XVII.
Eva's Story.
I have read the whole of the New Testament through to Sister Beatriceand Aunt Agnes. Strangely different auditors they were in powers of mindand in experience of life; yet both met, like so many in His days onearth, at the feet of Jesus.
"He would not have despised me, even me," Sister Beatrice would say."Poor, fond creature, half-witted or half-crazed they call me; but Hewould have welcomed me."
"_Does_ He not welcome you?" I said.
"You think so? Yes, I think--I am sure he does. My poor broken bits andremnants of sense and love, He will not despise them. He will take me asI am."
One day when I had been reading to them the chapter in St. Luke with theparables of the lost money, the lost sheep, and the prodigal, AuntAgnes, resting her cheek on her thin hand, and fixing her large darkeyes on me, listened with intense expectation to the end; and then shesaid,--
"Is that all, my child? Begin the next chapter."
I began about the rich man and the unjust steward; but before I had readmany words,--
"That will do," she said in a disappointed tone.
"It is another subject. Then not one of the Pharisees came after all! IfI had been there among the hard, proud Pharisees--as I might have beenwhen he began, wondering, no doubt, that he could so forget himself asto eat with publicans and sinners--if I had been there, and had heardhim speak thus, Eva, I must have fallen at his feet and said, 'Lord, Iam a Pharisee no more--I am the lost sheep, not one of the ninety andnine--the wandering child, not the elder brother. Place me low, lowamong the publicans and sinners--lower than any; but only say thoucamest also to seek me, even _me_.' And, child, he would not have sentme away! But, Eva," she added, after a pause, wiping away the tearswhich ran slowly over her withered cheeks, "is it not said anywhere thatone Pharisee came to him."
I looked, and could find it nowhere stated positively that one Phariseehad abandoned his pride, and self-righteousness, and treasures of goodworks, for Jesus. It seemed all on the side of the publicans. Aunt Agneswas at times distressed.
"And yet," she said, "I _have_ come. I am no longer among those whothink themselves righteous, and despise others. But I must come inbehind all. It is I, not the woman who was a sinner, who am the miracleof his grace; for since no sin so keeps men from him as spiritual pride,there can be no sin so degrading in the sight of the pure and humbleangels, or of the Lord. But look again, Eva! Is there not one instanceof such as I being saved?"
I found the history of Nicodemus, and we traced it through the Gospelfrom the secret visit to the popular teacher at night, to the openconfession of the rejected Saviour before his enemies.
Aunt Agnes thought this might be the example she sought, but she wishedto be quite sure.
"Nicodemus came in humility, to learn," she said. "We never read that hedespised others, or thought he could make himself a saint."
At length we came to the Acts of the Apostles, and there, indeed, wefound the history of one, "of the straitest sect a Pharisee," who verilythought himself doing God service by persecuting the despised Nazarenesto death. And from that time Aunt Agnes sought out and cherished everyfragment of St. Paul's history, and every sentence of his sermons andwritings. She had found the example she sought of the "Pharisee who wassaved"--in him who obtained mercy, "that in him first God might showforth the riches of his long-suffering to those who thereafter, throughhis word, should believe."
She determined to learn Latin, that she might read these divine wordsfor herself. It was affecting to see her sitting among the novices whomI taught, carefully spelling out the words, and repeating thedeclensions and conjugations. I had no such patient pupil; for althoughmany were eager at first, not a few relaxed after a few weeks' toil, notfinding the results very apparent, and said it would never sound sonatural and true as when Sister Ave translated it for them in German.
I wish some learned man would translate the Bible into German. Why doesnot some one think of it? There is one German translation from theLatin, the prioress says, made about thirty or forty years ago; but itis very large and costly, and not in language that attracts simplepeople. I wish the Pope would spend some of the money from theindulgences on a new translation of the New Testament. I think it wouldplease God much more than building St. Peter's.
Perhaps, however, if people had the German New Testament they would notbuy the indulgences; for in all the Gospels and Epistles I cannot findone word about buying pardons; and, what is more strange, not a wordabout adoring the Blessed Virgin, or about nunneries or monasteries. Icannot see that the holy apostles founded one such community, orrecommended any one to do so.
