Part One
It was St. Andrew’s day, of the year 1525, that, with a heavy heart, I left the town hall where, in a harsh way, the burgomaster had just informed me that the bishop had ordered that I should leave the rectory and church of Hanau within three days, and deliver them over to a Roman Catholic priest.
In the street, my good parishioners were awaiting me. They surrounded me sorrowing, and asked, “Is it true, beloved pastor, that you are about to leave us?” I gave them no other answer than to bow my head, pressing their hands in silence, for I was unable to speak. My voice was choked, and I hurried to the rectory where Christina, my wife, with our child in her arms, received me pale and trembling. I pressed her to my heart, and she understood at once what it signified.
“We must leave, then, George?” she said.
“Yes, within three days.”
“To where?”
“I do not know; but let us have faith in God; He will provide.”
“Oh,” she said, sighing, “Poor and without shelter, to have to wander through the world, with this poor child, in this bitter, winter season! It is very hard!”
I was praying in my heart, asking help of Heaven; but, unable to control myself, I too burst into bitter weeping. Never before this day of trial needed I help from on high so much, for not only should I console my poor Christina, but also my beloved flock. These poor people could not understand how they were going to do without the preaching of the holy Word of God and the pure moral teaching of the gospel. All asked how it was that their pastor whom they so loved was obliged to leave his post so suddenly. But lamentation and sighing accomplish nothing, and I, almost as much cast down as they, quoted to them the words of Paul: “What mean ye to weep and to break my heart?” Then we all kneeled and prayed in humble confidence like the disciples of old. On rising I said, “The will of the Lord be done.”
Afterward, the elders and friends set themselves to deliberate over the grave question as to where we should go at such an unpropitious time; for we were poor as Job, and in all the earth had no place of refuge. The elders would have given me hospitality for the winter with the greatest pleasure, but the burgomaster had strictly forbidden it. Within three days I had to leave, with my wife and child, as was the order of the bishop.
As we were consulting together, a messenger from Lampertheim presented himself, sent by my brother and colleague John Seitz, to inform me that the bishop had ordered him also out of his parish, and that his intention was to take his wife and child to Brumath, to the house of his father-in-law, who also was a good Christian. Knowing that my Christina was an orphan, and that I had no one to entrust her to (as her relatives were all Roman Catholics, and therefore unwilling to receive her), he offered to take her and my child to Brumath, where she would find an asylum for the winter in the house of his wife’s father. Our wives thus cared for, we were to go to Strassburg together to ask the most honorable Council to employ us anew in the vineyard of the Lord. I need not say that message was to me like a ray of light from God amidst the darkness.
But the most sorrowful blow was to come from a quarter I least expected—from my beloved Christina herself. To make myself better understood, it is necessary I should go back a little in my story.
The father of Christina had been an able hunter. On one occasion, he killed a large bear. Herr Fabian of Eschenau had ordered a magnificent fur cloak to be made of it as a reward for such prowess. That cloak had been carefully kept by the family as a valuable souvenir, as if it had been a title of nobility. Not only had it been my Christina’s only legacy, but it was also her only dowry, and she was as proud of it as Nebuchadnezzar of his Babylon. It was indeed a goodly garment, and worthy of anybody’s pride; but for me, poor, and in precarious circumstances, such a garment was too luxurious; and, certainly, my flock would suspect me of vanity to see me so gorgeously appareled. So that notwithstanding Christina’s entreaties that I should wear it, if only on Lord’s days and holidays, I had persistently refused.
Christina had taken great care of this cloak in the first months of our married life, but, after our little Sergius was born, the cloak was quite forgotten.
On a very cold day, while snowing heavily, my old friend Schuch, pastor of St. Hippolitus, arrived at our house. He had preached the Word of God at that place with much blessing, and the fruit of his labor was the establishment there of Protestant worship. Having been informed of this, the Duke of Lorraine threatened the heretical city with fire and sword. To avoid such a calamity, Schuch departed for Nancy; but, seeing what awaited him, he came to see me for the last time before delivering himself up, to strengthen me in the faith of Christ. This faithful servant of God looked very thin and weak; he was but thinly clothed, and the day was raw and cold. Christina had gone down with her baby, and I did not think it advisable to consult with her then; so, I took the responsibility upon myself to lend the cloak to my friend and shield him from the cold, with this condition—that he return me the cloak from Nancy. But when he arrived there, the dear man was cast into prison, put upon the rack, and on the 20th of June, 1525, was led out to the stake, to which he went in perfect calmness, repeating the 51St psalm until the flames choked his voice and the angels carried his soul to heaven.
As for the fur cloak, I heard nothing more of it, nor could I discover its whereabouts. To me it was a gain rather than a loss, for when I learned that in Nancy my dear friend had been tortured to make him deny the faith, and that by the grace of God he had remained faithful, nobly confessing our Lord Jesus Christ, I had the sweet satisfaction in my soul that his poor martyred body had been protected by so good a cloak, and, while confined in a cold and gloomy cell, he had thought on me with gratitude and love. But Christina fully believed that her idol was safely kept in the wardrobe, where she would complacently see it from time to time, like the rich man of the Gospel with his overflowing barns. Ah, how much trial came upon me on account of that idolized fur cloak—I undoubtedly did well to lend it to that servant of God, and, in spite of the belief that it must be lost, I could not regret having loaned it to him. But I had not the courage to tell Christina, and my fear of her tears or her anger was an unpardonable weakness in me, a Christian, for which I dearly paid.
