A wonderful book of Dr. Luther's appeared among us a few weeks since, on
the Babylonish Captivity; and although it was taken from us by the
authorities, as dangerous reading for nuns, this was not before many
among us had become acquainted with its contents. And it has created a
great ferment in the convent. Some say they are words of impious
blasphemy; some say they are words of living truth. He speaks of the
forgiveness of sins being free; of the Pope and many of the priests
being the enemies of the truth of God; and of the life and calling of a
monk or nun as in no way holier than that of any humble believing
secular man or woman,--a nun no holier than a wife or a household
servant!
This many of the older nuns think plain blasphemy. Aunt Agnes says it is
true, and more than true; for, from what I tell her, there can be no
doubt that Aunt Cotta has been a lowlier and holier woman all her life
than she can ever hope to be.
And as to the Bible precepts, they certainly seem far more adapted to
people living in homes than to those secluded in convents. Often when I
am teaching the young novices the precepts in the Epistles, they say,--
"But sister Ave, find some precepts for us. These sayings are for
children, and wives, and mothers, and brothers, and sisters; not for
those who have neither home nor kindred on earth."
Then if I try to speak of loving God and the blessed Saviour, some of
them say,--
"But we cannot bathe his feet with tears, or anoint them with ointment,
or bring him food, or stand by his cross, as the good women did of old.
Shut up here, away from every one, how can we show him that we love
him?"
And I can only say, "Dear sisters, you are here now; therefore surely
God will find some way for you to serve him here."
But my heart aches for them, and I doubt no longer, I feel sure God can
never have meant these young, joyous hearts to be cramped and imprisoned
thus.
Sometimes I talk about it with Aunt Agnes; and we consider whether, if
these vows are indeed irrevocable, and these children must never see
their homes again, the convent could not one day be removed to some city
where sick and suffering men and women toil and die; so that we might,
at least, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and visit and minister to
the sick and sorrowful. That would be life once more, instead of this
monotonous routine, which is not so much death as mechanism--an
inanimate existence which has never been life.
_October_, 1520.
Sister Beatrice is very ill. Aunt Agnes has requested as an especial
favour to be allowed to share the attending on her with me. Never was
gentler nurse or more grateful patient.
It goes to my heart to see Aunt Agnes meekly learning from me how to
render the little services required at the sick-bed. She smiles, and
says her feeble blundering fingers had grown into mere machines for
turning over the leaves of prayer-books, just as her heart was hardening
into a machine for repeating prayers. Nine of the young nuns, Aunt
Agnes, Sister Beatrice, and I, have been drawn very closely together of
late. Among the noblest of these is Catherine von Bora, a young nun,
about twenty years of age. There is such truth in her full dark eyes,
which look so kindly and frankly into mine, and such character in the
firmly-closed mouth. She declines learning Latin, and has not much taste
for learned books; but she has much clear practical good sense, and she,
with many others, delights greatly in Dr. Luther's writings. They say
they are not books; they are a living voice. Every fragment of
information I can give them about the doctor is eagerly received, and
many rumours reach us of his influence in the world. When he was near
Nimptschen, two years ago, at the great Leipsic disputation, we heard
that the students were enthusiastic about him, and that the common
people seemed to drink in his words almost as they did our Lord's when
he spoke upon earth; and what is more, that the lives of some men and
women at the court have been entirely changed since they heard him. We
were told he had been the means of wonderful conversions; but what was
strange in these conversions was, that those so changed did not abandon
their position in life, but only their sins, remaining where they were
when God called them, and distinguished from others, not by veil or
cowl, but by the light of holy works.
On the other hand, many, especially among the older nuns, have received
quite contrary impressions, and regard Dr. Luther as a heretic, worse
than any who ever rent the Church. These look very suspiciously on us,
and subject us to many annoyances, hindering our conversing and reading
together as much as possible.
