Be not familiar with any woman: but in general commend all good women to God.Thomas à Kempis,Imitatioi. 8.
Be not familiar with any woman: but in general commend all good women to God.
Thomas à Kempis,Imitatioi. 8.
At the beginning of the eighth century there lived in Alexandria of Egypt an extraordinary monk, by name Vitalis, who had made it his particular task to reclaim the souls of lost women from the ways of sin and lead them back to virtue. But the method which he pursued was so peculiar, and the fondness, nay enthusiasm, with which he unceasingly prosecuted his ends, was alloyed with such remarkable self-abasement and simulation, that the like was scarcely ever known in the world.
He kept an exact roll of all those wantons on a neat slip of parchment, and, whenever he discovered a new quarry in the city or its environs, he immediately noted her name and dwelling on it; so that the naughty young patricians of Alexandria could have found no better guide than the industrious Vitalis, had he been disposed to harbour less saintly aims. As it was, the monk wormed out much news and information for his business from his sly and frivolous conversations with them; but he never suffered the scamps to pick up any information of the sort from him.
He carried this directory in his cowl, rolled up in a silver case, and drew it out repeatedly to add a newly-discovered light name, or to run over those already inscribed, count them, and reckon which of the occupants should have her turn next.
Then he would seek her hurriedly and half ashamed, and say hastily, "Keep the night after to-morrow for me, and promise no one else!" When he entered the house at the appointed time, he would leave the fair one standing, and betake him to the farthest corner of the room, fall on his knees, and pray fervently and at the pitch of his voice all night long for the occupant of the house. In the early morning he would leave her, and charge her strictly not to tell any one what had passed between them.
So he went on for a good while, and got himself into very ill odour indeed. For while in secret, behind the closed doors of the wantons, he alarmed and touched many a lost woman by his fiery words of thunder and the fervent sweetness of his murmured prayers, so that she came to herself and began to lead a holy life; in the public eye, on the contrary, he appeared to have laid himself out of set purpose to merit the reputation of a vicious and sinful monk, who wallowed gleefully in all the debaucheries of the world, and flaunted his religious habit as a banner of shame.
If he found himself of an evening at dusk in respectable company, he would exclaim abruptly, "Oh! what am I about? I had almost forgotten that the brunette Doris is waiting for me, the little dear! The deuce! I must be off, or she will be vexed!"
If any one reproached him, he would cry out as if incensed, "Do you think that I am a stone? Do you imagine that God did not create a little woman for a monk?" If any one said, "Father, you would be better to lay aside your frock and marry, so as not to offend others," he would answer, "Let them be offended if they choose, and run their heads against a wall! Who is my judge?"
All this he used to say with great vehemence and all the address of an actor, like one who defends a bad cause with a multitude of bold words.
And he would go off and quarrel with the other suitors before the girls' doors. He would even come to blows with them, and administered many a rude buffet when they said, "Away with the monk! Does the cleric mean to dispute the ground with us? Get out, bald-pate!"
But he was so obstinate and persistent that in most cases he got the better of them, and slipped into the house before they knew where they were.
When he returned to his cell in the grey of the morning, he would cast himself down before the Mother of God, to whose sole honour and praise he undertook those adventures and drew down on himself the world's blame; and, did he succeed in bringing back some lost lamb and placing her in some holy convent, he felt more blissful in the presence of Heaven's Queen than if he had converted a thousand heathen. For this was his very remarkable taste, to endure the martyrdom of appearing in the eye of the world as an unclean profligate, while all the time Our Undefiled Lady in Heaven was well aware that he had never touched a woman, and that he wore an invisible crown of white roses on his much-maligned head.
Once he heard of a peculiarly dangerous person, who by her beauty and unusual charms had occasioned much trouble, and even bloodshed, inasmuch as a ferocious military dandy laid siege to her door, and struck down all who attempted to dispute her possession with him. Vitalis immediately proposed the attack and conquest of this hell. He did not wait to write the fair sinner's name in his list, but went straight off to the notorious house, and at the door, sure enough, encountered the soldier, who was stalking along, clad in scarlet, and with a javelin in his hand.
"Dodge aside, monkling!" he shouted contemptuously to the pious Vitalis. "How dare you come sneaking about my lion's den? Heaven is your place; the world is ours!"
"Heaven and earth and all that therein is," said Vitalis, "belong to the Lord, and to his merry servants! Pack! you gaudy lout, and let me go where I choose."
The warrior wrathfully raised the shaft of his javelin to bring it down on the monk's pate; but he suddenly pulled out a peaceful olive-branch from beneath his frock, parried the blow, and smote the bully so roughly on the crown that he wellnigh lost his senses, after which the fighting cleric gave him several raps on the muzzle, until the soldier, completely dumbfounded, made off cursing.
Thereupon Vitalis forced his way triumphantly into the house, where, at the head of a narrow staircase, the woman stood with a light in her hand, listening to the noise and shouting. She was an uncommonly fine figure of a woman, with beautiful, strong but rather defiant, features, about which her reddish hair floated in abundant loose waves, like a lion's mane.
She looked down contemptuously on Vitalis as he ascended, and said, "Where are you going?" "To you, my dove!" he answered. "Have you never heard of the tender monk Vitalis, the jolly Vitalis?" But she answered harshly, as she blocked the staircase with her powerful figure, "Have you money, monk?" Disconcerted, he said, "Monks do not carry money about with them." "Then trot off," she said, "or I'll have you beaten out of the house with firebrands!"
