Chapter IX: I Hear Martin Luther

The next day we journeyed on to Wittenberg, through the white birch forests and seared autumn grain fields, the villages still keeping their poverty-stricken character, and our company overtaking again many plodding companies, this time all headed away from Jüterbog. Hardly a person but bore his or her little scroll signed by Master Tetzel. But although the Gräfin would hear never a word, Moritz and I were pleased to catch not a little adverse comment upon the proceedings of yesterday.

“Your Lordships doubtless understand, but I do not,” grumbled a gray old farmer at a tavern where we stopped for beer. “I have bought my paper, but I can never see why the dear God so loves money that for lack of a few groschen He would leave a soul in everlasting torment. Best no doubt to be on the safe side,--but I cannot make it out.”

“Nor I,” spoke a younger companion, “why the Lord Pope--who, they say, is a most charitable man--does not out of pure love empty the whole of purgatory, since he is willing to free so many souls just for such a trifle as a gift for a church?”

“Hush, Grundold,” urged a third, cautiously; “don’t talk against the reverend commissioner. Priests have ears everywhere.”

“We will never betray your gossip, good folk,” said I, quitting them: “but we have no answer to your questions.”

Others however were more complacent, and I heard one rogue boasting how he had committed a robbery four months since and his conscience now felt “white as a new dropped lamb.” All of which made me think more hard thoughts of Master Tetzel.

Shortly before noon we saw lifting above the plain to westward the tall round tower of the “Castle Church” of Wittenberg, and beside it the lower twin towers of the “Parish Church,” and presently the capital town of Electoral Saxony spread out its walls and houses before us. Often have I recalled that first sight of the little city wherein my whole life, yes, and the whole life of half of wide Christendom, was to be run as through a crucible, and changed--changed so that only the shadow of our old uncouth selves remained. I remember the feeling of disappointment when on passing the gate I saw the muddy, ill-paved streets, where lean hens and dirty geese were picking in the piles of offal. I saw too the long, ill-built street of ugly wooden houses, the only thoroughfare of the city. Even as we came under the gate we met two drunken students belaboring one another with sturdy cudgels, while a ring of more sober comrades stood by, urging them merrily to “lay on!”

“A scurvy hole,” I commented to Moritz, and he cheerfully replied that Wittenberg was reputed “the most drunken town in Germany,” adding, however, that since the establishment of the new University things had been somewhat on the mend.

Luckily we found the town a little less obnoxious as we proceeded west along the Collegien-strasse, and at last before the sombre, unpretending Schloss we found the palatial home of the elector’s castellan, the Freiherr von Steinitz, who with his noble lady granted us worthy hospitality. It was my first sight of a German patrician’s city house, and the display of gold and silver plate, the rare Venetian glass, the costly tapestries, the paintings by Memling, the engravings by Dürer, the rich massive furniture covered with delicate carving,--all these told of a taste and elegance worthy of the best palazzo in Rome.

The Prince Elector was absent from the city, but I was assured there were gentlemen at the Schloss well worth my acquaintance and company. As for Gräfin Ilsa she was happy as a bird in her aunt’s enlivening society, and there were soon half a dozen young ritters pranked out in their best, and hanging around the Freiherr’s great hall all day for a chance to have a few words with her, and show her the sights of Wittenberg. They were a little disgusted, perhaps, to learn that she was most interested in the marvellous collection of saints’ relics assembled by the pious elector at the Castle Church. She told us that evening about all the wonders she had met,--five thousand infallible and genuine relics of the holy ones, including some skin from the face of St. Bartholomew, drops of the milk of Mary, a piece of the rod of Aaron, and some straw whereon the Christchild lay.

“Five hundred thousand years indulgence just for visiting them,” she concluded. “Oh! if I could only bring my father!”

The good-hearted Freifrau here tactfully changed the subject. Her husband, however, and certain of the ‘Honorability’[3] who joined us at the board, spoke with veiled bitterness of the recent mania for indulgences.

“Tetzel is a greater knave than Judas,” concluded the testy Freiherr; “all honest men are enraged at him--but who will bell the cat?”

