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Ekkehard
Ekkehard
In seinem Roman von der Liebe der klugen Herzogin von Schwaben zu dem jungen Mönch Ekkehard gibt Scheffel, der Wissenschaftlichkeit mit freier Erfindung verbindet, ein bis heute gebliebenes Bild des Mittelalters.
480 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1855
6 people are currently reading
77 people want to read
About the author
Joseph Victor von Scheffel
144 booksJoseph Victor von Scheffel (16 February 1826 – 9 April 1886) was a German poet and novelist.
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
February 28, 2023
Well first and foremost, Joseph Victor von Scheffel's 1857 Ekkehard is of course to be considered as a historical fiction novel detailing a sometimes rather ridiculously overly saccharine and Biedermeier-like story of illicit love, betrayal and ultimate redemption between an educated, clever and thus also rather bored with her life South German duchess and her monkish tutor (from 10th century Southern Germany and Northern Switzerland, or rather I should say from the areas now known as Southern Germany and Northern Switzerland, since in the 10th century, neither country existed yet, with Switzerland becoming a confederation in 1391 and Germany actually only in 1871).
However, since von Scheffel penned his Ekkehard in 1857, I personally will not approach and have in fact never approached the presented text for Ekkehard as being just a simple case of straight forward historical fiction, but rather that Ekkehard is a novel that I would and do label as a quasi double and even multiple sided historical fiction novel. Since yes indeed, with me, with actually pretty well anyone perusing Ekkehard with our 20th and 21st century eyes, philosophies and attitudes, of course and naturally, a novel penned in 1857 about the 10th century, about Medieval continental European life and culture would (and even in my opinion rather should) contain aspects of 19th century thought etc. as well as the featured and depicted 10th century information and details.
And therefore and in my humble opinion, Joseph Victor on Scheffel's Ekkehard interestingly and intriguingly demonstrates and features multiple levels, and is not just von Scheffel's personal view and textual take on the Middle Ages but is also a typical German language and general 19th century view and take on Medieval times, something that needs to be taken into consideration if a reader is going to actually be able to textually encounter and read Ekkehard with both joy and appreciation. Because yes indeed, the first time I tried Ekkehard (at the age of nineteen in 1985), I was in fact trying to simply read it as a story of the Middle Age, and yes, I did kind of find Joseph Victor Scheffel's account rather annoying and sometimes problematic, since I had failed to make the connection that Ekkehard is a 19th century novel written about the distant past (and that making said essential and necessary connection whilst I was rereading Ekkehard has definitely and totally changed my earlier attitude and has also made me enjoy both Ekkehard and Joseph Victor von Scheffel as the author more and with considerable enlightenment and appreciation).
And finally, do I actually recommend Ekkehard? Yes, but definitely ONLY with the caveat that for one and in my humble opinion (and also according to my musings above), Ekkehard absolutely needs to be read as a nineteenth century novel and that for two, I will also not make any comments whatsoever as to the quality of potential English language translations, since I have only read Ekkehard in German.
However, since von Scheffel penned his Ekkehard in 1857, I personally will not approach and have in fact never approached the presented text for Ekkehard as being just a simple case of straight forward historical fiction, but rather that Ekkehard is a novel that I would and do label as a quasi double and even multiple sided historical fiction novel. Since yes indeed, with me, with actually pretty well anyone perusing Ekkehard with our 20th and 21st century eyes, philosophies and attitudes, of course and naturally, a novel penned in 1857 about the 10th century, about Medieval continental European life and culture would (and even in my opinion rather should) contain aspects of 19th century thought etc. as well as the featured and depicted 10th century information and details.
And therefore and in my humble opinion, Joseph Victor on Scheffel's Ekkehard interestingly and intriguingly demonstrates and features multiple levels, and is not just von Scheffel's personal view and textual take on the Middle Ages but is also a typical German language and general 19th century view and take on Medieval times, something that needs to be taken into consideration if a reader is going to actually be able to textually encounter and read Ekkehard with both joy and appreciation. Because yes indeed, the first time I tried Ekkehard (at the age of nineteen in 1985), I was in fact trying to simply read it as a story of the Middle Age, and yes, I did kind of find Joseph Victor Scheffel's account rather annoying and sometimes problematic, since I had failed to make the connection that Ekkehard is a 19th century novel written about the distant past (and that making said essential and necessary connection whilst I was rereading Ekkehard has definitely and totally changed my earlier attitude and has also made me enjoy both Ekkehard and Joseph Victor von Scheffel as the author more and with considerable enlightenment and appreciation).
