Hoffmann E.T.A. - The Elixir of the Devil

WILLINGLY would I lead thee, gentle reader, under the shadow of the plane-trees beneath whose leafage I read for the first time the marvellous story of Brother Medardus. Thou wouldst then sit with me upon the same bench of stone half-buried in the wealth of sweet-smelling shrubs and many-coloured flowers; thou wouldst, like me, look forth in longing to the blue mountains in the distance, as they tower up in wondrous forms beyond the sunny vale, spread out where ends our leafy avenue. But turn thy face and thou shouldst see, scarce twenty steps behind us, a Gothic building whose porch is richly decked with marble statues. Through the dark mass of the plantains’ boughs pictures of saints look down upon us, with life within their eyes; these are the frescoes with which the broad expanse of wall is mantled. The sun rests blood-red on the mountain-tops, the evening breeze is stirring, and everywhere is life and motion. In rushing whispers, mysterious voices sound among the shrubs and trees, re-echoing everywhere like the ever rising sound of chant and organ. Solemn men, in broadly-flowing garments, their pious gaze directed towards an unknown world, pace in silence through the boscage of the garden. Have the saintly pictures stepped down to life from their lofty settings? Thou art entwined in the mystic web of the legendary stories there portrayed; it seems to thee as though each incident were passing before thy very eyes, and thou lendest gladly thy belief.

In these surroundings read thou the story of Medardus, and thou wilt hold the wondrous visions of the monk for more than the unruly antics of an overheated fantasy.

Since thou now hast seen, my gentle reader, the holy pictures, the cloister and the monks, I need scarcely tell thee that it is the princely garden of the Capucins at B – into which I have led thee.

It was after I had spent a few days in this cloister that the reverend Prior showed to me, after much importunacy on my part, the papers which Brother Medardus had left as a legacy to the monastery. Indeed, the old man said that the papers rightly should have been destroyed. It is not without some fear that thou shouldst share in his opinion that I now give to thee, my gentle reader, these papers in the following volume. Yet if thou shouldst decide to journey with Medardus, as his trusty companion, through the hidden by-ways of the party-coloured world, and with him to bear the awe and terror, the madness and the mockery of his life, then shalt thou find, perchance, among the varied pictures of this camera obscura, somewhat for thine own entertainment. It may even be that what seems at first to thee as void of form shall take on clearness and a rounded shape when once the penetration of thine eye grows sharper. Thou seest now the hidden seed, born once of darkest destiny, shoot up to a luxuriant plant, spreading its rank tendrils around in thousands, until one

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bloom, ripening to fruit, draws to itself the life-sap of the plant and kills the seed itself.

After I had diligently perused the papers of the Capucin Medardus – no light task, mark thou, for the holy brother’s characters were small and monkish, scarcely legible – it seemed to me as though that which we commonly call dream and fancy might well be the symbolism of the secret thread that runs throughout our lives, knitting each incident in intimate relation, yet that he must be accounted as one lost who should think that the knowledge of this symbolism can win for him the might to break with violent hand that thread, and try conclusions with the mysterious power that rules our footsteps.

Perchance, my reader, thou art of like mind with me; and this, for many a cogent reason, I wish right heartily!

CHAPTER I.

I HAVE never heard from my mother what was the station in life of my father; but when I call to mind all that she has told me of him, even from my earliest childhood, I am forced to believe that he was a man well versed both in the science of life and more recondite knowledge. From these narrations, and from occasional utterances of my mother, bearing upon former circumstances that have only at this distance of time become comprehensible to me, I recognize that my parents fell from a condition of comfort, and even luxury, to the direst stress of poverty, and that my father, once tempted by Satan to most heinous crime, had committed a mortal sin, the which, when in later years the grace of God had illuminated his soul, he endeavoured to expiate by a pilgrimage to the holy Linden-Tree that rears its boughs in cold and distant Prussia.

It was on this tedious journey that, after many years of marriage, my mother felt for the first time that it would not, as my father feared, prove barren. Despite his penury, my father’s heart was filled with joy, for now he saw the approaching fulfilment of a vision in which St. Bernard had promised him atonement of his sin through the birth of a son. In the precincts of the holy Linden my father fell sick, and the less he would consent to diminish the severity of his penance for reason of his weakness, the more his malady gained the upper hand, so that at last he died, absolved and comforted, at the same moment in which myself was born.

The very earliest of my conscious recollections group themselves around the well-loved cloisters and the church of the holy Linden. I hear e’en now the whispers of the shady forest – still lingers around me the scent of the luxuriant grasses and many-coloured flowers that formed my cradle. No savage beasts, no poisonous insects find their home within the sanctuary of the saintly men; no buzz of fly or chirp of cricket breaks the sacred hush in which alone the pious hymns of the priests resound, as the long procession winds its way,

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accompanied by pilgrims swinging golden thuribles from which mounts up the scent of consecrated incense. I can see still in the midst of the church the silver-encrusted stem of the Linden on which the angels set the wonder-working image of the Holy Virgin. Still smile on me the brilliant forms of angels and of saints, looking down from wall and roof of the church!

The tales my mother told me of the wonderful cloister, where her piercing agony found grace and consolation, have sunk so deep into my soul that I seem, myself, to have seen and passed through it all, although it is impossible that my memory should reach so far back, seeing that my mother left the holy place when but one year and a half had elapsed. Thus, too, I fancy that I myself once saw in the deserted church the wondrous figure of a man of solemn mien, the stranger painter who, countless years ago, appeared when first the church was built, whose speech no man could understand, whose practised hand it was that decked it with its noble pictures in the briefest span of time, and who vanished out of sight when once his work was done. I remember also an old pilgrim clad in foreign garb, with long grey beard, who often bore me in his arms to the woods, and sought for me many a delicate moss and bright-hued stone; yet again I am convinced that it is only by my mother’s description that his living picture was stamped upon my inner vision.

Once he brought with him a strange and lovely child, of like age with myself. Clasping and kissing one another we sat among the grass; I gave him all my pretty stones and he cunningly arranged them on the ground in countless figures, yet ever did they frame at last – the cross. My mother sat beside us on a bench of stone, the old man, standing beside her, watched our childish play with a look of earnest mildness.

Some young men broke in upon our quiet, their appearance and their clothing indicating that curiosity alone had brought them to the holy Linden. One of them, on seeing us, cried out in sport: “See! a Holy Family. A subject for my sketch-book!” He brought forth paper and pencil and set to work to draw the picture, when the old pilgrim raised his head and said in bitter scorn:

“Wretched scoffer! Thou wouldst fain be an artist, and yet hast never felt within thee the flame of Faith and Love. Thy works shall remain dead and feelingless as thyself, and thou shalt despair in lonely solitude, and perish in thine own mind-waste!”

The youths rushed in terror from the spot.

The old pilgrim then addressed my mother: “I have brought you to-day a wondrous child, that he might kindle in your son the spark of Love; yet must I take him once more from you, and you will see neither him nor me again. Your son is richly gifted, but the sin of his father festers and ferments within his blood. He may, however, raise himself

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to the rank of a mighty champion of Belief; therefore let him enter the service of God!”

My mother could never find words sufficient to express the deep and lasting impression which this address of the pilgrim produced upon her. However, she determined to put no violence upon my inclination and to await in silent expectation the destiny that might direct my path; for she could not hope for any higher education for me than that which she herself could give me.

