Beneath the Wheel (6 page)

The pastor lent him a dictionary and a grammar and he continued to work for the rest of the evening. Now he began to realize across how many mountains of work and knowledge the path to true science leads and he was prepared to hack his way through without taking any short cuts. Shoemaker Flaig, for the time being, slipped his mind.

For a few days this new revelation absorbed him completely. Each evening he visited the pastor and every day true scholarship seemed more beautiful, more difficult, more worthwhile. Early in the morning he went fishing, in the afternoon to the swimming hole; otherwise he stayed in the house. His ambition, diminished during the anxiety and triumph of the examination, had reawakened and would not let him retreat. Simultaneously he again felt that peculiar sensation in his head, felt so often during the last months, which was not precisely a pain but a hurried, triumphant pulsation of hectically excited energies, an impetuous desire to advance. Afterwards, of course, he would come down with a headache, but as long as this febrile state lasted, his reading and work moved forward at a lightning pace and he could read with ease the most difficult construction in Xenophon, one which usually took him fifteen minutes. Then he hardly needed a dictionary but flew with sharpened understanding across the most difficult passages quickly and happily. This heightened activity and thirst for knowledge also coincided with a proud sense of self-esteem, as though school and teachers and the years of study lay far behind him and as though he were already taking his own path toward the heights of knowledge and achievement.

All this came over him again, and again he slept fitfully and dreamed with a peculiar clarity. Thus, when he awoke in the night with a slight headache and could not fall back to sleep, he was overwhelmed by an impatience to forge ahead and by a great pride when he considered how far ahead of his companions he was and how the teacher and the principal had treated him with a kind of respect, admiration even.

The principal had taken genuine satisfaction in guiding and observing the growth of this ambition which he himself had kindled. It is wrong to say that schoolmasters lack heart and are dried-up, soulless pedants! No, by no means. When a child's talent which he has sought to kindle suddenly bursts forth, when the boy puts aside his wooden sword, slingshot, bow-and-arrow and other childish games, when he begins to forge ahead, when the seriousness of the work begins to transform the rough-neck into a delicate, serious and an almost ascetic creature, when his face takes on an intelligent, deeper and more purposeful expression—then a teacher's heart laughs with happiness and pride. It is his duty and responsibility to control the raw energies and desires of his charges and replace them with calmer, more moderate ideals. What would many happy citizens and trustworthy officials have become but unruly, stormy innovators and dreamers of useless dreams, if not for the effort of their schools? In young beings there is something wild, ungovernable, uncultured which first has to be tamed. It is like a dangerous flame that has to be controlled or it will destroy. Natural man is unpredictable, opaque, dangerous, like a torrent cascading out of uncharted mountains. At the start, his soul is a jungle without paths or order. And, like a jungle, it must first be cleared and its growth thwarted. Thus it is the school's task to subdue and control man with force and make him a useful member of society, to kindle those qualities in him whose development will bring him to triumphant completion.

How well little Giebenrath had come along! He'd given up playing games and running about almost of his own accord, he no longer burst out in stupid laughter during lectures, and he had even let himself be persuaded to abandon his gardening, his rabbits and silly fishing.

One fine evening the principal himself came to visit the Giebenraths. After he had spent a few polite minutes with the flattered father, he stepped into Hans' room only to find the boy sitting in front of his Luke. He greeted him in a friendly fashion.

“That's good of you, Giebenrath, already back at work! But why don't you ever show your face? I've been expecting you every day.”

“I would have come,” Hans excused himself, “but I wanted to bring at least one good fish along.”

“Fish, what kind of fish?”

“Just a carp or something like that.”

“Oh, I see. You're going fishing again.”

“Yes, just a little. Father allowed me to.”

“Well well. Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Fine, very fine. You certainly deserve a vacation. So you probably don't want to learn anything on the side.”

“But of course I do, naturally.”

The principal took a few deep breaths, stroked his thin beard once and sat down on a chair.