Having to depart, we began to pack our belongings. Alas, we had few things to carry, for the greater part of what we used belonged to the church. When Christina discovered the fur cloak was missing, and learned from me what had become of it, my poor wife was so angry, and so little open to reason, that all my words and patient pleading had no effect whatever. She called me a waster, a senseless father without care for my only child, depriving him of that precious garment which could have protected him from the rigors of such a winter. All my words and tender appeals were despised; she refused to listen and kept repeating that without that precious cloak we would become victims of the cold on the road. Thus were the three last days of our stay in Hanau, my beloved pastorate, days of torment to me. How my lacerated heart needed a friendly word, a loving look! but, alas, she whom God had given me for a companion, by her constant lamentations, contributed to make the burden of our misfortune many times greater. God forgive me, but those reproaches and selfish tears made me almost repent that I had loaned the cloak to my beloved friend Schuch. I would then have given anything to recover it, so as to restore the domestic peace so greatly disturbed. In suppressing that feeling of brotherly love that God had put in my heart, I surely sinned, and God had to deal with me for it.
Monday, the third of December, was the day of our sad departure. At daybreak, a rude cart drawn by two strong oxen was at our door. The snow was heavily falling; and, to protect us from it, our good conductor, Martin, had spread over the cart a piece of canvas, as an awning, with a bed of straw for Christina and little Sergius. The hour had now come to leave my beloved pastorate where, for two full years, God had enabled me to faithfully announce the gospel. Now we must say good-bye to my dear parishioners, many of them my children in Christ Jesus, who were surrounding me weeping. One brought me a gift for the journey; others, a heavy garment; others, provisions, a piece of meat and a bottle of milk for the baby.
My heart was bleeding at these partings, but Christina was mute as a statue and pale as marble when, helped by Martin, she mounted the cart. After putting her on the bed of straw and wrapping her feet in a woolen mantle that the burgomaster’s wife had sent, I put our beloved child in her arms. This seemed to arouse her as from a dream, and, casting the mantle from her, she pressed the child to her bosom and began to cry bitterly. “May God go with you, Master George,” was the farewell cry of the whole congregation, as we started off. “The Lord bless you,” I replied, too full to say one word more. In a whirlwind of snow, we started on our way under the shadow of a sorrowful and uncertain future. To calm my poor heart in its anguish I kept repeating in my heart, “He that keepeth thee will neither slumber nor sleep.”
Arriving at the Rhine, we had to wait until we could be ferried to the opposite shore: first ourselves, then the oxen and cart on a barge with the driver. The wind was piercingly cold, the snow falling heavily, and the child crying loudly. I myself trembled with cold; and, adding to my misery, Christina unceasingly complained of the lost fur cloak. At my wits’ end, and to pacify her, I put mine arm about her with the mantle she had cast away, saying, “See, Christina, our good heavenly Father has sent us this mantle in place of the cloak you are weeping so much about. You must forgive my loaning it to poor Schuch, for I did it for the Lord’s sake. Do, help me to bear our cross with patience and resignation. Do not offend God by your resentment.”
But pride had the upper hand, and without replying she tore herself from mine arms, and again burst into weeping together with our crying child. I could do no more and jumped from the cart, preferring to walk in the snow beside the ox-driver than remain with one so unreasonable.
“Dear pastor,” said Martin, “excuse my frankness. You have great talent to preach the gospel, but I see you do not know how to manage your wife.”
“How so, dear Martin?”
“Sir, when women are so ungrateful and bitter we pet them without effect. When gentleness and caresses are useless, it is necessary to act as our Lord does when He clears the atmosphere with thunder. I myself treat my Barbara very differently; when she takes it into her head to trouble me with bad temper, I make the dust fly from her back; then she does very well indeed.”
So spake friend Martin, but a voice within kept saying to me that a Christian, and above all a pastor, should never lift his hand against the companion God has given him; and the gospel commands us to “do good to them that curse you,” and that in the end “the meek shall inherit the earth.” I was weak, I confess, and like Adam, was allowing her to rule who should have obeyed.
We made a halt in the forest of Brumath to feed the oxen and make a good pot of soup for ourselves. Martin gathered wood and built a great fire. The snow had ceased, and the dense woods sheltered us from the wind. When our clothes were dried by the heat of the great fire, and its agreeable warmth had comforted our shivering bodies, we gladly partook of the nutritious soup prepared; we felt comforted, and so grateful for such goodness that we gave thanks to the Lord with all our heart. The child, soothed by the agreeable warmth, slept tranquilly on its mother’s breast, but Christina’s brow remained overcast as the winter sky above us.
“Oh, why do we make one another’s life so burdensome?” I sighed within me, and a voice within answered, “Because we are sinners; yet we must bear one another’s burdens as our divine Master bore the cross.”
