by obediently saying yes instead of no; and thereupon did the landlord
of the “Woge” betake himself in person to his cellar to pick out a
choice bottle; for he was greatly concerned to have it said that there
was something first-class to be had in the place. When his guest,
suffering under the torments of an evil conscience, ventured only to
sip faint-heartedly of the contents of his glass, the host ran exulting
into the kitchen, smacked his tongue, and cried: “The devil take me,
there’s one to the manner born; there’s a judge of good wine for you.
He takes it on his tongue as one would lay a ducat on the gold scales!”
So dinner took its course, very slowly indeed, for the poor tailor ate
and drank very coyly and undecidedly; and the host, to give him time,
left everything on the table for longer than ordinary. For all that,
what the guest had eaten up to this time was not worth speaking of; but
now his hunger, which was constantly being tempted in so dangerous
a manner, began to conquer his terror, and when the partridge-pie
appeared the mood of the tailor suddenly changed, and one fixed thought
began to master him. “Things are as they are,” he said to himself,
warmed and incited by a new glass of wine. “I were a fool now if I
should bear the brunt of the coming shame and persecution without
having eaten my fill for it! So look to it while it is time. This is
likely to be the last dish; I will devote myself to this, come what
may! What I once have in my stomach no king can rob me of!”
No sooner said than done. With the boldness of despair he attacked
the savoury pie, with no thought of stopping, so that in less than
five minutes it was half gone, and the cause of the gentlemen who
had ordered it was sadly in want of support. Meat, mushrooms, balls,
crust, and top he swallowed without distinction, only anxious to bag
it all before a cruel destiny should overtake him. He drank his wine
in a hearty draught, and put enormous bits of bread into his mouth; in
short, it was a lively innings, as when before a storm the hay from the
near meadow is cast into the barn with a pitch-fork. Again the host
ran to the kitchen and cried: “Look, he is eating up the pie, while he
scarcely touched the roast! And the Bordeaux he drinks by glassfuls!”
“Let him,” said the cook. “He knows a partridge when he sees it! If he
were a common fellow, he would have gorged on the roast!”
“That’s what I say,” remarked the host; “it doesn’t look very genteel;
but I have often seen generals and the high clergy eat so!”
Meanwhile the coachman had had his horses fed, had eaten a substantial
meal himself in the servants’ room, and as he was in haste, he had
ordered his horses to be harnessed again. The menials could not resist
asking him, before it was too late, who his master was and what was
his name. The coachman, a jolly and sly fellow, said, “Has he not told
you himself?”
“No,” they said; and he replied, “It is no wonder. He doesn’t have much
to say from morning till night. Well, he is Count Strapinsky! He is
going to stay here all day,--perhaps longer, for he told me to take the
carriage home.”
He perpetrated this vicious joke to take revenge on the tailor, who
had, as he thought, without giving him a word of thanks for his
kindness, gone into the hotel to play the false _rôle_ of a gentleman.
Carrying his waggishness still further, he got up on his box without
so much as asking what there was to pay for himself and his horses,
cracked his whip, and drove out of town, no one interfering, for it was
all put down on the bill of our friend the tailor.
_Gottfried Keller_ (1815-1887).
_A DISREPUTABLE SAINT._
ABOUT the beginning of the eighth century there lived at Alexandria
an eccentric monk called Vitalis, who had set himself the special
task of luring away the lost souls of women from the path of sin, and
restoring them to virtue. But his methods were so singular, and the
infatuation with which he untiringly followed his aim was mixed with
such remarkable self-renunciation and hypocrisy, that the world has
scarcely seen his like again.
In his cap he carried about with him a small silver case containing a
parchment scroll with the names of those to be converted. This he took
out again and again to add some new-discovered suspicious name to the
list, or to count over those he already had, and to decide which one of
their owners should be the next to be regenerated.
As a matter of fact, his reputation was of the worst. For while in
secret he touched the heart of many a lost one with his burning words
of exhortation and the sweet whisperings of his fervid prayers, and was
the means of leading them into virtuous ways, in public he gave himself
the air of being a lascivious, sinful monk, gaily paddling in the pool
of the world, and making his cowl a flag of shame.
