The Fiery Angel (37 page)
Remembering well that there are none so blind as those who shut their eyes, I made no effort to bring the Count to reason, and kept silence.
On another occasion the Count asked me what I thought of astrology, and I quoted in reply the words familiar to everyone: “
Astra non mentiuntur sed astrologi bene mentiuntur de astris
.”
The Count, however, replied with indignation:
“
Me hercule!
I did not expect such an argument from an admirer of Pico di Mirandola! To search for predictions in the disposition of the planets, is the same as to deduce one’s fate from the change of summer into autumn, for as one, so the other, obeys the laws of physics.”
It is fitting to mention here that the Count, though he discoursed of the “brotherhood” of all “moderns,” and though he considered himself a pupil of Æneas Silvius, began none the less familiarly to address me as “thou” as soon as I became to some extent dependent on him, a fact to which I did not think it necessary to pay attention.
However, my service with Count Adalbert did not last long, about ten days, and in all I spent in the castle not more than two weeks, though at the end of that time I began already definitely to feel the burden of my position, and that faint thirst for change which has always governed my life. But, in correspondence with my hidden desires, my fate too did not tarry, for the time had come for it to lead me to the concluding and horrible events of this history I have lived through. Once, when I was on duty at the desk in the room of the Count, and listening to a lengthy explanation from him regarding the distance between the sun and the sphere of the stars, a messenger suddenly entered the room, being admitted without announcement in view of the importance of the letter he brought with him. This was an advice from the Archbishop of Trier, Iohann, that he had embarked upon a journey to the convent of Saint Ulf, where a new heresy had made its appearance, and that he would spend the nearest night in the castle of von Wellen.
The Count dismissed the messenger with courteous phrases, but, when we were left alone, I had to listen to a whole torrent of complaints and reproaches.
“
Hei mihi!
”—said the Count—“Ended are my days of freedom, in which I could delight myself without stint in the service of the Muses! Ah, why am I not a simple poet who knows no other duties than sacrifices to Apollo, or a beggarly scientist who knows only his books!”
Continuing, the Count showered bitter accusations upon his suzerain, comparing him in mockery to another prince of the Church, our noble contemporary, the Archbishop of Mainz, Albrecht, whom he lauded as almost a paragon among mankind. The Count was especially upset by the fact that, having the estate of Counsellor, he must inevitably accompany the Archbishop for at least the distance of a few days’ march, and he declared to me there and then that I should have to go with him, for he desired on no account to interrupt his work on the treatise. I, of course, consented very willingly, for the prospect of remaining in the castle during the absence of the Count did not attract me in the least, but I did not then suspect the fatal issue to this journey, nor the fact that the arrival of the Archbishop was itself but a chess move in the hands of Fate, who plays even with a Prince-Kurfürst of the Empire as with a pawn, to attain her mysterious ends.
At this very hour preparations were beginning in the castle for the reception of the eminent guest, and servants and serving-women fussed along all the corridors and passages like ants in a disturbed ant heap. I, of course, took no part in the flurry, preferring to remain in my customary solitude, so that even when, towards the decline of day, a second messenger brought information that the train of the Archbishop was approaching, I took no part in his reception, and am thus unable to describe its details. As a matter of fact, sitting in my room, I occupied myself with a childish game: from the sounds that faintly reached me I tried to guess what was happening in the courtyard, at the entrance, in the great hall, what speeches were being delivered, in what respects the reception of the suzerain differed from the mocking reception accorded to Doctor Faustus—but these idle speculations can have no claim upon the indulgence of the gentle reader.
In the state of inactivity in which I then was, I should perhaps have spent, without leaving the room, all the time until nightfall, had not the Count himself sent for me, bidding me to supper, and making myself as smart as I could, I descended into the Trojan hall. This time it was decorated with veritable pomp, for the number of lit wax candles and long torches was enormous, and in the depths of the hall was erected a gallery for musicians, who, with trumpets and fifes in their hands, were awaiting a signal. I at once distinguished amongst the arrivals the Archbishop, who seemed to me of goodish port, in a robe of deep purple, with a golden, gem-encrusted buckle on his breast, and with a ceremonial infula. But the men of his suite, prelates, canons and others, all made the most revolting impression on me, and as I gazed at all these obese bellies and fat, smug, self-satisfied faces I involuntarily recalled the unforgettable pages of the immortal satire of Sebastian Brant.
