In front of the round arch of the entrance to the monastery of Mariabronn, carried by two pillars, there was, close by the path, a chestnut tree, a lonesome son of the south brought here by a pilgrim of Rome ages ago, a sweet chestnut with a strong trunk; its round crown suspended gently above the path, breathing broadly in the wind, slow to grow its leaves in spring when everything around it was already green and even the cloister trees already displayed their reddish early foliage, only to then, around the time of the shortest nights, drive forth from its bushels of leaves the muted, white-green rays of its strange blossoms, their scent admonishing and oppressive, and to then, in October, when fruits and wine had already been harvested, drop from its withering crown in the autumn wind its spiked fruits which did not ripen every year and for which the boys of the cloister fought and which the Walhizian subprior Gregor roasted in his chamber at the fireplace.