In the year of grace, 1480, the last Saturday in Lent, the inhabitants of the little town of Kaisersberg in Alsace were in a state of unusual agitation. John Geiler—called “the Doctor of Kaisersberg,” the most popular preacher of the cathedral of the free city of Strassburg—was coming, after many years of absence, to visit his native city, accompanied by his friend Sebastian Brandt—professor of law at Basle, and well-known as the author of “The Ship of Fools,” a burlesque poem reviewing all the extravagances of the time. Geiler was going to entertain him in the paternal home where, as an orphan from his third year, he had received from his pious grandmother his first Christian impressions. The following day he was to preach in the church of Kaisersberg, and great and small, relations and friends, rejoiced at the opportunity of hearing the illustrious Doctor, whom the city of Strassburg was proud to own as one of her sons.
In the house in which she was born, lived his mother’s niece, the lady Magdalene, married to the honorable Anselm, the imperial notary in Kaisersberg. The worthy dame, having the unexpected honor of receiving into her house this venerated guest, was exceedingly busy. The guest-chamber had been ventilated and warmed, and the bed with its wide crimson curtains had been made up with sheets as white as snow. Facing the bed, the life-sized portraits of the Doctor’s grandparents seemed to look affectionately down on the place reserved for him, as if they still wished to bless and smile upon the man who had fulfilled the expectations placed in him from his childhood.
In the dining hall, the lady Magdalene was spreading her best damask cloth over the great oaken table polished with the use of centuries. On this, in the place of honor, she placed a silver mug engraved with the family arms while her husband went to a hidden recess of the cellar to look for some bottles of the very best wine, almost as old as himself, to be poured into pewter goblets, polished till they shone like silver.
Before the kitchen fire, the old servant Martha was gravely bending over her serious task of watching to see when the sponge of the Lenten cakes should rise; they were prepared for her beloved Doctor who used to be so fond of them in the days long past; for Martha had served in the home of his grandmother when the young student set out for the university of Freiburg, and she had the great satisfaction of having predicted to all who would hear her, that some day a great man would come from that child whom she so dearly loved.
The weather was beautiful, the sun smiled in the heavens, a cool, refreshing breeze blew through the valley, and the roads were as dry as in midsummer. The first citizens of the city were gathered before the house of the honorable Anselm to offer to the Doctor, on his descent from his carriage, the wine of honor from a cup of gold. The younger ones had gone in cavalcade before him, while others placed themselves at the gate of the city, beyond the drawbridge, to await his arrival.
In the midst of this noisy scene, and at this gate of entry, poor blind Fridli found himself, with his black dog, the faithful companion which never left him. Fridli was barely twenty years old; he was thin and wiry, but the pockmarks which covered his face disfigured him horribly. He was born in Breisgau, where his first employment was as a cowherd. But, attacked with the smallpox, he was left blind; and now, guided by his dog and carrying a violin which some compassionate friends had given him, he went from town to town begging alms. Gifted with a melodious voice, he tried to excite compassion in the hearts of passers-by, singing popular ballads and songs of the day. Knowing that the Doctor of Kaisersberg was going to his native city to preach, he had turned his steps in that direction led by his dog, and hoped to collect at the door of the church an abundance of alms.
But, instead of the great collection he was counting on, poor Fridli found nothing but disappointment and misfortune. His face, all spotted with pock-marks, brought upon him coarse jests rather than sympathy. While trying to please his listeners with his merriest songs, the poor musician felt more like weeping, for not a farthing was cast into his beggar’s bag, though his faithful dog, seated on his haunches, with his master’s cap between his teeth, was imploring the charity of passers-by with a look of supplication that should have softened even a heart of stone.
Suddenly a cry was heard: “Here is the Doctor’s coach!” The multitude immediately dispersed, thinking no more of the poor blind man than if he had never been. Fridli would gladly have followed them and attempted to get near to the good and great man who was praised so much for his kindness to the poor. But, alas, on attempting to rise, he discovered that some wicked boy had cut the string that united him to his faithful guide. The dog, instead of taking advantage of his liberty, took hold of his master’s trousers to lead him as best he might. The blind man could not see the peril before him, and there being no one to warn him, stumbled, and fell into the moat, and badly wounded his leg. He gave one cry of pain, then lay at the bottom of the foss with no one to help him out.
But, thank God, little Mathis, son of the lady Magdalene, who had been attracted there by the occasion, heard that cry of pain and came to see what it was. Seeing the poor beggar fallen at the bottom of the moat, he went to the help of Fridli. With his aid, the blind man was able to raise himself, but so painful was his leg that he was unable to walk. What was to be done? The street that a few moments ago was filled with people was now deserted, and little Mathis remained alone with the wounded beggar. Then he remembered that not far from there lived his kind godmother Ursula. “Wait a bit,” he said to the blind man, “I’m going for help,” and he started to run as fast as his little legs were capable. Frau Ursula had a godchild in almost every street of the city, so that young and old used to call her “godmother,” as if she had no other mission in this world than to stand for children at their baptism.
