Hermann of Reichenau Read online

  “Not Vespers … Compline will be celebrated solemnly!” whispered the prior, urgently and very audibly.

  The Lord Udualrich shrugged his shoulders. What was he to do? Who could guess that the Pope intended to take part in all the Offices? Most of the high prelates in the empire who visited Reichenau were perfectly content to attend one single service. In those cases, Vespers had to be celebrated with an extraordinary solemnity.

  When Udualrich believed that the Pope was deep in conversation with his neighbor to the left, the bishop of Constance, he summoned Gunter, the abbey choirmaster.

  “Which Vespers have you prepared?”

  “The weekday Vespers, Father Abbot,” replied the monk, somewhat indignantly. “You yourself said that we should sing Compline …”

  The abbot interrupted him curtly: “‘I said, I said …’ That no longer applies. The Holy Father is coming to Vespers. Insert something special into the order of service.”

  Gunter bit his lips. He checked his anger and replied: “Father Abbot, the various solemnities of this day have made, and will make, excessive demands of the choir. We have rehearsed and rehearsed, and we have really overexerted ourselves. We have nothing exceptional left, nothing that would do justice to the standards expected by His Holiness.” What was the abbot thinking of? He had not acknowledged with one single word all the efforts of the last weeks. He did not know what it meant to train a choir of monks to sing several completely new melodies. And was not Pope Leo IX well known as a connoisseur and an artist in the realm of music? Had not the sophisticated bishop of Toul himself composed chants for the holy Mass?

  A deep cleft appeared between Lord Udualrich’s brows, and his little eyes narrowed to slits. Gunter knew these warning signs and hastened to ward off the impending outbreak.

  “Hermann of Altshausen once composed a solemn Magnificat, but it was never performed, and the choir does not know the melody …”

  Udualrich breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Good, then let the lame man sing it. He has a pleasant voice. Go and tell him!”

  The choirmaster ventured to make one last objection: “Only … it is against the custom for one monk to sing on his own, especially at the Magnificat in Vespers, Father Abbot.”

  The abbot leaned back with a laugh. “Oh, really? ‘Against the custom’?” he said cynically. “What a lot of scruples my virtuous son has!” He suddenly leaned forward and hissed: “Once and for all, Gunter, listen to what I am telling you: On Reichenau, the ‘custom’ is what I make it!”

  Pope Leo IX had heard these last words.

  Silence

  Hermann of Altshausen lived in a little corner cell in the north wing of the abbey. Its windows looked onto the Gnadensee. After the exertions of the morning, the lame man was once again entirely dependent on the help of the young monk Berthold, his companion, who had to feed him. His left arm was around the shoulders of the sick man, supporting him, while he carefully fed him spoonful after spoonful of strong soup.

  “Now I am helpless like a little child again,” smiled Hermann. “But today I am a happy child, a blessed child.”

  “We have a good and great Pope,” said Berthold warmly. “I was so glad when he blessed you, Father!”

  “I think we have a holy … yes, truly a Holy Father, after a long period of dishonorable conflicts about the Chair of Peter. We cannot thank God enough for giving his Church a Pope Leo. By the way, Berthold, it sounds unbelievable … I have met Pope Leo once before in my life … I met him somehow and somewhere …”

  Berthold pricked up his ears in astonishment. Father Hermann never made unclear, hesitant remarks like this, spoken as if in a dream. He was shocked, and asked: “What is the matter, Father?”

  Hermann’s clear eyes met his concerned look. “No, no, my son, I am not dreaming. I clearly feel that I have met him once before. But I have forgotten the exact circumstances of our meeting.”

  The young monk put the plate aside and took the goblet with the island wine. “Father, I don’t understand you. You cannot …”

  He was interrupted by a quiet knock on the door. He carefully withdrew his supporting arm from the lame man and placed his head on the pillows. Then he went to the door and opened it.

  “Gunter? Do you want to see Father Hermann?”

  The choirmaster looked in consternation at the recumbent figure. “Father Hermann, are you sick again? This is terrible! You … are supposed to sing …”

  Berthold quickly tried to send him away: “You see that Father Hermann needs rest. He needs looking after. He has already overtaxed himself this morning.”

