A Word Only A Word, Volume 1.
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Georg Ebers >> A Word Only A Word, Volume 1.
He had no cause to repent his bargain.
The old nurse remained with him and took care of Ulrich, who throve
admirably. His own heart too grew lighter while engaged in designing or
executing many an artistic piece of work. He sometimes went to the city
to buy iron or coals, but usually avoided any intercourse with the
citizens, who shrugged their shoulders or pointed to their foreheads,
when they spoke of him.
About a year after his removal he had occasion to speak to the file-
cutter, and sought him at the Lamb, where a number of Count Frolinger's
retainers were sitting. Adam took no notice of them, but they began to
jeer and mock at him. For a time he succeeded in controlling himself,
but when red-haired Valentine went too far, a sudden fit of rage
overpowered him and he felled him to the floor. The others now attacked
him and dragged him to their master's castle, where he lay imprisoned for
six months. At last he was brought before the count, who restored him to
liberty "for the sake of Florette's beautiful eyes."
Years had passed since then, during which Adam had lived a quiet,
industrious life in the Richtberg with his son. He associated with no
one, except Doctor Costa, in whom he found the first and only real friend
fate had ever bestowed upon him.
CHAPTER III.
Father Benedict had last seen the smith soon after his return from
imprisonment, in the confessional of the monastery. As the monk in his
youth had served in a troop of the imperial cavalry, he now, spite of his
ecclesiastical dignity, managed the stables of the wealthy monastery, and
had formerly come to the smithy in the market-place with many a horse,
but since the monks had become involved in a quarrel with the city,
Benedict ordered the animals to be shod elsewhere.
A difficult case reminded him of the skilful, half-forgotten artisan;
and when the latter came out of the shed with a sack of coal, Benedict
greeted him with sincere warmth. Adam, too, showed that he was glad to
see the unexpected visitor, and placed his skill at the disposal of the
monastery.
"It has grown late, Adam," said the monk, loosening the belt he was
accustomed to wear when riding, which had become damp. "The storm
overtook us on the way. The rolling and flashing overhead made the
sorrel horse almost tear Gotz's hands off the wrists. Three steps
sideways and one forward--so it has grown late, and you can't shoe the
rascal in the dark."
"Do you mean the sorrel horse?" asked Adam, in a deep, musical voice,
thrusting a blazing pine torch into the iron ring on the forge.
"Yes, Master Adam. He won't bear shoeing, yet he's very valuable. We
have nothing to equal him. None of us can control him, but you formerly
zounds!....you haven't grown younger in the last few years either, Adam!
Put on your cap; you've lost your hair. Your forehead reaches down to
your neck, but your vigor has remained. Do you remember how you cleft
the anvil at Rodebach?"
"Let that pass," replied Adam--not angrily, but firmly. "I'll shoe the
horse early to-morrow; it's too late to-day."
"I thought so!" cried the other, clasping his hands excitedly. "You know
how we stand towards the citizens on account of the tolls on the bridges.
I'd rather lie on thorns than enter the miserable hole. The stable down
below is large enough! Haven't you a heap of straw for a poor brother in
Christ? I need nothing more; I've brought food with me."
The smith lowered his eyes in embarrassment. He was not hospitable.
No stranger had rested under his roof, and everything that disturbed his
seclusion was repugnant to him. Yet he could not refuse; so he answered
coldly: "I live alone here with my boy, but if you wish, room can be
made."
The monk accepted as eagerly, as if he had been cordially invited; and
after the horses and groom were supplied with shelter, followed his host
into the sitting-room next the shop, and placed his saddle-bags on the
table.
"This is all right," he said, laughing, as he produced a roast fowl and
some white bread. "But how about the wine? I need something warm inside
after my wet ride. Haven't you a drop in the cellar?"
"No, Father!" replied the smith. But directly after a second thought
occurred to him, and he added: "Yes, I can serve you."
So saying, he opened the cupboard, and when, a short time after, the monk
emptied the first goblet, he uttered a long drawn "Ah!" following the
course of the fiery potion with his hand, till it rested content near his
stomach. His lips quivered a little in the enjoyment of the flavor; then
he looked benignantly with his unusually round eyes at Adam, saying
cunningly:
"If such grapes grow on your pine-trees, I wish the good Lord had given
Father Noah a pine-tree instead of a vine. By the saints! The
archbishop has no better wine in his cellar! Give me one little sip
more, and tell me from whom you received the noble gift?"
