A Word, Only a Word — Complete. Georg Ebers

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      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.

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