Who indeed? For I considered his words as prophetic when, a little later in the evening, as we sat listening to a recital of the recent troubles betwixt Kaiser Maximilian and the princes, a visitor was introduced, requesting to see none other than myself.

“Dr. Andreas Carlstadt,” said the Freiherr as intermediary; “one of the most learned and honored of our University professors.”

The newcomer was a man of smallish stature, dark and sunburned, with over-sharp features; he had a harsh voice, and I judged a warm temper, though not lacking in learning and intellectual ability. Having ascertained my identity he drew his fur-lined doctor’s gown about him and gave me a profound reverence; then proceeded to ask questions. I was familiar with Rome? Yes. Recently come thence? Yes. I had seen Tetzel at Jüterbog? Yes. Good, then, would I deign to do him a favor?

“What was it?”

The professor cleared his throat. He was evidently on a delicate mission. Had I ever heard of Dr. Martin Luther of Wittenberg University? I had,--a tolerably well-known preacher and scholar. My visitor then opened his business.

“Then, very noble Graf, I am come to you to crave a favor. His Lordship the Freiherr will bear testimony to this Dr. Martin’s piety, sincerity, and zeal.”

“Gladly,” assented the gentleman warmly; “never do I miss the parish church when he preaches. My wife and most of Wittenberg call him everything but a saint; and better, he is a right manly man. _He_ is no sailor in the ship with Tetzel.”

“Ah!” interposed Carlstadt promptly; “your Lordship has said it. He _is_ no friend of Tetzel’s. The tale of the preaching at Jüterbog has come to his ears, and has driven him almost frantic. This morning, being filled up with stories of the indulgence hawking, he shut himself in his study at the Augustinian convent, and all day has wrought on certain theses--propositions, your Lordships understand,--which he proposes for public debate. In them he assails Tetzel rightly but rashly. ‘God willing,’ he vowed when I remonstrated, ‘I will make a hole in his drum!’ But that is not the worst. I have had a glimpse of the theses. They contain many things that Tetzel and his Dominican friends can wrestle into downright heresy, even attacks upon the power and prerogative of His Holiness the Pope.”

“Your Dr. Martin must be a very Hercules to rouse that Cerberus,” I threw out, smiling.

“The Graf does not know him. He would walk to the stake as cheerfully as to dinner, if only he felt that plain duty summoned him.”

“Well,” I rejoined, “that being the case, worthy Dr. Carlstadt, what can I do for you?”

“Do? Your Nobility can do everything. You are a man of learning. You are acquainted with Rome. You understand the sensitiveness of the Papal Court to all innuendoes. Go to Dr. Luther; remonstrate. Point out it is useless to dip one’s fingers in Roman ink. Urge him to let Tetzel bray himself silent. Your influence as an experienced man of affairs will be great. Were I not the friend of this truly pious and learned young friar, I would not urge this; but ’tis a mighty grief to see a man who could even hope for a bishopric throw away all chance of promotion by a few Latin theses rashly published.”

I demurred at first, raising various objections. But the Fraiherr reënforced Carlstadt’s petition.

“He is indeed a pious and eloquent young friar, with a notable career before him. We have none too many such in these days. He must not be blighted by the Dominican’s claws so early. Besides, he may breed great scandal for the University. Go to him, then, in heaven’s name, and talk him out of it.”

Thus it befell that, after more protesting, I consented.

* * * * *

It had been agreed I could accomplish most if I went upon my mission alone. The lackeys of the Freiherr lighted me down the long miry street to the Augustinian convent, which, by night, I could only see was a tall, massive building near the eastern gate. A knocking brought a young lay-brother to the door, who turned out to be Dr. Luther’s famulus.[4] On explaining my business I was escorted up a dark, winding staircase into a large study, and left alone while the fellow went to hunt up his professor.