Once more, we started on our journey through the newly fallen snow, making but slow progress. Night was coming on; the forest became more dark and gloomy as we went, and from time to time we heard the howling of the wolves. The darkness became so dense that Martin had to stop, not knowing the direction in which to go. Having unhitched the oxen, he started a fire again, and said to me, “Sir pastor, it is impossible to go further; we will have to remain here until daybreak. You remain here beside the cart while I go for dry wood to feed the fire, that we may not freeze nor be eaten by wolves in the night.”
Sad and disheartened, I sat by the fire. Christina was lying on the straw in the cart with the child. Only the distant howl of the savage wolves was heard. With anguished heart, I gave myself to prayer, crying to the Lord from the depths of my soul as never before, remembering that it is written in His holy Word: “Call upon Me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me.”
Suddenly, through the black forest I saw a light. Then a friendly voice cried out, “Is it you, George?” I leaped to my feet, looking from whence the voice came; and, in a few moments, was in the embrace of my dear friend Seitz. Seeing that we did not come in the evening, they had set out to seek us with two good horses and men provided with torches; and, directed by the good hand of our God, they had soon found us.
That unexpected consolation made me quite forget all that I had suffered. Christina herself jumped down from the cart, and cast herself into mine arms, crying. Between her tears and smiles, she said: “O George, I thought mine hour had come, and already saw myself and babe a sure prey of the terrible wolves.” I pressed her to my breaking heart, and cried with deepest gratitude, “The Lord be praised!”
The horses then were hitched to the cart; Seitz and myself got in with Christina, while the rest of the party from Brumath preceded us with the lights; Martin coming on with the oxen behind the cart. Going on at a good pace, we were soon at Brumath—benumbed with cold, but our hearts filled with gratitude.
My happiness, however, was to be of short duration. The wife and the father-in-law of Seitz, it is true, received us cordially, but when we were conducted to the room we were to occupy, without convenience, cold, a straw mattress and two chairs as its only furniture, Christina wept anew at the sight, complaining of our hard lot, and again of the loss of her fur cloak. So we passed the unhappy night; the constant noise of rats also contributing.
There lived in Brumath an aunt of Christina, the lady Charlotte Hequerin—a widow, rich, and without children. She called to see us the following morning, and honored me with a chilly salutation, while she soothed Christina with caresses, addressing her in most endearing terms, offering her house to her, promising to accept her as her daughter if she would dwell with her. I had not the courage to forbid her going, for I well knew that neither she nor the child could pass another night in that freezing attic room: “Where one would be ashamed to put a dog,” said the lady Charlotte ironically. Nor was I asked what I thought about it. My wife gave me to understand that she was going to live with her aunt, and to remain there till I should find better lodgings. After she had gone out with the child, Seitz said to me, “You should not have permitted her to go. Old Charlotte is a bitter Papist; she and my mother-in-law have done everything possible to perplex and turn back my good Marguerite; but thanks be to God she has remained steadfast in the faith. Now they will begin it with Christina.”
I pass swiftly over the sad week spent in Brumath. Alas, the love that “suffereth all things, that believeth all things, that hopeth all things, that endureth all things,” came nearly being wrecked in my heart. The lady Charlotte, as Seitz had foretold, knew how to press her purpose. She and Father Boniface, her confessor, made the most of my poor wife’s resentment towards me. They so instilled in her mind the fear of perdition for having married a “renegade” and “perjured priest,” that she sent this priest to inform me that she had resolved to return to the bosom of “the Holy Mother Church, out of which there was no salvation,” and that she could no longer live with me in a union cursed by Heaven; that I was not to worry about her, for her Aunt Charlotte would take her in for good, with the child (to whom the holy father had given the name of bastard), her aunt offering to adopt him also and make him her heir.
It would be impossible for me to describe what I passed through at that time. There was nothing to do but accept the chastisement of God which I felt was merited. I determined to see Christina, however. The lady Charlotte received me with glacial courtesy and gave me to understand that she could not bring Christina to me because she wished never to see me again; and, she added, it would be better for us both not to see each other again. She told me that Christina had fever, was very ill, and that the child, because of the cold it had endured, was ill also, but was improving since the mother had taken the holy resolution of renouncing a life of sin to save herself and child from the eternal pains of hell.
To dispute with lady Charlotte would have been useless. I insisted that I wished to speak with my wife herself and to see my child, but it was all in vain. She remained inflexible and threatened to denounce me before the ecclesiastical authorities as a renegade and polluted priest. With a sad heart I had to leave, having accomplished nothing. Seitz afterward visited the house and was able to see Christina. He found her with the child in her arms. She related to him, with bitter tears and sighs, the whole lesson taught her by Father Boniface, and added that the best thing I could do was to leave her in peace and not come again to see her. Her aunt coming at that moment, my good friend could say nothing to Christina, nor pass any remarks on the course she was pursuing, her aunt not leaving her one moment. He then left the house.
“My good George,” he said on his return, while pressing my hand affectionately, “it is necessary to act the man. Lay your cares in the bosom of Him who has said, ‘Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee.’ Pray for your poor blinded wife; only God can touch her heart and bring her back to the faith. Meanwhile, without wife or child, you will be freer for the service of the Lord, and I am tempted to say to you with Paul: ‘He that marrieth doeth well, and he that marrieth not doeth better.’”
