LITMIR.BIZ

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bright costumes, such colors as few of the lower classes could legally wear in those times, danced acrobatically, strong eastern accents rolling the German obliquely off their tongues. They paused for applause, to gather themselves for the next performance, and to address their audience.

      Dayadva: Ai, those Russian crowds were tough. They like you, they stamp their feet, they don’t like you, they stamp their feet: who knows what they think?

      Datta: At least they don’t draw their swords. Remember Mongolia?

      Dayadva: Ai! How can I forget Mongolia?

      Damyata: At least they don’t make borscht in Mongolia. Russia: borscht, borscht, borscht. Cold as a frozen schussbaba.

      Dayadva: Boy: watch your language.

      Datta: He’s all right, Dayadva. He’s coming of an age, and who can help but think of such things.

      Dayadva: That’s all we need: Damyata girl chasing.

      Damyata: Yes, we definitely need that, yes.

      Datta: Both of you, calm yourselves. This crowd will be better than any people yet. I feel it. I know it.

      Dayadva: I hope you are right, old father. Perhaps we stay a while here before we move on to Italy.

      Damyata: They have nice girls in Italy?

      Datta: Nice brown-eyed girls. I remember.

      Damyata: I like blue eyes.

      Dayadva: First a frozen schussbaba, now he want to be picky about eye color.

      Datta: Shhh, both. Dall comes. Let us prepare to do show.

      When a crowed began to gather, having heard their instruments or having seen their dancing, the performers started to clap their hands and sing. The crowd, ever eager for carnival, or even the merest break from daily drudgery, gave the acrobats no gifts yet, but they did supply their attention, and that usually had a way of turning itself at least into supper for itinerant actors and their like. Hardly the abstract and brief chroniclers of their time, they often felt grateful for an edible meal and a bit of something sufficient to carry them to the next town. Overlooking the crowd, the eldest spoke first, shouting gleefully and rubbing his balding skull.

      Datta: I am Datta, grandfather.

      Dayadva: And I, Dayadva, father.

      Damyata: And I, Damyata, son.

      All three: And this is Dall, mother.

      All four: We come from a far land: to entertain you!

      They sang and danced to such musical accompaniment as simple instruments could provide: Donau, son of Dayadva’s sister, simple of mind but devoted to his uncle, patted a tabor, turned a drone, or puffed into a shawm with more soul than talent or skill. Truly, they had invested nearly all of their wealth in their instruments and costumes, all but what they had spent on the horse and wagon that carried them from town to town.

      In our poor, overfed age we may disdain such simple street-circus acrobatics as one could have found then, but the craftsfolk and peasants of Rupertsberg clapped along, sang or whistled with the performers when they knew the tunes, and gave at least a cheer, having little else to give and little else beyond work to do. Finding their song and dance had won praise, but nothing more material, and having learned something of the village before they performed, they enlisted help from members of their audience to perform a pantomime in which Dall, wife of Dayadva and mother of Damyata, costumed as a nun received a vision, was judged and nearly crucified by authorities, but was finally saved by a bright, mysterious figure dressed in blue. Her father-in-law, draped in a long, blue cloth, carrying before him a great mask in the shape of a smiling sun, strode before them, after which Dall moved among the crowed, healing her former persecutors and leading them all in a dance. Yes, folk would dance in those days, leaving their burdens for a few blessed moments beside the road until, reawakened by a soldier or official or priest, they would take them up once more. But on that day the sun and authorities alike shone, and even the bees seemed to stop in their course to observe and join the hum.

      Datta: And now I, Datta, will perform a feat such as you have never seen before. Behold! And it is you who will save me from death.

      He climbed upon a roadside wall, as his compatriots arranged and prepare some folk from the crowd to catch him. They well knew that if they won not only the admiration but the affection and familiarity of the people, they well might eat for the next several days, and regular meals make for strong and ready performers. Datta, making great show, spreading his arms wide, then straight overhead, sprung from his perch atop the wall into the human net his comrades had set for him; they caught him with a loud cheer not only for his courage, but for their own skill in breaking his fall. Datta sprung from their arms into a handspring, then bowed grandly.

      Datta: Such are the kind people here, to spare the life of an old man for another show. And such is the great lady of the abbey, that we dedicate our play to her, known far and wide for her kindness, gentleness, and holiness.

      “Encore! Encore! Let’s see it again, old Datta!” the crowd cried.

      Dayadva: No, Father, once a day is enough.

      “Encore! Once more, Old Man!” they called again.

      Datta: They will have their show. Who are we to deny them? They buy our bread and milk–we hope.

      Dayadva: Care, Father, care!

      Datta climbed again to the cheers of the crowd. They aligned themselves, but as well may happen in such instances, their attention wandered, and when Datta made his trusting dive, they failed to catch him, and he and they tumbled together to the ground.

      Dayadva: Father!

      Crowd: He is hurt! Help him!

      Dayadva: Father, why did I let you do it? What will we do?

      Damyata: The great lady on the hill, surely she will help him.

      Dall: Come, let us take him quickly to the abbess. She is a healer. Come, hurry! Help us, all of you!

      The folk, sorry for their failure, but sorrier yet that they had got pulled into street acrobatics, dutifully lifted him and carried him up the hill to the nearby abbey to seek the help of the Great Lady on the Hill.

      So their world brought them toward Hildegard’s gate.

      Above the town, at Disibodenberg Abbey in a long, bright hallway, the nuns sang the Ordo Virtutum, number 7, the “Song about the Virgins,” a sober but joyful prayer, composed by Abbess Hildegard for their instruction and spiritual pleasure. The song drifted along like a breeze, as gentle to the singers as a waft of lilacs.

      Irmengard: Lovely song.

      Clementia: So long as we praise God and not ourselves.

      Adelheid: So gloomy, Sister: can we not enjoy the song for the song?

      Clementia: The song should guide us to God, not to ourselves and the dust of this world. Youth flies to pleasure rather than to Heaven.

      Richardis: And may we not fly to both, joy in ourselves to be pleasures to God?

      Clementia: Quite right, and wise for one so young. But let us not guide those younger yet astray.

      Richardis: The devil flees such music; its coolness balms the soul and sends evil rushing from the flood of praise. So the song serves both God and us.

      Adelheid: Thank you, Sister. I would learn and praise better.

      Richardis: Then listen closely to Sister Clementia and heed her warnings; she will help you clear your path to heaven (Aside, to Adelheid she whispered then.) And be sure to enjoy the lovely songs!

      As they paused from their singing to talk and enjoy the afternoon, Hildegard and Sister Keunegard joined them, walking arm-in-arm. Hildegard took great care with her charge, for the poor young woman, tall, thin, and pale, hung ever on the brink of madness.

      Keunegard: Praise, O praise, let us sing the song, the song, O cry whelps

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