* * *
In Order That You Too May Do What I Have Done
BERTHOLD TURNED THE SICK MAN’S wheelchair around so that he could see the students who had gathered about him in a semi-circle. Sometimes he taught in a larger room, but at other times (as today), when his weak voice did not carry and he had to drag each word out of himself, he called the young men into his cell, where they crowded together, crouched on their stools. Inquisitive young eyes looked at the furnishings in the cell, the drapes and rugs, the white coverings, the cushions and furs. Things had changed here after Count Wolfrad had asked the abbot to make things somewhat easier for his son. Hermann felt almost a stranger in the well-equipped room, and he often escaped to the Gnadensee. More than once, he had asked the abbot if the trial period would end soon.
“In any case, I have not passed the test, Father Abbot.”
Each time, Abbot Berno had replied with a question of his own: “How can you know that before the time is over? Just continue to test yourself.”
“
The broad black garments did not really suit the youths who sat around their master. Their heads, with brown, blond, or black manes, looked out of place alongside the religious habit. The sparkling young eyes would have looked more credibly at home between the branches of an apple tree than when they gravely examined a psalter or a Latin grammar book.
Today, it cost the lame man a considerable effort to form his sentences, and he had to pause several times. But their content was never affected in any way by his sickness; it remained just as deep and as clear as it was on “healthy” days. His facial muscles were becoming rigid, and he knew, with a certainty born of familiarity with this process, that he would soon no longer be able to speak …
“
“What did you grasp in a particular way today in this chapter from the Gospel of the holy apostle John?”
Hartmut, the easygoing young man from Unterwald, did his best to hide behind the tall Bodo from Bregenz.
“Well, Hartmut?”
The words were too clearly spoken for Hartmut to pretend not to have heard them.
“The … the pericope was very long,” stammered Hartmut.
Brother Berthold bit his lips. Hartmut had probably noted only the length of the passage—nothing else. Hermann nodded:
“The passage is long. That is right, my son, and God is patient. That too is right. He has a great deal of patience with those who take a long time, but one day he finds that it is taking them too long to convert from their slowness—or indeed, from their laziness and inertia.”
The student blushed. The youths whispered and chuckled, but the sick man did not smile. His face remained serious. He himself took up the theme, without asking the students any further question.
“In the chapter about the Last Supper, the evangelist John tells us about an event that is so extraordinary that our poor human heart cannot even begin to assess its greatness.”
His eyes sought the cross from the castle chapel in Altshausen. In the manner beloved of the Romanesque period, it depicted Christ as the victor on the cross, the Rex gloriae.1 The lame man loved this image of the conqueror of death and of torments, who had carried out the charge given him by the Father and who was completely King and Lord of lords. Despite all the familiarity and closeness Hermann felt, Christ had remained for him the Lord before whom he bowed down in reverence.
Closeness and distance together, both Brother and Lord … His knowledge that he was secure in Christ was always also adoration, and his love was always also humble submission. His reverence was free of servile dread. He served the Lord with joy and with the confidence that only a pure, childlike nature could have.
Christ became more and more the theme of his life. Sometimes he saw all his activity as a game. His teaching, his writing, his compositions and his inventions were a leisure activity … colored stones.
When his brethren talked in eager tones about the small matters of everyday life, he longed to cry out: “Dear brethren, do not speak about nonsense of that kind! Talk about Jesus Christ …”
Would the Lord soon end the days of his life here on earth? Hermann was familiar with the ups and downs of his physical condition. Days of “well-being,” on which he could at least use his hands, days on which, despite his continuous pains, he could sing and speak, were followed by days of increasing lameness. His sickness befell him silently and unexpectedly, like a cunning snake, and took possession of him. It came and went, as and when God willed. After too much effort and excitement, it arrived all the more speedily and strongly. Sometimes, it was hard for the lame man to control his temperament, although he knew that he would have to pay a bitter price for every violent excitement.
The ups and downs of his physical condition told Hermann that he would not live too long in this world. But that was no cause for grief!
His musings were interrupted when Berthold cleared his throat discreetly. Ah yes, the students were waiting for his exposition of the pericope about the washing of the feet.
“Let us begin by asking who it is that kneels down and washes the feet of his disciples, performing a slave’s service … It is the Lord of heaven and earth, the Creator, who can destroy every creature with the breath of his mouth. He kneels down before the fishers of Gennesareth, who are uneducated and uncouth men. They had a good will, but they were very poor in virtue and holiness. At that time, they did not know as much as you know, and yet the Son of God knelt down on the earth before them. Perhaps it may help us to think of this, when we are proud because of our studies in this or that branch of knowledge. It is not before the learned men of his age that the Lord kneels down. He kneels down before the ignorant and the unscholarly.
“Even if it had been his own dear Mother who sat before him, the Lord would have humbled himself if he had washed her feet. The Son of God kneels down before his creature … Let us take a very close look at what we see here, when he girds himself with a linen cloth and kneels down before his disciples.
“But he who is the great God humbles himself often before us! Is not every sacramental confession much more than this washing of the feet? The Son of God must wash us through his own blood from the dirt of our sins. And what about us? Well, we all simply take that for granted. Have we ever been sufficiently ashamed of daring to offer him so much dirt and ugliness? Have we ever humbled ourselves as we should?
“And what of the holy sacrifice of the Mass? If Christ did not make himself the sacrifice on our altars, we would have to come to the heavenly Father with empty hands. Every day, the Son of God descends into our lowliness. He makes himself a sacrifice, so that we may have something to give, and so that honor may be given to the Father.
“It is only with him, and through him, and in him that what we contribute becomes valuable and pleasing to God, and that we ourselves, despite our deficiencies, become pleasing sacrifices. How humble Our Lord Jesus Christ is!
“He was not only humble in the upper room in Jerusalem, when he washed his disciples’ feet. He is humble today too, when he becomes our food in Holy Communion. And that too is a service God renders us, a service that we accept much too tranquilly. If only he were entering into a house that at least was worthy of him, into a heaven! But no, mostly what we dare to offer him are huts blown askew by the wind. It is the miracle of God’s love, of God’s humility, that he nevertheless comes.
“He knows that we need him. Without him, we would perish on the hazardous pilgrim path of our life.”
This slow and profound exposition of the biblical passage was not disturbed by any inconsiderately loud breathing or any restless movement. It was completely different from other expositions. Its center was not Peter’s resistance to having his feet washed, nor the man Jesus Christ from Nazareth, but the humble God who served.
The sick man went on, speaking quietly and articulating with difficulty. Sometimes he had to take a lengthy pause.
“My friends, God is humble. He who is the greatest of all continues to bend down to our poverty, although he seldom finds modesty in us. One who is as poor as we human beings all are, one whose whole being is dependent on the merciful kindness of the Father, ought to open up willingly to receive the Lord who comes.
“But what do we actually do? Do we not make demands, although we ought to wait and to make requests?
“It is unfathomable that God nevertheless comes down to us; that he washes our feet; and that he does not simply let us proud creatures fall and perish.
“He loved those who were his own, and he loved them to the end … Neither our poor and narrow mind nor our seeking heart can understand God’s serving. One who achieves a great deal begins to sense that only God’s love is capable of something like that. Since his love is divine, it is also infinitely greater than our little heart.
“God’s love is infinite, just as he himself is infinite. That is why it embraces us sinful creatures, despite our perversity and our ingratitude.
“The Lord Jesus Christ washes his disciples’ feet.” Once again, the sick man paused. And once again, there was a reverent silence. The students did not wholly understand him, but they sensed his love for Christ and they felt a deep reverence.
“He wanted to give us an example. We are to do what he did. We ought to wash one another’s feet, to be ready to serve one another in humility. The rule of those who govern should from now on be a serving that benefits their subjects, a preparing of the way for the coming of Christ. Those who serve the Lamb—and that means primarily those to whom God has entrusted a sacred ministry and the great burden of a responsibility—ought to make straight the path of the Lord in the hearts of the others.
“And in doing so, they ought ever more to decrease, so that he may be able to increase. The one among you who wants to be the first, should be the servant of all.
“Read and reflect on the pericope about the washing of the feet at the Last Supper again, and then prepare the farewell discourses of the Lord … They are very important for our life and for our suffering, and they can give joy to hearts that believe.”
