"Who says so?"
"When you see him greet him from Werner the Baptist, and if he only knew what a treacherous thing speech is, would he not let the mouth overflow with things, of which the heart is not full. He will however not do so much longer, says the Baptist, because no man can deny the truth without danger to his own soul. If he only wishes to eat well as he has done up to the present, let him remain where he is, but if he wants to sleep as he formerly used to, then let him come to Werner the Baptist, who will procure for him that stone on which the Lord has written his name, which no one knoweth but he who giveth it, and he who receiveth it." The old man had drawn himself up, and his eyes flashed. The strange mocking peasant was no longer there, a prophet in the coarse dress of the country stood before the young Italian. "Fare you well," he added drily.
"Thank you, Father."
"No cause for thanks. Here is your path. Do not however pass through the big gate, but along the wall, the door leading to the chaplain's apartment, is in the corner tower. He is not allowed to live near the ladies, and it would be better if he did not live here at all. Fire and brimstone should not be brought so close together. Everything in your communion is wrong, as if the Devil himself was your Superintendent." Saying so the old man hastened on his way.
Felix looked after him for some time. "Things are much worse here than I thought. I left Venice willingly, because the severity of the holy Inquisition cut me to the quick. I cannot drive from me this scene: poor men torn at the rack, led down to the Lido and forced unto a board spread between two gondolas. Then thus carried out to the Laguna, when one boatman rowed to the right, the other to the left, the board falling and the two poor fellows sinking in the troubled waters. It was a horrible sight. But come what may, my beautiful Italy must never be allowed to attain to such a condition as exists here. What have I not lived to see! The holiest chapels profaned, irrecoverable treasures of art destroyed by coarse hands, the churches as bare as stalls, altars and fonts shattered, organs broken to pieces. No mass of Palestrina's, no Miserere addresses itself to those poor men, no picture by some pious master speaks to those blunted hearts! Therefore do their Theologians rage and argue as to how the Incomprehensible in the inconceivable mystery is to be comprehended as if the mystery did not consist in our not being able to grasp it. I can endure all: bad music, inartistic pictures, statues by Bandinelli, but when I hear this heretical twaddle, then do I think, that a lunatic asylum as high as the tower of Babel should be built in which all heretics should be locked up, till they recovered out of disgust with one another." Thus thinking the young man proceeded on the way which had been pointed out to him, and already saw before him the gate in the corner tower of the convent wall, when the merry, teazing sound of girls' voices roused him from his dream.
CHAPTER V.
The young artist was about turning to the gate pointed out to him by the miller, when he suddenly found himself surrounded by a crowd of young girls, who ran out laughing and screaming from behind the convent wall. So full of fun were these maidens that they never saw the young man coming towards them. Several had joined hands and surrounded a beautiful fair-haired girl who vainly attempted to free herself from her persecutors. Her companions however danced only the more calling out: caught, kept.
"Let me out, or I shall tell the lady Abbess," called out the prisoner, who looked more like crying than laughing. Her obstinate jailors answered her by singing: "Wegewarte,[1] Wegewarte, Sonnenwende, Sonnenwirbel," and danced around her till their hair waved in the wind around their young necks. The pretty maiden began to cry.
"Leave the Lieblerin," said Countess Erbach, "she cannot help it, she is bewitched."
"The bewitched maiden," called out the Baroness von Venningen.