In the Monastery.
Dame Hadwig had meanwhile performed her devotions at the grave of the
holy Gallus. The Abbot was then about to propose a walk in the
cloister-garden, but she asked him, first to show her the treasures of
the church. The mind of woman, however intellectual, ever delights in
ornaments, jewels and fine garments. The Abbot tried hard to dissuade
her from this wish; saying that their's was but a poor little
monastery, and that his cousin, no doubt, had seen far better things on
her travels, or at court, but it was all in vain. So they went to the
sacristy. Here the cupboards were first opened, revealing many purple
chasubles and magnificent priest's garments, with embroidered pictures,
representations of the holy history. Here and there was also some piece
strongly reminding one of Roman heathenism, such as the marriage of
Mercury with Philology. When the cupboards were done with, large boxes
were opened, full of silver lamps, golden crowns, finely wrought frames
for the holy books; and ornaments for the altar. These things had
mostly been brought over the Alps by monks, who tying them round their
knees, had thus slily preserved them from covetous eyes and hands.
Beautiful vessels, in all sorts of curious forms; candlesticks in the
shape of dolphins; golden drinking-cups resting on silver pillars;
censers and many other beautiful articles, altogether a rich treasure.
A chalice made of a single piece of amber, which glistened wonderfully
when held to the light, attracted the Duchess' notice. At the edge a
small piece was broken off.
"When my predecessor Hartmuth was dying," said the Abbot, "that little
bit was powdered and given to him, mixed with wine and honey, to calm
the fever."
In the middle of the amber was a tiny fly, so well preserved, as if it
had but just settled down there. Probably the little insect sitting
contentedly on its blade of grass, in antediluvian times, when the
liquid resin streamed over it, little thought, that it would thus be
bequeathed to far-off generations.
But such dumb testimonials of nature's powers, were little heeded then.
At least the chamberlain Spazzo, who surveyed and examined everything
with a careful eye, was occupied the while with very different ideas.
He thought how much pleasanter it would be to be on war-terms with the
pious monks, and instead of claiming their hospitality as a friend, to
enter arms in hand, and carry all the treasures away. Having witnessed
in his time many a reverse of friendship between the high-born, he was
inwardly speculating on this possibility, and eyeing keenly the
entrance to the sacristy, he murmured to himself: "Coming from the
choir 'tis the first door to the right!"
The Abbot who probably thought likewise that the prolonged examination
of the gold and silver, produced a hankering for their possession,
slily omitted opening the last box, which contained the most
magnificent things of all, and in order to divert their attention from
them urgently proposed, their going into the open air.
So the party directed their steps towards the garden, which occupied a
considerable space, and produced much vegetable and fruit for the
kitchen, as well as useful herbs for medicines.
In the orchard a large portion was divided off and reserved for wild
animals and numerous birds, such as were to be found in the
neighbouring Alps; and rarer ones which had been sent as presents, by
stranger guests from foreign countries.
Dame Hadwig took great pleasure in looking at the rough uncouth bears,
which were funny enough when climbing about on the tree in their
prison. Close to these, a pug-nosed monkey, chained together with a
baboon, played their merry gambols,--two creatures of which a poet of
that time, says that neither one nor the other, possessed a single
trace of the faculty of making itself useful, by which to establish a
claim to its existence.
An old wild goat with bent down head stood immovably within its narrow
boundary, for since it had been carried off from the icy atmosphere of
its snowy mountain peaks and glaciers, the native of the Alps had
become blind;--for it is not every creature that thrives amid low human
habitations.
In another division a large family of thick-skinned badgers was living.
On passing them the evil Sindolt exclaimed laughingly: "Heaven bless
you miserable little beasts, the chosen game of pious monks."
On another side was heard a shrill whistle from a troop of marmots,
which were running quickly to hide themselves in the chinks and
crevices of the artificial rockery, that served as their dwelling. Dame
Hadwig had never beheld such amusing little creatures before. The Abbot
told her of their way of living.
