Oh! are not meetings in this world of change
Sadder than partings oft? '
WITHIN the walls of Pihel, in a turret-chamber with narrow lancet windows, a lady lay on a couch. She wore a loose robe of violet silk, and her beautiful chestnut hair was partially hidden by a quilted coif and hood of the same color, with long flaps. Her face was beautiful, too, with a kind of beauty which would have been rare at any time, but must have been rare exceedingly in the rough age to which she belonged, or rather in which she lived, for in every age there are anticipations of that which is to follow—flowers that bloom and fruits that ripen untimely, and are therefore apt to be fragile and short-lived. Páni Sophia z Chlum belonged to our age rather than to her own.
She was a confirmed invalid. Every feature of her pale, refined face bore the stamp of weakness and suffering. Those features in form and contour were almost perfect, and, lacking though they did the charm of health, they wore the higher charm of a deep and gentle thoughtfulness. The fact of her long-continued suffering set the lady of Chlum—the Páni— apart then, as it would be far from doing now. Then, as a rule, sick people got well—or they died. The day of life—which was usually briefer than ours—ended naturally, after a twilight seldom very tedious, in the night of death. It was a rare and exceptional thing to spend one's life in a kind of artificial twilight, shadowed and curtained in, protected from rough realities, but at the same time secluded from breezy open-air joys and excitements. Nor would such a lot have been Páni Sophia's had not the tender family affection that surrounded and guarded her really prolonged her days.
By the side of her couch stood a tall and slender girl, in a bodice of blue velvet drawn together with a silver lace, and kerchief and sleeves of the finest and whitest cambric. Her hair, chestnut, like her mother's, but of a darker shade, was crowned with the high, cumbrous, peaked head-dress peculiar to her nation. Pure and buoyant health beamed from every feature of her face, and showed itself in every movement of her graceful agile frame. Yet her likeness to her mother was unmistakable. It was a likeness such as might exist between a precious, frail exotic, with its pale, rare blossoms forced into artificial maturity, and the kindred plant, blooming freely in congenial soil, fed by the sunshine and nourished by the dew into full and luxuriant, because truly natural, life. Moreover, the girl's face had in it a hint of her father's, though rather in expression than in feature. There was something of his strength in the ample forehead and the firm outline of the well-formed mouth.
The lady lay supported by cushions, one thin hand pressed upon her heart, the other playing nervously with a tassel of her robe. Her pale face was flushed—perhaps with fever, perhaps only with excitement.
‘Art sure all is ready, Zedenka?' she asked. ‘Have the bower women seen well to the chambers? Especially Vaclav's. Poor child! he will need to be comfortable now; Heaven knows how he has been faring all this time! And is everything duly prepared for the new esquire? '
‘Mother, I have just set the last stitch in the embroidery of his surcoat. I could not trust it to Ofka or Maria, they are not skilled enough in the digging. And, indeed, I am glad to do it for him, since he saved Vaclav's life.'
‘Aninka will lighten thy labors with the needle.'
‘No doubt she will, dear mother. Still, I wish we had not proposed her coming with my father; I fear he will scarce like it.'
‘My child, he is always so good to thy poor weak mother that he will only need to hear she wished it. And when we tell him all the story, he will be glad to receive her. He will see that we could not leave the poor forlorn, motherless girl to the care of that most unfatherly of fathers. If we did, I think the Master might say to us one day: "Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these."'
‘True, dear mother, and she is "one of these," I verily believe. She talks not much; but I think her good mother's lessons have not been forgotten, and that she loves the Holy Gospel. I know she is, like her mother, true Bohemian to the heart.'
