‘The shadow has passed from his heart and brow,
And a deep calm filled his breast,
For the peace of God was his portion now,
And his weary soul found rest.'
NINE years have passed away, and once more there is peace for a little while in storm-tossed, battle-stained Bohemia. The third and last crusade has been hurled back, like the others, from the trampled land, by the courage and devotion of her sons. All men are talking now of a great Council to be held at Basle, where the question of the Cup may be fairly and peaceably settled. The representatives of Bohemia are to appear there, not in safety only, but with honor; a splendid, warlike band, contrasting strangely in their pomp and pride with the one poor priest who stood alone and fettered before his judges in Constance.
Sir Hubert Bohun used this interval of peace to put in execution a long-cherished design. One of his strongest characteristics was a singular tenacity of affection. In distant France there were two whom he had never ceased to love, and whose faces he longed to see once again before he died. So he set out from his Bohemian home, with a few well-armed retainers, and journeyed eastward, through Germany, and across the Rhine. His quest was for the knight and soldier, Armand de Clairville, and, for the great doctor, Jean Gerson, sometime Chancellor of Paris—if, indeed, they still lived, He found Armand first. Their meeting was a very happy one; but its story must remain untold, not because there is little to tell, but because there is, or might be, so much. For the white banner of the Maid' was floating over the fair fields of France, and it was followed to victory by no more devoted adherent than the Knight of Clairville. Armand believed in the Maid' almost as passionately as Hubert at Constance had learned to believe in John Huss, though for different reasons and in a different way. When, full of enthusiasm, he told Hubert of her visions, Hubert felt no difficulty in believing them all, provided only they were not contrary to Holy Scripture. He recognized with joy and thankfulness that his brother was a true knight, brave and loyal, only anxious to find out the path of duty and to follow it, at any cost to himself. Nor did Jocelyne—now the mother of three blooming boys and a sweet baby-girl—seek to dissuade him.
But as Hubert could not espouse the cause of the Maid' and the quarrel of France, however righteous he might think it, he left his brother to march to the relief of Orleans, and journeyed southwards to Lyons. For there, as he had been told, the Great Doctor Gerson still lived, though in retirement, with his brother, the Prior of the Celestine Monastery.
Hubert rode into Lyons on a bright afternoon in July, 1429, and repaired at once to the house of the Celestines. The Prior received him very courteously, and told him that his brother lodged in a cell of the cloisters belonging to the neighboring Church of St. Paul, and would probably at that hour be found in the church itself.
Hubert left his servants and his horses at the nearest inn, and then went to the church. There was no service going forward, but he heard voices proceeding from one of the side chapels, and followed the sound. He found the chapel filled, even crowded, with children of all ages, from boys and girls of fourteen and fifteen to lisping babes of four or five. All were speaking together, repeating something aloud in French. Then the sound died away, and there was a moment's silence, broken by a single voice, the clear, sweet treble of a little girl, which fell distinctly on his ear: ‘Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.'
There, in the midst, sat the man he sought, the Chancellor of France, the great Doctor of the Sorbonne, the light and soul of the Council of Constance. The tiny, golden-haired maiden who had just been saying her lesson sat on his knee, his hand resting on her head. The others stood around him, some in attitudes of childish inattention, but by far the greater number looking and listening eagerly, with serious, wondering eyes fixed on their teacher's face. A few little hands were stretched out, touching his person or his dress with reverent, caressing gestures. But how worn and weary was the face, how white and thin the hair! Eight-and-sixty years such as he had seen might well have counted for the fourscore whose strength is labor and sorrow. Yet the look was gentler than in days of old; and if the lines of pain were deeper than ever, there was far less of strain and perplexity, far less of the asking of unanswered questions, and the violent repression of natural instincts.
Whilst Hubert stood in the shadow, as yet unseen, Gerson spoke to the children in simple words of the love of that dear Savior who invited them to come to Him. ‘And now,' he concluded, ‘dear little ones, your lesson is over. Go to your homes in peace; but, ere you depart, kneel down and say your prayer for me.'
One and all, the children knelt, and with eyes and hands raised up to heaven repeated the simple words he had taught them—’ My God, my Creator, have pity on Thy poor servant, Gerson.'
It was well for Hubert that when they rose they still lingered lovingly for a farewell word or a look— for it went hard with him to keep back his tears. When at last all were gone, Gerson also rose to go, but so slowly, so feebly, that Hubert feared he would fall. He came forward, and, bowing reverently, offered the support of his arm. Any stranger might have done as much, and as from a stranger the old man accepted the courtesy.
