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Title: Seven Deadly Sins Author: Marjorie Bowen * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 1402521h.html Language: English Date first posted: September 2014 Most recent update: September 2014 This eBook was produced by Colin Choat. Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.auGO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
RIDE is the first of the deadly sins and painted in
the likeness of a peacock; there are few without this sin in great or
small degree, and there is no sin so likely to catch a man by the heels
and trip him into Hell's Mouth."
So spake the old monk, sitting by the fire, talking to the
young novices on the long winter's evening; they liked to listen to the holy
stories the old monk told them, for there was always a good comforting moral
and some matter of interest too, for he had been in the world once, and
remembered it well enough, though he was now so far on the path to
heaven.
"A man without pride," he continued, "is a saint, and a man all pride is a
devil, and a dangerous devil especially if he be not a man at all, but a
woman."
"Ah," said the novices wisely, and they looked into the fire and shook
their heads and pursed their lips.
"The monk finished his glass of Hippocras, wiped his lips and proceeded to
tell the story of pride, the first deadly sin.
"When I was in Paris." he said, "learning theology at the Sorbonne, I
often saw riding in a gilt chariot—the Queen."
"The Queen!"
"As you may have heard, her name was Isabeau, and she came from the East;
her clothes were a wonder, her life was a scandal; she was quite the proudest
creature any man had ever seen or heard of; she boasted that she had never
set her foot in the public street nor in the house of one who was of less
than blood royal; there was always a body of the Scottish Archers about her
car to prevent the mud from touching her wheels, and the foul breath of the
baser sort from reaching her.
"But she did not mind their eyes; indeed, she was always raised high on
her cushions that they might see her, and if she was in a litter, the
curtains were drawn, and her beauty was displayed as freely, nay, as
wantonly, as that of any common creature who goes about seeking her
price.
"The treasury was empty because of her vesture and her servants and her
dainty meats, her silk sheets, her baths of rose-water; the soldiers were few
and so were the ships; the peasants were rioting in the country; the nobles
pawned their plate, but the Queen went in cloth-of-gold and wore the keep of
a regiment in a single ring.
"You will have heard of the king...He was foolish in his mind, and played
with clocks and cards all day long in his closet; his only company was his
jester, and they were both in frayed robes and ill-nourished. He neither saw
the Queen nor asked after her; they said that she had broken his heart and
shattered his wits long ago.
"For the moment sheer terror was uppermost; she appealed to his manhood
the weaker to the stronger—an ancient instinct that had long lain
dormant in her imperious soul, but it did not soften him to see her
abasement; his pride was mounting as hers sank, he remembered how she had
flouted him, and that this was his vengeance.
"He called up his men; they came hurrying across the graveyard.
"Here mark his devilry—they were all fellows he had brought from
Acquitaine—who had never seen the Queen—and who beheld now
nothing more than a couple of youths caught in the infamous and deadly
practices of black magic.
"After them came a whole pack of the baser sort, carrying torches and
lanterns and accompanied by several of those fierce dogs of the kind men take
with them when they hunt highwaymen and night ruffians, and these, with the
enthusiasm of the chase, and the delight of seeing the quarry cornered, and
the hope that now the Devil-worshippers were caught the misfortune of France
would cease, were beside themselves, leaping, shouting and pushing forward
across the gravestones, and only held in check by the pikes of the Duke's men
from Aquitaine.
"It may he imagined that though some of them may have glimpsed her golden
chariot in the distance, none knew the Queen.
"And she stood with her back against the wall, facing them in the
moonshine, so pale now compared with the angry red dancing light of the
coarse resin torches of the crowd.
"As for the other youth, the student I mean, he stood numb and bewildered
and frightened to death, yet (with the instinct to stand by the woman)
staying where he was, though none held him. Isabeau looked up at
François.
"'You must save me,' she said haughtily, and she signed furiously to her
lover to leave her—but he, poor fool! did not understand and instead
drew nearer to her, clapping his hand to his outmatched sword.
"Why should I save you, little witch?' cried the Duke in a loud voice, and
he beckoned his followers nearer. 'See justice done to these two,' he said,
'who were so manifestly raising the Devil! What shall their punishment
be?'
"And they shouted violently, 'Death'—and Isabeau cowered a little,
and then looked at François again and saw what revenge he had prepared for
her—she must declare herself before these churls or be done to death by
them; there was no pity in Duke François—she knew it in an instant.
"I think that in that instant, too, she had taken her resolve. Pride is a
deadly sin, but always a brave one.
"She folded her arms on her bosom and looked sideways at the mob, who ever
pressed nearer with shouts of hatred.
"'Tell them who you are,' said the Duke. 'Give then, sweet, your name and
quality.'
"She shot a glance up at him and hell-fire flashed in her eyes; she said
nothing. He swung her round to face her persecutors. At that the student
sprang forward, hardly knowing what he did—or what had happened. 'Whom
do you touch—do you know who this is?' he cried, himself not knowing
who Duke François was. But the Queen turned on him with all she knew of
royalty in her looks and gesture.
"'Silence!' she commanded, 'or I curse you!'
"He fell back at that and was seized by the Duke's guard. He hung his
head, he had no great desire to speak, nor for anything on the earth, for he
saw that her love had vanished in a flash—that she thought no longer of
him...that she was the Queen now, and no longer his lover...
"'Speak!' cried François. 'Will you not speak?'
"Surely he had never believed she would carry it so far...but her sole
answer was to laugh.
"She stood full in the moonlight, a small figure, but dauntless; she
slipped the royal signet from her finger and dropped it into the rank
grass—she had only to show it to gain instant safety, remember.
"But she set her foot on it instead, and laughed at François.
"He had cone to shame her and he saw she was minded to baulk him, and in
his rage and his fury at the sight of pride carrying her so far he stepped
aside and with a gesture offered her to the rage of the crowd.
"His men lowered their pikes and the people surged forward—little
knowing on whom they were wreaking vengeance at last.
"And she slid not speak...she put her cloak before her face and set her
back against the tomb.
"And so died the Queen of France; when the crowd had finished with her she
need not have feared recognition.
"Her tattered corpse was flung into a ditch—and the Duke rode over
it when he left the graveyard; maybe some of her blood was on his horse's
hoofs.
"At least he respected her pride; it was given out that she was dead of
sudden fever, and there was a gorgeous funeral—with a gorgeous doll in
her place, while her bones were nosed by swine.
"The student escaped," added the monk, "or how should I be telling you
this?
HE monks were in the garden gathering the herbs for
the distillery where their sweet wines, potent spirits and fragrant
perfumes were made.
The four arcades of the cloister encompassed them, slender red-brick
arches with the head of an angel in white glazed pottery above each group of
clustered pillars.