The Páni smiled. ‘I believe it comes never into thy thoughts, Zedenka, that thine own mother is of German race.' Why should it, when she is of Bohemian heart?’ asked Zedenka, kissing the thin white hand. ‘Mother, you are the best Bohemian of us all—and so thinks my father too. "Learn religion of thy mother, Zedenka," was almost his last word to me ere we parted a year ago. Ah, what a long, long year! Thank God, it is over now. Think, mother, in one short hour, or two at the most, they will be with us! '
The hand which lay upon the throbbing heart moved quickly with a nervous quiver, the flush on the worn features deepened. To the weak, great joy can never come unmixed with pain. There was a pause; then, as if with a sudden impulse, the Páni took her daughter's hand in hers. ‘Dear heart,' she said, ‘thou art thy father's child—like him, and dear to him as the light of his eyes. I say to thee now, ere he comes, do not grieve overmuch, do not lose faith or hope for him if, at this sad home-coming, thou dost find him amazed and sorrowful—if even, haply, his trust in God should be sore shaken. Remember what he has seen and suffered in Constance. If his feet are almost gone, and his treadings have well-nigh slipt, can we wonder at it? It is not for us to judge; it is only for us to pray.'
‘Surely, mother. And yet I think not to find my brave father amazed and sorrowful. Rather I trove that tomorrow morning he will be counting up our pikes and cross-bows, and having every sword whetted, and every hauberk burnished well. For it is our country—our Bohemia—which has been outraged by the crime of Constance. And for these things women weep, but men fight.'
‘God forbid!’ said the Páni with a shudder. ‘Zedenka, such words are not good to speak. Thou knowest who hath said, "Vengeance is mine, I will repay!" But leave me now, dear child. I would spend the time until they come in prayer. God grant I may be strong enough to go and meet thy father at the gate! '
‘Yes; rest while thou canst, dear mother. Meanwhile, I will go and see to the setting forth of the rear-supper myself. My father likes a boar's head better than aught else, and so does Václav; but perhaps the young French gentleman may find the venison pasty mire to his taste.'
‘I leave all to thee, my daughter. Thy skill in these matters is ever good.'
When left alone the lady of Pihel was too much agitated to pray—she thought. Her mind wandered back unawares to the scenes and surroundings of her youth. The daughter of a Bavarian noble, high in court favor, she had received the same name as the infant Princess Sophia, on the understanding that the children, as they grew, were to be friends and companions. They became even more—they loved one another like true sisters. When—to the everlasting disgrace of those who should have been her natural protectors—the fair young Bavarian princess was given in marriage to King Wenzel of Bohemia, Sophia bore her company to her new home. But what a home for a young and innocent girl! Never—and this indeed is much to say—never did royal crown shadow the brow of a victim more worthy of compassion than the blameless queen of the dissolute, drunken, perhaps half-insane Wenzel of Bohemia. Her devoted companion sympathized in all the sorrows of her lot, and, unwilling to leave her, rejected several eligible suitors for her hand. But when at last the Knight of Chlum laid his hand and heart at her feet, she confessed that her own was won, though she knew not how or why.
Her married life was very happy. Her lord, like the Douglas of old, was tender and true, and often did she contrast her own favored lot with the sorrowful fate of her beloved queen. But when Chlum followed Sigismund to the Venetian war, she gladly returned—with her young daughter Zedenka, and her two baby boys, Johan and Václav—to the court of the queen, who found much solace in her company.
Queen Sophia had then a new confessor, who was exercising a remarkable influence over her. When the lady of Pihel saw him first, she did not credit him with any exceptional sanctity. He affected no austerity of bearing, no peculiarity of dress, but wore, with grace and dignity, the handsome fur-trimmed robe of a Master of Arts, with its wide, hanging sleeves or ‘wings,' and cap edged with crimson. If he fasted often, it was certainly not so as to be seen of men. Gradually, however, she became conscious of the strange atmosphere of purity that ever surrounded Magister John Huss. She observed that he never wanted gift, benefice, or favor for himself or for any of his friends, nor indeed would he accept of anything.
He was still young—as the queen was also—but no one seemed to remember that. Not the most evil of tongues, in that most evil age, ever ventured to recall it. It is well there have been some things in the world impossible to sully or to spoil.