My recollections of clearer, personal experience date from the time when my mother, on her homeward journey, had reached the Cistercian Nunnery, whose Princess-Abbess received her with all friendliness, having known my father. The space of time from the encounter with the old pilgrim – which indeed I remember from my own eye-witness, saving only the words of the painter and the pilgrim with which my mother rounded off the incident – until the moment when my mother took me for the first time to the Abbess, is a complete void; not the slightest glimmering of it remains to me. I only recall myself from the time when my mother prepared my clothing, as best she could, for the purpose of this visit. She bought new ribands in the town and trimmed my unruly locks; she decked me out with loving care, and cautioned me to be on my best behaviour with the Lady Abbess.

At last, my hand within my mother’s, I mounted the broad stone steps and entered the lofty, domed apartment, adorned with saintly pictures, in which we found the Princess, a fine, majestic, lovely woman. to whom the garment of her order lent a dignity that inspired respect. She gazed on me with a look that pierced my inmost mind, and asked: “Is this your son?”

Her voice, her whole appearance – even the novelty of the surroundings, the lofty chamber and the pictures – all worked so much upon my feelings that, seized with an inner awe, I commenced to weep bitterly, Looking kindly upon me, the Princess said: “What is it, child? Art thou afraid of me? How call you your son, dear Madam?” “Franz,” answered my mother. In deep distress the Princess cried, “Franciscus!” and took me up and clasped me to her breast; but at the same moment a sharp pain that I felt in my neck forced from me a cry of anguish, so that the Princess, shuddering, set me free, and my mother, completely disconcerted by my behaviour, rushed to me to bear me forthwith from the room. This the Princess would not allow; it appeared that the diamond cross which she bore upon her breast had pressed so sharply on my neck, in her embrace, that the spot was stained with red from suffusion of blood. “Poor Franz,” said the Princess, “I have pained thee; yet will. we still be best of friends.”

A Sister brought in cakes and sweet wine, and, soon recovering from my shyness, I forgot my smart and fell to valiantly upon the dainties which the Princess herself placed in my mouth, taking me upon her lap.

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As soon as I had tasted a few drops of the sweet drink, to me an unknown luxury, my courage returned, and with it the liveliness which my mother always told me was my peculiar characteristic from earliest childhood. I laughed and prattled, to the delight of the Abbess and of the Sister who had remained in the chamber. For some inexplicable reason, my mother bade me tell the Princess of the marvels of my birth-place. As though inspired by a higher Power, I described the pictures, painted by the unknown artist as vividly as if their impress had sunk into my deepest soul. I then related the glorious legends of the Saints, as though I were already well versed in all the archives of the church.

The Princess and my mother gazed on me in astonishment, but the longer I talked the higher rose my inspiration, and when, at last, the Princess asked: “Tell me, dear child, how dost thou know all this?” without a moment’s thought I answered that the miraculous child whom once a strange pilgrim had brought to me had explained to me all the pictures in the church, and had itself set forth many a picture in coloured stones, not only telling me its meaning, but relating countless other legends of the Saints.

The vesper-bell rang forth, and the Sister pressed on me a packet of sweet cakes, which I received with delight. The Abbess rose and said to my mother: “I look upon your son as my own pupil, dear Madam, and will from henceforth see to his welfare.” My mother, deeply moved, could not reply, and covered the Princess’s hands with tears and kisses. We were almost at the door when the Princess followed us, lifted me once more and, carefully thrusting on one side the cross, pressed me to her bosom, weeping hot tears that fell upon my forehead. “Franciscus!” she cried, “Be good and pious.” I was filled with inward emotion and compelled to weep, though knowing not for why.

Through the assistance of the Abbess my mother’s frugal household a little farm lying close to the monastery, soon gained a better appearance of comfort. Our need was at an end; I was better clothed, and enjoyed the instruction of the parish priest, at the same time serving him as chorister whenever he performed the offices of the cloister-church.

The memory of that happy time of childhood surrounds me now as with a dream of bliss! Like a far distant land, the abode of joy and unsullied childish mirth, my home lies far behind me now, and when I look back there yawns beneath my feet the gulf which separates me from it for ever. Seized with a fierce longing, I strive to gaze once more upon the loved ones there beyond, moving in the purple heaven of spring-tide dawn, while I fancy yet I hear their cherished voices. Ah! is there indeed a gulf whose chasm Love’s strong wings cannot overpass? What deems Love of Time and Space! Does it not live in fancy, and knows that any bounds? But darksome forms rise up and crowd thick and thicker around me, drawing ever closer their hideous confine; they shut

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out the prospect and fetter my senses with the handcuffs of the present, so that e’en desire itself – which had filled me with a nameless joy, half grief – is turned to helpless, mortal anguish!

The parish priest was goodness itself; he knew how to fascinate my restless spirit, and understood so to mould his teachings to my comprehension that I found delight in study, and made quick progress.

My mother I loved above all else; but I revered the Princess as a Saint, and the day when I might see her was, to me, a feast-day. Each time I strove to shine in her estimation with my last-won piece of knowledge; yet when she came and questioned me in friendly tones, I scarcely found a word to utter and could but gaze upon and listen to her. Each word of hers remained deep in my soul; the whole day, after I had spoken with her, I experienced a wonderful exaltation of spirit, and her figure it was that accompanied me on my lonely excursions.

What an inexpressible emotion filled me when, swinging the incense burner, I stood beside the High Altar, and, while the sound of the organ streamed down from the choir, swelling to a rushing river that bore me with it, I recognised her voice in the hymn, beating down upon me like a ray of light and filling my inmost soul with foretastes of the Highest and the Holiest.

But the happiest day, looked forward to by me for weeks, and remembered always with the keenest delight, was the festival of St. Bernard, the patron saint of the Cistercians, and therefore celebrated with the greatest ceremony. Even the day before, a vast multitude streamed from the neighbouring city and the whole surrounding neighbourhood, and encamped on the wide, flowering meadows that girt the cloister round, so that the joyous hubbub ceased not day nor night. I cannot recollect that in this favourable season of the year (St. Bernard’s feast falling in August) the weather was ever unpropitious to the festival.

In picturesque confusion one saw, here devout pilgrims, singing hymns upon their march, there peasant lads sporting with their gaily-dressed lasses, monks gazing into the clouds, their hands devoutly folded in religious meditation, burgher families seated on the sward, unpacking their well-filled baskets and partaking of their meal. Joyful songs, pious hymns, the fervent sighs of penitents, the laughter of the mirthful, cries, shouts, joke and prayer filled the air with their well-nigh deafening concert.

But as soon as the bell of the cloister rings, the tumult suddenly ceases – as far as the eye can reach, all have thronged in thickset rows and sunk upon their knees, while the low murmur of prayer alone is heard amid the sacred hush.

The last stroke of the bell dies away, and once more resounds the gleeful noise, but a moment interrupted.

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The Bishop from the neighbouring city, assisted by the minor spiritual members of the chapter, officiated in the cloister-church on St. Bernard’s day, and it was his own choir that led the music, marshalled on a tribune which was erected by the side of the High Altar and decked with costly hangings.

The impressions that surged within my breast at that time are even now not dead; they come back to the fresh life of youth, whenever I turn my thoughts to those happy days too quickly passed away. I vividly remember a Gloria, which was many times repeated, since the Princess loved this composition above all others. When the Bishop had intoned the Gloria and the mighty chant of the choir burst forth: Gloria in Excelsis Deo! was it not as though the glory of Heaven opened above the altar; as though, by a divine miracle, the painted Cherubim and Seraphim came to glowing life, raised and swayed their strong wings and floated in the air, praising God with song and play of wonderful stringed instruments?

