The Road to Bisanz

Wait a minute–that’s right outside the hotel! How do they know which way
the minivan is pointing? Okay, okay… I’ll just drive into the intersection
and…

In America that’s what we call a hard left, okay? So finally we’re getting
out of Strasbourg, and none too soon from my perspective–my financial perspective,
I mean. More on that later. Anyway, we’ve had some rearrangement of the travel
parties. Here in the Opel Zafira, I’ve got some of the same crew as I had from
Speyer to Strasbourg, with a couple of changes. In the wayback seat, there’s
Bertha and Conrad (the Duke of Lower Lotharingia is back in his kindersitz–I’m
not compromising on that!), and Bruno of course has squeezed in beside them.
(He seems to have permanently attached himself to Bertha, as a kind of au-pair
boy or something).

Right. Got it. Rue de Feu. In the middle seats, with a pile of luggage, I’ve
got one of the Gozilos (the young one with the big hands), and up here next
to me, in the shotgun seat, I’ve got a Rabbit Warrior, Geng the Horse Lover,
or Philip, as he prefers to be called. Philip is running the GPS, and he’s
a hell of a lot better at it than Lambert was, I can tell you that.

We’re sort of going in circles, aren’t we? Right, I understand, this will
get us on the highway out of town. Today, our various vehicles are heading
to different destinations. Basically, some of us are going to Besançon,
in Franche-Comté, for a meeting with one of Henry’s relatives and the
rest of us are heading straight to Gex, on the border with Switzerland, where
Bertha’s Mom and brother have a place. The point is to try to save some kilometers
for the BierWagen, which after all is a carnival float being pulled by a tractor.
Their route doesn’t really save all that much distance, however, since to go
straight to Gex you’ve got to cross into Switzerland, through Basel and Bern.
Wait, wait! What’s this big intersection? What do I do?

Cool. Got it. So the reason I’ve got one of the Gozilos riding with me is
scooter trouble–his Vespa wouldn’t start this morning. The RKS guys insisted
that they could fix it–just put it on the BierWagen, they said, they’d have
it running by the time they get to Gex. Well, the BierWagen didn’t seem like
much of a mechanic’s shop, from what I remember of it, but these guys are all
engineering students, so I suppose they can fix things, and they’ve probably
got their tools stored somewhere.

Okay, now this looks like a highway–pretty much like the entrance ramps on
an American freeway…

Damn it, I’m in the wrong lane! Do I have room? Okay, I’m going…

Whew! Okay… stay on this for 14 kilometers? What was I saying? Oh yeah,
so Gozilo, the young one, he was going to stay with his Vespa–you know, take
the BierWagen to Gex, but Henry said "No way, cousin, I need you in Bisanz,
get in the minivan"–so here he is. That’s what Henry calls Besançon–"Bisanz"–I
guess its some sort of Medieval thing. Lambert explained it to me. Speaking
of Lambert… well, it kind of surprised me, but he volunteered to ride on
the BierWagen. I admit I was a little disappointed–after all, Lambert’s the
only one I’ve really been able to talk to, about, you know, the history of
this journey, both history in the sense of what really happened and history in
the sense of the stories we tell ourselves to make sense of the past,
which is a distinction I don’t feel comfortable bringing up with anybody in
the minivan right now, not to say they aren’t intelligent, but it just doesn’t
seem appropriate. Maybe I was a little hard on Lambert about the GPS, or maybe
he was just tired of babysitting Conrad, which is what he and Bruno ended up
doing, for most of the two days in Strasbourg.

How are we doing? 5 kilometers to the next turn? Good…

Henry and the older Gozilo are riding their motorcycles to Bisanz–I don’t
think they are riding together, though–partly because Henry has a BMW and
Gozilo has a Vespa, but more because of what you might call their personal
styles. I haven’t spent much time with him, but I get a very strong impression
that Henry is incapable of traveling at the same speed as anyone else–if you
want to zig, he’s gotta zag. And that Gozilo–the older one, the one who’s
kind of crippled–he’s got an agenda. He’s up to something.

Got it. You know, it’s odd how many of the town names around here sound German…

What do you mean I missed it? Why would I take the sign for Strasbourg? That’s
where we’re coming from!

Strasbourg – The Two Gozilos

When I get back to the Hotel Mercure Strasbourg Quartier St. Jean,
three of the Rabbit Warriors are sitting in the sidewalk cafe outside.

"Zere he is!" calls out Benedikt when he sees me. "Ze steward
of ze empire!"

"Did you sleep in ze BierWagen?" asks Manuel.

"Ah!" says Andreas, "Ze perfect cure for jet lag! Sit down
and join us for breakfast, bro. Ve are drinking Strasbourg beer! Vill you have
vun?"

"Vait, vait," says Manuel. "Ve must randomize ze trial!"

"You try ze salicylic acid," says Andreas, and they all burst out
laughing.

From inside my hangover, I watch them laugh. I have no idea what the joke
is about, but I start laughing too.

"Another line from XKCD?" I say.

"Yah, yah," says Manuel. "Ze vun about ze acne medicine. Have
you seen it?"

"No… not exactly," I say. "I’ll have some… coffee."

I think about ordering breakfast, but I decide that’s not a good idea, not
yet. All I really want to do is go up to my room and take a shower. But I figure
I’d better talk to these guys for a minute, and find out if I did anything
really embarrassing last night. They assure me that by their standards, my
behavior was kind of tame. I ask them about the Danish girls. Benedikt punches
me in the arm.

"Zose vere not Danish girls!" he says.

They all laugh, make funny faces and point at me. I decide not to purse the
matter any further.

Just then Bruno comes out from the lobby. He seems very upset.

"Have you seen Henry?" he says.

"No," I say. "I… just got here…"

"It’s all your fault," he says. "Bertha blames you. And she’s
right. You should never let them sleep together.’

"What?" I say.

"All they do is fucking fight the next day. Henry’s gone. He’s gone."

"What about Conrad?" I say. I don’t know why I’m so worried about
the little brat, but I am. I mean, he’s a kid.

