Jew and the Christian parted with much affection and mutual respect, for
each knew the other to be a good and true man, fearing God, and seeking
to do that which is right. This time Theodore turned his ship's head
towards the West, intending to carry his wares to the markets of Spain.
He passed safely through the Straits of Hercules, and sailed North. Then
a succession of steady strong breezes blew from the South and swept him
on so that he could not get into harbour till he reached Britain. He
anchored in a bay on the rugged Cornish coast, in the very emporium of
tin and lead, in the Cassiterides famed of old for supplying ore
precious in the manufacture of bronze. He readily disposed of all his
merchandise, and bought as much tin and lead as his ship would hold. His
goods had sold so well, and tin and lead were so cheap that he found he
had fifty pounds in gold in addition to the cargo.
The voyage back from Britain to Byzantium was long and dangerous, and
Theodore was uneasy. He found no other ships from Constantinople where
he was, and no means presented themselves for sending back the money in
part, as he had promised. He was a conscientious man, and he wished to
keep his word.
He set sail from Cornwall before the summer was over, passed safely
through the straits into the Mediterranean, but saw no chance of
reaching Constantinople before winter. He would not again risk his
vessel in the gales of the equinox, and he resolved to winter in Sicily.
He arrived too late in the year to be able to send a message and the
money to Abram. His promise troubled him, and he cast about in his mind
how to keep his word.
At last, in the simple faith which coloured the whole life of the man,
he made a very solid wooden box and tarred it well internally and
externally. Then he inclosed in it the fifty pounds of gold he had made
by his goods in Britain over and above his lading of lead and tin, and
with the money he put a letter, couched in these terms:
"In the name of my heir and God, my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ who is
also my Surety for a large sum of money, I, Theodore, humbly address my
master Abram, who, with God, is my benefactor and creditor.
"I would have thee know, Master Abram, that we all, by the mercy of God,
are in good health. God has verily prospered us well and brought our
merchandise to a good market. And now, see! I send thee fifty pounds of
gold, which I commit to the care of my Surety, and He will convey the
money safely to thy hands. Receive it from me and do not forget us.
Farewell."
Then he fastened up the box, and raised his eyes to heaven, and prayed
to God, saying: "O Lord Jesus Christ, Mediator between God and Man, Who
dwellest in Heaven, but hast respect unto the lowly; hear the voice of
thy servant this day; because Thou hast proved Thyself to me a good and
kind Surety, I trust to Thee to return to my benefactor and creditor,
Abram, the money I promised to send him. Trusting in Thee, Lord, I
commit this little box to the sea!"
So saying he flung the case containing the gold and the letter into the
waves; and standing on a cliff watched it floating on the waters, rising
and falling on the glittering wavelets, gradually drifting further and
further out to sea, till it was lost to his sight, and then, nothing
doubting but that the Lord Christ would look after the little box and
guide it over the waste of waters to its proper destination, he went
back to his lodging, and told the ship pilot what he had done. The
sailor remained silent wondering in his mind at the great faith of his
master. Then his rough heart softened, and he knelt down and blessed and
praised God.
That night Theodore had a dream, and in the morning he told it to the
pilot.
"I thought," said he, "that I was back in Byzantium, and standing in the
Copper-Market before the great cross with Christ on it. And I fancied in
my dream that Abram was at my side. And I looked, and saw him hold up
his hands, and receive the box in them, and the great figure of Christ
said, 'See, Abram, I give thee what Theodore committed to my trust.'
And, thereupon, I awoke trembling. So now I am quite satisfied that the
gold is in safe keeping, and will infallibly reach its destination."
The summer passed, the storms of autumn had swept over the grey sea, and
torn away from the trees the last russet leaves; winter had set in; yet
Abram had received no news of Theodore.
He did not doubt the good faith of his friend, but he began to fear that
ill-luck attended him. He had risked a large sum, and would feel the
loss severely should this cargo be lost like the former one. He talked
the matter over with his steward, and considered it from every
imaginable point of view. His anxiety took him constantly to the shore
to watch the ships that arrived, hoping to hear news by some of them,
and to recover part of his money. He hardly expected the return of
Theodore after the injunctions he had given him not to risk his vessel
in a stormy season.