Overhead the sky was summer blue, against which rose the graceful height
of the campanile; the monastery stood on a hill covered with fruit gardens,
vineyards and cornfields, and was reached by a toilsome, winding road, so
that it seemed very far from the world indeed, more than half-way to heaven,
if heaven was as near as the monks believed.
The square garden in the midst of the cloisters was on the very summit of
the hill and in the very centre of the buildings; it was divided into four
parts—the herb garden, the flower garden, the fruit garden and God's
garden, which was the graveyard, and grew neither herbs nor fruit nor
flowers, but only little rusty iron crosses above the roughly turned sod.
The four divisions were marked by broad, low box edges bordering pleasant
paths, and in the centre was a white alabaster well on four white alabaster
steps; the ropes and buckets hung from a light iron framework, and round
about, in the crevices of the slabs, grew maiden-hair fern and the small,
odourless Italian violet.
In the flower garden were roses, carnations, syringa, freesia, stocks,
wallflowers, lilies in bloom, and jasmine, magnolia, gardenias, oleanders and
myrtles still only covered with green; in the herb garden grew bushes of
lavender as high as a man, tufts of sweet basil, thyme, pepper, mint, clove,
citron, mustard, camomile, ginger, fennel and iris.
The fruit garden was shaded by fig and pear trees; beneath them grew
currant and gooseberry bushes, orange and lemon trees, raspberry canes and
strawberry beds.
There the novices were walking with Father Aloysius.
In one corner of the fruit garden was the fish-pond, and some of the
novices sat on the brick rim and ate figs.
They ate one for the Eternal Father, three for the Holy Trinity, one for
the Virgin and seven for her seven sorrows.
Father Aloysius ate ten for the ten Commandments as well, and then twelve
for the twelve Apostles, for the figs were just ripe, soft and green and gold
and purple, creamy white and deep rose-pink inside, with a perfume, faint
indeed and evasive, but delicate and seductive enough, as Father Aloysius
said, to tempt Saint Anthony.
And he ate seven for the seven active virtues, and seven for the seven
theological virtues.
Then he began to talk of the sin of Gluttony or Greed, as it is called in
the rude tongue, but in the classical Gula.
Now Gluttony, or Gula, is the second deadly sin, said the monk, and
is unlimited indulgence of the body, as Pride or Superbia is
indulgence of the mind; and whereas from Pride spring many minor sins, as
Disobedience, Hypocrisy, Impudence, Arrogance, Impatience, Irreverence,
Strife, Vainglory, Spite and Swelling of Heart—for indeed Pride is the
very root of all the sins—so out of Gluttony come various other sins,
as Sloth, Selfishness, Sourness, Discourtesy and Witlessness—it is, in
fact, a very ugly and horrid sin, and directly against the commandment of
God. He who is a slave to Gluttony may not well withstand any other sin, and
certain it is that no glutton was ever vet a saint.
The novices continued to eat figs as they drew round the fish-pond to
listen; they sighed at the wickedness of the world and smiled to think how
safe they were from it.
Now as Pride, continued Father Aloysius, is shown in the figure of a
peacock with a crown and a beautiful coat, who thinks of nothing but how he
may display himself, so is Gluttony shown in the resemblance of a pig, which
is a very unpleasing beast, bare of adornment, composed of naught but flesh,
with a great nose and mouth always searching for food, and a body so fat his
legs can scarcely support it. When he can find nothing to eat he sleeps, and
he has no wits at all, and no disdain of dirt or filth, but rather delights
in it; his voice is rough and harsh, and he hath an unlovely odour. As this
beast is, so is the glutton, for ever followed by contempt and laughter, the
pointing of fingers and the shooting of lips.
Indeed it is doubtful if there be any sin which is so disdained as this,
for a man may not be a glutton and keep his dignity, nay, he may not be a
glutton and save his soul alive, though of most other sins this is
possible—with submission to Holy Church. Now how this second deadly
sin, which is the ugly sin of Gluttony or Gula, may directly lead to a
miserable end in this world (to say nothing of what punishment is in store in
the next world, the which is only known to the wrath of God and the ingenuity
of the devil), is shown in the story of Denis D'Espagnet, who was a merchant
of Marseilles in France, and at first a very personable young man, albeit
always given to this sin of Gluttony, though it must be admitted that he had
no others, at least none that were noticeable: but, as I have said, this sin
sufficeth.
He had a very noble and princely fortune, a fine mansion in the town, and
many ships in the port; but it must not be supposed that it was a fortune of
his making, for what glutton was ever industrious? It is against nature.
It was his father who had made and left all this wealth, for he was a very
thrifty and wise merchant, and generous and courteous withal.
He dealt with the East, with Algiers, with Barbary, with Turkey, India and
China, and he brought gold and silver, ivory and spices, silks and jewels,
perfumes and porcelain, strange birds and animals and cases of fruits and
sweetmeats; and his fame for his fair bargaining, his great wealth and his
high connections, was great. He lent money to Princes, to the King of Cyprus,
the Doge of Venice and the Pope of Rome.
The King of France was in his debt, and, being willing to favour him,
stayed under his roof before he sailed from Marseilles to fight the
heathen.
It was winter weather, and in the royal guest's chamber burnt a great fire
perfumed with cascarilla, and while the King stood before it, warming his
hands, D'Espagnet cast into the flames all the King's bonds for the money he
owed him, thereby setting him free from the burden of his debts; so that this
fire cost many thousands of gold pieces.
Now it is manifest he would have done better to have made the King pay his
just debts and have given the money to Holy Church, but this was the action
of Hilaire D'Espagnet, and fine and princely it was considered.
But his son was a different man: he thought nothing of gaining money nor
of spending it, but only of this ungodly sin of Gluttony.
His feasts were famous in Marseilles, nay in all France, for at no other
table could such delicacies be found as at his.
From all over the world came the meat, the game, the fish, the fruit, the
vegetables on which he fed, the rare and costly wines which he drank.
A hundred cooks were kept busy day and night devising new dishes, and the
master cook had the wage of a king's general, and wore round his neck a gold
chain, one link of which would have ransomed a lord.
There were brown cooks from India who looked to the making of spices and
sauces, yellow cooks from China who held the secret of many strange recipes
unknown in Europe, French cooks for the pastries, Italian cooks for the
creams and jellies, German cooks for the baked meats and the mulled beers,
Spanish cooks for the chocolate and the game, Persians to mix the sherbet and
the fruit drinks, and two English cooks to make what they call in that
country "rosbiffe," "biffstek" and "plumpouding."
In his garden were great tanks full of trout and crabs and lobsters, trees
laden with fruit—and many growing under glass and kept warm with fires
in the winter, that he might never lack all the year round.
There were huge beds of lettuces, asparagus, tomatoes, onions, radishes,
artichokes, fennel and marrows in the places where his father had had roses
and carnations; these were all uprooted now, for nothing might remain in the
garden which was not good to eat.