"Right now, let’s see, the Duke of Lower Lotharingia, oh yes, he’s throwing
a tantrum in the lobby," says Bruno. I look in through the glass door.
Amid the reflections of the street I catch glimpses of the little boy swinging
a shopping bag, whopping it hard against the front desk.

"Don’t vorry about him," says Benedikt, standing up.

"Yah," says Andreas.

"Ve know how to play vith little dukes," says Manuel.

And before I know it, the Rabbit Warriors have rushed into the lobby. Next
thing I see, when a big black truck goes by and darkens the window, is Conrad
on Benedikt’s shoulders, throwing something at the other RKS guys. He seems
to be having fun.

Sometimes a hangover gives you a real Zen-like attitude towards life’s problems.
Like now. There seemed to be a crisis, but because I’m hungover, I didn’t do
anything, and now it’s all better.

"Look," I say to Bruno, "Don’t worry about Henry. He has a
motorcycle. That’s what’s guys with motorcycles do. They go."

By this point, Bruno and I are the only ones sitting in the sidewalk cafe
outside the hotel. Where’s that coffee? Did I ever actually order it?

"Or in this case," says Bruno, "they arrive."

I turn around and look. Three figures on motorcycles are coming over the bridge.
One of them I recognize as Henry. The others… Are those Vespas? It looks
like a man and woman, all dressed in black and riding black motor scooters.
Black helmets, black visors, black suits, black shirts, black shoes.

They pull up right outside the cafe. I’m pretty sure it’s not a legal place
to park motorcycles, even scooters, but what the hell do I care? One of the
scooter riders is definitely a man, tall and athletic. The other is a small
feminine figure with an odd limping walk, one arm kinda shorter than the other.
For a moment I think my self-indulgent revery of the other night has come
true–could these two be John Currin and Elizabeth Peyton? Did Henry ride over
to Basel and get them? It’s not impossible–after all, he’s the emperor.

Then they take off their helmets and I feel like an idiot. They’re both men.
Both red-haired, both bearded. The tall one is young, with his hair pulled
back in a pony tail. The small one, with the twisted arms and funny shoulders,
is much older. His hair is thinning and his beard is whispy.

As they approach our table, Bruno gets up and goes inside. Henry doesn’t seem
to notice. He never seems to notice Bruno, coming or going, present or absent.

"Book a room for these guys," says Henry. "This is my cousin,
Gozilo, and his nephew, Gozilo."

"Please to meet you," I say. "Uh, sit down… I was just ordering
coffee."

The young Gozilo says something in a language I don’t understand, or even
recognize. Dutch, maybe?

"They’re hungry," says Henry. "Take care of them." Then
he hops on his bike and takes off.

The two Gozilos sit down and look at me.

"There’s a server on duty," I say. "I saw her before…"

The young one says something again, in that language. What does Walloon sound
like? The older Gozilo nods his head.

Then it occurs to me. "Gozilo!" I say. "Isn’t that Latin for
Godfrey? Or Gottfried?"

"No," says the small twisted man. "No, it’s not."

"I’m pretty sure…" I say. For some reason I’m suddenly talkative. "I
was looking at the Latin text of Lambert’s Annals–last week, before I flew
over here–not that my Latin is any good, I barely made it through Ceasar’s
Gallic wars with an interlinear translation, and that was many years ago, but
I found a copy of the Latin text, you know on the internet…"

It’s true, you can find it, it’s not that hard.

"…so anyway, I did some side-by-side comparisons with the translations,
you know, just to get a feel for the original, and I could swear that I saw
‘Gozilo dux Lotheringorum‘–you know, in the part about the murder
of Godfrey the Hunchback…."

Stony silence, from both Gozilos. But I keep going…

"Maybe it’s just a medieval Latin thing, an unusual spelling. Lambert
himself is staying in this hotel. We could ask him…"

Suddenly the red-haired youth leans forward and grabs my shirt.

"We are not named Godfrey!" he says. I guess he speaks English,
after all.

"Okay," I say, trying to breathe. The guy is really strong. Is he
a gangster or something?

"We are named Gozilo! Got that? Gozilo!"

I nod my head and he lets go.

The Song of Henry: Grüssau Abbey

The correspondence between Adalbert Kehr and Konrad Joseph quickly revealed
Kehr to be the lonelier of the pair. More than a hundred years later, when
Roger McAllister read their letters, he could feel the emptiness of Grüssau
Abbey in every page, every long dense page that Kehr wrote.

The old Benedictine abbey had been secularized decades earlier, during the
Napoleonic wars, and had become, by the time Adalbert Kehr arrived, an outpost
of the Prussian bureaucracy. The church itself, under a dour pastor, served
the spiritual needs, such as they were, of the local farmers, while the other
buildings remained largely unoccupied, except for one office, where Kehr was
expected to monitor both the agricultural and the mineralogical production
of the region. The local lead mines having closed down some years before, Kehr’s
duties included the preparation of weekly reports filled with row after row
of zeroes, a task in which his predecessor had taken much pride, working late
into the evening nearly every night of the week. The study of philology has
many benefits, however, including a dramatic improvement in the speed of one’s
hand, and Kehr, armed with a new "reservoir pen" imported from England,
found that he was able to acquit himself of his official charge in an hour
or two each day, except for harvest season, when there was some actual work
to be done. Which left Adalbert Kehr, most days, with fourteen waking hours
of idleness, and no one to talk to, except the narrow-minded pastor, and the
parishioners, who regarded him as something between a cop and a spy.

Luckily, there was an abbey to explore. Kehr found room after room of old
books, boxes, papers, records of who knows what. Most were from the last thirty
years or so–in one room, Kehr found the carefully bound reports of his predecessor,
looking as if they had never been read, which was sad, in a way, but only to
be expected. In another room he found diplomatic dispatches, sent from various
embassies to Berlin apparently, all dated in the months leading up to the recent
war with the French–had they been moved here during the war for safekeeping?
And then forgotten?