After a brief prayer, the master dismissed the students. Only Hartmut from Unterwalden remained behind. He approached the armchair bashfully, his big ears burning red.
Hermann put a gentle question to the contrite student: “Do you have so little love for the Lord that you have no wish to learn anything from him, Hartmut?”
Hartmut swallowed his tears and stammered: “I do love him, but I am not very bright. When I learn something, I forget it at once. If only I was half as intelligent as you, Master Hermann!”
Hermann and Berthold smiled at each other when they heard this heartfelt sigh. The lame man dealt a light blow to the student’s untidy blond hair.
“You have wishes, young man, but you are not inclined to work all that hard. From now on, you must make more effort. It is true that others find it easier to study, but that should only be an encouragement to you. Every effort that we take to come closer to Our Lord is rewarded. Every life has its toil and its cross. Thank the Lord that you have healthy limbs, and thank him for your mind too, even if you are ‘not very bright.’ From now on, Hartmut from Unterwalden will struggle harder, will he not?”
The lame man traced a cross of blessing on the young man’s sunburnt brow. Hartmut felt relieved, and sprang out of the cell.
“Are you not sometimes too kind and indulgent, Father? Master Burkhard would have given him a taste of the rod,” said Berthold, as he turned the armchair back to the work desk.
“Am I to drive the love for the Lord out of him with the rod? If I was too mild, then let the Lord use the rod on me! I am a stubborn donkey, and I need it.” He omitted to add: “I will get it soon, in any case.”
He spent some time in silent reflection, and then he picked up his wax tablet, intending to write down some thoughts about ruling and serving. But his efforts were in vain. His right hand clenched the stylus.
“Berthold?”
But unfortunately, his companion had just left the cell. Once again, Hermann attempted to force himself to write, but in vain. He must be content with inactivity.
“Is this the rod for the donkey, Lord?”
He sat there inactive in his armchair, and waited. Before him lay the wax tablet with the strange scratchings that were meant to be letters. Then he heard someone coming. The footsteps were not Berthold’s rapid paces.
Udualrich, one of the professed monks who belonged to the community, entered. After a brief greeting, he asked: “Not working, Brother?” His sharp eyes swept over the cell.
The lame man replied, with an effort: “I cannot.”
“Well, at any rate, God bestows lengthy pauses for rest on you. I would like to ask for your help. I have never been particularly good at Hebrew, and there is a passage in the Old Testament that I cannot make sense of, no matter how hard I try.”
How often Udualrich needed help! And it was never refused him.
“Leave the text here, Brother. As soon as I can work again, I will finish it for you.”
“Good, good! May God reward you …”
Udualrich’s hand brushed the soft fur on the sick man’s bed. “A number of things have changed in your life, have they not? I wouldn’t mind resting on a pillow like that.”
Hermann smiled painfully. “Do not wish that for yourself, dear Brother. This bed is harder than the one I had before.”
Udualrich did not reply. He was busy examining in detail the food on the tray that Berthold was carrying in. White bread, baked whitefish, cheese, apples, wine … It was well worthwhile being sick on Reichenau, if one enjoyed the abbot’s favor.
“Enjoy your meal, Brother.”
“If only he had meant those words sincerely,” muttered Berthold, after Udualrich had gone out.
“No, Berthold,” Hermann rebuked him. “You are too suspicious.”
The novice would like to have said: “And you are too credulous,” but he did not do so. In recent days, he had often heard the monks complaining that Hermann was given privileges by Abbot Berno. But why did they not bear in mind the suffering that tormented him?
“You must help me. My hands refuse to work.”
The young monk drew up a stool, as he was accustomed to do, and fed his master, as a mother feeds her young child. Only a short time ago, the master had been expounding sacred Scripture to his students in lofty words, and now he must be fed … Berthold was so careful and gentle that Hermann did not find this as humiliating as he once had done, when Ekkehard was charged with helping him. Nevertheless, there were also times when he would have liked to weep at his helplessness. His fetters were often a painful burden.
After the meal, Berthold cleaned the master’s face and hands with a cloth. Then he guided the father’s right hand to make the sign of the cross, and said a prayer of thanksgiving. He prayed alone, for Hermann had temporarily lost the power of speech.
“May I bring you to the lake, Father? The fresh air will do you good, and perhaps this attack will pass more quickly.”
A slight nod signified assent, and the brother lifted the sick man into the wheelchair.
They met some monks in the cloister. “A feast-day life,” murmured Brother Ekkehard.
The lame man’s acute hearing had caught these words. “A feast-day life? My life is a feast day? And what feast day is it that I am celebrating all the time, brother? The Exaltation of the Holy Cross? I would not want you to have the pleasure of my feast day, Ekkehard. Indeed, I would not want anyone to have it, not even someone who is so hostile to me as you.”
This kind of talk hurt him deeply, although he had hitherto believed that he was immune to the foolish remarks of stupid people.
“A feast-day life …”
Abbot Berno came from the monastery gate with a guest from Saint Gallen.
“Brother Reginald, here you see our dear master Hermann, whose treatise on the elements I sent to Saint Gallen some little time ago.”
The sick man did his best to produce a smile for the visiting brother, but his rigid face was more like a tragic mask.
Reginald looked at him with curiosity, as if he were some strange exhibit. Why did people not understand that their eyes wounded him, when they looked at a lame cripple with curiosity, astonishment, and disgust?
Berthold explained the silence of his teacher. “Forgive me, Father Abbot … Master Hermann cannot speak. His lameness has got the better of him once again. We want to go down to the lake …”
The Lord Berno bent down and laid his right hand, with its glittering ring, on the weak hands of the lame man. “I hope that you will soon feel better at your beloved Gnadensee, my dear son. I shall show Brother Reginald some of your works. Perhaps you yourself can give him further explanations this evening.”
The lame man’s eyes looked at the abbot with gratitude and trust.
Reginald had observed this scene attentively. He assumed that the sick man was a favorite of the abbot—a rumor to that effect had already reached as far as Saint Gallen, and gossip said that this had led to some discontent among the monks, although Abbot Berno had been a beloved father of his sons until then. Reginald would make his own enquiries. The monks in Saint Gallen liked to be kept informed as precisely as possible about the monastery on Reichenau, which was their neighboring community (but which they did not always love).
For a long time, Reichenau had been outshone by the mighty abbey of Saint Gallen. In the period of its decline, it had merely been an object of pity or derision for the neighboring monks, but the island monastery had prospered after Abbot Berno began to govern it. Saint Gallen was larger, but Abbot Berno had transformed Reichenau into a seat of piety and learning. The school of painting was flourishing, and the works of the abbot and of his lame Master Hermann took the name of Reichenau into many countries. Moreover, Berno was a friend of the emperor. Was he not planning to invite the emperor to the dedication of the west-work? The guest from Saint Gallen had not liked the high bell tower, modeled on a campanile south of the Alps, because there was only one tower like that north of the Alps …
Abbot Berno knew nothing of the thoughts of his guest. He took him to the lame man’s cell and showed him some of his apparatus, his instruments, and his writings, with a spiritual father’s justified pride. Reginald listened to him with a divided attention, while he looked around the cell. In his own monastery, not even the abbot had such a splendid room.
When he sat with the monks of Reichenau at recreation after the midday meal, he shot an arrow at a venture. By chance, the man on his right was called Udualrich.
“Here on the island, it is worthwhile cultivating friendship with Father Abbot, is it not?”
The monk looked at him sideways. “What do you mean, Brother Reginald? Is that not worthwhile in Saint Gallen?
“It is worthwhile there too, when the sun of the abbot’s favor shines on a monk. I myself am not one of the lucky, chosen ones.”
“Nor am I, you can be sure of that,” exclaimed Udualrich.
Reginald smiled. “It is easier for us in Saint Gallen, because we do not have a cripple in the community. You have to look on while this Hermann gets one exemption after another, while you faithfully take the path of strict penitence. I have heard that your Father Abbot is an enthusiastic adherent of the reform.” The guest sighed sympathetically.
“The cripple in the community … We always wonder why he enjoys this or that privilege that the abbot does not grant us. In the case of Hermann, the abbot doubtless forgets that he is a Cluniac monk.”
Reginald skillfully changed the subject. He now knew enough.
“
The abbot sensed nothing of the discontent that was spreading like dandelion seeds in the wind. In the chapter meeting, he ingenuously praised the lame man’s new work, a didactic poem of 1,722 verses, which the abbot had requested him to write for the nuns of Buchau, on Lake Feder in Upper Swabia.
“The De octo vitiis principalibus is in fact a very serious work, dear brothers and sons in the Lord. We should get to know this pamphlet before it leaves our Reichenau. In this text, our dear brother describes pride as the mother and the stem of all the vices. Its children, the seven branches on this stem, are vanity, envy, anger, sadness of soul, avarice, intemperance, gluttony, and unchastity.”2
If the Lord Berno had looked at the faces of his sons, he would have noticed several things. Some monks openly displayed their contempt, while others smiled mockingly to themselves. Udualrich nudged his neighbor Dietbart, and they exchanged a look of mutual understanding: What else could one expect? Yet another hymn in praise of the cripple … But the abbot did not look up. He read a passage from the poem aloud: “Through it, heart and ear are hardened, so that one refuses to hear the sacred teaching of Christ, which commands one to abandon the burden of the world. The true Christian ought to flee from this burden. He does not allow himself to be ensnared by it … May the stem of pride on Reichenau be exterminated in every heart, so that there will be no possibility at all for the seven ugly branches, which can bring so much ruin and disaster to a monastic community, to grow. But let us not deceive ourselves, dear brothers! Ever since the first sin in paradise, pride has found a rich soil in the human heart. Usually, we do indeed deny that it is there, but our sins continually show the world that pride has its roots in us.”
If only Abbot Berno had realized that pride was at work, gravely imperiling the monastic peace with its branches—with vanity, jealousy, and anger! The abbot had governed the abbey and guided the hearts of his monks with firmness, wisdom, and gentleness for nearly four decades. But had this very success made him relax his attentiveness?
That evening, the Lord Berno went to the lame man, to ask how he was. Hermann was working again.
“May God be praised that you are better, Hermann. The attack did not last long. What are you working at now?”
“I am translating a Hebrew passage from the Old Testament for Udualrich,” answered the sick man, ingenuously.
The abbot’s face darkened. “A passage from the Old Testament?”
“Yes. Jeremiah 13 …”
“When did Udualrich bring it to you?”
“At midday today, Father Abbot,” replied Hermann, with the serenity of one who had a good conscience.
“But I have explicitly stipulated that everyone who wants to make use of your help must first have my permission.”
“You knew nothing of this, Father Abbot? Forgive me for acting on my own initiative.”
“Your own initiative? You acted in good faith, but Udualrich keeps on acting as he himself sees fit. Give me your notes and his! I must once again explain to him in very clear terms what obedience and dependence mean …”
The day had already been full of tribulations. An accident had occurred on the building site. The master builder had been somewhat careless, and one of the masons had fallen and been severely injured. If the worker died, four children would be left without a father. In the afternoon, a messenger had brought the certain news that three Popes were now disputing in Rome about which of them was legitimate. Abbot Berno suffered much because of the Church.
All day long, he had had to keep his temper, but this incident with Udualrich put an end to that. He made to leave the room in anger.
“Father …” Hermann began to make a request, because he knew that Berno could punish harshly when things went too far. Would that improve a man like Udualrich, or only make him bitter? “Father …”
An abrupt movement of the hand told him to be silent. Abbot Berno departed.
“
Later, Udualrich came, pale and grim. He threw the wax tablet down before the sick man.
“Brother Udualrich …”
“Oh, I just wanted to thank you, dear Brother Hermann. You got me a wonderful humiliation. You really know how to do that! Just imagine: the Lord and Father rebuked my disobedience in the presence of the entire community. Yes, you really knew how to bring that about.”
“But, Brother, for the love of Christ …,” Hermann besought him.
The monk bent down, planted his elbows firmly on the table, and stared into the lame man’s face.
“Spare me your pious phrases, you learned and virtuous man. You are not going to entrap me with them. Go on letting yourself be spoiled by our Lord and Father Abbot—at our cost. You deprive us of the love and benevolence that you receive from our common Father. He showers every gift on you. Well, no doubt you will show him your gratitude. I am sure of that.”
With an ugly gesture, Udualrich indicated the cell. “Go on behaving so well and leading an indigent life, in exact accordance with the strict reform of Cluny, you who are the last of the poor ones of Christ—as you like to call yourself.”
The monk went to the door, flung it open, and banged it shut behind him.
The last of the poor ones of Christ …
Hermann forced himself to be calm. “For they know not what they do.”
A picture formed in his mind … the Lord on Good Friday, clothed in purple rags, crowned with thorns, a reed in his hand. Soldiers bowed their knees in mockery before the king, whom they despised, and spat in his face.
The last of the poor ones of Christ …
He wanted to protest, to weep, to cry out, to fight back.
The last of the poor ones of Christ …
And he prayed an Our Father, transcending his deeply wounded spirit.
“
From that day on, his sight and his hearing had somehow become more acute. He sensed the opposition to the abbot that was brewing up in the community, quietly and almost imperceptibly. When the Lord Berno addressed the community, Hermann saw the critical glances, pursed mouths, and contemptuous gestures in some monks. Was he the reason for the diminishing attitude of reverence for the Father Abbot? Was he (though himself innocent) guilty in this matter?
The community had lost its stable structure. A fissure had opened up, slowly but steadily widening. The Lord Berno too seemed changed. He made impatient demands; he was imperious and irritable. When he issued a command, his tone was usually harsh. If he discovered a mistake or an error, his rebuke was no longer delivered with kindly strictness and mild firmness. Now, his admonitions seemed stern and unmerciful.
Did he sense the opposition? Did he want to crush it by force? Did he not know that this only increased the number of his opponents, who were secretly working against him? Some of those who hitherto had loved and revered him now feared him. And there were only a few steps from fear to aversion.
Sometimes, Hermann felt as if even the beams and the masonry were rustling. Were rats and voles at work, bringing down the house of Saint Benedict on Reichenau with a crash? How was he to help, to protect and support?
Ought he to speak with the abbot, to warn him quite openly? But what facts could he bring before him, apart from the verbal assault by Udualrich? Had he any proofs? Could he appeal in such an important matter to presentiments and feelings?
“Lord, what do you want me to do?”
The lame man became calmer. No one knew about his inner distress, since he went about his duties tranquilly. He prayed much and intensely, and he continually offered up his sufferings for Abbot Berno.
The signs of discontent multiplied. Some monks avoided the cell of the lame man. Hermann could have endured the loneliness and the contempt, if only they had not defied the abbot.
“Am I really a wall that separates the abbot and the community?” This was the tormenting question that no longer left him any peace. Although he had nothing to reproach himself for, he automatically became shyer and more reserved in his dealings with his spiritual father.
“
Soon, the fiftieth anniversary of the day on which the Lord Berno had been ordained to the priesthood in the distant imperial abbey of Pruem came round. His thoughts often took the long path to the northwest and rested in the quiet walls of the abbey on the wild slopes of the Eifel Mountains. The young monk Berno had spent his days so free of cares then, so free of burdens. He had sung the praises of God exultantly, in the unalloyed joy of his heart. He had been a keen student, and he had been glad to let the strict abbot guide him! The same had been true of his time in the reformed abbey of Fleury …
It was easier to be led, even by such a strict man as Abbot Immo of Pruem, than to bear the burden of responsibility, which Berno now found more oppressive than ever.
“If only Emperor Henry II had not chosen me when he was looking for an abbot for Reichenau!” he thought, wearily and bitterly. “Was my predecessor here really as cruel as people say? Or was not his strictness necessary, in view of the intractability of human nature, which is always happy to deviate from the good path? Only a few men—monks like Hermann—can bear loose reins, because they love the Lord so much that they remain on his path out of love. Was I too indulgent all those years?”
Although Abbot Berno was correct in the chapter meetings, he was far too objective and impersonal. No one dared to oppose him openly, but the secret muttering took on dangerous forms. The abbot’s dispassionate face seldom smiled. He went on his way, even more upright, his steps even more measured and dignified. Visitors sensed the strictness of the abbot, the ruler at Lake Constance.
