"Poor fellow!" he exclaimed; "his eyes turned toward the pot in spite of himself; his teeth are chattering; but his folly is stronger than even cold and hunger."
"He frightens me," said Louise, blushing, notwithstanding, as she thought of his strange request.
Yegof kept on the Valtin road. Their eyes followed him as his distance from them grew greater. Still his stately march, his grave gestures, continued, though no one was now near to observe him. Night was falling fast; and soon the tall form of the King of Diamonds was blended with and lost in the winter twilight.
The same evening, after supper, Louise, taking her spinning-wheel with her, went to visit Mother Rochart, at whose cottage the good matrons and young girls of the village often met, and remained until near midnight, relating old legends, chatting of the rain, the weather, baptisms, marriages, the departure or return of conscripts, or any other matters of interest.
Hullin, sitting before his little copper lamp, nailed the sabots of the old wood-cutter. He no longer gave a thought to Yegof. His hammer rose and fell upon the thick wooden soles mechanically, while a thousand fancies roamed through his mind. Now his thoughts wandered to Gaspard, so long unheard of; now to the campaign, so long prolonged. The lamp dimly lighted the little room; without, all was still. The fire grew dull; Jean-Claude arose to pile on another log, and then resumed his seat, murmuring:
"This cannot last; we shall receive a letter one of these days."
The village clock struck nine; and as Hullin returned to his work, the door opened, and Catherine Lefevre, the mistress of the Bois-de-Chênes farm, appeared on the threshold, to the astonishment of the sabot-maker, for it was not her custom to be abroad at such an hour.
Catherine Lefevre might have been sixty years of age, but her form was straight and erect as at thirty. Her clear, gray eyes and hooked nose seemed to resemble the eyes and beak of the eagle. Her thin cheeks and the drooping corners of her mouth betokened habits of thought, and gave a sad and somewhat bitter expression to her face. A long brown hood covered her head and fell over her shoulders. Her whole appearance bespoke a firm and resolute character, and inspired in the beholder a feeling of respect, not untinged with fear.
"You here, Catherine?" exclaimed Hullin in his surprise.
"Even I, Jean-Claude," replied the old woman calmly. "I wish to speak with you. Is Louise at home?"
"She is at Madeleine Rochart's."
"So much the better," said Catherine, seating herself at the corner of the work-bench.
Hullin gazed fixedly at her. There was something mysterious and unusual in her manner which caused in him a vague feeling of alarm.
"What has happened?" he asked, laying aside his hammer.
"Yegof the fool passed last night at the farm."
"He was here this afternoon," said Hullin, who attached no importance to the fact.
"Yes," continued Catherine, in a low tone; "he passed last night with us, and in the evening, at this hour, before the kitchen fire, his words were fearful."
"Fearful!" muttered the sabot-maker, more and more astonished, for he had never before seen the old woman in such a state of alarm. "What did he say, Catherine?"
"He spoke of things which awakened strange dreams."
"Dreams! You are mocking me."
"No, no," she answered. And then, after a moment of silence, fixing her eyes upon the wondering Hullin, she continued:
"Last evening, our people were seated, after supper, around the fire in the kitchen, and Yegof among them. He had, as usual, regaled us with the history of his treasures and castles. It was about nine o'clock, and the fool sat at the corner of the blazing hearth. Duchene, my laborer, was mending Bruno's saddle; Robin, the herdsman, was making a basket; Annette arranging her dishes on the cupboard; and I spinning before going to bed. Without, the dogs were barking at the moon, and it was bitter cold. We were speaking of the winter, which Duchene said would be severe, for he had seen large flocks of wild geese. The raven, perched on the corner of the chimney-piece, with his beak buried in his ruffled feathers, seemed to sleep."
The old woman paused a moment, as if to collect her thoughts; her eyes sought the floor, her lips closed tightly together, and a strange paleness overspread her face.
"What in the name of sense is she coming at?" thought Hullin.
She resumed:
"Yegof, at the edge of the hearth, with his tin crown upon his head and his sceptre laid across his knees, seemed absorbed in thought. He gazed at the huge black chimney, the great stone mantel-shelf, with its sculptured trees and men, and at the smoke which rose in heavy wreaths among the quarters of bacon. Suddenly he struck his sceptre upon the floor, and cried out like one in a dream, 'Yes, I have seen it all—all—long since!' And while we gazed on him with looks of astonishment, he proceeded:
"'Ay, in those days the forests of firs were forests of oak. Nideck, Dagsberg, Falkenstein—all the castles now old and ruined were yet unbuilt. In those days wild bulls were hunted through the woods; salmon were plenty in the Sarre; and you, the fair-haired race, buried in the snows six months of the year, lived upon milk and cheese, for you had great flocks on Hengst, Schneeberg, Grosmann, and Donon. In summer you hunted as far as the banks of the Rhine; as far as the Moselle, the Meuse. All this can I remember!'
"Was it not strange, Jean-Claude?" said the old woman. "As the fool spoke, I seemed, too, to remember those scenes, as if viewed in a dream. I let fall my distaff, and old Duchene and all the others stopped to listen. The fool continued:
"'Ay, it was long ago! You had already begun to build your tall chimneys; and you surrounded your habitations with palisades whose points had been hardened in the fire. Within you kept great dogs, with hanging cheeks, who bayed night and day.'
"Then he burst into a peal of crazy laughter, crying:
"'And you thought yourselves the lords of the land—you, the pale-faced and blue-eyed—you, who lived on milk and cheese, and touched no flesh save in autumn at your hunts—you thought yourselves lords of the mountain and the plain—when we, the red-bearded, came from the sea—we, who loved blood and the din of battle. 'Twas a rude war, ours. It lasted weeks and months; and your old chieftainess, Margareth, of the clan of the Kilberix, shut up in her palisades, surrounded by her dogs and her warriors, defended herself like a she-wolf robbed of her young.But five moons passed, and hunger came; the gates of her stronghold opened, that its defenders might fly; and we, ambushed in the brook, slew them all—all—save the children. She alone defended herself to the last, and I, Luitprand, clove her gray head, and spared her blind father, the oldest among the old, that I might chain him like a dog to my castle gate.'
