Chapter 5
_Abbot._ There are among them Learned and holy men. Yet in this age We need another Hildebrand, to shake And purify us like a mighty wind. The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder God does not lose his patience with it wholly, And shatter it like glass! Even here, at times, Within these walls, where all should be at peace, I have my trials. Time has laid his hand Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. Ashes are on my head, and on my lips Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness And weariness of life, that makes me ready To say to the dead Abbots under us, "Make room for me!" Only I see the dusk Of evening twilight coming, and have not Completed half my task; and so at times The thought of my shortcomings in this life Falls like a shadow on the life to come.
_Prince Henry._ We must all die, and not the old alone; The young have no exemption from that doom.
_Abbot._ Ah, yes! the young may die, but the old must! That is the difference.
_Prince Henry._ I have heard much laud Of your transcribers. Your Scriptorium Is famous among all, your manuscripts Praised for their beauty and their excellence.
_Abbot._ That is indeed our boast. If you desire it, You shall behold these treasures. And meanwhile Shall the Refectorarius bestow Your horses and attendants for the night.
(_They go in. The Vesper-bell rings._)
* * * * *
THE CHAPEL.
* * * * *
_Vespers; after which the monks retire, a chorister leading an old monk who is blind_.
_Prince Henry._ They are all gone, save one who lingers, Absorbed in deep and silent prayer. As if his heart could find no rest, At times he beats his heaving breast With clenched and convulsive fingers, Then lifts them trembling in the air. A chorister, with golden hair, Guides hitherward his heavy pace. Can it be so? Or does my sight Deceive me in the uncertain light? Ah no! I recognize that face, Though Time has touched it in his flight, And changed the auburn hair to white. It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, The deadliest foe of all our race, And hateful unto me and mine!
_The Blind Monk_. Who is it that doth stand so near His whispered words I almost hear?
_Prince Henry_. I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, And you, Count Hugo of the Rhine! I know you, and I see the scar, The brand upon your forehead, shine And redden like a baleful star!
_The Blind Monk_. Count Hugo once, but now the wreck Of what I was. O Hoheneck! The passionate will, the pride, the wrath That bore me headlong on my path, Stumbled and staggered into fear, And failed me in my mad career, As a tired steed some evil-doer, Alone upon a desolate moor, Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind, And hearing loud and close behind The o'ertaking steps of his pursuer. Then suddenly, from the dark there came A voice that called me by my name, And said to me, "Kneel down and pray!" And so my terror passed away, Passed utterly away forever. Contrition, penitence, remorse, Came on me, with o'erwhelming force; A hope, a longing, an endeavor, By days of penance and nights of prayer, To frustrate and defeat despair! Calm, deep, and still is now my heart. With tranquil waters overflowed; A lake whose unseen fountains start, Where once the hot volcano glowed. And you, O Prince of Hoheneck! Have known me in that earlier time, A man of violence and crime, Whose passions brooked no curb nor check. Behold me now, in gentler mood, One of this holy brotherhood. Give me your hand; here let me kneel; Make your reproaches sharp as steel; Spurn me, and smite me on each cheek; No violence can harm the meek, There is no wound Christ cannot heal! Yes; lift your princely hand, and take Revenge, if 't is revenge you seek, Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake!
_Prince Henry._ Arise, Count Hugo! let there be No farther strife nor enmity Between us twain; we both have erred! Too rash in act, too wroth in word, From the beginning have we stood In fierce, defiant attitude, Each thoughtless of the other's right, And each reliant on his might. But now our souls are more subdued; The hand of God, and not in vain, Has touched us with the fire of pain. Let us kneel down, and side by side Pray, till our souls are purified, And pardon will not be denied!
(_They kneel._)
* * * * *
THE REFECTORY.
* * * * *
_Gaudiolum of Monks at midnight. LUCIFER disguised as a Friar._
_Friar Paul (sings)._ Ave! color vini clari, Dulcis potus, non aman, Tua nos inebriari Digneris potentia!
_Friar Cuthbert._ Not so much noise, my worthy freres, You'll disturb the Abbot at his prayers.
_Friar Paul (sings)._ O! quam placens in colore! O! quam fragrans in odore! O! quam sapidum in ore! Dulce linguse vinculum!
