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

EMMA AND EGINHARD     When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlemagne,     In the free schools of Aix, how kings should reign,     And with them taught the children of the poor     How subjects should be patient and endure,     He touched the lips of some, as best befit,     With honey from the hives of Holy Writ;     Others intoxicated with the wine     Of ancient history, sweet but less divine;     Some with the wholesome fruits of grammar fed;     Others with mysteries of the stars o'er-head,     That hang suspended in the vaulted sky     Like lamps in some fair palace vast and high.     In sooth, it was a pleasant sight to see     That Saxon monk, with hood and rosary,     With inkhorn at his belt, and pen and book,     And mingled lore and reverence in his look,     Or hear the cloister and the court repeat     The measured footfalls of his sandaled feet,     Or watch him with the pupils of his school,     Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule.     Among them, always earliest in his place.     Was Eginhard, a youth of Frankish race,     Whose face was bright with flashes that forerun     The splendors of a yet unrisen sun.     To him all things were possible, and seemed     Not what he had accomplished, but had dreamed,     And what were tasks to others were his play,     The pastime of an idle holiday.     Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael's, said,     With many a shrug and shaking of the head,     Surely some demon must possess the lad,     Who showed more wit than ever schoolboy had,     And learned his Trivium thus without the rod;     But Alcuin said it was the grace of God.     Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device,     Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhetoric nice;     Science of Numbers, Geometric art,     And lore of Stars, and Music knew by heart;     A Minnesinger, long before the times     Of those who sang their love in Suabian rhymes.     The Emperor, when he heard this good report     Of Eginhard much buzzed about the court,     Said to himself, "This stripling seems to be     Purposely sent into the world for me;     He shall become my scribe, and shall be schooled     In all the arts whereby the world is ruled."     Thus did the gentle Eginhard attain     To honor in the court of Charlemagne;     Became the sovereign's favorite, his right hand,     So that his fame was great in all the land,     And all men loved him for his modest grace     And comeliness of figure and of face.     An inmate of the palace, yet recluse,     A man of books, yet sacred from abuse     Among the armed knights with spur on heel,     The tramp of horses and the clang of steel;     And as the Emperor promised he was schooled     In all the arts by which the world is ruled.     But the one art supreme, whose law is fate,     The Emperor never dreamed of till too late.     Home from her convent to the palace came     The lovely Princess Emma, whose sweet name,     Whispered by seneschal or sung by bard,     Had often touched the soul of Eginhard.     He saw her from his window, as in state     She came, by knights attended through the gate;     He saw her at the banquet of that day,     Fresh as the morn, and beautiful as May;     He saw her in the garden, as she strayed     Among the flowers of summer with her maid,     And said to him, "O Eginhard, disclose     The meaning and the mystery of the rose";     And trembling he made answer: "In good sooth,     Its mystery is love, its meaning youth!"     How can I tell the signals and the signs     By which one heart another heart divines?     How can I tell the many thousand ways     By which it keeps the secret it betrays?     O mystery of love!    O strange romance!     Among the Peers and Paladins of France,     Shining in steel, and prancing on gay steeds,     Noble by birth, yet nobler by great deeds,     The Princess Emma had no words nor looks     But for this clerk, this man of thought and books.     The summer passed, the autumn came; the stalks     Of lilies blackened in the garden walks;     The leaves fell, russet-golden and blood-red,     Love-letters thought the poet fancy-led,     Or Jove descending in a shower of gold     Into the lap of Danae of old;     For poets cherish many a strange conceit,     And love transmutes all nature by its heat.     No more the garden lessons, nor the dark     And hurried meetings in the twilight park;     But now the studious lamp, and the delights     Of firesides in the silent winter nights,     And watching from his window hour by hour     The light that burned in Princess Emma's tower.     At length one night, while musing by the fire,     O'ercome at last by his insane desire,--     For what will reckless love not do and dare?--     He crossed the court, and climbed the winding stair,     With some feigned message in the Emperor's name;     But when he to the lady's presence came     He knelt down at her feet, until she laid     Her hand upon him, like a naked blade,     And whispered in his ear: "Arise, Sir Knight,     To my heart's level, O my heart's delight."     And there he lingered till the crowing cock,     The Alectryon of the farmyard and the flock,     Sang his aubade with lusty voice and clear,     To tell the sleeping world that dawn was near.     And then they parted; but at parting, lo!     They saw the palace courtyard white with snow,     And, placid as a nun, the moon on high     Gazing from cloudy cloisters of the sky.     "Alas!" he said, "how hide the fatal line     Of footprints leading from thy door to mine,     And none returning!"    Ah, he little knew     What woman's wit, when put to proof, can do!     That night the Emperor, sleepless with the cares     And troubles that attend on state affairs,     Had risen before the dawn, and musing gazed     Into the silent night, as one amazed     To see the calm that reigned o'er all supreme,     When his own reign was but a troubled dream.     The moon lit up the gables capped with snow,     And the white roofs, and half the court below,     And he beheld a form, that seemed to cower     Beneath a burden, come from Emma's tower,--     A woman, who upon her shoulders bore     Clerk Eginhard to his own private door,     And then returned in haste, but still essayed     To tread the footprints she herself had made;     And as she passed across the lighted space,     The Emperor saw his daughter Emma's face!     