Frau Ursula was the youngest daughter of the Doctor’s grandparents—his aunt therefore. She had seen him from his birth and had cared for him with the tenderness of the mother whom he had lost. The good woman divided half her income between the church and the poor, to whom she distributed bread and soup twice a week. Little by little she had aged, and the love for order and cleanliness which had been a virtue in the youthful Ursula became a dominating passion. Anything that changed the routine of her ordinary life made her unhappy. Only little Mathis, her favorite, had the privilege of sometimes persuading her to depart from her inveterate customs.
But today, wonderful to tell, she and her house were in festivity. She was coming up from the cellar where she had been to get a bottle of a special kind of cider that no one knew how to make so well as she, to celebrate the welcome of her nephew, when the child Mathis rushed breathless into her room.
“Well, now,” said the good Ursula, brushing back the disheveled hair from the child’s eyes and wiping the perspiration from his heated brow, “I am sure you must have had another one of your adventures, little rogue. Some of these times you will do something to hurt yourself, I’m afraid.”
“Grandmother,” replied the child, “just think of it! They have cut the cord that a poor blind man had tied to his dog to lead him, and he has fallen into the moat and hurt his foot badly!”
“Poor man! Who could have had such a wicked thought as to do this? Conrad must go and carry him another cord and some alms,” said Frau Ursula.
“But, godmother, this would do him no good; his foot hurts him so much that he can hardly bear it. Conrad should put him in the handcart and bring him here for you to bandage his foot and cure him.”
“Are you in your senses, Mathis? Do you want my house converted into a hospital?”
“But see, godmother,” said the child, “it is getting dark; the night will be very cold, and poor Fridli cannot lay all night on the bank of the foss with such a foot. Oh, you must send for him.”
“And after he is here and I have bandaged his foot, what will we do with him?”
“We can have straw put in the granary and he can lie on that, and we can keep him here till he is well.”
“Why, child! you know very well that that is impossible,” said Ursula, astonished. “You would not have me receive into my house a blind vagabond?”
“Oh do, godmother! I know that you will receive him,” said Mathis in his most affectionate voice. “You are so good and kind; and you know if you receive him for the love of God you will get your reward from God.”
And at once, taking his request for granted, and without waiting for an answer, he ran toward the granary in search of his good friend Conrad. Little Mathis and the old servant pushing the handcart disappeared before poor Ursula had time to gather enough decision to say No. Strangely confused, she walked back and forth mechanically in the yard before the back door of the house, grumbling beneath her breath, more angry at herself than with her little favorite. “That little rogue does with me just as he likes,” she said to herself.
Ursula had a really kind heart, but to receive a beggar, undoubtedly full of vermin and misery, in her granary so clean and orderly, and herself to bandage his wounded foot in her holiday dress, this was more than she could reconcile herself to. It is true, her conscience inwardly told her what she was bound to do, and to quiet its importunate voice she resolved to spend a gulden or more to have the Sisters of Charity or the Hospitaller Brothers care for the wounded beggar.
Meanwhile, the cart was returning with poor Fridli, drawn by the strong arms of old Conrad, and Mathis with the water spaniel formed the rearguard. At the same moment, a messenger arrived from the lady Magdalene announcing that the Reverend Doctor requested the presence of his Aunt Ursula. The poor godmother, wavering between the conflicting emotions of distress and joy, pleasure and obligation, knew not to what saint to commend herself. But the wounded man was there and must be taken in; the Doctor could wait better than he. The unpleasant medicine had to be taken, as they say, and there was nothing to do but to put the beggar in the granary on a shake-down of straw.
Now, stretched on a bed begrudged while ago, with a burning fever and tears streaming down his face, poor Fridli was crying: “Oh, mother, mother, if I could only be at thy side.” Sympathetic tears also filled the eyes of the kind-hearted Ursula. She forgot for the moment the upsetting of things in her well-kept granary and bending over the blind musician spoke to him a few words of consolation. She examined his swollen foot without troubling herself to know if it had ever been washed and applied a compress of wine and aromatic herbs. After attending to all his necessities and covering him with a well-warmed cloak, she commended him to the care of old Conrad, and, taking Mathis by the hand, went hastily toward the house where the Doctor was awaiting her, as if she had become twenty years younger.
As she went along, she was anxiously asking herself in what tone she should speak to her illustrious nephew; should she address him in the second person and by his familiar name of Hans as before? The old name would come to her tongue, though it certainly would be very unbecoming to her, she thought, with a man so wise, the anointed of the Lord, and one that had so honored the family. On the other hand, to call him “Reverend Doctor,” or “Sir Doctor,” or “Reverend Sir,” none of these honorable titles came spontaneously to her lips. He was to her still the same little Hans, scarcely three years old (she could remember it as if it had been but yesterday), that she had gone to bring from Ammerswihr, where his father had lost his life in a bear hunt. She had promised his dying mother to care for him as if he were her own child, and God knows she had fulfilled her promise.
