That particular March morning I arose from my stool, my wax tablet in hand, prepared to leave the room to give Jutta and Volmar their privacy. My magistra, however, called me back.
“Stay and listen, Hildegard. This concerns you.”
Like a scolded child, I returned to my stool and lowered my head while she conversed with Volmar, who couldn’t mask his love for her if he tried.
“I must write a letter to my mother,” she informed him. Beneath her brusque words, her speech revealed a vulnerability, a loneliness aching to be soothed.
Volmar sat with his wax tablet to take down the message that he would later transcribe to parchment, forming each letter with grace and beauty, perfecting Jutta’s grammar until the Latin was flawless. Of course, Jutta’s mother couldn’t read German, let alone Latin. When the letter arrived, the countess’s chaplain would read it to her and then write down the countess’s reply.
Ignoring Jutta’s dictation, I tried to catch Volmar’s eye through the screen, but his head was bent over his tablet. Reaching under my veil, I fingered a tendril of hair growing past my nape. With Jutta’s eyesight fading, I had taken outrageous liberties. When she handed me her shears every quarter, I only pretended to cut off my hair. Hidden beneath my veil, it grew and grew. What would Volmar make of my flaxen curls? I wondered if he had ever laid eyes on a girl’s uncovered hair. Did his thoughts also stray to the impure? Did he dream, as I did, of carnal love? I closed my eyes as a warm flush enveloped my body.
On my tablet I wrote, Like billowing clouds, like the never-ending rush of the stream, longing can never be stilled.
“The sad conclusion I must draw,” Jutta dictated, “is that Hildegard is an unworthy companion for this life. Her spirit is too coarse, too full of stubbornness and sin.”
My heart stopped. Did she mean to be rid of me after all? The wax tablet fell from my hands and hit the floor with a clatter that made my magistra cringe.
“My sister in Christ,” Volmar interjected. “Surely you can’t mean that. Hildegard has been your steadfast friend.”
My eyes moistened to hear his kindness.
Ignoring him, Jutta soldiered on with her letter. “But Christian mercy forbids me to cast her out of this, her only home.”
Picking my tablet off the floor, I wrote in a shaking hand. Rorich, save me before I rot here.
“After much prayer,” Jutta continued, “God has revealed to me that it would be most pleasing to his eyes if I could receive new and more fitting handmaidens. Let them be young oblates with tender hearts who respect what a gift it is to join me in this holy seclusion.”
The inside of my mouth went dry. So dragging me down into this living grave wasn’t enough. Now that I had grown into a woman with my own mind, she would demand that yet more young lives be sacrificed to her madness. She would force me to stand by and watch as she broke those children just as she had broken me. And I had no doubt that the oblates would come. Their parents, eager to earn the favor of the court of Sponheim, would offer their girls to Jutta as they might have shunted them off into unwanted marriages. This had nothing to do with God and everything to do with the vanities of the world.
Closing my ears to my magistra’s reprimands, I staggered out into our courtyard. Reeling between my potted seedlings, I prayed to the Spirit pulsing all around me, in every grain of soil, in the wind that swept the mare’s tail clouds. Please stop her.
Later that day I committed my gravest sin to date. Tearing a page from the Life of Saint Ambrose, one of the four great Latin Doctors of the Church, I worked with my knife, scraping off each letter till every last trace of ink flaked away, leaving the parchment as bare as Adam beneath the Tree of Life. Dipping my quill into the ink I had mixed for myself from pulverized oak gall and gum arabic, I wrote my pleading letter to Rorich. What would happen when Volmar—or Cuno—discovered the missing page? My fear of never reaching Rorich was greater.
After Prime the next morning, I pushed my scrolled missive through the screen into Volmar’s hand.
“Make sure it’s delivered, I beg you.” I didn’t hide my tears from him.
Jutta, stirring beneath her veil on the far end of the room, asked me what I was doing.
“She only asked for another book to read,” Volmar told her.
His eyes, as wide as heaven, locked on to mine as he hid my letter in his sleeve.
