XVIII.

Thekla's Story.

WITTEMBERG, _April_ 2, 1521.

Dr. Luther is gone. We all feel like a family bereaved of our father.

The professors and chief burghers, with numbers of the students,

gathered around the door of the Augustinian Convent this morning to bid

him farewell. Gottfried Reichenbach was near as he entered the carriage,

and heard him say, as he turned to Melacthon, in a faltering voice,

"Should I not return, and should my enemies put me to death, O my

brother, cease not to teach and to abide steadfastly in the truth.

Labour in my place, for I shall not be able to labour myself. If you be

spared it matters little that I perish."

And so he drove off. And a few minutes after, we, who were waiting at

the door, saw him pass. He did not forget to smile at Else and her

little ones, or to give a word of farewell to our dear blind father as

he passed us. But there was a grave steadfastness in his countenance

that made our hearts full of anxiety. As the usher with the imperial

standard who preceded him, and then Dr. Luther's carriage, disappeared

round a corner of the street, our grandmother, whose chair had been

placed at the door that she might see him pass, murmured, as if to

herself,--

"Yes, it was with just such a look they went to the scaffold and the

stake when I was young."

I could see little, my eyes were so blinded with tears; and when our

grandmother said this, I could bear it no longer, but ran up to my room,

and here I have been ever since. My mother and Else and all of them say

I have no control over my feelings; and I am afraid I have not. But it

seems to me as if every one I lean my heart on were always taken away.

First, there was Eva. She always understood me, helped me to understand

myself; did not laugh at my perplexities as childish, did not think my

over-eagerness was always heat of temper, but met my blundering efforts

to do right. Different as she was from me (different as an angel from

poor bewildered blundering Giant Christopher in Else's old legend), she

always seemed come down to my level and see my difficulties from where I

stood, and so helped me over them; whilst every one else sees them from

above, and wonders any one can think such trifles troubles at all. Not,

indeed, that my dear mother and Else are proud, or mean to look down on

any one; but Else is so unselfish, her whole life is so bound up in

others, that she does not know what more wilful natures have to contend

with. Besides, she is now out of the immediate circle of our every-day

life at home. Then our mother is so gentle; she is frightened to think

what sorrows life may bring me with the changes that must come, if

little things give me such joy or grief now. I know she feels for me

often more than she dares let me see; but she is always thinking of

arming me for the trials she believes must come, by teaching me to be

less vehement and passionate about trifles now. But I am afraid it is

useless. I think every creature must suffer according to its nature; and

if God has made our capacity for joy or sorrow deep, we cannot fill up

the channel and say, "Hitherto I will feel; so far, and no further." The

_waters are there_,--soon they will recover for themselves the old

choked-up courses; and meantime they will overflow. Eva also used to

say, "that our armour must grow with our growth, and our strength with

the strength of our conflicts; and that there is only one shield which

does this, the shield of faith,--a living, daily trust in a living,

ever-present God."

But Eva went away. And then Nix died. I suppose if I saw any child now

mourning over a dog as I did over Nix, I should wonder much as they all

did at me then. But Nix was not only a dog to me. He was Eisenach and my

childhood; and a whole world of love and dreams seemed to die for me

with Nix.

To all the rest of the world I was a little vehement girl of fourteen;

to Nix I was mistress, protector, everything. It was weeks before I

could bear to come in at the front door, where he used to watch for me

with his wistful eyes, and bound with cries of joy to meet me. I used to

creep in at the garden gate.

And then Nix's death was the first approach of Death to me, and the

dreadful power was no less a power because its shadow fell first for me

on a faithful dog. I began dimly to feel that life, which before that

seemed to be a mountain-path always mounting and mounting through golden

mists to I know not what heights of beauty and joy, did not end on the

heights, but in a dark unfathomed abyss, and that however dim its course

might be, it has, alas, no mists, or uncertainty around the nature of

its close, but ends certainly, obviously, and universally in death.

I could not tell any one what I felt. I did not know myself. How can we

understand a labyrinth until we are through it? I did not even know it

was a labyrinth. I only knew that a light had passed away from

everything, and a shadow had fallen in its place.

Then it was that Dr. Luther spoke to me of the other world, beyond

death, which God would certainly make more full and beautiful than

this;--the world on which the shadow of death can never come, because it

lies in the eternal sunshine, on the other side of death, and all the

shadows fall on this side. That was about the time of my first

communion, and I saw much of Dr. Luther, and heard him preach. I did not

say much to him, but he let down a light into my heart which, amidst all

its wanderings and mistakes, will, I believe, never go out.

He made me understand something of what our dear heavenly Father is, and

that willing but unequalled Sufferer--that gracious Saviour who gave

himself for our sins, even for mine. And he made me feel that God would

understand me better than any one, because love always understands, and

the greatest love understands best, and God is love.

Else and I spoke a little about it sometimes, but not much. I am still a

child to Else and to all of them, being the youngest, and so much less

self-controlled than I ought to be. Fritz understood it best; at least,

I could speak to him more freely,--I do not know why. Perhaps some

hearts are made to answer naturally to each other, just as some of the

furniture always vibrates when I touch a particular string of the lute,

while nothing else in the room seems to feel it. Perhaps, too, sorrow

deepens the heart wonderfully, and opens a channel into the depths of

all other hearts. And I am sure Fritz has known very deep sorrow. What,

I do not exactly know; and I would not for the world try to find out. If

there is a secret chamber in his heart, which he cannot bear to open to

any one, when I think his thoughts are there, would I not turn aside my

eyes and creep softly away, that he might never know I had found it out?

The innermost sanctuary of his heart is, however, I know, not a chamber

of darkness and death, but a holy place of daylight, for God is there.

