JEROME IS TEMPTED OF THE DEVIL
When Agnes came again to the hut, she saw no sign of Jerome. But Harun
was there, and for a moment maid and wolf looked on one another,
questioning; each meditating whether to make friends, or to fly
incontinently into the forest. Agnes had learned by heart Sister
Rosala’s tale of the big demon Elemauzer, who liked nothing better
than to scamper over the world in the form of a tawny wolf, to snap
up juicy girls; while Harun’s knowledge of human kind was summed up
in Jerome, Witch Martha, and a certain poacher who twice had nearly
winged him with an arrow. But there seemed nothing demoniacal in
Harun, and nothing dangerous in Agnes. Therefore, Harun drew near very
timidly, wagged his tail, let his red tongue hang out and puffed in
friendship, whilst Agnes still more timidly put a small hand betwixt
his ears and stroked him. Then from armed truce sprang peace, from
peace came comradeship; and before either knew it, Harun was drowsing
on the greensward, sinking deeper and deeper into slumber, and Agnes’s
gold-brown head lay on his tawny shoulder. The great boughs far above
never ceased their talking, and gossiped louder as the south wind,
kind and warm, sung over the summer forest. The wood-thrushes whistled
in and out; over Agnes’s face great bumblebees buzzed closely, half
wondering whether in her red lips there lurked no sip of honey. But she
never heard their pragmatic droning, for Harun, sly protector, gave
his tail a mighty slap which sent the bees away to less safe-guarded
flowers. So noon sank down toward evening. The shadows of the pines
were longer, longer. The breeze had sung itself to sleep, and all the
woods grew still. Then through the fern-brake stirred Jerome, walking
tenderly,--for he would not needlessly crush a dewy blossom,--and stood
beside the silent pair.
Jerome had been over hill and dale to Witch Martha’s dwelling with
the laudable desire to acquaint that uncanny woman concerning the
results of his mission to the Wartburg, and to bid her seek out some
one who could communicate with Graf Ludwig and take the child away.
He was sorely tempted to deliver Agnes to Martha, and so rid himself
of all temptation. Again he told himself it was no safe thing to
trust a little maid to one who might sell her protégé’s soul to Devil
Baalberith for two Bremen shillings. Martha, however, for her own
reasons had remained abroad, and Jerome, when the sun sank, turned
homeward--his charge could spare him no longer. Yet not altogether
regretful. Something, some one, would be awaiting him at the hut. He
would hear a voice,--not his own, not Harun’s shrill bark, not the cry
of the wood-bird. He would look into human eyes, he would feel a hand,
he would--“_Ne nos inducas in tentationem_,” prayed Jerome; “plain,
plain it is, Lord, Thou hast given me over to Satan, even as Thou didst
Thy servant Job, to see if I can endure all and stand.”
First he looked in the hut, and was troubled at finding no form upon
the furze bed; then beside the tall tree he saw the sleepers, and
almost ere he knew it his lips were twitching in a smile,--_O maximum
peccatum! O gaudium impium!_ Joy, not at the contemplation of the
beatific vision, but at sight of a noxious beast and of a mortal maid!
Nevertheless, as he stood over them, these were the words which seemed
sounding.
“_And the sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, and the
weaned child shall put his hand on the cockatrice’s den; they shall not
hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain._”
But Jerome only told himself that Satan could wrest Scripture as fairly
as an angel; then fortified against temptation he touched Agnes.
“Awake!”
The heavy eyes opened, stared around.
“Ah! but the shadows are long! It grows dark,” said she all wondering,
whilst Harun rose and shook his coat free of the pine-needles.
“Yes, you must have slept soundly. It is time to eat;” and Jerome
busied himself about the supper,--more trout, bread, cheese, and the
remnants of the partridge. He studiously refrained from glances at
Agnes, and never spoke save as he must. When the meal ended, Agnes
held her pretty head first this way, then that, and followed with a
statement.
“I met a woman by the brook.”
“A woman? of what kind?”
“A fat little woman all in black, with two big blacker ravens.”
Jerome frowned. “Then you have met Witch Martha. She has commerce with
the Father of Lies; shun her carefully or you can never go to heaven.”
“Oh, but she did nothing wicked. Her speech had far more about Our Lady
and the Blessed Saints in it than you hear with the sisters at Bamberg.”
“Her tongue may have a jargon of piety, but her soul is given to Satan.”
Agnes sighed. Jerome was a saint, and he ought to know. Yet it was
perplexing to understand that so prepossessing a woman as Martha had
stricken hands with the Devil. Presently Agnes began again.
“Holy Saint Jerome, why do you never smile?”
“Have I not told you I was no saint?” and he waxed almost angry.
“Witch Martha and My Lady Abbess say that you are, and I believe they,
not you, are right.”
There bubbled to Jerome’s lips an imprecation against those two women
which might have seemed worthy of Baron Ulrich’s self. Jerome checked
it just in time. “At least,” he comforted himself, “the arising of such
blasphemies in my heart proves that I am still a naked sinner.”
“Maid Agnes,” said he, severely, “Witch Martha and the Abbess prattle
folly. I am a very wicked man.”
“Is it for that cause you will not smile?”
“Yes;” but he knew she was incredulous.
“Not even if I weave these purple asters and buttercups in a wreath,
and set it on your head?”
He did not answer. Conscience told that he ought to rebuke her for
tempting him from holy meditations. Why disobey the dictate? Yet he
did. She made the wreath. He felt the little flowers upon his hair. He
felt the touch of her soft hands upon his cheek; and her eyes looked
straight into his.
“Smile!” she commanded, as she might address Harun; “do you hear me,
smile!”
