Notre Dame

I've just learned of the fire at Notre Dame de Paris. How horrifying, and what an unspeakably tragic loss. I'm so thankful that I was able to visit it.

I have a gut feeling that this was terrorism. This is a great symbol, not only of Western culture, but of Christianity, and specifically of Catholicism, and was built during the Crusades. For this to have happened on the Monday of Holy Week is just too symbolic to be coincidental.

Here is another episode of the same series, talking about the role of beauty and order in spirituality. This is the story of how those things, especially as expressed in music, led a Jew from liberal atheism to Catholicism. I post it here because it expresses very powerfully and beautifully the same ideas and impulses that have led me into Catholicism from other forms of Christianity. In this, also, is articulated much of the role that You have played in my spiritual journey, in showing me the way to that Divine Order. This is what I've tried to express before by comparing you to Beatrice to my Dante.

"Mozart, when he wrote that piece [the 40th symphony], was witnessing to me, that: the truth of things, which is the relationship between Man and God."

Meditations on Holy Week

When I made my first confession a few weeks ago, after going through the list that I had made and confessing each one, I ended with the confession that my greatest and most grievous sin of all was that I had done all the others while already knowing Christ. This was not empty rhetoric. I have known him as long as I can remember; I made my first confession of sin and invitation to his lordship when I was four, of my own volition, alone in my room, not being led by any other person. And thus every sin I have ever committed since then has, in addition to its own sinfulness, been to commit the infinitely more heinous sins of grieving the Holy Spirit and subjecting Christ again to his crucifixion (Heb 6). The Catholic church recognizes this truth: in the Tridentine catechism it says:

We must regard as guilty all those who continue to relapse into their sins. Since our sins made the Lord Christ suffer the torment of the cross, those who plunge themselves into disorders and crimes crucify the Son of God anew in their hearts (for he is in them) and hold him up to contempt. And it can be seen that our crime in this case is greater in us than in the Jews. As for them, according to the witness of the Apostle, "None of the rulers of this age understood this; for if they had, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory." We, however, profess to know him. And when we deny him by our deeds, we in some way seem to lay violent hands on him. Nor did demons crucify him; it is you who have crucified him and crucify him still, when you delight in your vices and sins. (emphasis mine)

I have long had this idea that in his passion, the Lord experienced in a very real way the weight and horror of each and every sin and evil ever committed by mankind. That it was not just some sort of symbolic act, but that he, in a mystical manner, re-lived (or pre-lived) them all. That he experienced, for example, both the horror, pain, and shame of the victim of a violent crime and, worse yet, the guilt and remorse of the offender (perhaps experiencing remorse for the crime even, or maybe especially, when the actual sinner didn't). There's a superhero movie in which one of the hero's powers is to grab hold of the perpetrator of some horror, and make him experience his crime from the victim's perspective. I've pictured it like that, but times infinity.

It turns out that I am not the first one to have this idea: it has been given to at least one mystic of the church. Anne Catherine Emmerich describes, in one of her visions:

When Jesus left His disciples, I saw a number of frightful figures surrounding Him in an ever-narrowing circle. His sorrow and anguish of soul continued to increase, and He was trembling all over when He entered the grotto to pray, like a wayworn traveler hurriedly seeking shelter from a sudden storm, but the awful visions pursued Him even there, and became more and more clear and distinct. Alas! this small cavern appeared to contain the awful picture of all the sins which had been or were to be committed from the fall of Adam to the end of the world, and of the punishment which they deserved. It was here, on Mount Olivet, that Adam and Eve took refuge when driven out of Paradise to wander homeless on earth, and they had wept and bewailed themselves in this very grotto.

I felt that Jesus, in delivering Himself up to Divine Justice in satisfaction for the sins of the world, caused His divinity to return, in some sort, into the bosom of the Holy Trinity, concentrated Himself, so to speak, in His pure, loving and innocent humanity, and strong only in His ineffable love, gave it up to anguish and suffering. He fell on His face, overwhelmed with unspeakable sorrow, and all the sins of the world displayed themselves before Him, under countless forms and in all their real deformity. He took them all upon himself, and in His prayer offered His own adorable Person to the justice of His Heavenly Father, in payment for so awful a debt. But Satan, who was enthroned amid all these horrors, and even filled with diabolical joy at the sight of them, let loose his fury against Jesus, and displayed before the eyes of His soul increasingly awful visions, at the same time addressing His adorable humanity in words such as these: “Takest thou even this sin upon thyself? Art thou willing to bear its penalty? Art thou prepared to satisfy for all these sins?” 

