felt too clearly that Hugo loved him only by mistake; that he knew him
not, was unacquainted with his history; and he was seized again with the
same old longing to unbosom himself wholly, that he might be sure
whether Hugo was his friend or not. But again his apprehensions, and the
fear of being hated and abhorred, withheld him. There were many hours in
which he felt so much impressed with his entire worthlessness, that he
believed no mortal not a stranger to his history, could entertain regard
for him. Yet still he was unable to withstand himself: on a solitary
ride, he disclosed his whole history to Hugo, and asked if he could love
a murderer. Hugo seemed touched, and tried to comfort him. Eckbert
returned to town with a lighter heart.
But it seemed to be his doom that, in the very hour of confidence, he
should always find materials for suspicion. Scarcely had they entered
the public hall, when, in the glitter of the many lights, Hugo's looks
had ceased to satisfy him. He thought he noticed a malicious smile; he
remarked that Hugo did not speak to him as usual; that he talked with
the rest, and seemed to pay no heed to him. In the party was an old
knight, who had always shown himself the enemy of Eckbert, had often
asked about his riches and his wife in a peculiar style. With this man
Hugo was conversing; they were speaking privately, and casting looks at
Eckbert. The suspicions of the latter seemed confirmed; he thought
himself betrayed, and a tremendous rage took hold of him. As he
continued gazing, on a sudden he discerned the countenance of Walther,
all his features, all the form so well known to him; he gazed, and
looked, and felt convinced that it was none but Walther who was talking
to the knight. His horror cannot be described; in a state of frenzy he
rushed out of the hall, left the town overnight, and after many
wanderings, returned to his castle.
Here, like an unquiet spirit, he hurried to and fro from room to room;
no thought would stay with him; out of one frightful idea he fell into
another still more frightful, and sleep never visited his eyes. Often he
believed that he was mad, that a disturbed imagination was the origin of
all this terror; then, again, he recollected Walther's features, and the
whole grew more and more a riddle to him. He resolved to take a journey,
that he might reduce his thoughts to order; the hope of friendship, the
desire of social intercourse, he had now forever given up.
He set out, without prescribing to himself any certain route; indeed, he
took small heed of the country he was passing through. Having hastened
on some days at the quickest pace of his horse, he, on a sudden, found
himself entangled in a labyrinth of rocks, from which he could discover
no outlet. At length he met an old peasant, who took him by a path
leading past a waterfall: he offered him some coins for his guidance,
but the peasant would not have them. "What use is it?" said Eckbert. "I
could believe that this man, too, was none but Walther." He looked round
once more, and it was none but Walther. Eckbert spurred his horse as
fast as it could gallop, over meads and forests, till it sank exhausted
to the earth. Regardless of this, he hastened forward on foot.
In a dreamy mood he mounted a hill: he fancied he caught the sound of
lively barking at a little distance; the birch-trees whispered in the
intervals, and in the strangest notes he heard this song:
Alone in wood so gay,
Once more I stay;
None dare me slay,
The evil far away:
Ah, here I stay,
Alone in wood so gay.
The sense, the consciousness of Eckbert had departed; it was a riddle
which he could not solve, whether he was dreaming now, or had before
dreamed of a wife and friend. The marvellous was mingled with the
common: the world around him seemed enchanted, and he himself was
incapable of thought or recollection.
A crooked, bent old woman, crawled coughing up the hill with a crutch.
"Art thou bringing me my bird, my pearls, my dog?" cried she to him.
"See how injustice punishes itself! No one but I was Walther, was Hugo."
"God of Heaven!" said Eckbert, muttering to himself; "in what frightful
solitude have I passed my life?"
"And Bertha was thy sister."
Eckbert sank to the ground.
"Why did she leave me deceitfully? All would have been fair and well;
her time of trial was already finished. She was the daughter of a
knight, who had her nursed in a shepherd's house; the daughter of thy
father."
"Why have I always had a forecast of this dreadful thought?" cried
Eckbert.
"Because in early youth thy father told thee: he could not keep this
daughter by him for his second wife, her stepmother."
Eckbert lay distracted and dying on the ground. Faint and bewildered, he
heard the old woman speaking, the dog barking, the bird repeating its
song.
THE TRUSTY ECKART.
Brave Burgundy no longer
Could fight for fatherland;
The foe they were the stronger,
Upon the bloody sand.
He said: "The foe prevaileth,
My friends and followers fly,
My striving naught availeth,
My spirits sink and die.
No more can I exert me,
Or sword and lance can wield;
O, why did he desert me,
Eckart, our trusty shield!
