* * *
The Pilgrimage
ABBOT BERNO LOOKED at the monk in the choir stall that faced his own. Hermann sat motionless in his stall and seemed to be registering little of the prayers and chants of his brethren. His gaunt face, with its eyes closed, bore the signs of an excessive weariness. When Berthold wanted to help him get up for the Magnificat, he declined with a scarcely perceptible gesture. He did not even open his eyes.
After Vespers, the Lord Berno waited for the lame man’s wheelchair in the inner courtyard. Berthold steered the little vehicle cautiously out of the side entrance to the church.
“Hermann?”
When the lame man heard the voice of his abbot, he lifted his head and opened his eyes. Despite his great weakness, he was at once alert. His eyes did not shine; their only expression was tiredness.
“Would you do something for me, my son?” asked the abbot kindly, indicating to Berthold that he should bring the wheelchair under the linden tree.
“Of course, Father Abbot,” replied Hermann. He brushed his fingers automatically over his brow, as if he could thereby dissolve the thick mist of numbness that had lain over him for days.
“Bishop Radbert of Passau would like to see your new astrolabe. Have you finished it?”
“No, Father Abbot. I have been trying for days, but in vain. Once again, my hands …”—he looked down at his fingers, which trembled strongly—“are unwilling to work. Whatever I begin with them goes wrong. That is why I was discouraged and impatient. Just before Vespers, I scolded Berthold unjustly. Basically, I was very far from accepting my own failure.”
“I saw this coming, Hermann. You have been doing too much. Above all, the time that was given you to write the biography of the Emperor Conrad was too short. Nevertheless, I am very grateful that you were able to finish it at the time indicated by our Lord the Emperor. He had been told that Abbot Berno and Reichenau had enjoyed the favor of his father Conrad only to a very small degree, and he was both surprised and delighted to see that the little book from Reichenau arrived on time … and to see that you treated the Lord Conrad justly. I believe that you have gained a friend for Reichenau and for its abbot in the Emperor Henry, my son.”
“In that case, I am content to be tired, Father Abbot …”
“With all respect to your virtue, Hermann, that is not acceptable. You must fulfill another request: Rest for a couple of days. Do not take up a book, or a stylus, or a writing tablet. Be completely without cares, for once. You will wander through summery Reichenau with Berthold, until your cheeks have turned rosy and your eyes shine. You will spend the entire day in the open air and delight in the riches of God in his creation. And I will hear no objection!”
“I only wanted to thank you, Father Abbot, because you know how to interpret the signs correctly, and you know good remedies. The encounter with nature will be a great gift to me.”
“You will find the Lord, because everything speaks about him. Every little meadow flower is a miracle of God for you, an idea that is born of his love.”
Abbot Berno broke off a twig from the linden tree and gave it to the monk. “May Our Lord permit you to receive much joy.”
While the lame man waited for Berthold to fetch him, he sensed that the understanding and goodness of the father had already restored his strength. He had read somewhere: “God smiles in genuine human kindness.”
Hermann nodded. “Thank you for your smile, Lord.”
When Berthold arrived, Hermann told him joyfully about the abbot’s request—or rather, about the order that the abbot had given him, which was also a generous permission. The student could scarcely believe his luck. He was to be allowed to wander over the island for days on end with his beloved master …
“Make plans, Berthold. I leave it up to you to decide the goals of our journey over Reichenau with all its riches.”
The student asked eagerly: “Do you know the little church of Bishop Egino of Verona, Father?” Now that Berthold was appointed to serve him full-time, and cared for him instead of the infirmarian, the abbot had told him to say “Father” instead of the more solemn “Master.”
Hermann shook his head.
“No? Then you absolutely must see the wonderful frescoes of Hildebertus and Ernald. Our Lord is depicted there as … as …”
The lame man supplied the right words: “As your heart pictures him.” He picked up the linden twig. “Berthold, what a blessing they are for us, the people whom God has given a heart that can see!”
With Abbot Berno’s blessing, the two “pilgrims” left on the following day for their first journey across the island.
“In accordance with your wish, we shall begin by visiting the little church of Saints Peter and Paul.”
The student slowly pushed the wheelchair past the shore of the Gnadensee. They had all the time in the world. The refreshing coolness of the past night still lay over the dewy meadows. White marguerites and deep-blue gentians bloomed in the reeds beside the path. No boat plowed the silvery blue surface of the lake. The land breathed the fullness and the peace of summer under the lofty sky. The hay on the monastery meadows had a tangy smell.
Berthold took the first break on the gravelly bank of the shore in the shadow of a tree with wide branches. He sat for a time, silent and contented, alongside the wheelchair, but then he felt the need to move. He wanted to show the father how good he was at throwing flat pebbles. Hermann watched with a kindly attentiveness as he tried to throw the stones in such a way that they bounced two or three times before they sank in the water. The student was as proud as a little boy when he succeeded.
Shoals of little fish played around the stones in the shallow water. Berthold fed them with tiny crumbs from his breakfast bread. Then a group of ducks, quacking excitedly, burst out of the reeds and wanted their share.
The lame man laughed heartily at the surprised expression on his student’s face and at the complaining of the ducks. “Give them something. One ought always to do one’s honest best never to reject anyone who makes a request.”
“If they make the request, then …,” grumbled Berthold, but he obeyed. The brother cook might have been a little more generous when he gave him the bread that morning. But he could not have known that Berthold would have to share the bread with ducks. The birds greedily snapped at the chunks he reluctantly threw to them, quacking and complaining.