"These animals," said he, "sleep more than any other creature; but when
awake, they show a wonderful sharpness and forethought, for when winter
approaches, they gather up grass and hay wherever they find it, and one
of them lies down on its back, whilst the others put on it everything
they have scraped together, and then they seize it by the tail, and
drag it like a loaded cart into their caverns."[5]
Then Sindolt said to the stout chamberlain Master Spazzo: "What a pity
that you have not become a mountain-rat, that would have been a
pleasant and graceful occupation for you."
When the Abbot had proceeded a few paces, the evil Sindolt began to
give a new sort of explanation: "That is our Tutilo," said he, pointing
to a bear, which had just thrown down one of its companions,--"that the
blind Thieto,"--pointing to the wild goat, and he was just about to
honour the Abbot with some flattering comparison, when the Duchess
interrupted him by saying: "As you are so clever in finding similes,
will you find one for me also?"
Sindolt became embarrassed. Luckily his eye now fell on a beautiful
silver-pheasant, which was in the midst of a troop of cranes, basking
in the sunshine which lighted up its pearly grey feathers.
"There," said Sindolt.
But the Duchess turned round to Ekkehard, who gazed dreamily at the
bustle and life before him.
"What do you think of it?" asked she.
He started up. "Oh, mistress!" said he in soft tones, "who is so
audacious as to compare you to anything that flies or crawls?"
"But if we desire it?"
"Then I only know of one bird," said Ekkehard. "We have not got it, nor
has anyone; in star-lit midnights it flies high over our heads,
brushing the sky with its wings. The bird's name is Caradrion, and when
its wings touch the earth a sick man is healed. Then the bird,
inclining towards the man, opens its beak over his mouth, and taking
the man's sickness unto itself rises up to the sun, and purifies itself
in the eternal light; and the man is saved."
The Abbot's return put a stop to further similes. One of the serving
brothers was sitting on an apple-tree, plucking the apples, and putting
them into baskets. When the Duchess approached the tree, he was going
to descend, but she made him a sign to stop where he was.
Now, the singing of sweet boyish voices was heard. The voices were
those of the younger cloister-pupils who came to do homage to the
Duchess. Children as they were, the little fellows wore already the
monk's habit, and several even the tonsure on their eleven years old
heads. When the procession of the little rosy-cheeked future abbots
came in sight, with their eyes cast down and singing their sequences so
seriously, a slight, mocking smile played round Dame Hadwig's lips, and
with her strong foot, she upset the nearest of the baskets, so that the
apples rolled about enticingly on the ground, in the midst of the boys.
But unabashed they continued their walk; only one of the youngest
wanted to bend down and take up the tempting fruit, which his companion
forcibly prevented, by taking a good hold of his girdle.
Much pleased the Abbot witnessed the young folks' excellent behaviour
and said: "Discipline distinguishes human beings from animals, and if
you were to throw the apples of Hesperides amongst them, they would
remain stedfast."
Dame Hadwig was touched. "Are all your pupils so well trained?" asked
she.
"If you like to convince yourself with your own eyes," said the Abbot,
"you will see that the elder ones know quite as well the meaning of
obedience and submission."
The Duchess nodding an assent, was then led into the outer
cloister-school, in which the sons of noblemen, and those who intended
to join the secular clergy, were educated.
They entered the upper class. In the lecturer's chair stood Ratpert,
the wise and learned teacher who was initiating his pupils into the
mysteries of Aristotle's logic. With bent heads the young scholars sat
before their parchments, scarcely lifting their eyes to look at the
party now entering. The teacher inwardly thought this a good
opportunity to gather some laurels, and called out, "Notker Labeo!"
This was the pearl amongst his pupils, the hope of science, who on a
weakly body carried a powerful head, with an immense protruding
under-lip, the cause of his surname, the symbol of great determination
and perseverance on the stony roads of investigation.
"He will become a great man," whispered the Abbot. "Already in his
twelfth year he said that the world was like a book, and that the
monasteries were the classical passages in it."
The young man in question, let his eyes glide over the Greek text, and
then translated with pompous solemnity the deep intricate meaning
thereof:
"If on a stone or piece of wood, you find a straight line running
through, that is the mutual line of demarcation, of the even surface.
If the stone or wood were to split along that line, then we should
behold two intersections, near the visible chink, where there was only
one line before. Besides this we see two new surfaces, which are as
broad as the object was thick, before one could see the new surface.
From this it appears that this object existed as one whole, before it
was separated."
But when this translation had been well got through, some of the young
logicians put their heads together, and began to whisper, and the
whispers became louder and louder;--even the cloister-pupil Hepidan,
who undisturbed by Notker's capital translation, was employing all his
skill to carve a devil with a double pair of wings, and a long curling
tail, on the bench before him, stopped with his work. Then the teacher
addressed the next boy, with the question: "But how does the surface
become a mutual line of demarcation?" upon which he began to blunder
over the Greek text; but the commotion in the school-benches became
louder still, so that there arose a buzzing and booming like distant
alarm bells. The translation ceased altogether and suddenly the whole
mass of Ratpert's pupils rushed up noisily, towards the Duchess. In the
next moment they had torn her from the Abbot's side, shouting "caught,
caught," and making barricades with the benches, they repeated their
cries: "We have caught the Duchess of Suabia! What shall be her
ransom?"
Dame Hadwig, in the course of her life, had found herself in various
positions, but that she could ever become the prisoner of school-boys
had certainly never entered her head. This having however the charm of
novelty for her, she submitted to her fate with a good grace.
Ratpert the teacher took out of the cupboard a mighty rod, and swinging
it over his head, like a second Neptune, he recited, in a thundering
voice, the verses of Virgil:
"So far has the conceit, in your pitiful powers, decoyed you,
That, not awaiting my will, and rousing the heavens and waters,
Ye have ventured to stir, ye rebellious winds of the ocean?
_Quos ego_!!"
A renewed shout was the answer. The room was already divided by a wall
of benches and stools, and Master Spazzo was inwardly meditating the
expediency of an attack, and the effect of vigorous blows on the heads
of the ring-leaders. As for the Abbot, he was perfectly speechless, as
this unexpected audacity had quite paralysed his faculties for
the moment. The highborn prisoner stood at the other end of the
school-room, in a niche, surrounded by her fifteen-years-old captors.
"What is the meaning of all this, ye wicked boys?" asked she smilingly.
Then one of the rebels advanced, bent his knee before her and humbly
said: "He who comes as a stranger, is without protection or peace, and
peaceless people are kept prisoners, until they have paid a ransom for
their liberty."
"Do you learn that out of your Greek books?"
"No, mistress, that is German law."
"Very well, then I will ransom myself," said Dame Hadwig, and laughing
merrily, she seized the red-cheeked logician, and drawing him towards
her, wanted to kiss him. He however tore himself away, and joining the
noisy ranks of his companions cried out:
"That coin, we do not understand!"
"What ransom then do you exact?" asked the Duchess who was fast getting
impatient.
"The bishop of Constance was also our prisoner," replied the pupil,
"and he obtained for us three extra holidays in the year, as well as a
feast of bread and meat, and has further secured this to us with his
name and seal."
"Oh gluttonous youth!" said Dame Hadwig. "Then I must at least do as
much for you as the bishop. Have you ever tasted the _Felchen_[6] from
the Bodensee?"
"No!" cried the boys.
"Then you shall receive six fish as an annual present. This fish is
good for young beaks."
"Do you secure this to us with your name and seal?"
"If it must be so, yes."
"Long life to the Duchess of Suabia! All hail!" was now shouted on all
sides. "Hail! she is free." The school-benches were quickly removed,
the passage cleared, and jumping and shouting triumphantly they led
back their prisoner.
In the background the parchment leaves of Aristotle flew up into the
air, as outward signs of joy. Even the corners of Notker Labeo's mouth
turned down into a broad grin, and Dame Hadwig said: "The young
gentlemen were very gracious. Please to put back the rod into the
cupboard, honoured professor."
A continuation of the translation of Aristotle, was not to be thought
of. Who can tell, whether the uproarious outbreak of the pupils, was
not in close connexion with their study of logic? Seriousness is often
a very dry and leafless trunk; else folly would scarcely find room, to
wind her wanton green-leaved tendrils around it ...
When the Duchess accompanied by the Abbot had left the school-room, the
latter said: "There is nothing now left to show you but the library of
the monastery, the well for thirsty souls, the armory with its weapons
of science." But Dame Hadwig was tired and so declined his offer.
"I must keep my word," said she, "and make the donation to your boys
documental. Will you be pleased to have the parchment got ready, that I
may affix my signature and seal."
Sir Cralo conducted his guest to his apartments. On going along the
cross-passage, they passed a small room, the door of which was open.
Close to the bare wall stood a pillar, from the middle of which hung a
chain. Over the portal, in faded colours, was painted a figure which
held a rod in its lean hand. "Him whom the Lord loveth, he chastiseth,"
was written under it in capital letters.
Dame Hadwig cast an enquiring look at the Abbot.
"The scourging room!" replied he.
"Is none of the brothers just now liable to punishment?" asked she, "it
might be a warning example."
Then the evil Sindolt's feet twitched as if he had trodden on a thorn.
He turned round as if he had been attracted by a voice calling to him,
and exclaiming, "I am coming," he quickly vanished into the darker
parts of the passage. He well knew why he did so.
Notker the stutterer, after the labour of years, had at last completed
a psalm-book, adorned with dainty drawings. This book the envious
Sindolt had destroyed at night; casting it to pieces, and upsetting a
jug of wine over it. On account of this, he had been sentenced to be
flogged three times, and the last instalment was still due. He knew the
room, and the instruments of penance hanging on the walls well enough,
from the nine-tailed "Scorpion" down to the simple "wasp."
The Abbot hurried on. His state-rooms were richly decorated with
flowers. Dame Hadwig threw herself into the primitive arm-chair, to
rest from the fatigue of all the sight-seeing. She had received many
new impressions within the space of a few hours. There was still half
an hour left before supper.
Had anyone taken the trouble to visit all the cloister-cells, he might
have satisfied himself, that not a single inhabitant thereof had
remained unaffected by the arrival of the high-born guests. Even those
who pass their whole lives in seclusion, feel that they owe homage to
woman.
The hoary Tutilo had remembered with a pang, on the arrival of the
Duchess, that the left sleeve of his habit was adorned with a hole.
Under ordinary circumstances the sleeve would probably have remained
unpatched, until the next great festival, but now there was no time for
delay. So he sat down on his couch, provided with needle and thread,
busily mending the rent. Being once busy with such things he also put
new soles to his sandals; fastening them with nails, and humming a tune
to speed the work. Ratold the thinker, walked up and down in his cell,
with a deep frown on his forehead, hoping that an opportunity would
present itself to praise the virtues of the high-born guest in an
improvised speech, and to heighten the effect of the spontaneous
effusion, he was studying it beforehand. He intended to take the
following lines of Tacitus, "on the Germans," for a text: "They believe
also, that there is something holy about women, and that they have the
gift of seeing into the future. Therefore they never disdain the advice
given by them, and often follow their warnings." This was about all
that he knew of the other sex, but his squirrel-eyes twinkled with the
hope, of being able, from the praise of the Duchess, easily to diverge
to some spiteful criticism on his brethren. Unfortunately the
opportunity to bring in his speech never came, or he did not know how
to seize it.
In another cell, six of the brothers, sat under the huge ivory comb,
which was suspended by an iron chain from the ceiling. This was a very
useful institution established by Abbot Hartmuth. Murmuring the
prescribed prayers, they assisted one another in the careful
arrangement of each others hair. Many an overgrown tonsure was also
restored to a shining smoothness on that day.