_Friar Cuthbert._ I should think your tongue had broken its chain!
_Friar Paul (sings)._ Felix venter quern intrabis! Felix guttur quod rigabis! Felix os quod tu lavabis! Et beata labia!
_Friar Cuthbert._ Peace! I say, peace! Will you never cease! You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you again!
_Friar John._ No danger! to-night he will let us alone, As I happen to know he has guests of his own.
_Friar Cuthbert._ Who are they?
_Friar John._ A German Prince and his train, Who arrived here just before the rain. There is with him a damsel fair to see, As slender and graceful as a reed! When she alighted from her steed, It seemed like a blossom blown from a tree.
_Friar Cuthbert._ None of your pale-faced girls for me!
(_Kisses the girl at his side_.)
_Friar John._ Come, old fellow, drink down to your peg! do not drink any farther, I beg!
_Friar Paul (sings)._ In the days of gold, The days of old, Cross of wood And bishop of gold!
_Friar Cuthbert (to the girl)._ What an infernal racket and din! No need not blush so, that's no sin. You look very holy in this disguise, Though there's something wicked in your eyes!
_Friar Paul (continues.)_ Now we have changed That law so good, To cross of gold And bishop of wood!
_Friar Cuthbert._ I like your sweet face under a hood. Sister! how came you into this way?
_Girl._ It was you, Friar Cuthbert, who led me astray. Have you forgotten that day in June, When the church was so cool in the afternoon, And I came in to confess my sins? That is where my ruin begins.
_Friar John._ What is the name of yonder friar, With an eye that glows like a coal of fire, And such a black mass of tangled hair?
_Friar Paul._ He who is sitting there, With a rollicking, Devil may care, Free and easy look and air, As if he were used to such feasting and frollicking?
_Friar John._ The same.
_Friar Paul._ He's a stranger. You had better ask his name, And where he is going, and whence he came.
_Friar John._ Hallo! Sir Friar!
_Friar Paul._ You must raise your voice a little higher, He does not seem to hear what you say. Now, try again! He is looking this way.
_Friar John._ Hallo! Sir Friar, We wish to inquire Whence you came, and where you are going, And anything else that is worth the knowing. So be so good as to open your head.
_Lucifer._ I am a Frenchman born and bred, Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. My home Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, Of which, very like, you never have heard.
_Monks._ Never a word!
_Lucifer._ You must know, then, it is in the diocese Called the Diocese of Vannes, In the province of Brittany. From the gray rocks of Morbihan It overlooks the angry sea; The very seashore where, In his great despair, Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, Filling the night with woe, And wailing aloud to the merciless seas The name of his sweet Heloise! Whilst overhead The convent windows gleamed as red As the fiery eyes of the monks within, Who with jovial din Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin! Ha! that is a convent! that is an abbey! Over the doors, None of your death-heads carved in wood, None of your Saints looking pious and good, None of your Patriarchs old and shabby! But the heads and tusks of boars, And the cells Hung all round with the fells of the fallow-deer, And then what cheer! What jolly, fat friars, Sitting round the great, roaring fires, Roaring louder than they, With their strong wines, And their concubines, And never a bell, With its swagger and swell, Calling you up with a start of affright In the dead of night, To send you grumbling down dark stairs, To mumble your prayers, But the cheery crow Of cocks in the yard below, After daybreak, an hour or so, And the barking of deep-mouthed hounds, These are the sounds That, instead of bells, salute the ear. And then all day Up and away Through the forest, hunting the deer! Ah, my friends! I'm afraid that here You are a little too pious, a little too tame, And the more is the shame, It is the greatest folly Not to be jolly; That's what I think! Come, drink, drink, Drink, and die game!
_Monks,_ And your Abbot What's-his-name?
_Lucifer._ Abelard!
_Monks._ Did he drink hard?
_Lucifer._ O, no! Not he! He was a dry old fellow, Without juice enough to get thoroughly mellow. There he stood, Lowering at us in sullen mood, As if he had come into Brittany Just to reform our brotherhood!
(_A roar of laughter_.)