Finding himself at dusk of evening in respectable company, he would
suddenly exclaim, “Ah, what am I thinking of? I had well-nigh forgotten
that brown-eyed Doris. My little friend is awaiting me! The deuce! I
must begone at once, lest she should pout!”
Returning at dawn to his cell, he would cast himself down before
the Mother of God, to whose honour and glory alone he undertook
these adventures and bore the world’s reproaches; and if he had
been successful in leading back one lamb that had gone astray, and
placing it safe in the same holy monastery, he thought himself more
blessed in the sight of the heavenly queen than if he had converted a
thousand heathens. For this was pre-eminently to his taste, to bear
the martyrdom of appearing before the world as a libertine, while our
purest Lady in Heaven well knew that he had not so much as touched a
woman’s hand, and that he wore an invisible crown of white roses upon
his reviled head.
Once he heard of a particularly alluring young person, whose beauty
and unusual charms had wrought much mischief and even bloodshed, as
a noble and ferocious warrior kept guard at her door, making short
work of any one who made bold to enter into dispute with him. Vitalis
resolved to attack this hell and to conquer it. He walked straight to
the disreputable house, and at the door encountered the soldier attired
in bright scarlet, and walking haughtily up and down, spear in hand.
“Get thee gone, holy father!” he cried scornfully at the sight of
pious Vitalis. “How canst thou venture to crawl about my lion’s den?
Heaven is for thee, the world is for us!”
“Heaven and earth and all that is therein,” cried Vitalis, “belong to
the Lord and to his jolly servants! Begone, thou gaudy fool, and let me
go where it pleases me!”
[Illustration: “THE MONK PARRIED THE BLOW.”]
Enraged, the warrior raised the shaft of his spear to bring it down
upon the monk’s head, but the latter pulled out an olive branch from
beneath his habit, parried the blow, and hit the ruffian’s forehead
with such force as nearly to rob him of his senses, whereupon the
valiant ecclesiastic gave him some smart raps under his nose until the
soldier, wrathful and cursing, made room for him.
Vitalis entered the house as a conqueror. At the head of a narrow
staircase stood a woman holding a lamp, and listening to the noise and
shouting. She was above the ordinary height, and firmly built, with
handsome though insolent features, surrounded by rich wild waves of
reddish hair, like a lion’s mane.
Scornfully she looked down upon the approaching monk, and said,
“Where are you going?” “To see you, my dove!” he replied. “Have you
never heard of the amorous monk Vitalis?” But she answered brusquely,
barricading the staircase, “Have you any money, monk?” Taken aback, he
replied, “Monks do not carry money!” “Then begone,” she cried, “or I
will have you flogged out of the house with firebrands!”
Vitalis scratched his head at this new dilemma; the creatures he had
converted hitherto had of course not thought of demanding the wages of
sin, and the unconverted were content to punish him for wasted time
with venomous words. But here he was excluded from the field on which
to begin his pious deed; and still there was a fascination in taming
this reddish-golden daughter of Satan, because large and beautiful
specimens of humanity again and again betray the senses into imputing a
higher human value to them than they possess. Feeling about his habit,
he came across the little silver case, which was decorated with an
amethyst of some value. “I have nothing but this,” he said. She took
the case, examined it closely, and then allowed him to enter. True to
his custom, he went into a corner of her room and prayed in a loud
voice.
The woman, thinking he was about to begin his worldly enterprise with a
Christian introduction of prayer, burst into uproarious laughter, and
sat down to look at him, being vastly amused by his gesticulations.
Soon, however, she tired of the sport, and walking up to him she put
her strong white arms about him, and pressed his tonsured head so
vigorously against her bosom, that he was in danger of choking, and
began to blow and sputter as if he were in purgatory. He beat about him
like a young horse at the blacksmith’s until he had freed himself from
the hellish embrace. He then took the long rope that was tied about
his body, and seized the woman to tie her hands upon her back. It was
a hard struggle before he bound her and threw her down with a heavy
thud, returning thereupon to his corner and continuing his prayers as
if nothing had happened.