"Costa gave me the wine."
"The sorcerer---the Jew?" asked the monk, pushing the goblet away. "But,
of course," he continued, in a half-earnest, half-jesting tone, "when one
considers--the wine at the first holy communion, and at the marriage of
Cana, and the juice of the grapes King David enjoyed, once lay in Jewish
cellars!"
Benedict had doubtless expected a smile or approving word from his host,
but the smith's bearded face remained motionless, as if he were dead.
The monk looked less cheerful, as he began again "You ought not to grudge
yourself a goblet either. Wine moderately enjoyed makes the heart glad;
and you don't look like a contented man. Everything in life has not gone
according to your wishes, but each has his own cross to bear; and as for
you, your name is Adam, and your trials also come from Eve!"
At these words the smith moved his hand from his beard, and began to push
the round leather cap to and fro on his bald head. A harsh answer was
already on his lips, when he saw Ulrich, who had paused on the threshold
in bewilderment. The boy had never beheld any guest at his father's
table except the doctor, but hastily collecting his thoughts he kissed
the monk's hand. The priest took the handsome lad by the chin, bent his
head back, looked Adam also in the face, and exclaimed:
"His mouth, nose and eyes he has inherited from your wife, but the shape
of the brow and head is exactly like yours."
A faint flush suffused Adam's cheeks, and turning quickly to the boy as
if he had heard enough, he cried:
"You are late. Where have you been so long?"
"In the forest with Ruth. We were gathering faggots for Dr. Costa."
"Until now?"
"Rahel had baked some dumplings, so the doctor told me to stay."
"Then go to bed now. But first take some food to the groom in the
stable, and put fresh linen on my bed. Be in the workshop early
to-morrow morning, there is a horse to be shod."
The boy looked up thoughtfully and replied: "Yes, but the doctor has
changed the hours; to-morrow the lesson will begin just after sunrise,
father."
"Very well, we'll do without you. Good-night then."
The monk followed this conversation with interest and increasing
disapproval, his face assuming a totally different expression, for the
muscles between his nose and mouth drew farther back, forming with the
underlip an angle turning inward. Thus he gazed with mute reproach at
the smith for some time, then pushed the goblet far away, exclaiming with
sincere indignation:
"What doings are these, friend Adam? I'll let the Jew's wine pass, and
the dumplings too for aught I care, though it doesn't make a Christian
child more pleasing in the sight of God, to eat from the same dish with
those on whom the Saviour's innocent blood rests. But that you,
a believing Christian, should permit an accursed Jew to lead a
foolish lad. . . ."
"Let that pass," said the smith, interrupting the excited monk; but the
latter would not be restrained, and only continued still more loudly and
firmly: "I won't be stopped. Was such a thing ever heard of? A baptized
Christian, who sends his own son to be taught by the infidel soul-
destroyer!"
"Hear me, Father!"
"No indeed. It's for you to hear--you! What was I saying? For you,
you who seek for your poor child a soul-destroying infidel as teacher.
Do you know what that is? A sin against the Holy Ghost--the worst of all
crimes. Such an abomination! You will have a heavy penance imposed upon
you in the confessional."
"It's no sin--no abomination!" replied the smith defiantly.
The angry blood mounted into the monk's cheeks, and he cried:
threateningly: "Oho! The chapter will teach you better to your sorrow.
Keep the boy away from the Jew, or ......"
"Or?" repeated the smith, looking Father Benedict steadily in the face.
The latter's lips curled still more deeply, as after a pause, he replied:
"Or excommunication and a fitting punishment will fall upon you and the
vagabond doctor. Tit for tat. We have grown tender-hearted, and it is
long since a Jew has been burned for an example to many."
These words did not fail to produce an effect, for though Adam was a
brave man, the monk threatened him with things, against which he felt
as powerless as when confronted with the might of the tempest and the
lightning flashing from the clouds. His features now expressed deep
mental anguish, and stretching out his hands repellently towards his
guest, he cried anxiously "No, no! Nothing more can happen to me. No
excommunication, no punishment, can make my present suffering harder to
bear, but if you harm the doctor, I shall curse the hour I invited you
to cross my threshold."
