That very same night, Ekkehard remained sitting up with his chip-candle, and began his work; and a sensation of intense pleasure, came over him, when the figures sprang into life, under his hand. It was a great and honest joy; for in the exercise of the poetic art, mortal man elevates himself to the deed of the Creator, who caused a world to spring forth out of nothing. The next day found him eagerly busying himself with the first adventures. He could scarcely account for the laws by which he regulated and interwove the threads of his poem, and in truth it is not always necessary to know the why and the wherefore of everything. "The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth; so is every one that is born of the Spirit," says St. John.
And if now and then a feeling of doubt and distrust of his own faculties came over him,--for he was timidly organised, and sometimes thought that it was scarcely possible to attain anything without the help of books, and learned models,--then, he would walk up and down the narrow path before his cavern, and riveting his looks on the gigantic walls of his mountains, he derived comfort and serenity from them; and finally said to himself, "In all that I write and conceive, I will merely ask the Säntis and the Kamor, whether they are satisfied." And with these thoughts, he was on a good track; for the poetry of him, who receives his inspiration from old mother nature, will be genuine and truthful, although the linen-weavers, stonecutters, or the whole of that most respectable brotherhood of straw-splitters, in the depth below, may ten thousand times declare it to be, a mere fantastical chimera.
Some days were thus spent, in industrious work. In the Latin verse of Virgil, the figures of his legend were clothed, as the paths of the German mother-tongue struck him as being still too rough and uneven, for the fair measured pace of his epic. Thus his solitude became daily more peopled. At first, he thought he would continue his work night and day, without any interruption; but the physical part of our nature will claim its rights. Therefore he said: "He who works, must attune his daily labour to the course of the sun;" and when the shadows of evening fell on the neighbouring heights, he made a pause; seized his harp and with it ascended the Ebenalp. The spot, where the first idea of writing the epic had entered his mind, had become very dear to him.
Benedicta welcomed him joyfully, when he came for the first time with his harp.
"I understand you, mountain-brother," said she. "Because you are not allowed to have a sweetheart, you have taken to a harp to which you tell everything that's going on in your heart. But it shall not be in vain that you have become a musician."
Raising her hand to her mouth, she uttered a clear, melodious whistle, towards the low-thatched cottage on the Klusalp, which soon brought over the herdsman her sweetheart, with his Alpine horn. He was a strong and fine looking lad. In his right ear he wore a heavy silver ring, representing a serpent, suspended from which, on a tiny silver chain, hung the slender milkspoon, the herdsman's badge of honour. His waist was encircled by the broad belt; in front of which some monstrous animal, faintly resembling a cow, was to be seen. With shy curiosity depicted in his healthy face, he stood before Ekkehard; but Benedicta said:
"Please to strike up a dance now; for often enough we have regretted that we could not do it ourselves; but, when he blows his horn he cannot whirl me round at the same time, and when I play on the flute, I cannot spare an arm."
Ekkehard willingly struck up the desired tune, being much pleased at the innocent merriment of these children of the mountains; and so they danced on the soft Alpine grass, until the moon rose in golden beauty over the Maarwiese. Greeting her with many a shout of delight, they still continued their dance; singing at the same time, alternately some simple little couplets ...
"And the glaciers grew upwards
Until nigh to the top,
What a pity for the maiden
If they'd frozen her up!"
sang Benedicta's lover, gaily whirling her round;