"Then, Hullin," said the old woman, "the fool sang a long ballad—the plaint of the old man chained to his gate. It was sad, sad as theMiserere. It chilled our very blood. But he laughed until old Duchene, in a transport of rage, threw himself upon him to strangle him; but the fool is strong, and hurled him back. Then brandishing his sceptre furiously, he shouted:
"'To your knees, slaves! to your knees! My armies are advancing. The earth trembles beneath them. Nideck, Haut-Barr, Dagsberg, Turkestein, will again tower above you. To your knees!'
"Never did I gaze upon a more fearful figure; but seeing my people about to fall upon him, I interposed in his defence. 'He is but a fool,' I cried. 'Are you not ashamed to mind his words?' This quieted them, but I could not close my eyes the entire night. His story—the song of the old man—rang through my ears, and seemed mingled with the barking of our dogs and the din of combat. Hullin, what think you of it? I cannot banish his threats from my mind!"
"I should think," said the sabot-maker, with a look of pity not unmixed with a sort of sorrowful sarcasm—"I should think, Catherine, if I did not know you so well, that you were losing your senses—you and Duchene and Robin and all the rest."
"You do not understand these matters," said the old woman in a calm and grave tone; "but were you never troubled by things of like nature?"
"Do you mean that you believe this nonsense of Yegof?"
"Yes, I believe it."
"You believe it! You, Catherine Lefevre! If it was Mother Rochart, I would say nothing; but you—!"
He arose as if angry, untied his apron, shrugged his shoulders, and then suddenly, again seating himself, exclaimed:
"Do you know who this fool is? I will tell you. He is one of those German schoolmasters who turn old women's heads with their Mother Goose stories; whose brains are cracked with overmuch study, and who take their visions for actual events—their crazy fancies for reality. I always looked upon Yegof as one of them. Remember the mass of names he knows; he talks of Brittany and Austrasia—of Polynesia and Nideck and the banks of the Rhine, and so gives an air of probability to his vagaries. In ordinary times, Catherine, you would think as I do; but your mind is troubled at receiving no news from Gaspard, and the rumors of war and invasion which are flying around distract you; you do not sleep, and you look upon the sickly fancies of a poor fool as gospel truth."
"Not so, Hullin—not so. If you yourself had heard Yegof—"
"Come, come!" cried the good man. "If I had heard him, I would have laughed at him, as I do now. Do you know that he has demanded the hand of Louise, that he might make her Queen of Austrasia?"
Catherine could not help smiling; but soon resuming her serious air, she said:
"All your reasons, Jean-Claude, cannot convince me; but I confess that Gaspard's silence frightens me. I know my boy, and he has certainly written. Why have his letters not arrived? The war goes ill for us, Hullin; all the world is against us. They want none of our Revolution. While we were the masters, while we crowned victory with victory, they were humble enough, but since the Russian misfortune their tone is far different."
"There, there, Catherine; you are wandering; everything is black to you. What disturbs me most is not receiving any news from without; we are living here as in a country of savages; we know nothing of what is going on abroad. The Austrians or the Cossacks might fall upon us at any moment, and we be taken completely by surprise."
Hullin observed that as he spoke the old woman's look became anxious, and despite himself he felt the influence of the fears she spoke of.
"Listen, Catherine," said he suddenly; "as long as you talk reasonably I shall not gainsay you. You speak now of things that are possible. I do not believe they will attack us, but it is better to set our hearts at ease. I intended going to Phalsbourg this week. I shall set out to-morrow. In such a city—one which is, moreover, a post-station—they should have certain tidings of what is going on. Will you believe the news I bring back?"
"I will."
"Then it is understood. I will start early to-morrow morning. It is five leagues off. I shall have returned by about six in the evening, and you shall see, Catherine, that your mournful notions lack reason."
"I hope so," said she, rising; "indeed I hope so. You have somewhat reassured me, Jean-Claude, and I may sleep better than I did last night. Good-night, Jean-Claude."
The next morning at daybreak, Hullin, in his gray-cloth Sunday small-clothes, his ample brown velvet coat, his red vest with its copper buttons, his head covered with his mountaineer's slouched hat, the broad brim turned up in front over his ruddy face, took the road to Phalsbourg, a stout staff in his hand.
Phalsbourg is a small fortified city on the imperial road from Strasbourg to Paris. It commands the slope of Saverne, the defiles of Haut-Barr, of Roche-Plate, Bonne-Fontaine, and Graufthal. Its bastions, advanced works, and demi-lunes run zigzag over a rocky plateau; afar off you would think you could clear the walls at a bound; a nearer approach shows a ditch, a hundred feet wide and thirty deep, and beyond the dark ramparts cut in the rock itself. All the rest of the city, save the town-hall, the two gates of France and Germany with their pointed arches, and the tops of the two magazines, is concealed behind the glacis. Such is the little city, which is not lacking in a certain kind of grandeur, especially when we cross its bridges, and pass its heavy gates, studded with iron spikes. Within the walls, the houses are low, regularly built of cut stone in straight streets. A military atmosphere pervades everything.
Hullin, whose robust health and joyous nature gave him little care for the future, pushed gayly onward, regarding the stories of defeat and invasion which filled the air as so many malicious inventions.Judge, then, of his stupefaction when, on coming in sight of the town, he saw that the clock-tower stood no longer, not a garden or an orchard, not a walk or a bush could he see; everything within cannon-shot was utterly destroyed. A few wretches were collecting the remaining pieces of their cottages to carry them to the city. Nothing could be seen to the verge of the horizon but the lines of the ramparts. Jean-Claude was thunder-struck; for a few moments he could neither utter a word nor advance a step.
