Part 15

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!”

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.

The statue, however, left him in a state of cruel uncertainty and did neither the one nor the other. But as the pink glory of a passing cloud flitted across the marble, the face appeared to smile most benignantly, perhaps it was that the ancient goddess, the protectress of married love and faith, declared her presence, or else that the new Queen of Heaven felt constrained to laugh at the plight in which her worshipper found himself.

At the same time Jole’s father was walking under the cedars of his garden. He was lost in the contemplation of some new stones he had acquired. One was a beauteous amethyst, upon which Luna was pictured driving her chariot through the heavens, unaware that Cupid was catching a ride behind her, while little love-sprites flitting about her shouted out in Greek, “There’s a chap on behind!” A magnificent onyx had Minerva engraved upon it, with Cupid in her lap, polishing her breast-plate with his hand to see his image therein.

These scenes tempted the old man to write some verses about them, and while he was choosing which to begin on, his little daughter Jole came into the garden. He showed her his treasures and explained them to her.

She sighed deeply, and said: “Ah, if all these great Powers, Chastity, Wisdom, and Religion, cannot war with Love, how shall I?”

These words took the old gentleman by surprise. “What is this I hear?” he said; “has the arrow of the all-powerful Eros touched you?”

“It has pierced me,” she replied, “and if within another day I am not in the possession of the man I love, I shall die!”

“Shall I then,” cried the old man, “take upon myself that most wretched of parental duties--shall I go and find the chosen one, the man, and bring him back by main force to the most precious of my possessions, and courteously ask him to take it for his own? Here is a pretty little woman, dear sir; I beg that you will not despise her! I should greatly prefer to box your ears, but my daughter would die, and I must be polite!”

“We are spared all that,” said Jole, “for if I have your permission I hope to get him to come and ask for my hand.”

“And what if, not knowing him at all, he should prove to be a rascal and a good-for-nothing?”

“Then you may turn him from your door! But he is a saint!”

“Go, then, and leave me alone with the Muses!” said the good old man.

Another Vitalis came up the steps that evening than had come down the morning before, though he himself least understood the change. The notorious monk and girl-converter did not even know the difference between the smile of a courtesan and that of an honest woman.

As he entered the room it was richly decorated, and bore a homelike aspect. The delicate breath of flowers filling it was quite in keeping with a certain respectable worldliness; upon a snowy couch, the silk of which showed not a fold, sat Jole like a meditating angel. The folds of her dress were turbulent as a storm in a cup of milk, and though her beautiful white arms gleamed as she crossed them over her bosom, all those charms had an air of lawfulness which silenced the monk’s wonted eloquence.

“You are surprised to find all this pomp and show here,” began Jole. “Know, then, that this is my farewell to the world and to the love which I have unfortunately conceived for you. You must help me to put it from me as far as lies in your power, and in the manner which I shall designate. When you speak to me in your present attire and in your clerical function I am unmoved, for a priest cannot convince me, who am of this world. A monk cannot cure me of love, as he knows not the passion, and is ignorant of that of which he speaks. If, then, it is your earnest wish to give me peace and turn my heart toward heaven, go into yonder chamber, where worldly attire is awaiting you. Exchange your monkish cowl for the garb of a worldly man, and then return and partake of a small repast with me, during which you may bring all your wits and mental force into play to turn my heart away from you and set it toward heaven!”

Vitalis considered for a moment; then he decided to parry the devil of this world with his own weapons, and concede to Jole’s proposal.

He betook himself into the adjoining chamber, where servants were awaiting him with gorgeous apparel of linen and purple. No sooner had he donned them than he appeared to be a head taller, and with a noble bearing he walked back to Jole, who clapped her hands for joy.

A miracle occurred then and there, for no sooner did he sit in worldly pomp by the side of this sweet woman than his immediate past seemed wafted away out of his brain, and he quite forgot his purpose. Instead of saying a single word he listened eagerly to Jole’s prattle, who had seized his hand and was now telling him her true story--viz., who she was and where she lived, and how it was her most ardent wish to make him abandon his eccentric mode of life and ask her father for her hand, and become a good and God-fearing husband. She said many other marvellous things in well-set words about a happy and virtuous love, adding with a sigh that she well knew how vain was her longing, and how she hoped he would convince her of the folly of it all as soon as he had refreshed himself at her table.

Thereupon Jole mingled some wine in a bowl for the silent monk, and lovingly fed him with sweets, so that his mind wandered back to his childhood to the time when his mother tenderly cared for the little lad. He ate and drank, and then it seemed to him that he must needs rest as after a time of sore distress, and thereupon his head fell toward the side where Jole sat, and he fell asleep.

When he awoke he was alone. He jumped up hastily, terrified at the sight of his gorgeous attire. He sped through the house from top to floor to find his cowl, but there was no vestige of it to be seen, until he noticed a small courtyard, with a heap of coal and ashes, upon which lay a half-burned sleeve of his priestly garment.

He put his head out into the street once or twice, and drew it back as soon as he saw any one approaching. At last he threw himself down upon the silken couch with as negligent an air as if he had never lain upon the hard bed of a monastery; then he jumped up, suddenly tore open the outside door, and with dignity stepped out into the open air.

He did not look to the right nor to the left, but went straightway to his monastery, where it so happened that all the monks together with their prior had just decided to expel him out of their midst, because the measure of his sins was full, and he was a disgrace to the church. When they saw him approach in his pompous worldly attire that seemed the last straw to break the back of their Christian charity; they poured water on him and hooted him, and with crucifixes, brooms, forks, and soup ladles they drove him out of the monastery.