Renata clutched at one work after another as at an anchor of salvation, and hurried me on now to translate for her a page from the lives of the saints, now to explain a theological dispute, admiring the miracles described, terrorised by the threats of hell tortures, and, with a simplicity not characteristic of her, accepting as gospel every incongruous invention of the scholastic doctors.
I cannot now remember the sum total of the extravagances and incongruities that it was our lot to read in these diligent studies, worthy of a more prudent application, but I will give here a few examples of the stories that shook Renata with especial force, causing tears to appear on her eyelashes. For example, Renata read with real horror the description of Hell in Thomas Aquinas, more detailed than that of the poet Dante Alighieri, with an exact distribution of where the various sinners will be housed and to what tortures they will be submitted: the forefathers who died before the advent of Christ, children who died before baptism, thieves, murderers, adulterers, and blasphemers. Touched, and with becoming sighs, Renata listened to the enumeration of the number of lashes received by the Saviour after His betrayal, and it appeared that there were 1,667 lashings with whips, 800 slappings with hands, of which 110 were definitely buffets on the ear; and it was stated also that He shed 62,200 tears on the Mount of Olives and that the drops of His bloody sweat amounted to 87,307; that the crown of thorns inflicted on His immaculate forehead 303 wounds, that He emitted 900 moans and sighs, and so forth. Deeply affected was Renata by the story of how the Mother of God appeared to Saint Catherine of Sienna, and led her to Her Son, who then gave to the saint a ring set with a diamond and four pearls in token of betrothal, to the sound of a harp played by King David; or of how Christ Himself appeared to Saint Iutta at Thüringen, suffered her to press her lips to His pierced rib and to suck His immaculate blood. No less seriously did Renata accept the story of how, as it appears, from the grave of Saint Adalbert in Bohemia, when it was opened by the Bishop of Prague, there flew so strengthening an aroma that all those present required no food for three days after, and of how, so it was said, in a Cistercian convent in France the saintliness of life was so high that, by a special benediction of God, in order not to have to introduce anyone into the convent from without, and yet continue its population, each nun, without knowing a husband, contrived to bear a girl who should be her successor. I do not know whether faith always wars with reason, and whether it be true that the study of theology softens the brain, but as I watched how trustfully listened to these stories Renata, who in other days knew how to use logic, I could only repeat to myself the words of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux: “all the sins derive from the sin of disbelief.”
As far as I was concerned, these scholastic mumblings only amused me as a novelty for the first few days, for all theological compositions have one bad peculiarity: they are all very similar to one another—so that soon these hours of reading with Renata became an unpleasant duty to me. Equally too, my feeling for Renata, which had suddenly revived under the influence of her vision, began to die down again, like a ball that someone pushes suddenly, but which nevertheless cannot roll freely along a stony path. And very soon the monastic mode of life that Renata had introduced into our house with prayers, genuflexions, sighs and fastings began to seem like some incongruous masque. I began to avoid escorting Renata to church, made various pretexts to leave the house during those hours when we should have undertaken our readings, sharply interrupted the pious discourses, and at nights, when I heard the strangled weepings of Renata I did not hasten to her side. And then came a day when I could not, and had no desire to, master my impulse to return to Agnes, as if to the clear air above green pastures, after the blue and flaming rays that shine criss-cross into cathedrals through stained-glass windows.
That day, though I had no means of foreseeing the fact, if it did not determine, at least foretold our fate. Renata had then been at the Cathedral since the morning, and, having waited for her till noon, suddenly and almost unexpectedly to myself, I walked out into the street, turned my steps not without embarrassment to the well-known house of the Wissmans and knocked at the door like one deeply guilty. Agnes received me with unaltered kindness, and said to me only:
“You have not been with us for so long, Master Rupprecht, I began to think something unpleasant must have happened to you again. My brother forbade me to question you, saying that you might have reasons it is not for an honest maiden to know—is that true?”
I replied:
“Your brother was joking at your expense. It was simply that unhappy days came into my life, and I did not wish to sadden you with the sight of my face full of sorrow. But to-day I felt too gloomy, and have come to be silent with you, and to hear your voice.”