The student was glad when the father suggested they should move on. “I have the impression that otherwise, you will go hungry, but … you can have my portion,” said Hermann with a smile. He did not need to look at his companion—he was sure that the young face was blushing in embarrassment.
“That is not what I want, Father …,” Berthold murmured.
“But that is what I want, my son,” replied Hermann, in the tone that brooked no contradiction.
After several stops, they crossed the dam that had recently been heaped up across low-lying marshy ground, and arrived toward noon at the old church that was dedicated to the two princes of the apostles.
“Do you still remember what our Father Abbot told us about the glorious basilicas of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Rome? How great and wonderful the churches of the Eternal City are! Here, in the modest little church of Bishop Egino of Verona, one and the same praise of God is sung, and one and the same sacrifice of Christ is offered, just as in Rome. I doubt whether God attaches much importance to the building.”
The monk gave his student a sign to bring him into the church. Out of the extreme brightness of the midday sun, they entered into the pleasant coolness and half-twilight of the venerable house of God. Their eyes needed some time to get used to the semi-darkness.
The lame man whispered: “Please take me forward to the altar.” The wheels creaked over the worn-out flagstones, past the austere gray pillars, to the small choir. The rich colors of the fresco by the monks Hildebertus and Ernald shone out in the sanctuary. Its mandorla depicted the Lord surrounded by his apostles, the Lord in power and glory.
The face of Christ on his throne was majestic, sublime … Rex aeternae gloriae …1 “He will come again to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.” That was what the two monks aimed to depict, and they had succeeded beyond all expectation. Before this Christ, the prayerful heart and the contemplative mind experienced the shattering of all the criteria of earthly greatness, earthly power, and earthly dignity.
What did earthly powers mean … pope, bishop, abbot, emperor, and king … in comparison to the One, the only One, Christ the ruler of all?
The Emperor Henry III called himself Imperator mundi.2 And yet his empire, like every human work, was doomed to decay. What name ought one to give to the King of kings? And what is a poor little invalid monk in the presence of the Son of God?
“What am I, O Lord, that you should think of me? All my petty troubles are surely not apt to give you any joy! Have I done anything that I had not previously received from your hands? I myself am a gift to myself, I am given anew to myself each moment …
“Lord, I thank you that you are so great, so beautiful, so exalted, and so holy; that I am permitted to know this, to believe in you, and to hope in you. I thank you for yourself and for myself. I thank you for the joys and for the sufferings of my life …
“Lord, I thank you for the prudent and pure young man who is kneeling beside me, and whom I am permitted to prepare for your service.
“I thank you for our beloved Abbot Berno, for his fatherly kindness and for his fatherly strictness.
“I thank you for your Reichenau, for your sons who are my brothers, for those who are kind and for those who are unkind, for those who are quick and for those who are slow, for our farmers and for our fishers on the lake, for the Gnadensee …
“I thank you for the church in which I am permitted to thank you and adore you.
“I thank you for the sun, for the flowers, for the reeds; for everything that I have been able to see today …
“Lord, I find no end to my thanks …”
The student turned away from the frescoes. It was clear that he was more strongly moved by the relaxed face of his master at prayer, a face eloquent with the joy and the purity of his closeness to God.
Berthold thought, self-consciously: “Was it not I myself who made it possible for him to have this joy?” He felt the need to give expression to his own joy, and so he began to sing the Magnificat.
Hermann listened with a smile, and then he joined in the singing. The great canticle of Our Lady rang out in the little church. It was as if all those who had prayed there down through the centuries shared in their praise.
“Lord, I thank you for your Mother, for our great Lady Mary …”
The “Amen” died away, and the monk told his pupil in a quiet voice: “This church was solemnly consecrated in 801, shortly after the coronation of Charlemagne. Bishop Egino of Verona, who built it, was himself buried here. You can see the gravestone in the choir. Legends, which are always at work, wove a mystery around him, just as they did around Charlemagne, his relative. Like the emperor in the crypt of the cathedral in Aachen, he too is supposed to be sitting on a throne in his tomb and waiting for the coming of the One who is to judge the world.”
Berthold shot a timid look at the picture of Christ in the apse. He felt suddenly cold in the crypt-like coolness of the church.
“Do you not feel the breath of the prayers that have been said here for more than two hundred years? Charlemagne and his consort, the Lady Hildegard, knelt here too, when they visited our abbey.”
The two “pilgrims” left the house of God, and the student breathed a secret sigh of relief. He prepared a soft bed of fragrant hay for the monk under an apple tree, and the sick man patiently allowed Berthold to lower him onto it. His pains always grew worse when he had to sit for a long time.
Berthold crouched beside him. He drew up his knees and crossed his arms around them. “Father, I have heard that the Carolingian dynasty had a special love for Reichenau and bestowed special favors on it.”
“Yes, Berthold. Reichenau owes its origin to an ancestor of the dynasty, the mighty Charles Martel, who was Mayor of the Palace. He gave the itinerant Bishop Pirmin permission to settle monks on the island. They lived according to the Rule of Saint Benedict and soon made the island a ‘rich meadow.’”3
“And Saint Pirmin’s blessing expelled the snakes, the toads, and the vipers from our island? That is what you dictated to me for the year 724.”
Hermann looked at the green and golden play of the leaves over his head, and chose his words carefully: “That is what I dictated, Berthold. But I understand it rather as an image of what truly happened. The poisonous serpent of sin fled from our island and from the regions around Lake Constance, thanks to the work of Saint Pirmin and his sons. The grace of God came to dwell among human beings.”
