XXI.
Eva's Story.
CISTERCIAN CONVENT, NIMPTSCHEN, _September_ 2, 1521.
They have sent me several sheets of Dr. Luther's translation of the NewTestament, from Uncle Cotta's press at Wittemberg.
Of all the works he ever did for God, this seems to me the mightiest andthe best. None has ever so deeply stirred our convent. Many of thesisters positively refuse to join in any invocation of the saints. Theydeclare that it must be Satan himself who has kept this glorious booklocked up in a dead language out of reach of women and children and thecommon people. And the young nuns say it is so interesting, it is not inthe least like a book of sermons, or a religious treatise.
"It is like every-day life," said one of them to me, "with what everyone wants brought into it; a perfect Friend, so infinitely good, sonear, and so completely understanding our inmost hearts. Ah, SisterEva," she added, "if they could only hear of this at home!"
_October_.
To-day we have received a copy of Dr. Luther's thesis against themonastic life.
"There is but one only spiritual estate," he writes, "which is holy andmakes holy, and that is Christianity,--the faith which is the commonright of all."
"Monastic institutions," he continues, "to be of any use ought to beschools, in which children may be brought up until they are adults. Butas it is, they are houses in which men and women become children, andever continue childish."
Too well, alas! I know the truth of these last words; the hopeless,childish occupation with trifles, into which the majority of the nunssink when the freshness of youth and the bitter conflict of separationfrom all dear to the heart has subsided, and the great incidents of lifehave become the decorating the church for a festival, or the pompattending the visit of an Inspector or Bishop.
It is against this I have striven. It is this I dread for the youngsisters; to see them sink into contented trifling with religiousplaythings. And I have been able to see no way of escape, unless,indeed, we could be transferred to some city and devote ourselves to thecase of the sick and poor.
Dr. Luther, however, admits of another solution. We hear that he hascounselled the Prior of the Monastery at Erfurt to suffer any monks whowish it freely to depart. And many, we have been told, in variousmonasteries, have already left, and returned to serve God in the world.
Monks can, indeed, do this. The world is open before them, and in someway they are sure to find occupation. But with us it is different. Tornaway from our natural homes, the whole world around us is a tracklessdesert.
Yet how can I dare to say this? Since the whole world is the work of ourheavenly father's hands, and may be the way to our Father's house, willnot He surely find a place for each of us in it, and a path for usthrough it?
_November_ 10.
Nine of the younger nuns have come to the determination, if possible, togive up the conventual life, with its round of superstitiousobservances. This evening we held a consultation in Sister Beatrice'scell. Aunt Agnes joined us.
It was decided that each should write to her relatives, simplyconfessing that she believed the monastic vows and life to be contraryto the Holy Scriptures, and praying to be received back into her family.
Sister Beatrice and Aunt Agnes decided to remain patiently where theywere.
"My old home would be no more a home to me now than the convent," SisterBeatrice said. "There is liberty for me to die here, and an open way formy spirit to return to God."
And Aunt Agnes said,--
"Who knows but that there may be some lowly work left for me to do hereyet! In the world I should be as helpless as a child, and why should Ireturn to be a burden on my kindred."
They both urged me to write to Else or Aunt Cotta to receive me. But Ican scarcely think it my duty. Aunt Cotta has her children around her.Else's home is strange to me. Besides, kind as every one has been to me,I am as a stray waif on the current of this world, and have no home init. I think God has enabled me to cheer and help some few here, andwhile Aunt Agnes and Sister Beatrice remain, I cannot bear the thoughtof leaving. At all events I will wait.
_November_ 22.
Fritz is in prison again. For many weeks they had heard nothing fromhim, and were wondering where he was, when a letter came from a priestcalled Ruprect Haller, in Franconia. He says Fritz came to his house oneevening in July, remained the night, left next morning with his pack ofLutheran books, intending to proceed direct to Wittemberg, and gave himthe address of Aunt Cotta there. But a few weeks afterwards a young monkmet him near the Dominican Convent, and asked if he were the priest atwhose house a pedlar had spent a night a few weeks before. The priestadmitted it; whereon the young monk said to him, in a low, hurriedaccent,--
"Write to his friends, if you know them, and say he is in the prison ofthe convent, under strong suspicion of heresy. I am the young monk towhom he gave a book on the evening he came. Tell them I did not intendto betray him, although I led him into the net; and if ever they shouldprocure his escape, and you see him again, tell him I have kept hisbook." The good priest says something also about Fritz having been hissalvation. And he urges that the most strenuous exertions should be madeto liberate him, and any powerful friends we have should be entreated tointercede, because the Prior of the Dominican Convent where he isimprisoned is a man of the severest temper, and a mighty hater ofheretics.