I really was silent nearly all the time I spent with Agnes, but she, soon getting used to me again, chirruped like a swallow under the eaves, about all the petty gossip of the last few days: of the demise of a neighbour’s lap dog, of a comical incident at Mass on Sunday, of a professional carouse that had taken place recently at her brother’s, of some remarkable silk shot with three colours sent to her from France, of a great many other matters that made me smile. Agnes’ speech flowed like a rivulet in a wood, it was easy for her to talk, for all the impressions of life she described and all the words she said glided through her without touching anything within her, and for me it was easy to listen, for I had neither to be attentive nor to think, but could just drop the reins of my soul, which so often I had to pull taut. Again, as always, I departed from Agnes refreshed, as though by a light breeze from the sea, comforted, as though by long contemplation of a yellow cornfield set with blue cornflowers.
At home I found Renata at her books, carefully studying some sermon of Bertold of Regensburg, written in a difficult and antiquated style. The stern, concentrated face of Renata, her calm, cold glance, her meek, restrained voice—all this was such a contrast to the childlike carefreedom of Agnes, that my heart felt as if clutched by a pincers. And then, suddenly, with extreme invincibility, I desired the old Renata, the Renata of so little while ago, her passionate eyes, her frantic movements, her unrestrained caresses, her tender words—and the desire was so acute, I was ready to sacrifice my all to satisfy it. At this moment, without hesitation, I would have given my whole future life for one instant of caress, the more so since it seemed to me unattainable.
I rushed to Renata and, kneeling before her, as in the good time that was gone, I began to kiss her hands and tell her how fathomless was my love, how mortally I had suffered all these days from her stern inaccessibility. I said that, from the darkness of Hell, I had almost entered into the radiance of Eden, that, like Adam, I had not known how to use my blissfulness, and that now I was standing at the gates of Paradise and a guard with a flaming sword was barring my return—that I was ready to die straightway, if only once more it might be given to me to inhale the aroma of Eden’s lilies. I knew, even at that very moment, that I was telling falsehoods, that I was repeating words true once but no longer, but a lie was the high price with which I hoped to buy a loving glance and tender touch from Renata. I did not even stop at other, yet more ignoble means of temptation, trying to cloud Renata’s consciousness, trying to wake in her once more a feeling of sensuality, for her passion was necessary to me at all costs.
I do not know whether it was the art of my speech that conquered, or whether there was then in me myself so much fire that it could not fail to transfer itself to the being of Renata and set her aflame, or lastly, whether in her herself the violence of passion, forcibly overlain by the stones of reason, burst forth into the open—only was it certain that the Goddess of Love triumphed that evening, and her winged son was able to blow out his night torch. With such fieriness did we press against each other, with such tender fury did we seek to kiss and embrace, that it might have been our first fusion, and in the drunkenness of happiness it seemed to me as though we were not in our familiar room, but somewhere in a desert, amidst wild rocks, in a cave, an
d the lightnings of the skies and the nymphs of the woods acclaimed our union, as once that of Aeneas and Dido:
fulsere ignes et conscius æther
Connubiis, summoque ulularunt vertice Nymphæ.
And Renata, discarding the stern appearance of a nun, repeated to me these words of caress, that were sweeter to me than the sound of violas and flutes:
“Rupprecht! Rupprecht! I have no other desire, only love me; I want neither bliss, nor Paradise, I want you to be with me, to be mine—and I thine. I love you, Rupprecht!”
But then, when the gust of passion was past, when, as if from some limbo, the walls of our room and all its furnishings began to stand out, and there gradually became visible the books strewn about on the desk, the volume of the sermons of Bertold of Regensburg which had fallen on the floor, and we two, prostrate in exhaustion on the crumpled bed—despair immediately seized Renata. Jumping up she ran to the prie-dieu, flung herself on her knees, whispering a prayer, and then rose again as quickly, and, pale and angry, began to fling reproaches at me:
“Rupprecht! Rupprecht! What have you done! I know this is the only thing you need of me! I know you do not seek or desire anything else of me! But why of me? Go to a brothel—there for little payment you will find women for yourself. Offer yourself to any maiden, and you will easily obtain a wife who will do service with you every night. No, you must be pleased to tempt me, me alone, just because I have given my soul and body to the Lord!”
