Whilst, as a contemplative, she reminds us of Suso, as a reformer,
proclaiming her prophetic warnings, she recalls to us St. Hildegarde,
though the latter was a more astute and powerful reasoner. It would
seem as if, in general, there are two conflicting tendencies in minds
such as Mechthild's, a tendency to tradition--in her case, of course,
church tradition--and a tendency to definite self-expression. With
Mechthild it was certainly that of self-expression which predominated,
for whilst, with her, both co-operated to make a beautiful whole, it
was in detail and ornament, so to speak, rather than in the design
itself, that she showed her special qualities and gifts. Further, as a
mystic, she may be classed with those "for whom mysticism is above all
things an intimate and personal relation, the satisfaction of a deep
desire," and who therefore fall back "upon imagery drawn largely from
the language of earthly passion," as opposed to the mystic whose
"longing is to go out from his normal world in search of a lost home,
a better country," as well as to the one whose "craving is for inward
purity and perfection."[21]
[21] For the suggestive elaboration of this threefold
classification, see Evelyn Underhill, _Mysticism_, chap. vi.
p. 151 _seq._
In order to enter into the spirit of her writings, and particularly
the prophetic ones, it is necessary to consider how the character and
style of her work was induced and affected, on the one hand by her
environment and her time, and on the other by her saintly nature and
poetic temperament, as well as by her intimate and personal attitude
towards things touching the inner life.
The world, in Mechthild's day, was in a state of unrest and of
looked-for change. Mankind was ever haunted by forebodings of the
approaching happening of something momentous. Whole-hearted faith in
the Church was waning, and although outward conformity still
prevailed, there existed very diverse opinions, tolerated so long as
they did not become too obtrusive. Prophetic writings, giving
expression to the yearnings of the time--yearnings fomented and
fostered by the prevailing misery caused, in no small degree, by the
wars between Pope and Emperor--taught that the world was on the brink
of a new era. One of the most influential of these writings, entitled
_The Eternal Gospel_, and said to embody the revelations of Abbot
Joachim of Flora (1130-1202), proclaimed that the dispensations of God
the Father and God the Son--the first two eras of the Church--were
past or passing, and that these would be succeeded by a third
era--that of the Holy Ghost--when men's eyes would be opened by the
Spirit, and when there would be a time of perfection and freedom,
without the necessity of disciplinary institutions. In this fair age
it was the hermits, monks, and nuns who, whilst not superseding the
rulers of the Church, were to lead it into new paths, for to Joachim
the visible Church could not, where all is moving, remain unchanged,
and his counsel was, to keep pace with the advancing world. Naturally
such sentiments aroused ecclesiastical alarm, and, later, were
condemned by the fourth Lateran Council (1215), though Dante, withal a
good son of the Church, made bold to see in Paradise the "Abbott
Joachim, endowed with prophetic Spirit" (_Par._ xii. 140).[22] When
Mechthild wrote her predictions on the last days, Joachim's teachings,
owing to the stir which their unorthodoxy had created--not only in the
Church and amongst the preaching friars, but also in the University of
Paris, whence all manner of polemical discussions freely
circulated--were well known in Germany, and there can be but little
doubt that Mechthild knew of them, probably from the Dominicans, who
found special favour in her sight, and that they greatly influenced
her own prophetic warnings to the Church.
[22] Cf. Edmund G. Gardner, _Joachim of Flora and the
Everlasting Gospel_. Franciscan Essays, Bri. Soc. of Fran.
Studies, extra series, vol. i.
From these objective conditions which, whilst influencing Mechthild's
own thoughts and works, might and did, however differently, influence
the work of others as well, we turn to the consideration of her work
as the expression of her own poetic soul, welling up from depths
filled with love for the highest and most divine things. Before all
else we recognise how richly endowed she was with visionary powers and
poetic feeling. She revels in beautiful fantasies, as, for instance,
when she says, "If I were to speak one little word of the choirs of
heaven, it would be no more than the honey that a bee can carry away
on its feet from a full-blown flower." With rapture she touches upon
the deepest questions of the soul's life, and the highest truths and
mysteries of belief, so that in her flights of contemplation her prose
becomes poetry, impelled, like some torrent, by the rush of her
emotion.
O thou God, out-pouring in thy gift!
O thou God, o'erflowing in thy love!
O thou God, all burning in thy desire!
O thou God, melting in union with thy body!
O thou God, reposing on my breast!
Without Thee, never could I live.