Old Martha met her on the steps, full of joy, to tell her that even though the “Sir Doctor” was undoubtedly a very pious and wise man, equal to any bishop, he was just as in the days of old, the same good light-hearted Hans. He had recognized her at first sight, and taking her hand in a familiar, friendly way, asked her if she still knew how to make such good cakes as when his grandmother was living and when he set out for the university to make his way in the world.
The good Ursula, a little recovered from her misgivings, and with a heart somewhat less fearful, yet not without making a profound bow, entered the dining hall. The Doctor, as soon as he saw her, ran to meet her, embraced her, and said with a tender naturalness, “A thousand times welcome, my good aunt; I was really hungering to see you once more. But the world is upside down today—the older ones trouble themselves to come to see the young. I would have wished to come to see you, to salute you, as was my obligation, but Magdalene assured me that you would be better pleased to have me await you here.”
“Indeed, Sir Doctor, it would have been too great an honor for me and my poor house,” sobbed poor Ursula, so surprised at her reception that all her plans in reference to what she should say and do were entirely forgotten and upset.
“Come now, my good aunt! Am I not just your nephew Hans, as in the good old times? The same that you loved so tenderly from the day of his birth? Leave off this ‘Sir Doctor,’ then, and all ceremony in this day of rejoicing in which the goodness of God permits us to see each other again after so many years of separation.” And, so saying, he conducted her to the seat of honor at the table that had been reserved for her, adding that it was hers by right because it used to belong to her mother. He then presented his traveling companion, Sebastian Brandt, adding with a mischievous smile: “Now, my good aunt, do not scold me if I have offered to my friend a bed for tonight in your house—the asylum of perfect order.”
The poor godmother was dumbfounded at these words before, a blind beggar in her granary, and now a wise Doctor under her roof! —and all without warning or preparation of any kind. But the lady Magdalene who saw her confusion, and pitied her, managed to whisper in her ear not to worry; she had only to give her the keys, and she would send her old servant Martha to make up the bed for the unexpected guest whom God had sent them.
It was now the turn of little Mathis to be presented to the illustrious Doctor. He took him in his arms, lifted him to the height of his head to imprint on his forehead a warm kiss. Then, following the custom of those times, ordered the child to eat his bread and milk, and go to bed at six, instead of staying up for the family banquet.
As for the good Doctor, he could not contain himself for joy at finding himself again in the midst of his old and beloved friends, where nothing had changed, not even the old armchair, stuffed with horse-hair, where his grandmother used to sit, and where she had so often prayed with him and told him so many beautiful stories, whose memory after so many years still lived in his remembrance.
“Do you remember, dear aunty,” he said suddenly, “that one beautiful day your nephew (who then must have been about fifteen), at carnival time, as now, was dying with desire to go to a masquerade? And you too, though even then no more a child, would have been pleased to have gone with me: and then Grandmother told us a dream she had had ... ”
“Oh, yes,” interrupted Ursula: “a reaper with a scythe appeared to her in the night.”
“That is,” continued the Doctor, “the man of her dream was God’s great reaper, Death. And Grandmother received him very coldly and said to him, ‘Friend, go along; try some more convenient time. Just now we have other things to do than to think about you. As in the days of Noah, we are eating and drinking and making merry. We masquerade, and are in very deed carnival-crazy. Rather come on Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent.’ But the reaper answered: ‘All times are suitable to me, and I must reap without resting till the end of the world. Woe to the one that I surprise in the midst of the world’s foolish pleasures! Be warned, and think of your end that cannot be far off; you do not know if you will be alive on Ash Wednesday.’ ‘Children,’ said Grandmother to us then, ‘do not forget my dream, and go nowhere where the reaper can frighten you by coming upon you unawares; for we, the old, must die; but you, though young, may quickly follow us, and Death may come when you least think it.’ And that night we stayed at home. Don’t you remember, my good aunt Ursula? We did not go out for fear of death. And in later life when the fiercest temptations have come to me, when my companions tried to draw me into evil, Grandmother’s dream has frequently come to my mind and preserved me from many follies.”
“Yes,” answered Ursula, with a deep sigh, “Sooner or later we must all come to that; we must die. But when one, like myself, has passed sixty, ah! it seems as if you could see before you all the time that fearful specter, making such horrible gestures that my heart is oppressed whenever I think of it.”
“Dear aunt, a good Christian was one day asked what country he belonged to, and, pointing toward heaven, he answered, ‘That is my fatherland.’ And we are poor fools to think that we are going to stay in this world of a day, and so forget the other.”
“For myself,” said the godmother, “I have bought of a Dominican friar just come from Rome, for a gold florin, a full indulgence for all my sins, past, present and future.”
