[Frontispiece: KATHARINA VON BORA
From a Portrait by Lucas Kranich]
KATHARINE VON BORA,
Dr. Martin Luther's Wife
A PICTURE FROM LIFE,
BY
ARMIN STEIN.
_TRANSLATED BY E. A. ENDLICH._
PHILADELPHIA
THE UNITED LUTHERAN PUBLICATION HOUSE
COPYRIGHT, 1890.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
It has been my purpose in "Katharine von Bora," to picture in the
peaceful quiet of his domestic happiness, the man whose influence so
largely shaped the course of public events.
The undertaking has not been altogether an easy one; for, while
history flows in a copious stream, regarding the Reformer himself, it
gives but meager information as to the great man's wife,--the humble,
modest woman, who never thrust herself forward, nor sought any
personal advantage from her husband's greatness,--but remained
contentedly in the background, glad to do him service, and to enrich
her own heart from the abundance of his spiritual riches. Only
occasional fragments give us glimpses of Katharine's life, and out of
these I will endeavor to form a completer picture.
The fact that Luther is so absorbing a personality, gives rise to a
further difficulty,--the biography of Katharine von Bora often
insensibly becomes that of Luther himself; and the author pauses to
ask himself: Am I writing of Katharine, or of Luther? I can only
repeat, that it is my purpose, in this book, to paint Luther's
domestic life, and therefore Dr. Martin, as the head of his
household, may fitly play a leading part.
As has already been stated, the historical notices regarding
Katharine von Bora are very scant. In addition to the laborious
compilation by Walsh, published in refutation of popish calumnies,
there are but two learned works upon the subject,--Hofman's
"Katharine von Bora; or, Luther as Husband and Father," and a "Life
of Katharine von Bora," by W. Beste; besides these, I would mention a
concise and popular sketch, written by Meurer, the Luther-biographer.
It has been my endeavor, so to utilize the material here gathered,
that our people may learn to know the wife of its greatest man,--not
by name only, but as her husband's "helpmeet," in the truest sense of
the word, as a pattern of domestic virtue, and as a pearl among women.
CONTENTS.
_BOOK FIRST.--THE MAIDEN._
CHAPTER I.
A CONSPIRACY
CHAPTER II.
DISAPPOINTED HOPE
CHAPTER III.
DAWN
CHAPTER IV.
FREEDOM
CHAPTER V.
SHELTERED
CHAPTER VI.
A FLEETING FANCY
CHAPTER VII.
KATHARINE IN TROUBLE AND DR. MARTIN IN
STRIFE WITH HIS FRIENDS
CHAPTER VIII.
A SUDDEN RESOLVE
CHAPTER IX.
A DAY OF REJOICING
_BOOK SECOND--THE WIFE._
CHAPTER X.
"AS SORROWING, YET ALWAYS REJOICING."
CHAPTER XI.
THE FAITHFUL ECKART
CHAPTER XII.
A NEW LIFE
CHAPTER XIII.
"AS DYING, AND, BEHOLD, WE LIVE"
CHAPTER XIV.
BEREAVED AND COMFORTED
CHAPTER XV.
ALONE
CHAPTER XVI.
GOD'S INN
CHAPTER XVII.
PEACE
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MOTHER AND HER CHILDREN
CHAPTER XIX.
RISEN FROM THE DEAD
CHAPTER XX.
"LORD" KATE
CHAPTER XXI.
LUTHER'S LAST WILL
CHAPTER XXII.
LITTLE LENA
CHAPTER XXIII.
ONCE MORE IN ZULSDORF
CHAPTER XXIV.
PARTING
_BOOK THIRD--THE WIDOW._
CHAPTER XXV.
ALONE
CHAPTER XXVI.
WAR
CHAPTER XXVII.
MORE TROUBLE
CHAPTER XXVIII.
GLIMPSES OF SUNSHINE
CHAPTER XXIX.
RELEASE
KATHARINE VON BORA;
THE MAIDEN.
