CHAPTER XCIX
Jerome was as morose as ever in his general character, but he hadsomewhat softened towards Gerard. All the time he was in England hehad missed him more then he thought possible, and since then had oftenwondered what had become of him. What he heard in Gouda raised hisfeeble brother in his good opinion above all, that he had withstoodthe Pope and the Minorites on "the infernal heresy of the immaculateconception," as he called it. But when one of his young monks told himwith tears in his eyes the Cause of Gerard's illness, all his contemptrevived. "Dying for a woman?"
He determined to avert this scandal; he visited Clement twice a dayin his cell, and tried all his old influence and all his eloquence toinduce him to shake off this unspiritual despondency, and not rob thechurch of his piety and his eloquence at so critical a period.
Gerard heard him, approved his reasoning, admired his strength,confessed his own weakness, and continued visibly to wear away to theland of the leal. One day Jerome told him he had heard his story, andheard it with pride. "But now," said he, "you spoil it all, Clement; forthis is the triumph of earthly passion. Better have yielded to it andrepented, than resist it while she lived, and succumb under it now, bodyand soul."
"Dear Jerome," said Clement, so sweetly as to rob his remonstrance ofthe tone of remonstrance, "here, I think, you do me some injustice.Passion there is none; but a deep affection, for which I will not blushhere, since I shall not blush for it in heaven. Bethink thee, Jerome,the poor dog that dies of grief on his master's grave, is he guilty ofpassion? Neither am I. Passion had saved my life, and lost my soul, Shewas my good angel; she sustained me in my duty and charity; her faceencouraged me in the pulpit; her lips soothed me under ingratitude. Sheintertwined herself with all that was good in my life; and after leaningon her so long, I could not go on alone. And, dear Jerome, believe meI am no rebel against Heaven. It is God's will to release me. When theythrew the earth upon her poor coffin, something snapped within my bosomhere that mended may not be. I heard it, and I felt it. And from thattime, Jerome, no food that I put in my mouth had any savour. With myeyes bandaged now I could not tell thee which was bread, and which wasflesh, by eating of it."
"Holy saints!"
"And again, from that same hour my deep dejection left me, and I smiledagain. I often smile--why? I read it thus: He in whose hands are theissues of life and death gave me that minute the great summons; 'twassome cord of life snapped in me. He is very pitiful. I should have livedunhappy; but He said, 'No; enough is done, enough is suffered; poorfeeble, loving servant, thy shortcomings are forgiven, thy sorrows touchthine end; come thou to thy rest!' I come, Lord, I come!"
Jerome groaned. "The Church had ever her holy but feeble servants," hesaid. "Now would I give ten years of my life to save thine. But I see itmay not be. Die in peace."
And so it was that in a few days more Gerard lay a-dying in a frameof mind so holy and happy, that more than one aged saint was there togarner his dying words. In the evening he had seen Giles, and begged himnot to let poor Jack starve; and to see that little Gerard's trusteesdid their duty, and to kiss his parents for him, and to send Denysto his friends in Burgundy: "Poor thing, he will feel so strange herewithout his comrade." And after that he had an interview with Jeromealone. What passed between them was never distinctly known; but it musthave been something remarkable, for Jerome went from the door with hishands crossed on his breast, his high head lowered, and sighing as hewent.
The two monks that watched with him till matins related that all throughthe night he broke out from time to time in pious ejaculations, andpraises, and thanksgivings; only once they said he wandered, and thoughthe saw her walking in green meadows with other spirits clad in white,and beckoning him; and they all smiled and beckoned him. And both thesemonks said (but it might have been fancy) that just before dawn therecame three light taps against the wall, one after another, very slow;and the dying man heard them, and said.
"I come, love, I come."