“You should also have bought of your Dominican a good stock of repentance, for without it, my poor Ursula, your indulgence is not worth a florin, nor even a farthing.” A slight smile played over the face of Brandt while this conversation was going on, while Anselm and his wife appeared astonished at what they heard, and Ursula was gazing at the Doctor with frightened eyes. Then he took her hand and asked kindly, “I ask you to tell me, my dear aunt, has your indulgence even delivered you from the fear of death?”
“Alas! no, Sir Doctor—my beloved Hans, I wish to say—absolutely, no; and he that can tell me what I must do to be free from this fear will take a heavy weight off my breast,” said the godmother very humbly and with her eyes filled with tears.
“You have brought me a bottle of excellent cider, my beloved Ursula, to refresh and fortify me during Lent, when my stomach so troubles me. But suppose you had brought me an empty bottle, would it then be possible for me to refresh myself?”
“Of course not, nephew Hans. Had I done this I would have mocked you.”
“And yet you would treat our Lord God as you would never think of treating a poor sinful man! You act with your paper indulgence as if offering me an empty bottle; which would be as worthless for my weak stomach as your Dominican’s paper for your sin-sick soul! You cannot drink from it the saving elixir of eternal life.”
“What then must I do, nephew Hans?”
“What must you do? Sincerely repent, confess your sinfulness to God, and say day and night from the bottom of your heart, ‘Forgive me my sins, and for the sake of Thy Son Jesus Christ receive me into Thy favor.’ If you do this, God will put into your heart the assurance of forgiveness and take away from you the fear of death forever. What does the prophet Isaiah say? — ‘Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money, come ye, buy and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.’ Without money, do you hear, Ursula? —by the free gift of grace. The Lord will have nothing to do with your gold florin. What He asks of you is a penitent heart that sighs for pardon. And this offering, thanks be to God, the poorest is sufficiently rich to make.”
“Why has no one ever said anything of this to me before?” sighed the poor godmother.
“Give me your hand, Sir Doctor,” exclaimed the honorable Anselm. “It has filled my heart to hear you attack in this way that shameful traffic and to say without hesitation that it is not with money that sins are put away. The priests and friars cannot and would not dare to contradict it.”
The Doctor warmly pressed the hand stretched out to him. “What is necessary above all other things to remember, beloved cousin,” he continued gravely, “is that the only thing that can cleanse our sins is the blood of Jesus Christ. It is by forgetting this that the poor church of Christ has lost so much, and her divine services have degenerated into a vain comedy. Do you know what was going on in my cathedral at Strassburg when I went to preach there the first time? The nobles came to church with their dogs and falcons and got up from time to time to amuse themselves during divine service. The people of the town talked of their business while mass was being said, as if they were at a fair. They drove the pigs to market through the church, and, by their grunting, they obliged the priest to stop in the middle of the mass. On Holy Innocents’ Day, a child dressed as a bishop celebrated the service; and they had masquerade processions and representations of comedies and sang profane songs. The sacred place was given up to scandal to the utmost limit. Men and women passed the night there intoxicated, in the midst of singing, dancing, and the most obscene jests. The great altar was used as a banquet table, and, in the chapel of Saint Catherine, barrels of wine flowed freely and merriment was everywhere. Every time I set eyes on this sad spectacle, it seemed I heard the voice of the Lord bursting upon me, “My house shall be called of all nations the house of prayer, but ye have made it a den of thieves” (Mark 11:1717And he taught, saying unto them, Is it not written, My house shall be called of all nations the house of prayer? but ye have made it a den of thieves. (Mark 11:17)).
Brandt, on his part, seconding heartily what his friend had said, painted with his satirical imagination the disorderly lives of the clergy, the pride and covetousness of the bishops, the ignorance of the priests, the laxity of their conduct and the scandal of the monasteries. Finally, Anselm and he agreed to stir up the Doctor, and all good Catholics with him, to insist before the Pope and the Emperor upon the urgent need of a reform in the church.
“Beloved friends,” said Geiler with a smile, “Every time that I have proposed to my superiors to rid our church of this plague, neither Pope nor bishops have given any sign of understanding me, and all has continued as before.”
“Doctor,” said Sebastian Brandt, “God has given you an important task, and you must not shrink from it. You, the confessor of his grace the bishop, the favorite of the populace; you, for whom the town councilors have made a beautiful sculptured stone pulpit in the cathedral; you, who stand so well in court with the Pope and the Emperor, you are evidently designed by God to bring about the great work of reforming the church.”
“I much doubt it, friend Sebastian; but in some way or other it must be done; things cannot go on much longer as they are in our afflicted Christendom. And since the Pope, the Emperor and the kings refuse to reform this condition, which is without God, without law and without piety, the Bishop of bishops, and King of kings, Jesus Christ, will have pity on His fallen church, and will send her a reformer who shall fulfill that work better than I can; and I shall consider myself happy to have prepared him the way. A voice within tells me I shall not see that lovely day; but if you, beloved friends, see its dawn, remember at least that I have announced it, standing like Moses on the threshold of the promised land.”