In all, I think, there were gathered in that hall more than thirty persons, for the regaling of whom were made ready three separate tables, so that each might be seated in accordance with his rights and dignities. At the main table sat down, with the Archbishop and his immediate suite, the Count, his consort and knight Robert, while to all others were exactly indicated their places, and at once they were conducted thither by pages dressed in gay costumes, with napkins hung about their necks, in ancient custom. I was appointed a cover at a small table to one side, where was placed also our chaplain, the seneschal of the castle, and about ten persons from the suite of our guest, and I was very glad that in that circle I was able to conceal myself, as it were, unnoticed.
I do not know what happened at the Archbishop’s table, for on this occasion I had lost my zeal for observation, but at our table all flung themselves with veritable greed upon the viands with which our cooks had sought to display their skill, and while there circulated all manner of dishes, among which of course predominated fish—pike, carp, tench, eels, crayfish, trout, lampreys, salmon, while the pages diligently poured out all kinds of Rhine wines—there was heard only the champing of jaws, and seen only cheeks distended with rumination. Only towards the end of the supper did a sort of conversation arise between me, our chaplain, and my neighbour at table, a smallish and fattish Dominican monk—which discussion I at first conducted negligently, but later applied all my energy to it, which stood me later in good stead.
The Dominican began with complaints of the persecution to which, in this age, the Holy Catholic Church is subjected in Germany, and throughout the whole world, for, according to his words, the Protestants were comparable in the cruelty of their persecutions to the Goths and the Getts in Europe, the Vandals in Africa, the Arians in both the former and the latter, and even surpassed them. He went on to relate to us several cases in which Protestants had seized devout Catholics, both secular and clergy, forcing them to abjure the true faith, while those who were obdurate they slew with the sword, suspended above bonfires, crucified in churches on holy crucifixes, drowned in rivers and wells, submitted to various tortures, unendurable and shameful, for example, making horses eat their intestines while they yet lived, or stuffing the shameful parts of women with powder, and lighting the mines thus formed. Father Philip, our chaplain, expressed his indignation at such stories; while I, surprised at the lustful exaltation with which our companion related these cases, which, if not quite impossible, for I myself had witnessed similar instances at the sack of Rome, must at least be rare and exceptional—enquired with whom we had the honour to be conversing. Then the Dominican, with a kind smile, named himself:
“I—a humble servant of the altar”—he said—“am Brother Thomas, known in the world as Peter Teibener, inquisitor of His Holiness, having authority to seek out and uproot the pernicious errors of heretics in all the lands bordering upon the Rhine: Baden, Speier, Pfalz, Mainz, Trier and others.”
I confess that at the word “inquisitor” something like a perceptible shiver ran down all my body, from neck to ankles, especially at the coincidence of the name of our new acquaintance with the name of the famous Thomas de Torquemada, who shook Castile and Aragon with his persecutions half a century ago. I knew that inquisitors, ever since the Papal bull “
Summis desiderantes
,” had been visiting towns and hamlets, seeking out those guilty of connection with the Devil, fixing upon the doors of churches and town halls notices demanding under threat of excommunication report of all suspicious characters, seizing their persons, enjoying the right to subject them to torments and to shameful execution. Very rapidly, as at the moment when one is about to drown, there passed through my mind, in consecutive order, the kiss given by me to Master Leonard, my invocation of the demon Anaël, my commerce with that master of the Black Arts, Agrippa, and my recent friendship with Doctor Faustus, and I immediately decided to be as polite as possible to my table companion, and to disarm in him any suspicion he might entertain as to the purity of my faith.
Accordingly, first naming myself, I began to denounce all the damned Lutherans and Martin Luther himself with such fury that our chaplain, who had previously heard me reason in quite another sense, nearly became dumb with surprise, but then joined me straightway with all his soul. The end of our supper was actually spent thus, emptying one glass of Bacharach after another, we vied with each other in merciless curses addressed to the prophet of Wittenberg:
“And what manner of philosopher be he?”—fiercely asked the Brother Inquisitor—“He is neither a Scotist nor an Albertist, nor a Thomist, nor an Occamist. How can one fail to remember what was foretold by Jesus Christ: there shall arise false prophets; and they shall show great signs, to seduce even the elect!”
