{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_34504/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_34504","id":"gutenberg_34504","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34504","summary":null,"tags":["Category: German Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Short stories"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note:\n   1.  Page scan source:\n       http://www.archive.org/details/sevenlegends00kelle\n\n   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [Oe] and [oe].\n\n\n\n\n\n                           THE CAVIARE SERIES\n\n\nThis series, of which Keller's \"Seven Legends\" is the opening volume,\nwill contain books that have become standard in the literatures of\nforeign countries.\n\nThe title which has been chosen is not intended to convey the\nimpression that none of the books in the series will make a general\nappeal (for it is hoped that some of them will become as well-known in\nthis country as the standard works of our own literature); but rather\nto suggest that they will have characteristics and beauties, which can\nbe most fully enjoyed by the reader of wide culture and cultivated\ntaste.\n\nThe series will be issued at varying prices, according to number of\npages, and the forthcoming appearance of each new volume will be\nannounced through the usual medium of the literary periodicals.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                       The Caviare Series, No. 1\n\n\n\n\n\n                             SEVEN LEGENDS\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                             SEVEN LEGENDS\n\n\n\n                            GOTTFRIED KELLER\n\n\n\nAUTHORIZED (AND FIRST) TRANSLATION FROM THE 56TH GERMAN EDITION BY\nMARTIN WYNESS, WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY RICHARD M. MEYER, PROFESSOR OF\nGERMAN LITERATURE IN BERLIN UNIVERSITY\n\n\n\n\n\n                          GOWANS & GRAY, Ltd.\n                  5 Robert St., Adelphi, London, W.C.\n                        58 Cadogan St., Glasgow\n                                  1911\n\n\n\n\n                              INTRODUCTION\n\n\nGottfried Keller, the greatest German narrative writer of recent times,\nwas born in a suburb of Zurich on 19th July, 1819. The life of this\nremarkable man suggests comparisons with novels of development, such as\nGoethe taught him to write: from the romantic confusion of youthful\ndilettantism he brought himself, by strict self-discipline, to take his\nplace in everyday social life. Left, together with his mother and\nsister, in poverty by a hard-working but unsuccessful father, the child\ndreamed away the first years of his development, and the youth was\nstill a stranger to the world of reality when, with the aid of some\nfriends in his native place, he went as an art-student to Munich.\nThere, after a promising start, he sank into hopeless lethargy, which\ncontinued even after his return home. Prudent helpers then took the\nhalf painter, half poet, once more in hand, recognizing that his\ndeficiency consisted in imperfect education and knowledge of the world.\nHe went to study at Heidelberg (1848-50), and received an important\nstimulus from the well-known literary historian Hettner; thence he\nproceeded to Berlin (1850-55), where Varnhagen von Ense, the admirer of\nGoethe and husband of the prophetess Rahel, made him welcome. Here the\ngerms of his most important works awoke within him. He had already, at\nan early age, published poems, which showed the influence of the\nrevolutionary _Tendenzlyrik_; now there appeared the romantic\nautobiographical novel \"Green Henry\" (1854-5) which he afterwards\nrecast in very characteristic fashion (1879-80). This was followed in\n1856 by the first part of the charming, fantastically instructive\ntales, \"Seldwyla People\" (the second part, 1874). In spite of praise\nfrom many competent judges, success did not come immediately. Keller\nonce more sat at home a dreamer, although now in intellectual\ncorrespondence with the best minds; still, it was a bold resolution\nwhen, in 1861, the writer, who had never followed any definite\navocation, was chosen by his canton as Staatsschreiber, or Secretary\nto the Canton, and an important and well remunerated office was\nentrusted to an untried man. However, he proved a thorough success, and\nfelt the acceptance of the post a deliverance from the occupation of\n\"writing-man\" so much despised by the Romantics. He filled this office\nfor seventeen years (till 1878); a period during which his imaginative\nproductivity unavoidably slackened. Then when, with the well merited\nrecognition of the authorities, he had retired into private life, or\nhad begun to prepare for retiral, there appeared, in addition to a\nnoble volume of poems, the collection of stories, \"Zurich Tales\"\n(1877), the cycle of stories in novel-form, \"The Epigram\" (1882), and\nthe novel, \"Martin Salander\" (1886), which continued the paedagogic\npurpose of his earlier writings in almost too pronounced a fashion.\nMeanwhile Keller's reputation had at last been established, a\nconsummation to which the zealous endeavours of writers and critics,\nsuch as Fr. Th. Vischer, Berthold Auerbach and Theodor Storm, had\ncontributed in no small degree. His seventieth birthday was celebrated\nwith affectionate interest. But the writer, who lived with his\neccentric old sister in deadening domestic loneliness, and whom\nevenings with good friends in an inn could not compensate for the total\nlack of comforts, had early turned old and ailing; although any great\nquestion always found him armed and at his post. He died 15th July,\n1890.\n\nNone of Gottfried Keller's works seems better suited to secure him\nadmirers among foreign readers than the charming collection of the\n\"Seven Legends.\" True, it offers peculiar difficulties to the\ntranslator, since it afforded Keller an opportunity, such as he met\nwith nowhere else, of indulging the (for him) convenient fondness for\nvery individual modes of expression. At the same time, these little,\nhighly finished works of art imposed a check on his unbounded passion\nfor fabulizing, and are not so likely to bewilder the foreign reader by\nsheer overabundance of invention as, say, \"Seldwyla People,\" or even\nthe inexhaustible \"Green Henry.\" Yet even they shew his wealth, and\nthat to an astonishing degree.\n\nIn his preface to this little masterpiece of his fiction, Gottfried\nKeller very justifiably draws attention to \"the traces of an older and\nmore profane art of fiction\" which are to be found in the old Legends.\nNo doubt their primary purpose was edification; but at the same time\npsychological interest in the famous saints had to be gratified, and\nmere human curiosity was eager to hear tales of wonder. Very special\ninterest was devoted to \"conversion,\" that inward process which\ntransforms a dweller in the \"world\" into a citizen of the heavenly\ncity. The history of the conversion of the apostle St. Paul had already\nindicated its course, along which, still earlier, among Christ's own\nparables, that of the Prodigal Son runs. After long-continued contempt\nof the \"priestly lie-gends,\" Herder brought this religious fiction\nonce more to the light of day; but delight in this popular form of\nstory-telling was his immediate motive for presenting a few of them in\na modern shape. The Lutheran preacher Kosegarten, however, when he\nfollowed with whole volumes of retold legends, was largely influenced\nby interest in their matter. Romanticism went into ecstasies over\ntheir childish tone and their believing spirit, as it had done over\nfolk-songs and chap-books. Kosegarten's book fell into Keller's hands\nin 1854, when he was seeking subjects for his collection of stories\n\"The Epigram\"; but he allowed his scheme of modern legends to drop for\nthe time being. It was not until 1871, when a publisher asked him for\nmanuscript, that he returned to his happy thought and speedily put it\ninto execution. The little volume appeared in 1872, and had a great\nsuccess, both with the general public and with the foremost German\ncritics of the day, such as Ferdinand Kuernberger and Wilhelm Scherer.\n\nEven from this sketch of its origin, the fact emerges that the\n\"Kulturkampf\" mood of those years had little or nothing to do with this\nlittle work, as was readily acknowledged, even by the Liberal Catholics\nKuernberger and Scherer. Keller had absolutely no intention of\ncaricaturing the Catholic adoration of saints, like Wilhelm Busch, for\nexample, in his \"St. Antony\" (1870). On the contrary, when sometimes he\nturns the faces of the figures of the Church Legends \"to another\nquarter of the heavens than that towards which they looked in their\nextant forms,\" this positive confession is the important thing to his\nmind; for the great Swiss writer has no more intention of denying a\npaedagogic purpose here than anywhere else in his epic work. Gottfried\nKeller, like his friends Storm and Heyse, regarded asceticism as a\ntendency detrimental to the healthy development of humanity. And with\nthis conviction he accordingly devoted himself to the conversion of the\nconverted. Like his Naughty Saint Vitalis, he makes a point of seeking\nout the most difficult cases, self-sacrificing devotion even unto\ndeath: Eugenia who flees from worldly success into the rigorous quiet\nof the cloister, Vitalis who, in glad self-humiliation, accepts the\ndisgrace of evil repute, are safely piloted by him into the everyday\ncontentment of happy wedlock. For this is the author's meaning, that on\nthis very account they become the more worthy of our honour. Just as he\nrelates how a beautiful ancient statue of the goddess Juno was fitted\nwith a golden nimbus and set up as an image of Mary, so he himself now\nendeavours to take the nimbus off again, that the pure marble beauty of\nsimple humanity may be restored once more. It cannot be denied that his\nunflinching adherence to this point of view is not maintained without\npoking a good deal of fun at piety and asceticism, but it is always\ngood-tempered and likeable. After all, the principal thing is the\nedifying admonition:\n\n\n                  Arise! Arise! Shake free thyself\n                  From dumpish, idle sorrow.\n\n\nEven the Virgin Mary has become above all things an active, warlike,\nand resourceful woman, more like Frau Salander in Keller's last novel\nthan the far-off, heavenly Virgin; and one has the feeling that it is\nnot without regret that she refrains from the worldly doings of Beatrix\nor Bertrade. But highest of all is represented a joyous piety, at once\ndeclaring for and surrendering the world, represented, more\nrealistically in \"Dorothea's Flower-Basket,\" and more symbolically in\nthe wonderful \"Legend of the Dance,\" the crown of the collection; for\nthis last tale contains the writer's own confession veiled in the most\nrecondite allegory. As the Muses' singing, so splendid and upbuilding\nto earlier generations, sounded \"dismal, almost defiant and harsh, yet\nso wistful and mournful,\" so, in the heaven of the present day as\nGottfried Keller built it up for himself, the saints' devout hymn of\npraise to the laud and honour of the Most Holy Trinity sounds gloomy\nand melancholy, even defiant. And Keller retorts to it with his own\nsong:\n\n\n                  To thee, thou wondrous World,\n                  Thou beauty without end,\n                  I also have my vows of love\n                  Upon this parchment penned.\n\n\nIt is this world which is the source of his joys and sorrows. The Devil\nis introduced as he is on earth: \"A silly devil is the rogue, for he is\ncheated in the end!\" And just because Keller reconquers this world\nwhole and entire, full of strange adventures and transformations, for\nthe earth and human understanding, he revels merrily here, because it\nis here, in the luxuriant opulence of his imaginings great and small,\nfrom that Heavenly concerto of the Muses to the nose-pigtails of the\ndoughty knight. His language plays in a kindly, roguish way with the\nhuman blunders of the saintly beings who take a loving and loveable\nhuman child for a very \"Devil's tit-bit,\" yet find it offered to\nthemselves as a savoury \"pasty.\" His style ranges from the playful\npicture of the rococo angel-minstrels to the serious painting of the\nknight riding up to the church with his eight noble sons; and, despite\nthe difference of his conception of life, his sympathies find something\ncongenial in Dorothea's Christian heroism. For these reasons, Keller in\nthis Legendary, most wisely restricted in number, and grouped in most\nmasterly fashion, has surpassed all those who have ventured on to the\nsame enticing ground since him. Even Anatole France equals him but\nseldom; for Keller has sought to overcome piety with another piety,\nwith that \"world-piety\" of which Goethe is our greatest prophet.\n\n                                                 RICHARD M. MEYER.\n\nBerlin, 27/1/11.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                             SEVEN LEGENDS\n\n\n\n\n                                PREFACE\n\n\nDuring his perusal of a number of legends, the author of this little\nbook was pleased to imagine that, in the bulk of the tales which have\nbeen handed down to us, not only the art of the churchly fabulist, but\nalso, upon attentive consideration, traces of a more primitive and more\nprofane love of story-telling, or art of fiction, are perceptible.\n\nAs the painter is incited by a fragmentary patch of cloud, an outline\nof a mountain, an etched scrap by some forgotten master, to fill a\nwhole canvas, so the author experienced a desire to reproduce those\nbroken, elusive images; although it must be owned that in the process\ntheir faces have often been turned to another quarter of the heavens\nthan that towards which they looked in their extant forms.\n\nThe huge mass of material available would have made it possible to spin\nthe book out to very great length; but it could only hope to be granted\nthe modest space which it demands if the innocent pleasantry was kept\nwithin very moderate limits.\n\n\n\n\n                                EUGENIA\n\nThe woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither\nshall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are\nabomination unto the Lord thy God.\n\n                                              Deut. xxii. 5.\n\n\nWhen women renounce their ambition of beauty, grace, and womanly charm\nin order to distinguish themselves in other directions, it often ends\nin their disguising themselves in men's clothes and disappearing from\nthe scene.\n\nThe desire to ape the man often emerges even in the pious legendary\nworld of early Christianity, and more than one female saint of those\ndays was impelled by the desire to free herself from the common round\nof home and society.\n\nThe refined Roman maiden Eugenia offers an example of this kind, with,\nit must be owned, the not unusual result, that, reduced to the greatest\nextremity by her masculine predilections, she was forced after all to\nsummon up the resources of her proper sex in order to save herself.\n\nShe was the daughter of a Roman gentleman who resided with his family\nat Alexandria, a city which swarmed with philosophers and learned men\nof every description. Accordingly, Eugenia was very carefully educated\nand instructed, and this was so much to her taste that, as soon as ever\nshe began to grow up, she frequented all schools of philosophers,\ngrammarians and rhetoricians as a student. In those visits she was\nalways attended by a body-guard of two good-looking lads of her own\nage. They were the sons of two of her father's freedmen, who had been\nbrought up in her company and made to share in all her studies.\n\nMeanwhile she became the fairest maiden that could be found, and her\nyouthful companions, who, strangely enough, were both named Hyacinth,\ngrew likewise to two graceful flowers of youth. Wherever the lovely\nrose Eugenia appeared, the two Hyacinths were always to be seen\nrustling along on her right hand and her left, or following gracefully\nin her train while their mistress maintained a discussion with them as\nthey followed.\n\nNever were there two better bred companions of a blue-stocking; for\nthey were never of a different opinion from Eugenia, and they always\nkept a shade behind her in learning, so that she was in the right in\nevery instance, and was never uneasy lest she should say something less\nclever than her companions.\n\nAll the bookworms of Alexandria composed elegies and epigrams on this\napparition of the Muses, and the good Hyacinths had to inscribe these\nverses carefully in golden tablets, and carry them after her.\n\nEvery season she became more beautiful and more accomplished, and she\nhad even begun to stray in the mysterious labyrinths of Neoplatonic\ndoctrines, when the young proconsul Aquilinus became enamoured of\nEugenia and demanded her of her father to wife. But the latter\nentertained such a respect for his daughter that, despite his authority\nas a Roman father, he did not venture to make the slightest suggestion\nto her, but referred the suitor to her own decision, although no\nson-in-law could have been more welcome to him than Aquilinus.\n\nBut Eugenia herself had had her eye upon him secretly for many a long\nday; for he was the most stately, most illustrious, and most gallant\nman in Alexandria, and, what was more, had the reputation of a man of\nintelligence and heart.\n\nYet she received the enamoured consul in complete calm and dignity,\nwith her parchment rolls about her, and her Hyacinths behind her chair.\nThe one wore an azure-blue, the other a rose-red, robe, and she herself\none of dazzling white. A stranger would have been uncertain whether he\nsaw three fair, tender boys, or three fresh, blooming maidens before\nhim.\n\nBefore this tribunal the manly Aquilinus now came in the simple toga of\nhis rank. He would much rather have uttered his passion in more\nintimate and tender fashion; but, when he saw that Eugenia did not\ndismiss the young men, he took his seat on a chair facing her, and made\nhis request for her hand in words which it cost him an effort to make\nfew and simple, for he kept his eyes fixed immovably upon her, and\nbeheld her great beauty.\n\nEugenia smiled imperceptibly, and never even blushed, so tightly had\nlearning and culture fettered all the finer impulses of ordinary life\nin her. Instead, she assumed a serious, profound expression, and made\nanswer to him, \"Thy wish, O Aquilinus, to have me for thy wife, honours\nme in a high degree, but is powerless to induce me to an act of\nunwisdom; and such it would justly be termed, if we were to follow the\nfirst crude impulse without examining ourselves. The first condition\nwhich I have to demand from a husband, whoever he be, is that he\nunderstand and honour and participate in my intellectual life and aims.\nSo thou wilt be welcome to me if thou choosest to be often in my\nsociety, and to exercise thyself in emulation with these my young\ncompanions in the investigation of the highest things along with me. By\nthis means we shall not fail to ascertain whether we are suited for\neach other or not, and, after a period of intellectual activity in\ncommon, we shall know each other so as beseems god-created beings who\nare meant to walk not in the darkness, but in the light.\"\n\nTo this high-flown demand Aquilinus answered, not without secret\nindignation, but still with proud tranquillity, \"If I did not know\nthee, Eugenia, I would not desire thee for my wife; and, as to myself,\ngreat Rome knows me, as well as this province. If thy learning does not\nsuffice to recognize what I am by this time, I fear it will never\nsuffice. Besides, I did not come here to go to school again, but to\nfind a helpmeet; and, as for these two children, my first request, if\nthou gavest me thy hand, would be that thou wouldest let them go and\nrestore them to their parents at last, that they might help them and be\nof use to them. Now I entreat thee, give me thy decision, not as a\nperson of learning, but as a woman of flesh and blood!\"\n\nThis time the fair she-philosopher had indeed turned red, red as a\ncarnation, and said with fast-beating heart, \"My answer is soon given,\nfor I gather from thy words that thou dost not love me, Aquilinus. That\nmight be a matter of indifference to me, were it not an outrage for the\ndaughter of a noble Roman to be lied to!\"\n\n\"I never lie!\" said Aquilinus coldly. \"Farewell!\"\n\nEugenia turned her back without returning his farewell, and Aquilinus\nwalked slowly out of the house to his own abode. She tried to take up\nher books as if nothing had happened; but the letters grew blurred\nbefore her eyes, and the two Hyacinths had to read to her while she,\nfull of hot indignation, wandered with her thoughts elsewhere.\n\nFor, although up to that day she had regarded the consul as the only\none among all her suitors whom she might have taken for a husband,\nsupposing she had been so inclined, he was now become a stone of\nstumbling which she could not get over.\n\nAquilinus for his part attended calmly to his affairs of state, and\nsighed in secret over his strange folly, which would not suffer him to\nforget the pedantic beauty.\n\nAlmost two years passed, during which Eugenia became, if possible, more\nand more notable and a positively brilliant personage, while the two\nHyacinths were now two sturdy rustic figures with growing beards.\nAlthough people everywhere began to take notice of this strange\nattachment, and, instead of the admiring epigrams, others in a more\nsatiric vein began to appear, still she could not bring herself to part\nwith her body-guard; for Aquilinus, who had presumed to order her to do\nso, was still there. He went quietly on his own way, and appeared to\nconcern himself no more about her; but he looked at no other woman, and\nno other wooing was heard of, so that he also came in for censure,\nbecause, being so high an official, he remained unmarried.