To this I replied:
“Renata, be merciful and just! Remember that I lived for long months at your side not pressing for your caresses when I thought that you were pledged to another, making then no complaint of your coldness. But how can you desire that I should suffer it in quietness now that I know that you love me, now that I feel the nearness of your love? I do not believe that the caresses of two lovers are displeasing in the sight of the Lord God, and you yourself, only a few moments ago, said that you were ready to sacrifice for them all the bliss of after-life.”
But, instead of answering, Renata began to weep, as she always did, without restraint and without consolation, so that in vain did I try to soothe her and comfort her, beseeching her pardon, blaming myself and promising that nothing of the kind that had happened that day would ever be repeated. Not heeding me, Renata wept as if for something lost beyond recovery, as might weep, perhaps, a virginal maiden dishonestly debauched by a seducer, or as maybe wept our fore-mother Eve, when she realised the hypocrisy of the Serpent. And I, seeing these tears and this agony, swore to myself solemn oaths that never again would I succumb to temptation, better I leave Renata, than show myself in her eyes once more as a man seeking coarse delights, for not for these but for tender glances and soft words did I thirst.
However, despite all these promises which I gave to Renata, and to myself, this day served as a pattern for many others, modelled, if of a different clay, yet in the same mould, and moreover with such exactitude that in each of them Agnes occupied her appointed niche. It invariably happened as follows, I would go during the day to Agnes, listen to her soft speeches, gaze at her flaxen tresses, and with my soul quietened like a becalmed sea, return to Renata reminding myself on the way that to-day I must firmly restrain myself. At home we would always begin the reading of some improving composition, while I, mastering my feeling of boredom, strove to penetrate the discourses that aroused the interest of Renata, but, little by little, the nearness of her body would begin to carry me away like some love potion, and, almost without noticing it myself, I would either glue my lips to her hair or press her hand closer to my own. Recalling now these moments, I think that it may not always have been I who made the first movement, but that a feeling similar to mine was felt also by Renata, who likewise was attracted, against her will, to passion, or perhaps the whole may have been influenced by beings invisible and inimical to us. In any case, without one single exception, all our readings after the first sinful fall began to end in the same way: with, first of all, furious caress and mutual vows, followed by Renata’s despair, her tears and cruel reproaches, and my belated remorse. And the number of images as like to each other as the leaves of one tree increased in our memory each day by one.
Thus our life, as if swirling round the narrowing ring of an eddy, now locked in a very tight circle what formerly it had embraced in a wide round. The first months of my life with Renata we had been strangers to each other; then, during the two weeks following my duel with Count Heinrich, we had been, on the contrary, as near as only human beings can be. In the period immediately following, and lasting till Renata’s vision, these changes of animosity and intimacy had occurred at intervals of several days, and at times we had managed within one week to be both cruel enemies and passionate lovers. And now the same cycle was locked into the shortness of four-and-twenty hours. From the space of morning to evening we contrived each day to ascend the tall staircase from brotherly nearness, through friendly trustfulness, to the most burning, self-forgetful love, and thence, to hatred, sharpened like a dagger. Each day our souls, like blades, first burned to white heat on the forge of passion, then suddenly plunged into icy coldness, and it could easily be foreseen that, unable to withstand such alternations, at the last they must sunder.
I felt myself completely worn out by all my life with Renata, and once more I secretly contemplated leaving her and fleeing to other lands, yet at the same time the thought of losing her and her caresses was so fearful to me that I simply did not dare to imagine myself again alone in the world. And, at this time also, Renata more and more often found the courage to say to me, in the hours of our quarrels, that she could not remain with me, that the Devil inhabited me, to tempt her, that it were better for her to die of her longing for me than to commit deadly sins for the sake of nearness to me, and that the only harbour that was now a fit place for her was a nunnery. I did not then attach much importance to these words, but even to me our life together then seemed a room from which there was no egress, a room all the doors of which we had ourselves walled in, and in which we now flung ourselves about, hopelessly beating against its stony limits.