No slander over rested for an instant on his name, but passed without leaving a trace behind, like a breath from a polished mirror of steel. No evil word was ever spoken in his presence. Those who were doing wrong avoided him instinctively, with an awe akin to terror. It was rumored, indeed, that he had the power of reading the thoughts of all who came within a certain distance of him, and might chance to reveal them in an inconvenient manner. Yet those who were in trouble were sure to draw near to him; he seemed to find them out by a sort of freemasonry, and had a wonderful power of consoling them. The sorrowful-hearted queen was calmer, happier, stronger since she knew him.
Páni. Sophia was not slow to seek the teaching that so greatly influenced her friend. Very soon a strange thing happened to her. She ceased to think of Magister John Huss at all. For there came upon her soul, like a sunburst, the revelation of Another and a greater, even of Him who, once seen and known, hath for evermore the pre-eminence in the heart of humanity, since 'He has made it for Himself,' and it ‘is restless until it finds rest in Him.' Even the noble figure of the preacher of righteousness passed from her into shadow. Nothing remained visible but a hand, so holding a lamp that its rays illumined the cross, and the form that hung thereon. That death on Calvary, that life in heaven, realized and appropriated by faith, transfigured all life and all death for her. Henceforth she would live, not unto herself, but unto Him who loved her and gave Himself for her.
She had no thought, no dream, of any opposition to the creed or the Church of her day. She and those around her who felt as she did, thought that they had now first learned the Church's real meaning, and belonged to her more truly than ever. She knew that wicked men called Magister John Huss a heretic; but she was sure it was only because he reproved their evil deeds, and because he exhorted everyone not to trust in rites and ceremonies, but to believe in God— the Father, the Son, and the Spirit—with their whole heart, and mind, and strength.
She began to evidence her faith in works of charity and mercy, as did many others at the same time and under the same influence. In this new and happy life the time went quickly by, until the return of her lord summoned her home. She left her little daughter Zedenka behind her in Prague. Even before the time of Huss, his chapel of Bethlehem had been a center of Christian activity. The evangelical preaching of Stephen of Kolin, and of Conrad Waldhauser, and the self-denying labors of Milic amongst the poor and fallen, had already gathered around the Church of Bethlehem a band of men and women whose hearts God had touched' before Huss entered that plain ' pulpit of pine wood covered with cloth' which he was to make famous forever. Honorable women not a few ' had taken up their abode in the streets adjoining the church. They were not cloistered; for the most part they took no vows and belonged to no order. A. few of them, indeed, were beguines, but the majority were widows or single ladies of rank living on their own means. They sought and found spiritual sustenance within the walls of Bethlehem; while they spent their time and their worldly goods in works of charity under the direction of the pastor.
The pastorate of John Huss brought a large accession to this pious community. The elder ladies used to receive young girls from all parts of the country, who waited on them and shared their charitable labors, very much as their brothers did pages' service with knights of good repute, receiving in return an excellent education and a share in the religious privileges of Bethlehem. In this way Páni Sophia placed the little Zedenka with her friend Palma Oneshka, the daughter of the famous Bohemian writer and thinker, Thomas Stitny, who after her father's death had purchased the house immediately adjoining the chapel of Bethlehem. It was a great sacrifice for Páni Sophia to part with the child; but just then she was in the mood for sacrifices. It was the day of her first love, the kindness of her youth.' Everything seemed easy then.
She went home to tell what great things God had done for her, and to endeavor, by prayers, by tears, and by good works, to win others, and especially her dear lord, to share her faith. Then the first shadow fell upon her. Chlum heard her with a mixture of indulgence and of reverence. He had always looked up to her; and now she was more than ever a saint in his eyes. That was all. He thought— or she thought he did—of his dogs, his horses, his armor, his hunting—of the affairs of the royal brothers, King Sigismund and King Wenzel, who were forever quarreling-of the concerns of the peasants on his estates, to whom he was a kind, just, and considerate lord. For the rest, he went to Mass and confession, and gave of his substance to the Church, and what more had he to do with religion than that?
Once, at the earnest request of his lady, he went to Prague to see his little daughter, and to hear Magister John Huss. He came back laden with presents for the household, and full of a great triumph which the Bohemians, under the able leadership of Huss, had just obtained over the Germans, vindicating their right to their own university, and so reorganizing its constitution that henceforward Bohemians, not Germans, should rule in it. The Germans, he told the Páni, were very angry, and were leaving the city by hundreds, and —oh yes! he had heard Magister Huss, who preached a grand sermon in Bethlehem Chapel on the eve of St. Michael and All Angels; it was all, so far as he remembered, about the misdoings of the cardinals in Rome. Páni Sophia could only pray and wait, and cherish a trembling hope that perhaps, after all, her lord was not far from the kingdom of heaven.
Then came the troublous days when the angry pope fulminated an interdict against Prague on account of the presence of Huss. He could not endure that his fellow-citizens should suffer on his account; and especially that they should suffer the deprivation of the ordinances of religion. He went therefore into voluntary exile, and Chlum was one of those barons who welcomed him gladly to their castles, and gave him opportunities of preaching throughout the country. At such preachings he was always present when it was possible, saying little afterward, but zealous in the duties of hospitality and in care for the comfort of the preacher, whom he regarded with unbounded veneration, not unmixed with awe.
Whilst Huss was preaching throughout Bohemia, Chlum was summoned once more to attend Sigismund in his wars, and he served him with courage and distinction. During his absence a great grief fell upon his house. Fever visited Pihel: his elder son Johan died of it, and the Páni, who had nursed the boy devotedly to the end, was stricken down herself and brought to the gates of the grave. Her health, always fragile, never from that time fully recovered. Zedenka come home to tend her; and Magister John Huss himself, having heard of her sorrow and her sickness, journeyed to Pihel to comfort her. Perhaps it was owing to this visit that her spiritual life took a new spring, and grew and strengthened in proportion as her bodily health declined.
Her lord returned to her, but only for a brief interval. For he brought the tidings that Huss was going to Constance, and that Sigismund had personally requested him, Jan z Chlum, with two other barons of Bohemia, Duba and Latzembock, to accompany ‘the Magister,' and to guard him from all dangers, whether in Constance itself or in going and returning.
Páni Sophia was overjoyed. This surely was the answer to all her prayers. This was that salvation of the Lord she had longed and hoped to see. She did not doubt that truth would win the day at Constance, that the Magister would vindicate his doctrines triumphantly before the Council, and come back to them, not only absolved from all stain of heresy, but surrounded with a blaze of glory. Surely her lord, seeing and hearing all, would grow strong in faith, and enter joyfully the gate of that kingdom from which for so long he had not been far.
She willingly allowed her remaining boy, Václav, to go in such company to Constance, as a better training than any she could give him. She had an earnest of her reward in a little letter written from Nuremburg, for Vaclav's education had been well seen to, and he was forward for his age. It contained the important information— ‘Magister John Huss has a beautiful black horse called Rabstein, upon which he lets me ride sometimes; ' and, what was in the writer's eyes far less interesting, ‘The other day, at Piberach’ (the name being scarcely legible), 'my father made a speech to the people in German, defending the doctrines of the Magister.'
This was news indeed! That her silent lord, emphatically a man of deeds, not words, should speak in public at all was wonderful enough; that he should speak in German, a language he hated, was more wonderful still; but that he should do so in defense of doctrines which she scarcely dared to hope he comprehended, was most wonderful of all. What would she have thought had she known that Huss said, ‘He spoke better than I did,' and called him thenceforward in mild pleasantry, ‘the Doctor of Piberach?' At the end of Vaclav's letter the secretary, Mladenowie, added a few lines. Not all the deep respect of his formal ceremonious language could conceal the exultation of his soul—shared no doubt to the uttermost by his lord—at the favorable reception the Magister' met with, and the honors paid to him everywhere. His entry into Nuremburg had been a veritable triumph. Very touching and significant was the love which these Germans—purely for the sake of the truths he taught—showed to the Bohemian patriot and reformer, who might have been expected to awaken all their prejudices. And very grateful and cordial was his response. But this was too bright to last. The next letter chronicled the arrival at Constance, and tidings of evil omen followed all too quickly after. From the time she heard of the imprisonment of Huss, the life of the Páni was one long agony. Letters were few and rare, and, when they came, each seemed sadder than the last. What wonder if her faith was tried by the conduct of the Council—to her, as to others, the highest authority in the Church of Christ—and still more by the sufferings of the holiest servant of God she had ever known? She did not say it in so many words, even to herself, but she tacitly assumed that a shock which caused her faith to tremble must shiver that of her lord into fragments.
