Chronicles of the Schonberg-Cotta Family

by Elizabeth Rundle Charles

  XIII.

  Eva's Story.

  NIMPTSCHEN, 1517.

  Great changes have taken place during these last three years in AuntCotta's home. Else has been married more than two years, and sends mewonderful narratives of the beauty and wisdom of her little Margarethe,who begins now to lisp the names of mother, and father, and aunts. Elsehas also taught the little creature to kiss her hand to a picture theyhave of me, and call it Cousin Eva. They will not adopt my convent name.

  Chriemhild also is betrothed to the young knight, Ulrich von Gersdorf,who has a castle in the Thuringian Forest; and she writes that theyoften speak of Sister Ave, and that he keeps the dried violets still,with a lock of his mother's hair and a relic of his patron saint.Chriemhild says I should scarcely know him again, he is become soearnest and so wise, and so full of good purposes.

  And little Thekla writes that she also understands something of Latin.Else's husband has taught her; and there is nothing Else and GottfriedReichenbach like so much as to hear her sing the hymns Cousin Eva usedto sing.

  They seem to think of me as a kind of angel sister, who was early takento God, and will never grow old. It is very sweet to be remembered thus;but sometimes it seems as if it were hardly me they were remembering orloving, but what I was or might have been.

  Would they recognize Cousin Eva in the grave, quiet woman of twenty-twoI have become? For whilst in the old home Time seems to mark his courselike a stream by growth and life, here in the convent he seems to markit only by the slow falling of the shadow on the silent dial--the shadowof death. In the convent there is no growth but growing old.

  In Aunt Cotta's home the year expanded from winter into spring, andsummer, and autumn--seed-time and harvest--the season of flowers and theseason of fruits. The seasons grew into each other, we knew not how orwhen. In the convent the year is sharply divided into December, January,February, March, and April, with nothing to distinguish one month fromanother but their names and dates.

  In our old home the day brightened from dawn to noon, and then mellowedinto sunset, and softly faded into night. Here in the convent the day isseparated into hours by the clock.

  Sister Beatrice's poor faded face is slowly becoming a little morefaded; Aunt Agnes's a little more worn and sharp; and I, like the rest,am six years older than I was six years ago, when I came here; and thatis all.

  It is true, fresh novices have arrived, and have taken the irrevocablevows, and fair young faces are around me; but my heart aches sometimeswhen I look at them, and think that they, like the rest of us, haveclosed the door on life, with all its changes, and have entered on thatmonotonous pathway to the grave whose stages are simply growing old.

  Some of these novices come full of high aspirations for a religiouslife. They have been told about the heavenly Spouse, who will fill theirconsecrated hearts with pure, unutterable joys, the world can neverknow.

  Many come as sacrifices to family poverty or family pride, because theirnoble parents are too poor to maintain them suitably, or in order thattheir fortunes may swell the dower of some married sister.

  I know what disappointment is before them when they learn that theconvent is but a poor, childish mimicry of the world, with its pettyambitions and rivalries, but without the life and the love. I know thenoblest will suffer most, and may, perhaps, fall the lowest.

  To narrow, apathetic natures, the icy routine of habit will more easilyreplace the varied flow of life. They will fit into their harnesssooner, and become as much interested in the gossip of the house or theorder, the election of superiors, or the scandal of some neighbouringnunnery, as they would have become in the gossip of the town or villagethey would have lived in, in the world.

  But warm hearts and high spirits--these will chafe and struggle, anddream they have reached depths of self-abasement, or soared to heightsof mystical devotion, and then awake, with bitter self-reproaches, tofind themselves too weak to cope with some small temptation, like AuntAgnes.

  These I will help all I can. But I have learned, since I came toNimptschen, that it is a terrible and perilous thing to take the work ofthe training of our souls out of God's hands into our own. Thepruning-knife in his hands must sometimes wound and seem to impoverish;but in ours it cuts, and wounds, and impoverishes, and does _not_ prune.We can, indeed, inflict pain on ourselves; but God alone can make painhealing, or suffering discipline.

  I can only pray that, however mistaken many may be in immuringthemselves here, Thou who art the Good Physician wilt take us, with allour useless self-inflicted wounds, and all our wasted, self-stuntedfaculties, and as we are and as thou art, still train us for thyself.

  The infirmary is what interests me most. Having secluded ourselves fromall the joys and sorrows and vicissitudes of common life, we seemscarcely to have left anything in God's hands, wherewith to try ourfaith and subdue our wills to his, except sickness. Bereavements wecannot know who have bereaved ourselves of all companionship with ourbeloved for evermore on earth. Nor can we know the trials either ofpoverty or of prosperity, since we can never experience either; but,having taken the vow of voluntary poverty on ourselves, whilst we cannever call anything individually our own, we are freed from allanxieties by becoming members of a richly-endowed order.

  Sickness only remains beyond our control; and, therefore, when I see anyof the sisterhood laid on the bed of suffering, I think--

  "_God has laid thee there!_" and I feel more sure that it is the rightthing.

  I still instruct the novices; but sometimes the dreary question comes tome--

  "For _what_ am I instructing them?"

