Beneath the Wheel by Hermann Hesse Page A

he understood why, but he had counted on Hans. Compared to the woe and outrage he now felt his former melancholy seemed barren and silly. For just a moment he stopped beside Giebenrath. He looked pale and haughty and softly he said:
    â€œYou’re nothing but a coward, Giebenrath—go to hell.” And then he left, whistling softly, his hands stuck in his pants pockets.
    Fortunately the boys were kept busy by other thoughts and activities. A few days after this incident it suddenly began to snow. Then there was a stretch of clear frosty weather. You could enjoy snowball fights, go ice-skating. Now all of them suddenly realized and discussed the fact that Christmas and their first vacation were imminent. The boys began to pay less attention to Heilner, who went about the school with his head held high, a haughty expression, talking to no one and frequently penning verses in his notebook, a notebook wrapped in black oilcloth which bore the inscription “Songs of a Monk.”
    Hoarfrost and frozen snow clung to the oaks, alders, beeches and willows in configurations of fantastic delicacy. On the ponds the crystal-clear ice crackled in the frost. The cloister yard looked like a sculpture garden, A festive mood spread through the rooms and the joy of anticipating Christmas even lent the two imperturbably correct professors a weak aura of benevolence. No one among the students and teachers remained indifferent to Christmas. Heilner began to look somewhat less grim and miserable, and Lucius tried to decide which books and what pair of shoes to take home with him. The letters the parents sent contained promising intimations: inquiries about favorite wishes, reports of “Bake Day,” hints about forthcoming surprises and expressions of gladness about the imminent reunion.
    Just before the beginning of the vacation the entire school—particularly Hellas—witnessed another amusing incident. The students had decided to invite the teachers to a Christmas soirée in Hellas, the largest of the rooms. One oration, two recitations, a flute solo and a violin duet had been planned. But more than anything else the boys wanted to include a humorous number in their programs. They discussed and negotiated, made and dropped suggestions without being able to agree. Then Karl Hamel casually remarked that the most amusing number might be a violin solo by Lucius. That hit the spot. A combination of promises, threats and imprecations forced the unhappy musician to lend his services. The program, which the teachers received with a polite invitation, listed as a feature attraction: “ Silent Night, air for violin, performed by Emile Lucius, chamber virtuoso.” The latter appellation was Lucius’ reward for his zealous endeavors in the remote music room.
    Headmaster, professors, tutors, music teacher and the dean of boys were invited and all came to attend the festivities. The music teacher’s forehead broke out in cold sweat when Lucius, groomed and combed and sporting a black suit he had borrowed from Hartner, stepped up to the music stand with a gently smiling modesty. Just the way he clenched his bow was an invitation to laughter, and Silent Night, under his fingers, turned into a gripping lament, a groaning, painful song of suffering. He had to start over twice, ripped and hacked the melody apart, kept the beat with his foot and labored like a lumberjack in winter.
    The headmaster nodded cheerfully in the direction of the music teacher, who was ashen with outrage.
    When Lucius launched into the third start and got stuck this time too, he lowered his violin, turned to the audience and excused himself: “It just won’t go. But I only started to play the violin this fall.”
    â€œIt’s all right, Lucius,” said the headmaster, “we are grateful to you for your efforts. Just keep at it. Per aspera ad astra. ”
    Early in the morning of the twenty-fourth of December, the dormitories