Chapter XVII: Dr. Luther Gives Courage

I wrote thus to Moritz, an honest friend, but one who dwelled much on the surface of the water. I could not bring myself to write him all that had passed at Leipzig since my coming. Afterwards I heard that, despite the very cold civility which the city magistrates and Duke George had given Dr. Luther, many a candid man who had gone to the disputation friendly to Eck, came away admiring his champion’s lungs and adroitness, yet in his heart of hearts wishing well to Luther and his daring gospel. But I confess towards the close of the disputation I was thinking less and less of what the world would say of the Wittenberg friar, and more and more of what I ought to say myself. For if Dr. Luther’s gospel meant anything, it meant that I, Walter von Regenstein, had a duty towards God and man which I could neither cast upon the Church, nor annihilate by the conventionalities of pagan philosophy. For be it remembered, despite my candid endeavor now to play the German, my education was that of a child of Italy--of the Italy of the wonderful close of the wonderful fifteenth century; and almost with my nurse’s milk I had been taught a doctrine that will sound strange to my pious grandchildren, nurtured in the spirit of our glorious North German Reformation. “Assent with lips to the teachings of the Church,” spoke the doctrine, “say the appointed _Credo_, profess reverence for all holy things, never allow doubt or questioning to pass from vague inquiry into heretical action--do this, and eat, drink, be merry; enjoy all things human law does not too absolutely forbid; if, then, there be a hereafter for the soul, the Church you have served will care for it. The Church will deliver you in safety into the great Forever even as the skilful shipmaster delivers the passive freightage after the tedious voyage.”

Some of my preceptors had taught this doctrine almost in set words: all had taught it in their lives. How could a high-born youth idle in the sun before the Duomo of Florence, or drift on the shimmering Grand Canal at Venice and learn otherwise? Two things alone saved me from too implicit acquiescence in this teaching. The first was the fact that I had become too intimately acquainted with this engine of soul salvation, whilst working its many wheels at Rome. The second was an inherited spirit of independent honesty which never allowed me (at least with easy conscience) to shift a responsibility to another, or to set over myself a moral and spiritual keeper. Therefore I had of late years been a pagan in private thought, not from any inherent tendency to deliberate atheism, but because while tacitly repudiating the right of the Church to think for me, I had sluggishly refused to think for myself. But now had come on my scene two beings--Luther, Ilsa. And the eyes of my soul saw how differently!

Touching Ilsa I say merely this. In Italy I had drifted from one dubious amour to another after the fashion of my rank and age. My connection with Marianna had been the last, the most enduring, because the Cardinal’s daughter had possessed the most to offer in keen intelligence, and a penetrating wit that passed far beyond ordinary charm and vivacity. Of my mother’s sex I had formed a painfully low moral estimate. In Ilsa I had seen an attractive girl, physically comely and naïvely interesting. When I had broken with Marianna it had been the most natural thing in the world for me to conclude that it was time for me to marry, that the season of sowing tares was over, and that I needed a dignified and congenial countess. Such surely would prove Ilsa. But the manner of her refusal had stirred me to the depths of my being. For the first time I realized how infinitely lifted above a commonplace man a high-minded and truly good woman might be: what strength, uplift, nay, stretching towards the God-like, might come from her unselfish companionship; how, in brief, my soul craved, not a suitable consort, but a heaven-gifted wife. It was a new experience for me. From my eyes had fallen, as it had been, scales. And in the moment of the realization of my need, I had lost the one being that I knew could satisfy it. Would ever the mercy of that heaven I had mistrusted and defied take away the pang? All--all seemed darkly hid.

Touching Luther I had thought quite as much as concerning Ilsa, albeit in a different fashion. What I said to him on the night the disputation ended will bear its own story.

* * * * *

I had refrained from thrusting myself upon Dr. Luther all through those days in Leipzig. Once when quitting the hall of disputation he had cast me a friendly smile and nod, but on the night of the 14th of July, when I found that he was on the point of returning to Wittenberg without waiting for Eck and Carlstadt to complete their last hair-splitting, I saw no need for longer hesitancy. Luther I must see, and that without delay.

