"I wish I could remember the rest of the sentence. Perhaps it might
tell."
"Where does that sentence come from, Eva?" I asked. "Perhaps we might
find it. Do you think God said it to your father from heaven, in a
vision or a dream, as he speaks to the saints?"
"I think not, Cousin Else," she replied thoughtfully; "because my father
said it was in a book, which he told me where to find, when he was gone.
But when I found the book, a priest took it from me, and said it was not
a good book for little girls; and I never had it again. So I have only
my sentence, Cousin Else. I wish it made you happy, as it does me."
I kissed the darling child and wished her good night; but I could not
sleep. I wish I could see the book. But perhaps, after all, it is not a
right book; because (although Eva does not know it) I heard my
grandmother say her father was a Hussite, and died on the scaffold for
believing something wrong.
In the morning Eva was awake before me. Her large dark eyes were
watching me, and the moment I woke she said,--
"Cousin Else, I think the end of that sentence has something to do with
the crucifix; because I always think of them together. You know the Lord
Jesus Christ is God's only Son, and he died on the cross for us."
And she rose and dressed, and said she would go to matins and say
prayers for me, that I might not be afraid in the next thunder-storm.
It must be true, I am sure, that the cross and the blessed Passion were
meant to do us some good; but then they can only do good to those who
please God, and that is precisely what it is so exceedingly difficult to
find out how to do.
I cannot think, however, that Eva can in any way be believing wrong,
because she is so religious and so good. She attends most regularly at
the confessional, and is always at church at the early mass, and many
times besides. Often, also, I find her at her devotions before the
crucifix and the picture of the Holy Virgin and Child in our room. She
seems really to enjoy being religious, as they say St. Elizabeth did.
As for me, there is so very much to do between the printing, and the
house, and our dear mother's ill health, and the baby, and the boys, who
tear their clothes in such incomprehensible ways, that I feel more and
more how utterly hopeless it is for me ever to be like any of the
saints--unless, indeed, it is St. Christopher, whose legend is often a
comfort to me, as our grandmother used to tell it to us, which was in
this way:--
Offerus was a soldier, a heathen, who lived in the land of Canaan. He
had a body twelve ells long. He did not like to obey, but to command. He
did not care what harm he did to others, but lived a wild life,
attacking and plundering all who came in his way. He only wished for one
thing--to sell his services to the Mightiest; and as he heard that the
emperor was in those days the head of Christendom, he said, "Lord
Emperor, will you have me? To none less will I sell my heart's blood."
The emperor looked at his Samson strength, his giant chest, and his
mighty fists, and he said, "If thou wilt serve me for ever, Offerus, I
will accept thee."
Immediately the giant answered, "To serve you _for ever_ is not so
easily promised; but as long as I am your soldier, none in east or west
shall trouble you."
Thereupon he went with the emperor through all the land, and the emperor
was delighted with him. All the soldiers, in the combat as at the
wine-cup, were miserable, helpless creatures compared with Offerus.
Now the emperor had a harper who sang from morning till bed-time; and
whenever the emperor was weary with the march this minstrel had to touch
his harp-strings. Once, at eventide, they pitched the tents near a
forest. The emperor ate and drank lustily; the minstrel sang a merry
song. But as, in his song, he spoke of the evil one, the emperor signed
the cross on his forehead. Said Offerus aloud to his comrades, "What is
this? What jest is the Prince making now?" Then the emperor said,
"Offerus, listen: I did it on account of the wicked fiend, who is said
often to haunt this forest with great rage and fury." That seemed
marvellous to Offerus, and he said, scornfully, to the emperor, "I have
a fancy for wild boars and deer. Let us hunt in this forest." The
emperor said softly, "Offerus, no! Let alone the chase in this forest,
for in filling thy larder thou mightst harm thy soul." Then Offerus made
a wry face, and said, "The grapes are sour; if your highness is afraid
of the devil, I will enter the service of this lord, who is mightier
than you." Thereupon he coolly demanded his pay, took his departure,
with no very ceremonious leave-taking, and strode off cheerily into the
thickest depths of the forest.