“It is obvious that the Devil has abetted him”—intoned our chaplain—“It is not by chance that in the catechism of Luther the name of Christ is mentioned sixty-five times, but the name of the Unclean One—sixty-seven times.”
“Of what use to discuss it!”—I bravely declared—“The good Thomas Murner was right when he called Martin Luther just a great fool!”
Despite this accord I was very glad when the time came for dessert, lemon juice and cherries in sugar, and His Reverend Eminence had voiced the thanksgiving prayer:
“Agimus tibi gratias, omnipotens Deus”;
so that one could at last rise from table and take one’s leave. In any case I had not aimed amiss in flinging handfuls of seed into the soul of my table companion, for later, with horror and despair, I was forced to recognise the power of this Brother Thomas, who, as a result of our first acquaintance, now diligently pressed my hand and even asked me whether I was not secretly in the service of the Holy Inquisition.
The next day I awoke with the happy realisation that to-day I was leaving the castle, involuntarily comparing myself to a fish for which a gap out of the net has suddenly opened into the streams of the river, and in truth, on walking into the inner courtyard, I found the preparations all advanced for our departure. As I watched the horses being harnessed and saddled, the mules being burdened, bales being placed in carts and waggons, everything—at this sight of active human animation I felt a feeling of briskness to which I had long been a stranger. Gone also was the stubborn silence that had held me in its claws during the last week, and I more readily spoke to strangers, gave advice and helped in the preparations. There was in me a feeling that I was fitting out some caravan, in the train of which I should depart to search for a new world and a new life.
The preparations did not take less than two hours, for there was no less pother than if a small army had been starting on the march. Without reckoning the Count, who now commenced his journey with a few men from the castle, the Archbishop was accompanied by a suite, by no means small, of monks and prelates, as well as his field chancellery and several scribes, a medicus, an apothecary with a pharmacy, a barber and several servants. Yet more, separate carts were laden with food-stuffs, wines, plate, crockery, sleeping accoutrements, linen, a field library, and still many more bales stuffed with things unknown to me. Me-thinks that when Moses led the Hebrew people from Egypt, they carried with them not many more objects and victuals for their many-year-long wandering in the wilderness, than the Archbishop of Trier took with himself for his journey, every night of which he could spend under the roof either of a castle or a monastery.
At last, at midday, our seneschal gave a signal on a military horn, and all began to take hastily the stations allotted to them, and I in their number, astride a fair horse given me by the Count, took my place in the rearguard, where were all the other people from the castle. Then on the balcony appeared two figures: the Archbishop and the Count, and with ceremonial slowness they descended down the staircase to where they were awaited: the first by a closed-in, roomy coach, harnessed with eight horses, the second by a magnificent steed, richly caparisoned, with ribbons and feathers, as if decked for a lists. A second signal was given—and at once everything was set in motion: horses’ hooves began to lift, wheels to revolve, carts to move, and as if one single many-members serpent, elongating and contracting, the long train of the Archbishop crawled off, carrying me with it beyond the gate of the castle. Having crossed the draw-bridge, which bent noticeably under so great a weight, we spread out like a broad wave on that same road by which, two weeks before, I had come to the castle, and thus my interrupted journey was resumed, but in circumstances as if transformed by Archelaus the sorcerer, for instead of the Doctor and his friend there was with me now a whole cavalcade, noisy and glittering.
When we rode at last into the fields, I experienced an entirely child-like joy: inhaled the soft, spring air like some miracle-working balsam, admired the many-hued greens of the far away woods and trees, caught on my face, neck and bosom the warm rays of the sun, and all my being rejoiced like an animal awakened from its winter sleep. Without soul-ache I remembered in that hour Renata, with whom, only eight months ago, I had ridden side by side for the first time through deserted fields of exactly similar appearance, and I even experienced a sort of feeling of surprise, at recalling the forlorn abysms of despair into which I had fallen after my parting with her, and my tears, still so recent, on the terrace of the castle. I wanted mayhap to sing, mayhap to gambol, like a scholar playing truant from his school beyond the town, mayhap to challenge someone to combat, and fight sword to sword, suddenly pouring bluish sparkles from the shivering blades.