But you see It never would do! For some of us knew a thing or two, In the Abbey of St. Gildas de Rhuys! For instance, the great ado With old Fulbert's niece, The young and lovely Heloise!
_Friar John._ Stop there, if you please, Till we drink to the fair Heloise.
_All (drinking and shouting)._ Heloise! Heloise!
(_The Chapel-bell tolls_.)
_Lucifer (starting)._ What is that bell for? Are you such asses As to keep up the fashion of midnight masses?
_Friar Cuthbert._ It is only a poor, unfortunate brother, Who is gifted with most miraculous powers Of getting up at all sorts of hours, And, by way of penance and Christian meekness, Of creeping silently out of his cell To take a pull at that hideous bell; So that all the monks who are lying awake May murmur some kind of prayer for his sake, And adapted to his peculiar weakness!
_Friar John._ From frailty and fall--
_All._ Good Lord, deliver us all!
_Friar Cuthbert._ And before the bell for matins sounds, He takes his lantern, and goes the rounds, Flashing it into our sleepy eyes, Merely to say it is time to arise. But enough of that. Go on, if you please, With your story about St. Gildas de Rhuys.
_Lucifer._ Well, it finally came to pass That, half in fun and half in malice, One Sunday at Mass We put some poison into the chalice. But, either by accident or design, Peter Abelard kept away From the chapel that day, And a poor, young friar, who in his stead Drank the sacramental wine, Fell on the steps of the altar, dead! But look! do you see at the window there That face, with a look of grief and despair, That ghastly face, as of one in pain?
_Monks._ Who? where?
_Lucifer._ As I spoke, it vanished away again.
_Friar Cuthbert._ It is that nefarious Siebald the Refectorarius. That fellow is always playing the scout, Creeping and peeping and prowling about; And then he regales The Abbot with Scandalous tales.
_Lucifer_. A spy in the convent? One of the brothers Telling scandalous tales of the others? Out upon him, the lazy loon! I would put a stop to that pretty soon, In a way he should rue it.
_Monks_. How shall we do it?
_Lucifer_. Do you, brother Paul, Creep under the window, close to the wall, And open it suddenly when I call. Then seize the villain by the hair, And hold him there, And punish him soundly, once for all.
_Friar Cuthbert_. As St. Dustan of old, We are told, Once caught the Devil by the nose!
_Lucifer_. Ha! ha! that story is very clever, But has no foundation whatsoever. Quick! for I see his face again Glaring in at the window pane; Now! now! and do not spare your blows.
(FRIAR PAUL _opens the window suddenly, and seizes_ SIEBALD. _They beat him._)
_Friar Siebald_. Help! help! are you going to slay me?
_Friar Paul_. That will teach you again to betray me!
_Friar Siebald_. Mercy! mercy!
_Friar Paul_ (_shouting and beating_). Rumpas bellorum lorum, Vim confer amorum Morum verorum, rorun. Tu plena polorum!
_Lucifer_. Who stands in the doorway yonder, Stretching out his trembling hand, Just as Abelard used to stand, The flash of his keen, black eyes Forerunning the thunder?
_The Monks (in confusion)_. The Abbot! the Abbot!
_Friar Cuthbert (to the girl)_. Put on your disguise!
_Friar Francis_. Hide the great flagon From the eyes of the dragon!
_Friar Cuthbert_. Pull the brown hood over your face, Lest you bring me into disgrace!
_Abbot_. What means this revel and carouse? Is this a tavern and drinking-house? Are you Christian monks, or heathen devils, To pollute this convent with your revels? Were Peter Damian still upon earth, To be shocked by such ungodly mirth, He would write your names, with pen of gall, In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all! Away, you drunkards! to your cells, And pray till you hear the matin-bells; You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother Paul! And as a penance mark each prayer With the scourge upon your shoulders bare; Nothing atones for such a sin But the blood that follows the discipline. And you, Brother Cuthbert, come with me Alone into the sacristy; You, who should be a guide to your brothers, And are ten times worse than all the others, For you I've a draught that has long been brewing You shall do a penance worth the doing! Away to your prayers, then, one and all! I wonder the very, convent wall Does not crumble and crush you in its fall!
* * * * *
THE NEIGHBORING NUNNERY.
