hebrew especially, the headmaster's specialty, he had lost practically all enthusiasm.

It made for a delightful spectacle to observe how the forty new academy students had changed in body and soul in a matter of months, excepting a few whose growth seemed to have been arrested. Many had grown at a spectacular rate, much to the disadvantage of their physical bulk; their wrists and ankles stuck hopefully out of clothes which had not kept pace. The faces displayed the whole spectrum of shadings between vanishing childishness to budding manhood, and anyone who still lacked the angular forms of p.u.b.erty had been lent a provisional manly seriousness, delicately wrinkled brows, from the study of the books of Moses. Chubby cheeks had actually become a rarity.

The less satisfied Hans was with his academic progress, the more resolutely did he -- under Heilner's influence -- cut himself off from his companions. No longer a model student and a potential first in cla.s.s and therefore without cause to look down on anyone, his haughtiness did not suit him well. But he could not forgive his roommates for letting him know something of which he himself was acutely aware. He quarreled often, particularly with the well-mannered Hartner and the presumptuous Otto Wenger, and when the latter mocked and annoyed him one day Hans forgot himself and replied with his fists. A b.l.o.o.d.y fight ensued. Wenger was a coward but his weak opponent was easy game and he showed no mercy. Heilner was not there to help him. The rest of his roommates just watched and felt he had it coming. He received a regular beating, bled from the nose and all his ribs ached. He lay awake the entire night with shame, pain and anger. But he kept the incident secret from Heilner and only divorced himself even more rigorously from his roommates and from now on would hardly exchange a word with them.

Toward spring, under the influence of rainy afternoons, rainy Sundays and interminable dusks, new activities and movements began to flourish in the monastery. Acropolis, which counted a good pianist and two flute players in its midst, held two regularly scheduled musical evenings a week; Germania founded a dramatic reading group, and several young Pietists banded together and established a Bible-study circle and read a chapter every evening together with the appropriate commentary of the Calw Bible.

Heilner applied for membership in the dramatic group but was not accepted. He seethed with fury. As a form of revenge he now forced himself on the Bible group, where he wasn't wanted either, and his daring speeches and atheistic allusions aroused bitterness and wrangling in the modest little brotherhood. He soon tired of this game too, but retained an ironically Biblical tone of voice for some time after. However, no one paid him much heed, for the whole school was imbued with a spirit of adventure and enterprise.

A talented, witty fellow from Sparta caused the biggest stir. Apart from personal fame he was interested in bringing a little life into the old roost to break the monotony of their workaday routine. His nickname was Dunstan and he discovered an original way of creating a sensation and becoming a celebrity.

One morning as the boys came from their sleeping halls, they found a paper glued to the shower-room door, on which, under the heading of Six Epigrams from Sparta, a select number of the more unusual personalities -- their foibles, escapades, friendships -- were derided in rhyming couplets. The pair Giebenrath-Heilner received its blow too. An extraordinary uproar arose in the small community. The boys crowded around the bathroom door as though it were a theater entrance and the whole mob buzzed and pushed about like a swarm of bees when the queen is ready to take to the air.

The next morning the door literally p.r.i.c.kled with epigrams, retorts, corroborations and new attacks, in which the instigator of the scandal had been shrewd enough to take no further part. He had achieved his purpose of setting the barn on fire; now he could sit back and watch the conflagration. For several days almost every boy joined in this war of epigrams. Lucius was probably the only one who went on with his work unperturbed as ever. Finally one of the teachers noticed what was up and put an end to this exciting game.

The shrewd Dunstan did not rest on his laurels; he had in the meantime prepared his master stroke. He now published the first issue of a newspaper which had been multigraphed in tiny format on exercise paper. He had been a.s.sembling material for weeks. It was called Porcupine and was primarily a satirical enterprise. A comical conversation between the author of the book of Joshua and a Maulbronn academy student was the prize feature of the first number. It had an enormous success and Dunstan, who now a.s.sumed the air of a busy editor-publisher, enjoyed almost as great and dubious a reputation as the famous Aretino in the republic of Venice.

