Again ice was floating down the rivers, and a st of violets rose from uhe rotten leaves. Goldmund walked through the colorful seasons: his insatiable eyes drank in the forests, the mountains, the clouds; he wandered from farm to farm, from village to village, from woman to woman. Many a cool evening hed sit anguished, with ag heart, under a lighted window; from its rosy shimmer radiated all that was happiness and home and pea earth, all that was lovely and unreachable for him. Everythied itself over and over, all the things he thought he had e to know so well; everythiurned, a different each time: the long walks across field ah, or along stony roads, sleeping in the summer forest, strolls through villages, trailing after bands of young girls ing home, hand in hand, from turning over the hay athering hops; the first shudder of autumn, the first angry frosts—everything came back: owice, endlessly the colorful ribbon rolled past his eyes.
Much rain, muow had fallen on Goldmund. One day he climbed uphill through a sparse beech forest already light green with buds. From the mountain ridge he saw a new landscape lying at his feet; it gladdened his eyes and a flood of expectations, desires, and hopes gushed through his heart. For several days he had known that he was close to this region; he had been looking forward to it. Now, during this noon hour, it came as a surprise and his first visual impression firmed and strengthened his expectations. Through gray trunks and softly swaying branches he looked down into a valley lying green and brown, furrowed by a wide river that shimmered like blue glass. He felt that his pathless roaming through landscapes of heath, forest, and solitude, with an isolated farm here and there, or a shabby village, was over for a long time. Dowhe river flowed, and along the river ran one of the most beautiful and famous roads in the empire. A rid bountiful land lay there, barges and boats sailed there, the road led to beautiful villages, castles, cloisters, and prosperous towns, and anyone who so desired could travel along that road for days and weeks and not fear that it would suddenly peter out in a forest or in humid reeds like those miserable peasant paths. Something new lay ahead and he was looking forward to it.
That evening he came to a beautiful village, wedged between the river and red vineyards along the wide highway. The pretty woodwork on the gabled houses ainted red; there were arched entranceways and narrow alleys full of stoeps. A fe threw a red fiery glow across the street; he heard the clear ringing of the anvil. Goldmund snooped about in every alley and er, s cellar doors for the smell of wine barrels and along the riverbank for the cool fish odor of the water; he ied churd cemetery and did not fet to look food barn for the night. But first he wao try his luck at the priests house and ask for food. A plump, red-headed priest asked him questions and Goldmund told him the story of his life, with a few omissions and additions. Thereupon he was given a friendly reception and spent the evening in long versation ood food and wihe day he tinued his journey on the highway, along the river. He saw barges and rafts float by; he passed horse carts, and some of them gave him a ride for a stretch of the way. The spring days sped by, filled with color: villages and small towns received him; women smiled behind garden fences, k in the browh, planting bulbs; young girls sang in the village streets in