And occasionally–always, it seemed,
behind a stack of the most dreary governmental reports imaginable–Kehr would
find something that seemed to be older, a book in Latin, or a vellum scroll,
or a sheet of music, that gave him hope that he might have found a fragment,
a trace, some palimpsest of the old library of the Benedictines.

Strangely energized upon his return from Gotha, Kehr set himself an ambitious
task: to sort and organize the contents of Grüssau Abbey. His first letters
to Konrad Joseph were filled with an almost heroic sense of mission–even to
the point of comparing his work, with only a hint of ironic self-deprecation,
to the fifth Labor of Hercules. Soon, unlike Hercules (who cleansed the Augean
stables in a single day) but much like his clerical predecessor, Kehr found
himself working late each night, moving, stacking, sorting, reading, and indexing
room after room of documents. In one overflowing room he put all the agricultural
and mineralogical production reports; another he filled with railroad switching
schedules, and a third with proposals for sewage systems. Soon there were rooms
devoted to forestry maps, overdue bridge maintenance notices, textile production
quotas, and complaints about the telegraph service. In a very large room, chosen
precisely for its leaky roof and moldy floor, Kehr put the innumerable files
of the all the young men who had emigrated to America to escape the Prussian
draft. He found a good dry room for the diplomatic dispatches (how he hoped
they would embarrass someone someday!), a better room for the sheets of handwritten
music that seemed to be scattered promiscuously among nearly every other kind
of document, and he saved the best location of all, a dry cool cellar under
what seemed like the old priory, for anything that seemed older than the First
Silesian War.

Even Roger McAllister, reading of these exertions more than a century later,
was touched by tenderness with which Adalbert Kehr described his reconstruction,
in that secret cellar, of the Benedictine library: in a typical letter, Kehr
would acknowledge, quickly, the reports of Konrad Joseph’s busy life as a radical
entrepreneur in Munich; decline, politely, the invitation to critique his friend’s
latest attempt to reconcile Marx and Proudhon; and then fill page after page
with reverential inventories of Latin bibles, illuminated manuscripts, annales,
and most exciting of all, the occasional fragment of Middle High German verse.

And then, in one letter, there was no small talk at all, no acknowledgment
of Konrad Joseph’s world, let alone his previous letter: Kehr simply announced
his discovery of the the Heinrichlied, a manuscript in exquisitely
balanced nibelungenstrophes, an epic poem that embodied a rare conjunction
of artist and subject–an anonymous poet of genius and a hero of equal rank:
Henry IV, Holy Roman Emperor.

Strasbourg – Looking for the BierWagen

Hotel Mercure, Quartier St. Jean, Strasbourg

Finally, we get everybody checked in, and head up to our rooms. My room is on the fourth floor–it’s kind of angular, like somebody tried to hide the attic beams of an old building by disguising them as geometric modernism–but it’s nice. Actually really nice. I haven’t done the euro-dollar conversion yet–my brain is still too foggy from lack of sleep to do the calculations in my head–but it seems affordable, as long as this is the only room that is still on my credit card at checkout time. I’ve got to talk to Henry about that.

But I don’t spend much time in the room, just set down my luggage. The guys from Henry’s entourage are waiting for me downstairs, in Le Bar–that’s right, the hotel’s bar is actually called Le Bar–and they’ve offered to buy me a beer. The thing with jet lag is that sometimes, like right now, you’re dead tired but so buzzed from daylight and caffeine that a couple of beers sounds better than a nap. Besides, I’m eager to meet these guys, find out what their story is.

In the bar, Bendedikt introduces me to rest of what he calls “the strange six”–the founders and organizers of a group called Reilinger Kraichbach Schlabbe, or RKS, which seems to be devoted to the production, preservation, and use of something called the “BierWagen.” In quick, confusing succession I meet Stephan, Philipp, Andreas, Florian, and Manuel. Over the first beer, which is very good, by the way, I learn that “the strange six” are all from a small town near Speyer called Reilengen, that they are currently enrolled, for the most part, as engineering students at the University of Heidelberg; that they are all monster snowboarders; that they usually do their snowboarding in the Black Forest, but they are hoping to catch the last snows of the season in the Alps on our journey to Canossa; that they love American pop culture, including the Simpsons (which they watch in German), the songs of Hall and Oates (which they Karaoke in English), and a web-comic called XKCD, which they quote incessantly–“It is ze only comic in ze language of calculus!”

“I zink you have ze wrong press conference,” says Philipp, and the rest of them burst out laughing.

“Is that a line from XKCD?” I ask.

“Yah, yah!” says Andreas. “Ze vun about ze G-Spot! Did you read it?”

“Not yet,” I say.

By this point, I think we’re on Florian’s round. Each time one of them orders more beers, I protest, but just pro forma, to give them an excuse to back out, if they want to–I’m not quite sure what the rules are for rounds-drinking in transnational Europe. But then I notice, kind of sideways, I mean this is the third or fourth thought crowding around my mind at that moment, standing in the background, trying to get my attention, that they are putting the beers on their room charges, and that means–I can barely hear this thought, the bar is getting too noisy–that every damn drink has been going onto my credit card.

This thought waves at me one last time from across the room, and then gives up and goes home, because by this point, I’m insisting, loudly, that it’s my turn to buy.

“Yah,” says Manuel, or maybe it’s Stephan. “Let’s go next door.”

Pretty soon we’re down the street to Le Rive Gauche, which I guess is some sort of classic Strasbourgian cafe. There are a lot of tables outside, filling up the pointy corner, and even though it’s not very warm, that’s where we sit. It’s dark now–what time is it? Who cares? I order a round of beers and a round of apertifs–I insist on calling them “shots”–and while we’re waiting, the RKS guys check out a table of young women nearby.

Then Benedikt tugs at my sleeve. “Look at zat,” he says, pointing with his shoulder to the interior of the cafe. The inside is nothing much, even kind of divey-looking, I guess that’s why everyone’s outside. All the tables are empty, except for one couple, in the back corner, making out. The guy is bearded, with a black motorcycle jacket. The girl is slim, with a tailored yellow jacket and an elegant ponytail.

“That’s… that’s Henry and Bertha…”

“Yah,” says Benedikt. “Zere is our Kaiser!”