Apart from the lame man, no one knew that the abbot was suffering, suffering terribly under the gulf of strangeness that had opened up between him and his sons in Christ. Hermann noticed the lines of pain around the narrow, self-controlled mouth, and he heard the hidden request behind the cool severity of his imperious voice. He saw that the white threads in the abbot’s hair had become more numerous.
“
The mighty building of Saint Mark’s church with its high bell tower was nearing completion. But did the lofty campanile still mean anything to the abbot? He had admired the bell towers he had seen when he accompanied Emperor Henry I on his journeys to Rome, and his keenest desire had been to build such a tower on the shore of the Gnadensee, so that the bells could bear the praise of God far and wide from its highest point … The Lord Berno looked at his life’s work with indifferent eyes. Another, much more important building—the inner, divine construction of his monastic family—was being demolished. But he was not able to identify the workers, nor could he prevent the dismantling.
“
The hidden fire burst out into the open during the choir practices for the service that was to be celebrated on the golden jubilee of the abbot’s priestly ordination. With great devotion, Hermann had composed solemn chants for a Mass, with melodies that expressed all his gratitude to the Lord and Creator for giving Reichenau a man like Abbot Berno. Gunter, the choirmaster, led the rehearsals very well, but something essential was always lacking in the singing. The choir sang languidly and reluctantly, since their hearts were not in what they were doing.
After repeated unsuccessful attempts, Gunter fetched the sick man from his cell into the choir. “Sing the melody to the brethren, Hermann. They need to hear how a melody can sound, when the singer sings from the heart.”
Hermann sang at once. His Gloria praised the Lord, his Alleluia exulted, his Credo adored. His Sanctus was joyful expectancy, and his Agnus Dei bent down in blessed certainty to meet the Lord who was coming to visit him in the holy Eucharist.
Gunter cried out enthusiastically: “Yes, dear brothers, that is how you must do it! Try it one more time.”
But most of the monks sang no better than before.
“Why are you making no effort? Anyone who heard you singing would have grave doubts about your good will,” said the choirmaster angrily.
Then the monk Dietbert laughed nastily and cried out, without taking any account of the holiness of the place: “You should not be surprised that Hermann sings with enthusiasm when he is singing for the abbot, Gunter. After all, he must somehow show his gratitude for all the favors he receives from the Lord and Father Abbot.”
The sick man started up. “What are you saying, Dietbert?”
Dietbert leant forward with a malicious grin and looked at the lame man, from his head to his crippled feet.
“I merely said something that everyone knows, Count of Altshausen. Which of us has the best and most beautiful cell in all the house? Who is permitted to use fine furs and precious rugs? Who is served the most delicious foods and the most exquisite drinks? Who is allowed to come and go to the common exercises of the spiritual life, as and when it pleases him? Who is never the object of a serious rebuke? Who is the abbot’s confidant? The last of the poor ones of Christ—Count Hermann of Altshausen!”
Some of the monks loudly agreed with Dietbert’s words, while others spoke bitterly against him—although they ought to have observed silence in the choir of the monastery church. The lame man looked with big eyes at Dietbert. His heart tensed up, while the voices around him quarreled ever more loudly.
He sat there, mute and rigid, and looked at Dietbert. His hands lay immobile on his lap, crossed over as if they were fettered. He stared at Dietbert, but he no longer saw him. The faces, the hands, the bodies of the disputants became indistinct before his eyes. They became a surging mass, and their words combined in his ears to form a sea of sounds that roared and whooshed.
Suddenly, the harsh voice of the abbot drowned out the commotion. “What is going on here? How dare you profane the holy place?”
A deathly silence prevailed, and the rebels looked shyly at the ground. The lame man sat there, motionless, staring with wide open eyes in the same direction, like a blind man.
The Lord Berno spoke to an older monk: “Renuald, come with me and tell me what has happened here! You others, get to your work without delay!”
The guilty and the innocent slunk out the monastery church with bowed heads. Hermann still stared in the same direction. Did he stand between the abbot and the brothers?
“Father, what disgraceful conduct by …,” whispered Berthold, but the lame man would not listen to him.
“Do not … not speak .. about it …,” he asked, haltingly. “Bring me to the lake.”
“
Salve Regina
Hermann felt unutterably tired. Little waves wrinkled the silver surface of the lake, a picture of peace. Was the Gnadensee as it had always been? Could anything in all the wide world be as it had always been? Was not all beauty somehow poisoned by envy, resentment, and hatred?
The lame monk wanted to pray, but he found no words. He was too tired and too sad. The young man by his side was silent, and doubtless shared in the father’s suffering.
What would Renuald tell the Father Abbot? How Abbot Berno would suffer from the lack of confidence on the part of his own sons!
Why had his brother Werinher not defended him? Or was he one of those who had objected to Dietbert’s words?
How illusory was the peace here at the Gnadensee! Over there stood the stump, the half-charred stump of the willow. It was truer and more honest. Dead wood … the wood of death … the cross.
The sick man shivered, as if he was cold. “Why always the cross, always the cross? I would like to rest just for once, just to rest, to rest … without the cross. I am tired, so tired. I cannot … bear any more. No more via dolorosa,3 no more cross, Lord! No, no! Calm, quiet … nothing else. Lord, take me home. I cannot bear any more. I am too tired.”
Firm, impatient steps drew near.
“Father Abbot,” murmured Berthold, getting up from the grass on the shore.
The lame man felt fear. The abbot … What awaited him now? “Lord, I cannot bear any more …”
The abbot dismissed the brother with a short gesture of his hand. Then he took Berthold’s place on the grass.
“Who is the abbot’s confidant?” Dietbert had said. “The last of the poor ones of Christ—Count Hermann of Altshausen.”
The abbot said nothing. Hermann looked down at him and saw the many white threads in his hair, and the stooped shoulders. The sick man’s bitterness gave way to concern for his father in Christ. “Lord, if I can help him,” he prayed, thereby giving his assent to all that would come, irrespective of his weariness.
The abbot was silent for a long time. When he finally began to speak, his voice sounded brittle. It was the voice of an old man.
“Do you know why I have come, Hermann?”
“Yes, I know, Father Abbot,” replied the sick man, and felt his heart beating rapidly. He prayed silently: “Lord, I am afraid, but I want what you want.”
“Your lordly brethren … your noble, lordly brethren …” The abbot’s voice cracked, and he swallowed once or twice. “Your lordly brethren are envious. They demand to be governed more mildly. Unlike Abbot Immo, I have given them justified pleasures and relaxations, such as richer meals on feast days. But that is not enough for them. No, they want to have white bread every day. They want a softer cloth for their habits, a warmer dormitory, better wine, and similar privileges that the strict Abbot of Reichenau has refused to give them. And they appeal here to the fact that …” The Lord Berno looked up at the lame man, who did not flinch from meeting his dark eyes.
Hermann finished the sentence: “That you have granted me all these things, Father Abbot.”
“But you have never asked for one single privilege!” cried the abbot.
“No, but I have received a considerable number of privileges. Father, it was, in any case, only a trial period. So I ask you with all my heart: Clear away the offense. Give the order that my cell should take on its old appearance again, and that I should be served the same meals that I used to get …”
The Lord Berno interrupted him harshly: “No, that would be a foolish caving in to their demands. The brethren must not be envious of the gifts of mercy that are given to you—a lame man who is wracked by pain!” The abbot’s hands clasped his pectoral cross so vigorously that his knuckles turned white.
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” pleaded Hermann quietly. “May I not apply to the brethren the words of Our Lord on the cross?”
“No,” replied Berno. “In you, they are doing it to Our Lord on the cross. It is on him that they are heaping the disgrace of their enviousness, and they know perfectly well what they are doing.”
“Permit me to contradict you, Father Abbot … They cannot know what they are doing. How are they to know the extent of my distress? They would have to have endured the pain themselves … or to know about it in the way that only you know about it. Believe me, the brethren see only the external picture. They see the sick brother who is well cared for, the brother whom you, Father, treat with a special warmth. They know nothing of the continual pains, of the sleepless nights, of the torment when my lameness completely prevents me from using my hands and my tongue. They cannot feel in their own persons what it means when other people’s hands have to do every service for me, when they wash me, put my clothes on and take them off, feed me, put me to bed … Nor can they know that you are so kind to me in order that I may not succumb to bitterness, but may be able to try, in some small measure, to be good.”