He had two hundred men looking after these things, a vast yard where he
kept fat fowls and ducks and pheasants and herons and peacocks, and a plot of
cabbages on which great white snails were fed; the Chinese cooks could make
wonderful soups out of snails.
He neglected his business, he had no liking for the company of ladies nor
for the converse of friends, he went from his bed to his table, and when one
meal was ended he sat on cushions and thought of the next, or, to get an
appetite, he walked round the garden and admired the juicy fruits and the
succulent vegetables, and the fat birds waddling up and down.
And there was one dainty he loved more than another, and that was citron
pie. A plain and an ordinary thing, said Father Aloysius, it may sound to
you, but you must not think of citron pies as you may have seen them, with a
sodden crust and pulpy fruit within—nay, these pies, as made by the
master cook himself, were very different.
They were no bigger than a lady's palm, the crust was so delicate you
could blow it away. The centre was a perfect ripe peach, and over that a
jelly of strained strawberries, over that whipped cream mixed with violets,
and round about all a circle of snow flavoured with slices of citron, the
whole enclosed in a silver filigree basket, frozen and sprinkled with jasmine
buds preserved in sugar.
Such were the pies that Denis D'Espagnet prized above all sweetmeats; he
even began to write verses in their honour, but was too lazy to do more than
the first line.
He lived in this manner for several years after his father died; his
fortune diminished through neglect, but he did not care, for he still had
ample for his food, and his person became fat and round so that a piece the
shape of a half-moon had to be cut out of the table at the place at which he
sat; but he made no trouble of that, and lamented not at all his lost
comeliness, but lived contentedly until one day (a fatal day for him!) a
fellow-merchant, who had been one of his father's friends, came to visit him,
and Denis made a feast, and the hundred cooks worked all day and all night,
for the other merchant was not wholly free from the deadly sin of Gluttony.
After the feast, which lasted three hours, the master cook himself brought in
the citron pies, and Denis placed two of them on the plate of his friend and
waited with complaisance, for he knew well enough that there was no excelling
these dainties in the length and breadth of the world.
The friend tasted them.
There was a pause.
Denis still waited for the usual sigh of rapture; lie waited so long that
the master cook paled, thinking he had forgotten one of the ingredients.
"Well enough," said the merchant at length. "But not like those I have
eaten at the Court of the Khan of Barbary."
Denis trembled like the quince jelly before him, and the master cook burst
into tears; it was the first time either of them had heard such heresy.
"Something is lacking," continued the friend. "I know not what—nay,
I cannot fix the flavour—but something is hopelessly wrong. If you were
to taste those made for the Khan—ah, then you would know the
difference!"
So the feast ended dismally, and that night Denis could not sleep for
thinking of the citron pies made at the Court of the Khan of Barbary.
And the next day, before his friend departed, Denis begged and besought
him by some means to procure for him the recipe of these same tarts.
But the friend laughed and said that the only Christian who had ever gone
into the Khan's kitchen had come out as a pie himself—a great pie which
had been served at the supper of the Prince's lampreys.
After this, life was spoiled for Denis; he could think of nothing but
those pies, more perfect than his own, being eaten daily at the Court of the
Khan.
The master cook, too, fell into a melancholy and became careless, and once
a pheasant came to table with the upper side browner than the under, and a
peach was served with a speck in the skin.
Denis began to take no pleasure in his food, he lost flesh, he brooded,
and at last he resolved to go to Barbary himself, visit the Khan, and taste
the pies with his own lips and tongue.
Greatly he groaned at the exertion, for never yet had he left Marseilles,
but his ruling sin conquered; one of his galleons was prepared; he took the
master cook with five under him, great store of food and wine, two friends, a
skilful captain and a sturdy crew, and set sail for Barbary.
Now he had hardly got to sea before his troubles began, for the rolling of
the ship begot in him a sickness so that he groaned and cried for very
unhappiness, and all the captain could do with the telling of witty tales did
not serve to cheer him.
The cooks were ill, too, and there was nothing to eat save the ordinary
ship's rations which the sailors could prepare; but for once (for the first
time, indeed) Denis did not think of food.
The captain told stories of the journey to Samarkand and of the tomb of
Timour Beg, built of stone green like water, of the camels crossing the
desert with nets hung with silver bells over their packs, of the wild and
curious beasts he had himself seen, such as the manchora, whose teeth fit nto
one another like combs put together, who has a blue body, the feet of an ox,
the face of a man, and a trumpet-shaped tail whereon he blows, making a
fearsome noise; Denis, however, gave no heed to these marvels, but lay and
lamented.
But on the tenth day they sailed into smoother waters that were clear as
an emerald, and one leaning over the ship's side could see the terrible
sea-beasts at play, and the pearls and coral and amber, ready for the
gathering up.
Denis had no taste for these things, and begged the captain to put back to
Marseilles; but his friends overruled him, saying that they might get to
Barbary as soon as they might get to France.
Yet it had been well for Denis if he had had his way, for on the twelfth
day up came a great sea-rover with black sails, and quickly made captive the
French galleon.
T was the middle of October; the chestnut trees in
the valleys, the olive trees on the hill-side were heavy with fruit; on
the sloping roofs of the cottages the figs were placed to dry; the gold
and scarlet leaves of the vines hung shrivelled, and the grapes, purple,
yellow, green and rose-coloured, were revealed clustering to the bare
poles; the oranges and lemons hung green as jade amongst the fresh
foliage; in the garden scarlet flowers bloomed and tall spears of
tuberoseloysiusay long the sun shone warmly, but at night there were
heavy rains, and the winds were chilly in the shadows.
While the monks worked in the distillery the novices made the wine, and
Father Aaloysius directed their labours.
The big barns outside the convent were filled with vats into which the
novices trod and pressed the grapes. The brown fingers and the brown feet of
the novices were stained a dull red, red also were the butts, and rivulets of
red ran in and out between the square paving-stones of the courtyard.
Hot and tired were the novices; the vintage was nearly over, and the
wooden taps began to yield the bright liquid of the fresh wine, while the
drained niasses of bloodless grapes were thrown into the garden, where
numbers of pale wasps devoured them.
The novices were discontented as well as tired; the Prior was entertaining
a certain Prince, on his travels through the country, and all day long his
knights and squires went to and fro the gardens and courtyards, holding their
noses because of the smell of the fermenting wine, and raising their skirts
and mantles out of reach of the trickling lees.
The novices marked them, marked their air of contempt, their scornful
laughter, their sniffs and puckerings of brows and lips, marked also their
garments, the nets of gold and silver on their heads, their hats with green
and blue feathers, their mantles embroidered with silk and woollen, their
curious boots, tasselled gloves and wonderful daggers; and because of all
this, and because they were labouring in rough brown habits, they became
vexed at their vocation and wishful that they, too, were in the world.
