My lips were sealed, I think, by his,
To words of truth and uprightness.'
E. B.
THE gold may pass through the furnace heated seven times—it cannot remain there. The white and blinding glare, the fierce glow of its fusion, if prolonged, would mean destruction. Everything depends upon what comes after. You can take it from the furnace and pour it, all fluid and burning still, into any mold you choose, easily as a child's hand can pour water from a pitcher. But this done, it hardens, and keeps for all time the form and fashion it took when first the fire-spirit made of it a living, liquid flame.
Hubert Bohun had passed at Constance through a veritable furnace of emotion and of passion. All the beliefs of his life had been shaken to their foundation. He had broken loose from the influence of the man who had hitherto been the anchor of his soul; the Great Council had proved a most bitter disappointment; his eyes had seen the red glow of the flames kindled at its bidding to consume the witness for truth and right. But out of the anguish there came to him light and hope. God had answered His martyr who appealed to Him ' in the joy of his heart.' That joy was reflected upon Hubert. He was as one who stood on the holy mount, and saw the glory of the Transfigured.
But what was to come after? The faith might last, and the peace, perhaps even the joy; the mood of exaltation could not. What would the return to common life—with its tasks, its trials, its temptations, even its pleasures and amusements—mean for Hubert?
It was well for him that the mold into which the metal was poured was—a home. Since the gentle lady of Clairville gave her last kiss to her little son, Hubert had never known a home. His first experience of life had been the hard discipline of the monastery—punishment, rebellion, then punishment again; and an entire absence of sympathy—not to speak of love, for which he pined immeasurably in secrecy and silence, never expecting to find it.
Then came the boundless license of the Sorbonne: the wild freedom; the sense of young, vigorous life, overflowing in all manner of doing and daring; the fiery joys of conflict and victory—over wolves, over Cabochiens, over Doctors of the School, all the same to him, if only he might let loose his energies. But though he drank wine and changed jests fairly enough with his wild fellow-students in hall or cellar, these were as little like home as the refectory of the hated monastery.
The great chancellor found him just at the crisis when the reckless boy was changing into the lawless youth. He saved him from gross evil; to him Hubert owed the inestimable blessing of an early manhood without a serious stain. Yet the austere gravity of the chancellor's household, though it trained and fostered a pure and lofty character, was certainly not home-like.
In the age of chivalry, manners were considered of supreme importance; and as in new surroundings little outward things are usually the first to impress us, Hubert's deficiencies were brought home to him through these before there was time for other influences to be felt. He was painfully conscious that he had never been instructed—like his brother—in the behavior and the observances due to ladies. He had a comfortable impression from the first that the Lady Sophia—the Páni, as she was called—would be kind to him, and judge him leniently as a poor scholar, unused to the ways of chivalry. But he stood much in awe of the Pánna—the Lady Zedenka. Her presence confused and embarrassed him, while at the same time he could never forget it. She did not often speak to him; but occasionally, in compassion for the stranger, when everyone round him was talking rapid Czech, she addressed to him a few commonplace words in German, and then he found it difficult to answer her.
His duties as squire included some slight attendance on the ladies, and one day at table, when he served her with bread, she said to him, ‘Our dark rye bread must seem strange to you, after your white and delicate Parisian boules, which we have heard of from travelers in France.'
Half inaudibly Hubert murmured something, ending with ‘Very good.'
‘No doubt the French rolls were very good,' she answered, affecting rather mischievously to misunderstand him.
Hubert, roused to say something, said too much, as shy people are apt to do. ‘Were they good or were they otherwise, Palma, I know not, for they came never in my way. At the chancellor's table—save on festival days—we ate good black bread, and gave God thanks for the same. Moreover, we fasted often—much oftener than you do here.' Here he stopped, overwhelmed with confusion at the thought that he seemed to be reflecting upon his hosts. By way of mending his mistake he capped it with another.
‘But then, of course, the chancellor was religious.'
‘I don't know about religion, or about fasting,' broke in Václav. ‘Except it be a kind of fasting to drink ale instead of wine, which we do now, save on feast days, the wine being kept for the sick.'
For once Hubert answered well; ‘Bad wine, such as we often had at Constance, was not half so good as this excellent ale. May I fill thy cup with it, Pane?'
‘So do—but call me Vaclav, not Panec̆, else I will break thy head presently in the tilting field.'