I could answer nothing to my friend Seitz; I only knew that my heart is flesh, and my happiness was entirely destroyed. I read and re-read the seven penitential psalms, so well translated into the German by Luther. There alone is where I could find any consolation.
Yesterday, Martin returned from Hanau, bringing me the request of the congregation that the Council of Strassburg send them an evangelical pastor. They had learned all that had happened, and their sympathies toward me did much towards soothing my lacerated heart— “Almighty God, I was so rich in the love and hearty sympathy of my dear Hanau, so happy in the midst of my faithful flock. And now, behold me here—poor, alone and abandoned! But Thou, my dear Savior, art with me; Thou wilt give me through this sore trial Thy divine peace and consolation. If I have really sinned in binding myself in the bonds of matrimony, forgive me, for I believed I was obeying Thy holy Word and Thy sacred commandments. I cannot separate from my heart my poor Christina or my son, nor can I do anything for them. But Thou lovest them, and I place them in Thy hands; I entrust them to Thine omnipotent hands, those hands once pierced for us! Amen.”
This is the Lord ’s Day, and I have tried to improve it by writing these pages. I will give them into the hands of my friend Seitz, in order that he may keep them for my son Sergius when he comes of age, that he may know why he has lost his father. They are written also for thee, Christina, should I not see thee again in this life—for thee who doest me evil, but whom I cannot cease to love. I say Good-bye without animosity; may God bless us both! Tomorrow, Seitz and I will take our pilgrim staff and go whither God may lead us. May He grant me His grace and admit me to His heaven at the end of my course. There we shall rest from all our conflicts; there Jesus Christ Himself shall wipe all tears from our eyes in His holy glory. Amen.
Written in Brumath, December 9th, in the year of our Lord 1525, by my hand-George Wickenhauer, minister of the gospel, pastor of Hanau, Germany.
Part Two
Oh, how wonderful are the ways of the Lord! Marvelous things have happened in the four weeks since I wrote of the fur cloak and the troubles it caused me. I now wish to complete its story for the instruction of my son Sergius in after years, that he may see how through sore trials, and by their means, the Lord knows how to bless and also to comfort; for has He not given Himself the beautiful name of “the Lord, powerful, mighty, merciful, and full of pity, slow to anger and great in mercy?”
It was a beautiful winter’s morning when I set out with Seitz from Brumath; the air was pure and the sky cloudless. With oppressed hearts, we trudged over the snow—frozen so hard that it bore our weight. Like Jacob when he passed over Jordan, we had nothing but a staff in our hands. While Seitz was occupied with our future prospects, asking himself where we should be found working for the Lord, I was thinking of nothing but saying good-bye to all earthly happiness, and remembrances of the past that would never return. It appeared to me that, in losing Christina and my child, half of my heart was violently torn away; and I felt so sad and cast down that I sighed for death that I might be with the Lord. Seitz, to whom I confided my feelings, reproved me mildly, saying, “It is not in this way that God wants us to reach the heavenly country; no, this would be to enter without suffering and without conflict.” He was right—that wise and faithful friend! I had promised to have no strange gods in my life, and now I was turning my face backwards, like Lot’s wife, to Brumath where mine was. Alas for us! Our best resolutions are no better than a reed shaken with the wind. When we reached that part of the forest where Seitz had first encountered us and Christina had embraced me after our quarrel, I asked my friend to allow me to rest a while there. I seated myself upon the stone on which I had sat the night of our arrival, where I had prayed so earnestly and been so quickly heard. I wished to pray there once more; but, oppressed with anguish, I could only hide my face between my hands and give myself to tears. Seitz left me to weep while he started a little fire with the wood collected by Martin. We had been there half an hour, and the tears had alleviated my sorrowful heart; the fire was already dying out, and Seitz gave the signal to resume our journey.
Suddenly, I seemed to hear the cry of an infant, and with it the sound of hurried footsteps over the frozen snow. I listened attentively, when, through the trees, I saw the form of a woman hastening toward us. Was I in my senses? I seemed to recognize my beloved Christina! In drawing near she exclaimed, “My George, my beloved George! Oh, can you forgive me?” and, breathless, she fell at my feet.
Blessed be the God of mercy! It was not a dream; it was Christina, my Christina, who came with our child in her arms to unite herself to me once more, like the prodigal son of the parable. There she lay at my feet. I lifted her up, pressing her to my heart, never to be parted from her again.
It was one of those moments in life which are never repeated, that no pen can rightly describe, and which I shall never forget. Christina clung to me like the ivy to its chosen tree. While weeping, she said, “Oh, George, is it true that you forgive me, and consent to receive me again to your heart?”