The fettered lioness threw herself about angrily and uttered a hundred
curses; then she grew more quiet, while the monk did not cease praying,
preaching, and exhorting, and toward morning sighs became audible,
followed by a sound of bitter sobbing. In short, when the sun rose she
lay as a penitent Magdalene at his feet, and bathed the hem of his
garment with tears. With serene benignity Vitalis laid his hand upon
her head, and promised to return the following night to tell her in
which monastery her contrite soul might find refuge.
What was his horror, coming back at the appointed hour, to find the
door fast locked, and the woman looking out of the window in gay and
stately attire.
“What wilt thou, priest?” she called down, and greatly surprised, he
replied in an undertone, “What means this, my lamb? Remove this sinful
frippery and let me in, that I may prepare thee for repentance!” “Thou
would’st come in to me, wicked monk?” she said smiling, as if she
had misunderstood him. “Have you money, or money’s worth, with you?”
Vitalis gazed at her open-mouthed, then he shook the door despairingly,
but it remained locked, and the woman was gone from the window.
The jibes and sneers of the passers-by drove the apparently corrupt and
shameless monk away from the house; but his one thought was to conquer
the Evil One, who had taken possession of this woman by every means
within his power.
Occupied by this thought he entered a church, and instead of praying,
he pondered ways and means of accomplishing his purpose. His eyes fell
upon a chest containing gifts of charity, and no sooner was the church
empty than he knocked it open with his powerful fist, and gathering up
his gown, threw the contents of the chest, consisting of a quantity
of small silver coins, into it, and with more than a lover’s speed,
hastened to the house of the sinner.
He threw the stolen money upon the table and said, “Sufficeth it for
this night?” Silently she counted it over, and saying, “It suffices!”
she put it aside.
The two stood facing each other with peculiar sensations. Repressing
a laugh, she looked as if she knew of nothing, and the monk measured
her with uncertain and sorrowful glances, not knowing how to call her
to account. But as she was about to put her hand in his lustrous black
beard, the storm of his spiritual indignation broke forth. Angrily he
struck her hand, then threw her down with a mighty effort, and kneeling
upon her and holding her hands, untouched by her charms, he began to
plead with her soul until her stubbornness seemed to melt.
The storm of his eloquent indignation changed to a soft and
transcendent compassion, and his words flowed soothingly, like a mild
spring-breath over the broken ice of this heart.
With a lighter heart than the sweetest of earthly happiness could have
brought him he hastened away, not to get an hour’s sleep upon his hard
couch, but to pray for the poor repentant soul at the altar of the
virgin far into the early dawn; for he vowed not to close his eyes in
sleep until the stray lamb was safe behind the protecting walls of a
monastery.
As the morning advanced he set out once more for her house; at the
same time he saw the ferocious warrior advancing upon him from the
other end of the street. He was half intoxicated, and after a night of
dissipation was on his way to win the harlot once more.
Vitalis was nearer to the fatal door, and he dexterously leaped to
reach it, when the soldier threw his spear at him, which, in the
twinkling of an eye, was lodged with quivering shaft in the door, close
by the monk’s head. But ere it ceased to quiver the monk wrenched it
out of the wood with all his might, turning it against the warrior, who
was advancing with his sword drawn, and quick as lightning he pierced
his breast; the man dropped down dead, and at the same moment Vitalis
was arrested by a troop of spearmen returning from a night-watch, who
bound him and led him away to prison.
For many days he was kept there, but at the end of his trial he
was dismissed free of punishment, because he had killed the man in
self-defence. At the same time there was the stain of manslaughter
upon him, and every one exclaimed that it was high time to deprive him
of his religious orders. But Bishop John, who was at that time the
ecclesiastical head of Alexandria, must have had an inkling of the true
facts of the case; certain it is he refused to expel the ill-reputed
monk, and gave orders to let him go his own eccentric way for a while.
Without delay he sped to his converted sinner, who in the meantime
had again vacillated, and did not give the sorrowful Vitalis entrance
until he had again possessed himself of some valuable and brought it to
her. She repented and suffered herself to be converted for the third
time, and soon after for the fourth and fifth times, as she found these
conversions more profitable than anything else, and, moreover, the
evil spirit within her took a fiendish delight in hoodwinking the poor
priest with changing arts and inventions.
