The last Echo, and End.
----And he has sung bravely, our hermit Ekkehard; and his Waltari-song
is a venerable monument of German spirit; the first great epic out of
the circle of national heroic legends, which, in spite of the
destroying rust of ages, was bequeathed undamaged to later
generations.--To be sure, other notes have been struck in it than those
which the Epigonic poets have hatched in their gilt-edged little books.
The spirit of a great, heroic time breathes through it; wild and awful
like the roaring of the tempest in mighty oak-trees. There is a
sounding and clinking of swords dashing and splitting of helmets;
whilst but little is heard of gallant speeches and tender wooing, or
would-be eloquent dissertations on God and the universe, and Heaven
knows what! All that is shown to us there, is a Titanic fight and
Titanic jests; old knighthood in all its simple sternness; true,
honest, silent love, and genuine open-faced hatred;--these were the
materials for Ekkehard's epic; and therefore his work has become grand
and mighty, and stands at the portal of German poetry, tall and strong,
like one of those iron-clad giants, which the plastic art of later
days, loved to place as gate-keepers before the entrance of its
palaces.
He, who by the roughness of ancient, often almost heathenish views, may
be affected as by the rude blast on a sea-coast, which is apt to
produce a cold in the dress-coat-wearing individual,--will be pleased
to consider, that the epic has been sung by one who had himself fought
with the Huns; and that he composed it many hundred feet over the
valley-regions, whilst his curls were being ruffled by the wind which
had swept over the glaciers on the Saentis; that his mantle was a wolf's
skin, and that a she-bear was his first auditor.
'Tis a pity that the sportive sprites and goblins have ceased this
many-a-day to practise their merry art; otherwise it might not be amiss
for many a writer of the present day, if, by invisible hands, he were
suddenly carried away from his mahogany table, to the green meadow of
the Ebenalp; up to those heights where the "old man" in all his
mountain-grandeur, looks into the poet's manuscript; where the thunder,
with its manifold echoes, rolls through the ravines and glens; and
where the golden-vulture, in proud, lonely circles, rises up to the
rainbow. There, a man must either compose something grand, pithy and of
large dimensions, or he must penitently fall on his knees, like the
prodigal son, and confess before those magnificent scenes of nature,
that he has sinned.--
Our tale is drawing to its close.
Perhaps some of our readers would be pleased to hear, that Ekkehard,
after having completed his song, died a peaceful death. It would verily
have been a most touching conclusion, "how he had reclined before his
cavern, with eyes strained towards the Bodensee; his harp leaning
against the rock; the parchment-roll in his hands,--and how his heart
had broken!"--Further, one might have added some fine simile;--how the
poet was consumed by the burning flames of his genius; like the torch
which is burnt to ashes while it gives its light;--but this touching
spectacle, I am sorry to say, Ekkehard did not afford to posterity.
Genuine poetry makes a man fresh and healthy. So Ekkehard's cheeks had
assumed a brighter colour during his work, and he often experienced a
feeling of well-being which made him stretch out his arm, as if he were
about to strike down a wolf or bear, with one blow of his fist.
But when his Waltari had bravely conquered all dangers and deathly
wounds,--then, he gave a shout of delight which made the stalactite
walls of his cavern, reecho. The goats in their stable, received a
double quantity of herbs that day, and to the goat-boy he gave some
silver coins to induce him to descend to Sennwald in the Rhine-valley,
there to procure a jug of red wine.
It was in those days just as it is now, "_libro completo, saltat
scriptor pede laeto_;" when the book is finished, the writer jumps with
joy.
Therefore on that evening he sat on the Ebenalp in the cottage of the
old herdsman and they did not spare the jug; and lastly Ekkehard seized
the huge Alpine-horn, and mounting a rock, blew a mighty strain in the
direction of the hazy distant Hegau-mountains; and the notes swelled
out loud and triumphantly, as if they wanted to reach the Duchess's
ears, so as to make her step out on her balcony, followed by Praxedis,
whom he then would have liked to greet with a laugh.
"If I were to come once more into the world," he said to his friend the
master of the Ebenalp, "and were to drop down from the sky just where I
pleased, I verily believe that I would choose no other spot than the
Wildkirchlein."