While these things were going on in the monastery itself, no less
activity was displayed in the kitchen under the superintendence of
Gerold the steward. And now resounded the tinkling of that bell, the
sounds of which were not heard without a pleasurable sensation, even
by the most pious of the brethren, as it was the signal for the
evening-meal. Abbot Cralo led the Duchess into the refectory. The large
room was divided in the middle by nine pillars, and around fourteen
covered tables, the members of the monastery, priests and deacons stood
assembled, like champions of the church militant. These however did not
pay any great attention to the noble guest.
The duty of reader for that week, before the meals, had to be performed
by Ekkehard the custodian. In honour of the Duchess he had chosen the
45th psalm. He arose and said: "Oh Lord, open my lips, that my mouth
may speak forth thy praise," and all repeated these words in a low
murmur, as a sort of blessing on his reading.
After that he lifted his voice and began reciting the psalm, which
Scripture itself calls a lovely one.
"My heart is inditing a good matter: I speak of the things which I have
made, touching the king: my tongue is the pen of a ready writer.
"Thou art fairer than the children of men: grace is poured into thy
lips: therefore God hath blessed thee for ever.
"Gird thy sword upon thy thigh O most mighty, with thy glory and thy
majesty.
"And in thy majesty ride prosperously because of truth and meekness and
righteousness.
"Thine arrows are sharp in the heart of the king's enemies; whereby the
people fall under thee.
"Thy throne, before God, is for ever and ever: the sceptre of thy
kingdom is a right sceptre.
"Thou lovest righteousness and hatest wickedness: therefore God, thy God
hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows.
"All thy garments smell of myrrh, and aloes and cassia ..."
The Duchess seemed to understand the latent homage and as if she
herself was being addressed in the words of the psalm, she fastened her
eyes intently on Ekkehard. But the Abbot likewise had noticed this, and
made a sign to interrupt the reading; and thus the psalm remained
unfinished, and everyone sat down, to supper.
Sir Cralo could not however prevent Dame Hadwig's ordering the zealous
reader, to sit down by her side. According to rank, this seat on her
left side, had been destined for the old dean Gozbert; but he for the
last few minutes had been sitting on thorns; for he had once indulged
in a very rough-spoken dispute with Dame Hadwig's late husband,
at the time when the latter carried off the precious chalice, as a
war-contribution. On that account he had also a grudge against the
Duchess, and had no sooner remarked her intention, than he gladly moved
downwards, and pushed the custodian into his seat. Next to Ekkehard
came Spazzo the chamberlain, and after him the monk Sindolt.
The meal began. The steward well knowing that the arrival of stranger
guests, fully sanctioned an enlargement of the accustomed frugal
cloister-fare, had not restricted himself to the ordinary porridge. The
strict bill of fare of the late Abbot Hartmuth was also not adhered to.
To be sure there appeared at first a steaming dish of millet-porridge,
that those, who preferred strictly to adhere to the prescribed rule,
might satisfy their hunger: but after that, one delicacy followed
another in quick succession. Side by side with the roast stag, stood
the delicious bear's ham, and even the beaver of the upper pond, which
had been robbed of its life, in honour of the occasion. Pheasants,
partridges, turtle-doves and a rich collection of smaller birds
followed; as well as an immense quantity of fish of all descriptions,
so that finally every species of animal,--crawling, flying or swimming,
that was good to eat, was represented on the table.
Many an one of the brothers, fought a fierce battle within the depths
of his heart on that day. Even Gozbert the old dean,--after having
stilled the craving of hunger with millet-porridge, and having pushed
aside with a tremendous frown, the roasted stag and bear's ham, as if
it were a temptation of the Evil One,--when afterwards a beautifully
roasted grouse, was put down before him, felt the odour thereof rise
temptingly into his nostrils. And with the savory smell the memories of
his youth came back; when he himself was a first-rate sportsman, fully
two score years ago, and when he went out in the early morning to shoot
the wood-cock, and meet the game-keeper's bright-eyed daughter; and
twice he resisted the half involuntary movement of his arm, the third
time he felt his strength going, and a moment after, one half of the
bird lay before him, and was hastily dispatched.