In a wild clearing of the forest he found the devil's altar, built of
black cinders: and on it, in the moonlight gleamed the white skeletons
of men and horses. Offerus was in no way terrified, but quietly
inspected the skulls and bones; then he called three times in a loud
voice on the evil one, and seating himself fell asleep, and soon began
to snore. When it was midnight, the earth seemed to crack, and on a
coal-black horse he saw a pitch-black rider, who rode at him furiously,
and sought to bind him with solemn promises. But Offerus said, "We shall
see." Then they went together through the kingdoms of the world, and
Offerus found him a better master than the emperor; needed seldom to
polish his armour, but had plenty of feasting and fun. However, one day
as they went along the high-road, three tall crosses stood before them.
Then the Black Prince suddenly had a cold, and said, "Let us creep round
by the bye-road." Said Offerus, "Methinks you are afraid of those
gallows trees," and, drawing his bow, he shot an arrow into the middle
cross. "What bad manners!" said Satan, softly; "do you not know that he
who in his form as a servant is the son of Mary, now exercises great
power?" "If that is the case," said Offerus, "I came to you fettered by
no promise; now I will seek further for the mightiest, whom only I will
serve." Then Satan went off with a mocking laugh, and Offerus went on
his way asking every traveller he met for the Son of Mary. But, alas!
few bear Him in their hearts; and no one could tell the giant where the
Lord dwelt, until one evening Offerus found an old pious hermit, who
gave him a night's lodging in his cell, and sent him next morning to the
Carthusian cloister. There the lord prior listened to Offerus, showed
him plainly the path of faith, and told him he must fast and pray, as
John the Baptist did of old in the wilderness. But he replied, "Locusts
and wild honey, my lord, are quite contrary to my nature, and I do not
know any prayers. I should lose my strength altogether, and had rather
not go to heaven at all in that way." "Reckless man!" said the prior.
"However, you may try another way: give yourself up heartily to achieve
some good work." "Ah! let me hear," said Offerus; "I have strength for
that." "See, there flows a mighty river, which hinders pilgrims on their
way to Rome. It has neither ford nor bridge. Carry the faithful over on
thy back." "If I can please the Saviour in that way, willingly will I
carry the travellers to and fro," replied the giant. And thereupon he
built a hut of reeds, and dwelt thenceforth among the water-rats and
beavers on the borders of the river, carrying pilgrims over the river
cheerfully, like a camel or an elephant. But if any one offered him
ferry-money, he said, "I labour for eternal life." And when now, after
many years, Offerus's hair had grown white, one stormy night a plaintive
little voice called to him, "Dear, good, tall Offerus, carry me across."
Offerus was tired and sleepy, but he thought faithfully of Jesus Christ,
and with weary arms seizing the pine trunk which was his staff when the
floods swelled high, he waded through the water and nearly reached the
opposite bank; but he saw no pilgrim there, so he thought, "I was
dreaming," and went back and lay down to sleep again. But scarcely had
he fallen asleep when again came the little voice, this time very
plaintive and touching, "Offerus, good, dear, great, tall Offerus, carry
me across." Patiently the old giant crossed the river again, but neither
man nor mouse was to be seen, and he went back and lay down again, and
was soon fast asleep; when once more came the little voice, clear and
plaintive, and imploring, "Good, dear giant Offerus, carry me across."
The third time he seized his pine-stem and went through the cold river.
This time he found a tender, fair little boy, with golden hair. In his
left hand was the standard of the Lamb; in his right, the globe. He
looked at the giant with eyes full of love and trust, and Offerus lifted
him up with two fingers; but, when he entered the river, the little
child weighed on him like a ton. Heavier and heavier grew the weight,
until the water almost reached his chin; great drops of sweat stood on
his brow, and he had nearly sunk in the stream with the little one.
