The humour of Germany

by Unknown

He threw the stolen money upon the table and said, “Sufficeth it for this night?” Silently she counted it over, and saying, “It suffices!” she put it aside.

The two stood facing each other with peculiar sensations. Repressing a laugh, she looked as if she knew of nothing, and the monk measured her with uncertain and sorrowful glances, not knowing how to call her to account. But as she was about to put her hand in his lustrous black beard, the storm of his spiritual indignation broke forth. Angrily he struck her hand, then threw her down with a mighty effort, and kneeling upon her and holding her hands, untouched by her charms, he began to plead with her soul until her stubbornness seemed to melt.

The storm of his eloquent indignation changed to a soft and transcendent compassion, and his words flowed soothingly, like a mild spring-breath over the broken ice of this heart.

With a lighter heart than the sweetest of earthly happiness could have brought him he hastened away, not to get an hour’s sleep upon his hard couch, but to pray for the poor repentant soul at the altar of the virgin far into the early dawn; for he vowed not to close his eyes in sleep until the stray lamb was safe behind the protecting walls of a monastery.

As the morning advanced he set out once more for her house; at the same time he saw the ferocious warrior advancing upon him from the other end of the street. He was half intoxicated, and after a night of dissipation was on his way to win the harlot once more.

Vitalis was nearer to the fatal door, and he dexterously leaped to reach it, when the soldier threw his spear at him, which, in the twinkling of an eye, was lodged with quivering shaft in the door, close by the monk’s head. But ere it ceased to quiver the monk wrenched it out of the wood with all his might, turning it against the warrior, who was advancing with his sword drawn, and quick as lightning he pierced his breast; the man dropped down dead, and at the same moment Vitalis was arrested by a troop of spearmen returning from a night-watch, who bound him and led him away to prison.

For many days he was kept there, but at the end of his trial he was dismissed free of punishment, because he had killed the man in self-defence. At the same time there was the stain of manslaughter upon him, and every one exclaimed that it was high time to deprive him of his religious orders. But Bishop John, who was at that time the ecclesiastical head of Alexandria, must have had an inkling of the true facts of the case; certain it is he refused to expel the ill-reputed monk, and gave orders to let him go his own eccentric way for a while.

Without delay he sped to his converted sinner, who in the meantime had again vacillated, and did not give the sorrowful Vitalis entrance until he had again possessed himself of some valuable and brought it to her. She repented and suffered herself to be converted for the third time, and soon after for the fourth and fifth times, as she found these conversions more profitable than anything else, and, moreover, the evil spirit within her took a fiendish delight in hoodwinking the poor priest with changing arts and inventions.

The latter was now a martyr in a deeper sense. The more he was deceived, the more firmly did he cling to his aim, and it seemed to him as if his own salvation depended upon the conversion of this particular person. He was now a murderer, church-robber, and thief; but he would not for the world have given up one iota of his shameful reputation, and if at times this weighed heavy upon his heart he devoted himself with renewed ardour to keep up this discreditable exterior with ribald words. For this specialty of martyrdom was his free choice. He grew pale and thin over it, and began to creep about like a shadow on the wall, but always with laughing lips.

Opposite the house of trial lived a wealthy Greek merchant, who had an only daughter named Jole. Being at liberty to do whatever she pleased, she was often at a loss how to spend her day. Her father read Plato, and when he was tired of that, composed neat xenia about the antique cameos, of which he had collected a great number. Jole, when she had laid aside her lyre, knew no outlet for her vivid thoughts, and restlessly gazed into the heavens, and into the distance, wherever there was an opening.