  Then the sick man’s voice rang out, labored and distinct: “Not so fast, Berthold! Gunter, wait, please … Who sent you to me?”

  “Abbot Udualrich …”

  Berthold looked angrily at Gunter, who was drawing closer to the bed. “Then tell the Lord and Father Abbot that …”

  “Berthold!” The lame man’s weak voice took on a sharp tone. “Gunter, what am I to sing?”

  The monk replied almost shyly: “Your Magnificat at Vespers. The Holy Father will be present unexpectedly at Vespers, and we have only rehearsed something special for Compline, as the abbot told us to do. Your glorious Magnificat should …” The choirmaster did not finish the sentence; he looked at the ground in embarrassment. If only he had not made the suggestion! The abbot’s injunction made an unreasonable demand of the sick man, whose every spoken word had to be wrested from his pains.

  Hermann of Altshausen nodded almost imperceptibly. “Good, Gunter,” he replied with serene confidence and tranquility. “Tell our Lord and Father Abbot that I shall sing my Magnificat. Help me to pray that, with the help of God, I will be able to do so by the time Vesper comes.”

  After thanking him almost excessively, the choirmaster left the cell. Hermann would sing! Deo gratias!3 Vespers will conclude solemnly.

  Berthold gave the sick man his wine, feeling uneasy. Did he not deserve a rebuke for his over-hasty and dismissive words? “Father … ah … I …,” he began, tentatively.

  The lame man did not allow him to finish. “Berthold, you will be beside me in the choir stalls. You will help me and hold me while I sing the Magnificat. I do not want to crouch while I sing Our Lady’s great song.”

  The younger man stammered abashedly: “Father … I …”

  Once again, Hermann interrupted him: “If I did not have you, my faithful son, I would be really poor. I realized that this morning, when you were not with me,” he said kindly. “My Magnificat will therefore also be a thanksgiving to the Lord for giving me a John to stand beneath my cross.”

  “

  At the conclusion of Vespers, the Magnificat resounded powerfully through the abbey church, which was fragrant with incense. It did not sound as if the voice came from the distorted breast of a cripple who was wracked with pains. Abbot Udualrich looked complacently from under his half-shut heavy eyelids, looking for applause. Leo IX stood immovably, taut and upright, before his faldstool with its velvet and brocade. An uncomfortable man, this Cluniac Pope … so pious, so learned, so ascetic. The people were already calling him a saint. Abbot Udualrich secretly feared that this visit might turn into a visitation. He felt unease at the thought of the address of homage that he must read at the ceremony in the chapter room. The Latin this Hermann wrote was much too eloquent. The abbot hoped that the Lord Leo would be content when he had presented him with the sick man’s Life of Saint Adalbert, and that he would then depart.

  Oh, sometimes it was a good thing to have this lame man in the monastery—whenever it was necessary to convince an outsider of the scholarship and holiness of Reichenau. It was said that outsiders told fabulous stories of miracles in connection with the lame man.

  Udualrich was surprised to hear the deep, resonant voice of the Pope.

  “My dear brothers and sisters in Christ,” began Leo IX. He looked around at the expectant faces of the monks and brothers, of the bishops, prelates, and priests. His eye looked ki
ndly on the island people, the farmers, fishers, and servants, who stood in the west-work of the church, and on the fresh faces of the boy pupils. The Pope read human faces like a book. He saw the traces left by struggle and suffering, by pain and distress, by sin and luxuriousness; he noted integrity, serenity, enthusiasm, joyfulness, and piety. He met the blue eyes of the sick man with a look of profound oneness. Were not those eyes guileless like the eyes of a child, and wise like the eyes of an old man on the threshold of eternity? The Holy Father’s look said: “Thank you for the Magnificat, Brother Hermann.”

  He drew himself up to his full height and spread out his hands like the celebrant at the Preface of the Mass. He faced the exalted and grave majesty of Christ on the cross of the high altar and prayed:

  “Lord Jesus Christ, exalted King of eternity, Lord and judge, Almighty God,

  “We bow down before you in this hour and dare to join with profound reverence in the prayer of your most holy Mother, Our Lady Mary.

  “You are the only Lord and Master of this blessed Reichenau. You are the only Lord and Master of your Church. In this song of your Mother, you stand in your glory before us, you, the eternal God.