“Is that why the lake beside our monastery is called Gnadensee?” the student pondered.4
“Probably, Berthold. We were both in the lake of grace.”
“Do not remind me of that, Father. When I think about it, my terror comes back to me in full force”
“A Christopher must know that he always rests secure in God’s hand.”
“But the lightning struck very close to us!” The student became excited. “And before that … you in the lake … when I saw you, Father, that was a terrible sight! And we were greatly distressed about you when you were sick! Were you not afraid when you stood in the water and the storm raged above you?”
Berthold obviously did not grasp that he ought not ask such a question. The monk smiled at the green and golden play of the leaves above his face. Sometimes, a little bit of the sky, the deep blue midday sky, became visible through the leaves …
“I was afraid, until I realized that I had no reason to fear. It is always so, Berthold. If I look at myself, at my incapable person, at my limitations, my wretchedness, and my slowness, I am afraid. Can I expect anything good from myself? Am I ever secure against my own foolishness and wickedness?—If I look at human beings, at good and holy people, I feel a little more secure. But I am still aware that even the kindest and best human beings are not a reliable support. For if I were to build only on them, I would live in the perpetual fear of losing them. That is why I direct my gaze to Our Lord. The one who seeks him in love, loses fear. We can safely entrust ourselves to his mercy.”
“Although we are sinners?”
“Because we are sinners! His mercy allows me to hope in his forgiveness and to trust him joyfully every day. ‘In te, Domine, speravi, non confundar in aeternum …’5 Sometimes, I am overwhelmed by joy at the thought that we are always on our way home to him, and that we are drawing closer to him every day … And at the same time, my heart rejoices in all that is beautiful here on earth. You see, we must be people of this earth, Berthold, people who are always aware—joyfully aware—that they are on the way, pilgrims. ‘I am made for God, and God is love.’”
He closed his eyes, as if he wanted to sleep. The student rested quietly on the grass and reflected on what he had just heard. No, he could not wholly grasp how someone could be so marvelously secure in God. But he believed the father, and he felt, with the powerful perceptiveness that pure persons have, that Hermann was free and deeply happy.
“
When the weather permitted it, the pilgrims set out and wandered over Reichenau in the days that followed. Their time passed in a companionable silence, alternating with conversations, prayers, and sometimes a song. Berthold explored new and hidden little places, which he showed to the father with the proud gesture of a ruler who displays the glories of his kingdom to an honored guest. Hermann never failed to be appropriately astonished and to praise his zealous Christopher. The days in the open air had a restorative effect on him. His face was sunburnt, and his eyes shone. It was noticeable that his hands trembled less severely.
“
One hot and windless day, Berthold propelled him, groaning with the effort, through vine stocks up to the hill that was the highest point on the island. “There you will have a wonderful view, Father.” But summer haze hid the lake and the surrounding mountains. Even the monastery was almost swallowed up by the milky whiteness.
“That’s how it is,” muttered the student, slashing the air with a hazel switch. “That is how it is everywhere. One does one’s honest best—in the sciences too. And one is simple enough to think: when you have reached this or that higher point, you have an unobstructed view of the land. You are happy when you are up there, after toils and labors, but all you see are new puzzles and difficulties. Why does the world around us consist of nothing but puzzles, Father? Why do we know so little? Why are we so powerless?”
Hermann looked at the red face of his companion, which revealed a boyish impatience.
“Why? Well, because God is infinitely far greater than our narrow human heart and our little human understanding … even in his own creation.”
This did nothing to smooth the wrinkles on the younger man’s brow. He wanted to conquer life. He wanted to read the world as one reads a book. The lame man could have said more to him on this subject, but he deliberately refrained from doing so. He knew from his own experience that a young person needs time, until he can say his honest “yes” to his existence and to being the specific person he is, to his possibilities, to his boundaries … and to his dependence on God.
“
They returned that evening by a detour. Berthold pushed the wheelchair past the Gnadensee. A snake glided over the path and disappeared in the reeds.
“You see, Berthold, that not all the snakes fled before Saint Pirmin,” murmured the sick man in a serious voice.
Gray clouds massed in the west when they reached the abbey.
“That looks like rain,” said the student regretfully. “But we must go back to our work in any case, must we not?” He sighed.
“Yes, Berthold. I have recovered sufficiently. I thank you for all your efforts in these days.”
“Efforts, Father? It was a great joy for me to take you over the island. I have learned a great deal in these days.”
The lame man looked at the gray clouds, for which the sun was weaving a golden bordering.
“Berthold, we learn all the time, and we are continually confronted by something new …”
The sound of voices made him stop. Strangers had arrived before the new construction of the west-work, and brightly colored garments mingled with the black of the monastic habits. Abbot Berno was taller than the others, but beside him stood a man who was nearly as tall as he. Father Abbot had guests.
The Lady Hiltrud
Hermann wanted to avoid meeting the visitors. He had seen all too often how his crooked figure and his name made strangers curious.
“Take me quickly through the little side gate into the inner courtyard, before they notice us.”
But before Berthold could do as he wished, the Lord Berno caught sight of the wheelchair.
“Brother Hermann, here is a visitor for you.” The abbot’s voice did not sound particularly joyful.
A visitor? The tall stranger? A visitor for him? The sick man felt a wave of excitement washing over him. A visitor for him … His visitor. He bit his lips and clenched his hands together.
“Lord, help me!”
Before the wheelchair reached the group, he knew who this visitor was. The past years shrank into one single moment separating him from the time when this man, after throwing him a fleeting glance, turned his back on him—on the crippled little child who lay like a helpless bundle in the arms of a monk of the Abbey of Saint Mary on Reichenau.
