High in the Apennines it stood--a gloomy cloister. It towered blackly on
the edge of a steep, forbidding, treeless abyss, and the sun beat
pitilessly upon its bare, gray walls. There was something strange about
this Cloister; here God and Satan dwelled side by side. God hid Himself
behind the great altar in the church; Satan dwelled in the cell of the
Prior, above his desk, and in fact right behind a picture. God knows to
what school that picture belongs! It represented the Temptation of Saint
Anthony. This had been a favorite subject for representation with a
school of painters. Teniers and Tassaert had represented the subject
with humor, Bosch with great imagination; it had been given by Callot
to the modern world through the pen of Hoffman, that unjustly forgotten
poet, and dreamer of golden vessels and magic draughts.
On one of these pictures, among the many shapeless and nameless monsters
that surrounded the poor and holy hermit, moving in a hideously merry
dance, there was in one corner of the canvas a great green frog with a
bird-shaped beak, and a hugely swollen white goiter. Behind this frog
dwelled Satan, and unobserved, through the eyes of the frog he
watched--not holy Saint Anthony kneeling in prayer, but the living body
of the Prior and his priestly comrades.
I am obliged to confess that for sometime Satan had been terribly bored
in his quiet corner. The Prior was a pious man, and the monks hymned
sleepily their breviaries. To tease them by means of sensual dreams was
something altogether too commonplace, indeed Satan himself would be
ashamed to do it, and at the same time he wished to amuse himself.
Sometimes he closed the prayer book of the Prior ten times right before
his nose, but with stoic calm, the Prior would open the book for the
eleventh time and find the place of Scripture he was reading, and put in
a book mark. On this book mark two flaming hearts were embroidered, and
a cross sewn out of pearls; it was evidently a keepsake “from the
world.” Satan tried to convince himself that it was childish to close
the book the eleventh time. But the facts of the case are that he was
ashamed to confess that he was not sufficiently emancipated mentally to
be free of fear of the cross. He would not have confessed it himself,
but I am confessing it for him strictly “_sub rosa_.”
In this Cloister a young monk lived. Shelley, that poetic interpreter of
the human heart, would have named him Alastor, but here they called him
Brother Cœlestin. His was a gentle, inspired dreamer’s soul, certainly
worthy of a better fate than to wither away between gray, desolate
walls. He was not especially beloved in the Cloister, and yet he was so
quiet, so devoted. He did not coquette for a flattering look from the
Prior, and when he met the brothers in the long, gloomy halls, he called
out his “_Memento_” to them humbly--in the spirit of the Scriptures, not
in the spirit of hypocrisy, which was something he knew nothing about.
Why Cœlestin entered the Cloister it would not be easy to say. Perhaps
it was something that had to be. There are men in whose lives the
fatalism of the past asserts its rights, that fatalism which the
middle-age tried vainly to displace by means of faith in Providence, and
which the modern world tried to make blind by the light of science, and
succeeded only in dimming. It was easy to see that Cœlestin was not
contented in the Cloister. What was to him the wonderful, magic beauty
of nature, if he could look upon it only through the narrow window of
his cell, which was covered with iron bars! The rest of the monks were
old, too. They were unfriendly and cross. Perhaps the dreams with which
they had stepped over the Cloister threshold had proved false as his
own.
The cell of Brother Cœlestin was small; it looked bare and needy. It had
one advantage, however; it was in an old tower, the remnant of an older
fortification. This tower, with its one little iron-barred window, was
the nest of all his dreams. A few boards made his bed; a Bible and
breviary his library. The room to him seemed strange and bare. But the
view out upon the mountain summits worked magic upon him, breathed into
his soul such warmth and sweetness, as had done long ago the face of his
mother.
For long, long hours Brother Cœlestin stood by the window, with greatest
pleasure at the hour when the splendor of the sunset was poured over the
mountains, when their harsh, dark outlines glowed in violet radiance,
and the mist of evening floating down the terraced declivities,
shimmered sweetly like a gentle rain of pale, blush-roses.
At night, too, for long, long hours Brother Cœlestin stood by the window
when over the glooming, black heads of the mountains shot a yellow glow
resembling the Aurora Borealis of the North. Then the distant stars
trembled like little white flowers. What peace, what quiet, what perfume
floated upon the night! Over there, in that corner between the
mountains--thus thought Brother Cœlestin--there where the clouds and the
mists, and the stars, and the birds are born, there sits an unknown
divinity and dreams some mighty dream men call nature, world, human
life.
