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CHAPTER 1
GRANT ME ADMITTANCE
The Flame
When he lifts his head with great effort, all he sees is the grayness of the overcast sky — nothing else. The human wall made up of the unvarying dull black of the rough woolen habits is far too dense. But he knows that the Gnadensee is not glittering today. He knows that it lies dull and motionless, dead and leaden like a blinded eye. A sluggish wind, tepid and languid, prowls through the bed of rushes that grow tall as a man. The pale brown stalks scarcely shiver. Somewhere, a gull cries, harsh and contentious, and little coots call out like wailing children.
Hermann of Altshausen does not get angry with his confreres whose thoughtless eagerness blocks his view. All he would have liked was to breathe a little more freely. In the narrow corner between the wall of human bodies and the bed of rushes, the air — disagreeably mild for the late fall — is motionless. The crippled monk is tired, and he lets his upper body, which is already bent over, sink down even farther. He takes his skinny hands from the wooden arms of his wheelchair, lets them fall into his lap, and closes his eyes. If only he had stayed in his cell!
A wave of cries surges up, sudden and exciting: "The Holy Father!" Automatically, the sick man opens his eyes, but in vain ... The wall of bodies has become even thicker. The monks are pressing forward. "The Holy Father!"
And then they sing, with joyful animation and too loud, much too loud, the song of greeting for which Hermann had written the melody. Ave, Pater et Pontifex! Augia, filia Dei et Mariae, exsulta in Domino. Benedic Christum, Insula. Lux fulgebit hodie: Fuit homo missus a Deo — Summum Pontificem Leonem quem totius Ecclesiae esse pastorem. — "Hail, father and pontiff! Exult in the Lord, O Reichenau, daughter of God and of Mary. Bless Christ, O Island. A light will shine out today: there was a man sent by God — the Supreme Pontiff Leo, whom he has granted to be the pastor of the entire Church."
The austere, pedestrian voice of the abbot rings out. The Lord Udualrich reads out the Latin address of greeting. The Abbey of Mary on Reichenau offers Pope Leo IX its reverent homage. Hermann does not pay attention to the words that are spoken, since he himself had written the address. Abbot Udualrich strings together the sentences, monotonously and tunelessly. A slight unrest flows through the wall of bodies. With a half-suppressed sigh, one of the monks turns round. Brother Tradolf, the cellarer, stops short when he catches the eye of the lame man.
"Father Hermann," he muttered, with consternation all over his kindly face. "You can't see the Holy Father!"
The sick man lays a warning finger on his lips. "Speak softly, good brother. Otherwise they will hear you down at the Herrenbruck harbor."
But the cellarer does more than utter a word of regret. His right hand roughly shakes the shoulder of Master Fridebolt, who is listening, immersed in what the abbot is saying, and the old scholar looks indignantly at the one who has disturbed his peace. Tradolf whispers an emphatic instruction to him. Fridebolt moves aside, and the strong figure of the cellarer clears a wide path. Before the gap can close again, he takes hold of the wheelchair and pushes it forward with a rapid jerk. Pain slices through the sick man. He wants to cry out, to whimper like a child, but no sound comes from his firmly closed lips. Only his blue eyes darken for a little time.
When Hermann can see once again, his eyes widen in happy amazement. Pope Leo IX stands close, very close to him. The Holy Father is just replying to the abbot with a voice that is calm and deep, and yet full of life. Restrained masculine gestures accompany the steady flow of the Latin words. His speech has something vibrant about it, a melody of its own. The tall figure of the Pope seems calm, serene, and exalted; but like his voice, it is full of life. This priest radiates a restrained glow. His haggard face is dominated by the gray eyes under dark eyebrows. The steep brow, the narrow lips, and the powerful chin reveal prudence, wisdom, and solidity. Abbot Udualrich plays uneasily with the heavy gold chain of his pectoral cross. Has he not noticed the glow of kindness in the eyes of the Pope, nor the mild smile on the narrow lips? For him, Lord Leo is a faithful follower of the reform of Cluny — a thought that gives little pleasure to the abbot, with his zest for life.
Hermann of Altshausen hears the words of the Holy Father, but he does not register them. He is all eyes, all looking, an amazed, sparkling, enthusiastic looking. He pays no attention to what is going on around him. Nor does he notice the splendid entourage of the Pope.
If anyone had asked him how he was, he would not have known how to put into words what had burst into his life and caught him up into the light of an overwhelming joy. Out of the depths of his subconscious, a picture rises to the surface, the memory of a tall, shining figure before a sky overcast with gray clouds.
"Yes, I have met him once before," he murmurs, and he knows at the same time that this cannot possibly be true. "I have met him ..." Yet that cannot be the case. Against everything that reasons says, he secretly insists that he knows Leo IX. Against all reason ... It was only a couple of months since the election of Leo, the count's son from Alsace and bishop of Toul, and he had never before visited the island in Lake Constance, the felix Augia.
*
Now he had come in order to meet Hermann of Altshausen, the lame scholar about whom he had heard marvelous things in Toul. The official occasion for the visit was different: the Pope had come to consecrate a church on the village square and to be given a tour of the monastery on the island, which was highly celebrated for its scholarship and its skill at painting.
Hermann was still looking at the Pope, his eyes wide open. "I have met him once before ..."
