“The same.” Volmar nodded. “I met him when he visited Cluny, where I took my vows.” Then he told me the story.
After leaving St. Disibod, Volmar had gone back to his father’s estate, thinking to abandon the monastic life. But he soon realized that the world held no interest to him, and before the year was over, he was on his way to Cluny and the grandest Benedictine abbey in the world. It turned out to be all he had hoped for—a place of great learning, with a magnificent library and monks from all over Christendom copying and translating ancient manuscripts, including Mahometan writings. It had the largest church he had ever seen, full of splendid ornaments and rare relics that made the treasures of St. Disibod pale by comparison.
It was among that opulence that he saw Abbot Bernard for the first time, and the famed monk was not happy. He had come to see Abbot Peter—to whom Volmar served as a scribe—about a dispute within the reform movement. They met in the abbot’s parlor, a room the size of the entire monks’ refectory at St. Disibod. Volmar was sitting at a small desk in a corner, and Bernard did not see him at first. He was just as Volmar had heard him described: small in stature and reedy thin with a careworn air as if the lot of the entire Church rested on his meager shoulders. But when he spoke, the intensity of his conviction made him fill the chamber with his presence.
“It has been almost four years since Abbot Pons was forced out, but I see that the brothers have not lost their taste for choice food,” Bernard had said by way of a greeting, and his eyes blazed with pious outrage. “I hear that delicate veal, juicy chickens, and plump pigeons are served regularly at the table.”
“I admit that things are still a little lax, for the extravagance was deeply rooted,” Peter replied coolly. “Change takes time.”
“How much time is necessary to do away with those soft robes? Luxury is a vice that devours the brothers’ souls.”
A shadow of irritation crossed the abbot of Cluny’s face, but his reply was respectful. “Faith and commitment matter more than the robes we wear, and I can vouch for the strength of our reforming spirit.”
“What about this vast church with all its glitter and adornments?” Bernard was implacable as he shook his bony arm in the direction of the church. That shrine had numerous chapels and belfries clustered around its apse, and it was so tall that anyone who looked down from the top gallery of one of its octagonal towers could barely distinguish any human shapes below. One had the sensation, Volmar said, of having left the earth and arrived among the airy realms inhabited by the angels. “All this ostentation is mocking God, deflects the attention of those who pray, and hinders their devotion. And the living quarters are furnished with every worldly comfort!” Bernard continued argumentatively.
“We extend hospitality to travelers, as you well know, Father.” Peter’s patience was beginning to wear thin. “We must provide what they expect, or they will go elsewhere. The income we thus earn supports our holy work.”
The Abbot of Clairvaux’s face softened, but only slightly. “I love my Cluniac brothers well and hold them in high esteem, and that is why I encourage a renewal of the spirit of modesty, sacrifice, and humility so dear to our Lord.”
“I assure you of my great admiration and sincere friendship too.” Abbot Peter inclined his head. “Your abbey truly is the City of God upon earth, but I am not sure that your interpretation of The Rule would find quite the same resonance here.”
Bernard responded that a lack of fervor was no excuse for not trying harder to reign in the excesses, and Volmar felt sympathy for his abbot because Peter really was intent on reforming the order. He must have shifted in discomfort because his stool screeched on the stone floor, and Abbot Bernard turned in his direction, still shaking with disapproval.
Abbot Peter was visibly glad at the distraction. “This is my assistant, Brother Volmar. He is from the Rhineland and spent time as a novice at St. Disibod.”
Bernard’s eyes lit up in his gaunt face. “Is that not the place where Jutta von Sponheim founded a holy community of anchoresses?”
“It is.”
“She was a saint, a true martyr!”
Volmar was surprised. “What do you mean ‘she was’, Father?”
“She is gone to God.” Bernard’s eyes rose heavenward. “And the little abbey is seeing more pilgrims than ever before.”
Volmar had no idea Jutta had died. “Do you know who replaced her at the head of the convent?”
“The sister who runs the abbey’s infirmary and who is said to be a capable physician,” Bernard replied. “Though I know nothing about her mortification practices,” he added regretfully.
At that point in the story—fascinating though it was—I looked at Volmar in alarm.
“I did not say anything.” He raised his hands in a mock defensive gesture. “I did not want to disappoint him.” He laughed and reached for a small packet he had brought with him. “I have something for you.”
It was wrapped in soft cloth, and when I pulled back the folds, I saw a small book. The inscription on the title page read De Gratia et libero arbitrio, written by Bernard, Abbot of Clairvaux. I was filled with admiration and uncertainty in equal measure. Abbot Bernard’s asceticism was alarming, but what was indisputable was his power and sway; after all, he had scolded the abbot of the greatest Benedictine house like a little boy. His other work, De gradibus humilitatis et superbiae, was read and debated in abbeys and churches under the jurisdiction of Mainz, and he was known for travelling and preaching widely. There had even been rumors of his involvement in conflicts among Parisian bishops, a highly unusual and audacious move for a monk.
“He had given it
