My Father and my God! I thank Thee that Thou hast permitted me to
behold the Life, the Passion, and the Resurrection of Thy Son, and to
steep myself in His words and promises during this terrible time. In
the torture of suspense, which is more dreadful than death, I have won
courage from the great events of His life, and received consolation
from the appearance of my Redeemer upon earth. My hope has been
strengthened by the saints of old who repented. For the sake of the
crucified Saviour, O Lord, put mercy into my King's heart. If it is
God's will that I die, then let me die like Dismas. Only pardon me.
In the name of Jesus, I implore Thee, O Father, for mercy! Have mercy
on me, a sinner. Amen.
CONCLUSION
Such is the story. It was written by a common workman awaiting
sentence of death in a prison cell. The last prayer was written
exactly six weeks after his condemnation.
Conrad began to feel a little frightened. He had been so absorbed in
his Saviour's story that he felt himself to be almost part of it. He
had written it all day, and dreamed of it all night. He had been in
the stable at Bethlehem, he had wandered by the Lake of Gennesaret, and
spent nights in the wilderness of Judaea. He had journeyed to Sidon,
and across the mountains to Jerusalem. He, a prisoner in jail and
sentenced to death, had stood on the Mount of Olives, he had been in
Bethany and supped at Jesus' side. But now he felt almost indifferent
to the thought. Had he not lived through that glorious death at
Golgotha? All else sank into insignificance beside that. It almost
seemed to him as if he had passed beyond the veil. The Risen One
possessed all his soul. He could not get away from all these holy
memories. Then suddenly came the thought: when death comes I must be
brave. He remembered a story his mother had once told him of a Roman
executioner who, on receiving orders to behead a young Christian, had
been so overcome with pity that he had fainted. The youth had revived
him, and comforted him as bravely as if it had been his duty to die, as
it was the executioner's to kill. But then Conrad told himself: you
are a guilty creature, and cannot compare yourself with a saint. Would
you be brave enough to act like that? Would you? It is sweet to die
with Jesus, but it is still sweeter to live with Him.
The jailer asked him if he would care to go out once more into the open
air.
Out into the air? Out into the prison yard, where all the refuse was
thrown? No. He thanked him; he would prefer to remain in his cell.
It could not be for long now.
"No; it will not be for long now," said the old man. But he did not
tell him that in the meantime the Chancellor had died of his wounds,
although from the "old grumbler's" increased tenderness Conrad might
have suspected that his case did not stand in a favourable light.
"If you are truly brave," the old man told him, "the next time you go
out you shall walk under green trees."
"But now? Not now?" Conrad thought of a reprieve, and grew excited.
A red flush stained his cheeks.
"No; I did not mean that. You know the King is far away. But it may
come any time. I am waiting for it anxiously. You know, Ferleitner,
after this I shall resign my post."
At that moment the priest came in. He always entered the dark cell
with a cheerful face and a glad "God be with you!" It was his office
to bring comfort, if only he had known how. As a rule the monk came
in, wiping the perspiration from his brow with a coarse blue
handkerchief, and loudly assuring the prisoner how pleasantly cool it
was in his cell. But this time he was nervous and ill at ease. How
did the prisoner look? Emaciated to a skeleton, his teeth prominent
between fleshless lips, his eyes wide open, a wondrous fire burning in
their depths.
"As you will never send for me, my dear Ferleitner, I have come again
unasked to see how you fare. You are not ill?"
"Has the sentence come?" asked the prisoner.
"Not that I know of," answered the monk; "but I see I am disturbing you
at your work."
Conrad had neglected to put away the sheets he had written, and so had
to confess that he had been writing.
"Isn't it too dark to see to write here?"
"You get accustomed to it. At first it was dark, but now it seems to
get lighter and lighter."
"So you've made your will at last?" asked the father, raising his
eyebrows. He meant to be humorous.
"A sort of one!"
"Let's see, then. You have something to leave?"
"I have not. Another has."
The father turned over the sheets, read a line here and there, shook
his shaven head a little, and said "It seems to resemble the New
Testament. Have you been copying it from the Gospel?"
"No, I haven't got a New Testament. That's why I had to write this for
myself."
"This Gospel! You've written one for yourself out of your own head?"
"Not exactly. Well, perhaps now and then I have. I've written what I
could remember. I will be responsible for the errors."
"My curiosity grows," cried the father. "May I read it?"
"It's not worth your trouble, but I knew of nothing else to help me."
"The work has exhausted you, Ferleitner."
"No; on the contrary, I may almost say it has revived me. I'm sorry it
is finished. I thought of nothing else; I forgot everything."
His enthusiasm has consumed him, thought the monk.
"Ferleitner, will you let me take it away with me for a few days?"
Conrad shyly gave permission. The monk gathered the sheets together,
and thrust them carelessly into his pouch, so that the roll stuck out
at the top. When he had gone, Conrad gazed sadly into emptiness and
longed for his manuscript. How happy he had been with it all those
weeks! What would the priest think of it? Everything would be wrong.
Such people see their God with other eyes than ours. And if he
criticised it, all the pleasure would go out of it.
But Conrad did not have to do without it long. The father brought it
back the next morning. He had begun to read it the evening before, and
had sat up all night to finish it. But he would not give his opinion,
and Conrad did not ask for it. Almost helplessly, they sat at the
rough table, while the monk tried to think how he could express his
thoughts. After a while, he took up the manuscript, laid it down
again, and said that of course, from the ecclesiastical point of view,
there would naturally be some objections.
