Don Raymond’s malady seemed to gain ground. Lorenzo was constantly at his bed-side, and treated him with a tenderness truly fraternal. Both the cause and effects of the disorder were highly afflicting to the brother of Agnes; yet Theodore’s grief was scarcely less sincere. That amiable boy quitted not his master for a moment, and put every means in practice to console and alleviate his sufferings. The marquis had conceived so rooted an affection for his deceased mistress, that it was evident to all that he never could survive her loss. Nothing could have prevented him from sinking under his grief, but the persuasion of her being still alive, and in need of his assistance. Though convinced of its falsehood, his attendants encouraged him in a belief which formed his only comfort. He was assured daily, that fresh perquisitions were making respecting the fate of Agnes; stories were invented recounting the various attempts made to get admittance into the convent; and circumstances were related, which, though they did not promise her absolute recovery, at least were sufficient to keep his hopes alive. The marquis constantly fell into the most terrible access of passion, when informed of the failure of these supposed attempts. Still he would not credit that the succeeding ones would have the same fate, but flattered himself that the next would prove more fortunate.
Theodore was the only one who exerted himself to realize his master’s chimeras. He was eternally busied in planning schemes for entering the convent, or at least of obtaining from the nuns some intelligence of Agnes. To execute these schemes was the only inducement which could prevail on him to quit Don Raymond. He became a very Proteus, changing his shape every day; but all his metamorphoses were to very little purpose. He regularly returned to the palace de las Cisternas without any intelligence to confirm his master’s hopes. One day he took it into his head to disguise himself as a beggar; he put a patch over his left eye, took his guitar in hand, and posted himself at the gate of the convent.
“If Agnes is really confined in the convent,” thought he, “and hears my voice, she will recollect it, and possibly may find means to let me know that she is here.”
With this idea he mingled with a crowd of beggars who assembled daily at the gate of St. Clare to receive soup, which the nuns were accustomed to distribute at twelve o’clock. All were provided with jugs or bowls to carry it away; but as Theodore had no utensil of this kind, he begged leave to eat his portion at the convent door. This was granted without difficulty. His sweet voice, and, in spite of his patched eye, his engaging countenance, won the heart of the good old porteress, who, aided by a lay-sister, was busied in serving to each his mess. Theodore was bid to stay till the others should depart, and promised that his request should then be granted. The youth desired no better, since it was not to eat soup that he presented himself at the convent. He thanked the porteress for her permission, retired from the door, and, seating himself upon a large stone, amused himself in tuning his guitar while the beggars were served.
As soon as the crowd was gone, Theodore was beckoned to the gate, and desired to come in. He obeyed with infinite readiness, but affected great respect at passing the hallowed threshold, and to be much daunted by the presence of the reverend ladies. His feigned timidity flattered the vanity of the nuns, who endeavoured to re-assure him. The porteress took him into her own little parlour: in the mean while, the lay-sister went to the kitchen, and soon returned with a double portion of soup of better quality than what was given to the beggars. His hostess added some fruits and confections from her own private store, and both encouraged the youth to dine heartily. To all these attentions he replied with much seeming gratitude, and abundance of blessings upon his benefactresses. While he ate, the nuns admired the delicacy of his features, the beauty of his hair, and the sweetness and grace which accompanied all his actions. They lamented to each other in whispers, that so charming a youth should be exposed to the seductions of the world, and agreed that he would be a worthy pillar of the catholic church. They concluded their conference by resolving, that heaven would be rendered a real service, if they entreated the prioress to intercede with Ambrosio for the beggar’s admission into the order of capuchins.
This being determined, the porteress, who was a person of great influence in the convent, posted away in all haste to the domina’s cell. Here she made so flaming a narrative of Theodore’s merits, that the old lady grew curious to see him. Accordingly the porteress was commissioned to convey him to the parlour-grate. In the interim, the supposed beggar was sifting the lay-sister with respect to the fate of Agnes: her evidence only corroborated the domina’s assertions. She said, that Agnes had been taken ill on returning from confession, had never quitted her bed from that moment, and that she had herself been present at the funeral. She even attested having seen her dead body, and assisted with her own hands in adjusting it upon the bier. This account discouraged Theodore; yet, as he had pushed the adventure so far, he resolved to witness its conclusion.
The porteress now returned, and ordered him to follow her. He obeyed, and was conducted into the parlour, where the lady prioress was already posted at the grate. The nuns surrounded her, who all flocked with eagerness to a scene which promised some diversion. Theodore saluted them with profound respect, and his presence had the power to smooth for a moment even the stern brow of the superior. She asked several questions respecting his parents, his religion, and what had reduced him to a state of beggary. To these demands his answers were perfectly satisfactory and perfectly false. He was then asked his opinion of a monastic life. He replied in terms of high estimation and respect for it. Upon this the prioress told him, that his obtaining an entrance into a religious order was not impossible; that her recommendation would not permit his poverty to be an obstacle; and that, if she found him deserving it, he might depend in future upon her protection. Theodore assured her, that to merit her favour would be his highest ambition; and having ordered him to return next day, when she would talk with him further, the domina quitted the parlour.