He started not; he did not speak or moan,     But seemed as one who hath been turned to stone;     And stood there like a statue, nor awoke     Out of his trance of pain, till morning broke,     Till the stars faded, and the moon went down,     And o'er the towers and steeples of the town     Came the gray daylight; then the sun, who took     The empire of the world with sovereign look,     Suffusing with a soft and golden glow     All the dead landscape in its shroud of snow,     Touching with flame the tapering chapel spires,     Windows and roofs, and smoke of household fires,     And kindling park and palace as he came;     The stork's nest on the chimney seemed in flame.     And thus he stood till Eginhard appeared,     Demure and modest with his comely beard     And flowing flaxen tresses, come to ask,     As was his wont, the day's appointed task.     The Emperor looked upon him with a smile,     And gently said: "My son, wait yet awhile;     This hour my council meets upon some great     And very urgent business of the state.     Come back within the hour.    On thy return     The work appointed for thee shalt thou learn.     Having dismissed this gallant Troubadour,     He summoned straight his council, and secure     And steadfast in his purpose, from the throne     All the adventure of the night made known;     Then asked for sentence; and with eager breath     Some answered banishment, and others death.     Then spake the king: "Your sentence is not mine;     Life is the gift of God, and is divine;     Nor from these palace walls shall one depart     Who carries such a secret in his heart;     My better judgment points another way.     Good Alcuin, I remember how one day     When my Pepino asked you, 'What are men?'     You wrote upon his tablets with your pen,     'Guests of the grave and travellers that pass!'     This being true of all men, we, alas!     Being all fashioned of the selfsame dust,     Let us be merciful as well as just;     This passing traveller, who hath stolen away     The brightest jewel of my crown to-day,     Shall of himself the precious gem restore;     By giving it, I make it mine once more.     Over those fatal footprints I will throw     My ermine mantle like another snow."     Then Eginhard was summoned to the hall,     And entered, and in presence of them all,     The Emperor said: "My son, for thou to me     Hast been a son, and evermore shalt be,     Long hast thou served thy sovereign, and thy zeal     Pleads to me with importunate appeal,     While I have been forgetful to requite     Thy service and affection as was right.     But now the hour is come, when I, thy Lord,     Will crown thy love with such supreme reward,     A gift so precious kings have striven in vain     To win it from the hands of Charlemagne."     Then sprang the portals of the chamber wide,     And Princess Emma entered, in the pride     Of birth and beauty, that in part o'er-came     The conscious terror and the blush of shame.     And the good Emperor rose up from his throne,     And taking her white hand within his own     Placed it in Eginhard's, and said: "My son     This is the gift thy constant zeal hath won;     Thus I repay the royal debt I owe,     And cover up the footprints in the snow."     INTERLUDE     Thus ran the Student's pleasant rhyme     Of Eginhard and love and youth;     Some doubted its historic truth,     But while they doubted, ne'ertheless     Saw in it gleams of truthfulness,     And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim.     This they discussed in various mood;     Then in the silence that ensued     Was heard a sharp and sudden sound     As of a bowstring snapped in air;     And the Musician with a bound     Sprang up in terror from his chair,     And for a moment listening stood,     Then strode across the room, and found     His dear, his darling violin     Still lying safe asleep within     Its little cradle, like a child     That gives a sudden cry of pain,     And wakes to fall asleep again;     And as he looked at it and smiled,     By the uncertain light beguiled,     Despair! two strings were broken in twain.     While all lamented and made moan,     With many a sympathetic word     As if the loss had been their own,     Deeming the tones they might have heard     Sweeter than they had heard before,     They saw the Landlord at the door,     The missing man, the portly Squire!     He had not entered, but he stood     With both arms full of seasoned wood,     To feed the much-devouring fire,     That like a lion in a cage     Lashed its long tail and roared with rage.     The missing man!    Ah, yes, they said,     Missing, but whither had he fled?     Where had he hidden himself away?     No farther than the barn or shed;     He had not hidden himself, nor fled;     How should he pass the rainy day     But in his barn with hens and hay,     Or mending harness, cart, or sled?     Now, having come, he needs must stay     And tell his tale as well as they.     The Landlord answered only: "These     Are logs from the dead apple-trees     Of the old orchard planted here     By the first Howe of Sudbury.     Nor oak nor maple has so clear     A flame, or burns so quietly,     Or leaves an ash so clean and white";     Thinking by this to put aside     The impending tale that terrified;     When suddenly, to his delight,     The Theologian interposed,     Saying that when the door was closed,     And they had stopped that draft of cold,     Unpleasant night air, he proposed     To tell a tale world-wide apart     From that the Student had just told;     World-wide apart, and yet akin,     As showing that the human heart     Beats on forever as of old,     As well beneath the snow-white fold     Of Quaker kerchief, as within     Sendal or silk or cloth of gold,     And without preface would begin.     And then the clamorous clock struck eight,     Deliberate, with sonorous chime     Slow measuring out the march of time,     Like some grave Consul of old Rome     In Jupiter's temple driving home     The nails that marked the year and date.     Thus interrupted in his rhyme,     The Theologian needs must wait;     But quoted Horace, where he sings     The dire Necessity of things,     That drives into the roofs sublime     Of new-built houses of the great     The adamantine nails of Fate.     When ceased the little carillon     To herald from its wooden tower     The important transit of the hour,     The Theologian hastened on,     Content to be all owed at last     To sing his Idyl of the Past.