Despite the urgency of this plea, Abbot Berno was not to be shaken in his resolve. He was too deeply hurt to be able to accept and acknowledge the truth.
“They see enough of your suffering to allow them to be glad that you receive what I have given you.”
The lame man’s eyes were full of sadness, when he murmured: “And what if their eyes are kept from seeing, Father? I beg you, clear away the offense. The last thing I want is to be a wall separating you and … my brethren. Take everything away from me, I beseech you, take everything away from me, Father, so that they may once again come home to you!”
The abbot shook his head angrily. “No, Hermann, that is not going to happen. I will compel them to love their neighbor. I will compel them. They will find out in the chapter meeting who is the Lord of Reichenau! They will ask you for forgiveness. If anyone is unwilling to do so, I will send him away. If I cannot do that, what is the point of my being the Lord of the Abbey of Our Lady on Reichenau?”
The sick man suddenly felt that a power outside his own self had taken hold of him. He knew that Abbot Berno was in great danger, since the only “Lord of Reichenau” was Jesus Christ … He had to help the father. He was overwhelmed by something like a prophetic vision:
Christ was washing his disciples’ feet … And he spoke like a prophet, fearless, bold, driven from within. He could do nothing else: he had to speak.
But while he carried out the charge that he felt within him, his hands rested on his lap as if they were fettered …
“You are the Abbot of Reichenau, Lord Berno, in order that you may serve, not in order that you may rule. In serving, you must fulfill the charge of Christ and preserve the brethren’s souls for him. It is your privilege to lead the souls of the brethren to him through a humble and loving dedication to your exalted service. You must rule by serving … and you must serve by ruling. You must not block the path of any of the weak ones to the Lord by imperious harshness. Only gentleness can open people’s hearts to him … Father, love cannot be compelled. One can win it only through service in love. For the sake of Christ, Father Abbot, be gentle and kind to the brethren!”
He had spoken those terrible words. Had the Lord Berno accepted them? Hermann waited.
The abbot rose slowly. His face was pale, and he took quick, shallow breaths.
“Hermann of Altshausen, I hope that you understand that you have gone far too far. Your words were an arrogant presumption. No monk, not even you, is entitled to rebuke his abbot. It seems that I have been too indulgent with you, since you dare to do such a thing. You will answer for it at the chapter of faults.”
“Father …”
The abbot paused for a moment, and then departed. If Hermann had been able to turn round and follow his movements, he would have seen that the steps he took were those of an old man.
Abbot Berno had never spoken to him like that.—But had Hermann not meant well? Indeed, what else could he have done? Was this to be the end of a spiritual fellowship in God, a fellowship grounded in God?
Had he said and dared too much? But he had no alternative, because a higher demand had been made of him. He had to speak in that way, precisely because he revered the Lord Berno and was anxious about him.
Nevertheless—as a simple monk, he had said too much. Abbot Berno could not see the matter in any other way.
And probably this was the cross of which he had been afraid earlier on. God wanted him to go alone from now on, completely alone. In that case, he would at least atone from the heart for what had been wrong in the external form of his words … and then, he would continue on his way alone. An unrestrained sobbing shook the poor body of the sick man. Alone? My God, was he not sufficiently alone? Segregatus …4
“
Berthold had brought the wheelchair into the chapter room, and Hermann sat there calmly, although his face was furrowed with sorrow. In general, he was not obliged to take part in the chapter, and several monks looked at him in astonishment.
His adversaries thought: “The count of Altshausen is to be a witness in the judicial trial that awaits us.”
The abbot entered. He slowed down automatically at the wheelchair. Hermann’s heart beat more quickly, but he prayed his fiat.5 The Lord Berno went on. He had seen the hands of the sick man, which rested on his lap as though they were fettered—and yet were marvelously free.
After the introductory prayers, the abbot spoke about the great fraternal union that linked the abbeys in Burgundy, Lorraine, and Swabia. He mentioned the death of Brother Wigbertus in Gorze; in accordance with the fraternal union, they were obliged to pray for him. One who knew Abbot Berno as well as the lame man was aware that his voice lacked its old firmness.
After these general communications, the Lord Berno read a chapter from the Rule of Saint Benedict. With a severe emphasis, he read to them the section about the rights and duties of the abbot.
“‘Let him not shut his eyes to the faults of offenders; but as soon as they begin to appear, let him, as he can, cut them out by the roots …’”
Many heads were bent in the ranks of the monks. Hermann sat calmly in his chair.
Abbot Berno went on to read about the strict account that God would demand of the abbot for every soul that he had entrusted to his charge. Then, without any transition, he read a passage from the chapter about humility.
“‘The third degree of humility is that a man for the love of God subject himself to his superior in all obedience, imitating the Lord, of whom the Apostle says: He was made obedient even unto death.’”
Abbot Berno omitted some lines, and then read, slowly and clearly—indeed, excessively clearly: “‘The fifth degree of humility is that he humbly confess and conceal not from his abbot any evil thoughts that enter his heart, and any secret sins that he has committed …’”
The Lord Berno put down the Rule. Many a monk now waited for the abbot to summon him to confess his guilt before the monastic community … Udualrich, Dietbert, Ekkehard. Why was the abbot silent so long? What name would he now utter?
“Today, Brother Hermann of Altshausen is to accuse himself.”
The sick man breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God! The Lord had heard his silent prayers. He was to be allowed to atone for his error. The astonishment of his brethren was so great that they did not perceive the sign he gave several times, asking for his wheelchair to be moved into the center of the room. Finally, his brother Werinher realized that he needed this service.
Now the light vehicle with the crooked body of the monk stood in the center of the chapter room. Although the monks were not permitted to raise their heads, they gazed at him from under half-lowered eyelids.
How could they envy this poor cripple the friendship of the abbot? The distorted figure, the pale face, gaunt, furrowed, with dark rims under the eyes, the bent fingers …
They might have been inclined to gloat, but that feeling changed to one of shame.
Hermann bowed his head before the abbot, since his frailty prevented him from bending his knees. The Lord Berno clenched his hands in the sleeves of his habit. His face seemed distant and harsh. Werinher almost sobbed in his agitation. What wrong could his brother have done? Did he not look as if he had been weeping? A terrible thought … Hermann, always so self-controlled, had wept?
In a clear voice that reached the farthest corner of the great room, Hermann made his confession: “I, Hermann of Altshausen, professed monk and member of the community of the Abbey of Our Lady on Reichenau, confess to you, my Lord and Father Abbot Berno, and to all the brethren here present, before the presence of Almighty God, whom I call as my witness, and to whose mercy I recommend myself, that I have sinned against the reverence that I owe you, my Lord and Father Abbot Berno. I have dared to rebuke you in a presumptuous manner and to admonish you, although I am not in any way entitled to do so.
“For this fault, of which I accuse myself, I ask the forgiveness of you and of my brethren. I ask for your prayer, and for a penance that is in accordance with the gravity of my fault.”
The unsparing self-accusation was perfectly clear. The Lord Berno waited before replying, and all the monks feared for the lame man. Would the abbot impose the most severe penance possible, or had he felt compassion when he heard this honest and uncompromising admission of guilt? The tension in the room was almost unbearable.
“Hermann of Altshausen, this will be your penance: Contrary to the wish that you have stubbornly expressed, you will receive an even better equipped cell and even richer food.” The words were spoken tonelessly and impersonally. “Furthermore, you will remain completely silent in the community until I allow you to use your tongue once more. I hope that arrogant words will never again proceed from your lips.”
The assembled monks shuddered, but the sick man thanked the abbot in the customary form for the penance that had been imposed on him.
The abbot ended the chapter meeting with obvious haste, without requiring even one of the rebels to accuse himself. Hermann was the only one he wanted to punish. But this gave him no satisfaction. As the Lord Berno left the chapter room, his feet faltered once again as he passed the lame man’s wheelchair. He saw the “fettered” hands, then drew himself to his full height and left the room.