Vitalis scratched his head, completely nonplussed, for he had never reckoned on this happening. The creatures whom he had hitherto converted had naturally thought no more of the price of iniquity, and those whom he failed to convert contented themselves with hard words in compensation for the precious time which he had made them lose. But here he could get no footing inside to begin his pious work; and yet there was something hugely attractive in the prospect of breaking in this red-haired daughter of Satan; for large and beautiful figures of men and women always mislead the judgement, so that we attribute greater qualities to them than they really possess. In desperation he searched through his frock, and came upon the silver case, which was adorned with an amethyst of some value. "I have nothing but this," he said; "let me in for it!" She took the case, examined it carefully, then bade him come with her. Arrived at her bedchamber, he did not favour her with another glance; but knelt down in a corner after his custom, and began to pray aloud.
The harlot, who believed that from force of habit the holy man meant to begin his worldly performance with prayer, broke into uncontrollable laughter, and sat down on her couch to look at him, for his behaviour amused her monstrously. But as the business never came to an end, and was beginning to weary her, she bared her shoulders immodestly, went up to him, clasped him in her strong, white arms, and pressed the good Vitalis with his shorn and tonsured head so roughly against her breast that he was like to choke, and began to gasp as if the flames of purgatory had taken hold of him. But it did not last long; he began to kick out in all directions like a young horse in a smithy, until he freed himself from the hellish embrace. Then he took the long cord which he wore about his waist, and caught hold of the woman, to bind her hands behind her back, and have peace from her. He had to wrestle hard with her before he succeeded in tying her up. He bound her feet together as well, and threw the whole bundle with a mighty heave upon the bed; after which he betook himself to his corner again, and continued his prayers as if nothing had happened.
The captive lioness at first turned about angrily and restlessly, endeavouring to release herself, and uttered a hundred curses. Then she became quieter as the monk never ceased to pray, to preach, to adjure her, and towards morning she uttered manifest sighs, which, as it seemed, were soon followed by contrite sobbing. In short, when the sun rose, she was lying like a Magdalene at his feet, released from her bonds, and bedewing the hem of his garment with tears. With dignity, yet with gladness, Vitalis stroked her head, and promised to pay her another visit as soon as it was dark, to inform her in what convent he had found a penitent's cell for her. Then he left, not forgetting first to impress upon her that she was to say nothing in the meantime about her conversion, but only tell any one who might enquire, that he had been very merry with her.
But judge of his surprise, when he reappeared at the appointed time, and found the door shut fast, and the female freshly bedizened in all her glory looking out of the window.
"What do you want, priest?" she cried down. And in astonishment he answered in an undertone, "What does this mean, my lamb? Put away those sinful baubles, and let me in to prepare you for your penance." "You want in to me, you naughty monk?" she said with a smile, as if she had misunderstood him. "Have you money, or money's worth, about you?" Vitalis stared up open-mouthed, then shook the door desperately; but it remained shut as fast as ever, and the woman too disappeared from the window.
At last the laughter and imprecations of the passersby drove the apparently depraved and shameless monk away from the door of the house of ill fame. But his thought and endeavour ran entirely upon making his way into the house again, and finding some means or other to overcome the devil by which the woman was possessed.
Absorbed in such thoughts, he turned his steps to a church, where, instead of praying, he thought over ways and means by which he might contrive to gain access to the lost woman. While thus engaged, his eye fell upon the box in which the charitable offerings were kept, and scarcely was the church deserted (it had become dark), when he burst the box violently open with his fist, poured the contents, which consisted of a lot of small silver coins, into his tucked-up frock, and hastened faster than any lover to the sinful woman's abode.
A foppish admirer was about to slip in at the opening door. Vitalis seized him from behind by his perfumed locks, flung him into the street, slammed the door in his face as he sprang in himself, and in another instant found himself once again in the presence of the disreputable person, who glared at him with flaming eyes when he appeared instead of her expected admirer. But Vitalis promptly poured the stolen money out on the table, saying, "Is that enough for to-night?" Without a word, but carefully, she counted the sum, said "It is enough!" and put it away.
Now they confronted each other in the strangest fashion. Biting her lips to restrain a laugh, she looked at him with a simulated air of utter ignorance; while the monk scrutinized her with undecided and anxious glances, not knowing how he should begin to bring her to book. But when she suddenly proceeded to alluring gestures, and made to stroke his dark, glossy beard, the storm of his saintly character broke out in all its fury, he struck her hand indignantly away, and flung her upon the couch so that it shook. Then kneeling upon her, and grasping her hands, unaffected by her charms, he began to speak home to her in such fashion that at last her obduracy seemed to soften.
She desisted from her violent struggles to free herself. Copious tears flowed over her strong and lovely features, and, when at length the zealous man of God released her, and stood erect beside her sinful couch, the great form lay upon it with weary, relaxed limbs, as if broken by repentance and remorse, sobbing and turning her tear-dimmed eyes upon him, as if in astonishment at her unwilling transformation.
Then the tempest of his eloquent wrath changed likewise to tender emotion and deep sympathy. In his heart he gave praise to his Heavenly protectress, in whose honour this hardest of all his victories had been gained; and now his words of forgiveness and consolation flowed like the mild breath of spring over the broken ice of her heart.
More delighted than if he had enjoyed the sweetest favours of love, he hastened thence, not to snatch a brief slumber on his hard bed, but to throw himself down before the Virgin's altar, and pray for the poor repentant soul until the day had fully dawned. Then he vowed not to close an eye until the strayed lamb was finally safe within the shelter of the convent-walls.
The morning was scarcely astir when he was again on the way to her house. But he saw approaching at the same moment from the other end of the street the fierce warrior, who, after a riotous night, had taken it into his half-drunken head to wind up with a fresh conquest of the harlot.
