St. John’s day was close at hand. Ulrich was to go to the monastery the
following morning. Hitherto Father Benedict had been satisfied, and no
one molested the doctor. Yet the tranquillity, which formerly exerted
so beneficial an effect, had departed, and the measures of precaution he
now felt compelled to adopt, like everything else that brought him into
connection with the world, interrupted the progress of his work.
The smith was obliged to provide Ulrich with clothing, and for this
purpose went with the lad and a well-filled purse, not to his native
place, but to the nearest large city.
There many a handsome suit of garments hung in the draper’s windows, and
the barefooted boy blushed crimson with delight, when he stood before
this splendid show. As he was left free to choose, he instantly selected
the clothes a nobleman had ordered for his son, and which, from head
to foot, were blue on one side and yellow on the other. But Adam pushed
them angrily aside. Ulrich’s pleasure in the gay stuff reminded him of
his wife’s outfit, the pink and green gowns.
So he bought two dark suits, which fitted the lad’s erect figure as
if moulded upon him, and when the latter stood before him in the inn,
neatly dressed, with shoes on his feet, and a student’s cap on his head,
Adam could not help gazing at him almost idolatrously.
The tavern-keeper whispered to the smith, that it was long since he had
seen so handsome a young fellow, and the hostess, after bringing the
beer, stroked the boy’s curls with her wet hand.
On reaching home, Adam permitted his son to go to the doctor’s in his
new clothes; Ruth screamed with joy when she saw him, walked round and
round him, and curiously felt the woollen stuff of the doublet and its
blue slashes, ever and anon clapping her hands in delight.
Her parents had expected that the parting would excite her most
painfully, but she smiled joyously into her playmate’s face, when he
bade her farewell, for she took the matter in her usual way, not as it
really was, but as she imagined it to be. Instead of the awkward Ulrich
of the present, the fairy-prince he was now to become stood before her;
he was to return without fail at Christmas, and then how delightful it
would be to play with him again. Of late they had been together even
more than usual, continually seeking for the word, and planning a
thousand delightful things he was to conjure up for her, and she for him
and others.
It was the Sabbath, and on this day old Rahel always dressed the child
in a little yellow silk frock, while on Sunday her mother did the same.
The gown particularly pleased Ulrich’s eye, and when she wore it, he
always became more yielding and obeyed her every wish. So Ruth rejoiced
that it chanced to be the Sabbath, and while she passed her hand over
his doublet, he stroked her silk dress.
They had not much to say to each other, for their tongues always
faltered in the presence of others. The doctor gave Ulrich many an
admonitory word, his wife kissed him, and as a parting remembrance hung
a small gold ring, with a glittering stone, about his neck, and old
Rahel gave him a kerchief full of freshly-baked cakes to eat on his way.
At noon on St. John’s day, Ulrich and his father stood before the gate
of the monastery. Servants and mettled steeds were waiting there, and
the porter, pointing to them, said: “Count Frohlinger is within.”
Adam turned pale, pressed his son so convulsively to his breast that he
groaned with pain, sent a laybrother to call Father Benedict, confided
his child to him, and walked towards home with drooping head.
Hitherto Ulrich had not known whether to enjoy or dread the thought
of going to the monastery-school. The preparations had been pleasant
enough, and the prospect of sharing the same bench with the sons of
noblemen and aristocratic citizens, flattered his unity; but when he
saw his father depart, his heart melted and his eyes grew wet. The monk;
noticing this, drew him towards him, patted his shoulder, and said:
“Keep up your courage! You will see that it is far pleasanter with us,
than down in the Richtberg.”
This gave Ulrich food for thought, and he did not glance around as the
Father led him up the steep stairs to the landing-place, and past the
refectory into the court-yard.
Monks were pacing silently up and down the corridors that surrounded it,
and one after another raised his shaven head higher over his white cowl,
to cast a look at the new pupil.
Behind the court-yard stood the stately, gable-roofed building
containing the guest-rooms, and between it and the church lay the
school-garden, a meadow planted with fruit trees, separated from the
highway by a wall.
Benedictus opened the wooden gate, and pushed Ulrich into the
playground.
The noise there had been loud enough, but at his entrance the game
stopped, and his future companions nudged each other, scanning him with
scrutinizing glances.
The monk beckoned to several of the pupils, and made them acquainted
with the smith’s son, then stroking Ulrich’s curls again, left him alone
with the others.
On St. John’s day the boys were given their liberty and allowed to play
to their hearts’ content.
They took no special notice of Ulrich, and after having stared
sufficiently and exchanged a few words with him, continued their
interrupted game of trying to throw stones over the church roof.
Meantime Ulrich looked at his comrades.
There were large and small, fair and dark lads among them, but not one
with whom he could not have coped. To this point his scrutiny was first
directed.
At last he turned his attention to the game. Many of the stones, that
had been thrown, struck the slates on the roof; not one had passed over
the church. The longer the unsuccessful efforts lasted, the more
evident became the superior smile on Ulrich’s lips, the faster his heart
throbbed. His eyes searched the grass, and when he had discovered a
flat, sharp-edged stone, he hurriedly stooped, pressed silently into the
ranks of the players, and bending the upper part of his body far back,
summoned all his strength, and hurled the stone in a beautiful curve
high into the air.
