Illuminations: A Novel of Hildegard von Bingen

by Mary Sharratt

  While the rest of Rupertsberg slumbered in the cradle of night, I reached for my tablet and psaltery, and began transcribing the insistent melody. In our first year, back when this was still a muddy building site and we slept in tents, I had begun a musical morality play only to abandon it for more pressing duties as we struggled for our very survival. But with Cara’s music echoing inside me, I would finish this symphony of voices as my tribute to her, an everlasting memorial. Already the lyrics were spinning themselves in my mind. Words and images flowed like honeyed wine.

  Each of my daughters would sing the role of one of the Virtues seeking to guide Anima, the yearning and erring soul. The drama streamed forth from the might of its own grace, like a waterfall plunging into a woodland pool. Underneath the words, the watery variety of sounds, silences, and terrifying mysteries beat in my pulse, in the ebb and flow of the music. I was not the composer, merely the conduit as this new creation poured out of me, floating like a feather on the breath of God.

  Richardis was no longer with me in physical form, yet she remained my companion in spirit, my guiding angel, my vision of Caritas, summoning me to put aside my melancholy and shoulder my duties once more.

  My knees trembling beneath my skirts, I stood before my assembled daughters. Grief had eroded my self-assurance, leaving an awed humility in its wake as I looked into their staring faces. Some seemed sullen, others skeptical and guarded, as though they had seen too much of my temper in the months preceding Cara’s death. I had behaved outrageously. Had they come to see me as a creature with clay feet? But something now unfolded inside me, an overpowering sense of tenderness, because losing Cara had taught me how fragile life was, how precious. Even these girls with their youthful skin without shadow of wrinkle could succumb to death at any time, just as I might. Each of these young women was a jewel to be treasured.

  What a responsibility I had to be a good mother to them—a kinder and more nurturing one than I had been. My deepest calling was to guide them with love, cherishing each for her gifts, her unique brilliance. There would be no more favorites, no holding one above the others. I must find a place for them all in my vision.

  With this in mind, I assigned the seventeen solo parts of Ordo Virtutum, The Play of Virtues, which we would sing for the archbishop when he came to consecrate Rupertsberg. I gave each part to the young woman who seemed to most embody that particular quality. Scientia Dei, Divine Knowledge, would have gone to Adelheid, but now it went to Johanna, the twenty-year-old widow who had become our new infirmarer and physician. Sunny Wiebke would sing the role of Spes, Hope, while open-hearted Anna would sing the part of Innocentia. Hiltrud, my invincible niece, would sing Victoria.

  “Daughters, remember that virtue means strength,” I told them. “You seek to guide Anima on the path of righteousness, only the devil will lead her astray.”

  We turned to Volmar, the only man in our midst and thus resigned to play the False One.

  “My part is the easiest,” he said, looking sheepish. “I only need to shout and grunt my lines, for Satan is incapable of song.”

  The central role of Anima required careful casting. Originally I had intended for Guda to sing it. To make everyone happy, I should give the part to Verena, now our most senior choir nun after myself and one of the most popular among the sisters. Her voice was not as angelic as Richardis’s had been, but she was a strong singer and could perform with confidence—perhaps too much confidence. The one who played Anima must appear vulnerable, filled with yearning.

  Cara’s angel hand pointed my attention to Cordula, only fifteen, our shyest and most awkward postulant, always tripping over her own feet and blushing and stammering if anyone should give her a cross look. Her voice, though still untrained, was of heartbreaking purity. I’d heard her singing to herself while she tended the altars and polished the candlesticks, though she was too bashful to sing louder than a whisper when we gathered for the Divine Office. Yet I sensed that she would gleam like mountain crystal if only I could draw her out and inspire her.

  And thus I gave her the part of Anima in full knowledge that my choice would offend Verena, who felt more entitled to the lead role, and deeply embarrass Cordula. The poor girl reminded me of a baby hare, frozen in terror before a mastiff.

  “Mother, I’m the least worthy of such distinction,” she said, her face burning bright red. “Please choose another!”