“Alas!” replied Brandt, “the bark of Saint Peter is being beaten by the waves, and I fear may make shipwreck. She is being driven hither and thither by storms, and she no longer has Jesus Christ for her pilot. Let us do our best, therefore, beloved Doctor, so that in the great day of harvest we may not be found as unprofitable servants who have hidden our talent in the earth. One must plant and sow, and another water, and the Lord will give the increase.”
So the conversation went on between the three men, while the women listened, approving what was said by both gesture and look. It was getting late, and, as the doctor had to prepare his sermon for the next day, the conversation ended, to the great regret of the two women who would have listened much longer with pleasure. Brandt escorted his hostess to her house and knew so well how to entertain her on the way, thanks to his good humor, that she forgot all about the blind beggar, as well as her worry as to the care of her honorable guest—as much desired now as before it had been feared.
Little Mathis, after sleeping soundly the whole night through, awoke very happy, as though the angels of heaven had kept their guardian watch at his bedside. The honorable Anselm had invited to dinner some of the notables of Kaisersburg to do honor to his learned cousin, and the child was sent to spend the day at the house of his godmother where he amused himself to the full; for nowhere, not even with his mother, was he so well cared for as with the good Ursula. Besides, he had promised poor Fridli the evening before to make him a visit and bring him the bun and butter which was always given him on Sunday mornings. So, when our little friend set out in his holiday clothes, with his bun in his pocket, his velvet cap jauntily set over his chestnut curls, and his cheeks fresh and crimson with the crisp morning air, some one remarked as he passed: “That child is indeed a jewel.”
But, meantime, hapless Fridli, stretched on his bed of straw, was fighting against God; his inward darkness becoming more and more dense. He knew not, for no one had ever troubled to teach it him, that God does not afflict the children of men for His own pleasure, but chastens them as a father his children for their own profit and ultimate good. In other days, Fridli had been useful in minding cattle; being intelligent and industrious, he was able to earn his own living easily; and he had become proud.
What! you say, pride in a cowherd? And why not? The cowherd has his pride just the same as a king has his. So, when the hospitaller brother who attended him in his sickness told him he would be blind for life, poor Fridli rebelled against God’s dispensation which seemed to him as hard as it was unmerited. Afterward, when crossing a bridge he heard the water flowing beneath, he would have cast himself into the river, and so put an end to his miserable life, had not his good mother’s image presented itself before him as if to say, as she had said when bidding him farewell: “Fridli, always be good and pious, and do not forget to pray to God that He may be with you.”
And now the poor wounded fellow felt an inexpressible longing for that faithful mother, whose heart beat with love for him far away in her hut in the Black Forest; but he would not return to her with empty hands. His father was dead; he was the eldest of his six brothers, and the mother did not always have sufficient to feed them: it was for this reason that Fridli added farthing to farthing and lived on nothing but black hard bread that he might soon return to his mother with the little hoard he had saved. And it was not so much for the hoped-for collection that he had come to Kaisersberg as to tell his sad story to Doctor Geiler and ask his help; for it was a popular saying that no one cared more compassionately for the poor and unfortunate than the good Doctor.
And now poor Fridli was lying there in trouble, blind and lame for the time being; for there had neither been alms at the church door nor visit at the charitable Doctor’s; and, above all, the poor child of misfortune was unable to return to his mother. “Oh, that I might die now!” he had exclaimed repeatedly during that long and sorrowful night.
When at last it was dawn, and the first rays of the sun penetrated the gloomy court in which he lay, the poor blind man, embittered against God and hopeless as to his destiny, continued overcome with his desperate grief. In vain did his faithful dog come and lick his face and hands, though repulsed by his master; and when the good Conrad came to offer him a cup of hot milk for his breakfast, Fridli answered him with bitterness that he did not wish either to eat or to drink, and that he wished he might be in the deepest part of the river’s bottom.
“No, Fridli, you must not talk so, for it is a sin,” said little Mathis, who entered the granary just in time to hear poor Fridli’s speech. “It would have been better to have left him to pass the night in the foss if he has no better appreciation of the kindness shown him,” murmured Conrad, while offering him a second time the cup of milk. But our little friend Mathis took it from his hands and handed it to Fridli with his buttered bun. He persuaded him to take it with such tact, at the same time saying a few kind words to his good dog, that the poor beggar, revived by the child’s sympathy as if by a ray of sunshine, seemed for a time to forget his sorrows, and received from his hand all that was offered him. He found it delicious, and compared the cup of milk to that which his mother used to bring to his bedside each morning when he was a little child. Better feelings were aroused in the heart of the poor blind man by these sweet recollections of mother and home, and he answered readily the sympathetic questions put to him by his little friend and ended by opening his heart to him completely. He talked to him of his tender mother, of the fine cows he used to mind when he had his sight, of the cruel pox that had caused his blindness, the deep darkness that had ever since shrouded him, and his hopelessness at finding himself sightless for life! Then he spoke of his great desire to return to his own country to be with his beloved mother, and of his great disappointment at having come to Kaisersberg for nothing, unable either to beg at the door of the church or speak to the good Doctor Geiler. With this long story, interrupted by the simple questions of the child, Mathis, it seemed as if a heavy load was taken from Fridli’s breast; without knowing how or why he felt less unhappy by finding ears to listen and a heart to sympathize with him in his misfortunes.
