Ekkehard's Departure.
Early the next morning, the Duchess and her attendants mounted their
steeds, to ride homewards; and when she declined all parting
ceremonies, the Abbot did not press her to the contrary. Therefore
perfect quiet reigned in the monastery, whilst the horses were neighing
impatiently. Only Sir Cralo came over, knowing well, what good manners
demanded.
Two of the brothers accompanied him. One of them carried a handsome
crystal cup with a finely wrought silver foot and cover, in which many
a pretty bit of onyx and emerald was set. The other carried a small jug
of old wine. The Abbot pouring out some into the cup, then wished good
speed to his cousin, begging her to drink the parting-draught with him,
and to keep the cup as a small remembrance.
In case that the present should not be thought sufficient, he had still
another curious piece in the background, which though made of silver,
had a very insignificant appearance, as it bore close resemblance to an
ordinary loaf of bread. This could be opened, and was filled up to the
brim with gold-pieces. Without there being an absolute necessity for
it, the Abbot did not intend to mention this; keeping it carefully
hidden under his habit.
Dame Hadwig took the proffered cup, feigned to drink a little and then
handing it back, said: "Pardon me, dear cousin, what shall a woman do
with that drinking-vessel? I claim another parting gift. Did you not
speak of the wells of wisdom yesterday? Give me a Virgil out of your
library!"
"Always jesting," said Sir Cralo, who had expected a more costly
demand. "What good can Virgil do you, as you do not know the language?"
"As a matter of course, you must give me the teacher with it,"
seriously replied Dame Hadwig.
But the Abbot shook his head in sign of displeasure. "Since what time
are the disciples of St. Gallus given away as parting-gifts?"
Upon this the Duchess resumed: "I suppose you understand me. The
fair-haired custodian shall be my teacher; and three days hence, at the
latest, he and the volume of Virgil shall make their appearance at my
castle! Mind, that the settlement of the disputed land in the
Rhinevalley, as well as the confirmation of the monastery's rights, are
in my hands; and that I am not disinclined, to erect a small cloister
to the disciples of St. Gallus, on the rocks of the Hohentwiel.--And so
farewell, Sir Cousin!"
Then Sir Cralo, with a melancholy look, beckoned to the serving monk,
to carry the chalice back to the treasury. Dame Hadwig gracefully
extended her right hand to him, the mares pawed the ground; Master
Spazzo took off his hat with a flourish,--and the little cavalcade
turned their backs on the monastery, setting out on their way,
homewards.
From the window of the watch-tower, an immense nosegay was thrown into
the midst of the parting guests; in which there shone at least half a
dozen sun-flowers, not to mention innumerable asters; but nobody caught
it, and the horses hoofs passed over it....
In the dry moat outside the gate, the cloister-pupils had hidden
themselves. "Long life to the Duchess of Suabia! Hail! hail!--and she
must not forget to send us the Felchen!" was loudly shouted after her,
as a parting salutation.
"He who as reward for his bad behaviour, obtains three holidays, and
the best fish of the lake, may well shout," said Master Spazzo.
Slowly the Abbot went back to the monastery, and as soon as he got
there, he sent for Ekkehard the custodian.
"A dispensation has come for you. You are to take a volume of Virgil to
the Duchess Hadwig, and become her teacher. 'The old song of Maro may
soften the Scythian customs by their lovely tunes'--is written in
Sidonius. I know that it is not your wish ..." Ekkehard cast down his
eyes, with a heightened colour, "but we must not offend the mighty ones
of this earth. To-morrow, you will set out on your journey. 'Tis with
regret that I lose you, for you were one of the best and most dutiful
here. The holy Gallus will not forget the service which you are
rendering him. Don't omit to cut out the title-page of Virgil, on which
is written the curse on him, who takes the book away from the
monastery."
That which our hearts desire, we gladly suffer to be put on us, as a
duty.
"The vow of obedience," said Ekkehard, "obliges me, to do the will of
my Superior, without fear or delay, without regret or murmur."
He bent his knee before the Abbot, and then went to his cell. It seemed
to him as if he had been dreaming. Since yesterday, almost too much had
occurred for him. It is often so in life. In a long period, time
pursues its monotonous way, but when once we come to a turning-point,
then one change follows another. He prepared himself for the journey.
"What thou hast begun, leave unfinished behind thee; draw back thy hand
from the work it was employed on, and go away with thy heart full of
obedience,"--he scarcely needed to remind himself of this portion of
the rules.
In his cell lay the parchment-leaves of a psalm-book, which had been
written, and illustrated by Folkard's masterly hand. Ekkehard had been
commissioned to finish up the first letter on each page, with the
precious gold-colour, which the Abbot had lately bought from a Venetian
merchant; and by adding faint golden lines at the crowns, sceptres and
swords, as well as at the borders of the mantles, to give the last
touch to the figures.
He took up parchments and colours, and brought them over to his
companion, that he might put the finishing strokes to the work himself.
Folkard was just about, to compose a new picture; David playing the
lute, and dancing before the ark of the Covenant. He did not look up,
and Ekkehard silently left the studio again.
After this he bent his steps to the library, there to fetch the Virgil,
and when he stood all alone in the high-arched hall, amongst the silent
parchments, a feeling of melancholy came over him. Even lifeless
things, when one is about to take leave of them, seem to possess
something of a soul, and to share some of the feelings, which are
moving our own hearts.
The books were his best friends. He knew them all, and knew who had
written them. Some of the handwritings reminded him of companions, whom
death had gathered already.
"What will the new life, which begins to-morrow, bring to me?" he
thought, whilst a solitary tear started into his eye. At that moment
his gaze fell on the small, metal-bound glossary, in which the holy
Gallus, not knowing the German language, had had a translation of the
most familiar words and sentences, written down by the priest of Arbon.
Then Ekkehard bethought himself, how the founder of the monastery, had
once set out, with so little help and preparation, a stranger into
heathen lands; and how his God and his courageous heart, had protected
him in all dangers and sorrows. His spirits rose; he kissed the little
book, took the Virgil from the book-shelf, and then turned to go.
"Whoever carries away this book, shall receive a thousand lashes of
the scourge; may palsy and leprosy attack him," was written on the
title-page. Ekkehard cut it out.
Once more he looked around, as if to take a final leave, of all the
books. At that moment a rustling was heard in the wall, and the large
sketch which the architect Gerung had once drawn, when Abbot Hartmuth
had wanted a new building to be added to the monastery, fell to the
ground, raising a cloud of dust.
Ekkehard did not regard this occurrence in the light of a presentiment
or warning.
On walking along the passage of the upper storey, he passed an open
chamber. This was the snuggery of the old men. The blind Thieto who had
been Abbot before Cralo, until his waning eyesight had forced him to
resign, was sitting there. A window was open, so that the old man could
breathe freely and enjoy the warm sunny air. With him, Ekkehard had
spent many an hour, in friendly converse. The blind man recognized his
step and called him in.
"Where are you going?" asked he.
"Down stairs,--and to-morrow I am going far away. Give me your hand, I
am going to the Hohentwiel."
"Bad,--very bad," muttered the old man.
"Why, father Thieto?"
"The service of women is an evil thing for him, who wishes to remain
good. Court service is worse still. What then are both together?"
"It is my fate," said Ekkehard.
"St. Gallus keep you and bless you. I will pray for you. Give me my
stick."
Ekkehard offered his arm, which was refused however, and seizing his
staff, the blind man rose, and went to a niche in the wall, from which
he took out a small phial and gave it to Ekkehard.
"It's water from the river Jordan, which I took myself. When the dust
of this world has covered your face, and is dimming your eyes, then
bathe them with it. It will not help me any more. Farewell."
In the evening Ekkehard mounted the little hill, which rose behind the
monastery. This was his favourite walk. In the fish-ponds which had
been artificially made there, to supply the necessary fish for the
fast-days, the dark fir-trees were reflected. A gentle breeze ruffled
the surface of the water, in which the fish swam briskly about. With a
smile he gazed at them, thinking, "when shall I taste you again?"
In the fir-wood on the top of the Freudenberg, there was solemn
silence. There he stopped, to enjoy the extensive view before him.
At his feet lay the monastery, with all its buildings and walls. There,
in the court-yard was the well known fountain; the garden was full of
autumnal flowers, and in one long row the windows of the many cells
were presented to his view. He knew each one, and saw also his own.
"May God protect thee, peaceful abode!"