\n\nEugenia refrained all the more obstinately from offering any outward\nsign of reconciliation by dismissing her obnoxious companions. Besides,\nshe was charmed to set ordinary custom and public opinion at defiance\nand be responsible to herself alone, and to preserve the consciousness\nof a pure life in circumstances which would have been perilous and\nimpossible for any other woman.\n\nSuch eccentricities were in the air just at that time.\n\nAll the time Eugenia felt herself anything but well and happy. Her\nwell-trained servitors must needs philosophize through heaven and earth\nand hell, only to be suddenly interrupted and forced to wander about in\nthe country with her for hours together without being favoured with a\nsingle word. One day she was seized with the desire to make an\nexcursion to a country-seat. She herself drove the carriage, and was in\nan amiable mood, for it was a bright spring day, and the air was full\nof balmy fragrance. The Hyacinths were delighted at her good humour. So\nthey made their way through a country suburb where the Christians were\npermitted to hold their worship. They were in the act of celebrating\nSunday; from the chapel of a monastery came the tones of a devout hymn.\nEugenia checked her horses to listen, and caught the words of the\npsalm, \"Like as the hart desireth the water-brooks: so longeth my soul\nafter thee, O God. My soul is athirst for the living God.\"\n\nAt the sound of these words, sung by humble pious lips, her artificial\nlife was made simple at last; her heart was touched, and seemed to\nrealize what it desired; and slowly, without a word, she went on her\nway to the country-house. There she secretly put on men's clothes,\nsigned to the two Hyacinths to come with her, and left the house\nunobserved by the menials. She went back to the convent, knocked at the\ndoor, and presented herself and her companions to the abbot as three\nyoung men who desired to be received into the convent that they might\nbid farewell to the world and live for eternity. Thanks to her good\ntraining, she was able to answer the abbot's searching questions so\ncleverly that he received all three, whom he could not help taking for\nrefined and distinguished persons, into the convent, and permitted them\nto assume the monastic habit.\n\nEugenia made a beautiful, almost angelic, monk, and was called Brother\nEugenius, while the two Hyacinths found themselves transformed for\nbetter or worse into monks; for they were never even consulted, and\nthey had long been accustomed only to live according to the will of\ntheir female paragon. Still, they did not find the monkish life amiss;\nthey enjoyed incomparably more peaceful days, did not require to study\nany more, and found no difficulty in surrendering themselves entirely\nto a passive obedience.\n\nBrother Eugenius, on the other hand, did not remain idle, but became a\nnotable monk, his visage white as marble, but with glowing eyes and the\npresence of an archangel. He converted many heathen, tended the sick\nand destitute, became profound in the Scriptures, preached in a golden\nbell-like voice, and on the abbot's death was actually chosen to be his\nsuccessor. So now the tender Eugenia became abbot over seventy good\nmonks, great and small.\n\nDuring the time that she and her companions were thus mysteriously\nvanished and were nowhere to be found, her father had made enquiries at\nan oracle as to what had become of his daughter, and it answered that\nEugenia had been taken away by the gods and placed among the stars. For\nthe priests utilized the event to contrive a miracle as a counterblast\nto the Christians, who all the time had the bird safely caged. They\nwent so far as to point out a star in the firmament with two smaller\nstars adjacent as the new constellation, and the Alexandrians stood in\nthe streets and on their house-tops to gaze at it, while many, who had\nformerly seen her going in and out, recalled her beauty, became\nenamoured of her memory, and looked up with moist eyes to the star,\nwhich swam placidly in the purple sky.\n\nAquilinus too looked up; but he shook his head and was not altogether\nsatisfied about the business. The father of the vanished maiden was all\nthe more obstinate in his credence, felt himself not a little exalted,\nand contrived, with the support of the priests, to have a statue\nerected and divine honours decreed to Eugenia. Aquilinus, from whom\nofficial sanction had to be obtained, granted it subject to the\ncondition that the image should be made an exact likeness of the\nravished one. That was easily accomplished, as there was quite a\ncollection of busts and portraits of her in existence, and so her\nstatue in marble was set up in the fore-court of the temple of Minerva,\nand challenged the inspection of gods and mortals, for, in spite of\nbeing a speaking likeness, it was an ideal work in features, pose, and\ndrapery.\n\nWhen this news was discussed among the seventy monks of the convent,\nthey were bitterly chagrined at the trump card played by the heathen,\nas well as at the erection of a new idol and the shameless worship of a\nmortal woman. Their most violent objurgations were showered upon the\nwoman herself as a runagate and juggling impostor, and they made a most\nunaccustomed noise during their midday meal. The Hyacinths, who had\nbecome two good little priestlings and had their abbot's secret\nconcealed in their hearts, glanced significantly towards him, but he\nsigned to them to keep silence, and suffered the outcry and abuse to\npass as a penance for his former heathenish sinful mind.\n\nBut when that night was half run, Eugenia rose from her couch, took a\nheavy hammer, and went softly out of the convent to find the statue and\nbreak it in pieces. She easily found her way to the quarter of the\ncity, all glistening with marble, where the temples and public\nbuildings were situated, and where she had passed her youth. Not a soul\nstirred in the silent world of marble. Just as the female monk ascended\nthe steps to the temple, the moon rose above the shadows of the\ncity, and cast her beams as bright as day among the pillars of the\nfore-court. There Eugenia saw her statue, white as new-fallen snow,\nstanding in wonderful grace and beauty, the finely-folded draperies\nchastely drawn over the shoulders, and looking straight forward with\nrapt eye and gently-smiling mouth.\n\nFull of curiosity the Christian advanced towards it, the hammer\nuplifted in her hand; but a sweet shudder went through her heart when\nshe obtained a clear view of the statue. She let the hammer sink, and\nbreathlessly fed her gaze on the vision of her own former existence. A\nbitter regret took possession of her, a feeling as if she had been\nthrust out of a fairer world and was now wandering an unhappy shade in\nthe wilderness. For although the image was elevated to the ideal, still\nthe very ideal represented Eugenia's genuine inner nature, which had\nonly been obscured by her pedantry, and it was a nobler emotion than\nvanity which now led her to recognize her better self by the magical\nmoonlight. She suddenly felt as if she had played the wrong card--to\nuse a modern expression; for, of course, there were no cards in those\ndays.\n\nSuddenly the quick step of a man was heard. Eugenia hid herself\ninvoluntarily in the shadow of a pillar, and saw the tall form of\nAquilinus approaching. She saw how he stationed himself before the\nstatue, gazed long upon it, and finally flung his arm about its neck to\nimprint a light kiss upon the marble lips. Then he wrapped himself in\nhis mantle and slowly departed, more than once turning round to gaze at\nthe gleaming image. Eugenia trembled so violently that she could feel\nher agitation. Full of wrath and violence, she gathered herself\ntogether and once again advanced toward the statue with uplifted hammer\nto make an end of the sinful maumet; but, instead of shattering the\nbeauteous head, she burst into tears as she too imprinted a kiss upon\nits lips, then hastened away, for she could hear the steps of the\nnight-watch. With heaving bosom, she slipped into her cell, and slept\nnone that night until the sun arose, when, absenting herself from early\nprayers, she dreamt in rapid succession of things which had nothing in\ncommon with her devotions.\n\nThe monks respected their abbot's sleep as the result of spiritual\nvigils. But at last they were obliged to interrupt Eugenia's slumbers,\nas there was important business for her to attend to. A widow of rank,\nwho professed to be lying sick and in need of Christian aid, had sent\nrequesting the ghostly comfort and counsel of abbot Eugenius, whose\ndeeds and person she had long revered. The monks did not wish to let\nslip this conquest, which would help the fame of their church, and they\nwakened Eugenia. Half dazed, with handsomely reddened cheeks, such as\nshe had not been seen with for many a day, she set out, her thoughts in\nher morning dreams and the pillars of the midnight temple rather than\nin the business before her. She entered the heathen lady's house, and\nwas conducted to her room and left alone with her. A beautiful woman,\nnot yet thirty years old, was lying stretched upon a couch; but, so far\nfrom being sick and contrite, she was full of assurance and vitality.\nShe could scarcely behave herself with bare quietness and modesty until\nthe supposed monk, at her direction, had taken his seat close beside\nher; then she caught both his white hands, pressed her brow upon them,\nand covered them with kisses. Eugenia, who, absorbed in far other\nthoughts, had not observed the woman's unsaintly appearance, and had\ntaken her behaviour for humility and pious devotion, let her have her\nway; and the heathen, thus encouraged, flung her arms about Eugenia's\nneck, imagining that she was embracing the handsomest of young monks.\nIn short, before he was aware, he found himself clasped tight by the\namorous creature, and felt his mouth the target for a storm of\npassionate kisses. Completely dumbfounded, Eugenia awoke at last from\nher reverie; and even then it was some minutes before she could\ndisengage herself from that wild embrace and rise to her feet.\n\nBut at the same instant the heathen Satan's tongue began to wag. In a\nstorm of words the she-devil declared her love and desire to the\nindignant abbot, and sought by all manner of means to impress upon him\nthat it was the duty of his youth and loveliness to assuage her\ndesires, and that he was there for no other purpose. She did not fail\nto accompany her words with fresh assaults and tender allurements, so\nthat Eugenia was scarcely able to defend herself. At last she rallied\nherself in indignation, and with flaming eyes read the shameless woman\nsuch a lesson and so answered her with such vigorous denunciations as\nonly a monk has at command, that the latter recognized that her wicked\nintentions had failed, changed her tone in a twinkling, and took the\nway of escape which was once taken by Potiphar's wife, and has been\ntaken a hundred and a thousand times since. She sprang like a tigress\non Eugenia, clasped her again with arms like steel, pulled her down to\nher upon the couch, and at the same time set up such an outcry that her\nmaids came running into the room from all quarters.\n\n\"Help! Help!\" she screamed. \"This man will force me!\" And at the same\ntime she released Eugenia, who got to her feet breathless, confused and\nhorrified.\n\nThe women who had rushed to the rescue straightway screamed more\ndesperately than their mistress, hastened hither and thither, and\ncalled for male assistance. Eugenia could not utter a word for horror;\nbut made her escape from the house full of shame and disgust, followed\nby the outcries and curses of the infuriated rabble.\n\nThe fiendish widow lost no time in proceeding at once with a goodly\nfollowing to the consul Aquilinus, and accusing the monk of the most\ndisgraceful crime, to wit that he had come hypocritically to her house,\nfirst of all to molest her with efforts for her conversion, and, when\nthese failed, to rob her of her honour by violence. Since all her\nfollowing testified to the truth of her assertion, the indignant\nAquilinus immediately caused the convent to be surrounded by troops,\nand the abbot along with his monks to be brought before him for trial.\n\n\"Is this what you do, you low hypocrites?\" he said in severe tones.\n\"Are you so high-fed, you who are barely tolerated, that you must needs\nassault our women-folk, and prowl about like ravening wolves? Did your\nMaster, whom I honour more than I do you liars, teach or command you\nsuch things? Not at all! You are a gang, a horde of wretches, who\nassume a name in public that you may abandon yourselves to corruption\nin secret. Defend yourselves against the charge, if you can!\"\n\nThe infamous widow then repeated her lying tale, interrupted by\nhypocritical sighs and tears. When she had finished and had wrapped\nherself again demurely in her veil, the monks glanced fearfully at one\nanother and at their abbot, of whose virtue they had no doubt, and they\nraised their voices with one accord to repel the false accusation. But\nnot only the numerous menials of the lying woman, but also several\nneighbours and passers-by, who had seen the abbot leaving the house\nfull of shame and confusion and who had thereupon taken him for guilty,\nnow came forward and testified one after the other with loud voices to\nthe fact of the crime, so that the poor monks were shouted down ten\ntimes over.\n\nNow they glanced once more, this time full of doubt, at their abbot,\nand his very youth suddenly appeared suspicious to the greybeards among\nthem. They exclaimed that, if he were guilty, God's judgement would not\nbe backward, no more than they were backward in abandoning him there\nand then to the secular arm!\n\nThe eyes of all were now directed upon Eugenia, who stood forsaken amid\nthe throng. She had been lying weeping in her cell when she was\narrested with the monks, and had stood all that time, her eyes downcast\nand her cowl drawn deep down over her head, and felt herself in a most\nawkward predicament. For, if she preserved the secret of her family and\nsex, she would succumb to this false testimony, while, if she revealed\nit, the storm would break out against the convent more furiously than\never, and she would devote it to destruction, since a convent which had\na beautiful young woman for abbot was bound to become the butt of the\nmost unholy suspicion and mockery on the part of the malicious heathen\nworld. She would not have experienced this timidity and indecision had\nshe still had a pure heart, according to monkish notions; but the\nevents of the previous night had already made a division in her mind,\nand her unfortunate encounter with the wicked woman had only increased\nher wavering, so that she no longer possessed the courage to step\nforward with determination and bring about a miracle.\n\nYet, when Aquilinus called upon her to speak, she remembered his former\ntenderness for her, and, as she had confidence in him, she hit upon a\nway of escape. In gentle and modest tones she said that she was not\nguilty and would prove it to the consul, if she might speak with him\nalone. The sound of her voice moved Aquilinus, though he knew not why,\nand he acceded to her request to speak with him in private. He\naccordingly had her conducted into his house, and repaired alone with\nher into a room. Then Eugenia fixed her eyes upon him, threw back her\ncowl and said, \"I am Eugenia, whom you once desired for your wife.\"\n\nHe recognized her at once, and was convinced that it was she; but at\nthe same time a great anger and a burning jealousy rose up within his\nbreast to think that the lost one so suddenly recovered should make her\nappearance as a woman who had been living all that time in secrecy with\nseventy monks. He therefore restrained himself with a violent effort\nand scrutinized her narrowly, while he made as if he did not believe\nher assertion in the slightest, and said, \"You certainly do seem rather\nlike that infatuated young woman. But that does not concern me; I am\nmuch more anxious to know what you did to the widow!\"\n\nEugenia shyly and anxiously told all that had passed, and from the\nwhole tone of her story Aquilinus perceived the falsehood and malice of\nthe accusation, yet he answered with apparent indifference, \"But if you\nare Eugenia, then how did you contrive to become a monk? What was your\nintention, and how was it possible?\"\n\nAt these words, Eugenia blushed and looked on the ground in\nembarrassment. Still, it seemed to her not so unpleasant after all to\nbe there, and to be talking once again with a good old acquaintance\nabout herself and her adventures. So she lost no time, but told in\nunstudied words all that had happened to her since her disappearance,\nexcept, strangely enough, that she never uttered a syllable about the\ntwo Hyacinths. Her hearer found the story not unsatisfactory, only\nevery minute made it harder for him to conceal his appreciation of the\nrecovered fair one. But nevertheless he controlled himself, and\ndetermined to see the matter out to the end and to ascertain from her\nsubsequent behaviour whether he had the old Eugenia before him, with\nher chaste and pure manners.\n\nSo he said, \"All that is a well told story: still, in spite of her\neccentricities, I do not consider that the maiden you pretend to be was\ncapable of such very astonishing adventures. At least, the real Eugenia\nwould certainly have preferred to become a nun. For how in the world\ncan a monk's cowl and living among seventy monks be a merit and\nsalvation for any woman, even the most learned and pious? No, I still\nhold to my opinion that you are a smooth-faced beardless fellow of an\nimpostor, whom I don't trust in the slightest! Besides, Eugenia has\nbeen proclaimed as deified and dwelling among the stars; her image\nstands where it was dedicated in the temple, and it will go hard enough\nwith you if you persist in your slanderous assertion.\"\n\n\"A certain man kissed that image last night,\" retorted Eugenia in a low\nvoice, casting a curious look at the disconcerted Aquilinus, who gazed\nupon her as upon one inspired with superhuman wisdom. \"How can the same\nman torture the original?\"\n\nBut he mastered his confusion, appeared not to hear her words, and\ncontinued, coldly and severely, \"In one word, for the honour of the\npoor Christian monks, who appear to me to be innocent, I cannot and\nwill not believe that you are a woman. Prepare yourself for judgement,\nfor your statements have not satisfied me.\"\n\nAt that Eugenia exclaimed, \"Then God help me!\" and, rending her monk's\nfrock in twain, pale as a white rose, she collapsed in shame and\ndespair. But Aquilinus caught her in his arms, pressed her to his\nheart, and wrapped her in his mantle, while his tears fell upon her\nlovely head; for he was convinced that she was an honourable woman. He\ncarried her into the next room, where there was a richly furnished\nguest-bed, laid her gently down in it and covered her to the chin with\npurple coverlets. Then he kissed her on the lips, perhaps three or four\ntimes, went out, and locked the door securely. Next he picked up the\nmonk's frock, which lay still warm on the floor, and betook himself\nagain to the waiting throng outside, and addressed them thus, \"These\nare strange happenings! You monks are innocent and may go to your\nconvent. Your abbot was a demon who would have ruined you or seduced\nyou. Here! Take his frock with you and hang it somewhere for a\nmemorial; for, after he had changed his form in the oddest fashion\nbefore my eyes, he dissolved into nothing before these same eyes, and\nvanished without a trace. As for this woman of whom the demon made use\nin order to ruin you, she is under suspicion of witchcraft and must be\nput in prison. Now begone all of you to your homes, and behave\nyourselves!\"\n\nAll were astounded at this allocution, and gazed fearfully at the\ndemon's garment. The widow turned pale and veiled her face, and by so\ndoing made ample betrayal of her bad conscience. The good monks\nrejoiced over their victory and retired most thankfully with the empty\nhusk, little suspecting what a sweet kernel had been hidden within it.\nThe widow was cast into prison, and Aquilinus summoned his most\nfaithful servant and went through the city, sought out merchants, and\npurchased a perfect load of the most expensive female attire, which the\nslave had to convey to the house as secretly and quickly as possible.\n\nSoftly the consul slipped into the chamber where Eugenia lay, seated\nhimself on the edge of her bed, and saw that she was sleeping quite\ncontentedly, like one recovering from difficulties undergone. He could\nnot help laughing at the black pile of her shorn monk's head, and\npassed a gentle hand over the thick, short hair. Thereupon she awoke\nand opened her eyes.\n\n\"Will you be my wife now, at last?\" he enquired gently; whereupon she\nsaid neither Yes nor No, but shivered a little beneath the purple\ncoverlets in which she lay wrapped.\n\nThen Aquilinus brought in all the clothes and ornaments that a fine\nlady required in those days to array herself from head to foot, and\nleft her.\n\nAfter sundown that same day, he took her with him, attended only by his\nfaithful servant, to one of his country-houses, which lay in a secluded\nand charming situation amid the shade of thick trees.