* * * * *
_The_ ABBESS IRMINGARD _sitting with_ ELSIE _in the moonlight._
_Irmingard_ The night is silent, the wind is still, The moon is looking from yonder hill Down upon convent, and grove, and garden; The clouds have passed away from her face, Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace, Only the tender and quiet grace Of one, whose heart had been healed with pardon!
And such am I. My soul within Was dark with passion and soiled with sin. But now its wounds are healed again; Gone are the anguish, the terror, and pain; For across that desolate land of woe, O'er whose burning sands I was forced to go, A wind from heaven began to blow; And all my being trembled and shook, As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of the field, And I was healed, as the sick are healed, When fanned by the leaves of the Holy Book!
As thou sittest in the moonlight there, Its glory flooding thy golden hair, And the only darkness that which lies In the haunted chambers of thine eyes, I feel my soul drawn unto thee, Strangely, and strongly, and more and more, As to one I have known and loved before; For every soul is akin to me That dwells in the land of mystery! I am the Lady Irmingard, Born of a noble race and name! Many a wandering Suabian bard, Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and hard, Has found through me the way to fame. Brief and bright were those days, and the night Which followed was full of a lurid light. Love, that of every woman's heart Will have the whole, and not a part, That is to her, in Nature's plan, More than ambition is to man, Her light, her life, her very breath, With no alternative but death, Found me a maiden soft and young, Just from the convent's cloistered school, And seated on my lowly stool, Attentive while the minstrels sung.
Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, Fairest, noblest, best of all, Was Walter of the Vogelweid, And, whatsoever may betide, Still I think of him with pride! His song was of the summer-time The very birds sang in his rhyme; The sunshine, the delicious air, The fragrance of the flowers, were there, And I grew restless as I heard, Restless and buoyant as a bird, Down soft, aërial currents sailing, O'er blossomed orchards, and fields in bloom, And through the momentary gloom Of shadows o'er the landscape trailing, Yielding and borne I knew not where, But feeling resistance unavailing.
And thus, unnoticed and apart, And more by accident than choice. I listened to that single voice Until the chambers of my heart Were filled with it by night and day, One night,--it was a night in May,-- Within the garden, unawares, Under the blossoms in the gloom, I heard it utter my own name With protestations and wild prayers; And it rang through me, and became Like the archangel's trump of doom, Which the soul hears, and must obey; And mine arose as from a tomb. My former life now seemed to me Such as hereafter death may be, When in the great Eternity We shall awake and find it day.
It was a dream, and would not stay; A dream, that in a single night Faded and vanished out of sight. My father's anger followed fast This passion, as a freshening blast Seeks out and fans the fire, whose rage It may increase, but not assuage. And he exclaimed: "No wandering bard Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard! For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck By messenger and letter sues."
Gently, but firmly, I replied: "Henry of Hoheneck I discard! Never the hand of Irmingard Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride!" This said I, Walter, for thy sake: This said I, for I could not choose. After a pause, my father spake In that cold and deliberate tone Which turns the hearer into stone, And seems itself the act to be That follows with such dread certainty; "This, or the cloister and the veil!" No other words than these he said, But they were like a funeral wail; My life was ended, my heart was dead.
That night from the castle-gate went down, With silent, slow, and stealthy pace, Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds, Taking the narrow path that leads Into the forest dense and brown, In the leafy darkness of the place, One could not distinguish form nor face, Only a bulk without a shape, A darker shadow in the shade; One scarce could say it moved or stayed, Thus it was we made our escape! A foaming brook, with many a bound, Followed us like a playful hound; Then leaped before us, and in the hollow Paused, and waited for us to follow, And seemed impatient, and afraid That our tardy flight should be betrayed By the sound our horses' hoof-beats made, And when we reached the plain below, He paused a moment and drew rein To look back at the castle again; And we saw the windows all aglow With lights, that were passing to and fro; Our hearts with terror ceased to beat; The brook crept silent to our feet; We knew what most we feared to know. Then suddenly horns began to blow; And we heard a shout, and a heavy tramp, And our horses snorted in the damp Night-air of the meadows green and wide, And in a moment, side by side, So close, they must have seemed but one, The shadows across the moonlight run, And another came, and swept behind, Like the shadow of clouds before the wind!