Hours and hours Fritz and I spoke of Dr. Luther, and what he had done

for us both; more, perhaps, for Fritz than even for me, because he had

suffered more. It seems to me as if we and thousands besides in the

world had been worshipping before an altar-picture of our Saviour, which

we had been told was painted by a great master after a heavenly pattern.

But all we could see was a grim, hard, stern countenance of one sitting

on a judgment throne; in his hands lightnings, and worse lightnings

buried in the cloud of his severe and threatening brow. And then,

suddenly we heard Dr. Luther's voice behind us saying, in his ringing,

inspiring tones, "Friends, what are you doing? That is not the right

painting. These are only the boards which hide the master's picture."

And so saying, he drew aside the terrible image on which we had been

hopelessly gazing, vainly trying to read some traces of tenderness and

beauty there. And all at once the real picture was revealed to us, the

picture of the real Christ, with the look on his glorious face which he

had on the cross, when he said of his murderers, "Father, forgive them;

they know not what they do;" and to his mother, "Woman, behold thy son?"

or to the sinful woman who washed his feet, "Go in peace."

Fritz and I also spoke very often of Eva. At least, he liked me to speak

of her while he listened. And I never weary of speaking of our Eva.

But then Fritz went away. And now it is many weeks since we have heard

from him; and the last tidings we had were that little note from the

convent-prison of Mainz!

And now Dr. Luther is gone--gone to the stronghold of his enemies--gone,

perhaps, as our grandmother says, to martyrdom!

And who will keep that glorious revelation of the true, loving,

pardoning God open for us,--with a steady hand keep open those false

shutters, now that he is withdrawn? Dr. Melancthon may do as well for

the learned, for the theologians; but who will replace Dr. Luther to

_us_, to the people, to working men and eager youths, and to women and

to children? Who will make us feel as he does that religion is not a

study, or a profession, or a system of doctrines, but life in God; that

prayer is not, as he said, an ascension of the heart as a spiritual

exercise into some vague airy heights, but the lifting of the heart _to

God_, to a heart which meets us, cares for us, loves us inexpressibly?

Who will ever keep before us as he does the "Our Father," which makes

all the rest of the Lord's Prayer and all prayer possible and helpful?

No wonder that mothers held out their children to receive his blessing

as he left us, and then went home weeping, whilst even strong men

brushed away tears from their eyes.

It is true, Dr. Bugenhagen, who has escaped from persecution in

Pomerania, preaches fervently in his pulpit; and Archdeacon Carlstadt is

full of fire, and Dr. Melancthon full of light; and many good, wise men

are left. But Dr. Luther seemed the heart and soul of all. Others might

say wiser things, and he might say many things others would be too wise

to say, but it is through Dr. Luther's heart that God has revealed His

heart and His word to thousands in our country, and no one can ever be

to us what he is.

Day and night we pray for his safety.

_April_ 15.

Christopher has returned from Erfurt, where he heard Dr. Luther preach.

He told us that in many places his progress was like that of a beloved

prince through his dominions, of a prince who was going out to some

great battle for his land.

Peasants blessed him; poor men and women thronged around him and

entreated him not to trust his precious life among his enemies. One aged

priest at Nueremberg brought out to him a portrait of Savonarola, the

good priest whom the Pope burned at Florence not forty years ago. One

aged widow came to him and said her parents had told her God would send

a deliverer to break the yoke of Rome, and she thanked God she saw him

before she died. At Erfurt sixty burghers and professors rode out some

miles to escort him into the city. There, where he had relinquished all

earthly prospects to beg bread as a monk through the streets, the

streets were thronged with grateful men and women, who welcomed him as

their liberator from falsehood and spiritual tyranny.

Christopher heard him preach in the church of the Augustinian Convent,

where he had (as Fritz told me) suffered such agonies of conflict. He

stood there now an excommunicated man, threatened with death; but he

stood there as victor, through Christ, over the tyranny and lies of

Satan. He seemed entirely to forget his own danger in the joy of the

eternal salvation he came to proclaim. Not a word, Christopher said,

about himself, or the Diet, or the Pope's bull, or the Emperor, but all

about the way a sinner may be saved, and a believer may be joyful.

"There are two kinds of works," he said; "external works, our own works.

These are worth little. One man builds a church; another makes a

pilgrimage to St. Peter's; a third fasts, puts on the hood, goes

barefoot. All these works are nothing, and will perish. Now, I will tell

you what is the true good work. _God hath raised again a man, the Lord

Jesus Christ, in order that he may crush death, destroy sin, shut the

gates of hell. This is the work of salvation._ The devil believed he had

the Lord in his power when he beheld him between two thieves, suffering

the most shameful martyrdom, accursed both of Heaven and man. But God

put forth his might, and annihilated death, sin, and hell. Christ hath

won the victory. This is the great news! And we are saved by his work,

not by our works. The Pope says something very different. I tell you the

holy Mother of God herself has been saved, not by her virginity, nor by

her maternity, nor by her purity, nor by her works, but solely by means

of faith, and by the work of God."

As he spoke the gallery in which Christopher stood listening cracked.

Many were greatly terrified, and even attempted to rush out. Dr. Luther

stopped a moment, and then stretching out his hand said, in his clear,

firm voice, "Fear not, there is no danger. The devil would thus hinder

the preaching of the gospel, but he will not succeed." Then returning to

his text, he said, "Perhaps you will say to me, 'You speak to us much

about faith, teach us how we may obtain it.' Yes, indeed, that is what I

desire to teach you. Our Lord Jesus Christ has said, '_Peace be unto

you. Behold my hands._' And this is as if he said, 'O man, it is I alone

who have taken away thy sins, and who have redeemed thee, and now _thou

hast peace_, saith the Lord.'"