And they were still further discontented when two of the knights, seating
themselves on a low pink stone wall over which the last roses poured their
yellow blossoms, began discoursing lightly of holy things in a loud tone, so
that the monks working at the vintage could not fail to hear.
And one knight told the other a story of a certain sinner who had gone to
Rome to see the Pope.
His Holiness was in his palace of St. Giovanni in Saterno, and he received
the penitent in the garden.
It was springtime (said the knight), and the square of garden between the
white marble cloisters was planted with violets—nothing but
violets—and in the centre was a small fountain of alabaster from which
trickled water as clear and sparkling as a diamond. Near this fountain the
Pope was walking, and so humble and pious was he that he wore the robe of an
ordinary monk and was telling over a string of white beads, each caryed from
the bone of a saint.
Now when the penitent entered the garden he felt afraid and
uneasy—he knew not why: afraid as if he were in the presence of
something horrible—uneasy as if in the presence of something eyil.
The penitent thought it must lie with the violets; there were so many of
them, and the enclosed scent of them was so strong as to make the head
giddy.
Albeit, he told his sin to the Pope and was absolved.
But even as he was leaving he turned him back and said: "There is one
thing more, Holiness, I have often wondered at: how can one know a damned
soul?"
"A damned soul?" repeated the Pope slowly.
"Even so—is there no sign by which one can tell it? I have asked
many people, and they all have said, By a certain red light in the eyes, a
reflection of hell fire. Is this true, Holiness?"
"How can I tell if it be true?" answered the Pope, and he stooped for his
rosary, which he had dropped.
So the other made his reverence and was for leaying, but as he passed
through the shade of the cloisters, he chanced to glance back.
The Pope was looking in his direction, and the eyes of his Holiness glowed
red as a coal from the Pit—red, red and shining with flame.
NE November day, when the novices were seated round
the fire in the kitchen roasting chestnuts, a dispute fell out between
two of them on some trifling matter, and Father Aloysius, who had
observed much quarrelling of late among them, took the opportunity to
talk to them of the fourth deadly sin, which is Ira, or, in the vulgar
tongue, Wrath, which is the very sin, together with Pride, that caused
Lucifer to be cast from heaven.
And this story that Father Aloysius told was not one of his own knowledge
or his own country, but one that had been imparted to him by a certain
Magister, who came from the bitter and barbarous North, and had for a few
days been a guest at the convent.
And he, having witnessed divers curious things in his own land, had made a
great book of them, together with paintings clone to please his fancy, and
the receipts for certain charms and a credible relation of his journeyings in
search of the Philosopher's Stone, which, he declared, was in the hands of
the Jews.
And several of these tales he had copied out and left with Father Aloysius
for his instruction, declaring he knew them to be true, and that they had all
happened in his time, and to his knowledge.
So this evening the monk brought down the manuscript of the Magister and
read aloud the tale entitled,﹃A very Faithful Account of Some late
Marvellous Happenings in the town of—﹄(for prudence, the name of the
town was omitted, but the Magister had called it Alstein in Franconia). And
this was the tale.
In a certain town there was a woman dwelling who was universally held to
be a witch.
She came of a great family, and had in her time been dowered with lands
and castles, but some mysterious disgrace had fallen on her youth, and she
had nothing left but a small farm where she brewed beer and made sausages and
kept a few herons, whose feathers she sold in the moulting season, and by
these, with the revenue from the beer and the sausages, she made her living,
though she used all means to disguise this fact, and pretended that she had
wealth from her lands and forests which no longer existed, as all knew well
enough; but, as I have said, she was a witch, and who dared offend her? The
whole town was in awe of her, from the Sheriff to the humblest peasant, and
the tricks she had played on those who offended her were enough to fill a
volume by themselves.
Her name was Ottilia Von Angers, and surely never did anyone disgrace a
proud old name as she disgraced hers! Woe to the town that sheltered her!
(For she was not a native of this place, but came from long off somewhere in
Swabia, I think; at least her former history was not clearly known.)
Well, this fine morning in May she jumps out of bed, puts on her worn old
velvet kirtle and her old brass chain which she had rubbed up to look like
gold, and off she goes to the market to buy the herbs for the beer and the
meat for the sausages. To right and left such bowing and salutations and
lifting of caps! You would have thought it was a fair young maiden going
abroad instead of an old hag with a face yellow as butter looking her full
seventy years (though she admitted to scarce fifty).
There she was in the market-place, bargaining and chaffering and shrieking
out on the impudent rogues that dared to cheat a high-born lady like her,
when she saw a little cart being driven full speed through the buyers and
sellers.
There was only one person in it, and she was an old woman wrapped in a
black cloak with her grey hair blowing out behind her; every one stared at
her, for she was a stranger. And Ottilia was so interested that she stopped
bargaining and hobbled after the cart.
When she came up with it, it was stayed outside a stall and the old woman
had descended—and what was she buying but two new brooms!
So Ottilia pushes up to her and the following conversation began:
Who was she, what was she doing here, and why was she buying brooms?
Her name was Trina Von Ebers; she was a poor woman, God help her, and she
made her living selling cheeses. As for the brooms, she was buying them to
sweep out the new house she had taken—servants were such sluts, as the
noble lady must know.
These words pleased Ottilia, for she was proud as Diabolus himself, and
she answered, yes, indeed, well she knew it, therefore she kept neither man
nor maid; and now she remembered she required a broom herself, and these
seemed strong and cheap, though God knew how these people cheated and
lied.
So they fell bargaining over the brooms and the new-comer said she had
come here to live, and to open a dairy for butter and cheeses, and she hoped
the noble lady would accept the present of a dish of her best butter (and
good it was, she ventured to say) and a fine round cheese.
This immensely flattered Ottilia, who at once asked if her dear friend
would come to dine with her. She had just brewed some new beer—as to
her name she was Ottilia Von Angers, and a well-dowered maiden.
The other hag accepted, and Ottilia hurried home to prepare the feast.
On the way she met a scullion of the sheriff's household, and, stopping
him, she asked him what his master had for dinner.
To which the boy replied—a great game pie, two side-dishes of
venison, an almond cream and a cake of cherries.
So home went Ottilia.
Now, though she had told old Trina she kept no servant, it was not true,
for she had an old porter whom she nearly worked to death, and when she
reached home, him she sent with a message to the Sheriff saying she heard he
had a pie, two dishes of venison, an almond cream and a cake of cherries for
his dinner, and she begged he would send them to her, together with a cask of
white wine, for she desired to feed the poor of her neighbourhood, like the
pious woman she was.
And in case he felt disinclined to send, she reminded him of what had
befallen him the last time he would not help her charities, viz. his mouth
had been twisted up to his ear, and so had remained for a week, which was
doubtless God's judgment on him.