General astonishment prevailed when Hermann Heilner took an enthusiastic share in the editing and joined with Dunstan in exercising the role of sharply satirical censor, a job for which he lacked neither wit nor venom. For about four weeks the little paper kept the whole monastery in a state of breathless excitement.

Hans had no objection to Heilner's partic.i.p.ation. He himself lacked the talent as well as the inclination for it. At first he hardly noticed that Heilner spent so many evenings in Sparta; he was preoccupied with other things. During the day he walked about without energy and without paying much attention, worked with painful slowness and without pleasure. Then something peculiar happened to him during the Livy lesson.

The professor called on him to translate. He remained seated.

'What's the meaning of this? Why don't you stand up?" the professor exclaimed angrily.

Hans did not stir. He sat upright at his desk and held his head slightly lowered, with his eyes half-closed. The shout had half-roused him from his dreams, but the professor's voice seemed to come from a great distance. He felt his neighbor nudging him. But none of this mattered. He was surrounded by other people, other hands touched him and other voices talked to him; close, soft, deep voices that uttered no words but only a deep and soothing roar like an echoing well. And many eyes were gazing at him -- alien, premonition-filled, great, glowing eyes. Perhaps they were the eyes of a crowd of Romans he had just been reading about in Livy, perhaps the eyes of unfamiliar people of whom he had dreamed or whom he had seen at one time in a painting.

"Giebenrath," the professor shouted, "are you asleep?"

The student slowly opened his eyes, stared in astonishment at the teacher and shook his head.

"Certainly you were asleep! Or can you tell me what sentence we are at? Well?"

Hans pointed to the sentence in the book. He knew very well where they were at.

"Do you think you could stand up?" the professor asked derisively. And Hans got up.

"What are you up to anyhow? Look at me!"

He looked at the professor. The professor did not care for the look. He shook his head as if puzzled.

"Are you feeling unwell, Giebenrath?"

"No, sir."

"Sit down and come to my room after cla.s.s."

Hans sat down and looked at his Livy. He was wide awake and understood everything, but simultaneously his inner eye followed those many unfamiliar figures which were gradually receding into a great distance while always keeping their shining eyes fixed on him until they disappeared in a faraway mist. Simultaneously the teacher's voice and that of the student who was translating and all the other little noises of the schoolroom came closer and closer until they were finally as real and concrete as usual. Benches, lectern and blackboard were present as always; so were the big wooden compa.s.s and the wooden triangle on the wall, and his cla.s.smates, many of whom were stealing curious, unrestrained glances at him. Then Hans was startled; he heard someone say to him: "Come to my room after cla.s.s." My G.o.d, what happened?

At the end of the lesson the professor gave him a sign to follow and they wound their way through the goggle-eyed students.

"Now tell me, what was the matter with you? You apparently were not asleep?"

"No, sir."

"Why didn't you get up when I asked you to?"

"I don't know."

"Or didn't you hear me? Are you hard of hearing?"

"No. I heard you."

"And you didn't get up? Afterwards you had such a strange look in your eyes. What were you thinking at the time?"

"Nothing. I wanted to get up."

"But why didn't you? So you didn't feel well after all?"

"I don't think I did. I don't know what it was."

"Did you have a headache?"

"No."

"It's all right. You can go now."

Just before supper he was called away again and taken to his sleeping quarters where he found the headmaster and the district doctor waiting for him. He was examined and questioned once more but nothing specific was discovered. The doctor laughed good-naturedly and made light of the matter.

"Those are slight nervous disorders, sir," he muttered half-jokingly to the headmaster, "a pa.s.sing condition -- light dizzy spells. You have to make sure that the young man gets a bit of fresh air every day. For his headaches I'll prescribe a few drops."

