Frederick Philip Grove
KONRAD, THE BUILDER
(NB 35)

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e-Edition by Gaby Divay
© August 2007

University of Manitoba Libraries	FPG & FrL Collections	University of Manitoba Archives

KONRAD, THE BUILDER, or The Statue of God [1] by Frederick Philip Grove There lived, in some small medieval town, A man who worked in stone and had done so Since, as a youth,[2] a dozen years ago He had been apprenticed at a master's shop. An apprentice he had been for seven years And never dreamt but of a master's gown While oft he ate his bitter bread with tears. A master's gown would all his wishes crown: He had worked from dawn to dusk about a shop. Then had the day arrived when the great  guild Had called him free to go where he might please He was assistant mason, he could seize Time by the forelock if he was inclined To travel through the pleasant country side. Go to great cities where all souls were filled With pious plans he might go[3] far and wide And dreamt ere long that he would like to build Such gothic structures as enchant the mind. His name was Konrad, though he lived in France; But the said town lay near the German line. So he struck[4] out one day along the Rhine From Strassburg down to Heidelberg and Worms, And on to Mannheim, Wurtzburg, Frankfort, Mentz[5] And worked and learned wherever he had the chance And studied ogives, gargoyles, battlements, And draughtmanship, and came to look askance On all such art as spurned the Gothic forms. Thus, after seven more years, at great Cologne They made him master of his toolsome art: He might have rested now, content at heart But was not satisfied; for in him rose -- Dizzy the thought  to him -- a new desire: To build a gothic minster all his own From subterranean crypt to pointing spire To be named after him and him alone: Full well he came to know creative throes. He was aware that no one master could Aspire to guide the building of a pile Like the Cathedral at Cologne or Lisle Which it took generations to erect: And, even though their first-adopted plan, Changed but in details, as a whole still stood, Untampered with, the thought of one great man. None knew his name; and every helper would If he could, his claims to fame reject. Thus Konrad, as he went from place to place, Called here or there some work to supervise That needed special skill, still kept his eyes On his great aim: some church his very own, Designed and built, though small, a gothic jewel. And often, picturing it, he felt his face Glow with a fire as of celestial fuel; He felt his blood in quickened pulses race And knew exalted states as of a throne. Yet, filled with visions shaking[6] him with awe At what worked in him like a miracle -- Thus shakes, tousled by its tongs, a giant bell -- At times he felt a sudden sinking down Of all his aspirations; he knew doubt; For dimly, only half divined, he saw -- And withered, like a green field struck by drought -- In all his cherished plans a secret flaw. Then did he brood, wrapped in his master's gown. That flaw was that he felt ambition's prod In all his plannings and in his desires. He felt consumed with fierce and smouldering fire That burned his soul into a barren slag; Yea, even when he stood in ardour wrapped. He knew his transports not to be of God, But of a lesser deity that entrapped His inner self and at whose very nod His ecstasies would dully droop and flag. Thus, oft, at night, there seemd a dusky owl To circle round his feverish, glowing head; He rose and sat and left his restless bed And stalked about in his dim-lighted room -- From door to casement[7] and back again to door -- And listened to the winds that nightly howl About church spires and a weird music pour; And fancied that he saw a man in crimson cowl Peer in upon him from the enfolding gloom. Then did he take a solemn oath and vow If his great wish  came true and he was called To build that church, slim-spired and lofty-halled, Which lived, a lovely idol, in his brain, He would -- thus to ward off the evil powers, Carve out of stone, as for a vessel's prow, A giant image, fruit of many hours, Of God Himself before whom all men bow, And fasten it below the topmost vane. Whence it would look out over all the land; And in this plan he found at last such rest That henceforth all he undertook seemed blessed By the Almighty. Such success brought this That soon his fame had through all countries flown And when, in course of time[8], the pious band Of Trappist monks, in that town of his own Resolved to build an abbey, there was no hand To which they would entrust the work but his. Thus, after many years, did he return A master-builder, to his ancient home. He knew the days were gone when he would roam The glorious world or see its wondrous sights And thought at last of house and hearth and wife -- Some quiet home where his own fire would burn And where, a burgher, he could lead a life Of Rest and Honour which he meant to earn By work and honest labour as his rights. But in that town there lived a lovely maid: She, when he left, had been but twelve years old, With eyes of sapphire and with hair of gold; Yet had he often watched her at her games: Quick, pert and slender, yet with