But even so, she does not lose the sense of form or of the
picturesque. Some of her writings are clothed in language recalling
the Song of Songs, and are, perhaps, echoes of St. Bernard's sermons
on that wondrous allegory of the Spiritual Bridegroom and Bride, as
when, in a transport, and attempting to express how God comes to the
Soul, she exclaims--
I come to my Beloved
Like dew upon the flowers.
Others suggest reflections of courtly life and poetry, and at the same
time seem to anticipate pictures of the Celestial Garden, bright and
blossoming, where Saints tread in measured unison, symbolic of their
spiritual felicity and harmony. So with her didactic writings, or with
her predictions concerning the decay and corruption in the Church, in
which, like some prophet of old, she declaims against such evils in no
sparing terms, all alike are fraught with a special grace. In them all
the most intimate and the most sublime meet in one expression--the
expression of a soul which sees God in all things, and all things in
God.
During the thirty years which Mechthild spent as a beguine at
Magdeburg, she lived an austere life, and one beset with difficulties,
largely created by the fearless way in which she warned and denounced
those in high places in the Church. In such denunciations she was not
alone, or without good example, for--to name two only of those who
stand out pre-eminently on account of their positions and
personalities--St. Bernard and St. Hildegarde had both sternly
denounced the evils in the Church. "The insolence of the Clergy," says
St. Bernard, "troubles the earth, and molests the Church. The Bishops
give what is holy to the dogs, and pearls to swine." But the poor
beguine, Mechthild, was not in the same powerful position to stay, or
even to modify, the resentment which her attacks occasioned. "For more
than twenty years was I bound with thee on a hideous gridiron," she
writes, likening her anguish to that of St. Lawrence. Nevertheless
solace came to her troubled spirit, for, having been warned that it
had been said of her writings that they deserved to be burnt, she
tells how she prayed to God, as had been her wont when in trouble, and
that He told her not to mistrust her powers, since they were from Him,
and that no one can burn the Truth.
In many passages Mechthild dwells on the clergy, and her
reflections--some very practical, others, to those not versed in
symbolism, very quaint--seem to suggest how grievously lacking she
considered them to be. Writing in God's name to a canon, she begins by
saying that we should, in common with all men, give thanks to our
Heavenly Father for the Divine gift which day by day, and without
ceasing, pours forth from the Holy Trinity into sinful hearts, and
then she quaintly adds, "For that it soars so high, the Eagle owes no
thanks to the Owl." Furthermore, she calls upon the priest to pray
more, to pay his debts in full, and to live simply, and thus, with
humble heart, to set a good example, and, with many other admonitions,
she also counsels him to have two rods by his bedside, so that he may
chastise himself when he awakes. Mechthild adds that she asked of God
how such an one could keep himself without sin in this earthly state,
and that God made answer: "He shall keep himself always in fear, like
a mouse that sits in a trap and awaits its death. When he eats, he
shall be frugal and meek, and when he sleeps, he shall be chaste, and
alone with Me."
Touching upon some of the duties of a prior--and here she shows
herself eminently practical--she writes: "Thou shalt go every day to
the infirmary, and soothe the sick with the solace of God's word, and
comfort them bounteously with earthly things, for God is rich beyond
all richness. Thou shalt keep the sick cleanly, and be merry with them
in a godly manner. Thou shalt also go into the kitchen, and see that
the needs of the brethren are well cared for, and that thy parsimony,
and the cook's laziness, rob not our Lord of the sweet song of the
choir, for never did starving priest sing well. Moreover, a hungry man
can do no deep study, and thus must God, through such default, lose
the best prayers." From advice to the priesthood, Mechthild turns to
warning, and pours forth her reproaches and forebodings with poetic
intensity. "Alas, O thou Crown of Holy Christendom, how greatly hast
thou lost lustre! Thy jewels are fallen out, since thou dost outrage
and bring dishonour on the holy Christian vows. Thy gold has become
tarnished in the morass of unchastity, for thou art become degenerate,
and art lacking in true love. Thy abstinence is consumed by the
ravenous fire of gluttony, thy humility is drowned in the slough of
the flesh, thy word no longer avails against the lies of the world,
the flowers of all the virtues have fallen from thee. Alas, O thou
Crown of the holy Priesthood, how diminished thou art, and verily thou
now possessest naught but priestly power, with the which thou fightest
against God and His elect. For this will God humble thee, ere thou
learnest wisdom. For thus saith the Lord: 'My shepherds of Jerusalem
have become murderers and wolves, for that they slay before My very
eyes the white lambs, and the sheep are all sickly for that they may
not eat of the wholesome pasture that grows on the high mountains, the
which is godly love and holy doctrine.' He who knows not the way that
leads to Hell, let him give heed to the unholy clergy, who, with wives
and children and many heinous sins, go straightway thither."