  “Cordula,” I said, “all I ask is that you sing with a pure heart, just this once. If, after today, it still torments you to sing before the others, I’ll choose another.”

  Let me give this girl her voice, I prayed. Let the silence sing. All she might become if only she trusted herself, no longer hiding inside her cocoon of shyness but letting the power of her voice unfold.

  Finally the rehearsal began in earnest. I sang the part of the Patriarchs and Prophets as they extolled the Virtues. “Who are these beings, who seem like clouds?”

  Next, the unhappy souls bemoaned their lot. As my daughters began to sing their parts, surrendering to the heavenly harmonies, their stiffness began to ease. Singing the words revealed the true meanings directly to the soul through bodily vibrations. Music was cosmic, for it embraced the universe, reaching from earth to highest heaven in a pillar of praise.

  Her head bent over the score, Cordula sang Anima. Before long, her voice grew in strength and power, as if it couldn’t help itself from soaring like a dove flying straight into the sun. Even Verena glanced up, as though in grudging admiration, but Cordula was too immersed in the music to even notice. The Virtues circled around her to offer their counsel. Anima was not content to live out her natural life striving for holiness and grace. She wanted to rush headlong into heavenly bliss, only the Virtues admonished her that her mortal life must first be lived.

  “You do not know, or see, or taste the One who has set you here,” sang Johanna in the role of Scientia Dei.

  “God created the world,” Anima sang. “I’m doing him no wrong. I only want to enjoy it!”

  “What use is there in toiling so foolishly?” Volmar, as the devil, yelled in what sounded like half a hiss and half a caterwaul. “Look to the world! It will embrace you with honor.”

  But Volmar was not yet convincing in his role. Cordula only looked at him and burst into helpless laughter. That set Volmar off. His hands on his knees, he giggled and gasped. Soon we were all laughing until the tears streamed down our faces, the first open-throated merriment to fill our house since that fateful day last summer when Richardis announced she was leaving.

  “My daughters, how beautiful are your harmonies,” I said, when at last we collected ourselves. “There’s the music of heaven in all things, but we have forgotten to hear it until we sing.”

  Only then, when the sisters were smiling at one another, did I reveal my vision for their performance.

  “On the night of nights when we sing for the archbishop, you shall appear as no ordinary Benedictine nuns, but as the holy virgins of Saint Ursula. You shall appear in your feast-day garb.”

  Their eyes flashed, for it was a rare privilege to don their silk gowns and to crown their unveiled hair in circlets of gold.

  “You are consecrated virgins,” I said, ignoring for the moment that some, like Johanna, were widows. “The strictures of wifely modesty do not apply to a virgin, for she stands in the unsullied purity of paradise, lovely and unwithering, and she always remains in the full vitality of the budding rod. A virgin is not commanded to cover her hair.”

  My heart beat in my love for my daughters as they gazed back at me. How I longed to unlock the secret gate of paradise and give them a glimpse of Eden before the fall, of what it meant to be a woman and know no shame in it.

  In April, when every tree in our apple orchard was in fullest bloom, scenting the air with the perfume of creation, Archbishop Heinrich sailed down the Rhine to consecrate Rupertsberg.

  In our outer courtyard, in that soft spring twilight, we performed Ordo Virtutum for him and his en
tourage of dignitaries, my brother among them. My daughters’ families were in attendance, as well as local nobility, clergy, and select burghers of Bingen. Our audience crammed themselves on wooden benches while some stood behind the rest in a solid ring. All eyes were on my beautiful daughters, their young faces illumined in the flickering torchlight.

  As long as I live, I shall never forget how magnificent Cordula appeared in her white gown, her light brown hair crowned in violets, apple blossom, and sweet woodruff. Heaven on earth it was to watch that shy girl sing Anima, her face transfixed as she gave herself to the role completely. Torn between the path of goodness and the lure of the devil, Anima swirled in the torchlight while the Virtues sought to draw her back into their circle of grace. Watching the unfolding drama, I saw my own soul that had gone astray until at last it returned, like Anima’s, into the warm embrace of the sisters who raised their voices in ecstatic harmony.