Contemplating the place where we have spent the days of our eager, and
striving youth, works like a magnet on our hearts, which require so
little to feel attracted. He only is poor, to whom the great bustling
life of this world, has not granted time, bodily and mentally to find a
quiet resting-place, a real home.--
Ekkehard raised his eyes. Far away in the distance, like the fair
prospect of a distant future, the Bodensee's placid surface, shone out
like a mirror. The line of the opposite shore, as well as the outlines
of the hills behind it, were covered with a light mist, only here and
there a bright light and the reflection in the water, indicating the
dwelling places of human beings.
"But what does the obscurity behind mean?" He turned round and beheld
the Saentis rising with its horns and pinnacles behind the fir-clad
hills. On the gray and weatherbeaten rocky walls, the warm sunbeams
were contending with the clouds, and lighting up the masses of old
snow, which in its caves and crevices lay awaiting a new winter. Right
over the Kamor, hung a heavy cloud, which widely extended, was
obscuring the sun and throwing a grey and sombre light on the
mountain-peaks around. It began to lighten in the distance ...
"Is that meant as a warning for me?" said Ekkehard. "I don't understand
it. My way is not towards the Saentis."
Full of thoughts, he descended to the valley again.
In the night he prayed at the grave of St. Gallus, and early in the
morning he bid good-bye to all. The volume of Virgil, and the little
bottle of Thieto were packed up in his knapsack, which also held the
few things besides that he possessed.
He, who has not even his own person, his wishes and his desires at his
free disposal, can still less have any worldly possessions and goods.
The Abbot gave him two gold-pieces and some silver coins, as a
travelling penny.
In a ship, laden with corn, he crossed the lake; a favourable wind
filling the sail, and courage and the love of travel swelling his
bosom.
At dinner-time the castle of Constance, as well as the cathedral with
its towers, became more and more distinct.
With a joyous bound, Ekkehard sprang on shore. In Constance he might
have stopped and claimed the hospitality of the Bishop, but this he did
not do. The place was disagreeable to him,--he hated it from the bottom
of his heart. Not on account of its position and scenery, for in that
respect, it may be boldly compared with any town on the lake, but on
account of a man whom he detested.
This was the Bishop Salomon, who had been lately buried, with great
pomp in the cathedral. Ekkehard was a simple-minded, straightforward
and pious man. To become proud and overbearing in the service of the
church, seemed very wrong to him; to combine this with worldly tricks
and knavery highly blamable,--and in spite of wickedness of heart, to
become famous, most strange. Such however had been the Bishop Salomon's
career. Ekkehard well remembered having heard from older companions,
how the young nobleman had forced his way, into the monastery, and
acted as spy; how he had managed to represent himself as indispensable
to the Emperor, until the mitre of an Abbot of St. Gall was exchanged
for that of a Bishop of Constance.
And the fate which had befallen the messengers of the exchequer,--that
was related by the children in the streets. These, the intriguing
prelate, had provoked and insulted so long, till they trying to right
themselves with the sword, had made him prisoner; but though Sir
Erchanger's wife Berchta, tended and nursed him like a Lord, during his
captivity, and begged him for the kiss of peace, and ate out of the
same plate with him, his revenge was not appeased, until the Emperor's
court of law, at Adingen, condemned his enemies to be beheaded.
And the daughter which he had begotten in the early days of his
student-life, was even then Lady Abbess at the cathedral in Zurich.
All this was known to Ekkehard; and in the church where that man was
buried, he did not like to pray.
It may be unjust to transfer the hatred, which is intended for a human
being alone, to the actual spot where he has lived and died, but still
one can understand this feeling. So he shook the dust from his feet,
and walked out of the city-gate, leaving the stripling Rhine, having
but just issued from the lake, on his right hand.
He cut for himself a strong walking stick from a hazel-bush. "Like unto
the rod of Aaron which budded in the temple of God, distinguishing his
race from that of the degenerate Jews, so may this stick, blessed by
God's grace, be my protection against the evil ones on my way,"--he
said in the words of an old blessing on walking sticks.
His heart beat with pleasure, as he briskly walked along.