In fight he used to guide me,
In danger was my stay;
Alas, he's not beside me,
But stays at home today!
The crowds are gathering faster,
Took captive shall I be?
I may not run like dastard,
I'll die like soldier free."
Thus Burgundy so bitter,
Has at his breast his sword;
When, see, breaks-in the Ritter
Eckart, to save his lord!
With cap and armour glancing,
Bold on the foe he rides,
His troop behind him prancing,
And his two sons besides.
Burgundy sees their token,
And cries: "Now, God be praised!
Not yet we're beat or broken,
Since Eckart's flag is raised."
Then like a true knight, Eckart
Dash'd gaily through the foe:
But with his red blood flecker'd,
His little son lay low.
And when the fight was ended,
Then Burgundy he speaks:
"Thou hast me well befriended,
Yet so as wets my cheeks.
The foe is smote and flying;
Thou'st saved my land and life;
But here thy boy is lying,
Returns not from the strife."
Then Eckart wept almost,
The tear stood in his eye;
He clasp'd the son he'd lost,
Close to his breast the boy.
"Why diedst thou, Heinz, so early,
And scarce wast yet a man?
Thou'rt fallen in battle fairly;
For thee I'll not complain.
Thee, Prince, we have deliver'd;
From danger thou art free:
The boy and I are sever'd;
I give my son to thee."
Then Burgundy our chief,
His eyes grew moist and dim;
He felt such joy and grief,
So great that love to him.
His heart was melting, flaming,
He fell on Eckart's breast,
With sobbing voice exclaiming:
"Eckart, my champion best,
Thou stoodst when every other
Had fled from me away;
Therefore thou art my brother
Forever from this day.
The people shall regard thee
As wert thou of my line;
And could I more reward thee,
How gladly were it thine!"
And when we heard the same,
We joy'd as did our prince;
And Trusty Eckart is the name
We've call'd him ever since.
The voice of an old peasant sounded over the rocks, as he sang this
ballad; and the Trusty Eckart sat in his grief, on the declivity of the
hill, and wept aloud. His youngest boy was standing by him: "Why weepest
thou aloud, my father Eckart?" said he: "Art thou not great and strong,
taller and braver than any other man? Whom, then, art thou afraid of?"
Meanwhile the Duke of Burgundy was moving homewards to his Tower.
Burgundy was mounted on a stately horse, with splendid trappings; and
the gold and jewels of the princely Duke were glittering in the evening
sun; so that little Conrad could not sate himself with viewing and
admiring the magnificent procession. The Trusty Eckart rose, and looked
gloomily over it; and young Conrad, when the hunting train had
disappeared, struck up this stave:
On good steed,
Sword and shield
Wouldst thou wield,
With spear and arrow;
Then had need
That the marrow
In thy arm,
That thy heart and blood,
Be good,
To save thy head from harm.
The old man clasped his son to his bosom, looking with wistful
tenderness on his clear blue eyes. "Didst thou hear that good man's
song?" said he.
"Ay, why not?" answered Conrad: "he sang it loud enough, and thou art
the Trusty Eckart thyself, so I liked to listen."
"That same Duke is now my enemy," said Eckart; "he keeps my other son in
prison, nay has already put him to death, if I may credit what the
people say."
"Take down thy broad-sword, and do not suffer it," cried Conrad; "they
will tremble to see thee, and all the people in the whole land will
stand by thee, for thou art their greatest hero in the land."
"Not so, my son," said the other; "I were then the man my enemies have
called me; I dare not be unfaithful to my liege; no, I dare not break
the peace which I have pledged to him, and promised on his hand."
"But what wants he with us, then?" said Conrad, impatiently.
Eckart sat down again, and said: "My son, the entire story of it would
be long, and thou wouldst scarcely understand it. The great have always
their worst enemy in their own hearts, and they fear it day and night;
so Burgundy has now come to think that he has trusted me too far; that
he has nursed in me a serpent in his bosom. People call me the stoutest
warrior in our country; they say openly that he owes me land and life; I
am named the Trusty Eckart; and thus oppressed and suffering persons
turn to me, that I may get them help. All this he cannot suffer. So he
has taken up a grudge against me; and every one that wants to rise in
favour with him increases his distrust; so that at last he has quite
turned away his heart from me."
Hereupon the hero Eckart told, in smooth words, how Burgundy had
banished him from his sight, how they had become entire strangers to
each other, as the Duke suspected that he even meant to rob him of his
dukedom. In trouble and sorrow, he proceeded to relate how the Duke had
cast his son into confinement, and was threatening the life of Eckart
himself, as of a traitor to the land.