"Aha!" he muttered at last, "things are not going well. The enemy is expected."
Then his warrior instincts rising, his brown cheeks flushed with anger.
"It is those rascal Austrians, and Prussians, and Russians, who have caused all this," he cried, shaking his staff; "but let them beware! They shall rue it!"
His wrath grew as he advanced. Twenty minutes later he entered the city at the end of a long train of wagons, each drawn by five or six horses, and dragging enormous trunks of trees, destined to form a block-house on the Place d'Armes. Between drivers, peasants, and neighing, struggling, kicking horses, a mountedgendarme, Father Kels, rode grimly, seeming to hear nothing of the tumult around, but ever and anon saying, in a deep base voice:
"Courage! my friends, courage! We can make two journeys more before night, and you will have deserved well of your country."
Jean-Claude crossed the bridge.
A new spectacle presented itself within the walls. All were absorbed in the work of defence. Every gate was open. Men, women, and children labored, ran, or helped to carry powder and shot. Occasionally, groups of three, four, or half a dozen would collect to hear the news.
"Neighbors," one would say, "a courier has arrived at full speed. He entered by the French gate."
"Then he announces the coming of the National Guard from Nancy."
"Or, perhaps, a train from Metz."
"You are right. Sixteen-pound shot are wanting, as well as canister. They are breaking up the stoves to supply its place."
Some of the citizens, in their shirt-sleeves, were barricading their windows with heavy beams and mattresses; others were rolling tubs of water before their doors. Their enthusiasm excited Hullin's admiration.
"Good!" he cried, "good! The allies will be well received here!"
Opposite the college, the squeaking voice of the sergeant, Harmantier, was shrieking:
"Be it known that the casemates will be opened, to the end that each man may bring a mattress and two blankets; and moreover, that messieurs the commissioners are about to commence their round of inspection to see that each inhabitant has three months' provisions in his house, which he must show: Given this twentieth day of December, one thousand eight hundred and thirteen. Jean Pierre Meunier, Governor."
Strange scenes, both serious and comic, succeeded every minute.
Hullin was no longer the same man. Memories of the march, the bivouac, the rattle of musketry, the charge, the shout of victory, came rushing upon him. His eyes sparkled and his heart beat fast, and the thoughts of the glory to be gained in a brave defence, a struggle to the death with a haughty enemy, filled his brain.
"Good faith!" said he to himself, "all goes well! I have made clogs enough in my life, and if the time has come to shoulder the musket once more, so much the better. We will show these Prussians and Austrians that we have not forgotten the roll of the charge!"
Thus mused the brave old man, but his exultation was not of long duration.
Before the church, on the Place d'Armes, were fifteen or twenty wagons full of wounded, arriving from Leipsic and Hanau. Many poor fellows, pale, emaciated, with eyes half-closed and glassy, or rolling in agony, some with arms and legs already amputated, some with wounds not yet even bandaged, lay awaiting death. Near by, a few worn-out horses were eating their scanty provender, while their drivers, poor peasants pressed into service in Alsace, wrapped in their long, ragged cloaks, slept, in spite of cold, on the steps of the church. It was terrible to see the men, wrapped in their gray overcoats, heaped upon bloody straw; one holding his broken arm upon his knee; another binding his head with an old handkerchief; a third already dead, serving as a seat for the living. Hullin stood transfixed. He could not withdraw his eyes from the scene. Human misery in its intensest forms fascinates us. We would see how men die—how they face death; and the best among us are not free from this horrible curiosity. It seems to us as if eternity were about to disclose its secrets.
On the first wagon to the right were two carabineers in sky-blue jackets—two giants—but their strong frames were bowed with pain; they seemed two statues crushed beneath some enormous mass of stone. One, with thick red mustaches and sunken cheeks, glared with his stony eyes, as if awakened from a frightful nightmare; the other, bent double, his hands blue with cold, and his shoulder torn by a grape-shot, was becoming momentarily weaker, but from time to time started up, muttering like one in a dream. Behind, infantrymen were stretched in couples, most of them struck by bullets. They seemed to bear their fate with more fortitude than did the giants, not speaking, except that a few, the youngest, shrieked furiously for water and bread. In the next wagon, a plaintive voice—the voice of a conscript—called upon his mother, while his older comrades smiled sarcastically at his cry.
Now and then a shudder ran through them all, as a man—or mayhap several—would rise, and with a long sigh fall back. This was death.
While Hullin stood silent, the blood frozen in his heart, a citizen, Sôme, the baker, came forth from his house, carrying a large pot of boiled meat. Then you should have seen those spectres struggle, their eyes glance, their nostrils dilate; a new life seemed to animate them, for the poor wretches were dying of hunger.
Good Father Sôme, with tears in his eyes, approached, saying:
"I am coming, my children. A little patience, and you will be supplied."
But scarcely had he reached the first wagon, when the huge carabineer with the sunken cheeks plunged his arm to the elbow in the boiling pot, seized a piece of meat, and concealed it beneath his jacket. It was done like a flash, and savage cries arose on all sides. Men who had not strength enough to move would have strangled their comrade. He pressed the precious morsel to his breast, his teeth were already in it, and he glared around like a wild beast. At the cries which arose, an old soldier—a sergeant—sprang from a neighboring wagon; he understood all at a glance, and without useless delay tore the meat from the carabineer, saying:
"Thou deservest to have none. Let us divide; it will make ten rations."
"We are only eight," said a wounded man, calm in appearance, but with eyes glistening in his bronzed face. "You see, sergeant, that those two there are dying; it is no use to waste food."
The sergeant looked.
"You are right," he replied. "Eight parts."
Hullin could bear no more. He fled, pale as death, to the innkeeper, Wittmann's. Wittmann was also a dealer in leather and furs, and cried, as he saw him enter:
"Ha! it is you, Master Jean-Claude; you are earlier than usual. I did not expect you before next week." Then, seeing him tremble, he asked: "But what is the matter? You are ill."
