This is the concluding line of the necrology marking the passing of Herr Pfarrer Bertrand Georg Puchwein at the age of 87, and as I peruse the accompanying letter from friends who have conveyed the news, I endorse the prayer and the sentiment.
I met Father Puchwein, for the first time, when he was the 75-year young parish priest of St. Severin’s in Sievering, Vienna. He belonged to the Augustinian order of Canons or Choir-monks (for want of a better translation – the correct form is Augustiner Chorherr des Stiftes Klosterneuburg) of the monastery at Klosterneuburg – more about that later. And he was selected on the basis of his golden tenor. Only those who could sing could make the grade. And how he loved to sing!
We (my husband, one of my sisters-in-law and I) had barely stepped off the plane and into the parish house, when we were greeted, in a strong German accent, by this burly, red-cheeked, white haired priest: ‘Welcome, welcome!” His next words were, “Do you sing?” My husband and sis-in-law politely declined, while I responded with, “A little.” “Can you sing the Missa de Angelis?” “Yes, Father!” He had touched a chord – the sung Latin Masses are a much treasured relic from my childhood and the Mass he referred to was one that I can sing in my sleep. I was promptly trotted off, in my travelling clothes, to meet the group that was practicing for the Feast Day of a sister church. All Austrians who spoke only German and sang Latin, they welcomed me with beaming smiles and once the singing got under way, the smiles grew wider. I might have been wearing a sari and sporting a complexion of a darker hue, but I sang the same music!! There were several more practices, all of which concluded with white wine, crackers and cheese. The ‘treat’ was well earned – Fr. Puchwein was a perfectionist. And, yes, I sang with the choir at the Feast Mass at St. Vitus. The gift of music and the gift of inclusion are my lasting souvenirs of that visit.
During our stay, I got to know him and his larger than life personality, very well. After all, we were guests in his home and his hospitality was lavish. And he filled his home with music thanks to a powerful sound system - an offering from his parishioners who had known him for forty years. His knowledge of church music was wide as it was deep and he was eager to share this knowledge at every opportunity. I was an amateur and a novice, with just a smattering of German, but this did not deter him in the least! And when shadows fell, he would bring out his guitar and we would sing around the supper table the old favourites and folk songs from the region.
One of the high points of our visit (and there were many) was the visit to his monastery, the imposing Klosterneuburg with its even more magnificent wine cellars which descended three (or more?) levels underground. The vineyards and the wine were the monastery’s source of income. We were treated to a wine-tasting and attended Vespers. Both unforgettable. There is nothing so solemn or as wonderful as plainchant – invocation and response – sung by male voices (all powered by their own lungs – no microphones) under the vaulted roof of what was literally a vast castle. I was spellbound, experiencing in reality what I had only imagined of monastic life in the cloisters.
It seems more than coincidence that my present reading is The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. Set in a fictitious monastery, the descriptive passages returned memories to life. Once again I walked within cloistered walls and felt the shadowy presence of robed monks, hooded, hands tucked in sleeves, silent except in their songs of worship.
And now, when the relevance of monastic life is being questioned and vocations are few, old stones have seen once more the passing of one who graced their existence with God’s praises. Old stones whose rafters will continue to be raised in song, but for how long?
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