\n\nIn the country-house, the pair now celebrated their nuptials with the\nutmost privacy; and, for as long as it had been until they found each\nother again, still no time seemed to have been lost, rather they felt\nthe most hearty thankfulness for the good fortune which had preserved\nthem for each other. Aquilinus devoted the days to his official\nbusiness, and at night drove as fast as horses could take him home to\nhis wife. Only now and again on unkindly, stormy, wet days, he loved to\nhasten back earlier than he was expected to the country-house to cheer\nEugenia.\n\nWithout making many words about it, she now devoted herself to the\nstudy of connubial love and fidelity, with the same thoroughness and\nperseverance which she had formerly spent upon philosophy and Christian\ndiscipline. But, when her hair had grown again to its proper length,\nAquilinus, having devised a cunning fable, took his spouse at last back\nto Alexandria, brought her to her astonished parents, and celebrated a\nbrilliant wedding.\n\nHer father was certainly surprised to find his daughter again, not as\nan immortal goddess and a heavenly constellation, but as a beloved,\nearthly, wedded wife, and it was with regret that he saw the\nconsecrated statue removed from the temple; but, to his praise, his\ndisappointment was overcome by his fondness for his living daughter,\nwho now proved fairer and more lovable than ever. The marble statue\nAquilinus set in the finest room in his house; but he refrained from\nkissing it again, now that he had the warm, living original to his\nhand.\n\nAfter Eugenia had investigated the nature of marriage to her\nsatisfaction, she applied her experience to converting her spouse to\nChristianity, which she still continued to profess; and she did not\nrest until Aquilinus had made public acknowledgement of his adhesion to\nher faith. The legend goes on to relate how the whole family returned\nto Rome about the time when that enemy of the Christians, Valerian,\ncame to the throne; and how, during the persecutions which then broke\nout, Eugenia added to her fame that of a famous heroine of the faith\nand martyr, and then only made full manifestation of her great strength\nof soul.\n\nHer influence over Aquilinus had become so great that she was able to\nbring the two clerics, the Hyacinths, with her from Alexandria to Rome,\nwhere they also won the martyr's crown at the same time as she. Her\nintercession is said to be specially efficacious for dull school-girls\nwho are backward in their studies.\n\n\n\n\n                        THE VIRGIN AND THE DEVIL\n\n      Friend! watch and look about, the Devil is always prowling;\n      If thou triest a bout with him, thou'lt get a thorough towelling.\n\n      Angelus Silesius, _Cherub. Wandersmann_, Book vi. 206.\n\n\nThere was a certain Count Gebizo, who possessed a wondrously beautiful\nwife, a magnificent castle and town, and so many valuable possessions\nthat he was esteemed one of the richest and most fortunate nobles in\nthe country. He seemed to be aware of and thankful for his reputation,\nfor he not only kept a splendid and hospitable board, at which his fair\nand virtuous wife warmed the hearts of his guests like a sun, but he\nalso practised Christian beneficence in the most comprehensive fashion.\n\nHe founded and endowed convents and hospitals, beautified churches and\nchapels, and on every high-day gave clothing, meat and drink to a great\nnumber, often hundreds, of poor; and several dozen must needs be seen\nevery day, almost every hour, about his courtyard, regaling themselves\nand praising him, otherwise his dwelling, fair as it was, would have\nseemed to him deserted.\n\nBut by such unbounded liberality even the greatest wealth is exhausted,\nand so it came to pass that the Count was obliged to mortgage all his\nproperties one after the other in order to indulge his passion for\ngrandiose beneficence; and the more he got into debt the more eagerly\nhe redoubled his almsgiving and feasts to the poor, hoping thereby, as\nhe imagined, to turn the blessing of Heaven once more in his favour. In\nthe end he impoverished himself entirely; his castle became deserted\nand ruinous; ineffective and foolish foundations and deeds of gift,\nwhich from force of habit he could not desist from writing, brought him\nnothing but ridicule; and any tattered beggar, whom he might now and\nagain lure to his castle, threw the meagre pittance at his benefactor's\nfeet, and took himself off with scornful words of abuse.\n\nOne thing only was left to him unimpaired, the beauty of his wife\nBertrade; nay, the barer things looked in the house, the more brilliant\ndid her beauty seem to grow. She increased too in grace, love and\ngoodness the poorer Gebizo became, so that all the blessings of Heaven\nseemed to be comprehended in his wife, and thousands of men envied the\nCount this one treasure which still remained to him. He alone was blind\nto all this, and the more the fair Bertrade exerted herself to cheer\nhim and sweeten his poverty the less he prized that jewel, and he fell\ninto a bitter and obstinate dejection and hid himself from the world.\n\nOne day, when a glorious Easter-morning dawned, a day on which he had\nonce been wont to see joyous throngs making pilgrimage to his castle,\nhe felt so ashamed of his downfall that he had not even heart to go to\nchurch, and was perplexed how to pass the bright sunny feast-days. In\nvain his wife, with pearly tears and smiling lips, begged him not to\nvex himself, but come with her to church undismayed; he tore himself\naway crossly, and took himself off to hide in the woods until Easter\nwere over.\n\nUp hill and down dale he wandered, until he came to a primeval\nwilderness, where monstrous bearded firs surrounded a lake whose depths\nreflected the gloomy trees in all their length so that everything\nlooked dismal and black. The ground about the lake was thickly carpeted\nwith strange long-fringed moss, in which no footfall could be heard.\n\nHere Gebizo sat himself down and complained to God of his wretched ill\nfortune, which no longer enabled him to still his own hunger\nsufficiently, his who had once gladly satisfied thousands, and, worst\nof all, which recompensed his efforts with the scorn and ingratitude of\nthe world.\n\nOn a sudden he observed in the middle of the lake a skiff, and in it a\nman of lofty stature. As the lake was small and one could easily see\nacross it, Gebizo could not comprehend where the boatman could have\ncome from so suddenly, for he had not observed him anywhere before.\nEnough, he was now there, gave one stroke of his oar and immediately\nwas on the shore beside the knight, and, before the latter could give a\nthought to the affair, had enquired of him why he turned such a rueful\nface to the world. In spite of his extremely handsome exterior, the\nstranger had an expression of deep-seated discontent about his mouth\nand eyes; yet this was the very thing which gained Gebizo's confidence,\nand without any reserve he poured out the tale of his misfortunes and\ngrievances.\n\n\"You are a fool,\" the other responded, \"for you possess a treasure\ngreater than all that you have lost. If I had your wife, I should never\ngive a thought to all the riches and churches and convents, nor to all\nthe beggar-folk in the world.\"\n\n\"Give me back those things, and you are welcome to my wife in\nexchange!\" retorted Gebizo with a bitter laugh, and the other exclaimed\nquick as lightning. \"A bargain! Look under your wife's pillow; there\nyou will find what will suffice for all your lifetime to build a\nconvent every day, and feed a thousand people, though you should live\nto a hundred. In exchange, bring me your wife here to this spot without\nfail the evening before Walpurgis!\"\n\nWith these words, such a fire spurted from his dark eyes that two\nreddish beams glanced over the Count's sleeve, and thence over moss and\nfir-trees. Then Gebizo saw whom he had before him, and accepted the\nman's offer. The latter plied his oar, and sailed back to the middle of\nthe lake, where he and his boat sank into the water with a din which\nresembled the laughter of many brazen bells.\n\nGebizo, all in a goose-skin, hastened back by the nearest way to his\ncastle, searched Bertrade's bed at once, and found under her pillow an\nold, shabby book which he could not decipher. But, as he turned over\nthe leaves, one gold piece after another fell out. As soon as he\nobserved this, he betook himself with the book to the deepest vault of\na tower, and there, in the utmost secrecy, set to work and spent all\nthe rest of Easter in turning out an ample heap of gold from the pages\nof this most interesting work.\n\nThen he appeared in the world once again, redeemed all his possessions,\nsummoned workmen who restored his castle more magnificently than ever,\nand dispensed benefactions on every hand like a prince who has been\nnewly crowned. The principal of his works, however, was the foundation\nof a great abbey for five hundred capitulars of the utmost piety and\ndistinction, a regular town of saints and scholars, in the centre of\nwhich his burial-place was one day to be. He considered this provision\nrequisite for his eternal salvation. But, as his wife was otherwise\nprovided for, no burial-place was prepared for her.\n\nThe midday before Walpurgis he gave the order to saddle, and bade his\nfair wife mount her white hunter, as she had a long journey to ride in\nhis company. At the same time he forbade a single squire or servant to\nattend them. A great dread seized the poor woman; she trembled in every\nlimb, and for the first time in her life she lied to her husband,\npretending that she was unwell, and begging him to leave her at home.\nAs she had been singing to herself only a little time before, Gebizo\nwas incensed at the falsehood, and considered that he had now acquired\na double right over her. She was forced therefore to mount her horse,\ndressed too in her best finery, and she rode away sadly with her\nhusband, not knowing whither she was going.\n\nWhen they had accomplished about half their journey, they came to a\nlittle church which Bertrade had happened to build in former days and\nhad dedicated to the Mother of God. She had done it for the sake of a\npoor master-mason whom no one would employ, because he was so surly and\ndisagreeable, that even Gebizo, whom others could not help approaching\nin a pleasant and respectful fashion, could not tolerate him, and sent\nhim away empty-handed, for all the work which he had to give out. She\nhad caused the little church to be built secretly, and in his gratitude\nthe despised master-mason had with his own hands wrought a remarkably\nbeautiful image of Mary in his spare time, and set it over the altar.\n\nBertrade now craved to enter this church for a moment and say her\nprayers, and Gebizo allowed her; for he thought she might have much\nneed of them. So she dismounted from her horse, and, while her husband\nwaited outside, went in, knelt before the altar, and commended herself\nto the protection of the Virgin Mary. Thereupon she fell into a deep\nsleep; the Virgin sprang down from the altar, assumed the form and\ngarments of the sleeper, went gaily out by the door and mounted the\nhorse, on which she continued the journey at Gebizo's side and in\nBertrade's stead.\n\nThe wretch thought to continue to deceive his wife, and, the nearer\nthey came to the journey's end, to lull her and hoodwink her by an\nincrease of friendliness. Accordingly he talked with her of this and\nthat, and the Virgin chatted pleasantly and gave him confiding answers,\nand behaved as if she had lost all her timidity. So they reached the\ngloomy wilderness about the lake, over which dun evening clouds hung;\nthe ancient firs bloomed purple with buds, as only happens in the most\nluxuriant spring-tides; in the thicket a ghostly nightingale sang as\nloud as organ-pipes and cymbals; and out from among the fir-trees rode\nthe man ye wot of, mounted on a black stallion, in rich knightly array,\nwith a long sword at his side.\n\nHe approached very courteously, although he suddenly shot such a\nferocious look at Gebizo that his flesh crept; still, the horses did\nnot appear to scent anything dangerous, for they stood quiet.\nTrembling, Gebizo flung his wife's reins to the stranger and galloped\noff alone without so much as a glance back to her. But the stranger\ngrasped the reins with a hasty hand, and away they went like a\nwhirlwind through the firs, so that the fair rider's veil and garments\nfluttered and waved, away over mountain and valley, and over the\nflowing waters so that the horses' hoofs scarcely touched the foam of\ntheir waves. Hurried along by the boisterous storm, a rosy, fragrant\ncloud, which shone in the twilight, was wafted in front of the steeds;\nand the nightingale flew invisible before the pair, settling here and\nthere upon a tree and singing until the air rang again.\n\nAt last all hills and all trees came to an end, and the two rode into\nan endless heath, in the midst of which, as if from afar off, the\nnightingale throbbed, although there was no sign of bush or bough on\nwhich it could have sat.\n\nSuddenly the rider halted, sprang from his horse, and helped the lady\nout of the saddle with the manner of a perfect cavalier. Scarcely had\nher foot touched the heath, when round about the pair there sprang up a\ngarden of rose-bushes as tall as a man, with a splendid fountain and\nseat, above which a starry firmament shone so brilliantly that one\ncould have seen to read by its light. But the fountain consisted of a\ngreat round basin in which, like modern _tableaux vivants_, a number of\ndevils formed, or represented, a seductive group of nymphs in white\nmarble. They poured shimmering water from their hollowed hands--whence\nthey got it, their lord and master only knew. The water made the most\nlovely harmony; for every jet gave out a different note, and the\nwhole seemed in concert like string-music. It was, so to say, a\nwater-harmonica, whose chords were thrilled through and through with\nall the deliciousness of that first night of May, and melted into\nunison with the charming forms of the group of nymphs; for the living\npicture did not stand still, but changed and turned imperceptibly.\n\nNot without tender emotion, the strange cavalier conducted the lady to\nthe seat and invited her to be seated; but then he gripped her hand\nwith a violent tenderness, and said in a voice that pierced to the\nmarrow, \"I am the Eternally Forlorn who fell from Heaven! Nothing but\nthe love of a good mortal woman on May-night can make me forget\nParadise and give me strength to endure my eternal discomfiture. Be but\nmy helpmeet, and I will make thee eternal, and grant thee the power of\ndoing good and preventing evil to thy heart's content!\"\n\nHe flung himself passionately on the bosom of the beauteous woman, who\nsmilingly opened her arms. But at the same instant the Blessed Virgin\nassumed her Heavenly form, and enclosed the entrapped Deceiver in her\nradiant arms with all her might. In a twinkling, the garden had\nvanished with its fountain and nightingale; the cunning demons, who had\nformed the tableau, took flight in the form of evil spirits, uttering\ncries of anguish, and left their lord in the lurch; while he, never\nuttering a sound, wrestled with titanic strength to free himself from\nthe torturing embrace.\n\nBut the Virgin held on bravely and did not let him go, though indeed\nshe had to summon all her strength. She purposed nothing less than to\nbring the outmanoeuvred Devil before Heaven, and there expose him bound\nto a gate-post in all his wretchedness to the laughter of the blessed.\n\nBut the Evil One changed his tactics, kept still for a brief space, and\nassumed the beauty which he had once possessed as the fairest among the\nangels, so that he almost rivalled the celestial beauty of Mary. She\nexalted herself as much as possible; yet, if she was radiant as Venus\nthe fair Evening-star, he shone like Lucifer the Son of the Morning, so\nthat it began to be as bright on that dusky heath as if the heavens\nthemselves had descended upon it.\n\nWhen the Virgin perceived that she had undertaken too much, and that\nher strength was failing, she contented herself with releasing the\nFiend on condition that he renounced the Count's wife, and the\ncelestial and infernal beauties forthwith separated with great\nviolence. The Virgin, somewhat wearied, betook herself back to her\nlittle church; the Evil One, incapable of any further disguise and\nmauled in every limb, crawled away over the sand in horrid, degraded\nform, the very embodiment of long-tailed sorrow. So badly had his\npurposed hour of dalliance turned out for him.\n\nMeantime Gebizo, after abandoning his lovely wife, had gone astray in\nthe darkening night, and horse and rider had fallen into a chasm, where\nhis head was dashed against a stone so that he promptly departed this\nlife.\n\nAs for Bertrade, she remained in her sleep until the sun rose on the\nfirst of May; then she awoke, and was surprised to see how the time had\nflown. Still, she quickly said her Ave Maria, and, when she came out of\nthe church hale and hearty, her horse was standing before the door as\nshe had left it. She did not wait long for her husband, but rode home\nblithely and quickly, for she guessed that she had escaped from some\ngreat peril.\n\nSoon the Count's body was found and brought home. Bertrade had it\nentombed with all honour, and founded innumerable masses for him. But\nall love for him was in some inexplicable way eradicated from her\nheart, although it remained as kind and tender as ever. Accordingly,\nher exalted patroness in Heaven looked about for another husband for\nher, who should be more worthy of such gracious love than the deceased\nGebizo had been. How this business came about is written in the next\nlegend.\n\n\n\n\n                          THE VIRGIN AS KNIGHT\n\n      Mary is named a Throne, the Lord's own Tabernacle,\n      An Ark, Keep, Tower, House, a Spring, Tree, Garden, Mirror,\n      A Sea, a Star, the Moon, a Hill, the Blush of Morning.\n      All these how can she be? She is another world!\n\n      Angelus Silesius, _Cherub. Wandersmann_, Book iv. 42.\n\n\nGebizo had acquired so much wealth over and above his former\npossessions that Bertrade found herself mistress of a noble earldom,\nand became famous throughout the Empire for her wealth as well as her\nbeauty. As, withal, she was very unassuming and friendly with every\none, the jewel of her person appeared an easy conquest to all the\nnobility, shy and enterprising, bold and timid, great and small alike,\nand every one who had seen her a few times was surprised that he did\nnot already have her in his possession. Yet more than a year passed,\nand no one knew of any who had acquired real grounds for hope.\n\nEven the Emperor heard of her, and, as he was desirous that such a\nsplendid fief should pass into the hands of a suitable husband, he\ndetermined to pay the celebrated widow a visit in the course of a\njourney, and signified his intention to her in a most gracious and\nfriendly letter. This he entrusted to a young knight Zendelwald, whose\nroad lay that way. He was favourably received by Bertrade, and\nentertained handsomely, as was every one who resorted to her castle. He\nbeheld with admiration the lordly halls, battlements and gardens, and\nincidentally fell violently in love with their mistress. Still, he did\nnot linger an hour longer in the castle on that account; but, when he\nhad delivered his message and seen all that there was to see, he took a\nbrief farewell of the lady and rode away, the only one of all those who\nhad ever been there who did not think himself competent to win that\nprize.\n\nThe fact was that he was sluggish in word and deed. Even when his mind\nand heart had mastered any matter, which they always did with\nthoroughness and fire, Zendelwald could never bring himself to take the\nfirst step to a realization, for the thing seemed to him as good as\nfinished when once he saw his way clearly to it in his mind. Although\nhe was ready enough to talk when there was nothing to be gained by\ndoing so, he never uttered the opportune word which would have brought\nhim fortune. Not only his tongue, but his hand too, was so far behind\nhis thought that in battle he was often all but overcome by his\nopponent, because, seeing in his mind's eye his enemy already at his\nfeet, he delayed giving the decisive stroke. Thus his manner of\nfighting excited surprise at every tournament; for he always began by\nscarcely exerting himself, and it was not until he was in the utmost\nextremity that he gained the victory by some masterly stroke.\n\nHis mind in full play on the subject of the fair Bertrade, our\nZendelwald now rode home to his little castle, which lay in a lonely\nmountain forest. A few charcoal-burners and woodmen were all his\nsubjects, and so his mother always awaited his return in bitter\nimpatience to know whether he had at last brought home fortune.\n\nZendelwald's mother was as handy and determined as he was indolent,\nthough not any more successful; for on her side she had carried her\nqualities to excess, and they had twined into fussiness. In her youth\nshe had been eager to find a husband as soon as possible, and had\noverpressed several opportunities so hastily and eagerly that in her\nhaste she had made the very worst possible choice in the shape of a\ndisreputable, foolhardy fellow, who ran through all his inheritance,\ncame to a premature end, and left her nothing but a long widowhood,\npoverty and one son who would not take the trouble to bestir himself to\ngrasp at fortune.\n\nThe little household's only fare consisted of the milk of some goats,\nforest-fruits, and game. Zendelwald's mother was an accomplished\nsportswoman, and shot wild pigeons and grouse with the cross-bow as she\npleased. She also caught trout in the brooks, and with her own hands\nrepaired the little castle with stone and lime where it became decayed.\nAt that moment she had just returned home with a hare which she had\nknocked over, and, as she hung the animal from the window of her\nhigh-perched kitchen, she gave another look out into the valley and saw\nher son riding along the road. She let down the drawbridge with joy,\nfor he had been absent for months.\n\nShe at once began to enquire whether he had got hold of any tuft or\nfeather of luck to bring home and make the most of, and, as he\nrecounted the usual unprofitable experiences of his most recent\ncampaign, she shook her head in wrath. But, when he came to tell her\nall about his mission to the rich and captivating Bertrade, and lauded\nher kindness and beauty, she scolded him for a lazy-bones and a\nfaint-heart to run away so basely. She was not long in perceiving that\nZendelwald could think of nothing else than the far-off lady, and she\nbegan to be downright impatient with him to think that with such a\npraiseworthy passion in his heart he failed utterly to make anything of\nit, since in his case to be so head and ears over in love was a\nhindrance rather than an incentive to action.\n\nHis days were not of the happiest. His mother was sulky with him, and\nin her irritation sought to divert herself by mending the damaged roof\nof the tower, so that the good Zendelwald was in fear and trembling as\nhe saw her clambering about aloft. In her ill temper she would pitch\ndown broken tiles, and wellnigh knocked out the brains of a stranger\nknight as he was about to enter the door to request a night's lodging.\n\nThe latter, however, managed to win the ungracious lady's friendship\nduring supper, as he related many pleasant things, and in particular\nthat the Emperor was then staying at the pretty widow's great castle\nwhere one feast was followed by another, and the fortunate lady was\nunceasingly besieged by the Emperor and his lords to choose a husband\nfrom among them. She, however, had found a way of evasion by convoking\na great tournament and promising her hand to the victor, in the firm\nbelief that her patron the Blessed Virgin would intervene and direct\nthe arm of the right man, who was destined for her, to victory.\n\n\"Now, that would be something for you to try,\" the guest concluded,\nturning to Zendelwald; \"such a handsome young knight ought to go\nstraight for it and try to win the best fortune of these days,\naccording to worldly estimation. Besides, it is commonly said that the\nlady hopes that in this way some unknown luck may turn up, perchance\nsome poor but honest hero, whom she can kiss and coll, and that she has\nan aversion to all the great and famous counts and idle wooers.\"\n\nWhen the stranger had ridden away, Zendelwald's mother said, \"Now, I'll\nwager that no less a person than Bertrade herself sent that messenger\nto put you on the right track, my dear Zendelwald! It's as clear as\ndaylight; what other business had the fellow, who has drunk our last\nflagon of wine, to bring him travelling in this forest?\"\n\nHer son began to laugh mightily at her words, and went on laughing more\nand more heartily, partly at the manifest impossibility of his mother's\nfancies, partly because he found those said fancies rather agreeable.\nThe mere thought that Bertrade could possibly wish to take possession\nof him kept him laughing uncontrollably. But his mother, who thought\nthat he was laughing in derision of her, flew into a rage, and cried,\n\"Listen! My curse be upon you if you do not obey me and set out on your\nway at once to win that fortune. Do not come back without it, else I\nnever wish to see you again! Or, if you do come back, I'll take my bow\nand arrows and go out to seek a grave where I can have peace from your\nstupidity!\"\n\nSo now Zendelwald had no choice; for the sake of peace and quietness,\nhe furbished his weapons, sighing the while, and rode as Heaven might\nguide him in the direction of Bertrade's dwelling, without being\nconvinced that he should really go there. Nevertheless he stuck pretty\nclose to the road, and the nearer he came to his destination, the more\nclearly the thought took shape that, after all, he might undertake the\nadventure as well as another, and that, when he had settled matters\nwith his rivals, it would not cost him his head to try conclusions with\nthe fair lady. The adventure now developed stage by stage in his mind,\nand came to the happiest issue; indeed, all day long, as he rode\nthrough the green summer landscape, he held sweet dialogues with his\nbeloved, in which he told her most beautiful conceits, so that her face\nbecame rosy for gratification and joy--all this in his imagination.\n\nAs he was in the act of inwardly depicting one more happy event, he saw\nin good earnest, on a distant blue ridge, the towers and battlements of\nthe castle shining in the morning sun, with its gilded balustrades\ngleaming from afar, and was so startled at the sight that all the\nfabric of his dreams was dissolved, and left nothing but a faint,\nirresolute heart behind.\n\nInvoluntarily he reined in his horse and looked around, as laggards\nwill, for a place of refuge. Whereupon he became aware of a pretty\nlittle church, the same which Bertrade had once built to the Mother of\nGod, and in which she had slept that sleep. He at once resolved to go\nin and collect his thoughts somewhat before the altar, the more so as\nit was the day on which the tournament was to be held.\n\nThe priest was in the act of singing Mass, which was attended only by\ntwo or three poor people, so that the knight contributed no small\nornament to the little congregation. When all was over, and priest and\nsacristan had left the church, Zendelwald felt so comfortable in those\nquarters that he fell sound asleep, and forgot tournament and beloved\none, unless indeed he dreamt about them.\n\nThereupon the Virgin Mary stepped down once again from her altar,\nassumed his form and accoutrements, mounted his horse, and rode with\nclosed visor, a bold Brunhilda, all the way to the castle in\nZendelwald's stead.\n\nWhen she had ridden a while, she came across a heap of dried rubbish\nand withered brushwood lying by the wayside. It seemed suspicious to\nthe watchful Virgin, and she noticed something like the tail-end of a\nserpent peeping out of the confusion. She saw then that it was the\nDevil, who, still as enamoured as ever, was also prowling about the\nneighbourhood of the castle, and had hurriedly hid himself from the\nVirgin in the rubbish. She rode past without appearing to notice him,\nbut cleverly made her horse spring to the side, so that he came down\nwith his hind hoofs on the suspicious tail-end. With a hiss the Evil\nOne made out and away, and never more showed himself again in this\nconnection.\n\nAmused by the little adventure, she rode, full of good humour, to\nBertrade's castle, where she arrived just when only the two stoutest\njousters remained to fight the deciding contest.\n\nSlowly and carelessly, for all the world like Zendelwald, she rode into\nthe lists, and appeared undecided whether she should take part in the\ncontest or not.\n\n\"Here comes lazy Zendelwald,\" the word went round, and the two stout\nchampions said, \"What does he want with us? Just a minute, and let us\nget him out of the way before we settle matters between ourselves.\"\n\nOne of the champions called himself \"Guhl the Speedy.\" He was in the\nhabit of turning himself and his horse about like a whirlwind, and\ntrying to bewilder and outwit his opponents by a hundred tricks and\nstratagems. The supposed Zendelwald had to engage him first. He wore a\ncoal-black moustache, the ends of which were twisted and turned up in\nthe air so stiffly that two little silver bells, which were attached to\nthem, could not bend them down, and tinkled incessantly whenever he\nmoved his head. He described this as a peal of terror for his foes and\nof delight for his lady! His shield glittered, now with this colour,\nnow with that, according to the direction in which he turned it, and he\ncould effect this change so rapidly that the eye was blinded by it. His\nplume was formed of an enormous cock's tail.\n\nThe other stout champion dubbed himself \"Mouse the Innumerable,\" by\nwhich he meant to convey that he was as good as an innumerable army. In\ntoken of his prowess, he had allowed the hair of his nostrils to grow\nout about six inches, and had plaited it into two tresses, which hung\nover his mouth and were adorned at the ends with neat little red\nfavours. Over his armour he wore a great spreading mantle, which almost\nenveloped himself and his horse, and was cunningly sewed together from\na thousand mouseskins. For a crest, he was overshadowed by the mighty\noutspread wings of a bat, from under which he darted threatening\nglances out of his slits of eyes.\n\nWhen the signal was given for the fight with Guhl the Speedy, he rode\nagainst the Virgin and encircled her with ever-increasing rapidity,\nseeking to dazzle her with his shield, and directing a hundred thrusts\nat her with his lance. All the time, the Virgin stuck to the same spot\nin the middle of the lists, and appeared to do no more than defend\nherself with shield and spear, skilfully turning her horse about on its\nhind-legs so that she always presented her front to her opponent. When\nGuhl observed this, he suddenly rode some distance back, then turned\nand ran upon her with his lance in rest, intending to thrust her over\nthe crupper. The Virgin awaited him without stirring; but man and horse\nseemed of bronze, so firm they stood, and the poor fellow, unaware that\nhe was contending against superhuman power, flew unexpectedly out of\nhis saddle, and lay upon the ground, when he ran upon her spear, while\nhis own was shattered like a straw upon her shield. Without delay the\nVirgin dismounted, knelt on his breast so that he could not move under\nthe mighty pressure, and with her dagger cut away his moustaches and\ntheir silver bells, and fastened them in her sword-belt, while fanfares\nproclaimed her, or rather Zendelwald, the victor.\n\nNext, Sir Mouse the Innumerable came into the dance. He galloped\nforward with such violence that his mantle floated in the air like a\nthreatening grey cloud. But the Virgin-Zendelwald, who only now\nappeared to be beginning to warm up to the fray, galloped as stoutly to\nmeet him, threw him with ease from the saddle at the first thrust, and\nwhen Mouse rose at once and drew his sword, she dismounted at the same\ninstant to engage him on foot. He was soon dazed by the rapid strokes\nwith which her sword fell upon his head and shoulders, and he held out\nhis mantle with his left hand to shelter beneath it, and wait a\nfavourable opportunity to throw it over his opponent's head. At that,\nthe Virgin caught a tip of the mantle with the point of her sword, and\nenveloped Mouse the Innumerable in it from head to foot so dexterously\nand swiftly that he was soon like an enormous wasp entangled in a\nspider's web, and lay struggling on the ground.\n\nThen the Virgin belaboured him with the flat of her sword so vigorously\nthat the mantle was resolved into its component parts, and a shower of\nmouse-skins darkened the air amid the universal laughter of the\nspectators, while the knight gradually emerged again to view, and\nlimped away a beaten man, after his conqueror had cut away his\nberibboned pigtails.\n\nThus the Virgin under the guise of Zendelwald remained victor of the\nfield.\n\nShe now opened her visor, strode up to the Queen of the Festival, and\non bended knee laid the trophies of victory at her feet. Then she rose,\nand offered the spectacle of a Zendelwald such as he was usually too\nshy to be. Without, however, compromising his modesty too much, she\ngreeted Bertrade with a look, whose effect on the female heart she well\nknew. In a word, she proved that she could play, not only the champion,\nbut the lover, so well, that Bertrade did not take back her word, but\nlent a willing ear to the advice of the Emperor, who after all was glad\nto see so gallant and noble a man prevail.\n\nThen there was a great festive procession to the gardens, with their\ntall lime-trees, where the banquet was spread. There Bertrade sat\nbetween the Emperor and her Zendelwald. But it was as well that the\nformer was occupied with another pleasant lady; for the latter did not\ngive his bride much time to converse with others, so politely and\ntenderly did he entertain her. He said the nicest things to her on the\nspur of the moment, so that time after time she reddened with pleasure.\nJoy and contentment prevailed everywhere; up in the green vault of the\ntrees the birds sang, vying with the instruments of music; a butterfly\nsettled on the Emperor's crown; and, as if by a special blessing, the\nwine-cups gave forth a fragrance like violets and mignonette.\n\nBut Bertrade, above all, felt so happy, that, while Zendelwald held her\nby the hand, she thought in her heart of her celestial protectress, and\nmade her a fervent, silent thanksgiving.\n\nThe Virgin Mary, who all the time was sitting at her side as\nZendelwald, read the prayer in her heart, and was so well pleased at\nher ward's pious gratitude that she embraced Bertrade tenderly, and\nimprinted a kiss on her lips, which, as may be imagined, filled the\nfair woman with heavenly bliss; for when the celestials take to baking\nsweet-stuff, it is sweet indeed.\n\nAs for the Emperor and the rest of the company, they shouted approval\nto the supposed Zendelwald, raised their goblets, and drank to the\nhealth of the handsome couple.\n\nMeanwhile, the real Zendelwald waked out of his unseasonable sleep, and\nfound the sun so far on its course that the tournament must certainly\nbe over. Although he was now well out of the business, still he felt\nvery unhappy and sad; for he would have been only too glad to wed the\nlady Bertrade. Besides, he did not dare to go back to his mother now.\nSo he determined to set out on an endless, joyless wandering, until\ndeath should release him from his useless existence. Only, before doing\nso, he wished to see his beloved one once again, and imprint her image\non his mind for the remainder of his days, that he might always\nremember what he had thrown away.\n\nHe accordingly went back all the way to the castle. When he reached the\nthrong, he heard everywhere proclaimed the praises and good fortune of\na poor knight Zendelwald who had attained the prize, and, bitterly\ncurious to know who this fortunate namesake might be, he dismounted\nfrom his horse, and forced his way through the crowd until he found a\nstation at the edge of the garden, on an elevated place from which he\ncould overlook the whole feast.\n\nThere he beheld in all her finery, not far from the sparkling crown of\nthe Emperor, the radiant, happy face of his beloved; but side by side\nwith her--his astonishment turned him pale--the living image of his own\nperson. As he stood petrified, he saw his double embrace and kiss the\npious bride. Thereupon, without delay, he stepped, unnoticed amid the\nuniversal joy, through the ranks until he stood, racked by a strange\njealousy, close behind the couple. At the same moment, his counterfeit\nvanished from Bertrade's side, and she looked about for him in dismay.\nBut when she saw Zendelwald behind her, she laughed joyfully, and said,\n\"Where are you off to? Come, stay beside me!\" And she took his hand and\ndrew him to her side.\n\nSo he sat down, and, to test the seeming dream thoroughly, he seized\nthe beaker which stood before him and emptied it at one draught. The\nwine stood the test, and an unmistakable life streamed through his\nveins. Quite in the mood, he turned to the smiling woman and looked\ninto her eyes; whereupon she joyously resumed the intimate conversation\nwhich had been interrupted the moment before. But Zendelwald could not\nimagine what had happened to him, when he found Bertrade address him in\nfamiliar words, to which he several times unthinkingly answered in\nothers which he had already used somewhere else. Sure enough he\ndiscovered after a little that his predecessor must have been carrying\non the very same conversation with Bertrade which he had devised in his\nimagination during the days of his journey, and which he now continued\ndeliberately, in order to see what end the play would have.\n\nBut it did not have an end. Instead, it became more and more edifying;\nfor when the sun went down, torches were lighted, and the whole\nassembly made for the largest hall in the castle to engage in dancing.\nAfter the Emperor had danced the first round with the bride, Zendelwald\ntook her on his arm and danced three or four times with her round the\nhall until, all aglow, she suddenly took him by the hand and drew him\naside to a quiet turret-chamber flooded with moonlight. There she flung\nherself on his breast, stroked his fair beard, and thanked him for his\ncoming and for his affection. Honest Zendelwald, however, wished to\nascertain whether he were dreaming or waking, and questioned her about\nhow matters really stood, especially about his double. For a long time,\nshe did not understand him; but one word led to another. Zendelwald\nsaid this and that had happened to him, and told her all about his\njourney, about his turning in to the little church, and how he had\nfallen asleep there and been too late for the tournament.\n\nAt that the affair became so far clear to Bertrade that she recognized\nfor the second time the hand of her gracious patroness. But now at last\nshe had opportunity to regard the valiant knight boldly as a gift from\nHeaven, and she was grateful enough to press the substantial present to\nher heart in good earnest and return him full measure for the luscious\nkiss which she had received from Heaven itself.\n\nBut, from that time forth, Sir Zendelwald lost all his sluggishness and\ndreamy irresolution. He said everything and did everything at the right\ntime before the tender Bertrade and before the rest of the world, and\nhe became a great man in the Empire, so that the Emperor was as well\ncontent with him as was his wife.\n\nAs for Zendelwald's mother, she appeared at the wedding mounted on\nhorseback, and as proud as if she had been enthroned in fortune all her\nlife long. She looked after money and estates, and hunted in the\nextensive forests to an advanced age. Bertrade never failed to have\nZendelwald take her once a year to the lonely little castle which was\nhis home, where she cooed in the grey tower with her darling as\ntenderly as the wild doves in the trees round about. But they never\nomitted to enter the little church on their way, and address their\nprayers to the Virgin, who stood there as prim and saintly as if she\nhad never once come down from her altar.\n\n\n\n\n                         THE VIRGIN AND THE NUN\n\n            O that I had wings like a dove: for then would I\n              flee away, and be at rest.\n                                                      Psalm lv. 6.\n\n\nA convent lay on a mountain overlooking a wide prospect, and its walls\ngleamed across the land. Within, it was full of women, beautiful and\nunbeautiful, who all served the Lord and his Virgin Mother after a\nstrict rule.\n\nThe most beautiful of the nuns was called Beatrix, and was sacristan of\nthe convent. Of tall and commanding presence, she went about her duties\nwith stately carriage, saw to choir and altar, looked after the\nsacristy, and rang the bell before the first flush of dawn and when the\nevening-star arose.\n\nYet amid it all she cast many a tear-dimmed glance at the busy loom of\nthe blue distance. There she saw weapons glancing, heard the horn of\nthe hunters in the woods, and the clear shout of men, and her breast\nfilled with longing for the world.\n\nAt last she could control her desire no longer, and one clear, moonlit\nnight in June she rose, dressed herself, and put on stout new shoes,\nand went to the altar, equipped for a journey. \"I have served thee\nfaithfully these many years,\" she said to the Virgin Mary, \"but now\ntake the keys thyself; for I can endure the heat in my heart no\nlonger!\" With that she laid her bundle of keys upon the altar, and went\nforth from the convent. She made her way down amid the solitude of\nthe mountain, and wandered on until she came to a cross-road in an\noak-forest, where, uncertain which way to take, she sat down by the\nside of a spring, which was provided with a stone basin and a bench for\nthe benefit of wayfarers. Until the sun rose, she sat there, and was\ndrenched with the falling dew.\n\nThen the sun came over the tops of the trees, and the first rays which\nshot through the forest-road fell on a glittering knight who came\nriding in full armour all alone. The nun stared with all her lovely\neyes, and did not lose an inch of the manly apparition; but she kept so\nstill that the knight would never have seen her had not the murmur of\nthe fountain caught his ear and guided his eyes. He at once turned\naside to the spring, dismounted from his horse and let it drink, while\nhe greeted the nun respectfully. He was a crusader who, after long\nabsence, was making his way home alone, for he had lost all his men.\n\nIn spite of his respectfulness, he never once removed his eyes from the\ncharms of Beatrix, who held hers just as steady, and gazed as fixedly\nas ever on the warrior; for he was no inconsiderable part of that world\nfor which she had longed so in secret. But suddenly she cast down her\neyes and felt bashful. At last the knight asked her which way she was\ngoing, and whether he could be of any service to her. The full tones of\nhis voice startled her; she looked at him once more, and, fascinated by\nhis glances, acknowledged that she had run away from the convent to see\nthe world, but that she was frightened already and did not know which\nway to turn.