"You are not the first man who has been pleased with our residence,"
laughed the old man. "When brother Gottshalk was still living, five
Italian monks once came up to pay him a visit, and they brought some
better wine than this with them; and they jumped and danced, so as to
make their habits fly. 'Twas only when they went downhill again that
they composed their faces into the necessary serious expression, and
one of them, before leaving, made a long speech to our goats. 'Don't
blab, ye dear goats,' he said, 'for the Abbot of Novalese need not know
anything of our spirits' raptures.'"
"But now, mountain-brother, I wish you to tell me one thing, and that
is what you have been doing all these last days, cowering in your
cavern? I have well observed, that you have drawn many hooks and runes
on your asses skin, and I trust that you are not concocting some evil
charm, against our flocks or mountains? Else"----a threatening look
finished the sentence.
"I have merely been writing a song," said Ekkehard.
The herdsman shook his head. "Writing! that confounded writing,"
he growled. "Well 'tis none of my business; and I trow that the
high Saentis will still be looking down on our grand-children and
great-grandchildren, without their knowing how to guide pen or
lead-pencil; for I shall never believe that writing will do a man any
good. Man, if he wants to be God's likeness, must walk upright on both
his feet, whilst he who wants to write, must sit down with a bent and
crooked back. So now I ask you whether that is not just the contrary of
how God would have if? Consequently it must be an invention of the
Devil. Therefore mountain-brother,--mind what you are about. And
whenever you try that trick again, and I find you cowering down like a
marmot in your cavern, and writing, thunder and lightning, then I will
exercise my power as Master of the Alps, and I will tear up your
parchment-leaves into little bits, so that the wind will scatter them
amongst the fir-trees below! Up here, everything has to be orderly and
simple, and I tell you once for all, that we will have nothing to do
with new-fangled things!"
"I promise not to do it again," said Ekkehard laughing and holding out
his hand.
The brave Master of the Alps had grown warm over the red wine from
Sennwald.
"Thunder and lightning!" he continued. "What after all is the meaning,
of writing down a song? 'Tis mere foolery! There! Try and write that
down if you can." And with these words he began to sing some Alpine
"_Jodler_" in such rough, unmodulated sounds, that even the sharpest
ear would have found some difficulty in discovering a note which could
have been rendered by word or writing.
* * *
At the same hour, in a vine-clad summerhouse of the Bishop's garden at
Passau on the Danube, a man, in the first bloom of manhood, was sitting
before a stone table. An indescribable subtle expression played round
his lips, half hidden by an ample brown beard, whilst luxurious curls
fell down from under his velvet cap. His dark eyes followed the
characters which his right hand was tracing on a parchment roll. Two
fair-haired boys were standing beside his armchair; curiously peeping
over his shoulder. Many a parchment-leaf was already covered with the
recital of tempests and battles, and the bloody deaths of valiant
heroes,--and he was now approaching the end. And before long, he laid
aside his pen, and took a long and solemn draught of Hungarian wine,
out of a pointed goblet.
"Is it done?" asked one of the boys.
"Yes, 'tis all finished," said the writer, "how it began, and how it
came, and how it ended with sorrow and shame!"
He held out the manuscript to him, and the boys ran away jubilant, to
their uncle, Bishop Pilgerim, and showed it to him. "And thou art in it
also, dear uncle," they cried. "'The Bishop with his niece, to Passau
then did go.' Twice thou art in it,--and here again a third time!"
Pilgerim the Bishop, then stroked his white beard and said: "Ye may
well rejoice, my dear nephews, that Conrad has written down this tale
for you; and let me tell you that if the Danube streamed with gold for
three entire days and nights, ye might not fish up anything more
precious than that song, which contains the greatest history the world
ever saw."
The scrivener, meanwhile, stood with radiant countenance under the
vine-leaves and blooming honeysuckle in the garden, looking at the
withered red leaves, which autumn had shaken from the trees, and then
he gazed downwards into the soft-flowing Danube, and in his right ear
he heard a loud ringing sound,--for at that very moment, Ekkehard had
filled a wooden cup with wine, and spoken thus to the old herdsman: "I
once had a good comrade, for a better one cannot be found anywhere, and
his name is Conrad. The love of women, and worldly ambition are all
nought, but I shall ever remain the debtor of old and faithful
friendship, unto my last dying day. So you must now drink his health
with me, and I tell you, he is a man who would please the old Saentis
well, if he were here."