He lifted his eyelids and looked directly at the man in the noble, colorful garment of an aristocrat. His cheeks turned red as he heard the Lord Berno speaking, once again with that strange undertone of displeasure: “Your lord father, Count Wolfrad II, and your lady mother have come to us.”
His mother … at this word, the lame man’s face became radiant. His mother …
Count Wolfrad looked at the crooked figure of his son with undisguised curiosity. This Hermann had not grown any more handsome. He stretched out his big hand to him, a hand made firm and hard by hunting and the exercises of chivalry. As yet, he had not spoken a word. But he twisted his lips into a sneer when he felt the slender, trembling hand of his son in his own hand.
“It has been related as far as Altshausen that you have become a famous man, Hermann.”
He seemed to think little of this fact, for his eyes betrayed a verdict devoid of pity on the ugly, weak, and bowed figure of his son. This Hermann crouched in the wheelchair like a dwarf, like a gnome …
“What are you doing, then, to make people mention your name with so much reverence?”
The question sounded mocking.
Abbot Berno wrinkled his brow and answered coolly on behalf of the lame man: “Hermann is the best master of our monastery. He works in various fields of science. Shall I enumerate some of his writings for you? He has written De mensura astrolabii and De utilitatibus astrolabii about his outstanding astrolabe. In geometry, he has studied the ancient problem of the squaring of the circle. One of his writings is entitled De geometriae arte. As a natural scientist, he has written De mundo et elementis.”6
The Latin titles meant nothing to the nobleman, who had had the modest education typical of those of his rank. His face betrayed his perplexity, but the Lord Berno continued, unperturbed:
“In the field of mechanical science, your learned son has given us the treatises De horologio quodam, quod chelindrum vocant and De alio horologio quodam. He has also studied human beings and the life of the human spirit. He plans a treatise on the way in which the inner life finds expression in the physical sphere. It will be called De physiognomia. Hermann also writes history and studies the art of poetry and music. He has invented a new notation for music, which uses letters and is a valuable addition to our neums …”7
Surely the count must be proud of the intellectual riches of his crippled son? But no—he was angry at the abbot, who was telling him a vast number of incomprehensible things. The sick man wanted to avoid the abbot’s praises, and he was on the look-out for his mother. He nodded to his father’s companions. He flinched when he heard Count Wolfrad II say in a loud voice: “Well, Lord Abbot Berno, no doubt what you have just said will compensate rich Reichenau for the loss of a modest little estate? So much noble science is surely worth a few fields and cattle in your eyes?”
The abbot’s figure became tense, defensive. His face darkened. “I cannot imagine what the two things have to do with each other, Count Wolfrad. Your son Hermann belongs to the abbey as a member of the community and a professed monk. His work is the property of God. It is at the disposal of the abbot alone. It cannot be measured by any other value, nor compared to any other value. It was only for the period of Hermann’s stay in Aachen that we waived the income from the estate near Isny that your son brought with him as his endowment.”
The count stroked his short gray beard sullenly, while his gray eyes took the measure of his adversary.
“And yet … Lord Abbot, would it not be—shall we say—a work pleasing in God’s eyes if you were to give the estate back to us? Then we could complete our pious foundation at Isny. And we are told in sacred Scripture: ‘Do not lay up treasure for yourselves on earth, where there is moth and rust to consume it.’”
The abbot was enraged to hear a quotation from sacred Scripture simply tossed down in front of him in this situation.
“Is the old conflict to be repeated, Count Wolfrad of Altshausen? Are you throwing down the gauntlet to me?”
The sick man clenched his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair. What would happen now?
Years ago, the abbot and the count had fought each other bitterly for the possession of two estates. The count had challenged Reichenau’s right to them, and he had not been fussy about the weapons he chose. It had been necessary for Bishop Warman of Constance to intervene, and even the emperor had become involved.
The count laughed: “Do you want a fight, Lord Abbot? Well, I am not afraid of you. But take a look now at your spiritual son. He is gawping like a wild animal caught in a trap.”
Hermann met his father’s eyes steadily, although his entire body shook. His blue eyes looked at the count without wavering—the eyes of the Lady Hiltrud. And these eyes silenced the count’s boisterous laughter. He muttered something indistinct, and he was clearly relieved when his son Werinher came up. Werinher’s unconcern turned the conversation into harmless tracks, since he did not notice the tension between the abbot and his father.
“Father Abbot, my lady mother asks permission to receive Hermann in her room today. She has heard that he has returned.”
“I am happy to grant this request,” replied the Lord Berno. His face remained shuttered, and his words lacked their customary cordiality. “Hermann, you are dispensed from Vespers. Remain with your lady mother until Berthold fetches you for Compline.”
The sick man attempted in vain to catch the abbot’s eyes. “Thank you, Father Abbot.” An unspoken request resonated in his words, but Abbot Berno turned away. With the dignity of a man who ruled over large estates, he requested the count to be present at Vespers and to inspect the building work on the monastery church.
“‘Father’? Ought I not to have said … ‘Lord Abbot’?” thought Hermann, who felt a painful disappointment. He did not realize that Count Wolfrad’s desire to have the estate near Isny had ripped open the scars of old humiliations. Count Wolfrad was responsible for a bitter injustice that the Abbot of Reichenau had suffered—and the Church and the emperor had shared in inflicting it on him.
All that the lame man noticed was the abbot’s profound dislike of his father. How, then, would he look on the sons of the count of Altshausen? Would he be free in his mind in his dealings with them if they reminded him of their father—and Werinher resembled his father externally? A great disappointment threatened the peace that had long been Hermann’s safe possession. As yet, he put up a resistance. Was it possible that Abbot Berno was not the man he had thought him to be? No, that was unthinkable.
“
In the guest house, the brother received him and carried him into one of the rooms on the first floor. He put him down in one of the heavily built oaken chairs, in which the delicate figure of the sick man almost disappeared. He seemed more fragile and crooked than usual, especially because he was not paying attention to his external posture. The struggle he had to fight today was internal.
The Lady Hiltrud entered, a woman with the light tread of a girl, so light that he had not heard her. No one would think that this slim woman was the mother of fifteen children. Her fine, tranquil face betrayed nothing of the burden of suffering that God had laid upon her. The Lady Hiltrud had seen eight of her children die, and one of the survivors was a cripple. Her great, clear eyes under the dark brows were full only of motherly kindness and heartfelt love, as she now looked down at her invalid son. Hermann was her child, the child of her heart. He was the only one who had inherited her nature, her religious depth, her warm-hearted openness for other persons, and her pleasant sense of humor. Like her, he had a sensitive nature that began to vibrate like a delicate string of a harp as soon as it was touched. He could sing much, and suffer much …
The Lady Hiltrud stood for some time at the door, looking lovingly at the sunk-down figure of her son. Then she called him in a joyful voice: “Hermann!”
He looked up. “My lady mother! My lady mother!”
She knelt before him and took his head in her hands. He forgot what had just been troubling him. He was a child, nothing but the child of his mother.
They were silent for a long time, looking intently at each other.
“How white her hair has turned,” he thought, and she saw the furrows in her son’s gaunt face, which told her of pains and sleepless nights. Each knew the burden that the other bore, and so they smiled.
“Thank you for your canticle, Hermann,” said the Lady Hiltrud.
“I was happy to sing it for you, my lady mother, and I have always prayed for you.”
“It was not easy for me to part with you,” she admitted, as she sat beside him. “But I have been consoled in all these years by the knowledge that you were safe here on Reichenau under the protection of the Lord Berno. Your life would not have become so fulfilled and so rich at home in Altshausen.”
Did she see the shadow that scurried over his face when she mentioned the abbot’s name? She had looked at him long enough to perceive the signs that something was weighing on his mind. All along the way, she had been anxious about how the encounter between her husband and Hermann would go. Count Wolfrad appreciated only rough and strong threads. It was all too easy for him to damage a fine and delicate gossamer.
She gave her son news from Altshausen, about his siblings and the people in the castle, and about the little son of his favorite sister, Irmingard, who had been given the name Manegold at baptism. She spoke and spoke, until at last he smiled at her with the relaxed face of a child who has received a present. How much there was in him still that reminded her of the little boy of long ago …
“And would you like to hear something of your own childhood, Hermann?” she asked cheerfully.
“Tell me, my lady mother!” he asked, putting his hands firmly on his knees, so that their trembling would not disturb his mother.
The Lady Hiltrud told in vivid colors the story of the little Hermann who wanted at all costs to get into heaven, and who kept on escaping from the castle, and of the gray autumnal day when the child (doubtless in a dream) saw a man like a flame.
“Ah yes, I remember now …,” the lame man cried out happily.
But his mother did not omit the conclusion, the sudden lameness that befell the boy Hermann that very night, and she repeated the words that she had whispered to the lame child, acting upon an inspiration that she herself did not understand: “My child, now heaven has found you.”
“Thank you, my lady mother, thank you! Now I know everything again, as if it had happened only yesterday. You spoke to Walter about my dangerous and laborious detour. After the Good Friday evening in Aachen when I ended that detour before the cross of Our Lord, the flame, the light, has been a constant presence in my life, bright, sometimes excessively bright, painfully burning and purifying, but also giving consolation and warmth …”
“You came, Lord Christ, you who are my life, in order to bring me your light,” said the Lady Hiltrud, quoting lines from the prayer that he had written for her after the death of her son Luipold.
Like a reflection of the light, joy lay on the narrow face of the sick man when the monks sang Compline in the monastery church. He sang along, without thinking of the somber cloud that had gathered before his conversation with his mother. “Christ, my light …”
After Compline, there began the period of silence, which the monks were allowed to break only in emergencies. When Berthold was about to bring him to his cell, the prior came up.
“Father Abbot would like to speak to you, Brother Hermann …”
Berthold took him to the abbot’s quarters. One solitary candle cast a flickering, unsteady light on the abbot, who sat at his desk. The sultry night air flowed through the open window. From time to time, summer lightning flashed across the starless night sky. In the scurrying interplay of light and shadow, the Lord Berno’s face seemed severe and foreign.
Hermann waited for the abbot to address him. Once again, a feeling of unease threatened to overwhelm him.
“Tell me what you have done today,” demanded the Lord Berno—a strange wish at the time of the great silence. Hermann willingly gave him the information and expressed his gratitude for the restorative time.
“I am sure that I can take up my work again now,” he concluded.
“It is I who decide the time for that!” replied the abbot sharply. The lame man was shocked by these curt words. Had he said something wrong? The silence stood like a heavy block between the two monks. The candle crackled. Somewhere, a nocturnal bird squawked. The oppressive sultriness felt like a hand at one’s throat. Summer lightning flashed over the Gnadensee …
Finally, the abbot murmured: “And as the crowning of this glorious day, you met Count Wolfrad. It must have been an unhoped-for joy to see him again after so many years, must it not?”