But Conrad said to his father: "Wilt thou let me go, my old father, and
speak with the Duke, to make him reasonable and kind to thee? If he has
killed my brother, then he is a wicked man, and thou must punish him;
but that cannot be, for he could not so falsely forget the great service
thou hast done him."
"Dost thou know the old proverb?" said Eckart:
"Doth the king require thy aid,
Thou'rt a friend can ne'er be paid;
Hast thou help'd him through his trouble
Friendship's grown an empty bubble.
Yes; my whole life has been wasted in vain. Why did he make me great, to
cast me down the deeper? The friendship of princes is like a deadly
poison, which can only be employed against our enemies, and with which
at last we unwarily kill ourselves."
"I will to the Duke," cried Conrad: "I will call back into his soul all
that thou hast done, that thou hast suffered for him; and he will again
be as of old."
"Thou hast forgot," said Eckart, "that they look on us as traitors.
Therefore let us fly together to some foreign country, where a better
fortune may betide us."
"At thy age," said Conrad, "wilt thou turn away thy face from thy kind
home? I will to Burgundy; I will quiet him, and reconcile him to thee.
What can he do to me, even though he still hate and fear thee?"
"I let thee go unwillingly," said Eckart; "for my soul forebodes no
good; and yet I would fain be reconciled to him, for he is my old
friend; and fain save thy brother, who is pining in the dungeon beside
him."
The sun threw his last mild rays on the green Earth: Eckart sat
pensively leaning back against a tree; he looked long at Conrad, then
said: "If thou wilt go, my little boy, go now, before the night grow
altogether dark. The windows in the Duke's Castle are already glittering
with lights, and I hear afar off the sound of trumpets from the feast;
perhaps his son's bride may have arrived, and his mind may be friendlier
to us."
Unwillingly he let him go, for he no longer trusted to his fortune: but
Conrad's heart was light; for he thought it would be an easy task to
turn the mind of Burgundy, who had played with him so kindly but a short
while before. "Wilt thou come back to me, my little boy?" sobbed Eckart:
"if I lose thee, no other of my race remains." The boy consoled him;
flattered him with caresses: at last they parted.
Conrad knocked at the gate of the Castle, and was let in; old Eckart
stayed without in the night alone. "Him too have I lost," moaned he in
his solitude; "I shall never see his face again."
Whilst he so lamented, there came tottering towards him a gray-haired
man; endeavouring to get down the rocks; and seeming, at every step, to
fear that he should stumble into the abyss. Seeing the old man's
feebleness, Eckart held out his hand to him, and helped him to descend
in safety.
"Which way come ye?" inquired Eckart.
The old man sat down, and began to weep, so that the tears came running
over his cheeks. Eckart tried to soothe him and console him with
reasonable words; but the sorrowful old man seemed not at all to heed
these well-meant speeches, but to yield himself the more immoderately to
his sorrows.
"What grief can it be that lies so heavy on you as to overpower you
utterly?" said Eckart.
"Ah, my children!" moaned the old man.
Then Eckart thought of Conrad, Heinz and Dietrich, and was himself
altogether comfortless. "Yes," said he, "if your children are dead, your
misery in truth is very great."
"Worse than dead," replied the old man, with his mournful voice; "for
they are not dead, but lost forever to me. O, would to Heaven that they
were but dead!"
These strange words astonished Eckart, and he asked the old man to
explain the riddle; whereupon the latter answered: "The age we live in
is indeed a marvellous age, and surely the last days are at hand; for
the most dreadful signs are sent into the world, to threaten it. Every
sort of wickedness is casting off its old fetters, and stalking bold and
free about the Earth; the fear of God is drying up and dispersing, and
can find no channel to unite in; and the Powers of Evil are rising
audaciously from their dark nooks, and celebrating their triumph. Ah, my
dear sir! we are old, but not old enough for such prodigious things. You
have doubtless seen the Comet, that wondrous light in the sky, that
shines so prophetically down upon us? All men predict evil; and no one
thinks of beginning the reform with himself, and so essaying to turn off
the rod. Nor is this enough; but portents are also issuing from the
Earth, and breaking mysteriously from the depths below, even as the
light shines frightfully on us from above. Have you never heard of the
Hill, which people call the Hill of Venus?"
"Never," said Eckart, "far as I have travelled."