“Look, Hans,” he began. “Things are like this. It has been known for a long time that a good examination is frequently followed by a sudden letdown. At the academy you will have to cope with several entirely new subjects. There are always a number of students who prepare themselves for these tasks during the vacation—especially those students who have done less well in the examination. And these students then suddenly spurt forward at the expense of those who have rested on their laurels.”

He gave another sigh.

“You had an easy time of it here in school but at the academy you'll face stiffer competition. Your fellow students will all be talented and hard-working and you won't be able to surpass them with the same ease. You understand what I mean, don't you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Now I wanted to suggest that you work a little in advance during the vacation. Of course, with moderation. I thought that one or two hours a day would be just about right. If you didn't work at all, you would certainly lose your momentum and afterwards it takes weeks to get the wind back in your sails. What do you think?”

“I am ready, sir. If you could be so kind as to…”

“Fine. Besides Hebrew, Homer will open up an entirely new world to you. You will read him with twice as much enjoyment and understanding in the academy if we lay the foundation now. The language of Homer, the old Ionian dialect, together with the Homeric prosody is something very special, something singular, and it demands hard study and thoroughness if you want to achieve true appreciation of these works of poetry.”

Of course Hans was quite prepared to enter also into this new world and he promised to do his best.

But the better part was still to come. The principal cleared his throat and went on amiably.

“Frankly, it would please me too if you would spend a few hours a day on mathematics. You're not bad at it, yet it has never been your forte until now. In the academy you will be starting on algebra and geometry and you will probably be well advised to take a few preparatory lessons.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're always welcome to come see me, you know that. It's a point of honor with me to make something outstanding of you. But you will have to ask your father about the mathematics lessons, since you will have to take private lessons with the professor. Three or four a week perhaps.”

“Yes, sir.”

No matter how hard Hans applied himself to his math lessons, they gave him little pleasure. After all, it was bitter to have to sit in the professor's study on a muggy afternoon reciting the
a plus b
and
a minus b
while he became more and more tired, his throat dry, with bugs whirring about, and not be at the swimming hole. Something paralyzing and altogether oppressive hovered in the air that bad days could change to inconsolable despair. Hans and mathematics did not get along that well anyway. Yet he was not a student to whom it remained a mystery. Sometimes he would find good, even elegant solutions and he would be pleased. He liked the way mathematics admits nothing fraudulent, no mistakes, no possibility of wandering from the subject to enter treacherous territories adjacent. That was the reason why he liked Latin also: because the language is lucid, unequivocal, devoid of almost all ambiguity. But even when all his mathematical results tallied he did not have a sense of accomplishment. The assignments and lessons seemed to him like wandering on an even highway—you always make progress, every day you learn something you did not know the day before, but you never reach a great height from which you suddenly see new vistas.

The hours with the principal proved livelier, though the pastor knew how to make something more attractive and magnificent out of the New Testament's degenerate Greek than the principal did of the youthfully fresh language of Homer. But in the final analysis it was in Homer that you found irresistible surprises and pleasures lurking behind the first difficulties. Often Hans sat before a mysteriously sonorous verb, trembling with impatience to find in the dictionary the key that would reveal the beauty of the meaning to him.

He had more than enough homework now and often he sat bent stubbornly over some task until late at night. Father Giebenrath regarded all this industry with pride. His cumbersome mind clung to an obscure ideal, shared by many people of limited intellect and venerated with unthinking respect: to let a branch sprout from the main trunk, an extension of himself.

During the last week of vacation the principal and pastor again became noticeably concerned about Hans. They sent the boy on walks, discontinued the lessons and emphasized how important it was for him to enter his new career alert and refreshed.

Hans managed to go fishing a few more times. Often he had headaches, and without really being able to concentrate, he would sit by the bank of the river which now reflected the light blue autumn sky. It was a mystery to him why he had once looked forward so much to the summer vacation. Now he was almost glad it was over so he could leave for the academy where an entirely new course of life and work awaited him. Because it didn't really matter to him any more, he didn't catch many fish. When his father joked about it, he stopped fishing altogether and put his tackle back in the chest in the loft.