CHAPTER I.
A CONSPIRACY.
It was the evening of a clear, warm March day. The sun, sinking
behind the distant hills, sent its parting rays over the earth,
tinting hills and valleys, forests and meadows, with golden light.
The evening mist was rising, and covering with a filmy veil the
tender spring flowers--the snow-drops and violets--from the chilly
night air. The windows in the western wing of the convent of
Nimptschen shone with a ruddy glow; and the face of the young nun,
who stood by an open casement, seemed transfigured by the strange
light, while the tears in her eyes quivered like drops of liquid
gold. With longing sadness, her glance rested upon the landscape;
upon the peasants, returning to their homes, after the day's work;
and upon the children, playing their merry games on the village
green. The young nun was of pleasing, graceful figure. Her features
were too irregular to be strictly beautiful, and the pallor of her
skin made her appear older than she was. But her face possessed the
rare charm of sympathy. Clear, thoughtful eyes and delicately curved
lips betrayed a deep, rich inner life, and a sensitive heart; while
the firmly rounded chin bespoke self-respect and decision of
character. An expression of gentle dignity lay upon the arched
forehead. There was in her manner a certain highbred nobility, the
stamp of true womanliness, and her movements were full of grace.
Her cell was narrow and gloomy; yet the skillful hands of its
occupant had so disposed the scanty furniture, and the saints'
pictures upon the walls, adding here and there little touches of
color, that the room had lost its bare appearance. The abbess
herself was fond of visiting this cell, and often said: "I cannot
understand, Sister Katharine, why your cell is so home-like. One
feels here, that it is far pleasanter to come, than to go."
As the nun stood by the window, her tearful eyes rested upon the calm
beauty of the early Springtime, while her mind was lost in gloomy
reveries. At her feet lay a piece of costly violet-colored velvet,
which had dropped from her hands, and upon the window ledge were
tangled masses of white and yellow silk. Rousing herself from her
dreams, she hastily gathered up the velvet, sat down upon a stool,
and resumed her embroidery. It was an altar-cloth for the
convent-church. The design was, two palm branches crossed, and
above, the legend "Ave Maria." The words were already finished; but
the branches were merely outlined in coarse stitches. Her slender
fingers moved wearily over the velvet, and her head bent low over her
work, for the last scant rays of daylight were falling into the cell.
Suddenly, the heavy, iron-mounted door was opened, and a younger nun
appeared. "What is this, Sister Katharine?" she exclaimed, in
surprise. "Still at your work? Pray spare your eyes! But," she
continued, coming nearer, "why are you so far behindhand? What will
the abbess say? To-morrow, at High Mass, the altar was to wear its
new draperies."
Katharine looked up with a dreary smile. "I am angry with my own
heart, because it is so reluctant to obey the commands of our
Superior. My needle moves slowly; and what was once a pleasure, has
become a burden. O Sister Elizabeth, a change has come over my soul,
since the voice of the Monk of Wittenberg penetrated these walls!"
Elizabeth glanced anxiously toward the door. "Speak softly, Sister
Katharine, these walls have ears." She pushed the bolt, and drawing
a stool beside Katharine, she sat down, saying gently: "Light the
lamp, Sister, I will help you."
"How kind you are, dear Elizabeth," exclaimed Katharine, with a
grateful smile. "But let us wait--it is time for vespers."
As she spoke, the little bell was heard, summoning the nuns to
evening prayers. Then followed the meagre supper in the refectory.
Both nuns were of noble lineage, for the Cistercian Convent
Marienthron at Nimptschen received no others. The younger one was
Elizabeth von Kanitz, who had taken the veil but a year and a half
ago. Her fresh, rose-tinted skin had not yet been blanched by the
cellar-like atmosphere of the convent, nor her cheerful spirit
crushed by the oppressive discipline of the order. Her ingenuous,
childlike disposition had won the love of the Sisters, and even the
venerable abbess had been seen to smile at her merry sallies, Her
friend was a descendant of the distinguished family Von Bora, richer
in noble ancestors than in worldly goods. She was an orphan, and
knew but one member of her family to be living, her brother, Hans von
Bora. She had reached her twenty-fourth year, and had been in the
convent since her childhood, having taken the final vows at the age
of fifteen. An hour later, we find them again in Katharine's cell.