Vitalis was the nearer to the unhallowed door, and he sprang nimbly forward to reach it. Thereupon the other hurled his spear at him, which buried itself just beside the monk's head in the door so that its shaft quivered. But, before it had ceased quivering, the monk wrenched it out of the wood with all his force, faced the infuriated soldier as he sprang towards him brandishing a naked sword, and quick as lightning drove the spear through his breast. The man sank in a heap, dead, and Vitalis was almost instantly seized and bound by a troop of soldiers, who were returning from the night-watch and had seen his deed, and he was led away to gaol.
In genuine anguish he looked back to the house, where he could no longer accomplish his good work. The watch thought that he was simply deploring his evil star which had baulked him of his wicked purpose, and treated the apparently incorrigible monk to blows and hard words until he was safely in ward.
He had to lie there for many days, and was several times brought before the judge. True, he was at length discharged without punishment, seeing that he had killed the man in self-defence. But nevertheless he came out of the affair with the reputation of a homicide, and every one cried out that now, surely, they must unfrock him. But Bishop Joannes, who was then chief at Alexandria, must have had some inkling of the real state of affairs, or else have cherished some deeper design; for he declined to expel the disreputable monk from the clergy, and ordered that for the present he was to be allowed to continue his extraordinary career.
He lost no time in returning to the converted sinner, who in the interval had gone back to her old ways, and would not admit the horrified and distressed Vitalis until he had appropriated another object of value and brought it to her. She repented and converted a third, and likewise a fourth and fifth time, for she found these conversions more lucrative than anything else, and moreover the evil spirit in her found an infernal satisfaction in mocking the poor monk with an endless variety of devices and inventions.
As for him, he now became a veritable martyr inwardly and outwardly; for, the more cruelly he was deceived, the more he felt compelled to exert himself, and it seemed to him as if his own eternal welfare depended on the reformation of this one person. He was already a homicide, a violator of churches, a thief; but he would rather have cut off his hand than part with the least portion of his reputation as a profligate; and, though all this became harder and harder for his heart to bear, he strove all the more eagerly to maintain his wicked exterior in the world's eye by means of frivolous speech. For this was the special form of martyrdom which he had elected. All the same, he became pale and thin, and began to flit about like a shadow on the wall, though always with a laughing face.
Now over against that house of torment dwelt a rich Greek merchant who had an only daughter called Iole, who could do what she liked, and consequently never knew what to do with herself all the live-long day. For her father, who was retired from business, studied Plato, and when tired of him he would compose neat epigrams on the ancient engraved gems of which he had a large collection; but Iole, when she had laid aside her music, could think of no outlet for her lively fancies, and would peep out restlessly at the sky and at the distance, from every peep-hole she found.
So it came about that she discovered the monk's coming and going in the street, and ascertained how matters stood with the notorious cleric. Startled and shy, she peeped at him from her safe concealment, and could not help commiserating his handsome form and manly appearance. When she learned from one of her maids, who was intimate with a maid of the wicked strumpet, how Vitalis was being deceived by her, and what was the real truth about him, she was amazed beyond measure, and, far from respecting his martyrdom, was overcome by a strange indignation, and considered this sort of holiness little conducive to the honour of her sex. She dreamed and puzzled over it a while, and became always the more displeased, while, at the same time, her partiality for the monk increased and conflicted with her wrath.
All of a sudden she resolved that if the Virgin Mary had not sense enough to lead the erring monk back to more respectable ways, she would undertake the task herself, and lend the Virgin a hand in the business, little dreaming that she was the unwitting instrument of the Queen of Heaven, who had now begun to intervene. Forthwith she went to her father, and complained bitterly to him of the unseemly proximity of the lady of pleasure, and adjured him to employ his wealth in getting her out of the way immediately, at any price.
In obedience to her directions, the old gentleman addressed himself to the person, and offered her a certain sum for her house, on condition that she handed it over at once, and left the neighbourhood entirely. She desired nothing better; and that same forenoon she had disappeared from the quarter, while the old merchant was sitting once more over his Plato and had dismissed the whole affair from his mind.
Not so Iole, who was in the utmost eagerness to rid the house from top to bottom of every trace of its former occupant. When it was all swept and garnished, she had it fumigated with rare spices so that the fragrant clouds poured out from all the windows.
Then she furnished the empty room with nothing but a carpet, a rose-bush, and a lamp, and, as soon as her father, who went to bed with the sun, was asleep, she went across, with a wreath of roses adorning her hair, and took her seat alone on the outspread carpet, while two trusty old servants kept watch at the door.
They turned away several night-revellers, but, whenever they saw Vitalis approach, they hid themselves and allowed him to pass in unhindered by the open door. With many sighs, he climbed the stair, full of fear lest he should see himself made a fool of once again, full of hope that he might be freed at last from this burden by the genuine repentance of a creature who was hindering him from rescuing so many other souls. But judge of his astonishment, when he entered the room, and found it stripped of all the wild red lioness's trumpery, and instead of her a sweet and tender form sitting on the carpet with the rose-bush opposite her on the floor.
"Where is the wretched creature, who used to live here?" he exclaimed, looking about him in wonder, and finally letting his eyes rest on the lovely apparition which he saw before him.
"She has gone out into the Desert," answered Iole, without looking up. "There she means to live as an anchorite and do penance. It came upon her suddenly this morning, and broke her like a straw, and her conscience is awakened at last. She cried out for a certain priest Vitalis, who could have helped her. But the spirit which had entered into her would not suffer her to wait. The fool gathered all her possessions together, sold them, and gave the money to the poor, then went off hot-foot with a hair-cloth shift, and shorn hair, and a staff in her hand, the way of the Desert."
"Glory to thee, O Lord, and praise to thy Gracious Mother!" cried Vitalis, his hands folded in glad devotion, while a burden as of stone fell from his heart. But at the same time he looked more narrowly at the maiden with her rose-wreath, and said, "Why do you call her a fool? and who are you? and where do you come from? and what are you about?"
