Fritz's Story.
AUGUSTINIAN CONVENt, MAINZ, _November_, 1517.
Seven years have passed since I have written anything in this old
chronicle of mine, and as in the quiet of this convent once more I open
it, the ink on the first pages is already brown with time; yet a strange
familiar fragrance breathes from them, as of early spring flowers. My
childhood comes back to me, with all its devout simplicity; my youth,
with all its rich prospects and its buoyant, ardent, hopes. My childhood
seems like one of those green quiet valleys in my native forests, like
the valley of my native Eisenach itself, when that one reach of the
forest, and that one quiet town with its spires and church bells, and
that one lowly home with its love, its cares, and its twilight talks in
the lumber room, were all the world I could see.
Youth rises before me like that first journey through the forest to the
University of Erfurt, when the world opened to me like the plains from
the breezy heights, a battle-field for glorious achievement, an
unbounded ocean for adventure and discovery, a vast field for noble
work.
Then came another brief interval, when once again the lowly home at
Eisenach became to me dearer and more than all the wide world beside,
and all earth and all life seemed to grow sacred and to expand before me
in the light of one pure, holy, loving maiden's heart. I have seen
nothing so heaven-like since as she was. But then came the great crash
which wrenched my life in twain, and made home and the world alike
forbidden ground to me.
At first, after that, for years I dared not think of Eva. But since my
pilgrimage to Rome, I venture to cherish her memory again. I thank God
every day that nothing can erase that image of purity and love from my
heart. Had it not been for that, and for the recollection of Dr.
Luther's manly, honest piety, there are times when the very existence of
truth and holiness on earth would have seemed inconceivable, such a
chaos of corruption has the world appeared to me.
How often has the little lowly hearth-fire, glowing from the windows of
the old home, saved me from shipwreck, when "for many days neither sun
nor stars appeared, and no small tempest lay on me."
For I have lived during these years behind the veil of outward shows, a
poor insignificant monk, before whom none thought it worth while to
inconvenience themselves with masks or disguises. I have spent hour
after hour, moreover, in the confessional. I have been in the sacristy
before the mass, and at the convent feast after it. And I have spent
months once and again at the heart of Christendom, in Rome itself, where
the indulgences which are now stirring up all Germany are manufactured,
and where the money gained by the indulgences is spent; _not_ entirely
on the building of St. Peter's or in holy wars against the Turks!
Thank God that a voice is raised at last against this crying, monstrous
lie, the honest voice of Dr. Luther. It is ringing through all the land.
I have just returned from a mission through Germany, and I had
opportunities of observing the effect of the theses.
The first time I heard of them was from a sermon in a church of the
Dominicans in Bavaria.
The preacher spoke of Dr. Luther by name, and reviled the theses as
directly inspired by the devil, declaring that their wretched author
would have a place in hell lower than all the heretics, from Simon Magus
downward.
The congregation were roused and spoke of it as they dispersed. Some
piously wondered who this new heretic could be who was worse even than
Huss. Others speculated what this new poisonous doctrine could be; and a
great many bought a copy of the theses to see.
In the Augustinian convent that evening they formed the subject of warm
debate. Not a few of the monks triumphed in them as an effective blow
against Tetzel and the Dominicans. A few rejoiced and said these were
the words they had been longing to hear for years. Many expressed wonder
that people should make so much stir about them, since they said nothing
more than all honest men in the land had always thought.
A few nights afterwards I lodged at the house of Ruprecht Haller, a
priest in a Franconian village. A woman of quiet and modest appearance,
young in form but worn and old in expression, with a subdued,
broken-spirited bearing, was preparing our supper, and whilst she was
serving the table I began to speak to the priest about the theses of Dr.
Luther.
He motioned to me to keep silence, and hastily turned the conversation.
When we were left alone he explained his reasons. "I gave her the money
for an indulgence letter last week, and she purchased one from one of
Dr. Tetzel's company," he said; "and when she returned her heart seemed
lighter than I have seen it for years, since God smote us for our sins,
and little Dietrich died. I would not have had her robbed of that little
bit of comfort for the world, be it true or false."
Theirs was a sad story, common enough in every town and village as
regarded the sin, and only uncommon as to the longing for better things
which yet lingered in the hearts of the guilty.