They paced slowly together through the dim, shadowy church, out into the sunny cloister. Until then Gerson, who was leaning heavily on his companion, had not spoken, nor did Hubert break the silence. At last Hubert said, ‘You are doing a Christ-like work here, my lord.'
‘I am trying to bring the little ones to Christ,' he answered.
‘In whom alone we find rest unto our souls,' returned Hubert.
‘You speak as though you knew something of the spiritual life, sir knight,' said Gerson, looking at him with awakened interest. ‘But, pardon me, I have not the honor of your acquaintance. You are, I presume, a stranger here?'
‘I trust that is true of me in a twofold sense,' returned Hubert, smiling. ‘My lord in the old days used to love those words, "A stranger here," applying them to himself, as the interpretation of his own name—Gerson—"Gershom." I too, knight and layman though I am, can now also take up the prayer, "I am a stranger upon the earth, hide not Thy commandments from me."'
Gerson started, and his look showed a momentary surprise.
‘Whence learned you so much of me, sir knight?' he asked. ‘But,' he added, ‘knowing so much, I marvel that you know not also no one now calls me lord or master. I have done with earthly dignities.—This is my cell. Come in with me, I pray of you; I would gladly talk with you further.'
‘I shall weary you, my father.'
‘No man can weary me who speaks to me of our blessed Lord, and of the divine life which we have in Him.'
So Hubert entered a narrow cell, furnished in every respect like that of a monk, with a humble pallet, two or three wooden stools, a table, and a crucifix. Gerson bade his visitor be seated, and sank wearily upon a seat himself. But his joy in finding one who could sympathize with his spiritual aspirations overcame his sense of bodily fatigue. ‘Although your dress proclaims you a knight and soldier, you speak like one whom God has called to the life of contemplation,' he said.
‘Perhaps, in some small degree,' said Hubert.
‘Well, "even amongst those who are thus called there are degrees. Some are fearful and anxious, looking upon God as a most severe Judge and austere Master. These do not so much desire eternal rewards as they wish to escape eternal punishment, which even the perfect may cautiously fear.”’
At these words Hubert raised his eyes frankly and joyfully to the sad face of Gerson. He, at least, had no such fear for himself. He knew in whom he had believed, and was persuaded that He was able to keep that which he had committed to him. But he did not speak, and Gerson went on:—
“These are but the beginners; a second class there are, who advance further. These are called hirelings, seeking a recompense from God for their services, as from a most liberal king, or as from the Father of mercies and God of all consolation. These say with the prodigal, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before Thee; make me as one of Thy hired servants. These rightly behave as sons, but as sons who are conscious of having sinned."'
He paused, and Hubert spoke now.
‘The son, when he once saw the father's face, could not say, "Make me as one of thy hired servants." He could only take the kiss of peace, the robe, the ring, and the shoes.'
Gerson's dim eye brightened. Had he found indeed in this stranger knight one with whom was the secret of the Lord, and to whom He had shown His covenant? Such were not found too often, even in cloisters.
‘And having these,' he went on, with evident delight in the sympathy of the listener—'having these he would be among the perfect. "For there are a third class, fewer in number, who do not serve God after the manner of hirelings. Forgetful of service and reward, and even of paternal authority, they with more than filial mind consort with God as a friend with a friend; nay, they are knit with Him in a sweeter intimacy still, as a bride with a bridegroom: and their words are, ‘I to my Beloved, and His turning is towards me:" Whom have I in heaven but Thee, and there is none upon earth that I desire beside Thee.' My flesh and my heart faileth, but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever!" '
As he said this, with eyes upraised to heaven and voice that trembled with the utterance of what was deepest in his own heart, Hubert could no longer restrain his emotion.
Gerson perceived it, and regarded him with momentarily increasing interest. ‘Your voice and your look touch me strangely,' he said. ‘I seem to have known you long ago. Are you, perchance, some noble person who was known to me in the world, in the days of my prosperity, and who now desires to seek satisfaction, as I have done in the life of contemplation? '
‘I was known to you, my father, not as a noble person, but as a poor, obscure youth, whom long ago you saved and befriended.'
‘Whom I saved?’ repeated Gerson, not yet comprehending, though with the dawn of a new light in his dim, weary eyes.
‘Whose debt you paid for him in the Sorbonne. Oh! my father, my benefactor, do you not remember Hubert Bohun?’
‘Hubert, whom I loved—Hubert! my son Hubert!’ The old man's voice failed, and he covered his face with his hands. Hubert feared he had made himself known too suddenly. But to the old great emotions come softly, like footsteps upon moss.