At that the lovely Iole cast her dark eyes to the ground lower than ever. She hung her head, and a bright flush of modesty spread over her face, for she thought shame of herself for the sad things she was going to say before a man.
"I am an outcast orphan, who have neither father nor mother. This lamp and carpet and rose-bush are the last remnants of my inheritance, and I have settled in this house with them to take up the life which my predecessor here has abandoned."
"Ah, so you would--!" the monk exclaimed, and clapped his hands. "Just see how busy the Devil is! And this innocent creature says the thing as indifferently as if I were not Vitalis! Now my kitten, how do you mean to do? Just tell me!"
"I mean to devote myself to love and serve the men as long as this rose lives!" she said, pointing hastily at the flower-pot. Still, she could hardly get the words out, and almost sank on the floor for shame, so deeply did she droop her head. This natural modesty served the little rogue well; for it convinced the monk that he had to do this time with a childish innocent, who was possessed by the Devil and was on the point of jumping plump into the abyss. He caressed his beard in satisfaction at having arrived on the scene so opportunely for once, and, to enjoy his satisfaction still longer, he said slowly and jestingly, "Then afterwards, my dove?"
"Afterwards I will go, a poor lost soul, to Hell where beauteous Dame Venus is; or perhaps, if I meet a good preacher, I may even enter a convent later on, and do penance!"
"Better and better!" he cried. "That is an orderly plan of campaign, indeed, and not badly thought out. For, so far as the preacher is concerned, he is here now, he is standing before you, you black-eyed Devil's tit-bit! And the convent is all ready rigged up for you, like a mousetrap, only you'll go into it without having sinned, do you see? Without having sinned in anything but the pretty intention, which after all may make a very toothsome bone of repentance for you to gnaw all your days, and may serve your turn. For without it, you little witch, you would be too comical and light-hearted for a real penitent! But now!" he continued seriously, "first off with the roses, and then listen attentively!"
"No!" answered Iole, somewhat more pertly. "I will listen first, and then see whether I'll take off the roses. Now that I have once overcome my womanly feelings, mere words will not suffice to restrain me until I know the sin. And, without sin, I can know nothing about repentance. I give you this to think over before you begin your efforts. But still I am willing to hear you."
Then Vitalis began the finest exhortation he had ever delivered. The maiden listened good-naturedly and attentively, and the sight of her had, unknown to him, a considerable influence on his choice of language; for the beauty and daintiness of the prospective convert were themselves enough to evoke a lofty eloquence. But, as she was not the least bit in earnest about the project which she had so outrageously advertised, the monk's oration could not have any very serious effect upon her. On the contrary, a charming laugh flitted about her mouth, and, when he had concluded, and expectantly wiped the sweat from his brow, Iole said, "I am only half moved by your words, and cannot decide to give up my project; for I am only too curious to know what it is like to live in sin and pleasure!"
Vitalis stood as if petrified, and could not get so much as one word out. It was the first time that his powers of conversion had failed so roundly. Sighing and thoughtful, he paced up and down the room, and took another look at the little candidate for Hell. The power of the Devil seemed to have combined in some bewildering fashion with the power of innocence to thwart him. But he was all the more passionately anxious to overcome them.
"I do not leave this place until you repent," he cried at length, "not though I should spend three days and three nights here!"
"That would only make me more obstinate," responded Iole. "But I will take time to think, and will hear you again to-morrow night. The day will soon be dawning now. Go your way. Meantime I promise to do nothing in the matter, and to remain in my present condition; in return for which you must promise on no account to mention me to anybody, and to come here only under cover of darkness."
"So be it!" exclaimed Vitalis, and took his departure, while Iole slipped quickly back into her father's house.
She did not sleep long, and awaited the coming evening with impatience. For the monk, now that he had been so close to her throughout the night, pleased her better than he had done at a distance. She saw now what a fire of enthusiasm glowed in his eyes, and how resolute all his movements were, despite his monkish garments. And when she represented to herself his self-abnegation, his perseverance in the course he had once chosen, she could not help wishing that those good qualities were utilized to her own pleasure and profit, in the shape of a cherished and faithful husband. Her project, accordingly, was to make a brave martyr into a still better husband.
The next night she found Vitalis at her carpet in good time, and he continued his exertions on behalf of her virtue with undiminished zeal. He had to stand all the time, except when he knelt to pray. Iole, on the contrary, made herself comfortable. She laid herself back on the carpet, clasped her hands behind her head, and kept her half-closed eyes steadily fixed upon the monk as he stood and preached. Sometimes she closed them as if overcome by drowsiness, and, as soon as Vitalis saw this, he pushed her with his foot to waken her. But this harsh measure always turned out milder than he intended; for, as soon as his foot neared the maiden's slender side, it spontaneously moderated its force, and touched her tender ribs quite gently; not to mention that a most unusual sensation ran along the whole length of the monk, a sensation which he had never before experienced in the slightest degree from any of the numerous fair sinners with whom he had had to deal.
As morning approached, Iole nodded more and more frequently, till at last Vitalis exclaimed indignantly, "Child, you are not listening! I can't keep you awake. You are utterly sunk in sloth!"
"Not so!" she said, as she suddenly opened her eyes, and a sweet smile flitted across her face, as if the approaching day were already reflected in it. "I have been paying attention; I am beginning to hate that wretched sin, which is all the more repulsive to me that it causes you vexation, dear monk; for nothing could be pleasing to me that is displeasing to you."
"Really?" he queried, full of joy. "So I have really succeeded? Come away to the convent at once, that we may make sure of you. This time we'll strike while the iron's hot."
"You do not understand me aright," Iole answered, and, blushing, cast her eyes again to the ground. "I am enamoured of you, and have conceived a tender inclination towards you!"