I sank into the rapt awe of the ecstasy of devotion, which bore me through the brilliant clouds into the far-off land of my birth-place, and in the scented forest there sounded the soft voices of angels, while the marvellous child came to me from the midst of high lily bushes and asked me, smiling, “Where wast thou then so long, Franciscus? Many lovely flowers have I, which I will give to thee if thou wilt stay with me and love me evermore.”

After the ceremony the nuns, preceded by the Abbess, who was ornamented with the Insula and bore the silver shepherd’s staff, made solemn procession throughout the whole compass of the cloister and the church. What holiness, what dignity, what superhuman grandeur shone from every glance of the noble lady and guided her every movement! It was the very Church triumphant, promising grace and blessing to the believing people. I could have cast myself to the dust before her whene’er by chance her glance fell on me.

When the service of God was finished, the ecclesiastics and the musicians of the Bishop were entertained in a great hall forming part of the cloister. Many friends of the cloister, official folk and merchants of the city, took part in the repast, and I also was permitted to be present, by favour of the Bishop’s Concert-meister, who was much attached to me. While, lit up by pious devotion, my whole soul had been turned to the super-terrestrial, so now this joyous life o’ermastered me and surrounded me with its varied pictures. All kinds of entertaining tales and jests were interchanged, amid the loud laughter of the guests, while the glasses were diligently emptied, until eve broke upon us and the wagons stood ready for the homeward journey.

(To be continued.)

January 1889

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The Elixir of the Devil

(Translated from the German of E. T. A. Hoffmann by William Ashton Ellis.) (Continued from the December Number.)

CHAPTER II.

I WAS sixteen years of age when the parish priest informed me that I was sufficiently prepared to begin the higher course of theological studies in the Seminary of the neighbouring city. I had decided for an ecclesiastical calling, and this filled my mother with inner joy for she saw herein the explanation and fulfilment of the mysterious expressions of the pilgrim, which seemed to coincide, to some extent, with the remarkable vision of my father, as yet unknown to me. She believed that at last, by my decision, the soul of my father was atoned and saved from the torments of eternal damnation. The Princess also, whom I now saw only in the parlour, favoured strongly my intention, and renewed her promise to assist me in all needful ways to the attainment of ecclesiastical dignity.

Although the city lay so near that one could see its towers from the cloister, and some few more active pedestrians chose to make the pleasant purlieus of the cloister their favourite promenade, yet was the parting from my good mother, from the noble lady whom I revered from the depth of my heart, and from my teacher, a bitter one. For it is sure that every step beyond the immediate circle of our loved ones gives us a pang that seems as great as that of the widest separation! The Princess was moved to a marked degree, her voice quivered with sorrow as she spoke some heartfelt words of counsel. She presented me with a costly rosary and a little prayer-book with delicately illuminated pictures; finally she gave me a letter of recommendation to the Prior of the Capucin cloister in the city, whom she bade me to seek out at once, since in all things he would zealously support me, by word and deed.

It would not be easy to find a more delightful country than that in which lies the Capucin cloister, close beside the city. The stately cloister-garden, with its outlook to the mountains, seemed to me to gain fresh beauties each time I wandered in its alleys and rested a moment now by this and now by that group of trees. It was in this garden that I met the Prior Leonardus when I visited the cloister for the first time, in order to present my credentials from the Abbess. The native kindliness of the Prior was even heightened when he read the letter, and he

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spoke in such warm terms of the noble lady, whom he had first learnt to know in Rome in earlier years, that from the very first moment my heart went out to him. He was surrounded by the Brothers and one could soon perceive the whole relationship that existed between the Prior and the monks; the monastic tendency and manner of life, the repose and brightness of spirit which spoke so clearly, even from the exterior of the Prior, spread their influence over the whole brotherhood. One nowhere saw a trace of the discontent or brooding, hostile reserve which is seen so often on the monkish countenance. Beyond the fixed rules of the order, devotional exercises were, in the eyes of the Prior Leonardus, rather the necessary aids of a soul turned heavenwards than ascetic penance for the sin that cleaves to human nature, and he knew so well how to kindle this spirit of devotion in the Brothers that in all which they must do in compliance with the rules a cheerfulness and contentment were manifest, that showed, indeed, a higher path even within the confines of this earthly life.

Prior Leonardus was able even to compass a measure of communion with the outside world, a communion that could not be otherwise than healthy for the Brothers. Rich gifts, brought from all sides to the honoured cloister, made it possible, on certain days, to entertain the friends and protectors of the cloister, in the refectory. In the middle of the dining-hall a table was set forth at whose upper end the Prior sat with the guests. The Brothers remained at their usual smaller table that skirted the wall of the hall, and used the simple vessels of the order while the guest-table was adorned with delicate glass and costly porcelain. The monastery cook was cunning in the preparation of dainty Lenten dishes which the guests evidently relished; while the latter looked after the wine. Thus these repasts in the Capucins’ monastery were a friendly, agreeable intermingling of the laity and church, which in the mutual interaction, could not but be of service to the lives of each. For, as those buried in the affairs of the world came forth from it and entered within the walls where everything proclaimed a spiritual life directly opposite to their own, they must perforce admit that peace and happiness were attainable by other ways beside those which they themselves pursued, and that perhaps the spirit that raises itself above the earthly may prepare a higher existence for men even here below. On the other hand the monks gained a wider view of life, for the news they thus received of the stress and strain of the motley world outside their walls awoke many a train of thought within them; without lending a spurious worth to earthly things, they must needs recognize in the varied pursuits dictated to man by his inner impulse the necessary diffraction of the rays of the spiritual principle, without which no colour and no brilliance were possible

A head and shoulders above them all, in respect of his spiritual and intellectual development, stood the Prior Leonardus. Not only had he

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so widespread a reputation for his profound theological learning, and the depth and ease of his grasp of the most abstruse problems, that the professors of the Seminary often came to him for counsel and instruction, but he had more knowledge of the world than is generally looked for in a dweller in monasteries. He spoke French and Italian with ease and elegance, and because of his proficiency in languages he had been employed in earlier times on weighty missions. When I first knew him he was already advanced in years, yet, while the whiteness of his locks proclaimed his age, the fire of youth shot from his eyes, and the genial smile which wreathed his lip but heightened the expression of inward kindliness and serenity of mind. The same grace which adorned his speech ruled his every movement, and even the cumbrous robes of the order set off in majestic lines his well-knit frame.

There was not one of the Brothers who had not entered the monastery of his own free will and to fulfil the need that arose from his own inward, spiritual desire; yet Leonardus would soon have found means to comfort even the unhappy wretch who might seek in the cloister a refuge from self-destruction; his repentance would be but the short passage to repose, and, at peace with the world, whose tempting glitter he had abjured, while living upon earth he would soon have raised his soul above it.

Leonardus had learnt this unaccustomed view of cloister life in Italy, where worship, and the whole aspect of religious life, is brighter and more cheerful than in Catholic Germany. Just as in the structure of the churches the antique forms still rule, so a ray from out the bright, living time of antiquity seems to have pierced the mystic gloom of Christianity and to have lit it with the radiance that once illuminated gods and heroes.

