Chapter XXIII: I Meet Abbess Theckla

Now that Rome had shown its hand, and Luther his, no man could doubt what would come to pass,--that pressure, ecclesiastical and political, would be brought upon the young Emperor Charles to consign Luther without further hearing to the fiery pains and penalties of heresy. “Rome had spoken,” and the only official duty for the secular prince was to execute the clear law of the land against the convicted misbeliever. But despite the clamors of the Papal nuncios at Aächen, where Charles was solemnly crowned, they could not for the moment have their way. The Emperor, we began to realize, was no friend of the new religion; but youth as he was, he was not so rash as to begin his reign by an act of violence that might array his subjects in armed revolt. Also the desires of Elector Frederick (to whom he largely owed his throne) were not to be waived aside.

As for Frederick, I soon heard how the olive-faced Italian nuncios were full of insolence and threatenings, when they met him at Cöln, and strove to browbeat him into giving Luther up incontinently. “The Pope,” quoth one, “can say to the Emperor, ‘Thou art a day-laborer,’ and it will be so.” And behind the Elector’s back they sneered, “we will find a way with your Duke Frederick.” But the good Elector, masterfully slow and cautious, answered mildly that _if_ Luther had written wrongfully against the Pope, he was exceeding sorry, but that as for the Bull it had been issued without any proper hearing of Luther’s cause; so let the alleged offender have a trial before ‘just, learned, pious, and unsuspected judges,’ and his fate could be considered after he was convicted.

Over these utterances of the honest Saxon the Italians were fain to gnash their teeth; but they had at hand neither armies nor lightning bolts. The heretic still warmed himself at Wittenberg. I knew Frederick had been the more confirmed in his studious inertia by his conference with the famous Erasmus. “Wherein has Luther erred?” asked the Elector. “In two great things,” replied the scholar; “he has attacked the Pope’s crown and the monks’ bellies.” Whereupon Frederick smiled and lapsed into that silence which proved so golden.

So far the Vatican had been checked by sheer passivity, but this could not last forever. In January the Diet of the Empire would meet at Worms. All the Papal influence would be used to order the destruction of Luther. There it would be settled whether the hero of Germany was to burn at the fiat of a worldly Italian; and we all girded our loins, took courage from the past, and made ready each one of us to play his part for the Cause and its champion.

Yet, in the midst of my greatest activity, riding post from Wittenberg to Brunswick, thrusting myself on ducal councillors, dictating letters to a wearied secretary, I sometimes asked myself, “What means all this to me?” What if Germany were redeemed from the shadow of Rome, a new hope dawned upon the land--what profit for myself? Had the Cause demanded a dash into battle to die on serried Swiss pikemen, I would have charged--how gladly! But to live on, to have the days of triumphant excitement pass, and the long slow years of painful upbuilding creep heavily,--what would they bring to me?

I fought away the question. I added to my Bible formulas the wise adage, “take no thought for the morrow, for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.” From Plato, Marcus Aurelius, and Plutarch I could add a score more of philosophic precepts. Often my mind recurred to my rash utterance to Moritz at the Regenstein touching his sister. Why could I not command my dreams? Even if immemorial law and custom had not made Ilsa von Blankenburg to me even as the dead, what season was this for thoughts of marrying and giving in marriage? Tradition, reason, religion, were alike against me. Was I not wedded to the Cause and that only? And yet,--I saw her almost every night.

I leave my case to be diagnosed by philosophers and deep physicians. If I was paler than when I first entered Germany, it was, heaven knew, because I had had enough concern for Dr. Martin! I was passing through Minden after a tolerably satisfactory mission to the Council of Bremen when a thing took place which set all my head aglow, and taught me how I truly stood, how under high thoughts for the Cause I harbored plenty of plain human passion.

In the square before the grave old cathedral stood the familiar pillory and gallows, and here, it being a prince-bishop’s residence, the public hangman, a villainously visaged fellow, attended by a few approving priests, was casting upon a small fire sundry pamphlets, which one of the clerics explained in a loud voice “were of that most pestilent son of the devil, the beloved of the whole host of hell, Martin Luther, etc.” A small crowd was gazing in sullen silence. The scene was not to my liking, but I had no intention of making a useless martyr of myself by interfering then, and I was watching cynically from a safe distance when I beheld a lady abbess, all in white wool and ermine, with a sweep and clatter ride up upon her tall bay palfrey, two nuns on less elegant steeds followed, with two lay serving-maids, and a few male servitors. They drew rein, and their mistress sat, evidently watching the sight with great content, as the hangman added pamphlet after pamphlet and the priest bawled out the titles. Suddenly the game, however, was rudely interrupted. Out of a side street came rushing a young man in peasant dress, a goodly cudgel waving above his head.

“O Holy God! O Holy God!” he fell to shouting. “See how these scoundrels crucify Thy word afresh! They are worse than the Jews, for they take Thy name in vain! At them, Christians--avenge the pious books the black crows try to burn!”