The clouds opened, lashing down March rain that flooded our courtyard and threatened to wash my fragile seedlings from their pots. My head fuzzy from the Lenten fast, I bent over the monks’ cowls I was sewing. The paths and tracks of the forest would turn to deepest mud. Rain would swell the rivers, the Nahe and the Glan, until they burst their banks. Even if Volmar had succeeded in passing my letter on to a messenger without attracting Cuno or Adilhum’s attention, would it ever reach my brother? And supposing Rorich received my message—could he truly presume to come here and demand my release even if he was elected a canon of Mainz Cathedral?
Pentecost brought summer’s full tide of light and heat. My surviving seedlings began to grow, tender and fragile as their leaves struggled upward to embrace the sun. I played the psaltery for Jutta, whose fingers had become too stiff and sore to pluck the strings. In the baking heat, she shivered, her skin goose-pimpling as though she were in the grip of frostbite. She shrouded herself in her veil as if to block out the entire world, even Volmar when he came after Prime, his tablet in hand.
While my magistra turned her back on his wounded face, I tiptoed to the screen to deliver her message. “She only wishes to speak to you once a week. She says this daily hour of business has taken too much time from her prayers.”
My heart in my throat, I watched his eyes brim red. Neither Volmar nor I had imagined the day would come when Jutta would spurn him, her most trusted confidant. A true ascetic, Jutta would deny herself every conceivable solace, even Volmar’s blameless love.
“The Rule of Saint Benedict forbids special friendships,” she told me later, as though for my personal admonishment since she knew how I pined for Volmar just as he longed for her. “Even if such attachments are as pure as David’s love for Jonathan, they come between us and God.”
No, I wanted to argue, other people’s love brings us closer to God, for how can God be found if not through love? It even said so in the First Epistle of John: He who does not love, does not know God, for God is love. If it hadn’t been for Volmar’s kindness, I would have lost all faith during my first year in the anchorage. Only his friendship gave me the courage to endure this life that Jutta deemed so holy.
My magistra summoned Cuno for some whispered conversation, presumably on the subject of inappropriate affections. Cuno must have relayed her message to the abbot, for the following week Adilhum sent Volmar to Worms Cathedral, supposedly to copy manuscripts for our library. With my only friend gone, my heart splintered to pieces. My life became a scorched wasteland, devoid of hope.
Part of my soul traveled with him, for I knew that Volmar was sick with melancholy. The woman he had loved so patiently had banished him from his own abbey, punishing him for his very empathy. Eight years of constant care he had lavished on Jutta, yet she had turned on him, haughty and contemptuous. No one could touch her anymore.
In Volmar’s absence, Cuno became Jutta’s secretary. When I listened to him read her the letters concerning the two young oblates who would join us in November upon the Feast of All Souls, I prayed that something would happen to save these children from their fate.
Toward the end of August, a message from my brother arrived, his words riddling and oblique.
Sister, have faith. I will be there when the walls of Jericho come tumbling down. Be prepared. When the hour comes, you must act and not hesitate.
In September, just after the seventeenth anniversary of my birth, Volmar returned from Worms, his satchels bursting with the manuscripts he had copied. When he appeared at the screen after Prime, my friend looked haggard, his eyes dark-rimmed and puffy as though he h
adn’t slept in weeks. Jutta drew her veil over her face and shuffled out of the room, sending her silent command that I, too, was to shun him and slam the shutters in his face. Instead, I pressed my hand against the screen until he touched his palm to mine. I wasn’t Jutta, wasn’t his beloved, but his eyes showed how much he had missed me.
Not that day, but later, when my magistra was lost in her tunnel of prayers, he revealed to me his deepest shame.
“Hildegard,” he said, his voice a shaken whisper.
I pressed my ear to the screen to hear him properly.
“I’ve done something so foul that I don’t dare confess to Adilhum.” His despair cut into me. “Once you told me your secret. About your visions. I kept it safe, Hildegard. I never betrayed you.”