Forty sparkling eyes followed it, and a loud shout of joy rang out as it
vanished behind the church roof. One alone, a tall, thin, black-haired
lad, remained silent, and while the others were begging Ulrich to throw
again, searched for a stone, exerted all his power to equal the 11
“greenhorn,” and almost succeeded. Ulrich now sent a second stone
after the first, and, again the cast was successful. Dark-browed Xaver
instantly seized a new missile, and the contest that now followed so
engrossed the attention of all, that they saw and heard nothing until a
deep voice, in a firm, though not unkind tone, called: “Stop, boys! No
games must be played with the church.”
At these words the younger boys hastily dropped the stones they had
gathered, for the man who had shouted, was no less a personage than the
Lord Abbot himself.
Soon the lads approached to kiss the ecclesiastic’s hand or sleeve, and
the stately priest, who understood how to guide those subject to him
by a glance of his dark eyes, graciously and kindly accepted the
salutation.
“Grave in office, and gay in sport” was his device. Count von
Frohlinger, who had entered the garden with him, looked like one whose
motto runs: “Never grave and always gay.”
The nobleman had not grown younger since Ulrich’s mother fled into the
world, but his eyes still sparkled joyously and the brick-red hue that
tinged his handsome face between his thick white moustache and his eyes,
announced that he was no less friendly to wine than to fair women. How
well his satin clothes and velvet cloak became him, how beautifully
the white puffs were relieved against the deep blue of his dress!
How proudly the white and yellow plumes arched over his cap, and how
delicate were the laces on his collar and cuffs! His son, the very image
of the handsome father, stood beside him, and the count had laid his
hand familiarly on his shoulder, as if he were not his child, but a
friend and comrade.
“A devil of a fellow!” whispered the count to the abbot. “Did you see
the fair-haired lad’s throw? From what house does the young noble come?”
The prelate shrugged his shoulders, and answered smiling:
“From the smithy at Richtberg.”
“Does he belong to Adam?” laughed the other. “Zounds! I had a bitter
hour in the confessional on his mother’s account. He has inherited the
beautiful Florette’s hair and eyes; otherwise he looks like his father.
With your permission, my Lord Abbot, I’ll call the boy.”
“Afterwards, afterwards,” replied the superior of the monastery in a
tone of friendly denial, which permitted no contradiction. “First tell
the boys, what we have decided?”
Count Frohlinger bowed respectfully, then drew his son closer to his
side, and waited for the boys, to whom the abbot beckoned.
As soon as they had gathered in a group before him, the nobleman
exclaimed:
“You have just bid this good-for-nothing farewell. What should you say,
if I left him among you till Christmas? The Lord Abbot will keep him,
and you, you....”
But he had no time to finish the sentence. The pupils rushed upon him,
shouting:
“Stay here, Philipp! Count Lips must stay!”
One little flaxen-headed fellow nestled closely to his regained
protector, another kissed the count’s hand, and two larger boys seized
Philipp by the arm and tried to drag him away from his father, back into
their circle.
The abbot looked on at the tumult kindly, and bright tear-drops ran down
into the old count’s beard, for his heart was easily touched. When he
recovered his composure, he exclaimed:
“Lips shall stay, you rogues; he shall stay! And the Lord Abbot has
given you permission, to come with me to-day to my hunting-box and light
a St. John’s fire. There shall be no lack of cakes and wine.”
“Hurrah! hurrah! Long live the count!” shouted the pupils, and all
who had caps tossed them into the air. Ulrich was carried away by the
enthusiasm of the others; and all the evil words his father had so
lavishly heaped on the handsome, merry gentleman--all Hangemarx’s abuse
of knights and nobles were forgotten.
The abbot and his companion withdrew, but as soon as the boys knew that
they were unobserved, Count Lips cried:
“You fellow yonder, you greenhorn, threw the stone over the roof. I saw
it. Come here. Over the roof? That should be my right. Whoever breaks
the first window in the steeple, shall be victor.”
The smith’s son felt embarrassed, for he shrank from the mischief and
feared his father and the abbot. But when the young count held out his
closed hands, saying: “If you choose the red stone, you shall throw
first,” he pointed to his companion’s right hand, and, as it concealed
the red pebble, began the contest. He threw the stone, and struck the
window. Amid loud shouts of exultation from the boys, more than one
round pane of glass, loosened from the leaden casing, rattled in broken
fragments on the church roof, and from thence fell silently on the
grass. Count Lips laughed aloud in his delight, and was preparing to
follow Ulrich’s example, but the wooden gate was pushed violently open,
and Brother Hieronymus, the most severe of all the monks, appeared in
the playground. The zealous priest’s cheeks glowed with anger, terrible
were the threats he uttered, and declaring that the festival of St.
John should not be celebrated, unless the shameless wretch, who had
blasphemously shattered the steeple window, confessed his fault, he
scanned the pupils with rolling eyes.
Young Count Lips stepped boldly forward, saying beseechingly:
“I did it, Father--unintentionally! Forgive me!”
“You?” asked the monk, his voice growing lower and more gentle, as
he continued: “Folly and wantonness without end! When will you learn
discretion, Count Philipp? But as you did it unintentionally, I will let
it pass for to-day.”
With these words, the monk left the court-yard; and as soon as the gate
had closed behind him, Ulrich approached his generous companion, and
said in a tone that only he could hear, yet grateful to the inmost
depths of his heart:
“I will repay you some day.”
“Nonsense!” laughed the young count, throwing his arm over the shoulder
of the artisan’s son. “If the glass wouldn’t rattle, I would throw now;
but there’s another day coming to-morrow.”