And thereat with all the valor of fanaticism and youth, he leaped straight up on the pillory, and I saw his staff dash down on the shaven crown of a protesting priest with a thwack that sent the cleric spinning. In a twinkling the gaping crowd of lazy apprentices, hucksters, and guild journeymen was changed into a bawling, infuriate mob, casting itself upon clerks and hangman, stamping out the fire, calling for “ropes for the crows’ necks,” and howling all manner of curses. So much can one spark explode, if only the train is ready! A handful of halberdiers came running from the neighboring Rathaus to avenge outraged authority, but in the melée their weapons were mostly wrested from them, while forth from every tall timber house near the square swarmed men with pikes and boys with cudgels, to swell the mob.

I was beholding all, with inward blessings for the rioters, when my eye lit upon the lady abbess. In the tumult her horse had became restive. She was separated from her followers, and sorely tested to retain the control of her palfrey, when I saw a rascally looking apprentice pounce at her bridle.

“A prize, comrades! Not a black crow, but a white one--ei!”

His dirty fingers closed over her ermine cloak. The brooch held it. He was actually tearing it from her shoulders, despite her struggles and screams, when I felled him with a sweeping blow from the flat of my sword. He rose with execrations, called to his mates, and some of them might rashly have assailed even a ritter with his weapon ready, when the sight of Adolf and two other burly Regensteiners at my back made them one and all slink away.

“With your pardon, Reverend Abbess,” I said, “I will extricate you from this outrageous tumult.” And then I shouted, during a lull, to the rioters, “Hearken, good folk, broken heads and foul oaths do not make honest Christians! Your furious zeal does Dr. Luther little honor! I am sure these worthy priests are sorry they ever lit the bonfire. Now let them go, and do all things peaceably.”

The less heated contestants dropped their arms instantly, the more angry glowered a moment, then were fain to imitate. The priests and halberdiers improved the chance to flee to the Rathaus and bar the door. The original champion of Luther drew the charred papers out of the fire and held them up reverently before all the people. Then he began to chant Hutten’s bitter poem on the commandment to burn Luther’s books.

“Here, Lord, Thy holy words they burn;
Thy teachings pure they from them spurn;
Here are Thy precepts thrust aside,
And license given to vice and pride.”

At the end of every couplet the folk answered with a yell. A procession began to organize to course the town, and I knew there would be more rioting and an anxious hour for His Grace the prince-bishop ere the day was over. My business was to conduct the abbess to a place of safety.

“Reverend lady,” I began again, “this is likely to be a blustering day on the streets, but my inn is near and I have stout fellows to guard us. Suffer me therefore--”

I drew off my cap in salutation, and simultaneously she thrust back her displaced coif. For the first time our eyes met fairly. I was addressing Abbess Theckla of Quedlinburg....

The blood went up to her pale cheeks; I am sure I flushed also. Fortunately the existing tumult was sufficient excuse for scanty conversation.

“Here is no pleasant spot for exchanging civilities,” I remarked, as coolly as I might; “at the inn we can discourse more comfortably.”

She twitched an instant at her bridle, but the mob began to howl again, whilst their self-appointed leader read forth from the charred sheets one of Luther’s especially vehement denunciations of Popery. Pride capitulated before obvious prudence.

“Wolves!” she muttered through her white teeth. She suffered me to lead her palfrey. My men walked beside the horses of her retinue. Adolf’s flail-like sword clattered on the cobbles in a way that warned against molesting us. We were soon at the _Goldene Krone_, where mine host relieved, came running to greet me, “fearful lest his Lordship had been murdered in the brawling.” We were soon behind good bolts and bars, and though we heard shouting later, and a couple of arquebuse shots, the inn servants brought in tidings that the tumult was quieting before a vigorous demonstration by the bishop’s guards, and that nobody had really perished. As for the strange leader of the riot, he had vanished down a side street, and none could catch him.

“One of the innumerable hawkers of Luther’s pamphlets, no doubt,” quoth the host, with a shake of his head, “oh! such times. The whole town by the ears over a few sheets of paper. Men get so excited crying ‘Luther’ and ‘Leo’ over their cups, they forget the need of a second flagon. Ruin to all good business!”

By the time the outbreak had quieted it was far too late for the abbess to continue to Hanover for the night,--she being on journey homeward, her maids explained, from Osnabrück, where there had been a meeting of her order. The host placed at her disposal the rooms which I had taken, and I confess to a little sinful delight at putting Her Reverence under an increased obligation. Ever coldly precise, the abbess ere retiring deigned to say a few words of formal thanks for my double service.

“But, gracious and holy Lady,” said I, with my best bow, “I have vast pleasure in befriending the near kinswoman of my dear comrade Graf Moritz von Blankenburg.”

The abbess’s pink and white face colored again. In a tone as monotonous as a slow chill river she answered me.

“I am indeed grateful. I would ill requite your present courtesy, my Lord Graf von Regenstein, by speaking of other days, and indeed since now that lady you once called Ilsa von Blankenburg is become a blessed bride of Christ, I can think of no reason why I should not accept your gallantry with all thanks; and yet--”

She hesitated, eying me deliberately, as if asking me to draw her disapproval, and I complied not unwillingly.

“I am awaiting your Reverence’s opinion.”

