Beneath The Wheel Part 1

Beneath the Wheel.

by Hermann Hesse.

Chapter One.

Herr Joseph Giebenrath, jobber and middleman, possessed no laudable or peculiar traits distinguishing him from his fellow townsmen. Like the majority, he was endowed with a st.u.r.dy and healthy body, a knack for business and an unabashed, heartfelt veneration of money; not to mention a small house and garden, a family plot in the cemetery, a more or less enlightened if threadbare attachment to the church, an appropriate respect for G.o.d and the authorities, and blind submission to the inflexible laws of bourgeois respectability. Though no teetotaler, he never drank to excess; though engaged in more than one questionable deal, he never transgressed the limits of what was legally permitted. He despised those poorer than himself as have-nots and those wealthier as show-offs. He belonged to the Chamber of Commerce and every Friday went bowling at the Eagle. He smoked only cheap cigars, reserving a better brand for after-dinner and Sundays.

In every respect, his inner life was that of a Philistine. The "sensitive" side of his personality had long since corroded and now consisted of little more than a traditional rough-and-ready "family sense," pride in his only son, and an occasional charitable impulse toward the poor. His intellectual gifts were limited to an inborn canniness and dexterity with figures. His reading was confined to the newspapers, and his need for amus.e.m.e.nt was a.s.suaged by the amateur theatricals the Chamber of Commerce put on each year and an occasional visit to the circus. He could have exchanged his name and address with any of his neighbors, and nothing would have been different. In common with every other paterfamilias in town, and deeply ingrained in his soul, he also had this: deep-seated distrust of any power or person superior to himself, and animosity toward anyone who was either extraordinary or more gifted, sensitive or intelligent than he.

Enough of him. It would require a profound satirist to represent the shallowness and unconscious tragedy of this man's life. But he had a son, and there's more to be said about him.

Hans Giebenrath was, beyond doubt, a gifted child. One gathered as much simply by noting the subtle and unusual impression he made on his fellow students. Their Black Forest village was not in the habit of producing prodigies. So far it had not brought forth anyone whose vision and effect had transcended its narrow confines. Only G.o.d knows where this boy got his serious and intelligent look and his elegant movements. Had he inherited them from his mother? She had been dead for years and no one remembered anything special about her, except that she had always been sickly and unhappy. As for coming from the father, that was out of the question. For once it seemed that a spark from above had struck this old hamlet which, in the eight or nine centuries of its existence, had produced many a stalwart citizen but never a great talent or genius.

A trained observer, taking note of the sickly mother and the considerable age of the family, might have speculated about hypertrophy of the intelligence as a symptom of incipient degeneration. But the little town was fortunate in not having anyone so trained in its midst; only the younger and more clever civil servants and teachers had heard uncertain rumors or read magazine articles about the existence of "modern" man. It was possible to live in this town and give the appearance of being educated without knowing the speeches in Zarathustra. The town's entire mode of existence had an incurably old-fashioned character; there were many well-founded and frequently happy marriages. The long-established and well-to-do citizens, many of whom had risen from the rank of artisan to manufacturer within the last twenty years, doffed their hats to the officials and sought their company, but behind their backs spoke of them as pen-pushers and poor bureaucrats. Yet they had no higher ambition for their sons than a course of study that would enable them to become civil servants. Unfortunately, this was almost always a pipe dream, because their offspring often had great difficulty getting through grammar school and frequently had to repeat the same form.

There was unanimous agreement about Hans Giebenrath's talents, however. Teachers, princ.i.p.al, neighbors, pastor, fellow students and everyone else readily admitted that he was an exceptionally bright boy -- something special. Thus his future was mapped out, for in all of Swabia there existed but one narrow path for talented boys -- that is, unless their parents were wealthy. After pa.s.sing the state examination, he could enter the theological academy at Maulbronn, then the seminary at Tubingen, and then go on to either the minister's pulpit or the scholar's lectern. Year after year three to four dozen boys took the first steps on this safe and tranquil path -- thin, overworked, recently confirmed boys who followed the course of studies in the humanities at the expense of the state, eight or nine years later embarking on the second and longer period of their life when they were supposed to repay the state for its munificence.