By day, under the direct light of the sun, Cœlestin did not look across
to the mountains; they were sad then, they seemed less lofty, humble,
and oppressed.
I must remind the reader who has accompanied me through this dream of
Brother Cœlestin that Satan was becoming fearfully bored in the cell of
the Prior.
Likewise, I must communicate to him the fact that the Cloister was very
poor. The monks depended wholly upon the benevolence of the country
people who lived in this locality. That, however, was sufficient for
their needs. Then times were different than they are now, the priest,
and especially the monk, was as sacred to men as the friendly brown
swallows that yearly nested under the eaves.
From time to time the Prior sent one of the monks into the mountains. He
gave him two companions: Brother Andrew, who knew the mountain pathways
as well as a bandit, and an old gray ass, which--laden with numberless
empty baskets--brought back provisions. It was the duty of Brother
Andrew to lead the ass. Perhaps that is the reason that the monks called
the gray companion Andrew. And when they said: “Andrew is coming back
from the mountains,” no one knew whether they meant the monk or the ass,
or both. Brother Andrew was an old, crabbed, grumbling fellow who was
never pleased with anything. When he was walking along the road he
complained because the sun was hot. If the sun dipped down behind the
mountains and set, he complained of the rough, pebbly road. When he was
in the peasant homes he complained about the Cloister, and when he was
in the Cloister he complained about the peasants. The shrewd Prior, who
did not wish to displease the people because of this disagreeable
disposition, always sent another Brother to accompany him. And because
he wished to earn the gratitude of the Order, this one usually carried
pictures, rosaries, and crosses for a gift to the peasant children,
which he was careful, however, to distribute among the elders, _ad
captandam benevolentiam_ of the fathers and mothers.
So Brother Andrew returned to the Cloister with the baskets filled with
butter, smoked meat, and various articles of food. And on the evening of
his return the psalms of the choir resounded with a more solemn dignity,
and the candles burned later in the great, barren, marble floored room
which was the refectory.
Once Brother Andrew was standing with the empty baskets in front of the
door waiting for a companion.
Andrew, the monk, had gone to the Prior, for his latest directions.
Brother Cœlestin was gazing sadly away toward the mountains. His heart
was filled with an indescribable longing. Then he looked up and saw the
basket-laden ass. A wild desire mastered him to learn to know the
intricacies of the mountains, to breathe deeply the fresh, free air, to
rejoice with the soaring lark, and to look again upon the faces of
living men,--not these dried mummies who were perishing in asceticism.
He did not pause to consider. He went directly to the Prior, entered
without being announced and without greeting.
“Father--I have a request. It is the first since I have been here. Hear
me--in God’s name!”
The Prior looked surprised, but he replied gently, although there was
reproach in his tone.
“You sin, my son, against the rules of the Order. You can have no
requests. To express a request is to express a wish, and suppression of
the individual will is the first step toward priestly perfection.”
Cœlestin was silenced. He blushed and tears came to his eyes.
The Prior spoke on. “I have sympathy for your youth. Tell me what you
wish. Perhaps I will grant it, but in the future spare me a repetition
and do not leave your cell until He summons you Whose unworthy servants
we are.”
Hesitating, Cœlestin stated his wish. He asked to accompany Andrew into
the mountains.
The Prior considered, then he said earnestly:
“Very good! Not because you asked me, but because it is really your turn
to go. Go--and God be with you.”
Cœlestin kneeled at the Prior’s feet, and wet his hand with tears as he
kissed it. The Prior could not understand the tears. The procession
started.
* * * * *
Never before had Brother Andrew been so cross and disagreeable. He
thought he had cause enough. He had a presentiment that their journey
would be fruitless, and he was planning how to throw the blame upon
Cœlestin. Cœlestin, for the first time in his life, was supremely happy.
Anyone who has recovered from a serious illness, or a criminal who,
after long years, has left his prison, can sympathize with the feelings
of Cœlestin. It seemed to him that the world had just been created for
him; everywhere he beheld his own soul; in the blossoms of the cyclamen,
in the fearless wings of the eagle, which, high above, vanished in blue
depths of air. If his training and his black gown had not hindered him,
he would have followed the wild goats up the steep declivities where
they leaped to nibble the berry bushes. His eyes sparkled. His hands
trembled. Brother Andrew, I mean the monk, had predicted well. Just as
if fate had closed the doors and the hands of the peasants and Brother
Andrew--I mean now the ass--fell upon his back the results of the day.