One day he was walking with his steward by the sea-side, when the waves
were more boisterous than usual. Not a ship was visible. All were in
winter quarters. Abram drew off his sandals, and began to wash his feet
in the sea water. Whilst so doing he observed something floating at a
little distance. With the assistance of his steward he fished out a box
black with tar, firmly fastened up, like a solid cube of wood. Moved by
curiosity he carried the box home, and succeeded with a little
difficulty in forcing it open. Inside he found a letter, not directed,
but marked with three crosses, and a bag of gold. It need hardly be said
that this was the box Theodore had entrusted to Christ, and his Surety
had fulfilled His trust and conveyed it to the hands of the creditor.
Next spring Theodore returned to Constantinople in safety. As soon as he
had disembarked, he hastened to the house of Abram to tell him the
results of his voyage.
The Jewish usurer, wishing to prove him, feigned not to understand, when
Theodore related how he had sent him fifty pounds of gold, and made as
though he had not received the money. But the merchant was full of
confidence, and he said, "I cannot understand this, brother, for I
enclosed the money in a box along with a letter, and committed it to the
custody of my Saviour Christ, Who has acted as Surety for me unworthy.
But as thou sayest that thou hast not received it, come with me, and let
us go together before the crucifix, and say before it that thou hast not
had the money conveyed to thee, and then I will believe thy word."
Abram promised to accompany his friend, and rising from their seats,
they went together to the Copper-Market. And when they came to the
Tetrastyle, Theodore raised his hands to the Crucified, and said, "My
Saviour and Surety, didst Thou not restore the gold to Abram that I
entrusted to Thee for that purpose?"
There was something so wonderful, so beautiful, in the man's faith, that
Abram was overpowered; and withal there was the evidence that it was not
misplaced so clear to the Jew, that the light of conviction like a
dazzling sunbeam darted into his soul, and Theodore saw the Hebrew
usurer fall prostrate on the pavement, half fainting with the emotion
which oppressed him.
Theodore ran and fetched water in his hands and sprinkled his face, and
brought the usurer round. And Abram said, "As God liveth, my friend, I
will not enter into my house till I have taken thy Lord and Surety for
my Master." A crowd began to gather, and it was bruited abroad that the
Jewish usurer sought baptism. And when the story reached the ears of the
Emperor Heraclius, he glorified God. So Abram was put under instruction,
and was baptised by the patriarch Sergius.[11]
And after seven days a solemn procession was instituted through the
streets of Constantinople to the Copper-Market, in which walked the
emperor and the patriarch, and all the clergy of the city; and the box
which had contained the money was conveyed by them to the Tetrastyle
and laid up, along with the gold and the letter before the image, to be
a memorial of what had taken place to all generations. And thenceforth
the crucifix received the common appellation of Antiphonetos, or the
Surety.
As for the tin and lead with which the vessel of Theodore was freighted,
it sold for a great price, so that both he and Abram realised a large
sum by the transaction. But neither would keep to himself any portion of
it, but gave it all to the Church of S. Sophia, and therewith a part of
the sanctuary was overlaid with silver. Then Theodore and his wife, with
mutual consent, gave up the world and retired into monastic
institutions.
Abram afterwards built and endowed an oratory near the Tetrastyle, and
Sergius ordained him priest and his two sons deacons.
Thus ends this strange and very beautiful story, which I have merely
condensed from the somewhat prolix narrative of the Byzantine preacher.
The reader will probably agree with me that if sermons in the 19th
century were as entertaining as this of the 10th, fewer people would be
found to go to sleep during their delivery.
I have told the tale as related by the preacher. But there are reasons
which awaken suspicion that he somewhat erred as to his dates; but that,
nevertheless the story is really not without a foundation of fact.
Towards the close of the oration the preacher points to the ambone, and
the thusiasterion, and bids his hearers remark how they are overlaid
with silver, and this he says was the silver that Abram, the wealthy
Jewish usurer, and Theodore, the merchant, gave to the Church of S.
Sophia.
