The Studen'ts Tale - The Wayside Inn - Part Third



    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."


    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.


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