Toward the very end of his vacation he remembered that he had neglected shoemaker Flaig for weeks. Even now he literally had to force himself to go see him. It was evening and the master sat at his living-room window, a small child on each knee. Though the window was open, the smell of leather and shoe polish permeated the whole house. Somewhat self-consciously, Hans placed his hand in the callused, broad palm of the master.

“Well, how are things?” he asked. “Did you put in your time with the pastor?”

“Yes, I went every day and I learned a great deal.”

“Well, and what?”

“Mainly Greek but all sorts of other things too.”

“And you didn't find the time to come see me?”

“I wanted to, Herr Flaig, but somehow it just never worked out. Each day I was at the pastor's for one hour, at the principal's for two hours, and four times a week with the mathematics professor.”

“While you were on vacation? What nonsense!”

“I don't know. The teachers thought it was best this way. And learning isn't very difficult for me.”

“Maybe so,” said Flaig and took the boy's arm. “Nothing is wrong with learning but look at what thin arms you have. You really ought to put on a little weight. Do you still have your headaches?”

“Now and then.”

“What nonsense that is, Hans, and a sin besides. At your age one has to get lots of fresh air and exercise and have a good rest. Why do you think you have vacations? Certainly not to sit around your room and go on learning. You're nothing but skin and bones.”

Hans laughed.

“Well, you'll fight your way through. But too much is too much. And how did the lessons with the pastor go? What did he say?”

“He said many things but nothing awful. He knows an immense amount.”

“Did he never say anything derogatory about the Bible?”

“No, not once.”

“I am glad. Because I can tell you this: better to harm your body ten times over than to harm your soul! You want to become a pastor later on and that is a precious and difficult office. Perhaps you are right for it and one day you will be a helper and teacher of souls. I desire that with all my heart and will pray to that end.”

He had risen and now placed his hands firmly on the boy's shoulders.

“Take care, Hans, and stay on the good side. May God bless you and keep you, Amen.”

The solemnity, the praying, the formal and elevated language were discomforting and embarrassing to the boy. The pastor had said nothing of this sort at their parting.

The last few days passed quickly and restlessly with all the preparations and good-byes Hans had to make. A chest with bed covers, clothes and books had been sent ahead. All that was left to be packed now was his traveling case, and when that was done, father and son set off for Maulbronn one cool morning. Still, it was strange and depressing to be leaving his native place and to move away from his father's house to an alien institution.

Chapter Three

T
HE LARGE
C
ISTERCIAN
monastery of Maulbronn is situated in the northwest of the province among wooded hills and small tranquil lakes. Extensive, solidly constructed and well preserved, the handsome old buildings provide an attractive abode—they are spectacular both inside and out, and over the centuries they have formed a whole with their beautiful, calm, green environs.

If you want to visit the monastery itself, you step through a picturesque gate in the high wall onto a broad and peaceful square. A fountain with running water is at its center, and there are old, solemn trees. At both sides stand rows of solid stone houses and in the background is the front of the main church with a large romanesque porch, called “The Paradise,” of incomparable gracefulness and enchanting beauty. On the mighty roof of the church you can see a tower perched so absurdly small and pointed like a needle that it seems unbelievable it can bear the weight of the bell. The transept, itself a beautiful piece of workmanship, contains as its most precious gem an exquisite wall-chapel. The monks' refectory with its noble vigorous ribbed vaulting, the oratory, parlor, lay refectory, abbot's house and two churches together form a compact series of buildings. Picturesque walls, bow windows, gardens, a mill and living quarters are like a decorous wreath around the sturdy and ancient buildings. The broad square lies calm and empty and, in its repose, plays with the shadows of the surrounding trees. Only between noon and one o'clock does a fleeting semblance of life pass over it. At that time a group of young people step out of the monastery and, losing themselves in that wide expanse, introduce movement, shouts, conversations, laughter, perhaps a little ball-playing, only to disappear again at the end of that hour behind the wall without leaving a trace. It has occurred to many people while they stood on this square that it would be just the right place for the good life and for happiness, for something lively and gratifying to grow, for mature and good people to think glad thoughts and produce beautiful, cheerful works.