Now it happens that we have got a contemporary record of this overlaying
of the sanctuary with silver; we know from the pen of Procopius of Gaza
that it took place in the reign of Justinian in A.D. 537.[12]
This was preparatory to the dedication of the great Church, when the
Emperor and the wealthy citizens of Byzantium were lavishly contributing
to the adornment of the glorious building.
We can quite understand how that the new convert and the grateful
merchant were carried away by the current of the general enthusiasm, and
gave all their silver to the plating of the sanctuary of the new Church.
Procopius tells us that forty thousand pounds of silver were spent in
this work. Not all of this, however, could have been given by Abram and
Theodore.
If this then were the date of the conversion of Abram, for Heraclius we
must read Justinian, and for Sergius we must substitute Mennas. As the
sermon was not preached till four hundred years after, the error can be
accounted for, one imperial benefactor of the Church was mistaken for
another.
Now about the time of Justinian, we know from other sources that there
was a converted Jew named Abram who founded and built a church and
monastery in Constantinople, and which in after times was known as the
Abramite Monastery. We are told this by John Moschus. We can not fix the
exact date of the foundation, Moschus heard about A.D. 600 from the
abbot John Rutilus, who had heard it from Stephen the Moabite, that the
Monastery of the Abramites had been constructed by Abram who afterwards
was raised to the metropolitan See of Ephesus. We may put then the
foundation of the monastery at about A.D. 540.
Now Abram of Ephesus succeeded Procopius who was bishop in 560; and his
successor was Rufinus in 597. The date of the elevation of Abram to the
metropolitan throne of Ephesus is not known exactly, but it was probably
about 565.
There is, of course, much conjecture in thus identifying the usurer
Abram with Abram, Bishop of Ephesus; but there is certainly a
probability that they were identical; and if so, then one more pretty
story of the good man survives. After having built the monastery in
Constantinople, Moschus tells us that Abram went to Jerusalem, the home
to which a Jewish heart naturally turns, and there he set to work to
erect another monastery. Now there was among the workmen engaged on the
building a mason who ate but sparingly, conversed with none, but worked
diligently, and prayed much in his hours of relaxation from labour.
Abram became interested in the man, and called him to him, and learned
from him his story. It was this. The mason had been a monk in the
Theodorian Monastery along with his brother. The brother weary of the
life, had left and fallen into grave moral disorders. Then this one now
acting as mason had gone after him, laid aside his cowl and undertaken
the same daily toil as the erring brother, that he might be with him,
waiting his time when by means of advice or example he might draw the
young man from his life of sin. But though he had laid aside the outward
emblems of his monastic profession, he kept the rule of life as closely
as he was able, cultivating prayer and silence and fasting. Then Abram
deeply moved, said to the monk-mason: "God will look on thy fraternal
charity; be of good courage, He will give thee thy brother at thy
petition."
FOOTNOTES:
[9] This account is taken from a sermon preached in the Church of St.
Sophia at Constantinople on Orthodoxy Sunday, printed by Combefisius
(Auctuarium novum, pars post. col. 644), from a MS. in the National
Library at Paris. Another copy of the sermon is in the Library at Turin.
The probable date of the composition is the tenth century. Orthodoxy
Sunday was not instituted till 842.
[10] This famous figure was cast down and broken by Leo the Isaurian in
730, a riot ensued, the market-women interfering with the soldiers, who
were engaged on pulling down the figure, they shook the ladders and
threw down one who was engaged in hacking the face of the figure. This
led to the execution of ten persons, among them Gregory, head of the
bodyguard, and Mary, a lady of the Imperial family. The Empress Irene
set up a mosaic figure in its place. This was again destroyed by Leo the
Armenian, and again restored after his death by Theophilus in 829.
[11] Sergius was patriarch of Constantinople between 610 and 638. He
embraced the Monothelite heresy.
[12] Fabricius, Bibl. Græca, Ed. Harles, T.X. p. 124, 125.
Sophie Apitzsch.
"Some are born great," said Malvolio, strutting in yellow stockings,
cross-gartered, before Olivia, "some achieve greatness," and with a
smile, "some have greatness thrust upon them."