And finally, do I actually recommend Ekkehard? Yes, but definitely ONLY with the caveat that for one and in my humble opinion (and also according to my musings above), Ekkehard absolutely needs to be read as a nineteenth century novel and that for two, I will also not make any comments whatsoever as to the quality of potential English language translations, since I have only read Ekkehard in German.
April 23, 2017
Ekkehard is inspired by the life of Ekkehard II, a monk in the monastery of St. Gallen at the turn of the first millenium. Specifically, von Scheffel took the parts about Ekkehard II of the Casus Sancti Galli by Ekkehard IV and fictionalized them in an effort to draw a genre picture of Germanic life in the year 1000 AD.
Ekkehard is historical fiction at its worst. It's even worse than Flaubert's Salammbô. The problem is the mindset of von Scheffel and probably of big parts of the society in Germany in Biedermeier times (approx. 1850). It was a time influenced by romanticism. "Heimat" was valued highly. The German national pride was rising. Ekkehard gave readers what they demanded. Teutonic faithfulness and simplicity instead of Greek or Latin decadence and sophistication. Brave German peasants fight back degenerated Hunnic hordes, they stand their ground. Idyllic mountain scenes express national consciousness. The tone is set for the fatal Blut-und-Boden mentality of a 100 years later. Although admittedly Ekkehard's refuge, the Wildkirchli, is captivatingly scenic.
Joseph Victor von Scheffel and his opus magnum Ekkehard nowadays are rightfully forgotten. This was popular literature in Germany in the second half of the 19th century? Von Scheffel was one of Bismarck's favourite authors? Sorry times for readers, a time of bad taste and worrying ideals.
Ekkehard is historical fiction at its worst. It's even worse than Flaubert's Salammbô. The problem is the mindset of von Scheffel and probably of big parts of the society in Germany in Biedermeier times (approx. 1850). It was a time influenced by romanticism. "Heimat" was valued highly. The German national pride was rising. Ekkehard gave readers what they demanded. Teutonic faithfulness and simplicity instead of Greek or Latin decadence and sophistication. Brave German peasants fight back degenerated Hunnic hordes, they stand their ground. Idyllic mountain scenes express national consciousness. The tone is set for the fatal Blut-und-Boden mentality of a 100 years later. Although admittedly Ekkehard's refuge, the Wildkirchli, is captivatingly scenic.
Joseph Victor von Scheffel and his opus magnum Ekkehard nowadays are rightfully forgotten. This was popular literature in Germany in the second half of the 19th century? Von Scheffel was one of Bismarck's favourite authors? Sorry times for readers, a time of bad taste and worrying ideals.
November 5, 2014
Ekkehard excited me more than any book I have read in a long time, and that is quite a feat for a nineteenth century German romance featuring all tension and no sex. Reading this book felt like stepping through a portal into a living, surreally vivid journey through tenth century Germany. It was not easy to read this book; I was only able to find the whole story translated into English through two orphaned volumes from two different libraries, each with a different translator. I read some of the text of a third English translation through Project Gutenberg (gutenberg.org), but the site is currently down, and I have had to return the two orphaned volumes to the distant libraries that generously allowed me to borrow their delicate antiques. My review is written entirely from my memory of these pieced-together fragments; luckily, the story has left many bold marks in my mind.
This meticulously researched and passionately rendered work of historical fiction breathes new life into the legendary figures of Hadwig, ruling Duchess of Suabia, and her Latin tutor, Ekkehard II, a young monk from a monastery within her realm.
The book opens upon a scene of epic beauty, set in the awe-inspiring landscape of southern Germany’s vast lakes and rugged mountains. The elegant Duchess Hadwig, irritable with boredom even in this glorious landscape, decides to visit the monastery where a relative of hers serves as abbot. When she arrives, however, the abbot refuses her entry, citing the monastery’s rule that a woman’s feet shall not touch the threshold.