  Fugitive Anima, now be strong.

  Put on the armor of light!

  Then came my turn to sing, offering up my eternal tribute to Richardis, and as the music carried me on its sweeping tide, I felt her presence, her heart beating with mine.

  The flower of the field falls before the wind.

  The rain scatters its petals.

  O Virginity, you abide forever

  In the chorus of heaven.

  You are the tender flower that shall never fade.

  The applause was deafening. Her face glowing, Cordula dropped in a deep bow before the archbishop, who raised her to her feet and showered her in praise. Though I didn’t catch the words that passed between them, I saw the joy in her eyes. All my daughters seemed delighted as they darted out to greet their families. Verena and Hiltrud, Johanna and Wiebke seemed to glide, their feet not touching the earth.

  As I made reverence to Heinrich, I braced myself, wondering what he thought of me after that bitter letter I had written to him when he commanded me to release Cara. Did he regret his previous largess, his many kindnesses toward me? When he took my hands, I softened to see how our music had moved him.

  “Truly, we have glimpsed into heaven this night,” he said, that angel-bright man who had gifted us with this freehold of Rupertsberg. “May you and your daughters flourish here.”

  My soul leapt. All conflict between us lay in the past, forgiven and buried. The following morning he would give the veil to over a dozen postulants, including Cordula. Under his blessing, our future brimmed with every promise. He gave me a brotherly kiss before going to congratulate Volmar.

  As I floated in a cloud of gladness, Rorich appeared, looking as though he could scarcely contain his excitement. But there was something furtive in his manner.

  “I’ve received a message to pass on to you.” He slipped me a piece of folded parchment.

  I squinted at the wax seal, bearing the royal arms of Friedrich Barbarossa, King of Germany.

  “What does Barbarossa want from me?” I asked him.

  “He and his army have set up camp in Ingelheim. He would have you come and foretell whether he shall succeed in his bid to become emperor.”

  Only a year ago, my head would have exploded in pride to learn that no less a man than the monarch requested my counsel. But I shook my head.

  “I’m no fortune teller,” I told Rorich. “Besides, Heinrich is a prince elector and he distrusts the king as a hotheaded fool.”

  Rorich lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m no prophet, but I can predict that Barbarossa will prevail, even if Heinrich opposes him.”

  I shivered, wondering where my brother’s loyalties lay.

  “It’s no small thing to win a future emperor to your side,” he told me. “If war breaks out, as they say it will, your abbey will be protected.”

  Before I could think what to say, I sensed a presence out of the corner of my eye—a woman waiting her turn to speak with me. When Rorich ended our discussion, leaving me with the troubling letter, she stepped fully into view. I swayed. In that unsteady torchlight, I saw Cara. Cara grown older. Grown to be my age. I had to remind myself that she was not a ghost on earth but a blessed soul in heaven.

  Then I blinked to find myself facing the margravine, her face gentler than I ever remembered seeing it. Grief had ripped her apart and put her back together again in a different form, just as it had done with me.

  “Hildegard, I heard you were sick with melancholy. How good to see that you’re well. My daughter would have been so happy to be here tonight.”

  As her eyes searched mine, I longed to say so much, but the words wouldn’t come, only our shared tears for Cara. How my heart beat for her, beacon of my soul, who had been my earthly companion as I had plunged to the depths and then struggled toward the heights. Her angel presence enveloped me on this night of nights, on this clear green summit crowned in blossoming apple trees, when my vision was made real, manifest and alive.

  “May you live long, Hildegard.” The margravine drew me into a fierce embrace. “Endure. Your world needs you in it.”

