Ekkehard Volume Ii Part 4

During the long intervals between the different dishes,--for though the repast had begun at midday, it was to last until sunset,--the Hun rested his limbs, which had been tortured by the continual sitting.

Welcomed by the sounds of the rustic musical band, the d.u.c.h.ess with her train, now approached, on horseback. Stopping her palfrey, she looked down into the crowd of merry-makers, amongst which the new Paul was shewing off his wild antics. The music, not being sufficient for him, he shouted and whistled his own time, wheeling his tall spouse about, in a labyrinthine dance. It looked like a walking tower, dancing with a wild cat; the slow one, dancing with the swift; now together, then apart; now breast to breast, then back to back. Sometimes he would suddenly thrust his partner away, and beating his wooden shoes together in the air, he made seven capers, one always higher than the other; and finally dropping on his knees before Dame Hadwig, he bowed his head as if he would kiss the dust, which her horse's hoofs had touched. This was the expression of his grat.i.tude.

His Hegau cousins, looking on at this wonderful dancing, conceived the laudable desire of emulation, and perhaps later, they had themselves instructed in the art; for one still hears a legendary account of the "_seven capers_," or the Hunnic "_hop_" in those parts, which as a variation from the customary monotonous Suabian round-dances, had since those days, become the crowning feat of all festivals.

"Where is Ekkehard?" asked the d.u.c.h.ess, who after getting down from her palfrey, had walked through the ranks of her subjects. Praxedis pointed over to some shady spot, where a gigantic pine-tree lifted its dark-green top towards the sky. On its knotty, rugged roots, the monk was sitting. The loud merriment of the crowd of people oppressed his heart, though he could not tell why. So he had gone aside, and was dreamily gazing at the faint distant outlines of the Alps, rising over the woody hills.

It was one of those soft, balmy evenings, such as Sir Burkhart of Hohenvels enjoyed in later times from his huge tower on the lake; "when the air is tempered and mixed up with sun-fire." The distance was shrouded in a soft glowing haze. He, who has ever looked down from those quiet mountain-tops, when on a bright, radiant day, the sun is slowly sinking down, arrayed in all the splendour of his royal robes; when heaven and earth are palpitating with warmth and light, whilst dark purple shadows, fill up the valleys, and a margin-glory, like liquid gold illumines the snowy alpine peaks,--he will not easily forget that aspect; and perchance when sitting later, within his dusky walls, the memory of it will rise in his heart, as soft and bewitchingly sweet, as a song uttered in the melting tones of the South.

Ekkehard was sitting there, with a serious expression on his countenance; his head supported by his right hand.

"He is no longer as he used to be," said Dame Hadwig to the Greek maid.

"He is no longer, as he used to be," thoughtlessly repeated Praxedis, for she was intently gazing on the women of the Hegau, in their holiday-garments; and whilst scrutinizing those high, stiff bodices; and tun-like, starched skirts, she wondered whether the genius of good taste, had left that land for ever in despair,--or whether his foot had never entered it.

Dame Hadwig now approached Ekkehard. He started up from his mossy seat, as if he saw a ghost.

"All alone, and away from the merry-makers?" asked she. "What are you doing here?"

"I am thinking, where real happiness may be found," replied Ekkehard.

"Happiness?" repeated the d.u.c.h.ess. "'Fortune is a fickle dame, who seldom stays long anywhere,' says the proverb. Has she never paid you a visit?"

"Probably not," said the monk, riveting his eyes on the ground. With renewed vigour, the music and noise of the dancers struck the ear.

"Those who lightly tread the green meadowlands, and know how to express with their feet, what oppresses their hearts, are happy,"

continued he. "Perhaps one requires very little to be happy; but above all,"--pointing over to the distant, glittering Alpine peaks,--"there must be no distant heights which our feet may never hope to reach."

"I do not understand you," coldly said the d.u.c.h.ess, but her heart thought otherwise than her tongue. "And how fares your Virgil," said she, changing the conversation. "During those days of anxiety and warfare, I am afraid that dust and cobwebs will have settled on it."

"He will always find a refuge in my heart, even if the parchment should decay," replied he. "Only a few moments ago, his verses in praise of agriculture, pa.s.sed through my mind. Yonder the little house, nestling in the shade-giving trees; down below, the dark fertile fields; and a newly wedded pair, going to earn their bread with hoe and plough from kind mother Earth. With a feeling almost of envy, Virgil's picture rose before me:"

"Simple and artless, his life is with many a blessing surrounded, Rich with many a joy, and peaceful rest after labour, Grottoes and shady retreats, affording a shelter for slumber."

"You well know, how to adapt his verses to life," said Dame Hadwig, "but I fear, that your envy has made you forget Cappan's duties of destroying the moles, and the obnoxious field-mice. And then the joys of winter! when the snow rises like a wall up to the straw-thatched roof, so that daylight is sorely perplexed through what c.h.i.n.k or crevice, it may creep into the house." ...

"Even such a dilemma, I could bear with composure, and Virgil too, knows how this may be done."

"Many a one, in the winter, will sit by the glare of the fire, Late in the evening then; the light-giving torches preparing,-- During the time that his wife his favourite ditties is singing, Throwing the shuttle along, with a dexterous hand through the texture."

"His wife?" maliciously asked the d.u.c.h.ess. "But if he has got no wife?"--

From the other side there now arose a loud shout of delighted laughter.

They had put their Hunnic cousin on a board, and were carrying him high above their heads; as they used to carry the newly chosen king on his s.h.i.+eld, in the olden days of election. Even in this elevated position, he made some gleeful capers.

