In olden times in a lovely valley near the Seven Mountains, stood a
cloister called Heisterbach. Even now parts of the walls of this old
monastery remain, and it was not by the hand of time, but by the
barbarism of foolish warfare, that its halls fell into ruins. The
monks were driven away, the abbey was pulled down, and the stones were
used for the building of a fortress.
Since that time, so the country folk relate, the spirits of the
banished monks wander nightly among the ruins, raising mute
accusations against their persecutors and the destroyers of their
cells. Among them there was one, Gebhard, the last Prior of
Heisterbach, who now, they say, wanders about the graves of the monks,
and also haunts the burial-places of the Masters of Löwenburg and
Drachenburg.
In the Middle Ages the monks of Heisterbach were very famous. Many a
rare copy of the Holy Scriptures, many a highly learned piece of
writing was sent out into the world from this hermitage, telling of
the industry and learning of the pious monks.
There was one brother, still young in years, who distinguished himself
by his learning. He was looked up to by all the other brethren, and
even the gray-haired Father Prior had recourse to his stores of
knowledge. But the poisonous worm of doubt began to gnaw at his soul;
the mirror of his faith was blurred by his deep meditations. His keen
eye would often wander over the faded parchment on which the living
word of God was written, while his childlike believing heart, humbly
submitting itself, would lamentingly cry out, "Lord, I believe, help
Thou mine unbelief!" Like a ghost his restless doubts would hover
about him, making his soul the scene of tormenting struggle.
One night with flushed face he had been meditating over a parchment.
At daybreak he still remained engrossed in his thoughts. The morning
sun threw his bright rays over the heavens, casting playful beams on
the written roll in the monk's hands.
But he saw them not, his thoughts were wholly taken up by a passage
which for months past had ever been hidden to him and had been the
constant subject of his reflections, "A thousand years are but as a
day in Thy sight."
His brain had already long tormented itself over the obscure words of
the Psalmist, and with a great effort he had striven to blot it out of
his memory, and now the words danced again before his weary eyes,
growing larger and larger. Those confusing black signs seemed to
become a sneering doubt hovering round him: "A thousand years are but
as a day in Thy sight."
He tore himself away from the silent cell, seeking the cool solitude
of the cloister-gardens. There with a heavy heart he paced the paths,
torturing himself with horrid doubts.
His eyes were fixed on the ground, his mind was far away from the
peaceful garden, and without being aware of what he was doing, he left
the cloister-gardens and wandered out into the neighbouring forest.
The birds in the trees greeted him cordially, the flowers opened their
eyes at his approach; but the wretched man heard and saw nothing but
the words: "A thousand years are but as a day in Thy sight."
His wandering steps grew feeble, his feverish brain weary from want of
sleep. Then the monk sank down on a stone, and laid his troubled head
against a tree.
A sweet, peaceful dream stole over his spirit. He found himself in
spheres glowing with light; the waters of Eternity were rushing round
the throne of the Most High; creation appeared and praised His works,
and Heaven extolled their glory; from the worm in the dust, which no
earthly being has been able to create, to the eagle soaring above the
heights of the earth: from the grain of sand on the sea-shore, to the
gigantic crater, which, at the Lord's command, vomits fire out of its
throat which has been closed for thousands of years: they all spoke
with one voice which is not heard by the haughty, being only manifest
and comprehensible to the humble. These were the words of Him who
created them, be it in six days or in six thousand years, "A thousand
years are but as a day in Thy sight."
With a slight shudder the monk opened his eyes.
"I believe Lord! help Thou my unbelief," murmured he, taking heart.
The bell sounded in the distance. They were ringing for vespers;
sunset was already gleaming through the forest.
The monk hastily turned towards the cloister. The chapel was lighted
up, and through the half-opened door he could see the brothers in
their stalls. He hurried noiselessly to his place, but to his
astonishment he found that another monk was there; he touched him
lightly on the shoulder, and strange to tell, the man he saw was
unknown to him. The brothers, now one, now another, raised their heads
and looked in silent questioning at the new comer.
A peculiar feeling seized the poor monk, who saw only strange faces
round him. Growing pale, he waited till the singing was over. Confused
questions seemed to pass along the rows.
The Prior, a dignified old man with snow-white hair, approached.
"What is your name, strange brother?" asked he in a gentle, kind tone.
The monk was filled with dismay. "Maurus," murmured he in a trembling
voice. "St. Bernhard was the Abbot who received my vows, in the sixth
year of the reign of King Conrad, whom they called the Frank."
Incredulous astonishment was depicted on the brothers' countenances.
The monk raised his face to the old Prior and confessed to him how he
had wandered out in the early morning into the cloister-gardens, how
he had fallen asleep in the forest, and had not wakened till the bell
for vespers sounded.
The Prior made a sign to one of the brothers. Then turning to the monk
he said: "It is almost three hundred years since the death of St.
Bernhard and of Conrad, whom they called the Frank."
The cloister annals were brought; and it was there found that three
hundred years had passed since the days of St. Bernhard. The Prior
also read the following note.
"A doubter disappeared one day from the cloister, and no one ever knew
what became of him."
A shudder ran through the monk's limbs. This was he, this brother
Maurus who had now come back to the cloister after three hundred
years! What the Prior had read sounded in his ears as if it were the
trumpet of the Last Judgment. Three hundred years!
With wide-open eyes he gazed before him, then stretched forth his
hands as if seeking for help. The brothers supported him, observing
him at the same time with secret dismay; his face had become ashy
pale, like that of a dying person, the narrow circle of hair on his
head had become snow-white.
"My brothers," murmured he in a dying voice, "value the imperishable
word of the Lord at all times, and never try to fathom what he in His
wisdom has veiled from us. May my example never be blotted out of your
memory. Only to-day the words of the Psalmist were revealed to me. 'A
thousand years are but as a day in Thy sight.' May he have mercy on
me, a poor sinner." He sank lifeless to the ground, and the brothers,
greatly moved, repeated the prayers for the dead over his body.