I have experienced faint echoes of this myself. Some years ago, after my son had come back from his first combat tour, he was suffering greatly, and I asked the Lord to let me bear some of his suffering for him. And he granted my request. I was immediately plunged into terrible emotional pain and mental torment, to the point of having memories which weren't mine, which lasted for quite a long time, weeks or months, afterward. And when I talked to my son again some time afterward, he told me that his burden had been considerably lightened just after the last time we'd talked.

It happened again, far more briefly, just the other day. While I prayed, I was overcome with the overwhelming deep pain, anguish, shame, and horror of a woman who had been assaulted. I don't know who or exactly what this was about: whether it was one specific person, or perhaps just women in general who have suffered it. Whether it was about a stranger or someone I know (unfortunately, there are several candidates). Or whether it was past, present, or (possible) future (I prayed that, if it was possible, that whoever and whatever it was might be prevented). I have always hated and detested this crime more than all others, but I had never truly felt the emotional depths of the victims' suffering like this. I hope I actually was helping someone, in some way.

Not to imply at all that any of this compares with Jesus's agony in the garden. To bring us back to the point, it is only in and through his agony that ours acquires any transcendent meaning or eternal value. Also, whereas Jesus's suffering was only on others' behalf, as he was truly innocent, anything I experience also comes back around, in the end, to my own sin and guilt. Although I may not be guilty of a particular crime, I still, in a way, share in its guilt, by having partaken of and participated in some sin of lesser magnitude but the same species, as in the parallels which Jesus drew, that anger equals murder and lust equals adultery.

This all ties, unintentionally (on my part) back into my prayer and meditation on the Sorrowful Mysteries during this Lent. I'm wondering now if perhaps it is a Grace given to me through those intentions.

Here, if you want to meditate further on these things, is an hour (or so) long podcast reading from and reflecting on the Passion and the Sorrowful Mysteries, from the perspectives of Scripture, mystical revelation, and forensic science. I especially love the point made that 'Gethsemane' means olive press, and the garden was the place where olives were crushed to produce pure oil. And that this evokes a beautiful and sorrowful picture of Jesus's human soul being crushed under the weight of all the sin which he was bearing.

Even more so, I am deeply moved by the reflections (and here it ties back in once again to my own spiritual journey) on how the Passion was experienced by the Blessed Mother of the Lord and how, in praying the Rosary and meditating on the mysteries, we are experiencing it through and with her. 

Plans

I'm thinking of taking a trip. No, not a hike this time. Well, not only a hike.

I'd like to go to Medjugorje, to pursue and deepen my new relationship with Mary. Then I'd like to visit Lourdes, walk the Camino de Santiago, then down to Fatima. What I'm hoping to do is actually walk that whole way: Lourdes to the Camino, then from Compostela down to Fatima.

Depending on how things end up with the sale of my house, it could be an extended trip. What I'm hoping to do is to put all my stuff in storage rather than buying another place right away, then spending a longer time in Europe. Part of it would be doing regular travel things; castles, cathedrals, and museums, you know, and maybe seeing some old friends. But also, there's a place there in Medjugorje, a kind of semi-monastic community for men where one can stay a while and seek God and wholeness. And I'm thinking maybe I'd like to do that, before I decide on my next step.

Whether I can do this will depend on some things more or less outside my control. My house has to sell. And I've actually got a contract on another place. But it's provisional on my current one selling, and will expire after 90 days (or like 80 now, I guess) if it doesn't. And there could be other, unforeseen factors, which change my plan or prevent it. As everything, it's all "the Lord willing".

I've started backpacking again, to get back in shape for walking. I won't be carrying as heavy a pack on the Camino, and I've been told it's not nearly as physically difficult as the AT. But still, it's good to be in shape. And I need to anyway. I'm finally really losing weight again. I went to the doctor a week or two ago, and I was down 16 pounds since my previous visit at the end of December. Once Lent is over, I'm going to hit the gym again; I haven't lifted since before my long fast, over two years ago now, and I never really recovered the upper body muscle I lost during that fast.

