Chronicles of the Schonberg-Cotta Family Part 54

XXIV.

Eva's Story.

WITTEMBERG, _October_, 1522.

How strange it seemed at first to be moving freely about in the world once more, and to come back to the old home at Wittemberg! Very strange to find the places so little changed, and the people so much. The little room where Else and I used to sleep, with scarcely an article of furniture altered, except that Thekla's books are there instead of Else's wooden crucifix; and the same view over the little garden, with its pear-tree full of white blossoms, to the Elbe with bordering oaks and willows, all then in their freshest delicate early green; while the undulations of the level land faded in soft blues to the horizon.

But, unlike the convent, all the changes in the people seemed to have been wrought by the touch of life rather than by that of death.

In Else's own home across the street, the ringing of those sweet childish voices, so new to me, and yet familiar with echoes of old tones and looks of our own well-remembered early days! And on Else herself the change seemed only such as that which develops the soft tints of spring into the green of shadowing leaves.

Christopher has grown from the self-a.s.sertion of boyhood into the strength and protecting kindness of manhood. Uncle Cotta's blindness seems to dignify him and make him the central object of every one's tender, reverent care, while his visions grow brighter in the darkness, and more placid on account of his having no responsibility as to fulfilling them. He seems to me a kind of hallowing presence in the family, calling out every one's sympathy and kindness, and pathetically reminding us by his loss of the preciousness of our common mercies.

On the grandmother's heart the light is more like dawn than sunset--so fresh, and soft, and full of hope her old age seems. The marks of fretting, daily anxiety, and care have been smoothed from dear Aunt Cotta's face; and although a deep shadow rests there often when she thinks of Fritz, I feel sure sorrow is not now to her the shadow of a mountain of divine wrath, but the shadow of a cloud which brings blessing and hides light, which the Sun of love drew forth, and the Rainbow of promise consecrates.

Yet he has the place of the first-born in her heart. With the others, though not forgotten, I think his place is partly filled--but never with her. Else's life is very full. Atlantis never knew him as the elder ones did; and Thekla, dearly as she learned to love him during his little sojourn at Wittemberg, has her heart filled with the hopes of her future, or at times overwhelmed with its fears. With all it almost seems he would have in some measure to make a place again, if he were to return. But with Aunt Cotta the blank is as utterly a blank, and a sacred place kept free from all intrusion, as if it were a chamber of her dead, kept jealously locked and untouched since the last day he stood living there. Yet surely he is not dead; I say so to myself and to her when she speaks of it, a thousand times. Why, then, does this hopeless feeling creep over me when I think of him? It seems so impossible to believe he ever can be amongst us any more. If it would please G.o.d only to send us some little word! But since that letter from Priest Ruprecht Haller, not a syllable has reached us. Two months since, Christopher went to this priest's village in Franconia, and lingered some days in the neighbourhood, making inquiries in every direction around the monastery where he is. But he could hear nothing, save that in the autumn of last year, the little son of a neighbouring knight, who was watching his mother's geese on the outskirts of the forest near the convent, used to hear the sounds of a man's voice singing from the window of her tower where the convent prison is. The child used to linger near the spot to listen to the songs, which, he said, were so rich and deep--sacred, like church hymns, but more joyful than anything he ever heard at church. He thought they were Easter hymns; but since one evening in last October he has never heard them, although he has often listened. Nearly a year since now!

Yet nothing can silence those resurrection hymns in his heart!

Aunt Cotta's great comfort is the holy sacrament. Nothing, she says, lifts up her heart like that. Other symbols, or writings, or sermons bring before her, she says, some part of truth; but the Holy Supper brings the Lord Himself before her. Not one truth about him, or another, but _himself_; not one act of his holy life alone, nor even his atoning death, but his very person, human and divine,--_himself_ living, dying, conquering death, freely bestowing life. She has learned that to attend that holy sacrament is not, as she once thought, to perform a good work, which always left her more depressed than before with the feeling how unworthy and coldly she had done it; but to look off from self to Him who finished _the good work_ of redemption for us. As Dr. Melancthon says,--

"Just as looking at the cross is not the doing of a good work, but simply contemplating a sign which recalls to us the death of Christ;

"Just as looking at the sun is not the doing of a good work, but simply contemplating a sign which recalls to us Christ and his gospel;

"So partic.i.p.ating at the Lord's table is not the doing of a good work, but simply the making use of a sign which brings to mind the grace that has been bestowed on us by Christ."

"But here lies the difference; symbols discovered by man simply recall what they signify, whereas the signs given by G.o.d not only recall the things, but further a.s.sure the heart with respect to the will of G.o.d."

"As the sight of a cross does not justify, so the ma.s.s does not justify.

As the sight of a cross is not a sacrifice, either for our sins or for the sins of others, so the ma.s.s is not a sacrifice."

"There is but one sacrifice, there is but one satisfaction--Jesus Christ. Beyond him there is nothing of the kind."

I have been trying constantly to find a refuge for the nine evangelical nuns I left at Nimptschen, but hitherto in vain. I do not, however, by any means despair. I have advised them now to write themselves to Dr.