Vaclav had formed for Hubert one of the boyish passions common to his age, and compounded of intense admiration for a senior and true camaraderie with an equal. At first, too, he enjoyed the pleasure of patronizing him a little. The knight's son, at twelve, had already made considerable progress in knightly feats and exercises. He could fence a little; he could tilt at the ring; he could strike the ‘quintain ' deftly, and avoid the avenging blow of the sandbag with which it was weighted; he could manage his steed with ease and grace. All these valuable accomplishments, except the last, Hubert had to learn from the beginning. But he seemed to learn them by magic. So brilliant was his progress, that he soon bade fair to surpass Václav. When asked if he had been ever taught before, he answered, ‘My teachers were the Cabochiens in Paris. They taught me to keep a quick eye and a ready band, on pain of getting a shrewd blow—and the rest comes easily.'
The grave face of Chlum used to relax into a smile of satisfaction as he watched the two lads while they did their exercises in the courtyard of the castle; and grave enough, in spite of the joy of re-union with his family, was the good knight of Pihel, after his return from Constance. He found himself deep in debt, and with his affairs in much confusion. He knew not how to unravel or to set them straight; and he had no competent assistance, for his steward was illiterate, and his secretary, Mladenowic̆, was in Constance. He was even at this time without a chaplain. The priest who served him formerly, and who continued at Pihel during his absence, had shown tendencies opposed to the teachings of Huss. Consequently his services were dispensed with; and at present the household attended Mass and confession in the church of the neighboring hamlet, though this arrangement left what Vaclav called a lack of learning at home. But it is to be feared that the lack of gold and silver was more evident and more painfully felt.
Yet this lack was not Chlum's greatest sorrow. All around were mourning the martyr of Constance, as pastor, patriot leader, father in the faith of Christ. He mourned him far otherwise. The knight of that age was accustomed to choose another knight as comrade or brother-in-arms, to be loved with more than a brother's love, and defended with a fidelity which was held to supersede even the claims of parent, wife, or child. Such a brother-in-arms Chlum had never found, but he was destined to find much more in the priest whom his sovereign committed to his care. The long journey to Constance threw him into most intimate and close association with him. Afterward they spent three weeks together in a narrow lodging in the crowded city. ‘There is no one with me in the house but the lord of Chlum,' wrote Huss; and we wonder what spell kept the gallant knight by the churchman's side while the festive city teemed with attractions which his companions, Duba and Latzembock, evidently did not disdain.
Nor in this friendship was there one who loved and one who was loved.' It was not gratitude alone which made Huss write of Chlum as my best and dearest friend, my other self.' They who bring most to other souls find most in them. It is clear that Huss found in that strong, silent soul of Chlum's something that responded to his own.
Chlum's transport of indignation at the treacherous arrest of his friend burst the bonds of his silence and made him eloquent. He hurled his fearless remonstrance in the face of the wicked pope; he hurried with appeal and expostulation from cardinal to cardinal; to be put off civilly by some, repulsed coldly by others, denied access to the rest. He even appealed to the populace, but the enemies of Huss had been beforehand with him, and he was mocked and insulted. Then he wrote his solemn protest, signed it with his name, and sealed it with his seal. Taking in his own hand the hammer and the nails, he went forth in the sight of all, and nailed a copy of it to the door of every church in Constance.
There followed for him seven months of conflict, of indignant pleading, with Kaiser and with Council, the cause of the oppressed. During that time notes and letters passed to and fro, though with difficulty and danger, between the captive and his friends. Those words from the prison, written sometimes on torn fragments of paper, often in bodily weakness and pain, quickened faith, sustained hope, and deepened love.
But deeper and deeper still the shadows fell. That day when, with Duba, Latzembock, and Petr, he saw his suffering friend in the Franciscan dungeon, filled up the measure of his indignant passion. Then, like the others, he lifted up his hands to heaven, and with tears that did not shame his manhood prayed God to give him one day the power to avenge the cruelty.
He had still much to learn. The Great Teacher taught him, by letting him stand by, and look and listen, while a scholar more advanced than he made perfect proof of his scholarship. He did not turn aside the ear, nor refuse to learn even the hardest lesson of all—the lesson of forgiveness. But it cost him dear. When he returned on the sixth of July from the field of the Brühl, he knew that the battle was over, and the victory won, and he gave thanks to God for his friend. But he knew also that the best part of his own life was laid in ashes by that fire. ‘His work was done;’ as the Scotch say, ‘His weird was won.'
