"Zu Hirsau in den Truemmern
Da wiegt ein Ulmenbaum
Frischgruenend seine Krone
Hoch ueberm Giebelsaum."
--_Uhland._
One of the loveliest spots in all Wuertemberg is Hirsau. It lies deep
down in a valley on the Nagold, over which is a pretty stone bridge.
High around rise the noble pines of the Black Forest, whose impenetrable
gloom contrasts with the tender green of spring meadows basking in the
sunshine, and makes, with the fringe of elms and birches and willows
along the banks of the stream, a most magical effect of light and shade.
Blessings on the one of us who first said, "Let us see the old cloister
at Hirsau!" An ideal spring day, a particularly well-chosen few, a trip
by rail to Alt-Hengstett, then a long, lovely tramp over the moss carpet
of the Black Forest, inhaling the sweet breath of the pines, finding
each moment a more exquisite flower, catching bewitching glimpses
between the trees of silver streams hurrying along far down below
us,--this is what it was like; but the softness, the sweetness, the
exhilaration of it all is not easy to indicate. The name itself, "Black
Forest," sounds immensely gloomy and mysterious. Goblins and witches and
shrieks and moans and pitfalls and all uncanny weird things haunted the
Black Forest of which we used to read years ago. And what does it mean
to us now? Magnificent old woods, paths that beckon and smile, softly
whispering, swaying tree-tops, turf like velvet, sunlight playing
fitfully among the stately pines, seeking entrance where it may, and air
that must bring eternal youth in its caresses. It means forgetfulness of
trammels and all sordid, petty things, and being in tune with the
harmonies of nature. It means freedom and peace; a "temple," indeed,
with the pines continually breathing their sweet incense and singing
their sacred chants. There were in our party a professor or two, more
than one poet,--indeed, it is said every other man in Suabia is a
poet,--and a world-renowned art scholar and critic. They shook the dust
of every-day life from their feet, and were happy as boys; one of them
lay among the daisies, smiling like a child with the pure delight of
living in such air and amid such peaceful beauty.
At the little _Gasthaus_ in Hirsau, with the sign of the swan, we
refreshed ourselves after our tramp. It is remarkable that poets, like
clergymen, must also eat. After a few merry, graceful toasts and cooling
draughts of the pleasant _Landwein_, we went to the cloister ruins. The
work of excavation is still going on, much that we saw being but
recently brought to the light. There were a few massive old walls at
wide distances apart; the pavement of the aisles quite grass-grown
between the low, broad, gray stones; fair fields of tall grass bright
with daisies and buttercups, and starry white flowers,--a fascinating
mass of variegated brightness, catching the sunshine and swaying in the
breeze; a row of fine old Gothic windows; a tower in the Romanisch style
of the twelfth century, which we, I believe, call Norman; a deep cellar
where the monks of old stored their wines. Up a flight of stairs is a
great bare room, where against the walls stand heavy wooden cases with
carved borders, and in the ceiling is the same quaint carving slightly
raised on a darker ground.
The whole effect of the ruins conveys the idea of immense size. The
church was, indeed, the largest in Germany except the cathedral at Ulm.
It is here an unusually lovely, peaceful scene. The cloister ruins would
be, anywhere, picturesque and interesting in themselves; lying as they
do above the village, framed by the beautiful Schwarzwald, they form a
picture not easily forgotten. No far-extending view, nothing grand or
imposing, only the exquisite, peaceful picture shut in by the dark-green
hills; quaint homes nestling among rosy apple-blossoms; the great gray
stone Bruennen, where for years and years maidens have come to fill
their buckets and chat in the twilight after the day's work is done; the
Nagold, silver in the sunlight; the cloister, with its old-time
traditions,--all so very, very far from the madding crowd.
And the sweet legend of the origin of the cloister should be sung or
spoken as one sees the picture: How there was, in the year 645, a rich,
pious widow, a relative of the knight of Calb, named Helizena, who was
childless, and who had but one wish, namely, to devote herself to the
service of God. She constantly prayed that God would open to her a way
acceptable in his sight. Once in a dream she saw in the clouds a church,
and below in a lovely valley three beautiful fir-trees growing from one
stem; and from the clouds issued a voice telling her that her prayer was
heard, and that wherever she should find the plain with the three
fir-trees she was to erect a church, the counterpart of that which she
saw in the clouds. Awaking, the good Helizena, with holy joy and deep
humility, took a maid and two pages and ascended a mountain from whose
summit she could see all the surrounding country, and presently espied
the quiet plain and the three firs of her dream. Hurrying to the spot,
weeping for joy, she laid her silken raiment and jewels at the foot of
the tree, to signify that from that moment she consecrated herself and
all she possessed to the work. In three years the beautiful cloud-church
stood in stone in the fair valley, and afterwards, in 838, a cloister
was erected with the aid of Count Erlafried of Calb. Under Abbot
Wilhelm, in 1080, it was at the height of its prosperity, and was the
model of peace and goodly living among all the other Benedictine
monasteries. The abbot gathered so many monks about him that the
cloister at last grew too narrow, and he resolved to build a more
spacious one. This was indeed a labor of love, and the work was done
entirely by his own people, his monks and laity. Noble lords and ladies
helped to bring wood and stone and prepared mortar in friendly
intercourse with peasants, their wives and daughters,--such zeal and
Christian love did the abbot instil into the hearts of his flock. It is
the ruins of this cloister which we see to day.
An old German chronicle represents the place as little less than an
earthly paradise:--
"There was here a band of two hundred and sixty, full of love
for God and one another. No discussion could be found there, no
discontented faces. Everything was in common. No one had the
smallest thing for himself; indeed, no one called anything his
own. Each went about his work in sweet content; of disobedience
no one even knew. Not only was there no rebuke and angry word,
but also no idle, frivolous, mirth-provoking talk. Among this
great mass of men within the cloister walls could be heard only
the voices of the singers and of them who knelt in prayer, and
the sounds that came from the busy workrooms."
These monks used to write much about music and poetry, and many learned,
strong men were gathered there. The cloister was full of pictures, and
the _Kreuzgang_ had forty richly painted windows, with biblical scenes.
A story is told of an old monk, Adelhard, who was twenty-three years
blind, and received in his latter days the gift of second-sight. He
foretold the day and hour of his death three years before it occurred,
and also the destruction of the monastery.