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.
DOROTHEA'S FLOWER-BASKET
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 Caesarea 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.