The latter was now a martyr in a deeper sense. The more he was
deceived, the more firmly did he cling to his aim, and it seemed to him
as if his own salvation depended upon the conversion of this particular
person. He was now a murderer, church-robber, and thief; but he would
not for the world have given up one iota of his shameful reputation,
and if at times this weighed heavy upon his heart he devoted himself
with renewed ardour to keep up this discreditable exterior with ribald
words. For this specialty of martyrdom was his free choice. He grew
pale and thin over it, and began to creep about like a shadow on the
wall, but always with laughing lips.
Opposite the house of trial lived a wealthy Greek merchant, who had
an only daughter named Jole. Being at liberty to do whatever she
pleased, she was often at a loss how to spend her day. Her father read
Plato, and when he was tired of that, composed neat xenia about the
antique cameos, of which he had collected a great number. Jole, when
she had laid aside her lyre, knew no outlet for her vivid thoughts,
and restlessly gazed into the heavens, and into the distance, wherever
there was an opening.
So she discovered the doings of the monk upon the street, and through
her slave, who was on confidential terms with the slave of the
wicked courtesan, she heard the truth about him. She meditated for
a while, growing more and more dissatisfied, while her sympathy for
the monk increased, though it was intermingled with an odd feeling of
indignation.
Suddenly she resolved that if the Virgin Mary had not enough common
sense to lead the wandering one back upon a respectable road, she
herself would undertake to do so. She thereupon went to her father,
complained bitterly about the improper neighbourhood, and begged him to
remove the objectionable person.
A certain sum being offered for the house, the courtesan left it that
very hour, while the old Greek returned to his Plato and gave the
matter no second thought.
Not so did Jole. She had everything removed from the little house which
bore any relation to its former occupant, and when it had been swept
and cleaned it was perfumed with incense, and clouds of fragrant smoke
poured from the windows.
Then she had the empty room furnished with nought but a rug, a potted
rose-bush, and a lamp, and when her father, who was wont to retire
at sunset, had gone to sleep, she went over there herself, with a
wreath of roses on her head, and sat down on the rug, while two trusty
servants guarded the outside door.
They concealed themselves as Vitalis approached, and allowed him to
enter. What was his surprise as he stepped into the room to find it
emptied of all the tawdry finery of the red lioness, and instead of the
latter a slender and graceful little person sitting upon the rug, with
the little rose-bush opposite!
“Where is the lost one that dwelt here?” he cried, looking about him,
and then fixing his eyes upon the lovely apparition before him.
“She has gone into the desert,” replied Jole, without looking up,
“where she will lead a hermit’s life, and do penance.”
“Praised be the Lord and His gracious Mother!” cried Vitalis, folding
his hands with pious cheerfulness, while it seemed as if a stone rolled
from his heart; at the same time he gave a curious glance at the girl
and her wreath of roses, and said--
“And who art thou? From whence comest thou, and what is thy purpose?”
Sweet Jole lowered her dark eyes still more, while deep blushes covered
her face, for she was greatly ashamed of the wicked things she was
about to say to this man.
“I am an orphan,” she said, “and this rug, this lamp, and this
rose-bush is all that is left me of my possessions. So I have resolved
to begin life where the other woman left it who was here before me!”
“The deuce you will!” cried the monk, beating his hands together.
“Alack-a-day, how busy Satan is! And this harmless little creature
tells me the thing as dryly as if I were not the monk Vitalis! Well,
tell me again, pussy, what is it you will do?”
“I will give my life to love and serve men so long as this rose
blooms!” she said, pointing lightly to the bush; but she could scarcely
speak the words for shame, and cowered down low upon the floor, and
this natural shame served the rogue very well to convince the monk that
here he had to do with an innocent child possessed of the devil. He
stroked his beard with pleasure at having appeared upon the scene just
at the nick of time, and said slowly, and with a twinkle of fun--
“And then later, my dove?”
“Then my poor soul will go to Hell, where beautiful Madam Venus is; or
perhaps if I find a good preacher, I will go into a monastery and do
penance!”