Prior Leonardus was most gracious toward me, and taught me the French and Italian tongues; but it was the well-chosen books that he placed within my hands, and his own conversation that lent most to the development of my mind. I spent almost the whole time that I could spare from my seminary studies in the Capucins’ cloister, and I soon perceived that my bent lay more and more towards taking the monastic vow. I declared my wish to the Prior. Without attempting to alter my decision, he advised me to wait at least the space of two years, and meanwhile to go more into the world than my wont had been. Little though I missed, during this period, the many opportunities of making fresh acquaintances, which my friendship with my musical teacher, the episcopal Concert-meister, offered me, yet I felt ill at ease in company, especially when women were present; this, and my marked leaning to a contemplative life appeared to me to fix my calling for the cloister.

Once the Prior had discoursed with me in a remarkable manner about profane life; he had touched upon the most equivocal matters, which his customary ease and grace of expression dealt with in such a

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manner that, avoiding the least offensive phrase, yet went straight to the mark. At last he took my hand, gazed straight into my eyes, and asked whether I still was innocent. I felt a glow of shame upon me, for, as Leonardus questioned me so pointedly, a scene that I had long forgotten sprang forth in liveliest colours. The Concert-meister had a sister, who, though one could not rightly call her beautiful, was yet a charming maiden in the full flush of youth. Her form was symmetry itself; the loveliest arm, the fairest bust in shape and colour that man could see. One morning when I went to the Concert-meister for my lesson, I surprised his sister in light morning deshabille, her breast almost uncovered. Quickly she threw her kerchief round her, but already my greedy eyes had seen too much; I could not utter a word; unknown emotions stormed within me, and forced the glowing blood along my veins so that I could hear my pulses beat. My breast was seized with a cramping constraint, and would have burst asunder had not a broken sigh relieved at last my agony. The maiden came to me, quite unconcerned, and took me by the hand, and thus my pain gained fresh access, till good fortune brought the Concert-meister to the room, and eased my torment. Never did I strike such discords, and never sing so out of tune as on this occasion. I was pious enough to consider later the whole incident as a base assault of the Devil, and soon flattered myself that I had beaten the foul fiend from the field by the ascetic practices which I had set myself.

But now, on the searching question of the Prior, I saw once more the Concert-meister’s sister standing before me with half uncovered bosom, I felt the warmth of her breath, the pressure of her hand – my inward anguish grew more keen each instant. The Prior looked at me, with somewhat of irony in his smile, and said:

“I see, my son, that you have grasped my meaning, and that it is still well with you. May the Lord preserve you from the temptations of the world; the pleasures that it offers you are fleeting, and one may well say that a curse is on them, for in the unspeakable disgust, the complete enervation, and the blunting of the senses to all higher things, that they produce, the better, spiritual principle of man is shipwrecked.”

Much as I tried to forget the question of the Prior, and the picture which it had called up, my efforts met with no success; and though I had preserved ere this an unconcerned appearance in the presence of the maiden, I now avoided her gaze more than ever. Even the thought of her aroused in me an anxiety and an inner unrest that seemed all the more perilous to me, seeing that I experienced at the same moment a vague and inexpressible longing and delight that might well prove sinful.

One evening this state of hesitation resolved itself. The Concert-meister, as on many former occasions, had invited me to a musical

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entertainment, to meet some of his friends. Besides his sister there were many ladies present, and this added to the uneasiness which, even in the presence of his sister alone, half stifled me. She was charmingly attired and seemed fairer than ever. It was as though an invisible, irresistible power drew me toward her, and thus, without my knowing how, it happened that I constantly found myself by her side, devouring her every look, her every word, and that I pressed so near to her that at least her dress must touch me in passing, affording me a secret pleasure. She appeared to notice this and to be well satisfied. At whiles I felt that I must rush and clasp her to me in the mad fervency of love!

She had sat long beside the harpsichord and, on rising, left one of her gloves upon the seat; I seized it and pressed it in mad extravagance to my lips! This attracted the notice of one of the other ladies, who went to her and whispered something in her ear; they each now looked at me and tittered and laughed in mockery!

I was as though annihilated; an ice-stream flowed through my veins – out of my senses, I rushed out of the room to the college, to my own cubicle. I threw myself in insane despair upon the floor – hot tears flowed from my eyes – I cursed the maiden and myself – then prayed and laughed by turns, like any madman! On all sides I heard voices that scoffed and scorned me. I attempted to cast myself through the window, but luckily the iron bars prevented me. My condition was in very truth terrible!

Only when the morning broke did I find some little rest; but I had decided; never again would I see her, and I would forsake the world. Clearer than ever sounded in my soul the call to the secluded life of the cloister, from which no temptation should henceforth lead astray my steps.

As soon as I could leave the lessons of the day I hurried to the Prior, and declared to him that I was now determined to commence my noviciate, and that I had already informed my mother and the Princess of my decision.

Leonardus seemed astonished at my sudden eagerness; without pressing me too closely, he sought to discover what it was that could have brought me to so hasty a resolve to take the monastic vow; for he guessed rightly that some special occurrence must have given me the impulse.

An inner shame that I could not overcome, restrained me from telling him the truth; in its place I related to him, in all the heat of exaltation still burning in me, the circumstances of my childhood, which all pointed to my destination for the cloister-life.

Leonardus listened quietly to me, and without exactly throwing doubt upon my visions he seemed to set no great store by them; he remarked, moreover, that all this was little evidence of the genuineness of

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my call, for there might be an illusion even here. In general Leonardus would not willingly speak of the visions of the Saints, nor even of the miracles of the founders of Christianity, and at times I was tempted to regard him as a secret sceptic. Once, in order to force from him some definite declaration, I presumed to speak of the despisers of the Catholic belief, and specially to gird at those who, in childish arrogance, brand all super-sensual things with the stigma of heresy. Leonardus answered with a gentle smile: “My son, Unbelief is the worst form of Misbelief,” and commenced a conversation on some other, indifferent topic. It was only later that I was allowed to know his noble thoughts on the mystic side of our religion, that side which teaches the union of our spiritual principle with higher beings; then I could not but admit that Leonardus was right to reserve his inmost thoughts on the sublimest mysteries for the highest initiation of his pupils.

My mother wrote to me that she had long foreseen that the position of a lay-brother would not satisfy me, but I should choose a monastic life; and that on St. Medardus’ day the old pilgrim from the holy Linden had appeared to her, and had led me to her, dressed in the robes of a Capucin monk. The Princess also cordially concurred in my resolve. I saw them both before my ordination, which followed shortly, as, in accordance with my pressing wish, I was released from half of the noviciate.

In consequence of the vision of my mother I took the name, on the cloister-roll, of Medardus. The relation of the Brothers to one another, the ordering of their devotional exercises, and the whole manner of life in the cloister, proved to be exactly what I had judged from my first glimpse. The contented repose that ruled in all shed the same heavenly peace upon my soul that surrounded me in the cloister of the holy Linden, and seemed like a blissful dream of the years of earliest childhood.

During the ceremony of my ordination I perceived among the spectators the Concert-meister’s sister. She looked oppressed with grief, and I fancied that I saw tears in her eyes; but the time of my temptation was past, and perhaps it was the sinful triumph of the light-won fight that forced from me a smile which Brother Cyrillus remarked as he walked beside me.

“Why art thou so overjoyed, my brother?” asked Cyrillus.