He was lodged at the humble Augustinian convent on a narrow street by the Pleissenburg. A warm rain was plashing down, the darkening streets were deserted after the long summer evening. A lay brother let me in, and ran upstairs to announce my coming. I was quickly bidden to ascend, and there, in a small, whitewashed room, and again by faint candle-light, I saw the Man.

The light was faint but through it all shone his illuminating smile. Up to me with long brave steps he strode, and his hand closed tightly over mine.

“I knew you would come,” was all he said, and then made haste to pluck off my wet cloak and shake it with a zest and vigor that at another moment would have set me laughing.

“Yes, Dr. Luther,” I said quietly, “you see I am your obedient parishioner. Your letter found me in Italy; I returned to the Harzland, and now--here I am.”

He eyed me kindly but shrewdly. Both of us were anxious to speak of near, but tender, things, and it was hard to begin. So for a moment we bartered commonplaces. I complimented him upon the skill he had shown in the debate. He shrugged his shoulders in displeasure.

“We had words, words, words. _Vox et praeterea nihil._ It has been a mere loss of time, this disputation, not an honest searching after truth. For two years’ time we have been examining these doctrines of Eck: we have counted all their bones. Now comes this fellow, and he has made more outcry in one hour than we in two years.”

“Hardly that,” I returned, smiling. “I think you said somewhat concerning the Councils and the Hussites which all Germany will hear.”

“_Liebe Gott_, yes! I saw Eck’s trap, and with both eyes open walked into it. That will indeed make a cawing and rattling among the rooks and daws. But it was Heaven’s will the truth should come out. As well now as a little later--it was God’s way.”

“Cawing and rattling it will make, I promise you. I think the rattling will reëcho even in Rome. It will sound strange.”

He glanced about the room in the sly manner of a child about to whisper some naughtiness, then plucked my arm and put his face against my ear.

“Let me whisper it. The thing has been growing on me long. I have tried to resist. Now I am made certain.”

“What is it?” I demanded.

“The true name of the Pope is ‘Anti-Christ.’”

“You will proclaim this?” for even I was startled.

“When God wills. It must all come out in His time.”

I admit, as he spoke, the vision of His Holiness’s sumptuous court; the pageants of the Vatican; the innumerable Monsignori, chamberlains, ushers, cardinals; the vision of the Vicar of Peter himself enthroned beneath the triple tiara, all came before me; and against them stood the dark-robed friar in the whitewashed room. What equality? But I was in no mood for debating then. I had come to this friar with a burdened soul. Here, if anywhere, I must find release. In a kind of desperation I darted out upon my task.

“Doctor Martin, I am not come to talk of Eck, or Papal Powers, or of Indulgences. I am come to talk of that which is to me nearer, dearer; my own soul. I am as a man crushed under an intolerable weight. I have done that which was evil in the sight of man and God. I am full of earthly wisdom--it profits me nothing. I am rich, and nobly born. Of what avail? The meanest peasant upon my Regenstein lands can look up to heaven with better conscience than I. For he has been given little, and must repay little. And I have been given the best of the world--and how can I ever repay--” Here I know my tongue clove in my mouth, my eyes were wet. I felt a hand, firm and comforting, upon my shoulder.

“Poor lad.”

That was all; but it sent an answering thrill of warmth through all my veins. I started to fall on my knees.

“Oh, Father, Father Martin. I have not confessed these many years to a priest, but now I confess to you. Hear me, hear--”

“Never am I ‘Father’ to such as you. Call me Brother. ‘Brother Martin,’ your brother in Christ, by whose dear name we are taught to have hope in heaven. And now talk to me, Walter, talk to me even as a man talketh to his friend.”

“Walter?” So to this heretic friar I was not Graf von Regenstein, but only brother and familiar friend. The thought brought infinite joy. I stood again, and let him lead me to a hard oaken bench. And there we sat down together, his arm around my shoulders, even as my father’s had been the night before he departed to his last battle. And once started, all the tale of my youth came out. Frivolities or worse at Florence and Rome that must have vexed my companion’s very ears; the story of my career with Marianna; the circumstances of my banishment to Germany; my hour of temptation at Mainz and how I had yielded; and finally how I had quitted Palaestro, and my last sad encounter with Ilsa.

Then silence at length, after I had poured out the very dregs of my spirit. At last Dr. Martin’s deep voice answered me.

