【有声英语文学名著】德米安（5b）

 Demian

by Hermann Hesse
 
Twice or three times during my walks I had heard organ music coming from a small church at the edge of town. I had not stopped to listen. The next time I passed this church I heard the music again and recognized Bach. I went to the door, found it locked, and because the street was almost deserted 1 I sat down on a curbstone next to the church, turned up my coat collar, and listened. It was not a big organ but it had good tone. It was being played with a strange, highly personal expression of purpose and tenacity 3 that gave the impression of prayer. I felt that the organist knew the treasures hidden in the music, that he was wooing, hammering at the gate, wrestling for this treasure as for his life. My knowledge of music is technically 4 very limited but from childhood on I have had an intuitive grasp, have sensed music as something self-evident within me.
The organist also played something more modern -- it could have been Max Reger. The church was almost completely dark, only a very thin beam of light penetrated 5 the window closest to me. I waited until the music ceased and then paced back and forth 6 until I saw the organist leave the church. He was still young, though older than I, squareshouldered and squat 7, and he moved off rapidly with vigorous yet seemingly reluctant strides.
From then on I occasionally sat outside the church or paced up and down before it during the evening hours. Once I even found the door open and sat for half an hour in a pew, shivering against the cold, yet happy as long as the organist played in the loft 8. I not only distinguished 9 his personality in the music he played -- every piece he performed also had affinity 10 with the next, a secret connection. Everything he played was full of faith, surrender, and devotion. Yet not devout 11 after the fashion of churchgoers and pastors 13, devout the way pilgrims and mendicants were in the Middle Ages, devout with that unconditional 14 surrender to a universal feeling that transcends 15 all confessions 16. He also played music composed prior to Bach, and the old Italians. And all this music said the same thing, all of it expressed what was in the musician's soul: longing 17, a most intimate atonement with the world and a violent wrenching 18 loose, a burning hearkening to one's own dark soul, an intoxicating 19 surrender and deep curiosity about the miraculous 20.
Once when I shadowed the organist after he left the church, I saw him enter a small tavern 21 on the edge of town. I could not resist following him in. For the first time I could see him clearly. He sat at a table in the far corner of the small room. He wore a black felt hat. A jug 22 of wine stood before him. His face looked as I suspected it would. He was ugly and a little wild, inquisitive 23 and pigheaded, capricious and determined 24, yet his mouth had a soft childlike quality. All his masculinity and strength were concentrated in eyes and forehead, while the lower part of the face was sensitive and immature 25, uncontrolled and somehow very soft. The irresolute 26, boyish chin appeared to contradict the forehead and eyes -- which I liked, those dark-brown eyes, full of pride and hostility 27.
I sat down opposite him without saying a word. We were the only two guests in the tavern. He gave me a look as though he wanted to shoo me away. But I did not budge 28, and stared back unmoved until he grumbled 29 morosely 30: "What on earth are you staring at? Is there something you want?"
"No, I don't want anything from you," I said. "You've given me a great deal already."
He knitted his brows.
"So, you're a music lover. I find it nauseating 31 to be crazy about music."
I did not let him intimidate 32 me.
"I have listened to you often, back there in the church," I said. "But I don't want to trouble you. I thought I might find something, something special; I really don't know what. But don't pay any attention to me. I can listen to you in church."
"But I always lock it."
"Not very long ago you forgot and I sat inside. Usually I stand outside or sit on the curb 2."
"Really? Next time you can come inside, it's warmer. All you have to do is knock at the door. But you have to bang hard and not while I'm playing. Go ahead now -- what did you want to tell me? You're quite young yet, probably a student of some sort. Are you a musician?"
"No. I like listening to music, but only the kind you play, completely unreserved music, the kind that makes you feel that a man is shaking heaven and hell. I believe I love that kind of music because it is amoral. Everything else is so moral that I'm looking for something that isn't. Morality has always seemed to me insufferable. I can't express it very well. -- Do you know that there must be a god who is both god and devil at one and the same time? There is supposed to have been one once. I heard about it."
The musician pushed his wide hat back a little and shook the hair out of his eyes, all the while peering at me. He lowered his face across the table.
Softly and expectantly he asked: "What's the name of the god you mentioned?"
"Unfortunately I know next to nothing about him, actually only his name. He is called Abraxas."
The musician blinked suspiciously around him as though someone might be eavesdropping 33. Then he moved closer to me and said in a whisper: "That's what I thought. Who are you?"
"A student at the prep school."
"How did you happen to hear about Abraxas?"
"By accident."
He struck the table so that wine spilled out of his glass. "By accident! Don't talkshit, young fellow! One doesn't hear about Abraxas by accident, and don't you forget it. I will tell you more about him. I know a little."
He fell silent and moved his chair back. When I looked at him full of expectation, he made a face.
"Not here. Some other time. There, take these."
