【有声英语文学名著】德米安（4a）

 Demian

by Hermann Hesse
4) Beatrice
At the end of the holidays, and without having seen my friend again, I went to St. -------. My parents accompanied me and entrusted 1 me to the care of a boy's boarding-house run by one of the teachers at the preparatory school. They would have been struck dumb with horror had they known into what world they were letting me wander.
The question remained: was I eventually to become a good son and useful citizen or did my nature point in an altogether different direction? My last attempt to achieve happiness in the shadow of the paternal 2 home had lasted a long time, had on occasion almost succeeded, but had completely failed in the end.
The peculiar 3 emptiness and isolation 4 that I came to feel for the first time after Confirmation 5 (oh, how familiar it was to become afterwards, this desolate 6, thin air!) passed only very slowly. My leave-taking from home was surprisingly easy, I was almost ashamed that I did not feel more nostalgic. My sisters wept for no reason; my eyes remained dry. I was astonished at myself. I had always been an emotional and essentially 7 good child. Now I had completely changed. I behaved with utter indifference 8 to the world outside and for days on end voices within preoccupied 9 me, inner streams, the forbidden dark streams that roared below the surface. I had grown several inches in the last half year and I walked lanky 10 and half-finished through the world. I had lost any charm I might ever have had and felt that no one could possibly love me the way I was. I certainly had no love for myself. Often I felt a great longing 11 for Max Demian, but no less often I hated him, accusing him of having caused the impoverishment 12 of my life that held me in its sway like a foul 13 disease.
I was neither liked nor respected in my boys' boarding-house. I was teased to begin with, then avoided and looked upon as a sneak 14 and an unwelcome oddity. I fell in with this role, even exaggerated it, and grumbled 15 myself into a self-isolation that must have appeared to outsiders like permanent and masculine contempt of the world, whereas, in truth, I often secretly succumbed 16 to consuming fits of melancholy 17 and despair. In school I managed to get by on the knowledge accumulated in my previous class -- the present one lagged somewhat behind the one I had left -- and I began to regard the students in my age group contemptuously as mere 18 children.
It went on like this for a year or more. The first few visits back home left me cold. I was glad when I could leave again.
It was the beginning of November. I had become used to taking snort meditative 19 walks during all kinds of weather, walks on which I often enjoyed a kind of rapture 20 tinged 21 with melancholy, scorn of the world and self-hatred. Thus I roamed in the foggy dusk one evening through the town. The broad avenue of a public park stood deserted 22, beckoning 23 me to enter; the path lay thickly carpeted with fallen leaves which I stirred angrily with my feet. There was a damp, bitter smell, and distant trees, shadowy as ghosts, loomed 24 huge out of the mist.
I stopped irresolute 25 at the far end of the avenue: staring into the dark foliage 26 I greedily breathed the humid fragrance 27 of decay and dying to which something within me responded with greeting.
Someone stepped out of one of the side paths, his coat billowing as he walked -- I was about to continue when a voice called out.
"Hello, Sinclair."
He came up to me. It was Alfons Beck, the oldest boy in our boardinghouse. I was always glad to see him, had nothing against him except that he treated me, and all others who were younger, with an element of ironic 28 and avuncular 29 condescension 30. He was reputed to be strong as a bear and to have the teacher in our house completely under his thumb. He was the hero of many a student rumor 31.
"Well, what are you doing here?" he called out affably in that tone the bigger boys affected 32 when they occasionally condescended 33 to talk to one of us. "I'll bet anything you're making a poem."
"Wouldn't think of it," I replied brusquely.
He laughed out loud, walked beside me, and made small talk in a way I hadn't been used to for a long time.
"You don't need to be afraid that I wouldn't understand, Sinclair. There's something to walking with autumnal thoughts through the evening fog. One likes to compose poems at a time like that, I know. About moribund 34 nature, of course, and one's lost youth, which resembles it. Heinrich Heine, for example."