The lame man took part in the evening prayers as if nothing had happened. When the Magnificat was sung, he thanked the greatest of all mothers for having answered his prayer and helped him to maintain his physical strength throughout the day. The lameness could return in the night … In every distress, the lonely man found refuge in Mary. He knew that he, as a fragile human being, as a sinner, was completely safe with her. The Mother of mercy receives everyone who finds the path to her, even a poor, lonely cripple.
When Berthold brought him into his cell, he seemed not to notice the new burden in the form of coverings, drapes, and furs. He said nothing as Berthold prepared him for his night’s rest, and he said nothing as he ate his substantial meal, although that cost an effort. Did he not perceive the distress of his faithful companion? Berthold knelt down to receive the evening blessing, but Hermann declined mutely.
“You must understand me, Berthold. Before I can bless you, the Lord must bless me.”
The brother was so confused that he left the candle burning. The lame man attempted to extinguish it, but he fell back, feebly.
His thoughts tortured him: “I must not bless … I must not extinguish the light. Have I ever kindled a light for other people, or was I ultimately nothing more than a will-o’-the-wisp?”
The candle hissed and smoldered; the smoke was black and ugly. He had to cough. If only Berthold would come back! A damp cloudy air blew from the lake into the cell. The hanging would have to be fastened before the window … If only Berthold would come …
Hermann felt the wet coldness slowly and inexorably penetrating the fine drapes, the woolen coverings, and the thick furs. The cold rose higher and higher, until it took hold of his entire body. The lameness took him back into its terrible arms. Each time, it was like a process of dying that he experienced with his mind alert. He had expected this attack after the excitements of the day. The only good thing was that it had not come before the chapter meeting …
Then the raging pains assailed him like waves, inundating him—like waves in which the will to live and to say “yes” threatened to drown. Were they the billows of the Gnadensee? Was this torment only a penance, or was it also grace?
He wanted to cry out, but not even that was possible; nor was he allowed to do so: “… until I allow you to use your tongue once more …” A strangled, stertorous groaning came out of his mouth, as his teeth ground against one another. Streams of perspiration ran over the pale, distorted face.
Then … another mountainous wave of pain. It subsided, but it came back.
Was there anything he could use to stem this assault? Should he stammer his inner fiat, accepting it? Would not a rebellion against his merciless fate be also a kind of liberation?
The abbot’s favorite? The dead wood … the wood of death, the cross … “You must not block the path of any of the weak ones to the Lord …”
Christ washed the feet of his disciples …
Presumptuous words? Alone, alone …
The pains crashed over him and receded, ceaseless like the waves of the sea, while images and fragments of words emerged from his memory and tormented him.
He did not give in. His soul struggled to find strength. He cried in his mind to Mary, entrusting his torment to her, the Mother of the Lord, the Mother of mercy.
When the pain let him breathe a little more freely, a new verse of the prayer was wrung from his heart …
“Hail, O Queen … Salve Regina!”
Like a star in a stormy night, Mary stood before him this night, on the stormy sea of his sufferings. “Salve Regina!”
But he had to get closer to the Mother. She was not only his Queen and Lady. He fled to where she was and sought shelter in her love …
“Mater misericordiae … Mother of mercy …” The inferno of pain threatened to confuse his mind, and his soul cried out: “Vita, dulcedo et spes nostra …” And once more, he could emerge from the turmoil of distress and lay at the feet of her whom he had just called “life, sweetness, and hope” his urgent plea that after this wretchedness, at the end of his exile, she would show him the blessed fruit of her womb, the Lord Jesus Christ. He knew that he was not the only pleader. With all the children of Eve, weeping and sighing, he called out from this vale of tears to her, the Mother of mercy …
Again and again, he prayed the same words, until, long after midnight, the waves of his pains diminished, until finally, all he felt was the well-known everyday torment.
With one last hiss and plumes of black fume, the candle went out. Outside, a silver moon hung over the lake. The clouds had dispersed.
“Mater misericordiae …,” the sick man thought gratefully, before he was overcome by exhaustion and fell asleep.
The thought of the Mother of God accompanied him into a dream. He saw her and was permitted to present to her the words of the prayer that he had found in his distress. She nodded graciously to him, and he felt as if she was saying: “Henceforth, all generations will call me blessed with these words too.”
“
The dream made the sick man happy, and this happiness did not leave him when Berthold woke him after a brief sleep. Usually, he gave his helper all the support that he could, but today, it was impossible for him to move. When Berthold asked him to raise his right hand, it remained immobile in its position over his left hand. The narrow, crooked fingers had no strength at all.
“Father, are you completely lame again?”
The sick man’s blue eyes wanted to console and calm him, but they were powerless against the young man’s urgent distress and concern.
The brother did his service speedily, although it was not easy to lift the light body of the sick man when he was in this state. His anxiety about the master gave him an unsuspected strength. After he had settled him down on the bed, he rushed off.
Not long afterward, Hermann, whose lameness had led him to cultivate his acute sense of hearing, heard resolute steps, and his eyes widened. It was Abbot Berno. He examined his reactions. Was he filled with joy—or seized with fear?
The door opened and creaked on its hinges. Abbot Berno was in the room. Hermann, who was immobile, could not see him, but he knew that the Lord Berno was looking at him. Had Berthold informed the abbot? If so, he must have come immediately …
The Lord Berno looked down at the lame man and saw the ghostly pallor of his face, which seemed to have been made of white wax. The poor arms lay crossed-over on the dark covering, as if they were fettered—and indeed, was that not the case?
The abbot approached the bed, careful to make no noise. He drew up the armchair that he had had fitted out with new cushions and furs. The Lord of Reichenau sat down beside his lame son in Christ, silent, sunk in profound reflection. His eyes met the blue eyes of the sick man, which spoke of an undiminished love and reverence.
Was it possible that a man like this, such a humble monk, had acted out of vanity and presumption when he spoke those words to him at the Gnadensee? Had he not been impelled to this daring deed by love—love for God, for the abbey, for the brethren, and for him, his abbot?
The previous evening, some monks had come to Abbot Berno. Some had confessed that they felt guilty because they had complained and been envious; and the best and most faithful monks had come to intercede for the lame man and to defend him.
Father Ruodhart, deeply shaken by what had happened, had told him: “Father Abbot, if we have a saint in our abbey, it is Hermann.” And when the abbot said nothing, the old man had had the courage to add: “I do not know what words he spoke, Father Abbot. But I have known him since the day when his parents made him an oblatio at the altar of our monastery church. On that occasion, I was the first one whom you charged to take care of him. One who suffers as he does, and who is so patient and loving, has a share in the special grace of God and in the motherly care of Our Lady.”
The abbot had spent many hours that night pondering on what he had heard, and weighing up Hermann’s words in the presence of the Lord. Strangely enough, his mind’s eye kept on seeing the hands that were crossed-over, hands both fettered and free. That was how his hands had been at the Gnadensee when he spoke those words that had affected the abbot so strongly, the words about ruling as a servant.
Were not the fettered hands the sign that Hermann had spoken at the behest of Another, at the behest of God? Had he not been under obligation to speak?
The novice Berthold had just told him nervously that Hermann was once again totally lame.
The abbot’s heart was generous, but not without pride. His pride now put him on the defensive: “Is this supposed to be my fault?” But when he looked at the hands that lay on the dark covering, he knew that this time, it was indeed his fault.
“His words were not a presumption. They were dictated by genuine concern and by the genuine charge he had received from God. He infringed only the external form. If a man of the caliber of Hermann of Altshausen is so worried about me, there must be a lot of truth in the claim that I wanted to use harshness to make my position secure …”
The bell rang for service in the church, but Abbot Berno disregarded it. He sat with bowed head beside the lame man’s bed and examined his conscience unsparingly. Had he served? Had he ruled?
Every harshness that seeks to break other people is a sin in God’s eyes. Every word that is too harsh, that wounds instead of healing and converting, leads the brethren away from God. Every facial expression and gesture of implacability and unmercifulness damages the cause of God, because people close their hearts to him …
While these thoughts were going through the abbot’s mind, the sick man prayed for his Father, as if he was aware of his inner struggle. A little strength was restored to him, and he moved his fingers quietly to and fro on the dark covering.
Finally, the abbot lifted his head and looked at him directly.
“Hermann, my son in Christ, I have acted unjustly. I have done wrong to you and to the brethren.”