Presently he stretched out his hand to Hubert, who raised it reverently to his lips. ‘For this hour,' he said, ‘I have journeyed hither from the land of my adoption. I longed sore to see my father's face again.'
‘I did not think to be so loved of any man,' said Gerson in a trembling voice. ‘Hubert, I have never ceased to pray for thee; never, since those old days in Constance—those bitter days, that have left such sad memories behind them.' He added, as if speaking to himself, ‘"Who can say, I am innocent and pure? Who will not fear the judgments of the terrible God." '
‘Those have no cause for fear,' returned Hubert gently, 'who have had the kiss of peace, the ring and the white robe.'
‘The best robe,' Gerson corrected him. ‘The white robe hath another meaning. It is the raiment of the blessed martyrs.'
At that word Hubert looked at him—earnestly, inquiringly. It was a look full of gentleness, of love; and yet one which sought to read the inmost secrets of his heart.
It was met unflinchingly, and answered fairly and frankly.
‘“That man," ' said Jean Gerson, ‘"who is put to death in hatred of justice and of truth, which he honors and defends, is worthy in the sight of God of the name of martyr, whatever be the judgment of man."'
It was enough. Hubert's heart was satisfied; the two he venerated were one at last. Jean Gerson, by these words, canonized John Huss.
A silence fell between them, but it was a silence full of peace. Gerson broke it by asking Hubert for the story of his life since their parting in Constance fourteen years before.
Hubert sketched it for him briefly, saying as little as he could of those Bohemian wars in which he had borne so distinguished a part. He had no doubt that Gerson had already heard very unjust and exaggerated reports of the violence and cruelty of the Hussites; and he feared he would attribute them, with every other evil from which the country suffered, to heresy and heretics. It was not worth while, even if there had been time and opportunity, to try to show him the truth—that the Hussites had been absolutely forced to fight in defense of their lives.
But Gerson passed over these things in silence, with a gentle forbearance that astonished Hubert. It seemed as if he did not care to blame or to condemn even manifest heretics. He made up for this silence, however, by questioning Hubert on more personal matters with evident interest. ‘A man who remains in the world does well to marry,' he said. ‘Art thou married? '
‘Yes, my father. That good knight Jean de Chlum, whom you saw in Constance, gave me the greatest treasure man ever had in his only daughter, Zedenka.'
‘I remember the Knight of Chlum. Does he yet live? '
‘Alas, no! It is now five years since that true knight and loyal friend rejoined those he loved best in the presence of his Lord. I think that, in the after-years, men will name him with the son of Saul in the Holy Scriptures as the type and mirror of the faithful friend.'
‘Belike the little children smile around thee, to console thy lady for her loss? '
‘True, my father. We have two noble boys and one sweet little maid.'
‘Tell me of them—their names, their ages? I would fain remember them in my prayers.'
‘Johan, Jan, or Jean, as we say in French—the namesake at once of the martyr of Constance and of the Knight of Chlum—is eight years old. Two years later his brother came to us, and he bears a name I shall love and honor all my life, and beyond it—Charlier Gerson.'
Gerson was deeply touched. To aged eyes tears come readily, and he could not restrain his at this proof of the undying affection of his ‘son Hubert.'
When he could speak, he said with a quivering lip, ‘It is a strange-sounding name, Charlier Gerson Bohun.'
‘English blood, Bohemian birth, and a French name,' said Hubert. ‘Even so, in the kingdom, east and west, north and south, shall meet together. But, my father, you are weary. I must leave you now to seek the rest that I see you sorely need.'
‘Come again tomorrow, in the morning. I have much, very much, to hear from thee and to tell thee, my son Hubert. My brother, the prior, will lodge thee and thy people in the monastery. Say unto him that thou art an old friend—nay, rather, a son of mine.'
‘At what hour in the morning shall I wait upon you, my father? '
‘As early as thou wilt. Too early thou canst not come. I sleep but little now.'
‘That is not well, my father.'
‘It is very well,' Gerson answered, smiling. ‘In those lonely hours "I converse with Wisdom. She visits me early in the morning, and if I am sad she comforts me!" Here is some of the fruit of my solitary labors.' He took up a manuscript which lay on the table, and showed it to Hubert. It was a commentary on the Song of Songs, which is Solomon's. ‘Only yesterday I finished it,' he said. Now I am resting, as a man may rest whose work is done.'
‘And who waits for his reward,' said Hubert.