Hadwig and the abbot enter a lengthy debate about whether her authority or the monastery’s rules take precedence, and a young, handsome, gifted monk called Ekkehard jokes that the rule would not be broken if someone simply carried the duchess over the threshold.
The abbot thinks seriously about the joke, because he is genuinely torn about whether or not to allow the duchess, who is his blood relative, his financial benefactor, and his governing authority (as well as a forbidden female), to come inside. He calls Ekkehard’s bluff and orders him to carry the duchess over the threshold himself.
The young monk is surprised but compliant, and fortunately, the supremely dominant duchess has a wicked sense of humor. Delighted with the joke, she allows Ekkehard to carry her inside, and as he does, both the playful—yet extremely repressed—young people look into each other’s eyes and experience a powerful attraction that neither will admit to themselves, out of devotion to their celibate roles—as monk and as widow whose position and power depend upon her faithfulness to her late husband’s memory.
The folly of confidence in their own commitments to their respective vows seems to allow both Hadwig and Ekkehard to engage in witty and flirtatious banter during the length of her visit. Ekkehard reveals to Hadwig that he is a Latin scholar, and his fervent passion for the “pagan” language and its classics ignites a powerful desire in the intellectual duchess. As she leaves the monastery to return home, she refuses the abbot’s traditional gift of a precious artifact and tells him instead to send Ekkehard to her castle, the Hohentwiel, to teach her Latin with the text of Virgil’s Aeneid.
Ekkehard submits to the abbot’s command with full obedience (which Scheffel, in one of his many witty asides on human character, ascribes to the fact that Ekkehard’s unspoken desire is in full agreement with the order).
While Ekkehard is excited to go out and see the world and become a person of importance, he has a touching moment of hesitation as he visits the monastery’s library to take out a copy of the Aeneid. He looks around himself at the many books and scrolls written in the handwriting of his dearest friends, some of them dead, and is moved by a sense of saying goodbye to these departed souls in a more final way than ever before.
Along the journey to the Hohentwiel, Ekkehard makes both enemies and friends with his earnest, eager, and often superior, presumptuous manner. He encounters a series of characters, mostly fellow clergymen, who act and speak and appear with such vivacity and strategic detail that each one seems vaguely familiar, like a person one might know in real life.
One of my favorites is Brother Moengal, a rural parish priest and sportsman, whose unapologetic mixing of Christian devotion and worship of the earth and the hunt leaves an uncomfortable but lasting impression on bookish, conservative Ekkehard.
As Ekkehard approaches the mountain on which the Hohentwiel looms, he is suddenly accosted by men in armor, who rush down the mountainside at him, bind and blindfold him, throw him into a litter, and race away with him trapped inside. When they finally release Ekkehard from his bondage and mortal terror, he finds himself at the feet of the laughing duchess, who explains that she wanted to welcome him into her home the same way he welcomed her to his—by having him carried across the threshold.
Thus begins their relationship, with a playful competition of asserting dominance, which poor Ekkehard soon learns he is without hope of winning. His desperation climaxes in a scene of dangerous emotional exposure within the darkness of the chapel where Hadwig’s late husband is interred. There was an illustration of this lustily reckless moment in one of the volumes I borrowed from a library (according to its list of plates), but it had apparently been torn out of the book sometime before I was born, adding to the tantalization of my reading experience.
Leading up to this climactic disaster, Ekkehard loses himself in the pleasure of teaching his favorite subject, Virgil, and of learning Greek from the Duchess’s charming slave and confidante, the spunky and sharp-witted Praxedis. The pretty young girl adds to the tension between Ekkehard and the Duchess as she slyly encourages and teases the pair, with a heart full of bravery and love for them both. Her character echoes the type of clever, good-hearted, and extremely valuable slave woman exemplified by Morgiana in the Arabian Nights, but Praxedis, like most of the Scheffel’s characters, is bursting with the nuances and energies of a real, complete person.
