* * *
Red Thorns
A BREATHLESS TENSION lay over the group of monks who had assembled in the chapter room. Abbot Udualrich could not conceal his inner unease. His eyes roved here and there, until they came to rest on the still, recollected face of the lame man. It was all very well for him to pray—the friend of the Pope!
The Lord Udualrich could not guess that Hermann of Altshausen was in the heart of a mountain torrent, so to speak. A stream of melodies, images, and verses wanted to take form within him, and demanded to be shaped. A profusion of thoughts and ideas assailed him. The words of the Holy Father, admonishing him and at the same time setting him free, had torn down the dam of grief behind which the stream of an entire year had piled up. Now Hermann was delivered up to the floodwaters.
In the midst of this onslaught, Hermann did not lose control. The roaring waves propelled the ship of his heart and spirit in one direction only, toward the Lord. The sick man had always experienced, whenever something new was born in him, that it came from the Lord and led back to him—grace, gift, present and burden. Often, indeed all too often, the poor vessel of his fragile body was too narrow to contain the gifts; his mouth and hands were too weak to exploit the full potential. The suffering of the spirit that was fettered by the powerlessness of the body knew hardships that wounded him more deeply than external pain. Yet even the unused abundance of gifts did not turn into insipid, stale water. A humble act of thanksgiving directed the stream back to the Lord. There was no standstill in this life. And there would no longer be any standstill, now that the spell cast by grief had been broken, the spell that had restricted the creativity of the sick man to the barren, narrow path of the explicit obligations that were laid upon him. He could give more, and he had to give more, if God gave it to him.
In the course of his reflections, he remembered something Abbot Berno had said in chapter about Saint Augustine:
“He cannot resist the Holy Spirit when he comes over him. He comes over him like dew and rain on thirsty ground. Can the earth fend off these gifts of heaven? Augustine is the earth of the Holy Spirit, and he surrenders willingly to the heavenly dew. So it is not he who writes, although it is he who wields the pen. The Holy Spirit writes out of him. And the earth bears rich, immensely rich fruit for the holy Church.”
Pope Leo IX entered. His face appeared kind and fatherly in the mild morning light. His voice did not lack warmth when, after a brief prayer, he told the monks that he did not intend to hold an official visitation, since time was too short. During the night, a courier had brought him important news that meant he had to leave soon.
“But We insist, like a careful father of the family, on having a closer look at the abbey of Saint Mary on Reichenau, which We love. As the shepherd of the herd that Christ has entrusted to Us, We want to gather anew the sheep and lambs of this island around the highest Lord and Shepherd by means of admonitions, encouragement, and salutary instructions. Perhaps a careless, naughty little sheep has got entangled in thorns here and there, and We must free it from these thorns. We want to do this with gentleness and love, and to take great pains to act according to the model we have in the Lord Jesus Christ, who has left us the command: ‘Learn from me; I am gentle and humble of heart!’”
The Lord Leo looked kindly at the flock of black habits at his feet. A noticeable relief rippled through their ranks as they heard his friendly words.
“Let us do the one work together, beloved brothers and sons in the Lord. Let us together prepare a dwelling place for him in our hearts; let us together prepare a dwelling place for him in this world, so that he may prepare a dwelling place for us with his Father. Let us pray, as Our Lord has taught us to pray …” The Pope and the monks of Reichenau prayed the Lord’s Prayer.
If anyone had hoped that the Lord Leo would abandon his plan to such an extent that he would restrict himself to noncommittal counsels, suggestions, and exhortations, he had misjudged the situation. Abbot Udualrich was to learn that Leo IX demanded a strict account from him about how he had administered the inheritance from the Lord Berno, under whose rule the abbey had flourished for forty years. The Holy Father also summoned the monks and brothers to his presence, or else he visited them unexpectedly at the places where they were working. And he kept the promise he had made in the chapter room. His exhortations were suffused by the spirit of Christ’s meekness and gentleness. Those of good will were deeply shaken, and listened readily to his wooing them for Christ. Pope Leo IX wooed the souls of the monks and brothers in the monastery on the island of Reichenau for his Lord.
More than ever, Christ needed faithful people who lived uncompromisingly for him. And were not these to be found in the monasteries, the fortresses of the faith, the houses of God?
The Pope encountered both wheat and chaff in the community. He asked himself whether he might allow both to grow alongside each other until the time of the harvest. Could he allow an Udualrich to stay in office? He had not yet found an answer by the time he came to the cell of the lame man. He had postponed this visit to the final day, saving this joy to the last.
Hermann sat in the armchair at his desk between the two windows, one of which looked to the north, and the other to the east, onto the Gnadensee. His twisted upper body was firmly supported in a recess in the table that had been made especially for him. His left hand rested on a parchment, while his right hand slowly and very laboriously moved the goose quill. He did not stand up when the door opened. He could not turn round to see who was coming; and he supposed that it was Berthold, who wanted to carry out a service of love in his usual quiet way.
Pope Leo IX sat on the stool beside the sick man’s chair and looked at the austere poverty of the whitewashed cell and the concentration on Hermann’s face as he wrote. What joy there was on the emaciated face of the richest poor man whom Leo had ever seen!
Joy and peace—it was here that they dwelt, here more than anywhere else. How joyless, by comparison, was the Lord Udualrich, how devoid of peace in his desperate anxiety to get hold of the goods of this world and enjoy them! The Pope was seized with a tremendous pity for the abbot. “For he had great possessions …” That is what we read about the rich young man in the Gospel; many goods, but not the one good thing.
A monk who did not love out of the love of Christ, and for the love of Christ, was terribly poor, since he had deprived his life of that which could give it its one and only meaning.
“I will admonish him seriously and leave him in office, so that he may have the time to become poor in goods and rich in Christ. And I charge you, my friend Hermann, with the true care of souls on Reichenau, with bringing down grace into the souls of the brothers. Your task is to ensure that this grace flows out into the Church, into the world. I am asking a great deal of you, my beloved son, and yet I am asking only that you should love the one thing that you are already doing …”
The Pope’s silent inner soliloquy was interrupted by a cheerful joking voice from the window: “You have given me a feather from a goose that is pulling up the grass out there. It must be a very stubborn bird, because the feather is still alive in my hand. The black scrawl that I have produced with this feather looks as if a goose had waded through my inkwell and then run across the parchment. Come here, Berthold, and see for yourself!” Hermann laughed lightly, and then sighed as he gave up the effort. The Pope took his place behind the lame man. “Have a look for yourself, my friend! The letters I have written stagger so much from side to side that anyone who saw them might speak of trees, of branches in an autumn storm—provided that he had a lot of good will. I am sorry, Berthold, but you will have to copy it all out again. I would have dearly loved to do it myself this once, but I cannot possibly offer the Holy Father my scribblings. I hope there is still time to do it again.”
At this point, the Lord Leo drew up the stool in front of the desk and sat down opposite the lame man. “No, Father Hermann, I do not permit that. Berthold will not write one single line anew.”
“You, Holy Father!” The blue eyes lighted up. “Berthold, why did you not tell me that the Holy Father had come?”
“Our good Berthold could not do that, Hermann, because he is not here with you. You have had to put up with me as a substitute all this time.”
“And did I tell you about the living goose feather?” asked Hermann, somewhat shocked. But then he joined in the Pope’s heartfelt laughter.
Leo IX nodded emphatically. “Yes, that is what you did, and now I know that the goose first waded through the inkwell and then ran across your parchment.”
With a trembling right hand, the lame man offered him what he had written. “Please take it, Holy Father. You can see with your own eyes that it really looks like that.”
The Lord Leo took the piece of writing. The black army of letters stumbled and trembled, staggered and tottered. Scarcely one letter displayed any abiding tendency to remain in the same row as its neighbor. One letter wanted to get higher up, while another tried to position itself under the others; one letter thought it had to go straight upward; one wanted to go left, while its neighbor wanted to go right. But the text was legible. Before the Pope could study the words, Hermann gave him a second parchment, a carefully executed painting.