The state examination was to be held in a manner of weeks. This annual hecatomb, during which the state took the pick of the intellectual flower of the country, caused numerous families in towns and villages to direct their sighs and prayers at the capital.

Hans Giebenrath was the only candidate our little town had decided to enter in the arduous compet.i.tion. It was a great but by no means undeserved honor. Every day, when Hans completed his cla.s.swork at four in the afternoon, he had an extra Greek lesson with the princ.i.p.al; at six, the pastor was so kind as to coach him in Latin and religion. Twice a week, after supper, he received an extra math lesson from the mathematics teacher. In Greek, next to irregular verbs, special emphasis was placed on the syntactical connections as expressed by the particles. In Latin the onus rested on a clear and pithy style and, above all, on mastering the many refinements of prosody. In mathematics the main emphasis was on especially complicated solutions. Arriving at these solutions, the teacher insisted, was not as worthless for future courses of study as might appear, for they surpa.s.sed many of his main subjects in providing him with the basis for sober, cogent and successful reasoning.

In order that Hans' mind not be overburdened and his spiritual needs not suffer from these intellectual exertions, he was allowed to attend confirmation cla.s.s every morning, one hour before school. The catechism and the stimulating lessons by rote introduced into the young soul a refreshing whiff of religious life. Unfortunately, Hans lessened the potential benefit of these revivifying hours by concealing in his catechism surrept.i.tious lists of Greek and Latin vocabulary and exercises, and devoting the entire hour to these worldly sciences. His conscience was not so blunted that he did not feel uneasiness and fear, for when the deacon stepped up to him, or even called on him, he invariably flinched; and when he had to give an answer, he would break into a sweat and his heart would palpitate. Yet his answers were perfectly correct, as was his p.r.o.nunciation, something which counted heavily with the deacon.

The a.s.signments that acc.u.mulated from lesson to lesson during the course of the day he was able to complete later in the evening, at home, in the kindly glow of his lamp. These calm labors, under the aegis of these peaceful surroundings -- a factor to which the cla.s.sroom teacher a.s.signed a particularly profound and beneficial effect -- usually were not completed before ten o'clock on Tuesdays and Sat.u.r.days, on other days not before eleven or twelve. Though his father grumbled a little about the immoderate consumption of kerosene, he nonetheless regarded all this studying with a deep sense of personal satisfaction. During leisure hours on Sundays, which, after all, make up a seventh part of our lives, Hans had been urged to do outside reading and to review the rules of grammar.

"Everything with moderation, of course. Going for an occasional walk is necessary and does wonders," the teacher said. "If the weather is fine, you can even take a book along and read in the open. You'll see how easy and pleasant it is to learn that way. Above all, keep your chin up."

So Hans kept his chin as high as he could, and from that time on used his walks for studying. He could be seen walking quietly and timorously, with a nightworn face and tired eyes.

"What do you think of Giebenrath's chances? He'll make it, won't he?" the cla.s.sroom teacher once asked the princ.i.p.al.

"He will, he most certainly will," exclaimed the princ.i.p.al joyously. "He's one of the extra-bright ones. Just look at him. He's the veritable incarnation of intellect."

During the last week, this intellectualization of the boy had become noticeable. Deep-set, uneasy eyes glowed dimly in his handsome and delicate face; fine wrinkles, signs of troubled thinking, twitched on his forehead, and his thin, emaciated arms and hands hung at his side with the weary gracefulness reminiscent of a figure by Botticelli.

The time was close at hand. Tomorrow morning he was to go to Stuttgart with his father and show the state whether he deserved to enter the narrow gate of the academy. He had just paid the princ.i.p.al a farewell visit.

"This evening," the feared administrator informed him with unusual mildness, "you must not so much as think of a book. Promise me. You have to be as fresh as a daisy when you arrive in Stuttgart. Take an hour's walk and then go right to bed. Young people have to have their sleep."

