Death and the Devil

That was indeed something new. But however much they respected and admired him, some of his fellow citizens felt Gerhard’s enjoyment of the role of creator was all too plain to see. It was hardly surprising that the simple folk began to assume he had magic powers and rumors spread that he had called up Satan in the dead of night. There were many among the mendicant orders in particular who would have liked to see him tried for heresy and burned at the stake, together with Conrad von Hochstaden and Albertus Magnus. Had not Joachim of Fiore, whom the Franciscans held in high regard, prophesied the dawn of a new age for 1260, the age of a truly poor church? Was that colossal monument to human pride being built in Cologne an expression of that poverty? For many, Joachim’s prophecy represented the absolute truth, therefore the new cathedral, that most ambitious of enterprises, could only be the work of the Devil.

But then the pope and the emperor would have had to be burned along with Gerhard, since they supported the cathedral. It would be unwise, however, to criticize their decision publicly, if one wanted to avoid being beheaded, drowned, hung, drawn and quartered, or boiled in oil. The Holy Father had described the cathedral as a holy work and it was best to leave holy works be.

So the critics of the new cathedral in Cologne contented themselves with general sermons on dens of iniquity and vanity, which was nothing new, but not a risk, either. Soon Gerhard’s supposed pact had become merely part of the local folklore.

Gerhard’s real genius, however, lay less in conceiving a building such as the new cathedral, the perfect church, than in actually getting it built. His plans were not the product of visionary euphoria but of logical reasoning. Gerhard saw himself as a scientist pursuing goals that were absolutely unscientific. He marked out the space for the freest unfolding of the spirit with compass and measuring line; in his attempt to give it universal validity he submitted his divine inspiration to the unfeeling plumb line, transposed the exhilaration of heavenward soaring into a pinnacle of measurable height. And with every inch the cathedral grew, he became ever more painfully aware how small man was in the sight of God and how pitiful his attempt to rise above himself.

This contradictory nature of his work had brought Gerhard to the brink of despair. He might succeed in completing the impossible church, but not in imbuing it with meaning. Even as it rose up, it was a self-contradiction. It only worked in the mind; none of the goals that had instigated the idea of the building would ever be achieved.

Archbishop Conrad had laid not a foundation stone, but a gravestone to his hopes.

Despite all this, there had never been the slightest suggestion Gerhard was contemplating asking to be released from his contract. Deeply unhappy within himself, he had accepted the worldly nature of his commission, giving his passion for art and architecture free rein. There was no lack of money. The pope was happy to sign letters of indulgence, wealthy princes and clerics donated considerable sums in addition to offerings from the Church in Rome. In the meantime the archbishop’s petitores were abroad everywhere, tireless in their pursuit of contributions. Only a few years ago Conrad had asked Henry III of England to commend the collectors to his people; the proceeds had been unparalleled.

Gerhard built as if his life depended on it. And it did.

When he finally realized he would never see his building completed, not even the chancel, he threw himself into his work with even greater determination. It was his church, his idea. And there was still the power of logic. The completed cathedral existed—on parchment. The impossible cathedral had been alive inside his head, without the constraints of time and space, as long as he had been alive.

Matthias gave a pitying shake of the head. “You were right,” he said softly to the corpse, “you achieved none of your goals.”

Gerhard was wearing a costly shroud. He had had it made some time ago and had obtained permission from Conrad to place it, just for a moment, on the bones of the Three Kings, whose relics had been brought to the city less than a hundred years ago. To be accompanied by the Wise Men on his last journey was Gerhard’s deepest wish.

Memento mori.

Matthias watched as the Dominican monks drew the sheet over Gerhard’s head and sewed it up. Each one did one stitch, while their quiet singing and praying filled the room. The air was heavy with incense. The body was blessed with incense and sprinkled with holy water.

Guda, Gerhard’s widow, was sitting beside the body, deep in prayer. The previous evening she had washed the body, the priests had anointed it, and then, together with the family and neighbors, kept watch through the night, praying for Gerhard’s soul.

Why am I not praying for him? Matthias wondered. I had no quarrel with him.