The Fiery Angel (38 page)

This cheerful state of mind lasted in me for nearly the whole day, and only towards evening was it replaced by a certain weariness, principally because we rode too slowly with many halts for rest and refreshments. Only in twilight did we at last achieve the goal of all our travel: the convent of Saint Ulf, though a smart rider could have galloped there from the castle of von Wellen in two, or two and a half hours at most. When before me rose the quadrangular wall of the nunnery, circled by a moat like a knightly castle, I had no other thought but that the rest of night was near, and no prophetic excitement warned me of what was awaiting me behind those walls. Without paying any attention I listened to one of the monks, who explained that the convent was founded three centuries before by the pious Elisabeth of Löthringen, who vied with Saint Clara in sanctity, that unique holy relics were preserved in its sacristies, such as the cloth with which the loins of the Saviour were wound as He hung on the cross—and never could I have imagined to myself that, for ever, with chains of remembrance that will never rust, my soul was to be bound to one of the cells of this retreat.

As here also the messengers had given warning of the approach of the Archbishop, so everything was prepared even before our arrival, so that those arriving were able to spend the night not without comfort. The Archbishop himself, and some of his suite, rode straight to the nunnery; for the majority of his train the houses of the nearest village, Altdorf, were cleaned and adorned, and for Count Adalbert our men began to pitch a camp tent, as if we had been on a military march. Here and there were fired large tar barrels, which made the country round blaze strangely light, and the black images of men and horses swaying in this unruly glare seemed monstrous spirits fresh from Hell, assembled in some fairy valley.

When, having executed various commissions, I found the Count’s tent, he was already there and rested, lying on the spread skin of a bear. Seeing me, he asked:

“Well, Rupprecht, are you much tired from the march?”

I replied that I was as much a landsknecht as a humanist, and that if all marches were executed with as many conveniences as this one, there would be no more pleasant craft than the military.

The Count gave orders that I should always have ink and pens in readiness, in case he, like Julius Cæsar, should take it into his head to dictate during the expedition, and then he mentioned casually:

“By the way, this will interest you, Rupprecht, for you love everything that relates to the Devil or any kind of magic. Do you know what heresy has manifested itself in this convent before which we have just arrived with such a host? I have only just been told myself. The trouble is that a new sister has entered the convent, with whom is present without respite some say an angel, some a demon. Certain of the sisters worship her as a saint, others curse her as one possessed and an ally of the Devil. The whole convent is divided into two parties, like the Blues and Greens of Byzantium, and all the district has taken sides in the squabble, the knights of the neighbouring castles, the yokels of the near-by villages, clergymen, monks. The Mother Abbess has lost all hope of mastering the upheaval, and now it is for the Archbishop and ourselves to decide whose agency is here: angel or demon? or simply the general ignorance.”

Only when this narrative was ended did a first foreboding startle me in my heart, and at once a confused excitement wrapped my soul, as objects are enveloped by black smoke. Something familiar breathed upon me from the words of the Count, and with a sinking in my voice I asked whether the name of that new nun had been mentioned, with whose advent in the convent these miracles had begun.

Having thought a little the Count answered:

“I have remembered: she is called Maria.”

This reply quietened me on the surface, but somewhere, in the depths of my spirit, the secret alarm continued. And falling asleep upon my outspread cloak, I was unable to rid myself of the memories of that day when, in a wayside inn, I had been awakened by the pleading voice of a woman, penetrating from the neighbouring room. By reflections of the mind I tried to bring myself to reason, arguing that there was none around me but monks and warriors, but still, as I dropped off to sleep, it seemed to me as though soon I should hear the summons of Renata.

And this foreboding did not deceive me, for the very next day I was once more to see her, whom already I thought lost for ever.