Two candles on a broad oaken table in one corner shed a fitful light over the wide apartment. I saw a tall, green-tiled stove in the opposite corner. The floor was uncarpeted. On one wall hung a well-carved wooden crucifix, but I missed the display of crosses and saints’ pictures I had expected in the room of such a friar. Two or three solid, uncushioned chairs were by the table; beside the brass candlesticks was a battered pewter mug and also a number of books, the bindings worn and thumbed. I noted particularly a Plautus and a Vergil--favorite authors clearly; a copy of Erasmus’s new edition of the Greek Testament, and a Vulgate open at the 118th psalm,[5] also the _Postilla_, a learned commentary upon the Bible by De Lyra.

Here was the room of no snoring monkish idler, manifestly; and as surely, one could say, that of no cultured churchly sybarite. Interested by the whole aspect and atmosphere, I was bending farther over the books when I heard a firm step.

“Welcome, my Lord Graf,” a voice was saying heartily. The man I sought had entered.

In the candle-light when first I saw him I could hardly distinguish his features. I saw a man in the white Augustinian tunic. He seemed a person of a little over middle height, his body very lean--by fasting, I imagined--his head widely tonsured, leaving merely a dark ring of hair. I could see enough of the face to tell that it was rugged and interlined, but not old; distinctly a peasant countenance; yet it was the uncouthness of strength, not of ignorance. Then out of it all flashed eyes so bright, so keen, that the word of condescending salutation halted on my lips. I removed my cap silently. Kings, emperors, popes I have met, but never one of whom first instinct spoke as of that tonsured monk, “A master.”

“I have the honor to meet Dr. Luther?” I asked, with a diffidence not my wont; and he, looking on me frankly, extended a wide hand. His voice, clear as a deep bell, added to the influence of his eyes.

“Martin Luther, Augustinian friar, lecturer on theology, preacher to the convent, vicar to the priory, pastor to the parish,--and generally struggling with flesh and blood, the devil, and the world. See what an idle man I am! and now how may I serve you?”

Very diffidently--I could have faced the Prince Elector with greater ease--I explained my errand, Carlstadt’s fears, my own experience, and the friendly intent of my mission. Dr. Luther proffered me a chair, and threw on the table a small pile of papers, motioning for me to peruse them.

“Oh! my brave Carlstadt,” he cried in broad Saxon, whilst I examined. “All fears to-day, hot flame to-morrow! Whither will your weasel courage jump next? A merry day for the Church and poor Christians when all we theologians are of your fine boldness! Well, your Lordship, do you find in those black marks on white sheets anything very heretical?”

“Magister Doctor,” said I, trying once more to use my best Florentine Latin, and beginning already to dislike my task; “I am not learned in the niceties of theology; but in these ninety-five theses here, which I gather are propositions concerning Tetzel’s indulgences that you wish to propound for public debate, I fear are certain matters which you would wisely moderate here and there, lest you raise greater scandal for the Church than that which you so piously endeavor to quell.”

“Moderate? How many, your Lordship?” His hand fell vehemently on the table.

“Why, not a few, to speak the candid truth. For instance, you say ‘Every Christian, truly contrite, has full remission from both punishment, and guilt, even without letters of indulgence.’ ‘Christians should be taught that he who gives to a poor man, or lends to needy man, does better than if he bought pardons’; or, more especially, ‘We affirm that Papal pardons cannot take away even the least of venial sin, as regards its guilt.’ There are a great many more in like vein. I am bound to tell you, reverend Doctor, such utterances are exceedingly unwise.”

“Unwise? And does your Lordship tell me you approve of Tetzel’s blasphemies and filching from our miserable bewitched peasantry? God forbid!”

“God forbid, say I likewise. I myself have told the rascal to his face all that I think of him. But, learned Sir, it is plain you do not understand what troubles I would spare you. If Tetzel’s were the only back to smart, I would full merrily cry ‘Lay on!’ But who is Tetzel? A pawn on the great Church chess board. In attacking him whom do you attack? His masters, Albrecht, Prince-Archbishop of Mainz, the great banking house of the Fuggers,--and last, but not least, His Holiness himself.”

“The Archbishop and the Pope? The Graf is jesting. Heaven keep me from thinking so foully of them! Tetzel exceeded his mandate in his preaching. On hearing my complaints they will silence him.”