Hans was astonished to be the object of so much solicitude instead of the usual sally of admonitions, and he gave a sigh of relief as he left the school building. The big linden trees on the hill next to the church glowed wanly in the heat of the late afternoon sun. The fountains in the market square splashed and glistened. The blue-black fir and spruce-covered mountains rose up sharply behind the jagged line of roofs. The boy felt as if he had not seen any of this for a long time, and all of it struck him as unusually beautiful. True, he had a headache, but he did not have to study any more today.

He ambled across the square, past the ancient city hall through the lane that led to the market, past the cutler's shop, to the old bridge. He whiled away the time walking back and forth and finally sat down on the broad bal.u.s.trade. For months on end he had pa.s.sed this spot four times a day without as much as glancing at the small gothic chapel by the bridge, the river, the sluice gate, the dam or the mill, not even at the bathing meadow or the sh.o.r.e lined with willow trees where one tannery adjoined the other, where the river was as deep and green and tranquil as a lake and where the thin willow branches arched into the water.

He remembered how many hours, how many days and half days he had spent here, how often he had gone swimming or dived, rowed and fished here. Yes, fishing! He had almost forgotten what it was like to go fishing, and one year he had cried so bitterly when he'd been forbidden to, on account of the examination. Going fishing! That had been the best part of his school years. Standing in the shade cast by a willow at the edge of the tranquil spot near where the water cascaded over the dam; the play of light on the river, the fishing rod gently swaying; the rush of excitement when he had a bite and drew in his catch; the peculiar satisfaction when he held a cool fleshy fish wriggling in his hand.

Hadn't he caught many a juicy carp and whiting and barbel and delicate tench and many pretty shiners? He gazed for a long while across the water. The sight of this green corner of the river made him thoughtful and sad, and he sensed that the free and wild pleasures of boyhood were receding into the past. He pulled a hunk of bread from his pocket, divided it, rolled pellets of various sizes and tossed them into the water; they sank and the fish snapped at them. First the minnows and grayling came and devoured the smaller pieces, pushing the larger ones in front of them in zigzags. Then a somewhat larger whiting swam up cautiously, his dark back hardly distinguishable from the bottom, sailed around the pellet thoughtfully, suddenly let it disappear in his round mouth. A warm dampness rose from the lazily flowing river. A few light-colored clouds were dimly reflected in the green surface. The circular saw could be heard whining at the mill and the sound of water rushing over both dams flowed together into a deep sonorous roar. Hans' thoughts went back to the recent Sunday on which he had been confirmed and during which he had caught himself going over the conjugation of a Greek verb amidst the solemn festive occasion. He noticed that at other times recently his thoughts had become jumbled; even in school he invariably thought of the work just completed or just ahead, but never what he had to do that very moment. Well, that was just perfect for his exam!

Distracted he rose, undecided where to go next. He was startled when he felt a strong hand grasp his shoulder and a deep, friendly voice say: "h.e.l.lo, Hans, you'll walk a way with me, won't you?"

That was Flaig, the shoemaker, at whose house he used to spend a few hours each evening, though he had neglected him for some time now. Hans joined him presently, however, without paying very close heed to what the devout Pietist was saying.

Flaig spoke of the examination, wished Hans good luck, and offered encouragement, but the real point of his speech was to communicate his firm belief that the examination was only an external and accidental event, which it would be no disgrace to fail. This could happen to the best of us, he said, and if it should happen to Hans he ought to keep in mind that G.o.d has a master plan for each and every soul and leads it along a path of His choosing, Hans felt a bit queer whenever he was with Flaig. He respected him and his self-a.s.sured and admirable way of life, but everyone made so much fun of the Pietists that Hans had even joined in the laughter, though frequently against his own better judgment. Besides, he felt ashamed of his cowardice: he had been avoiding the shoemaker for some time, because he asked such pointed questions. Since Hans had become the teachers' pet and grown a bit conceited as a result, Master Flaig had looked at him oddly, as if to humiliate him. Thus the well-intentioned guide had gradually lost his sway over the boy's soul. For Hans was in the full bloom of boyish stubbornness and his antennae were most sensitively attuned to any unloving interference with his image of himself. Now he walked by Flaig's side and listened to him, oblivious of how kindly and anxiously he was being regarded.