What I'm praying is that my house will sell for close to what I'm asking, but not in the next 90 days (so I can get out of the other contract without losing my earnest money). I'll spend that time training and continuing to get fit, brushing up on my French (and seeing if I can pick up some Spanish while I'm at it), then when I close, move all my stuff into storage except my backpack, and hit the road. Or the sea, rather. I'd like to take a ship passage across, if it is practical to do so, rather than flying. Buy a Eurail pass, do my things, then decide where to go from there. Maybe I'll just never come back.

To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without faith, no explanation is possible.

-- St. Thomas Aquinas

"Nothing uproots the weeds of the soul so quickly as blessed humility."

-- Theodoros the Ascetic

"A thing which consists of several parts, each beautiful in itself, is far more beautiful than the individual parts which, properly combined and arranged, compose the whole, even though each part, taken separately, is a thing of beauty." -- St. Augustine

"I was tired of this woeful and disheveled world, slipping slowly back into decay, as it seemed to me, with its petty but cruel wars, and all the ruin of the good and fair things there had been in my grandsires' days." -- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Notion Club Papers 

Douglas Gresham on C.S. Lewis, Jesus, and Love

This is, to me, a near-perfect expression of what the Christian life should be. Perhaps it's because Mr. Gresham and I were formed in our intellectual and spiritual lives by the same man, though for me of course it was only through his books.

I note with kind amusement that, in the beginning of the interview, he says he doesn't like the term "falling in love" and disparages romantic notions; but then pay attention when he talks about meeting his wife. I understand, of course, what he's trying to say: no doubt, when he speaks of falling in love and the romantic view, he's thinking of his own story, and how his father "fell in love" with another woman and divorced his mother. And he's right, that is not real love: real love is something different (or I would say something more) than the world's notion of romantic love--it's just a matter of terminology.

He says that one of the most important things he learned from "Jack" (C.S. Lewis) is that real Christianity is shown and taught by life and example, not by preaching. And I think that's the most important thing that I've learned from him as well. As I've said before: how many more people have come to know the Love of God through Aslan and Narnia than through even the most successful preacher--say Billy Graham?

I'm very pleased to learn that the movie Shadowlands, which I otherwise dearly love, got the part wrong about his mother's death and prayer. In the movie, Jack and Douglas talk about praying to save a loved one from death, and agree, "It doesn't work." I've always been disappointed in that scene, because it is axiomatically wrong: prayer does work (though granted we're not always going to get what we want--sometimes the answer is that God's will is something different). But according to Douglas, that scene is factually wrong as well. The true story is so much more powerful and beautiful. I don't know why they changed it. My only guess is that it reflects the beliefs of the filmmaker, which can't allow for the possibility of the true version.

Here, if you like the first one, is the other half of the story: his wife, Merrie. Also beautiful, both the story and the woman. And there are a few more comments from Douglas, on his love for her, which are very touching.

Rites and Results

I had my first confession yesterday.

I had been anxious and apprehensive over this for weeks; probably not a unique experience. I'm not a terrible sinner, but still, there were some things that I was very ashamed of. As Hamlet says, "I am myself indifferent honest, but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me." I prayed, asked the Holy Spirit to help me remember everything I needed to confess, and kept a list as things came to mind.

But it turned out to be much easier than I had anticipated. Part of it, no doubt, is that I have a good priest. But another part is that the things which I've been agonizing over, some of which I've never told any living human before, though I had confessed them to God and repented in private, just didn't sound as earth-shakingly evil as they had in my soul for all those years. In fact, as I listened to myself and looked at my list, it almost seemed trivial. Almost.

After confession, I stepped outside the church and lit my list of sins on fire, then buried the ashes on the church grounds. And I have to tell you, I feel wonderful: clean, light, and innocent. I enjoyed my reading last night more than I have in ages, like I'd recaptured that wonder and joy I had in my youth, in my early readings of Tolkien. And when I slept, my dreams were so many and so vivid that I was overwhelmed, and couldn't really remember much distinctly.