"The details of the history are not altogether correct. I know,
Ferleitner, that you asked me for a copy of the New Testament. If I
had known that you had gone so far, I would willingly have given you
one. But perhaps it is better so. Though I must tell you, Conrad
Ferleitner, that nothing has given me so much pleasure for a long while
as these meditations and--I may also say--fancies of yours. As for the
faults, let those who take a pleasure in finding them, look for them.
The living faith is the one important thing, the living faith and the
living Jesus, and that is here! My son," he added, laying his hand on
the prisoner's head, "I feel your piety of soul is so profound, that I
will administer the sacrament to you. Yes, Conrad, you are saved.
Only, pray fervently."
Conrad covered his face with his hands, and wept quietly. The priest's
words made him so happy.
"I even think," continued the father, after a pause, "that others who
are seeking for the simple word of God, and cannot find it, might read
your book. There must be many such people in hospitals, poor-houses,
and prisons, and especially those who are in your situation. Would you
have any objection?"
"My God, why should I?" replied Conrad. "If this work of mine could be
the help to other poor wretches that it has been to me! But I do not
know--it was not meant for that. I wrote it only for myself."
"Naturally, one or two things must be altered," said the father. "We
would go through it again together."
"But, holy father," asked the prisoner wistfully, "that is--if you
think there will be time?"
"Above all, we must try and find a suitable title. Have you not
thought that your child must have a name?"
"I wrote the letters I.N.R.I. at the top."
"It is rather out of the common. People won't know what to make of it.
We must at least have a sub-title."
"The title's a matter of absolute indifference to me," said Conrad:
"perhaps you can find one."
"I will think it over. May I take the manuscript away again? I must
try and become literary in my old age. If a carpenter lad can write a
whole book, surely a Franciscan monk can find a title! Have you
anything on your mind, my son? No? Then God be with you. I will come
again soon." At the door he turned: "Tell me, my son, does the jailer
give you food enough?"
"Yes, more than I need."
* * * * * *
Outside it was hot summer-time. Conrad knew nothing of it, he had not
thought of it. The jailer came with the permission that, as an
exception, he would be allowed to walk for half an hour in the garden.
Conrad felt quite indifferent. As the warder led him along the vaulted
passage, he staggered slightly; he had almost forgotten how to walk.
He steadied himself on his companion's arm and said:
"I feel so strange."
"Hold on to me; nothing will happen to you."
"Are we going right out into the open?"
"From now, you will go for a short walk in the garden every day."
"I do not know if I care to," said Conrad, hesitating. "I am
afraid--of the sun."
They were out under the open sky, in the wide, dazzling green light.
Conrad stood still for a moment and covered his eyes with his hand,
then he looked up, and covered them again, and began to tremble. The
warder remained silent, and supported him as he tottered along under
the shade of the horse-chestnuts. On either side stretched green banks
glowing with flowers and roses, their bright colours quivering like
flame blown by the wind. Above was the blue sky with the great burning
sun. And all around he heard the songs of the birds. Oh, life! life!
He had almost forgotten what it meant--to live! He groaned aloud, it
might have been either from sorrow or joy. Then he sat down on a bench
and paused, exhausted. He gazed out into the illimitable light. Tears
trickled slowly down his hollow cheeks.
After a time the warder started to go on. Conrad raised himself
unsteadily, and they moved slowly forward. They came to a white marble
bust standing on a stone pillar surrounded with flowers.
Conrad stood still, shaded his eyes with his hand, looked at the
statue, and asked: "Who is that?"
"That is the king," answered the warder. Conrad gazed at it
thoughtfully. And then he said softly and much moved: "How kindly he
looks at me!"
"Yes, he is a kind master."
Then joy slowly entered the heart of the poor sinner. The world is
beautiful. People are good. Life is everlasting. And the Heavenly
Father reigns over all. . . .
The warder looked at his watch. "It is time to return."
Conrad was taken back to his cell. He stumbled over the threshold and
knocked up against the table, it was so dark. But his heart rejoiced.
The world Was beautiful. People were good. . . .
Then, gradually, fear stole back upon him. He was tired and lay down
for a little on the straw. The key grated in the lock. Conrad started
to his feet in terror. What was coming? What was coming?
The father entered quickly and cheerfully. Swinging the manuscript in
his hand, he cried: "Glad tidings! Glad tidings!"
Conrad's hands fluttered to his breast. "Glad tidings? It had come?
Life--to live again?" So he cried aloud. He stood for a moment
motionless, then he sat down on the wooden bench.
"Yes, my son," the monk continued. "We will call the book, 'Glad
Tidings,' I.N.R.I. Glad tidings of a poor sinner. That will suit the
Gospel; that sounds well, does it not?" He stopped and started:
"Ferleitner, what is the matter?"
Conrad had fallen against the wall, his head sunk on his breast. The
breath rattled in his throat. The father reached quickly for the
water-pitcher to revive him. He reproached him good-naturedly for
losing heart so quickly, and bathed his forehead tenderly. Then he
noticed the stillness of the breast and the eyes--how glazed they were!
He shouted for help. The jailer appeared. He looked, paused a moment,
and then said, softly: "It is well."
There was silence. Suddenly the old man cried out: "It is well.
Thou art merciful, Holy God!"
Later, the Franciscan passed through the long passages thanking God
sadly for the blessed miracle of the misunderstanding. At the gate he
met the governor. Heavily, supporting each step by his stick, he came
along. When he saw the monk he went up to him: "My dear father," he
said hoarsely. "I am sorry; you will have a heavy night of it.
Ferleitner, the criminal, will need a priest. To-morrow morning at six
o'clock all will be over."
A short silence. Then the father answered: "Your Excellency, the
criminal, Ferleitner, needs neither priest nor judge. He has been
pardoned."