In Crown Alley they encountered the pastor. The shoemaker gave him a curt greeting and was suddenly in a hurry. The pastor was one of the "modern" ones. He had the reputation of not even believing in the Resurrection. This man now took Hans by the hand.

"How are things," he asked. "You must be glad now that everything is almost over and done with."

"Oh yes, I'm pleased about that."

"Well, just take care of yourself. You know that we have high hopes for you. Especially in Latin I expect you to do well."

"But what if I fail?" Hans suggested shyly.

"Fail?" The good man stopped short. "Failing is absolutely out of the question. Completely impossible. What an idea!"

"I just mean it's a possibility. After all. . ."

"It isn't, Hans. It just isn't. Don't even think of it. And now give my regards to your father and take heart."

Hans watched him walk off. Then he turned around to see where the shoemaker had gone. What was it he had said? Latin wasn't all that important, provided your heart was in the right place and you trusted in G.o.d. A lot of help he was. And now the pastor, too, of all people! He couldn't possibly look him in the face again, if he failed.

Feeling depressed, he arrived home and went into their small garden. Here stood a rotting summer-house in which he had once built a rabbit hutch and raised rabbits for three years. Last fall they had been taken from him, on account of the examination. There had been no time left for distractions.

Nor had he been in the garden itself for some time. The empty rabbit cage looked dilapidated, the small wooden water wheel lay bent and broken by the conduit. He thought back to the time when he had built these things and had had fun with them. Even that lay two years back -- an eternity. He picked up the small wheel, tried to bend it back into shape, but it broke completely and he flung it over the wall. Away with the stuff -- it was all long over and done with. Then he suddenly remembered August, his friend from school, who had helped him build the wheel and cage. Whole afternoons they had played here, hunted with his slingshot, lain in ambush for cats, built tents and eaten raw turnips for supper. Then all the studying had left him no time. August had dropped out of school a year ago and become apprenticed to a mechanic; since then, he had come over to see Hans only twice. Of course, he too had less free time than before.

Cloud shadows hastened across the valley. The sun stood near the mountain edge. For just a second the boy felt like flinging himself to the ground and weeping. Instead he fetched the hatchet from the shed, swung it wildly with his thin arms, and smashed the rabbit hutch. The boards splintered, nails bent with a crunch, and a bit of mildewed rabbit feed from last year fell on the ground. He lashed out at it all as though this would crush his longing for the rabbits and for August and for all the old childish games.

"Now, now. What's going on there?" his father called from an open window.

"Making firewood!"

He gave no further reply but tossed the hatchet aside, ran through the yard to the street and then upstream along the river. Outside town, near the brewery, two rafts lay moored. He used to untie them and drift downstream for hours on warm Sunday afternoons, excited and lulled by the sound of water splashing between the loosely tied logs. He leaped across to the rafts, lay down on a heap of willows and tried to imagine the raft untied, rushing forward, slowing down in calmer waters along the meadows, coasting along fields, villages and cool forest edges, underneath bridges and through open locks, bearing him along and everything the way it used to be when he fetched rabbit feed along the Kapferberg, fished along the sh.o.r.e by the tanneries, without headaches and worries.

Tired and moody, he returned home for supper. Because of the imminent trip to Stuttgart, his father was wrought up and asked him at least a dozen times whether his books were packed, and his black suit laid out, and if he didn't want to read a grammar on the trip, and if he felt well. Hans gave terse, biting replies, ate little and soon bade his father good night.

"Good night now, Hans. Make sure you sleep well. I'll get you up at six. You haven't forgotten to pack your word book, have you?"

"No, I haven't forgotten to pack my dictionary. Good night, Father."

