Autumn had come. The yellow leaves were fluttering about the school
play-ground, the starlings were gathering in flocks on the church roof
to take their departure, and Ulrich would fain have gone with them, no
matter where. He could not feel at home in the monastery and among
his companions. Always first in Richtberg, he was rarely so here, most
seldom of all in school, for his father had forbidden the doctor to
teach him Latin, so in that study he was last of all.
Often, when every one was asleep, the poor lad sat studying by the
ever-burning lamp in the lobby, but in vain. He could not come up with
the others, and the unpleasant feeling of remaining behind, in spite of
the most honest effort, spoiled his life and made him irritable.
His comrades did not spare him, and when they called him “horse-boy,”
because he was often obliged to help Pater Benedictus in bringing
refractory horses to reason, he flew into a rage and used his superior
strength.
He stood on the worst terms of all with black-haired Xaver, to whom he
owed the nickname.
This boy’s father was the chief magistrate of the little city, and was
allowed to take his son home with him at Michaelmas.
When the black-haired lad returned, he had many things to tell, gathered
from half-understood rumor, about Ulrich’s parents. Words were now
uttered, that brought the blood to Ulrich’s cheeks, yet he intentionally
pretended not to hear them, because he dared not contradict tales that
might be true. He well knew who had brought all these stories to the
others, and answered Xaver’s malicious spite with open enmity.
Count Lips did not trouble himself about any of these things, but
remained Ulrich’s most intimate friend, and was fond of going with him
to see the horses. His vivacious intellect joyously sympathized with the
smith’s son, when he told him about Ruth’s imaginary visions, and often
in the play-ground he went apart with Ulrich from their companions; but
this very circumstance was a thing that many, who had formerly been
on more intimate terms with the aristocratic boy, were not disposed to
forgive the new-comer.
Xaver had never been friendly to the count’s son, and succeeded in
irritating many against their former favorite, because he fancied
himself better than they, and still more against Ulrich, who was half a
servant, yet presumed to play the master and offer them violence.
The monks employed in the school soon noticed the ill terms, on which
the new pupil stood with his companions, and did not lack reasons for
shaking their heads over him.
Benedictus had not been able to conceal, who had been Ulrich’s teacher
in Richtberg; and the seeds the Jew had planted in the boy, seemed to be
bearing strange and vexatious fruit.
Father Hieronymus, who instructed the pupils in religion, fairly
raged, when he spoke of the destructive doctrines, that haunted the new
scholar’s head.
When, soon after Ulrich’s reception into the school, he had spoken of
Christ’s work of redemption, and asked the boy: “From what is the world
to be delivered by the Saviour’s suffering?” the answer was: “From the
arrogance of the rich and great.” Hieronymus had spoken of the holy
sacraments, and put the question: “By what means can the Christian
surely obtain mercy, unless he bolts the door against it--that is,
commits a mortal sin?” and Ulrich’s answer was: “By doing unto others,
what you would have others do unto you.”
Such strange words might be heard by dozens from the boy’s lips. Some
were repeated from Hangemarx’s sayings, others from the doctor’s; and
when asked where he obtained them, he quoted only the latter, for the
monks were not to be allowed to know anything about his intercourse with
the poacher.
Sharp reproofs and severe penances were now bestowed, for many a word
that he had thought beautiful and pleasing in the sight of God; and the
poor, tortured young soul often knew no help in its need.
He could not turn to the dear God and the Saviour, whom he was said to
have blasphemed, for he feared them; but when he could no longer bear
his grief, discouragement, and yearning, he prayed to the Madonna for
help.
The image of the unhappy woman, about whom he had heard nothing but ill
words, who had deserted him, and whose faithlessness gave the other boys
a right to jeer at him, floated before his eyes, with that of the pure,
holy Virgin in the church, brought by Father Lukas from Italy.
In spite of all the complaints about him, which were carried to the
abbot, the latter thought him a misguided, but good and promising boy,
an opinion strengthened by the music-teacher and the artist Lukas, whose
best pupil Ulrich was; but they also were enraged against the Jew, who
had lured this nobly-gifted child along the road of destruction; and
often urged the abbot, who was anything but a zealot, to subject him to
an examination by torture.
In November, the chief magistrate was summoned, and informed of the
heresies with which the Hebrew had imperiled the soul of a Christian
child.
The wise abbot wished to avoid anything, that would cause excitement,
during this time of rebellion against the power of the Church, but the
magistrate claimed the right to commence proceedings against the
doctor. Of course, he said, sufficient proof must be brought against
the accused. Father Hieronymus might note down the blasphemous tenets he
heard from the boy’s lips before witnesses, and at the Advent season the
smith and his son would be examined.
The abbot, who liked to linger over his books, was glad to know that
the matter was in the hands of the civil authorities, and enjoined
Hieronymus to pay strict attention.
On the third Sunday in Advent, the magistrate again came to the
monastery. His horses had worked their way with the sleigh through the
deep snow in the ravine with much difficulty, and, half-frozen, he went
directly to the refectory and there asked for his son.
The latter was lying with a bandaged eye in the cold dormitory, and when
his father sought him, he heard that Ulrich had wounded him.
It would not have needed Xaver’s bitter complaints, to rouse his father
to furious rage against the boy who had committed this violence, and
he was by no means satisfied, when he learned that the culprit had been
excluded for three weeks from the others’ sports, and placed on a very
frugal diet. He went furiously to the abbot.