Hermann stared at the abbot, incapable of uttering one single word. The Lord Berno leaned farther back in his chair, so that his face lay almost completely in darkness. His eyes were hidden in black hollows. An unknown man was sitting before Hermann and talking to him. Was it possible for so much bitterness to come forth from the mouth of an Abbot Berno?
“Answer me!” commanded the abbot impatiently. “You were happy to see your father again.”
For the first time since he had known the Lord Berno, he would have preferred to refuse to answer. Tonelessly, he confessed: “No, Lord and Father Abbot, I … was not … happy.”
“And why were you not happy, Hermann?”
The sick man pressed the nails of his right hand into the back of his left hand, in order not to groan. Why was the abbot asking such a cruel question?
“Because … because I am not virtuous enough to accept—and still, less to rejoice in—the contempt with which my father has regarded me since the day on which I became a cripple. Since then, my lack of virtue has made me fear the encounter with my lord father.”
Had the torture now reached the zenith that satisfied Abbot Berno? Was he content with this humiliating admission by the lame man?
“I see,” replied the figure in the shadows, almost derisively. “His own son fears his father. And the father of this son wants to steal a part of his endowment from us, the estate near Isny. He wants to include it in the pious foundation that he wishes to make in memory of his son Luipold. The church in Isny needs sufficient properties, and he plucks them on Reichenau. Abbot Berno had to admit defeat once before … And what does your lady mother say about this demand?”
One single tear ran down the cheek of the lame man. He did not wipe it off.
“We did not talk about Isny, Lord and Father Abbot. My lady mother spoke about things at home and about my childhood.”
Was he to be allowed to go now? No, he had to tell the abbot about this too, jerkily and hesitantly. The nails of his right hand caused little wounds on the back of his left hand.
Once the lame man thought he had heard the sound of a groan from the darkness, but he was wrong. Abbot Berno said no word; he rose, went out, and summoned Berthold. Hermann did not see Abbot Berno take weary steps toward the monastery church. It was long after midnight when he returned to his room, where he knelt until daybreak before the stone image of Our Lady, with his head in his hands. The mild gleam of the oil lamp, which burned day and night in Mary’s honor, fell on his bowed head.
“
The sick man waited unsleeping for the dawning of the new day, but he did not greet the daybreak with his usual willingness. His existence seemed to him more laborious than ever. He cast an indifferent glance at his books and papers, his monochord and his astrolabe. What did all this matter to him, what did it signify to him, if Abbot Berno was not the great and holy man that he had always thought him to be?
Like a puppet, like a piece of wood, he allowed Berthold to get him ready. He let himself be lifted into the chair and be brought to the church. He crouched in his choir stall, huddled and shivering. He sang and prayed without knowing what he was doing.
At the high altar, Abbot Berno offered the holy sacrifice with the dignity and devotion that were typical of him. Were his pious gestures merely an external activity, while his heart brooded angrily on the count of Altshausen and the estate near Isny? Was the Lord Berno not a holy man? Then so much that he had believed was a lie! What was Hermann to believe now? What was truth?
When the abbot drew near to give him the Body of the Lord, he shook his head silently. The Lord must not enter into a heart full of doubt and bitterness.
When he was in his cell, he immediately took up his wax tablet. “No morning meal, Berthold!” He made a few notes about the computation of time, then erased the letters and pushed the tablet aside. He turned the pages of a book and read, without understanding anything of what he had read. Finally, his meaningless and restless activity was interrupted by news:
“The Lady Hiltrud awaits you.”
When the guest master brought him into her room, Abbot Berno rose from the great armchair and greeted the sick man calmly and kindly.
“It is good that you have come, my dear son. Your lady mother was very anxious to see you.”
Hermann looked up at him in surprise. This was the cordial tone that he was used to. But the abbot’s face seemed tired and old. The Lord Berno bowed deferentially to the countess.
“Would you prefer to go down to the lake with your son, Lady Hiltrud? Berthold can accompany you.”
Mother and son sat together at the shore of the Gnadensee. Berthold brought a stool from one of the fisher huts for the Lady Hiltrud, and then withdrew.
The Lord Berno was present all the time in the sick man’s thoughts, although he wanted to talk with his mother in a natural manner. Just now, Father Abbot had been as he knew him at other times, but yesterday evening …
Who was the Lord Berno? Lord Abbot, Father Abbot?
“Hermann, you love Reichenau, don’t you?” asked the Lady Hiltrud.
He confirmed this immediately.
“And you are happy here, as Abbot Berno told me …”
“As Abbot Berno told you, my lady mother?” he asked sharply.
“Yes, he told me. Can he not judge this and know it?” Her voice had lost nothing of its kindness and gentleness.
He replied bitterly: “Then Father Abbot ought to know that a great happiness is clouded, when …” His feeling of dismay prevented him from completing the sentence.
“When the one who possesses happiness here below imagines that he is in heaven and would like to be surrounded by heavenly beings, people who have no sins, no limitations, no weaknesses—and then he meets real human beings.”
“My lady mother, how … do you know?” the sick man stammered, trying to look directly into her face. She moved her stool, to make this possible.
“I know about your disappointment, Hermann. Abbot Berno spoke with me. He knows you, and I know you. Even as a child, you wanted to get hold of heaven by force. You have not put aside that flaw. And besides, God has given both you and me a very delicate and sensitive nature, a strong capacity to love and to suffer. But that does not allow us to make anyone our own creature.”
“What do you mean, my lady mother? Are you thinking of the desire to rule over others? That is completely foreign to me.”
She took his hand. “I know, my child, I know. That is not at all what you want. But one can also make another person the creature of his own holy dreams and fancies, and clothe him in a halo that shines far too brightly. That is what happened to me with your father once, Hermann. It was only after I recognized his limitations, and came to love him with his defects, that I encountered him truly. Before that, I loved an image that I myself had created. Ultimately, in fact, I loved my own self. He had to be the person I wanted him to be. But our love must give the other person the freedom to be himself.”
“Did Abbot Berno notice already yesterday evening what was going on in my mind, my lady mother, and did he tell you?” he asked in embarrassment, lowering his eyes.
“Yes, Hermann, but he also told me that your disappointment was justified. I must disagree with you, because this venerable and excellent father of Reichenau is allowed to be a human being. Indeed, he must be a human being. He is allowed to make mistakes. You demand too much of him. That is not fair on your part. If he tells you that he regrets his conduct, you must forgive him …
“We talked about the estate near Isny, which was my dowry and now is your endowment. In this matter, your Father Abbot has stuck to his principles, but he has taken the first step to propitiate the count. He has given your father a precious golden reliquary with a particle of the Holy Cross for the church in Isny, and that is a truly princely gesture. He himself received it from the Emperor Henry II, when he obeyed the emperor and left the imperial abbey of Pruem to become the Abbot of Reichenau. He gave my husband the reliquary with such cordiality and genuine goodness that the count was both propitiated and deeply moved. After all, Count Wolfrad has a good heart, and he is happy when his wishes are accommodated.”
“You know human nature, my lady mother.”
She stroked his furrowed face with a gentle hand. “My child, all I do is to attempt to love people in the right way. The eyes of our heart see more, and better …”
She got up and moved a little to one side. She began to pluck long-stalked blue gentians, giving her son time to come to himself. Her cheeks were red when she returned to him, more beautiful in her motherly maturity than a young bride. She bent down and laid the flowers in his lap, saying quietly: “My child, from now on, you must see people with the eyes of God. Even saints must have their mistakes and limitations. You must never again venerate a statue that you yourself have created. Instead, you must venerate a human being—and in him, you must venerate Our Lord Jesus Christ.”
Hermann took both her hands, which she willingly left in his. “Oh, my lady mother, what a little child you have in this learned monk of Reichenau! But it was good to be small before you and to receive from your hand the medicine against self-seeking. And your words about the dangerous and toilsome detour were a great help to me when I was in Aachen.”
“Well, I once promised that I would look for heaven together with you, my child. Do you think I would have forgotten that for even one single day?”
Although they both would have liked to stay longer by the Gnadensee, they knew that people in the abbey would be waiting for them impatiently.
“Come, Hermann, we will bring the flowers from the Gnadensee to Our Lady.”
“
Count Wolfrad was full of praise for all he had seen on Reichenau. “Your Father Abbot is an excellent manager. The abbey suffered a disastrous decline in the past, and the strict Abbot Immo only made things worse. It is astonishing that the Lord Berno has achieved so much with the same people and on the same land.”
The lame man took a deep breath and replied courageously: “That is because Abbot Berno is loved, rather than feared. The monks, the farmers, and the fishermen all know that he takes care of them and wants what is best for them. At the same time, our Father Abbot is a true ruler.”
The Lady Hiltrud followed the conversation calmly. She heard her husband sigh.
“A ruler? Yes, that he is indeed, generous and brave in battle. I have experienced that myself.”
Hermann ventured to put a bold question: “Should not the ruler of Eritgau8 be pleased to honor the ruler in the Lord Berno?”
The count’s gray eyes flashed. Had the question been too bold? What would he reply? He looked at his lame son with a new benevolence.
“I love it when a man is faithful to his own cause. And when a monk fights on behalf of his spiritual father, that is certainly fidelity. What do you think, Lady Hiltrud? Can we not be proud of our two sons, whom we have given to Our Lady of Reichenau?”
He paused reflectively.
“Now I see what I could do. Yes, that is a good idea! Not far from Isny, but further into the Alpine county, there is the estate of Aarwalden, which my mother, the Lady Berchta, brought as her dowry …”
Werinher looked questioningly at Hermann. What was their father getting at? The lame man looked in turn at his mother, but she nodded reassuringly.
“Lady Hiltrud, do you too think I am a tyrant?” smiled the count, who had noticed the exchange of glances. “You, at least, must be aware that I am not as fierce as that! From now on, your bailiff shall include Aarwalden, when he draws up the list of the properties of the abbey that are liable to interest.”
“And whose inheritance is it to be?” asked Werinher in amazement.
“Inheritance?” Count Wolfrad looked at him, pretending to be angry. “Inheritance! Hermann is not as hungry for possessions as you, my son.”
Werinher blushed because of his impertinence. He had thought that his father would sign over the estate to him, and that he could then bequeath it to the monastery. After all, his endowment was not as rich as that of the elder son.
“By handing over the estate, the Lord of Altshausen merely wishes to … honor a … ruler …”
The lame man understood his father at once, and he automatically reached out his right hand to take his father’s hand. Count Wolfrad took it cautiously, held it in his own broad hand, and muttered, with a benevolent shake of his head, “Tender like a little bird. Well, you have found the right nest.”
“
When Abbot Berno arrived, Count Wolfrad made a request: “Would you permit me enter the cell of my son Hermann, Lord Abbot?”