The copper lamp was lighted, and they sat down together, to finish
the embroidery which was to be used at the celebration on the morrow.
"How swiftly your finger fly, dear Elizabeth," said Katharine, "and
how contentedly your eyes rest upon your work. You happy child!
Life is all a fair Mayday to you! Doubts and temptations are all
unknown to you. You are satisfied within these gloomy walls, and to
your childlike faith they seem to lead straight to heaven. I, too,
was once happy and contented here, although I grieved sorely at
leaving my father's house. Ah, it is hard, to part forever from all
that is dear to us, and to hear the convent gates close behind us,
like the lid of a coffin; to be dead to the outer world; never again
to receive the kiss of love, or the greeting of friendship. But
seeing that it must needs be,--for my parents, with their small
means, could not provide a suitable refuge for their daughter, I
overcame my sorrow, and with confident hope knocked at these doors,
of which I was told that they were the doors of Heaven. And truly,
it seemed as though a breath from Heaven greeted me, as I crossed the
threshold. To be sheltered from the temptations of an evil world,
and from the cares of this life; to be surrounded by the odor of
incense, and the sound of holy music; to be guided at every step by
spiritual counsel; to be able to labor unceasingly for the welfare of
my soul, and fix my thoughts upon the life to come,--all this
persuaded me that I had entered the courts of Heaven, and I
remembered my parents daily, with hearty thanks for their kindness in
bringing me hither. Now, I see it all in a different light. This
gloomy house, which I regarded as the abode of true life, is a grave,
in which I am buried alive. The monk of Wittenberg has opened my
eyes, and I see that all my pious exercises are but an idle,
fruitless endeavor. Luther's words have startled me out of my
dreams. But he is right, it was but a dream, an imaginary sanctity.
My heart bears me witness to the truth of his teaching; for God's
peace, which I hoped to win through my devotions and good
works,--that I have never found. I was taught that only in the
convent, true piety had its abiding place. I have learned this to be
false, and I am certain that those who live in the world can serve
God and be saved, as well as we. Yes, if we who enter here, could
leave behind us our sinful heart! But that goes with us, and
prepares us trials, of which the world does not dream. It would seem
as though here everything were calculated to lift the soul above
earthly things, and to fill it with the strength of heavenly life,
but in reality, the dreary monotony merely deadens the spirit.
Beyond these walls, life shines in bright and happy colors, but here
all is gray. There, men rejoice in the lovely Spring-time; they
watch for the Summer, which causes the budding germs to flower; they
greet the Autumn, with its ripening fruits; and again, when Winter
comes, the weary body hails the rest it brings. Here, we scarcely
know when the violets are blooming, or when the grapes are gathered,
or when the snow is falling. All seasons, all days are alike in this
dull life, if indeed it can be called a life. There, men go forth
each morning to their day's work, and it is a pleasure to them, a
blessing both to body and soul. Their food gives them strength, and
their sleep refreshes them. But our souls and bodies are weakened by
this pious idleness. If our convent were in a city, where we could
nurse the sick, clothe the naked, comfort the sorrowing, that would
fill the void in our life, and vary its monotony. Ah, Sister
Elizabeth, I fear I cannot longer endure the conflict. My strength
is failing me, and I feel the blood coursing more and more languidly
through my veins."
She hid her face in her hands. A deep silence succeeded, which
Elizabeth did not venture to break. Her tender heart was filled with
pity at the sight of Katharine's misery. She had listened with deep
interest, her glowing eyes fixed upon her friend's lips. Strange
feelings were awakened within her. Now she rose in great agitation,
and grasped Katharine's hand.