"I'm not as sentimental 35 as all that," I defended myself.
"All right, let's drop the subject. But it seems to me that in weather like this a man does the right thing when he looks for a quiet place where he can drink a good glass of wine or something. Will you join me? I happen to be all by myself at the moment. Or would you rather not? I don't want to be the one who leads you astray, mon vieux, that is, in case you happen to be the kind that keeps to the straight and narrow."
Soon afterwards we were sitting in a small dive at the edge of town, drinking a wine of doubtful quality and clinking the thick glasses. I didn't much like it to begin with, but at least it was something new. Soon, however, unused to the wine, I became very loquacious 36.
It was as though an interior window had opened through which the world sparkled. For how long, for how terribly long hadn't I really talked to anyone? My imagination began to run away with me and eventually I even popped out with the story of Cain and Abel.
Beck listened with evident pleasure -- finally here was someone to whom I was able to give something! He patted me on the shoulder, called me one hell of a fellow, and my heart swelled 37 ecstatically at this opportunity to luxuriate in the release of a long pent-up need for talk and communication, for acknowledgment from an older boy. When he called me a damned clever little bastard 38, the words ran like sweet wine into my soul. The world glowed in new colors, thoughts gushed 39 out of a hundred audacious springs. The fire of enthusiasm flared 40 up within me. We discussed our teachers and fellow students and it seemed to me that we understood each other perfectly 41. We talked about the Greeks and the pagans in general and Beck very much wanted me to confess to having slept with girls. This was out of my league. I hadn't experienced anything, certainly nothing worth telling. And what I had felt, what I had constructed in imagination, ached within me but had not been loosened or made communicable by the wine. Beck knew much more about girls, so I listened to his exploits without being able to say a word. I heard incredible things. Things I had never thought possible became everyday reality, seemed normal. Alfons Beck, who was eighteen, seemed to be able to draw on a vast body of experience. For instance, he had learned that it was a funny thing about girls, they just wanted to flirt 42, which was all very well, but not the real thing. For the real thing one could hope for greater success with women. Women were much more reasonable. Mrs. Jaggelt, for example, who owned the stationery 43 store, well, with her one could talk business, and all the things that had happened behind her counter wouldn't fit into a book.
I sat there enchanted 44 and also dumbfounded. Certainly, I could never have loved Mrs. Jaggelt -- yet the news was incredible. There seemed to be hidden sources of pleasure, at least for the older boys, of which I had not even dreamed. Something about it didn't sound right, and it tasted less appealing and more ordinary than love, I felt, was supposed to taste -- but at least: this was reality, this was life and adventure, and next to me sat someone who had experienced it, to whom it seemed normal.
Once it had reached this height, our conversation began to taper 45 off. I was no longer the damned clever little bastard; I'd shrunk to a mere boy listening to a man. Yet all the same -- compared with what my life had been for months -- this was delicious, this was paradise. Besides, it was, as I began to realize only gradually, very much prohibited -- from our presence in the bar to the subject of our talk. At least for me it smacked 46 of rebellion.
I can remember that night with remarkable 47 clarity. We started on our way home through the damp, past gas lamps dimly lighting 48 the late night: for the first time in my life I was drunk. It was not pleasant. In fact it was most painful, yet it had something, a thrill, a sweetness of rebellious 49 orgy, that was life and spirit. Beck did a good job taking charge of me, even though he cursed me bitterly as a "bloody 50 beginner," and half led, half carried me home. There he succeeded in smuggling 51 me through an open window in the hallway.