Of the latter was Sophie Sabine Apitzsch. She was not born great, she
was the daughter of an armourer. She hardly can be said to have achieved
greatness, though she did attain to notoriety; what greatness she had
was thrust on her, not altogether reluctant to receive it. But the
greatness was not much, and was of an ambiguous description. She was
treated for a while as a prince in disguise, and then became the theme
of an opera, of a drama, and of a novel. For a hundred years her
top-boots were preserved as historical relics in the archives of the
House of Saxony, till in 1813 a Cossack of the Russian army passing
through Augustenburg, saw, desired, tried on, and marched off with them;
and her boots entered Paris with the Allies.
About five-and-twenty miles from Dresden lived in 1714 a couple of
landed proprietors, the one called Volkmar, and the other von Günther,
who fumed with fiery hostility against each other, and the cause of
disagreement was, that the latter wrote himself von Günther. Now, to get
a _von_ before the name makes a great deal of difference: it purifies,
nay, it alters the colour of the blood, turning it from red to blue. No
one in Germany can prefix _von_ to his name as any one in England can
append Esq. to his. He must receive authorisation by diploma of nobility
from his sovereign.
George von Günther had been, not long before, plain George Günther, but
in 1712 he had obtained from the Emperor Charles VI. a patent of
nobility, or gentility, they are the same abroad, and the motive that
moved his sacred apostolic majesty to grant the patent was--as set forth
therein--that an ancestor of George Günther of the same name "had sat
down to table with the elector John George II. of Saxony;" and it was
inconceivable that a mere citizen could have been suffered to do this,
unless there were some nobility in him. George von Günther possessed an
estate which was a manor, a knight's fee, at Jägerhof, and he was
moreover upper Forester and Master of the Fisheries to the King-elector
of Saxony, and Sheriff of Chemnitz and Frankenberg. He managed to marry
his daughters to men blessed with _von_ before their names, one to von
Bretschneider, Privy-Councillor of War, the other to a Major von
Wöllner.
Now, all this was gall and wormwood to Councillor-of-Agriculture, Daniel
Volkmar, who lived on his paternal acres at Hetzdorf, of which he was
hereditary chief magistrate by virtue of his lordship of the acres. This
man had made vain efforts to be ennobled. He could not find that any
ancestor of his had sat at table with an elector; and, perhaps, he could
not scrape together sufficient money to induce his sacred apostolic
majesty to overlook this defect. As he could not get his diploma, he
sought how he might injure his more fortunate neighbour, and this he did
by spying out his acts, watching for neglect of his duties to the fishes
or the game, and reporting him anonymously to head-quarters. Günther
knew well enough who it was that sought to injure him, and, as Volkmar
believed, had invited some of the gamekeepers to shoot him; accordingly,
Volkmar never rode or walked in the neighbourhood of the royal forests
and fish-ponds unarmed, and without servants carrying loaded muskets.
One day a brother magistrate, Pöckel by name, came over to see him about
a matter that puzzled him. There had appeared in the district under his
jurisdiction a young man, tall, well-built, handsome, but slightly
small-pox-pitted, who had been arrested by the police for blowing a
hunting-horn. Now ignoble lips might not touch a hunting-horn, and for
any other than breath that issued out of noble lungs to sound a note on
such a horn was against the laws.
"Oh," said Volkmar, "if he has done this, and is not a gentleman--lock
him up. What is his name?"
"He calls himself Karl Marbitz."
"But I, even I, may not blow a blast on a horn--that scoundrel Günther
may. Deal with the fellow Marbitz with the utmost severity."
"But--suppose he may have the necessary qualification?"
"How can he without a von before his name?"
"Suppose he be a nobleman, or something even higher, in disguise?"
"What, in disguise? Travelling incognito? Our Crown Prince is not at
Dresden."[13]
"Exactly. All kinds of rumours are afloat concerning this young man, who
is, indeed, about the Crown Prince's age; he has been lodging with a
baker at Aue, and there blowing the horn."
"I'll go with you and see him. I will stand bail for him. Let him come
to me. Hah-hah! George von Günther, hah-hah!"
So Volkmar, already more than half disposed to believe that the
horn-blower was a prince in disguise, rode over to the place where he
was in confinement, saw him, and lost what little doubt he had. The
upright carriage, the aristocratic cast of features, the stand-off
manners, all betokened the purest of blue blood--all were glimmerings of
that halo which surrounds sovereignty.