thoughtful brow And lips as if for sweetest whisperings made. Never had he imagined up till now That he, of mien so sober, grey, and staid Might harbour love that burns[9] with scorching flames. He would have frowned had he been told; and yet As he tried[10] secretly to visualise His future wife, he saw the sapphire eyes Of that slim maid he had known in her He saw her hair, fair as the ripened grain And caught himself at muttering, "Margaret"; And knew unrest and doubt, torture and pain And what it is to hunger and to fret When a man longs for a maid that mocks. Nor did he rest till he had seen her anew And found that her poor father had not sped And that she lived at home, a maid unwed, Then thought he that perhaps his wealth and fame Might dazzle her and win her for his wife; For hardly had he seen her when he knew That without her his life would not be life. One night, espying her, he, following, threw His die and stammered,[11] offering her his name. Now this fair maiden who had seen him oft In times gone by when she had been a child, Intent on games, thoughtless, and gay, and wild, Had sometimes dreamt of him, in those young years, And pictured for herself a future mate Whose thoughts like his flew bold and aimed aloft Whose head like his upon his shoulders sate... When he accosted her, her eyes grew soft For just a second, and then dimmed with tears. He, seeing, felt the blood rise to his face And would have fled; but that secret voice Now whispered, he had won her of his choice; And so, misled, with bubbling eloquence, He urged his suit, telling her how for years As he had travelled far, from place to place, He had lived in longings, yearnings, and in fears, And wished to tell her of his hopeless case And trembled at the thought she might move hence. She, listening, lowered her bright sapphire eyes And muttered words of his great name and fame. To wed below him, said she, would bring shame On one like him; and, speaking, blanched and blushed. He, eying her more boldly, gave a laugh As if half ashamed; yet, growing worldly-wise, He blew her doubts away like so much chaff... As by a miracle, there flamed the skies: They leant upon a gate and whispered, hushed... A month went by, a month of months it was. Work at the abbey was ere long begun And Margaret and Konrad were made one. A house was found and bought, a servant hired; And there were few who knew what bliss dwelt then Below that roof, such utter bliss as awes. Konrad lived in two worlds, the world of men Where he must govern with considered[12] laws And the world of love of which he never tired. And Margaret learned new and tender ways. Love put a brighter lustre in her eyes; With love lived laughter, ending in such sighs As he emits who suddenly feels faint Because no future can bear out the presence. Her whole soul was with such love ablaze That, like a flame it rose; and evanescent And not to be renewed appeared her days: Such happiness no art of words can paint. Oft, when he saw, he stood and looked at her In sudden apprehension, and aghast. Sobering, he asked himself, "Can such love last?" She seemed to grow transparent with that love; Her body was a symbol of her soul And her soul loveliness that was astir With one sole urge, to him, unchecked and whole; Beside him, all the world seemed but a blur. -- Then did he raise his eyes to him above And once again thought of that solemn vow Which he had made to God in times gone by, Resolving to begin the work and try To cast his vision which was now illumed With a new knowledge into rigid stone. And there arose a picture of a brow, Itself a symbol of the heavenly throne, Above two eyes, now blazing, tender now With pity for the beauty which is doomed. But at the monastery, the whole site Of the new abbey swarmed with busy men Who -- though his vision was beyond their ken -- Laboured at detail. He was master there And marshalled their endeavours where they stood On scaffold in the dust-engritted light Or wheeled huge blocks of stone o'er planks of wood, In leathern jerkins, leathern aprons tight. Konrad inspired the work, being everywhere. But in one corner of the swarming lot He built a shed, tall, narrow, like a tower; And there he spent henceforth full many an hour Outlining and designing what none else Was ever to behold till it was done. There would  he stand and sweat, there draw and blot, And draw again and muse and dream. Not one Of all his men allowed he near the spot Nor of his monks who came from their bare cells. Till they arrived, drawn by a twelve horse team A giant block of moon-white glistening stone, Such as no monk or man there had yet known: It glittered as with myriad jewels strewn And came across the Alps from Italy. The master paid for it, thus it would seem, What were the odds? Whose business? Let it be! They fastened block and tackle to a beam Provided in the shed; upended soon Stood there the block, a marvel; all eyes stared Till closed the door. Then Konrad was alone With what contained his vision, this great stone At which he looked with triumph, mixed with[13] awe. Form it he would[14] with ringing hammer blows His vision carve and keep it unimpaired Atoning; for the thrills of him who knows;[15] Because to lift heaven's curtain he had dared To lift the veil of heaven he had dared[16] And stood as blinded; yet as one who saw. Henceforth his inner world was cleft in two; And often he could not with clear truth have told Which, Margaret or God, had closer hold Upon his soul.                           