Indeed there is so much in the New Testament, and in what I have read ofthe Old, about not worshipping any one but God, that I have quite givenup saying any prayers to the Blessed mother, for many reasons.
In the first place, I am much more sure that our Lord can hear us alwaysthan his mother, because he so often says so. And I am much more sure hecan help, because I know all power is given to him in heaven and inearth.
And in the next place, if I were quite sure that the Blessed Virgin andthe saints could hear me always, and could help or would intercede, I amsure also that no one among them--not the Holy Mother herself--is halfso compassionate and full of love, or could understand us so well, as Hewho died for us. In the Gospels, he was always more accessible than thedisciples. St. Peter might be impatient in the impetuosity of his zeal.Loving indignation might overbalance the forbearance of St. John thebeloved, and he might wish for fire from heaven on those who refused toreceive his Master. All the holy apostles rebuked the poor mothers whobrought their children, and would have sent away the woman of Canaan;but he tenderly took the little ones into his arms from the arms of themothers the disciples had rebuked. His patience was never wearied; Henever misunderstood or discouraged any one. Therefore I pray to Him andour Father in heaven alone, and _through_ Him alone. Because if he ismore pitiful to sinners than all the saints, which of all the saints canbe beloved of God as he is, the well-beloved Son? He seems everything,in every circumstance, we can ever want. Higher mediation we cannotfind, tenderer love we cannot crave.
And very sure I am that the meek Mother of the Lord, the disciple whomJesus loved, the apostle who determined to know nothing among hisconverts save Jesus Christ, and him crucified, will not regret anyhomage transferred from them to Him.
Nay, rather, if the blessed Virgin, and the holy apostles have heardhow, through all these years, such grievous and unjust things have beensaid of their Lord; how his love has been misunderstood, and he has beenrepresented as hard to be entreated,--He who entreats sinners to comeand be forgiven;--has not this been enough to shadow their happiness,even in heaven?
A nun has lately been transferred to our convent, who came originallyfrom Bohemia, where all her relatives had been slain for adhering to theparty of John Huss, the heretic. She is much older than I am, and shesays she remembers well the name of my family, and that my great-uncle,Aunt Agnes' father, died a _heretic_! She cannot tell what the heresywas, but she believes it was something about the blessed sacrament andthe authority of the Pope. She had heard that otherwise he was acharitable and holy man.
Was my father, then, a Hussite?
I have found the end of the sentence he gave me as his dyinglegacy:--"God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son,_that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlastinglife_." And instead of being in a book not fit for Christian children toread, as the priest who took it from me said, it is in the HolyScriptures!
Can it be possible that the world has come round again to the state itwas in when the rulers and priests put the Saviour to death, and St.Paul persecuted the disciples as heretics?
NIMPTSCHEN, 1520.
A wonderful book of Dr. Luther's appeared among us a few weeks since, onthe Babylonish Captivity; and although it was taken from us by theauthorities, as dangerous rea
ding for nuns, this was not before manyamong us had become acquainted with its contents. And it has created agreat ferment in the convent. Some say they are words of impiousblasphemy; some say they are words of living truth. He speaks of theforgiveness of sins being free; of the Pope and many of the priestsbeing the enemies of the truth of God; and of the life and calling of amonk or nun as in no way holier than that of any humble believingsecular man or woman,--a nun no holier than a wife or a householdservant!
This many of the older nuns think plain blasphemy. Aunt Agnes says it istrue, and more than true; for, from what I tell her, there can be nodoubt that Aunt Cotta has been a lowlier and holier woman all her lifethan she can ever hope to be.
And as to the Bible precepts, they certainly seem far more adapted topeople living in homes than to those secluded in convents. Often when Iam teaching the young novices the precepts in the Epistles, they say,--
"But sister Ave, find some precepts for us. These sayings are forchildren, and wives, and mothers, and brothers, and sisters; not forthose who have neither home nor kindred on earth."
Then if I try to speak of loving God and the blessed Saviour, some ofthem say,--
"But we cannot bathe his feet with tears, or anoint them with ointment,or bring him food, or stand by his cross, as the good women did of old.Shut up here, away from every one, how can we show him that we lovehim?"