"Sister, has God bidden you speak thus to me? Your words have torn
the veil from my eyes, and roused thoughts which hitherto slumbered
in my soul. You think me happy, Katharine, and you are right, for
God has given me a cheerful heart. But yet I am not the trusting
child, that accepts with unquestioning confidence the ordinances of
the Church, and the rules of our order. Do you suppose that Luther's
words have failed to touch me? Since I read his book on 'Monastic
Vows' and on the 'Babylonian Captivity,' a thorn has entered my
conscience, which torments and terrifies me. My mind is not clear,
like yours, to discern the needs of my soul; my trouble has been
undefined. But you have put it into words. Now I know what I want,
and I am indeed unhappy."
She threw herself upon Katharine's neck and wept aloud. Katharine
loosened the clinging arms, and wringing her hands in distress, she
exclaimed: "Woe is me! What have I done! Oh, that I had kept
silence, and borne my sorrow alone!"
Elizabeth dried her tears, and said, with a gentle caress: "Do not
grieve, dear Katharine. It is indeed painful to have one's eyes
opened by force. But is it not better to know the truth, than to
continue in error?"
After a long and scrutinizing look into her friend's face, Katharine
suddenly leaned forward, so that her lips touched Elizabeth's ear.
"Elizabeth, you do not know all my trouble."
The young nun's eyes anxiously questioned hers. She continued: "You
will not betray me. Elizabeth? I have a secret,--I and seven
others."
"Trust me," said Elizabeth.
Katharine drew still nearer and whispered: "Do you know what has
happened at Grimma?"
Elizabeth nodded. "How should I not know? The Gospel has been
preached there openly, since Luther proclaimed the truth from the
pulpit of the town church."
"It is not that I mean," Katharine shook her head. "We have received
tidings, that in the past week the monastery of the Holy Cross was
deserted by its monks."
Elizabeth started. "What do you say? It is not possible!"
Katharine continued quietly: "These are wonderful times. All signs
point to the beginning of a new life. Not at Grimma only, but
elsewhere also, the cloisters have opened their gates, after Luther
had uttered his Hephatha. Sister Elizabeth,--if our gates were
opened,--would you go, or stay?"
A deep crimson dyed Elizabeth's face, and a shiver ran through her
body. "Sister, I believe I should go. But," she added drearily,
"who will open them? You know how bitterly the abbess hates Luther,
and how she rails against him."
A shadow fell upon Katharine's face, and a heavy sigh rose from her
breast. "That is my sorrow also. But perhaps the abbess may be
forced to yield, whether she will or not."
"I do not understand you," said Elizabeth, in alarm.
Again Katharine leaned over and whispered:--"Eight of the Sisters
have entered upon a secret compact. They have written letters to
their parents and kinsfolk, imploring them, for God's sake, to pity
their condition, and release them from their imprisonment. They say
that since they have learned, monastic vows to be opposed to the
teachings of Holy Scripture, they should imperil their souls, by
continuing to strive after an imaginary sanctity."
Elizabeth's eyes were opened wide. She clutched Katharine's arm and
asked eagerly: "Who are they,--these eight?"
Katharine answered: "They are Magdalene von Staupitz, Veronica and
Margaret von Zeschau, Laneta von Gohlis, Eva von Gross, Eva and
Margaret von Schoenfeld,--I am the eighth."
"Let me be the ninth," pleaded Elizabeth. "If you go, I cannot stay."
For a moment Katharine's eyes scanned the young nun's face, then she
said earnestly: "Dear Elizabeth, we will gladly let you share our
secret; but be careful, lest you arouse suspicion. Your tongue is
quick, and your eyes tell tales."
A sudden flush overspread Elizabeth's face. "Do not fear, dear
Katharine. You shall learn that I can keep silence."
Far into the night the nuns sat plying their needles and talking over
their plans, until at midnight the little bell again called them to
their devotions.