The Cloister and the Hearth: A Tale of the Middle Ages by Charles Reade
CHAPTER CI
JEROME was as morose as ever in his general character; but he hadsomewhat softened towards Gerard. All the time he was in England he hadmissed him more than he thought possible, and since then had oftenwondered what had become of him. What he heard in Gouda raised hisfeeble brother in his good opinion: above all that he had withstood thePope and the Minorites on "the infernal heresy of the immaculateconception," as he called it. But when one of his young monks told himwith tears in his eyes the cause of Gerard's illness, all his contemptrevived. "Dying for a woman?"
He determined to avert this scandal: he visited Clement twice a day inhis cell, and tried all his old influence and all his eloquence toinduce him to shake off this unspiritual despondency, and not rob theChurch of his piety and his eloquence at so critical a period.
Gerard heard him, approved his reasoning, admired his strength,confessed his own weakness, and continued visibly to wear away to theland of the leal. One day Jerome told him he had heard his story, andheard it with pride. "But now," said he, "you spoil it all, Clement:for this is the triumph of earthly passion. Better have yielded to it,and repented, than resist it while she lived, and succumb under it nowbody and soul."
"Dear Jerome," said Clement, so sweetly as to rob his remonstrance ofthe tone of remonstrance, "here, I think, you do me some injustice.Passion there is none: but a deep affection, for which I will not blushhere, since I shall not blush for it in Heaven. Bethink thee, Jerome;the poor dog that dies of grief on his master's grave, is he guilty ofpassion? Neither am I. Passion had saved my life, and lost my soul. Shewas my good angel: she sustained me in my duty and charity; her faceencouraged me in the pulpit: her lips soothed me under ingratitude. Sheintertwined herself with all that was good in my life: and after leaningon her so long, I could not go on alone. And, dear Jerome, believe me Iam no rebel against Heaven. It is God's will to release me. When theythrew the earth upon her poor coffin, something snapped within my bosomhere that mended may not be. I heard it and I felt it. And from thattime, Jerome, no food that I put in my mouth had any savour. With myeyes bandaged now I could not tell thee which was bread, and which wasflesh, by eating of it."
"Holy saints!"
"And again, from that same hour my deep dejection left me, and I smiledagain. I often smile--why? I read it thus: He in whose hands are theissues of life and death gave me that minute the great summons; 'twassome cord of life snapped in me. He is very pitiful. I should have livedunhappy; but He said 'No; enough is done, enough is suffered; poor,feeble, loving servant, thy shortcomings are forgiven, thy sorrows touchthine end; come thou to thy rest!' I come, Lord, I come."
Jerome groaned. "The Church had ever her holy but feeble servants," hesaid. "Now would I give ten years of my life to save thine. But I see itmay not be. Die in peace."
* * * * *
And so it was that in a few days more Gerard lay a dying in a frame ofmind so holy and happy, that more than one aged saint was there togarner his dying words. In the evening he had seen Giles, and begged himnot to let poor Jack starve: and to see that little Gerard's trusteesdid their duty, and to kiss his parents for him, and to send Denys tohis friends in Burgundy: "Poor thing, he will feel so strange herewithout his comrade." And after that he had an interview with Jeromealone. What passed between them was never distinctly known; but it musthave been something remarkable; for Jerome went from the door with hishands crossed on his breast, his high head lowered, and sighing as hewent.
The two monks, that watched with him till matins, related that allthrough the night he broke out from time to time in pious exclamations,and praises, and thanksgivings: only once they said he wandered, andthought he saw her walking in green meadows with other spirits clad inwhite, and beckoning him; and they all smiled and beckoned him. And boththese monks said (but it might have been fancy) that just before dawnthere came three light taps against the wall, one after another, veryslow; and the dying man heard them, and said "I come, love, I come."
This much is certain, that Gerard did utter these words, and prepare forhis departure, having uttered them. He sent for all the monks who atthat hour were keeping vigil. They came, and hovered like gentle spiritsround him with holy words. Some prayed in silence for him with theirfaces touching the ground, others tenderly supported his head. But whenone of them said something about his life of self-denial and charity, hestopped him, and addressing them all said, "My dear brethren, take notethat he, who here dies so happy, holds not these newfangled doctrines ofman's merit. Oh, what a miserable hour were this to me an if I did! Nay,but I hold with the Apostles, and their pupils in the Church, theancient fathers, that 'we are justified, not by our own wisdom, orpiety, or the works we have done in holiness of heart, but byfaith.'"[N]
Then there was a silence, and the monks looked at one anothersignificantly.
"Please you sweep the floor," said the dying Christian in a voice towhich all its clearness and force seemed supernaturally restored.
They instantly obeyed, not without a sentiment of awe and curiosity.
"Make me a great cross with wood ashes."
They strewed the ashes in form of a great cross upon the floor.
"Now lay me down on it: for so will I die."
And they took him gently from his bed, and laid him on the cross of woodashes.
"Shall we spread out thine arms, dear brother?"
"Now God forbid! Am I worthy of that?"
* * * * *
He lay silent, but with his eyes raised in ecstasy.
Presently he spoke half to them, half to himself. "Oh," he said with asubdued but concentrated rapture, "I feel it buoyant. It lifts mefloating in the sky whence my merits had sunk me like lead."
* * * * *
Day broke; and displayed his face cast upward in silent rapture, and hishands together; like Margaret's.
And just about the hour she died he spoke his last word in this world.
"Jesu!"
And even with that word--he fell asleep.
* * * * *
They laid him out for his last resting-place.
Under his linen they found a horse-hair shirt. "Ah!" cried the youngmonks, "behold a saint!"
Under the hair cloth they found a long thick tress of auburn hair.
They started, and were horrified; and a babel of voices arose, somecondemning, some excusing.
In the midst of which Jerome came in, and, hearing the dispute, turnedto an ardent young monk called Basil, who was crying scandal theloudest. "Basil," said he, "is she alive or dead that owned this hair?"
"How may I know, father?"
"Then for aught you know it may be the relic of a saint?"
"Certes it may be," said Basil sceptically.
"You have then broken our rule, which saith 'Put ill construction on noact done by a brother which can be construed innocently.' Who are you tojudge such a man as this was? go to your cell, and stir not out for aweek by way of penance."
He then carried off the lock of hair.
THE DEATH OF GERARD]
And when the coffin was to be closed, he cleared the cell: and put thetress upon the dead man's bosom. "There, Clement," said he to the deadface. And set himself a penance for doing it; and nailed the coffin uphimself.
The next day Gerard was buried in Gouda churchyard. The monks followedhim in procession from the convent. Jerome, who was evidently carryingout the wishes of the deceased, read the service. The grave was a deepone, and at the bottom of it was a lead coffin. Poor Gerard's, light asa feather (so wasted was he), was lowered, and placed by the side of it.
After the service Jerome said a few words to the crowd of parishionersthat had come to take the last look at their best friend. When he spokeof the virtues of the departed, loud wailing and weeping burst forth,and tears fell upon the coffin like rain.
The monks went home. Jerome collected them in the refecto
* * * * *
Thus after life's fitful fever these true lovers were at peace. Thegrave, kinder to them than the Church, united them for ever: and now aman of another age and nation, touched with their fate, has laboured tobuild their tombstone, and rescue them from long and unmerited oblivion.
He asks for them your sympathy, but not your pity.
No, put this story to a wholesome use.
Fiction must often give false views of life and death. Here as ithappens, curbed by history, she gives you true ones. Let the barrier,that kept these true lovers apart, prepare you for this, that here onearth there will nearly always be some obstacle or other to your perfecthappiness; to their early death apply your Reason and your Faith, by wayof exercise and preparation. For if you cannot bear to be told thatthese died young, who, had they lived a hundred years, would still bedead, how shall you bear to see the gentle, the loving, and the true,glide from your own bosom to the grave, and fly from your house toheaven?
Yet this is in store for you. In every age the Master of life and death,who is kinder as well as wiser than we are, has transplanted to heaven,young, earth's sweetest flowers.
I ask your sympathy then for their rare constancy, and pure affection,and then cruel separation by a vile heresy[O] in the bosom of theChurch; but not your pity for their early, but happy end.
Beati sunt qui in Domino moriuntur.
FOOTNOTES:
[N] He was citing from Clement of Rome--
[Greek: 'Ou di' heauton dikaioumetha oude dia tes hemeteras sophias, eeusebeias, e ergon hon kateirgasametha en hosioteti kardias, alla diates pisteos.'----_Epist. ad Corinth._, i. 32.]
[O] Celibacy of the Clergy, an invention truly fiendish.