“Wait a minute,” I say, “where’s Conrad?”

I get out my phone and call the hotel desk. Yeah, sure, it’s like forty steps away from where I’m sitting, but I’m waiting for a round of drinks. The clerk puts me through to Bruno and Lambert’s room. Sure enough, Conrad is with them. They’re watching Wall-E on pay-per-view.

“Okay,” I tell Bruno. “Just checking.”

That phone call is my last relatively sober act of the evening. The next thing I know, I’ve bought a round of drinks for the madchen at the next table, and the next thing after that, we’re all wandering through the streets of Strasbourg, me and the Rabbit Warriors and their new girlfriends, looking for the parking structure where they left the BierWagen.

Strasbourg – Hotel Mercure Quartier St. Jean

We’re supposed to meet Henry and his entourage at the Hotel Mercure in Strasbourg. Well, it turns out that that there are several Hotel Mercures in that city–first I navigate through the narrow streets to the Hotel Mercure Strasbourg Centre, on the picturesque ile that holds the upscale shopping district, and we’ve almost got the minivan unloaded when Bertha gets a call on her cell phone. It’s Henry, saying he’s at the front desk, and wondering where we are. Well of course we can’t find him, and after much gesticulation in several languages–at one point, I could swear that I hear Lambert speaking to the concierge in Latin–we set off for Hotel Mercure Place Gare Centrale, near the giant space ship, excuse me, train station (really, Strasbourg’s gare looks like it was designed by the same team of alien architects that did the remodeling job on Soldier’s Field in Chicago) and we repeat the confusions before discovering that there’s yet a third Hotel Mercure, just down the Rue du Marie Kuss. Eventually we find Hotel Mercure Quartier St. Jean, which seems like an outpost of gentrification in an old bohemian neighborhood. It looks a little pricey to me, but I figure I can handle a room there, for one night anyway.

Now we’re at the front desk. Henry is nowhere to be seen, but Bertha’s talking on her cell phone, and when I look at her and try to give her the International Tourist Sign Language for “Is this the right place?” (surveying the room with upraised spreading palms and quizzical eyebrows), she nods and points to the desk. I book a single room for myself, and then the clerk asks me about the rest of my party. I look around–no sign of Henry, Bertha’s still on the phone, Lambert is sitting on a couch, his nose in a little black book, and Bruno is on a more distant couch, with Conrad, who is playing peacefully for once with his PSP. The clerk looks at me expectantly.

Now this is the point where you might be asking, “What the hell did he expect?” But in fact, I could swear that I’ve made myself very clear about who would pay for what on this trip. I could look up the emails–I know I kept a copy. I said I would handle the driving, and the minivan rental, and the gas–basically all the transportation costs and duties–but I know I made it quite clear that we’d all be on our own for food and lodging. Those were the very words I used–“we’ll all be on our own”–something like that, anyway. That’s clear isn’t it?

Well, the clerk seems to be used to dealing with groups, and he murmurs something about just needing a credit card to finish the check-in, he assures me that I’ll be able to work out the details with my party at my leisure. So I get out my card and book a room with two singles for the monks, and a family room (double bed and cot) for Henry, Bertha and Conrad. At the very moment my credit card touches the counter, I hear this voice over my shoulder.

“Are you ze steward?”

It’s a big blond kid, early twenties, kind of a jock, with a big duffel bag over his shoulder. “What?” I say.

“You know, ze keeper of ze Treasury? For Henry? Ze Kaiser?”

“No, no…” I say. “I’m just a blogger, I’m driving the minivan…”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re ze vun. I am Feller ze Blessed! Good to meet you, bro!” He turns and gestures to a group of about half a dozen other guys, who bring their their duffle bags up to the front desk.

“So,” I say, “You guys… you’re Henry’s entourage…”

“Ve are Reilengen Kraichbach Schlabbe!” says Feller. “Ve are Fastnacht Fanatics from Reilengen…”

“We drove past there…” I say. “On the Autobahn…”

“Henry calls us ze Rabbit Varriors! Gang nach Canossa!”

“Cool,” I say. “You’re coming with us?”

And then, while I’m shaking hands with the other Rabbit Warriors, Feller tells the clerk to put a couple of big rooms on my card. He doesn’t care how many beds there are. He laughs and slaps my shoulder.

“Ze vuns zat don’t get lucky vill crash on ze floor!”

Henry Grows to Manhood

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In Rhineland grew to manhood | a noble Emperor’s son
Named Henry son of Henry | the proud Salians were his clan.
From Franconia did these warlike dukes | most justly seize the throne
Truly elected Roman Emperors¹ | the German princes all did vote.

The last Emperor from the Saxons² | to a childless grave had gone
The Saxon queen, her womb was dry | the Saxon bed was still
A holy purity did the Saxon seek | his Saxon member limp
His Saxon body bent from prayer | like a monk without a sword.

But the Salians, they were warlike | virile violent men were they
And fought and built the empire | cathedrals brick by brick
To Rome they marched in battle | false popes they did depose³
Their queens they proudly serviced | true sons of Charlemagne.

But Henry son of Henry | though his clan was strong and fierce
Was not raised to be a warrior | his father Henry, he had died
When Henry son of Henry | at the nurse’s tit still sucked
Warriors did not train the boy | monks and bishops held him close.⁴

Women and monks and bishops | did teach him flattery and lies
Cowardly diplomacy | the arts of compromise.
To a girl child they betrothed him | from Savoy did she come
A little sister she did seem | this pest was named Bertha.

The women and monks and bishops | the boy king they did flatter
With trinkets and toys and jewels | on his head they put the crown.
But their games and lies and idleness | in the soil of Henry’s heart
Put down no roots and did not grow | warlike always was his hand.

One day he killed a rabbit | but the rabbit would not die.
He told the monks and bishops | how the magic rabbit lived.⁵
The bishop told his mother⁶ | “Tell your son the little king
He must not lie to bishops | if the throne he wants to keep.”