The old monk was right. Cœlestin had not taken along any pictures or
rosaries, and he did not know how to praise the hens and the cattle of
the peasant women nor to amuse their children. His heart was full to
overflowing with his vision of the beautiful world, and his eyes spoke
eloquently, but this speech the world does not understand. In short they
were obliged to return with empty baskets. In one peasant house, all had
gone to the village except the children, and these peered greedily
through the papered windows, at the ill-assorted pair and refused them
curtly. Poor Cœlestin! It was all his fault. Brother Andrew was in his
worst temper. His gray namesake was secretly happy, however, because he
did not have anything to carry. They moved slowly along the stony,
treeless way. Andrew growled and grumbled, Cœlestin sought vainly in his
mind for a safe explanation.
Just at this moment the swollen frog with the canary bird’s beak upon
the painted canvas in the Prior’s cell, began to wiggle its white head,
just as live frogs do, on the edge of ponds, when the warm spring rain
falls. The Prior, however, observed nothing of this because he was so
deeply absorbed in his breviary.
Our pilgrims reached at length the summit of the mountains. There stray
trees grew, and berry bushes. They thought they would rest here a
little, the ascent and the heat had tired them. But what thing did they
see! There in shadow of a tree, with face pressed to earth, lay a man
whose clothes were ragged. He was sleeping or dead. By his side lay a
flute.
Brother Andrew began to grumble about vagabonds and thieves and wished
to go on, but kind Cœlestin insisted that it was their duty to aid him.
A quarrel arose out of which Andrew--the gray one--had the advantage. He
lay down to rest in the coolness and began to eat grass and leaves.
Brother Andrew resisted resolutely. One must be cautious, because how
could they tell whom they were helping. To his great surprise Cœlestin
resisted just as resolutely that the poor man must be lifted upon the
ass and taken to the Cloister. It was evident that he was struggling
between life and death. Cœlestin bent down and observed the face--an
ordinary face without expression! “A musician! An idle, good-for-nothing
wanderer in the mountains!” grumbled Andrew.
In the midst of continued resistance on one side, and a generous giving
of biblical examples of brotherly love on the other side, they lifted
the stranger to the back of the ass, and started for the Cloister, which
peered forth from the mountain peak opposite, just as if it were eager
to see what rich treasures of food Cœlestin was bringing back.
“A fine gift--this--we have,” declared Brother Andrew. Cœlestin picked
up the flute. He had never seen such a thing before; he laughed because
the slender black pipe pleased him. He hid it in his breast but Brother
Andrew leaped upon him like a wild animal, and declared it must be given
either to the Prior or the Cloister, as recompense for nursing--or
perhaps the burial of the stranger. In order to end the quarrel Cœlestin
gave the flute to the sick man, who opened his eyes from time to time
and groaned.
On the terrace of the Cloister the monks had assembled, with the Prior
in front, to await impatiently the return of the two Andrews. Food was
low and more than usual now they felt need of sitting together in the
lighted refectory, in front of well filled glasses and plates. But what
a disappointment! Through the gate came Andrew number one, grumbling,
and Andrew number two bore upon his back a drunken blackleg--was the
universal opinion--while last came Cœlestin, his head bowed and hands
folded, shyly, like a criminal who comes before his judge.
Astonishment, anger, complaints! No food. No smoked meat which Brother
Cleofas enjoyed so, no artichokes, for which Brother Zeno was
enthusiastic, and not a single melon of which Brother Sulpicius was so
greedy. Instead of the promised meal, a beggar, an outcast in ragged
clothes. O Cœlestin what have you done!
With a commanding look the Prior controlled the anger of the brothers,
and with a still more commanding look he spoke to Brother Cœlestin.
“Whom do you bring here, my son?”
“Jesus, the Christ!” he replied, and raised his blue eyes to the Prior.
Laughter resounded on all sides.
“He has lost his mind! He is laughing at us!”
Thus ran the opinions.
“Blaspheme not, my son,” answered the irritated Prior.
“I do not blaspheme, father, and I repeat: I bring Jesus the Christ. Did
he not say himself: ‘What ye do to the least among men, that ye do unto
me’? Consider, father! The poor fellow lay on the highway, suffering
pain, in the sun. Did not God himself send us in his pity to lessen his
suffering? It was for that reason that all the doors were shut against
us, that we might succor this dying one and bring him here. If our
baskets had been full of food, we could not have helped him, so
everything was arranged wisely by Providence.”