  “Who are we, that we should be permitted to draw near to you, O Most High? We are all poor, sinful human beings, poor, maimed creatures. No personal prestige, no beauty, and no bodily strength counts for anything in your eyes. We all are darkness, if you do not give us a spark from the infinite glowing sea of your divinity, you who are light from God, you who are true God from true God.

  “Even when we receive your grace, we are only little sparks, wretched and weak. And yet what else can we do, Lord Jesus Christ, than come to you with the faith of Simon Peter, who once confessed, on behalf of us too: ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God’?

  “We draw near to you with the shame and the confidence of the leper, and show you the ugly wounds of our souls. ‘Lord, make us clean!’ Stretch out your hand and heal us.

  “We want to remain with you, with the fidelity of your apostle John that led him under your cross. Your love for him was greater than the human narrowness of his heart. His love for you was more powerful than his fear.

  “Lord Jesus Christ, your cross ought to be the center and the dwelling place of our life. With you, we are ready to bear it over hard and painful roads; with you, we want to hold out under the cross in a fidelity that is stronger than the wretchedness of our creaturely being; with a love that is truly crucified with you, because it is consumed for the glory of the Father in a restless yearning for the coming of his kingdom.

  “We will have to force ourselves to make our sacrifice every day. You know our weakness and our cowardice. But when we say our ‘yes,’ your grace will bear us up; and thus a secret exultation will be alive in us, a supernatural joy that we have been found worthy of your cross.

  “Lord Jesus Christ, we belong to you. We are the vassals, the messengers, the bondsmen of your love and the heralds of your cross. Receive the oath we swear at this house: We are yours, O Lord. We want nothing other than your love. Lift up your holy cross high above this island and in the hearts of those who dwell here, so that all may be blessed and may become a Magnificat for you. Amen.”

  The Lord Leo made a deep bow before the altar and knelt down. The monks waited, spellbound. The simple island people too had felt the fiery glow of this faith and looked silently and reverently at the Pope, who was praying, lost in contemplation. Leo IX was a man of prayer! His fervor made the Lord Udualrich even more uneasy. There was something unearthly about the Pope—a man full of depths and surprises … The abbot stared in irritation at the shining face of the lame man. It was the face of one who had received rich gifts and had been made happy; and yet, all one could speak of in the case of Hermann was the cross.

  Was the Pope intending to go on praying much longer? Had they not already spent far too much time in the church today? Was the festive meal to be ruined by overcooking? Abbot Udualrich noted the discontent on the faces of some monks. They were probably muttering now: “Abbot Berno would have found a better conclusion!” They were still grieving after his death. Abbot Berno … A cold fear gripped Udualrich as he thought of the Pope’s praise of the deceased abbot.

  With some effort, he reined in his wandering thoughts. The Pope was still praying. But what was he to do? He could not tug the Pope’s vestment and tell him it was time to stop. Perhaps Hermann of Altshausen had another chant he could sing? Then Leo would pay attention, and he could finish the service. As a matter of fact, Hermann had supplied the words for the whole day. All the hymns, chants, and verses were his work. But … Pope Leo was still praying, and he was as deeply recollected now as if he had only just started.

  “Hermann should sing … something,” murmured the abbot to the prior, who nodded and made his way silently to the sick man, who did not object to the command. After a brief pause for reflection, Berthold lifted the lame man to an upright position.

  The cripple was ugly! When he saw him, the Lord Udualrich’s shoulders were already wide under his cowl. But whenever he saw the cripple, he automatically made them even broader. The pale man from Altshausen, the son of one of the most powerful counts in the Swabian region, stood in the choir stall, a pitiable figure with a hideously crooked back. His narrow head sat between his high shoulders; the head was too big for the rest of his frail body. The hands on the choir screen were noble and slender, but the illness had distorted them and bent the fingers. If Berthold had not held the sick man with both hands on his leather belt, he would not have been able even to stand. Abbot Udualrich was unaware that a strange smile played on his full lips, a smile that told of arrogance, dislike, and fear.

