The Blue Flower [61]
noiselessly as a shade.
John turned to Hermas, and his tone softened as he said:
"My son, you have sinned deeper than you know. The word with
which you parted so lightly is the keyword of all life.
Without it the world has no meaning, existence no peace, death
no refuge. It is the word that purifies love, and comforts
grief, and keeps hope alive forever. It is the most precious
word that ever ear has heard, or mind has known, or heart has
conceived. It is the name of Him who has given us life and
breath and all things richly to enjoy; the name of Him who,
though we may forget Him, never forgets us; the name of Him
who pities us as you pity your suffering child; the name of
Him who, though we wander far from Him, seeks us in the
wilderness, and sent His Son, even as His Son has sent me this
night, to breathe again that forgotten name in the heart that
is perishing without it. Listen, my son, listen with all your
soul to the blessed name of God our Father."
The cold agony in the breast of Hermas dissolved like a
fragment of ice that melts in the summer sea. A sense of sweet
release spread through him from head to foot. The lost was
found. The dew of peace fell on his parched soul, and the
withering flower of human love raised its head again. He stood
upright, and lifted his hands high toward heaven.
"Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord! O my
God, be merciful to me, for my soul trusteth in Thee. My God,
Thou hast given; take not Thy gift away from me, O my God!
Spare the life of this my child, O Thou God, my Father, my
Father!"
A deep hush followed the cry. "Listen!" whispered
Athenais, breathlessly.
Was it an echo? It could not be, for it came again--the
voice of the child, clear and low, waking from sleep, and
calling: "Father!"
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS-TREE
I
The day before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 722.
Broad snow-meadows glistening white along the banks of the
river Moselle; steep hill-sides blooming with mystic
forget-me-not where the glow of the setting sun cast long
shadows down their eastern slope; an arch of clearest, deepest
gentian bending overhead; in the centre of the aerial garden
the walls of the cloister of Pfalzel, steel-blue to the east,
violet to the west; silence over all,--a gentle, eager,
conscious stillness, diffused through the air, as if earth and
sky were hushing themselves to hear the voice of the river
faintly murmuring down the valley.
In the cloister, too, there was silence at the sunset
hour. All day long there had been a strange and joyful stir
among the nuns. A breeze of curiosity and excitement had
swept along the corridors and through every quiet cell. A famous
visitor had come to the convent.
It was Winfried of England, whose name in the Roman tongue
was Boniface, and whom men called the Apostle of Germany. A
great preacher; a wonderful scholar; but, more than all, a
daring traveller, a venturesome pilgrim, a priest of romance.
He had left his home and his fair estate in Wessex; he
would not stay in the rich monastery of Nutescelle, even
though they had chosen him as the abbot; he had refused a
bishopric at the court of King Karl. Nothing would content
him but to go out into the wild woods and preach to the
heathen.
Through the forests of Hesse and Thuringia, and along the
borders of Saxony, he had wandered for years, with a handful
of companions, sleeping under the trees, crossing mountains
and marshes, now here, now there, never satisfied with ease
and comfort, always in love with hardship and danger.
What a man he was! Fair and slight, but straight as a
spear and strong as an oaken staff. His face was still young; the
smooth skin was bronzed by wind and sun. His gray eyes, clean
and kind, flashed like fire when he spoke of his adventures, and
of the evil deeds of the false priests with whom he contended.
What tales he had told that day! Not of miracles wrought
by sacred relics; not of courts and councils and splendid
cathedrals; though he
John turned to Hermas, and his tone softened as he said:
"My son, you have sinned deeper than you know. The word with
which you parted so lightly is the keyword of all life.
Without it the world has no meaning, existence no peace, death
no refuge. It is the word that purifies love, and comforts
grief, and keeps hope alive forever. It is the most precious
word that ever ear has heard, or mind has known, or heart has
conceived. It is the name of Him who has given us life and
breath and all things richly to enjoy; the name of Him who,
though we may forget Him, never forgets us; the name of Him
who pities us as you pity your suffering child; the name of
Him who, though we wander far from Him, seeks us in the
wilderness, and sent His Son, even as His Son has sent me this
night, to breathe again that forgotten name in the heart that
is perishing without it. Listen, my son, listen with all your
soul to the blessed name of God our Father."
The cold agony in the breast of Hermas dissolved like a
fragment of ice that melts in the summer sea. A sense of sweet
release spread through him from head to foot. The lost was
found. The dew of peace fell on his parched soul, and the
withering flower of human love raised its head again. He stood
upright, and lifted his hands high toward heaven.
"Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord! O my
God, be merciful to me, for my soul trusteth in Thee. My God,
Thou hast given; take not Thy gift away from me, O my God!
Spare the life of this my child, O Thou God, my Father, my
Father!"
A deep hush followed the cry. "Listen!" whispered
Athenais, breathlessly.
Was it an echo? It could not be, for it came again--the
voice of the child, clear and low, waking from sleep, and
calling: "Father!"
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS-TREE
I
The day before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 722.
Broad snow-meadows glistening white along the banks of the
river Moselle; steep hill-sides blooming with mystic
forget-me-not where the glow of the setting sun cast long
shadows down their eastern slope; an arch of clearest, deepest
gentian bending overhead; in the centre of the aerial garden
the walls of the cloister of Pfalzel, steel-blue to the east,
violet to the west; silence over all,--a gentle, eager,
conscious stillness, diffused through the air, as if earth and
sky were hushing themselves to hear the voice of the river
faintly murmuring down the valley.
In the cloister, too, there was silence at the sunset
hour. All day long there had been a strange and joyful stir
among the nuns. A breeze of curiosity and excitement had
swept along the corridors and through every quiet cell. A famous
visitor had come to the convent.
It was Winfried of England, whose name in the Roman tongue
was Boniface, and whom men called the Apostle of Germany. A
great preacher; a wonderful scholar; but, more than all, a
daring traveller, a venturesome pilgrim, a priest of romance.
He had left his home and his fair estate in Wessex; he
would not stay in the rich monastery of Nutescelle, even
though they had chosen him as the abbot; he had refused a
bishopric at the court of King Karl. Nothing would content
him but to go out into the wild woods and preach to the
heathen.
Through the forests of Hesse and Thuringia, and along the
borders of Saxony, he had wandered for years, with a handful
of companions, sleeping under the trees, crossing mountains
and marshes, now here, now there, never satisfied with ease
and comfort, always in love with hardship and danger.
What a man he was! Fair and slight, but straight as a
spear and strong as an oaken staff. His face was still young; the
smooth skin was bronzed by wind and sun. His gray eyes, clean
and kind, flashed like fire when he spoke of his adventures, and
of the evil deeds of the false priests with whom he contended.
What tales he had told that day! Not of miracles wrought
by sacred relics; not of courts and councils and splendid
cathedrals; though he