A murmur circled the row of standing monks. The Prior was all but
convinced. After a little meditation he said: “According to the commands
of brotherly love you have done well, but likewise the Scriptures say:
‘Be cunning as the serpent.’ Is it not possible that this fellow is
merely making believe? Who knows but he is an adventurer, who seeks our
Cloister out in order later to fall upon it with his companions and
plunder it!
“But it is done now and argument is useless. Let your punishment
be--since you did this without consulting me--to take care of the sick
man yourself. Come, Brothers, it is time for evening prayer!”
It was a sad and sorry-faced festival today! In the mind of Brother
Zeno, who was singing, there were visions of artichokes cooked in
fragrant oil; Brother Sulpicius was afraid to lift his eyes to the
altar, lest he should behold fabulous, golden melons floating there; and
good Cleofas thought that the incense was the smell of smoked meat. How
sad was that evening meal. Nothing but dry bread, raw turnips, and
cheese so old it was green. And Cœlestin was to be blamed.
Scarcely was the sad meal ended when a Brother announced the death of
the stranger. Fresh trouble, and another round of reproaches for
Cœlestin. Even the Prior could not hold in any longer, and began to
scold: “Expense! Useless expense!”
Brother Cœlestin remained with the dying man to the last breath. As soon
as he closed his eyes, a strange feeling came over him; he felt as if he
were going to commit theft. With trembling hand he felt the body of the
dead man, and at last he found what he sought--the old flute. As if it
had been a costly treasure he hid it in his breast. The entire day he
walked about like one in a dream. The monks meanwhile buried the
stranger by the Cloister wall. But instead of prayers they only flung a
few remarks at him, along with some handfuls of dirt.
It was a fragrant evening of summer. Cœlestin stood by the window of his
narrow cell and gazed across at the mountains. His soul was slowly
bursting into bloom like a gigantic flower.
He had never seen a flute before. He drew it forth eagerly and looked at
it just as a child looks at a new toy, and then tried awkwardly to put
it to his lips and place his fingers upon the openings and move them up
and down. He made the attempt of blowing his breath into it. A pure,
sweet tone bubbled up from the flute and floated forth upon the air of
evening. It was as if a swan upon a lake was singing its death song.
Cœlestin was astonished and repeated the attempt, and this time longer
and with more courage. If the first note was like a quiet lament, the
next note was a reproach, and did not perish suddenly, but ended with a
sharp call.
In his inexperience Cœlestin thought it could not be otherwise, and that
it all consisted in just blowing breath into the flute, and the flute
itself would do the rest, and so he blew valiantly.
It was a strange melody!
All the poetry of the pleasant evening of summer mirrored itself in the
waves of this mystic music. It was as if the crimson evening spread
itself around the tones! And these tones which melted into a tender
elegy, trembled like the wild, clinging vines, which pushed up between
the hops, along the cloister wall, and lifted their large, variegated
blossoms through iron window bars, and nodded into gloomy cells.
It was as if upon the edge of each huge flowercup an ethereal being
sat, and this being was whiter than ivory, and more translucent than
mist. And each tiny ethereal being kept time with its golden head, and
bowed and nodded to the other flowers. And then they began to dance, as
if a thousand bright butterflies were being cradled in the blossoms.
Heaven bent nearer, the mountains grew loftier and lordlier. The river,
which twisted between walls of rock, murmured as if in a dream, and the
forbidding cliffs which watched it mirrored themselves in the golden
sand and leaned nearer. The juniper bushes gleamed with a magical,
emerald green. And each note--it was as if it found a brother! One found
it in the tender tint of evening clouds, another in the silvered glory
of the waves, and still another in the violet shadows of distant
mountains. Every tone repeated itself in an echo which floated down
through the crevasses of the old Cloister wall, wandering along the
stained glass windows of the chapel, dancing over the graves of the
monks who now slept in peace. And still Cœlestin played.