However, he struggled through, and tottering to the other side, set the
child gently down on the bank, and said, "My little lord, prithee, come
not this way again, for scarcely have I escaped this time with life."
But the fair child baptized Offerus on the spot, and said to him, "Know
all thy sins are forgiven; and although thy limbs tottered, fear not,
nor marvel, but rejoice; thou hast carried the Saviour of the world! For
a token, plant thy pine-trunk, so long dead and leafless, in the earth;
to-morrow it shall shoot out green twigs. And henceforth thou shalt be
called not Offerus, but Christopher." Then Christopher folded his hands
and prayed and said, "I feel my end draws nigh. My limbs tremble; my
strength fails; and God has forgiven me all my sins." Thereupon the
child vanished in light; and Christopher set his staff into the earth.
And so on the morrow, it shot out green leaves and red blossoms like an
almond. And three days afterwards the angels carried Christopher to
Paradise.
This is the legend which gives me more hope than any other. How sweet it
would be, if, when I had tried in some humble way to help one and
another on the way to the holy city, when the last burden was borne, and
the strength was failing, the holy child should appear to me and say,
"Little Else, you have done the work I meant you to do--your sins are
forgiven;" and then the angels were to come and take me up in their
arms, and carry me across the dark river, and my life were to grow young
and bloom again in Paradise like St. Christopher's withered staff!
But to watch all the long days of life by the river, and carry the
burdens, and not know if we are doing the right thing after all--that is
what is so hard!
Sweet, when the river was crossed, to find that in fulfilling some
little, humble, every-day duty, one had actually been serving and
pleasing the mightiest, the Saviour of the world! But if one could only
know it _whilst one was_ struggling through the flood, how delightful
that would be! How little one would mind the icy water, or the aching
shoulders, or the tottering, failing limbs!
EISENACH, _January_, 1505.
Fritz is at home with us again. He looks as much a man now as our
father, with his moustache and his sword. How cheerful the sound of his
firm step and his deep voice makes the house! When I look at him
sometimes, as he tosses the children and catches them in his arms, or as
he flings the balls with Christopher and Pollux, or shoots with bow and
arrows in the evenings at the city games, my old wish recurs that he had
lived in the days when our ancestors dwelt in the castles in Bohemia,
and that Fritz had been a knight, to ride at the head of his retainers
to battle for some good cause,--against the Turks, for instance, who are
now, they say, threatening the empire, and all Christendom. My little
world at home is wide indeed, and full enough for me, but this burgher
life seems narrow and poor for him. I should like him to have to do with
men instead of books. Women can read, and learn, and think, if they have
time (although, of course, not as well as men can); I have even heard of
women writing books. St. Barbara and St. Catherine understood astronomy,
and astrology, and philosophy, and could speak I do not know how many
languages. But they could not have gone forth armed with shield and
spear like St. George of Cappadocia, to deliver the fettered princess
and slay the great African dragon. And I should like Fritz to do what
women can_not_ do. There is such strength in his light, agile frame, and
such power in his dark eyes; although, certainly after all he had
written to us about his princely fare at the House at Erfurt, where he
is a beneficiary, our mother and I did not expect to have seen his face
looking so hollow and thin.
He has brought me back my godmother's gulden. He says he is an
independent man, earning his own livelihood, and quite above receiving
any such gratuities. However, as I devoted it to Fritz I feel I have a
right to spend it on him, which is a great comfort, because I can
provide a better table than we can usually afford, during the few days
he will stay with us, so that he may never guess how pinched we often
are.
I am ashamed of myself, but there is something in this return of Fritz
which disappoints me. I have looked forward to it day and night through
all these two years with such longing. I thought we should begin again
exactly where we left off. I pictured to myself the old daily life with
him going on again as of old. I thought of our sitting in the
lumber-room, and chatting over all our perplexities, our own and the
family's, and pouring our hearts into each other's without reserve or
fear, so that it was scarcely like talking at all, but like thinking
aloud.