Spazzo the chamberlain, had watched with an approving nod, the
appearance of the many dishes. A large Rhine-salmon had quickly
disappeared under his hands, and he now cast his eyes about, in search
of something to drink. Then Sindolt, his neighbour, seized a small
stone jug, poured out its contents into a metal cup and said: "Your
health in the choicest wine of the monastery."
Master Spazzo intended to take a copious draught, but scarcely had the
liquid touched his palate, when he put down the goblet hastily, shaking
all over as with the ague, and exclaimed, "then may the Devil be
friar!"
The evil Sindolt had given him a sour cider, made of crab-apples, and
sweetened with the juice of the blackberry. On Master Spazzo's looking
inclined to thank him by a blow, he quickly fetched a jug of the
delicious red "Valtelliner," wherewith to soften his ire. The
"Valtelliner" is a capital wine; in which formerly the Roman Emperor
Augustus, drowned his grief over the lost battle of Varus. By degrees
Master Spazzo's good humour returned; so that without knowing him, he
willingly drank to the health of the Bishop of Chur; to whom the
monastery was indebted for this wine, and Sindolt did not fail to keep
him company.
"What may your patron say to such drinking?" asked the chamberlain.
"St. Benedict was a wise man," replied Sindolt, "therefore he ordained,
that although it had been written, that wine was altogether no drink
for monks, yet as not a single person, at the present day, could be
persuaded of the justness of this observation; and in consequence of
the weakness of the human mind, everyone should be allowed a bottle a
day. No one however is to drink to satiety, for wine will make even the
wisest swerve from the path of wisdom."
"Good," said Spazzo and drained his tumbler.
"On the other hand," continued Sindolt, "those of the brotherhood, in
whose district little or no wine grows, must resign themselves, and
praise the Lord without grumbling."
"Good also," said Spazzo again emptying his goblet.
Meanwhile the Abbot did his best, to entertain his princely cousin. He
first began, to sing the praises of her late husband Sir Burkhard, but
Dame Hadwig's responses were but scanty and cold, so that the Abbot
found out, that everything has its time; especially the love of a widow
for her late spouse. So he changed the conversation, asking her, how
the cloister-schools had pleased her.
"I feel sorry for the poor fellows, who are forced to learn so much in
their early days," said the Duchess. "Is not that a burden for them
under the weight of which they suffer all their lives?"
"Pardon me, noble cousin," replied the Abbot, "if both in the capacity
of friend and relation, I beg you not to indulge in such thoughtless
speech. The study of science is no disagreeable obligation for the
young; rather is it to them like strawberries, the more they eat the
more they want."
"But what can they have to do with the heathen art of logic?" asked
Dame Hadwig.
"That, in proper hands, becomes a weapon to protect God's church," said
the Abbot. "With such arts, heretics were wont to attack believers, but
now we fight them with their own arms; and believe me, good Greek or
Latin is a much finer instrument than our native language, which even
in the hands of the ablest, is but an unwieldy bludgeon."
"Indeed," said the Duchess, "must we still learn from you, what is to
be admired? I have existed until now, without speaking the Latin
tongue, Sir Cousin."
"It would not harm you, if you were still to learn it," said the Abbot,
"and when the first euphonious sounds of the Latin tongue shall
have gladdened your ear, you will admit, that compared to it, our
mother-tongue is but a young bear, which can neither stand nor walk
well, before it has been licked by a classical tongue. Besides much
wisdom, flows from the mouths of the old Romans. Ask your neighbour to
the left."
"Is it so?" asked Dame Hadwig, turning towards Ekkehard, who had
silently listened to the foregoing conversation.
"It would be true, liege lady," said he enthusiastically, "if you still
needed to learn wisdom."
Dame Hadwig archly held up her forefinger: "Have you yourself derived
pleasure from those old parchments?"
"Both, pleasure and happiness," exclaimed Ekkehard with beaming eyes.