  Life has no future for them--only a monotonous prolonging of themonotonous present.

  I try to feel, "I am training them for eternity." But who can do thatbut God, who inhabiteth eternity, and sees the links which connect everymoment of the little circles of time with the vast circumference of theeverlasting future?

  But I do my best. Catharine von Bora, a young girl of sixteen, who haslately entered the convent, interests me deeply. There is such strengthin her character and such warmth in her heart. But alas! what scope isthere for these here?

  Aunt Agnes has not opened her heart in any way to me. True, when I wasill, she watched over me as tenderly as Aunt Cotta could; but when Irecovered, she seemed to repel all demonstrations of gratitude andaffection, and went on with that round of penances and disciplines,which make the nuns reverence her as so especially saintly.

  Sometimes I look with longing to the smoke and lights in the village wecan see among the trees from the upper windows of the convent. I knowthat each little wreath of smoke comes from the hearth of a home wherethere are father and mother and little children; and the smoke wreathsseem to me to rise like holy clouds of incense to God our Father inheaven.

  But the alms given so liberally by the sisterhood are given at theconvent-gate, so that we never form any closer connection with the pooraround us than that of beggars and almoners; and I long to be their_friend_.

  Sometimes I am afraid I acted in impatient self-will in leaving AuntCotta's home, and that I should have served God better by remainingthere, and that, after all, my departure may have left some little blankit would not have been useless to fill. As the girls marry, Aunt Cottamight have found me a comfort, and, as "Cousin Eva," I might perhapshave been more of a help to Else's children than I can be to the nunshere as Sister Ave. But whatever might have been, it is impatience andrebellion to think of that now; and nothing can separate me from God andhis love.

  Somehow or other, however, even the "Theologia Germanica," and the high,disinterested communion with God it teaches, seemed sweeter to me, inthe intervals of an interrupted and busy life, than as the business ofthis uninterrupted leisure. The hours of contemplation were more blessedfor the very trials and occupations which seemed to hinder them.

  Sometimes I feel as if my heart also were freezing, and becoming set andhard. I am afraid, indeed, it would, were it no
t for poor SisterBeatrice, who has had a paralytic stroke, and is now a constant inmateof the infirmary. She speaks at times very incoherently, and cannotthink at any time connectedly. But I have found a book which interestsher; it is the Latin Gospel of St. Luke, which I am allowed to take fromthe convent library and translate to her. The narratives are so briefand simple, she can comprehend them, and she never wearies of hearingthem. The very familiarity endears them, and to me they are always new.

  But it is very strange that there is nothing about penance or vows init, or the adoration of the blessed Virgin. I suppose I shall find thatin the other Gospels, or in the Epistles, which were written after ourLady's assumption into heaven. Sister Beatrice likes much to hear mesing the hymn by Bernard of Clugni, on the perpetuity of joy inheaven:[8]--

  Here brief is the sighing, And brief is the crying, For brief is the life! The life there is endless, The joy there is endless, And ended the strife.

  What joys are in heaven? To whom are they given? Ah! what? and to whom? The stars to the earth-born, "Best robes" to the sin-worn, The crown for the doom!

  O country the fairest! Our country the dearest, We press towards thee! O Sion the golden! Our eyes are now holden, Thy light till we see:

  Thy crystalline ocean, Unvexed by commotion, Thy fountain of life; Thy deep peace unspoken, Pure, sinless, unbroken,-- Thy peace beyond strife:

  Thy meek saints all glorious, Thy martyrs victorious, Who suffer no more; Thy halls full of singing, Thy hymns ever ringing Along thy safe shore.

  Like the lily for whiteness, Like the jewel for brightness, Thy vestments, O Bride! The Lamb ever with thee, The Bridegroom is with thee,-- With thee to abide!

  We know not, we know not, All human words show not, The joys we may reach; The mansions preparing, The joys for our sharing, The welcome for each.

  O Sion the golden! My eyes are still holden, Thy light till I see; And deep in thy glory, Unveiled then before me, My King, look on thee!

  [Footnote 8:

  Hic breve vivitur, hic breve plangitur, hic breve fletur, Non breve vivere, non breve plangere, retribuetur. O retributio! stat brevis actio, vita perennis, O retributio! coelica mansio stat lue plenis, etc. etc., etc.]

  _April_, 1517.

  The whole of the Augustinian Order in Saxony has been greatly moved bythe visitation of Dr. Martin Luther. He has been appointed DeputyVicar-General in the place of Dr. Staupitz, who has gone on a mission tothe Netherlands, to collect relics for the Elector Frederic's new churchat Wittemberg.

  Last April Dr. Luther visited the Monastery of Grimma, not far from us;and through our Prioress, who is connected with the Prior of Grimma, wehear much about it.