The lame man wanted to reply, but he could only stammer inarticulately. Nevertheless, the Lord Berno had understood him.
“No, no, you do not need to defend me. I have examined myself in the presence of the Lord, and I see my failure. What you said was correct, Hermann. The ‘Father Abbot’ must serve—that is all. But I was the ‘Lord Abbot.’ I wanted to rule, and I did rule. I wanted to extirpate evil through harshness, instead of overcoming it through patient and humble kindness. I was unwilling to wait. I was not merciful when the brethren erred. I demanded love instead of giving love. I was especially unjust toward you. You may have erred according to the letter of the law, but I ought to have known that you have never acted out of presumption, but only out of love. The worst thing is that I knew this, but I did not want to know it. I listened only to the voice of nature, and I sacrificed you to my wounded pride before the assembly of the brethren.”
Hermann was moved by this confession. Abbot Berno was capable of great humility! The Lord of Reichenau bowed even more deeply before the crippled monk. He rose from the armchair and knelt down.
The sick man’s lips worked hard to produce a sound. “Father! Father!”
“Hermann, you accepted everything for the love of Christ. I thank you for this, my dear son, and I ask you for his sake to forgive me what I did to you. Then, with your forgiveness and in the power of his love, I can go to your brethren and to God.”
“Father!” The lame man’s right hand made its trembling way across the dark covering toward the bowed head of the abbot.
“Bless me, Hermann,” the Lord Berno asked, and the sick man granted this highly unusual request with a calm solemnity. But the effort was too much for him; Abbot Berno took the hand that had blessed him, and laid it back on the covering. “Pray for me, my son.”
“
When Berthold returned shortly afterward, he found the master moving his stiff fingers. Hermann was not surprised to learn from the brother that he was now permitted to speak.
“We have another chapter meeting. You are to remain in your cell, Father. Should I bring you something to eat first?”
“That would not be a bad idea, Berthold. Even the most undemanding donkey cannot fast all the time.” Berthold smiled at the joke.
He was soon back in the cell. Berthold was well known for his intelligence, but his face betrayed nothing of that now. He looked perplexed.
“I don’t understand it, Father. The brothers in the kitchen gave me this bowl and a cup of the ordinary island wine for you … on the abbot’s instructions …”
“I understand it perfectly well. Come, help me up.”
The brother had to feed him, since he was still too weak. Berthold cast a glance of disapproval at the food.
“The brothers could really have given you something better. This is a strange penance …”
Hermann smiled. “A penance? Your thoughts are far off the mark, my son! This is no penance, but a joyful surprise, a reward.”
The lame man ate the vegetables and the oatmeal porridge with obvious pleasure.
“A reward? This porridge?” Berthold shook his head. “The wine is not the best quality, but at least one can drink it.” He was so distracted that he spilled some wine.
Hermann rebuked him softly. “If the wine is the one good thing here, then one should not squander it. Did you not sleep last night?”
Berthold’s reply came at once: “How could I have slept after yesterday’s chapter meeting? Why did Father Abbot not spare you all that?”
“Our Father Abbot exercised his office correctly. There are no problems between us.”
“You made excessive amends, but the Lord Berno was harsh.”
“That will do, Berthold! You are not entitled to judge that. But I will tell you one thing: the Lord Berno has much more love and humility than me. Our Father Abbot is a great monk, a holy and virtuous monk. He should be a model for both of us.”
The brother did not reply. He was unconvinced.
“Bring me to the work desk. I want to practice while you are away, until I have so much control over my hands that I can write.”
“
Hermann had to make many attempts. He needed much time and patience before he forced his shaking hands to obey him. His crooked fingers moved the sharp stylus awkwardly, as he scratched the letters on the wax tablet. He wrote down the prayer to the Mother of mercy, the words of the prayer that the torment of the night had wrung from him. He wrote it for his abbot, who was now passing through the inner torment of humiliation. Abbot Berno was kneeling before his sons, asking their pardon for his harshness, and he would emerge from this “lake of grace” cleansed and purified.
The lame man erased some letters. He had to write them two or three or even four times, before they were legible.
Salve Regina, Mater Misericordiae, vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.
Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae, ad te suspiramus gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle.
Eja ergo, advocata nostra, illos tuos misericordes oculus ad nos converte,
et Jesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui, nobis post hoc exilium ostende.6
Writing down these words of prayer was a hard task for one who was so weak. More than once, he was obliged to stop and take a much-needed pause. Nevertheless, he also composed a melody to these words, and he wrote it down in the letters that were his own notation. The melody sounded solemn and stately, as he hummed it quietly to himself.
Hermann never worked with his mind alone. When he created something, the whole man was involved. He saw even the driest formula as a hidden praise of the one who had imposed order on life; in its regularity, it had a share in the order of all orders, in the law of all that existed, in God. God’s greatness was not only revealed in the mighty laws that guided the constellations in their paths across the universe. It also determined the little realm of tiny living creatures in their marvelous order.
“And we human beings think we have discovered something of his ways. But we are only at the beginning. And we stand at the beginning again and again, here on earth. Even later centuries and millennia are only at a new beginning. Every insight into a mystery of God confronts us with a new puzzle. It is only in death that our seeing and guessing will become a seeing and knowing … What a happy moment that will be, when we are allowed to see you, Lord!”
A fisher boat glided over the Gnadensee. It was caught by the evening sun and seemed to vanish into its silver gleam.
“That is how I would like to go home, Lord … to be caught up into your light, into the pure flame of your eternal being …”
“
The sick man had a lengthy wait. He spent the time praying and meditating in a silent and cheerful serenity. His inner peace told him that the abbot had found the path of peace, of reconciliation with the brethren and with the Lord.
“In order that you too may do what I have done …”
Abbot Berno had performed this action in imitation of Christ. He had washed the feet of his sons, asking humbly: “Forgive me, dear brothers and sons in Christ. I have been too harsh …”
When the monks of good will left, they were filled with shame and happiness, reflecting penitently on their own failures.
“Where goodness and love are found, the Lord is there.”
The lame monk at the window felt happy, despite his pains. The love of God had become visible and palpable on Reichenau, and this love sheltered him too. His continuous pains and frequent attacks were irrelevant in this context, for did not the love of God outweigh them a hundredfold? If the count of Altshausen had been healthy, would he ever have received the kind of happiness that he had received as a crippled monk? Perhaps he would have been nothing more today than a knight who sought satisfaction in worldly joys, and thought rarely or never about God …
He wondered where the man who denied the existence of happiness was. Where would Master Theophilos Cheirisophos be wandering now? He had not wanted to hear the name Theophilos,7 because he served foreign gods. But perhaps he could bear that name now? The lame man’s soul sought the doctor who had no home. As yet, his soul received no answer.
“
Stars were shining in the night sky, when Hermann heard steps. Abbot Berno and Berthold were coming to him.
“I am afraid that it is late, my dear son, but this time, I wanted to accompany Berthold, so I asked him to wait until I had the time to come.”
From the Lord Berno’s voice, Hermann knew that he had rediscovered peace. The brother brought the sick man his evening meal.
“Can you eat by yourself, Father?” he asked in concern.
“Yes, there is no problem now,” Hermann replied, taking up his spoon. Unlike the excessively rich meal he had been obliged to eat on the previous day, all he had now was a milk soup and a piece of black bread. But this austere meal tasted very much better.
Behind him, the abbot and the brother went out and in. Before him, the lake was a mirror that shone under the dark-blue velvet of the sky. Hermann could not turn round to see what was going on behind him, but he waited without inquisitiveness or unease.
“Have you finished your supper, Hermann? Good. We too have finished our work.”
“May I first give you this canticle, Father Abbot? It was bestowed on me last night.”
“A song from last night? Then I shall listen to it with particular attentiveness, Hermann … Now, you must come and see!”
The abbot lifted the sick man from the armchair, while Berthold held up a candle. In its light, Hermann saw that his cell once more presented the old picture of a clean and austere poverty. Its only decoration was the great cross from the castle chapel in Altshausen. The colorful accoutrements that had oppressed him—the drapes, coverings, rugs, and furs—had vanished.
“Your trial period is over, Hermann. You have passed the test as a son of Saint Benedict.”