This was the second of the rites in the process of joining the Church, and both times I've felt a very real effect from them. After the Rite of Welcome, when I was received under the protection of the Church, the level of the spiritual warfare in which I've lived all my life dropped off dramatically. I don't talk a whole lot about this side of it, but the extraordinarily active spiritual life I have on the positive side has a correlation from the other side as well. I had come to accept that that was just the way it was going to be: that I would be living in a spiritual war zone for my whole life. But something has changed--like the volume has been turned way down. It's like, before, I was wandering around waging a private war, behind enemy lines; but now, I've been taken under the auspices of the U.S. Army, and have the entire might of the U.S. military on my side.

There's a psychological effect too. As you know, I've been and felt alone all my life. Especially in the area of ideology, I've experienced hate, rejection, revilement, hostility, anger, and even persecution because my beliefs and opinions are not acceptable either to the politically correct faction or the more traditional, "conservative" but secular and rationalistic faction of society. But now that I'm a member of the largest organization on Earth, I feel like I've finally found a place to belong. And especially I am very pleased to learn that, within the Church, there is an entire sub-culture of people like me, old-fashioned, traditional-minded people who love classical high culture; men who grow beards and smoke pipes, and women who wear mantillas (that is, chapel veils) in church (which I find so incredibly beautiful and admirable); who read Tolkien and Chesterton, Lewis and MacDonald, and discuss religion, literature, music, philosophy, art, and culture intelligently and sensitively.

This Sunday is the next step, and my confirmation will be on Easter, which is appropriate, as I feel like I will be starting a new life.

Sanctified Suffering and the Sorrowful Mysteries

One of the other things that appeals most to me in Catholic theology is the concept of sanctified suffering. This means that, through joining my own sufferings to those of Christ, I can offer them up to God as an acceptable sacrifice.

This does not mean that I earn anything from Him. Apart from Christ's sufferings, my own are no more (and probably much less) than I deserve. But He took the penalty of my sin upon Himself, and therefore my suffering is not punishment or expiation, but something else.

This contrasts with a very prominent error in the modern church, that of the prosperity gospel. There is a truth which lies behind that error--a truth about the exchange of our sin, sickness, suffering, and curse for His holiness, healing, joy, and blessing (see Isaiah 53), which joins us into His covenant to receive blessings in this life. Here is a near perfect explanation of what I mean by that, to save me some writing. The only thing I would add to that is a caution that God's true prosperity also doesn't mean only spiritual prosperity and rewards in Heaven. It can and often does include Good Things here on earth. But Good Things of a higher order; of a holier, deeper, and more beautiful nature than those pursued by the world (or by those who have a crude and materialistic view of divine prosperity). In this sense, blessing, prosperity, and happiness in this life take on a different character and meaning: one can live modestly, humbly, even frugally, and still be considered greatly prosperous. Monks and nuns, for instance, living quietly but productively in cloister are living a blessed and abundant life when considered from this viewpoint. As is a family who is not materially wealthy by worldly standards, but is living in the blessings of true conjugal and filial love, and in a well-ordered and spiritually and aesthetically meaningful life. When understood correctly, the true version of divine health and prosperity fits perfectly with the theology of sanctified suffering: it is because of the exchange at the cross that my suffering can be offered as something which I no longer owe.

Right now, during Lent, I am praying the Rosary with the Sorrowful Mysteries. I am offering up all my own tribulation, in union with Christ in those mysteries, joining my sorrows with His sorrows.

In The Agony in the Garden I offer up to God all the time I've spent in agonized, passionate, sorrowful prayer, asking for His aid and His mercy, seeking knowledge of His will and understanding of His working.

In The Scourging at the Pillar I offer my broken heart: the grief, sorrow, sadness, depression, disappointment, and hopelessness.

In The Crowning with Thorns I offer Him my mental torments: all the negative thoughts, confusion, uncertainty, the despair, stress, anxiety, and doubt.

In The Carrying of the Cross I offer up the burden that I have borne; one that I willingly took up because I heard Him calling me to do so. I have stumbled more than once, as Christ stumbled under the weight of the cross. But I have borne it to the ends of my strength.

In The Crucifixion I offer all the rejection, isolation, loneliness, and shame I have lived in for so long. It has been a kind of death.

“The believers in miracles accept them (rightly or wrongly) because they have evidence for them. The disbelievers in miracles deny them (rightly or wrongly) because they have a doctrine against them.”

-- G.K. Chesterton

Erbarme Dich, Mein Gott

More Thoughts on Catholicism

There is a thing which I've been discovering...well, all my life, really; but at an exponentially accelerating rate and to an awe-inspiring depth and breadth over the last decade or so. That thing is God's Created Order in the universe.