Then Henry son of Henry | the age of fifteen did attain.
Manhood was his own now | all his kingdoms his to rule
Germany and Italy | and Burgundy as well.
No more diplomacy for Henry | right soon he went to war.

The bold young warlike Henry | his men to battle led.
The princes were rebellious | Henry’s member they did mock.
On the field his wrath they faced | their castles soon they lost
Henry and his Rabbit Warriors | did speed them to their shame.

In battle did the princes | learn the strength of Henry’s sword.
Soon all the rebels were subdued | they cowered at his rage.
Then did all the fair-eyed maidens | from all his realm they came
For Henry, he was handsome | tall and strong was he.

Their kotzes⁷ did they offer | these maidens of the realm
Without any thought of recompense |or even child support
Just the pleasure of his member | and the honor it was great
The bastard sons of Henry | to carry in their wombs.

In all of Henry’s kingdom | one maiden pleased him not
His betrothed princess from Savoy | to Henry she did seem
Like a sister most annoying | but the bishops and the monks
Still had plans for Henry | the marriage they would force.

Then Henry with a fever | in a castle he did lie
Near death he was from poison | a bishop’s work no doubt.⁸
The women and monks and bishops | this chance they quickly seized
And so Henry in his fever | Bertha he did wed.

Now Henry he was married | little mattered it to him.
His hours he did spend | chasing his deathless rabbit
Or drinking with his warriors | or between the legs
Of special maids most willing | kebsweiber they were called.⁹

But while Henry won fame and honor | on the battlefield
Against him there conspired | an enemy most vile.
In Rome a false and sniveling monk | St. Peter’s throne had taken
Hildebrand was his true name | Pope Gregory himself he called.

The false monk Hildebrand | hardly a man was he
On a woman he relied | to lead his troops in war
Matilda was this woman’s name | in her veins there flowed
The blood of Salian warriors | Henry’s cousin true was she.

Word then came to Henry | of the false pope’s plans.¹⁰
The just rule of the virile | Hildebrand would replace
With the writs of effete clerics | Henry knew such bishops well
Never could Henry permit | his empire so to fall.

And the parish priests of Germany | this Hildebrand would compel
Their wives to banish from their beds | all the priests to live alone
Spending their seed like monks | in furtive hollow dreams
Such waste of German manhood | Henry never would allow.

Source: Heinrichlied (Song of Henry), 11th century, author unknown. English translation by Roger McAllister, from the 19th century German translation of Adalbert Kehr.

---

1Henry’s grandfather, Conrad II, was elected King of Germany in 1024 and Holy Roman Emperor in 1027, becoming the first Emperor of the Salian dynasty.

2Henry II, 973-1024, the fifth and last Emperor of the Ottonian, or Saxon, dynasty. Also known as Henry the Holy, or Henry the Saint, he remains to this day the only German monarch to be canonized by the Catholic Church.

3In 1046, three men claimed the title of Pope. Henry III went to Rome and deposed them all.

4In 1062, at the age of twelve, Henry IV was kidnapped by Archbishop Anno of Cologne, who proceeded to manage the young king’s education. It is interesting that the author of the Heinrichlied does not mention this event in particular, instead conflating it with the general maleficence of “women and monks and bishops.”

5There is no record of this magic rabbit in any other account of Henry’s life.

6Agnes of Poitou, Henry’s mother and the empress regent until the kidnapping by Anno in 1062. After the kidnapping, she gave up the duties of empress and joined a convent in Rome. She was a devout follower of St. Peter Damian and his ally Hildebrand, later to become Pope Gregory VII.

7The translator would have preferred the modern English version of this word, but the Canadian publisher, when faced with the prospect of being banned from school libraries in the U.S., suggested the Chaucerian “queyntes.” The translator countered with this spelling from Middle High German, which is a good as guess as any as to form used in the missing 11th century manuscript.

8Henry did marry Bertha, on July 13, 1066, after recovering from a bout of fever at Fritzlar. No other account of Henry’s life makes the shocking allegation that his fever was the result of poisoning.

9The translator debated hard and long with himself, and with his editor, whether to use the English word “concubines” or the German word “kebsweiber.” In the end, “concubines” was deemed too redolent of the Orient. The editor did not agree; hence this footnote. See kotzes, above..

10In general, these “plans” are what is now known as the Gregorian Reforms–the elimination of simony, or the practice of selling ecclesiastical offices, and the general imposition of priestly celibacy throughout the Western church.

The Song of Henry: the Gotha Conference

The beginning of the friendship between Adalbert Kehr and Joseph Konrad Josephson
is easy to understand: they were both young men full of fiery dreams, immersed
in dusty old books. Kehr, fresh from his studies in philology at the University
of Marburg, found himself in a lonely government post at an old abbey in Silesia,
a tedious clerkship which he enlivened by exploring the abbey’s old library;
Josephson, who was already beginning to introduce himself as Konrad Joseph,
had just taken over his father’s used book stall in Munich (he quickly moved
the Judaica to a back room), and had hopes of making his shop the center of
Munich’s revolutionary community.

They met in Gotha in 1875, at the conference where the ADAV of Ferdinand Lasalle
merged with the SDAP of Bebel and Liebknecht to become the the SAPD, Sozialistische
Arbeiterpartei Deutschlands, the Socialist Workers’ Party of Germany,
the soon-to-be outlawed ancestor of today’s German Socialists.

The two young men had little to do with the actual business of the conference–Kehr
had simply traveled on his own to Gotha, and Konrad Joseph’s role was only
slightly more official–he was the self-appointed representative of the tiny
SDAP cell in Munich. Thrilled simply to be there, they watched the conference
from the margins, where their friendship blossomed. They listened respectfully
to the grizzled veterans of 1848, they argued about Stirner and Feuerbach,
and they recapitulated, over many beers, the debates between the Eisenachers
and the Lassaleans. One night, as the conference was drawing to a close, they
staged a impromptu skit they called "The Love Life and Death of Ferdinand
Lassale." Kehr, putting on a monocle and a debonair attitude, played
Lassale, while Konrad Joseph, wrapping himself in a series of scarves, played
several countesses and daughters of conservative diplomats, not to mention
their husbands and fathers. The skit, performed in a beer-hall basement, was
well-received by its audience, primarily a contingent of Marxist miners from
Cologne. Their fiction ended, unlike history, with Lassale winning all his
duels and deposing the aristocracy–only to die by the knife of a jealous mistress,
in bed–a climactic moment in several ways.