When we were somewhat calmed, the beloved fugitive told me how the evening before, while her aunt was at church, the wife of Seitz had come to speak to her heart and conscience and told her that on the morrow I was going to leave Brumath never to return. “And,” said Christina, “when Marguerite had gone, it seemed that a mist had come over me and my heart beat violently within my breast. My conscience, whose voice I had tried in vain to drown, spoke louder and louder; my sins, like a great wall, seemed to enclose me. I remembered how I had tormented you because of that miserable cloak; how, in the midst of your misfortune and trials, I added to your sorrow, disobeying God’s express command that the woman be subject to her husband as unto the Lord. I have sinned against the Holy Spirit; but God who reads my heart knows that though I did you so much evil, I did not do it with heart intent. Vanity and anger blinded me no less than fear of my aunt and Father Boniface. But my conscience gave me not a moment’s rest, and I have come to seek you, my poor George, and here I am—Will you forgive me? Did I not at the foot of the altar promise to be yours, your faithful companion, your helpmeet? Last night, my aunt may have suspected something, for she did not allow me out of her sight the whole evening; and I had not the courage to tell her I had seen my wrong and, wished to return to my duty and to you. But, when she had retired, I attempted to flee from the house, but found the door locked. I remained awake all night and was able to confess to God freely all my sins and ask His forgiveness and help in my misfortune. My room was on the lower floor, and the window opened out into the garden; at daybreak, I wrapped our child in my mantle and climbed the garden wall. I met the sacristan who was on his way to the church to ring the morning bell, and I opened my heart to the good man, for an inward voice impelled me to confide in him. He brought me to his house, to make soup for myself, and gave me milk for our child, and his son led me by a hidden path to the woods and would have accompanied me to Wendenheim, where I was sure to find you, but I saw the fire as we came along and you by it, dearest George! And now my good, my beloved husband,” added Christina in a supplicating tone, “will you receive me again to yourself? Can you forgive me the injury and indignity I have done to you? Alas, all that I had brought with me from Hanau I had to leave in the house of my aunt, who surely will not return me anything. O George, I am a great sinner! —so to forsake you, poor and unfortunate as you are!”
“Enough! enough, my poor Christina!” I exclaimed; “I have never been richer in my life; for, by the grace of God, I have recovered the two persons I love most in the world—you and my child; I receive both to my bosom!”
“Well, very well, Frau Christina!” said Seitz. “You have found which is the good way. Pride has had the upper hand; but when there is true contrition it produces healthful repentance not to be repented of.”
After a while we resumed our march, but Christina and I, bearing our poor child, could travel but slowly and with much labor. Having no money with which to pay for lodging, we were anxious to arrive at Strassburg before night, but were compelled to stop at Wendenheim where we lodged in the house of an old friend.
Ah, we were very poor, and without resources; but I felt so happy! I faced the future with quiet confidence. What comforted me most of all was to see how resignedly Christina bore the fatigues and sufferings of the way. Instead of murmuring and lamenting as before, a peaceful smile was on her face, and when I looked at her compassionately, she gently reproved me, saying, “Truly, my beloved George, I have not merited anything else, and I bless God with all my heart because I can be once more at your side.”
As we arrived at Strassburg the next day, we questioned whither we should go, and if the Lord would open to us a door of hospitality. We decided to hunt up Master Tell, explain to him our situation, and ask his advice. On arriving at his house, Christina’s face flushed, and she remained at the door, not having the courage to enter with us. She said not a word, and with difficulty restrained her tears. To be compelled to beg, O Lord, it is so humiliating! At the threshold of the door, we were met by a beautiful young woman with eyes radiant with intelligence. It was Katherine Tell. Having asked our names, she shook hands warmly, and exclaimed, “You are welcome, brethren in the faith. I have heard our friends speak of you; you have been persecuted for the cause of Christ. You are in your own house, and our table is always at your disposal. Only,” she added, with a sweet smile, “we will be a little crowded because the house is already quite full.”
Her worthy husband immediately appeared and received us very lovingly. Whilst I answered his questions, so full of sympathy, Seitz spoke a few words with Tell’s wife concerning Christina. “Poor woman!” she exclaimed; and quickly coming down the steps, she affectionately took Sergius in her arm, and my weeping Christina by the hand and brought her in.
Oh worthy couple! God will reward you in eternity for that cordial reception accorded so graciously to three poor exiles.
I might write whole pages telling all that I saw and heard in that parsonage, and the love that was practiced there. I counted at the supper-table no less than thirty; all were fugitives and persecuted for the gospel’s sake. I at first thought that Pastor Tell must be some Croesus to be able to maintain so many people; but no, except in living faith, which works by love and can do much with little. Would to God that in my poverty I might have grace to be as rich in charity! As Tell’s house was completely filled, Seitz was appointed deacon to the Doctor Heido, and we were allotted lodgings in the ancient convent of St. Mark, which had been fitted up as a refuge for the exiles. Ah, a man needs very little to be happy! We ate there the bread of poverty, and lived in the vast convent library to which Frau Tell had sent a table, a bed, and two chairs; but on that table was my beloved Testament, with some of the works of Luther, which opened more and more my understanding to the heavenly light of the gospel.
While absorbed in such sweet study, and applying myself to the Hebrew, under the direction of Bucer, my dear Christina, as born anew, was seated at my side mending our clothes, with Sergius sleeping like a prince in a great basket in white clothing. Oh, we passed happy days within the quiet precincts of that cloister! We enjoyed sweet peace of mind, for we firmly believed that He who feeds the sparrows would take in His Fatherly hands the care of our future. Christina from the first day of our arrival had confessed her sin to Frau Tell, and this placed me in such a brilliant light, that everyone showed me a profound respect, which I did not in any way merit.