T
HE morning of the following day was bright and clear, and, walking out early in the fields, I sat down on an eminence that sloped gently downwards to a small stream that separated our camp from the convent, which I began to study diligently. It was a very ordinary convent, of a type of which many examples were erected in olden days, without any regard for beauty of construction, and surrounded by thick walls that enclosed the rude buildings of the cells and a chapel, of primitive pointed architecture, within their quadrangle. Though I could see, from my height, not only the yard, which was very tidily and cleanly kept, and the cemetery with its sand-strewn paths round the graves, but also the porches of the separate dwellings, yet the hour was so early that all was deserted and the first Mass not yet begun. And I sat thus for a considerable time, like a spy studying the way into an enemy city, but all the while wrapped in thoughts nebulous and inexpressible, like the impressions of a forgotten dream.

My musings were interrupted by Brother Thomas, who had approached unheard, and who greeted me like an old friend, and, however I might have regretted the thought of my solitude being thus disturbed, I was almost glad of the occasion, for it at once occurred to me that I should be able to learn details of Sister Maria from the inquisitor: for, indeed, that dark uneasiness had not quitted my soul. Brother Thomas, however, instead of answering any of my questions, embarked upon a long and hypocritical sermon on the dissipation of the age, and began verbosely to complain that the Protestants were being encouraged by the Princes of the Church themselves. Thus, dropping his voice as though someone might overhear us, he informed me that the Archbishop of Köln, Herman, maintained a friendship with Erasmus, and yet more, had for long been lenient to the heretics of Paderborn, and that even our own Archbishop Iohann, in whose suite we now both were, had not disdained to conclude an alliance with Philip of Hessen, an avowed Lutheran. It is quite possible that all these calumnies and reports were motivated by the hope of hearing reports on others, on our Count for instance, from me in my turn, but I was very careful with my answers, and continually strove to change the matter of our conversation, wheeling it round to the events for the sake of which all our journey had been undertaken.

At last Brother Thomas said to me:

“Many praise Sister Maria as a saint, and assert that she possesses the gift of healing the sick by an imposition of her hands, like the most holy king of France. My modest experience whispers to me, however, that the sister is in league with the Devil, who has gained her confidence by appearing to her at nights in the shape of an incubus. This sin, to my regret, penetrates more and more frequently into holy communities, and not for nothing is it said, in the Scriptures, of the sinner: Behold, thou restest in the law and makest thy boast of God.” The Prince-Archbishop hopes to expel the evil spirit by the power of prayers and exorcisms, but I fear, to my regret, that it may be necessary to have recourse to questioning and torture to expose the sinful soul and find the accessories to her crime.”

I could extract no more from the inquisitor, and our conversation soon ended, for the ringing of bells sounded from the nunnery, calling to prayer. From our height it was possible to perceive the sisters emerging from the doors of the separate buildings, and making their way in long files across the courtyard to the chapel; but in vain did I peer at the tiny figures, which, owing to the distance and the fact that they were clad in the similar all-grey habits of the Clarissian order, looked all alike each other, and resembled the marionettes of a street theatre. When the last of them had been swallowed by the gaping mouth of the chapel doors, and the sounds of the organ were floating towards us, Brother Thomas and I took leave of each other: he went to hear the Mass, I to seek the Count.

I found the Count already fully dressed and in the gayest of humours, which I tried artfully to exploit in order to penetrate with his connivance into the nunnery. Knowing with what bait it was easiest to hook him, I reminded him of the views upon demons of the most illustrious and celebrated Hemistus Pleton, who believed in their reality, holding that they were gods of the third degree, who, having obtained grace of Zeus, used it to protect, strengthen and uplift mankind. I also pointed out to the Count the possibility that certain of the gods of antiquity, having survived the passage of centuries, might have reached to our days, no other than Poggio Braccolino, for example, having related of the ancient god Triton being caught upon the shores of Dalmatia, where the local washerwomen beat him to death with drubbers. With this and kindred considerations I tried to rouse in the Count an interest in the events at the convent, and at last, for in any case, even, it behoved him to be in attendance on the Archbishop, he declared to me, half-laughingly:

“Very well then, Rupprecht! If you are so taken up with these angels and demons who inhabit the poor nuns, let us go and investigate the matter on the very spot. Only, mark you, neither Cicero nor Horace has ever narrated of anything like it.”