\n\nAt that the knight, who had all his wits about him, laughed heartily,\nand offered to conduct the lady so far on the right way, if she would\ntrust herself to him. His castle, he added, was not more than a day's\njourney from where they were; and there, if she chose, she could make\nher preparations in security, and after more mature reflection could\nproceed on her way into the fair, wide world.\n\nWithout replying, but yet without opposition, she allowed herself,\ntrembling somewhat nevertheless, to be lifted up on horseback. The\nknight swung himself up after her, and, with the rosy-blushing nun\nbefore him, trotted joyously through woods and meadows.\n\nFor two or three hundred lengths, she held herself erect and gazed\nstraight before her, her hands clasped over her bosom. But soon she had\nlaid her head back on his breast, and submitted to the kisses which\nthe stalwart lord imprinted thereon. And by another three hundred\nlengths she was returning them as fervidly as if she had never rung a\nconvent-bell. In such circumstances, they saw nothing of the bright\nlandscape through which they journeyed. The nun, who once had longed to\nsee the wide world, now shut her eyes to it, and confined herself to\nthat portion of it which the horse could carry on its back.\n\nThe knight Wonnebold also scarcely gave a thought to his father's\ncastle, until its towers glittered before him in the moonlight. But all\nwas silent without the castle, and even more silent within, while never\na light was to be seen. Wonnebold's father and mother were dead and all\nthe menials departed, save an ancient castellan, who after long\nknocking made his appearance with a lantern, and almost died for joy\nwhen he saw the knight standing at the painfully-opened door. In spite\nof his solitude and his years the old man had maintained the interior\nof the castle in habitable condition, and especially had kept the\nknight's chamber in constant readiness, so that he might be able to go\nto rest the moment he should return from his travels. So Beatrix rested\nwith him and appeased her longing.\n\nNeither had any thought now of separating from the other. Wonnebold\nopened his mother's chests. Beatrix clad herself in her rich garments\nand adorned herself with her jewels, and so they lived for the moment\nsplendidly and in joy, except that the lady remained without rights or\ntitle, and was regarded by her lover as his chattel; she desired\nnothing better for the mean time.\n\nBut one day a stranger baron and his train turned into the castle,\nwhich by this time was again staffed with servants, and great cheer was\nmade in his honour. At length the men fell to dicing, at which the\nmaster of the house had such constant good luck that, flushed with good\nfortune and confidence, he risked his dearest possession, as he called\nit, to wit the fair Beatrix as she stood, with the costly jewels she\nwas wearing, against an old, melancholy mountain-keep which his\nopponent laughingly staked.\n\nBeatrix, who had looked on at the game well contented, now turned pale,\nand with good reason; for the throw which ensued left the presumptuous\none in the lurch, and made the baron the winner.\n\nHe wasted no time, but at once took his leave with his fair prize and\nhis attendants. Beatrix barely found time to appropriate the unlucky\ndice and hide them in her bosom, and then with streaming tears followed\nthe unfeeling winner.\n\nAfter the little cavalcade had ridden some miles they reached a\npleasant grove of young beeches, through which a clear brook flowed.\nLike a light-green silken tent, the tender foliage waved aloft,\nsupported on the slender silvery stems, between which the spacious\nsummer landscape was seen in glimpses. Here the baron meant to rest\nwith his booty. He ordered his people to go a little farther ahead,\nwhile he got down in the pleasant greenwood with Beatrix, and made to\ndraw her to his side with caresses.\n\nAt that she drew herself up proudly, and darting a flaming glance upon\nhim exclaimed that he had won her person, but not her heart, which was\nnot to be won against an old ruin. If he were a man, he would set\nsomething worth while against it. If he would stake his life, he might\ncast for her heart, which should be pledged to him for ever and be his\nown if he won; but if she won, his life should be in her hand, and she\nshould be absolute mistress of her own person once again.\n\nShe said this with great gravity; but all the time looked at him with\nsuch a strange expression that his heart began to thump, and he\nregarded her in bewilderment. She seemed to become more and more\nbeautiful as she continued in a softer voice, and with a searching\nlook, \"Who would choose to woo a woman when she returns not his wooing,\nand has received no proof of his courage? Give me your sword, take\nthese dice, and risk it; then we may be united as two true lovers!\" At\nthe same time she pressed into his hand the ivory dice warm from her\nbosom. Bewitched, he gave her his sword and sword-belt, and forthwith\nthrew eleven at one throw.\n\nNext Beatrix took the dice, rattled them vigorously in her hollowed\nhands with a secret sigh to the Holy Mary the Mother of God, and threw\ntwelve, so that she won.\n\n\"I make you a present of your life!\" she said, bowed gravely to the\nbaron, picked up her skirts and put the sword under her arm, and\nrapidly took her departure in the direction whence she had come. As\nsoon as she was out of view of the still quite nonplussed and\nbewildered baron, she slyly proceeded no farther, but fetched a circuit\nabout the grove, walked quietly back into it, and hid herself not fifty\npaces from the disappointed lover behind the beech-stems, which at that\ndistance grew sufficiently closely to hide the prudent lady, if need\nwere. She kept quite still; only a sunbeam fell upon a noble gem at her\nneck, so that it flashed through the grove unknown to her. The baron\nindeed saw the gleam, and stared at it a moment in his bewilderment.\nBut he took it for a shining dewdrop on a tree-leaf, and never gave it\na second thought.\n\nAt last he recovered from his stupefaction, and blew lustily upon his\nhunting-horn. When his people came, he sprang upon his horse, and\npursued after the eloping lady to secure her again. It was the best\npart of an hour before the riders returned, and despondently and slowly\nmade their way through the beech-trees, this time without halting. When\nthe lurking Beatrix saw the coast clear, she rose and hastened home\nwithout sparing her shoes.\n\nDuring all this time Wonnebold had passed a very bad day, racked by\nremorse and anger; and, as he understood that he had disgraced himself\nin the eyes of his love, whom he had gambled away so lightly, he began\nto realize how highly he had unconsciously esteemed her, and how\ndifficult it was to live without her. So, when she unexpectedly stood\nbefore him, without ever waiting to utter his surprise, he opened his\narms to her, and she hastened into them without complaint or reproach.\nHe laughed loudly as she related her stratagem, and he began to ponder\nover her fidelity; for the baron was a very comely and pretty fellow.\n\nAccordingly, to guard against all future mischances, he made the fair\nBeatrix his lawful wedded wife in presence of all his peers and\nvassals, so that henceforth she ranked as a knight's lady and took her\nplace among her equals at chase, feast and dance, as well as in the\ncottages of their dependents and in the family seat at church.\n\nThe years passed with their changes, and in the course of twelve\nfruitful harvests she bore her husband eight sons, who grew up like\nyoung stags.\n\nWhen the eldest was eighteen years old, she rose one autumn night from\nher Wonnebold's side unperceived by him, laid all her worldly array\ncarefully in the same chests from which it had once been taken, closed\nthem, and laid the keys at the sleeper's side. Then she went barefooted\nto the bedside of her sons, and kissed them lightly one after the\nother. Last of all, she went again to her husband's bed, kissed him\ntoo, and then shore the long hair from her head, once more put on the\ndark nun's frock, which she had preserved carefully, and so left the\ncastle by stealth, and made her way amid the raging wind of the autumn\nnight and the falling leaves back to that convent from which she had\nonce run away. Indefatigably she passed the beads of her rosary through\nher fingers, and as she prayed she thought over the life which she had\nenjoyed.\n\nSo she went on her pilgrimage uncomplaining, until she stood again\nbefore the convent-door. When she knocked, the door-keeper, who had\naged somewhat, opened and greeted her by name as indifferently as if\nshe had only been absent half an hour. Beatrix went past her into the\nchurch, and fell on her knees before the altar of the Holy Virgin, who\nbegan to speak and said, \"Thou hast stayed away rather long, my\ndaughter. I have seen to thy duties as sacristan all the time; but now\nI am very glad that thou art returned and canst take back thy keys!\"\n\nThe image leaned down, and handed the keys to Beatrix, who was both\nalarmed and delighted at the great miracle. Forthwith she set about her\nduties, saw to this and that, and when the bell rang for dinner she\nwent to table. Many of the nuns had grown old, others were dead, young\nones were newly come, and another abbess sat at the head of the table;\nbut no one suspected what had happened to Beatrix, who took her\naccustomed seat; for Mary had filled her place in the nun's own form.\n\nBut another day, when some ten years had passed, the nuns were to\ncelebrate a great festival, and agreed that each of them should bring\nthe Mother of God the finest present she could devise. So one\nembroidered a rich church-banner, another an altar-cloth, and another a\nvestment. One composed a Latin hymn, and another set it to music. A\nthird wrote and illuminated a prayer-book. Whoever could do nothing\nelse stitched a new shirt for the Christ-child, and sister cook made\nhim a dish of fritters. Only Beatrix had prepared nothing, for she was\nrather weary of life, and she lived with her thoughts more in the past\nthan in the present.\n\nWhen the feast-day came, and she had no gift to dedicate, the other\nnuns were surprised and reproached her so that she sat humbly aside as\nall the pretty things were being borne in festal procession and laid\nbefore the altar of the church, which was adorned with flowers, while\nthe bells rang out and the incense-clouds rose on high.\n\nJust as the nuns were proceeding to sing and play right skilfully, a\ngrey-headed knight passed by on his way, with eight armed youths as\nlovely as pictures, all mounted on proud steeds and attended by a like\nnumber of tall squires. It was Wonnebold with his sons, whom he was\ntaking to the Imperial army.\n\nPerceiving that high Mass was being celebrated in God's house, he\ncalled to his sons to dismount, and entered the church with them to\noffer a devout prayer to the Holy Virgin. Every one was lost in\nadmiration at the noble spectacle, as the iron greybeard knelt with the\neight youthful warriors, who looked like so many mail-clad angels; and\nthe nuns were so put off their music that for a moment it ceased\naltogether. But Beatrix recognized them all for her children, from her\nhusband, gave an exclamation and hastened to them, and, recalling\nherself to their memory, disclosed her secret, and declared the great\nmiracle which she had experienced.\n\nThen all were forced to admit that she had brought the Virgin the\nrichest gift of the day. That it was accepted was testified by eight\nwreaths of fresh oak-leaves which suddenly appeared on the young men's\nheads, placed there by the invisible hand of the Queen of Heaven.\n\n\n\n\n                       THE NAUGHTY SAINT VITALIS\n\n      Be not familiar with any woman: but in general\n         commend all good women to God.\n\n                           Thomas a Kempis, _Imitatio_ i. 8.\n\n\nAt the beginning of the eighth century there lived in Alexandria of\nEgypt an extraordinary monk, by name Vitalis, who had made it his\nparticular task to reclaim the souls of lost women from the ways of sin\nand lead them back to virtue. But the method which he pursued was so\npeculiar, and the fondness, nay enthusiasm, with which he unceasingly\nprosecuted his ends, was alloyed with such remarkable self-abasement\nand simulation, that the like was scarcely ever known in the world.\n\nHe kept an exact roll of all those wantons on a neat slip of parchment,\nand, whenever he discovered a new quarry in the city or its environs,\nhe immediately noted her name and dwelling on it; so that the naughty\nyoung patricians of Alexandria could have found no better guide than\nthe industrious Vitalis, had he been disposed to harbour less saintly\naims. As it was, the monk wormed out much news and information for his\nbusiness from his sly and frivolous conversations with them; but he\nnever suffered the scamps to pick up any information of the sort from\nhim.\n\nHe carried this directory in his cowl, rolled up in a silver case, and\ndrew it out repeatedly to add a newly-discovered light name, or to run\nover those already inscribed, count them, and reckon which of the\noccupants should have her turn next.\n\nThen he would seek her hurriedly and half ashamed, and say hastily,\n\"Keep the night after to-morrow for me, and promise no one else!\" When\nhe entered the house at the appointed time, he would leave the fair one\nstanding, and betake him to the farthest corner of the room, fall on\nhis knees, and pray fervently and at the pitch of his voice all night\nlong for the occupant of the house. In the early morning he would leave\nher, and charge her strictly not to tell any one what had passed\nbetween them.\n\nSo he went on for a good while, and got himself into very ill odour\nindeed. For while in secret, behind the closed doors of the wantons, he\nalarmed and touched many a lost woman by his fiery words of thunder and\nthe fervent sweetness of his murmured prayers, so that she came to\nherself and began to lead a holy life; in the public eye, on the\ncontrary, he appeared to have laid himself out of set purpose to merit\nthe reputation of a vicious and sinful monk, who wallowed gleefully in\nall the debaucheries of the world, and flaunted his religious habit as\na banner of shame.\n\nIf he found himself of an evening at dusk in respectable company, he\nwould exclaim abruptly, \"Oh! what am I about? I had almost forgotten\nthat the brunette Doris is waiting for me, the little dear! The deuce!\nI must be off, or she will be vexed!\"\n\nIf any one reproached him, he would cry out as if incensed, \"Do you\nthink that I am a stone? Do you imagine that God did not create a\nlittle woman for a monk?\" If any one said, \"Father, you would be better\nto lay aside your frock and marry, so as not to offend others,\" he\nwould answer, \"Let them be offended if they choose, and run their heads\nagainst a wall! Who is my judge?\"\n\nAll this he used to say with great vehemence and all the address of an\nactor, like one who defends a bad cause with a multitude of bold words.\n\nAnd he would go off and quarrel with the other suitors before the\ngirls' doors. He would even come to blows with them, and administered\nmany a rude buffet when they said, \"Away with the monk! Does the cleric\nmean to dispute the ground with us? Get out, bald-pate!\"\n\nBut he was so obstinate and persistent that in most cases he got the\nbetter of them, and slipped into the house before they knew where they\nwere.\n\nWhen he returned to his cell in the grey of the morning, he would cast\nhimself down before the Mother of God, to whose sole honour and praise\nhe undertook those adventures and drew down on himself the world's\nblame; and, did he succeed in bringing back some lost lamb and placing\nher in some holy convent, he felt more blissful in the presence of\nHeaven's Queen than if he had converted a thousand heathen. For this\nwas his very remarkable taste, to endure the martyrdom of appearing in\nthe eye of the world as an unclean profligate, while all the time Our\nUndefiled Lady in Heaven was well aware that he had never touched a\nwoman, and that he wore an invisible crown of white roses on his\nmuch-maligned head.\n\nOnce he heard of a peculiarly dangerous person, who by her beauty and\nunusual charms had occasioned much trouble, and even bloodshed,\ninasmuch as a ferocious military dandy laid siege to her door, and\nstruck down all who attempted to dispute her possession with him.\nVitalis immediately proposed the attack and conquest of this hell. He\ndid not wait to write the fair sinner's name in his list, but went\nstraight off to the notorious house, and at the door, sure enough,\nencountered the soldier, who was stalking along, clad in scarlet, and\nwith a javelin in his hand.\n\n\"Dodge aside, monkling!\" he shouted contemptuously to the pious\nVitalis. \"How dare you come sneaking about my lion's den? Heaven is\nyour place; the world is ours!\"\n\n\"Heaven and earth and all that therein is,\" said Vitalis, \"belong to\nthe Lord, and to his merry servants! Pack! you gaudy lout, and let me\ngo where I choose.\"\n\nThe warrior wrathfully raised the shaft of his javelin to bring it down\non the monk's pate; but he suddenly pulled out a peaceful olive-branch\nfrom beneath his frock, parried the blow, and smote the bully so\nroughly on the crown that he wellnigh lost his senses, after which the\nfighting cleric gave him several raps on the muzzle, until the soldier,\ncompletely dumbfounded, made off cursing.\n\nThereupon Vitalis forced his way triumphantly into the house, where, at\nthe head of a narrow staircase, the woman stood with a light in her\nhand, listening to the noise and shouting. She was an uncommonly fine\nfigure of a woman, with beautiful, strong but rather defiant, features,\nabout which her reddish hair floated in abundant loose waves, like a\nlion's mane.\n\nShe looked down contemptuously on Vitalis as he ascended, and said,\n\"Where are you going?\" \"To you, my dove!\" he answered. \"Have you never\nheard of the tender monk Vitalis, the jolly Vitalis?\" But she answered\nharshly, as she blocked the staircase with her powerful figure, \"Have\nyou money, monk?\" Disconcerted, he said, \"Monks do not carry money\nabout with them.\" \"Then trot off,\" she said, \"or I'll have you beaten\nout of the house with firebrands!\"\n\nVitalis scratched his head, completely nonplussed, for he had never\nreckoned on this happening. The creatures whom he had hitherto\nconverted had naturally thought no more of the price of iniquity, and\nthose whom he failed to convert contented themselves with hard words in\ncompensation for the precious time which he had made them lose. But\nhere he could get no footing inside to begin his pious work; and yet\nthere was something hugely attractive in the prospect of breaking in\nthis red-haired daughter of Satan; for large and beautiful figures of\nmen and women always mislead the judgement, so that we attribute\ngreater qualities to them than they really possess. In desperation he\nsearched through his frock, and came upon the silver case, which was\nadorned with an amethyst of some value. \"I have nothing but this,\" he\nsaid; \"let me in for it!\" She took the case, examined it carefully,\nthen bade him come with her. Arrived at her bedchamber, he did not\nfavour her with another glance; but knelt down in a corner after his\ncustom, and began to pray aloud.\n\nThe harlot, who believed that from force of habit the holy man meant to\nbegin his worldly performance with prayer, broke into uncontrollable\nlaughter, and sat down on her couch to look at him, for his behaviour\namused her monstrously. But as the business never came to an end, and\nwas beginning to weary her, she bared her shoulders immodestly, went up\nto him, clasped him in her strong, white arms, and pressed the good\nVitalis with his shorn and tonsured head so roughly against her breast\nthat he was like to choke, and began to gasp as if the flames of\npurgatory had taken hold of him. But it did not last long; he began to\nkick out in all directions like a young horse in a smithy, until he\nfreed himself from the hellish embrace. Then he took the long cord\nwhich he wore about his waist, and caught hold of the woman, to bind\nher hands behind her back, and have peace from her. He had to wrestle\nhard with her before he succeeded in tying her up. He bound her feet\ntogether as well, and threw the whole bundle with a mighty heave upon\nthe bed; after which he betook himself to his corner again, and\ncontinued his prayers as if nothing had happened.\n\nThe captive lioness at first turned about angrily and restlessly,\nendeavouring to release herself, and uttered a hundred curses. Then she\nbecame quieter as the monk never ceased to pray, to preach, to adjure\nher, and towards morning she uttered manifest sighs, which, as it\nseemed, were soon followed by contrite sobbing. In short, when the sun\nrose, she was lying like a Magdalene at his feet, released from her\nbonds, and bedewing the hem of his garment with tears. With dignity,\nyet with gladness, Vitalis stroked her head, and promised to pay her\nanother visit as soon as it was dark, to inform her in what convent he\nhad found a penitent's cell for her. Then he left, not forgetting first\nto impress upon her that she was to say nothing in the meantime about\nher conversion, but only tell any one who might enquire, that he had\nbeen very merry with her.\n\nBut judge of his surprise, when he reappeared at the appointed time,\nand found the door shut fast, and the female freshly bedizened in all\nher glory looking out of the window.