And I can only say, "Dear sisters, you are here now; therefore surelyGod will find some way for you to serve him here."
But my heart aches for them, and I doubt no longer, I feel sure God cannever have meant these young, joyous hearts to be cramped and imprisonedthus.
Sometimes I talk about it with Aunt Agnes; and we consider whether, ifthese vows are indeed irrevocable, and these children must never seetheir homes again, the convent could not one day be removed to some citywhere sick and suffering men and women toil and die; so that we might,at least, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and visit and minister tothe sick and sorrowful. That would be life once more, instead of thismonotonous routine, which is not so much death as mechanism--aninanimate existence which has never been life.
_October_, 1520.
Sister Beatrice is very ill. Aunt Agnes has requested as an especialfavour to be allowed to share the attending on her with me. Never wasgentler nurse or more grateful patient.
It goes to my heart to see Aunt Agnes meekly learning from me how torender the little services required at the sick-bed. She smiles, andsays her feeble blundering fingers had grown into mere machines forturning over the leaves of prayer-books, just as her heart was hardeninginto a machine for repeating prayers. Nine of the young nuns, AuntAgnes, Sister Beatrice, and I, have been drawn very closely together oflate. Among the noblest of these is Catherine von Bora, a young nun,about twenty years of age. There is such truth in her full dark eyes,which look so kindly and frankly into mine, and such character in thefirmly-closed mouth. She declines learning Latin, and has not much tastefor learned books; but she has much clear practical good sense, and she,with many others, delights greatly in Dr. Luther's writings. They saythey are not books; they are a living voice. Every fragment ofinformation I can give them about the doctor is eagerly received, andmany rumours reach us of his influence in the world. When he was nearNimptschen, two years ago, at the great Leipsic disputation, we heardthat the students were enthusiastic about him, and that the commonpeople seemed to drink in his words almost as they did our Lord's whenhe spoke upon earth; and what is more, that the lives of some men andwomen at the court have been entirely changed since they heard him. Wewere told he had been the means of wonderful conversions; but what wasstrange in these conversions was, that those so changed did not abandontheir position in life, but only their sins, remaining where they werewhen God called them, and distinguished from others, not by veil orcowl, but by the light of holy works.
On the other hand, many, especially among the older nuns, have receivedquite contrary impressions, and regard Dr. Luther as a heretic, worsethan any who ever rent the Church. These look very suspiciously on us,and subject us to many annoyances, hindering our conversing and readingtogether as much as possible.
We do, indeed, many of us wonder that Dr. Luther should use such fierceand harsh words against the Pope's servants. Yet St. Paul even "couldhave wished that those were cut off" that troubled his flock; and thevery lips of divine love launched woes against hypocrites and falseshepherds severer than any that the Baptist or Elijah ever uttered intheir denunciations from the wilderness. It seems to me that the heartswhich are tenderest towards the wandering sheep will ever be severestagainst the seducing shepherds who lead them astray. Only we need alwaysto remember that these very false shepherds themselves are, after all,but wretched lost sheep, driven hither and thither by the great robberof the fold!
1521.
Just now the hearts of the little band among us who owe so much to Dr.Luther are lifted up night and day in prayer to God for him. He is soonto be on his way to the Imperial Diet at Worms. He has the Emperor'ssafe-conduct, but it is said this did not save John Huss from theflames. In our prayers we are much aided by his own Commentary on theBook of Psalms, which I have just received from Uncle Cotta'aprinting-press.
This is now Sister Beatrice's great treasure, as I sit by her bed-sideand read it to her.
He says that "the mere frigid use of the Psalms in the canonical hours,though little understood, brought some sweetness of the breath of lifeto humble hearts of old, like the faint fragrance in the air not farfrom a bed of roses."
He says, "All other books give us the words and deeds of the saints, butthis gives us their inmost souls." He calls the Psalter "the littleBible." "There," he says, "you may look into the hearts of the saints asinto Paradise, or into the opened heavens, and see the fair flowers orthe shining stars, as it were, of their affections springing or beamingup to God, in response to his benefits and blessings."
_March_, 1521.
