The Fiery Angel (31 page)
I explained to Matthew, as far as it was possible to do so to a coarse and rather simple man, what circumstances of life had brought me to the verge of despair, and I depicted the visits of Agnes as a deed of charity, akin to the visitation of hospitals and prisons, which is blessed even by the Church. I insisted that neither on my part nor on the part of Agnes had there been one word of love, without even mentioning baser impulses, and that our relations had not overstepped those that are permissible between brother and sister. That picture of which Matthew had been a witness I explained as due solely to the kindness of Agnes, who had wept over my sufferings and been moved by my inconsolable sorrow. I tried, moreover, to speak with all the air of persuasion I was able to summon, and I fancy that Marcus Tullius Cicero himself, the father of orators and hypocrites, would, after listening to my sanctimonious speech, have slapped me on the shoulder kindly and approvingly.
In the course of my speech, Matthew grew somewhat calmer, and at its conclusion he demanded in reply:
“Look here, brother. Swear to me by the immaculate body of Christ and the bliss of the Holy Virgin in Heaven that nothing evil has taken place between you and Agnes.”
I willingly gave this oath with all solemnity, and then Matthew said to me:
“And now this is what I will say to you. Into the fineness of your feelings I cannot, and have no desire to penetrate, but of Agnes you must cease even to think. Had you asked her in marriage, I should perhaps not have refused you, but all these compassions and tendernesses are not for her—she needs a husband, not a friend. It will be better for you not even to think of showing yourself to her, and, more, do not secretly send her any letters—no good would come of it!”
Having delivered his decision, Matthew got up from the armchair, ready to go, but then, changing his mind, he walked up to me and, in a voice that had already become more kind, said:
“And, moreover, I should like to add, Rupprecht: travel away from here while you yet may. This is what I came to see you about, to warn you. Yesterday I heard such talk about you that it made me feel anxious. People declare that you, together with your runaway wench, have been engaging not only in the Black Arts, but in other things much worse. I, of course, don’t give them much credit, but you know yourself that, under torture, anyone will confess anything. And there is talk about it being time to call you to answer. True, our Archbishop Heinrich is a kind man and cultured, but one must not be lenient to practitioners of Black Magic. In short, do harken to me—from my very heart I say to you—go away and the sooner the better!”
After these words, Matthew, still not offering me his hand, turned and walked away, and I was left alone. It is remarkable that this incident, which happened extraordinarily quickly, within the space of ten or fifteen minutes, and in which tragedy mingled with light comedy, influenced me in a most stimulating way. I felt a sensation as though, while I slept, someone had drenched me with ice cold water, and I wildly looked around me, shivering yet alert. As my excitement gradually subsided, I said to myself:
“Is it not apparent that this incident has been sent you by Fate to summon you from the swamp of inactivity in which your soul was bogged. A little more, and the better part of your feelings would have been over-grown with marsh reeds. It is necessary to make a choice—either life or death: if you cannot endure to live, then die without delay; if, however, you desire to live, live then, but do not resemble a snail! To weep your days through, be touched by the compassion of another for you—this is unworthy of man, who is placed, in the words of Pico della Mirandola, at the apex of the world, to survey the whole of existence!”
These simple considerations, that most certainly ought to have come into my mind even without the preaching of Matthew, sobered me, and I began to examine my position with the eyes of reason. It was clear that the time was come for me to leave the City of Köln, where I had no reason to remain, and where, as Matthew told me, I might be threatened with exceeding unpleasantnesses. Immediately, without postponing the matter, I set about making ready for departure, going through the bulk of objects that had accumulated during the months of living in one place, and counting my money, of which I had left more than 100 Rhine florins—a sum that enabled me to regard myself as not yet a pauper. Whither to go, I had at that time made no definite decision, of only one thing I was firmly certain, and that was that I should not go to my home town of Losheim, to my parents; for even then it seemed to me unendurable that I should come to them as a failure, without wealth, without prospects, so that my father would have the right to tell me to my face: “A good-for-nothing you were, and a good-for-nothing you remain.”
