At last there came into my mind the oath I had given myself at Düsseldorf, and that had not once occurred to me during the last few weeks: not to stay with Renata for longer than three months, and, in any case, not for longer than the time during which I should spend a third of the money I had saved. Three months since that morning had elapsed six days before, and the limited amount had already been almost spent. Under the influence of such meditations, the thought flickered through my mind not to return to Köln at all, but to abandon Renata to her own lonely fate and, turning my horse, to ride south of Bonn in the direction of my parental Losheim. However, I had not the courage to do this, principally because I was tormented by my longing for Renata, but also because honour did not permit me such treachery.
Then I said to myself: when I return home, I shall speak to Renata frankly and honestly, I shall point out to her that her search for Count Heinrich is sheer madness, remind her that I have come to love her passionately and with all my heart, and offer her to become my wife. If she can, before God and man, give me an oath to be a faithful and a loyal wife, we shall repair together to Losheim and, having obtained the benediction of my parents, go to live beyond the Ocean, to New Spain, where Renata’s past will be forgotten like a before-morning dream.
Lulled by these dreams of peaceful happiness, I felt easy and free, and sang beneath my breath a gay Spanish song: “A Mingo Revulgo, Mingo,” and unceasingly urged on my horse, so that it was while it was yet daylight that the city walls of Köln rose before me, dark above the white snow.
Chapter tbe Seventh
How I met Count Heinrich
HAVING reached our house, tired but cheerful, I knocked at the door to summon Martha, handed over to her the reins of my horse, and asked:
“Where is Mistress Renata?”
To my surprise, Martha answered me thus:
“She appears to have got better, Master Rupprecht. When you were gone she spent whole days walking in the town, and yesterday she only returned home very late.”
Of course a sharp barb lay hidden in Martha’s words, for already, for some time, she had felt unfriendly towards Renata, and her thrust did not strike amiss. “How is it,” I said to myself, “that Renata, who, when I am home, pretends that she is like one paralysed and cannot rise from her bed, Renata, who refuses for whole weeks to cross the threshold of her room, as if she were bound by some vow—the moment she is left alone, walks along wintry streets until the darkness of the night! This might even enable one to credit the suggestions of Hans Weier, that all her illness is only imagination, all her sufferings—only play-acting!”
Indignant and almost in a rage, I ran up the stair to the upper storey, where, on the landing, leaning against the balusters, Renata already awaited me; her face was pale and betrayed extreme emotion. Seeing me, she stretched out her hands to me, took me by the shoulders and, without allowing me to say a word or herself pronouncing any greeting, said:
“Rupprecht, he is here.”
I replied with the question:
“Who is here?”
She explained:
“Heinrich is here! I have seen him. I have spoken with him.”
As yet not quite believing Renata’s words, I began to question her:
“Could you not have been mistaken? Perhaps it merely seemed so to you? It may have been someone else. Did he himself admit to you that he was—Count Heinrich?”
And Renata drew me into her room, forced me to sit down, and, nearly straining against me, bending her face close, so close, began in gasps to relate to me what had happened to her in Köln during the two days I had been absent.
According to her account, on Saturday, at the hour of the evening mass, while, as was her custom, she was wasting herself at the window in cold weariness, she suddenly heard a voice, soft but clear, as if that of an angel, which repeated thrice: “He is here, near the Cathedral. He is here, near the Cathedral. He is here, near the Cathedral.” After that Renata could neither reason nor tarry, but, rising and throwing on her cape, she hastened at once to the Cathedral, on the Square, at that time crowded with people. Five minutes had not passed when she distinguished in the crowd Count Heinrich, who was walking with another young man, their arms round each other’s waists. From excitement at this apparition, of which she had too long dreamed, Renata almost fell unconscious, but some force, as if from within, supported her, and she followed them, walking, across the whole town, until they entered a house belonging to Eduard Stein, the friend of the humanists.
The following day, a Sunday, Renata stood on guard near that house from early dawn, firmly resolved to wait for the appearance of Heinrich. She had to wait a long time, the whole day long, but she paid no attention to the surprised glances of the passers-by or the suspicious looks of the reiters, and only the thought that Heinrich might have left the city during the night made her tremble. Suddenly, when it was already near twilight, the door opened and Heinrich appeared, in company with the same youth as yesterday, conversing with animation. Renata walked after them, keeping in the shelter of the walls, and she followed close upon all their route as far as the Rhine, where the friends took leave of each other: the stranger turned towards the shipping, and Heinrich made as if to return. Then Renata came out from the shadow and called him by his name.
According to Renata’s words Heinrich recognised her at once, but she would have been happy had it not been so, for, scarcely had he realised who was before him, when his face became distorted with indignation and hate. Renata caught hold of his hand, he freed himself with a shiver of disgust and, thrusting away the fingers that stretched towards him, tried to walk on. Then Renata fell upon her knees before him on the filthy quay, kissed the hem of his cape and said to him all those words she had so often said to me; how she had waited for him, how she had searched for him, how she loved him and entreated him to kill her there and then, for of his thrust she would die blissfully, like a saint. But Heinrich said that he neither wished to speak to her, nor see her, that he even had no right to forgive her; at last, tearing himself free from her hands, he disappeared, almost running, leaving her alone in darkness and isolation.
Renata delivered the whole of this narrative at one breath, speaking in a very firm voice, and selecting accurate and picturesque expressions, but, on reaching the end, she suddenly lost at one and the same time both strength and will, and burst into tears: as though the wind that had driven the ship of her soul had died suddenly down, and the sails begun pitifully to droop against the rigging. And at once she sank heavily to the floor, for despair always dragged her to the ground, and, drooping with face averted, she began to weep and sway herself about, repeating helplessly the selfsame words, heeding not my tender consolations, nor my searching questions.
I confess that Renata’s narrative, though that day I had been, it is true, further from her in thought than ever before, made a staggering impression upon me: my heart throbbed convulsively and my soul as if filled with the black smoke of an explosion. The thought that someone had dared to treat proudly and contemptuously a woman before whom I was accustomed to kneel was unbearable to me. However, I did not allow myself to be overcome by anger and jealousy, but sought clearly to unravel that which had transpired, though it assailed me as a disorderly and impetuous hurricane. And as soon as Renata had regained at least a degree of ability to speak coherently, I demanded that she should repeat the words of Heinrich to me more exactly:
Still swallowing her tears, she exclaimed:
“How he insulted me! How he insulted me! He told me that I was the evil genius of his life. That I had ruined his whole fate. That I took him away from Heaven. That I—am from the Devil. He told me that he despised me. That the memory of our love was revolting to him. That our love was filth and sin into which I had enticed him by shameful deceit. That he, that he—spat upon our love!”
Then I asked how could Heinrich have said that Renata took him away from Heaven? Was it not he himself, of his own free will, who carrie
d her to his castle to live with him as his wife and one nearest to him? And since at that hour all the customary dams in Renata’s soul were shattered by the impetuous flood of her sorrow, without even attempting to defend herself, she fell with her face upon my knees and exclaimed with a final sincerity so unusual to her:
“Rupprecht! Rupprecht! I hid from you the most important point of all! Heinrich never sought human love! He should never in his life have touched a woman! It was I, it was I, who forced him to betray his oath. Yes, I took him away from Heaven, I deprived him of his exalted dreams, and for that he now despises me and hates me!”
Continuing to stalk the truth carefully, as an animal stalks its prey, I discovered from Renata, question by question, all that she had concealed from me about Heinrich in her first story, and of which she had never let hint drop during the three months of our life together. I learned that Heinrich was member of a Secret society that required on entry a vow of chastity. This society was to have bound together the entire Christian universe with a hoop tighter than the Church, and to have stood at the head of the entire earth with more power than the Emperor and the Most Holy Father. Heinrich dreamed that he would be elected Grand Master of the order, and lead the vessel of humanity out of the deep abysms of evil into the road-steads of truth and light. He had called Renata to join him only for the purpose of assisting him with his experiments in a new, godly magic, for he required that special power that is latent in some persons. But Renata, thinking Heinrich the incarnation of her Madiël, had approached him with but one aim—to possess herself of him, and, despising no means, she achieved the triumph of her purpose. Heinrich, however, after a short time during which his reason had been blinded by love, had felt horrified at what had been committed, and, in bitter remorse, fled his home castle, like a country infested with the plague.
Such an explanation of events seemed to me to have much more the appearance of truth than that which Renata had given me before, and, at last joining into one whole the separate threads of her story, I asked her:
“If you yourself admit that you are guilty before Count Heinrich, that you deprived him of his fondest dreams and took away from him the sacred aim of his life, how is it that you are astonished at his hating you?”
Renata slowly rose from the floor, looked at me with her eyes become suddenly dry, and then spoke in a quite new voice, firm like steel:
“Perhaps I am not astonished at all. Perhaps I am even gladdened that Heinrich hates me. I do not bewail him, but myself. I am not sorry that he is lost to me, but it causes me shame and bitterness to have been able to have loved him so, to have given myself thus to him. I, myself, hate him! Now I know with certainty that of which long ago I had suspicion. Heinrich deceived me! He is—a mere man, but an ordinary human being, whom I could seduce and who can be ruined, and I in my madness imagined him to be my angel! No, no, Heinrich is only Count Otterheim, a failure as Grand Master of his order, while my Madiël is in Heaven, eternally pure, eternally beautiful, eternally unattainable!”
Renata joined her hands as if in prayer, and I thought the moment propitious to acquaint her with all that of which I had dreamed and thought on my journey back from Bonn. I said:
“Renata! Thus you are convinced that Count Heinrich is not your angel Madiël, but a simple mortal, who for some time loved you and whom you loved, perhaps even owing to your self-deception. Now this love is dead in him, as well as in you, and your heart, Renata, is free. Remember then that another is near you to whom that heart is more precious than all the gold fields of Mexico! If, with equanimity of soul, even though without passion, you can stretch out your hand to me and give me a promise of faithfulness in the future, I shall accept it as a miserable beggar a kingly alms, as a hermit accepts grace from Heaven! Here once more, Renata, I kneel before you—and in your hands alone does it lie to transform your whole horrible past into a dream fading away into forget-fulness.”