"I have just been looking at the wounded."
"Ah! yes. The first time it affects one; but if you had seen fifteen thousand pass, as I have, you would think nothing of it."
"A glass of wine, quick!" cried Hullin. "O men, men! you who should be brothers!"
"Yes, brothers until the purse gives out," replied Wittmann. "There, drink, and you will feel better."
"And you have seen fifteen thousand of these wretches pass," said the sabot-maker.
"At least; and all in the last two months, without speaking of those that remained in Alsace and on the other side of the Rhine; for, you know, wagons could not be procured for all, and it was not worth while removing many."
"Yes, I understand. But why are those unfortunates there? Why are they not in the hospital?"
"The hospital! Where are there hospitals enough for them—for fifty thousand wounded? Every one, from Mayence and Coblentz to Phalsbourg, is crowded; and, moreover, that terrible sickness, typhus, kills more than the enemy's bullets. All the villages in the plain, for twenty leagues around, are infected, and men die like flies. Happily, the city has been for three days in a state of siege, and they are about to close the gates, and allow no one to enter. I have lost my uncle Christian and my aunt Lisbeth, as hale, hearty people as you or I, Jean-Claude. The cold has come, too; there was a white frost last night."
"And the wounded were in the street all night?"
"No; they came from Saverne this morning, and in an hour or two—as soon as the horses are rested—they will depart for Sarrebourg."
At this instant, the old sergeant, who had established order in the wagon, entered, rubbing his hands.
"Ha, ha!" he said, "it is becoming cooler, Father Wittmann. You did well to light the fire in the stove. A little glass of cognac would not be amiss to take off the chill."
His little, half-closed eyes, hooked nose, separating a pair of wrinkled cheeks, and chin, from which a red tuft of beard hung, all gave the old soldier's face an expression of good humor and jollity. It was a true military countenance—hale, bronzed by exposure, full of bluff frankness as well as of roguish shrewdness—and his tall shako and gray-blue overcoat, shoulder-belt, and epaulettes seemed part of himself. He marched up and down the room, still rubbing his hands, while Wittmann filled him a little glass of brandy. Hullin, seated near the window, had, in the first place, remarked the number of his regiment—the sixth of the line. Gaspard, the son of Catherine Lefevre, was in the same. Jean-Claude would, then, have tidings of Louise's betrothed; but when he attempted to speak, his heart beat painfully. If Gaspard were dead! If he had perished like so many others!
The old sabot-maker felt strangled. He was silent. "Better to know nothing," he thought.
Nevertheless, in a few moments he again tried to speak.
"Sergeant," said he huskily, "you are of the Sixth?"
"Even so, my burgess," replied the other, returning to the middle of the room.
"Do you know one Gaspard Lefevre?"
"Gaspard Lefevre? Parbleu! that do I. I taught him to shoulder arms; a brave soldier, i' faith, and good on the march. If we had a hundred thousand of his stamp—"
"Then he is alive and well?"
"He is, my citizen—at least he was a week ago, when I left the regiment at Fredericsthal with this train of wounded; since then, you understand, there has been warm work, and one can answer for nothing—one might get his billet at any moment. But a week ago, at Fredericsthal, Gaspard Lefevre still answered roll-call."
Jean Claude breathed.
"But, sergeant, can you tell me why he has not written home these two months back?"
The old soldier smiled and winked his little eyes.
"Do you think, my friend, that a man has nothing to do on the march but write?"
"No; I have seen service. I made the campaigns of the Sambre-and-Meuse, of Egypt and of Italy, but I always managed to let my friends at home hear from me."
"One moment, comrade," interrupted the sergeant. "I was in Italy and Egypt too, but the campaign just finished was in every respect peculiar."
"It was a severe one, no doubt."
"Severe! Everything and every one was against us; sickness, traitors, peasants, citizens, our allies—all the world! Of our company, which was full when we left Phalsbourg the twenty-first of January last, only thirty-two men remain. I believe that Gaspard Lefevre is the only conscript left living. The poor conscripts! They fought well, but exposure and hunger did their business."
So saying, the old sergeant walked to the counter and emptied his glass at one gulp.
"To your health, citizen. Might you, perchance, be Gaspard's father?"
"No; I am only a relative."
"Well, you can boast of being solidly built in your family. What a man he is for a youth of twenty! He held firm while those around were sent by dozens to mount guard below."
"But," said Hullin, after a moment's silence, "I do not yet see what there was so extraordinary in this last campaign, for we, too, had our sickness and traitors—"
"Extraordinary!" cried the sergeant; "everything was extraordinary. Formerly, you know, a German war was finished after a victory or two; the people then received you well; drank their white wine and munched their sauerkraut with you; and, when the regiment departed, every one even wept. But this time, after Lutzen and Bautzen, instead of becoming good-natured, they grew fiercer than ever: we could obtain nothing except by force; it was like Spain or La Vendée. I don't know what made them hate us so.But if we were all French, things would after all have yet gone well; but we had our Saxon and other allies ready to fly at our throats. We could have beaten the enemy, even if they were five to one, but for our allies. Look at Leipsic, where in the middle of the fight they turned against us—I mean our good friends the Saxons. A week after, our other good friends the Bavarians tried to cut off our retreat; but they rued it at Hanau. The next day, near Frankfort, another column of our good friends presented themselves, but we crushed the traitors. If we only foresaw all this after Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, Wagram!"
Hullin stood for a moment silent and thoughtful.
"And how do we stand now, sergeant?" said he, at length.
"We have been driven across the Rhine, and all our fortresses on the German side are blockaded. All Europe is advancing upon us. The emperor is at Paris, arranging his plan of campaign. Would to heaven we could get breathing time until the spring!"
At this moment Wittmann arose, and, going to the window, said:
"Here comes the governor, making his tour of inspection."
The commandant Jean-Pierre Meunier, in his three-cocked hat, with a tri-colored sash around his waist, had indeed just made his appearance in the street.