For a moment, Vitalis felt as if a hand had smitten his heart; yet he did not feel that it caused him pain. Paralysed, he opened wide his mouth and eyes, and stood stock-still.
But Iole, blushing redder than ever, went on to say gently and softly, "You must now lecture me and charm away this new mischief from me, in order to deliver me entirely from the malady, and I hope you may succeed!"
Vitalis, without saying a word, turned tail and ran out of the house. Instead of seeking his bed, he rushed out into the silvery grey morning, and debated whether he should leave this dangerous young woman to her fate and have done with her, or should endeavour to cast out this latest whim also, which appeared to be the most reprehensible of all her notions, and not altogether without danger to himself. But a wrathful flush of shame flew to his head at the thought that anything of the sort could be perilous for him. Then again it occurred to him that the Devil might have set a snare for him, in which case it were best to avoid it betimes. But to become a deserter in the face of such a wisp of a temptress! And supposing the poor creature were in earnest, and could be cured of her latest unseemly delusion by a few rough words? In short, Vitalis could not settle within himself, all the more that at the bottom of his heart a dim wave was beginning to cause the skiff of his reason to be unsteady.
In his perplexity he slipped into a little chapel where a beautiful ancient marble statue of the goddess Juno had recently been set up with a golden nimbus as an image of the Virgin Mary, so as not to waste such a gift of divine art. He cast himself down before this Mary, and laid his doubts fervently before her, and prayed his patroness for a token. If she nodded, he would complete Iole's conversion; if she shook her head, he would desist.
But the image left him in the most cruel uncertainty, and did neither one thing nor the other; it neither nodded nor shook its head. Only when the red gleam of some flying morning clouds passed over the marble, its face seemed to smile most propitiously; whether it was that the ancient goddess, as guardian deity of connubial love and chastity, was giving a sign, or that the new one could not refrain from smiling at her adorer's troubles; for both were women at heart, and such are always tickled when a love-affair is in train. But Vitalis knew nothing of all this. On the contrary, the beauty of the expression raised his courage amazingly, and, still more remarkable to relate, the statue appeared to assume the features of the blushing Iole, who was challenging him to expel her love of him from her mind.
Meantime, at the same hour, Iole's father was strolling beneath the cypresses of his garden. He had acquired some very fine new gems, the engraving on which had brought him out of bed at that early hour. He was handling them rapturously, and making them play in the beams of the rising sun. There was a dark amethyst, on which Luna drove her car through the heavens, unwitting that Love was squatted behind her, while flying Cupids called to her the Greek for "Whip behind!" A handsome onyx showed Minerva lost in meditation, holding Love on her knee, who was busy polishing her breast-plate with his hand to see his own reflection.
And lastly, on a cornelian, Love, in the form of a salamander, was tumbling about in a vestal fire and throwing its guardian virgins into perplexity and alarm.
These scenes tempted the old man to compose some distichs, and he was considering which he should attack first when his daughter Iole came through the garden, pale and unslept. Anxious and surprised, he called her to him and enquired what had robbed her of her slumbers. But, before she could answer, he began to show her his gems and explain them to her.
At that she heaved a deep sigh and said, "Ah, if all those great powers, Chastity herself, Wisdom, and Religion, could not defend themselves against Love, how is a poor insignificant creature like me to fortify herself against him?"
The old gentleman was not a little astonished at these words. "What do I hear?" he said. "Is it that the dart of mighty Eros has smitten thee?"
"It has pierced me to the heart," she responded, "and, if I am not in possession of the man whom I love within a day and a night, I shall be the bride of Death!"
Although her father was accustomed to let her have her own way in everything she desired, this haste was rather too violent for him, and he recommended repose and reflection to his daughter. But she had no lack of the latter, and she employed it so well that the old man exclaimed, "So I must discharge the most unpleasant of all a father's duties, I must go to your choice, to your man, and lead him by the nose up to the best that I can call mine, and beg him to be so kind as to take possession? Here is a tidy little woman, my dear sir! I pray you, don't despise her! I had much rather give you a box or two on the ear, but my little daughter will die, so I must be civil! So be graciously pleased, for Heaven's sake, to taste the pasty which is offered you. It has been well baked, and will fairly melt in your mouth!"
"All that is spared us," said Iole, "for, if you will only allow me, I hope to bring him to it that he will come himself and ask for my hand."
"And what if this man, whom I know nothing of, turns out to be a wastrel and a good-for-nothing?"
"Then let him be driven away with scorn! But he is a saint!"
"Then run away, and leave me to the Muses," said the good old man.
When evening came, the night did not follow the dusk so promptly as Vitalis appeared at Iole's heels in the familiar house. But he had never entered the house in the same fashion as now. His heart beat, and he was forced to feel what it meant to see again a person who had played such a trump. It was another Vitalis than the one who had descended in the early morning, who now came up the steps, although he himself was the most unconscious of the fact; for the poor converter of frail women and monk of evil renown had never learned the difference between the smile of a harlot and that of an honourable woman.
Yet he came with the best of intentions, and with the old purpose of driving all the idle notions out of the little monster's head for good and all. Only he had a vague idea that once his task was accomplished he might be permitted a pause in his martyr activity; all at once he began to be very tired of it.
But it was determined that some new surprise should always await him in that enchanted dwelling. When he entered the room, he found it beautifully decorated, and furnished with all usual furniture. A delicate, insidious odour of flowers pervaded the room, and was in keeping with a certain modest worldliness. On a snow-white couch, not a fold out of place in its silk coverings, sat Iole, splendidly arrayed, in sweet troubled melancholy, like an angel in meditation. Under the trim pleats of her robe her bosom heaved like the foam on a milking pail, and, though the white arms, which she folded beneath her breast, shone so fair, yet all those charms looked so lawful and permissible in the order of things that Vitalis's accustomed eloquence stuck in his throat.