While Praxedis delights with her bold sass and merriment, I found myself laughing out loud at the duchess’s dry commentary on Virgil’s Aeneid and Ekkehard’s bewildered offense at her reactions. Hadwig makes no attempt to hide her disgust at Virgil’s depiction of Queen Dido and asserts that clearly, the text was written by a man who did not know women. Her evisceration of Dido’s story and characterization are so sharp, intelligent, and pitch-perfect that I momentarily forgot that Hadwig’s every thought and word were created by the hand of a nineteenth century old gentleman. I was impressed with Scheffel’s cutting insight into the experiences of women and the common misunderstandings of them by (forgivably inexperienced) men such as Ekkehard.
After several months of language lessons, the sexual and emotional tension that brews slowly between the two main characters is placed under intense pressure by the physical threat of “Huns” who race upon the scene, attacking Suabia and all of its monasteries, convents, and the Hohentwiel itself.
Duchess Hadwig finds herself taking on the role of army commander while studious Ekkehard is compelled to trade his pen and cassock for a sword and chainmail.
All along the gentle rises and steep precipices of the story’s epic sweep, Scheffel spins a web of heartrending stories involving the regular people of the castle grounds and surrounding villages. The author managed to lead me to care deeply about a vast number of minor characters, such as a mentally challenged monk, a reformed marauder, the blood-chilling Woman of the Wood, and a pair of innocent children whose imaginations carry the force of hallucinogenic magic. The spell-binding tales of these lively characters are peppered with Scheffel’s dry comments on certain facts of human experience, such as the way fools seem to stagger blindly around dangers that intelligent people are likely to fall into, and the importance of never underestimating the power of a child’s beliefs.
This book, while meticulously researched, appears to be the work of a man who had a deep and intimate knowledge of life, nature, and the human heart. Just as clear, to my joyous discovery, was Scheffel’s love of oral history, as evidenced by his inclusion of folksong lyrics, an entire chapter devoted to a pre-Christian, Germanic folktale-telling contest (as an amateur folklorist, I felt like I had struck a vein of raw gold there) and the full text of the real Ekkehard’s real contribution to German literature, the Waltharilied. Squee!
Ekkehard is a treasure chest filled with such glorious artistry and gripping entertainment that I am surprised it has fallen into relative obscurity since its publication not much more than a hundred years ago.
My one major complaint about the book is its inexplicably flat, incorrect, and unimaginative description of the “Huns” who invade Hadwig’s domain. Scheffel seems to have done a great deal of historical research and made every attempt to fully humanize each German character, no matter how good or evil. It is mentioned in the book that the word “Hun” is being used as an abbreviation for “Hungarian,” and it is true that Hungary did attack Germany during this time period. However, with the jarring exception of a few joiners from other cultures, these “Huns” are described as racially distinct from the Suabians (which the Hungarians of the time were not), all looking “alike,” and described uncomfortably as racist caricatures of Far East Asians. I was reminded of Mickey Rooney’s racist “yellowface” character in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which marred an otherwise enjoyable film with a completely unnecessary, totally embarrassing, racist throwaway gag. I was disappointed that not only did Scheffel take the lazy route of tacking an ugly, racist myth into the otherwise beautiful tapestry of his story, but he missed the opportunity of using his already-demonstrated literary skill to explore the far more interesting and nuanced realities of these wartime conflicts and the people who engaged in them.
With the caveat of this book’s great flaw regarding the “Huns,” I would recommend this book to anyone interested in historical romance, medieval history, German culture, or classic literature. It is the sort of work that appeals across gender lines and personality types, mixing raucous adventure with tender emotion, intellectual gymnastics with raw description, lovely description with heart-stopping action, and deep insight with surprising humor.
It is a must-read for anyone enthralled with medieval, ancient, or courtly tales who is looking for an entertainment experience that, for the most part and despite its age, serves up a fresher and richer banquet than most dusty, canned storylines based in centuries past.
This meticulously researched and passionately rendered work of historical fiction breathes new life into the legendary figures of Hadwig, ruling Duchess of Suabia, and her Latin tutor, Ekkehard II, a young monk from a monastery within her realm.