In the dark, he sat for a long time in his room. That was the only solace the whole examination business had brought him -- a small room of his own. Here he was his own master, undisturbed. Here -- obstinately, ambitiously -- he had battled weariness, sleep and headaches, brooding many hours over Caesar, Xenophon, grammars, dictionaries and mathematics. But he had also experienced those few hours more valuable than all lost boyhood joys, those few rare, dreamlike hours filled with the pride, intoxication and certainty of victory; hours during which he had dreamed himself beyond school and examinations into the elect circle of higher beings. He had been seized by a bold and marvelous premonition that he was really something special, superior to his fat-cheeked, good-natured companions on whom he would one day look down from distant heights. At this very moment, he breathed a sigh of relief, as though simply being in this room meant breathing a freer and cooler air, and he sat down on his bed and pa.s.sed a few twilight hours with dreams, wishes and antic.i.p.ation. Slowly his eyelids slipped over his big overworked eyes, opened once more, blinked and fell shut again. The boy's pale head dropped between his thin shoulders and his thin arms stretched out, exhausted. He had fallen asleep with his clothes on. The gentle, motherly hand of sleep soothed the tempest in his heart and smoothed the light wrinkles on his brow.

It was unheard of. The princ.i.p.al had taken the trouble of coming to the station at such an early hour. Herr Giebenrath in his black dress suit could hardly stand still with excitement, happiness and pride; he tiptoed nervously around the princ.i.p.al and Hans, accepted the stationmaster's and railroad men's best wishes for the trip and his son's examination, and kept switching a small suitcase from right hand to left. His umbrella was held under his right arm, but he clamped it between his knees when switching the suitcase and it dropped a few times; whenever this happened, he set his suitcase down so he could pick up the umbrella. You would have thought he was an emigrant about to leave for America rather than the holder of round-trip tickets to Stuttgart for him and his son. Hans looked relaxed, though his throat was tight with apprehension.

The train pulled into the station, the two pa.s.sengers mounted, the princ.i.p.al waved his hand to them, Hans' father lighted a cigar, and the little town and river gradually disappeared. The trip was sheer agony for both of them.

When they arrived at Stuttgart, his father suddenly came alive and seemed cheerful, affable and very much the man of the world. He was inspired by the excitement the man from a small town feels when he comes to the capital for a few days. Hans, however, became more afraid and quiet. He felt deeply intimidated by the sight of the city, the unfamiliar faces, the high, pompously ornate buildings, the long, tiring streets. The horse trams and the street noises frightened him. They were staying with an aunt, and the unfamiliarity of the rooms, her friendliness and loquacity, the endless sitting around and the never-ending remarks of encouragement directed at him by his father crushed the boy completely. Feeling lost and out of place, he sat in the room. When he looked at the unfamiliar surroundings, the aunt in her fashionable getup, the large-patterned wallpaper, the clock on the mantelpiece, the pictures on the walls, or when he gazed through the window onto the noisy bustling street, he felt completely betrayed. It seemed to him as though he had left home ages ago, and had forgotten everything he had learned with so much effort.

He had wanted to take a last look at his Greek particles in the afternoon, but his aunt suggested going for a walk. For a brief moment Hans envisioned something like green meadows and a forest in the wind and he cheerfully said yes. However, in no time at all he realized what a very different pleasure it is to take a walk in the city.

He and his aunt went walking without his father, who had gone to visit some acquaintances in town. Hans' misery began on the way downstairs. On the first floor they encountered a fat, overdressed lady to whom his aunt curtsied and who immediately broke into a stream of chatter. This pause lasted more than fifteen minutes. Hans stood to the side, pinned to the banister, was sniffed and growled at by the lady's lap dog, and vaguely comprehended that they also discussed him -- the fat lady inspected him repeatedly through her lorgnette. They had hardly stepped into the street when his aunt entered a store and considerable time pa.s.sed before she reemerged. Meanwhile Hans stood timidly by the curb, was jostled by pa.s.sers-by and called names by the street boys.

Upon returning, his aunt handed him a chocolate bar and he thanked her politely even though he couldn't stand chocolate. At the next corner they mounted a horse tram and now they chugged in the overcrowded car through streets and more streets until they finally reached a broad avenue. A fountain was splashing, formal flower-beds were blossoming, goldfish swam in a small pond, an artificial one. You walked up and down, back and forth, and in a circle among swarms of other walkers. You saw ma.s.ses of faces, elegant dresses, less elegant ones, bicycles, wheelchairs and perambulators, heard a babble of voices and inhaled warm dusty air. Finally you sat down on a bench next to other people. The aunt had been chattering away; now she sighed, smiled kindly at the boy and asked him to eat his chocolate. He didn't want to.