After a brief hesitation, the abbot gave him permission. He himself accompanied the guest, with Hermann and Berthold, through the cloister to the north wing of the abbey. Count Wolfrad looked in silence at the austere poverty of the cell. He contemplated the parchments, the scientific apparatus, and the writing utensils. He touched the hard bed. He stood musingly before the cross from his castle chapel.
“Thank you for this favor, Lord Abbot Berno! Do you have a little time for me now?”
They brought Hermann back to his mother. Count Wolfrad and the abbot had a long and serious conversation.
“
When the guests had taken their leave on the following day, Abbot Berno told the lame man: “Come with me, Hermann!”
He himself pushed the wheelchair into the abbot’s quarters and plumped up the cushions, so that the sick man could sit more comfortably. The monk waited calmly for the words of his spiritual father. He had recovered his inner freedom after talking to the Lady Hiltrud at the Gnadensee.
“Hermann, your father has asked me to allow you to travel to Altshausen from time to time. After all her suffering, the Lady Hiltrud needs the consolation of your presence. Although this is not envisaged by the Rule, we should, and indeed we must, accept your father’s request in the spirit of the love of Christ. I have seen in these days how much you are your mother’s son. I have seldom seen a greater similarity or experienced a more intimate union between two persons. She understands you even without words, and it is the same with you, I imagine?”
The Lord Berno seemed not to expect any answer. His hand played with a parchment that lay before him on the table.
“You already know what this document says. Aarwalden in the Alpine county, the estate that your grandmother, the Lady Berchta, brought as her dowry, has belonged to the abbey since yesterday. Your father and I have definitively buried all that is past, and we parted from each other in peace. Only with regard to one question did we need more time to reach an agreement. Our conversation concerned you, Hermann. But I recognized that Count Wolfrad’s view was correct. Your father thought that I was too hard on you. Be quiet, let me finish! He said that I must make some concessions to you, since you are a sick man wracked by pain, and you are constantly obliged to submit to the penance of pains and of helplessness. No, Hermann, do not object. It is regrettable that I allowed you to suffer want.”
“Father, everything that I have received up to now was good and sufficient. I have a cell of my own, instead of sleeping in the common dormitory. You gave me Berthold as my personal assistant. Again and again, you take my weakness into account, and you never reproach me if I cannot take part in the community activities and prayers. And you have given me the greatest privilege of all by receiving me, a cripple, into the monastic community and letting me be ordained to the priesthood …”
“But you would rest more comfortably on a softer bed. We could have a special work desk made for you, and an armchair that would give your body more support. Furs and rugs could protect your body from the cold that flows out of the stones. And better food would strengthen you …”
The lame man had lowered his eyes. “And … what would the brothers say if I, who already lead a separate existence, were to receive so many privileges?”
“Since when have you let other people’s gossip dictate the way you live? Do you not think that they would be glad to see you have an easier life? But no matter what you think, I feel obliged in conscience to grant you these concessions.”
Hermann ventured to make one last objection. “I fear that they would not be good for me, Father Abbot. What you impose on me—could it be initially only for a trial period?”
“‘Impose’? I have the impression that you think I am preparing a penance for you, but that is not what I want. I grant you the trial period.”
“Thank you, Father Abbot.”
“For the penance?”
“Above all for the trial period,” Hermann admitted honestly.
“Your openness is laudable, my son,” laughed the Lord Berno. “Good! We will let time decide what is right for you.”
“May I tell you about one difficulty, Father Abbot? I did not understand yesterday … or rather, the day before yesterday … when you were talking to my father about Isny … and then in the evening …”
He had begun to speak courageously and clearly, but then he became confused. He could not confess his own failure without at the same time reproaching the abbot.
“I know, my son …” The Lord Berno supported his head with both hands, as if he was very tired. “I know.”
For the first time, Hermann noticed the many silver threads in the dark hair on the abbot’s head.
“I disappointed you. You were looking in me for the father in Christ, and all you found at that time was a narrow and petty human being. I was unwilling to forget a wrong I had suffered, and I wanted to punish you for the pain of scars that were ripped open anew—although you trusted me. That evening, I treated you basely. I understood your pain in that night. Even today, you are looking for heaven with the pure eyes of a child, but here you find human beings, my dear son, human beings. I already understood you that night, and yet I did not have the power to utter a word of understanding to you.”
“Father!” Hermann cried out.
His cry made the abbot look up, and their eyes met.
“Father, I had to experience this, in order to learn how to love more truly and selflessly. I was not in any way entitled to demand a superabundance of holiness. Hermann the Pharisee had to become a tax collector. He had to realize his own poverty. Forgive me, Father, for daring to judge! My lady mother had to open my eyes …”
Abbot Berno nodded to the sick man, and then his eyes wandered past him to the image of Our Lady. “Hermann, how good it is that mothers exist. Our defiant maleness would so often destroy what exists, if the kindness of our mothers were not to bring about new life. The mothers catch our hard fists and fold them into the hands of men at prayer.”
1. [“King of eternal glory.”]
2. [“Emperor of the world.”]
3. [“Reichenau” (Augia in Latin) means “rich meadow.”]
4. [There is a play on words: “Gnadensee” means “Lake of grace.”]
5. [“In you, O Lord, I have put my trust. Let me never be confounded.”]
6. [Titles: “On the measurement of the astrolabe”; “On the uses of the astrolabe”; “On the art of geometry”; “On the world and the elements.”]
7. [Titles: “On a certain clock, known as the chelindrum”; “On another clock”; “On physiognomy.”]
8. [The count of Altshausen was reponsible for collecting taxes in the county of Eritgau.]