The monk looked at the other in surprise and answered in a more gentle
tone: "You have always walked in your own way, Adam; but whither are you
going now? Has the Jew bewitched you, or what binds you to him, that you
look, on his account, as if a thunderbolt had struck you? No one shall
have cause to curse the hour he invited Benedict to be his guest. See
your way clearly once more, and when you have come to your senses--why,
we monks have two eyes, that we may be able to close one when occasion
requires. Have you any special cause for gratitude to Costa?"
"Many, Father, many !" cried the smith, his voice still trembling with
only too well founded anxiety for his friend. "Listen, and when you know
what he has done for me, and are disposed to judge leniently, do not
carry what reaches your ears here before the chapter no, Father--
I beseech you--do not. For if it should be I, by whom the doctor came
to ruin, I--I...." The man's voice failed, and his chest heaved so
violently with his gasping breath, that his stout leathern apron rose
and fell.
"Be calm, Adam, be calm," said the monk, soothingly answering his
companion's broken words. "All shall be well, all shall be well. Sit
down, man, and trust me. What is the terrible debt of gratitude you owe
the doctor?"
Spite of the other's invitation, the smith remained standing and with
downcast eyes, began:
"I am not good at talking. You know how I was thrown into a dungeon on
Valentine's account, but no one can understand my feelings during that
time. Ulrich was left alone here among this miserable rabble with nobody
to care for him, for our old maid-servant was seventy. I had buried my
money in a safe place and there was nothing in the house except a loaf of
bread and a few small coins, barely enough to last three days. The child
was always before my eyes; I saw him ragged, begging, starving. But my
anxiety tortured me most, after they had released me and I was going back
to my house from the castle. It was a walk of two hours, but each one
seemed as long as St. John's day. Should I find Ulrich or not? What had
become of him? It was already dark, when I at last stood before the
house. Everything was as silent as the grave, and the door was locked.
Yet I must get in, so I rapped with my fingers, and then pounded with my
fist on the door and shutters, but all in vain. Finally Spittellorle--
[A nickname; literally: "Hospital Loura."]--came out of the red house
next mine, and I heard all. The old woman had become idiotic, and was in
the stocks. Ulrich was at the point of death, and Doctor Costa had taken
him home. When I heard this, I felt the same as you did just now; anger
seized upon me, and I was as much ashamed as if I were standing in the
pillory. My child with the Jew! There was not much time for reflection,
and I set off at full speed for the doctor's house. A light was shining
through the window. It was high above the street, but as it stood open
and I am tall, I could look in and see over the whole room. At the right
side, next the wall, was a bed, where amid the white pillows lay my boy.
The doctor sat by his side, holding the child's hand in his. Little
Ruth nestled to him, asking: 'Well, father?' The man smiled. Do you
know him, Pater? He is about thirty years old, and has a pale, calm
face. He smiled and said so gratefully, so-so joyously, as if Ulrich
were his own son: 'Thank God, he will be spared to us!' The little girl
ran to her dumb mother, who was sitting by the stove, winding yarn,
exclaiming:
'Mother, he'll get well again. I have prayed for him every day.' The
Jew bent over my child and pressed his lips upon the boy's brow--and I,
I--I no longer clenched my fist, and was so overwhelmed with emotion,
that I could not help weeping, as if I were still a child myself, and
since then, Pater Benedictus, since...." He paused; the monk rose, laid
his hand on the smith's shoulder, and said:
"It has grown late, Adam. Show me to my couch. Another day will come
early to-morrow morning, and we should sleep over important matters. But
one thing is settled, and must remain so-under all circumstances: the boy
is no longer to be taught by the Jew. He must help you shoe the horses
to-morrow. You will be reasonable!"
The smith made no reply, but lighted the monk to the room where he and
his son usually slept. His own couch was covered with fresh linen for
the guest--Ulrich already lay in his bed, apparently asleep.
"We have no other room to give you," said Adam, pointing to the boy; but
the monk was content with his sleeping companions, and after his host had
left him, gazed earnestly at Ulrich's fresh, handsome face.
The smith's story had moved him, and he did not go to rest at once, but
paced thoughtfully up and down the room, stepping lightly, that he might
not disturb the child's slumber.
Adam had reason to be grateful to the man, and why should there not be
good Jews?
He thought of the patriarchs, Moses, Solomon, and the prophets, and had
not the Saviour himself, and John and Paul, whom he loved above all the
apostles, been the children of Jewish mothers, and grown up among Jews?