"Ah!" said the sergeant, "I must get him to sign my marching papers. Excuse me, messieurs, I must leave you."
"Good-by, then, sergeant, and thank you. If you see Gaspard, embrace him for Jean-Claude Hullin, and tell him to write."
"I shall not fail."
The sergeant departed, and Hullin emptied his glass.
"Do you intend to start at once, Jean-Claude?" asked Wittmann.
"Yes, the days are growing short, and the road through the wood is not easily found after dark. Adieu!"
The innkeeper watched the old mountaineer from the window, as he crossed the street, and muttered as he gazed at the retreating figure:
"How pale he was when he came in! He could scarcely stand. It is strange! An old man such as he—a soldier too! I could see fifty regiments stretched in ambulances, and not shake so."
Translated From The Historisch-politische Blätter.
In the beginning of this year a remarkable human life came to a close. That wonderful being whose name and fame travelled from South Tyrol all over Germany, and made her residence become a frequented pilgrimage without her will—but for the great consolation of multitudes during a whole generation—that extraordinary woman is no more. Maria von Mörl died on January 11th, 1868, in the fifty-sixth year of her age, and in the thirty-sixth of her ecstatic life.
It is now over a score of years since the masterly pen of Görres sketched, in hisMystik, so striking a portrait of Maria von Mörl, and still the attention of the believing world is attracted to the life of the ecstatic virgin. Since then thousands have gone to the South Tyrol markets to behold as a reality what would sound legendary to read or hear, and to bear testimony to the truth of what Görres wrote about the stigmata of that holy woman. All the pilgrims found his statements perfectly correct. Although Görres, in describing the phenomena, abstained from a definitive judgment regarding her sanctity, according to the rule that no one must be called a saint before death, we are not restrained any longer from expressing our convictions, now that she is no more. Her happy and holy death is the strongest confirmation of her unimpeachable life.
We have now all the necessary documents to form a correct estimate of her holiness. Let us glance at the most interesting events in her life, and sum up briefly and simply the chief traits of her inner and exterior character.
Three miles south of Botzen, in a charming landscape, with a prospect extending over a wide and smiling valley, lies the vine-crowned spot in which Maria Theresa von Mörl first saw the light of day, on October 16th, 1812. She was the daughter of a reduced, but noble, vine cultivator in Kaltern, [Footnote 3] Joseph von Mörl, of Mühlen and Lichelburg, who was blessed with a very large family, but not with sufficient means to raise them as became their blood.
[Footnote 3: Kaltern is the German for the Italian Caldaro.—Tr.]
Maria received from her good, sensible mother, whose maiden name was Selva, a pious and simple education; and the young girl grew up in virtue, modest and gentle, affectionate and obliging to all, of good understanding, but with no great powers of fancy. She was an expert little housewife, and aided her mother in the management of their domestic affairs. Frequent illness, which began to trouble her as early as her fifth year and continued to affect her through life, as it had its seat in her blood, rendered her, even at an early age, rather grave, and increased her zeal in prayer, which showed itself especially in her love and veneration for the Blessed Sacrament. This was her character until, in the year 1827, her beloved mother was taken from her by death; and she, at the age of fifteen, was left in sole charge of the family, her father being unable to provide better for the care of her eight younger sisters.Maria undertook the task of their bringing up with courage and readiness. She sought among her increasing labors and responsibilities, more than ever, consolation in religion, and in the frequent reception of the sacrament of the altar.
But the burden was too heavy for her young shoulders, and she sank under it. In her eighteenth year she fell into a wearisome sickness, which was increased in painfulness by reason of violent cramps, which broke down her constitution. Only by slow degrees was her pain alleviated, without the disease having been completely driven out. She never became perfectly sound again. Yet she bore all her afflictions with heroic resignation, although to her physical torments mental struggles were often added temptations of the devil; and troubles of soul which we cannot dwell upon here. [Footnote 4]
[Footnote 4: Görres describes them fully in hisChristliche Mystik, band iii.]
Such was her condition during about two years, when her confessor, Father Capistran, a quiet, prudent man, and for years a true friend of the distressed family, observed "that at certain times, when she was interrogated by him, she did not answer, and seemed to be out of herself." When he questioned her nurses and others on this point, they informed him that such was always the case when she received the holy communion. This was the first symptom of herecstaticstate, into which she entered in her twentieth year, and which soon became more and more striking. On the feast of Corpus Christi, 1832, which in Kaltern, as throughout the whole Tyrol, is celebrated with unusual solemnity, Father Capistran, for special reasons, gave her the holy sacrament at three A.M., and immediately she fell into an ecstasy which lasted, to his personal knowledge, for several hours! He left her to attend to other duties; and when he returned, at noon on the following day, he found the ecstatic still kneeling in the same place where he had left her thirty-six hours before; and heard, to his astonishment, that she had remained the whole time thus undisturbed in contemplation. The good Franciscan now comprehended for the first time that ecstasy had become almost a second nature to her; and undertook the regulation of this supernatural condition of his saintly penitent.
The power of the perceptive faculties increased wonderfully with her ecstasies, as several presentiments and prophecies demonstrated in a surprising manner. Her fame was soon noised abroad. The report of her ecstatic kneeling and prayer spread through the Tyrol, and great excitement was created throughout the whole land. Crowds of people flocked to see her, and to be edified by the sight. From different and distant places numbers came as pilgrims to Kaltern. During the summer of 1833, more than forty thousand persons, of all classes, visited her, without the slightest disorder or scandal, although sometimes two or three thousand people in a day passed through the room of the rapt maiden, kneeling undisturbed in contemplation. Many sinners were moved and converted by the spectacle.