After the skit, Kehr heard one of the miners remark to another that there
was nothing he liked better than watching little Jews make fun of big Jews.
Kehr had no idea what the fellow was talking about.

The next morning they both left Gotha, laughing about their hangovers, and
promising to correspond.

The Song of Henry: the Book Tour

Roger McAllister always wore the same clothes on Canadian TV as he did when exploring back rooms, attics, basements and barns: a Savile Row suit, a yellow paisley bow tie, round horn-rimmed eyeglasses, and colorfully mismatched socks. In 1992, McAllister, an appraiser of rare books based in Victoria, British Columbia, discovered that the image of a slightly distracted dandy, cultivated so carefully in his daily business, worked just as well on an author’s tour. In that year, McAllister published The Song of Henry: A Modern English Translation of the Heinrichlied, Germany’s Forgotten National Epic. The book jacket described the The Song of Henry as “a vigorous and sometimes bawdy account of the reign of Holy Roman Emperor Henry IV, who beat back the pernicious influence of the Catholic Church and forged the kingdom that became modern Germany.” In numerous interviews and live appearances McAllister told reporters and book buyers the same intriguing story: how his translation was based, in turn, on an unpublished 19th century German translation of the now-lost 11th century verse; how he had discovered the German manuscript among the possessions of Jakob Josephson, a leader of Victoria’s Jewish community; and how McAllister still felt a bond with the Josephson family, a deep bond, a bond of affection, fellowship and respect.

With a sigh, McAllister would tell his audience how much he hoped, and yes, prayed, that the bond between himself and the Josephson family would somehow survive the recent legal problems.

Bertha Disbands the Rabbit Warriors with a Kiss

Speyer, Bischofhaus, All Souls Day, 1076

Are we in the Bischofhaus in Speyer? Is the bishop’s house the place where the Salian emperors, Conrad and his son Henry and his son Henry, accompanied by their entourage, always stay when they visit their favorite church, Dom zu Speyer, the largest cathedral in Christendom, if you don’t count Byzantium? Do the emperors always tell the bishop that one of these days they will build themselves a palace, a proper Kaiserpfalz, here in Speyer? Do the bishops always reply that it is no burden, none whatsoever, indeed it is an honor, to host the imperial cortege?

Where has Henry been for the past two weeks? Has he been camping in Oppenheim, across the river from Tribur, where the princes of Germany have assembled to discuss what to do about King Henry and the Pope, who has imprisoned the king in the damp dungeon of anathema, or the political equivalent thereof, a campsite in Oppenheim, on the other side of the Rhine?

Has Henry’s host and good friend, Rüdiger, the bishop of Speyer, been the go-between in the awkward negotiations, ferrying back and forth across the melodious Rhine, Tribur to Oppenheim, Oppenheim to Tribur, between the excommunicated king and the devout princes of Germany, so anxious to avoid contamination of their souls?

And now, at last, has the Fürstentag, the Parliament of Princes, come to an end?

Does our scene begin with Bertha of Savoy, Henry’s delicate queen, organizing her household for the move back to Goslar? Are we in the bishop’s kitchen? Who is there? Is that Bruno, the Saxon monk? Is he still hanging around the royal family? Shouldn’t he go back to Rome, or at least back to his monastery? Who is toddling around the floor, trying to chase a cat? Is that Conrad, the little Duke of Lower Lotharingia? Who catches Conrad as he scoots by, and chastens him with an affectionate tickle? Is that Eustacia, Bertha’s serva vecchia, the beloved maidservant who was Bertha’s own nanny it seems so many years ago? And who is that other woman, so heavy but so sure of herself in this kitchen? Who else could she be but the bishop’s cook?

Does a hunchbacked beggar come to the door, asking for alms or a meal? Does Bruno take charge for a moment, as the only adult male present, and shoo the beggar away? Does he then complain to Bertha that their host, the bishop, is far too permissive, that he has allowed the beggars of Speyer too much freedom and familiarity, too much access, in short, to his kitchen door and the scraps of his table? Does Eustacia begin to tease Bruno? Does she ask him why he doesn’t like the bishop? Because the bishop is too good? Too rich? Too successful? Too handsome? Does the bishop’s cook join in the teasing? Or does she just smile and watch, her hands upon her hips?

What does Bertha do as Bruno blushes? Does she smile serenely at his discomfort, giving him hope one moment and despair the next?

Is it now that Rüdiger returns? Does he appear at the doorway of the kitchen, in the company of the hunchbacked beggar, for whom he orders his cook to prepare a meal? Does the bishop’s cook, with a mocking look at Bruno, take the beggar into one of the side kitchens? Is the Bischofhaus so grand that it has kitchens within its kitchens? Does Eustacia discreetly take Conrad away, saying It’s time for his nap? Does she give a sharp look at Bruno, as if to say, You too, you should make up some excuse to leave Bertha alone with the bishop? Is her wrinkled old face expressive enough to convey such a complex message without words? Does Bruno reluctantly do what she has suggested? Does he stammer and say I must go to my room and pray? Does he look over his shoulder, longingly, as he departs?

When they are alone, does Bertha thank Rüdiger for his hospitality? Is he a handsome, athletic, yet scholarly man? Does he have the grace and self-confidence of someone with large private fortune who has devoted himself to good works? Is he exactly the sort of man she would be attracted to, if she were not hopelessly in love with husband, the king?

Does Bruno find a nook in the next room, and seclude himself there, listening?

Does Bertha tell Rüdiger that her family will be leaving now, and returning to Goslar? Does Rüdiger tell Bertha that he is afraid she must remain here at Speyer, but of course his hospitality will continue with unabated pleasure? How does Bertha react to this news?