Within the shed he carved, Rough-hewing it, a nebulous, dawning shape From which, broadly, two giant shoulders grew; Behind, a moulded, forward-slanted nape, A head above which, nodding, forward[17] threw Ambrosial locks.[18]                                He worked till he felt starved; And then rushed home where, at the opening door, As by clearer vision he was met And hardly knew that it was Margaret And not a messenger come from on high, Yet knew that, when he felt her slender arm That he touched life itself, the very core Of what he lived for, trembling with alarm That it might vanish. And he longed to pour His very soul into one trembling sigh.[19] And the next day he went among his crew And, absent-mindedly he pushed the work -- Like one in whose soul, lightning-pregnant, lurk Such visions of another world as make The common mind to shudder; till again He was alone within his shed where blew A breath of triumph and a breath of pain Which warmed him now, now chilled him through & through He hardly knew, did he exult or quake? Thus he, at last, began upon the face. Below the locks, he moulded that great brow And then the eyes that overawe and cow. These he endowed with all that in him lay Of answer to those questions which a man Steps before God: with mercy and with grace; With deep compassion; with a saving plan That weaves all death in time, all loss in space Into that harmony for which souls pray. That done, there came to him a soothing calm. He looked upon his work and found it good. That day he rested, for he understood: Olympian repose, yet moved and mild, The giver of all gifts he had portrayed Him who for every wound gives healing balm, Him we can trust forever, undismayed... That night, as if seized with a sudden qualm Margaret told him that she was with child. Henceforth he spent less time within his shed; And when he went, he oftentimes did nought But sat and looked and shook his head and thought And added here and there a trifling touch. An overpowering trust invaded him. When then again he stood by Margaret's bed Where mostly she reclined, pale, pinched, and slim, Yet smiling, he bent down; and kissed her head And peace flowed onto her; his trust was such. Winter went by; with blue-bells came the spring. But Margaret lay pale and fever-hot Amid a crowd of women on her cot. Konrad, in anguish, left her there and fled Into his workshop; to the stone he knelt And wrestled with his God and called him king[20] And poured[21] forth all the anguish which he felt. [22]Above,[23] great bells seemed, spectre-like, to ring Konrad rushed home; there, Margaret lay dead. There was a throng of hushes in the room And women, old and wise, in birth and death; All speech was whisper with lowered breath But from a room beyond, a paling cry Intoned, from another world, so thin And almost weird it sounded in the gloom. It was some time ere Konrad could begin To grasp he was a father from the womb Of her who, to give life, had had to die. His face, that moment, terrible and white, Looked as of bloodless stone; they led him out. He gave nor sigh nor moan; nor groan nor shout. And let them do with him as they might will. Nor did he wake from his indifference[24] Till she was buried...Then, as from a[25] height Above the common rubble, he drove hence All who[26] had helped, they shrank from his grim sight -- Retaining but a maid the child to still. Thus, slowly, time ticked on until a year Had sped upon its way; within the shed A canvas o'er the statue had been spread. Upon the building site Konrad was known As one to whom a man is but a beast: The workers saw him come in trembling fear; And when he left, it was to them a feast. No one, not he himself, went ever near That weird, uncanny mass of marble stone. Till one day, in midwinter -- it was a grey And murky overhead -- he, passing by Reached for a key beneath his coat. His eye Shot right and left to see that not a soul Saw that he entered. Then he drew aside The veiling canvas, shedding dust that lay Inch-thick in every fold; and with one stride He stepped upon the platform; many a day Had he stood with chisel, maul, and scroll. It was a pity. All this work for nought! But that mild eye, the smile that ran along Half parted lips, the locks -- all that was wrong. Yet...if he changed perhaps some trifling things -- His very fingers itched -- his eyes grew dim: He was the man to do it -- thus he thought -- To make the marble speak what lived in him: To make it cry what into it was wrought: For with the song in man even marble sings. Yet...such...and such...[27]a poignant vision rose: A God of fate who frowns at them that yearn: A God austere, implacable, and stern A God of iron -- nay, a God of stone Of every human trait a counterpart: His smile a sneer, his looks so many woes; His brow denial, rock to the core his heart; His polished skin cold as the frozen snows: Thus could he fashion him; and he alone! Notebook 35