"And _may_ not have a wife?" said Ekkehard absently. His forehead was burning. He covered it with his right hand. Wherever he looked, the sight pained him. Yonder, the loud joy of the wedding-guests; here the d.u.c.h.ess, and in the distance, the glittering mountains. An inexpressible pain was gnawing at his heart; but his lips remained closed. "Be strong and silent," he said to himself.

He was in reality no longer as he used to be. The undisturbed peace of his lonely cell had forsaken him. The late battle, as well as all the excitement, brought on by the Hunnic invasion, had widened his thoughts; and the signs of favour which the d.u.c.h.ess had shown him, had called up a fierce conflict in his heart. By day and by night, he was haunted by the recollection, how she had stood before him, hanging the relic round his neck, and giving him the sword, that had been her husband's; and in evil moments, self-reproaches,--misty and unexpressed as yet,--that he had received these gifts so silently, pa.s.sed through his troubled soul. Dame Hadwig had no idea of all that was stirring in his heart. She had accustomed herself to think more indifferently of him, since she had been humiliated by his apparently not understanding her; but as often as she saw him again, with his n.o.ble forehead clouded by grief, and with that mute appealing look in his eyes,--then the old game began afresh.

"If you take such delight in agricultural pursuits," said she lightly, "I can easily help you to that. The Abbot of Reichenau has provoked me.

To think of asking for the pearl of my estates, as if it were a mere crumb of bread, which one shakes down from the table-cloth, without so much as looking at it!"

Here something rustled in the bushes behind them, but they did not notice it. A dark brown colour might have been seen between the foliage. Was it a fox, or a monk's garment?--

"I will appoint you steward of it," continued Dame Hadwig. "Then you will have all that, the lack of which has made you melancholy to-day; and far more still. My Sas.p.a.ch is situated on the merry old Rhine, and the Kaiserstuhl boasts the honour, that it was the first to bear the vine in our lands. The people are honest and good thereabouts, though they speak rather a rough language."

Ekkehard's eyes were still resting on the ground.

"I can also give you a description of your life there; though I have not Virgil's talent for painting. Fancy that autumn has come. You have led a healthy life; getting up with the sun, and going to bed with the chickens,--and so vintage-time has arrived. From all sides men and maids are descending, with baskets full of ripe, luscious grapes. You stand at the door looking on ..."

Again the rustling was heard.

"... and wondering how the wine will be, and whose health, you are going to drink in it. The Voges-mountains seem to wink over at you, as bright and blue, as the Alps do from here; and as you are gazing at them, you see a cloud of dust rising on the highroad from Breisach.

Soon after, horses and carriages become visible, and--well, Master Ekkehard, who is coming?"

Ekkehard who had scarcely followed her recital, shyly said, "who?"

"Who else, but your mistress, who will not give up her sovereign right of examining her subjects doings!"

"And then?"

"Then? then I shall gather information about how Master Ekkehard has been fulfilling his duties; and they will all say: 'he is good and earnest, and if he would not think and brood quite so much, and not read so often in his parchments, we should like him still better.'" ...

"And then?" asked he once more. His voice sounded strange.

"Then I shall say in the words of Scripture: 'well done, thou good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things.'"

Ekkehard stood there like one, but half conscious. He lifted one arm, and let it fall again. A tear trembled in his eye. He was very unhappy.

... At the same time, a man softly crept out, from the bushes. As soon as he felt the gra.s.s again under his feet, he let his habit, which had been gathered up, drop down. Looking stealthily back once more at the two, standing there, he shook his head, like one who has made a discovery. He had certainly not gone into the bushes, to gather violets.

The wedding-feast, by slow stages had got to that point, where a general chaos threatens. The mead was having its effect, on the different minds. One, hung his upper garment on a tree, feeling an almost irresistible inclination to smash everything; whilst another strove to embrace everybody. A third, who remembered having culled many a kiss from Friderun's cheek, ten years ago, sat gloomily at the table, where he had emptied many a goblet, and looking down at the ants, that crept about on the floor, said to himself: "Heigho! None of them is worth a straw."--The two youths, who had looked so very shy in the morning, when they came to invite the d.u.c.h.ess, were now playing an Allemannic trick, on their Hunnic kinsman. They had dragged a large linen sheet out of one of the wedding trunks. On this they placed the unfortunate Cappan, and then taking hold of the four corners, they jerked him up into the air. The victim of this trick, taking this treatment as a mark of friends.h.i.+p and respect, customary in those parts, submitted with perfect good grace, swinging himself gaily up and down.

Suddenly the tall Friderun gave a loud shriek, upon which all heads were turned round to see what might have caused it. The two cousins almost let fall the sheet, when a shout of delight broke forth, so loud and uproarious, that even the old fir-grown basalt rocks, were probably surprised by it; used though they were, to the noise of tempests and storms.

Audifax and Hadumoth were there, on their way back from the Huns, and had been discovered first by the tall bride. Audifax led the horse that carried the treasure-boxes, by the reins, and with beaming faces, the two children walked side by side. That day they had once more beheld the top of the Hohentwiel, and had greeted it with a shout of delight. "Don't tell them everything," whispered Audifax, putting long willow-branches over the panniers.

Friderun was the first who ran to meet them, and s.n.a.t.c.hing Hadumoth up from the ground, she carried her off in triumph.

"Welcome ye lost-ones! Drink bag-piper, drink my boy!" so they cried on all sides, for they all knew of his captivity, and held out the huge stone-jugs in sign of welcome.

The children had agreed together on the road, in what way they should accost the d.u.c.h.ess, when they came home.

"We must thank her very prettily," Hadumoth had said. "And I must give her back the gold Thaler. I got Audifax for nothing, I shall tell her."