How about the eavesdropping Bruno? What does he think of remaining here in Speyer, in the house of the handsome bishop? Can we see his reaction through the shadows that fall dramatically upon his hidden face? Or do we deduce his emotion from our intimate knowledge of his character and motivations? Or from the graphic properties of the moody shadows?

Does Bertha ask Rüdiger what he means when he says, must remain?

Does Rüdiger explain that Henry has signed an agreement with the Princes of Germany? Does he say it’s called the Promise of Oppenheim, and that among its provisions–

Is Rüdiger interrupted, at that very moment, by the sound of King Henry arriving? Does Henry come in through the front door of the Bischofhaus with his advisors? Are the Rabbit Warriors following him, tentatively, and in some confusion? Does Bertha rush from the kitchen to see what is going on? As she hurries to the Great Hall, does she pass Bruno, in his hidey nook? Does she look at him with puzzlement, but only for a moment? Does the brevity of her glance break his heart? Can we see it in his face? How long do we linger on this delicate moment, a man realizing just how unrequited is his love, now that a noisy angry king has stomped into the next room?

Or does Bertha hurry past Bruno, never even seeing his face in the shadows?

When Bertha, followed by Rüdiger, enters the Great Hall, is Henry denouncing his advisors for betraying him? Is he saying that he will go to war, tomorrow–that he will attack the Pope! the Saxons! the Bavarians! the Thuringians! the godless Saracens! and even those insufferable Byzantines! all at once? Is Henry saying he will soon be the only Roman Emperor? Does Henry boast that he will be the new Alexander, king of the known world?

Does Henry even know who Alexander the Great was?

Are Henry’s advisors protesting feebly against the king’s ragings? Do they whimper this war would be suicidal, mad, doomed? Who are these advisors? Does Bertha know them? Does she recognize her old friend Count Udalric, and Bishop Rupert of Bamberg, and that Otto, the one who is Bishop of Constance, not the one who is Bishop of Regensburg? Has Bertha ever been able to tell the two Ottos apart?

Has the entire household now gathered around the edges of the Great Hall to watch the spectacle of the king’s tantrum? Are little Conrad and Eustacia looking down from the balcony? Are the cook, the hunchbacked beggar, and Bruno the Mendicant peaking from the hallway that leads to the kitchen? What combination of pity, terror, awe and disdain does each of them feel?

Does Bertha whisper a question to Bishop Rüdiger? Is she asking him what has happened to make her husband so upset? Does he reply, his lips close to her ear, that Henry has agreed to give up his army and wait patiently in Speyer until the Assembly at Augsburg, the one where the princes will be joined by the Pope, and now, after the long ride home and a few drinks at a nearby inn, Henry has worked himself into a fury, at himself and his advisors, because he cannot bring himself to disband the Rabbit Warriors, his brethren of the battlefield?

Does Bertha nod her head in quiet understanding? Does she know what she must do?

Does she step forward, crossing the fray, walking heedlessly between invective-spewing king and wheedling defensive cleric? Does she continue on, without acknowledging either husband or bishop, and approach one of the Rabbit Warriors, who is standing uncomfortably against a wall?

Is it Immanuel, the smallest of the Rabbit Warriors, known in his language as Schwager, the God-Who-Is-With-Us? Does she quietly, but not whispering, no, her voice is soft but clear, thank Immanuel for his brave service? Does she kiss him on his rough cheek and wish him well?

Does she do the same for the other Rabbit Warriors? For Florianus, known as Schulze the Flower-of-Manhood? For Andrius, known as Ruck the Strong? For Phillipus, known as Geng the Horse-Lover? For Stephanus, known as Grahlert the Garland-Headed? And for Benecius, the largest of Rabbit Warriors, known far and wide as Feller the Blessed? Does she thank each one, and kiss each one on his rough cheek?

Do they each, in response to her soft kiss, kneel humbly before her?

Does Henry fall silent at her display of quiet dignity? Do the assembled bishops bow their heads in reverence at her courtly ritual? Does Eustacia pat Conrad’s hair, as if to say, That’s your mother, you should be proud? Does the cook weep openly? Does the hunchbacked beggar suppress a tear? Does Bruno fall in love all over again, forgiving Bertha yet once more for barely noticing that he is alive?

And then, in solemn procession, one by one, do all the Rabbit Warriors stand and walk out the door, the Hasekrieger Alemanni, heroes of a bygone age who have each heard whispered in his ear the secret command of a beautiful queen? Does not their exit deserve a recessional composed for full orchestra by a great German composer, if only the world would survive long enough for German music to become the very paradigm of musical greatness?

And now, when the Rabbit Warriors are finally gone, does Bruno, wiping away his tears, catch Henry exchanging a conspiratorial glance with the hunchbacked beggar?

Or is Bruno just imagining things?

---

Next in the Main Story:
Road Under Construction
Next in Bertha’s Tale:
Road Under Construction

Henry Refuses to Become a Symbol

Source: Heinrichlied (Song of Henry), author unknown.

Now let us tell how Henry feasted at Utrecht, at the palace of William, the loyal Prince-Bishop of those lands, where Henry had come in haste to settle the succession of the fallen duke, Godfrey the Hunchback, who had been stabbed in the asshole while shitting. Boldly and fairly did Henry dispose of this matter, for he did name his own son, Conrad, to be the Duke of Lower Lotharingia, and he did also appoint a vice-duke to manage the Hunchback’s lands, for Conrad was but two years of age, and not ready to battle against the West Frisians, which was part of the job description. The duchy secured, Henry called for a feast. There in the palace they did assemble, his loyal vassal lords and his brave fighting men, the Rabbit Warriors of the Alemanni, joined by a goodly assortment of German abbots and bishops, strong men all, who could eat and drink and service the kebsweiber, unlike the eunuchs who pass for clergy in Rome, except that at this particular feast there were no kebsweiber to be serviced, for it was Holy Saturday, and Henry had declared that holy weekend must be respected.

When the first pig had been consumed by the hungry virile assembly, Henry rose and bade them to postpone their drunkenness, for they had much to discuss. And straightaway, without wasting anyone’s time, they did plow through the agenda, for Henry was a decisive leader, who knew how to run a meeting.