How full of hope and joy is he, who in the days of his youth, goes out
on unknown paths, to meet an unknown future. With the wide world before
him, a blue sky over-head, and the heart fresh and trusting, as if his
walking-stick must produce leaves and blossoms, wherever he plants it
in the ground, and must bear happiness, in the shape of golden apples
on its boughs. Walk merrily on.--The day will come when thou also, wilt
drag thyself wearily along, on the dusty high-roads, when thy staff
will be but a dry withered stick, when thy face will be pale and worn,
and the children will be pointing their fingers at thee, laughing and
asking: where are the golden apples?...
Ekkehard was truly light-hearted and content. To sing merry songs was
not becoming for a man of his calling; more fitting was the song of
David which he now began:
"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in
green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters"--and this
may have been registered in heaven, in the same book in which the
guardian-angels of youth put down the merry songs of wandering
scholars, and apprentice-boys.
His path took him through meadows, and past high reeds. A long and
narrow island, called Reichenau, extended itself in the lake. The
towers and cloister-walls were mirrored in the placid waters, and
vine-yards, meadows and orchards testified to the industry of the
inhabitants. About two hundred years ago, the island was but a barren
tract, where damp ground had been inhabited by hideous crawling things,
and poisonous snakes. The Austrian Governor Sintlaz however, begged the
wandering Bishop Pirminius, to come over, and to pronounce a solemn
blessing on the island. Then the snakes went away in great masses,
headed by the scolopendras, ear-wigs and scorpions; toads and
salamanders bringing up the rear. Nothing could resist the curse which
the Bishop had pronounced over them. To the shore, on the spot where
afterwards the castle Schopfeln was built, the swarm directed its
course, and from thence they fell down into the green floods of the
lake; and the fish had a good meal on that day....
From that time the monastery founded by St. Pirmin had thriven and
flourished; a hot-bed of monastic erudition, of considerable repute, in
German lands.
"Reichenau, emerald isle, thou favourite child of kind nature,
Rich with the law of science, and all that is pious and godly,
Rich in thy fruit-bearing trees, and the swelling grapes of thy
vineyards;
Proudly, and fair from the waves, the lily lifts its white
petals,--
So that thy praise has e'en reached, the misty land of the
Britons."
Thus sang the learned monk Ermenrich already in the days of Ludwig the
German, when in his abbey of Ellwangen, he was longing for the
glittering waters of the Bodensee.
Ekkehard resolved to pay a visit to this rival of his monastery. On the
white sandy shore of Ermatingen, a fisherman was standing in his boat,
baling out water. Then Ekkehard pointing with his staff towards the
island, said: "Ferry me over there, my good friend."
The monk's habit in those days, generally gave weight to all demands,
but the fisherman crossly shook his head and said: "I will not take
any more of you over, since you fined me a shilling, at the last
session-day."
"Why did they fine you?"
"On account of the Kreuzmann!"
"And who is the Kreuzmann?"
"The Allmann."
"He likewise is unknown to me," said Ekkehard. "What is he like?"
"He is made of metal," grumbled the fisherman, "two spans high, and
holds three water-lilies in his hand. He was standing in the old
willow-tree at Allmannsdorf, and it was good that he stood there; but
at the last session they took him out of the tree, and carried him into
their cloister. So now he stands on that Italian bishop's grave at
Niederzell. What good does he do there?--Does he help dead Saints to
catch fish?"
Then Ekkehard perceived, that the fisherman's Christian faith was as
yet not very strong; and also why the bronze idol had cost him a
shilling's fine. He had sacrificed a kid to him at night-time, in order
that his nets might be well filled with felchen, trout and perch; and
the authorities had punished these heathenish memories, according to
the imperial laws.
"Be sensible, my good fellow," said Ekkehard, "and try to forget the
Allmann. I will restore you a good part of your shilling, if you will
row me over."
"What I say," replied the old man, "shall not be turned round like a
ring on a finger. I will take none of you. My boy may do it if he
likes."
He then whistled through his fingers, which brought his boy, a tall
boatman, who undertook to row him over.
When Ekkehard landed, he directed his steps towards the monastery,
which hidden between fruit-trees and vine-clad hills, stands in the
middle of the island.
The autumn was already advanced, and both old and young, were occupied
with the vintage. Here and there, the hood of a serving brother stood
out in dark contrast to the red and yellow vine-leaves. On the
watch-tower the fathers of the monastery stood assembled in groups,
looking down, and taking pleasure in the busy crowd of grape-gatherers
below. In a large marble vase, which was believed to be one of the
identical vessels, used at the marriage at Cana, the new wine had been
earned about in the procession, to receive the blessing. Merry shouts,
and singing, were heard from all sides.
