Ekkehard Volume I Part 9

Upon this the d.u.c.h.ess 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 n.o.body caught it, and the horses hoofs pa.s.sed over it....

In the dry moat outside the gate, the cloister-pupils had hidden themselves. "Long life to the d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 t.i.tle-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 ill.u.s.trated 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 G.o.d 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 t.i.tle-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 pa.s.sage of the upper storey, he pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 Santis 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 ma.s.ses 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 Santis."

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 sh.o.r.e. 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 n.o.bleman 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.