The next day was a Sunday, and that day I determined to set aside for saying farewell to Köln, for too much that was dear to me had taken place in that city to allow me to take leave of it as of a hamlet in which one has spent a chance night. To the ringing of church bells, I donned my best clothes, sadly remembering how Renata and I had formerly gone together on holidays to Mass, and made my way alone to our parish church of Saint Cecilia, which was filled with a gaily-dressed crowd. There, leaning against a pillar and listening to the swelling of the organ, I strove to imbue my soul with a feeling of prayer, so that, if only by that means, I might unite with Renata, who at the same hour, certainly, was praying too, somewhere in some other church, unknown to me—and thus commune as two lovers commune, divided by the Ocean, and yet gazing in the evening at one and the same star.
Afterwards, when the Mass was ended, I wandered long from street to street, reviving in my memory the events of the last months, for it seemed as though there were not one stone in the city with which some memory was not connected. There, behind the Hanseatic quay, Renata and I had used to sit together, silently gazing at the dark waters of the Rhine; here, in the church of Saint Peter, she had had a favourite pew; there, at the tower of Saint Martin, Renata had waited long and confidently for her Heinrich to appear; through this street I had ridden with Matthew to the duel with Heinrich; in that tavern, once, I had passed stupid hours in dreaming of Renata and Agnes, And, endlessly, many memories rose towards me from the walls, mounted from the earth of the cross roads, nodded to me from the windows of houses, peeped at me from behind the counters of the shops, stooped towards me from the spires of the church towers. It began to seem to me as though Renata and I had peopled the whole City of Köln with the shadows of our love, and I became as reluctant to part from the place, as from a promised land.
And it was in this way, in the course of my moody and dreamy wanderings, that I came to the Cathedral, not for the first time, and without any definite reason paused in its shadow, near the colossal south windows, when, from among the crowd, there suddenly stepped forth two men, who, apparently, had even before been watching me, and they approached me. I looked at them in surprise, and I must confess that from an even very perfunctory scrutiny, they appeared to me to be very remarkable. One of them, a man of about thirty-five, dressed as doctors are usually dressed, and with a small curly beard—made the impression of being a king in disguise. His bearing was noble, his movements self-assured, and in the expression of his face was a melancholy, as of a man weary of ruling. His companion was attired in the habit of a monk; he was tall and thin, but all his person every instant changed its external appearance, in correspondence with the changes of expression of his face. At first it appeared to me that the monk walking towards me could hardly restrain his laughter, as if preparing to relate some witty quip to me, in a moment I felt convinced he had some evil design, so that I inwardly prepared myself for defence, but when he came near enough to me, I saw on his face only a deferential smile.
With elegant politeness the monk addressed me:
“Kind sir, as far as we observe, you are engaged in looking round this handsome city, and moreover, it seems that you are well acquainted with it, Whereas we are travellers, here visiting for the first time, and would be very glad of someone to show us the sights of Köln. Will you not grant us your attention, and, for to-day, agree to be our guide?”
There was a remarkable wheedling quality in the voice of the monk, or, more correctly, there was in him some magical power over the soul, for I felt as if straight-way entangled in the net of his words, and, instead of breaking off the conversation with a curt refusal, I answered thus:
“Forgive me, kind sirs, but I am surprised that you should address such a request to one who does not know you, and who, perhaps, has more important business on hand than to conduct two newly-arrived travellers through the city.”
With redoubled politeness, under which may also have been concealed sarcasm, the monk countered me:
“We had no desire whatever to offend you. But it occurred to us that you were far from being gay, while we are merry fellows, live for every minute without thinking of the next, and perhaps, if you agreed to join us, we should be rendering you a service no less than you would render us. But, if you are deterred by your lack of our acquaintance, that can easily be remedied, for each being and each object has a name. This is my friend and protector, a most worthy and learned man, doctor of philosophy and medicine, investigator of elements, Iohann Faustus, a name of which you have perchance heard. And I—a modest scholar, for many years a student of the lining of things, and prevented from becoming a good theologian by a superfluity of pyrrhonism. In my childhood they called me Iohann Mullin, but I am more accustomed to my nickname in jest—Mephistophilis, by which—please like me.”