No one could explain the sudden and extraordinary commotion excited in a whole people. The civil and ecclesiastical authorities wished to prevent the concourse; so it was announced that no further pilgrimages would be allowed. They gradually ceased. The priests, however, bore testimony to the good results which had flowed from those pilgrimages.In the autumn of the same year, Francis Xavier Luschin, Prince-Bishop of Trent, caused an investigation to be made, and the witnesses to be examined on oath, regarding the state of the ecstatic virgin, to prevent any further proceedings and annoyances on the part of the police, but especially to remove all suspicion of pious fraud. The prince-bishop, who was impartial enough not to give a final decision, informed the civil authorities "that the sickness of Maria von Mörl was certainly not holiness, but that her undoubted holiness could not be called a sickness."
All this excitement was unknown to the cause of it, who remained undisturbed by the throngs who came to see her. Her inner life seemed to be completely developed in the year 1834, when she received thestigmata. How this happened is best told in the words of Görres himself: "In the fall of 1833, the father-confessor occasionally remarked that the centre of her hands, where the wounds appeared at a later date, began to fall in, and the places became painful and troubled with frequent cramps. He suspected thatstigmatizationwas about to happen, and the result justified his expectations. At early Mass, on February 4th, of the year 1834, he found her wiping her hands with a cloth in childish astonishment. When he perceived blood on it, he asked her what was the matter. She answered that she did not well understand what it was; that she must have cut herself in some strange way. But it was the stigmata, which from that day remained unchangeably in her palms, and soon appeared in her feet also, as well as in her side. So simply did Father Capistran act in the whole affair, and so little desirous of wonder-seeking did he show himself, that he never asked her what were her interior dispositions or phenomena immediately before the reception of the wounds. They were almost round, slightly oblong, about two inches in diameter, and appearing on both the upper and under parts of her hands and feet. The size of the lance stigma in the side, which only her most intimate female friends saw, could not be determined. On Thursday evenings and on Fridays, clear blood flowed in drops from the wounds; on the other days of the week, a dry crust of blood covered them, without the slightest symptoms of inflammation or the slightest traces of pus ever appearing. She concealed most carefully her state, and all that might betray her interior emotions. But on the occasion of a festive procession, in 1833, she fell into an ecstasy in the presence of several witnesses. She appeared like an angel, blooming like a rose. Her feet scarcely touching the bed, she stood up, with arms outstretched in the shape of a cross, and the stigmata in her palms manifest to all beholders." [Footnote 5]
[Footnote 5:Christliche Mystik, ii. 501.]
Maria von Mörl became a sister of the Third Order of St. Francis, and, in virtue of the obedience due to him, her confessor undertook to keep her ecstasies within due bounds. She promised him complete obedience. A word from him recalled her to herself. But his experience was very little. No one at home paid much attention to her. She was left very much alone. Her confessor was a sensible man, but very simple and not at all inquisitive. The circle of her spiritual phenomena rolled round within the ordinary limits of the feasts of the church. Father Capistran did not interfere at all in the singularities of her interior condition, or even try to investigate their nature with curiosity."If she is not questioned," wrote the good and simple confessor to Görres, "she says very little, and seldom speaks at all; thus, for instance, it is only to-day that I learned completely her vision of St. Paul—on the feast of his conversion. Only now and then does she tell a particular circumstance, which I listen to quietly; and if she says nothing, I do not trouble her with questions. She sometimes says to me, 'I cannot properly express what I see by word of mouth or by writing; and perhaps I might say something false.' My direction is extremely plain: I want her to be always humble and devout to God; and I am satisfied when she prays so fervently to God, and intercedes for others, for sinners as well as for the just. It always seems to me that it is not the will of God that I should inquire too curiously about her visions and revelations, as Brentano did with Emmerich." Thus wrote Father Capistran, who describes himself in his letter better than our pen could do it.
In September, 1835, Görres came to Kaltern, in the Southern Tyrol, where he saw frequently thestigmatizedgirl, whose health was becoming every day worse. He found her in her father's house, lying in a neat, plain, whitewashed room, on a hard mattress, and covered with clean white linen. At the side of her bed was a little family altar; behind it, and over the windows, were a few religious pictures. She had a delicate figure, of medium height, and somewhat emaciated from the use of sparse diet, yet not unusually thin. When he saw her for the first time, she was in an ecstasy, kneeling on the lower part of her bed. Görres describes her thus: "Her hands, with the visible stigmata, were folded on her breast; her face turned to the church, and slightly raised; her eyes having a look of complete absorption which nothing could disturb. No movement was perceptible in her kneeling form for a whole hour, except a gentle breathing, occasionally a muscular action of the throat as in swallowing, and sometimes an oscillatory movement of the head and body. She seemed as if looking into the distance, gazing in rapture at God, like one of those angels who kneel around his throne. No wonder that her appearance produced such a great effect on the beholders, so as to bring tears to the eyes of the most hardened. During her ecstasy she contemplated the life and passion of Christ, adored the Blessed Sacrament, and prayed according to the spirit of the season of the ecclesiastical year. This we are told by her spiritual director. Her visions and revelations had all reference to something holy and ecclesiastical; and, unlike somnambulists, she remained entirely blind, like other persons, to her own bodily state." (II. 504.)
In her natural condition, Maria von Mörl left the impression of her being a simple and candid child on those who visited her. Görres gives a characteristic description of her: "No matter how deeply she may be lost in contemplation, a word of her confessor, no matter in how low a tone it may be uttered, recalls her from her rapture. There seems to be no medium condition; only sufficient time elapses to make her conscious of the word having been spoken, before she opens her eyes and becomes as self-possessed as if she were never in ecstasy. Her appearance becomes immediately changed into that of a young child.The first thing she does on awaking from her ecstasy, if she perceives spectators, is to hide her stigmatized hands under the bed-clothing, like a little girl who soils her hands with ink, and tries to conceal them at the approach of her mother. Then she looks curiously among the crowd, for she is now accustomed to the sight of multitudes, and gives every one a friendly greeting. As she has been dumb for some time, she tries to make herself understood by gestures; and when she finds this method unsuccessful, she turns her eyes entreatingly, like an inexperienced child, to her confessor, to ask him to help her and speak for her. The expression of her dark eye is that of joyous childhood. You can look through her clear eyes to the very bottom of her soul, and perceive that there is not a dark corner in her nature for anything evil to hide in. There is nothing defiled or deceitful in her character; no sentimentalism, no hypocrisy, nor the slightest trace of any pride; but all in her is childlike simplicity and innocence." (II.508.)