And Adam! the poor fellow had had more than his share of trouble, and he
who believes himself deserted by God, easily turns to the devil. He was
warned now, and the mischief to his son must be stopped once for all.
What might not the child hear from the Jew, in these times, when heresy
wandered about like a roaring lion, and sat by all the roads like a
siren. Only by a miracle had this secluded valley been spared the evil
teachings, but the peasants had already shown that they grudged the
nobles the power, the cities the rich gains, and the priesthood the
authority and earthly possessions, bestowed on them by God. He was
disposed to let mildness rule, and spare the Jew this time--but only on
one condition.
When he took off his cowl, he looked for a hook on which to hang it, and
while so doing, perceived on the shelf a row of boards. Taking one down,
he found a sketch of an artistic design for the enclosure of a fountain,
done by the smith's hand, and directly opposite his bed a linden-wood
panel, on which a portrait was drawn with charcoal. This roused his
curiosity, and, throwing the light of the torch upon it, he started back,
for it was a rudely executed, but wonderfully life-like head of Costa,
the Jew. He remembered him perfectly, for he had met him more than once.
The monk shook his head angrily, but lifted the picture from the shelf
and examined more closely the doctor's delicately-cut nose, and the noble
arch of the brow. While so doing, he muttered unintelligible words, and
when at last, with little show of care, he restored the modest work of
art to its old place, Ulrich awoke, and, with a touch of pride,
exclaimed:
"I drew that myself, Father!"
"Indeed!" replied the monk. "I know of better models for a pious lad.
You must go to sleep now, and to-morrow get up early and help your
father. Do you understand?"
So saying, with no gentle hand he turned the boy's head towards the wall.
The mildness awakened by Adam's story had all vanished to the winds.
Adam allowed his son to practise idolatry with the Jew, and make pictures
of him. This was too much. He threw himself angrily on his couch, and
began to consider what was to be done in this difficult matter, but sleep
soon brought his reflections to an end.
Ulrich rose very early, and when Benedict saw him again in the light of
the young day, and once more looked at the Jew's portrait, drawn by the
handsome boy, a thought came to him as if inspired by the saints
themselves--the thought of persuading the smith to give his son to the
monastery.
CHAPTER IV.
This morning Pater Benedictus was a totally different person from the
man, who had sat over the wine the night before. Coldly and formally he
evaded the smith's questions, until the latter had sent his son away.
Ulrich, without making any objection, had helped his father shoe the
sorrel horse, and in a few minutes, by means of a little stroking over
the eyes and nose, slight caresses, and soothing words, rendered the
refractory stallion as docile as a lamb. No horse had ever resisted
the lad, from the time he was a little child, the smith said, though
for what reason he did not know. These words pleased the monk, for he
was only too familiar with two fillies, that were perfect fiends for
refractoriness, and the fair-haired boy could show his gratitude for
the schooling he received, by making himself useful in the stable.
Ulrich must go to the monastery, so Benedictus curtly declared with the
utmost positiveness, after the smith had finished his work. At midsummer
a place would be vacant in the school, and this should be reserved for
the boy. A great favor! What a prospect--to be reared there with
aristocratic companions, and instructed in the art of painting. Whether
he should become a priest, or follow some worldly pursuit, could be
determined later. In a few years the boy could choose without restraint.
This plan would settle everything in the best possible way. The Jew need
not be injured, and the smith's imperiled son would be saved. The monk
would hear no objections. Either the accusation against the doctor
should be laid before the chapter, or Ulrich must go to the school.
In four weeks, on St. John's Day, so Benedictus declared, the smith and
his son might announce their names to the porter. Adam must have saved
many florins, and there would be time enough to get the lad shoes and
clothes, that he might hold his own in dress with the other scholars.
During this whole transaction the smith felt like a wild animal in the
hunter's toils, and could say neither "yes" nor "no." The monk did not
insist upon a promise, but, as he rode away, flattered himself that he
had snatched a soul from the claws of Satan, and gained a prize for the
monastery-school and his stable--a reflection that made him very
cheerful.
Adam retrained alone beside the fire. Often, when his heart was heavy,
he had seized his huge hammer and deadened his sorrow by hard work; but
to-day he let the tool lie, for the consciousness of weakness and lack
of will paralyzed his lusty vigor, and he stood with drooping head, as
if utterly crushed. The thoughts that moved him could not be exactly
expressed in words, but doubtless a vision of the desolate forge, where
he would stand alone by the fire without Ulrich, rose before his mind.