  15

  SOON AFTER THE triumph of Rupertsberg’s consecration, our world fell apart. My great patrons, Pope Eugenius and Bernard of Clairvaux passed on. Barbarossa rose to become emperor, as my brother had foreseen, and punished Archbishop Heinrich for opposing him by stripping him of his office and replacing him with Arnold, his slavering sycophant. Heinrich became a Cistercian monk and soon died. Later the emperor’s own henchmen murdered Arnold. Then came the papal schism, with Barbarossa raising one antipope after another. He sacked monasteries, burning them to the ground. But not Rupertsberg, for I had done my brother’s bidding and prophesied Barbarossa’s future, and so the fiery warlord left us in peace and even suffered my furious letters decrying his foul deeds.

  Meanwhile, the Church, which should have shone forth with the light of justice, festered in every corruption. Cardinals fought one another like village bullies while bishops amassed fortunes buying and selling religious offices for gold. Village priests, now forbidden to marry, took concubines and begat bastards.

  Priests and bishops were meant to fulfill a divine office, serving as intermediaries between the laity and God. But how could people hope to find salvation if those meant to serve them were steeped in vice? Ordinary parishioners abandoned the Church in droves to join the Cathari, who called themselves the True Christians. Instead of attempting to woo back the lost flock, the men who were meant to be shepherds merely burned those poor souls as heretics. Evil begat evil. It seemed as though the apocalypse flamed on the horizon.

  No man arose to speak out against such abomination. None dared fill the shoes of the dead Archbishop Heinrich or the sainted Bernard of Clairvaux who had risked their lives to defend the Jews of Mainz. Any man who rebuked either Church or emperor risked making himself a martyr, for both sides relied on the existing corruption as their bedrock. My own brother Rorich was terrified to speak out. Soon after Arnold’s murder, he grew ill and died, as though his heart was too broken to live anymore.

  What could I do to mend my broken world? God had given me the visions for a reason. More than ever before, I needed to speak and write what I saw and heard, be God’s sibyl. If I gave public sermons condemning this iniquity masquerading as religion, people would listen, if only for the novelty of hearing an old nun preach. And thus it fell upon me, woman though I was, to speak out in a mighty voice and castigate the men who had failed in their duty. Only a woman might stand a chance to get away with this. If no one else had the courage or will, then let it be me. Even if I paid for it with my life. Come what may, no matter what I risked or lost, let me be the message bearer, God’s harp.

  Canon law forbade women to preach, but that did not hinder me. Driven by the inner calling, I hastened across the German lands, traveling to Trier, Metz, Würzburg, Bamberg, and Cologne.

  Those years of travel, those long hours in the saddle and on barges, blurred into one moment—the morning in 1170 when I, a woman of seventy-two years, stood on the steps of Cologne Cathedra
l and lifted my voice to be heard by the assembled prelates. The air blackened with smoke and thickened with the stench of nine Cathari, sentenced to burn to death at the stake. Among them was a woman condemned for preaching the Gospel of Saint John. Yet there I was, a woman preaching. One withered crone before that sea of men. I still remember every word of my sermon, that blistering homily that brought me both fame and the prelates’ lifelong enmity.

  As the heretics burned on the other side of the cathedral square, their cries filling the air like the wails of the damned, I stared into the faces of bishops and canons, friars and deacons. Behind them, townspeople pressed forward to gawp at me.

  Before I could lose courage, my inner sight opened, allowing me to forget myself. The Living Light infused me.

  “In a true vision,” I said, pitching my voice to pierce through the crowd’s chatter, their skepticism and disapproval, “I beheld a Lady so beautiful that no man could comprehend her. In stature she reached from earth to highest heaven.”

  Their eyes followed my arms as I lifted them toward the cathedral spires.

  “Her face shone with indescribable radiance. She was clad in whitest silk. Her mantle was set with emeralds, sapphires, and pearls. Her shoes were made of onyx.”

  The prelates’ faces softened like dough in my hands, as though the transports of my revelation lifted them to a place where they could cast from their minds the tortured screams of the Cathari on the pyre. But this was not my purpose—I preached for the very sake of those poor souls, for if the men I saw before me had fulfilled their godly office, those people might have never been cast out and burned.

  “I saw that the Lady’s face was besmirched with filth. Her lovely gown was ripped to tatters. Her cloak was ragged and her shoes were soiled.”