One beautiful day, there arrived in Strassburg the godfather of Christina, Herr Fabian of Eschenau, the same who had ordered that troublesome fur cloak to be made. He had heard of the persecution raised in Hanau and came to ask if I had the courage to preach the gospel in the village of Rumolsweiler, to which I readily replied in the affirmative, and with great joy. But the nobleman did not hide from me the fact that I could only count on a very small salary, because, though the majority of the inhabitants clamored for a Protestant pastor, the Catholic party was sustained by the authorities, and refused to pay a “heretical” pastor on the pretext that the income set aside for religious purposes should be reserved for the worship of the saints and for the mass. But, as there was then no one to say mass, I was promised half the income, for the authorities, though Roman Catholic, acknowledged that they had no right to deprive those who did not belong to the Romish communion of the Word of God; and the income of the community could not be reserved for an unused altar or a closed church, but for the souls of all, and that they should assist all, whatever faith they might profess.
Half the allowance, without the occasional receipts and the tithes, was a very small sum for us, so poor and almost naked. This I said to myself, with a sigh, looking at my beloved Christina and our poor little one. Christina then took my hand, drew it lovingly to her lips, and said to me with sweet voice; “By God’s help, my dear George, do not fear that we shall lack anything. You read to me this morning in the Gospel, ‘Your Father knoweth that ye have need of these things.’”
I cannot express how much those words from my dear companion moved me and rejoiced my heart. If the noble lord had not been present, I should have pressed to my heart my courageous wife. Herr Fabian himself was affected. He was silent a moment, and then said to me kindly: “Master George, ‘Who can find a courageous (virtuous) woman? for her price is far above rubies.’ Do you not see here a fulfillment of Solomon’s proverb?” He then added, with a smile, “By the by, dear lady, I hope you will always keep that fur cloak of your worthy father, and give it the care it deserves.”
On hearing this, Christina’s face flushed like a flame, and I felt myself turning pale. Herr Fabian looked at us with a searching eye, and continued in a serious tone, “It would displease me much to know it had passed into strange hands or was sold.” With an effort I then told him with some embarrassment how I had given the cloak to the martyr Schuch, and was ignorant as to what had since become of it.
The noble lord passed his hands over his eyes; then, leaning on my shoulder, said in a voice full of emotion, “You are a man according to the word of the Gospel, Master George, and I shall do all in my power to have you called to the pastorate of Rumolsweiler; for there is great need there of a messenger to tranquillize souls, and to revive the links of brotherly love.”
When he had gone out, Christina gave herself to tears, saying, “Oh, with what willingness I would have told the gentleman that it is my fault that you are so poor, for I had to leave all we possessed at my aunt’s. But, when I attempted to speak, the words seemed to choke in my throat, and I could say nothing. You, George, should have told him how I sinned against you and added to the weight of the cross you have had to bear.” “All is forgotten now, my dear Christina;” I gladly answered; “all is forgiven and washed in the blood of Christ, who has returned to me a new wife, regenerated by divine grace, and made humble and meek by repentance;”—and I pressed her to my heart.
The courage shown by that weak woman had put me to shame; I felt my faith to be very weak compared with hers, and thought on the words of the Lord, “The last shall be first, and the first last.” We then decided to accept the post at Rumolsweiler, not forgetting that many privations, many persecutions, and much suffering were possibly awaiting us there.
A few days later, one of the notables of Strassburg, an Elder in the church, gave a splendid banquet to the burgomaster, the dean of the cathedral, with all the Protestant ministers of the city. Seitz and I were also invited; but I had no desire to go, for I thought, What a figure I would cut in the midst of such an assemblage—I, a poor and ignorant village pastor, with patched clothes! But Matthew Tell and Bucer insisted that I should go; they would not listen to my excuses, saying, “It is good for the brethren to see the privations and sufferings of those who announce the Word of God.”
But my poor Christina could not bear the thought of her husband presenting himself in such a splendid company with clothes so worn and poor; and she said, “Your suit is so much patched that it has become something like Joseph’s coat of many colors, and in spite of all my willingness I must give up trying to improve it.”
On hearing this, I shook my head and said, “Enough, Christina, the old man threatens to come back to you little by little to occupy the place he once had.”
“No, my husband,” she replied, “It is not for pride that I would see you more decently dressed, but because a pastor’s dress should be according to his occupation before men and before God.” And the frank look with which she met my glance was so full of sincerity that I did at once believe her, and told her to do as she pleased in the matter. She had made me a very nice shirt with a little linen, and she had washed and ironed it with great care. But, when I came to dress myself, that shirt, so white and beautiful. made my patched suit look worse than ever.
Suddenly, the door was opened; it was Master Simon who was bringing a box from the lord of Eschenau, addressed to me. Christina opened it, and what was our surprise! In it was THE FUR CLOAK! Filled with surprise, and astonished at such a miracle of God’s goodness, we stood a good while before the open box—speechless. Finally, my wife cast herself upon my neck, weeping like a child, and murmured, “O my good George, you have forgiven me, have you not? And God has forgiven me too since He has returned the cloak I wept so much about.”