Unobserved, Ekkehard reached the monastery, and when he was but a few
steps from it, he perceived the heavy tower with its vestibule,
the arches of which are ornamented alternately with red and grey
sand-stone.
In the court all was hushed and silent. A large dog wagged its tail at
the stranger, without giving a single growl, for it knew better than to
bark at a monk's habit. All the brotherhood seemed to have been enticed
into the open air, by the beautiful weather.
Ekkehard now entered the vaulted room for visitors, near the entrance.
Even the door-keeper's chamber next to it, was empty. Open tuns were
standing about; some filled already with the newly pressed wine. Behind
these, near the wall was a stone bench, and Ekkehard feeling tired from
his long walk, the fresh breeze having blown about his head and made
him sleepy, he put his staff against the wall, lay down on the bench,
and soon fell asleep.
As he lay thus, a slow step approached the cool recess. This was the
worthy brother Rudimann, the cellarer. He carried a small stone jug in
his right hand, and had come to fulfil his duty by tasting the new
wine. The smile of a man, contented with himself and with the world,
was on his lips; and his belly had thriven well, like the household of
an industrious man. Over this, he wore a white apron, and at his side
dangled a ponderous bunch of keys.
"As cellarer shall be chosen some wise man of ripe judgment, sober,
and no glutton; no quarreler or fault-finder, no idler and no
spendthrift; but a pious man, who will be to the whole brotherhood like
a father,"--and as far as the weakness of the flesh allowed this,
Rudimann strove to unite in himself the above mentioned qualities. At
the same time he had to perform the unpleasant duty of carrying out the
punishments, and whenever one of the brothers became liable to a
flogging, he tied him to the pillar, and nobody could then complain of
the weakness of his arm. That he, besides this, sometimes uttered
malicious speeches with a malicious tongue, and tried to entertain the
Abbot with insinuations against his fellow-monks,--like the squirrel
Ratatoeskr of the Edda, which ran up and down the ash-tree called
Yggdrasil, and repeated the eagle's angry speeches at the top of the
tree, to Niddhoegre the dragon at the bottom,--this was none of his
business; and he did it of his own free will.
To-day, however, he wore a very benign and mild expression, the result
of the excellent vintage; and he dipt his drinking vessel into an open
vat, held it towards the window and then slowly sipped its contents,
without once observing the sleeping guest.
"This also is sweet," said he, "though it comes from the northern side
of the hill. Praised be the Lord; who taking the position and wants of
his servants on this island, into due consideration, has given a fat
year after so many meagre ones."
Meanwhile Kerhildis the upper maid-servant, passed the door, carrying a
tub full of grapes to the press.
"Kerhildis," whispered the cellarer, "most trustworthy of all maids,
take my jug, and fill it with wine from the Wartberg, which you will
find over there, that I may compare it with this one."
Kerhildis put down her load, went away and speedily returning, stood
before Rudimann with the jug in her hand. Archly looking up at him, for
he was a head taller than she was, she said: "to your health."
Rudimann took a long pious draught, as a taste so that the new wine ran
down his throat, with a low melodious gurgle.
"It will all be sweet and good," said he, lifting his eyes with
emotion, and that they then fell on the maid-servant's beaming
countenance,'--was scarcely the cellarer's fault, as she had had plenty
of time in which to retire.
So he continued with unction: "But when I look at thee, Kerhildis, my
heart becomes doubly glad, for you also thrive as the cloister-wine
does this autumn, and your cheeks are like the pomegranates, waiting to
be plucked. Rejoice with me, over the goodness of this wine, best of
all maids."
So saying, the cellarer put his arm round the waist of the
dark-eyed maid, who did not resist very long; for what is a kiss at
vintage-time?--and besides she knew Rudimann to be a man of sober
character, who did everything in moderation, as it befitted a cellarer.
The sleeper started up from his slumbers on the stone bench. A peculiar
noise, which could be caused by nothing else, but by a well-meant and
well-applied kiss; struck his ear; and looking through the opening
between the vats, he saw the cellarer's garments covered with flowing
tresses, which could not well belong to that habit. Up he sprang, for
Ekkehard was young and zealous, and moreover accustomed to the strict
discipline of St. Gall. The idea that a man in the holy garb of the
order, could kiss a woman, had never struck him as possible before.