“They are very joyful in heaven this night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it not written, ‘joy shall be in heaven over one wanderer that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repentance?’”

“Ah, yes, Brother Martin, but being sorry is not being healed. You have taught me the folly of the indulgence papers that have salved so many. I am very sick.”

“Sick indeed _liebe_ Walter; and it is not easy to name the saint for your ailment. St. Antonius avails they say for swollen limbs, St. Blasius for a stiff neck; but whom save the Lord Christ for the illness of the soul.”

“You speak of Him. He is very far away and strange. Socrates I can understand, and Plato and Plotinus. I can see in divers saints of the Church examples to honor, nay imitate; but the Lord Himself--it is hard.”

Dr. Martin’s strong hand clinched.

“Oh! Rome, this is thy handiwork--the building of high bulwarks ’twixt the soul that seeks and the God that loves. Have you, Walter, ever _believed_ that you believed the formal teachings of the Church?”

“In a blind and formal way, yes. They have never entered into my life.”

My companion gave a bitter laugh.

“You remember the story told by Erasmus. A man lay dying. The devil came to him, striving to trip him into some heresy, then snatch his soul. Thus they debated, the devil asking, ‘What do you believe?’ ‘What the Church believes.’ ‘And what does the Church believe?’ ‘What I believe.’ ‘And what then _do_ you believe?’ ‘Why, what the Church believes.’--The chain seems endless. You are brought to a trackless desert, starving and without water.”

“Even so.”

“Well, then, Walter mine, a great sinner am I, but not Erasmus’s devil; so answer me. Is there nothing you truly believe in, beyond the certitude of your own wretchedness?”

“Yes, one thing. I cannot say with sincerity ‘I believe in God,’ but I can say to all the world ‘I believe in Martin Luther.’”

He withdrew his arm suddenly.

“_Absit omen!_ this must never be. Have I not burdens enough to bear, without having to play the God in your eyes?”

“It is you, Brother Martin, that have convinced me that theology is not the vilest snare ever invented to pilfer the pockets of silly men.”

“And yet you say you believe in me, though not in God. Why is that?”

“Because in you I have seen that which I would fain have God to be.”

Luther averted his face.

“Sinner I am! And yet you say this? But at length I see the light in your gropings. Not Brother Martin you reverence, but the essence of God, which shines by His Grace through me, however unworthy. This is beyond my deserts. Yet I am glad. For I see your way to happiness.”

“Tell it: ah! tell.”

“Do not fret too sorely over matters of faith and belief. Long ago it was written ‘He who will do the will, shall know the doctrine.’ Do not be over-curious as to the dark things before which human wisdom springs back baffled. Man’s reason and philosophy can teach how to build houses, to live decent and honest; nay, sometimes to achieve earthly greatness. But how man should come to God and His dear Son, and how sinful folk may be born unto eternal life,--philosophy teaches none of that. ‘The kingdom of heaven cometh not with observation.’ The knowledge comes to the open and penitent heart, by the free spirit of grace descending through God’s word.”

“But, O Brother Martin,” my speech came hard;--my whole soul seemed straining to express itself with my tongue,--“you have railed long at the hypocricies of the would-be righteous, and yet is there nothing that a needy man may do that can avail. Are pilgrimage, oblation, austerities,--all the things wherewith men of a former time have tried to turn an angry heaven,--are they now profitless forever?”

In the dim candle-light I could see him smile, while his deep voice rolled out the majestic sentences.

“Is it not written, ‘_He hath showed thee O Man, what is good. And what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God._’ And yet again, ‘_Is not this the fast that I have chosen? To loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke._’”

“If that were all. If that were all.” I kept repeating, my head still burning, “but the Church has taught so long--”

Luther silenced me with a commanding gesture. “Forget the Church. The builders of the Church were men--I dare say it, very fallible men. Thomas Aquinas, Albertus Magnus, Bonaventura, nay, even St. Francis and St. Dominic, had their sins as well as you and I. They can err. All men can err. Popes can err most of all. Full many of them, if their history foreshadows anything, are now in hell. Since my struggle began I have delved deep into Church history. I have found so much clay mingled with the brass and iron of the builders of the Church that I must call them weak indeed. But one thing is not of men. It is of God. It is steadfast, sure. Therefore--_read_!”

