And all this while the mind of the age moved in revolt, and, like the needle of the compass, customs and institutions trembled toward following the mind. It was the new time, and the new time was yet fluid, and might go between these banks or between those. The flood might contract—the flood might expand. Many fields would be watered, or more or less. Those who cared for certain fields looked anxiously that they be helped. Hearts beat high and hearts sank—there were dreams—there were pangs of hope and of disappointment. Some could say, “The water comes to my fields, the water turns my mill wheel!” and some, “It goes aside, my fields are left unhelped, my wheel stands still!” and some, “For me a little rill, a broken light, a wheel that is turned a little way!”
At Christmas-tide came again to the Golden Eagle Albrecht and Ulrich, Conrad Devilson and Walther von Langen, older all by four years than in that December when they had brought news of the burning of the Pope’s bull. As of yore the Golden Eagle creaked and swung. Within the clean inn room Hans Knapp fed the fire, and the flame leaped up the chimney. Frau Knapp had lost no skill of cookery, and Gretchen Knapp, a little larger, a little rosier, moved about the room and set the pasty on the table and drew the ale. Only two of the incoming four might justly now be named wandering students. One had settled into burgherdom and was in Hauptberg on merchant business. One taught in an university and now had a holiday. The four had met much by accident. But fine and pleasant it was to be together again, at this Golden Eagle! They recalled the last time they had been so together in this town. “We went to Gabriel Mayr’s. Eberhard Gerson was with us.”—“Now it is Eberhard’s small red and brown house—Eberhard’s cherry trees and currant bushes!”—“Let us go see Eberhard and Thekla!”
They went somewhat merrily up the narrow street, but they did not sing as they had done. That was because they were older, and two were grown respectable. Moreover, some sweetness and wild flavour—the taste of the first flood—undeniably was gone out of the times.
Here was the red and brown house between the woodcarver’s and the goldsmith’s. They struck against the door. It opened and Thekla stood before them. “Welcome, and enter, wandering students!”
In the room, ruddy with firelight, Elsa sat and span, open beside her a book of old poetry. Gretel, the young orphan girl, knitted and played with the cat upon the hearth. Eberhard was gone to look at a book at the University. He would presently be home. Thekla showed the work he was doing—the series of drawings, The Road to the City of God. The wandering students admired, commented, admired again. “The verse in each—the verse that is shown?”
“I write the verse. He makes the picture.”
“They fit,” said Conrad Devilson, “like two halves of an apple!”
Eberhard opened the door and came in. There was welcoming—good talk of work and of old times and wanderings. Gathered around the fire, they talked of private and public matters. It was a time when the public business is clearly seen to be each soul’s business. So they talked of the general storm and stress. Eberhard had news. Martin Luther was coming to Hauptberg and on three successive days would deliver three discourses. And all would go....
Outside the house the wind rattled the boughs, the wind sang in the chimney. Thekla sat in her red gown, in the old chair of Gabriel Mayr. She sat in the middle of the half ring, in front of the bright, leaping fire.
“Fire is a chariot in which rides the past!” said Thekla. “Who first kindled fire and laid it on a hearth?”