And Jerome--that saint adored through wide Thuringia--obeyed her. He
smiled; he almost laughed; but--praised be Saint Simeon--grace was
given just to shun that!
Once more the silvery bell in distant Eisenach knelled across the
trees, calling to vespers. They knelt down to pray. Jerome had
even forgotten to doff the flower crown. The maid prayed in loud
whisper,--to Our Lady, to Agnes of Rome her patron saint,--then added
something more softly, but he could hear it, “Holy Saint Jerome of the
Dragon’s Dale, pray for me.”
Why did he not rebuke her with the thunders of Sinai? Why did his own
prayer halt? Had Witch Martha taught the maid some guilty spell? Had
the arch-fiend taken a young girl’s shape to overcome this hardened
anchorite? But Jerome was silent, and Agnes arose from her knees.
“How long can I stay here?” spoke she, before she went into the hut to
lie down.
“I shall try to send at once for Graf Ludwig.”
“Oh! he can know that I am safe; but it is lovely here! I do not want
to go away. Harun, the brook, and the birds, and the talking trees,
already I love them, but most of all,--_you_.”
Then he let her kiss him good night. He did not return the kiss;
nevertheless he groaned inwardly, knowing he was making progress in
sin. True was Master Vergil’s word, “_Facilis descensus Averni!_”
As he sat in the waning firelight, for the first time in many a month
a profound loneliness had stolen over him. Harun had prowled away into
the forest. Presently Jerome arose, cast a fresh branch on the fire,
and stole into the hut. “I must see if she is safe and warm.”
Through the doorway crept a silver-sandalled moonbeam. It touched on
something round and white,--the face of the little maid. All Jerome’s
veins seemed turned to fire, yet all that fire was ineffably sweet. He
knew the glow and ecstasy of the soul born into highest heaven. A power
not sprung of self compelled him. He could not resist; he would not if
he could. Bending across that face, he kissed it with his bearded lips.
Once,--and the fire leaped into more exquisite heat; twice, thrice,
four times,--but at the fourth his soul fell down from its high heaven,
like Lucifer, son of the Morning. He rushed from the hut, his heart
torn by demons, its fire a maddening pain.
“He, _he_--Jerome of the Dragon’s Dale--had bestowed a kiss on a maid!”
* * * * *
Jerome had resolved not to sleep that night. He must battle back
the fiends, as became a holy soldier. The terror lest he had fallen
utterly; lest by this one lapse the credit laid up with God by years of
austerity was forfeit,--this was omnipresent. He would have scourged
himself, but the whip lay under the bed of the little maid, and now
he was most certain that in approaching Agnes he approached a form
of Satan. So he knelt and thought that he prayed; but his head was
heavy. Thrice he shook the stupor off: but strive as he would, unholy
dreams rose uppermost. Women were rising before him, foul and pure,
hideous and beautiful. Was it the Blessed Virgin enringed by a host
of glittering spirits who was beckoning, who was calling him? No; he
knew her now,--it was the Norse King’s daughter, the golden-haired
Trolfreda, and the wind that hummed about blew not from the crystal
river but from the blue breast of the wild North Sea. Again she was
changed,--she was Ada of the Silver Belt, and he rode into Orleans
at her palfrey’s side, whilst bright tabarded heralds cried him the
stoutest knight of the Loire; but his fairest glory was in the lady’s
eyes. Yet again the heralds wore crimson turbans, their faces were
black, in their hands boomed paynim atabals. The church spires were
spindling minarets. The air was sweet with the musky breath of desert
sands. It was not Orleans, but Al-Cairo by the Nile. Obaëdah was
leaning down from the swaying camel. He could see the gemmed bracelets
twinkling upon her smooth brown arms, the gold upon her raven hair,
the rosy lips which parted in the snaring smile. And then back to the
tourney at Naples: Kaiser Frederick, crowds, plaudits, crowns,--and
Mathilde,--the walk with Mathilde by the sea.
He woke from the vision with a scream of mortal pain. The black woods
rang; a frightened bird whirred from her nest. Jerome never knew it.
He was in cold sweat from foot to crown, and trembling. So far from
praying he had given place to sinful lusts. All the passions of the old
life surged back in one fierce wave. The repression of years had gone
for nothing. His sins stared him tenfold blacker than the night. Again
on his knees he prayed out loudly:--
“O Lord Jesus Christ, if Thou hast any mercy, take far from me this
maid, or my soul and the soul of Sigismund my son are lost forever!
Thou knowest how I am tempted past endurance. For surely Beelzebub,
Sifter of Souls, has sent this child to bring back every ungodly wish
and thought. Her power on me is grown so strong! Away with her, Lord!
in Thy Blessed Mother’s name,--away with her! or I know not what to do!”
So he prayed long and loud, never heeding whether any ears save those
of the wood-birds heard him. He never recked a single, soft, sobbing
cry, and the noise of feet receding in the forest. Then came sleep,--as
wicked as before. He sank away with a godless song of Walter von der
Vogelweide trolling in his ear,--a minne-song in praise of love and
laughter in springtime. When he awoke, lo! the ruddy dawn was tinting
the greensward. The fire was dead. By instinct he ran to the hut.
Empty. He called the girl.
“Agnes! Agnes! Where?”
No answer came. The shouts died down the avenues of trees. He hunted
near. He hunted far. The maid had vanished in the night. He should have
thanked our Lord his prayer was so swiftly granted. He did nothing of
the kind. He was almost cursing Heaven for making his petition good.
With eyes aflame, with heart nigh leaping in his throat, he ran toward
the Dragon’s Dale. He must find the maid,--yes, though to find her he
bartered his own soul and his son’s.
[Illustration]