It seemed as if, by means of the music, all things that oppressed him
fell away. His mood was the same as that morning when for the first time
he went into the mountains; but he felt freer, like the eagle he had
envied that day, happier than the blossoms of the cyclamen in whose
slender cups he had found his soul. He played on and looked out upon the
mountains behind which the sun was sinking amid enchanting colors. The
landscape in front of him melted into broad strips of shimmering,
floating colors, the little river arose from its rocky cavern, and threw
into his window a rain of gems--onyx, pearls, and rubies. The evening
red became a sea, the flowering vines of the Cloister wall grew in jars
of crystal. Naked odalisques and sylphs arose from them and leaned
toward him with beckoning mien. Everywhere resounded melodious, bizarre,
grieving, passionate, imploring tones like the falling pearls of May
rain upon the thick, blooming forest where the jasmine clings.
And Cœlestin played on and on; a flood of fancies broke over his head,
like the flood of ocean over one who is drowning. There was something
penetratingly sweet for him in this whirlpool of tone, like the clash of
cymbals, like the pealing of bells. Gradually it grew stiller and
stiller, only into his window peered the dew-wet magic night, with its
sweet, star eyes.
Upon the threshold stood, as if turned to stone, Brother Cleofas. The
flute fell from the hands of Cœlestin. Brother Cleofas announced the
command of the Prior. Cœlestin must come at once to the refectory and
bring the flute.
A formal meeting was in progress. Cœlestin, absorbed by his music, had
forgotten the hour of evening prayer, and what was worse, he had
disturbed the prayers of the others. The monks, who were already angry
with Cœlestin, awaited joyously the punishment of the Prior. At first
the Prior believed that Cœlestin knew how to play. But he insisted that
he had never seen a flute before and thought all there was to it was
just to blow in it. A storm of laughter was the answer to this. Some
believed him a deceiver, others saw his innocence. The Prior meditated.
The honest countenance of Cœlestin disarmed him. The Prior decided that
the flute was the property of the convent, told Brother Cleofas to take
and guard it.
Cœlestin spent a sleepless night. Continually he heard that enchanting
music. The next day was dim and fog-filled. Cœlestin felt like a person
after a nightly orgy. He felt as if there were a frightful emptiness in
his soul, he walked about his cell and the church like a stranger. He
suffered from a longing he could not express, he feared even to try to
express it, and at the same time, he knew that it was because he was
grieving over the lost flute.
Again evening came, and this time more gloomy and fog-hung than the day.
The mountains looked like sorrowing widows hidden in their veils. With
arms crossed upon his breast Cœlestin paced his cell. There was but one
thought in his brain and that tortured him. The flute!
Someone knocked softly at the door. He opened it, and in the dim passage
he saw a Brother. It was too dark to distinguish face or feature, but it
seemed to resemble Brother Cleofas.
“Has the Prior sent for me again?” stammered the surprised Cœlestin.
In reply the dark figure touched a warning finger to its lips--and then
held out the flute. Who else could it be but Brother Cleofas, the one
who dreamed of the sweetness of smoked meat?
“Cleofas, Brother!” exclaimed Cœlestin, with delight. “Then there is one
who has sympathy for me, who has not forgotten me, who braves the anger
of the Prior for my sake! I thank you, Brother--and I always thought
you were my enemy. Pardon me, Brother! Pardon me! My flute, my flute!”
The monk signalled him to be quiet. Before Cœlestin thanked him he had
disappeared. In his excitement, good Cœlestin had quite forgotten that
now all the Brothers were assembled in the church. He believed firmly
that that silent monk must have been Cleofas. He went to the window and
played.
The melody was sad and elegiac, as if it tried to harmonize with the
mood of the evening. Suppressed sighs, restrained tears, were interwoven
in the melody; a thousand nightingales sobbed their sorrow in the song.
Then, upon the instant, it changed--it was a wild dance of a carnival,
an unrestrained orgy, wherein from time to time shook the laughter of
madness. I do not know how long Cœlestin played, but this time it was
really Cleofas, who, raging like a tiger, came with a message from the
Prior. Cœlestin declared that Brother Cleofas came to his cell and gave
him the flute. The Prior knew that Brother Cleofas had been in the
church with him. Cœlestin stuck to his statement and could not be shaken
from it. It looked bad for Cœlestin. Everyone had seen Cleofas at
vesper service; no one had seen Cœlestin.
The Prior put his hand to his brow as if in search for a reasonable
decision. The Prior took the flute and carried it into his own room.
Cœlestin was led to the Cloister prison, where he was to remain and eat
only bread and water until he confessed to the truth. Night came on.
Cœlestin did not know it. The little prison chamber under the roof was
always dark. The one little barred window was right under the drain
spout of the roof. The door opened. Brother Cleofas came in. Grumbling
he placed a piece of bread by Cœlestin’s cot; and fastened a diminutive
earthen lamp to the unpainted wall and left. Cœlestin tried to talk with
him, but he shut the door in silence and turned the key.