“Tetzel exceeded his mandate? Yes. So I told him at Jüterbog. And I will tell you his answer. ‘My chest is exceeding heavy, and that is all the Archbishop of Mainz and the Pope are likely to ask about.’ And the artful fox is wholly right.”

The Augustinian had sprung from his chair, and began pacing the room with quick, nervous strides. He twisted and untwisted his long powerful arms.

“The Pope and the Archbishop? It cannot be! It cannot be! No little theses of mine can disturb such great men. Can a sparrow destroy an elephant? At worst they will merely ignore my charges, and let Tetzel weave his own rope to hang himself.”

“I fear the learned Doctor is wrong,” I said; “allow me to play the prophet. If you publish those theses against Tetzel, in six months your name will be blazoned all over Christendom as little better than a heretic.”

I thought I saw the friar’s face turn pale, but he only paused, crossed himself hurriedly, and muttered “Impossible.”

“By no means impossible. It is because, even in these brief moments, I come to take an interest in your Reverence’s honor and welfare which I cannot explain even to myself, I urge this again. Believe me, I know Italy and I know Rome. I am no fox-hunting northern ritter, better at brawling than at books. I have learned my Latin at Florence, my Greek at Padua. Hardly six months since I sat at cards with His Holiness. I speak with knowledge. Delve in philosophy and abstract theology as you will. The Pope is tolerant. He permits any subtle message to the learned. But these theses here will speak like booming cannon to the myriad laity. They will dry up one of the richest sources of Roman revenue. As you love a venerable name, honor, churchly promotion, do not touch the Pope’s, or the Pope’s lieutenant’s, money bags.”

“A question?” the other stood straight before me and held me fixed by the power of his wonderful eyes.

“I will answer,” I replied uneasily.

“Tell me, then, Graf von Regenstein: do you urge me to suppress these theses because what I say in them is untrue, or because what I say in them is unwise?”

“Unwise, utterly unwise.”

“Then Tetzel must continue to play the Simon Magus with his lecherous villainy?”

“For a while, yes. One must endure him now, as one bears the plague. He is mortal.”

“But meantime he will continue to hoodwink and plunder from thousands?”

“I presume so.”

The friar seemed to grow a foot taller. Thunderbolts seemed springing out of his countenance. Unconsciously he lifted his hands on high, and raised his voice as in the pulpit before his people.

“Oh! dear Lord Jesus Christ: when Thou didst die for sinful me upon the cross, shall I draw back from my sworn task when Thy word is being defied, Thy little children led astray, Thy holy gospel brought into contempt, and the devil’s wolves and hirelings are raging within the fold, and all because this noble Graf here says it will blast my chance of worldly greatness, and even expose me to the slanders of evil men. Oh! let rather this poor carcass of mine, which folk call Martin Luther, go straight to the scorching flame, than that I show such contempt for all Thy love, sacrifice, and bloody sweat.”

Never in my life--and though not old, I had lived through many a strange scene--had I experienced the sensations I did when that trumpet call sounded in my ears. It came like a blast from another world, speaking a tongue I knew not, though every word I understood. For here was a man speaking good Latin, and with learned books on his table. He was no bead-counting, unwashed Italian hermit run after by an adoring country-side. No crack-brained lay enthusiast. No smugly hypocritical mendicant seeking an alms. And behold! he was speaking of “the Love of Christ” as of a very intimate and wholly tangible thing, and meeting my cry of “expediency” with an argument before which all my skilfully wrought reasonings would fly back blunted. And yet I would not retire thus. I also rose from my seat.

“Your Reverence speaks eloquently, but your heart masters your head. Granted your willingness to make great sacrifice, you must in any case be sure your sacrifice will achieve its end. I tell you, therefore, in all fairness, I believe you will be speedily silenced, and your memory condemned.”

“St. Stephen was silenced. That was no reason to him for denying his Lord, though no doubt the Jews condemned his memory.”

“But your Reverence can do vast good in a long life if you will only be discreet to-day. Public gossip makes you a bishop ere very long. Your piety is famous.”

“Fools will babble folly. My piety is but as filthy rags. A noble bishop would I make to my people, when I bought the mitre at the price of my soul!”