Then the hag starts cleaning up the room and laying the table and putting
the furniture to the best advantage; then she goes into the bedroom and
fetches a small white monkey and she puts on him a pair of green breeches and
a blue coat, he crying the while and preferring his nakedness; but my hag
boxes his ears and quiets him.
Then back comes the porter with the Sheriff's dinner following him, borne
by two cook-boys, for the Sheriff would as soon have faced the whole army of
the Margrave as deny anything to Ottilia.
So the table was ready, and the wine broached and the beer poured, and in
came the other hag in a great cloak of catskin dyed to look like sable.
And Ottilia's greeting was—where were the cheese and the butter?
Well, could she carry them through the streets and she in her fine
clothes? No, indeed, but to-morrow the servant wench should bring them.
This threw a cloud over their meeting, but they sat down to the Sheriff's
dinner and began to gossip and chatter and say how wicked the world was, and
how birth and blood met with no respect now-a-days, whereas any fat churl
with a gold piece in his pocket got more deference than a belted baron.
And the monkey sat on the table eating from Ottilia's plate and snatching
the best morsels while she talked.
And Ottilia brought the conversation round to the cheese, and Trina said
she would send for it, and, ringing the bell, summons the porter and bids him
run down to her house and ask the maid for one of her best cheeses.
Then the fellow answered: no, he would not run on any of her errands, she
was not his mistress.
What, did he dare speak to a lady with that rudeness?
Lady! She might well call herself a lady, for no one else ever would. Why,
she was no better born than he.
Then the hag started screaming; he had better take care, she knew how to
deal with churls like him! She was a high-born maiden and could prove it!
The porter burst out laughing.
Why, she was seventy or more, and as for high-born, that she was not, he
could see; and not fit to sit at table with his noble mistress.
At this Trina screams out to Ottilia to chastise her insolent servant; but
it chanced that Ottilia had been by no means displeased by the fellow's
rudeness: first, because Trina had not brought the present; secondly, because
of the show she had made in the dyed catskin; thirdly, because the man had
cunningly flattered her in his last speech.
So she said: well, the boor was rude, but it was no fault of hers, and her
friend should have left him alone; after all it was her place to send the
cheese, as she had promised. At this Trina crosses her thumbs under the
table, and, making a grimace at the porter, she hurries away.
Ottilia should have the cheese and might she enjoy it!
So my hags part coldly.
And Ottilia, looking after her guest, sees her dancing and leaping about
the entrance and making faces at the porter. So down she comes running with a
beer-mug in one hand and the monkey on her shoulder; but when she had reached
the gate Trina had gone.
Now that night the porter was taken ill, so that his groans and cries
echoed through the street; his head swelled, needles and pins ran out of his
mouth, and something seemed to run up and down inside his throat, so that it
was very plain that he had a devil.
So they carried him to the church and put him on a litter before the
altar, where he lay like a dead man.
And beside him sat Ottilia, sighing and groaning and declaring the fellow
was bewitched and she knew who had done it: it was that wicked woman who had
lately come into the town to sell cheeses; it would be a charity to all good
Christians to burn her and her cheeses too.
After the fellow had lain there all night and never moved, they sent for a
holy priest from the neighbouring village who was an adept in such cases.
So he comes with the Sheriff and the Council and the knights and barons of
the town and they all gather round the poor porter.
The priest exhorts the devil, who will give no answer; but, the holy man
in his agitation making a mistake in his Latin, the devil suddenly speaks, in
a heavy bass voice, and corrects him. Thereupon follows this conversation,
which one present put down for the benefit of the curious.
Priest: Who was he, and why was he annoying the poor porter?
Diabolus: They knew well enough who he was, and as for why he was
there that was no concern of theirs. Let the holy man mend his Latin.
Priest: Insolent answers would not help him; depart he must and
should.
Diabolus: That was a fine tale. Evidently the holy man was stupid
as well as ignorant.
Thereupon the priest recited certain prayers that caused the devil to run
in anger about the body of the poor porter till it seemed that the flesh must
be torn from the bones.
Priest: Did these prayers annoy him?
Diabolus: Yes, certainly they did.
Priest: Well, would he answer a few questions and then depart?
Diabolus: What questions?
Priest: Where did he come from?
Diabolus: Where the lean priest and the fat Sheriff were going.
Priest: Let him be civil or the prayers would begin. Were there any
witches in this town?
Diabolus: Yes, there was one in church now.
Then Ottilia began to weep and cry out how the ugly devil belied even a
poor pious woman like herself; but the Sheriff and the knights and barons
looked pale.
Priest: Would he tell them the others?
Diabolus: No.
He then proceeded to sing a love-song in Dutch, to the great scandal of
Georges Potsdammer, a worthy knight and the only one who understood that
language, and on the priest asking him what he sang he answered: a hymn, and
began to mock the holy man in a horrid way.
HE winter sun, pale and clear as thrice-refined
gold, warmed the rich countryside which lay beneath the Convent; the
pine trees with fox-red cones, the thick olive trees with the clustering
grey fruit, the chest nuts heavy with tawny foliage, covered the
hill-slopes to where they joined the valleys, divided by silver-stemmed
larches and slender poplars, bearing a few last leaves, flat and bright
as a gipsy's sequins, into fields where men, women and oxen worked,
turning over the fresh brown earth.
On the roofs of the farmhouses figs were drying in flat baskets; from the
doors and windows hung the red gold strings of maize; and in the gardens, by
the stone wells or the marble shrines of the Madonna set in the wall, the
orange trees showed the dark glossy foliage and the brilliant fruit.
The wine harvest was over; in the stone courtyards sat girls and children
rapidly fashioning covers for the flasks from the dried stems and leaves of
the maize; the laurels were covered with berries, scarlet, purple and green;
and here and there in some sheltered garden a white or crimson rose blossomed
on the same stem as the vivid yellow fruit.
Through this winter landscape rode a young lord with a sin on his soul; he
rode to the Convent. In his furred habit, with tassels of scarlet, he went
humbly through the cloisters where the slanting sunlight lay, and confessed
to Father Aloysius. And though the good monk absolved him, he was still
uneasy, for his sin was a grievous one.
"How can it be?" he cried, "that I shall be forgiven?"
Then Father Aloysius took him by the hand and led him into the garden.
It was very still; above the low line of the cloisters tine insects
crossed each other in the blue sky; there was just breeze enough to rustle
the shining leaves of the lemon trees that drooped heavy fruit against the
wall.
"There is no sin," said the monk, "too heinous to be forgiven, if one
truly repents. As witness the tale of the hangman of Pisa, which is out of
the book called The Rosarie of Our Lady, wherein are other examples,
there being one for each bead on the rosary.