He threw himself upon the miserable cot and tried to sleep. Feverish
fancies crossed his brain, his forehead was hot, his eyes were heavy,
but he could not sleep. Slowly the hours passed.
“What a wretched existence!” thought Cœlestin, “It would be better to
die.” He began to meditate about death. It seemed to him something
desirable. The flickering flame of the lamp sent smoke and shadows
across the barred window space, and stretched into thicker blackness in
the corners. Right by the door Cœlestin watched the shadow grow thicker.
Was it an illusion? He rubbed his eyes in order to see better. The
shadows thickened into a form, and the form drew near to him. It was
hidden in a brown robe of peculiar shape. The long, thin, yellow face
resembled old parchment in the Cloister library. It came nearer and
nearer and its steps were noiseless. Cœlestin looked straight at this
phantom being; he did not feel the slightest fear. Now it stood beside
him and looked down upon him with green, sparkling eyes.
“You are Satan!” declared Cœlestin calmly, without turning his eyes
away.
“You may not be mistaken,” replied the stranger hoarsely.
There was silence a while.
“What a miserable thing is life!” sighed Cœlestin.
“Miserable?” laughed the strange guest. “That is because you do not know
it, my boy! The old complaint of children and good-for-nothings. Life
is an idea, a conception of the brain. It is your own fault if you do
not enjoy it.”
“What? I do not know anything about life?” questioned Cœlestin, hastily.
“Then what does my renunciation mean, my struggles, my dreams--”
“Renunciation, struggles, dreams, are not life!” said Satan, scornfully.
“You have a presentiment of what it is--you child with the longing of a
giant and the grief of an old man in your heart.”
“And why do I not know life?” questioned the monk, timidly.
“Because you do not know woman!” replied Satan, laughing.
“Woman?” repeated Cœlestin. “Did I not have a mother?”
“Do not speak of a mother!” interrupted Satan. “Mother is
soul--God--_but not woman_. Woman is flesh--body--and that you do not
know. You are very innocent, dear child.” A note of sympathy trembled
upon the last words of Satan.
“But how could a woman help to make me happy? I would be happy if I
could travel over the beautiful world, climb the mountains nimbly as the
goats, fly across the blue with the eagle, or dwell in the blossom-cup
of a flower--”
“And remain a fool, just as you are!” interrupted Satan. “No! You do not
know what a woman is! Your unripe dreams are hung upon the stars, the
eagle’s wings, but not where they belong. You do not know that your soul
is a woman, that nature is a woman--death--eternity--You have renounced
woman and that is the reason that you are a child, with the longing of a
giant in your heart, and the grief of an old man. I pity you!”
Fear stood in the young priest’s eyes.
“Then teach me to know woman, and in return take my life, my soul!”
Satan laughed and came nearer.
“What is the use of this feeble light?”
With these words he extinguished it; stepped to the window and stretched
his hand out into the night. Like white silk threads something gleamed
outside, changed into a beam of light, and in a thrice floated between
the bars a white star, which illumined the room. A sulphur glow filled
the room, which gradually changed into different colors. Satan felt
within his breast, drew out three round, black pieces of wood which he
fitted together.
“_My flute!_” exclaimed Cœlestin, jumping up from the cot.
“Yes--_your soul_!” mimicked Satan, “Remain lying where you are.”
Cœlestin obeyed, and drew the covers up. Satan put the flute to his
lips. Hardly was the first note sounded than a change took place in him.
He was sitting upon his bed like a naked colossus, from whose gigantic
shoulders two bat’s wings depended, like black banners. He played and
kept time with his black head. The notes were bizarre, false, unlovely.
Melody was lacking, and it seemed to Cœlestin that a rain of fire fell
upon his temples. The notes grew sharp; they pierced like needles.