"My G.o.d, it doesn't embarra.s.s you, does it? Go ahead, eat it."

Thereupon he pulled the little chocolate bar out of his pocket, tugged at the silver foil for a while and finally bit off a very small piece. He simply didn't care for chocolate but he dared not tell his aunt. While he was trying to swallow the piece, his aunt recognized someone in the crowd and rushed off.

"Just stay here. I'll be back in a jiffy. . ." Hans used the opportunity to fling the chocolate on the lawn. Then he dangled his legs back and forth, stared at the crowd and felt unlucky. Finally he could think of nothing better to do than recite his irregular verbs but was horrified to discover that he had forgotten practically all of them. He had clean forgotten them! And tomorrow was the examination!

His aunt returned, having picked up the news that 118 boys would take the state examination this year and that only 36 could pa.s.s. At this point the boy's heart hit absolute rock bottom and he refused to say another word all the way back. At home his headache returned. He refused to eat anything and behaved so strangely that his father gave him a sharp talking to and even his aunt found him impossible. That night he slept deeply but badly, haunted by horrid nightmares: he saw himself sitting in a room with the other 117 candidates; the examiner, who sometimes resembled his pastor at home and then his aunt, kept piling heaps of chocolate in front of him which he was ordered to eat; as he ate, bathed in tears, he saw one candidate after the other get up and leave; they had all eaten their chocolate mountains while his kept growing before his eyes as if it wanted to smother him.

Next morning, while Hans sipped his coffee without letting the clock out of sight, he was the object of many people's thoughts in his home town. Shoemaker Flaig was the first to think of him. Before breakfast he said his prayers. The entire family, including the journeymen and the two apprentices, stood in a circle around the table, and to the usual morning prayer Flaig added the words: "Oh Lord, protect Hans Giebenrath, who is taking the state examination today. Bless and strengthen him so that he will become a righteous and st.u.r.dy proclaimer of your name."

Although the pastor did not offer a prayer in his behalf he said to his wife at breakfast: "Little Giebenrath is just about to start his exam. He's going to become someone very important one day, and it won't have hurt that I helped him with his Latin."

His cla.s.sroom teacher before beginning the day's first lesson said to the other pupils: "So, the examination in Stuttgart is about to begin and we want to wish Giebenrath the best of luck. Not that he needs it. He's as smart as ten of you lazybones put together." And most of the pupils too turned their thoughts to the absent Hans, especially those who had placed bets on his failing or pa.s.sing.

And because heartfelt prayers and deep sympathy easily take effect even over great distances, Hans sensed that they were thinking of him at home. He entered the examination room with trembling heart, accompanied by his father, anxiously followed the instructor's directions, and looking around the huge room full of boys, felt like a criminal in a torture chamber. But once the examining professor had entered and bid them be quiet, and dictated the text for the Latin test, Hans was relieved to find that it was ridiculously easy. Quickly, almost cheerfully, he wrote his first draft. Then he copied it neatly and carefully, and was one of the first to hand in his work. Though he managed to get lost on his way back to his aunt's house, and wandered about the hot streets for two hours, this did not upset his newly regained composure; he was glad to escape his aunt's and father's clutches for a while and felt like an adventurer as he ambled through the unfamiliar noisy streets of the capital. When he had asked his way back through the labyrinth and returned home, he was showered with questions.

"How did it go? What was it like? Did you know your stuff?"

"Couldn't have been easier," he said proudly. "I could have translated that in the fifth grade."

And he ate with considerable appet.i.te.

He had no examination that afternoon. His father dragged him from one acquaintance or relative to the other; at one of their houses they met a shy boy who was dressed in black, an examination candidate from Goppingen. The boys were left to their own devices and eyed each other shyly and inquisitively.

"What did you think of the Latin?" asked Hans. "Easy, wasn't it?"

"But that's just it. You slip up when it's easy and don't pay attention and there are bound to have been some hidden traps."

"Do you think so?"

"But of course! The professors aren't as stupid as all that."