The nuns, whom respect for the superior had till then kept silent, now crowded all together to the grate, and assailed the youth with a multitude of questions. He had already examined each with attention. Alas! Agnes was not amongst them. The nuns heaped question upon question so thickly, that it was scarcely possible for him to reply. One asked where he was born, since his accent declared him to be a foreigner: another wanted to know why he wore a patch upon his left eye: sister Helena enquired whether he had not a sister like him, because she should like such a companion: and sister Rachael was fully persuaded that the brother would be the pleasanter companion of the two. Theodore amused himself with relating to the credulous nuns, for truths, all the strange stories which his imagination could invent. He related to them his supposed adventures, and penetrated every auditor with astonishment, while he talked of giants, savages, shipwrecks, and islands inhabited
“By anthropophagi, and men whose heads
“Do grow beneath their shoulders,”
with many other circumstances to the full as remarkable. He said that he was born in Terra Incognita, was educated at an Hottentot university, and had passed two years among the Americans of Silesia.
“For what regards the loss of my eye,” said he, “it was a just punishment upon me for disrespect to the Virgin, when I made my second pilgrimage to Loretto. I stood near the altar in the miraculous chapel: the monks were proceeding to array the statue in her best apparel. The pilgrims were ordered to close their eyes during this ceremony; but though by nature extremely religious, curiosity was too powerful. At the moment.…. I shall penetrate you with horror, reverend ladies, when I reveal my crime!.…. At the moment that the monks were changing her shift, I ventured to open my left eye, and gave a little peep towards the statue. That look was my last! The glory which surrounded the Virgin was too great to be supported. I hastily shut my sacrilegious eye, and never have been able to unclose it since!”
At the relation of this miracle the nuns all crossed themselves, and promised to intercede with the blessed
Virgin for the recovery of his sight. They expressed their wonder at the extent of his travels, and at the strange adventures which he had met with at so early an age. They now remarked his guitar, and enquired whether he was an adept in music. He replied with modesty, that it was not for him to decide upon his talents, but requested permission to appeal to them as judges. This was granted without difficulty.
“But at least,” said the old porteress, “take care not to sing any thing profane.”
“You may depend upon my discretion,” replied Theodore; “you shall hear how dangerous it is for young women to abandon themselves to their passions, illustrated by the adventure of a damsel, who fell suddenly in love with an unknown knight.”
“But is the adventure true?” enquired the porteress.
“Every word of it. It happened in Denmark; and the heroine was thought so beautiful, that she was known by no other name but that of ‘the lovely maid.’ ”
“In Denmark, say you?” mumbled an old nun: “Are not the people all blacks in Denmark?”
“By no means, reverend lady; they are of a delicate pea-green, with flame-coloured hair and whiskers.”
“Mother of God! Pea-green?” exclaimed sister Helena: “Oh! ’Tis impossible!”
“Impossible!” said the porteress, with a look of contempt and exultation: “Not at all: when I was a young woman, I remember seeing several of them myself.”
Theodore now put his instrument in proper order. He had read the story of a king of England, whose prison was discovered by a minstrel; and he hoped that the same scheme would enable him to discover Agnes, should she be in the convent. He chose a ballad, which she had taught him herself in the castle of Lindenberg: she might possibly catch the sound, and he hoped to hear her replying to some of the stanzas. His guitar was now in tune, and he prepared to strike it.
“But, before I begin,” said he, “it is necessary to inform you, ladies, that this same Denmark is terribly infested by sorcerers, witches, and evil spirits. Every element possesses its appropriate dæmons. The woods are haunted by a malignant power, called ‘The Erl, or Oak-King:’ he it is who blights the trees, spoils the harvest, and commands the imps and goblins. He appears in the form of an old man of majestic figure, with a golden crown, and long white beard. His principal amusement is to entice young children from their parents; and as soon as he gets them into his cave, he tears them into a thousand pieces. The rivers are governed by another fiend, called ‘The Water-King:’ his province is to agitate the deep, occasion shipwrecks, and drag the drowning sailors beneath the waves. He wears the appearance of a warrior, and employs himself in luring young virgins into his snare: what he does with them, when he catches them in the water, reverend ladies, I leave for you to imagine. ‘The Fire-King’ seems to be a man all formed of flames: he raises the meteors and wandering lights, which beguile travellers into ponds and marshes, and he directs the lightning where it may do most mischief. The last of these elementary dæmons is called ‘The Cloud-King:’ his figure is that of a beautiful youth, and he is distinguished by two large sable wings: though his outside is so enchanting, he is not a bit better disposed than the others. He is continually employed in raising storms, tearing up forests by the roots, and blowing castles and convents about the ears of their inhabitants. The first has a daughter, who is queen of the elves and fairies: the second has a mother, who is a powerful enchantress. Neither of these ladies are worth more than the gentlemen. I do not remember to have heard any family assigned to the two other dæmons, but at present I have no business with any of them except the fiend of the waters. He is the hero of my ballad; but I thought it necessary, before I began, to give you some account of his proceedings.”