Suddenly, someone took hold of his wheelchair and steered it swiftly toward the village square. The sick man did not ask who it was. The fragile vehicle took the same detour as all those who wanted to get to the little church before the Pope, the abbot, and the cortege of the great men, in order to secure a good place. The wheelchair made its way, jolting and swaying over the bumps and stones in the rutted field-track, through hurrying monks, pupils, farm hands, and fishermen. Laughter and talk, cries and shouts swirled around him, as the churning waves swirl around a rowboat in a storm. The lame man frantically clutched the wooden arms. There was nothing to soften the blow of jolt after jolt on his poor body. His mouth remained silent; the only response was a terrible litany of pains. His cries were restrained by the strict self-discipline in which thirty years of suffering had trained him. Branches with the red-yellow leaves of autumn brushed against the sick man's face, and he could not even lift his hand to ward them off — not even the thorny branch with fiery red rose hips that whipped his forehead and slit it open. Berthold, his faithful companion, would never have driven him so carelessly along this path. That day, the young monk was one of the Holy Father's altar servers. In the midst of his pains, Hermann nodded. He shared Berthold's joy that he had been given this favor.
The wheelchair landed in a hole in the path, came to an abrupt stop, and almost toppled over. The lame man hung helplessly on the very edge, half swaying over the ground. A strong hand tugged him back onto the seat.
"Keep on!" the lame man gasped. He was unaware that tears were running down his sunken cheeks, tears that the excessive pain squeezed out of him. He wanted to see, to be able to see, to see — to see the Pope again, in the church on the village square. Seeing the Pope had given him a joy that he had not experienced since the death of Abbot Berno, so he was willing to accept the pain involved.
The wheelchair jolted violently as it made its final bump against the stone threshold of the church and rolled across it. Pearls of perspiration flowed across the forehead of the lame man as the vehicle came to a halt beside one of the gray-yellow sandstone pillars, one of those closest to the sanctuary. Hermann wanted to thank his boisterous helper, but he was no longer the master of his own voice. He laboriously gasped for breath. His heart was beating furiously, as if he had run all the way to the Herrenbruck harbor. His trembling hands fluttered over his lap as if they were looking for something. They brushed against something cold and smooth, and he looked down in shock. It was only an autumn leaf, a delicate yellow, transparent leaf. Did it not bear the sun in itself? Is not a leaf like a light?
He closed his eyes; tears and perspiration ran down his pallid face. He crouched motionless in his little wheelchair, the monk with the slight, twisted figure and a yellow autumn leaf in his lap. This was how the Pope found him, when he consecrated the church of Saint Adalbert and came to that particular pillar in order to bless the cross of the apostle and the candle holder. He recognized the sick man and stopped short at the sight of such distress. Then the lame man opened his eyes. They brightened as they looked at the Holy Father, and the poor face was transfigured by a wonderful joy. Slowly, the Pope lifted his right hand and blessed the lame monk. The cross he traced was large and wide. His hand touched the sick man's forehead at the point where the thorn had ripped it open and made it bleed. For Hermann, it was as if a flame came down and swathed itself around him, warming and consoling him, healing and purifying him, a holy flame. This emotion lasted only a moment, but it was one of those precious moments that are at the same time an eternity. The lame man hid the preciousness of this encounter by looking down at the trembling tent formed by his crippled hands. The yellow autumn leaf shone before his hands. Did it not bear the summer sun in itself, a leaf like a light, or like a flame?
Around midday, the Pope and the monastic community met in the refectory of the abbey for a festive meal. Young brothers bore excellent dishes to the table, one after the other — fowl from the steward's farm, venison from the Hegau woods, trout, whitefish, eels from Lake Constance, vegetables and herbs, white bread, and marvelous fruits. Golden yellow wine from the island, or sweet red wine from the Italian lands of the monastery, sparkled in the richly decorated goblets. The Lord Leo ate sparingly of the fine foods, which even in the rich alluvial plain were served only seldom. His gray eyes noted carefully all that was going on around him. Sometimes they met the dark, restless eyes of Archdeacon Hildebrand in a silent agreement. The Pope already guessed something of what the severe and fiery champion of the Church's cause would tell him that evening ... The Pope engaged in an apparently relaxed conversation with the abbot on his right. The Lord Udualrich was pleased with himself, and thought that the Holy Father doubtless felt at ease in the island monastery. Once again, he had been worrying needlessly about the ability of his abbey to pass the test of the scrutiny of Leo, who was an adherent of the Cluniac reforms.
"I miss someone, Lord Udualrich. Do you know who that is?" asked Pope Leo, pensively.
"Father Abbot of Einsiedeln, who is sick, Holy Father?" asked Udualrich obsequiously.
"No, one of your own sons from Reichenau — the sick man with the wise and childlike eyes, whom I saw earlier today in Saint Adalbert's."
"You mean Hermann of Altshausen, Holy Father?" There was an unmistakable undertone of aversion and displeasure in the abbot's voice, and he pursed his full lips. "No doubt, he is in his cell. His bad health usually keeps him away from the community."
One of the brothers who served at table drew near to the Pope and asked reverently: "May I fill up Your Holiness's glass?"
The Pope declined with a smile: "Thank you, my son. This drink is good only when it is enjoyed in moderation. We do not want to get tired. The service of the Lord on Reichenau has not yet finished today. Vespers begins soon."
These words were spoken in a friendly tone, but they brooked no disagreement. They dashed the abbot's hopes. He had been certain that Leo would take a long rest after the festive meal, and he had arranged the Offices in the church accordingly.
"Vespers ... ah, yes ...," he murmured uncertainly. "Do you not wish to rest, Holy Father? Vespers ... of course ... with an especially solemn celebration in your honor ..."
Leo IX understood him. Udualrich had assumed that he would not be present at Vespers. He noted that the prior, who was shocked and confused, gave the abbot a sign.
"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.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Hermann of Reichenau"
by .
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