"I am surprised at that," replied the old man; "for the matter is now
grown as notorious as it is true. To this Mountain have the Devils fled,
and sought shelter in the desert centre of the Earth, according as the
growth of our Holy Faith has cast down the idolatrous worship of the
Heathen. Here, they say, before all others, Lady Venus keeps her court,
and all her hellish hosts of worldly Lusts and forbidden Wishes gather
round her, so that the Hill has been accursed since time immemorial."
"But in what country lies the Hill?" inquired Eckart.
"There is the secret," said the old man, "that no one can tell this,
except he have first given himself up to be Satan's servant; and,
indeed, no guiltless person ever thinks of seeking it out. A wonderful
Musician on a sudden issues from below, whom the Powers of Hell have
sent as their ambassador; he roams through the world, and plays, and
makes music on a pipe, so that his tones sound far and wide. And whoever
hears these sounds is seized by him with visible yet inexplicable force,
and drawn on, on, into the wilderness; he sees not the road he travels;
he wanders, and wanders, and is not weary; his strength and his speed
go on increasing; no power can restrain him; but he runs frantic into
the Mountain, from which he can nevermore return. This power has, in our
day, been restored to Hell; and in this inverse direction, the
ill-starred, perverted pilgrims are travelling to a Shrine where no
deliverance awaits them, or can reach them any more. For a long while,
my two sons had given me no contentment; they were dissolute and
immoral; they despised their parents, as they did religion; but now the
Sound has caught and carried them off, they are gone into unseen
kingdoms; the world was too narrow for them, they are seeking room in
Hell."
"And what do you intend to do in such a mystery?" said Eckart.
"With this crutch I set out," replied the old man, "to wander through
the world, to find them again, or die of weariness and woe."
So saying, he tore himself from his rest with a strong effort; and
hastened forth with his utmost speed, as if he had found himself
neglecting his most precious earthly hope; and Eckart looked with
compassion on his vain toil, and rated him in his thoughts as mad.
It had been night, and was now day, and Conrad came not back. Eckart
wandered to and fro among the rocks, and turned his longing eyes on the
Castle; still he did not see him. A crowd came issuing through the gate;
and Eckart no longer heeded to conceal himself; but mounted his horse,
which was grazing in freedom; and rode into the middle of the troop, who
were now proceeding merrily and carelessly across the plain. On his
reaching them, they recognised him; but no one laid a hand on him, or
said a hard word to him; they stood mute for reverence, surrounded him
in admiration, and then went their way. One of the squires he called
back, and asked him: "Where is my Conrad?"
"O! ask me not," replied the squire; "it would but cause you sorrow and
lamenting."
"And Dietrich!" cried the father.
"Name not their names any more," said the aged squire, "for they are
gone; the wrath of our master was kindled against them, and he meant to
punish you in them."
A hot rage mounted up in Eckart's soul; and, for sorrow and fury, he was
no longer master of himself. He dashed the spurs into his horse, and
rode through the Castle-gate. All drew back, with timid reverence, from
his way; and thus he rode on to the front of the Palace. He sprang from
horseback, and mounted the great steps with wavering pace. "Am I here in
the dwelling of the man," said he, within himself, "who was once my
friend?" He endeavoured to collect his thoughts; but wilder and wilder
images kept moving in his eye, and thus he stept into the Prince's
chamber.
Burgundy's presence of mind forsook him, and he trembled as Eckart stood
in his presence. "Art thou the Duke of Burgundy?" said Eckart to him. To
which the Duke answered, "Yes."
"And thou hast killed my son Dietrich?" The Duke said, "Yes."
"And my little Conrad too," cried Eckart, in his grief, "was not too
good for thee, and thou hast killed him also?" To which the Duke again
answered, "Yes."
Here Eckart was unmanned, and said, in tears: "O! answer me not so,
Burgundy; for I cannot bear these speeches. Tell me but that thou art
sorry, that thou wishest it were yet undone, and I will try to comfort
myself; but thus thou art utterly offensive to my heart."
The Duke said: "Depart from my sight, false traitor; for thou art the
worst enemy I have on Earth."
Eckart said: "Thou hast of old called me thy friend; but these thoughts
are now far from thee. Never did I act against thee; still have I
honoured and loved thee as my prince; and God forbid that I should now,
as I well might, lay my hand upon my sword, and seek revenge of thee.
No, I will depart from thy sight, and die in solitude."
So saying, he went out; and Burgundy was moved in his mind; but at his
call, the guards appeared with their lances, who encircled him on all
sides, and motioned to drive Eckart from the chamber with their weapons.
To horse the hero springs,
Wild through the hills he rideth:
"Of hope in earthly things,
Now none with me abideth.
My sons are slain in youth,
I have no child or wife;
The Prince suspects my truth,
Has sworn to take my life."