Conrad, who was coming and going during the conversation, interested himself so much in the poor fellow’s case that, without saying anything, he went to get his own pillow for the beggar’s use. In spite of the solemnity of the day, he came near forgetting to prepare himself for church. As to Mathis, while hearing this tale of misfortune and sorrow, his eyes shone like sparkling rubies. “Don’t worry, Fridli,” he said, after a while, “I am going to ask my good cousin this evening to come and see you and to have you taken to your mother’s house.” And then, calling the dog after him, he ran toward the house where his godmother and her guest were at breakfast.
Ordinarily the dog did not like boys; he would growl and bark when he saw one coming near; but at the call of Mathis he followed him as if he had fullest confidence in his friendship, and they both went running into the house of godmother Ursula.
“Down, down!” cried the startled godmother. “And you, Mathis, drive out that horrible animal at once!” And then, thinking of her honorable guest, she said apologetically, “I beg of you to pardon this spoiled child, Sir Doctor.”
So saying, she rose up quickly, opened the door, and tried to drive out the dog that was hiding behind Mathis, who was doing his best to protect him.
“Oh, godmother, godmother, please do not put him out,” said the child in his most appealing voice. “I need him, for today I must beg at the door of the church for our poor blind man. Oh, do let me, dearest godmother!” he said, rubbing the frightened dog’s head with his little hands.
The good Ursula, already beside herself at the sudden entrance of the dog, all covered with mud, into her room shining with cleanness, lost her head completely at the strange proposal of her godchild. She fixed her startled eyes on him, not being entirely certain if she had heard correctly or whether she was asleep or awake. The situation was comical in the extreme, and Brandt, who was a mute witness to it all, could not suppress a smile.
This was enough to renew Mathis’ courage; he took his godmother by the hand, and, leading her back to the seat from which she had risen, repeated with sweet insistency his petition. “Surely you will let me, will you not, my dearest godmother? The blind man’s dog looks as if he knew we must do so.” Then, making the intelligent spaniel sit on his haunches, he placed his velvet cap between his teeth, and made him give Ursula a demonstration of his talent for begging. Then, with the eloquence of a compassionate heart, he told her of Fridli’s despair, his ardent desire to return to his mother, and how the idea came to him to beg at the door of the church, so that the poor blind beggar might not lose the collection he had counted on getting. All this was said so feelingly and with such grace that more than once, as they listened to him, Brandt and Ursula felt the tears coming to their eyes.
“Yes,” said the godmother to Brandt, after a moment’s silence, “such a child he is! He cannot see an unfortunate without his heart being moved; he would give the last drop of his blood to protect him.”
“Oh, cultivate carefully the treasure of a tender heart, madam,” said Brandt, “for it is of more value than all the riches of earth. And as for thee, little man,” he said, turning to Mathis, “it is not your work to beg at a church door, nor must you take the beggar-man’s dog with you, for you both would disturb the services of God. I promise to arrange today with the Doctor to see that poor Fridli is helped.”
Deep down in his heart, Mathis was sorry not to be able to carry out his plan of imploring the pity of the church-goers, assisted by the eloquent pantomime of the dog, for he thought the hardest heart would not be able to resist such an appealing demonstration; but he was accustomed to obey. So, he quietly returned the dog to his owner, telling him what the Doctor Brandt had offered to do for him, filling the heart of the poor sufferer with the balm of consolation.
All the bells of the city now began to ring, calling the people to worship. Ursula took her favorite by the hand, and, accompanied by Sebastian Brandt, they set out for the cathedral.
The services, from beginning to end, were most edifying. The Doctor saw with great satisfaction that there were neither masquerades nor buffoonery; everyone was decently dressed, and their deportment corresponded with their clothing. The monks and nuns were there from their cloisters, and also the nobles from the neighboring castles. The castle ladies did not come dressed in their usual glittering elegance, for, no doubt, they feared the bold preacher might apostrophize them from the pulpit as he had done more than once in Strassburg.
This day, Geiler took for his text that verse in Matthew, chapter 25 verse 40: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.” He spoke of the origin of Lent, how it had been instituted in memory of the Lord’s forty days’ fast in the wilderness, before He began His life of service and work of redemption. He then set before them how the early Christians fasted, giving to the poor half of the money set apart for their ordinary daily bread, and contenting themselves with the simplest kind of food. He invited his audience to practice the same kind of fasting, sanctifying it with deeds of charity, and exhorted them in a most affectionate manner to love, to visit, and succor Jesus Christ in the person of His poor, quoting those touching words of the Savior: “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.”