But the catastrophe that was to shatter these limits into dust, that was to fling us into the depths of other abysses, on to the points of other sharp rocks, still approached somehow unnoticed, as if fate crawled upon us, in a mask and on tip-toe, and seized us both from behind.
The day remains in my memory perhaps more vividly than any other day, and therefore I know that it was the fourteenth day of February precisely, a Sunday, the day of Saint Valentine. That day I was especially comforted by the tenderness of Agnes, and Matthew too was present, all three of us made more than a few jokes about the signs and customs associated with the holiday. Returning home, I was once more in a kind benignant mood, and was saying to myself: “The soul of Renata has been wounded by all that she has lived through. She must be given soothing quiet, as an invalid is given medicine. Who knows, perhaps after several months of clear and peaceful life, her love and her repentance will flow together into an even channel—and then will become possible for us that happy and busy life as husband and wife, of which, already, I am beginning to cease to dream.”
Armed with such good intentions, I entered Renata’s room and found her as usual amongst her books, poring over Latin folios, the sense of which she tried in vain to fathom. She was so interested by the content of the book, which remained dark to her, that she did not hear me as I approached, and, starting, she turned her clear eyes upon me only when I softly kissed her shoulder.
As if having forgotten all her cruel reproaches and plaints of yesterday, Renata said welcomingly to me:
“Rupprecht, how long I have waited for you to-day! Help me, I can see that this book is of great importance but I understand it ill. There are revelations here which, if we bear them in mind, will restrain us from many evils.”
I sat down at Renata’s side and saw that it was a book I had only recently unearthed at Glock’s, for it had long been out of pr
int: a beautiful volume, printed in the town of Lübeck as late as the last century, under the title “Sanctæ Brigittæ revelationis ex recensione cardinalis de Turrecremata.” The book was open at the description of the journey of Saint Brigitta of Sweden across Purgatory, and of the kinds of tortures that she there observed. We immediately began to read of some sinful soul whose head was so tightly strapped by a heavy chain that his eyes, pressed out of their sockets, depended on their roots right down to his very knees, and so that his brain had burst and oozed through his ears and nose; further on was depicted the tortures of another soul, whose tongue was drawn through his open nostrils and hung down to his teeth; and yet further followed other forms of various tortures, flaying, complicated whippings, tortures with fire, boiling oil, nails and saws.
I never had the opportunity to read in this book the description of the agonies of Hell proper, but in the description of Purgatory I was interested merely by the power of the untrammelled fantasy, a great deal of which was lost however, owing to the bad exposition of the Cardinal, who was not quite firm in his Latin style. None the less, on Renata the visions of Saint Brigitta made a terrible impression, and, pushing away the fearsome book, she huddled against me, all atremble, evidently visualising to herself all the torments of after death; which must have opened before her eyes with all the vividness of things seen. With a feeling of genuine terror, like a child left alone in a dark room, she exclaimed at last:
“I’m afraid! I’m afraid! And they threaten all of us, every one, you and me also! Let us go and pray, Rupprecht, and may the Lord grant us life long enough to expiate all our sins!”
At this moment Renata in her simplicity and timidity was like some tiny baby village girl, whom a travelling monk frightens, hoping with her aid to sell the more indulgentiæ, and she was beloved and dear to me as words cannot express. I willingly followed her to the small altar that was in her room, and we kneeled, repeating the holy words: Placare Christe servulis. … This common prayer, spoken as we stood side by side like two statues in a church, and with our voices mingled like the scent of two adjacent growing flowers, decided our fate, for neither of us mastered the desires that suddenly rose from the bottom of our souls, as the snake rises from the basket in answer to the whistle of its charmer.
The Fiery Angel Page 22