  He strongly recommends the study of the Scriptures and of St. Augustine,in preference to every other book, by the brethren and sisters of hisOrder. We have begun to follow his advice in our convent, and a newimpulse seems given to everything. I have also seen two beautifulletters of Dr. Martin Luther's, written to two brethren of theAugustinian Order. Both were written in April last, and they have beenread by many amongst us. The first was to Brother George Spenlein, amonk at Memmingen. It begins, "In the name of Jesus Christ." Afterspeaking of some private pecuniary matters, he writes:--

  "As to the rest, I desire to know how it goes with thy soul; whether, weary of its own righteousness, it learns to breathe and to trust in the righteousness of Christ. For in our age the temptation to presumption burns in many, and chiefly in those who are trying with all their might to be just and good. Ignorant of the righteousness of God, which in Christ is given to us richly and without price, they seek in themselves to do good works, so that at last they may have confidence to stand before God, adorned with merits and virtues,--which is impossible. Thou, when with us, wert of this opinion, and so was I; but now I contend against this error, although I have not yet conquered it.

  "Therefore, my dear brother, learn Christ and him crucified; learn to sing to him, and, despairing of thyself, to say to him, 'Lord Jesus, thou art my righteousness, but I am thy sin. Thou hast taken me upon thyself, and given to me what is thine; thou hast taken on thee what thou was not, and has given to me what I was not.' Take care not to aspire to such a purity that thou shalt no longer seem to thyself a sinner; for Christ does not dwell except in sinners. For this he descended from heaven, where he abode with the just, that he might abide with sinners. Meditate on this love of his, and thou shalt drink in his sweet consolations. For if, by our labours and afflictions, we could attain quiet of conscience, why did he die? Therefore, only in Him, by a believing self-despair, both of thyself and of thy works, wilt thou find peace. For he has made thy sins his, and his righteousness he has made thine."

  Aunt Agnes seemed to drink in these words like a patient in a ragingfever. She made me read them over to her again and again, and thentranslate and copy them; and now she carries them about with hereverywhere.

  To me the words that follow are as precious. Dr. Luther says, that asChrist hath borne patiently with us wanderers, we should also bear withothers. "Prostrate thyself before the Lord Jesus," he writes, "seek allthat thou lackest. He himself will teach thee all, even to do for othersas he has done for thee."

  The second letter was to Brother George Leiffer of Erfurt. It speaks ofaffliction thus:--

  "The cross of Christ is divided throughout the whole world. To each his portion comes in time, and does not fail. Thou, therefore, do not seek to cast thy portion from thee, but rather receive it as a holy relic, to be enshrined, not in a gold or silver reliquary, but in the sanctuary of a golden, that is, a loving and submissive heart. For if the wood of the cross was so consecrated by contact with the flesh and blood of Christ that it is considered as the noblest of relics, how much more are injuries, persecutions, sufferings, and the hatred of men, sacred relics, consecrated not by the touch of his body, but by contact with his most loving heart and Godlike will! These we should embrace, and bless, and cherish, since through him the curse is transmuted into blessing, suffering into glory, the cross into joy."

  Sister Beatrice delights in these words, and murmurs them over toherself as I have explained them to her. "Yes, I understand; thissickness, helplessness,--all I have lost and suffered,--are sacredrelics from my Saviour; not because he forgets, but because he remembersme--he remembers me. Sister Ave, I am content."

  And then she likes me to sing her favourite hymn _Jesu dulcismemoria_:--

  O Jesus, thy sweet memory Can fill the heart with ecstasy; But passing all things sweet that be, Thy presence, Lord, to me.

  What hope, O Jesus, thou canst render To those who other hopes surrender! To those who seek thee, O how tender! But what to those who find!

  With Mary, ere the morning break, Him at the sepulchre I seek,-- Would hear him to my spirit speak, And see him with my heart.

  Wherever I may chance to be, Thee first my heart desires to see; How glad when I discover thee; How blest when I retain!

  Beyond all treasures is thy grace;-- Oh, when wilt thou thy steps retrace And satisfy me with thy face, And make me wholly glad?

  Then come, Oh, come, thou perfect King, Of boundless glory, boundless spring; Arise, and fullest daylight bring, Jesus, expected long!

  _May_, 1517.

  Aunt Agnes has spoken to me at last. Abruptly and sternly, as if moreangry with herself than repenting or rejoicing, she said to me thismorning, "Child, those words of Dr. Luther's have reached my heart. Ihave been trying all my life to be a saint, and so to reach God
. And Ihave failed utterly. And now I learn that I am a sinner, and yet thatGod's love reaches me. The cross, the cross of Christ, is my pathwayfrom hell to heaven. I am not a saint. I shall never be a saint. Christis the only Saint, the Holy One of God; and he has borne my sins, and heis my righteousness. He has done it all; and I have nothing left but togive him all the glory, and to love, to love, to love him to alleternity. And I will do it," she added fervently, "poor, proud,destitute, and sinful creature that I am. I cannot help it; I must."

  But strong and stern as the words were, how changed Aunt Agnes'smanner!--humble and simple as a child's. And as she left me for someduty in the house, she kissed my forehead, and said, "Ah, child, love mea little, if you can,--not as a saint, but as a poor, sinful old woman,who among her worst sins has counted loving thee too much, which wasperhaps, after all, among the least; love me a little, Eva, for mysister's sake, whom you love so much."