The sober reality to which I awoke after a brief deathlike sleep coincided with a painful and senseless depression. I sat up in bed, still wearing my shirt. The rest of my clothes, strewn about on the floor, reeked 52 of tobacco and vomit 53. Between fits of headache, nausea 54, and a raging thirst an image came to mind which I had not viewed for a long time: I visualized 55 my parents' house, my home, my father and mother, my sisters, the garden. I could see the familiar bedroom, the school, the market place, could see Demian and the Confirmation classes -- everything was wonderful, godly pure, and everything, all of this -as I realized now -- had still been mine yesterday, a few hours ago, had waited for me; yet now, at this very hour, everything looked ravaged 56 and damned, was mine no longer, rejected me, regarded me with disgust. Everything dear and intimate, everything my parents had given me as far back as the distant gardens of my childhood, every kiss from my mother, every Christmas, each devout 57, light-filled Sunday morning at home, each and every flower in the garden -- everything had been laid waste, everything had been trampled 58 onby me! If the arm of the law had reached out for me now, had bound and gagged me and led me to the gallows 59 as the scum of the earth and a desecrator 60 of the temple, I would not have objected, would have gladly gone, would have considered it just and fair.
So that's what I looked like inside! I who was going about contemptuous of the world! I who was proud in spirit and shared Demian's thoughts! That's what I looked like, a piece of excrement 61, a filthy 63 swine, drunk and filthy, loathsome 64 and callow, a vile 65 beast brought low by hideous 66 appetites. That's what I looked like, I, who came out of such pure gardens where everything was cleanliness, radiance, and tenderness, I, who had loved the music of Bach and beautiful poetry. With nausea and outrage 67 I could still hear my life, drunk and unruly, sputtering 68 out of me in idiotic 69 laughter, in jerks and fits. There I was.
In spite of everything, I almost reveled in my agonies. I had been blind and insensible and my heart had been silent for so long, had cowered 70 impoverished 71 in a corner, that even this self-accusation, this dread 72, all these horrible feelings were welcome. At least it was feeling of some kind, at least there were some flames, the heart at least flickered 73. Confusedly I felt something like liberation amid my misery 74.
Meanwhile, viewed from the outside, I was going rapidly downhill. My first drunken frenzy 75 was soon followed by others. There was much going to bars and carousing 76 in our school. I was one of the youngest to take part, yet soon enough I was not merely a fledgling whom one grudgingly 77 took along, I had become the ringleader and star, a notorious and daring bar crawler. Once again I belonged entirely 78 to the world of darkness and to the devil, and in this world I had the reputation of being one hell of a fellow.
Nonetheless, I felt wretched. I lived in an orgy of self-destruction and, while my friends regarded me as a leader and as a damned sharp and funny fellow, deep down inside me my soul grieved. I can still remember tears springing to my eyes when I saw children playing in the street on Sunday morning as I emerged from a bar, children with freshly combed hair and dressed in their Sunday best. Those friends who sat with me in the lowest dives among beer puddles 79 and dirty tables I amused with remarks of unprecedented 80 cynicism, often even shocked them; yet in my inmost heart I was in awe 81 of everything I belittled 82 and lay weeping before my soul, my past, my mother, before God.
There was good reason why I never became one with my companions, why I felt alone among them and was therefore able to suffer so much. I was a barroom hero and cynic to satisfy the taste of the most brutal 83. I displayed wit and courage in my ideas and remarks about teachers, school, parents, and church. I could also bear to hear the filthiest 84 stories and even ventured an occasional one myself, but I never accompanied my friends when they visited women. I was alone and was filled with intense longing for love, a hopeless longing, while, to judge by my talk, I should have been a hard-boiled sensualist. No one was more easily hurt, no one more bashful than I. And when I happened to see the young well-brought-up girls of the town walking in front of me, pretty and clean, innocent and graceful 85, they seemed like wonderful pure dreams, a thousand times too good for me. For a time I could not even bring myself to enter Mrs. Jaggelt's stationery store because I blushed looking at her remembering what Alfons Beck had told me.
