Ekkehard Volume Ii Part 29

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 pa.s.sed 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, n.o.ble margrave, G.o.d 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 c.h.i.n.k 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 t.i.t-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 s.h.i.+rt, 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-gra.s.s," 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 pa.s.sive 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 Santis, 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 Santis 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 Santis 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 Santis, 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 ...