"You are amazed, my pretty monk," began Iole, "to find all this show and finery here! Know that this is the farewell which I mean to take of the world, and, at the same time, I will lay aside the inclination which, unfortunately, I cannot help feeling for you. But you must help me to this end to the best of your ability, and after the fashion that I have devised and request of you. I mean that when you address me in these garments and as a cleric it is always the same. The bearing of a churchman fails to convince me, for I belong to the world. I cannot be cured of love by a monk, who is unacquainted with love, and does not know what he is talking about. If you really mean to afford me rest and put me on the way to Heaven, go into that closet, where you will find secular clothes laid out ready for you. Exchange your monk's clothes there for them, array yourself like a man of the world, then seat yourself beside me to partake of a little repast with me, and in such worldly externals exert all your acuteness and understanding to wean me from you and incline me to piety."
Vitalis made no reply, but bethought himself a while. Then he decided to end all his difficulties at one stroke, and to put the devil of this world to flight with his own weapons by acceding to Iole's eccentric proposal.
So he actually betook himself into an adjoining closet, where a couple of servants awaited him with splendid garments of purple and fine linen. Scarcely had he put them on, when he looked a good head taller, and it was with a noble mien that he strode back to Iole, who could not take her eyes off him, and clapped her hands for joy.
Now, however, a real miracle and a strange transformation was wrought on the monk. For scarcely had he sat down in his worldly array beside the charming woman, when the immediate past was blown away like a dream from his mind, and he forgot all about his purpose. Instead of speaking so much as a word, he listened eagerly to what was said by Iole, who had taken possession of his hand and begun to tell him her true story, who she was, where she lived, and how it was her most heart-felt desire that he should give over his strange manner of life, and ask her father for her hand, so that he might become a good husband, well-pleasing to God. She also said many wonderful things in the most beautiful words about the history of a happy and chaste love, but concluded with a sigh that she saw well how hopeless her desire was, and that he was now at liberty to argue her out of all those ideas, but not before he had fortified himself duly for his task with meat and drink.
Then at her signal the servants set drinking-vessels on the table together with a basket of cakes and fruits. Iole mixed a goblet of wine for the silent Vitalis, and affectionately handed him something to eat, so that he felt quite at home, and was reminded of his childhood, when as a little boy he was tenderly fed by his mother. He ate and drank, and, when he had done so, it seemed to him as if he might now venture to rest from his long, weary toil, and lo! our Vitalis leant his head to one side, towards Iole, and without more ado fell asleep, and lay till sunrise.
When he awoke, he was alone, and no one was to be seen or heard. He sprang up hastily, and was horrified at the splendid garment in which he was dressed. He rushed madly through the house from top to bottom, seeking for his monk's frock. But not the smallest trace of it could he find, until he chanced to see a little heap of cinders and ashes, on which a sleeve of his priest's dress was lying half consumed, whereupon he rightly concluded that there it had been solemnly burned.
Next he put his head out cautiously, first at one, then at another of the windows which looked on to the street, drawing it in every time that any one approached. At last he flung himself down upon the silken couch as comfortable and at ease as if he had never lain on a monk's hard bed. Then he roused himself, put his dress straight, and stole in high excitement to the street-door. There he still hesitated a moment; but suddenly he flung it wide open, and went out into the world a magnificent and imposing figure. No one recognized him; every one took him for some fine gentleman from abroad, who was enjoying a few gay days at Alexandria.
He looked neither to right nor left, else he would have seen Iole on her house-top. So he went straight back to his convent, where, however, all the monks and their superior had just resolved to expel him from their fellowship; for the measure of his iniquities was now full, and he contributed only to the scandal and disgrace of the Church. The sight of him, actually coming among them in his worldly gallant's attire, knocked the bottom out of the tub of their patience; they drenched him and doused him with water from all sides, and drove him with crosses, besoms, pitchforks and kitchen-ladles out of the convent.
Once on a time this rough handling would have been the height of felicity to him, and a triumph of his martyrdom. True, he laughed inwardly even now, but for a somewhat different reason. He took one more stroll round about the city-walls, and let his red cloak wave in the wind. A fine breeze from the Holy Land blew across the sparkling sea; but Vitalis was becoming more and more worldly-minded. Suddenly he retraced his steps into the bustling streets of the city, sought the house where Iole dwelt, and did what she wished.
He now made as excellent and complete a layman and husband as he had been a martyr. The Church, however, when she understood the real facts of the case, was inconsolable over the loss of such a saint, and made every endeavour to recall the fugitive to her bosom. But Iole held him fast and gave it to be understood that he was in very good hands with her.
To lose oneself so is rather to find oneself.Franciscus Ludovicus Blosius,Spiritual Instruction, c. 12.
To lose oneself so is rather to find oneself.
Franciscus Ludovicus Blosius,Spiritual Instruction, c. 12.
On the south coast of the Euxine sea, not far from the mouth of the river Halys, a Roman country-house lay in the light of the brightest of spring mornings. From the waters of the sea a north-east wind wafted a refreshing coolness through the gardens, as grateful to the pagans and to the secret Christians as it was to the trembling leaves upon the trees.
In a summer-house by the sea-shore, shut off from the rest of the world, stood a young couple, a handsome young man with the daintiest maiden imaginable. She was holding out a large, beautifully-shaped bowl of translucent, warm-hued marble for the youth to admire, and the morning sun shone with great effect through the bowl, so that its ruddy glow concealed the blush on the maiden's visage.