“Berthold has painted this coat of arms.”
The Holy Father looked at the picture, somewhat puzzled. It depicted three red branches of a thorn bush, arranged in ascending order, beginning with the smallest. They were vigorous branches with strong pointed thorns, red thorns on a gold ground.
“May I explain it to you? This is almost the coat of arms of our dynasty, the Counts of Altshausen: three red stag’s antlers on a gold ground, symbols of strength and power and courage. But it has been slightly altered, and now we have three thorn branches, symbols of powerlessness, of suffering, and of being abandoned. It is the coat of arms of those who prepare themselves for the missa orbis, for the consecratio mundi.1 Would you like to read my verses now, Holy Father? The prayer is also an interpretation of the meaning of the red thorn branches. Or may I read it aloud to you? You will no doubt find it very difficult to read my letters.”
Leo gave him back the parchment. “Read, Father Hermann, but not because of the difficulty I might have in reading your text. Such a prayer takes on its deepest life only when it is spoken by the one who has prayed it beforehand.”
The Holy Father looked out onto the Gnadensee, onto the quiet, sparkling surface of the water under the cloudless, clear autumn sky.
“You who are the Lord of my life, Jesus Christ!
“You are my beginning, my blessing, my path, my joy, my hope, my only goal. I adore you and I beseech you: Let blossoms bud on the dry branch of my thorns, blossoms from the bright golden ground of grace. You yourself have bound them around my forehead, around my forehead and around my heart. You gave them to me as a seal and a pledge of divine love.
“Lord Jesus Christ, I beseech you: Let them bloom and become fruitful like the crown of thorns that you wore on the path of your pains under the cross. Let them bloom and become fruitful.
“Grant life, from the golden ground of grace, to the smallest of my bitter branches, to the thorn branch of torment, of sickness, of pains. Once you gave the thorn branch to a child, who understood the gift only when he was a man. Let it bloom and become fruitful.
“Grant life to the branch with the bigger thorns, with the thorns of inner distress and repentance, with the keen anguishes of the spirit that struggles, with the burning homesickness for your nearness. Let it bloom and become fruitful.
“Grant abundance, superabundance of life to the largest of my bitter branches, to the branch with the thorns of the futile endeavor to find you in the souls of the beloved brothers; the thorns of the sufferings over those who do not know you; the thorns of the tears shed because of those who do not want you; the thorns of the lamentations when your love is disregarded, and your grace is unrecognized and betrayed; the thorns of the terrible distress I feel for the sake of your holy kingdom, and of the world for which you died on the cross and that you want to bring home, Lord Jesus Christ, so that it may become a sacrifice of praise to the Father’s glory.
“Lord Jesus Christ, I beseech you: let blossoms bud on the dry branch of my thorns. Let them bloom and become fruitful.”
“I shall wear them in homage of her who is the purest blossom, who opened herself to the Spirit as his bride and who gave us you, the holiest fruit of blessed virginity.
“Lord, I wish to bring my blossoms to your most blessed Mother, the Virgin Mary, the mild light that shines in the hours of tribulation, the helper and consoler, the mistress and Mother of merciful love.
“Leave the thorns with me … as the seal and pledge of divine love.”
“
After the lame man finished the prayer, a long time passed before Pope Leo IX turned to him. A still light shone in his bright eyes. He laid his right hand, which had been given the authority to bind and to loose in the name of Christ, his consecrated right hand, on the slender hand of the cripple.
“Thank you, brother,” said the Holy Father. He repeated his words: “Thank you!”
The monk did not reply. For what should he say? He waited calmly, with his trembling hand sheltered under the right hand of the Pope. As he took his leave, Pope Leo IX looked at the gaunt face, marked by suffering and yet so free, so relaxed and noble.
“Any more words between us would be superfluous, my brother in Christ. We have told each other what truly matters. You will give Reichenau what you can give it, because you share my concern for it. If God’s plan should mean that this once radiant star of his Church should be extinguished, a new star will arise somewhere else. God becomes man again and again in those who open up the chambers of their soul to him. In them and through them, he goes on his way into the world, the way of redemption, the way of the cross. Your thorn branches bloom. God is faithful.”
The Pope detached his right hand slowly from the lame man’s hand and blessed him. Then he took the two parchment leaves, the painting and the prayer, with the red thorns on a gold ground …
“
“We leave today!”
Pope Leo IX gave the command, and Archdeacon Hildebrand was the only one to show no sign of surprise.
“Your Holiness, it will take some time before everything is ready,” complained the papal private secretary. “The day is already late, and we will be obliged to cross the Gnadensee in the dusk.”
Leo’s answer was slightly sarcastic: “Aha, you are afraid that the barque of Peter would capsize on the Gnadensee?” But he suddenly became serious, and continued: “Monsignor, we are traveling today because the day is already late, and night is about to fall. It is high time. The Lord calls Us. Our work here is done. We must make use for Christ of every hour that he still gives Us. Blossoms must bud from the thorn branches everywhere—everywhere, not only on Reichenau.”
The Pope’s white ship sailed across the Gnadensee. Only a few monks stood at the bank; the Lord Leo had given word that his departure was not to be made known. From the window of his cell, Hermann followed the calm gliding of the ship through the silver water. Soon, the lake would shine in red-gold light, when the sun sank in the west …
Berthold was with him. He had just brought him the Holy Father’s greetings and told him of the task with which the Pope had charged him.
“Write down the Vita Hermani, Berthold.2 Have him tell you the story of his life. Do not force him, just ask him in my name to tell you as much and as far as is compatible with the delicate shyness he feels about speaking of his suffering. Begin soon, Berthold, begin soon … if possible, begin already today. I will leave appropriate instructions for the abbot,” the Lord Leo had told the young monk. “Hermann must not be forgotten. His life makes us rich through his poverty, and poor through his riches. His cross makes us happier and his greatness makes us humbler. We want many people to enjoy these gifts.”
Berthold did not quote the literal words of the Pope, when he told his master of the charge that he had been given. He presented Leo’s request to him almost shyly, and then waited eagerly for the answer. He began to feel anxious when Hermann remained silent for a long time.
Would the father speak to him? Would he entrust to him, his pupil, secrets of his life that Abbot Berno had taken with him into eternity? All at once, the young man understood how much the Holy Father was asking of the lame man here. If only he could fetch the white ship back to Herrenbuck harbor! He would then fall to his knees and ask Pope Leo IX to excuse the father and Berthold from this charge. Is he to penetrate into the hidden and silent realm of this life, he who took his first steps in learning Latin as a boy at the feet of the master? He is a monk with little experience, and the father is constantly obliged to show forbearance with his boisterousness …
“Father,” he croaked. “The Pope only asked you. It was not a command. If you do not want to …”
The Pope’s ship had just docked at the far shore, and Hermann turned away from the Gnadensee. His great eyes were full of astonishment at the last words of his faithful companion. He gently rebuked him:
“But who told you that I do not want to do it, foolish young man?”
“You … you were silent for such a long time.”
The lame man sighed. “Forgive me, my son! I did not realize that you were in a hurry. I was bidding farewell to our Holy Father. Of course I will do what he asks, Berthold. That is a smaller sacrifice for me than you suppose. Why should I not respond to your fidelity by trusting you? I will attempt to sketch a picture of my life for you. The will of our Holy Father is sufficient justification for the work that we shall do together. I do not need any other justification. And I do not know why it would be worth relating my life.”
“In order to praise the mercies of Our Lord Jesus Christ, father, that have become visible in your life.”
The sick man eagerly agreed. “Yes, my son, yes! Now you have put me to shame. Thank you for this lesson. Let us begin at once. I will tell you the story as if it was about someone else. That will make it easier for us both, surely. You will listen to me, and then write down afterward what you think is worth writing down.
“Where shall we go first? To Altshausen? No, we shall go to the Gnadensee, to my beloved Gnadensee, which has been a faithful companion to me, although I almost broke faith with it once and for all. You look shocked, Berthold? Well, that too happened in my life. I voluntarily parted company with Reichenau.
“Come, we will go together in our minds down to the shore of the Gnadensee. Imagine the atmosphere of a beautiful day in early spring. It was one day in March of 1030 …”
The lame man made the sign of the cross. Then he laid his hands in his lap and began the story, looking down toward the peaceful lake that now shone with a red-gold glow.
“In March of 1030 …”
“
The Gnadensee gleamed like soft mother-of-pearl. The pointed lances of the reeds stood brown against the pale blue sky, shivering from time to time when a soft breeze of early spring caressed them and wooed them. A youth crouched motionless in the yellow grass from last winter on the shore. His narrow curved back was turned to the abbey of Saint Mary of Reichenau. His fellow pupils had brought him secretly from the abbey to the shore, because he had worn them down by his asking and begging. His cousin from Dillingen had brought him some little daisies with a frayed crown of gray-white petals around the dirty yellow corona. But then he had sensed their pity, their pity for his wretched, crooked body, and suddenly he had shouted to them: “Go away! Go away! Leave me alone!”
The pupils shrugged their shoulders tolerantly and left. They were familiar with his sudden outbursts, and they did not resent them. A sick person has his moods, and these have to be forgiven.
Now the short and cheerful peals of a bell rang out from the abbey, the fortress of God with its protecting walls and towers. The youth paid no attention to the ringing. His big eyes, which shone with an uncommon blue light, tried anxiously to make out the far shore between the stalks, but they had set him down too close to the reeds! His mouth tautened with an unchildlike hardness, and his thin hands clasped each other. A bird swept out of the rustling reeds with a wooing cry, and Hermann of Altshausen followed it with his gaze. It was flying over to the other side, over to the other side, into freedom …
On the other side … that was where life was … cities and villages, knights and their squires, merchants and peasants, men and women in cheerful, bright-colored garments … life. He thought of the solitary cell, of the silent monks, of his fellow pupils who were sometimes rough and thoughtless in their healthy high spirits, of the days and nights of tormenting pains … He wanted to get over to the other side, to fly away, to escape. He needed the wings of a bird!
He brushed his hand over his brow, like one awaking from sleep. He looked at his dark pupil’s garment, and at his weak feet that were in continuous pain. He let himself fall laboriously onto his side, because he could no longer endure the crouching position. The grass on the shore was wet and cool, the earth smelled bitter. A gnarled old willow tree stood a few steps away from him. If he could reach it and pull himself up on its branches and look at the far shore, without the distraction of the tangle of reeds … But how was he to get to the willow? Only a few steps along the gently ascending shoreline … Only a few steps … He could not take one single step. He could not even stand up on his feet without a special support, without crutches or helping hands.
So he lay in the grass on the shore, and gave way gloomily to the bitter sense of his impotence. But the gnarled old willow and, even more, the clear view over to the far shore were too much of a temptation. Only a few steps … He resisted no longer. One who cannot walk must crawl. No doubt, the sight would delight the other pupils. The boy from Altshausen with the extraordinarily intelligent mind, who tackled the Latin and mathematical formulas better than many a boy tackled his spoon when he ate soup, crawled across the earth like a worm. Hermann crawled. He pushed himself forward with his hands and arms over grass, gravel, and stones. With each movement, he covered only a very little bit of the way; then he rested, panting, with his face in the grass. As he crawled laboriously onward, he scraped his hands, which he dug heedlessly into the ground, and he dirtied his dark garment with soil and crushed grass.