Whilst condemning the priesthood, Mechthild eulogises nunnery life in
an allegory entitled "The Ghostly Cloister," in which she pictures the
virtues as dwelling. "Charity" is the abbess, who with zeal takes care
of the congregation in both body and soul; "Godly Humility" is the
chaplain; "The Holy Peace of God" is the prioress; and "Loving
Kindness" is the sub-prioress. "Hope" is the chantress, filled with
holy, humble devotion, that the heart's feebleness may sound beautiful
in song before God, so that God may love the notes that sing in the
heart; "Wisdom" is the schoolmistress, who with all good-will teaches
the ignorant, so that the convent is held holy and honoured; "Bounty"
is the cellaress; "Mercy" the stewardess; and "Pity" the sick-nurse.
The provost, or priest, is "Godly Obedience," to whom all these
virtues are subject. "Thus does the convent abide in God, and happy
are they who dwell therein."
From this spiritual abode of the virtues we turn to one of Mechthild's
earliest recorded visions--that of Hell, with its flame and flare.
Whilst Death was perhaps man's first mystery, the Hereafter has been
his endless pre-occupation. Whatever his country or his time, he has
ever sought to lift the veil which hides the future, portraying his
vain efforts in symbol. In Mechthild's time her world was engrossed
with thoughts and speculations concerning the Hereafter, for Death,
which at the end of the next century was to take dramatic and
pictorial form in the weird and all-embracing "Dance of Death,"
although its earliest known poetic form is of 1160, ever hovered near
in pestilence, war, and tumult. Whilst some expressed themselves in
carved stone, or on painted wall, others, as did Mechthild, realised
their visions and ideas in a wealth of word-pictures. Such visions
and ideas had accumulated adown the ages, varying but slightly one
from another, and Mechthild, in making use of this stereotyped
material, only took from, or added to, the general sum. Yet even so,
she contrives to make her personality felt. She begins: "I have seen a
place whose name is Eternal Hatred." Lucifer, farthest removed from
the source of Light, forms the foundation-stone, and around him are
arranged the deadly sins. Above him are the Christians, then the Jews,
and, farthest removed from Hell's dire depths, the Heathen. Horror
upon horror follows, like those pictured a hundred years before by
Herrad von Landsperg, abbess at Hohenburg, in Alsace, and, fifty years
later, by Dante, and when she concludes by saying that, after seeing
the terrors of Hell, all her five senses were paralysed for three
days, as if struck by lightning, it is significant that Dante tells
that, overwhelmed with sorrow for the lovers, doomed for ever to be
borne upon the winds, he "fainted with pity ... and fell, as a dead
body falls."
It is with a sense of relief that we leave such sad scenes, to glance
at her vision of Paradise, although it does not follow in this
sequence in her recorded revelations, for, as seems fitting, it is one
of the very latest. Calling it "a glimpse of Paradise," she says that
"of the length and breadth of Paradise there is no end." Then she
continues--and this is especially interesting because it is in this
opening that some commentators have seen the connecting link with
Dante[23]--that between this world and it, she came to a spot--the
Earthly Paradise--where she saw trees and fresh grass and no weeds.
Some of the trees bore apples, but most of them sweetly scented
leaves. Swift streams flowed through it, and warm winds were wafted
from the north. The air was sweeter than words can tell. Here, she
adds, there were no animals or birds, for God has reserved it for
mankind alone, so that he may dwell there undisturbed. This seems to
strike a strange note coming from the poetess Mechthild. How different
is her sentiment from that of her brother-mystic, St. Francis, to whom
the birds were his "little sisters," and who "loved above all other
birds a certain little bird which is called the lark." But though,
with apparent satisfaction, Mechthild saw no birds, she did see Enoch
and Elias, and greeted the former by questioning him as to how he came
there. Holy Writ has supplied the only answer, "He walked with God,
and he was not, for God took him." Having spoken thus of the Earthly
Paradise, Mechthild goes on to tell of the Heavenly, where she sees,
"floating in rapture, as the air floats in the sunshine," the souls
which, though not deserving of Purgatory, are not yet come into God's
kingdom, and to whom rewards and crowns come not until they enter that
kingdom. She then concludes by saying that "all the kingdoms of this
world shall perish, and the earthly and the heavenly Paradise shall
pass away, and all shall dwell together in God"--the Empyrean of
Dante, where he "saw ingathered, bound by love in one volume, the
scattered leaves of all the universe; substance and accidents and
their relations, as though together fused, after such fashion that
what I tell of is one simple flame."