He returned home to find the affairs of the country in confusion, and his own scarcely less so. Everything seemed without savor, without interest to him. It was no wonder, perhaps, that the narrow life of an impoverished baron at Pihel seemed little worth after the strong excitements of Constance. In spite of the solace he found in the company of his wife and daughter, the good knight sighed often, and looked gloomy and abstracted.
One day, soon after his return, he came into the stable as Hubert's willing hands were adding a fresh luster to the glossy coat of Rabstein. It was part of a squire's duty to learn these offices, and Hubert loved to perform them for Master John's favorite horse, ‘My Rabstein, who surpasses all the rest in spirit and endurance.'
Rabstein knew the footstep of his lord, and neighed his welcome. Chlum patted his arched neck, remarking to Hubert that he looked better than ever. ‘Hussenec̆,' he added, ‘would fain buy him from me at any price. But only death shall part Rabstein and me. Hussenec̆ would take my son too, as well as my horse; and it would be a good thing for the boy, as he would give him the best of education. Still —I doubt—'
‘Sir knight, may I crave a boon of you?' asked Hubert as he paused.
‘Ay, marry, as many as thou wilt. But my power to grant them may not be equal to my will.'
‘This is within your power, sir knight. Will you let me instruct Vaclav, with such small skill as I possess, in his Humanities? He is a very apprehensive boy, and quick of wit; pity 'tis he should be idle.'
Chlum stroked his beard. "Tis a kind thought of thine, Hubert,' he said.
'Tis my pleasure, sir knight, and Vaclav being somewhat fond of me, will learn the more readily.'
‘In truth, I know not what to do with priest Sbynek gone from us, and no loss either. I can't send the lad from his mother just now, and so, Master Hubert—since thou art so good. But remember, he must behave himself. Should he fail to learn his Latin, do thou drive it well into him with good stout stick.'
Hubert laughed. ‘I shall want no stick for Václav,' he said. ‘My only fear is of another kind. You may apprehend, perhaps, that I shall make of him a Nominalist? '
‘Make of him a—what? Dost mean a Frenchman? '
‘I mean a disciple of the philosophy we Frenchmen were taught in the Sorbonne. We were taught, as touching universal ideas, such as faith, hope, virtue, that they have no abstract existence, but that they exist only when united to their particulars.'
‘If thou canst teach him faith, hope, and virtue, he may think what he pleases about their particulars. However, I mind me now of that controversy; as, had I not been dull, I should have done at the first. Master John was a Realist, and of course he was right. But by the time Vaclav is old enough for these subtleties, I may—if my estate permits, and he shows himself studious,—send him to Prague, to keep his terms at the University. Meanwhile, Hubert, I thank thee right heartily.'
When Chlum went indoors, he sought his lady's bower. He found her alone, for her bower women were occupied elsewhere, and she had sent Zedenka to take the air, attended by her faint pale shadow, the quiet little bower maiden. Aninka's hands were deft at the needle and the distaff, but her step and voice were so rarely heard that Zedenka used to say she always spoke in a whisper and stepped on wool.
The lord of Pihel sat down beside the couch on which his lady lay. He told her of Hubert's proposal, adding that it was a great relief, for he had not known what to do about the boy's education, ‘I think God put it into his heart,' he said.
Páni Sophia felt bound to say something in reply that might strengthen the faith of her lord—that faith which she feared was so sorely shaken, if indeed it was not destroyed. Her heart beat with a mixture of hope and fear, and an earnest prayer went up to heaven ere she answered, 'He never forsakes those that trust Him. We may think it sometimes, seeing the terrible things He lets men do, and sits silent in His heaven the while. "His way is in the sea, His path in the deep waters." But He will bring all right at last. Only we must not doubt Him.'
‘Doubt Him? I, of all men, could not. For I have seen Him.'
In great surprise, she turned, and looked at him wonderingly.
‘Dost marvel, Páni that such sight was given to a dull and simple man like me? Yet, if I remember right, 'twas a Paynim king who stood by the furnace and saw One walking there like unto the Son of God.'
There came to Páni Sophia at once a thrill of rapturous hope and a shock of possible discovery, changing the aspect of all she thought she knew best in the world. What human being ever does know another really? She asked tremblingly, ‘Dost mean that thou hast seen him thus, by faith? '
‘How could I help seeing Him, when He was there? It was only to forget the crowd, the Ring, and all the rest, and look at the face of the man He was upholding with His right hand.'