And, now, instead of our being acquainted with every detail of each
other's daily life, so that we are aware what we are feeling without
speaking about it, there is a whole history of new experience to be
narrated step by step, and we do not seem to know where to begin. None
of the others can feel this as I do. He is all to the children and our
parents that he ever was, and why should I expect more? Indeed, I
scarcely know what I did expect, or what I do want. Why should Fritz be
more to me than to any one else? It is selfish to wish it, and it is
childish to imagine that two years could bring no change. Could I have
wished it? Do I not glory in his strength, and in his free and manly
bearing! And could I wish a student at the great University of Erfurt,
who is soon to be a Bachelor of Arts, to come and sit on the piles of
old books in our lumber-room, and to spend his time in gossiping with
me? Besides, what have I to say? And yet, this evening, when the
twilight-hour came round for the third time since he returned, and he
seemed to forget all about it, I could not help feeling troubled, and so
took refuge here by myself.
Fritz has been sitting in the family-room for the last hour, with all
the children round him, telling them histories of what the students do
at Erfurt; of their poetical club, where they meet and recite their own
verses, or translations of the ancient books which have been unburied
lately, and yet are fresher, he says, than any new ones, and set every
one thinking; of the debating meeting, and the great singing parties
where hundreds of voices join, making music fuller than any organ,--in
both of which Martin Luther seems a leader and a prince; and then of the
fights among the students, in which I do not think Martin Luther has
joined, but which, certainly, interest Christopher and Pollux more than
anything else. The boys were standing on each side of Fritz, listening
with wide open eyes; Chriemhild and Atlantis had crept close behind him
with their sewing; little Thekla was on his knee, playing with his
sword-girdle; and little Eva was perched in her favourite place on the
window-sill, in front of him. At first she kept at a distance from him,
and said nothing; not, I think, from shyness, for I do not believe that
child is afraid of any one or any thing, but from a quaint way she has
of observing people, as if she were learning them through like a new
language, or, like a sovereign making sure of the character of a new
subject before she admits him into her service. The idea of the little
creature treating our Fritz in that grand style! But it is of no use
resisting it. He has passed through his probation like the rest of us,
and is as much flattered as the grandmother, or any of us, at being
admitted into her confidence. When I left, Eva, who had been listening
for some time with great attention to his student-stories, had herself
become the chief speaker, and the whole party were attending with
riveted interest while she related to them her favourite Legend of St.
Catherine. They had all heard it before, but in some way when Eva tells
these histories they always seem new. I suppose it is because she
believes them so fervently; it is not as if she were repeating something
she had heard, but quietly narrating something she has seen, much as one
would imagine an angel might who had been watching unseen while it all
happened. And, meantime, her eyes, when she raises them, with their
fringe of long lashes, seem to look at once into your heart and into
heaven.
No wonder Fritz forgets the twilight-hour. But it is strange he has
never once asked about our chronicle. Of that, however, I am glad,
because I would not for the world show him the narrative of our
struggles.
Can it be possible I am envious of little Eva--dear, little, loving,
orphan Eva? I do rejoice that all the world should love him. Yet, it was
so happy to be Fritz's only friend; and why should a little stranger
child steal my precious twilight-hour from me?
Well, I suppose Aunt Agnes was right, and I made an idol of Fritz, and
God was angry, and I am being punished. But the saints seemed to find a
kind of sacred pleasure in their punishments, and I do not; nor do I
feel at all the better for them, but the worse--which is another proof
how hopeless it is for me to try to be a saint.
EISENACH, _February_.
As I wrote those last words in the deepening twilight, two strong hands
were laid very gently on my shoulders, and a voice said--
"Sister Else, _why_ can you not show me your chronicle?"