Only a few steps … How far they were for him! Then, finally, he reached the willow, embraced the barky trunk, and pulled himself closer and closer to it. Good—now he had to get higher up. He forgot that he must not take both his arms away from the tree at the same time, and he crashed into the gnarled roots, striking his forehead. The pain spurred him on to try again. Gritting his teach angrily, he did his best. His right hand reached the lowest branch, and he tugged and pulled until his left hand managed to grasp another branch … And with an almost superhuman effort, he finished what he had begun. Supported by the branches, he succeeded after several attempts to turn his body around. The boy stood upright, with two strong branches under his armpits, and gazed with a bitter triumph on his dirty, scratched face across to the far shore. He had paid a high price for this view. He felt faint and battered. His pains stabbed through him, and he trembled as the wind grew stronger.
Toward evening, Ekkehard, the infirmarian, found him. He looked grimly at the strange picture, at the youth who hung on the tree. He freed him reluctantly from the branches and took the light body in his arms, as if it were that of a little child. “We have nothing but trouble with you!” he grumbled on the way to the abbey.
Hermann pressed his lips together and said nothing. Ekkehard brought him to the abbot. The youth was not afraid of a rebuke, but he was uneasy about meeting the Lord Berno, because he revered and loved the abbot. Ekkehard put him down in front of the abbot’s cell, then picked him up under his arms and bundled him into the room. A blush burned on the gaunt cheeks of the lame youth. A scion of Altshausen had his pride, even if he was a helpless cripple.
Abbot Berno studied the picture with obvious disconcertment. Why was Ekkehard bringing him the embarrassed pupil who was covered in scratches? He turned to the youth and asked calmly: “Well, Hermann, what does this mean?”
The lame youth avoided his inquiring gaze and gasped: “I got them to bring me to the shore of the Gnadensee without asking Master Burkhard for permission.” The blush on his face deepened to one single flame. Would he have to admit in the presence of the infirmarian that he had crawled over the earth like a worm?
The Lord Berno noticed his distress, and gave the order: “Put him in the armchair, Ekkehard.” He nodded to the disappointed monk that he should leave the room.
Hermann breathed more easily, and the defiance left his scratched face. His scraped hands fiddled restlessly with his garment.
“And what did you do at the Gnadensee, my son?”
The pupil told his story hesitantly: “First, I sat on the shore, but the reeds blocked my view. They had set me down too close to the reeds. Then … then … I crawled … to an old willow … and pulled myself up. Then I was unable to alter my position until Brother Ekkehard found me.”
The Lord Berno looked kindly at the slumped figure in the wide armchair. The poor cripple had in fact achieved something great this afternoon. If only he would not keep on employing his uncommonly strong will for such meaningless acts of defiance! Or might there be something more behind this than a boyish experiment to see what he could force his sick body to do?
Hermann waited for a word from the abbot. The pain compelled him to bend his shoulders farther down. He would have liked to apologize to the abbot, the father who was his great benefactor; but could he cause him pain by telling him the truth and saying: “I want to go away, Father Abbot. My family brought me here as a lame child of seven years, but the abbey of Saint Mary on Reichenau has become too narrow for me. I cannot bear it any longer, not even out of gratitude”?
If any human being was dear to him on this earth, apart from his lady mother, it was Abbot Berno, his spiritual father, his teacher, his guide and friend. He besought him silently: “Help me, father! Help me! You have always understood my distress, every other time.” He bent down even deeper when the pains attacked him, as if he could bury them in himself.
“Hermann, do you now want to leave Reichenau?” The abbot asked his question gently, but the boy winced as if he had been struck, and he stared at the monk with eyes widened by fear. His lips moved soundlessly.
“Do you want to go back to Altshausen after ten years with us?”
“No, no,” said the lame young man quickly. In his mind, he saw the threatening face of Count Wolfrad, his father. “Not home, not home, Father Abbot … I want …” He lost his courage and fell silent.
Understanding and sympathy shone in the dark eyes of the Lord Berno, as he asked quietly: “But you want to go away, don’t you?”