\n\n\"What do you want, priest?\" she cried down. And in astonishment he\nanswered in an undertone, \"What does this mean, my lamb? Put away those\nsinful baubles, and let me in to prepare you for your penance.\" \"You\nwant in to me, you naughty monk?\" she said with a smile, as if she had\nmisunderstood him. \"Have you money, or money's worth, about you?\"\nVitalis stared up open-mouthed, then shook the door desperately; but it\nremained shut as fast as ever, and the woman too disappeared from the\nwindow.\n\nAt last the laughter and imprecations of the passersby drove the\napparently depraved and shameless monk away from the door of the house\nof ill fame. But his thought and endeavour ran entirely upon making his\nway into the house again, and finding some means or other to overcome\nthe devil by which the woman was possessed.\n\nAbsorbed in such thoughts, he turned his steps to a church, where,\ninstead of praying, he thought over ways and means by which he might\ncontrive to gain access to the lost woman. While thus engaged, his eye\nfell upon the box in which the charitable offerings were kept, and\nscarcely was the church deserted (it had become dark), when he burst\nthe box violently open with his fist, poured the contents, which\nconsisted of a lot of small silver coins, into his tucked-up frock, and\nhastened faster than any lover to the sinful woman's abode.\n\nA foppish admirer was about to slip in at the opening door. Vitalis\nseized him from behind by his perfumed locks, flung him into the\nstreet, slammed the door in his face as he sprang in himself, and in\nanother instant found himself once again in the presence of the\ndisreputable person, who glared at him with flaming eyes when he\nappeared instead of her expected admirer. But Vitalis promptly poured\nthe stolen money out on the table, saying, \"Is that enough for\nto-night?\" Without a word, but carefully, she counted the sum, said \"It\nis enough!\" and put it away.\n\nNow they confronted each other in the strangest fashion. Biting her\nlips to restrain a laugh, she looked at him with a simulated air of\nutter ignorance; while the monk scrutinized her with undecided and\nanxious glances, not knowing how he should begin to bring her to book.\nBut when she suddenly proceeded to alluring gestures, and made to\nstroke his dark, glossy beard, the storm of his saintly character broke\nout in all its fury, he struck her hand indignantly away, and flung her\nupon the couch so that it shook. Then kneeling upon her, and grasping\nher hands, unaffected by her charms, he began to speak home to her in\nsuch fashion that at last her obduracy seemed to soften.\n\nShe desisted from her violent struggles to free herself. Copious tears\nflowed over her strong and lovely features, and, when at length the\nzealous man of God released her, and stood erect beside her sinful\ncouch, the great form lay upon it with weary, relaxed limbs, as if\nbroken by repentance and remorse, sobbing and turning her tear-dimmed\neyes upon him, as if in astonishment at her unwilling transformation.\n\nThen the tempest of his eloquent wrath changed likewise to tender\nemotion and deep sympathy. In his heart he gave praise to his Heavenly\nprotectress, in whose honour this hardest of all his victories had been\ngained; and now his words of forgiveness and consolation flowed like\nthe mild breath of spring over the broken ice of her heart.\n\nMore delighted than if he had enjoyed the sweetest favours of love, he\nhastened thence, not to snatch a brief slumber on his hard bed, but to\nthrow himself down before the Virgin's altar, and pray for the poor\nrepentant soul until the day had fully dawned. Then he vowed not to\nclose an eye until the strayed lamb was finally safe within the shelter\nof the convent-walls.\n\nThe morning was scarcely astir when he was again on the way to her\nhouse. But he saw approaching at the same moment from the other end of\nthe street the fierce warrior, who, after a riotous night, had taken it\ninto his half-drunken head to wind up with a fresh conquest of the\nharlot.\n\nVitalis was the nearer to the unhallowed door, and he sprang nimbly\nforward to reach it. Thereupon the other hurled his spear at him, which\nburied itself just beside the monk's head in the door so that its shaft\nquivered. But, before it had ceased quivering, the monk wrenched it out\nof the wood with all his force, faced the infuriated soldier as he\nsprang towards him brandishing a naked sword, and quick as lightning\ndrove the spear through his breast. The man sank in a heap, dead, and\nVitalis was almost instantly seized and bound by a troop of soldiers,\nwho were returning from the night-watch and had seen his deed, and he\nwas led away to gaol.\n\nIn genuine anguish he looked back to the house, where he could no\nlonger accomplish his good work. The watch thought that he was simply\ndeploring his evil star which had baulked him of his wicked purpose,\nand treated the apparently incorrigible monk to blows and hard words\nuntil he was safely in ward.\n\nHe had to lie there for many days, and was several times brought before\nthe judge. True, he was at length discharged without punishment, seeing\nthat he had killed the man in self-defence. But nevertheless he came\nout of the affair with the reputation of a homicide, and every one\ncried out that now, surely, they must unfrock him. But Bishop Joannes,\nwho was then chief at Alexandria, must have had some inkling of the\nreal state of affairs, or else have cherished some deeper design; for\nhe declined to expel the disreputable monk from the clergy, and ordered\nthat for the present he was to be allowed to continue his extraordinary\ncareer.\n\nHe lost no time in returning to the converted sinner, who in the\ninterval had gone back to her old ways, and would not admit the\nhorrified and distressed Vitalis until he had appropriated another\nobject of value and brought it to her. She repented and converted a\nthird, and likewise a fourth and fifth time, for she found these\nconversions more lucrative than anything else, and moreover the evil\nspirit in her found an infernal satisfaction in mocking the poor monk\nwith an endless variety of devices and inventions.\n\nAs for him, he now became a veritable martyr inwardly and outwardly;\nfor, the more cruelly he was deceived, the more he felt compelled to\nexert himself, and it seemed to him as if his own eternal welfare\ndepended on the reformation of this one person. He was already a\nhomicide, a violator of churches, a thief; but he would rather have cut\noff his hand than part with the least portion of his reputation as a\nprofligate; and, though all this became harder and harder for his heart\nto bear, he strove all the more eagerly to maintain his wicked exterior\nin the world's eye by means of frivolous speech. For this was the\nspecial form of martyrdom which he had elected. All the same, he became\npale and thin, and began to flit about like a shadow on the wall,\nthough always with a laughing face.\n\nNow over against that house of torment dwelt a rich Greek merchant who\nhad an only daughter called Iole, who could do what she liked, and\nconsequently never knew what to do with herself all the live-long day.\nFor her father, who was retired from business, studied Plato, and when\ntired of him he would compose neat epigrams on the ancient engraved\ngems of which he had a large collection; but Iole, when she had laid\naside her music, could think of no outlet for her lively fancies, and\nwould peep out restlessly at the sky and at the distance, from every\npeep-hole she found.\n\nSo it came about that she discovered the monk's coming and going in the\nstreet, and ascertained how matters stood with the notorious cleric.\nStartled and shy, she peeped at him from her safe concealment, and\ncould not help commiserating his handsome form and manly appearance.\nWhen she learned from one of her maids, who was intimate with a maid of\nthe wicked strumpet, how Vitalis was being deceived by her, and what\nwas the real truth about him, she was amazed beyond measure, and, far\nfrom respecting his martyrdom, was overcome by a strange indignation,\nand considered this sort of holiness little conducive to the honour of\nher sex. She dreamed and puzzled over it a while, and became always the\nmore displeased, while, at the same time, her partiality for the monk\nincreased and conflicted with her wrath.\n\nAll of a sudden she resolved that if the Virgin Mary had not sense\nenough to lead the erring monk back to more respectable ways, she would\nundertake the task herself, and lend the Virgin a hand in the business,\nlittle dreaming that she was the unwitting instrument of the Queen of\nHeaven, who had now begun to intervene. Forthwith she went to her\nfather, and complained bitterly to him of the unseemly proximity of the\nlady of pleasure, and adjured him to employ his wealth in getting her\nout of the way immediately, at any price.\n\nIn obedience to her directions, the old gentleman addressed himself to\nthe person, and offered her a certain sum for her house, on condition\nthat she handed it over at once, and left the neighbourhood entirely.\nShe desired nothing better; and that same forenoon she had disappeared\nfrom the quarter, while the old merchant was sitting once more over his\nPlato and had dismissed the whole affair from his mind.\n\nNot so Iole, who was in the utmost eagerness to rid the house from top\nto bottom of every trace of its former occupant. When it was all swept\nand garnished, she had it fumigated with rare spices so that the\nfragrant clouds poured out from all the windows.\n\nThen she furnished the empty room with nothing but a carpet, a\nrose-bush, and a lamp, and, as soon as her father, who went to bed with\nthe sun, was asleep, she went across, with a wreath of roses adorning\nher hair, and took her seat alone on the outspread carpet, while two\ntrusty old servants kept watch at the door.\n\nThey turned away several night-revellers, but, whenever they saw\nVitalis approach, they hid themselves and allowed him to pass in\nunhindered by the open door. With many sighs, he climbed the stair,\nfull of fear lest he should see himself made a fool of once again, full\nof hope that he might be freed at last from this burden by the genuine\nrepentance of a creature who was hindering him from rescuing so many\nother souls. But judge of his astonishment, when he entered the room,\nand found it stripped of all the wild red lioness's trumpery, and\ninstead of her a sweet and tender form sitting on the carpet with the\nrose-bush opposite her on the floor.\n\n\"Where is the wretched creature, who used to live here?\" he exclaimed,\nlooking about him in wonder, and finally letting his eyes rest on the\nlovely apparition which he saw before him.\n\n\"She has gone out into the Desert,\" answered Iole, without looking up.\n\"There she means to live as an anchorite and do penance. It came upon\nher suddenly this morning, and broke her like a straw, and her\nconscience is awakened at last. She cried out for a certain priest\nVitalis, who could have helped her. But the spirit which had entered\ninto her would not suffer her to wait. The fool gathered all her\npossessions together, sold them, and gave the money to the poor, then\nwent off hot-foot with a hair-cloth shift, and shorn hair, and a staff\nin her hand, the way of the Desert.\"\n\n\"Glory to thee, O Lord, and praise to thy Gracious Mother!\" cried\nVitalis, his hands folded in glad devotion, while a burden as of stone\nfell from his heart. But at the same time he looked more narrowly at\nthe maiden with her rose-wreath, and said, \"Why do you call her a fool?\nand who are you? and where do you come from? and what are you about?\"\n\nAt that the lovely Iole cast her dark eyes to the ground lower than\never. She hung her head, and a bright flush of modesty spread over her\nface, for she thought shame of herself for the sad things she was going\nto say before a man.\n\n\"I am an outcast orphan, who have neither father nor mother. This lamp\nand carpet and rose-bush are the last remnants of my inheritance, and I\nhave settled in this house with them to take up the life which my\npredecessor here has abandoned.\"\n\n\"Ah, so you would--!\" the monk exclaimed, and clapped his hands. \"Just\nsee how busy the Devil is! And this innocent creature says the thing as\nindifferently as if I were not Vitalis! Now my kitten, how do you mean\nto do? Just tell me!\"\n\n\"I mean to devote myself to love and serve the men as long as this rose\nlives!\" she said, pointing hastily at the flower-pot. Still, she could\nhardly get the words out, and almost sank on the floor for shame, so\ndeeply did she droop her head. This natural modesty served the little\nrogue well; for it convinced the monk that he had to do this time with\na childish innocent, who was possessed by the Devil and was on the\npoint of jumping plump into the abyss. He caressed his beard in\nsatisfaction at having arrived on the scene so opportunely for once,\nand, to enjoy his satisfaction still longer, he said slowly and\njestingly, \"Then afterwards, my dove?\"\n\n\"Afterwards I will go, a poor lost soul, to Hell where beauteous Dame\nVenus is; or perhaps, if I meet a good preacher, I may even enter a\nconvent later on, and do penance!\"\n\n\"Better and better!\" he cried. \"That is an orderly plan of campaign,\nindeed, and not badly thought out. For, so far as the preacher is\nconcerned, he is here now, he is standing before you, you black-eyed\nDevil's tit-bit! And the convent is all ready rigged up for you, like a\nmousetrap, only you'll go into it without having sinned, do you see?\nWithout having sinned in anything but the pretty intention, which after\nall may make a very toothsome bone of repentance for you to gnaw all\nyour days, and may serve your turn. For without it, you little witch,\nyou would be too comical and light-hearted for a real penitent! But\nnow!\" he continued seriously, \"first off with the roses, and then\nlisten attentively!\"\n\n\"No!\" answered Iole, somewhat more pertly. \"I will listen first, and\nthen see whether I'll take off the roses. Now that I have once overcome\nmy womanly feelings, mere words will not suffice to restrain me until I\nknow the sin. And, without sin, I can know nothing about repentance. I\ngive you this to think over before you begin your efforts. But still I\nam willing to hear you.\"\n\nThen Vitalis began the finest exhortation he had ever delivered. The\nmaiden listened good-naturedly and attentively, and the sight of her\nhad, unknown to him, a considerable influence on his choice of\nlanguage; for the beauty and daintiness of the prospective convert were\nthemselves enough to evoke a lofty eloquence. But, as she was not the\nleast bit in earnest about the project which she had so outrageously\nadvertised, the monk's oration could not have any very serious effect\nupon her. On the contrary, a charming laugh flitted about her mouth,\nand, when he had concluded, and expectantly wiped the sweat from his\nbrow, Iole said, \"I am only half moved by your words, and cannot decide\nto give up my project; for I am only too curious to know what it is\nlike to live in sin and pleasure!\"\n\nVitalis stood as if petrified, and could not get so much as one word\nout. It was the first time that his powers of conversion had failed so\nroundly. Sighing and thoughtful, he paced up and down the room, and\ntook another look at the little candidate for Hell. The power of the\nDevil seemed to have combined in some bewildering fashion with the\npower of innocence to thwart him. But he was all the more passionately\nanxious to overcome them.\n\n\"I do not leave this place until you repent,\" he cried at length, \"not\nthough I should spend three days and three nights here!\"\n\n\"That would only make me more obstinate,\" responded Iole. \"But I will\ntake time to think, and will hear you again to-morrow night. The day\nwill soon be dawning now. Go your way. Meantime I promise to do nothing\nin the matter, and to remain in my present condition; in return for\nwhich you must promise on no account to mention me to anybody, and to\ncome here only under cover of darkness.\"\n\n\"So be it!\" exclaimed Vitalis, and took his departure, while Iole\nslipped quickly back into her father's house.\n\nShe did not sleep long, and awaited the coming evening with impatience.\nFor the monk, now that he had been so close to her throughout the\nnight, pleased her better than he had done at a distance. She saw now\nwhat a fire of enthusiasm glowed in his eyes, and how resolute all his\nmovements were, despite his monkish garments. And when she represented\nto herself his self-abnegation, his perseverance in the course he had\nonce chosen, she could not help wishing that those good qualities were\nutilized to her own pleasure and profit, in the shape of a cherished\nand faithful husband. Her project, accordingly, was to make a brave\nmartyr into a still better husband.\n\nThe next night she found Vitalis at her carpet in good time, and he\ncontinued his exertions on behalf of her virtue with undiminished zeal.\nHe had to stand all the time, except when he knelt to pray. Iole, on\nthe contrary, made herself comfortable. She laid herself back on the\ncarpet, clasped her hands behind her head, and kept her half-closed\neyes steadily fixed upon the monk as he stood and preached. Sometimes\nshe closed them as if overcome by drowsiness, and, as soon as Vitalis\nsaw this, he pushed her with his foot to waken her. But this harsh\nmeasure always turned out milder than he intended; for, as soon as his\nfoot neared the maiden's slender side, it spontaneously moderated its\nforce, and touched her tender ribs quite gently; not to mention that a\nmost unusual sensation ran along the whole length of the monk, a\nsensation which he had never before experienced in the slightest degree\nfrom any of the numerous fair sinners with whom he had had to deal.\n\nAs morning approached, Iole nodded more and more frequently, till at\nlast Vitalis exclaimed indignantly, \"Child, you are not listening! I\ncan't keep you awake. You are utterly sunk in sloth!\"\n\n\"Not so!\" she said, as she suddenly opened her eyes, and a sweet smile\nflitted across her face, as if the approaching day were already\nreflected in it. \"I have been paying attention; I am beginning to hate\nthat wretched sin, which is all the more repulsive to me that it causes\nyou vexation, dear monk; for nothing could be pleasing to me that is\ndispleasing to you.\"\n\n\"Really?\" he queried, full of joy. \"So I have really succeeded? Come\naway to the convent at once, that we may make sure of you. This time\nwe'll strike while the iron's hot.\"\n\n\"You do not understand me aright,\" Iole answered, and, blushing, cast\nher eyes again to the ground. \"I am enamoured of you, and have\nconceived a tender inclination towards you!\"\n\nFor a moment, Vitalis felt as if a hand had smitten his heart; yet he\ndid not feel that it caused him pain. Paralysed, he opened wide his\nmouth and eyes, and stood stock-still.\n\nBut Iole, blushing redder than ever, went on to say gently and softly,\n\"You must now lecture me and charm away this new mischief from me, in\norder to deliver me entirely from the malady, and I hope you may\nsucceed!\"\n\nVitalis, without saying a word, turned tail and ran out of the house.\nInstead of seeking his bed, he rushed out into the silvery grey\nmorning, and debated whether he should leave this dangerous young woman\nto her fate and have done with her, or should endeavour to cast out\nthis latest whim also, which appeared to be the most reprehensible of\nall her notions, and not altogether without danger to himself. But a\nwrathful flush of shame flew to his head at the thought that anything\nof the sort could be perilous for him. Then again it occurred to him\nthat the Devil might have set a snare for him, in which case it were\nbest to avoid it betimes. But to become a deserter in the face of such\na wisp of a temptress! And supposing the poor creature were in earnest,\nand could be cured of her latest unseemly delusion by a few rough\nwords? In short, Vitalis could not settle within himself, all the more\nthat at the bottom of his heart a dim wave was beginning to cause the\nskiff of his reason to be unsteady.\n\nIn his perplexity he slipped into a little chapel where a beautiful\nancient marble statue of the goddess Juno had recently been set up with\na golden nimbus as an image of the Virgin Mary, so as not to waste such\na gift of divine art. He cast himself down before this Mary, and laid\nhis doubts fervently before her, and prayed his patroness for a token.\nIf she nodded, he would complete Iole's conversion; if she shook her\nhead, he would desist.\n\nBut the image left him in the most cruel uncertainty, and did neither\none thing nor the other; it neither nodded nor shook its head. Only\nwhen the red gleam of some flying morning clouds passed over the\nmarble, its face seemed to smile most propitiously; whether it was that\nthe ancient goddess, as guardian deity of connubial love and chastity,\nwas giving a sign, or that the new one could not refrain from smiling\nat her adorer's troubles; for both were women at heart, and such are\nalways tickled when a love-affair is in train. But Vitalis knew nothing\nof all this. On the contrary, the beauty of the expression raised his\ncourage amazingly, and, still more remarkable to relate, the statue\nappeared to assume the features of the blushing Iole, who was\nchallenging him to expel her love of him from her mind.