"Now this hangman was a wicked and bitter man, who had never done a good
action in his life, but had taken up his awful trade for pleasure in it and
would go to a hanging as merrily as a maid to a dancing. There was no one who
loved him or respected him or pitied him; never was he seen in a church, nor
any holy place, and when some poor wretch, about to die under his hand, would
murmur a prayer for God's pity, my hangman would laugh and scoff in a way
horrid to hear.
"It happened one day that he was going forth to hang an offender; he was
clothed in the garments of the men he had executed, and he carried a rope in
his hand, for there was need of a new one for the gallows.
"It was a sweet and lovely day in spring, the flowers were blowing in the
gardens and on the hillsides, and many people were singing because of the
pleasant season of the year.
"The hangman felt suddenly uneasy: for the first time in his wicked life
he noticed how the children and the young maidens ran away when they saw him
coming, how the men crossed to the other footway, so that his path was always
lonely.
"And for the first time since he had begun his present horrid occupation,
he thought of the poor prisoner whom he was going to hang.
"When he came to Pisa bridge, where is the shrine of the Virgin set into
the wall, a child running from him dropped a cluster of wood-violets. And the
hangman, on the impulse, picked up the flowers and placed them on the little
shelf before the Virgin, and at the same time commended his soul to Our
Lady.
"Then he went on his way again, hurt, passing through a narrow street, he
was intercepted by some relations of the man he was going to hang, and they
slew him.
"Now there was then in Pisa a certain priest who nightly walked about
every church in the city, and that night he rose up and went to the church of
Our Lady.
"And as he passed through the churchyard, he saw a great many dead men
gathered together in a company.
"Some of these dead men he knew, and of them he asked what was the
matter.
"And one of them answered, 'The hangman is slain, and the Devil challenges
his soul from Our Lady, who says it is hers; and the Judge is even at hand
coming hither to hear the cause, and therefore,' said they 'we are now come
together.'
"Then the priest thought that he also would be at this hearing, and so hid
himself behind a thorn tree, and anon saw the judicial seat prepared and
furnished, whereon the judge, to wit, St. Michael, sat, and near him was Our
Lady.
"Soon after, the devils brought in the soul of the hangman pinioned, and
they proved by good evidence that he belonged to them.
"On the other hand, Our Lady pleaded for this poor wretch, contending that
he at the hour of death commended his soul to her, and laid a bunch of
violets before her shrine on Pisa bridge.
"St. Michael, hearing the matter so well debated on either side, willing
to obey Our Lady's desire, and yet loath to do the devils any wrong, gave
sentence that the hangman's soul should return to his body, and by his future
conduct should his fate be decided; he further ordered that the Pope should
set forth a public form of prayer for the hangman's soul.
"Thereupon the devils demanded who should do this errand to His
Holiness?
"'Why,' said Our Lady, 'yonder priest who lurketh behind the thorn
tree.'
"So the priest was called forth, and the message given him, which he did
accept, saying however, 'By what token shall I persuade His Holiness?'
"Then Our Lady took a rose from her girdle and delivered it him, saying,
'This shall be the token whereby ye may desire the Pope to take the pains to
do as has been decreed.'
"So the soul of the hangman returned to his body, and the priest went to
Rome, and when the Pope saw the freshnessd freshness of the rose after it had
been three days in the priest's wallet, he knew that the story was true, and
he ordered prayers to be sent up for the recovered hangman.
"And the hangman so lived in holiness that when he died those about him
very plainly heard the opening of heaven's door to admit his soul.
"By which you see," added Father Aloysius, "that one simple prayer and a
handful of flowers were sufficient to save the soul of a wicked man."
At which the young lord rejoiced, and went away comforted.
But a certain voting novice, seeing him depart in his finery, envied him,
saying, "Look at his furred boots and his tassels, and the hat with the
heron's feather, and the chain and the beryl stone!"
Father Aloysius heard him and rebuked him:
"That man whom you envy," said he, "is fallen so low that he considered
himself lost until I comforted him with the tale of the great mercy
vouchsafed to the hangman of Pisa.
"He takes no pleasure in his hat or his feather, in his furred boots, nor
in his chain with the beryl stone: therefore be not envious of this splendour
of his. And I would further remind you that Envy or Invidia is the
fifth of the Deadly Sins."
Now several of the novices who were about under the lemon trees, picking
the fruit and piling it into deep wand baskets, began to dispute and complain
about the dictum.
For envy (said they) could by no means be called a deadly sin, only a
venial one, for what harm could come of it to anyone—either to the
object envied or to the person who envied?
Neither could this sin be considered the beginning of other sins, or the
root of evil, as were Pride, Greed, Wrath.
Besides, it was a failing common to all, and by no means to be subdued
save by a saint or hermit, and even these had been known to envy the angels
in heaven.
Thereupon Father Aloysius seated himself on the edge of the well, where he
had the sun, and expounded the fifth deadly sin, which some, he said, put
second, as next to Pride and before Greed and Wrath.
And after this manner he expounded:
St. Augustine saith,﹃Envy is sorrow of other men's weal, and joy of other
men's woe;﹄and that is a true definition.
It is a very horrible sin (said the Father), inasmuch as it goes secretly
and is very often undiscovered, so escaping among the ignorant, such as ye,
as a venial fault hardly to be noticed, when instead it is the generator of
more evil in the world than three of the other sins put together.
And I tell ye this, though there may be many a good or brave man, tinct in
some way with the other sins, yet there was never one that had a spark of
virtue in him who was a prey to envy; for it is properly a sin of mean,
small, creeping souls who lack the courage for lustier vice.
Envy is one and the same with Malice, which it is sometimes called it is
against all virtue and all goodness, and it is like the Devil, inasmuch as it
rejoices at the harm which befalls mankind. It is the parent of backbiting,
detraction, slander, false witness, scandal, unkindness and cruelty.
So great a sin is it that it is mentioned in the Ten Commandments, which
say nothing of Pride, nor Greed, nor Avarice.
It goes against God when it complains of God's orderings, as, the pains of
hell, or poverty, or loss of cattle, or rain, or tempest, all of which ills
man should suffer patiently, for they come from God's own hand.
And Envy is cowardly, and dare not openly show its face, but murmurs and
grumbles and complains and detracts privately; and these secret mutterings of
Envy are termed the Devil's Pater Noster, though the Devil never had a
Pater Noster, but lewd folk so call this sour whispering of Envy.
And from Envy come rancour, and grudging, and bitterness of heart, and
discord, and false witness, and malignity.
And it is the most difficult sin of all to fight, for it goes generally
cloaked in the semblance of some virtue.
And there is this tale to be told of Envy, though there are many others
more pointed and dreadful; but this I know to be true:
It happened in a far country, where there is much snow and little sun,
many clouds and few flowers.
