Ekkehard Volume Ii Part 28

And so I kept my love and faith for thee And, therefore, pray thee to depart in peace And as a friendly gift I'll fill thy shield With gold and jewels even to the brim."

But with a sombre look and angry voice Sir Hagen to this speech now made reply.

"Indeed, I think, that thou didst break the faith When by thy cruel sword my nephew fell, _His life_ and not thy gold I claim from thee, And will hear nought of friendship past and gone."

Thus speaking he alighted from his horse As likewise did Waltari, and the king; And so they stood prepar'd, two against one, Sir Hagen was the first to break the peace And with an able hand he threw the spear, Which proudly pierc'd the air with hissing sound; But without deigning e'en to turn aside, Waltari stood extending his good shield, From which the lance rebounded with such force As if its point had struck against a wall of stone.

Then Gunther threw his spear with good intent But with such feeble arm, that it fell down, Scarce having touch'd the rim of Walter's shield.

Their lances being gone, both drew the sword, And with it levell'd many a well-aim'd blow Which all were parried by Waltari's lance.

At last an evil thought struck Gunther's mind, And whilst Sir Hagen fiercely onward press'd He stealthily bent down to seize his lance, But just when he had seized the oaken shaft, Waltari, throwing bold Sir Hagen back, Did place his foot on the coveted spear.

Full of dismay, the king stood there aghast Not moving hand or foot, so that his life Was sore endanger'd, when Sir Hagen sprang With deerlike swiftness forwards, shielding him, So that recovering by slow degrees He once again could join in the attack, That waged fiercer now than e'er before; Yet still Waltari stood like some strong rock, Unmov'd and calm amidst the breakers roar.

But from his eyes shot forth such scathing looks, And on his brow, in triple sisterhood, Sat fury, hatred and the fierce desire To die or gain the b.l.o.o.d.y victory.

At last, to Hagen he address'd these words: "Oh hawthorn tree,[3] I do not fear thy p.r.i.c.k!

And let thy vaunted strength be, what it may, I mean to wrestle with thee." At these words, He hurl'd his lance with such unerring aim That part of Hagen's armour was torn off.

Then turning suddenly to Gunther, he With one astounding cut of his good sword, Did sever the right leg from Gunther's frame.

Half dead, King Gunther fell upon his shield But when Waltari just had rais'd his arm, To deal the mortal blow, Sir Hagen saw The peril of his king, and with one bound He threw himself between, so that the sword Fell on his helmet, with a clashing sound And then was shiver'd into sev'ral bits.

With angry frown, Waltari threw the hilt Contemptuously aside, for though of gold, What could it now avail him? Then he rais'd His iron-pointed lance with careless hand But ere he yet had pois'd it, Hagen's sword Cut off the hand, which to its enemies Had been so fearful, and so far renown'd,-- And now lay helpless on the b.l.o.o.d.y ground.

Yet even then, Waltari's n.o.ble heart Thought not of flight, but pressing back his pain, His left hand grasp'd the Hunnic scimitar Which still was left him in this hour of need, And which aveng'd him, slashing Hagen's face In such a fearful way, that his right eye Besides six teeth he lost by this one blow.

Then both did drop their arms, and thus at last The b.l.o.o.d.y fight was ended. Both had shown Their strength and valour in an equal way, And now did part with knightly courtesy.

Then, sitting side by side, they staunch'd their wounds With flowers, until Walter's ringing voice Had brought the fair Hildgund unto their side, Who with her gentle hands then dress'd the wounds.

As soon as this was done, Waltari said: "Now sweet my love, I prythee go and bring For each a cup of wine, for verily I think we have deserv'd it all to-day.

First give the cup to Hagen, my old friend, Who, like a faithful va.s.sal to his king, Has fought full valiantly in his behalf; Next give it me and then the king may drink, Who least has done, and therefore shall be last."

The maiden doing as her lord had said, Stepp'd up to Hagen, who, though plagued with thirst Refus'd to drink, before Waltari's lips Had been refreshed by the cooling draught.

And when the pangs of thirst had thus been still'd The two, who just before had been dread foes, Now sat together, holding friendly talk, And jesting gaily as in days gone by.

"In future thou, my friend," Sir Hagen said, "Must wear a leathern glove, well stuff'd with wool, On thy right arm, to make the world believe Thou still hadst got both hands at thy commands, And at thy right side thou must wear the sword; But worse than all, when thou wilt clasp thy bride With thy left arm thou must embrace her then,-- In fact all thou wilt do in future life Must awkward be,--_left-handed_ as they say."

Briskly Waltari to this jest replied: "Oh, stop thy railing, poor and one-eyed man For with my left hand here, I yet may kill The boar and stag, which thou no more wilt eat; And in my fancy I can see thee look, On friends and foes and all the world awry!

But for the sake of our youthful days And ancient friendship, I will counsel thee, To bid thy nurse make porridge and milk-soups When thou com'st home, such as befit thy state Of toothless incapacity for other food."-- Thus they renew'd the friendship of their youth, And after having rested, laid the king Who suffer'd greatly, on his horse's back.

And then the two Franconians slowly rode To Worms, from where the day before they came In all the pride of their exulting hearts, Meanwhile, Waltari and his gentle bride Went on to Aquitania, Walter's home Where they were both receiv'd with tears of joy By his old father, who had long despair'd Of holding in his arms his son again, Who soon was wedded to fair Hildegund; And when his father died, for thirty years Waltari sway'd the sceptre, lov'd by all.

Oh, much beloved reader, if my song Has been but roughly chanted, I implore Thy kind forgiveness,--I did my best.

Praised be Jesus Christ!--So ends Waltari's song.

CHAPTER XXV.

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 G.o.d and the universe, and Heaven knows what! All that is shown to us there, is a t.i.tanic fight and t.i.tanic 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 Santis; 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 ma.n.u.script; 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 a.s.sumed 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 stalact.i.te walls of his cavern, reecho. The goats in their stable, received a double quant.i.ty 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 d.u.c.h.ess'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 a.s.ses 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 Santis 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 Pa.s.sau 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 ma.n.u.script 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 Pa.s.sau 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 Santis 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 Pa.s.sau 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 G.o.d reward you Sir Bishop! I hope that you will grant me a few days leave, to rest myself from my work."