“Thank you, Father Abbot, thank you! Now I am at home here once again, because I am permitted to be poor.”
Abbot Berno blessed him before he left. His act of blessing was like a bowing down before one who was greater.
With the sick man’s wax tablet in his hand, he made his way slowly to his quarters. Sometimes, his age took a heavy toll on him; he was very tired. The prior spoke to him, when he was half-way there: “A courier has just brought a letter from our Lord the Emperor.”
The Lord Berno thanked him, somewhat distractedly. A letter from the emperor … it would not contain any disagreeable message. Under Emperor Conrad, a letter could bring bad news, but the Lord Henry loved the abbey on Reichenau.
In his room, Abbot Berno laid the letter aside and concentrated on the little wax tablet. How hard it must have been for the lame fingers today! He examined carefully every little stroke. How many times had Hermann had to erase what he had written, and then try to write it more clearly?
The more the abbot deciphered of the canticle, its Latin words and its melody, the more deeply he was impressed by the simplicity, the austerity, and the ardency of this prayer to the Mother of God. This canticle rose up from the soul of a man who struggled, a man who had found liberation in his prayer. It was a precious gift …
The Lord Berno began at once to make a copy, although he knew it would take him all night. His tiredness was forgotten. From time to time, while he carefully inscribed the canticle in his regular writing on a fine parchment, he hummed the melody quietly to himself. He contemplated the content of this prayer to the Mother of mercy. Hermann was certainly right to entrust to her his petition that she would show him her Son after the distress of this present life …
“
Morning was dawning outside when the abbot finally read the emperor’s letter. The Lord Henry had accepted his invitation. He would come to the dedication of the west-work. The emperor was a good friend of the abbot; he regarded the older man as a spiritual father and a wise counselor. They had often exchanged letters.
The emperor’s scribe had written the individual letters clearly and elaborately. The great imperial seal was appended to the bottom of the letter—alongside which lay the little wax tablet with the trembling letters that the lame man had scratched. What a contrast!
The emperor and the abbot were great men, each in his own sphere, while even a very light touch could erase the letters written down by Hermann of Altshausen. Would his name too be quickly forgotten by future generations? Perhaps; but was that important? Was it so important that the name of the emperor would still be known centuries later, while the name of the monk was long forgotten? Who was greater before God, the emperor or the cripple? Whose name had a brighter and purer ring to it, when God touched the strings of the soul? The one who had more love was the one who was closer to God. Abbot Berno had no doubt that the little cripple was the one with the greater measure of love in his ample soul.
Surely people would sing his canticle, the Salve Regina, even when they had forgotten everything about its author? A strange and powerful charm emanated from this song.
The Lord Berno scrutinized the sky. The stars were fading everywhere, and a pallid morning twilight crept over the mountains. He felt the weight of the sleepless night, but he was not sorry that he had spent the night in contemplation. Ought he not, in fact, to devote himself much more to what was essential? Master builder Berno, your church is almost finished. Master builder God, will you not soon put a finish to the life of Berno of Pruem?
With the heaviness that came with his old age, Abbot Berno knelt down before the stone image of the Mother of God. In the gleam of the oil lamp, Our Lady’s face had smiled down at the abbot for the last four decades, when he knelt before her image … Regina, Mater Misericordiae.8
He had the parchment with the canticle in his hand, and he began to sing—at first hesitantly, then in a loud and strong voice: “Salve Regina, Mater misericordiae, vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra salve …”
An old brother was scuttering through the twilight cloister, on his way to wake the brethren. He heard singing from the abbot’s room, and the old man stopped to listen. “Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae …” The aged monk nodded his approval. He liked the melody.
And soon, it could be heard again and again in the abbey. The choirmaster rehearsed it with his singers for the anniversary of the abbot’s ordination and for the dedication of the west-work.
No one objected. The abbot’s humble love had silenced every resentment. The monks had begun to visit the lame man again. He seemed to have forgotten everything, for he welcomed them all with a straightforward and natural cordiality, making no distinctions. The austere poverty of his cell dispersed the last reservations. Dietbert, who had been one of his adversaries, departed from Hermann’s cell as an enthusiastic supporter of the lame man. Hermann could thus have had a time of peace.
But he was worried about Werinher. He looked restless and distracted, and wandered around, disgruntled and melancholy. Finally, Hermann’s concern prompted him to ask: “Dear brother, what is the matter? Tell me! I want to help you.”
Werinher walked restlessly up and down. Hermann could not see him, but he could follow the ceaseless padding of his steps.
“What is the matter? I want to get away. No, I want to remain a monk, but I want to go to the Holy Land. I cannot stop thinking about it. I know that my place is there, where Our Lord lived and suffered. That is where I too must live, suffer, and die.”
The lame man wanted to calm him down, although he realized that his brother’s wish was meant seriously. “Werinher, you are a monk of Reichenau. As such, you have promised to stay in one place. You are entrusted to our abbey, so to speak. Your pilgrim path leads only across this holy land at the Gnadensee. Believe me, my brother, it is here that you find little Nazareth, the stable in Bethlehem, the toilsome footpaths taken in the search for souls and in the proclamation that the kingdom of God is near. It is here that you find the Via dolorosa with the cross and the thorns, with those who show compassion, with Mother Mary, with Simon of Cyrene. It is here that you come to Golgotha and the cross …”
“No, brother, you do not understand me. I am dying of homesickness for the places where Christ lived on earth. Do you know what homesickness is?”
“I suffered homesickness for Reichenau for three years and three months.”
“Your homesickness was assuaged, but mine remains. My home is in the Holy Land. It is there that I shall be buried.”
Werinher’s words had a new seriousness, and his face had lost its childlike contentedness. Now, he had the face of one who suffered. What was the source of his yearning? Could this be what God wanted of him? All her life, their lady mother had longed to kneel one day at the place where the Lord had lived. Was it possible that this desire had been passed on to her son? In any case, it was up to Abbot Berno to decide whether this unusual wish might become a reality.
“Brother, dear brother, I hope that you are not being led astray by a deception of some kind. We are always at home where Christ lives; and he is in our abbey. Be careful, brother. Our path through life is short. And that is why every one of the steps we take along this path is important. Bear in mind the dangerous and laborious detour that I had to take. I would like to spare you from anything like that.”
“Hermann, I am no longer the frivolous and superficial man who bent with every gust of wind. It is not for nothing that I have lived beside you. I know about the cross, and about its importance in our religious life. But there is a call that one must not fail to hear. My path in life is shorter than yours, and it must end in the Holy Land.”
“You are a healthy man, eight years younger than me. You should not indulge in such somber moods! Werinher, speak with our Father Abbot, and submit to his decision.”
“I will do that,” replied Werinher, after some hesitation.
As Hermann had expected, the Lord Berno refused the exceptional request. But his compassionate understanding and his fatherly kindness soothed the unrest in the monk’s heart for some time.
“
The abbey celebrated the anniversary of its abbot’s ordination with solemnity and dignity. That evening, the choir of monks sang the Salve Regina in the monastery church for the first time. The guests from Einsiedeln, Fleury, Gorze, Saint Gallen, Pruem, Cluny, Constance, and Bregenz were delighted by the new melody. They asked for copies of the canticle to the Mother of mercy, and they received them before they left.
Berthold asked the lame man: “Write a dedication, or at least put your cipher under the text, Father.”
“Why, my son? This is not about me. It is meant to promote the honor of Mary … not to make people praise me. I am richly rewarded, if the Salve is sung in many places … Our giving is genuine only when we are not motivated by the desire for personal recognition …”
1. [“King of glory.”]
2. [Title: “On the eight principal vices.”]
3. [The path taken by Jesus, bearing his cross, from Pilate’s praetorium to Golgotha.]
4. [“Set apart.”]
5. [“Let it be,” echoing Mary’s words to the angel: “Let it be to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38).]
6. [“Hail, O Queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope, hail! / We, the exiled children of Eve, cry to you, we sigh to you, groaning and weeping in this vale of tears. / Oh then, our advocate, turn those merciful eyes of yours on us, / and show us, after this exile, Jesus, the blessed fruit of your womb.”]
7. [This name means: “the friend of God.”]
8. [“Queen, Mother of mercy.”]