The book opens upon a scene of epic beauty, set in the awe-inspiring landscape of southern Germany’s vast lakes and rugged mountains. The elegant Duchess Hadwig, irritable with boredom even in this glorious landscape, decides to visit the monastery where a relative of hers serves as abbot. When she arrives, however, the abbot refuses her entry, citing the monastery’s rule that a woman’s feet shall not touch the threshold.
Hadwig and the abbot enter a lengthy debate about whether her authority or the monastery’s rules take precedence, and a young, handsome, gifted monk called Ekkehard jokes that the rule would not be broken if someone simply carried the duchess over the threshold.
The abbot thinks seriously about the joke, because he is genuinely torn about whether or not to allow the duchess, who is his blood relative, his financial benefactor, and his governing authority (as well as a forbidden female), to come inside. He calls Ekkehard’s bluff and orders him to carry the duchess over the threshold himself.
The young monk is surprised but compliant, and fortunately, the supremely dominant duchess has a wicked sense of humor. Delighted with the joke, she allows Ekkehard to carry her inside, and as he does, both the playful—yet extremely repressed—young people look into each other’s eyes and experience a powerful attraction that neither will admit to themselves, out of devotion to their celibate roles—as monk and as widow whose position and power depend upon her faithfulness to her late husband’s memory.
The folly of confidence in their own commitments to their respective vows seems to allow both Hadwig and Ekkehard to engage in witty and flirtatious banter during the length of her visit. Ekkehard reveals to Hadwig that he is a Latin scholar, and his fervent passion for the “pagan” language and its classics ignites a powerful desire in the intellectual duchess. As she leaves the monastery to return home, she refuses the abbot’s traditional gift of a precious artifact and tells him instead to send Ekkehard to her castle, the Hohentwiel, to teach her Latin with the text of Virgil’s Aeneid.
Ekkehard submits to the abbot’s command with full obedience (which Scheffel, in one of his many witty asides on human character, ascribes to the fact that Ekkehard’s unspoken desire is in full agreement with the order).
While Ekkehard is excited to go out and see the world and become a person of importance, he has a touching moment of hesitation as he visits the monastery’s library to take out a copy of the Aeneid. He looks around himself at the many books and scrolls written in the handwriting of his dearest friends, some of them dead, and is moved by a sense of saying goodbye to these departed souls in a more final way than ever before.
Along the journey to the Hohentwiel, Ekkehard makes both enemies and friends with his earnest, eager, and often superior, presumptuous manner. He encounters a series of characters, mostly fellow clergymen, who act and speak and appear with such vivacity and strategic detail that each one seems vaguely familiar, like a person one might know in real life.
One of my favorites is Brother Moengal, a rural parish priest and sportsman, whose unapologetic mixing of Christian devotion and worship of the earth and the hunt leaves an uncomfortable but lasting impression on bookish, conservative Ekkehard.
As Ekkehard approaches the mountain on which the Hohentwiel looms, he is suddenly accosted by men in armor, who rush down the mountainside at him, bind and blindfold him, throw him into a litter, and race away with him trapped inside. When they finally release Ekkehard from his bondage and mortal terror, he finds himself at the feet of the laughing duchess, who explains that she wanted to welcome him into her home the same way he welcomed her to his—by having him carried across the threshold.
Thus begins their relationship, with a playful competition of asserting dominance, which poor Ekkehard soon learns he is without hope of winning. His desperation climaxes in a scene of dangerous emotional exposure within the darkness of the chapel where Hadwig’s late husband is interred. There was an illustration of this lustily reckless moment in one of the volumes I borrowed from a library (according to its list of plates), but it had apparently been torn out of the book sometime before I was born, adding to the tantalization of my reading experience.
Leading up to this climactic disaster, Ekkehard loses himself in the pleasure of teaching his favorite subject, Virgil, and of learning Greek from the Duchess’s charming slave and confidante, the spunky and sharp-witted Praxedis. The pretty young girl adds to the tension between Ekkehard and the Duchess as she slyly encourages and teases the pair, with a heart full of bravery and love for them both. Her character echoes the type of clever, good-hearted, and extremely valuable slave woman exemplified by Morgiana in the Arabian Nights, but Praxedis, like most of the Scheffel’s characters, is bursting with the nuances and energies of a real, complete person.
