We are now arrived at the most important period of her life. Miss Linder often referred with thankful heart to God's guiding providence; and in the steady progress of her spiritual life thus far is this not to be mistaken. Naturally religious, and inspired with an unaffected yearning for the entire truth, she was happily conducted into a circle of friends where her dawning faith received both impulse and guidance. Exterior incidents strengthened a certain interior magnetic bias. Since the day which rendered Assisi so dear to her, an invisible power had drawn her toward the visible church, and her leaning to Catholicity was imperceptibly strengthened. Her activity in art deepened her sympathies with a church in which art finds its true place and consecration. An intellectual intercourse of many years with friendly Catholic men and families could not fail to remove many a prejudice. Thus had an unexpected but powerful combination of circumstances conspired to lead a mind ingenuously seeking the truth to Catholicity. It would be quite a mistake, however, to suppose, as has been thought by some, that the personal influence of any friend whatever had worked decisively upon her determination to take the final step. No one could do this; not even Brentano, strong as was his interest in her spiritual life.
Clemens Brentano had come to Munich in October, 1833, and made his domestic arrangements in his usual characteristic style at Professor Schlotthauer's, "in one of the most pious and genial of Noah's arks," as he facetiously describes it. His associations led him into the same social circle in which Miss Linder moved, and soon after his arrival he made her acquaintance. Her pious earnestness, her cultivated, artistic nature, her charming and judicious benevolence, enchained his interest; and he believed, as is stated in his biography, to have found in her just the nature for the Catholic faith. One knows with what strength and zeal Brentano devoted himself (and in increasing ratio with increasing years) to such friends as were dear to him in the matter, particularly, of their acquaintance with the faith of his own church, and their participation in her blessings. His animated desire to instruct, which was ever without affectation or concealment, expressed itself in just such cases with the utmost freedom and frankness. Whoever reads that clever letter, "To a Lady Friend," written during these years at Munich, can tolerably well judge of the tone and style with which he brought home to a pious Protestant the warmth and depth of his religious convictions.
Certain is it that Miss Linder gained, through Brentano, a deep insight into the inner life of the church and the hidden graces and forces which stream through her. He had the power, as she said, "of making some things intelligible which might otherwise remain for ever closed to one." The life and the visions of Katharina Emmerich, which he read aloud on her weekly reading-evenings, made a profound impression upon her. As though in confirmation of what she heard, she saw with her own eyes at Kaldern a similar phenomenon in Maria von Mörl, that astounding living wonder, and was penetrated with the atmosphere of truth with which, as Gorres expresses it, Maria von Mörl seemed enveloped. She caused a portrait of this phenomenon to be executed by her lady friend, Ellenrieder; and always gladly gave her visitors (as is stated by Emma Niendorf) a full description of the stigimated, just as Brentano was wont to do in his letters. In this, as in other ways, was her intercourse with Brentano of service to her. To many an outwork of knowledge did he build a bridge, a pontifex maximus, as he once jestingly applied the term to himself. Finally, his own Christian death made a profound and lasting impression upon her.
Any other influence than mild, patient instruction was, once for all, excluded by her. Even the holiest zeal, if it sought, in any way, to crowd in upon her, could only force a nature like hers into antagonism, and check everything like quiet development. With all her humility, this lady possessed the self-reliance and genuine independence of a Swiss. She sought the way of truth with such deep longing that she willingly accepted guidance; but with such severe scrutiny, that she was not to be confused, and was inaccessible to every kind of coaxing from any side. For, from the quarter of her old theological standpoint there was no lack of friendly advice, or of opinions bringing great weight with them,—supposing that mere human opinions could ever have decided such a question. Even raillery was not lacking. Platen gave his particular attention to this kind of weapon, and put himself to no little trouble to ridicule her out of her Catholic proclivities. The theological tendency she had taken since the days passed at Sorrento had become to the poet of the Abassiden altogether "too romantic," and he hoped to cool her religious zeal with a cold irony. Thus, he once satirically addressed himself to her from Florence, (February 24th, 1835,) "Might one be so bold as to enquire what progress you have made in your conversion to the only saving church; or is this a secret? In case of a change of religion, I trust you will follow the advice of a friend, and turn, rather, to the Greek Church. For, if you prize Catholicism on account of its antiquity, the Greek Church is doubtless older. And is it the ceremonial which particularly attracts you; then here, too, is the Greek service far more aesthetic and imposing." Count Platen doubtless felt that in a theological controversy he was no match for his well-informed friend; and therefore, in his letters he appealed to her as an artiste. True, the barrenness of Protestantism in art he quietly admitted; but all the better success he promised himself in an attempt to belittle the merit of the church in the field of art by certain cunning sophistries. In several of his letters he stumbled upon the neither very bright nor novel idea of presenting the church as at an obsolete standpoint. "Certainly," he admonishes the artist, "Catholicity, as a thing of a former age, is highly to be esteemed, but not for the present. Her time is past, even for art. Perhaps by and by an artera may dawn upon her, but this will be of a purely aesthetic nature; for a blending of art with religion is no longer among the possibilities," etc. The thought that his friend, after all, might take some such fatal step evidently gave the poet much uneasiness; for even in his last letter to her, written but two weeks before his death, he makes another attempt at the same style of argument. It is contained in a description of Palermo, written at Naples, September 7th, 1835: "I received your welcome letter shortly after my return from Calabria. I know not how my mother could write you that Palermo did not please me; or, if so, to what extent this was the case. I simply remember saying that the location of Palermo bore no comparison with that of Naples. There are certainly lacking the islands, Vesuvius, and the coast of Sorrento; although the mountain background of Palermo is very beautiful. The Rogers chapel, there, is something that would please you—a church of the twelfth century, in perfect preservation; its style that of the old Venetian and Roman churches; and although of smaller dimensions, yet the finest of them all. It is the more interesting to attend a service there, because one sees that Catholic culture was calculated solely for the Byzantine style of architecture; for with such surroundings, only, could it be effective. Thus does Catholicity, even as to architecture, prove itself a thing of the past."