This much is certain, that Gerard did utter these words, and preparefor his departure, having uttered them. He sent for all the monks who atthat hour were keeping vigil. They came, and hovered like gentle spiritsround him with holy words. Some prayed in silence for him with theirfaces touching the ground, others tenderly supported his head. But whenone of them said something about his life of self-denial and charity, hestopped him, and addressing them all said, "My dear brethren, take notethat he who here dies so happy holds not these new-fangled doctrines ofman's merit. Oh, what a miserable hour were this to me an if I did!Nay, but I hold, with the Apostles, and their pupils in the Church, theancient fathers, that we are justified not by our own wisdom, or piety,or the works we have done in holiness of heart, but by faith.'"(1)
Then there was silence, and the monks looked at one anothersignificantly.
"Please you sweep the floor," said the dying Christian, in a voice towhich all its clearance and force seemed supernaturally restored.
They instantly obeyed, not without a sentiment of awe and curiosity.
"Make me a great cross with wood ashes."
They strewed the ashes in form of a great Cross upon the floor.
"Now lay me down on it, for so will I die."
And they took him gently from his bed, and laid him on the cross of woodashes.
"Shall we spread out thine arms, dear brother?"
"Now God forbid! Am I worthy of that?"
He lay silent, but with his eyes raised in ecstasy.
Presently he spoke half to them, half to himself, "Oh," he said, witha subdued but concentrated rapture, "I feel it buoyant. It lifts mefloating in the sky whence my merits had sunk me like lead."
Day broke; and displayed his face cast upward in silent rapture, and hishands together; like Margaret's.
And just about the hour she died he spoke his last word in this world.
"Jesu!"
And even with that word--he fell asleep.
They laid him out for his last resting-place.
Under his linen they found a horse-hair shirt.
"Ah!" cried the young monks, "behold a saint!"
Under the hair cloth they found a long thick tress of auburn hair.
They started, and were horrified; and a babel of voices arose, somecondemning, some excusing.
In the midst of which Jerome came in, and hearing the dispute, turned toan ardent young monk called Basil, who was crying scandal the loudest,"Basil," said he, "is she alive or dead that owned this hair?"
"How may I know, father?"
"Then for aught you know it may be the relic of a saint?"
"Certes it may be," said Basil sceptically.
"You have then broken our rule, which saith, 'Put ill construction on noact done by a brother which can be construed innocently.' Who are youto judge such a man as this was? go to your cell, and stir not out for aweek by way of penance."
He then carried off the lock of hair.
And when the coffin was to be closed, he cleared the cell: and put thetress upon the dead man's bosom. "There, Clement," said he to the deadface. And set himself a penance for doing it; and nailed the coffin uphimself.
The next day Gerard was buried in Gouda churchyard. The monks followedhim in procession from the convent. Jerome, who was evidently carryingout the wishes of the deceased, read the service. The grave was a deepone, and at the bottom of it was a lead coffin. Poor Gerard's, light asa feather (so wasted was he), was lowered, and placed by the side of it.
After the service Jerome said a few words to the crowd of parishionersthat had come to take the last look at their best friend. When he spokeof the virtues of the departed loud wailing and weeping burst forth, andtears fell upon the coffin like rain.
The monks went home. Jerome collected them in the refectory and spoke tothem thus: "We have this day laid a saint in the earth. The convent willkeep his trentals, but will feast, not fast; for our good brother isfreed from the burden of the flesh; his labours are over, and he hasentered into his jo
yful rest. I alone shall fast, and do penance; for tomy shame I say it, I was unjust to him, and knew not his worth till itwas too late. And you, young monks, be not curious to inquire whether alock he bore on his bosom was a token of pure affection or the relic ofa saint; but remember the heart he wore beneath: most of all, fix youreyes upon his life and conversation, and follow them an ye may: for hewas a holy man."
Thus after life's fitful fever these true lovers were at peace.
The grave, kinder to them than the Church, united them for ever; and nowa man of another age and nation, touched with their fate, has labouredto build their tombstone, and rescue them from long and unmeritedoblivion.
He asks for them your sympathy, but not your pity.
No, put this story to a wholesome use.
