She gazed at me directly, looking suddenly older. “I don’t know what compelled her. She had been such a happy child, but then the brain fever came and she was never the same afterward. The first thing she vowed upon recovery was to know nothing of the marriage bed. All she wanted was to found a convent, even though my husband had just established an abbey here in Sponheim.” She fell silent. “He was a pious man and only happy to indulge her whim”—her voice was hard with resentment when she spoke again—“but even he had never imagined what was on her mind. It is better he died not knowing of it,” she added bitterly.
I felt both admiration and pity for this dignified woman. “Perhaps you can find consolation in the thought that your daughter lived—and died—the way she desired, and that in her own way she was content.”
But Sophia did not seem to hear me. “Is it true? Did she really whip herself until she drew blood?” Her body shivered, and she grasped my arm. “Did she constantly fast until she grew too weak to walk?” Her eyes, full of pain, were fastened on mine, and I knew she desperately wanted me to deny it.
“There was evidence of mortification.” I chose my words carefully and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. It would have devastated her to know the whole truth. “But it is no use dwelling upon it. Jutta is with God now, and she is happy.” I wanted to believe it just as desperately.
The countess’s heaving chest began to slow down. “You are right.” She nodded repeatedly as if trying to convince herself. “But tell me one more thing—was it hard being cloistered with her? You seem to have such a bright outlook. It must have been difficult for you.”
“Not as hard as it might seem.” I hesitated. “In the end, Jutta accepted me the way I am, and for that I owe her a debt of gratitude.”
“Are you keeping an eye on the sisters now that you are magistra?” Sophia’s mind was still fixed on the mortification.
“Yes,” I assured her. “I modified the rules so the life that is already demanding of sacrifice doesn’t warp their minds and tempt them to engage in unhealthy practices.”
“I am glad to hear that,” she said with genuine relief. We walked in silence for a while, listening to the trills of a blackbird in the trees. “I know it is no use asking,” the countess resumed at length, “but I would give anything, and I mean anything”—she swept her arm to encompass the garden and the castle—“to know why she did it. But as it is, I am confused and sad and cannot take the pride I should in my daughter’s legacy.”
“We all have principles that guide us. Jutta had hers, and I have mine. Yet I wonder if deep inside she was truly that different from me—after all, she designated me as her successor and gave me a free hand to take the convent in whatever direction I chose.”
“Tell me about this new direction.” She turned to me like a thirsty person hoping for a drink of water.
I thought for a long moment. “There are many who believe—and they will find passages in the Bible to justify it—that God gave us this world to use as we please, but also a set of rules that we must follow to achieve salvation. According to those people, He is a severe judge who observes how well we comply, and at the End of Days, his wrath will come down on those who diverged from the path. This, to me, is inconsistent with the nature of God, which is love.
“I see the world and everything in it—living or inanimate—as connected and dependent on one another. Nature willingly offers its benefits in service to mankind, but we need to be its guardians and protectors. We must respect it like a good general respects his army, not use it like a greedy landlord until it is exhausted and barren. We are not better than the rest of creation—we are all endowed with the same life force. Mortifying the body and denying it food is not the route to redemption. The best way to please God is to constantly look for ways to restore us to harmony with the world. That is what I want the sisters to practice every day.”
The countess’s eyes were moist again, but this time I saw hope in them. “I cannot think of a better course than that, but . . . is it possible that my daughter was so gravely mistaken?”
“It is not for me to judge.” I paused. “But if you want to begin to comprehend what may have inspired her, it is significant that she was an admirer of St. Augustine, whose doctrines can be interpreted in extreme ways by prone minds.”
“Augustine.” Sophia smiled ruefully. “My own religious education always insisted upon venerating him as a great Church Father, and his doctrine of sin and redemption once had a powerful influence on me. I acquainted my daughter with his writings—was I wrong to do that?”
“I am sure your intentions were good, but it is easy to find justification for one’s beliefs by reading biblical interpretations in certain ways. When Augustine warns us that it is not sufficient to simply give up evil, but we must do painful penance and exhibit sorrowing humility, some will heed this as a call for the most severe punishment of the flesh. But,” I added, “Augustine also compares prayer’s restorative effects on the soul to food’s nourishing influence on the body.”
Sophia was becoming tired. I led her to a nearby bench from which we looked on the garden, drenched in the golden light of a summer day and full of busy life.
“As a physician,” I resumed, “I am concerned with healing the