“The Lord,” he continued, “did not command us to build convents and churches, and leave neglected the poor whom He thought worthy to call His brethren. Has He not told us in the Bible what He will say in the great day of judgment: ‘Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.’ And He will not add: ‘Because ye have founded convents and built churches, but: I was hungry, and ye gave Me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave Me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took Me in: naked, and ye clothed Me: I was sick, and ye visited Me: I was in prison, and ye came unto Me.’ I do not wish to say that there is any evil in building churches, no, for these are necessary; while this may be done, the other should not be left undone, for the first and greatest commandment of all is love.”
The sermon over, the good godmother, leading little Mathis by the hand, returned to her house very thoughtful, and with wounded heart, for it seemed to her as if the Doctor had preached only for her. So, once at home, her first act was to visit Fridli. She carefully dressed his wounded foot, telling him not to worry about anything for she would care for him with all pleasure until he was able to walk again. At midday, she sent him from her table a part of the dinner, with a cup of good wine to refresh him. Conrad, who at any other time might have been jealous of him, looked upon this as very proper, for he also had received in his heart the sermon of Geiler.
In Kaisersberg, as with one voice, it was said, Never had they heard anyone preach like the Doctor. His words, solemn yet inspiriting, had found a way to every heart. Many good resolutions were made, and many of his hearers had resolved henceforth to share of their abundance and even of their necessities with the poor. Those invited to the table of Anselm were also of the same mind, and all, on saying good-bye to the revered Doctor, promised with a warm pressure of his hand to do everything they could, that the poor in his native city should no more languish in forgetfulness and neglect.
In the evening, the Doctor went to visit his aunt Ursula. On the way, Brandt related to him the story of poor Fridli, and how little Mathis had taken such a compassionate interest in him that he wanted to beg for him at the church door. The Doctor was charmed with the story— “a living illustration of my sermon,” he said. So, when he arrived at the house of Ursula, his first question was: “Where is the child?” and the next, “How is poor Fridli?”
“He is much better,” answered Ursula; “his foot does not pain him so much, and I wish him to remain here with me until he is completely cured. I myself will dress his wound and see to his wants. As for Mathis, he is playing with his companions.”
“What procession of children is this?” asked Brandt, who was looking out of the window.
“Well! it is our Mathis,” exclaimed Ursula, recognizing her godson in the midst of a crowd of boys whom he appeared to be directing. And sure enough, two by two, and in perfect order, came the boys of the district, headed by Mathis, who with a white tunic over his other clothes and a little bell in his hand was directing the march towards the granary where Fridli was lying. “It is a sight worth seeing,” said Brandt and the Doctor at the same time; and going down with Ursula, they placed themselves quietly behind the door where they could see without being seen.
Mathis had not given up his project of begging alms for the blind man without regret; so, in view of helping poor Fridli, he had gone from door to door to gather all his companions, and brought them to his godmother’s house to visit the wounded beggar. To him, as the doctor had said from the pulpit, this blind man lying in the straw of the granary was as our Lord Jesus Christ personally. Each one of them therefore should succor him with his lunch or with the money that he might have gathered for the carnival.
Carried away by the novelty of the adventure, all these excited and turbulent boys had followed the little missionary with great enthusiasm, carrying their various offerings to him. It was certainly a lovely sight to see all those children, with Mathis at their head, approach the straw bed of blind Fridli. At the foot of it, sitting on his hind-quarters, was the dog with the cap in his mouth, making mute appeals with his supplicating look, while each one of the boys came in silence to deposit his apple, his nuts, or his cake before Fridli, and to drop into the cap held by his dog their two farthings, and some their half-francs. Meantime the good Conrad, overcome with surprise, viewed the scene with pious awe.
When the last of the children had deposited his offering, they all formed in a circle around Mathis, and he, setting the bell on the floor, clasped his little hands in prayer to God, and in joyful accents said this simple prayer: “My Lord Jesus Christ, make this poor blind man see, I pray Thee; cure his foot, and take him back to his dear mother; and when we meet Thee in heaven, Thou wilt say to us, as my cousin, the Doctor Geiler, has promised us today, All that you have given Fridli, you have given it to Me. Amen.”
The Doctor, profoundly moved, advanced towards the circle formed by the children, all dumb and somewhat frightened by his sudden appearance, and said, as if moved by a spirit of prophecy: “Have faith, beloved child, and you also some day shall become great.”
“As great as you, Sir Doctor?” asked the child, fixing his eyes on the imposing figure of Doctor Geiler.
“Yes, it is true,” said the Doctor, greatly affected, and pressing the child to his heart, “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Then, seeing that the eyes of all were fixed upon him, he told them how our Lord Jesus Christ in His journey through this world had loved the little children, that He had called them to Him to bless them, and that they, in return for His love, should be always kind to the sick and the poor.
Here the sermon was interrupted by little Samson Hiller who was hidden away, weeping bitterly, behind the granary door.
“Why are you crying so, my child?” asked Brandt, approaching him.