Clement Brentano bears a similar witness to her virtue when he visited her at Kaltern, in 1835, and again in the harvest of 1837. In one of his letters he says of her: "Here lives the maiden Maria von Mörl, who is now in her twenty-third year. She is a lovely, pious, and chosen creature. She is incessantly rapt in ecstasy, kneeling in bed, her hands outstretched or folded. She is so wonderfully lengthened during her ecstasy, that one would take her for a very tall person, though really she is quite short. Her eyes remain open and fixed, and though the flies run over her eyelids, she moves them not. She is like a wax figure, and her look is striking. Now and then her spiritual director interrupts her visions, and immediately she settles into repose on her couch, but after a few minutes rises to her knees again. She makes no effort to rise; she seems carried by angels into a kneeling posture. The whole appearance of this extraordinary girl is moving, yet not shocking, for the moment the priest commands her to resume her natural state, she becomes like one of the most simple and innocent of children, as if she were not seven years old. The moment she perceives persons around her, she hides herself to the very nose under the bed-clothes, looks timorous, yet smiles on all around, and gives them pictures, preserving always a serene and attractive countenance, like that of the blessed Emmerich." [Footnote 6]
[Footnote 6: Clemens Brentano,Gesammelte Briefe, band ii. 326. He caused a likeness of her to be painted.]
Like a child, she was fond of children, of birds and flowers. It was observed that birds seemed to have a great liking for her. They sang in flocks around her windows, and if they were brought into her room they flew to her. On one occasion three wild doves were given to her, and although they never allowed any one to fondle them before, they alighted on her, two of them on her arms, and the third on her clasped hands, putting its bill to her mouth as she prayed. This beautiful scene was repeated for several days, until the doves were driven away. The same thing happened with a chicken which a little sister of Maria's, a child of nine years old, accidentally brought into her chamber.
If friends were around her, she could sometimes remain mistress of herself and take part in their conversation; but this was only for a short time, and she fell again into ecstasy. The passion of our Lord seemed to be the special object of her contemplation, and on Fridays especially she suffered agony in her mystical life. In the forenoon her sufferings began to be noticeable.As the great drama of the crucifixion proceeded, its traces were visible in her; her pains increasing until the hour of the death on the cross, when her whole person became as if it were lifeless. Görres paints, in his usual graphic style, all these phenomena, even to the most minute details. (P. 505-508.) For the sake of brevity, we shall quote only Brentano's words. As he was an eye-witness of what he narrates, he is perfectly reliable: "I have never seen anything more awful and astounding; all the patience, anguish, abandonment, and love of Jesus dying was represented in her with inexpressible truth and dignity. She is seen dying by degrees; dark spots cover her face, her nose becomes pinched, her eyes break, cold sweat runs down her person, death struggles in her trembling bosom; her head is raised, while her mouth opens in pain; her neck and chin form almost a straight line, her tongue becomes parched, and is drawn up as if withered; her breathing is low and slightly gurgling; her hands fall powerless to her side, and her head sinks on her bosom. A priest, to whom Father Capistran, who was present, gave authority, commanded her to repose. In a moment she lay fatigued, but calm on her bed, and after about three minutes rose again to her knees, and returned thanks for the death of the Lord."
These phenomena were repeated every Friday throughout the year. Her sufferings became more and more extraordinary. In the year 1836, it was observed that, on the Fridays after the ascension of Christ, when she finished her mystical agony, beginning at three P.M., she fell into a new ecstasy which lasted until half-past four o'clock. Her body lay extended on her couch as on a cross, her arms outstretched as if powerfully wrenched; her head hung on one side, bent somewhat back off her pillow, and unsupported by anything. Thus she remained sometimes two hours as if dead, and could not be recalled without violent and painful convulsions. But when she came back to her natural state, she was ever the same innocent and gentle girl, as if she had never been blessed by God with extraordinary visitations.
So much had ecstasy become a second nature to her, that she was self-conscious only at intervals and by great efforts of the will. During Görres's stay at Kaltern, Maria was asked to stand godmother for a newly born child. She accepted the invitation with great joy, and took the most lively interest in the ceremony; but during it she became ecstatic several times, and had to be repeatedly recalled from her trance.
Yet with all this, she did not neglect the care of her family as far as it lay in her power, and with the direction and counsel of her good confessor. Two o'clock in the afternoon was the hour appointed by him for her to attend to her household affairs. At that hour she was commanded by him to leave her trance, and then, with the greatest diligence, and with the care of a mother, she directed business matters, dictated letters, and arranged all the necessary temporal concerns with great prudence and good sense.
In the year 1841, she left her father's house, and went, in the beginning of November, to live in the convent of the Sisters of the Third Order of St. Francis, where, as one of its members, she received a separate dwelling next the church. Here she enjoyed great repose, for access to her became less easy, as visitors were required to procure permission from the ecclesiastical authorities to see her.Still, pilgrimages did not cease; and the good influence exercised by her increased. Of the deep religious impression produced by her ecstasies, the Bishop of Terni, Monsignor Vincent Tizzani, speaks authoritatively in a pastoral letter published regarding Maria von Mörl in the year 1842. He had seen her, one Friday, in her ecstasy and agony, and he could not repress his tears at beholding the text so literally verified, "I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me." His testimony concerning the stigmata and the circumstances of her supernatural state agrees in every particular with that rendered by Görres and Brentano seven years previously. Louis Clarus also, at that time a Protestant, afterward a Catholic, in his studies on mysticism, felt compelled to render this witness concerning her. "The force of truth and reality," says he, writing of his visit to Kaltern, "impressed me so, that I felt necessitated, like the apostle John, to announce what I had heard, my eyes had seen, and my hands touched."