I think it started in earnest with my discovery of the works of Tolkien, at around age 12. Tolkien's secondary world reflects with captivating beauty and majesty the true created order, and is fascinating in the same way that an exquisitely executed miniature is, like a scale model of a countryside, or a ceiling painted with the stars. The reduced scale of it allows us to grasp it, to own it, in a way shutting out the overwhelming vastness and incomprehensibility of the original. This is what C.S. Lewis expressed in his anecdote of the awakening of the Inconsolable Longing when his brother made a crude landscape of the hills near their house in the lid of a tin.

As I've grown and learned, I've discovered increasingly that this order, and the truth and beauty in that order, is the thing for which my soul most deeply longs. This is what draws me so profoundly not only to Middle-Earth and Narnia, but to Bach and Handel, Biber and Buxtehude; why I adore both Raphael and the pre-Raphaelites and loathe Picasso and Pollack. Why I'm fascinated by Mediaeval culture, history, and literature. Why my ideal life would be that of a rural gentleman on a farm-manor like in one of Austen's or Hardy's stories. It's why I love femininity and hate feminism; why I love marriage and hate adultery. And it's why I'm drawn to catholicism--because that is where that order, as it can be comprehended from our mortal vantage point, is most fully explored and expressed.

Catholicism is obviously imperfect. Very imperfect. But so is everything else. The difference is that catholicism is at least in intent and ideal far less imperfect than most everything else in the world as it now is. In execution it is quite a bit further from perfection than its ideal, but that is not an argument against it; it is a reason to do it better. Whereas the more perfectly you do modernism, the worse a thing you become. And Protestantism, though not wholly without merit, is a flawed and very limited vessel, which will not hold the vastness and complexity of the truth. Meaning proper Protestantism, not so much the Anglo-Catholicism which I've practised up until now. You can't fit God in a box made of human reason. Protestantism, and any philosophy based on rationalism, is rigid, and will break if forced too far out of its original parameters. Catholicism--and by that I mean catholicism in all its forms, not only Roman, but Orthodox, Eastern, Anglican, whatever--embraces not only order and complexity, but mystery, and that is the thing which gives it its great capacity to hold truth. Mystery makes it flexible and expandable, so that however much of God and His Order is revealed, the container expands and reshapes itself to fit it.

**edit: I initially wrote "post-Raphaelites" when I meant "pre-Raphaelites". Don't know why: I know better.

Direction

Several weeks ago, just after this, I decided to become Roman Catholic.

Decided is probably the wrong word. What happened is that I awoke one morning with the idea and the intention fully-formed in my mind. I have learned when this happens to go with it, because I am being Directed. I also knew, upon that waking, what parish I was going to go to, which mass I would be attending, and which priest I would talk to about being confirmed.

I had considered, years ago, becoming Catholic, and had even begun catechism, meeting with a French priest named Fr. Dupré (no relation), and attending the Tridentine, or traditional Latin, mass in Phoenix where I was living at the time. But I ended up taking another turn and becoming confirmed as an Anglican instead. I had put a lot of thought and prayer into it back then. But it wasn't something I had really thought about or seriously considered in a long time. I hadn't been considering going back to any church at all for the last several years, except for the thing I mentioned a couple of months ago. That having failed, I had decided not to pursue any further avenues. But upon waking that morning, after the...what to call it? healing? deliverance? epiphany? breakthrough? whatever it was, of a few weeks ago, it just felt like time to move forward.

So I obeyed the prompting, and met with the priest. I made a list of all the books I've read which I thought would be relevant to Catholic catechism (which ended up comprising four pages), and we discussed my theology, my spirituality, my prayer life, my mysticism, etc. He had me meet with the director of religious education, also, and they both decided I did not need any further catechism or instruction, and asked when I wanted to be confirmed. I said Easter, because I would like the Lenten season for preparation and penitence, and so we scheduled it. The first official rite of the process, the Rite of Welcome, was last Sunday.

Why Catholic, you may ask. So far most of the Protestant friends and acquaintances I've told have immediately launched into a litany of their reasons why God and I are wrong about this. In which I am supremely uninterested.

The simple answer is, 'Because God led me to.' That prompting I had has been further confirmed by prayer and by signs.