First they did discuss the whereabouts of the evil countess Matilda, the pope’s whore, who had ventured into Lower Lotharingia to claim both her husband’s body and his lands. Feller the Blessed of the Rabbit Warriors did then report that Matilda had retreated to Cluny, after burying her murdered husband in Verdun. Henry thereupon demanded to know whether Matilda had taken credit for her husband’s murder. To this just and angry query from the King did Rupert, archbishop of Bamberg, reply. Rupert told how Matilda was spreading a most implausible rumor–that the honorable Robert of Flanders had ordered the foul deed–but that she was doing so in such manner, her sentences unfinished, her words saying one thing and her eyes another, her voice smooth as duck butter and her smile chilled as the winter night air, that all who heard her speak did know that she and the Pope had been the ones behind the cowardly blade.

Then did Henry demand a show of hands from all the clergy present, asking which of them would, at Easter mass tomorrow, denounce Hildebrand from the pulpit as a false Pope and smite him with the mighty sword of anathema, for having dared to excommunicate your beloved King who stands before you. As soon as Henry spoke did William, bishop of Utrecht raise his hand, for he was, after all, the gathering’s host and Henry’s most trusted advisor and in fact he was the one who had devised the plan to denounce the Pope on Easter from every pulpit in Germany, what a statement that would be! For a long moment the bold and upright arm of William reached alone toward heaven above the feasting multitude, but soon enough it was joined by the hands of Siegfried, archibishop of Mainz, Burchard, bishop of Lausanne, and the two Ottos, the one who was bishop of Regensburg and the other one, who was bishop of Constance. Finally did Pibo of Toul, who had been whispering something to Count Eberhardt, most timidly raise his hand.

Then did Henry call upon timorous Pibo, and ask him to share with the entire group whatever he had been whispering. And so did Pibo rise and tell all present how dire he thought the situation was and what he thought the King ought to do about it. For had not the Pope’s power been growing throughout the land since he had first bludgeoned the King with the harsh rod of anathema? Then of the gathering at Augsburg did timid Pibo speak, reminding all present that it was scheduled for less than one year hence, and that all the princes of Germany, including the rebellious princes of Saxony and Bavaria and Thuringia, were planning to journey to Augsburg, there to meet with the Pope and convene under his blessing. The craven Pibo, insisting that he meant no disrespect, then asked if anyone present doubted that Augsurg promised to be the end of King Henry’s reign, not to mention his very life? And thus, Pibo inquired, should not King Henry immediately attempt to go to Italy and meet with the Pope, there to make mortify himself and beg the Pope’s absolution, in a place where the Pope would not be backed up by the armies of the Saxons?

Truth be told, this cowering Pibo, bishop of Toul, had a point. Even among the ferocious Rabbit Warriors there was nodding of heads. But then did King Henry silence the murmurs and doubts, with the following speech, generally regarded as a high point in the rhetorical history of his reign:

How would I be remembered, asked the King, were I to follow the advice of Pibo, bishop of Toul? In the memory of my children? Of my grandchildren? In the memory the world a thousand years hence? What would the people of that age think of the fourth Henry, king of the Romans? Let us pretend, for a moment, that in the memory of that age I did do what Pibo suggests. Let us pretend that I did go to Italy, that I did meet the Pope in one of his retreats, Lucca, perhaps, or one of the other castles kept by his whore Matilda. And there I did make penance, and did crawl on my knees, and did beg his absolution?

Now let us further pretend that by abasing myself so I saved my Kingdom, and outwitted the rebellious princes of Saxony and Bavaria and Thuringia, and that on that very day did the Pope anoint me Holy Roman Emperor, Imperator et Patricius, heir to the great Kaisers Augustus and Charlemagne? Let us even suppose, looking back from a thousand years hence, that my reign thereafter was glorious, that I did defeat the Normans in the Sicily and the Saracens in Jerusalem.

So how would I be remembered? How would the schoolboys of that distant age tell me apart from all the other Henrys who by then will have worn this crown?

I will tell you, Pibo. I will tell you how those schoolboys would remember me: they would remember only that the fourth Henry was the one who went to Lucca, or wherever, and crawled before the Pope. They will remember only that the power of empire knelt before the ambitions of a false monk. The name of Lucca, or whatever castle of the Lombard bitch it might be, will have become the symbol of my shame. They will mock me and spit upon my statues and say, if only Henry had been strong.

And so I say to you Pibo, cowardly bishop of Toul: No, that cannot be.

And the hall was silent then, for all were thinking of the glorious warlike deaths which awaited them and the honor they would have in heaven, despite what the Gregorians said about war and violence. And then did they drink, for they had much drunkenness to attain, and weak-shouldered Pibo did slip out without having another tankard, making some excuse about having to get to his cathedral in time for Easter morning mass.

When all were good and drunk, so drunk that one of the Rabbit Warriors of the Alemanni, Grahlert the Garland-Headed, was rebuking Henry for the lack of kebsweiber, with a familiarity born not of presumption or lack of discipline but from the bloody brotherhood of the battlefield, there did appear a beggar in their midst. Who is this beggar? asked Henry, but all around the Rabbit Warriors were too drunk to answer. Henry did then say to all, in his voice of command, which pierced through their drunkenness and would have sent them into battle if Henry had so desired, to be quiet for a moment and tell him who the beggar was. What beggar? said the Rabbit Warriors, with one impulse if not with one voice. That beggar, said Henry, that beggar right there.

Then they did all become quiet and look at the beggar, whose rags were most foul and whose frame was twisted and puny, which is the sort of thing a bold fighting man notices when he is drunk and told to look at a beggar.

But before anyone could approach him, the beggar stepped toward Henry and said, cousin, do you not know me? For I am Godfrey the Hunchback, your loyal vassal, and I say to you I am here, alive before you, and it is the assassin’s body, not mine, that lies rotting in my grave.

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Next in Main Story:
Pont de l’Europe
Next in Henry’s Tale:
Road Under Construction