“Should I not then rejoice that I renounce the vile world and its empty show?” answered I.

Yet I cannot deny that, while I spoke these words, a secret feeling that convulsed my heart, chastised me for the lie. But this was the last paroxysm of earthly self-seeking; henceforth my spirit was at peace Would that that peace had never forsaken me; but the power of the Adversary is great! Who may trust to the strength of his weapons, who may rely on his own watchfulness, when the infernal powers lurk in ambush!

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CHAPTER III.

I HAD been five years in the monastery, when, by order of the Prior, Brother Cyrillus, who had grown old and feeble, gave over to me the custody of the relic-chamber. In it there lay countless bones of Saints, splinters from the Saviour’s cross, and other sacred treasures, preserved in costly shrines of glass, and shown on certain days to the populace, for its edification.

Brother Cyrillus made me acquainted with each object, and with the documents that testified to their genuineness and to their miraculous properties. He ranked beside the Prior for spiritual enlightenment, and therefore I felt the less compunction in expressing to him what rose so irresistibly in my mind.

“Dear Brother Cyrillus,” said I. “Can all these things be really and truly that which they are declared to be? May not, even here, the trickery of greed have foisted on us many a fraud that passes for a genuine relic of this Saint or the other? For instance, many a cloister possesses the entire cross of the Saviour, and yet we are everywhere shown so many of its splinters that, as one of our own number has said – truly in wicked jest – our monastery might be heated for a whole year therewith.”

“It becomes us not,” replied Brother Cyrillus, “to submit these objects to such an enquiry. To tell you my own conviction, however, I am of opinion that, despite these documents, but few of these things can be that which they are assumed to be. Only it seems to me that that is not the point. Mark well, dear Brother Medardus, how our Prior and I regard them, and thou wilt behold a new glory in our religion. Is it not noble, my dear brother, that our Church should strive to grasp those secret threads that knit the physical with the super-physical, and so to incite our organism, grown rank in earthly life and being, that its origin from a Higher Spiritual principle, and even its inner kinship with the wondrous beings whose force pervades the whole of nature with its glowing breath, shall appear in all clearness – and the foreknowledge of a higher life whose seed we bear within us shall lift us up on seraph’s wings? What is that piece of wood, this bone, that rag? Men say it is chipped from the cross of Christ, or taken from the body or garment of a Saint. Yet the believer who, without cavilling, sets his whole soul upon it, feels soon that unearthly inspiration which opens to him the realm of bliss, which he had only dreamed of here below. Thus is awakened the influence of the Saints whose relics, even though supposititious, gave the impulse, and man is able to receive strength and power in Belief from the higher Spirit to which he had called from his inmost soul for help and comfort. Yea, this higher, spiritual force aroused in him will even overcome the body’s ills; and thus it comes to pass that these relics work those miracles which, since they happen so often before the eyes of a whole concourse of people, cannot be denied.”

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I remembered at once certain hints of the Prior which harmonized exactly with the words of Brother Cyrillus, and regarded now the relics, which had appeared to me before as the playthings of religion, with true reverence and devotion. This effect of his discourse Brother Cyrillus was not slow to perceive and he proceeded eagerly and with deep inner meaning to explain the collection piece by piece.

At last he took a casket from out of a fast-closed coffer and said:

“In this, dear Brother Medardus, there lies the most mysterious and wonderful relic that our monastery possesses. As long as I have been in this cloister, no one has handled this casket save the Prior and myself; in fact, not even the other Brothers, and much less strangers, know aught of the existence of this relic. I cannot touch the casket without an inner shudder; it is as though an evil charm were concealed within it, which, if it once broke the ban that hems it in and makes it powerless, would bring destruction and hopeless ruin to him it overtook. That which is contained herein comes direct from the Adversary himself, from the days when he still had power to fight in visible shape against the souls of men.”

I looked at Brother Cyrillus in profound astonishment.

Without giving me time to reply, he continued: “I will not presume, dear Brother Medardus, to hazard any opinion as to this most mysterious object, or to dress up for thee this or that hypothesis that may have passed through my mind, but will rather tell thee truly what the accompanying documents relate about the relic. Thou wilst find these documents in the coffer and canst confirm my tale by reading them.

“The life of Saint Anthony is well-known to thee, and thou knowest, therefore, that, in order to give his soul entirely to divine contemplation, he withdrew into the wilderness and there devoted his life to the severest penance and religious exercises. The Adversary pursued him, and often set himself bodily in his way, so as to disturb him in his pious meditation. It thus happened that once the Saint perceived, in the gloom of evening, a dark figure that strode towards him. When it was near, St. Anthony beheld, to his astonishment, that from the rents in the ragged mantle which cloaked the figure, there protruded necks of bottles. It was the Adversary who appeared to him in this guise and, smiling contemptuously, asked him if he did not desire to taste of the ELIXIR which he carried in these bottles. Saint Anthony – whom this invitation could not possibly molest, since the Adversary, reduced to impotence, was no longer in a situation to engage in any open warfare and was forced to confine himself to mocking speech – asked him why he carried with him so many flasks and in so peculiar a fashion.

“The Adversary replied, ‘Lo! when a man falls in with me, he looks at me in wonder and cannot resist asking me about my liquors, and tasting them greedily. Among so many elixirs he is sure to find one

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to his palate; he swallows down the whole contents of the flask and, intoxicated, he renders himself to me and my dominion.’

“Thus far the story is the same in all the legends; but, according to the unique document that we possess, and that deals with this vision of the holy Anthony, when the Adversary departed he left some of his flasks upon the sward, and St. Anthony took them quickly into his cave and buried them, for fright lest, even in the desert, some wanderer, perhaps one of his own pupils, should taste of the terrible drink and fall into eternal damnation. By chance, so says the document, St. Anthony once opened one of these bottles, and there proceeded from it the most extraordinary, stupifying vapour, and multitudes of wild hellish shapes floated around the Saint, seeking to tempt him with their seductive antics, until, by severe fastings and continuous prayer, he exorcised them.

“In this casket is contained one of these flasks with the Devil’s Elixir; the documents are so authentic and exact that there can scarcely be a doubt that the flask was found among the possessions left behind by Saint Anthony at his death. Moreover, I can testify, dear brother, that as often as I disturb the flask, and even the casket in which it lies enclosed, an inexplicable inner terror seizes me, and, in fact, I fancy that I detect something of the nature of a peculiar vapour that stupifies me and arouses an unrest in my mind that distracts me even at my devotions. However, I overcome by steadfast prayer this evil feeling, which certainly springs from the influence of some hostile power, even should I not believe in the immediate intervention of the Adversary. Thou, dear brother Medardus, who art still so young, who beholdest in more brilliant and more lively colours all that a hostile power may call forth in thy fancy, thou who still, like a bold but inexperienced soldier, doughty in fight but perhaps too daring, trustest too much to thy own strength in impossible adventure – I counsel thee never, or at least not for many a year, to open this casket, and, that thy curiosity may not lead thee into temptation, to place it far away where thine eye shall not light on it!”

Brother Cyrillus replaced the mysterious casket in the coffer from which he had taken it, and handed me the bunch of keys on which there hung the key of this chest, among the rest. The whole narration had made a remarkable impression upon me; but the more I felt an inner longing springing up to see the wonderful relic, the more pains did I take to make its satisfaction difficult, mindful of the warning of Brother Cyrillus. When he had left me, I took stock once more of the sacred objects entrusted to my care, and finally removed from the bunch the little key that locked the perilous chest and hid it in my desk beneath my Scriptures.