Renata rose after my words, straightened herself, lowered her hands on to my shoulders and spoke thus:
“I will be your wife, but you must slay Heinrich!”
Retreating a step, I replied asking whether I had heard aright, for once more had Renata completely upset with her words all my idea of her, as a child tips over a bag dropping to the ground all the objects it contains—and Renata repeated to me, her voice very calm, but obviously affected by extreme excitement:
“You must slay Heinrich! He must not be suffered to live after giving himself out as another, as one immeasurably higher than he. He stole my caresses and my love from me. Slay him, slay him, Rupprecht, and I will be yours! I shall be faithful to you, I shall love you, I shall follow you everywhere—both in this life and in the eternal fire the way to which will be opened for both of us!”
I retorted:
“I am no hired assassin, Renata, no Neapolitan; I cannot lay in wait for the Count round a corner and thrust a dagger into his back—my honour will not allow me to do that!”
Renata replied:
“Can you not find reasons for challenging him to combat? Visit him as you visited Agrippa, insult him or force him to insult you—has a man so few means of disposing of a rival?”
That which struck me most of all in this speech was her mention of Agrippa, for until that moment I had been convinced that Renata, having been unconcerned with the things of this world, had not known the object of my journey. As to the request itself—to slay Count Heinrich, I should be a hypocrite if I were to pretend that it horrified me. It was only the unexpectedness of Renata’s words that confused me, but in the depths of my soul they found immediately a sympathetic echo, as if someone had struck a brass shield in front of deep grottoes and the many-voiced echo, dying out in the distance, long repeated the sound. And when Renata began to press me, as an opponent his enemy chased into a crevice, to tear consent out of me, as one panther a lump of meat from the claws of another—I resisted without much pertinacity, just for appearance’s sake—and gave her the oath she awaited.
Hardly had I pronounced the decisive words when Renata changed her whole attitude. Suddenly she remarked that I was exhausted by fatigue after a rather trying journey; and, with a care that manifested itself in her so seldom, she hastened to take off my travelling clothes, brought me water to wash, and found me some supper and wine. She suddenly became to me as the kindest, most domesticated of wives to her beloved husband, or as an elder sister to a younger brother fallen ill. Ceasing to speak of Count Heinrich as though she had forgotten all about our bitter conversation and my oath, Renata began at supper to question me about my journey, showing interest in all that had befallen me, and discussing with me the words of Agrippa as in the happy days of our joint studies. When, seeing through the window a completely black sky, inwardly conscious that we had already crossed the threshold of midnight, I desired, having kissed Renata’s hand, to retire to my room, she said softly to me, dropping her eyes, like a bride:
“Why do you not wish to remain with me?”
Why did I not wish to remain? But how dare I dream of remaining! It was already a very long time, the course of many weeks, since it had last been given to me to spend the night near Renata, and the memory of my former intimacy with her seemed as something illusory and unattainable.
This time Renata did not desire me to stay on the wooden podium, near her bed, but called me to lie next to her again, as in the first days. This time Renata pressed herself to me with all her body, like a mistress, kissed me, sought my lips, my hands, all of me. And when, drawing back, I said to her that she must not tempt me, Renata answered me:
“I must! I must! I want to be with you! To-day I want you!”
Thus, unexpectedly, came to pass my first union with Renata as man with woman, on a day when I least of all expected it, after a conversation that least of all led to it. This night became our first bridal night, after we had spent not a few nights in one bed as brother and sister, and after we had lived for several months side by side like modest friends. But
when, in the torture of this unexpected bliss, nearly drunk with the accomplishment of all that had heretofore seemed so impossible, I bent, exhausted, over the lips of Renata to thank her with a kiss for my ecstasy, I suddenly saw that her eyes were once more full of tears, that the tears were streaming down her cheeks, and that her lips were twisted in a smile of pain and despair. I exclaimed:
“Renata! Renata! Can it be that you are weeping?”
She replied in a strangled voice:
“Kiss me, Rupprecht! Caress me, Rupprecht! Have I not given myself to you! Have I not given you all my body! More! More!”
Almost in terror I fell face downwards on the pillows, ready to weep and gnash my teeth, but Renata drew me forcibly towards her, compelling me to be the live instrument of her torture, an executioner willing but trembling in horror, racking and crucifying herself with insatiable thirst on the wheel of caresses and the cross of lust. She deceived me again and again with pretended tenderness, tempted me with passion perhaps not artificial, but not destined for me, and flinging her body into fire and upon the teeth of saws, moaned with the bliss—of feeling pain, wept with the last of all joys—the despising of herself. And till the very morn lasted this monstrous playing at love and happiness, in which the kisses were sharp blades, the calls to joy—the menaces of an inquisitor, the elixir of lust—blood, and our whole bridal couch—a black torture cell.
That evening, when in the name of love murder was demanded of me, and that night, when in the name of love tortures were demanded of me, remain as the most horrible of my deliriums, and the slumber of exhaustion that freed me from these diabolical visions granted me a favour greater than in the grant of all the rulers of the world.
The Fiery Angel Page 16