The day before (Saturday), Ulrich had gone at noon, without the young
count, who was in confinement for some offence, to the snow-covered
play-ground, where he was attacked by Xaver and a dozen of his comrades,
pushed into a snow-bank, and almost suffocated. The conspirators had
stuffed icicles and snow under his clothes next his skin, taken off
his shoes and filled them with snow, and meantime Xaver jumped upon his
back, pressing his face into the snow till Ulrich lost his breath, and
believed his last hour had come.
Exerting the last remnant of his strength, he had succeeded in throwing
off and seizing his tormentor. While the others fled, he wreaked his
rage on the magistrate’s son to his heart’s content, first with his
fists, and then with the heavy shoe that lay beside him. Meantime,
snowballs had rained upon his body and head from all directions,
increasing his fury; and as soon as Xaver no longer struggled he started
up, exclaiming with glowing cheeks and upraised fists:
“Wait, wait, you wicked fellows! The doctor in Richtberg knows a word,
by which he shall turn you all into toads and rats, you miserable
rascals!”
Xaver had remembered this speech, which he repeated to his father,
cleverly enlarged with many a false word. The abbot listened to the
magistrate’s complaint very quietly.
The angry father was no sufficient witness for him, yet the matter
seemed important enough to send for and question Ulrich, though the
meal-time had already begun. The Jew had really spoken to his daughter
about the magic word, and the pupil of the monastery had threatened his
companions with it. So the investigation might begin.
Ulrich was led back to the prison-chamber, where some thin soup and
bread awaited him, but he touched neither. Food and drink disgusted him,
and he could neither work nor sit still.
The little bell, which, summoned all the occupants of the monastery, was
heard at an unusual hour, and about vespers the sound of sleigh-bells
attracted him to the window. The abbot and Father Hieronymus were
talking in undertones to the magistrate, who was just preparing to enter
his sleigh.
They were speaking of him and the doctor, and the pupils had just been
summoned to bear witness against him. No one had told him so, but he
knew it, and was seized with such anxiety about the doctor, that drops
of perspiration stood on his brow.
He was clearly aware that he had mingled his teacher’s words with the
poacher’s blasphemous sayings, and also that he had put the latter into
the mouth of Ruth’s father.
He was a traitor, a liar, a miserable scoundrel!
He wished to go to the abbot and confess all, yet dared not, and so the
hours stole away until the time for the evening mass.
While in church he strove to pray, not only for himself but for the
doctor, but in vain, he could think of nothing but the trial, and while
kneeling with his hands over his eyes, saw the Jew in fetters before
him, and he himself at the trial in the town-hall.
At last the mass ended.
Ulrich rose. Just before him hung the large crucifix, and the Saviour on
the cross, who with his head bowed on one side, usually gazed so gently
and mournfully upon the ground, to-day seemed to look at him with
mingled reproach and accusation.
In the dormitory, his companions avoided him as if he had the plague,
but he scarcely noticed it.
The moonlight and the reflection from the snow shone brightly through
the little window, but Ulrich longed for darkness, and buried his face
in the pillows. The clock in the steeple struck ten.
He raised himself and listened to the deep breathing of the sleepers on
his right and left, and the gnawing of a mouse under the bed.
His heart throbbed faster and more anxiously, but suddenly seemed to
stand still, for a low voice had called his name.
“Ulrich!” it whispered again, and the young count, who lay beside him,
rose in bed and bent towards him. Ulrich had told him about the word,
and often indulged in wishes with him, as he had formerly done with
Ruth. Philipp now whispered:
“They are going to attack the doctor. The abbot and magistrate
questioned us, as if it were a matter of life and death. I kept what
I know about the word to myself, for I’m sorry for the Jew, but Xaver,
spiteful fellow, made it appear as if you really possessed the spell,
and just now he came to me and said his father would seize the Jew early
to-morrow morning, and then he would be tortured. Whether they will hang
or burn him is the question. His life is forfeited, his father said--and
the black-visaged rascal rejoiced over it.”
“Sileutium, turbatores!” cried the sleepy voice of the monk in charge,
and the boys hastily drew back into the feathers and were silent.
The young count soon fell asleep again, but Ulrich buried his head still
deeper among the pillows; it seemed as if he saw the mild, thoughtful
face of the man, from whom he had received so much affection, gazing
reproachfully at him; then the dumb wife appeared before his mind, and
he fancied her soft hand was lovingly stroking his cheeks as usual.
Ruth also appeared, not in the yellow silk dress, but clad in rags of a
beggar, and she wept, hiding her face in her mother’s lap.
He groaned aloud. The clock struck eleven. He rose and listened. Nothing
stirred, and slipping on his clothes, he took his shoes in his hand
and tried to open the window at the head of his bed. It had stood open
during the day, but the frost fastened it firmly to the frame. Ulrich
braced his foot against the wall and pulled with all his strength, but
it resisted one jerk after another; at last it suddenly yielded and flew
open, making a slight creaking and rattling, but the monk on guard did
not wake, only murmured softly in his sleep.
The boy stood motionless for a time, holding his breath, then swung
himself upon the parapet and looked out. The dormitory was in the second
story of the monastery, above the rampart, but a huge bank of snow rose
beside the wall, and this strengthened his courage.
With hurrying fingers he made the sign of the cross, a low: “Mary, pray
for me,” rose from his lips, then he shut his eyes and risked the leap.
There was a buzzing, roaring sound in his ears, his mother’s image
blended in strange distortion with the Jew’s, then an icy sea swallowed
him, and it seemed as if body and soul were frozen. But this sensation
overpowered him only a few minutes, then working his way out of the mass
of snow, he drew on his shoes, and dashed as if pursued by a pack of
wolves, down the mountain, through the ravine, across the heights, and
finally along the river to the city and the Richtberg.