\n\nMeantime, at the same hour, Iole's father was strolling beneath the\ncypresses of his garden. He had acquired some very fine new gems, the\nengraving on which had brought him out of bed at that early hour. He\nwas handling them rapturously, and making them play in the beams of the\nrising sun. There was a dark amethyst, on which Luna drove her car\nthrough the heavens, unwitting that Love was squatted behind her, while\nflying Cupids called to her the Greek for \"Whip behind!\" A handsome\nonyx showed Minerva lost in meditation, holding Love on her knee, who\nwas busy polishing her breast-plate with his hand to see his own\nreflection.\n\nAnd lastly, on a cornelian, Love, in the form of a salamander, was\ntumbling about in a vestal fire and throwing its guardian virgins into\nperplexity and alarm.\n\nThese scenes tempted the old man to compose some distichs, and he was\nconsidering which he should attack first when his daughter Iole came\nthrough the garden, pale and unslept. Anxious and surprised, he called\nher to him and enquired what had robbed her of her slumbers. But,\nbefore she could answer, he began to show her his gems and explain them\nto her.\n\nAt that she heaved a deep sigh and said, \"Ah, if all those great\npowers, Chastity herself, Wisdom, and Religion, could not defend\nthemselves against Love, how is a poor insignificant creature like me\nto fortify herself against him?\"\n\nThe old gentleman was not a little astonished at these words. \"What do\nI hear?\" he said. \"Is it that the dart of mighty Eros has smitten\nthee?\"\n\n\"It has pierced me to the heart,\" she responded, \"and, if I am not in\npossession of the man whom I love within a day and a night, I shall be\nthe bride of Death!\"\n\nAlthough her father was accustomed to let her have her own way in\neverything she desired, this haste was rather too violent for him, and\nhe recommended repose and reflection to his daughter. But she had no\nlack of the latter, and she employed it so well that the old man\nexclaimed, \"So I must discharge the most unpleasant of all a father's\nduties, I must go to your choice, to your man, and lead him by the nose\nup to the best that I can call mine, and beg him to be so kind as to\ntake possession? Here is a tidy little woman, my dear sir! I pray you,\ndon't despise her! I had much rather give you a box or two on the ear,\nbut my little daughter will die, so I must be civil! So be graciously\npleased, for Heaven's sake, to taste the pasty which is offered you. It\nhas been well baked, and will fairly melt in your mouth!\"\n\n\"All that is spared us,\" said Iole, \"for, if you will only allow me, I\nhope to bring him to it that he will come himself and ask for my hand.\"\n\n\"And what if this man, whom I know nothing of, turns out to be a\nwastrel and a good-for-nothing?\"\n\n\"Then let him be driven away with scorn! But he is a saint!\"\n\n\"Then run away, and leave me to the Muses,\" said the good old man.\n\nWhen evening came, the night did not follow the dusk so promptly as\nVitalis appeared at Iole's heels in the familiar house. But he had\nnever entered the house in the same fashion as now. His heart beat, and\nhe was forced to feel what it meant to see again a person who had\nplayed such a trump. It was another Vitalis than the one who had\ndescended in the early morning, who now came up the steps, although he\nhimself was the most unconscious of the fact; for the poor converter of\nfrail women and monk of evil renown had never learned the difference\nbetween the smile of a harlot and that of an honourable woman.\n\nYet he came with the best of intentions, and with the old purpose of\ndriving all the idle notions out of the little monster's head for good\nand all. Only he had a vague idea that once his task was accomplished\nhe might be permitted a pause in his martyr activity; all at once he\nbegan to be very tired of it.\n\nBut it was determined that some new surprise should always await him in\nthat enchanted dwelling. When he entered the room, he found it\nbeautifully decorated, and furnished with all usual furniture. A\ndelicate, insidious odour of flowers pervaded the room, and was in\nkeeping with a certain modest worldliness. On a snow-white couch, not a\nfold out of place in its silk coverings, sat Iole, splendidly arrayed,\nin sweet troubled melancholy, like an angel in meditation. Under the\ntrim pleats of her robe her bosom heaved like the foam on a milking\npail, and, though the white arms, which she folded beneath her breast,\nshone so fair, yet all those charms looked so lawful and permissible in\nthe order of things that Vitalis's accustomed eloquence stuck in his\nthroat.\n\n\"You are amazed, my pretty monk,\" began Iole, \"to find all this show\nand finery here! Know that this is the farewell which I mean to take of\nthe world, and, at the same time, I will lay aside the inclination\nwhich, unfortunately, I cannot help feeling for you. But you must help\nme to this end to the best of your ability, and after the fashion that\nI have devised and request of you. I mean that when you address me in\nthese garments and as a cleric it is always the same. The bearing of a\nchurchman fails to convince me, for I belong to the world. I cannot be\ncured of love by a monk, who is unacquainted with love, and does not\nknow what he is talking about. If you really mean to afford me rest and\nput me on the way to Heaven, go into that closet, where you will find\nsecular clothes laid out ready for you. Exchange your monk's clothes\nthere for them, array yourself like a man of the world, then seat\nyourself beside me to partake of a little repast with me, and in such\nworldly externals exert all your acuteness and understanding to wean me\nfrom you and incline me to piety.\"\n\nVitalis made no reply, but bethought himself a while. Then he decided\nto end all his difficulties at one stroke, and to put the devil of this\nworld to flight with his own weapons by acceding to Iole's eccentric\nproposal.\n\nSo he actually betook himself into an adjoining closet, where a couple\nof servants awaited him with splendid garments of purple and fine\nlinen. Scarcely had he put them on, when he looked a good head taller,\nand it was with a noble mien that he strode back to Iole, who could not\ntake her eyes off him, and clapped her hands for joy.\n\nNow, however, a real miracle and a strange transformation was wrought\non the monk. For scarcely had he sat down in his worldly array beside\nthe charming woman, when the immediate past was blown away like a dream\nfrom his mind, and he forgot all about his purpose. Instead of speaking\nso much as a word, he listened eagerly to what was said by Iole, who\nhad taken possession of his hand and begun to tell him her true story,\nwho she was, where she lived, and how it was her most heart-felt desire\nthat he should give over his strange manner of life, and ask her father\nfor her hand, so that he might become a good husband, well-pleasing to\nGod. She also said many wonderful things in the most beautiful words\nabout the history of a happy and chaste love, but concluded with a sigh\nthat she saw well how hopeless her desire was, and that he was now at\nliberty to argue her out of all those ideas, but not before he had\nfortified himself duly for his task with meat and drink.\n\nThen at her signal the servants set drinking-vessels on the table\ntogether with a basket of cakes and fruits. Iole mixed a goblet of wine\nfor the silent Vitalis, and affectionately handed him something to eat,\nso that he felt quite at home, and was reminded of his childhood, when\nas a little boy he was tenderly fed by his mother. He ate and drank,\nand, when he had done so, it seemed to him as if he might now venture\nto rest from his long, weary toil, and lo! our Vitalis leant his head\nto one side, towards Iole, and without more ado fell asleep, and lay\ntill sunrise.\n\nWhen he awoke, he was alone, and no one was to be seen or heard. He\nsprang up hastily, and was horrified at the splendid garment in which\nhe was dressed. He rushed madly through the house from top to bottom,\nseeking for his monk's frock. But not the smallest trace of it could he\nfind, until he chanced to see a little heap of cinders and ashes, on\nwhich a sleeve of his priest's dress was lying half consumed, whereupon\nhe rightly concluded that there it had been solemnly burned.\n\nNext he put his head out cautiously, first at one, then at another of\nthe windows which looked on to the street, drawing it in every time\nthat any one approached. At last he flung himself down upon the silken\ncouch as comfortable and at ease as if he had never lain on a monk's\nhard bed. Then he roused himself, put his dress straight, and stole in\nhigh excitement to the street-door. There he still hesitated a moment;\nbut suddenly he flung it wide open, and went out into the world a\nmagnificent and imposing figure. No one recognized him; every one took\nhim for some fine gentleman from abroad, who was enjoying a few gay\ndays at Alexandria.\n\nHe looked neither to right nor left, else he would have seen Iole on\nher house-top. So he went straight back to his convent, where, however,\nall the monks and their superior had just resolved to expel him from\ntheir fellowship; for the measure of his iniquities was now full, and\nhe contributed only to the scandal and disgrace of the Church. The\nsight of him, actually coming among them in his worldly gallant's\nattire, knocked the bottom out of the tub of their patience; they\ndrenched him and doused him with water from all sides, and drove him\nwith crosses, besoms, pitchforks and kitchen-ladles out of the convent.\n\nOnce on a time this rough handling would have been the height of\nfelicity to him, and a triumph of his martyrdom. True, he laughed\ninwardly even now, but for a somewhat different reason. He took one\nmore stroll round about the city-walls, and let his red cloak wave in\nthe wind. A fine breeze from the Holy Land blew across the sparkling\nsea; but Vitalis was becoming more and more worldly-minded. Suddenly he\nretraced his steps into the bustling streets of the city, sought the\nhouse where Iole dwelt, and did what she wished.\n\nHe now made as excellent and complete a layman and husband as he had\nbeen a martyr. The Church, however, when she understood the real facts\nof the case, was inconsolable over the loss of such a saint, and made\nevery endeavour to recall the fugitive to her bosom. But Iole held him\nfast and gave it to be understood that he was in very good hands with\nher.\n\n\n\n\n                        DOROTHEA'S FLOWER-BASKET\n\n      To lose oneself so is rather to find oneself.\n\n                                    Franciscus Ludovicus Blosius,\n                                   _Spiritual Instruction_, c. 12.\n\n\nOn the south coast of the Euxine sea, not far from the mouth of the\nriver Halys, a Roman country-house lay in the light of the brightest of\nspring mornings. From the waters of the sea a north-east wind wafted a\nrefreshing coolness through the gardens, as grateful to the pagans and\nto the secret Christians as it was to the trembling leaves upon the\ntrees.\n\nIn a summer-house by the sea-shore, shut off from the rest of the\nworld, stood a young couple, a handsome young man with the daintiest\nmaiden imaginable. She was holding out a large, beautifully-shaped bowl\nof translucent, warm-hued marble for the youth to admire, and the\nmorning sun shone with great effect through the bowl, so that its ruddy\nglow concealed the blush on the maiden's visage.\n\nShe was Dorothea, a patrician's daughter, to whom Fabricius, governor\nof the province of Cappadocia, was paying assiduous court. But as he\nwas a bigoted persecutor of the Christians, and Dorothea's parents felt\nattracted by the new philosophy of life and were making diligent\nendeavours to adopt it, they were offering the best resistance they\ncould to the powerful inquisitor's importunity. Not that they wished to\ninvolve their children in religious controversies, or that they would\ncondescend to barter their hearts for a faith--they were too noble and\nliberal for that; but they were of opinion that a religious persecutor\nwould never make a good heart's consoler.\n\nDorothea for her part had no need of such considerations, since she\npossessed another safeguard against the governor's attentions in the\nshape of her liking for his private secretary, Theophilus, who was\nstanding beside her at that moment, and looking with interest at the\nrosy bowl.\n\nTheophilus was an exceedingly refined, cultivated man of Greek descent,\nwho had risen in spite of adverse circumstances and was held in high\nesteem by all. But the hardships of his early years had left him\nsomewhat suspicious and reserved, and, while he was satisfied with what\nhe owed to his own exertions, he was loth to believe that any one\nattached himself to him from disinterested motives. The sight of the\nyoung Dorothea was dear to him as his life, but the very fact that the\nchief man in Cappadocia was paying court to her prevented him from\ncherishing any hopes for himself, and he would not at any price have\nrun the risk of cutting a ridiculous figure beside his lordship.\n\nNevertheless, Dorothea sought to conduct her desires to a happy issue,\nand in the meantime to assure herself of his presence as often as\npossible. Because he always appeared calm and indifferent, her passion\nprovoked her to dangerous little stratagems, and she tried to move him\nby means of jealousy by pretending to be interested in the governor\nFabricius, and to be on friendly terms with him. But poor Theophilus\nwas an innocent in such tricks, and, even if he had understood them,\nwas far too proud to show any jealousy. Yet by degrees he became\ndistracted and perplexed, and sometimes betrayed himself, but always\npromptly recollected himself and recovered his reserve, so that his\ntender sweetheart had nothing for it but to proceed somewhat forcibly,\nand pull in her net unexpectedly when opportunity offered.\n\nHe was out in Pontus on state business, and Dorothea, who was aware of\nthis, had accompanied her parents from Caesarea to the country-house for\nthe spring, which had just begun. Thus she had managed, after\npainfully-devised and ingenious man[oe]uvres, to get him into the\narbour that morning, partly as if by accident, partly as if with\nfriendly intent, so that both his good luck and her good graces should\nmake him happy and confiding, as indeed they did.\n\nShe wished to show him the vase, which a kind uncle had sent her as a\nbirthday present from Trebizond. Her countenance was radiant from sheer\njoy at having her beloved beside her alone, and at being able to show\nhim something pretty, and he too was genuinely happy. Besides, there\nwas sunshine in his heart at last, so that he could no longer keep his\nlips from smiling trustfully nor his eyes from sparkling.\n\nBut the ancients have forgotten to give a name to the envious divinity,\nthe rival of gentle Eros, who, at the critical moment when good fortune\nis closest at hand, throws a veil over lovers' eyes, and twists the\nword in their mouth.\n\nAs she gave the bowl trustfully into his hands, and he asked who had\nsent it to her, a merry rashness misled her into the jest of answering\n\"Fabricius.\" She felt sure that Theophilus could not fail to see the\njoke. But, as she was unable to give her merry excited smile that shade\nof mockery at the mention of the absent one, which would have made the\njest evident, Theophilus was firmly convinced that her sweet and\ngenuine joy was due to the present and its giver, and that he had\nfallen into a nasty trap by intruding into a circle which was forbidden\nand strange to him. Confounded and ashamed, he cast down his eyes,\nbegan to tremble, and let the glittering ornament fall to the ground,\nwhere it was shivered to pieces.\n\nIn her first dismay, Dorothea forgot all about her joke, and almost\nforgot Theophilus, and could only stoop aghast to pick up the pieces,\nexclaiming \"How clumsy!\" without bestowing a look upon him; so that she\ndid not see the alteration in his features, and had no suspicion that\nhe had misunderstood her.\n\nBut, when she had risen, and, recovering herself quickly, turned\ntowards him, Theophilus had already regained his proud self-command. He\nlooked at her inscrutably and indifferently, begged almost mockingly\nfor pardon, promising her full restitution for the vase which had come\nto grief, then bowed and left the garden.\n\nPale and sorrowful she looked after his slim figure, with the white\ntoga wrapped closely about it, and his black curly head bent to one\nside as if his thoughts were already far away from her.\n\nThe waves of the silvery sea lapped soft and lazy against the marble\nsteps on the beach, all else around was still, and Dorothea's little\ndevices were at an end.\n\nWeeping, she slipped away with the collected fragments of the vase to\nhide them in her room.\n\nThey did not see each other again for many months. Theophilus returned\nat once to the capital, and when Dorothea went back there in the\nautumn, he sedulously avoided encountering her; for the mere\npossibility of meeting her alarmed and excited him. So all their\nhappiness was gone for the nonce.\n\nThe natural result was that she sought consolation in the new faith of\nher parents, and as soon as they observed this, they lost no time in\ndeciding their child in her resolution, and initiating her fully into\ntheir faith and practice.\n\nMeanwhile, Dorothea's assumed friendliness for the governor had also\nits unfortunate effect, in that Fabricius considered himself justified\nin renewing his courtship with redoubled energy. He was all the more\nsurprised, therefore, when Dorothea could scarcely endure the sight of\nhim, and he seemed to have become more repugnant to her than Misfortune\nherself. But he did not draw back on that account; rather, he increased\nhis importunity and began to quarrel with her because of her new\nfaith, and to assail her conscience as he mingled flatteries with\nthinly-veiled threats.\n\nDorothea, however, acknowledged her faith openly and fearlessly, and\nturned away from him as from an unsubstantial shadow which cannot be\nseen.\n\nTheophilus heard of all this, and how the good maiden was not having\nthe happiest life of it. What surprised him most was the news that she\nwould have nothing whatever to do with the proconsul. Although he was\nold-world or indifferent in the matter of religion, he was not offended\nat the maiden's new faith, and with his partiality for her he began to\nbe more in her company again, the better to see and hear how she was\nfaring. But in her present mood, she could speak of nothing except in\nthe tenderest and most languishing accents of a Heavenly Bridegroom\nwhom she had found, who was awaiting her in immortal beauty, to take\nher to His radiant breast, and give her the rose of eternal life, and\nso forth.\n\nHe could make neither head nor tail of this language. It offended and\nannoyed him, and filled his heart with a strange, painful jealousy of\nthe unknown God who perverted a weak woman's mind; for he could not\nunderstand and interpret the excited and enthusiastic Dorothea's\nexpressions otherwise than in the old mythological fashion. Jealousy of\na superhuman being did not hurt his pride, but it blunted his sympathy\nwith the woman who boasted of being united to deities. Yet it was\nnothing else than her unrequited love for himself that put such\nlanguage into her mouth, just as he himself had the thorn of passion\nalways fixed in his heart.\n\nMatters had dragged on thus for some little time, when Fabricius\nsuddenly pounced down. Taking advantage of renewed Imperial orders for\na persecution of Christians, he had Dorothea and her parents\nimprisoned. The daughter, however, was placed in a separate gaol, and\nput to the question about her faith. Full of curiosity, he went in\nperson and heard her loudly repudiating the ancient gods, and\nconfessing as the only Lord of the world Christ, whose betrothed bride\nshe was. At that, a savage jealousy took possession of the governor\nalso. He resolved on her destruction, and ordered her to be tortured\nand, if she still persisted, to be put to death. Then he departed. She\nwas laid on a gridiron, under which coals were fanned to a glow in such\na fashion that the heat only increased slowly. Still, it hurt her\ntender frame. She uttered stifled screams for a time, while her limbs,\nwhich were chained down to the gridiron, quivered, and tears flowed\nfrom her eyes. Theophilus, who usually refrained from taking any part\nin such persecutions, had heard of the business, and hastened to her\nfull of horror and disquiet. Forgetful of his own safety, he thrust his\nway through the gaping populace, and, when with his own ears he heard\nDorothea's low moans, he snatched a sword from a soldier's hand, and\nstood at one bound before her bed of torture.\n\n\"Does it hurt, Dorothea?\" he enquired with a bitter smile, intending to\ncut her fastenings. But she answered, feeling suddenly as if all pain\nhad left her and she were filled with the most perfect bliss, \"How\ncould it hurt me, Theophilus? It is the roses of my well-beloved\nBridegroom that I am lying upon. See! To-day is my wedding-day!\"\n\nHer lips played as if it were one of her favourite dainty jests, while\nher eyes looked at him blissfully. An unearthly radiance seemed to\nillumine her and her couch, a triumphant calm settled upon her.\nTheophilus lowered his sword, threw it from him, and once again\nretreated ashamed and confounded as on that morning in the garden by\nthe sea.\n\nThen the coals glowed red again. Dorothea sighed and longed for death.\nAnd her desire was granted; she was led away to the place of execution,\nto be beheaded.