suddenly  lasted only an instant, a lig smile t iful and gruesome. S birt flo rustling autumn leaves, at art, at decay.

    Everyto tones of t o tered bones of tor o steal ers proud cool young daugh.

    tning flaserious mot tinued to tremble deep in Goldmunds soul, t of life, of pain, of longing agitated . No, no,   tiated  to ce-summer moutal smile trembled like !

    Goldmund  to ters  oil o was in.

    quot;May I say a feo you, Master, ? Im starving for a moutrut to say someto you t I migo say rig speak to a and. Im not speaking to ts from great cities and cloisters, ants and a riciful o ter side ty, t beautiful statue I knoo become like o me t goal on eartatue, my statue of St. Jos not made as perfectly as your madonna; but t cant be atues, no idea t demands execution. Or rate image of a saint t Ill o make some day, but not just yet. In order to be able to make it, I must see and experience muco make it in ten years, or later, or never. But until ter, I dont  to isan, lacquering statues and carving pulpits and leading an artisans life in t  to earn money and become like otisans. I dont  t. I  to live and roam, to feel summer and er, experience taste its beauty and its  to suffer , and to rid and purge myself of all I o make sometiful and deeply moving as your madonna—but I dont  to become like you and lead your kind of life.quot;

    ter urned and looked at Goldmund. ern, but not angry.

    quot;You ; ;and I ened. Dont  expecting you to come to o be do