And the herdsman had emptied the cup and had said: "Mountain-brother, I
believe you. Long life to him!"
Therefore the man at Passau had felt his ear tingling; but he did not
know the reason thereof. The sound had not yet died out, when the
Bishop came towards him, and he was followed by a groom who led a white
little mare, which was old and shabby; and when one looked at it
closer, one could see that it was blind on one eye. And the Bishop
nodded his head with the pointed mitre and graciously said: "Master
Conrad, that what you have written to please my nephews, shall not be
without its reward. My tried battle-horse is yours!"
A faint, half melancholy smile played round Master Conrad's finely cut
lips, whilst he thought: "Well, it serves me but right. Why did I
become a poet!"--But aloud, he said: "May God reward you Sir Bishop! I
hope that you will grant me a few days leave, to rest myself from my
work."
Then he caressed the poor old horse, and mounted it without waiting for
the answer. And he sat both proudly and gracefully in the saddle, and
even persuaded his humble charger to fall into a tolerable canter, so
that he soon disappeared.
"I would wager my best falcon against a pair of turtle-doves," said the
elder of the two boys, "if he is not again riding to Bechelaren to the
markgravian castle. He has said many a time, 'quite as well as I can
bring my gracious master the Bishop into the song, I can also in it
erect a memorial to the margravine Gotelinde and her fair daughter.
They, after all, will appreciate it most.'"
Meanwhile, Master Conrad had already passed out of the gate of the
Bishop's town. Casting a longing look into the distance, he began to
sing with a clear voice:
"Then boldly spoke the minstrel, his voice rang through the air:
Oh margrave, noble margrave, God gave thee blessing rare
In giving thee so fair a spouse, and true as she is fair.
And if I only were a king, and reigned o'er land and sea,
To make thy daughter my dear queen, my only wish would be.
For ne'er a maid more beautiful." ...
... but when he had got so far, a cloud of dust was blown right into
his face, so that involuntary tears started into his eyes, and his
singing was stopped.
The lines were out of the work, for which the Bishop had just now
rewarded him. It was an epic in the German tongue, and was called, "The
song of the Nibelungen!"
* * *
By and bye autumn began, and although the evening-red is more glowing
and brilliant then, than in any other part of the year, it is also
accompanied by fresh breezes, so that the inhabitants of the Alps get
ready to decamp into their lowly dwellings in the valleys, and no
wolf's skin then can prevent a man's teeth from chattering.
Fresh snow was glistening on all the peaks around, and was evidently
not intending to melt again that year. Ekkehard had preached his last
sermon to the herdsmen. After it, Benedicta sauntered past him.
"Now 'tis all over with our merry-making up here," said she, "for
to-morrow man and beast will betake themselves to their winter
quarters. Where are you going, mountain-brother?"
The question fell heavily on his heart.
"I should like best to remain here," said he.
Benedicta struck up a merry peal of laughter. "One can well see, that
you have not spent a winter up here; else you would not wish for
another. I should like to see you snowed up in your hermitage, with the
cold creeping in at every chink and crevice, so as to make you tremble
like an aspen leaf, whilst avalanches come thundering down round about
you, and the icicles are growing right into your very mouth.... And
when you attempt to go down into the valley to fetch some provisions,
then the snow blocks up the path as high as a house; one step and you
sink down to the knees,--a second--traladibidibidib! and the cowl is
all that is left, and one does not see more of you than of a fly that
has fallen into a pot of milk. Besides we have had so many great
tit-mice this year,--that means a severe winter. Ugh--how pleasant the
long winter-evenings will be! Then, we sit around the warm stove, and
spin by the light of the pine-chips. How the wheels fly about, and the
fire crackles, and we relate the most beautiful stories, and all good
boys may come and listen. 'Tis a pity that you have not become a
herdsman, mountain-brother, for then I could take you also with me to
our spinning-room."
"'Tis a pity," said Ekkehard.