He reached in his coat, which he had not taken off, and drew out a few roasted chestnuts 34 and threw them to me.
I said nothing, took them, ate and felt content.
"All right," he whispered after a moment. "Where did you find out about -- Him?"
I did not hesitate to tell him.
"I was alone and desperate at one time," I began. "Then I remembered a friend I had had several years back who I felt knew much more than I did. I had painted something, a bird struggling out of the globe. I sent him this painting. After a time I found a piece of paper with the following words written on it: "The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God. That God's name is Abraxas.'"
He made no reply. We shelled our chestnuts and drank our wine.
"Another glass?" he asked.
"No, thanks. I don't like drinking."
He laughed, a little disappointed.
"As you like. It's different with me. I'll stay but you can run along if you want."
When I joined him the next time, after he had played the organ, he was not very communicative. He led me down an alley 35 and through an old and impressive house and up to a large, somewhat dark and neglected room. Except for a piano, nothing in it gave a hint of his being a musician -- but a large bookcase and a desk gave the room an almost scholarly air.
"How many books you have!" I exclaimed.
"Part of them are from my father's library -- in whose house I live. Yes, young man, I'm living with my parents but I can't introduce you to them. My acquaintances aren't regarded very favorably in this house. I'm the black sheep. My father is fabulously 36 respectable and an important pastor 12 and preacher in this town. And I, so that you know the score at once, am his talented and promising 37 son who has gone astray and, to some extent, even mad. I was a theology student but shortly before my state exams I left this very respectable department; that is, not entirely 38, not in so far as it concerns my private studies, for I'm still most interested to see what kinds of gods people have devised for themselves. Otherwise, I'm a musician at present and it looks as though I will receive a small post as an organist somewhere. Then I'll be back in the employ of the church again."
As much as the feeble light from the small table lamp permitted, I glanced along the spines 39 of the books and noticed Greek, Latin, and Hebrew titles. Meanwhile my acquaintance had lain down on the floor and was busying himself with something.
"Come," he called after a moment, "we want to practice a bit of philosophy. That means: keep your mouth shut, lie on your stomach, and meditate 40."
He struck a match and lit paper and wood in the fireplace in front of which he sprawled 41. The flames leapt high, he stirred and fed them with the greatest care. I lay down beside him on the worn-out carpet. For about an hour we lay on our stomachs silent before the shimmering 42 wood, watching the flames shoot up and roar, sink down and double over, flicker 43 and twitch 44, and in the end brood quietly on sunken embers.
"Fire worship was by no means the most foolish thing ever invented," he murmured to himself at one point. Otherwise neither of us said a word. I stared fixedly 45 into the flames, lost myself in dreams and stillness, recognized figures in the smoke and pictures in the ashes. Once I was startled. My companion threw a piece of resin 46 into the embers: a slim flame shot up and I recognized the bird with the yellow sparrow hawk's head. In the dying embers, red and gold threads ran together into nets, letters of the alphabet appeared, memories of faces, animals, plants, worms, and snakes. As I emerged from my reveries I looked at my companion, his chin resting on his fists, staring fanatically into the ashes with complete surrender.
"I have to go now," I said softly.
"Go ahead then. Good-by."
He did not get up. The lamp had gone out: I groped my way through the dark rooms and hallways of the bewitched old house. Once outside, I stopped and looked up along its façade. Every window was dark. A small brass 47 plate on the front door gleamed in the light from a street lamp. On it I read the words: "Pistorius, pastor primarius."
Not until I was at home and sat in my little room after supper did it occur to me that I had not heard anything about either Abraxas or Pistorius -- we'd exchanged hardly a dozen words. But I was very satisfied with my visit. And for our next meeting he had promised to play an exquisite 48 piece of old music, an organ passacaglia by Buxtehude.
Without my being entirely aware of it, the organist Pistorius had given me my first lesson when we were sprawled on the floor before the fire in his depressing hermit's room. Staring into the blaze had been a tonic 49 for me, confirming tendencies that I had always had but never cultivated. Gradually some of them were becoming comprehensible to me.
Even as a young boy I had been in the habit of gazing at bizarre natural phenomena 50, not so much observing them as surrendering to their magic, their confused, deep language. Long gnarled tree roots, colored veins 51 in rocks, patches of oil floating on water, light-refracting flaws in glass -- all these things had held great magic for me at one time: water and fire particularly, smoke, clouds, and dust, but most of all the swirling 52 specks 53 of color that swam before my eyes the minute I closed them. I began to remember all this in the days after my visit to Pistorius, for I noticed that a certain strength and joy, an intensification 54 of my self-awareness that I had felt since that evening, I owed exclusively to this prolonged staring into the fire. It was remarkably 55 comforting and rewarding.