‘And I was afraid for thee, my knight, lest that day's battle was too hard for thee! '
‘Thou knowest he asked me to be there. He wrote to me, "O thou the kindest—" Can't speak of it. Will show thee the letter.' He rose, walked to the narrow window, and stood looking out, down over the valley. Presently he asked, though without turning round, Did Petr tell thee in his letter that I saw him again-the day before? '
‘No; and did you?’ she asked eagerly.
‘The Kaiser sent me with Duba, to entreat of him to retract and live.'
‘Páni Sophia sank back upon her couch with a sigh. And you accepted that charge?’ she said.
‘I accepted the chance of seeing his face and touching hit hand once more.'
‘In the dungeon, as on that sad day?'
‘No. There were with us the bishops, sent by the Council; and ill would it have liked their lordships to set foot in such a place. They had him brought to the refectory. At the sight of us he was much moved.' His own voice trembled.
‘Well? what said you?' asked the Páni.
I said, ‘"I am an unlearned and simple man, not able to give you counsel; but if you have erred, do not let shame withhold you from retracting." '
‘You said those words to him? I am sorry.' Her voice was full of pain and of unconscious reproach. She went on in that tone of tender apology which from loving lips hurts often more than blame. ‘Not that it changed anything. It only must have made it a little harder for him. You could not help it. It was too much to ask from mortal man to stand and look in his face and bid him die.'
‘I did just—that thing. For I added, "Do not leave the path of truth through any fear of death!" '
‘Thank God!' said the Pani, with a throb of joy that was actual pain in its intensity. ‘My own true knight! But that was almost—martyrdom! '
‘Almost? What was it else?' he added, turning round to her again. ‘He gave his life to God.'
‘I meant, for thee.'
‘For me? I stood before him, and saw his tears fall, with my own eyelids dry. Yes, he wept. Why should he not? He loved us all so well. I think, too, that he understood my words, and felt beneath them what no words of mine could speak. But for me the worst was over then. With those words I gave him up to God. I knew that He called him to be His witness, and asked his life of him, and of me. After that there was no bitterness in the next day's agony. Something else came with it that was not agony, that was almost joy. I cannot understand—I can only wonder.'
‘And I, too, wonder, but as the disciples did when they believed not for joy. Beloved, thou hast proved thy knighthood in a nobler field than ever thy fathers fought! I am proud of thee—no, not proud, I thank God for thee. He has come very near to thee, my knight.'
‘He has put great honor upon me, unworthy,' he answered, coming over and standing beside her. Her words of praise were very sweet to him he added, ‘I have those precious letters written from the prison to show thee. Hitherto I have feared to do it—feared even to give thee his last message to thyself—knowing thy tender heart.'
‘His message to me? Oh yes, you told me he saluted me with his other friends.'
‘His words are—"Salute also your wife for me, whom I conjure you to love in Christ, for I hope she is of the number of the children of God, in the keeping of His commandments." '
‘How could it hurt?—how could it do aught but comfort me to be thus remembered?' said the Pani, her tears falling.
‘Together we will read the letters, and also together we will read the Book he loved, and gave us in our own tongue, the Holy Scriptures. No doubt, on the journey, and in Constance, he expounded to thee many things therein.'
‘Ah, but I was a dull scholar, and have forgotten much. Still, God wot, I like nothing so well as to read my Czech Bible, and gladly will I read it with thee. Thou wilt help me to understand it.'
‘I think,' said the Páni quietly, 'it will be the other way.' Thus was broken down between those two that barrier which often makes the most tender and loving still in the inmost core of their being 'strangers yet.'
That evening the Páni said to Zedenka, ‘My child, thy father is nearer God than any of us—far nearer than I, who idly dreamed that I could teach him. All this time God has been teaching him.'
Sometimes our nearest and dearest are too near to be seen clearly, too dear to be judged impartially. Even because they are our own, a very part of ourselves, we extend to them that self-depreciation which we have cultivated so jealously. It takes us by surprise, it almost confounds us, when they rise up suddenly before us in the full stature of saints and heroes. But if it strikes us dumb, it is with wondering joy. Hardly is there a greater joy than to see those we love reaching up higher and even higher, even though we, who perhaps have given them the first upward impulse, are left immeasurably below them.
Páni Sophia did not say these things to herself, because in the fifteenth century these things were not said, or even consciously thought. But there sprang up within her a new gladness, which lent new strength for a while to her feeble frame.