The next morning they went down the valley in gay procession. The old
herdsman had put on his finest linen shirt, and looked like some jolly
old patriarch. With a round leathern cap on his head, and the
handsomest milk-pail on his left shoulder, he walked ahead, singing the
"ranz-des-vaches" in a clear fresh voice. Then came Benedicta's goats;
the skirmishers of the great army; their keeper amongst them, wearing
in her dark locks the last Alpine roses, which already showed some
yellow leaves. Then came the big large-spotted Susanna, the queen of
the herd, wearing the heavy bell round her neck, in sign of her high
rank. Dignified and proud was her gait, and whenever one of the others
ventured to outstrip her, she gave her such a contemptuous and
threatening look, that the presumptuous cow instantly fell back. Slowly
and heavily the rest of the herd marched downhill. "Farewell thou
dainty Alpine-grass," was probably thought by many a plump cow, as it
cropped a stray flower here and there, on the way-side.
The bull carried the milking-stool between his horns, and on his huge
back sat the goat-boy, with his face to the tail, holding up the
outstretched fingers of both his hands to his not over delicately
formed nose, and calling out the following doggrel-verses:
"The summer's gone away, and autumn's come aright,
So now we will bid you farewell and goodnight.
Ye silent, snowy masters, good-bye then all together
And may your sleep be sound, until there's better weather!"
A sledge with the simple furniture and kitchen utensils, closed the
train.
By degrees, herdsmen, cows and goats disappeared in the fir-wood below;
their joyous songs and the merry tinkle of the cow-bells dying away in
the distance; and then it became silent and lonely, as on that evening
when Ekkehard had first knelt before the cross of the Wildkirchlein.
He entered his hermitage. During his solitary life in the mountains, he
had learnt to understand, that solitude is only a school for life, and
not _life_ itself; and that he, who in this busy, active world will
only be a passive spectator, wrapped up in himself, must in the end
become a useless being.
"There's no help for it," said he, "I too must return to the valley!
The snow is too cold, and I am too young to remain a hermit."
"Farewell then, mighty Saentis, thou good and trusty friend,
Farewell, ye bonny meadows, that healthy breezes sent!
I thank thee for thy blessings, oh holy solitude.
That took away my sorrow, heal'd my rebellious mood.
My heart now beateth calmly; my banner is unfurl'd,
And longing for new battles, I go into the world.
My youth was idle dreaming,--then came the darksome night,
But here, among the mountains, I woke to life and light."
He seized his knapsack, and in it put his scanty belongings. His most
precious thing, the Waltari song, carefully wrapped up, was placed on
the top. A smile played round his lips as he looked about on the
few things which he left behind. On a stone stood the half empty
ink-bottle, which he took and threw down the abyss, where it broke into
many glittering fragments. The three-cornered harp, leaning against the
wall outside, had something melancholy about it.
"Thou shalt remain here, and sweeten the lonely hours of him who comes
after me," said he. "But mind not to give forth weak, sweetish sounds;
else it were better that the water should drop down on thy strings from
the crevices, so that they get rusty, and that the winds from the
glaciers break them. I have sung my song!"
Therewith he hung the harp on a nail.
During his hermit's life, he had carved for himself a strong
bow,--quiver and arrows being still there from Gottshalk's time. Thus
he was well armed, and after hanging his wolf's skin mantle round his
shoulders, he stood before his hermitage, casting a long, long look at
the beautiful scenery around; at his beloved mountain peaks,--and then
let his gaze glide down into the depth, where the seagreen Seealpsee
peeped forth from between the dark fir-trees. It was all as beautiful
as ever.
The black-martin, which lived in a crevice of the same rock that
sheltered him, confidingly flew down on his shoulder and pecked his
cheek,--then spreading its black and red plumage it flew up into the
blue air, as if it wanted to tell the Saentis that the hermit was going
away.
Firmly setting the point of his spear into the ground, he walked down
the well-accustomed giddy path. When he had reached the Aesher, he
stopped once more, and waving his hand to his hermitage, he uttered a
long "_Jodler_" that reverberated from the Kamor and Hohen-Kasten to
the Maarwiese, until it was lost in the distant clefts of the
mountains.
"_He_ can do it well," said a returning herdsman in the valley to one
of his comrades.
"Almost like a goat-boy!" said the other, as Ekkehard was just
disappearing behind a rocky wall.
The rising sun had already cast his rays for some time on the
Wildkirchlein, which, like a deserted nest, seemed to look mournfully
into the valley below.
At the Bodensee, people prepared for the coming vintage. One fine
evening, Dame Hadwig sat in her garden, with the faithful Praxedis by
her side. The Greek had unpleasant times now. Her mistress was out of
tune, discontented and reserved. To-day likewise she could not entice
her into a conversation. It was a day of evil remembrances.
"To-day it is just a year," Praxedis began, with seeming indifference,
"that we sailed over the Bodensee, and paid a visit to St. Gallus."
The Duchess made no reply. "A great deal has happened since then,"
Praxedis was going to add, but the words died on her lips.
"And have you heard, gracious mistress, what people are saying of
Ekkehard?" resumed she, after a considerable pause.
Dame Hadwig looked up. Her mouth was working.
"And what do people say?" she asked carelessly.
"Master Spazzo has lately encountered the Abbot from the Reichenau,"
said Praxedis, "who accosted him thus: 'The Alps have been highly
favoured, for the walls of the Saentis reverberate with the sound of the
lyre and poetical twitterings; for a new Homer has built his nest up
there, and if he only knew in which cave the muses are living, he might
lead their dance like the Cynthian Apollo.' And when Master Spazzo,
shaking his head, replied, 'how does that regard me?' then the Abbot
said: 'The poet's no other than your Ekkehard. This news has reached us
from the cloister-school at St. Gall.' Master Spazzo then rejoined
laughingly: 'How can a man sing, who is not able to tell a story
even?'"
The Duchess had risen. "Be silent," said she, "I won't hear anything
more about it." Praxedis understood the wave of her hand, and
sorrowfully went away.
Dame Hadwig's heart, however, felt differently from what her tongue
uttered. She stepped up to the garden-wall, and looked over towards the
Helvetian mountains. Dusk had set in, and long, heavy steel-gray clouds
stood immovably over the evening-red that glowed and trembled beneath
them.
In looking at the beauty and softness of the waning day, her heart was
softened also. Her eyes were riveted on the Saentis, and it was as if
she saw a vision, in which the Heavens opened and sent down two angels,
who, descending to those heights, lifted up a man in a well-known
monk's habit, and the man was pale and dead, and an aureole of light,
clear and beautiful surrounded the airy procession ...
But Ekkehard was not dead.
A low hissing sound, made the Duchess start up from her reverie. Her
eyes glided over the dark rocky wall, down which the prisoner had once
made his escape, and beheld a dark figure disappearing in the shade,
whilst an arrow sped towards her, and dropped heavily at her feet.
She bent down to take up the curious missile. No hostile hand had sent
it from the bow. Thin parchment-leaves were rolled round the shaft,
whilst the point was covered with some wild flowers. She untied the
leaves, and did not fail to recognize the handwriting. It was
"Waltari's song." On the first page was written in pale red ink: "A
parting salutation for the Duchess of Suabia!" and beside it the words
of the apostle James: "Blessed is the man, who has conquered
temptation."
Then the proud woman inclined her head, and wept bitterly.--
* * *
Here our story is ended.
Ekkehard went out into the wide world, and never set eyes again on the
Hohentwiel. Neither did he ever return to the monastery of St. Gall. It
is true that when he descended from the Alps and approached the
well-known walls, he reflected whether he should not enter it again as
a penitent; but at the right moment an adage of the old Master of the
Alps occurred to him: "when a man has once been master, he does not
like to become a servant again,"--and so he passed by.
Later, a good deal was talked about a certain Ekkehard at the court of
the Saxon Emperor, who was said to be a proud, strong-willed and
reserved man; who to great piety united great contempt for the
world,--but contented, active and well-versed in all the arts. He
became the Emperor's chancellor, and tutor of his young son; and his
counsel was of great influence in all the affairs of the realm. One
historian reports of him, that by degrees he had risen to so much
honour, that there was a rumour that the highest dignity of the Church
was awaiting him.
The Empress Adelheid, also held him in great esteem; and his influence
was one of the chief causes that an army was sent out against the
overbearing King of Denmark.
It has not been ascertained whether this was the same Ekkehard of our
story.
Others have pretended that there had been several monks of the name of
Ekkehard in the monastery of St. Gall; and that he, who had instructed
the Duchess in Latin, was not the same who had composed Waltari's song.
Those, however, who have attentively read the story which we have now
happily brought to a conclusion, know better.
About the fate of the others whom our tale, in many-coloured forms, has
brought before the reader's eye, there is not much left to be told.
The Duchess Hadwig never married again; and in her pious widowhood
reached a considerable age. Later, she founded a humble little convent
on the Hohentwiel, to which she bequeathed her territories in the
Allemannian lands.
Ekkehard's name was no more allowed to be mentioned before her; but
Waltari's song was read very often, and she evidently derived much
pleasure and comfort from it. According to an,--however unwarranted
assertion of the monks from the Reichenau,--she is said to have known
it almost by heart.
Praxedis faithfully served her mistress for some years more; but by
degrees an irresistible longing for her bright, sunny home, took
possession of her, so that she declared that she could not bear the
Suabian air any longer.
Richly dowered, the Duchess let her go from her. Master Spazzo, the
chamberlain, gave her a gallant and honourable escort as far as
Venetia; from whence a Greek galley bore the still pretty maiden from
the city of St. Mark, to Byzantium. The accounts which she gave there
of the Bodensee, and the rough but faithful barbarian hearts near its
shores, were received by all the waiting-women at the Greek court with
a dubious shake of the head, as if she were speaking of a bewitched
sea, and some fabulous country.
Old Moengal, for some time longer took care of the spiritual welfare of
his parishioners. When the Huns threatened the land with another
invasion, he spent much time in making plans for their reception. He
proposed to dig some hundred deep pit-falls in the plain; to cover them
with boughs and ferns, and behind them, in full battle-array, to wait
for the enemy; so that horses and riders should thus be frustrated in
their wicked designs.
The evil guests, however, did not make their reappearance in the Hegau,
and thus robbed the parish-priest of the pleasure of splitting their
skulls with the mighty blows of his shilalah. A peaceful death overtook
the old sportsman, just when he was about to rest himself after a
prosperous falcon-hunt. On his grave, in the shadow of his grey
parish-church there grew a holly-bush, which became higher and more
knotty than any which had ever been seen in those parts; and people
said that it must be an offspring of their priest's good bludgeon,
Cambutta.
Audifax, the goat-herd, learned the goldsmith's art, and settled down
in the bishopric of Constance, where he produced much fine workmanship.
The companion of his adventures, there became his wedded spouse, and
the Duchess was god-mother to their first little son.
Burkhard the cloister-pupil, became a celebrated Abbot of the monastery
of St. Gallus, and on all great occasions he still manufactured many
dozens of learned Latin verses, from which, however, thanks to the
destroying powers of time, posterity has been spared.
... And all have long since become dust and ashes. Centuries have
passed, in swift procession over the places, where their fates were
fulfilled; and new stories have taken the place of the old ones.
The Hohentwiel has still witnessed a good deal, during war and peace.
Many a brave knight rode out of its gates, and many an imprisoned man
pined in its vaults,--until the last hour of the proud fortress struck;
for on a fine day in May, it was blown to pieces by the enemy, so that
towers and walls were scattered into the air.
In the present day, 'tis quiet enough on that summit. The goats are
peacefully grazing between the huge fragments; but from over the
glittering Bodensee, the Saentis still stands out in the blue distance,
as grand and beautiful as it did many hundred years ago; and it is
still a pleasurable thing, seated in the luxuriant grass, to look over
the land.
He, who has written this book, has sat up there, on many a
spring-evening, a strange and lonely guest; and the crows and jackdaws
flew tauntingly around him, as if they wanted to mock him, because he
was so lonely; and they did not notice that a numerous and honourable
party was assembled around him.--They were all those in fact, whose
acquaintance the reader has made in the course of this story; and they
told him every thing; clearly and distinctly, and they kindly
encouraged him to write it down, thus to help them to live again in the
memory of a later, railway-hurrying present.
And if he has succeeded in calling up also before you, much beloved
reader, who have patiently followed him till now, a distinct picture of
that faded, bygone time, then he considers himself well paid for his
trouble, and some head-ache. Fare-thee-well! and be his friend also in
the future!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Abbreviation of _domina_.]
[Footnote 2: An old Suabian law.]
[Footnote 3: The meaning of Hagen in German.]
THE END.
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PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.
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