From then on Hans had to spend an hour in the open each day after supper. He had no objections. What was worse was that the headmaster had strictly forbidden Heilner to accompany him on these walks. Heilner cursed wildly but there was nothing he could do. Thus Hans went on these walks by himself and even liked them somewhat. It was the beginning of spring. The budding green swept like a thin bright wave over the evenly rounded hills; the trees shed their distinct wintry outlines in the interplay of the fresh young foliage and the green of the landscape which became a vast flowing tide of living green.

In his grammar-school days, Hans had looked at spring with a different eye, more with liveliness and curiosity and more attention to specific detail. He had observed the return of the migratory birds, one species after the other, and the sequence with which the trees began to blossom, and then, as soon as it was May, he had started to go fishing. Now he made no attempt to distinguish the different species of birds or recognize the bushes by their buds. All he saw was the general activity, the colors bursting forth everywhere; he breathed in the smell of the young leaves, felt how much softer and intoxicating the air was and walked through the fields full of wonder. He tired easily and always felt like lying down and sleeping. He constantly saw other objects than those that actually surrounded him. What they were he did not really know himself and he did not give it much thought. They were bright, delicate, unusual dreams which surrounded him like paintings or like avenues lined with foreign trees that seemed, however, devoid of life. Pure paintings, only to be contemplated, but this contemplation was a kind of experience too. It was being taken and brought into another region, to other people. It was wandering on alien grounds, or soft ground on which it was a comfort to walk, and it was breathing a strange air, an air full of lightness and a delicate, dreamlike pungency. Occasionally, instead of these images there would come a feeling -- dark, warm, exciting -- as though a gentle hand were gliding caressingly over his body.

It was a great effort for Hans to concentrate while reading and working. What failed to interest him vanished like a shadow under his hands. If he wanted to remember his Hebrew vocabulary, he had to learn it during the last half-hour before cla.s.s. But often he had those moments when he could see the physical presence of a description he had just read and could see it live and move much more vividly than his actual surroundings. And while he noticed with despair how his memory seemed unable to absorb anything new, and grew poorer and more untrustworthy from day to day, memories from earlier days would rush upon him with an ominous clarity that seemed both odd and disturbing. In the middle of a lesson or while reading he would suddenly find himself thinking of his father or old Anna, the housekeeper, or one of his former teachers or schoolmates: there they stood before him in the flesh, almost, and held his complete attention for a time. He also relived scenes from his stay in Stuttgart, from the examination and the vacation, over and over again, or would see himself sitting by the river with his fishing rod, smelling the sun-warmed water, and simultaneously it seemed to him as though the time of which he dreamed lay many many years in the past.

One damply tepid evening he was ambling back and forth through the dormitory hall with Heilner, telling him about his home, about his father, about going fishing and his school. His friend was noticeably quiet; he let him speak, gave a nod now and then and beat the air with his ruler a few times distractedly, the same ruler he played with all day long. Gradually Hans fell silent too; it had become night and they sat down on a window sill.

"You, Hans," Heilner finally began. His voice was unsure and excited.

"What is it?"

"Oh, nothing."

"No, go ahead."

"I just thought -- because you told me some things about yourself --"

"What is it?"

"Tell me, Hans, didn't you ever run after a girl?"

There was a quiet spell. They had never talked about that. Hans was afraid of the subject, yet it attracted him magically. He could feel himself blushing now and his fingers trembled.

"Only once," he said in a whisper. "I was nothing but a boy at the time."

Another quiet spell.

"-- and you, Heilner?"

Heilner sighed. "Oh, forget it!. . . You know one shouldn't talk about it, there's no point to it."

"But there is, there is!"

"I have a sweetheart."

"You? Really?"

"At home. The neighbor's girl. And this winter I gave her a kiss."

"You did?"

"Yes. . . You know it was already dark. In the evening on the ice she let me help her take off her ice-skates. That's when I kissed her."

"Didn't she say anything?"

"Say anything? No. She just ran away."

"And then?"

"And then -- nothing."