  Young Berthold seethed with anger: “They make use of the Father and despise him,” he thought. “He is good enough to help them out of their predicament.” He took such a firm hold of the belt that Hermann was forced to protest in a low voice: “Not so firm, Berthold, not …”

  Then the lame man sang. His face was calm, unselfconscious, recollected. His voice had found its best tone—clear, sonorous, and warm. He thanked the Holy Father for his prayer, which gave him strength. He sang for Pope Leo.

  “Death cannot defeat you. For you came, O Lord Christ, to bring me your light, you who are my life.—Therefore my heart exults in you and is very glad in you. It sings in the cross and in pain and in every trouble. You are my path and my end and my homeland, O Lord Christ. I place myself in your hands, you who are my life.—Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia …”

  Had the Alleluia ever resounded so exultantly and strongly through the church of Our Lady on Reichenau, as it now resounded from the mouth of a maimed and crippled man? His strong certainty in faith that he was kept safe in the love of Christ sounded like an echo of Leo’s prayer.

  Christ. Did not the heavy curtain that natural thinking weaves between time and eternity part for a moment? Christ was near, with a nearness that both startled and brought joy.

  “

  The Lord Udualrich shook off the unwelcome spell that had fallen on him and approached the Pope impatiently. Leo IX looked up, and his clear eyes became cold and severe. Now he was the Pontifex maximus.4 Udualrich blushed under his gaze and started to stammer an excuse, but the Holy Father arose, genuflected deeply before the high altar, and left the church with quick, unceremonious strides. The abbot hurried gloomily after him.

  Berthold set the lame man down again in his place as soon as he had finished singing. To sit down unaided required more independent power of movement than the man from Altshausen possessed. He was exhausted, and waited with his eyes closed for Berthold to bring him to the celebration in the chapter room. He heard whispers, the rustle of monastic habits, and the scraping of feet. Then there came the voice of Brother Eginhard: “Come, Master Hermann.” Where had Berthold gone? Eginhard lifted him into the wheelchair and took him into the side aisle. He murmured: “Our Lord and Father Abbot wants to spare you the exertions of the ceremony, Father. He thinks that
it has all been too much for you today.”

  The sick man nodded and smiled his weary, knowing smile that was not wholly free of bitterness. “Yes, it was too much today, far too much. Dear Brother, please take me to the west-work, to the tomb of the Lord Berno, and leave me there. The silence will do me good.”

  Eginhard hastened to grant this modest request, and then left, since he did not want to arrive too late. The door slammed shut behind him.

  The lame man was alone in the church. The last golden rays of the sun contended with the dark shadows between the pillars, light at the end of the day … No, the morning too had its light, a great deal of light. A broad path of light passed through the open window behind the imperial loge and fell on the gravestone of Abbot Berno, lending an almost excessive clarity to the letters of the inscription, “Berno Abbas, †1048,” to the severe and alien relief of the face, and to the abbatial coat of arms. The brother stonemason had not captured the abbot’s face very well, but in the end, what did that matter? There was no need of a stone portrait to tell how a man like Abbot Berno looked. His figure shone out in the pages of the gospel, and he was still alive in Christ.

  As he contemplated the path of light from the imperial loge, Hermann reflected on what he had experienced when he sang the last chant.

  All at once, he had felt as if he saw—though only with his mind’s eye, of course—a great bright unity, a path of light, that began with the Lord and made its way to many people, taking hold of them and embracing them … Abbot Berno, Pope Leo, his own mother, Burkhard, Arnulph of Rahnwyl, the Lady Veronica, Ruodpert, Berthold, Irmingard …

  The man in the wheelchair folded his hands. The path of light had surrounded him too—the great bright unity in Christ. Now that he was completely calm again, he felt with absolute certainty, with no trace of doubt or anxiety, that the light of Christ was flowing around him.

  A pleasant feeling of security washed over him, like the sensation that morning when the Pope had blessed him. He wanted to pray, and he began: “Lord …” Then he fell silent. His prayer no longer needed any words. The silence held him fast and penetrated him. The silence was light and flame. There was nothing frightening in this bright, flowing silence. It lets him forget that he, a sick cripple, was crouching alone in the darkening church, while the others were celebrating the Pope with his verses and his songs, and presenting the Pope with a work that he has written. This silence was free of all bitterness. It contained neither numbers nor formulas, neither constellations of the heavens nor neums.