Powerful friends! I know none whom we can entreat but God.
It was in July, then, that he was captured, two months since. I wonderif it is only my impatient spirit! but I feel as if I _must_ go to AuntCotta. I have a feeling she will want me now. I think I might comforther; for who can tell what two months in a Dominican prison may havedone for him?
In our convent have we not a prison, low, dark, and damp enough to weighthe life out of any one in six weeks! From one of the massive lowpillars hang heavy iron fetters, happily rusted now from disuse; and ina corner are a rack and other terrible instruments, now thrown asidethere, on which some of the older nuns say they have seen stains ofblood.
When he was in prison before at Mainz, I did not seem so despondingabout his deliverance as I feel now.
Are these fears God's merciful preparations for some dreadful tidingsabout to reach us? or are they the mere natural enfeebling of the powerto hope as one grows older?
_December_, 1521.
Many disappointments have fallen on us during the last fortnight. Answerafter answer has come to those touching entreaties of the nine sistersto their kindred, in various tones of feeling, but all positivelyrefusing to receive them back to their homes.
Some of the relatives use the bitterest reproaches and the severestmenaces. Others write tenderly and compassionately, but all agree thatno noble family can possibly bring on itself the disgrace of aiding aprofessed nun to break her vows. Poor children! my heart aches for them,some of them are so young, and were so confident of being welcomed backwith open arms, remembering the tears with which they were given up.
Now indeed they are thrown on God. He will not fail them; but who cansay what thorny paths their feet may have to tread?
It has also been discovered here that some of them have written thus totheir relations, which renders their position far more difficult andpainful.
Many of the older nuns are most indignant at what they consider an actof the basest treachery and sacrilege. I also am forbidden to have anymore intercourse with the suspected sisters. Search has been made inevery cell, and all the Lutheran books have been seized, whilst thestrictest attendance is required at all the services.
_February_ 10, 1522.
Sister Beatrice is dead, after a brief illness. The gentle, patientspirit is at rest.
It seems difficult to
think of joy associated with that subdued andtimid heart, even in heaven. I can only think of her as _at rest_.
One night after she died I had a dream, in which I seemed to see herentering into heaven. Robed and veiled in white, I saw her slowlyascending the way to the gates of the City. Her head and her eyes werecast on the ground, and she did not seem to dare to look up at thepearly gates, even to see if they were open or closed. But two angels,the gentlest spirits in heaven, came out and met her, and each takingone of her hands, led her silently inside, like a penitent child. And asshe entered, the harps and songs within seemed to be hushed to musicsoft as the dreamy murmur of a summer noon. Still she did not look up,but passed through the golden streets with her hands trustingly foldedin the hands of the angels, until she stood before the throne. Then fromthe throne came a Voice, which said, "Beatrice, it is I; be not afraid."And when she heard that voice, a quiet smile beamed over her face like aglory, and for the first time she raised her eyes; and sinking at Hisfeet, murmured, "Home!" And it seemed to me as if that one word from thelow, trembling voice vibrated through every harp in heaven; and fromcountless voices, ringing as happy children's, and tender as a mother's,came back, in a tide of love and music, the word, "Welcome home."
This was only a dream; but it is no dream that she is there!
She said little in her illness. She did not suffer much. The feebleframe made little resistance to the low fever which attacked her. Thewords she spoke were mostly expressions of thankfulness for littleservices, or entreaties for forgiveness for any little pain she fanciedshe might have given.
Aunt Agnes and I chiefly waited on her. She was uneasy if we were longaway from her. Her thoughts often recurred to her girlhood in the oldcastle in the Thuringian Forest; and she liked to hear me speak ofChriemhild and Ulrich, and their infant boy. One evening she called meto her, and said, "Tell my sister Hermentrud, and my brother, I am surethey all meant kindly in sending me here; and it has been a good placefor me, especially since you came. But tell Chriemhild and Ulrich," sheadded, "if they have daughters, to remember plighted troth is a sacredthing, and let it not be lightly severed. Not that the sorrow has beenevil for me; only I would not have another suffer. All, all has beengood for me, and I so unworthy of all!"