Theodore then played a short symphony; after which, stretching his voice to its utmost extent, to facilitate its reaching the ear of Agnes, he sung the following stanzas:
THE WATER-KING,
A Danish Ballad.
With gentle murmur flowed the tide,
While by the fragrant flowery side
The lovely maid, with carols gay,
To Mary’s church pursued her way.
The water-fiend’s malignant eye
Along the banks beheld her hie;
Straight to his mother-witch he sped,
And thus in suppliant accents said:
“Oh! mother! mother! now advise,
How I may yonder maid surprise:
Oh! mother! mother! now explain,
How I may yonder maid obtain.”
The witch, she gave him armour white;
She formed him like a gallant knight;
Of water clear next made her hand
A steed, whose housings were of sand.
The water-king then swift he went;
To Mary’s church his steps he bent:
He bound his courser to the door,
And paced the church-yard three times four.
His courser to the door bound he,
And paced the church-yard four times three:
Then hastened up the aisle, where all
The people flocked, both great and small.
The priest said, as the knight drew near,
“And wherefore comes the white chief here?”
The lovely maid, she smiled aside;
“Oh! would I were the white chief’s bride!”
He stepped o’er benches one and two;
“Oh! lovely maid, I die for you!”
He stepped o’er benches two and three;
“Oh! lovely maiden, go with me!”
Then sweet she smiled, the lovely maid;
And while she gave her hand, she said,
“Betide me joy, betide me woe,
O’er hill, o’er dale, with thee I go.”
The priest their hands together joins:
They dance, while clear the moon-beam shines;
And little thinks the maiden bright,
Her partner is the water-spright.
Oh! had some spirit deigned to sing,
“Your partner is the water-king!”
The maid had fear and hate confessed,
And cursed the hand which then she pressed.
But nothing giving cause to think
How near she strayed to danger’s brink,
Still on she went, and hand in hand
The lovers reached the yellow sand.
“Ascend this steed with me, my dear!
We needs must cross the streamlet here:
Ride boldly in; it is not deep;
The winds are hushed, the billows sleep.”
Thus spoke the water-king. The maid
Her traitor bride-groom’s wish obeyed:
And soon she saw the courser lave
Delighted in his parent wave.
“Stop! stop! my love! The waters blue
E’en now my shrinking foot bedew.”
“Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet heart!
We now have reached the deepest part.”
“Stop! stop! my love! For now I see
The waters rise above my knee.”
“Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet heart!
We now have reached the deepest part.”
“Stop! stop! for God’s sake, stop! For, oh!
The waters o’er my bosom flow!”—
Scarce was the word pronounced, when knight
And courser vanished from her sight.
She shrieks, but shrieks in vain; for high
The wild winds rising dull the cry;
The fiend exults; the billows dash,
And o’er their hapless victim wash.
Three times, while struggling with the stream,
The lovely maid was heard to scream;
But when the tempest’s rage was o’er,
The lovely maid was seen no more.
Warned by this tale, ye damsels fair,
To whom you give your love beware!
Believe not every handsome knight,
And dance not with the water-spri
ght!
The youth ceased to sing. The nuns were delighted with the sweetness of his voice, and masterly manner of touching the instrument; but however acceptable this applause would have been at any other time, at present it was insipid to Theodore. His artifice had not succeeded. He paused in vain between the stanzas; no voice replied to his, and he abandoned the hope of equalling Blondel.
The convent-bell now warned the nuns that it was time to assemble in the refectory. They were obliged to quit the grate: they thanked the youth for the entertainment which his music had afforded them, and charged him to return the next day. This he promised. The nuns, to give him the greater inclination to keep his word, told him that he might always depend upon the convent for his meals, and each of them made him some little present. One gave him a box of sweetmeats; another, an agnus dei; some brought reliques of saints, waxen images, and consecrated crosses; and others presented him with pieces of those works in which the religious excel, such as embroidery, artificial flowers, lace, and needle-work. All these he was advised to sell, in order to put himself into better case; and he was assured that it would be easy to dispose of them, since the Spaniards hold the performances of the nuns in high estimation. Having received these gifts with seeming respect and gratitude, he remarked, that, having no basket, he knew not how to convey them away. Several of the nuns were hastening in search of one, when they were stopped by the return of an elderly woman, whom Theodore had not till then observed. Her mild countenance and respectable air prejudiced him immediately in her favour.
“Hah!” said the porteress, “here comes the mother St. Ursula with a basket.”
The nun approached the grate, and presented the basket to Theodore: it was of willow, lined with blue satin, and upon the four sides were painted scenes from the legend of St. Genevieve.
The Monk Page 28
