The home at Schweinfurth.

"An obscure town; situated at the extremity of Bavaria, and watered by an unknown river—such, then was to be the asylum of this young woman,"[100] writes her French biographer. But this is not a correct description of Schweinfurth as it was in the sixteenth century.

Far from being an obscure town, it was a free imperial city, celebrated and important as the greatest corn–market in all central Germany. Far from being situated at the extremity of Bavaria, it was in the midst of the most central district of German civilisation and progress, and the Maine was not in the sixteenth, or, unless on the banks of the Seine, is it in the nineteenth century, by any means an unknown river. Nor were "silence" and "isolation" the doom of Olympia in her home at Schweinfurth. Writing thence soon after her arrival to an Italian friend, she says: "Besides, there are several good men in this place, for whose sake we are glad to be here; and most gladly resign to you your flesh–pots of Egypt;[101]—istas ollas Egyptiacas."

It may be admitted, however, that the contrast between life at Ferrara and life at Schweinfurth was great, but not altogether to the disadvantage of the latter residence. Freedom of conscience, liberty of life, the interchange of thought and opinion without danger of the Inquisition, and the independence of a home of her own, were well worth the sacrifice of Italian sunshine, brilliant skies, and all the festal out–door life belonging to them. And doubtless Olympia spoke from her heart, when she declared, that she most willingly resigned all share in such "flesh–pots."

The martyrdom of Fannio had dissipated the last hope that Rome might be induced to adopt a more moderate policy towards those who dissented from her doctrine. Soon after this event, and after being settled in her new home, Olympia writes to Celio Curione at BÂle as follows:—

"You invite us to take BÂle on our way, in case we should be returning to Italy. Alas! it is but too probable that we shall never return! Indeed, we did not come into Germany with any hope of soon seeing again my unfortunate country. You must know well all the dangers of a residence in a land where the great enemy of our faith is all powerful. The Pope is now so furiously persecuting our brothers in the faith, and hunting them down so cruelly, that the sufferings of the reformers under the last Pontiff were nothing in comparison to the persecutions of the present one. He has filled all the cities of Italy with his spies, and turns a deaf ear to all applications for mercy. I would far rather seek a refuge at the most distant shore of the far west, than return to a country so afflicted. Should, however, anything cause us to quit my husband's native city, there is no place in the world I should prefer to BÂle. Living near you, I should fancy myself once more among my own people. I should at least be nearer Italy. I should be able to write more frequently to my mother and sisters, the thought of whom is never absent from my mind night or day. I could also receive news from them more readily."

In another letter of this period from Olympia to the same Italian friend,[102] to whom she abandoned the flesh–pots, we find a curious indication of the degree to which Caraffa's inquisitors were pushing their system of espionage, and minute watchfulness. Sending greetings to a female friend, she cautions her correspondent to whisper them in her ear, lest she or any other friends might get into trouble by the mere mention of her name. Nor was it generally prudent to write any such matter at all. "I send you these letters open on account of the extreme suspiciousness of these days;—propter hÆc suspiciosissima tempora," says she in another place.

In a letter to Thomas of Lucca,[103] however, written about this time, which accompanied some money she desired to remit to her mother—"aliquot nummos aureos,"—she ventures to say of the Interim, that "nobody has as yet been compelled to observe its provisions, but, as before, all live according to their own conscience." So that all the apparatus of men–at–arms, and forcible changes of municipal governments, had effected but little; and the Emperor's attempt to play Pope had issued very much in failure. So difficult is it to bring persecution for conscience sake to bear upon a people, to all whose habits, manners, and instincts, it is repugnant. Charles might issue his decrees; and all those who heard them might receive them with profound obeisance. But still it was the old story, "Water would not quench the fire, fire would not burn the stick, stick would not beat the pig," and Charles could not get his Interim to work.

One of the first letters Olympia wrote from Schweinfurth was to Lavinia della Rovere.[104] "Your spiritual welfare," she writes to her, "is a subject of my constant prayers; for I fear, lest, after your usual fashion, you suffer your mind to be distracted, and its vigour used up by worldly cares. Despite the various occupations which keep me busy, I have composed the dialogue sent herewith for you, in the hope that the perusal of it may divert your mind from your sorrows.[105] I suppose that the war with France has separated you from your husband, and that you are in consequence suffering the torment of anxiety. I have therefore introduced into this dialogue some thoughts, which seemed to me suitable to your situation. I send you also some of the writings of Dr. Martin Luther, which have been useful to me, in the hope that you also may find comfort from them."

It must have been by a right trusty and devoted messenger that writings of Luther's could then be sent into Italy. The task of carrying them thither was very far from being either an easy or a safe one. It is satisfactory to observe, however, that Olympia's Calvinism was not so strict as to prevent her from finding profit in the study of the works of Luther: and still more so to note, that from the closeness of her intimacy with Curione, and the high respect she frequently testifies for his authority, she probably shared his opinions on a subject on which they were diametrically opposed to those of the Swiss theologians. In a work entitled "De Amplitudine beati regni Dei," Curione ventured to maintain that the number of the elect was greater than that of the reprobate, a heresy of the most painful kind to the Calvinistic mind. "It is a matter of great surprise," says Bayle,[106] "that he could have dared to advocate such a doctrine in the midst of the Swiss. For it is one extremely objectionable to orthodox members of the Reformed Church; and I do not think that any preacher could maintain it at the present day in Holland with impunity."

Leaving, then, to the pious Dutchmen all the satisfaction derivable from the "orthodox reformed" doctrine, we may reserve to ourselves that of believing, that a pure and noble womanly heart dared to be heretical and human at least thus far.

In another letter, written about this time from Schweinfurth, she noticeably recurs to Luther rather than to Calvin for the means of converting Romanists to Protestantism. It is addressed to Flacius Illyricus, the classical alias of Mathias Flach, who was one of the writers of the centuries of Magdeburg, and author of a vast number of controversial works. Olympia had never seen him; and writes to him merely on the strength of his literary reputation. Having long been anxious, she says, to find the means of providing for her beloved Italy some share of that religious instruction so abundantly possessed by Germany, she had at length determined on applying to him, whose works were well known to her, to undertake the task. "No more would be needed," she writes, "than to translate from German into Italian some one of the writings of Martin Luther, in which the errors of the Roman Church are refuted. I would not have shrunk from the labour myself, were it not, that after two years' residence in this country, I am still ignorant of the language. Perhaps, also, you might write some work in Italian on the subject; which, with your profound knowledge of those Scriptures which I have but dipped into, it would be easy to you to do. It would be the means of enlightening many pious men, now living in darkness. Should your zeal for the truth give you courage to undertake such a work, you may rest assured that it would be received on the other side of the Alps with infinite gratitude. But for the success of such a book, it is essential that it should be written in Italian; for only a few of my compatriots read the learned languages."

The dialogue mentioned in the letter to Lavinia della Rovere, cited a few pages back, is one of the few compositions by Olympia which have been preserved.[107] It is a conversation between Philotima and Theophila, in which the former, who is meant to be Lavinia della Rovere, complains of the sorrows caused her by the continual absence of her husband; "for there is no greater happiness on earth than to live with him we love. But this felicity is refused me; and my sorrow is bitter in proportion to the eagerness with which I had looked forward to happiness."

Thereupon Theophila, who is, of course, Olympia, lectures her friend at considerable length, referring her to "the holy women in the Bible, who sought not in marriage the realisation of their dreams of earthly happiness, but the glory of God;" with several pages more in the usual strain of those writers, whose ethical system is based on the assumption, that every natural affection of the heart is in its nature evil. It is curious to recognise in Olympia's nearly irreproachable sixteenth–century Latin, the common stock phrases, similitudes, and metaphors, still in vogue in the Zion meeting–houses and little Bethel chapels. The well–turned sentences read very hollow; and though it is impossible to doubt Olympia's perfect sincerity, or her desire to school her own feelings into the unnatural quietism which she recommends to her friend, yet we cannot forget the very different tone of real feeling and earnestness manifest in those letters written from Ferrara during her own husband's absence, when she talked of pining to death unless he returned within the month! How came the glory of God and the holy women of the Bible to be forgotten, when there was so much need of the consolation to be derived from the meditation of such themes?

Then there are letters indicating that the Scheinfurth dwelling was beginning to take the semblance of a home, with the means and appliances of a scholarly life about it. Thanks to the intervention of good George Hermann, the box of books has arrived from Italy. The dear old books from the little library at Ferrara, where Olympia had passed among them so many, many solitary hours of ambitious girlhood; where Curione had been invited to enjoy "the blessings of solitude and peaceful study;" and in whose safe shelter many a dangerous talk on grace, free–will, and absolute decrees, had been prolonged far into the night! The dear old books, each individual of them bringing with it the well–remembered physiognomy of a familiar friend! In these days of unlimited literary supply, when books are made to be used like oranges, hastily sucked and chucked away, it is difficult to appreciate fully the reverential love felt by a sixteenth–century scholar for the precious tomes produced with so much labour and difficulty, and acquired at the cost of so much self–denial.

All the books came safely to their far northern home, except Avicenna, which was no where to be found in the box! And Olympia writes to a German friend at Padua,[108] thanking him for forwarding them, and asking what was due for their carriage. She complains in the same letter, that for fourteen months she has received no tidings from Ferrara, all her letters to her relatives and other friends having remained unanswered. "You have no doubt heard the news of the deliverance and restoration of the Elector of Saxony—(John Frederick, deposed, and long kept prisoner by Charles V.),—it is the great event of the day."

Another indication that the home of GrÜnthler and Olympia had assumed a certain amount of comfortable stability, as also of the high estimation in which they were held by their friends, may be found in the presence of Theodora, the daughter of John Sinapi, as an inmate of it. The learned physician had begged his former pupil to receive her to be educated together with Olympia's young brother, Emilio. The occupation was one particularly well suited to her. Her whole life, and all her associations, had been scholastic; and if, in the general tenor of her compositions,—putting aside, of course, questions of religious doctrine,—any tone grates possibly a little upon the ear of one who has pictured her to himself as a young, lovely, and fascinating woman, it is an occasional slight echo of pedagogue–ism, which is just the least bit in the world suggestive of Minerva, with a birch in her hand, and a pair of spectacles on her nose. She was herself childless. In one of her letters to Curione, sending him some of her Greek translations from the Psalms, she begs him to "accept these verses, the only offspring to which I have given birth. And for the present I have no hope of any other."

In one of her letters to Sinapi, she reports favourably of Theodora's progress. "Your daughter," she writes, "every day learns something, and is thus, little by little, putting together her riches."

Look, reader; see, if by putting your eye to the magic glass, you cannot discern the little party framed there in that autumn of the year 1552, in a rather large, but very low, wainscoted room of one of those narrow high–peaked houses, with quaint gables, seeming to be almost endowed with physiognomical expression, that wink and nod at each other across the narrow German street. Doctissimus dominus Andreas is abroad among his patients, of whom he has only too many, much disease being generated, as usual, by the cramming of a number of ill–paid, ill–fed, ill–lodged, and ill–lived soldiers into the narrow quarters of a close–walled town. Olympia and her two pupils are sitting near the small first–floor window which projects over the street, that they may have all the little pale light there is, as the three heads bend together over the small, but well–cut, type of that octavo volume of the Iliad which Luke Anthony Giunta printed at Venice in the year 1537, and which poor Peregrino Morato, being an exile in that city at the time, bought with so much difficulty. The precious volume is not endangered by any easy–chair fashion of holding it in the hand, or letting it lie on the lap, but reposes stately on a little wooden desk in front of Olympia's chair, while Theodora and Emilio stand one on each side the youthful matron's knee. The large low chamber, extending over the narrow entrance passage, and two small rooms, one on each side on the ground–floor, occupies the entire extent of the house on the first floor, and has two narrow windows.

At the other of these sits, occupied in some household task, our maid Barbara,—she alone of all the other maids–of–all–work, mending hose, washing windows, or stewing saur–kraut, that day in wide Germany, still extant,—a good servant enough, if "ipsius mores" could be tolerated.[109] For Barbara's immortality, sad to say, rests mainly like that of some other historical personages, on this questionability of her moral character. Yes! there, clearly enough, sits Barbara at the other window, doing what was to be done under the eye of her mistress, who does not approve of her hand–maiden running out into streets filled with Spanish soldiers, and who finds, as she says at the end of the dialogue she sent to Lavinia della Rovere, that all goes wrong in a house as soon as the mistress's back is turned.

In the background of the large room are two heavy wooden closed bedsteads, looking more like huge chests of drawers than any other modern piece of furniture, in which repose Olympia and her husband. For this, the best and only good room in the house, is the lady's bower and bedchamber. The two little damp rooms below serve, the one as a kitchen, and the other as the family refectory. Above, in the huge roof, two little narrow–windowed chambers held the pallet beds of Theodora and Emilio; and above these, squeezed into the narrowing roof, another cell, with its eye–like window, peering out under the projecting eaves of the gable, afforded a dormitory for Barbara of the intolerable morals.

Something like this, I fancy, must have been that quiet home, and the way of life in that pine–wood furnished low–roofed chamber, where the daily lessons occupied the morning; and where, in the evening, when the good doctor had returned from his work, some one or two of those "viri boni," for whose sake a residence at Schweinfurth was agreeable,—learned Dominus Johannes Cremer, or learned Magister Andreas Roser, the schoolmaster,—fortis Gyas, fortisque Cloanthus,—grave men in stiff ruffles, large dark–coloured cloaks, and flat wide hats, which they retained as they sat in the somewhat bleak room,—would come in and hold sober discourse in Latin—(Olympia did not understand German)—on the last new controversial work of some shining light, on the probability of the provisions of the Interim being enforced, on the certainty of the doctrine of election, or the uncertainty of the movements of the Emperor, or other such topics; and finish the evening by singing together one of Olympia's Greek Psalms, set to music by her husband; wherein one may fancy that the pure Italian soprano of Olympia, the childish treble of the two children, and the deep voices of the musical German guests, as they joined in the sonorous Greek syllables, under the guidance of GrÜnthler's bÂton, produced a performance altogether sui generis. And all is well, if only that slippery ancilla, Barbara, had not taken the opportunity of running out into the street, and left perchance the door on the latch.

A pale life, vulgar cares, and monotonous duties for our Court–muse, so long accustomed to the flattering homage of a brilliant courtier circle in the splendid Ferrara saloons, glittering with gilding, and glowing with the colours of Dosso Dossi! The contrast must have presented itself sometimes to Olympia's mind; but the recollection was more calculated to produce a contented smile than a sigh of regret. It is a noticeable development of a richly endowed moral nature,—this change of one, who seemed so wholly and perfectly made and fitted for the element in which she then moved, into a being at least as thoroughly adapted to a life so violently contrasted to it in all ways.

Sometimes the perfect adaptation to her new position, as the learned wife of a distinguished professor, not without authority in her circle, shows itself amusingly in a little assumption of the birched Minerva attitude, to which, it has been hinted, she had a slight leaning. As when we find her writing to a divine,[110] whose name is discreetly left in blank, in this strain:

"As I have good information that your backslidings are frequent, I have thought it right to admonish you that you are acting in a manner at variance with the high dignity of your office, and disgraceful to your gray hairs, in giving way to your appetite as grossly as any Epicurus could do!" The gray–haired preacher, it would seem, was addicted to excessive potations; and Olympia's letter is long and eloquent enough on the subject to have mended his habits, if it was in the power of lecturing to do so.

GrÜnthler and his wife had hardly got settled at Schweinfurth before a very eligible appointment to a Professor's chair at Lintz was offered to him, through George Hermann. The position seemed to be all that could be desired, if only a favourably reply were returned to one question, which Olympia immediately writes[111] back to their kind friend and patron to ask. "Is anti–Christ raging at Lintz? Shall we be permitted, that is to say, to hold and to profess openly our own faith? Because, having been enlightened sufficiently to see and give testimony to the truth, our eternal happiness would be the price of any turning back from the plough."

The answer on this point was unfavourable. All thoughts, therefore, of the Lintz professorship were abandoned: and GrÜnthler and his wife were contented to remain in their humble home in the free city of Schweinfurth.

But the little family circle there was in the beginning of 1553, broken by the recall of Theodora to the death–bed of her mother. The premature death of Francesca Bucyronia, who had been Olympia's friend at the court of Ferrara, and whose destiny in life had been so singularly the counterpart of her own, was almost as deeply felt in the home at Schweinfurth as in her own at WÜrzburg. There is a letter from Sinapi to Calvin,[112] in which he tells him of his loss.

"I had been absent," he writes, "from WÜrzburg; and my return, and that of Theodora, our beloved daughter (whom we had confided to the care of a matron as pious as she is erudite, Olympia Morata, whose name is no doubt known to you), seemed to restore her" (his wife) "in some degree. But soon all hope was gone * * * Oh! what a faithful and tender friend I have lost in my Francesca. She had joyfully followed me into Germany; and had quickly familiarised herself with the language and manners of this country. She preferred the simple rusticity of my countrymen, to the insincerity and calumny from which she had suffered during the latter part of our residence at Ferrara."

This intimation that Francesca also had suffered from the displeasure of the Court of Ferrara, at the same time that Olympia had fallen into disgrace, would seem to add probability to the supposition, that the same cause, their common Protestantism, was the motive of the Court hostility in either case.

Olympia's French biographer[113] thinks that this period of her life at Schweinfurth, was "one of sacrifice," and that "isolation and obscurity were now her lot." It does not seem to me that this Schweinfurth home is thus fairly described, or that Olympia so regarded it. I think that it included a fair proportion of the elements of happiness, and that she was perfectly capable of appreciating those elements.

If only the simple home, with its quiet round of congenial duties and congenial pleasures could have been preserved to the physician and his wife, their story might have ended more in the idyllic than the tragic tone. From lyric girlhood to idyllic matronhood the progress is normal, and need excite no pity for its "isolation and obscurity." But the sequel of the tale, which remains to be told, renders it indeed a tragedy.