(To be continued.)

February 1889

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The Elixir of the Devil

(Translated from the German of E. T. A. Hoffmann by William Ashton Ellis.)

(Continued from the January Number.) CHAPTER IV.

Among the professors of the Seminary there was a most eloquent preacher. Each time he preached the church was crowded. The fire-stream of his speech bore his hearers irresistibly with it, kindling within them the fervour of devotion. I, too, was caught by the flame of his noble inspiration; but, while I admired his exceptional gift, it seemed to me as though some inner force impelled me to attempt to follow in his footsteps. When I had listened to him I preached to myself in my solitary cell, completely yielding myself to the inspiration of the moment, until I was able to fix my ideas and commit my words to writing.

The Brother who was wont to preach in the monastery was growing gradually more feeble; his discourses crept, like a half-filled brook, toilsomely along their toneless banks, and his exceptionally slow delivery, an evidence of lack of both idea and word, made his discourse, that showed no connecting thought, so intolerably tedious, that, before the Amen, the greater portion of the congregation was sound asleep, as from the meaningless monotony of the murmur of a mill, and could only be re-awakened by the organ’s blast. The Prior Leonardus, it is true, was a first-rate orator, but he was chary of preaching, for it taxed the strength of his advancing age, and beside him there was no one who could replace this incompetent Brother.

Leonardus spoke to me of this misfortune, which deprived the church of the attendance of many devout persons. I took heart, and told him how I had felt an inner call to preaching even in the Seminary, and had composed and written down many a spiritual discourse. He desired to see them, and was so delighted that he pressed me to make my first trial as a preacher on the very next Saint’s-day, assuring me that there was but little chance of my failure, since nature had endowed me with all the essentials of a good pulpit-orator, an attractive form, an expressive countenance, and a strong, melodious voice. In respect of the external details, such as appropriate gesticulation, he undertook himself to instruct me.

The day came; the church was fuller than usual, and it was not without an inner qualm that I mounted the pulpit. At first I adhered to the text of my manuscript, and, as Leonardus told me later, I spoke in hesitating tones, which were, however, well suited to the devout and sorrowful meditation with which the discourse opened, and were regarded by the majority of my hearers as a most effective display of oratorical art.

Soon, however, it was as though the glowing spark of heaven-sent inspiration lit up my inmost soul; I discarded the manuscript, and gave myself up completely to the impulse of the moment. I felt the blood rushing in hot currents

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through my pulses – I heard my voice thundering along the arches: I saw my uplifted head, my outstretched arm, as though surrounded with the aureole of inspiration. With one sentence, in which I gathered together, as in a flaming focus, all the holy and noble thoughts I had given vent to, I closed a discourse whose effect was unheard-of and unparalleled.

Impetuous sobs, cries of devout delight escaping involuntarily from the lips, and loud-breathed prayer re-echoed when my words were done. The Brothers paid me toll of highest admiration, while the Prior embraced me, and greeted me as the pride of the monastery.

My fame soon spread abroad, and the élite of the city’s society crowded into the church, even an hour before the tolling of the bell, in order to hear Brother Medardus. Urged on by this admiration, my eagerness, and my care to give my speech due roundness and symmetry, together with the fire of strength, ever increased. On each occasion I succeeded more and more in chaining the attention of my audience, and the honour which on all hands was showered on me mounted higher and higher, until it almost reached the adoration of a Saint. A religious frenzy had seized the city; at every opportunity, even that of the ordinary week-day services, the people flocked to the cloister to see Brother Medardus and speak with him.

Then there arose in me the thought that I was one chosen of Heaven. My mysterious birth in a holy spot, for the atonement of the sin of my father, the wondrous occurrences of my early childhood, all, all seemed to point to one conclusion: that my spirit, in immediate communion with the heavenly, was already soaring above the earthly, and that I belonged, not to the world, not to mankind, for whose comfort and salvation I sojourned here on earth. I was sure now that the old pilgrim of the Holy Linden was Saint Joseph, and the marvellous child was the infant Jesus himself, who greeted in me the Saint who was called to journey on the earth.

But as this thought grew clearer in my brain, my surroundings waxed ever more burdensome and oppressive. The peace and cheerfulness of spirit that erewhile was mine, had vanished from my soul; even the good-humoured utterances of the Brothers and the friendliness of the Prior awoke in me contemptuous enmity. They ought to see in me the Saint, lifted high above themselves, and grovelling in the dust beseech my intercession at the throne of God. Thus did I hold them all as sunk beyond recall in miserable blindness.

Even in my sermons I introduced covert allusions to the advent of a wonderful year which was now breaking like the rosy radiance of dawn, and in which one of God’s chosen messengers was wandering upon earth with healing in his hands. I clothed my fancied mission in mystic pictures which worked the more mysterious charm upon my hearers the less they understood them.

Leonardus grew visibly cooler towards me, and avoided speaking to me without the presence of a witness. At last, however, when by chance we were left alone in an avenue of the cloister-garden, he broke forth:

“I can no longer conceal from thee, dear Brother Medardus, that for some time past thou hast sorely displeased me by thy bearing. Some change has come upon thy soul that has turned thee from the devout simplicity of thy life. In thy speech there reigns a veiled hostility, behind which there seems to lie some hidden meaning which once pronounced,

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must estrange me for ever from thee. Let me be candid! Thou bearest at this moment the burden of our sinful origin, which opens to every mighty effort of our spiritual force the gates of destruction, which, once passed in heedless flight, we go, alas! too easily astray. Thou art blinded by the applause, yea, the idolatrous adoration which the light-minded world, ever greedy for excitement, has bestowed on thee, and thou seest thyself under a mask which is not thine own, but an illusory phantom which is luring thee on to the pit of destruction. Search in thy heart, Medardus! Forego the delusion which is befooling thee; I think I recognise its form. Already the peace of mind, without which there is no healing here below, has flown from thee. Be warned, and shun the enemy that is lying in ambush for thy soul; become once more the kind, affectionate youth whom once I loved with all my heart!”

Tears flowed from the eyes of the Prior, as he spake these words; loosing my hand, which he had taken, he hastened from me, not waiting for my answer.

But his words had only roused me to hostility. He had spoken of the applause and admiration which I had gained by my extraordinary talent, and in my eyes it was only petty jealousy that had bred the displeasure which he had so openly evinced. Silent and absorbed within myself, I felt an inner grudge whenever my duties brought me among the monks, and filled with the new nature that was growing up within me, I pondered all day long and many a sleepless night how best I could concentrate in eloquent speech the ideas that were springing in my brain, to proclaim them to the people. For the more I estranged myself from Leonardus and the Brothers the stronger grew the bands with which I drew to me the populace.

On St. Anthony’s day the church was filled to overflowing, so that the doors had to be thrown wide open, to allow the streaming crowd of people outside to hear me. Never had I spoken with greater force and fire. As was the custom, I related many incidents from the life of the Saint, and knit them together with pious comments, piercing to the very depths of life. I spoke of the temptations of the Devil, whom the Fall had given the power to lead mankind astray, and involuntarily the current of my discourse led me to the legend of the Elixir which I desired to reveal under the cloak of an allegory full of meaning. My gaze, ranging round the church, then fell upon a tall and haggard man, who had mounted upon a bench and leant against a pillar obliquely opposite to me. He was clad in a dark violet mantle draped around him in strange fashion, in which he had entwined his folded arms. His face was pale as death, but the glance of his great dark eyes pierced my breast like a red-hot dagger. I was filled with a mysterious sense of horror, and turned my eyes in haste away.