Hermann raised his skinny hands helplessly, in a touching gesture of perplexity. “Yes, Father Abbot, I want to go away, and at the same time I want to stay. I love our abbey, and yet I want to go away. Sometimes I love it and hate it simultaneously. I don’t know how to put it—being shut in, the walls, the quiet, the silence, and … also the prayer and the study … all of it, all of it can disgust me so much that I feel a real aversion to it, and yet I keep on loving it …”
It became too difficult for the youth to speak. He felt confused, like a little child that had gotten lost. Abbot Berno did not even seem startled. Had he seen this coming?
“What do you want, my child? You bear some specific longing within you.”
When the sick youth replied, he almost shouted. Perhaps the simple question of his spiritual father had broken down the final dam. “Life! Life! I don’t want to know just from books what life is. I want to encounter it. The poor fisherman down at the lake is richer than I am, because he is alive.”
The Lord Berno looked into the passionate face of the lame youth. He could rebuke him and accuse him of a terrible ingratitude. Did the celebrated Reichenau need to offer a home to a handicapped cripple? Was it not a great privilege that he had been permitted to stay there, when Count Wolfrad II brought him there in 1020 with the words: “About all he’s good for is to become a monk”? Was not hard work needed over many years to bring the completely lame boy to the point where he could speak again and use his limbs to a limited extent? The abbot could have pointed out that Burkhard, Tatto, and he himself had taken care of him and trained his alert mind. Even more than that, the abbot could have reminded him of the tough struggle he had fought for the soul of the lame boy, who was inclined to shut himself up in loneliness and bitterness. He could have charged Hermann with ingratitude, and almost with a betrayal of him, his spiritual father. The Lord Berno did none of this. He spoke no words of admonition or of consolation, nor did he point to the great wealth of intellectual gifts that the Lord had given Hermann.
The young man’s demand was justified. He had been specially chosen by the Lord and certainly called by him, and he must experience what life is. Abbot Berno believed, even now, that his world later on would be a monastic cell. In that cell, his heart and his eye must remain wide open for the world and for life.
A man like Hermann of Altshausen ought to give the Church and the world more than this or that academic treatise. He must not become like so many monks, who circle in a narrow radius around themselves, obsessed with their own affairs, their own work, their prayer, their asceticism, their problems and difficulties—which were often so small—without any knowledge of the total picture. His sickness made Hermann more exposed to this danger, since his lameness kept on throwing him back on his own self. The fetters were often tight around him. This was why his soul must become wide, very wide, and free for others, for Christ. The abbot thought: I will take the risk. He must go out into the world.
After a lengthy silence, the Lord Berno said, almost cheerfully: “Our little bird wants to fly.”
Hermann was surprised, and lifted his head, which had sunk lower and lower during the long silence. Once again, his cheeks blushed red. Was the Lord Berno playing a practical joke on the wretched state of a cripple? The horror in his eyes was so eloquent that the monk hastened to add: “Hermann, the habit of our order should be worn only by one who desires it with all his heart. You know what I say to the novices at the hour of decision, when I show them the Rule: ‘See, this is the law under which you will serve as a soldier from now on. If you can observe it, enter. If you cannot do so, go freely hence.’”
The young man murmured bitterly: “Have I any choice? What would be the use of a cripple out there? The bird in the reeds, the worm …” He broke off at this word, and then repeated it emphatically, as he thought of his crawling to the willow on the shore of the lake. “Yes, the worm that feeds on the earth. They are freer than me, since I am tied down by the pain in my limbs. Do I have any choice, since my parents handed me over to the abbey as a gift to God?”