Many others, among them Lord Shrewsbury, attest the same fact, every succeeding witness confirming the testimony of his predecessor. [Footnote 7]
[Footnote 7:Letter from the Earl of Shrewsbury to Ambrose Lisle Phillips, Esq., descriptive of the Estatica of Caldaro and the Addolorata of Capriana. London 1842.]
A whole generation has passed since then, and no one has been able to contradict their statements, or explain the phenomena on anynaturalprinciples. For thirty years every one could behold her in ecstasy or agony, and see the wounds plainly on her hands and feet, while she remained ever humble, meek, modest as a child, and intensely pious and holy. Her history could be written in two words: "She suffers, and contemplates." She was a passion-flower clinging to the foot of the cross. In ecstasy she spent her life, contemplating the sufferings of Jesus Christ, praying for all, for the church, and for her native land; doing good to countless poor people, alleviating their sorrows, like the divine Master who dwelt in the recesses of her soul.
Three years before her death she lost her confessor, Father Capistran, who had guided her soul for almost forty years. He was a distinguished theologian, a good priest, and had been judged worthy to be chosen provincial of his order, the Franciscans. He died on the 4th of May, 1865. She mourned his death like a child, and longed more than ever to be dissolved and be with Christ.
Her wish was soon gratified. She became very weak in the autumn of 1867, and the numerous visits she was compelled to receive, as well as the frequent requests made of her, completely prostrated her physical powers. The number of pilgrims to her "Swallows' Nest," as Görres called her abode near the Franciscan church, was extraordinary; men, women, priests, and laity, all came to her shrine.
The measure of her physical suffering was full; but the measure of her mental anguish was not yet complete. On the 8th of September, 1867, she was visited by a severe spiritual trouble. She seemed to be struggling with some power of hell. She became sad, and as if forsaken by God, to such an extent that until September 17th, and for weeks after, consciousness seems to have entirely left her. In this spiritual conflict she saw troops of demons, which surrounded, attacked her, and threatened to carry her off to judgment. She saw and heard the fiends blaspheming all things holy, and trying to bear even the most righteous away to the abyss.She heard the devils scoff at her, and boast that they had the pope in their power; that they had desecrated churches and convents, and made wickedness thrive in the land. These temptations and obsessions lasted from the middle of September to the middle of October, when peace again returned to her soul. From the 23d of October she was able to receive the blessed sacrament regularly; the struggle was over; she had conquered, and was now at rest. When she was afterward interrogated regarding these obsessions, she said that, on the night of the 7th of September, as she was praying for the pope and the emperor, the attack began. It was precisely at this time that the invasion of the pope's temporal possessions by the Garibaldians, sanctioned by the Sardinian government, took place. The French expedition was sent to the pope's relief toward the middle of October, just when Maria's soul obtained rest from demoniacal aggressions; so that her personal affliction seems to have been a participation in the sufferings of the church.
But the light of her life was flickering in the socket. She had a presentiment of her death before it took place, and prophesied often that she would never pass the winter on earth. Toward All Saints' day her weakness became greater, and everything foretold her dissolution. She could no longer bear nourishment. Lemonade or water, with the essence of quinces, was almost her only nourishment for some weeks before her death. When she felt better on certain days, she ate fruit, bread, or porridge, but never meat or meat soup. She sometimes spent several days without eating or drinking. In the last week, especially from Wednesday she suffered great torture. But she was full of resignation; indifferent to life or death, she never repined or murmured. She was patient and full of calm resignation and infantile love. On the feast of the Epiphany, five days before her death, she showed herself in her usual way to the pilgrims; there was a mission at Kaltern, and the missionaries visited her on that festival, to bid her farewell. She received them with bland hospitality, and offered them grapes to eat.
She knew nothing positive about the precise moment of her death, but only that she should die when everything on her became white. The stigmata began gradually to disappear, leaving only a blue spot, which disappeared entirely after her departure. She received the viaticum on January 6th, in the evening. Every one thought she would die immediately; but she made known by gestures that she should not die yet. She remained conscious, and was able to receive holy communion daily.
At last the day of her demise, January 11th, came. About half-past two on Saturday morning, two hours after communion, she passed from this vale of tears to her heavenly home. Her last agony was easy and calm. She lay quiet, occasionally murmuring the name of Jesus; and one of the bystanders heard her say: "Oh! how beautiful; oh! how beautiful." Her breathing grew weaker, and she fell gently asleep in death.
Her body was exposed in the church for two days, and thousands visited it. Many felt as if they had lost a member of their own family. She lay dressed as a bride, clothed in white, with a white veil on her brow, and a crown of flowers at her feet. Her face was beautiful to look upon, half-childlike in expression, yet mingled with the dignity of a matron; her head reclined, bent toward the left side; her brow and eyes were full of dignity; her mouth like that of an infant smiling in sleep; her hands white as alabaster, and ruddy as roses.Afterward the veil was taken away and she appeared more angelic than ever, her rich flowing hair surrounding her noble head. A look of perfect happiness beamed from her entire countenance.
Her burial was solemn. Surrounded by mourning and edified multitudes, her body was borne by young maidens from the catafalque to the zinc coffin prepared for its reception. Her remains were taken on January 13th to her father's family vault at Kaltern, where they now rest in peace.
Kaltern lost its jewel in losing Maria; but her virtues will live for ever in the hallowed spot where she was born, where she lived and died. Truly did Görres write of her to the Prince-Bishop of Trent: "God put her like a living crucifix on the cross-roads, to preach to a godless and dissipated people." She was one of those lamps lighted by the hand of God himself to shine in the darkness, when infidelity is abroad robbing and devouring in the vineyard of Christ. For this purpose she was sent by God, and hence we may well expect that the wonderful supernatural phenomena of her ecstatic life will not cease with her death.