Gathering all my strength, I proceeded with my cration. But, as though impelled by a strange, magic power I could not but gaze again and again, and still the man stood there, stiff and motionless, his ghost-like glance directed towards me. Bitter scorn and contemptuous hatred were painted on the lofty, furrowed brow and the down-drawn lips. The whole figure had something about it that was terrifying! Yes! It was the unknown painter from the Holy Linden! I felt myself seized by gruesome ice-cold fingers – great beads of agonized sweat stood upon my forehead – my periods began to halt – my speech became more and more confused. A whispering murmur passed adown the church;

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but stiff and motionless the fearful stranger leant against the pillar, his glaring glance directed towards me.

Then I cried out in the hell-anguish of mad despair: “Ha! accursed one, get thee gone! Get thee gone! For I myself – I am St. Anthony!”

When I awoke from the state of unconsciousness into which I had fallen with these words, I found myself upon my own couch, with Brother Cyrillus sitting by my side, tending and nursing me. The awful portrait of the unknown one was still painted in vivid colours before my eyes; and the more Brother Cyrillus, to whom I narrated the whole story, endeavoured to convince me that this was only a phantom of my imagination overheated by the fire of my discourse, the deeper shame and remorse did I feel for my behaviour in the pulpit.

The congregation believed, as I learnt later, that I had fallen victim to a sudden attack of madness; a belief which had its chief ground in my last wild exclamation. As for myself, my spirit was completely cast to the dust and torn asunder. Locked within my cell, I inflicted upon myself the severest penance and endeavoured by fervent prayer to fortify myself for warfare with the Tempter, who, borrowing in impious scorn the figure of the pious painter of the Holy Linden, had appeared to me even within the sacred precincts of the church. Yet no one seemed to have seen this man of the Violet Mantle, and Prior Leonardus, with his accustomed kindness, took every opportunity to spread abroad the report that it had been a sudden access of fever that had seized me in the pulpit in such a terrible fashion and had prompted my mad utterance. In truth, I was still sick and feeble when, after many weeks, I once more returned to my customary cloister life. However, I undertook again the duties of the pulpit, but, racked with inward anguish and pursued by the terrible vision of that pallid figure, I could scarcely speak coherently, far less give myself up to my old fire of eloquence. My sermons were common-place, stiff – a patchwork of disconnected fragments. The audience, deploring the loss of my oratorical talent, dwindled gradually away, and at last the aged Brother who had been my predecessor and who now plainly preached better than myself, displaced me from my post.

CHAPTER V.

Some time after these events, it happened that a young Count, accompanied on his journey by his Major-domo, visited the monastery and desired to see its many curiosities. In accordance with their request, I opened the relic chamber, and as we entered it the Prior, who had shown us round the church and choir, was called away, so that I was left alone with the visitors. I had displayed and expatiated on each relic, when the gaze of the Count fell upon the ornamental filigree-work of the old German chest which enclosed the casket containing the flask that held the Devil’s Elixir. Although I long refused to say what was concealed within the chest, the Count and his companion pressed me so sorely that at last I related the legend of Saint Anthony and the treacherous Fiend, and repeated word for word Brother Cyrillus’s story of the flask that was now preserved as a relic, adding the warning that he had given me against the danger of opening the casket and removing the flask.

Notwithstanding that the Count was a member of our religion, neither he

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nor his Major-domo seemed to place much belief in the reliability of the legend of the Saint. They amused themselves by all kinds of jesting allusions to the comical Devil who carried such perilous bottles in his ragged cloak. At last the Major-domo assumed a solemn mien, and said:

“Have you not some grudge against us frivolous men of the world, my reverend master? Rest assured that both the Count and myself revere the Saints as noble men inspired by the lofty spirit of religion, who, for the salvation of their own souls and those of all mankind, sacrificed all joys of life and even life itself; but, as for the story which you have just narrated, I believe that it is only an allegory conceived by the Saint, and misinterpreted as though it had really occurred in life.”

During these words the Major-domo had quickly lifted the hasp of the casket and taken out the dark and strangely shaped flask. In very truth, as Brother Cyrillus had warned me, a powerful odour spread itself abroad; but, far from being stupifying, its effect was most alluring.

“Ha,” cried the Count, “I wager that the Elixir of the Devil is nothing else but genuine, excellent Syracusan wine!”

“To be sure,” answered the Major-domo, “and if the flask is really a relic of St. Anthony, your luck, my noble master, is better than that of the King of Naples, whom the clumsiness of the Romans in preserving the juice of the grape by means of a slight covering of supernatant oil instead of by a cork, cheated of the satisfaction of tasting ancient Latin wine. Though this wine may not be so old as that of Naples, it is by far the oldest in existence, and you would do well to turn this relic to your own use, and to make so bold as to taste it.”

“Certainly,” replied the Count, “this old Syracusan would send a stream of renewed force along your veins and scare away the sickness from which, my reverend father, you seem to suffer.”

The Major-domo drew a steel corkscrew from his satchel and, regardless of my protestations, proceeded to open the flask. As the cork was withdrawn, it seemed to me as though a pale blue flame sprang forth and instantly flickered down. Stronger issued the sweet vapour from the bottle and spread in great waves through the room.

The Major-domo was the first to taste the wine, and cried in delight, “Magnificent, spendid Syracusan! In truth the cellar of St. Anthony was not so poorly furnished, and if the Devil was his cellarer he certainly did not treat the Saint so badly as men think. Taste, Count!”

The Count obeyed, and confirmed the decision of his attendant. Both then amused themselves with jests about the relic, which they said was manifestly the finest in the whole collection. They only wished that they had a cellar full of such relics; and so on. I listened to all they said in silence, with down-sunk head, my eyes fixed vacantly upon the ground. The flippancy of these strangers had something about it that tortured me, with its contrast to my own gloomy mood. In vain they pressed me to take my share of St. Anthony’s wine; I refused their every entreaty, and shut the flask, well-corked, once more within its receptacle.

The strangers left the monastery; but I, sitting in the solitude of my cell, could not conceal from myself a certain inward sense of well-being and elation

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of spirit. It was clear that the exhilarating odour of the wine had imbued me with fresh strength. I could detect no trace of the evil effect of which Cyrillus had spoken; on the contrary, the beneficial influence of the Elixir showed itself in a remarkable manner. The longer I reflected on the legend of Saint Anthony, the more vividly the words of the Major-domo reverberated within my brain, the more convinced was I that the explanation of the latter was correct, and now, for the first time, there passed through my mind with lightning flash the thought that, on that unlucky day when an evil vision had broken in upon my discourse with such disastrous effect, I myself was on the point of explaining the legend in the self-same way, as an allegory full of spiritual meaning.

This thought was quickly followed by another, which soon took so complete possession of my mind that all beside was merged in it. “What,” I thought, “if the wondrous drink has called forth new spiritual power within thy breast, and may once more kindle the quenched flame so that again it shine forth in new-won vigour? May not in this wise a secret bond of union between thy soul and the nature-forces locked within that wine have proclaimed itself, so that the same fragrance which benumbed the weakly Cyrillus may have only operated beneficently on thee?”

