Beneath the Wheel by Hermann Hesse Read Free Book Online Page A

reclined in the moss, ate bilberries and gazed listlessly into the air. He began to wonder why he was so tired. Formerly a walk of three or four hours had been a lark. Now he decided to pull himself together and to cover a good stretch of his planned excursion. He walked a few hundred steps. Then he lay down in the moss again—he hardly knew himself how it had happened, but he just lay there, his glance roving distractedly among the trunks and crowns and along the green floor. He wondered why this air made him so drowsy.
    When he came home around noon he had a headache again. His eyes too hurt him—the sun had been blinding along the forest path. Half the afternoon, he sat moodily around the house; only when he went swimming did he revive. Then it was time to go see the pastor.
    Shoemaker Flaig, sitting on his three-legged stool by the window, caught sight of him as he passed and asked him in.
    â€œWhere are you off to, son? Where have you been keeping yourself these days?”
    â€œI have to go see the pastor.”
    â€œYou’re still going? But isn’t the examination over?”
    â€œYes, it is. We’re working on something else now. The New Testament. That was written in Greek too, but in an entirely different Greek from that which I have learned. That’s what I’m supposed to learn now.”
    The shoemaker pushed his cap back onto his neck and screwed his forehead into deep quizzical furrows. Then he gave a deep sigh.
    â€œHans,” he said gently, “I want to tell you something. I’ve laid low on account of the exam, but now I have to warn you. You should know that the pastor is an unbeliever. He will try to tell you that the Scriptures are false, and once you’ve read through the New Testament with him you’ll have lost your faith and you won’t know how.”
    â€œBut, Master Flaig, it’s just a question of Greek. I’ll have to learn it anyway once I enter the academy.”
    â€œThat’s what you say. But it’s an entirely different matter if you study the Bible under devout and conscientious teachers than with someone who does not believe in God.”
    â€œYes, but no one really knows, do they, whether he believes or doesn’t?”
    â€œOh yes, Hans, unfortunately we do know.”
    â€œBut what should I do? It’s all arranged that I go see him.”
    â€œThen you’ll have to go, naturally. But when he says things like the Bible was written by human beings and not inspired by the Holy Ghost, then come see me and we’ll discuss it. Would you like that?”
    â€œYes, Master Flaig, but I’m sure it won’t be as bad as all that.”
    â€œYou’ll see. Remember what I said.”
    The pastor had not come home yet and Hans had to wait for him in his study. While looking at the gilded titles, he could not help thinking of what the shoemaker had said. He had heard similar comments about the pastor and modern theology several times before. But now for the first time he felt himself becoming involved, interested in these matters. They seemed by no means as important and awful to him as to the shoemaker. On the contrary, he sensed the possibility of coming near to the heart of old, great mysteries. In his early school years the questions of God’s immanence, the abode of human souls after the death of the body, and the nature of the devil and hell had driven him to fantastic speculations. Yet these interests had subsided again during those last strict hard-working years, and his orthodox, unquestioning Christianity had awakened to a genuine personal involvement only occasionally during his conversations with the shoemaker. A smile came over his face when he compared the shoemaker with the pastor. He could not understand how Flaig’s sturdy faith had grown through so many trying years. If Flaig was intelligent, he was also an unimaginative, one-sided man whom many people mocked because of his