----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 Säntis; 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 Säntis 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 Säntis 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 rareIn 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." ...
"Then boldly spoke the minstrel, his voice rang through the air:Oh margrave, noble margrave, God gave thee blessing rareIn 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 togetherAnd may your sleep be sound, until there's better weather!"
"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 togetherAnd 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 notlifeitself; 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 Säntis, 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."
"Farewell then, mighty Säntis, 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 Säntis 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.
"Hecan 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 Säntis 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 Säntis, 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 Säntis 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!
Footnote 1: Abbreviation ofdomina.
Footnote 2: An old Suabian law.
Footnote 3: The meaning of Hagen in German.