At the time both the strangers appeared to me to be persons of merit, and I thought it no harm if I were to spend a while in the company of two wayfarers, and seek to drown my heavy sadness in their healthy cheerfulness. Preserving my dignity, I replied that I was prepared to come to their assistance, and that, as I had long loved the City of Köln, I should be glad to acquaint visitors with its riches. Thus a pact was concluded and I entered on the spot upon my duties as guide, suggesting that we should begin our inspection with the Cathedral near which we were standing.
All those who have visited Köln are familiar with this Cathedral, of which I have many times made mention in my narrative, but even those who have not visited the town of course have heard of the huge structure, undertaken three centuries ago, and in its present form eloquently testifying to the weakness of the performance of man contrasted with the might of his imagination. I related to my companions all that I knew of the building of this temple, of which the choir was consecrated a century after the commencement of the work, the nave dedicated for service fifty years later, the towers, although not having yet attained to their full height, equipped with bells after another eighty years—and which still stands in the midst of the City like a Noah’s Ark being prepared for some future deluge, pointing menacingly from its roof, as if with a stern finger, by means of its gigantic crane for the uplifting of stones. When I had ended my account, Mephistophilis said:
“How small mankind has grown! Solomon’s temple was no smaller than this, and that was built in only seven years and a half. Though I must admit in truth: not only slaves, but the spirits of the universe used to work for the old man. Often he would threaten them with his ring, and they used to tremble in terror, like autumn leaves.”
I gazed with astonishment at one who referred to the King-Psalmist as to one whom he had known personally, but then I thought it must have been a joke, and advised my companions to enter the temple and see the seven chapels that surround the choir. When I showed them the chapel of the Three Magi, where, according to legend, lie the bodies of the three magi of the Evangels, handed over to Köln after the sack of the Italian city of Milan, Doctor Faustus, who had hitherto been silent almost all the time, said:
“Good people! Haven’t you lost your way a little, since you have arrived here instead of at Bethlehem in Palestine! Or perhaps were you flung after death into the sea, and swam to Köln along the Rhine, that you might find tombs for yourselves here!”
We all laughed at this conceit, while Mephistophilis added, in the same vein:
“Poor Melchior, Balthazar and Kaspar, you haven’t been too lucky! During your life you were baptised by the apostle Thomas, who himself didn’t believe too well in Jesus Christ, and after your death you have been placed to rest in a temple that knows no rest itself!”
Having inspected the Cathedral, we went to the ancient church of Saint Cunibert, then to Saint Ursula, then to Saint Gereon, to the remains of the Roman wall, and so forth—to all the noteworthy places of the City of Köln. Everywhere my companions found something witty or comical to say, but whereas in the words of Doctor Faustus there was more a kindly humour, Mephistophilis preferred pungent sarcasm. In general this new turn over the well-known scenes with my two indefatigable companions somewhat dispersed the black cloud of despondency, that had again enveloped the horizons of my soul, and when, after a prolonged walk, we all became very tired, I accepted with pleasure the suggestion of Mephistophilis to step into the nearest tavern and drink a quart of wine.
In the tavern we took a place in the corner, near a window, and, while the host and his servants roasted a goose for us and served the wine, I began to question my new friends in more detail, as to who they were and whither bound. Mephistophilis answered me thus:
“My friend and protector, Doctor Faustus, having grown weary of the burden of hearsay knowledge—for he is of the most learned—desired to put personally to the proof the question whether the world be organised according to the principles of science, or no. And on our way, journeying through countries and inspecting towns, we have at the same time had proof that everywhere wine makes men drunk, and everywhere men run after women.”
Doctor Faustus added sadly:
