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!"