“Read what?”

“Read THE BOOK!”

“The Scriptures?”

“You have said it. Have you never read God’s Word?”

“I have read the lore of the Greeks and the Latins; of Dante, of Petrarch, and all the later Italians; nay, I have studied the ‘gay poetry’ of the troubadours of Provence. I have dipped in your Wolfram von Eschenbach and your Walter von der Vogelweide. But what you call ‘The Book’ I have not read. Once at Padua in the library I took up a Vulgate. My preceptor caught me. ‘Read it no more,’ he commanded; ‘it is a work for beggarly friars, not for signori of _virtù_. The Latin of St. Jerome is execrable. It will ruin your Ciceronian style.’ Later when I had mastered Greek, I thought of reading the New Testament in the original. Behold,--I was warned the Gospels and Epistles were without Attic idiom; I must eschew them or my taste were ruined!”

Again came Dr. Martin’s bitter laugh.

“O master counsel of the devil! Surely God is mightier than he, else this Book would long since have been destroyed--for from of old the fiend has raged against it. By a miracle it has been preserved, and it will confound the powers of darkness yet. Against this Book have raged many potentates--of Egypt, Babylon, Persia, Greece, and Rome. They are gone. The Book remains, and will remain forever and ever; for it is a fiery shield, of more substance, and purer than gold. Tried in the fire it overcomes the fury of the raging heat: and even so he who trustingly uses this shield overcomes all. He stands secure everlastingly, against all human misfortune. With this shield he fears nothing: nor death, nor hell, nor all the devils.”

Then again after a long pause he commanded, “READ!”

“I promise it.”

“Read. ‘And the Lord God will give thee light.’ Day and night, my Walter, have I sought heaven on my knees for you since that evening we talked together in Wittenberg--you and I. And now Eck, Caïetanus, the Dominicans, the Pope,--all, all are forgotten. I grow strong and bold. For heaven has given me my heart’s desire. I am given your soul, O Walter--brother, mine, mine.”

He cast his arms about me, and kissed me; we knelt down together, and he uttered a prayer for me the like whereof I had never heard, no, not in the holiest basilica in Rome. We arose and again he kissed me.

“Go back to Regenstein,” he enjoined. “Be a just lord unto your peasants. You shall answer for them to God. Care for the little children. See that the lads and maids live true and honest. Read and pray diligently, but be not over-anxious for a sudden resolving of doubts and the gift of miracles. And if in the months to come it be God’s will to work a great change on the face of Germany and all Christendom, be ready, a valiant helper, to do the deed He commands.”

“And Ilsa,” I asked at parting; “shall I crush her forever from memory?”

“Bow to God’s will,” he answered slowly. “He can bring to pass doings that may be marvellous in our eyes. All lies in His hands. Do not pry too far into the future. Let the morrow care for itself. And yet”--he hesitated as he spoke--“the day may come when even nuns’ veils, and vows, and convent walls will be as a tale that is told. For we live amid the Lord’s doings. They are marvellous in our eyes.”

And then I passed out into the warm, rainy night.

* * * * *

The next day, without waiting for Carlstadt and Eck to conclude their final arguments, Dr. Luther left Leipzig for Wittenberg. When I hear men criticize him as being harsh and uncharitable in dealing with opponents I recall one of his acts whilst in Leipzig,--how he wrote a letter of comfort and condolence to no less a person than Johann Tetzel, who lay dying in ignominy, execrated even by the Papalists, at the Dominican convent. “The matter had passed beyond him,” Luther assured the miserable indulgence vendor, “not Tetzel was the author of the great contention, but quite another, greater than he.” And so with consolation from the man he had berated, on July the 4th, while Luther was locking horns with Eck, the fellow died. Let his judgment be left with God.

I travelled with Dr. Martin back to Wittenberg. He was weary physically and mentally, and glad to be again in his quiet home cloister. On the journey I made the happy friendship of his _fidus Achates_, young Professor Melanchthon, whose classical learning nobly used was to be such a prop to Luther, such an ally to the Reformation. After a stay of some weeks at the University, amid pleasant comradeship, I did as I had been bidden--I returned to the Regenstein.