Hans was quite startled and fell to thinking.

Then he asked timidly: "Do you still have the text?"

The fellow pulled out his booklet and they went over the text word by word, sentence by sentence. The Goppingen candidate seemed to be a whiz in Latin; at least twice he used grammatical terms Hans had not heard of.

"And what do we have tomorrow?"

"Greek and German composition."

Then Hans was asked how many candidates his school had sent.

"Just myself."

"Ouch. There are twelve of us here from Goppingen. Three really bright guys who are expected to place among the top ten. Last year the fellow who came in first was from Goppingen too. Are you going on to Gymnasium if you fail?"

This was something Hans had never discussed with anyone.

"I have no idea. . . No, I don't think so."

"Really? I'll keep on studying no matter what happens, even if I fail now. My mother will let me go to school in Ulm."

This revelation impressed Hans immensely. Those twelve candidates from Goppingen and the three really bright ones did not make him feel any easier either. It didn't look as if he stood much of a chance.

At home he sat down and took one last look at the verbs. He had not been worried about Latin, he had been sure of himself in that field. But Greek was a different matter altogether. He certainly liked it, but he was enthusiastic about it only when it came to reading. Xenophon especially was so beautiful and fluent and fresh. It sounded light, vigorous and free-spirited, and was easy to understand. But as soon as it became a question of grammar, or of translating from German into Greek, he seemed to enter a maze of contradictory rules and forms and was as awed by the unfamiliar language as he had been during his very first Greek lesson when he had not even known the alphabet.

The Greek text the next day was fairly long and by no means easy. The German composition theme was so tricky that it could be easily misunderstood. His pen-nib was not a good one and he ruined two sheets before he could make a fair copy of the Greek. During the German composition, a desk neighbor had the gall to slip him a note with questions and jab him repeatedly in the ribs demanding the answers. Any communication with neighbors was of course strictly prohibited and an infraction meant exclusion from the examination. Trembling with fear, Hans wrote: "Leave me alone," and turned his back on the fellow. And it was so hot. Even the supervisor who walked up and down the room without resting for a moment pa.s.sed his handkerchief over his face several times. Hans sweated in his thick confirmation suit, got a headache and finally turned in his examination booklet. He was far from happy, and certain that it was full of mistakes. Most likely he had reached the end of the line as far as the examination was concerned.

He did not say a word at lunch, shrugged off all questions and made the sour face of a delinquent. His aunt tried to console him but his father became wrought up and began to annoy him. After the meal, he took the boy into another room and tried to delve into the exam once more.

"It went badly," Hans insisted.

"Why didn't you pay more attention? You could have pulled yourself together, by G.o.d!"

Hans remained silent, but when his father began to curse, he blushed and said: "You don't understand anything about Greek."

The worst of it was that he had an oral at two o'clock. This he dreaded more than all the other tests combined. Walking through the hot city streets on his way to the afternoon test, he began to feel quite ill. He could hardly see straight with misery, fright and dizziness.

For ten minutes he sat facing three gentlemen across a wide green table, translated a few Latin sentences, and answered their questions. For another ten minutes he sat in front of three other gentlemen, translated from the Greek, and answered another set of questions. At the end they asked him if he knew an irregularly formed aorist, but he didn't.

"You can go now. There's the door, to your right."

He got up, but at the door he remembered the aorist. He stopped.

"Go ahead," they called to him. "Go ahead. Or aren't you feeling well?"

"No, but the aorist just came back to me."

He shouted the answer into the room, saw one of the gentlemen break out in laughter, and rushed with a burning face out of the room. Then he tried to recollect the questions and his answers, but everything was in a big muddle. Time and again the sight of the wide green table with the three serious old gentlemen in frock coats flashed through his mind, the open book, his hand trembling on top of it. My G.o.d, his answers must really have been quite something!

As he walked through the streets, he felt as if he had been in the city for weeks and would never be able to leave it. His father's garden at home, the mountains blue with fir trees, the fishing holes by the river seemed like something experienced ages ago. Oh, if he could only go home now. There was no sense staying anyway, he'd flunked the examination for sure.