He sighed once more and Hans looked at him as if he were a hero who came from forbidden fields.

Then the bell rang and they had to go to bed. Once the lantern had been extinguished and it had become quiet, Hans lay awake for more than an hour thinking of the kiss Heilner had given his sweetheart.

The next day he wanted to find out more but felt ashamed to ask; and Heilner, because Hans did not ask him, was too shy to raise the subject on his own.

Hans' schoolwork went from bad to worse. The teachers began to look disgruntled and shot sour looks at him; the headmaster looked ominous and angry and his fellow students, too, had long since noticed how Hans had fallen from his previous height and was no longer aiming for first place. Only Heilner was not aware of anything unusual because schoolwork did not count for much with him. Hans watched all these events and changes without paying them any heed.

Heilner in the meantime had become fed up with working on the news sheet and again concentrated all his attention on his friend. As an act of stubborn defiance of the headmaster's edict, he accompanied Hans several times on his daily walk, lay in the sun with him and dreamed, read his poems aloud or cracked jokes about the headmaster. Hans still hoped that Heilner would continue with the revelation of his romantic adventures, yet the longer he desisted the less he could bring himself to inquire. Among the rest of the students both of them were as much disliked as ever, for Heilner's malicious barbs in Porcupine had not won him anyone's trust.

The newspaper was on its last legs anyway; it had outlived its function, which had been to bridge the uneventful weeks between winter and spring. Now the beginning of this beautiful season offered them more than enough entertainment with walks, identification of plants and outdoor games. Every afternoon, wrestlers, gymnasts, runners and ball players filled the cloister yard with screaming activity.

In addition there was a new cause celebre. Its instigator -- everybody's bete noire -- was Hermann Heilner.

The headmaster, having heard that Heilner made light of his edict and accompanied Giebenrath on his walks almost every day, did not pick on Hans but asked the chief culprit, his old enemy, to come to his study. He called him by his first name, something which Heilner immediately protested. The headmaster reproached him for his disobedience. Heilner a.s.serted he was Giebenrath's friend and no one had the right to forbid them to see each other. There resulted a real scene. Heilner was condemned to a few hours of house-arrest, and strictly prohibited from joining Giebenrath for the next few weeks.

Thus on the following day Hans once more took his official walk by himself. He returned at two o'clock and went into the cla.s.sroom with the others. At the start of the lesson it developed that Heilner was absent. The situation was the same as when Hindu had disappeared. But this time no one thought that the absentee was delayed. At three o'clock the whole cla.s.s and three teachers went out and patrolled the grounds for the missing boy. They separated into smaller groups, ran shouting about the woods, and some of them, including two teachers, did not think it inconceivable that Heilner had intentionally harmed himself.

At five o'clock all the police stations in the vicinity were alerted by telegram and in the evening a special-delivery letter was sent to Heilner's father. By late evening no trace of him had been found and the boys whispered in their sleeping quarters until late at night. The majority of them believed Heilner had drowned himself. Others felt that he'd simply gone home. But it had been ascertained that the runaway had no money.

Everybody looked at Hans as though he had to be in on the secret. But that was not the case. On the contrary, he was the most startled and miserable of the lot, and that night in the sleeping hall when he heard the others question, speculate, talk nonsense and crack jokes, he crept under his blanket and lay awake hours in agony and fear for his friend. He had a premonition he would not come back and his heart was filled with woe until he fell asleep from worry and exhaustion.

At just about that time Heilner was bedding down in a wood only a few miles away. He was freezing cold and could not fall asleep but he breathed with a great feeling of relief and stretched his limbs as though he had just escaped from a narrow cage. He had been on the road since noon, had bought some bread in Knittlingen, and now occasionally took a bite while glancing through the spa.r.s.ely covered sprigs at the dark night, the stars and the swiftly moving clouds. It was all the same to him where he would end up; what mattered most was that he had finally escaped from the hated monastery and shown the headmaster that his will was stronger than mere commands and edicts.