The Crown Prince of Saxony was away--it was alleged, in France--making
the grand tour, but, was it not more likely that he was going the round
of the duchy of Saxony, inquiring into the wants and wrongs of the
people? If so, who could better assist him to the knowledge of these
things, than he, Volkmar, and who could better open his eyes to the
delinquencies of high-placed, high-salaried officials--notably of the
fisheries and forests?
"There is one thing shakes my faith," said Pöckel: "our Crown Prince is
not small-pox marked."
"That is nothing," answered Volkmar eagerly. "His Serenity has caught
the infection in making his studies among the people."
"And then--he is so shabbily dressed."
"That is nothing--it is the perfection of disguise."
Volkmar carried off the young man to his house, and showed him the
greatest respect, insisted on his sitting in the carriage facing the
horses, and would on no account take a place at his side, but seated
himself deferentially opposite him.
On reaching Hetzdorf, Volkmar introduced his wife and his daughter
Joanna to the distinguished prince, who behaved to them very graciously,
and with the most courtly air expressed himself charmed with the room
prepared for him.
Dinner was served, and politics were discussed; the reserve with which
the guest treated such subjects, the caution with which he expressed an
opinion, served to deepen in Volkmar's mind the conviction that he had
caught the Crown Prince travelling incog. After the servants had
withdrawn, and when a good deal of wine--the best in the cellar--had
been drunk, the host said confidentially in a whisper, "I see clearly
enough what you are."
"Indeed," answered the guest, "I can tell you what I am--by trade an
armourer."
"Ah, ha! but by birth--what?" said Volkmar, slyly, holding up his glass
and winking over it.
"Well," answered the guest, "I will admit this--I am not what I appear."
"And may I further ask your--I mean you--where you are at home?"
"I am a child of Saxony," was the answer.
Afterwards, at the trial, the defendant insisted that this was exactly
the reply made, whereas Volkmar asserted that the words were, "I am a
child of the House of Saxony." But there can be no doubt that his
imagination supplemented the actual words used with those he wished to
hear.
"The small-pox has altered you since you left home," said Volkmar.
"Very likely. I have had the small-pox since I left my home."
Volkmar at once placed his house, his servants, his purse, at the
disposal of his guest, and his offer was readily accepted.
It is now advisable to turn back and explain the situation, by relating
the early history of this person, who passed under the name of Karl
Marbitz, an armourer; but whom a good number of people suspected of
being something other than what he gave himself out to be, though only
Volkmar and Pöckel and one or two others supposed him to be the Crown
Prince of Saxony.
Sophie Sabine Apitzsch was born at Lunzenau in Saxony in 1692, was well
brought up, kept to school, and learned to write orthographically, and
to have a fair general knowledge of history and geography. When she left
school she was employed by her father in his trade, which was that of an
armourer. She was tall and handsome, somewhat masculine--in after years
a Cossack got into her boots--had the small-pox, which, however, only
slightly disfigured her. In 1710 she had a suitor, a gamekeeper,
Melchior Leonhart. But Sophie entertained a rooted dislike to marriage,
and she kept her lover off for three years, till her father peremptorily
ordered her to marry Melchior, and fixed the day for the wedding. Then
Sophie one night got out of her own clothing, stepped into her father's
best suit, and walked away in the garments of a man, and shortly
afterwards appeared in Anspach under a feigned name, as a barber's
assistant. Here she got into difficulties with the police, as she had no
papers of legitimation, and to escape them, enlisted. She carried a
musket for a month only, deserted, and resumed her vagabond life in
civil attire, as a barber's assistant, and came to Leipzig, where she
lodged at the Golden Cock. How she acquired the art, and how those liked
it on whose faces she made her experiments with the razor, we are not
told.
At the Golden Cock lodged an athletic lady of the name of Anna Franke,
stout, muscular, and able to lift great weights with her teeth, and with
a jerk throw them over her shoulders. Anna Franke gave daily exhibitions
of her powers, and on the proceeds maintained herself and her daughter,
a girl of seventeen. The stout and muscular lady also danced on a tight
rope, which with her bounces acted like a taut bowstring, projecting the
athlete high into the air.