Then to the wood he turns him,
There gallops on and on;
The smart of sorrow burns him,
He cries: "They're gone, they're gone
All living men from me are fled,
New friends I must provide me,
To the oaks and firs beside me,
Complain in desert dead.
There is no child to cheer me,
By cruel wolves they're slain;
Once three of them were near me,
I see them not again."
As Eckart cried thus sadly,
His sense it pass'd away;
He rides in fury madly
Till dawning of the day.
His horse in frantic speed
Sinks down at last exhausted;
And naught does Eckart heed,
Or think or know what caused it;
But on the cold ground lie,
Not fearing, loving longer;
Despair grows strong and stronger,
He wishes but to die.
No one about the Castle knew whither Eckart had gone; for he had lost
himself in the waste forests, and let no man see him. The Duke dreaded
his intentions; and he now repented that he had let him go, and not laid
hold of him. So, one morning, he set forth with a great train of hunters
and attendants, to search the woods, and find out Eckart; for he
thought, that till Eckart were destroyed, there could be no security.
All were unwearied, and regardless of toil; but the sun set without
their having found a trace of Eckart.
A storm came on, and great clouds flew blustering over the forest; the
thunder rolled, and lightning struck the tall oaks: all present were
seized with an unquiet terror, and they gradually dispersed among the
bushes, or the open spaces of the wood. The Duke's horse plunged into
the thicket; his squires could not follow him: the gallant horse rushed
to the ground; and Burgundy in vain called through the tempest to his
servants; for there was no one that could hear him.
Like a wild man had Eckart roamed about the woods, unconscious of
himself or his misfortunes; he had lost all thought, and in blank
stupefaction satisfied his hunger with roots and herbs: the hero could
not now be recognised by any one, so sore had the days of his despair
defaced him. As the storm came on, he awoke from his stupefaction, and
again felt his existence and his woes, and saw the misery that had
befallen him. He raised a loud cry of lamentation for his children; he
tore his white hair; and called out, in the bellowing of the storm:
"Whither, whither are ye gone, ye parts of my heart? And how is all
strength departed from me, that I could not even avenge your death? Why
did I hold back my arm, and did not send to death him who had given my
heart these deadly stabs? Ha, fool, thou deservest that the tyrant
should mock thee, since thy powerless arm and thy silly heart withstood
not the murderer. Now, O now were he with me! But it is in vain to wish
for vengeance, when the moment is gone by."
Thus came on the night, and Eckart wandered to and fro in his sorrow.
From a distance he heard as it were a voice calling for help. Directing
his steps by the sound, he came up to a man in the darkness, who was
leaning on the stem of a tree, and mournfully entreating to be guided to
his road. Eckart started at the voice, for it seemed familiar to him;
but he soon recovered, and perceived that the lost wayfarer was the Duke
of Burgundy. Then he raised his hand to his sword, to cut down the man
who had been the murderer of his children; his fury came on him with new
force, and he was upon the point of finishing his bloody task, when all
at once he stopped, for his oath and the word he had pledged came into
his mind. He took his enemy's hand, and led him to the quarter where he
thought the road must be.
The Duke foredone and weary
Sank in the wilder'd breaks;
Him in the tempest dreary
He on his shoulders takes.
Said Burgundy: "I'm giving
Much toil to thee, I fear."
Eckart replied: "The living
On Earth have much to bear."
"Yet," said the Duke, "believe me,
Were we out of the wood,
Since now thou dost relieve me,
Thy sorrows I'll make good."
The hero at this promise
Felt on his cheek the tear;
Said he: "Indeed I nowise
Do look for payment here."
"Harder our plight is growing,"
The Duke cries, dreading scath,
"Now whither are we going?
Who art thou? Art thou Death?"
"Not Death," said he, still weeping,
"Or any fiend am I;
Thy life is in God's keeping,
Thy ways are in his eye."
"Ah," said the Duke, repenting,
"My breast is foul within;
I tremble, while lamenting,
Lest God requite my sin.
My truest friend I've banish'd,
His children have I slain,
In wrath from me he vanish'd,
As foe he comes again.
To me he was devoted,
Through good report and bad;
My rights he still promoted,
The truest man I had.
Me he can never pardon,
I kill'd his children dear;
This night to pay my guerdon,
I' th' wood he lurks, I fear.
This does my conscience teach me,
A threat'ning voice within;
If here to-night he reach me,
I die a child of sin."
Said Eckart: "The beginning
Of our woes is guilt;
My grief is for thy sinning,
And for the blood thou'st spilt.