News had reached me to-day from Wittemberg which makes me feel indeedthat the days when people deem they do God service by persecuting thosewho love him, are too truly come back. Thekla writes me that they havethrown Fritz into the convent prison at Mainz, for spreading Dr.Luther's doctrine among the monks. A few lines sent through a friendlymonk have told them of this. She sent them on to me.
"My beloved ones," he writes, "I am in the prison where, forty yearsago, John of Wesel died for the truth. I am ready to die if God wills itso. His truth is worth dying for, and his love will strengthen me. Butif I can I will escape, for the truth is worth living for. If, however,you do not hear of me again, know that the truth I died for is Christ's,and that the love which sustained me is Christ himself. And likewisethat to the last I pray for you all, and for Eva; and tell her that thethought of her has helped me often to believe in goodness and truth, andthat I look assuredly to meet her and all of you again.--FRIEDRICHSCHOeNBERG COTTA."
In prison and in peril of life! Death itself cannot, I know, morecompletely separate Fritz and me than we are separated already. Indeed,of the death even of one of us, I have often thought as bringing us astep nearer, rending one veil between us. Yet, now that it seems sopossible,--that perhaps it has already come,--I feel there was a kind ofindefinable sweetness in being only on the same earth together, intreading the same pilgrim way. At least we could help each other byprayer; and now, if he is indeed treading the streets of the heavenlycity, so high above, the world does seem darker.
But, alas! he may _not_ be in the heavenly city, but in some coldearthly dungeon, suffering I know not what!
I have read the words over and over, until I have almost lost theirmeaning. He has no morbid desire to die. He will escape if he can, andhe is daring enough to accomplish much. And yet, if the danger were notgreat, he would not alarm Aunt Cotta with even the possibility of death.He always considered others so tenderly.
/>
He says I have helped him, _him_ who taught and helped me, a poorignorant child, so much! Yet I suppose it may be so. It teaches us somuch to teach others. And we always understood each other so perfectlywith so few words. I feel as if blindness had fallen on me, when I thinkof him now. My heart gropes about in the dark and cannot find him.
But then I look up, my Saviour, to thee. "To thee the night and the dayare both alike." I dare not think he is suffering; it breaks my heart. Icannot rejoice as I would in thinking he may be in heaven. I know notwhat to ask, but thou art with him as with me. _Keep him close under theshadow of thy wing._ There we are _safe_, and there we are _together_.And oh, comfort Aunt Cotta! She must need it sorely.
Fritz, then, like our little company at Nimptschen, loves the words ofDr. Luther. When I think of this I rejoice almost more than I weep forhim. These truths believed in our hearts seem to unite us more thanprison or death can divide. When I think of this I can sing once moreSt. Bernard's hymn:--
SALVE CAPUT CRUENTATUM.
Hail! thou Head, so bruised and wounded, With the crown of thorns surrounded, Smitten with the mocking reed, Wounds which may not cease to bleed Trickling faint and slow. Hail! from whose most blessed brow None can wipe the blood-drops now; All the bloom of life has fled, Mortal paleness there instead Thou before whose presence dread Angels trembling bow.
All thy vigor and thy life Fading in this bitter strife; Death his stamp on thee has set, Hollow and emaciate, Faint and drooping there. Thou this agony and scorn Hast for me a sinner borne! Me, unworthy, all for me! With those wounds of love on thee, Glorious Face, appear!
Yet in this thine agony, Faithful Shepherd, think of me From whose lips of love divine Sweetest draughts of life are mine; Purest honey flows; All unworthy of thy thought, Guilty, yet reject me not; Unto me thy head incline,-- Let that dying head of thine In mine arms repose.
Let me true communion know With thee in thy sacred woe, Counting all beside but dross, Dying with thee on thy cross;-- 'Neath it will I die! Thanks to thee with every breath Jesus, for thy bitter death; Grant thy guilty one this prayer: When my dying hour is near, Gracious God, be nigh!
When my dying hour must be, Be not absent then from me; In that dreadful hour, I pray, Jesus come without delay; See, and set me free. When thou biddest me depart, Whom I cleave to with my heart. Lover of my soul, be near, With thy saving cross appear,-- Show thyself to me!
Chronicles of the Schonberg-Cotta Family Page 17