“Better and better,” he cried. “As regards the preacher, he is here
already, and stands before you, you black-eyed child of Hell! And the
monastery is awaiting you like a mouse-trap, and I will see to it that
you walk in there before sinning, do you hear? Before sinning, except
for the laudable purpose which shall serve you to do penance on. And
now,” he added in a serious tone, “down with the roses and listen to
me!”
“No,” said Jole, growing bolder, “I will listen first, and then see
about taking down the roses. Having once overcome my feminine modesty,
words do not suffice to hold me back before knowing sin, and without
sin I shall know no repentance.”
Now Vitalis began the most beautiful sermon he had ever preached. The
girl listened with a charming raptness, which in its turn influenced
the choice of his words, the beauty and grace of the object to be
converted imperceptibly calling forth a higher eloquence. But as she
was not at all serious in the frivolous speeches she had made to him,
she could not be very deeply impressed by his words; a sweet smile
floated about her lips, and when he had finished, Jole said, “I am but
half touched by your words, and cannot give up my project; I am too
curious to know the joys of this world!”
[Illustration: “NOW VITALIS BEGAN THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SERMON HE HAD EVER
PREACHED.”]
It was the first time that his art of conversion had met with so
complete a failure. With contemplative sighs he walked back and forth
in the room, and then glanced at the little candidate for perdition.
The power of the Devil seemed to have made a strange compact here with
the power of innocence.
“I will not leave this room,” he cried at last, “until you repent!”
“That would but make me more stubborn,” replied Jole. “I will ponder
your words, and the coming night I will hear you again!”
“So be it then!” cried Vitalis; whereupon he left her, and Jole slipped
quietly back into her father’s house.
She slept but a short time, and awaited the evening with impatience.
She had seen what an ecstatic fire beamed within the eyes of the monk;
she had seen how manly were his motions in spite of his ecclesiastical
dress. When she thought of his self-renunciation, of the steadfastness
with which he followed his chosen aim, she could not but wish that
these good qualities might serve her own use and pleasure, in the shape
of a loving and faithful husband. Hence it seemed her mission to make a
good martyr into a better husband.
The following night Vitalis was at his post betimes, and with
undiminished ardour continued his exertions for her virtue. He was
obliged to stand, except when he was kneeling in prayer. Jole, however,
took her ease; she lay down upon the rug, folded her arms under her
head, and watched the monk with eyes half-closed. Whenever she quite
closed them Vitalis touched her with his foot to awake her. But this
rough measure was always more gentle in the end than he intended, for
no sooner did his foot approach the slender figure of the girl than it
involuntarily slackened speed, and but softly touched her side, and, at
the same time, a most wonderful sensation passed up the whole length of
the tall monk--a sensation the remotest approach to which he had never
experienced near any of the fair sinners he had had to do with.
Toward morning an angelic smile flitted across her face, and she said:
“I have listened attentively, and I now hate sin; the more so, because
it is so hateful to you, and nothing can henceforth please me that
displeases you!”
“Is it true?” he said rapturously. “Have my efforts been crowned with
success? Now, to make sure of you, come quick to the monastery!”
“You misunderstand me,” replied Jole with a blush, fixing her eyes upon
the ground; “I am in love with you. Now you must convert me of this new
evil, and banish it; and I hope you will succeed!”
Vitalis, without a word, turned and rushed out of the house. He ran
out into the silvery grey morning, and considered whether he should
leave this suspicious young person to her fate, or try to rid her of
this last whim, which was the most fatal one of all, and, perhaps,
not without danger to himself. An angry flush rose in his face at the
latter thought; but then he remembered that the devil might have set
this trap for him, and now was the time to flee. But supposing the poor
little creature really meant well, and by a few vigorous words might be
cured of this last unhealthy fancy? In short, Vitalis could arrive at
no decision; the less so, because deep within his heart great waves had
arisen and set his little ship of reason all a-rocking.
He slipped into a church by the wayside, where a fine old marble statue
of Juno, supplied with a gilt halo, had been made to do service as
the Virgin Mary. Before this Mary he threw himself down, and ardently
unfolded all his doubts, and begged his mistress to give him a sign. If
she nodded her head he would finish the conversion; if she shook it, he
would desist.