Then passing her thin hands over my head as I knelt beside her, shesaid, "Eva, you have been like a mother, a sister, a child,--everythingto me. Go back to your old home when I am gone. I like to think you willbe there."
Then, as if fearing she might have been ungrateful to Aunt Agnes, sheasked for her, and said, "I can never thank you enough for all you havedone for me. The blessed Lord will remember it; for did he not say, 'Inthat ye have done it unto the _least_.'"
And in the night, as I sat by her alone, she said, "Eva, I have dreadedvery much to die. I am so very weak in spirit, and dread everything. ButI think God must make it easier for the feeble such as me. For althoughI do not feel any stronger I am not afraid now. It must be because He isholding me up."
She then asked me to sing; and with a faltering voice I sung, as well asI could, the hymn, _Astant angelorum chori:_--
High the angel-choirs are raising Heart and voice in harmony: The Creator King still praising, Whom in beauty there they see! Sweetest strains from soft harps stealing, Trumpet notes of triumph pealing; Radiant wings and white robes gleaming, Up the steps of glory streaming, Where the heavenly bells are ringing, Holy, holy, holy, singing To the mighty Trinity! For all earthly care and sighing In that city cease to be!
And two days after, in the grey of the autumn morning, she died. Shefell asleep with the name of Jesus on her lips.
It is strange how silent and empty the convent seems, only because thatfeeble voice is hushed and that poor shadowy form has passed away!
_February_, 1522.
Sister Beatrice has been laid in the convent church-yard with solemnmournful dirges and masses, and stately ceremonies, which seemed to melittle in harmony with her timid, shrinking nature, or with the peaceher spirit rests in now.
The lowly mound in the church-yard, marked by no memorial but a woodencross, accords better with her memory. The wind will rustle gently therenext summer, through the grass; and this winter the robin will warblequietly in the old elm above.
But I shall never see the grass clothe that earthly mound. It is decidedthat I am to leave the convent this week. Aunt Agnes and two of theyoung sisters have just left my cell, and all is planned.
The persecutions against those they call the Lutheran Sisters increasecontinually, whilst severer and more open proceedings are threatened. Itis therefore decided that I am to make my escape at the first favourableopportunity, find my way to Wittemberg, and then lay the case of thenine nuns before the Lutheran doctors, and endeavour to provide fortheir rescue.
_February_ 20, 1522.
At last the peasant's dress in which I am to escape is in my cell, andthis very night, when all is quiet, I am to creep out of the window ofKatherine von Bora's cell, into the convent garden. Aunt Agnes has beennervously eager about my going, and has been busy secretly storing alittle basket with provisions. But to-night, when I went into her cellto wish her good-bye, she quite broke down, and held me tight in herarms, as if she could never let me go, while her lips quivered, andtears rolled slowly over her thin furrowed cheeks. "Eva, child," shesaid, "who first taught me to love in spite of myself, and then taughtme that God is love, and that he could make me, believing in Jesus, ahappy, loving child again! how can I part with thee?"
"Thou wilt join me again," I said, "and your sister who loves thee sodearly!"
She shook her head and smiled through her tears, as she said,--
"Poor helpless old woman that I am, what would you all do with me in thebusy life outside?"
But her worst fear was for me, in my journey alone to Wittemberg, whichseemed to her, who for forty years had never passed the convent walls,so long and perilous. Aunt Agnes always thinks of me as a young girl,and imagines every one must think me beautiful, because love makes me soto her. She is sure they will take me for some princess in disguise.
She forgets I am a quiet, sober-looking woman of seven-and-twenty, whomno one will wonder to see gravely plodding along the highway.
But I almost made her promise to come to us at Wittemberg; and at lastshe reproached herself with distrusting God, and said she ought never tohave feared that his angels would watch over me.
Once more, then, the world opens before me; but I do not hope (and whyshould I wish?) that it should be more to me than this convent hasbeen,--a place where God will be with me and give me some little lovingservices to do for him.
But my heart does yearn to embrace dear Aunt Cotta and Else once more,and little Thekla. And when Thekla marries, and Aunt and Uncle Cotta areleft alone, I think they may want me, and Cousin Eva may grow old amongElse's children, and all the grandchildren, helping one and another alittle, and missed a little when God takes me.
But chiefly I long to be near Aunt Cotta, now that Fritz is in thatterrible prison. She always said I comforted her more than any one, andI think I may again.