The more I realized that I was to remain perpetually lonely and different within my new group of friends the less I was able to break away. I really don't know any longer whether boozing and swaggering actually ever gave me any pleasure. Moreover, I never became so used to drinking that I did not always feel embarrassing after-effects. It was all as if I were somehow under a compulsion to do these things. I simply did what I had to do, because I had no idea what to do with myself otherwise. I was afraid of being alone for long, was afraid of the many tender and chaste 86 moods that would overcome me, was afraid of the thoughts of love surging up in me.
What I missed above all else was a friend. There were two or three fellow students whom I could have cared for, but they were in good standing 87 and my vices 88 had long been an open secret. They avoided me. I was regarded by and large as a hopeless rebel whose ground was slipping from under his feet. The teachers were well-informed about me, I had been severely 89 punished several times, my final expulsion seemed merely a matter of time. I realized myself that I had become a poor student, but I wriggled 90 strenuously 91 through one exam after the other, always feeling that it couldn't go on like this much longer.
There are numerous ways in which God can make us lonely and lead us back to ourselves. This was the way He dealt with me at that time. It was like a bad dream. I can see myself: crawling along in my odious 92 and unclean way, across filth 62 and slime, across broken beer glasses and through cynically 93 wasted nights, a spellbound dreamer, restless and racked. There are dreams in which on your way to the princess you become stuck in quagmires 94, in back alleys 95 full of foul odors and refuse. That was how it was with me. In this unpleasant fashion I was condemned 96 to become lonely, and I raised between myself and my childhood a locked gateway 97 to Eden with its pitilessly resplendent host of guardians 98. It was a beginning, an awakening 99 of nostalgia 100 for my former self.
Yet I had not become so callous 101 as not to be startled into twinges of fear when my father, alarmed by my tutor's letters, appeared for the first time in St. ------- and confronted me unexpectedly. Later on that winter, when he came a second time, nothing could move me any more, I let him scold and entreat 102 me, let him remind me of my mother. Finally toward the end of the meeting he became quite angry and said if I didn't change he would have me expelled from the school in disgrace and placed in a reformatory. Well, let him!
When he went away that time I felt sorry for him; he had accomplished 103 nothing, he had not found a way to me -- and at moments I felt that it served him right.
I could not have cared less what became of me. In my odd and unattractive fashion, going to bars and bragging 104 was my way of quarreling with the world -- this was my way of protesting. I was ruining myself in the process but at times I understood the situation as follows: if the world had no use for people like me, if it did not have a better place and higher tasks for them, well, in that case, people like me would go to pot, and the loss would be the world's.
Christmas vacation was a joyless affair that year. My mother was deeply startled when she saw me. I had shot up even more and my lean face looked gray and wasted, with slack features and inflamed 105 eyes. The first touch of a mustache and the eyeglasses I had just begun wearing made me look odder still. My sisters shied away and giggled 106. Everything was most unedifying. Disagreeable and bitter was the talk I had with my father in his study, disagreeable exchanging greetings with a handful of relatives, and particularly unpleasant was Christmas Eve itself. Ever since I had been a little child this had been the great day in our house. The evening was a festivity of love and gratitude 107, when the bond between child and parents was renewed. This time everything was merely oppressive and embarrassing. As usual my father read aloud the passage about the shepherds in the fields "watching their flocks," as usual my sisters stood radiantly before a table decked with gifts, but father's voice sounded disgruntled, his face looked old and strained, and mother was sad. Everything seemed out of place: the presents and Christmas greetings, Gospel reading and the lit-up tree. The gingerbread smelled sweet; it exuded 108 a host of memories which were even sweeter. The fragrance of the Christmas tree told of a world that no longer existed. I longed for evening and for the holidays to be over.
It went on like this the entire winter. Only a short while back I had been given a stern warning by the teachers' council and been threatened with expulsion. It couldn't go on much longer. Well, I didn't care.
I held a very special grudge 109 against Max Demian, whom I hadn't seen again even once. I had written him twice during my first months in St. ------- but had received no reply; so I had not called on him during the holidays.