“Oh,” said Samson, sobbing still more deeply, “our Lord Jesus Christ cannot love me because I am so bad, and I shall surely go to the pit.”
“What have you done, my child?”
Samson was pale as death; and with sorrow and shame he said, “Mathis will tell you.”
Mathis at first refused to tell anything; but pressed by the Doctor and by Samson himself, who said, “Tell all you know; they will punish me, and then I shall have rest,” Mathis twined his little arms about the Doctor’s neck, and whispered in his ear, “He is the one that cut the blind man’s cord yesterday, and is to blame for his falling into the ditch.”
“This is surely a very bad deed,” said Geiler; “but is it not true, Samson, that at the time you did not think what your action might lead to? Had you known what it was going to cost the poor blind man you would not have cut his cord.”
The child, shaking his head sadly, hid his face in his hands and sobbed with sorrow and shame: “I did it purposely to make him fall,” he cried; “and I laughed when he stumbled into the foss. I deserve to be badly punished.”
“Truly, these children teach us lessons,” said the doctor to Brandt. “Never in my life have I seen such sincere repentance.” Then turning to Samson, who was still weeping, he said tenderly; “Be comforted, my child. Your guilt is forgiven for Christ’s sake who bore it on the cross.”
“Did He, Sir Doctor?” asked Samson.
“As sure as the angels are now rejoicing to see you repent and condemn yourself, my son. But there is one thing you have yet to do—go and ask pardon of Fridli. For surely, our God who knows how to bring good out of evil has made this accident a means of blessing to him also. What do you think of this, my good Fridli? I am sure that you are not sorry now that you fell into the foss.”
Poor Fridli, abashed to find himself surrounded by such visitors and the object of so much kindness and solicitude, could hardly murmur a few broken words in response. Samson, kneeling by his side, took his hand, and said in tones of supplication: “Oh, Fridli, forgive me; I am so sorry for what I did to you. I shall never forget it while I live.”
“Fridli,” said the Doctor, “start the hymn, ‘Great God, we bless Thee.’”
Well pleased at the honor shown him, Fridli began the hymn with his melodious voice, and the good Ursula and the two learned friends uniting with the clear voices of the children, gave full expression to the feelings that filled their hearts. During the singing of the hymn, Mathis stood holding the hand of blind Fridli, his beautiful eyes fixed upon him with a look of tender sympathy. Samson, on the other hand, fixed his eyes, wet with tears, steadily on the ground.
Brandt was looking at the two children with considerable interest; and, when the hymn ceased, he asked the Doctor: “What do you think will come, some day, of these two children?”
“God only knows,” responded Geiler, “but His hand is on them at any rate.”
The children withdrew, but the Doctor remained with the blind man to hear his lengthy story, and to console him and offer him his assistance. A great change had come over Fridli since that morning; deeply thankful he was for all the goodness that had been shown him—but to remain blind all his life! This was more than he could bear to think of; and his last words after the Doctor’s kind conversation with him were, “But why should I be blind?”
“Listen, Fridli. To your Why, I can give no answer, except that God wills it. To be resigned to His will in all the evils that may come upon us, this is the secret of happiness both for this life and that which is to come.”
Did the good Doctor succeed in causing the light of heaven to shine in Fridli’s soul? This we cannot be sure of now; but we do know that the visit of the Doctor left him more peaceful and somewhat consoled.
The poor fellow remained in the house of the charitable Ursula until Easter, and more than once his sick bed was made pleasant by the visits of Mathis and his friend Samson Hiller. Brandt, who had come to Kaisersberg for the Easter holidays, took poor Fridli with him when he went away, and had him sent to his mother in the Black Forest.
Doctor Geiler continued laboring and preaching in Strassburg for thirty years with great blessing. He firmly refused all the brilliant posts offered him in Augsburg, Basle and Freiburg, and remained true to his beloved Alsace. He was the favorite of the good Emperor Maximilian I., who often came to Strassburg to hear him. He urged the Emperor to prohibit torture, and succeeded at least in having prisoners treated more humanely and in permitting them to receive spiritual ministrations, which before that, according to ancient custom, criminals had been denied. By his influence Sebastian Brandt, the famous poet of “The Ship of Fools,” was appointed to the post of chancellor of his native Strassburg in 1500, where he continued till his death in 1521. With his friend Geiler, he was enabled to found various establishments for the care of the poor, the sick, and the friendless in Strassburg.
Geiler died in 1510 in the 64th year of his life, mourned by all, and especially by the poor. The spirit of his sermons which are left us bear testimony that he was a faithful servant of God, and a zealous laborer in the vineyard of the Lord. He was buried beneath the beautiful sculptured stone pulpit which the city magistrates had raised in his honor, and around which the multitude of his hearers had so often pressed.
NOTE—It was at this time that the light from the word of God was beginning to shine into Luther’s heart, though still a monk—a light which, a few years later, was to deliver so many from the power of Rome. [Ed.]