Snatching up his strong hazel-wand, he quickly advanced, and with it
struck a powerful blow at the cellarer, which extended from the right
shoulder to the left hip, and which fitted like a coat made according
to measure,--and before the astonished Rudimann had recovered from the
first shock, there followed a second and third blow of the same
description. He dropped his pitcher, which was shattered to pieces on
the stone floor, whilst Kerhildis fled.
"In the name of the pitcher at the marriage at Cana!" cried Rudimann,
"what is the meaning of this!" and turning round on his assailant, the
two looked into each other's faces for the first time.
"'Tis a present which the holy Gallus sends to St. Pirmin," replied
Ekkehard fiercely, again raising his stick.
"Well, I might have guessed as much," roared the cellarer, "St. Gallish
crab-apples! You may be recognized by your fruits. Rough ground, rough
faith and rougher people! Just wait for the present I shall make thee
in return!"
Looking about for some weapon, and perceiving a good-sized broom, he
took it up, and was just about to attack the disturber of his peace,
when a commanding voice called out from the gate:
"Stop! Peace be with you!"--and a second voice with a foreign accent
exclaimed: "What Holofernes has sprung out of the ground here?"
It was the Abbot Wazmann, who with his friend Simon Bardo, the former
Protospathar of the Greek Emperor, was returning from blessing the new
wine. The noise of the quarrel had interrupted a very learned
discussion of the Greek, on the siege of the town of Hai by Joshua; and
the strategic mistakes of the king of Hai, when he went out at the head
of his army, towards the desert. The old Greek commander who had left
his home, not to lose his strength of body and mind, in the peaceful
state of Byzantium, employed himself very zealously with the study of
tactics, in his leisure hours; and he was jestingly called, "the
Captain of Capernaum," although he had adopted the garb of the Order.
"Make room for the fight," cried Simon Bardo, who had witnessed with
regret the interruption, of the combat by the Abbot. "In my dreams last
night I saw a rain of fiery sparks. That means fighting."
But the Abbot in whose eyes the self-assumed power of younger brothers
was most obnoxious, commanded peace, and desired to hear the case
before him, that he might settle it.
Then Rudimann began his tale, and kept back nothing. "A slight
misbehaviour," murmured the Abbot. "Chapter forty-six, of misbehaviour
during work-time, whilst gardening or fishing, in the kitchen or
cellar. Allemannic law, of that which is done to maids, ... let the
antagonist speak."
Then Ekkehard also told what he had witnessed; and how he had acted on
the impulse of a just and righteous indignation.
"This is complicated," murmured the Abbot. "Chapter seventy: no brother
shall dare to strike a fellow-brother, without the Abbot's sanction.
Chapter seventy-two: of that which is becoming in a monk; and which
leads to eternal felicity, ... How old are you?"
"Twenty-three."
Then the Abbot seriously resumed. "The quarrel is ended. You brother
cellarer, may look on the received blows, as the just retribution, for
your forgetfulness; and you stranger I might well bid to continue your
journey, for the laws say: 'Whenever a stranger-monk, enters a
monastery, he shall be satisfied with everything he meets there,
allowing himself only to reprove mildly, and not making himself
officious in any way.' In consideration of your youth however, as well
as the blameless motive of your action, you shall be allowed to pass an
hour's devotion at the chief-altar of our church, in expiation of your
rashness, and after that you will be welcome as the guest of the
monastery."
The Abbot and his sentence, fared as many an impartial judge has fared
before. Neither of the two were satisfied. They obeyed, but they were
not reconciled. When Ekkehard was performing his expiatory prayers,
many thoughts and reflections on timely zeal, good will and other
people's judgment thereon, crossed his mind. It was one of the first
lessons he learned, from contact with other men. He returned to the
monastery by a little side-door.
What Kerhildis the upper-maid related that evening to her companions,
in the sewing-room at Oberzell, where they had to make a dozen new
monks' habits, by the flickering light of the pinewood, was couched in
such very insulting terms, regarding the disciples of the holy Gallus,
that it had better not be repeated here!...