‘I am "little anxious now,"’ said Gerson, ‘"whether concerning joy, or pain, or reward." I "have no hard or uneasy thoughts of God, as a judge who rewards or takes vengeance. What I think of Him is that He is all desirable, sweet, and mild, and most worthy of being loved, even though He should kill me." And so I think that I—even I—may say, "My Beloved to me, and I to Him." Yes, dear Hubert, it is best that thou shouldest go now. Fare thee well until the morning. As this book hath it,' he added, glancing at his manuscript with a smile, "Until the day break, and the shadows flee away." '
Early in the morning Hubert came again. He came alone, and knocked softly at the door of the cell, as the prior, who knew his brother's habits, had instructed him to do. There was no answer, so he waited a while, pacing up and down the cloister.
‘I have come too early, after all,' he thought.
After an interval he knocked again. Still no answer. ‘He was very weary last night; it is well that he should rest,' thought Hubert. ‘I will wait until the bells of St. Paul's begin to ring for matins.'
In due time the sweet-toned bells began their early chime. Then he knocked once more. As he stood at the door, waiting patiently for the answer that did not come, a monk approached him through the cloister. ‘What is the matter, sir knight?’ he inquired, after courteous greeting. ‘The chancellor hath not yet arisen,' said Hubert. ‘I do not wish to disturb him.'
‘Not yet arisen!' said the monk. ‘That is unusual. I ought to go in and arouse him, and summon him to matins. He would not wish to miss them.'
He opened the door, which was not fastened on the inside, and entered, Hubert following. All was still and silent. A dark-robed figure, with clasped hands, knelt before the cross, as if in prayer. But Hubert knew in that moment that the prayers of Jean Charlier Gerson were ended.
Silent and tearless in his sorrow, he stood beside the dead, while the stunned, bewildered monk went to tell the prior and the rest.
Whether his solitary watch was long or short Hubert never knew. Probably soon enough the little cell vas filled with awe-struck, lamenting monks, the prior at their head. Then Hubert silently withdrew. Alone with his sorrow—which was yet a sorrow full of hope and joy—he paced the cloister. One thought filled his heart—'Until the day break, and the shadows flee away.'
By-and-by the prior joined him, and they talked together of the dead, Hubert learning many things of the humility, self-abnegation, and charity which beautified the closing years of the great chancellor. The rest of the day he spent in solitude and prayer.
When evening came he went once more to the Church of St. Paul. They had laid the dead, in all reverence and honor, before the high altar, to await his final rest. The altar candles shed their soft light on the pale features, whilst the priests who were standing around chanted requiems and prayers for his soul. The raiment he loved best had been put upon him; not the chancellor's robe of state, but the humble pilgrim's garb in which he left Constance. The pilgrim's staff had been placed in his cold hand, and the pilgrim's wallet by his side. In death as in life, a stranger here,' he bore witness that he desired the better country.
Hubert drew near, very near, for the right was his; it seemed to him as if the dead was calling him to his side. He looked once more on that beloved face. Sorrow, pain, perplexity—all were gone forever now. In their stead there was peace. There was more than peace; a look of calm triumph, that look we know upon the face of our dead
‘As they did hold
Some secret—glorying.'
If they could but speak once, and tell us what it is! But in vain do we sob our hearts out in that cry. There is no voice, nor answer, until the heavens be no more.' Yet, let us be patient. We shall know their secret one day—perhaps we can guess it even now. ‘Said I not unto thee that, if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?'
As Hubert stood and gazed, the thought flashed over him that once, and once only, he had seen that look of mysterious ineffable peace upon a living face—the face of the man who stood alone amidst his enemies in the Cathedral of Constance. Accepted in one Savior, cleansed in one fountain, partaking one joy, martyr and persecutor stood together now before the throne of God. Hubert thought that to him who was the longer there, and the nearer to his Lord, the joy had perhaps been given of welcoming and leading in the new-corner. In him, too, he would see the answer—one answer at least—to his earnest prayer for those who slew him in their ignorance.
Jean Charlier Gerson, noblest son of France and of the Church, was laid to rest, according to his own desire, in the Church of St. Paul, where he had provided that bread and wine should be continually distributed in his name to the poor. Around his tomb may still be read the words he loved, and used often to repeat: ‘Repent, and believe the Gospel;’ and also his favorite motto, ‘Sursum corda’— ‘Lift up your hearts.'
Gladly do we respond to this voice from the tomb, ‘We lift them up unto the Lord.' We thank Him for all His ‘servants, departed this life in His faith and fear,' though stained by many faults, tarnished by many errors, and led by divers, oftentimes by devious, pathways, into the light and glory of His presence. It is well with them there forever.