She was Dorothea, a patrician's daughter, to whom Fabricius, governor of the province of Cappadocia, was paying assiduous court. But as he was a bigoted persecutor of the Christians, and Dorothea's parents felt attracted by the new philosophy of life and were making diligent endeavours to adopt it, they were offering the best resistance they could to the powerful inquisitor's importunity. Not that they wished to involve their children in religious controversies, or that they would condescend to barter their hearts for a faith--they were too noble and liberal for that; but they were of opinion that a religious persecutor would never make a good heart's consoler.
Dorothea for her part had no need of such considerations, since she possessed another safeguard against the governor's attentions in the shape of her liking for his private secretary, Theophilus, who was standing beside her at that moment, and looking with interest at the rosy bowl.
Theophilus was an exceedingly refined, cultivated man of Greek descent, who had risen in spite of adverse circumstances and was held in high esteem by all. But the hardships of his early years had left him somewhat suspicious and reserved, and, while he was satisfied with what he owed to his own exertions, he was loth to believe that any one attached himself to him from disinterested motives. The sight of the young Dorothea was dear to him as his life, but the very fact that the chief man in Cappadocia was paying court to her prevented him from cherishing any hopes for himself, and he would not at any price have run the risk of cutting a ridiculous figure beside his lordship.
Nevertheless, Dorothea sought to conduct her desires to a happy issue, and in the meantime to assure herself of his presence as often as possible. Because he always appeared calm and indifferent, her passion provoked her to dangerous little stratagems, and she tried to move him by means of jealousy by pretending to be interested in the governor Fabricius, and to be on friendly terms with him. But poor Theophilus was an innocent in such tricks, and, even if he had understood them, was far too proud to show any jealousy. Yet by degrees he became distracted and perplexed, and sometimes betrayed himself, but always promptly recollected himself and recovered his reserve, so that his tender sweetheart had nothing for it but to proceed somewhat forcibly, and pull in her net unexpectedly when opportunity offered.
He was out in Pontus on state business, and Dorothea, who was aware of this, had accompanied her parents from Cæsarea to the country-house for the spring, which had just begun. Thus she had managed, after painfully-devised and ingenious man[oe]uvres, to get him into the arbour that morning, partly as if by accident, partly as if with friendly intent, so that both his good luck and her good graces should make him happy and confiding, as indeed they did.
She wished to show him the vase, which a kind uncle had sent her as a birthday present from Trebizond. Her countenance was radiant from sheer joy at having her beloved beside her alone, and at being able to show him something pretty, and he too was genuinely happy. Besides, there was sunshine in his heart at last, so that he could no longer keep his lips from smiling trustfully nor his eyes from sparkling.
But the ancients have forgotten to give a name to the envious divinity, the rival of gentle Eros, who, at the critical moment when good fortune is closest at hand, throws a veil over lovers' eyes, and twists the word in their mouth.
As she gave the bowl trustfully into his hands, and he asked who had sent it to her, a merry rashness misled her into the jest of answering "Fabricius." She felt sure that Theophilus could not fail to see the joke. But, as she was unable to give her merry excited smile that shade of mockery at the mention of the absent one, which would have made the jest evident, Theophilus was firmly convinced that her sweet and genuine joy was due to the present and its giver, and that he had fallen into a nasty trap by intruding into a circle which was forbidden and strange to him. Confounded and ashamed, he cast down his eyes, began to tremble, and let the glittering ornament fall to the ground, where it was shivered to pieces.
In her first dismay, Dorothea forgot all about her joke, and almost forgot Theophilus, and could only stoop aghast to pick up the pieces, exclaiming "How clumsy!" without bestowing a look upon him; so that she did not see the alteration in his features, and had no suspicion that he had misunderstood her.
But, when she had risen, and, recovering herself quickly, turned towards him, Theophilus had already regained his proud self-command. He looked at her inscrutably and indifferently, begged almost mockingly for pardon, promising her full restitution for the vase which had come to grief, then bowed and left the garden.
Pale and sorrowful she looked after his slim figure, with the white toga wrapped closely about it, and his black curly head bent to one side as if his thoughts were already far away from her.
The waves of the silvery sea lapped soft and lazy against the marble steps on the beach, all else around was still, and Dorothea's little devices were at an end.
Weeping, she slipped away with the collected fragments of the vase to hide them in her room.
They did not see each other again for many months. Theophilus returned at once to the capital, and when Dorothea went back there in the autumn, he sedulously avoided encountering her; for the mere possibility of meeting her alarmed and excited him. So all their happiness was gone for the nonce.
The natural result was that she sought consolation in the new faith of her parents, and as soon as they observed this, they lost no time in deciding their child in her resolution, and initiating her fully into their faith and practice.
Meanwhile, Dorothea's assumed friendliness for the governor had also its unfortunate effect, in that Fabricius considered himself justified in renewing his courtship with redoubled energy. He was all the more surprised, therefore, when Dorothea could scarcely endure the sight of him, and he seemed to have become more repugnant to her than Misfortune herself. But he did not draw back on that account; rather, he increased his importunity and began to quarrel with her because of her new faith, and to assail her conscience as he mingled flatteries with thinly-veiled threats.
Dorothea, however, acknowledged her faith openly and fearlessly, and turned away from him as from an unsubstantial shadow which cannot be seen.
Theophilus heard of all this, and how the good maiden was not having the happiest life of it. What surprised him most was the news that she would have nothing whatever to do with the proconsul. Although he was old-world or indifferent in the matter of religion, he was not offended at the maiden's new faith, and with his partiality for her he began to be more in her company again, the better to see and hear how she was faring. But in her present mood, she could speak of nothing except in the tenderest and most languishing accents of a Heavenly Bridegroom whom she had found, who was awaiting her in immortal beauty, to take her to His radiant breast, and give her the rose of eternal life, and so forth.