Luther.

_October_, 1522.

The German New Testament is published at last.

On September the 21st it appeared; and that day, happening to be Aunt Cotta's birthday, when she came down among us in the morning, Gottfried Reichenbach met her, and presented her with two large folio volumes in which it is printed, in the name of the whole family.

Since then one volume always lies on a table in the general sitting-room, and one in the window of Aunt Cotta's bed-room.

Often now she comes down in the morning with a beaming face, and tells us of some verse she has discovered. Uncle Cotta calls it her diamond-mine, and says, "The little mother has found the El Dorado after all!"

One morning it was,--

"Cast all your care on him, for he careth for you;' and that lasted her many days."

To-day it was,--

"Tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope; and hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of G.o.d is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost, which is given unto us." "Eva,"

she said, "that seems to me so simple. It seems to me to mean, that when sorrow comes, then the great thing we have to do is, to see we do not lose hold of _patience_; she seems linked to all the other graces, and to lead them naturally into the heart, hand in hand, one by one. Eva, dear child," she added, "is that what is meant?"

I said how often those words had cheered me, and how happy it is to think that all the while these graces are illumining the darkness of the heart, the dark hours are pa.s.sing away, until all at once Hope steals to the cas.e.m.e.nt and withdraws the shutters; and the light which has slowly been dawning all the time streams into the heart, "the love of G.o.d shed abroad by the Holy Ghost."

"But," rejoined Aunt Cotta, "we cannot ourselves bring in Experience, or reach the hand of Hope, or open the window to let in the light of love; we can only look up to G.o.d, keep firm hold of Patience, and _she will bring all the rest_."

"And yet," I said, "_peace_ comes before _patience_, peace with G.o.d through faith in Him who was delivered for our offences. All these graces do not lead us up to G.o.d. We have access to him first, and in his presence we learn the rest."

Yes, indeed, the changes in the Wittemberg world since I left it, have been wrought by the hand of life, and not by that of death, or time, which is his shadow. For have not the brightest been wrought by the touch of the Life himself?

It is G.o.d, not time, that has mellowed our grandmother's character; it is G.o.d and not time that has smoothed the careworn wrinkles from Aunt Cotta's brow.

It is life and not death that has all but emptied the Augustinian convent, sending the monks back to their places in the world, to serve G.o.d and proclaim his gospel.

It is the water of life that is flowing through home after home in the channel of Dr. Luther's German Testament and bringing forth fruits of love, and joy, and peace.

And we know it is life and not death which is reigning in that lonely prison, wherein the child heard the resurrection hymns, and that is triumphing now in the heart of him who sang them, wherever he may be!

XXV.

Thekla's Story.

_October_, 1522.

Once more the letters come regularly from Flanders; and in most ways their tidings are joyful. Nowhere throughout the world, Bertrand writes, does the evangelical doctrine find such an eager reception as there. The people in the great free cities have been so long accustomed to judge for themselves, and to speak their minds freely. The Augustinian monks who studied at Wittemberg, took back the gospel with them to Antwerp, and preached it openly in their church, which became so thronged with eager hearers, that numbers had to listen outside the doors. It is true, Bertrand says, that the Prior and one or two of the monks have been arrested, tried at Brussels, and silenced; but the rest continue undauntedly to preach as before, and the effect of the persecution has been only to deepen the interest of the citizens.

The great new event which is occupying us all now, however, is the publication of Dr. Luther's New Testament. Chriemhild writes that is the greatest boon to her, because being afraid to trust herself to say much, she simply reads, and the peasants seem to understand that book better than anything she can say about it; or even, if at any time they come to anything which perplexes them, they generally find that by simply reading on it grows quite clear. Also, she writes, Ulrich reads it every evening to all the servants, and it seems to bind the household together wonderfully. They feel that at last they have found something inestimably precious, which is yet no "privilege" of man or cla.s.s, but the common property of all.

In many families at Wittemberg the book is daily read, for there are few of those who can read at all who cannot afford a copy, since the price is but a florin and a half.

New hymns also are beginning to spring up among us. We are no more living on the echo of old songs. A few days since a stranger from the north sang before Dr. Luther's windows, at the Augustinian convent, a hymn beginning,--

"Es ist das Heil uns kommen her."

Dr. Luther desired that it might be sung again. It was a response from Prussia to the glad tidings which have gone forth far and wide through his words! He said "he thanked G.o.d with a full heart."

The delight of having Eva among us once more is so great! Her presence seems to bring peace with it. It is not what she says or does, but what she is. It is more like the effect of music than anything else I know. A quiet seems to come over one's heart from merely being with her. No one seems to fill so little s.p.a.ce, or make so little noise in the world as Eva, when she is there; and yet when she is gone, it is as if the music and the light had pa.s.sed from the place. Everything about her always seems so in tune. Her soft, quiet voice, her gentle, noiseless movements, her delicate features, the soft curve of her cheek, those deep loving eyes, of which one never seems able to remember anything but that Eva herself looks through them into your heart.