Once the idea of closing his house, taking the boy by the hand, and
wandering out into the world with him, flitted through his brain. But
then, what would become of the Jew, and how could he leave this place?
Where would his miserable wife, the accursed, lovely sinner, find him,
when she sought him again? Ulrich had run out of doors long ago. Had
he gone to study his lessons with the Jew? He started in terror at the
thought. Passing his hands over his eyes, like a dreamer roused from
sleep, he went into his chamber, threw off his apron, cleansed his face
and hands from the soot of the forge, put on his burgher dress, which he
only wore when he went to church or visited the doctor, and entered the
street.
The thunder-storm had cleared the air, and the sun shone pleasantly on
the shingled roofs of the miserable houses of the Richtberg. Its rays
were reflected from the little round window-panes, and flickered over the
tree-tops on the edge of the ravine.
The light-green hue of the fresh young foliage on the beeches glittered
as brightly against the dark pines, as if Spring had made them a token of
her mastery over the grave companions of Winter; yet even the pines were
not passed by, and where her finger had touched the tips of the branches
in benediction, appeared tender young shoots, fresh as the grass by the
brook, and green as chrysophase and emerald.
The stillness of morning reigned within the forest, yet it was full of
life, rich in singing, chirping and twittering. Light streamed from the
blue sky through the tree-tops, and the golden sunbeams shimmered and
danced over the branches, trunks and ground, as if they had been prisoned
in the woods and could never find their way out. The shadows of the tall
trunks lay in transparent bars on the underbrush, luxuriant moss, and
ferns, and the dew clung to the weeds and grass.
Nature had celebrated her festival of resurrection at Easter, and the day
after the morrow joyous Whitsuntide would begin. Fresh green life was
springing from the stump of every dead tree; even the rocks afforded
sustenance to a hundred roots, a mossy covering and network of thorny
tendrils clung closely to them. The wild vine twined boldly up many a
trunk, fruit was already forming on the bilberry bushes, though it still
glimmered with a faint pink hue amid the green of May. A thousand
blossoms, white, red, blue and yellow, swayed on their slender stalks,
opened their calixes to the bees, unfolded their stars to deck the
woodland carpet, or proudly stretched themselves up as straight as
candles. Grey fungi had shot up after the refreshing rain, and gathered
round the red-capped giants among the mushrooms. Under, over and around
all this luxuriant vegetation hopped, crawled, flew, fluttered, buzzed
and chirped millions of tiny, short-lived creatures. But who heeds them
on a sunny Spring morning in the forest, when the birds are singing,
twittering, trilling, pecking, cooing and calling so joyously? Murmuring
and plashing, the forest stream dashed down its steep bed over rocks and
amid moss-covered stones and smooth pebbles to the valley. The hurrying
water lived, and in it dwelt its gay inhabitants, fresh plants grew along
the banks from source to mouth, while over and around it a third species
of living creatures sunned themselves, fluttered, buzzed and spun
delicate silk threads.
In the midst of a circular clearing, surrounded by dense woods, smoked a
charcoal kiln. It was less easy to breathe here, than down in the forest
below. Where Nature herself rules, she knows how to guard beauty and
purity, but where man touches her, the former is impaired and the latter
sullied.
It seemed as if the morning sunlight strove to check the smoke from the
smouldering wood, in order to mount freely into the blue sky. Little
clouds floated over the damp, grassy earth, rotting tree-trunks, piles of
wood and heaps of twigs that surrounded the kiln. A moss-grown but stood
at the edge of the forest, and before it sat Ulrich, talking with the
coal-burner. People called this man "Hangemarx," and in truth he
looked in his black rags, like one of those for whom it is a pity that
Nature should deck herself in her Spring garb. He had a broad, peasant
face, his mouth was awry, and his thick yellowish-red hair, which in many
places looked washed out or faded, hung so low over his narrow forehead,
that it wholly concealed it, and touched his bushy, snow-white brows.
The eyes under them needed to be taken on trust, they were so well
concealed, but when they peered through the narrow chink between the rows
of lashes, not even a mote escaped them. Ulrich was shaping an arrow,
and meantime asking the coal-burner numerous questions, and when the
latter prepared to answer, the boy laughed heartily, for before Hangemarx
could speak, he was obliged to straighten his crooked mouth by three
jerking motions, in which his nose and cheeks shared.