“Believe me,” I said deprecatingly, “I have no brief for Master Tetzel. Haste is never a good councillor. If you will but consider carefully you will find a thousand reasons for caution. As Aristotle says--”

Again I struck sparks from his eyes.

“Quote to me no Aristotle, Sir Graf, as to my duty. Quote God’s word--but nothing pagan.” But he checked himself; “Ei!” with a laugh he continued, “who am I to bandy proud words with your gracious Lordship? Be seated again; hear me out patiently, then call me a mad fool all you will.”

So I sat, hearkening while he paced the room, talking very fast.

“Peasant born I am, and peasant I am like to remain in speech and thought till God orders otherwise. Many a day as a boy have I seen my mother toiling under a load of sticks too heavy for her weak back. I have been schoolboy at Eisenach, student at Erfurt, and then friar at Erfurt and Wittenberg, but I am peasant still. Pardon therefore my blunt uncourtly speech. My tongue is a bow that sends arrows straight at the mark; your Lordship will forgive me.”

“No more apologies. Proceed, I beg you.”

“In years past I have gone down all the paths of monkery,--fast, flagellation, vigils, long prayers; I have tried them all. If, as Paul would say, ‘I could glory after the flesh,’ even I, sinful Martin Luther, could claim to be pious, righteous, holy. And yet, I say to you, Graf von Regenstein, my monk’s merits were as nothing, nothing. My soul was in exquisite torment. I feared hourly the pangs and anguish of hell. My righteousness I knew was but as worthless dross. Then--no matter how--it came to me that it was not by the merits of Martin the Sinner but of Christ the Righteous that I would be justified. That all the outward things men call ‘holy’ are ‘holy’ only so far as they are tokens of that inner light and hope within. My soul was born again, and unto peace. And with that peace which the world cannot give came keen desire to pass my hope to my fellow-men also.”

He paused an instant, and asked, “You do not catch my drift?”

“Not wholly, Magister Doctor,” replied I, following his pacings with my eyes, fascinated.

“Good, then. I will explain. God has given me some slight gifts as a preacher and teacher to stir the hearts of men. Here in Wittenberg I have, week after week, given my message, ‘not fasts, not pilgrimages, not indulgences, but the pure heart, the humble mind, will buy the way to the kingdom of heaven.’ Nay more; zealous friends have thrust upon me the honors of the doctorate. And as doctor of theology I have sworn ever to expound and defend the truth. And now what has come to pass?” He struck his hands together with his increasing passion. “Tetzel! Fox, ass, chattering ape, mountebank! I leave God to judge his soul! Task enough it is to acquit mine own. But he has come to Jüterbog, as close as he might to this my own town and people. My Wittenbergers, whom I have chided for their sins, and urged to repentance, come home to me boasting their indulgence sheets and their self-righteousness. And I know, and you Sir Graf know, and Carlstadt knows, and all honest and learned men know it is vile deceit and fiends’ villainy. And yet you and Carlstadt still cry ‘peace, peace,’ when if I should hold my peace surely the very stones would cry out to shame my unfaithfulness.”

Never in my life did I return to an argument with greater reluctance. Indeed, I own that I was mightily inclined to rejoin, “Go, then, in your sublime folly. Earn martyrdom, and some day even this world will bless you!” But I was more resolved than ever not to see an honest man ruined by his own virtues.

“Learned Doctor,” answered I, “in eloquence I cannot match you. The nobility of your preaching I do not doubt. Yet even a righteous and rightful champion does not charge in the lists rashly. Tetzel is but a cloud in the ecclesiastical firmament. The wind will scatter him. Long after his indulgences have been tattered I trust you will preach to the good folk of Wittenberg, and lead them to your way of truth. But how will you preach to ‘your Wittenbergers’ when your case comes before the stern twelve judges of the Papal Rota, after you have gone to Rome for your trial? You may never see Wittenberg and Germany more. Even martyrdom comes best, when it comes amongst one’s own people.”

Again he halted. I thought I detected the least hesitancy when he resumed his pacings.

“Behind the Rota is the Pope,” he answered. “I have heard Leo is a very kindly man.”