\n\nShe went to her fate with a light step, followed by the unthinking,\nshouting mob. Standing by the roadside she saw Theophilus, who never\ntook his eyes off her. Their eyes met. Dorothea stood still an instant,\nand said cheerfully, \"Theophilus, if you only knew how beautiful and\nsplendid are my Lord's rose-gardens, where I shall soon be walking, and\nhow sweet his apples taste which grow there, you would come along with\nme!\"\n\nTheophilus responded with a bitter smile: \"I'll tell you what,\nDorothea! Send me some of your roses and apples for a sample when you\nget there!\"\n\nShe gave a friendly nod, and went on her way.\n\nTheophilus followed her with his eyes until the cloud of dust, golden\nin the evening sunshine, which accompanied the procession, had vanished\nin the distance, and the street was empty and silent. Then with\nshrouded head he went home, and ascended with faltering steps to the\nhouse-top, from which there was a view out to the Argeus mountains. The\nplace of execution was situated on one of the foot-hills. He could\neasily make out a dark cluster of humanity there, and he stretched out\nhis longing arms in its direction. He fancied that in the light of the\ndeparting sun he could see the flash of the falling axe, and he dropped\ndown and lay prone on the terrace. And, as a matter of fact, Dorothea's\nhead did fall about that time.\n\nBut he had not long lain thus motionless, when a clear shining\nlightened the twilight, and pierced with blinding radiance beneath\nTheophilus's hands in which his face lay buried, and poured itself into\nhis closed eyes like liquid gold. At the same time a rare fragrance\nfilled the air. The young man arose as if pervaded by some new and\nunknown life. Before him stood a wondrous lovely boy, with golden\nringlets, clad in a star-spangled garment, and with radiant naked feet,\nbearing a small basket in no less radiant hands. The basket was filled\nwith the most beautiful roses, the like of which were never seen, and\namong the roses lay three apples of Paradise.\n\nWith an infinitely true-hearted and frank childish smile, yet not\nwithout a certain pleasant roguishness, the child said, \"This is from\nDorothea!\" put the basket in his hands with the question, \"Have you got\nit?\" and vanished.\n\nThe basket did not vanish, and Theophilus had really got it in his\nhands. He found the three apples lightly marked by two tiny teeth, as\nwas the custom among lovers in ancient times. He ate them slowly, with\nthe blazing starry heavens above him. A mighty longing permeated him\nwith a sweet fire, and, clasping the basket to his breast and\nconcealing it with his mantle, he hastened down from the house-top,\nthrough the streets and into the palace of the governor, who was\nsitting at table endeavouring to drown his wild rage in untempered\nColchian wine.\n\nWith flashing eyes, Theophilus advanced towards him, without uncovering\nthe basket, and exclaimed before the whole company, \"I declare that I\nam of the same faith as Dorothea, whom you have just now murdered. It\nis the only true faith!\"\n\n\"Then go after the witch!\" retorted the governor, who, racked by sudden\nwrath and consuming jealousy, sprang to his feet, and had his secretary\nbeheaded that same hour.\n\nThus Theophilus was, after all, united for ever to Dorothea on that\nsame day. She welcomed him with the restful look of the blessed. Like\ntwo doves, separated by the tempest, who have found each other again,\nand first fly in a wide circuit round their home, so the united pair\nswept hand in hand swiftly, swiftly, and unceasingly around the outmost\ncircles of Heaven, freed from every weight, yet still themselves. Then\nthey separated sportively and lost themselves in wide infinity, while\neach knew where the other tarried, and what the other thought, and\njoined with him in embracing every creature and all existence in sweet\nlove. Then they sought each other again with waxing desire, which knew\nno pain and no impatience. They found each other, and once more eddied\nabout, or reposed in contemplation of themselves and gazed near and far\ninto the world of infinitude. But once in blissful forgetfulness they\nventured too near the crystal habitation of the Holy Trinity, and\nentered within. There they lost all consciousness, and like twins\nbeneath a mother's heart they fell on sleep, and no doubt are sleeping\nstill, unless meantime they have been able to make their way out.\n\n\n\n\n                         A LEGEND OF THE DANCE\n\n      O virgin of Israel: thou shalt again be adorned\n      with thy tabrets, and shalt go forth in the dances....\n      Then shall the virgin rejoice in the dance, both\n      young men and old together.\n\n                                            Jeremiah, xxxi. 4, 13.\n\n\nAccording to Saint Gregory, Musa was the dancer among the saints. The\nchild of good people, she was a bright young lady, a diligent servant\nof the Mother of God, and subject only to one weakness, such an\nuncontrollable passion for the dance, that when the child was not\npraying she was dancing without fail, and that on all imaginable\noccasions. Musa danced with her playmates, with children, with the\nyoung men, and even by herself. She danced in her own room and every\nother room in the house, in the garden, in the meadows. Even when she\nwent to the altar, it was to a gracious measure rather than at a walk,\nand even on the smooth marble flags before the church-door she did not\nscruple to practise a few hasty steps.\n\nIn fact, one day when she found herself alone in the church, she could\nnot refrain from executing some figures before the altar, and, so to\nspeak, dancing a pretty prayer to the Virgin Mary. She became so\noblivious of all else that she fancied she was merely dreaming when she\nsaw an oldish but handsome gentleman dancing opposite her, and\nsupplementing her figures so skilfully that the pair got into the most\nelaborate dance imaginable. The gentleman had a royal purple robe, a\ngolden crown on his head, and a glossy black curled beard, which the\nsilvery streaks of age had touched as with distant starlight. At the\nsame time music sounded from the choir, where half-a-dozen small angels\nstood or sat with their chubby little legs hanging over the screen, and\nfingered or blew their various instruments. The urchins were very\npleasant and skilful. Each rested his music on one of the stone angels\nwith which the choir-screen was adorned, except the smallest, a\npuffy-cheeked piper, who sat cross-legged, and contrived to hold his\nmusic with his pink toes. He was the most diligent of them all. The\nothers dangled their feet, kept spreading their pinions, one or other\nof them, with a rustle, so that their colours shimmered like doves'\nbreasts, and they teased each other as they played.\n\nMusa found no time to wonder at all this until the dance, which lasted\na pretty long time, was over; for the merry gentleman seemed to enjoy\nhimself as much as the maid, who felt as if she were dancing about in\nHeaven. But when the music ceased, and Musa stood there panting, she\nbegan to be scared in good earnest, and looked in astonishment at the\nancient, who was neither out of breath nor warm, and who now began to\nspeak. He introduced himself as David, the Virgin Mary's royal ancestor\nand her ambassador. And he asked if she would like to pass eternal\nbliss in an unending pleasure-dance, compared with which the dance they\nhad just finished could only be called a miserable crawl.\n\nTo this she promptly answered that there was nothing she desired\nbetter. Whereupon the blessed King David said again that in that case\nshe had nothing more to do than to renounce all pleasure and all\ndancing for the rest of her days on earth, and devote herself wholly to\npenance and spiritual exercises, and that without hesitation or\nrelapse.\n\nThe maiden was taken aback at these conditions, and she asked whether\nshe must really give up dancing altogether. She questioned, indeed,\nwhether there was any dancing in Heaven; for there was a time for\neverything: this earth looked very fit and proper for dancing; it stood\nto reason that Heaven must have very different attractions, else death\nwere a superfluity.\n\nBut David explained to her that her notions on this subject were quite\nerroneous, and proved from many Bible texts, and from his own example,\nthat dancing was most assuredly a sanctified occupation for the\nblessed. But what was wanted just now was an immediate decision, Yes or\nNo, whether she wished to enter into eternal joy by way of temporal\nself-denial or not. If she did not, then he would go farther on; for\nthey wanted some dancers in Heaven.\n\nMusa stood, still doubtful and undecided, and fumbled anxiously with\nher finger-tips in her mouth. It seemed too hard never to dance again\nfrom that moment, all for the sake of an unknown reward.\n\nAt that David gave a signal, and suddenly the musicians struck up some\nbars of a dance of such unheard-of bliss and unearthliness that the\ngirl's soul leapt in her body, and all her limbs twitched; but she\ncould not get one of them to dance, and she noted that her body was far\ntoo heavy and stiff for that tune. Full of longing she struck her hand\ninto the king's, and made the promise which he demanded.\n\nForthwith he was no more to be seen, and the angel-musicians whirred\nand fluttered, and crowded out and away through an open window; but, in\nmischievous, childish fashion, before going, they dealt the patient\nstone angels a sounding slap on the cheeks with their rolled-up music.\n\nMusa went home with devout step, carrying that celestial melody in her\nears; and, having laid all her dainty raiment aside, she got a coarse\ngown made and put it on. At the same time, she built herself a cell at\nthe bottom of her parents' garden, where the deep shade of the trees\nlingered, made a scant bed of moss, and from that day onwards separated\nherself from all her kindred, and took up her abode there as a penitent\nand saint. She spent all her time in prayer, and often disciplined\nherself with a scourge. But her severest penance consisted in holding\nher limbs stiff and immovable; for whenever she heard a sound, the\ntwitter of a bird, or the rustling of the leaves in the wind, her feet\ntwitched, as much as to tell her they must dance.\n\nAs this involuntary twitching would not forsake her, and often seduced\nher to a little skip before she was aware, she caused her tender little\nfeet to be fastened together by a light chain. Her relatives and\nfriends marvelled day and night at the transformation, rejoiced to\npossess such a saint, and guarded the hermitage under the trees as the\napple of their eye. Many came for her counsel and intercession. In\nparticular, they used to bring young girls to her who were rather\nclumsy on their feet; for it was observed that every one whom she\ntouched at once became light and graceful in gait.\n\nSo she spent three years in her cell; but, by the end of the third\nyear, Musa had become almost as thin and transparent as a summer cloud.\nShe lay continually on her bed of moss, gazed wistfully into Heaven,\nand was convinced that she could already see the golden sandals of the\nblessed, dancing and gliding about through the azure.\n\nAt last, one harsh autumn day, the tidings spread that the saint lay on\nher death-bed. She had taken off her dark penitential robe, and caused\nherself to be arrayed in bridal garments of dazzling white. So she lay\nwith folded hands, and smilingly awaited the hour of death. The garden\nwas all filled with devout persons, the breezes murmured, and the\nleaves were falling from the trees on all sides. But suddenly the\nsighing of the wind changed into music, which appeared to be playing in\nthe tree-tops, and, as the people looked up, lo! all the branches were\nclad in fresh green, the myrtles and pomegranates put out blossom and\nfragrance, the earth decked itself with flowers, and a rosy glow\nsettled upon the white, frail form of the dying saint.\n\nThat same instant, she yielded up her spirit. The chain about her feet\nsprang asunder with a sharp twang, Heaven opened wide all around, full\nof unbounded radiance, so that all could see in. Then they saw many\nthousands of beautiful young men and maidens in the utmost splendour,\ndancing circle upon circle farther than the eye could reach. A\nmagnificent king, throned on a cloud with a special band of six small\nangels seated on its edge, bore down a little way towards earth, and\nreceived the form of the sainted Musa from before the eyes of all the\nbeholders who filled the garden. They saw, too, how she sprang into the\nopened Heaven, and immediately danced out of sight among the jubilant,\nradiant circles.\n\nThat was a high feast-day in Heaven. Now the custom--to be sure, it is\ndenied by Saint Gregory of Nyssa; but it is stoutly maintained by his\nnamesake of Nazianza--the custom on feast-days was to invite the Nine\nMuses, who sat for the rest of their time in Hell, and to admit them to\nHeaven, that they might be of assistance. They were well entertained;\nbut, once the feast was over, had to go back to the other place.\n\nWhen now the dances and songs and all the ceremonies had come to an\nend, and the Heavenly company sat down, Musa was taken to a table\nwhere the Nine Muses were being served. They sat huddled together\nhalf-scared, glancing about them with their fiery black or dark-blue\neyes. The busy Martha of the gospels was caring for them in person; she\nhad on her finest kitchen-apron and a tiny little smut on her white\nchin, and was pressing all manner of good things on the Muses in the\nfriendliest possible way. But when Musa and Saint Caecilia and some\nother artistic women arrived, and greeted the shy Pierians cheerfully\nand joined their company, they began to thaw, grew confidential, and\nthe feminine circle became quite pleasant and happy. Musa sat beside\nTerpsiehore, and Caecilia between Polyhymnia and Euterpe, and all took\none another's hands. Next came the little minstrel urchins, and made up\nto the pretty women, with an eye to the bright fruit which shone on the\nambrosial table. King David himself came and brought a golden cup, out\nof which all drank, so that gracious joy warmed them. He went round the\ntable in high good-spirits, not omitting, as he passed, to chuck pretty\nErato under the chin. While things were going on so famously at the\nMuses' table, our Gracious Lady herself appeared in all her beauty and\ngoodness, sat down a few minutes beside the Muses, and kissed the\naugust Urania with the starry coronet tenderly upon the lips, when she\ntook her departure, whispering to her that she would not rest until the\nMuses could remain in Paradise for ever.\n\nBut that never came about. To declare their gratitude for the kindness\nand friendliness which had been shown them, and to prove their good\nwill, the Muses took counsel together and practised a hymn of praise in\na retired corner of the under-world. They tried to give it the form of\nthe solemn chorals which were the fashion in Heaven. They arranged it\nin two parts of four voices each, with a sort of principal part which\nUrania took, and they thus produced a remarkable piece of vocal music.\n\nThe next time that a feast-day was celebrated in Heaven, and the Muses\nagain rendered their assistance, they seized what appeared to be a\nfavourable moment for their purpose, took their places, and commenced\ntheir song. It began softly, but soon swelled out mightily. But in\nthose regions it sounded so dismal, almost defiant and harsh, yet so\nwistful and mournful, that first of all a horrified silence prevailed,\nand next the whole assembly was seized with a sad longing for earth and\nhome, and broke into universal weeping.\n\nA sigh without end throbbed through Heaven. All the Elders and Prophets\nhastened up in dismay, while the Muses, with the best of intentions,\nsang louder and more mournfully, and all Paradise with the Patriarchs\nand Elders and Prophets, and all who ever walked or lay in the green\npastures, lost all command of themselves. Until at last, the High and\nMighty Trinity Himself came to put things right, and reduced the\ntoo-zealous Muses to silence with a long, reverberating peal of\nthunder.\n\nThen quiet and composure were restored to Heaven. But the poor Nine\nSisters had to depart, and never dared enter it again from that day.\n\n\n\n                                THE END\n\n\n\n\n                                CONTENTS\n\n\n      Introduction\n\n      Eugenia\n\n      The Virgin and the Devil\n\n      The Virgin as Knight\n\n      The Virgin and the Nun\n\n      The Naughty Saint Vitalis\n\n      Dorothea's Flower-Basket\n\n      A Legend of the Dance\n\n\n\n     GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE\n                              AND CO. LTD.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                              MEISTERWERKE\n                           IN TASCHENAUSGABEN\n\n\n                With Introductions by Richard M. Meyer,\n                    Professor at Berlin University.\n\nThis series is intended to supply readers of German with some of the\ngreatest works of German literature, and these only, printed in an\nattractive, handy, and cheap form in accordance with English tastes,\nbut edited by a great German critic.\n\nThe volumes are printed in Roman type; as there is no doubt the study\nof German in this country has been much hindered hitherto by fear of\ndamage to the eyes from reading Gothic type.\n\n\n                                _Ready_.\n\n\n1.--Goethe. Die Wahlverwandschaften.\n2.--Ludwig. Zwischen Himmel und Erde.\n\n\n                           _In Preparation_.\n\n\n3.--Schiller. Der Geisterseher und andere Erzaehlungen.\n\n\n                         _Others will follow_.\n\n\n                        _Price of each volume:_\n\n      _cloth, gilt top, 1s. net; leather limp, gilt top, 2s. net_;\n                          _postage 2d. extra_.\n\n\n                 LONDON & GLASGOW; GOWANS & GRAY, LTD.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                           DIE MEISTERSTUeCKE\n                          DER DEUTSCHEN LYRIK\n\n                    With Introductions and Notes by\n\n                           Richard M. Meyer,\n\n                    Professor at Berlin University.\n\n\nThis new series will contain only the finest lyrics in the German\nlanguage. Believing that, other things being equal, a native critic is\nthe best judge of his country's writers, the publishers have entrusted\nthe editing of the series to Dr. Meyer, of Berlin University, one of\nthe most eminent living authorities on German literature. The _format_\nis uniform with that of \"Les Chefs-d'[Oe]uvre de la Poesie lyrique\nfrancaise,\" which have already proved very successful, not least in\nFrance itself.\n\n\n                                _Ready_.\n\n\n1.--Die Meisterstuecke des deutschen Volks- und Kirchenliedes.\n\n2.--Die Meisterstuecke der vorgoethischen Lyrik.\n\n3-4.--Die lyrischen Meisterstuecke von Goethe. _Zwei Baende_.\n\n\n                           _In Preparation_.\n\n\n5.--Die lyrischen Meisterstuecke von Schiller.\n\n\n                        _Price of each volume_:\n\n           _in parchment cover, 6d. net; in cloth, 1s. net_;\n               _in leather, 2s. net; postage, 1d. extra_.\n\n\n                 LONDON & GLASGOW; GOWANS & GRAY, LTD.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                       LES CHEFS-D'[Oe]UVRE DE LA\n                        POESIE LYRIQUE FRANCAISE\n\n\n             Selected, with Biographical Introductions, by\n\n                           Auguste Dorchain,\n\n                 the well-known French Poet and Critic.\n\n\n                           _In Preparation_.\n\n\n1.--Les Chefs-d'[Oe] uvre lyriques de Villon, de Marot, et des autres\nPoetes anterieurs a Ronsard.\n\n\n                                _Ready_.\n\n\n2.--Les Chefs-d'[Oe]uvre lyriques de Ronsard et de son Ecole.\n\n3-4.--Les Chefs-d'[Oe]uvre lyriques de Malherbe et de l'Ecole classique\n[de Ronsard a Chenier]. _Deux volumes_.\n\n5.--Les Chefs-d'[Oe]uvre lyriques d'Andre Chenier.\n\n6.--Les Chefs-d'[Oe]uvre lyriques de Marceline Desbordes-Valmore.\n\n12.--Les Chefs-d'[Oe]uvre lyriques d'Alfred de Musset.\n\n\n                         _Others will follow_.\n\n\nThese pretty little volumes contain the best poems, and those only, of\nthe authors included.\n\n\n                        _Price of each volume_:\n\n\n           _in parchment cover, 6d. net; in cloth, 1s. net_;\n               _in leather, 2s. net; postage, 1d. extra_.\n\n\n                 LONDON & GLASGOW; GOWANS & GRAY, LTD.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                       CHEFS-D'[Oe]UVRE DE POCHE\n\n\n                               Edited by\n\n                           Auguste Dorchain.\n\n\nThis series has been inaugurated with the object of providing readers\nof French all the world over with some of the great masterpieces of\nFrench literature in an attractive form. The cheap reprints that are\npublished in France are not always neat, according to British tastes,\nand the publishers believe that their attempts to supply reprints at\nonce cheap and pretty will be appreciated.\n\n\n                                _Ready_.\n\n\n1.--Balzac. Eugenie Grandet.\n\n2.--A. de Musset. La Confession d'un Enfant du Siecle.\n\n3.--Balzac. Ursule Mirouet.\n\n\n                           _In Preparation_.\n\n\n4.--Mme de La Fayette. La Princesse de Cleves.\n\n\n                         _Others will follow_.\n\n\n                        _Price of each volume_:\n\n\n      _cloth, gilt top, 1s. net; leather limp, gilt top, 2s. net_;\n                          _postage 2d. extra_.\n\n\n                 LONDON & GLASGOW; GOWANS & GRAY, LTD.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Seven Legends","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":30022}