“I know,” I whispered, catching the glint of his tears through the screen.
“You are the only one,” he said. “The only one I can trust.”
My throat swelled with my unutterable love for the man.
“I shall carry your secret to my grave,” I whispered.
“When I was in Worms, I was led astray.” His face twisted away from mine. It seemed his eyes were searching the abbatial church to make sure there were no eavesdroppers.
I waited until he turned to me again.
“I wasn’t the only one, Hildegard. The monks there were worldly, hardly seeming to care about their vows. One day I was with two brothers, both of them laughing like village drunkards, and they led me through the twisting streets of that city. The abbot had given us permission to go to the market to buy vellum. We walked past many houses, both rich and poor. Merchants selling every imaginable ware. I was like a child, gaping at the wonders to be seen.
“The press of the crowd was so powerful that I found myself separated from my brothers. Losing my way, I strayed inside the Jewish quarter, which aroused my curiosity, for I’ve heard that their rabbis are more learned than the greatest scholars in Christendom. All their children, even the girls, are taught to read the Scriptures. They give them cakes shaped in the form of Hebrew letters to teach them that learning is sweet.
“As I was staring at their synagogue, my brothers found me and chided me for getting lost. There was something in their faces I couldn’t trust. I sensed trouble ahead, yet still I went with them, for I was but a stranger in that great city. Instead of buying vellum, my brother monks dragged me to a house of ill repute.”
Volmar stopped short.
“It’s a sin for me to poison your mind. You probably have no idea what such places are,” he muttered.
“I’ve heard of brothels,” I whispered, shocking him with my candor. “I’m not wholly ignorant of the world.”
After all, hadn’t I listened to our pilgrims’ lamentations on how their husbands had caught diseases in such places? I prayed that Volmar would be spared such a fate.
“In truth,” my friend said, speaking to me as though I were a priest with the power to absolve his sins, “I can’t blame the others entirely. I could have resisted, but instead I allowed myself to be tempted. That day I broke my vows.”
He shuddered as though an empty chasm had opened inside him where his soul used to be.
“And . . . this is worse, Hildegard, and this is why I only dare tell you. I committed the deed while thinking of her.”
“Jutta,” I murmured, my hand on the screen edging toward his.
“How could I even think of her that way? I’m damned.”
“You acted out of love.” Every part of me ached with my secret passion for him. “Besides, do you think you are the only one in this monastery who has been beguiled by the flesh?” My heart was pounding so hard that I wondered if he could hear it.
“Sins of thought are one thing,” he said. “But I have committed the act.”
He seemed as though he might rear away from me in his mortification.
“Your love is the only thing that saved her,” I told him fiercely. “She loves you, too, every bit as much as you love her, but she hates herself for it. She might have died by now without your care.” I swallowed, the tears running down my face. “There are worse sins than love, Volmar.”
He managed a faint smile. “So you don’t hate me for what I did, little sister?”
“If I were a man who had the liberty,” I said, my cheeks burning fever-hot, “I might have yielded to the same temptation. Tell me,” I blundered on before I could lose my nerve, “what was it like?”
His face was awash in deepest vermillion, his eyes transfixed. “I felt as though I were a stag leaping through the forest on the hottest day of summer. I ran on and on with none to stop me until the heat became so exquisite and unbearable that I plunged into a deep fountain. I can’t describe the sweetness.”
He turned ruefully as I listened with my mouth hanging open, remembering how the stags in our forests bugled in their rut every autumn. Our most fervent chanting, singing, and church-bell ringing couldn’t drown out the tumult. I looked into Volmar’s eyes.
“Was she pretty?” I asked.
“She had hair like sunlight.”
What would happen, I wondered, if I drew back my veil to reveal my own unshorn locks, flaxen pale?
“She was not yet hardened by that life. She laughed and sang to put me at my ease. She was free of shame, Hildegard, and gave every sign of pleasure.” Then he stopped himself abruptly. “Now I have corrupted your innocent young mind.”