Cœlestin was frightened, he drew the covers over his head. Something
like a streak of mist floated over him and settled down with a certain
restraint upon him. Picture-visions, strange and mighty, passed before
him. He saw cities, uniquely towered, and houses, thick forests, and
sandy wastes; ancient gardens, filled with sculptured stone. Evening
came, and morning, and night again. Then he found himself in a wild
garden where grew black cypress trees. Far in the rear were towers of a
building of the middle-age. Yellow sand was spread upon the broad
walks, and the flowers, whose cups were shaped like stars, spread abroad
a perfume that was benumbing. In front of one of the fountains, under a
cypress tree, stood a woman, a splendid commanding figure. She wore
black velvet, and the neck was left open in front. He stretched his arms
out toward her, but she melted into mist and disappeared. Again mist
spread about him, it increased, and then melted into swifter and swifter
whirling circles. Down into this sped the beam of light that had floated
between the window bars, and at once threw out long jasmine-blue and
emerald rays, and these rays turned, twisted, and then transformed
themselves into the body of a woman, around whom white mist floated like
silken muslins. That was she--the dream of his sleeping soul, the one
whom he saw under the cypress tree. Very plainly he saw her, he felt her
breath, but Satan he did not see at all, who kept marking the time with
madder measure. While he looked at her, tears flowed over his face, his
head was dizzy as if with intoxication. He spread his arms out toward
her, but she hurried away to the window, and, dancing upon the
moonlight, she beckoned him to follow. He got up from his cot like one
drunk, the iron window bars fell clattering in the dust. He must get
away, away--Upon the black chimney, blowing the flute, he saw Satan, and
before him floated the resplendent summer night world of his dream--and
that enticing woman. He must follow her. It was a strange road, over the
roof tops. Satan was ahead, blowing the flute, then she, veiled in rosy
mist, from which fell continually like rain, roses, ivy, blue bells,
rhododendron, and these flowers were twined about her hair, and her
snow-white limbs. Behind her came Cœlestin, with wildly outstretched
arms. In front of all of them danced the moon, and threw its light in
little fine threads over their feet. The stars cradled themselves in a
phosphorescent splendor, and the top of the old Cloister swayed under
their feet like the back of some fabulous, pre-historic monster. Where
the roof made a turn, a great, black cat jumped out, with two red rubies
for eyes, and long fur, from which fell sparks. The Cloister remained
behind; they hurried away upon the moon-beam, and left it. Trees stood
along the road like giant, veiled spectres. From their tops sometimes
ravens rose. Beneath, blue flames trembled, over which seductive
will-o’-the-wisps floated. By the shore sat huge frogs, whose
emerald-green bodies showed yellow spots. The air became heavy. Mist
veiled the moon; and now they floated away over the crest of the
mountains and the flute song was heard no more. They stood upon the edge
of an abyss, into this measureless depth the woman leaped, riding upon
pallid moonlight--and disappeared. Upon the edge of the cliff above sat
Satan; he put the flute aside and laughed loudly and scornfully.
Cœlestin opened his eyes. Darkness surrounded him.
“Give me the flute!” he thundered to Satan. “Give me the flute and I
will play that beautiful woman up out of the abyss!”
Shrill laughter was the answer.
“Give me the flute--and take my soul!”
Again the laughter echoed. In wild anger Cœlestin fell upon Satan and
tried to take the flute away, but Satan embraced him, and spread his
black wings over him. Together they sank slowly to the earth. Cœlestin
did not wake again.
In the morning the monks found the window broken, but of Cœlestin they
found no trace. The Prior could not find the flute which the day before
he had placed under the picture of Saint Anthony. While he was searching
for the flute, he observed the picture critically, and for the first
time he saw in the eyes of the green frog the red scorn of laughter, and
he saw the white goiter swell. That day he removed the picture from his
cell. For a time the monks talked of the affair, and then they forgot
it, as everything else is forgotten. Again Brother Andrew and his gray
companion went out into the mountains for food. They were received in
the most friendly manner by the good mountain people, and Brother Andrew
drank more wine than was good for him. How could he help it when the
heat was so great! It was late when, heavily laden, he started home,
where the monks awaited him impatiently. But this time both Bacchus and
Morpheus took good Andrew in charge. The ass lost the way, and in the
darkness let himself be led by his namesake.
But the next morning! The sharp air awoke him and dispelled the
intoxication. Rubbing his eyes, he looked about. Eternal God, with whom
had he slept! Near him lay a man, his face buried in the earth, and
wearing the rotting habit of his Order. It was really now only the
skeleton of a man, it had been so long the prey of wind and rain. At a
little distance lay a flute! Andrew shrieked with terror. He began
hastily to beat his companion, and drive him up the steep mountain-side.
Not once did he dare look back, and he made constantly the sign of the
cross.
He told the Prior that he had stayed all night at a peasant’s house.
Whether he ever told what really happened that night I do not know.