Enough of this. Such platitudes as these were not calculated to entangle a nature far too deep for them, or check the development of a work so earnestly undertaken. Emily Linder well knew that the church has already outlived many just such "obsolete standpoints," and many such prophets of evil, who have mistaken their wishes for reality, and phrases for axioms. How dignified and how welcome, in comparison with this sophistry from Naples, must have seemed to her the greeting of an old friend and art companion addressed to her from Rome, in the spring of 1833: "Be assured that I often fervently remember you to our Lord. Do you the same by me. May a holy unrest and impatience fill us to take 'by violence' the kingdom of heaven!"
This holy unrest had indeed for some time possessed her, and on many an occasion broke forth in expressions of touching and yearning expectancy. While viewing the cathedral of Cologne, in the year 1835, she ardently exclaims, "Ah! of a certainty an age whose lofty inspirations (and of no transient kind) could produce such monuments as this, deserved neither the epithet of rude nor dark. There resided in it a light which we, with our (gas!) illumination, could never produce." Again, as to the interior of the grand cathedral—"I know not why, but I cannot repress my tears. An irrepressible melancholy and yearning seizes me here." The same year, after viewing with Schubert the minster at Ulm, she makes this noteworthy observation in her journal, "It almost pained me that the old cathedral is no longer used for Catholic service, and that the choir and sanctuary are now so desolate." Already had she adopted many Catholic views. At an early period she believed in an active sympathy between this and the other world, and a purification of the soul in that world. The church's benediction was highly prized by her; for which reason, even as Protestant, she was in the habit of bearing about with her on her travels a little flask of holy water. Many of her views were as yet very undecided; but strong and irrepressible was her longing for that truth which should bring her peace. This clung by her in all her wanderings, and often drew from her a deep cry of the heart. The notes which she made during a trip to Holland, in company with Schubert, in the year 1835, closed with the following words, "These lonely days of travel have left me much time for meditation. To-day a crowd of thoughts and emotions fairly thronged upon me. I said to myself, To what purpose all this? Whither is this invisible power impelling us? Are we really advanced by it, or made the happier? Often this affluence of emotion rises to a kind of transport; then, again, it turns to pain, for I know not the why nor the whither. Is there a connectedness in all this? Is it enduring? Once more, then, why? During this journey of mine I have often prayed, O Lord, let me know thy will. Let me follow the path which is pleasing to thee. Lead me but to thyself, and in any way thou mayst choose. Let it become clear what thou really desirest of me. By this means I experienced great relief, and also the certainty that He, who with such signal fidelity had thus far led me, would clearly make known to me his will, would guide me into his paths."
As the interior movement increased, she was impelled to confer with intelligent friends in the distance concerning this most momentous interest of her life. Especially with Overbeck there ensued a correspondence which, continuing for years, was of great assistance in attaining to religious clearness. Overbeck took kindest interest in her doubts and scruples. He had formerly gone over the same ground, and could therefore confer with her about such matters "as a brother." His letters grew into a connected vindication of Catholic doctrine, and the truth and beauty of the church, expressed in the mild, clear, fervent, and touching language of one equally worthy of respect as man and artist. With a nature like Overbeck's, where the man and the artist are not two distinct individualities, but are united in a higher form —Christianity—words have a more elevated significance; and a correspondence with him must have necessarily possessed an import more than usually edifying. Emily Linder deeply felt this. We take her own testimony when we say that Overbeck's letters contributed largely toward her religious development; and, by the overwhelming conviction of his words, no less than by his own deep spirituality, she attained to a knowledge of very vital truths. She viewed the assistance he rendered her in the light of a perpetual obligation; and in later years, long after she became a Catholic, she breathed, in her letters to the admirable master, a "God reward you for it."
Meantime, however, she had to pass through many a severe struggle. The wrestling and testing which her conscientiousness imposed upon her was of long continuance. The dread of a hasty step which might afterward plunge her into the deepest unrest, caused her to advance but cautiously. Her mental vacillation continued for quite a period, during which she was filled with unsatisfied spiritual yearnings. She stood just on the portal of the church, afraid to enter. Many a prayer, far and near, ascended in her behalf to heaven. Brentano lived not to witness the conversion he so longed for. But the hope which gladdened his last days attained a realization the year after his death.