During that time, Dame Hadwig had almost put aside the grammar entirely; taking to sewing and embroidery. Balls of gold-thread and black silk, lay about in the women's apartments; and when Ekkehard once came in unawares, Praxedis rushed up, and pushed him out of the door whilst Dame Hadwig, hid some needle-work in a basket.
This aroused Ekkehard's curiosity, and he arrived at the not unreasonable conclusion, that some present was being made for him. Therefore he thought about returning the kindness; intending to exert his utmost powers and abilities for that purpose. So he sent word to his friend and teacher, Folkard, at St. Gall, to send him parchment, colours and brushes, as well as some precious ink; which request was speedily fulfilled. Then Ekkehard sat up many an hour at night, in his tower; pondering over a Latin composition, which he wanted to dedicate to the Duchess, and which was to contain, some delicate homage.
But all this was not so easy, as he had thought. Once he began, at the creation of the world; intending to proceed in daring flight, to the beginning of Dame Hadwig's reign in Suabia; but he had already written some hundred hexametres and had only got as far as King David; and the work would probably have taken him, three years to complete. Another time he tried to number up, all the women, who either by their strength or their beauty, had influenced the fate of nations; such as Queen Semiramis and the virgin Amazons; the heroic Judith and the tuneful Sappho;--but to his great regret he found out, that by the time his pen had worked its way to the Duchess; it would have been quite impossible, to find anything new to say in her praise. So he went about much downcast and distressed.
"Have you swallowed a spider, pearl of all professors?" enquired Praxedis one day, on meeting him in the aforesaid mental condition.
"You may well be jesting," said Ekkehard sadly;--and under the seal of secrecy, he confided his griefs to her.
"By the thirty-six thousand volumes; in the library at Constantinopolis!" exclaimed she, "why, you are going to cut down a whole forest of trees, when a few flowers are all that's wanted. Why don't you make it simple and graceful,--such as your beloved Virgil would have made it?" After this she ran away, and Ekkehard crept back to his chamber. "Like Virgil?" he mused. But in the whole of the Æneid, there was no example of a similar case. He read some cantos, and dreamily sat thinking over them, when a good idea suddenly struck him. "I've got it!" cried he. "The beloved poet himself, is to do homage to her!" He then wrote a poem, as if Virgil had appeared to him, in his solitude; expressing his delight, that his poetry was living again in German lands; and thanking the high-born lady, for thus befriending him. In a few minutes it was ready.
This poem Ekkehard now wished to write down on parchment; adorned by some handsome illustrations. So he composed the following picture. The Duchess, with crown and sceptre, sitting on her throne, accosted by Virgil in white garments; who inclining his bay-crowned head, advances towards her. He is leading Ekkehard,--who modestly walking by his side, as the pupil with the master, is likewise humbly bowing before her.
In the strict manner of the excellent Folkard, he first drew the sketch. He remembered a picture in a psalm-book, representing the young David, before King Abimelech. Thus, he arranged the figures. The Duchess, he drew two fingers breadth higher than Virgil; and the Ekkehard of the sketch, was considerably shorter than the heathen poet. Budding Art, lacking other means, expressed rank and greatness, outwardly.
With the figure of Virgil, he succeeded tolerably well; for they had always used ancient pictures as models, for their drawings at St. Gall; and assumed a stereotype way of executing both drapery and outline. Likewise he succeeded with his own portrait; in so far as he managed to draw a figure in a monk's habit, wearing a tonsure; but a terrible problem for him, was the representation of a queenly woman's form, for as yet no woman's picture, not even God's holy Mother, had received admittance, amongst the monastery's paintings. David and Abimelech, which he was so well accustomed to, were of no help to him here, for the regal mantle scarcely came down to their knees; and he knew not how to draw it any longer. So, care once more resumed its seat on his forehead.
"Well, what now?" quoth Praxedis, one day.