The more complex answer is that I have already been catholic for a long time, just not Catholic. This is not, for me, a conversion; it is an expansion. I had a dream some time back, in which I was at a church altar rail, being served Eucharist by three priests: one Anglican (representing Protestants), one Catholic, and one Orthodox. I see, and have long seen, myself as being in full fellowship with all orthodox, biblical, trinitarian Christians, whether Anglican, Roman Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian, Pentecostal, Charismatic, Mennonite, Adventist, Indian Mar Thoma, Ethiopian Tewahedo, non-denominational, inter-denominational, trans-denominational, or whatever. If you truly believe in and follow the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, take scripture seriously, and try to follow Christ's teachings, you are my brother or sister. Some churches have requirements in order to be received into full communion with them, meaning being able to partake of the sacraments and the full life of the church. I am submitting to that, so that I can worship and fellowship fully with Roman Catholics. I would actually like to be confirmed in an Orthodox church too, at some point, so that I can commune with them as well. And I am not becoming not-Anglican in order to become Catholic: I will now be both.

My theology hasn't changed and isn't changing, nor is my prayer life and private spirituality. Except that I will be adding frequent confession and the Sacrament of Reconciliation, which I see as a very good thing. I already pray the Hail Mary three times a day, and have done for years, ever since the Lord spoke to me during a time of prayer, and said that if I would take His mother as my mother, He would use her to heal my relationship with women, which had been troubled since I was a small child. I accepted, and He has kept that promise.

Like I said, I'm already catholic, so there's no real change here for me. The main thing is to have somewhere to start going to church again. It is time. Also, it is time to have a pastor and spiritual director in my life again, something that I did not have even when attending my old church. I loved our priests there, and I loved the teaching and preaching. But there was a total lack of pastoral care in that church, which I was definitely not the only one to feel and note. Also, my very active spiritual and mystical life was not well-received there, as there was prejudice against such things in favor of mainline Protestant rationalism (they had all come from Episcopalian, Methodist, and Presbyterian backgrounds). Whereas this priest to whom I was directed is a mystic himself, and said to me that he believes all Christians are called to be mystics, which I believe also. He is from Africa, where there is a much more active spirituality than in the West; I find, the further I go into my spiritual life, the more I have in common in many ways with people from places like Africa and India and the less with typical Americans and Europeans. This is the first time I've had a spiritual father figure in my life since before moving to Virginia, almost ten years ago now.

One of the signs I alluded to above was that, Sunday before last, the first time I attended mass since leaving the old church, I was kneeling in prayer during the liturgy, and out of nowhere I saw how to write the story about which I had been blocked for a very long time. I went home later and it just started flowing. Also, taking this positive and tangible step out and forward has helped me to shake off that inertia which had been keeping me bound with my fitness, and I am finally moving forward there as well.

So, to sum up, I feel very positive about this move, and I am fully confident that this is the direction the Lord would have me take in this season of my life.

"I will promise you this: Your favorite story, whatever it might be, was written for One Reader."

 -- Victor Levin

"He loved her without reservation, without hope, unconditionally."

-- Gustav Flaubert

"It is said of her beauty that no man of flesh and blood had ever gazed at her with enamoured eyes, and not loved woman and noble qualities ever after."

-- ibid 

"He that never had sorrow of love never had joy of it either."

-- Gottfried von Strassburg, Tristan 

"Then he found himself in a hall, which had an iron door at one end. This door he unlocked with his golden key, and he passed through into a vast chamber which had a roof of blue sprinkled with golden stars, and a carpet of green silk soft as turf. Twelve windows framed in gold let in the light of the sun, and on every window was painted the figure of a young girl, each more beautiful than the last. While the prince gazed at them in surprise, not knowing which he liked best, the girls began to lift their eyes and smile at him. He waited, expecting them to speak, but no sound came.

Suddenly he noticed that one of the windows was covered by a curtain of white silk.

He lifted it, and saw before him the image of a maiden beautiful as the day and sad as the tomb, clothed in a white robe, having a girdle of silver and a crown of pearls. The prince stood and gazed at her, as if he had been turned into stone, but as he looked the sadness which was on her face seemed to pass into his heart, and he cried out:

'This one shall be my wife. This one and no other.'"

-- Long, Broad, and Quickeye, Bohemian Fairytale