He could make neither head nor tail of this language. It offended and annoyed him, and filled his heart with a strange, painful jealousy of the unknown God who perverted a weak woman's mind; for he could not understand and interpret the excited and enthusiastic Dorothea's expressions otherwise than in the old mythological fashion. Jealousy of a superhuman being did not hurt his pride, but it blunted his sympathy with the woman who boasted of being united to deities. Yet it was nothing else than her unrequited love for himself that put such language into her mouth, just as he himself had the thorn of passion always fixed in his heart.
Matters had dragged on thus for some little time, when Fabricius suddenly pounced down. Taking advantage of renewed Imperial orders for a persecution of Christians, he had Dorothea and her parents imprisoned. The daughter, however, was placed in a separate gaol, and put to the question about her faith. Full of curiosity, he went in person and heard her loudly repudiating the ancient gods, and confessing as the only Lord of the world Christ, whose betrothed bride she was. At that, a savage jealousy took possession of the governor also. He resolved on her destruction, and ordered her to be tortured and, if she still persisted, to be put to death. Then he departed. She was laid on a gridiron, under which coals were fanned to a glow in such a fashion that the heat only increased slowly. Still, it hurt her tender frame. She uttered stifled screams for a time, while her limbs, which were chained down to the gridiron, quivered, and tears flowed from her eyes. Theophilus, who usually refrained from taking any part in such persecutions, had heard of the business, and hastened to her full of horror and disquiet. Forgetful of his own safety, he thrust his way through the gaping populace, and, when with his own ears he heard Dorothea's low moans, he snatched a sword from a soldier's hand, and stood at one bound before her bed of torture.
"Does it hurt, Dorothea?" he enquired with a bitter smile, intending to cut her fastenings. But she answered, feeling suddenly as if all pain had left her and she were filled with the most perfect bliss, "How could it hurt me, Theophilus? It is the roses of my well-beloved Bridegroom that I am lying upon. See! To-day is my wedding-day!"
Her lips played as if it were one of her favourite dainty jests, while her eyes looked at him blissfully. An unearthly radiance seemed to illumine her and her couch, a triumphant calm settled upon her. Theophilus lowered his sword, threw it from him, and once again retreated ashamed and confounded as on that morning in the garden by the sea.
Then the coals glowed red again. Dorothea sighed and longed for death. And her desire was granted; she was led away to the place of execution, to be beheaded.
She went to her fate with a light step, followed by the unthinking, shouting mob. Standing by the roadside she saw Theophilus, who never took his eyes off her. Their eyes met. Dorothea stood still an instant, and said cheerfully, "Theophilus, if you only knew how beautiful and splendid are my Lord's rose-gardens, where I shall soon be walking, and how sweet his apples taste which grow there, you would come along with me!"
Theophilus responded with a bitter smile: "I'll tell you what, Dorothea! Send me some of your roses and apples for a sample when you get there!"
She gave a friendly nod, and went on her way.
Theophilus followed her with his eyes until the cloud of dust, golden in the evening sunshine, which accompanied the procession, had vanished in the distance, and the street was empty and silent. Then with shrouded head he went home, and ascended with faltering steps to the house-top, from which there was a view out to the Argeus mountains. The place of execution was situated on one of the foot-hills. He could easily make out a dark cluster of humanity there, and he stretched out his longing arms in its direction. He fancied that in the light of the departing sun he could see the flash of the falling axe, and he dropped down and lay prone on the terrace. And, as a matter of fact, Dorothea's head did fall about that time.
But he had not long lain thus motionless, when a clear shining lightened the twilight, and pierced with blinding radiance beneath Theophilus's hands in which his face lay buried, and poured itself into his closed eyes like liquid gold. At the same time a rare fragrance filled the air. The young man arose as if pervaded by some new and unknown life. Before him stood a wondrous lovely boy, with golden ringlets, clad in a star-spangled garment, and with radiant naked feet, bearing a small basket in no less radiant hands. The basket was filled with the most beautiful roses, the like of which were never seen, and among the roses lay three apples of Paradise.
With an infinitely true-hearted and frank childish smile, yet not without a certain pleasant roguishness, the child said, "This is from Dorothea!" put the basket in his hands with the question, "Have you got it?" and vanished.
The basket did not vanish, and Theophilus had really got it in his hands. He found the three apples lightly marked by two tiny teeth, as was the custom among lovers in ancient times. He ate them slowly, with the blazing starry heavens above him. A mighty longing permeated him with a sweet fire, and, clasping the basket to his breast and concealing it with his mantle, he hastened down from the house-top, through the streets and into the palace of the governor, who was sitting at table endeavouring to drown his wild rage in untempered Colchian wine.
With flashing eyes, Theophilus advanced towards him, without uncovering the basket, and exclaimed before the whole company, "I declare that I am of the same faith as Dorothea, whom you have just now murdered. It is the only true faith!"
"Then go after the witch!" retorted the governor, who, racked by sudden wrath and consuming jealousy, sprang to his feet, and had his secretary beheaded that same hour.
Thus Theophilus was, after all, united for ever to Dorothea on that same day. She welcomed him with the restful look of the blessed. Like two doves, separated by the tempest, who have found each other again, and first fly in a wide circuit round their home, so the united pair swept hand in hand swiftly, swiftly, and unceasingly around the outmost circles of Heaven, freed from every weight, yet still themselves. Then they separated sportively and lost themselves in wide infinity, while each knew where the other tarried, and what the other thought, and joined with him in embracing every creature and all existence in sweet love. Then they sought each other again with waxing desire, which knew no pain and no impatience. They found each other, and once more eddied about, or reposed in contemplation of themselves and gazed near and far into the world of infinitude. But once in blissful forgetfulness they ventured too near the crystal habitation of the Holy Trinity, and entered within. There they lost all consciousness, and like twins beneath a mother's heart they fell on sleep, and no doubt are sleeping still, unless meantime they have been able to make their way out.