“It’s good that I know something of the flesh. Sometimes pilgrims come with their worldly concerns. How can I be of use if I know nothing?”
All I’d heard of the act of carnality had been Jutta’s wrenching tales of how her brother had ruined her, body and soul. But Volmar had opened a door for me—desire could be a thing of bliss.
“The Tree of Knowledge,” Volmar said sadly. “I’ve tasted its fruit.”
“I have something to confess to you,” I whispered before he could draw away.
Now I thought I could unveil my secret love for him, offer it to him like a budding rose. When he looked at me with his kind gray eyes, my vision flooded with dancing sparks.
“What is it, little sister?”
Could I tell him? Could I?
Blinking back tears, I began to stammer. “I tore a page out of the Life of Saint Ambrose to write that letter to my brother.”
Volmar laughed and laughed, breaking the Rule of Saint Benedict.
“Never fear,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Your misdeed shall never come to light. Your loyal servant penned a fresh page and sewed it back into the book before anyone could notice it was missing.”
Giddy from what I hadn’t been able to tell him, I smiled into his eyes to prove my gratitude.
When October gripped us in its fist of shadows, I thought my very soul might dissolve into the rising darkness. A funereal pall clung to everything. By night, the Wild Hunt of Walburga’s tales blasted across the skies with the hosts of the dead, drowning out our psalms as we staggered out of bed for Matins. Dawn lagged later and later. At odd moments in the night, my pounding heart awakened me, pain cinching my lungs as I thrashed in a panic, the taste of ash and grave dust in my mouth. Jutta remained serene, counting the days until the new oblates arrived.
Though I prayed that time might stand still, or that an earthquake might destroy our anchorage, or that a flood would hinder the girls’ arrival, the end of October was upon us and our monastery was crammed with guests, the most illustrious being Adalbert, the Archbishop of Mainz, newly released from captivity. Lauded as a hero for opposing our despot emperor, he held court among his clerics. My heart burst at the sight of Rorich drawn along in the archbishop’s entourage as they swept out of the church after High Mass. Glancing at the screen, my brother’s face flashed the message that I alone could decipher. The cryptic promise in his letter burned in my heart: I will be there when the walls of Jericho come tumbling down. Be prepared. When the hour comes, you must act and not hesitate.
On the Eve of All Souls,
when the girls underwent the ceremony, the monks would knock down the stones blocking our doorway. For a short time that passage would remain open. The walls of Jericho would come crashing down while outside in the courtyard my brother would be waiting. All I needed to do was burst out and hurl myself at Rorich’s feet. Jutta, I reckoned, would be happy enough to see the last of me.
My stomach fluttered. My heart raced in anticipation. Light-headed, I couldn’t sit still and paced about our prison until I drove Jutta to exasperation. Muttering, she withdrew to the courtyard.
Just as I thought I couldn’t be any more agitated, Volmar appeared at the screen, his face aglow in his gratitude to me, his confidante and keeper of his secret. He seemed sadder and wiser after tasting that forbidden fruit, as though his sin had rendered him more forgiving of others. Though I was glad I’d been able to give him some peace, I blushed and flustered even to look at him, for my unspoken desire still flamed inside my breast. How could he not see it? My throat burned to confess my love, yet as always I was silenced, stymied. But what if I succeeded in fleeing this hell? Could I really leave Volmar behind without revealing my true feelings for him?
I opened my mouth, my confession on the tip of my tongue, but he spoke before I could.
“Hildegard, here are the new oblates.”
A girl who looked about eleven or twelve approached the screen. Not such a terribly young age. Not as young as I had been. Old enough to choose for herself, please God. Girls only a year or two older were given in marriage. But did she really know what lay in store for her? I felt like a traitor even to speak to this child whose living entombment offered my only chance of escape.
“Brother Volmar says you are as learned as Saint Catherine herself,” she blurted out. “He said you’ll teach me Latin and scribing and music and astronomy. I want to learn about the planets.”
Illuminations: A Novel of Hildegard von Bingen Page 10
