The Student's Tale - The Wayside Inn - Part Second

THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU     I trust that somewhere and somehow     You all have heard of Hagenau,     A quiet, quaint, and ancient town     Among the green Alsatian hills,     A place of valleys, streams, and mills,     Where Barbarossa's castle, brown     With rust of centuries, still looks down     On the broad, drowsy land below,--     On shadowy forests filled with game,     And the blue river winding slow     Through meadows, where the hedges grow     That give this little town its name.     It happened in the good old times,     While yet the Master-singers filled     The noisy workshop and the guild     With various melodies and rhymes,     That here in Hagenau there dwelt     A cobbler,--one who loved debate,     And, arguing from a postulate,     Would say what others only felt;     A man of forecast and of thrift,     And of a shrewd and careful mind     In this world's business, but inclined     Somewhat to let the next world drift.     Hans Sachs with vast delight he read,     And Regenbogen's rhymes of love,     For their poetic fame had spread     Even to the town of Hagenau;     And some Quick Melody of the Plough,     Or Double Harmony of the Dove,     Was always running in his head.     He kept, moreover, at his side,     Among his leathers and his tools,     Reynard the Fox, the Ship of Fools,     Or Eulenspiegel, open wide;     With these he was much edified:     He thought them wiser than the Schools.     His good wife, full of godly fear,     Liked not these worldly themes to hear;     The Psalter was her book of songs;     The only music to her ear     Was that which to the Church belongs,     When the loud choir on Sunday chanted,     And the two angels carved in wood,     That by the windy organ stood,     Blew on their trumpets loud and clear,     And all the echoes, far and near,     Gibbered as if the church were haunted.     Outside his door, one afternoon,     This humble votary of the muse     Sat in the narrow strip of shade     By a projecting cornice made,     Mending the Burgomaster's shoes,     And singing a familiar tune:--      "Our ingress into the world          Was naked and bare;      Our progress through the world          Is trouble and care;      Our egress from the world          Will be nobody knows where;      But if we do well here          We shall do well there;      And I could tell you no more,          Should I preach a whole year!"     Thus sang the cobbler at his work;     And with his gestures marked the time     Closing together with a jerk     Of his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme.     Meanwhile his quiet little dame     Was leaning o'er the window-sill,     Eager, excited, but mouse-still,     Gazing impatiently to see     What the great throng of folk might be     That onward in procession came,     Along the unfrequented street,     With horns that blew, and drums that beat,     And banners flying, and the flame     Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet     Voices of nuns; and as they sang     Suddenly all the church-bells rang.     In a gay coach, above the crowd,     There sat a monk in ample hood,     Who with his right hand held aloft     A red and ponderous cross of wood,     To which at times he meekly bowed.     In front three horsemen rode, and oft,     With voice and air importunate,     A boisterous herald cried aloud:     "The grace of God is at your gate!"     So onward to the church they passed.     The cobbler slowly tuned his last,     And, wagging his sagacious head,     Unto his kneeling housewife said:     "'Tis the monk Tetzel.    I have heard     The cawings of that reverend bird.     Don't let him cheat you of your gold;     Indulgence is not bought and sold."     The church of Hagenau, that night,     Was full of people, full of light;     An odor of incense filled the air,     The priest intoned, the organ groaned     Its inarticulate despair;     The candles on the altar blazed,     And full in front of it upraised     The red cross stood against the glare.     Below, upon the altar-rail     Indulgences were set to sale,     Like ballads at a country fair.     A heavy strong-box, iron-bound     And carved with many a quaint device,     Received, with a melodious sound,     The coin that purchased Paradise.     Then from the pulpit overhead,     Tetzel the monk, with fiery glow,     Thundered upon the crowd below.     "Good people all, draw near!" he said;     "Purchase these letters, signed and sealed,     By which all sins, though unrevealed     And unrepented, are forgiven!     Count but the gain, count not the loss     Your gold and silver are but dross,     And yet they pave the way to heaven.     I hear your mothers and your sires     Cry from their purgatorial fires,     And will ye not their ransom pay?     O senseless people! when the gate     Of heaven is open, will ye wait?     Will ye not enter in to-day?     To-morrow it will be too late;     I shall be gone upon my way.     Make haste! bring money while ye may!'     The women shuddered, and turned pale;     Allured by hope or driven by fear,     With many a sob and many a tear,     All crowded to the altar-rail.     Pieces of silver and of gold     Into the tinkling strong-box fell     Like pebbles dropped into a well;     And soon the ballads were all sold.     The cobbler's wife among the rest     Slipped into the capacious chest     A golden florin; then withdrew,     Hiding the paper in her breast;     And homeward through the darkness went     Comforted, quieted, content;     She did not walk, she rather flew,     A dove that settles to her nest,     When some appalling bird of prey     That scared her has been driven away.     