There the hills are so high that one may walk all day through the valleys,
and never see the sun, though it be never so brightly shining. There are
great waterfalls and ravines and lonely stretches of rock; and the land is
mostly barren, for they find there neither gold nor silver mines, nor marble
quarries nor any natural riches; nor does any fruit flourish nor any grain
save that little they painfully grow on the shelves of rocks. But in the
lakes and bays are plenty of fish, and there are vast forests of pine, of
which they sell the wood.
In this country is a castle, the most considerable they have, close to
their largest town. They call it the Blue Tower because it is built of wood
and painted blue; they use neither brick nor marble in their building, but of
wood they can make anything, a delicate toy for a child or a ship that will
sail over the world's seas.
They are a rude people, strong and fair, and still barbarous in their
ways; they have no arts save those of embroidery and carving, and their sole
poetry is a number of wild, fierce songs they sing in the evenings round the
fire; it is said that many of them are not even Christians, but still devoted
to heathen idols.
However this may be, they are cruel and brave in war, and dart out on
their icy seas in their dragon-prowed galleys and seize any luckless ship
that may be in their waters.
And there is the excuse to be made for their godless conduct that they
have a hard and bitter life in their cold and barren land.
In this Blue Tower lived a certain nobleman with his daughter. They were
very rich for that country, and would drive to and fro the town in a sledge
with scarlet cushions and silver bells, drawn by four reindeer, with little
gold tips to their horns; and there was always plenty of meat on their table,
even in the scarce seasons, and plenty of mead in their horn goblets, a great
fire burning always on their hearth, hangings of gaily worked woollens and
coloured lamps in their chambers, and on the lady's arms bracelets of rough
gold, and in her ears pendants of turquoise.
They were, besides, much loved by their people, for they were open-handed
and gay, and brave and just and kindly.
Among their peasants was one named Frithiof, who was good and intelligent,
and clever indeed at the wood-carving in which these people excelled; he
could take a little bit of rough wood and turn it into the likeness of a
flower, or a face, or a bird, or a toad, or a witch, or a fairy, while he
drove the reindeer to their stables.
And his master encouraged him, buying his work and praising it, and at
last ordered him to carve him a chair to sit in on feast-days, a chair deep
and high, with the old heroes they sang of after supper carved on the back,
an inch deep in the good thick wood.
Now when Frithiof heard this it was to him as if all the little silver
sledge-bells were ringing in his heart, for he was in love with a maiden
named Rieke, and she loved him, and the price of the chair would he
sufficient wherewith to build a house and buy a piece of ground, and perhaps
even a reindeer, and so they could be married before the winter was over.
His lord knew of this ambition of his, and favoured it, and showed him the
piece of land waiting for him, and his daughter declared she would give the
bride a square of scarlet cloth for a wedding present; and Frithiof heard the
silver bells ring louder in his heart, and saw the cold northern sky rosy
with hope.
Now Rieke was a very lovely maiden, with thick pale yellow hair, which
hung to her knees, and blue eves like the little flowers which grow up in the
snow-hills, and are put there by the angels to remind men of God in desolate
places.
She was pious, too, and industrious; she could comb and card wool, spin
and dye cloth, fashion garments and embroider them, milk the reindeer and
harness them, make caps and purses and gloves and bags out of fur.
But withal she was of a discontented and jealous mind, and though she
truly loved Frithiof, she never saw him in his good rough garments but she
was shamed in her heart and wished that she had a finer lover.
And when he came and told her of his good fortune with the chair he was to
carve for his lord, she was not so pleased as he had thought she would he,
and she sighed to herself, saying,﹃This is not a grand future: a few yards
of ground and a hut.﹄And in secret she filled her heart with all the old
legends and tales in which maidens had come to marry great knights by reason
of their fair faces.
So the winter came, and the world was white and silent with snow; it lay
on the ground, on the boughs of the fir trees, on the mountains and on the
ice that covered the lakes and bays, on the roof of the Blue Tower, and on
the roofs of all the little huts beneath.
And as Rieke sat at her door, spinning, wearing a red gown and a blue
apron and cross cloths of yellow and red on her head, she saw the lord's
daughter driving in her sledge through the forest.
She was going to some feast, for it neared Christmastide, and she wore,
plainly visible beneath her fur mantle, a white vesture.
Now she, being a gracious lady and seeing Rieke working at her door,
stopped her sledge and entered the hut and spoke kindly to the girl about the
wedding drawing so near.
And as she stood talking in the warm room, she put back her mantle, and
Rieke saw the white gown, pure as the snow, with white fur on the bodice,
buckled with rough pearls; and she heeded nothing of what the lady said, but
thought only of the white gown; and when she had gone, tinkle, tinkle with
her reindeer over the snow, Rieke sat down and wept.
"I should look fairer than she in a white robe," she thought, "for I have
yellow hair and hers is dark—but no one will ever give me such a
gown."
So she lamented until the devils of discontent and envy and malice and
jealousy got hold of her, and when Frithiof came to her that evening, flushed
and happy from his work, she received him sullenly.
As he sat by the fire and her old mother told them fairy tales, he carved
her a necklet of the blue mountain flowers, so delicately done that at a
breath they trembled like living petals.
But Rieke put it about her white neck sadly, and thought of the fine
chains the lord's daughter had worn, of pure gold, seven times round her
throat, and then hanging to her knees.
And as the days went on she became more and more gloomy and distracted,
and took no pleasure in Frithiof's eager talk of the home they would have,
nor her mother's gossip of the wedding feast, of the mead the good lord would
send, and the piece of scarlet cloth that was to be the gift from his
daughter; for every day she longed more and more for the white gown, and when
they spoke of the dancing there would be, she looked at her rough shoes and
thought, "How can I dance in these?"
Now there was a certain neighbour of hers, named Helva, who owned a pair
of shoes made of soft skin and laced with silk, and on Rieke once telling her
how she envied them she pleasantly promised to lend them for the wedding.
"But what is the use," thought Rieke, "of fine shoes, if I have to go in a
coarse coloured gown?"
And she became so pale and ill and sad that Frithiof, full as he was of
his own joy, could not fail to notice it, and often demanded of her what the
grief was; but she put him off, since she was ashamed to tell.
But one evening he came to her, happy and singing, with the price of the
chair in his pocket, and she could bear it no more, but broke into tears and
told him how she longed for a white gown.
And Frithiof went out into the snow and looked up at the stars above the
pine trees and tried to understand.
CERTAIN Cardinal came to stay at the Convent, and
was entertained in a royal manner, as befitted his rank; three weeks he
lingered, putting the Convent to great expense, and when he left he gave
them no more than his blessing, though they had expected at least a
relic for the Chapel and a pound of gold for themselves.
And this led Father Aloysius, who was sorely angered, to speak of the
sixth deadly sin, which is Avarice, or, in the classical tongue,
Auaricia, with which is included another sin, that of
Coveitise, of which Saint Paul saith: "The root of all harm is
Coveitise."
