THE UNKNOWN ABBOT
The bell continued to sound, and its silver tones echoed in the
lofty halls and corridors, through which the priests, in their
superb vestments and holy orders, passed onward to the church.
Surprise and wonder were written upon every face; curious questions
were burning upon every lip, restrained, however, by the strong
habit of obedience. The abbot had commanded that not one word should
be exchanged between the brethren. The abbot must be obeyed, though
the monks might die of curiosity. Silently they entered the church.
And now the bell ceased to toll, and the grand old organ filled the
church with a rich stream of harmony. Suddenly the notes were soft
and touching, and the strong, full voices of men rose high above
them.
While the organ swelled, and the church resounded with songs of
prayer and praise, the Abbot Tobias Stusche entered the great door.
But this time he was not, as usual, alone. Another abbot, in the
richly-embroidered habiliments of a fete day, stood by his side. No
one had ever seen this abbot. He was wholly unknown.
Every eye was turned upon him; every one was struck with the
commanding and noble countenance, with the imposing brow and
luminous eye, which cast searching and threatening glances in every
direction. All felt that something strange, unheard of, was passing
in their midst. They knew this stranger, glowing with youth, beauty,
and majesty, was no common priest, no humble brother.
The command to strict silence had been given, and implicit obedience
is the first duty of the cloister. So they were silent, sang, and
prayed; while Tobias Stusche, with the strange abbot, swept slowly
and solemnly through the aisles up to the altar. They both fell upon
their knees and folded their hands in silent prayer.
Again the organ swelled, and the voices of the choristers rose up in
adoration and praise; but every eye and every thought were fixed
upon the strange abbot kneeling before the high altar, and wrestling
with God in prayer. And now the organ was silent, and the low
prayers began. The monks murmured mechanically the accustomed words;
nothing was heard but sighs of penitence and trembling petitions,
which seemed to fade and die away amongst the lofty pillars of the
cathedral.
Suddenly a loud noise was heard without, the sound of pistols and
threatening voices demanding admittance. No one regarded this. The
church doors were violently thrown open, and wild, rude forms,
sunbrowned and threatening faces appeared. For one moment noisy
tumult and outcry filled the church, but it was silenced by the holy
service, now celebrated by these kneeling, praying monks, who held
their beads in their hands, and gave no glance, in token of interest
or consciousness, toward the wild men who had so insolently
interrupted the worship of God. The soldiers bowed their heads
humbly upon their breasts, and prayed for pardon and grace. This
holy duty being fulfilled, they remembered their worldly calling,
and commenced to search the church for the King of Prussia, whom
they believed to be hidden there. The clang of spurs and heavy steps
resounded through the aisles, and completely drowned the prayers and
sighs of the monks, who, kneeling upon their stools, seemed to have
no eye or thought for any thing but the solemn service in which they
were engaged.
The pandours, in their dark, artistic costumes, with the red mantle
fastened to their shoulders, swarmed through the church, and with
flashing eyes and scarcely suppressed curses searched in every niche
and behind every pillar for Frederick of Prussia. How often did
these wild forms pass by the two abbots, who were still kneeling,
immovable in rapturous meditation, before the high altar! How often
did their swords strike upon the floor behind them, and even fasten
in the vestment of the strange abbot, who, with closed eyes and head
bowed down upon his breast, had no knowledge of their presence!
The prayers had continued much longer than usual, and yet the abbot
did not pronounce the benediction! And now he did indeed give a
sign, but not the one expected. He rose from his knees, but did not
leave the church; with his companion, he mounted the steps to the
altar, to draw near to the holy crucifix and bless the host. He
nodded to the choir, and again the organ and the choristers filled
the church with melody.
This was something so extraordinary that the monks turned pale, and
questioned their consciences anxiously. Had they not committed some
great crime, for which their stern abbot was resolved to punish them
with everlasting prayer and penitence? The pandours knew nothing of
this double mass. They had now searched the whole church, and as the
king was not to be found, they rushed out in order to search the
cells, and, indeed, every corner of the cloister. The service still
continued; the unknown abbot stood before the high altar, while
Abbot Stusche took the host and held it up before the kneeling
monks.
At this moment a wild cry of triumph was heard without; then curses
and loud laughter. The monks were bowed down before the host, and
did not seem to hear the tumult. They sang and prayed, and now the
outcry and noise of strife was hushed, and nothing was heard but the
faint and dying tones of the organ. The pandours had left the
cloister; they had found the adutant of the king and borne him off
as a rich spoil to their commander, Colonel von Trenck.
The soldiers were gone, it was therefore not necessary to continue
the worship of God. Tobias Stusche repeated a pater-noster, gave his
hand to the unknown abbot, and they turned to leave the church. As
they slowly and majestically swept through the aisles, the monks
bowed their heads in reverence; the organ breathed its last grand
accord, and the glorious sun threw a beckoning love-greeting through
the lofty windows of painted glass. It was a striking and solemn
scene, and the unknown abbot seemed strangely impressed. He paused
at the door and turned once more, and his glance wandered slowly
over the church.