The days went by, the monk was gone,     The summer passed, the winter came;     Though seasons changed, yet still the same     The daily round of life went on;     The daily round of household care,     The narrow life of toil and prayer.     But in her heart the cobbler's dame     Had now a treasure beyond price,     A secret joy without a name,     The certainty of Paradise.     Alas, alas!    Dust unto dust!     Before the winter wore away,     Her body in the churchyard lay,     Her patient soul was with the Just!     After her death, among the things     That even the poor preserve with care,--     Some little trinkets and cheap rings,     A locket with her mother's hair,     Her wedding gown, the faded flowers     She wore upon her wedding day,--     Among these memories of past hours,     That so much of the heart reveal,     Carefully kept and put away,     The Letter of Indulgence lay     Folded, with signature and seal.     Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved and pained,     Waited and wondered that no word     Of mass or requiem he heard,     As by the Holy Church ordained;     Then to the Magistrate complained,     That as this woman had been dead     A week or more, and no mass said,     It was rank heresy, or at least     Contempt of Church; thus said the Priest;     And straight the cobbler was arraigned.     He came, confiding in his cause,     But rather doubtful of the laws.     The Justice from his elbow-chair     Gave him a look that seemed to say:     "Thou standest before a Magistrate,     Therefore do not prevaricate!"     Then asked him in a business way,     Kindly but cold: "Is thy wife dead?"     The cobbler meekly bowed his head;     "She is," came struggling from his throat     Scarce audibly.    The Justice wrote     The words down in a book, and then     Continued, as he raised his pen:     "She is; and hath a mass been said     For the salvation of her soul?     Come, speak the truth! confess the whole!"     The cobbler without pause replied:     "Of mass or prayer there was no need;     For at the moment when she died     Her soul was with the glorified!"     And from his pocket with all speed     He drew the priestly title-deed,     And prayed the Justice he would read.     The Justice read, amused, amazed;     And as he read his mirth increased;     At times his shaggy brows he raised,     Now wondering at the cobbler gazed,     Now archly at the angry Priest.     "From all excesses, sins, and crimes     Thou hast committed in past times     Thee I absolve!    And furthermore,     Purified from all earthly taints,     To the communion of the Saints     And to the sacraments restore!     All stains of weakness, and all trace     Of shame and censure I efface;     Remit the pains thou shouldst endure,     And make thee innocent and pure,     So that in dying, unto thee     The gates of heaven shall open be!     Though long thou livest, yet this grace     Until the moment of thy death     Unchangeable continueth!"     Then said he to the Priest: "I find     This document is duly signed     Brother John Tetzel, his own hand.     At all tribunals in the land     In evidence it may be used;     Therefore acquitted is the accused."     Then to the cobbler turned: "My friend,     Pray tell me, didst thou ever read     Reynard the Fox?"--"O yes, indeed!"--     "I thought so.    Don't forget the end."     INTERLUDE     "What was the end?    I am ashamed     Not to remember Reynard's fate;     I have not read the book of late;     Was he not hanged?" the Poet said.     The Student gravely shook his head,     And answered: "You exaggerate.     There was a tournament proclaimed,     And Reynard fought with Isegrim     The Wolf, and having vanquished him,     Rose to high honor in the State,     And Keeper of the Seals was named!"     At this the gay Sicilian laughed:     "Fight fire with fire, and craft with craft;     Successful cunning seems to be     The moral of your tale," said he.     "Mine had a better, and the Jew's     Had none at all, that I could see;     His aim was only to amuse."     Meanwhile from out its ebon case     His violin the Minstrel drew,     And having tuned its strings anew,     Now held it close in his embrace,     And poising in his outstretched hand     The bow, like a magician's wand,     He paused, and said, with beaming face:     "Last night my story was too long;     To-day I give you but a song,     An old tradition of the North;     But first, to put you in the mood,     I will a little while prelude,     And from this instrument draw forth     Something by way of overture."     He played; at first the tones were pure     And tender as a summer night,     The full moon climbing to her height,     The sob and ripple of the seas,     The flapping of an idle sail;     And then by sudden and sharp degrees     The multiplied, wild harmonies     Freshened and burst into a gale;     A tempest howling through the dark,     A crash as of some shipwrecked bark.     A loud and melancholy wail.     Such was the prelude to the tale     Told by the Minstrel; and at times     He paused amid its varying rhymes,     And at each pause again broke in     The music of his violin,     With tones of sweetness or of fear,     Movements of trouble or of calm,     Creating their own atmosphere;     As sitting in a church we hear     Between the verses of the psalm     The organ playing soft and clear,     Or thundering on the startled ear.