But, though I had already determined to put the advice of the strangers into execution, an inner repugnance, inexplicable to myself, held me ever back. Even on the point of opening the chest it seemed to me that I beheld in the filigree metal work the painter’s terrible face, with its half-dead eyes piercing me through and through; seized with a ghastly horror, I fled from the relic-chamber to a holier place, where I could repent me of my curiosity. Yet I was ceaselessly pursued by the thought that only by tasting this miraculous wine could my spirit regain health and strength.

The bearing of the Prior and the monks, who treated me with well-meaning but humiliating forbearance, as an invalid in spirit, drove me to despair, and when Leonardus absolved me from the customary devotional exercises, so that I might completely regain my powers, I resolved, as I lay upon my couch in the agonies of sleepless horror, to dare even Death itself, and win back my lost force of spirit, or perish in the attempt.

I rose from my bed and crept like a ghost through the church, bearing with me the lamp which I had taken from before the altar of the Virgin. The holy pictures in the church, lit by the flickering lamp flame, appeared to move and to look down in pity on me. Above the dull growl of the storm that beat on the windows of the choir I seemed to hear wailing and warning voices, and among them the distant cry of my mother: “My son, Medardus, what art thou commencing? Cease from the perilous attempt!” But when I reached the relic-chamber, all was hushed and still; I opened the chest – seized the casket – the flask – and in a moment had drawn a long, deep draught of the wine.

My veins were all aglow, and I was filled with a feeling of indescribable well-being. Once more I drank, and there opened out to me all the delight and possibilities of a new life! I hurriedly shut the empty casket in the chest, rushed back to my cell with my new-won benefactor, and placed it in my writing-desk. My hand fell on the little key which I had formerly loosed from the bunch in order to ward off all temptation; yet had I not now, as earlier

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when the strangers had visited the church, opened the chest without its aid? I searched among my bunch and found an unknown key had added itself to the rest, and with it I must have opened the chest on each occasion! I shuddered against my will, but one weird picture chased another through my brain, as when a man is roughly roused from deepest sleep. I got no rest, no peace, until with the first fresh breath of morning I rushed down into the cloister garden, to bathe myself in the light of the sun as it rose with a flush of fire behind the mountains.

CHAPTER VI.

Leonardus and the Brothers remarked my sudden change. Instead of being silent and morose, as of late, I had become cheerful and full of life. When I discoursed before the assembled fraternity I spoke with my own old eloquence.

When we were by chance alone, the Prior gazed on me as though he would fain fathom my inmost soul, and said, with a faint smile of irony: “Has Brother Medardus perchance gained by a vision fresh power and youth?”

I felt my cheeks glow with shame, for the miserable source of my exultation, in a draught of ancient wine, came vividly before my eyes. As I stood with downcast eyes and bowed head, the Prior left me to my own reflections.

My great fear had been that the elevation produced by the wine would not last long, and would leave me to the terrors of still greater prostration than before. But it was not so; rather, with my regained strength, my youthful spirits returned, and with them my restless striving to attain the highest sphere of action that the cloister-life could offer me. I begged to be allowed to preach again on the next feast day, and my prayer was granted.

Shortly before mounting the pulpit I tasted of the enchanted wine. Never did I speak with more fire and conviction. The report of my complete recovery soon spread abroad, and the church was again crowded as of yore. But the ever-increasing praise of the multitude only made Leonardus more solemn and reserved toward me. I began to hate him from the depth of my heart, for I fancied that his only motive was petty jealousy and monkish pride.

St. Bernard’s day came round, and I was seized with a fierce desire to let my light shine before the Princess. I therefore prayed the Prior to arrange that I should preach on that day in the Cistercian cloister. My petition seemed to surprise Leonardus, for he explained without disguise that he had himself intended to preach on that occasion, and that all arrangements had been made with that object. However, he consented to my request, as it would be easy for him to excuse himself for reason of some indisposition, and to yield his post to me.

So it came to pass. I saw my mother and also the Princess, the preceding evening. My mind, however, was so full of the discourse with which I intended to scale the very highest summit of oratory, that the interview made a very slight impression upon me. The rumour had spread about that I was to preach instead of Leonardus who was ill, and this had perhaps attracted a still larger section of the educated public.

Without the smallest note, and only arranging in my brain the heads of my

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discourse, I reckoned upon the inspiration that the stately ritual, the crowded congregation of the devout, and the lofty architecture of the church would produce in me; and I reckoned not amiss. Like a stream of fire my words rushed forth, as I wove among my narrations of the Saint the most vivid imagery, the most pious comment. I read in every gaze directed towards me astonishment and admiration. How eager was I to know what the Princess would say, how anxiously I awaited the outburst of her repressed delight! Nay, it seemed to me that she must, even against her will, receive with reverence the man who, even as a child, had filled her with surprise.

When I desired to speak with her she sent a message that she was seized with sudden sickness and could speak to no one, not even to myself! This was all the more vexatious to me as I had imagined in my self-conceit that the Abbess, in the moment of deepest emotion, would have felt an imperative desire to hear some further words of grace and healing from me. My mother also seemed to conceal some inward dissatisfaction whose cause I was not over anxious to probe, as a secret prompting of my conscience, whose source I could not plainly discern, accused myself of the blame. My mother gave me a little note from the Princess, which I was only to open when I was alone in the monastery. I had scarcely crossed the threshold of my cell when I tore it open and read, to my astonishment, the following words:

“My dear Son (for so will I still call thee),

thou hast sorely distressed me by the discourse which thou delivered in our church. Thy words came not from the spirit of piety turned wholly heavenwards; thy inspiration was not that which bears the devout soul aloft on seraph’s wings and opens out to him in holy rapture the kingdom of God. Alas! the proud pomp of thy eloquence and thy manifest straining after effect and show have shown me that, instead of endeavouring to teach thy congregation and to kindle within them the spark of religious meditation, thou hast aimed at mere applause and vulgar admiration. Thou hast simulated feelings that thou feltest not; yea, thou hast even studied certain gestures and aped the artifice of a vain comedian, all for the sake of contemptible praise. The spirit of deceit has entered within thee and will surely destroy thee, if thou returnest not to thyself and castest not aside this sin. For sin it is, and deadly sin, that prompts thy present course, the more so as thou hast dedicated thyself to pious cloister-life and renunciation of all worldly folly. May Saint Bernard, whom thou hast so sorely injured by thy traitorous discourse, forgive thee of his great long-suffering, and illuminate thee, that so thou mayest once more find the right path from which the Evil One has tempted thee to stray. May Saint Bernard pray for the salvation of thy soul! FarewelL”

The words of the Abbess pierced me like a hundred daggers, and I fumed with passion, for nothing was more sure to me than that Leonardus, whose many strictures on my sermons I now recalled, had abused the bigotry of the Princess and set her mind against me and my eloquence. I could scarcely now look on him without my bosom heaving with inward wrath; nay, many a time and oft there surged up in my brain plans for his destruction at which I shuddered. The reproaches of the Abbess and the Prior were all the more intolerable as I felt their truth within the deepest depths of my heart. Yet, hardening

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myself to my task and strengthening myself by draughts from the mysterious flask, I went on to adorn my sermons with all the arts of rhetoric and to study novel expressions of face and new gesticulations, and thus I won my mead of ever waxing praise and adulation.

(To be continued.)

Footnotes