[23] The tendency of present-day Italian scholarship seems in
favour of identifying Mechthild of Hackeborn, rather than
Mechthild of Magdeburg, with Dante's Matelda.
In her very varied writings many beautiful and suggestive thoughts are
to be found, as, for instance, when "Understanding" converses with
"Conscience," and accuses Conscience of being at the same time both
proud and humble, and Conscience explains that she is proud because
she is in touch with God, and humble because she has done so few good
works. And again, when "Understanding" and "the Soul" hold converse.
Understanding, desirous of knowing everything, asks the Soul why such
brilliant light radiates from her, and the Soul replies by inquiring
why Understanding asks this, seeing that she is so much wiser than the
Soul. When Understanding would still penetrate the unspeakable secrecy
between God and the Soul, the Soul refuses to answer, since, as she
explains, to her alone is given union with God, to which Understanding
can never attain. Or, again, when Mechthild, telling how the Soul, no
longer led by the Senses, but leading them to the desired goal, says,
"It is a wondrous journey along which the true soul progresses, and
leads with it the senses, as a man with sight leads one who is blind.
On this journey the soul is free and without sorrow, since it desires
naught but to serve its Lord, who orders all things for the best."
Of Prayer, which to her was "naught else but yearning of soul," she
says, "It makes a sour heart sweet, a sad heart merry, a poor heart
rich, a dull heart wise, a timid heart bold, a weak heart strong, a
blind heart seeing, a cold heart burning. It draws the great God down
into the small heart, it drives the hungry soul out to the full God,
it brings together the two lovers, God and the soul, into a blissful
place, where they speak much of love."
Again, in a spirit of self-examination, she writes: "What most of all
hinders the spiritually-minded from full perfection is, that they pay
so little heed to small sins. I tell you, of a truth, that when I
abstain from a laugh that would hurt no one, or hide some soreness of
heart, or feel a little impatience at my own pain, my soul becomes so
dark, and my mind so dull, and my heart so cold, that I am constrained
to pray heartily and long, and humbly to make confession of all my
faults. Then grace comes again to wretched me, and I creep back like a
beaten dog into the kitchen."
But all these and kindred thoughts pale before her discourses on love.
Love was the keynote of her life. She was born a poetess; she became a
saint. How sorely she strove towards this end, and spent herself in
conflict between self-control and ecstasy, no words can tell. It was
only when Purgation's way was partly trod, and she had "found in Pain
the grave but kindly teacher of immortal secrets," that she could say,
"Lord, I bring Thee my treasure, which is greater than the mountains,
wider than the world, deeper than the sea, higher than the clouds,
more beautiful than the sun, more manifold than the stars, and which
outweighs all the earth." Then asks the voice of God: "How is this thy
treasure called, oh Image of my Divinity?"
"Lord, it is called my heart's desire. I have withdrawn it from the
world, kept it to myself, and denied it to all creatures. Now no
longer would I carry it. Lord, where shall I lay it?"
"Nowhere shalt thou lay thy heart's desire save in My own Divine
heart. There only wilt thou find comfort."
Love and knowledge, the two aspirations of the soul after ultimate
truth, are her frequent theme. Sometimes she contrasts Love with the
knowledge of the understanding: "Those who would know much, and love
little, will ever remain at but the beginning of a godly life. So we
must have a constant care how we may please God therein. Simple love,
with but little knowledge, can do great things"; sometimes with the
knowledge of the heart--"To the wise soul, love without knowledge
seems darkness, knowledge without fruition, the very pain of Hell.
Fruition can be reached only through Death." In one of her visions
she, in an exquisite simile, describes how love flows from the Godhead
to mankind, penetrating both body and soul. "It goes without effort,"
she says, "as does a bird in the air when it does not move its wings."