Moreover, she had many fears for his safety. Her doubts of his faith did not at all extend to his faithfulness. She was as sure as she was of her own existence that he would stand loyally by Huss—
‘In the dark prison-house,
In the terrific face of armed law,
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be.'
But at what possible cost to himself?
At last there came a letter which well-nigh broke her heart. Not from Chlum—he hardly wrote at all; Mladenowie was the writer. It told of that mournful visit to the captive in the Franciscan dungeon, of which Robert had spoken to Hubert. The whole scene rose before her. She saw the holy teacher—the man she reverenced—lying alone, forsaken of all in his hour of need, the bolts and bars of his dreary dungeon fast shut upon him. Forgotten, left to die of hunger—he who had brought the Bread of Life to thousands! No one had intended the cruelty; it was only a chance that happened to him; he was only just—forgotten. But that was the sting of it. Over and over she said to herself, ‘Not one of them—not even a sparrow—is forgotten before the Father of all. How was it, then, that He let His holiest servant be forgotten thus? '
‘Sad was the meeting, sadder yet the parting,' had Mladenowie written. She did not doubt that the next letter would tell how that noble life had gone out in silence and in darkness. No victory won, no deliverance wrought, no witness borne for God and Truth ‘in the face of the sun and the eye of light.'
But it was not so to be. Tidings that Huss was after all to be brought before the Council reached her next. Then there followed quickly the mockery of trial, the condemnation, the martyrdom. She heard the bare facts, and but little more. The last letter from Constance just mentioned the rescue of Vaclav by Hubert, and then announced the speedy return of her lord. He would avoid Prague, he said, for fear of increasing the excitement there, and ride on in all haste to Pihel to see her, as he greatly desired to do. Later, he considerately sent a messenger, saying that he and his had crossed the frontier of Bohemia, and naming the day when they might be expected at home.
There were times when she looked forward to the meeting with thrills of joy, almost too much for her feeble frame. But more often it seemed as if the joy had gone out of everything for her. Would her lord come back to her even as he had left her? What hard thoughts of God and man might there not have grown up in his heart? what doubts, what desperation almost? And how could she help him to vanquish doubt and despair, while her own was quivering with the one, and almost trembling on the brink of the other?
At least she could pray for him; and that she did, daily and hourly. But it was now no more as in days gone by, when the candle of the Lord shone upon her. Her prayer was not so much the trusting whisper of a happy, loving child, as the piteous wail of ‘An infant crying in the night, An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry.'
Now, at last, the day was come—the day of that common thing on earth, a dreaded joy. That summer evening, as she lay and listened for the approach of the travelers, the tension of her spirit grew almost unbearable, until at last it produced a degree of bodily weariness which reacted upon it, and insensibly relaxed it. Thinking passed into aimless wandering of mind, which in its turn slipped unawares into a kind of half-dream. Finally, slumber stole over her.
A short, quick bark aroused her. Her lord's favorite dog, Bralik, also a great pet of Zedenka's, had remained behind when his young mistress left the room. Now he rushed to the door—which fortunately was ajar—whined, scratched at it, dragged it open, then plunged or tumbled headlong down the narrow turret-stairs, making noise enough for a troop. There were noises in the house also—voices and hurrying footsteps. ‘They are come! ' said Rani Sophia to herself. With the strength born of excitement she arose, stood upon her feet, and hastened to the door.