To the few experiences which helped me along the way toward my life's true goal I added this new one: the observation of such configurations 56. The surrender to Nature's irrational 57, strangely confused formations produces in us a feeling of inner harmony with the force responsible for these phenomena. We soon fall prey 58 to the temptation of thinking of them as being our own moods, our own creations, and see the boundaries separating us from Nature begin to quiver and dissolve. We become acquainted with that state of mind in which we are unable to decide whether the images on our retina are the result of impressions coming from without or from within. Nowhere as in this exercise can we discover so easily and simply to what extent we are creative, to what extent our soul partakes of the constant creation of the world. For it is the same indivisible divinity that is active through us and in Nature, and if the outside world were to be destroyed, a single one of us would be capable of rebuilding it: mountain and stream, tree and leaf, root and flower, yes, every natural form is latent within us, originates in the soul whose essence is eternity 59, whose essence we cannot know but which most often intimates itself to us as the power to love and create.
Not until many years later did I find these observations of mine confirmed, in a book by Leonardo da Vinci, who describes at one point how good, how intensely interesting it is to look at a wall many people have spit on. Confronted with each stain on the wet wall, he must have felt the same as Pistorius and I felt before the fire.
The next time we were together, the organist gave me an explanation: "We always define the limits of our personality too narrowly. In general, we count as part of our personality only that which we can recognize as being an individual trait or as diverging 60 from the norm. But we consist of everything the world consists of, each of us, and just as our body contains the genealogical table of evolution as far back as the fish and even much further, so we bear everything in our soul that once was alive in the soul of men. Every god and devil that ever existed, be it among the Greeks, Chinese, or Zulus, are within us, exist as latent possibilities, as wishes, as alternatives. If the human race were to vanish from the face of the earth save for one halfway 61 talented child that had received no education, this child would rediscover the entire course of evolution, it would be capable of producing everything once more, gods and demons 62, paradises, commandments, the Old and New Testament 63."
"Yes, fine," I replied. "But what is the value of the individual in that case? Why do we continue striving if everything has been completed within us?"
"Stop!" exclaimed Pistorius. "There's an immense difference between simply carrying the world within us and being aware of it. A madman can spout 64 ideas that remind you of Plato, and a pious 65 little seminary student rethinks deep mythological 66 correspondences found among the Gnostics or in Zoroaster. But he isn't aware of them. He is a tree or stone, at best an animal, as long as he is not conscious. But as soon as the first spark of recognition dawns within him he is a human being. You wouldn't consider all the bipeds you pass on the street human beings simply because they walk upright and carry their young in their bellies 67 nine months! It is obvious how many of them are fish or sheep, worms or angels, how many are ants, how many are bees! Well, each one of them contains the possibility of becoming human, but only by having an intimation of these possibilities, partially 68 even by learning to make himself conscious of them; only in this respect are these possibilities his."
This was the general drift of our conversations. They rarely confronted me with anything completely new, anything altogether astonishing. But everything, even the most ordinary matters, resembled gentle persistent 69 hammer blows on the same spot within me; all of them helped me to form myself, all of them helped to peel off layers of skin, to break eggshells, and after each blow I lifted my head a little higher, a little more freely, until my yellow bird pushed its beautiful raptor's head out of the shattered shell of the terrestrial globe.
Frequently we also told each other our dreams. Pistorius knew how to interpret them. An example of this comes to mind just now. I dreamed I was able to fly, but in such a way that I seemed catapulted into the air and lost all control. The feeling of flying exhilarated me, but exhilaration turned to fear when I saw myself driven higher and higher, becoming more and more powerless. At that instant I made the saving discovery that I could regulate the rise or fall of my flight by holding or releasing my breath.
Pistorius' comment was: "The impetus 70 that makes you fly is our great human possession. Everybody has it. It is the feeling of being linked with the roots of power, but one soon becomes afraid of this feeling. It's damned dangerous! That is why most people shed their wings and prefer to walk and obey the law. But not you. You go on flying. And look! You discover that you gradually begin to master your flight, that to the great general force that tears you upward there is added a delicate, small force of your own, an organ, a steering 71 mechanism 72. How marvelous! Lacking that, you would be drawn 73 up to the heights, powerless -- which is what happens to madmen. They possess deeper intimations than people who remain earth-bound, but they have no key and no steering mechanism and roar off into infinity 74. But you, Sinclair, you are going about it the right way. How? You probably don't know yourself. You are doing it with a new organ, with something that regulates your breathing. And now you will realize how little 'individuality' your soul has in its deepest reaches. For it does not invent this regulator! It is not new! You've borrowed it: it has existed for thousands of years. It is the organ with which fish regulate their equilibrium 75 -the air bladder. And in fact among the fish there are still a few strange primeval genera where the air bladder functions as a kind of lung and can be used on occasion as a breathing mechanism. In other words, exactly like the lung which you in your dream use as a flying bladder."
He even brought out a zoology 76 book and showed me the names and illustrations of these anachronistic 77 fish. And with a peculiar 78 shudder 79 I felt that an organ from an earlier period of evolution was still alive within me.