“The Graf von Regenstein will not grow angry if I say I would have my nephew and himself less intimate friends. I have heard the reports of your life at Rome and Palaestro. I know of your connection with that Cardinal of Forli, one of the few, the _very_ few churchmen whom His Holiness in excess of benignity allows to disgrace his sacred calling. I am not unaware how you sought to frustrate my pious wish, and turn my niece away from the convent to your own most sinful life. Nevertheless, inasmuch as it was your own action, Sir Graf, which at last overcame her hesitation and drove her into our blessed retreat, again I can do nothing else than thank you.”

Had she been a man, I would have felled her to the floor with my knotted fist; as it was, I simply bit my tongue for an instant, then asked in a voice that possibly shook a little, “Whether the Lady Ilsa was now exceeding happy in her new life?”

“She is happy with that happiness which the world cannot give. Our Holy Mother the Church has received her into her bosom. She is possessed by a peace and joy which I fear you, Sir Graf, can never know.”

I was tempted to question the abbess touching her opinion of Luther. It would have provoked a lively volley. But _cui bono_? He who argues with a woman has surely one arm tied. I only bowed again, very low, and wished her Ladyship a restful night. It was still too early to think of retiring myself, and I amused myself in the great room of the inn with a bottle of tolerable Hochheimer, and reading “The Soul’s Vegetable Garden,” by Dietrich Koelds, a little book of pious meditation, much in acceptance in North Germany,--not very brisk company, but all I could find, and better than my own unruly thoughts. I was just yawning for the seventh time, when I saw a woman standing before me, a young peasant woman, with a comely blond face. I recognized her as one of the lay servitors of the abbess.

“Sir,” she asked, “are you the Graf von Regenstein?” I nodded.

“Then, sir,” with a quick look about (the room was now nearly empty), “will you graciously listen to me, if I tell you somewhat of Sister Ilsa?”

I fear I almost dropped the book, my lips surely twitched when I bade her, “Say on.”

“Oh! Sir Graf, she is most miserable and unhappy.”

“Why do you come to tell me that?”

“You do not understand. I am Trude, the daughter of that Gunter of the Brook, whose life your Lordship spared. He went to me on your behalf, but ere his return to the Regenstein your Lordship had departed. Now I will tell you.”

“Do you know this ‘Sister’ Ilsa?” I asked, eying her keenly.

“Well indeed. She has little to do with most of the nuns and serving women, but one day I ran a knife into my hand while in the kitchen. It was most terrible. She bandaged and nursed me. The rest neglected ‘the outlaw’s daughter.’ She did not. Oh! her heart is tender and good as Our Blessed Lady’s. Once I asked her why she, the abbess’s niece and perhaps abbess herself some day, was so kindly to me, a poor wench, whose father was disgraced. ‘Ah! Trude,’ said she, with a laugh I did not like, ‘I shall never be abbess of Quedlinburg. I am not a saint like Aunt Theckla. Sometimes I think I have no vocation. That being so, I try to be as kind as I can to everybody, just to stop thinking.’ Your Lordship attends and is interested?”

“I am interested. Go on. Tell only the truth, however, or your father, and you, too, are forever undone.”

“That was some time since. We have grown even closer friends now, more than perhaps is fitting, seeing I am peasant and she a great lady; but she would have it so. The nuns complain she has little to do with most of them. She takes no interest in distilling medicines or in their endless needle work. She almost never complains herself, but oh! my Lord Graf, she is most unhappy. Once she made to me a kind of confession.”

“What was it?”

“Once she said, ‘Trude, no one should ever enter the convent unless she is very sure of her vocation. I know a nun here in Quedlinburg, who took the vows to ransom her father’s soul, he being dead, and her lover’s, he being still alive, but very sinful. Now she knows it is no prayer nor deed of hers that can ever avail for either, but only the loving mercy of God. She has no vocation for the convent; but the vows are taken. Pray God, Trude, there be not many other women in her state.’”

“This is indeed sad, my lass,” I said, I hope with well affected indifference, “but whence came this strange notion of hers that it is ‘the mercy of God’ which alone will save a soul? Surely the nuns are not taught that?”

“I am not sure, Sir,” she answered, “but I think Sister Ilsa has bought some of Dr. Luther’s books when she has gone down to the market in Quedlinburg. Once I saw her with a printed pamphlet. She hid it in her dress very quickly when an old nun passed by, and whispered ‘She must not see that, Trude, or Aunt Theckla will rage terribly.’”

“The nuns have been forbidden to read Dr. Luther’s books, then?” I inquired.

“Of course, by the abbess; but all the younger nuns are reading them. They hardly dare to confess it one to another, much less to the chaplain. They say Luther writes wonderfully well, although the abbess says ‘his inspiration is of the devil.’ But I am only a poor, unlettered girl, and cannot judge.”

Here the clock thundered out a late hour, and I told Trude to depart, first putting three silver gulden in her hand, and promising her as many more if I could see her again very early in the morning, before her mistress set forth for Hanover. As for myself, I tossed on my feather beds all night.

“She has no vocation for the convent, but the vows are taken.” The trumpeters of hell seemed dinning the words through my head unceasingly.