Without delay we walked out of the tent, made our way down to the valley of the rivulet, crossed it, dancing about like hauklers, across two wobbling logs, and soon we were already at the convent gates, where the portress nun respectfully rose at our approach, and bowed low to the noble knight, almost to the earth. The Count ordered that we be brought to the Mother Superior of the convent, with whom he was slightly acquainted, and the portress conducted us across the yard and across a small garden, to a wooden dwelling standing by itself, up a rickety staircase leading to its upper floor, and, slipping first through a door, then held it open, bowing low and once more inviting us to enter. This short journey, the passage from the tent of the Count to the cell of the Mother Superior, has for some reason engraved itself in my memory in a remarkable way, as if some etcher had etched its image into my memory, so that now there stands out clearly before me every twist and turn of the path, each prospect changing as it twisted, the shrubbery on its flanks.

The cell of the Mother Superior was not spacious, and was all occupied with furniture, antique and heavy, with a multitude of sacred images everywhere: statues of the Virgin Mary, crucifixes, rosaries, various pious pictures hanging on the wall. When we entered, the Mother Superior, a woman of already exceedingly advanced age, whose name in her holy order was Martha, but who was sprung from a wealthy and noble house, was seated, as if weakened, in a deep arm-chair, at her side stood only her sister attendant, but opposite her stood Brother Thomas like a promoter, having found time to squeeze even into here. The Count very respectfully named himself, recalling to memory their former acquaintanceship, and the Mother Superior, despite her declining years, also greeted him, probably in accordance with the statutes of the convent, by a profound obeisance.

At last, after the many other politenesses required by what the Italians call
bel parlare
, we all took our places, the Count seated himself in another chair opposite the Mother Superior, and Brother Thomas and I stood behind him, as if of his suite. Only then, after all was done, did the conversation turn to its true focus, and the Count begin to question Mother Martha about Sister Maria.

“Ah, much honoured Count!”—replied Mother Martha—“That which I have lived through in the past two weeks is that which, with the mercy of God, I never expected to live through in the convent entrusted to my care. It is now for nigh on fifteen years that, to the measure of my feeble forces, I have been tending the flock of my sheep, and during all that time our convent has been the pride and ornament of the countryside, yet it is now become an infection and a cause of strife. Let me tell you, even now there are persons who fear to approach the walls of our convent, affirming that the Devil, or more, a host of evil spirits, inhabits it.”

On hearing these words, the Count began to insist politely that the Mother Superior should relate all the recent events to us in detail, and not at once; and not willingly, she came at last to a minute narration, that I render here in my own phrases, for her speech was too long-winded and not altogether skilful.

About a month and a half before, as Mother Martha told us, there had come to her an unknown maiden, calling herself Maria and begging of her to be allowed to stay in the convent, if only in the position of the least among the servants. The stranger had pleased the Mother Superior by her modesty and by the reasonableness of her speech, so, taking pity on the homeless wanderer, who had brought with her no chattels whatever, she had permitted her to live in the nunnery. From the very first days the new novice, Maria, had shown an unusual zeal in her attendance at all the church services, and a frenzied ecstasy in prayer, after spending the whole night until the first Mass on her knees before the Crucifix. At the same time, it had soon been observed that a multitude of miraculous manifestations surrounded Maria; for now beneath her fingers flowers would untimely open on winter stems, now she would be seen in the darkness, radiant with some light as if with a halo, now, when she prayed in church, there would sound at her side a soft voice coming from invisible lips and singing a holy canticle, now on her palms would appear holy stigmata, as if she had been nailed to a cross. At the same time the gift of miracles had manifested itself in Maria, and she had begun to cure all the ailing by her touch alone, so that the diseased had begun to flock to the convent from the surrounding villages in ever greater and greater numbers. Then the Mother Superior had questioned Maria, asking by what power she performed these miracles, and the latter had revealed that she was unceasingly followed by an angel, who advised her and instructed her in the performance of her labours of faith, and she had explained it all so sincerely and openly that it had been difficult to doubt her confession. And the sisters of the convent, made enthusiastic by her miraculous abilities, with which were coupled extreme modesty and respect towards all, had become filled with burning love for her, rejoicing that so holy a maiden had entered into their community, and already thinking of her, of course, not as a novice, but as their equal, or even as the first among them.