We do, indeed, many of us wonder that Dr. Luther should use such fierce
and harsh words against the Pope's servants. Yet St. Paul even "could
have wished that those were cut off" that troubled his flock; and the
very lips of divine love launched woes against hypocrites and false
shepherds severer than any that the Baptist or Elijah ever uttered in
their denunciations from the wilderness. It seems to me that the hearts
which are tenderest towards the wandering sheep will ever be severest
against the seducing shepherds who lead them astray. Only we need always
to remember that these very false shepherds themselves are, after all,
but wretched lost sheep, driven hither and thither by the great robber
of the fold!
1521.
Just now the hearts of the little band among us who owe so much to Dr.
Luther are lifted up night and day in prayer to God for him. He is soon
to be on his way to the Imperial Diet at Worms. He has the Emperor's
safe-conduct, but it is said this did not save John Huss from the
flames. In our prayers we are much aided by his own Commentary on the
Book of Psalms, which I have just received from Uncle Cotta'a
printing-press.
This is now Sister Beatrice's great treasure, as I sit by her bed-side
and read it to her.
He says that "the mere frigid use of the Psalms in the canonical hours,
though little understood, brought some sweetness of the breath of life
to humble hearts of old, like the faint fragrance in the air not far
from a bed of roses."
He says, "All other books give us the words and deeds of the saints, but
this gives us their inmost souls." He calls the Psalter "the little
Bible." "There," he says, "you may look into the hearts of the saints as
into Paradise, or into the opened heavens, and see the fair flowers or
the shining stars, as it were, of their affections springing or beaming
up to God, in response to his benefits and blessings."
_March_, 1521.
News had reached me to-day from Wittemberg which makes me feel indeed
that the days when people deem they do God service by persecuting those
who love him, are too truly come back. Thekla writes me that they have
thrown Fritz into the convent prison at Mainz, for spreading Dr.
Luther's doctrine among the monks. A few lines sent through a friendly
monk have told them of this. She sent them on to me.
"My beloved ones," he writes, "I am in the prison where, forty years
ago, John of Wesel died for the truth. I am ready to die if God wills it
so. His truth is worth dying for, and his love will strengthen me. But
if I can I will escape, for the truth is worth living for. If, however,
you do not hear of me again, know that the truth I died for is Christ's,
and that the love which sustained me is Christ himself. And likewise
that to the last I pray for you all, and for Eva; and tell her that the
thought of her has helped me often to believe in goodness and truth, and
that I look assuredly to meet her and all of you again.--FRIEDRICH
SCHOeNBERG COTTA."
In prison and in peril of life! Death itself cannot, I know, more
completely separate Fritz and me than we are separated already. Indeed,
of the death even of one of us, I have often thought as bringing us a
step nearer, rending one veil between us. Yet, now that it seems so
possible,--that perhaps it has already come,--I feel there was a kind of
indefinable sweetness in being only on the same earth together, in
treading the same pilgrim way. At least we could help each other by
prayer; and now, if he is indeed treading the streets of the heavenly
city, so high above, the world does seem darker.
But, alas! he may _not_ be in the heavenly city, but in some cold
earthly dungeon, suffering I know not what!
I have read the words over and over, until I have almost lost their
meaning. He has no morbid desire to die. He will escape if he can, and
he is daring enough to accomplish much. And yet, if the danger were not
great, he would not alarm Aunt Cotta with even the possibility of death.
He always considered others so tenderly.
He says I have helped him, _him_ who taught and helped me, a poor
ignorant child, so much! Yet I suppose it may be so. It teaches us so
much to teach others. And we always understood each other so perfectly
with so few words. I feel as if blindness had fallen on me, when I think
of him now. My heart gropes about in the dark and cannot find him.
But then I look up, my Saviour, to thee. "To thee the night and the day
are both alike." I dare not think he is suffering; it breaks my heart. I
cannot rejoice as I would in thinking he may be in heaven. I know not
what to ask, but thou art with him as with me. _Keep him close under the
shadow of thy wing._ There we are _safe_, and there we are _together_.
And oh, comfort Aunt Cotta! She must need it sorely.
Fritz, then, like our little company at Nimptschen, loves the words of
Dr. Luther. When I think of this I rejoice almost more than I weep for
him. These truths believed in our hearts seem to unite us more than
prison or death can divide. When I think of this I can sing once more
St. Bernard's hymn:--