Fiction must often give false views of life and death. Here as ithappens, curbed by history, she gives you true ones. Let the barrierthat kept these true lovers apart prepare you for this, that here onearth there will nearly always be some obstacle or other to your perfecthappiness; to their early death apply your Reason and your Faith, byway of exercise and preparation. For if you cannot bear to be told thatthese died young, who had they lived a hundred years would still bedead, how shall you bear to see the gentle, the loving, and the trueglide from your own bosom to the grave, and fly from your house toheaven?
Yet this is in store for you. In every age the Master of life and death,who is kinder as well as wiser than we are, has transplanted to heaven,young, earth's sweetest flowers.
I ask your sympathy, then, for their rare constancy and pure affection,and their cruel separation by a vile heresy(2) in the bosom of theChurch; but not your pity for their early but happy end.
'Beati sunt qui in Domino moriuntur.
(1) He was citing from Clement of Rome--
{ou di eautwn dikaioumetha oude dia tys ymeteras sophias, y eusebeias y ergwn wn kateirgasametha en osioteeti karthias, alla dia tys pistews}. --Epist.ad Corinth, i. 32.
(2) Celibacy of the clergy, an invention truly fiendish.
CHAPTER C
In compliance with a Custom I despise, but have not the spirit toresist, I linger on the stage to pick up the smaller fragments ofhumanity I have scattered about; i.e. some of them, for the waysidecharacters have no claim on me; they have served their turn if they havepersuaded the reader that Gerard travelled from Holland to Rome throughhuman beings, and not through a population of dolls.
Eli and Catherine lived to a great age: lived so long, that both Gerardand Margaret grew to be dim memories. Giles also was longaevous; he wentto the court of Bavaria, and was alive there at ninety, but had somehowturned into bones and leather, trumpet toned.
Cornelis, free from all rivals, and forgiven long ago by his mother, whoclung to him more and more now all her brood was scattered, waited andwaited and waited for his parents' decease. But Catherine's shrewd wordcame true; ere she and her mate wore out, this worthy rusted away. Atsixty-five he lay dying of old age in his mother's arms, a hale womanof eighty-six. He had lain unconscious a while, but came to himselfin articulo mortis, and seeing her near him, told her how he wouldtransform the shop and premises as soon as they should be his. "Yes, mydarling," said the poor old woman soothingly, and in another minute hewas clay, and that clay was followed to the grave by all the feet whoseshoes he had waited for.
Denys, broken-hearted at his comrade's death, was glad to return toBurgundy, and there a small pension the court allowed him kept him untilunexpectedly he inherited a considerable sum from a relation. He wasknown in his native place for many years as a crusty old soldier,who could tell good stories of war when he chose, and a bitter raileragainst women.
Jerome, disgusted with northern laxity, retired to Italy, and havinghigh connections became at seventy a mitred abbot. He put on the screwof discipline; his monks revered and hated him. He ruled with iron rodten years. And one night he died, alone; for he had not found the way toa single heart. The Vulgate was on his pillow, and the crucifix in hishand, and on his lips something more like a smile than was ever seenthere while he lived; so that, methinks, at that awful hour he was notquite alone. Requiescat in pace. The Master he served has many servants,and they have many minds, and now and then a faithful one will be asurly one, as it is in these our mortal mansions.
The yellow-haired laddie, Gerard Gerardson, belongs not to Fiction butto History. She has recorded his birth in other terms than mine. Overthe tailor's house in the Brede Kirk Straet she has inscribed:
"HAEC EST PARVA DOMUS NATUS QUA MAGNUS ERASMUS,"
and she has written half-a-dozen lives of him. But there is somethingleft for her yet to do. She has no more comprehended magnum Erasmum,than any other pigmy comprehends a giant, or partisan a judge.
First scholar and divine of his epoch, he was also the heaven-borndramatist of his century. Some of the best scenes in this new book arefrom his mediaeval pen, and illumine the pages where they come; for thewords of a genius so high as his are not born to die: their immediatework upon mankind fulfilled, they may seem to lie torpid; but at eachfresh shower of intelligence Time pours upon their students, they provetheir immortal race: they revive, they spring from the dust of greatlibraries; they bud, they flower, they fruit, they seed, from generationto generation, and from age to age.
The Cloister and the Hearth Page 97