Then, taking the cloak, she put it over my shoulders, and smiling through her tears, like the sun through a shower, she said with childish joy: “It suits you so well, George, you must wear it at the banquet. I am sure the good lord of Eschenau has sent it you for this very purpose...But what is this?” she said in a frightened tone, pointing to some dark red stains on the gray lining of the cloak. “It is the farewell left me by my brother Schuch,” I said with a deep sigh, recognizing the blood of the holy martyr.
Seitz entered at that moment; he had come to accompany me to the banquet. He knew of the surprise awaiting us, and had come to be a witness of our joy. “Come, George,” he said, “and wear the cloak! Master Tell wishes to see you in this new dress, to present you to his colleagues.”
“Friend Seitz,” I said, “do you see those blood-stains? Do you think I could bring myself to wear it?”
My friend was as greatly surprised as I had been, and remained a moment contemplating this mute witness of our martyred friend’s faithfulness, by which, though dead, he seemed to be speaking to us still. Then, moved by reverence and sorrow, we prayed together before going out. It was time to go to the banquet, and we set out without any one thinking of my patched coat, and I least concerned of all.
In the street, Seitz told me that if Christina had recovered the cloak she had to thank the good Frau Tell, who had left no stone unturned to obtain possession of it. She had made inquiries in Nancy. The jailer there, like the one of Philippi, had been converted by the patience of our martyr, manifested in the midst of his sufferings by his sweetness towards his executioners and by his calm joy in the presence of death; and because of this, he, the jailer, had almost lost his position. He had promised the prisoner to send the cloak after his death to the pastor of Hanau, and was ready to do so at the first opportunity.
Katherine Tell had related all this to Herr Fabian of Eschenau, who had caused the cloak to be brought from Nancy, just in time for the banquet, without any one seeing the spots of blood we had discovered.
Arriving a little late, we found the whole company already assembled. This house, in which the company was gathered, was like a palace—at least so it appeared to me, a poor pastor accustomed to live among simple villagers. The table was set with a magnificent solid silver service, such as I had never seen before, not even in the episcopal palace in Sevennes. When Seitz and I found ourselves in such sumptuous surroundings, we remained mute and timid in the midst of it all. But the kind Master Tell saw us, and coming up to us graciously, asked me why I had not worn the fur cloak. With low voice, I told him of the reason, and I saw tears run down his cheeks as he pressed my hand warmly. Contrary to his usual custom, he remained silent during the meal, and took no part in a discussion concerning the holy supper, in which all the pastors present gave their opinion; I should have been so pleased to hear what he might have to say.
I was seated beside Master Tell at the table, who had asked this place for me of the master of the house, and this unexpected honor placed me in the most cruel embarrassment. In moving my arm the sleeve of my much worn coat became rent a little at the shoulder, and through the opening could be seen the snow-white shirt, contrasting strongly with the dark cloth of the coat. Seated as we were at the place of honor, all could see the rent when I made a move, and it seemed to me that the servants waiting on the table in rich livery, with difficulty refrained from laughing. But the noble-minded guests seemed to take no notice of it, and treated me with exceeding consideration, especially the dean, who, seated at the head of the table, frequently addressed his remarks to me.
At the dessert, the host of the banquet took a magnificent cup of chased silver, gilded within, and filled it with old Rhine wine. He told how the Emperor Maximilian had given it to the venerable Doctor Geiler, and how after his death the Doctor’s family, in view of important services rendered to the deceased, had presented it to him as an invaluable memento. Then the cup went round from one hand to another, and after putting it to their lips, all praised the magnificent work of the artist displayed in this masterpiece. Only Matthew Tell did not taste the wine, contenting himself with looking at the precious chalice.
Little by little the seriousness displayed in the venerable face of Tell appeared to communicate itself to the other guests, and when the magnificent cup, after having gone the rounds of the circle, shone in the center of the table like a Roman emperor clothed in all his glory, a profound silence reigned in that assemblage. Then Master Tell arose and expressed himself as follows: “Beloved brethren in Jesus Christ: you know the ancient legend of Saint Martin, how in the rigor of winter he passed out of his castle-gate on horse-back, and saw beside the gate an almost naked beggar, that he took his cloak from off his shoulders, tore it in two, and gave half to the beggar to cover his nakedness. You know also how that same night the Lord appeared to him, saying, ‘Thank you, Martin; what you gave to that beggar you gave to Me.’ Now listen: Saint Martin was a rich gentleman, who no doubt possessed more than one mantle, yet he gave only half to the beggar, reserving the other half for himself; but you see here seated at my side a better Martin, poor as he is modest, who blushes for his rent coat while the angels in heaven rejoice over him, for he gave his only decent cloak to our dear martyred brother Schuch to protect him from the cold of his dungeon, and reserved for himself nothing but this rent coat at the time he was exiled from Hanau with his wife and child for Christ’s sake and the gospel’s in the depths of winter.”
Master Tell then went on to tell the whole story of the fur cloak, without making any reference whatever to Christina. As for myself, I was so abashed that it seemed as if a haze was before mine eyes and a heavy weight pressed upon my head, making the banquet hall turn round and round; my cheeks burned, and I knew not what to say when all those gentlemen and brethren came one after another to shake my hand and praise me for what I had done.