One hour later the heavy state-coach of the Abbot of Clostenberg
rolled down from Camens. In the coach sat Tobias Stusche with the
unknown abbot. They took the road to Frankenstein. Not far from the
gate the carriage stopped, and to the amazement of the coachman, no
abbot, but a soldier clad in the well-known Prussian uniform,
descended. After leaving the coach, he turned again and bowed to the
worthy Abbot Stusche.
"I will never forget this bold and noble act of your excellency,"
said the king, giving his hand to the abbot. "You and your cloister
may at all times count upon my special favor. But for your aid, I
should this day have been betrayed into a most unworthy and shameful
imprisonment. The first rich abbey which is vacant I will give to
you, and then in all future time I will confirm the choice of abbot,
which the monks themselves shall make." [Footnote: In gratitude for
this service, the king gave the rich Abbey of Sentua to Stusche, and
kept up with him always the kindest intercourse. There are letters
still preserved written by the king himself to the abbot, filled
with expressions of heart-felt kindness and favor. Frederick sent
him from Meissen a beautiful set of porcelain, and splendid stuff
for pontifical robes, and rare champagne wine. While in Breslau, he
invited him twice to visit him. Soon after the close of the Seven
Years' War, Stusche died. The king sent a royal present to the
cloister with a request that on the birthday of the abbot a solemn
mass should be celebrated. Some years later, Frederick stopped at
Camens, and told the abbot to commission the first monk who died to
bear his loving greeting to the good Abbot Stusche in Paradise.--
(See Rodenbeck.)]
"O my God!" exclaimed the abbot, "how rarely must your majesty have
met with honest and faithful men, if you reward so richly a simple
and most natural act of love!"
"Faithful hearts are rare," said the king. "I have met this blue-
eyed daughter of Heaven but seldom upon my path, and it is perhaps
for this reason that her grandeur and her beauty are so enchanting
to me. Farewell, sir abbot, and greet the brother Anastasius for
me."
"Will not your majesty allow me to accompany you to the city?"
"No, it is better that I go on foot. In a quarter of an hour, I
shall be there; my carriage and my guard await me, and I wish no one
to be acquainted with the adventures of this day. It remains a
secret between us for the present."
Frederick greeted him once more, and then stepped lightly onward
toward the city. The coach of the abbot returned slowly to the
cloister.
The king had advanced but a short distance, when the sound of an
approaching horse met his car. He stood still and looked down the
highway. This time the Austrian uniform did not meet his eye; he
recognized in the distance the Prussian colors, and as the horse
approached nearer, he marked the uniform of a young officer of his
life-guard. Before Frederick found time for surprise, the rider had
reached him, checked his horse with a strong hand, sprang from the
saddle, bowed profoundly before the king, and reached him the reins.
"Will not your majesty do me the favor to mount my horse?" said
Trenck, calm and unembarrassed, and without alluding by word or
smile to the adventure of the day.
The king looked at him searchingly. "From whence come you?" said he
sternly.
"From Glatz, where the pandours carried me as a prisoner, and
delivered me to Colonel Trenck."
"You were then a prisoner, and were released without ransom?"
"Colonel Trenck laughed merrily when his pandours delivered me to
him, and declared I was the King of Prussia."
"Colonel Trenck knows you?"
"Sire, I saw him often in my father's house."
"Go on: he recognized you, then?"
"He knew me, and said laughingly, he had sent to take Frederick,
King of Prussia, and not Frederick von Trenck, prisoner. I was free,
I might go where I wished, and as I could not go on foot, he
presented me with one of his best horses; and now I am here, will
not your majesty do me the honor to mount this horse?"
"I mount no Austrian horse," said the king in a harsh tone.
The young officer fixed his glance for one moment, with an
expression of regret upon the proud and noble animal, who with
dilating nostrils, flashing eyes, and impatient stamping of the
fore-feet, stood by his side, arching gracefully his finely-formed
and muscular throat. But this expression of regret soon vanished. He
let go the bridle and bowing to the king he said, "I am at your
majesty's command."
The king glanced backward at the noble steed, who, slender and
graceful and swift as a gazelle, was in a moment so far distant as
to be no larger than a flying eagle. He then advanced toward
Frankenstein: both were silent; neither gave another thought to the
gallant horse, who, riderless and guided by instinct alone, was far
on the way to Glatz. Once before they reached the city, the king
turned and fixed his eyes upon the open, youthful, and handsome face
of Trenck.
"I believe it would be better for you if this colonel of pandours
were not your relation," said the king thoughtfully; "there can no
good come to you from this source, but only evil."
Frederick von Trenck turned pale. "Does your majesty command that I
shall change my name?"
"No," said the king after a moment's reflection. "The name is a holy
inheritance which is handed down from our fathers, and it should not
be lightly cast away. But be careful, be careful in every
particular. Understand my words, and think upon my warning, Baron
von Trenck."