"Believe me, mistress, you do well to come to the classics for advice,
in all positions of life. Does not Cicero teach us to walk safely, in
the intricate paths of worldly prudence? Do we not gather confidence
and courage from Livy and Sallust? Do not the songs of Virgil awaken
us to the conception of imperishable beauty? The Gospel is the
guiding-star of our faith; the old classics, however, have left a light
behind them, which like the glow of the evening-sun, sends refreshment
and joy into the hearts of men."
Ekkehard spoke with emotion. Since the day on which the old Duke
Burkhard had asked her hand in marriage, the Duchess had not seen
anyone, who showed enthusiasm for anything. She was endowed with a high
intellect, quick and imaginative. She had learned the Greek language
very rapidly, in the days of her youth, on account of the Byzantine
proposal. Latin inspired her with a sort of awe, because unknown to
her. Unknown things easily impress us, whilst knowledge leads us to
judge things according to their real worth, which is often much less
than we had expected. The name of Virgil besides had a certain magic
about it....
In that hour the resolution was formed in Hadwig's heart to learn
Latin. She had plenty of time for this, and after having cast another
look on her neighbour to the left, she knew who was to be her
teacher....
The dainty dessert, consisting of peaches, melons and dried figs, had
vanished also, and the lively conversation at the different tables,
told of the frequent passing round of the wine-jug.
After the meal, in accordance with the rules of the order, a chapter
out of the lives of the holy fathers, had to be read, for the general
edification.
The day before, Ekkehard had begun a description of the life of St.
Benedict, which had been written by Pope Gregory. The brothers drew the
tables closer together; the wine-jug came to a dead stop, and all
conversation was hushed. Ekkehard continued with the second chapter:
"One day when he was alone, the Tempter approached him; for a small
black bird, commonly called a crow, came and constantly flew around his
head, and approaching so near, that the holy man, might have captured
it with his hand. He, however, made the sign of the cross, and the bird
flew away.
"No sooner however had the bird flown away, when a fiercer temptation
than the holy man had ever yet experienced, assailed him. A
considerable time before, he had beheld a certain woman. This woman,
the Evil One caused to appear before his mental eyes, and to influence
the heart of God's servant, to such a degree, that a devouring love
gnawed at his heart, and he almost resolved, to leave his hermit-life,
so strong was the longing and desire within him.
"But at that moment however, a light from heaven shone on him,
compelling him to return to his better self. And he beheld on one side
a hedge of brambles and nettles, and he undressed and threw himself
into the thorns and stinging nettles, until his whole body was
lacerated.
"And thus the wounds of the skin had healed the wound of the spirit,
and having conquered sin he was saved." ...
Dame Hadwig was not greatly edified by this lecture. She let her eyes
wander about in the hall in search of something to divert her thoughts.
Had the chamberlain, perhaps also disapproved of the choice of the
chapter, or had the wine got into his head?--for suddenly he dashed at
the book and closing it vehemently, so that the wooden covers clapped
audibly, he held up his beaker, saying: "To the health of St.
Benedict." Ekkehard turned a reproachful look on him, but the younger
members of the brotherhood, regarding the toast as serious, had already
echoed it noisely. Here and there a hymn in praise of the holy man was
begun; this time to the tune of a merry drinking song, and loud joyous
voices rang through the hall.
Whilst Abbot Cralo looked about with a somewhat dubious expression, and
Master Spazzo was still busily drinking to the health of the saint with
the younger clergy, Dame Hadwig inclined her head towards Ekkehard and
said in a half whisper:
"Would you be willing to teach me Latin, young admirer of the classics,
if I felt inclined to learn it?"
Then Ekkehard heard an inner voice, whispering like an echo of what he
had read: "throw thyself into the thorns and nettles, and say no!"--but
heedless of the warning voice he replied: "Command and I obey."
The Duchess gazed once more on the young monk with a furtive, searching
look; then turned to the Abbot and talked of indifferent things.