In the same vision she sees the Holy Mother, with uncovered breasts,
standing on God's left hand, and Christ on the right, showing his
still-open wounds, both pleading for sinful humanity, and she adds
that as long as sin endures on earth, so long will Christ's wounds
remain open and bleeding, though painless, but that after the Day of
Judgment they will heal, and it will be as though there was a
rose-leaf instead of the wounds.[24]
[24] The first of these subjects--the Holy Mother and Christ
pleading for sinners--is to be found in a miniature in King
Henry VI.'s Psalter (Brit. Mus. Cotton MS. Domitian. A. xvii.
_circ._ 1430, fol. 205), and the two intercessions separately
form two of the subjects in the _Speculum Humanae
Salvationis_ (fourteenth century). Though the _S.H.S._ is of
later date than the time of Mechthild the literary source of
the subject appears to be a passage in the _De laudibus
B.M.V._ of Arnaud of Chartres, abbot of Bonneval 1138-1156
(J. Lutz and P. Perdrizet, _Spec. Hum. Sal._ vol. i.,
Mulhouse, 1907), which might quite well have been known to
her, especially if, as Messrs. Lutz and Perdrizet consider,
the _S.H.S._ was written by a Dominican, who would naturally
make use of Dominican teaching and tradition, and we know
that Mechthild, even if not, as has been suggested, a
tertiary of that Order, was in constant and close touch with
it. The second subject, the reference to rose-leaves and
Christ's wounds, seems to be a purely original thought, and
one amongst the many fascinating ideas that have centred
round the rose ever since Aphrodite anointed the dead body of
Hector with rose-scented oil (_Iliad_, xxiii. 186).
Of Love, as she conceived it in relation to herself individually, she
can never write enough. "I also may not suffer that any single comfort
move me, save my love alone. I love my earthly friends in a heavenly
fellowship, and I love my enemies with a holy longing for their
salvation. God has enough of all good things, save of union with the
soul."
But where Mechthild seems to strike an original note for her time is
in her insistence on God's craving for the soul, as well as the soul's
craving for God. We find the same insistence in Meister Eckhart, who
followed her closely in time, and perhaps, in this respect, in thought
also. "God needs man," says Eckhart, quite simply. And again, "God can
do as little without us as we without Him." With Mechthild it is from
ecstasy to ecstasy that "heart speaks to heart." Says the soul of
Mechthild: "Lord, Thou art ever sick of love for me, and that hast
Thou Thyself well proved. Thou hast written me in the Book of the
Godhead. Thou hast fashioned me after Thine own image. Thou hast bound
me hand and foot to Thy side. O grant it to me, Beloved, to anoint
Thee."
"Where wilt thou get thine ointment, dear one?"
"Lord, I will tear my happy heart in twain, and lay Thee therein."
"It is the most precious ointment thou couldest give Me, that I should
evermore hover in thy soul."
Further God says: "I longed for thee ere the world was. I long for
thee, and thou longest for me. When two burning desires come together,
then is love perfected."
Sometimes the loving soul traverses a dark way, and cries out in
desolation and despair: "Lord, since Thou hast taken from me all that
I had of Thee, yet of Thy grace leave me that gift which every dog has
by nature--that in my distress I may be true to Thee, without any
ill-will. This do I truly desire more than all Thy heavenly kingdom."
And Divine Love makes answer: "Sweet Dove, now list to me. Thy secret
seeking must needs find me, thy heart's distress must needs compel me,
thy loving pursuit has so wearied me, that I long to cool myself in
thy pure soul in the which I am imprisoned. The throbbing sighs of thy
sore heart have driven my justice from thee. All is right between me
and thee. I cannot be sundered from thee. However far we are parted,
never can we be separated. I cause thee extreme pain of body. If I
gave myself to thee as oft as thou wouldst, I should thus deprive
myself of the sweet shelter I have in thee in this world."
Again the soul cries out--but now discomfited by the Divine Love from
whose tireless quest there is no escape--"Thou hast pursued and
captured and bound me, and hast wounded me so deeply that never shall
I be healed. Thou hast given me many a hard blow. Tell me, shall I
ever get whole from Thee? Shall I not be slain by Thee? Thus would it
have been better for me if that I had never known Thee."
Then answers Love: "That I pursued thee gave me delight. That I made
thee captive was my desire. That I bound thee was my joy. When I
wounded thee, then did I become one with thee. Thus I give thee hard
blows so that I may be possessed of thee. I drove Almighty God from
His heavenly kingdom, and took from Him His mortal life, and have
restored Him with honour to His Father. How canst thou, poor worm,
save thyself from me?"