“Kindly? even so, as I have experienced, but his kindness is for his associates,--artists, poets, boon companions. Consider what manner of man he really is,--his experience in your manner of holiness. Tonsured when a boy of seven, too young to conceive the meaning of his sacred vows; ever immersed in worldly affairs; more concerned with French alliances than with the betterment of the Church; continually in debt, so that 500,000 ducats per year still leave him crying ‘poverty.’ Around him is a swarm of ever hungry and begging bishops and cardinals. He is full of expensive schemes, from building St Peter’s church to conquering the Duchy of Urbino. And you--reverend Doctor, will be chargeable with one great crime; namely, you have lessened His Holiness’s revenues. Deny the Blessed Trinity if you will; blaspheme the Holy Mother; call St. Paul a pagan and St. Peter a Mohammedan. All these you may do, and in the end find your lot a milder one. His Holiness will probably never pass upon your appeals. You will never find the money to bribe your way to an interview with even a powerful cardinal. The Vatican will speak once. You will be crushed.”

“Do not exaggerate,” interposed the friar, I thought somewhat quailing at my onset. “Never will I believe the Pope is what you say. Yet even then my blast will be a mere puff on a horse-trough. Tetzel will fume a little, perhaps a few of his betters will gnaw their lips. That will be all. If I diminish his bad gains but fifty gulden, I am satisfied.”

“You forget, Magister Doctor,” I rejoined, “that behind Tetzel is his whole powerful Dominican order, who will fly as one wolf-pack against the defamer of their fellow. The Dominicans are all-potent at Rome. They never forgive an enemy.”

“And they call themselves _Christian_ friars,” he repeated bitterly, standing by the table.

“They will malign your motive, imputing it to jealousy that your own order was not given the indulgence hawking.”

“Men like Tetzel will do anything,” he assented gloomily.

“Then, my dear Doctor Luther,” I cried, resolving to strike while the iron seemed hot, “I have convinced you. The theses are unwise. Leave Tetzel to his sins. They will punish him. See--I will burn the papers in the candle.”

As I held out my hand, the packet was seized from it by force irresistible. Over me stood the friar, all transfigured by his passion.

“No!--while God rules in heaven! Let my right hand forget her cunning, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, let my poor body crumble to ashes in the flame,--but I will do that to which my Master summons me. When I set pen to paper I had not dreamed of all this you tell. But shall I be bold in the morning, and craven at nightfall? Not so. This is God’s battle. And if He must be crucified afresh, thrice blessed am I if counted worthy to suffer with Him! Some trust in chariots, and some in horses, but I will remember the name of the Lord, our God!”

The room was very still for a moment. I rose awkwardly and took my cap.

“Reverend Doctor,” I said stiffly, moving towards the door, “I leave you. I have no other arguments. I could have refuted you out of Aristotle, Plato, or Aquinas, but not out of the Psalter. And I pray one prayer--that all whereof I have warned may prove forever untrue.”

But as I was going out, he came over to me, and with a familiarity impossible to resent laid his hand with honest brotherly touch upon my shoulder.

“Oh, dear young Graf,” said he, lapsing out of Latin into Saxon; “forgive my bluntness. My heart is moved for you. Truly I fear you have been in Italy, where a ‘bon Christian,’ as they say, of our old German honesty and piety is utterly despised. Somehow your manner tells me the word and love of Christ is not the thing most precious in your sight. Oh! seek humbly for a new and better mind,--be not Italian, but German; for whether Martin Luther lives or dies, the Fatherland will have need for all brave young nobles such as you.”

How could I answer this? The whole interview had been one of strange sensations.

“Dear Doctor,” I said, with churlish simplicity, “be sure I shall remember all you say.”

* * * * *

Once back at the Steinitz mansion, the Freiherr inquired the success of my errand.

“I have failed absolutely,” I replied. “I have battered my head against a stone wall. But,” I added, “your friar Martin is the noblest fool in Germany. Doomed to be silenced, probably to be burned: I admire and honor him still!”

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Heads of the City Council.

[4] A kind of half-assistant, half disciple of a German professor.

[5] A favorite psalm of Luther’s.