But I have not told the best; for after all had once more seated themselves, and silence had been restored, Master Tell again rose up to speak, and talked to us in such a way of the infinite love and mercy of Jesus Christ that one could hardly believe a poor sinner could express himself so well, and concluded by saying, “Now, if our good Savior should at this moment enter this banquet hall with His crown of thorns, with pierced hands, and His wounded side, if He should say to each one of us, ‘What art thou doing for Me?’ O beloved brethren, how ashamed we should be, and how we would lower our eyes before Him!—guests as we are at this splendid banquet, in the midst of the opulence that surrounds us, and especially in this time of affliction, when so many faithful witnesses to the truth have to contend with hunger and cold, immured in dungeons or led out to martyrdom! The venerated Geiler once said when preaching against pomp and luxury, ‘It is high time this sad waste of the patrimony of the poor should cease.’ Yes, beloved brother in Christ,” continued pastor Tell, addressing the master of the house in a tone at once of supplication and authority, “there is too much gold quietly sleeping in your house: give to the poor, satisfy the hungry, clothe the naked, offer an asylum to those exiles who have neither home nor country, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven.”
A profound silence reigned in all the gathering when the speaker sat down. Then the owner of the house arose, and taking Tell by the hand, said to him with manifest emotion: “Thanks, brother, you have opened mine eyes; I recognize my fault, and will do all that you say.” Then Capito and Bucer prayed, and we all sang with contrite hearts the song,
“My God, pour out Thy grace upon Thy servants,”
and departed to our houses, unable to speak another word, so moved were we.
The next morning, I set out for Rumolsweiler in order to arrange with the authorities for my installation. The cold was intense, my coat was very much worn, and, in spite of a secret repugnance, I had to put on the fur cloak. Christina and Frau Tell had cleaned the stains. I rebelled against what appeared to me a profanation; but presently I remembered that this very sentiment might lead me first to honor and then worship the cloak as a relic. Meanwhile, it was gradually restoring warmth to my chilled members: with it, I felt I could defy the ice and snow; and, while enjoying its benefit, with sweet melancholy I could think of the dear friend that had worn it, whose brow was now wreathed with the martyr’s crown.
At Rumolsweiler, a contract in due form was presented to me, made out by the lord of Eschenau, which guaranteed me half the income of the parish, and it was agreed I should take possession the first of the following January. (May God give me of His grace to keep faithful and enable me in my weakness to discharge the responsibility placed upon me.) There would be labor, no doubt, and the authorities of the town gave me to understand that I could expect little from them. But there is great thirst for the Word of God in the congregation, as I could see when the elders of the church were presented to me. For this, with the help of God, I wished to begin work at once. But I confess that I felt some oppression in my heart when I looked upon the cold, bare walls of the parsonage, to which I was to bring nothing but the blessing of the Lord.
While returning to Strassburg, I pondered in my heart if it would not be better for Christina and the child to pass the winter in Strassburg, in the convent where we had been so comfortable, while I took possession of the place alone, and so avoid exposing the poor things to the privations which threatened them. Fool that I was, God had already blessed me more than I could ask or think, and thinking on these mercies I can but feel ashamed for my fears and lack of faith! I had promised to return to Strassburg for Christmas Eve; so I kept my word. On entering the cloister, I was met by Christina who received me radiant with joy with Frau Tell at her side. I had many questions to ask but they prevented me, and almost drew me by force to the library. I found it brightly lighted, with a beautiful Christmas tree, and round about it were presents—bedding, furniture, linen, clothing and provisions! There was nothing lacking; and there also were our household goods from Hanau, all placed in order. I looked upon it all as one in a dream. Christina did not know whether to laugh or cry, and in the excess of her joy threw herself into mine arms, then embraced Frau Tell, after which she picked up our child and raised him up on high that he might see the sparkling lights of the Christmas tree, skipping about the room with overflowing happiness.
But who could have prepared all this joy, and sent us this assistance—so unexpected that it seemed as come from heaven? Oh, first of all, it is our kind heavenly Father; He only could prepare for His children such a surprise. He had blessed the words spoken by Master Tell at the banquet. The patron of the feast had consecrated to the service of the Lord the whole of his plate, both gold and silver, and a great part of the proceeds were employed to relieve our necessities. As to the household goods from Hanau, I do not know whether the lady Charlotte had sent them of her own good will or for money; but there was nothing missing. The Lord had counted our tears and heard our secret prayers, and He will not forget to reward our benefactors, for they have the beautiful promise, “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.”
So we were ready, with a heart filled with gratitude to God and men, to take the road to my new parish, where Christina desired to do her best to be the worthy wife of an evangelical pastor, according to the mind of the Lord, and the example of Katherine Tell.
“Just see, my dear George,” she exclaimed joyfully, “this stock of flour! How many loaves I can make for those who suffer hunger, and how much soup for the sick poor! And you, my poor husband, may wear the fur cloak without remorse; it will protect you so nicely, and it has taught me to watch and pray. Only, my beloved George, as I know now that no good dwells in me, notwithstanding the good that I would do, sternly remind me if I should do the evil that I would not.”
Thus ends abruptly, but happily, the story of George Wiekenhauer and the Fur Cloak.