The cloister-inmates did not seem inclined as yet to let this day's
unusual liberty end here. In the Abbot's eyes there was a peculiarly
soft and lenient expression, and the cellarer also never said "nay,"
when the brothers descended with their emptied wine-jugs into the
vaults below.
At the fourth table the old Tutilo began to get jolly, and was telling
his inevitable story of the robbers. Louder and louder his powerful
voice rang through the hall: "One of them turned to fly,--I after him
with my oaken stick,--he throws away spear and shield to the ground,--I
quickly seize him by the throat, force the spear into his hand and cry,
'thou knave of a robber, for what art thou encumbering the world? Thou
shalt fight with me!'" ...
But they had all heard it too often already how he had then in honest
fight split open the scull of his antagonist,--so they eagerly
requested him, to sing some favourite song, and on his giving an
assenting nod, some of them hurried out, presently to return with their
instruments. One of them brought a lute, another a violin with one
string only, a third a sort of dulcimer with metal pegs, which were
played on with a tuning key, and a fourth a small ten-stringed harp.
This last curious-looking instrument was called a psalter, and its
three-cornered shape was held to be a symbol of the Trinity.
When the instruments were tuned, they gave him his baton of ebony.
Smilingly the hoary artist received it, and rising from his seat, gave
them the signal to play a piece of music, which he himself had composed
in his younger days. Gladly the others listened; only Gerold the
steward, became rather melancholy on hearing the melodious sounds, for
he was just counting the emptied dishes and stone jugs, and like a text
to the melody the words vibrated through his mind: "How much this one
day has swallowed up in goods and money?" Softly he beat time with his
sandal-clad foot, until the last note had died away.
At the bottom of the table a silent guest, with a pale olive complexion
and black curls, was sitting. He came from Italy, and had accompanied
the mules loaded with chestnuts and oil, from Lombardy over the Alp. In
melancholy silence, he let the floods of song pass over him.
"Well, Master Giovanni," said Folkard the painter, "has the fine
Italian ear been satisfied? The Emperor Julianus once compared the
singing of our forefathers to the screeching of wild birds, but since
that time we have made progress. Did it not sound lovelier in your ears
than the singing of wild swans?"
"Lovelier--than the singing of swans"--repeated the stranger in dreamy
accents. Then he arose and quietly stole away. Nobody in the monastery
ever read what he wrote down in his journal that evening.
"These men on the other side of the Alp," he wrote, "when they let
their thundering voices rise up to heaven, never can attain to the
sweetness of an artistic modulation. Truly barbarous is the roughness
of their wine-guzzling throats and whenever they attempt by sinking and
then raising their voices, to attain a melodious softness,--all nature
shudders at the sound, and it resembles the creaking of chariot-wheels
on frozen ground." ...
Master Spazzo intending to end well, what he had so well begun, slunk
away to the building in which Praxedis and her companions were
installed, and said: "You are to come to the Duchess, and that at
once." The maidens first laughed at his cowl, and then followed him
into the refectory, as there was no one to hinder their entrance; and
as soon as they became visible at the open door, a buzzing and
murmuring began, as if a dancing and jumping were now to commence, such
as these walls had never before experienced.
Sir Cralo the abbot, however looked at the Duchess, and exclaimed: "My
Lady Cousin!" and he said it with such a touching, woe-begone
expression, that she started up from her reverie. And suddenly she
looked with different eyes than before on the chamberlain and herself,
in their monks habits, as well as on the rows of carousing men. The
faces of the more distant ones were hidden by their projecting hoods,
and it looked as if the wine was being poured down into empty cowls; in
short, the scene altogether with the boisterous music appeared to her
like a mad masquerade, that had lasted too long already.
So she said: "It is time to go to bed;" and then went with her suite
over to the school-house, where she was to rest that night.
"Do you know what would have been the reward of dancing?" asked Sindolt
of one of his fellow monks, who seemed rather sorry at this sudden
termination of their festivity. He stared at him enquiringly. Then
Sindolt made a movement which meant unmistakeably "scourging."