While Praxedis delights with her bold sass and merriment, I found myself laughing out loud at the duchess’s dry commentary on Virgil’s Aeneid and Ekkehard’s bewildered offense at her reactions. Hadwig makes no attempt to hide her disgust at Virgil’s depiction of Queen Dido and asserts that clearly, the text was written by a man who did not know women. Her evisceration of Dido’s story and characterization are so sharp, intelligent, and pitch-perfect that I momentarily forgot that Hadwig’s every thought and word were created by the hand of a nineteenth century old gentleman. I was impressed with Scheffel’s cutting insight into the experiences of women and the common misunderstandings of them by (forgivably inexperienced) men such as Ekkehard.
After several months of language lessons, the sexual and emotional tension that brews slowly between the two main characters is placed under intense pressure by the physical threat of “Huns” who race upon the scene, attacking Suabia and all of its monasteries, convents, and the Hohentwiel itself.
Duchess Hadwig finds herself taking on the role of army commander while studious Ekkehard is compelled to trade his pen and cassock for a sword and chainmail.
All along the gentle rises and steep precipices of the story’s epic sweep, Scheffel spins a web of heartrending stories involving the regular people of the castle grounds and surrounding villages. The author managed to lead me to care deeply about a vast number of minor characters, such as a mentally challenged monk, a reformed marauder, the blood-chilling Woman of the Wood, and a pair of innocent children whose imaginations carry the force of hallucinogenic magic. The spell-binding tales of these lively characters are peppered with Scheffel’s dry comments on certain facts of human experience, such as the way fools seem to stagger blindly around dangers that intelligent people are likely to fall into, and the importance of never underestimating the power of a child’s beliefs.
This book, while meticulously researched, appears to be the work of a man who had a deep and intimate knowledge of life, nature, and the human heart. Just as clear, to my joyous discovery, was Scheffel’s love of oral history, as evidenced by his inclusion of folksong lyrics, an entire chapter devoted to a pre-Christian, Germanic folktale-telling contest (as an amateur folklorist, I felt like I had struck a vein of raw gold there) and the full text of the real Ekkehard’s real contribution to German literature, the Waltharilied. Squee!
Ekkehard is a treasure chest filled with such glorious artistry and gripping entertainment that I am surprised it has fallen into relative obscurity since its publication not much more than a hundred years ago.
My one major complaint about the book is its inexplicably flat, incorrect, and unimaginative description of the “Huns” who invade Hadwig’s domain. Scheffel seems to have done a great deal of historical research and made every attempt to fully humanize each German character, no matter how good or evil. It is mentioned in the book that the word “Hun” is being used as an abbreviation for “Hungarian,” and it is true that Hungary did attack Germany during this time period. However, with the jarring exception of a few joiners from other cultures, these “Huns” are described as racially distinct from the Suabians (which the Hungarians of the time were not), all looking “alike,” and described uncomfortably as racist caricatures of Far East Asians. I was reminded of Mickey Rooney’s racist “yellowface” character in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which marred an otherwise enjoyable film with a completely unnecessary, totally embarrassing, racist throwaway gag. I was disappointed that not only did Scheffel take the lazy route of tacking an ugly, racist myth into the otherwise beautiful tapestry of his story, but he missed the opportunity of using his already-demonstrated literary skill to explore the far more interesting and nuanced realities of these wartime conflicts and the people who engaged in them.
With the caveat of this book’s great flaw regarding the “Huns,” I would recommend this book to anyone interested in historical romance, medieval history, German culture, or classic literature. It is the sort of work that appeals across gender lines and personality types, mixing raucous adventure with tender emotion, intellectual gymnastics with raw description, lovely description with heart-stopping action, and deep insight with surprising humor.
It is a must-read for anyone enthralled with medieval, ancient, or courtly tales who is looking for an entertainment experience that, for the most part and despite its age, serves up a fresher and richer banquet than most dusty, canned storylines based in centuries past.
Want to read
July 7, 2018“Yo había leído Ekkehard de Scheffel”
Pasaje de: Zorn, Fritz. “Bajo el signo de Marte.” iBooks.
Pasaje de: Zorn, Fritz. “Bajo el signo de Marte.” iBooks.
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