How I remember that breathless flight Across the moors, in the summer night! How under our feet the long, white road Backward like a river flowed, Sweeping with it fences and hedges, Whilst farther away, and overhead, Paler than I, with fear and dread, The moon fled with us, as we fled Along the forest's jagged edges!
All this I can remember well; But of what afterward befell I nothing farther can recall Than a blind, desperate, headlong fall; The rest is a blank and darkness all. When I awoke out of this swoon, The sun was shining, not the moon, Making a cross upon the wall With the bars of my windows narrow and tall; And I prayed to it, as I had been wont to pray, From early childhood, day by day, Each morning, as in bed I lay! I was lying again in my own room! And I thanked God, in my fever and pain, That those shadows on the midnight plain Were gone, and could not come again! I struggled no longer with my doom! This happened many years ago. I left my father's home to come Like Catherine to her martyrdom, For blindly I esteemed it so. And when I heard the convent door Behind me close, to ope no more, I felt it smite me like a blow, Through all my limbs a shudder ran, And on my bruised spirit fell The dampness of my narrow cell As night-air on a wounded man, Giving intolerable pain.
But now a better life began, I felt the agony decrease By slow degrees, then wholly cease, Ending in perfect rest and peace! It was not apathy, nor dulness, That weighed and pressed upon my brain, But the same passion I had given To earth before, now turned to heaven With all its overflowing fulness.
Alas! the world is full of peril! The path that runs through the fairest meads, On the sunniest side of the valley, leads Into a region bleak and sterile! Alike in the high-born and the lowly, The will is feeble, and passion strong. We cannot sever right from wrong; Some falsehood mingles with all truth; Nor is it strange the heart of youth Should waver and comprehend but slowly The things that are holy and unholy!
But in this sacred and calm retreat, We are all well and safely shielded From winds that blow, and waves that beat, From the cold, and rain, and blighting heat, To which the strongest hearts have yielded. Here we stand as the Virgins Seven, For our celestial bridegroom yearning; Our hearts are lamps forever burning, With a steady and unwavering flame, Pointing upward, forever the same, Steadily upward toward the Heaven!
The moon is hidden behind a cloud; A sudden darkness fills the room, And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom, Shine like jewels in a shroud. On the leaves is a sound of falling rain; A bird, awakened in its nest, Gives a faint twitter of unrest, Then smoothes its plumes and sleeps again.
No other sounds than these I hear; The hour of midnight must be near. Thou art o'erspent with the day's fatigue Of riding many a dusty league; Sink, then, gently to thy slumber; Me so many cares encumber, So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.
* * * * *
V.
A COVERED BRIDGE AT LUCERNE.
* * * * *
_Prince Henry_. God's blessing on the architects who build The bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses Before impassable to human feet, No less than on the builders of cathedrals, Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across The dark and terrible abyss of Death. Well has the name of Pontifex been given Unto the Church's head, as the chief builder And architect of the invisible bridge That leads from earth to heaven.
_Elsie_ How dark it grows! What are these paintings on the walls around us?
_Prince Henry_ The Dance Macaber!
_Elsie_ What?
_Prince Henry_ The Dance of Death! All that go to and fro must look upon it, Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath, Among the wooden piles, the turbulent river Rushes, impetuous as the river of life, With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright, Save where the shadow of this bridge falls on it.
_Elsie._ O, yes! I see it now!
_Prince Henry_ The grim musician Leads all men through the mazes of that dance, To different sounds in different measures moving; Sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes a drum, To tempt or terrify.
_Elsie_ What is this picture?
_Prince Henry_ It is a young man singing to a nun, Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling Turns round to look at him, and Death, meanwhile, Is putting out the candles on the altar!
_Elsie_ Ah, what a pity 't is that she should listen to such songs, when in her orisons She might have heard in heaven the angels singing!
_Prince Henry_ Here he has stolen a jester's cap and bells, And dances with the Queen.
_Elsie_ A foolish jest!
_Prince Henry_ And here the heart of the new-wedded wife, Coming from church with her beloved lord, He startles with the rattle of his drum.