“I dispense you from the obligation of the oblation, Hermann. What God wants is the free consent of a free heart. You were much too young to take a decision … I have been reflecting just now on how we can arrange for you to get to know the world, and I believe that I have already found the solution. As you know, I come from the land west of the Rhine, and I was a monk in Prüm, before the emperor’s will brought me to Reichenau as its abbot. I have relatives who live in the old imperial city of Aachen, my cousin Arnulph of Rahnwyl and his wife, the noble Lady Veronica. When you stay with them, you will have contacts with the world of the court, with scholars, preachers, clergymen, and cathedral canons. You will no doubt object that you could not let yourself be a burden on strangers. But for the Lady Veronica, you would be a consolation in her grief over her son and heir, who passed away recently. The Lord Arnulph will help you to penetrate further into the world of the spirit. He is a man with an exceptionally fine education. In order that you will not feel dependent in any way, the abbey will give the income from the manor at Isny for your maintenance in Aachen. Your lady mother will surely send one of your servants from Altshausen to look after you. The sulphurous water of the famous hot springs in Aachen may perhaps have a therapeutic effect on your body.” (The abbot added, in his own mind, “And the bitter tears of homesickness for Reichenau may have a therapeutic effect on your soul.”)
Hermann followed with amazement the tranquil unfolding of the plan. A wealth of new possibilities was opening up for him—for the cripple who had just crawled across the earth like a worm, in order to get at least a clear view over to the far shore. He looked incredulously at the well-known face: “Do you really want to send me to Aachen, Father Abbot?”
The Lord Berno laid his hand on his shoulder. “Yes, Hermann, I am sending you out into the world, into the life that is in vigorous motion in the old imperial city. You must choose freely and decide in complete freedom whether your home is to be outside or here with Our Lady on Reichenau and …” Abbot Berno automatically took hold of his pectoral cross. “And at the cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The lame man did not register the last words. Waves of gratitude and of expectancy threatened to sweep him away in their flood. Then it occurred to him that he still had to make atonement. In view of the generosity of his spiritual father, he was ashamed of his childish defiance and disobedience.
“Lord and Father Abbot, may I ask you for forgiveness for acting without authorization this afternoon, and also for inducing other pupils to act contrary to obedience?”
“Forgiveness is granted to you … to you and to the others. You have prepared your penance for yourself.”
Hermann was surprised and relieved, and thought: What penance is that? Abbot Berno rose, went into an adjacent room, and came back with some cloths. “Give me your hands!”
The sick man stretched out his hands obediently, without understanding what the father wanted of him.
“Turn them over!” the Lord Berno commanded.
The abbot looked at the palms, which were scratched and far from clean. He placed them on his knees and cleaned them thoroughly of dirt and blood. While the abbot performed this humble service, Hermann felt like the apostle Peter on Holy Thursday. Like him, he wanted to cry out: “I will never let you wash me!” Now, he understood what the Lord Berno had meant when he spoke of the penance that Hermann had prepared for himself.
The abbot also cleaned the lame man’s face thoroughly, and even his garment. The sick man bore this help with burning shame and distress, but at the same time, he was also thankful, since only a father can devise such a penance.
“So, Hermann, now come with me to Our Lady …”
With the help of another monk, the abbot brought him through the cloister to the monastery church. They set him down before the stone image of the Mother of God.
The sick man was silent within himself for a long time. Ought he not to exult in his soul? He had been given permission to go out into the world. Outside, there awaited him the life for which he had yearned ever since the terrible illness befell him. For a long time, he had not known how to define the unquenchable pain in his heart, until it became ever clearer. It was an imperious voice that he must now follow. He wanted to say this to Mary, the Lady of Reichenau, his beloved heavenly Mother.
“Mother, most beloved Mother Mary, I am allowed …,” he began, but then stopped short. Would she approve of his leaving the place that was dedicated to her?
“Mother, there is nothing else I can do. And you understand me, don’t you?”
As if he had found the happy solution that would bring joy to the Mother, he prayed: “Mother, I am going, because I must go. Help me to come back home.”
The chanting of the monks somehow made its way into his consciousness. They were singing Compline. “Te lucis ante terminum …”3 The sick man joined in the chant, without guessing that the wide path of his return home to Reichenau had already begun.
1. [“Mass of the world,” “consecration of the world.”]
2. [“Life of Hermann.”]
3. [“(We beseech) you before the ending of the light,” the first words of the hymn sung at Compline.]