Which sin is different from Avarice in this, that Coveitise is the
unlawful longing for what one has not, and Avarice is the longing to keep
what one has without lawful need and excuse.
And there is an Avarice of glory and science, as well as an Avarice of
cattle and treasure; an Avarice of things of the soul, as well as of things
of the body.
And he who is avaricious breaks the first commandment, which is against
false gods—as he who follows this sin makes many false gods and
worships them all, and never chances to lift his eyes to where the only and
one God sits enthroned; nay, he is absorbed in his worldly good, and thinks
of naught else until the day the devil catches him by the neck, saving: "Ho,
come you with me!"
Neither shall it save him (said Father Aloysius) if he wear a Cardinal's
hat!
And further to impress over and above all these gathering complaints (for
all from the Abbot to the scullions were murmuring against their visitor) the
hideousness and evil consequence of this sin, he brought out the book of the
German Magister, and read them this story:
Further back in this book of mine I spoke of a certain notorious witch
named Ottilia,* who was carried off bodily by the devil, and afterwards
returned, wearing a new fur tippet, to the great dismay of the townsfolk.
[* See " Wrath," Chapter 4 in this
ebook.]
But who dare say anything?
She had a very plausible story to tell; she said she had been visiting an
ancient aunt of hers, in a distant part of the country, who had died
recently, and who had left her (honest woman that she was!) two cats, a bag
of gold, and the fur tippet.
As for that scene in the market square, when one ventured to speak of it,
she treated it all as a jest—that was a fine tale indeed; it was quite
clear that there were a good many people with an evil conscience, when they
imagined they saw things like that!
So she went back to her beer-brewing and her sausage-making; she had a new
roof put on her house, and she bought some new furniture and a blue velvet
gown, and no one dared say aught, though they all groaned and sighed at
having her amongst them again.
As for the cats, they were not like ordinary beasts, but had large round
heads and small bodies, and wore sad, dun-coloured coats. One was called
Guzzling Grizel, and the other Wait-on-yourself; for the first was never
happy save when eating, and the second when asked a favour, however trifling,
would always reply 'Wait on yourself.'
Now it was perfectly well known that these cats were nothing better than
imps who had taken the place of my Pipkin, who was never seen again. Nor was
Trina, the other witch, ever seen again—and none dared ask after
her.
So Ottilia lived quietly for a while, making her beer and her sausages,
and going to the market and selling them, sometimes buying a broom and
sometimes a bit of finery for herself or her imps.
And one clay she was sitting by the fire after dinner when there came a
knock on the door.
So up she hobbled, ready with a sour word if it should he one of my hags
come to visit her; she sees instead a handsome young man, very mournful and
sad, so she begins smiling and saying all the servants were abroad, and the
porter asleep, as she also would have been had she not stayed up to say her
prayers. But will he step inside and state his business?
My young man listens to all these lies very courteously, and asks if she
be the Lady Ottilia?
"Yes," says she, highly flattered; "come in, fair sir, and taste my beer,
which is better than any brewed around."
So he entered and sat by the fire and sighed and groaned.
She: What was the matter with him that he seemed so downcast? Let
him taste her beer!
He: He had not come for her beer, but for her advice; for he was
quite in despair, and he had heard she was very wise.
She: She believed she had as much sense as her neighbours!
He: Well, he was in trouble; let her help him, and she should not
back for her reward.
She: She was willing to do her best as long as it was not some
silly love affair, for with such things she had no patience!
He: No, he had never been in love in his life, nor ever seen a
woman so pleasing to him as she was now, when she promised to do her best for
him!
At which Ottilia was mightily pleased, and told him he must not think of
trying to get round her with compliments, for she was not a foolish girl, but
a woman turned thirty, though she had heard said she looked younger.
"Not a day more than twenty-five," said he; at which Guzzling Grizel and
Wait-on-yourself burst into laughter, and Ottilia kicked them out of the
room.
They: She had some vigour in her still, though she was
seventy-seven yesterday!
At this Ottilia hoped he would excuse the poor beasts, who were little
better than heathen still, for all the trouble she took with them.
He: What did it matter? He was not such a good Christian himself.
If she would hear his trouble, it was this:
He was a master mariner, and had made many sailing; in many parts of the
world, and seen many strange lands.
And ever since he was a little child one thought had tormented
him—why did the ships turn hack? Why not sail on and see if there was
not another land?
For his part, he believed there was, and that if they sailed on through
uncharted seas they would find this land: he had had visions of it, he had
dreamed of it, he believed it was very rich and beautiful, with gold and
silver mines; and the man who discovered it could make himself king.
But for ten years he had wandered from one place to another, to kings, to
princes, to towns, to the Pope, to bishops and great knights, and no one
would believe in him sufficiently to give him enough money to buy a boat and
go in search of this New Country, nay, not even if he offered half of what he
found.
And worse than that, he had now lost his profession, for none would trust
him on their ship, for (said they) he was too crazed; and he was now at his
last penny, for he had spent all his patrimony in his wanderings.
Therefore, finding himself in this town, and hearing of her and her
wisdom, he had come to ask her, first if there was such a land as he dreamt
of; second, if he should ever find it; third, if she could help him to
someone who would supply him with money for the voyage.
On hearing this Ottilia took a long drink of beer, and then sat staring
into the fire.
At last she said she could do none of these things herself, but if he
would come with her to a friend of hers, she thought that he might know
everything, yea, and even get the help he needed.
So he said, Yes, eagerly enough would he go with her, and swear to give
her a good share of whatever he got from this venture.
So my hag takes a stout broomstick from the corner, and jumps on it, and
bids the young man mount behind, which he does; then behind him climb the two
imps (grumbling that they had scarcely any room), and oft they go, up the
chimney and over the town, which lay dark below them, dotted with little
twinkling lights.
T was when the mountains were all veiled in snow,
the ground stiff with ice, and not one leaf left on the vines, nor
indeed on any tree save the fir and olive, that Father Aloysius had
occasion to speak again of the Deadly Sins; and this time he spoke of
SLOTH, the seventh sin, or, as it is better expressed, Accidie,
which means really more than Sloth, also Melancholy and Gloom and
Sourness, but is commonly translated Sloth, and has been called by a
great man "the rotten-hearted sin of Accidie."
Now Father Aloysius had need to speak of this sin because it was much
abroad among the novices, who were very willing to lie abed in the morning
complaining of the cold, and very loth to do any work, saving it was weather
to sit by the fire and do nought else, adding matter of complaints as to the
snow, and their stiff fingers and cold toes, and making wry faces over the
meals, and being generally dejected and miserable, huddling together and
shivering in corners of the Monastery.
So Father Aloysius got them all together in the great hall and settled
himself by the fire and made them sit in two rows before him while he
lectured them on the sin of Accidie, which he could see (he said) by
their blue faces and bunched shoulders had a hold of them all.
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