Cloisters of extraordinary dimensions.--Cells of the
Monks.--Severity of the order.--Death-like calm.--The great
Chapel.--Its interior.--Marvellous events relating to St.
Bruno.--Retire to my cell.--Strange writings of St. Bruno.--Sketch
of his Life.--Appalling occurrence.--Vision of the Bishop of
Grenoble.--First institution of the Carthusian order.--Death of St.
Bruno.--His translation.
The coadjutor seemed charmed with the respect with which I looked round
on these holy objects; and if the hour of vespers had not been drawing
near, we should have spent more time in the contemplation of Bruno’s
miracles, pourtrayed on the lower panels of the hall. We left that room
to enter a winding passage (lighted by windows in the roof) that brought
us to a cloister six hundred feet in length, from which branched off two
others, joining a fourth of the same most extraordinary dimensions. Vast
ranges of slender pillars extend round the different courts of the
edifice, many of which are thrown into gardens belonging to particular
cells.
We entered one of them: its inhabitant received us with much civility,
walked before us through a little corridor that looked on his garden,
showed us his narrow dwelling, and, having obtained leave of the
coadjutor to speak, gave us his benediction, and beheld us depart with
concern. Nature has given this poor monk very considerable talents for
painting. He has drawn the portrait of the late General, in a manner
that discovers great facility of execution; but he is not allowed to
exercise his pencil on any other subject, lest he should be amused; and
amusement in this severe order is a crime. He had so subdued, so
mortified an appearance, that I was not sorry to hear the bell, which
summoned the coadjutor to prayers, and prevented my entering any more of
the cells. We continued straying from cloister to cloister, and
wandering along the winding passages and intricate galleries of this
immense edifice, whilst the coadjutor was assisting at vespers.
In every part of the structure reigned the most death-like calm: no
sound reached my ears but the “minute drops from off the eaves.” I sat
down in a niche of the cloister, and fell into a profound reverie, from
which I was recalled by the return of our conductor; who, I believe, was
almost tempted to imagine, from the cast of my countenance, that I was
deliberating whether I should not remain with them for ever.
But I soon roused myself, and testified some impatience to see the great
chapel, at which we at length arrived after traversing another labyrinth
of cloisters. The gallery immediately before its entrance appeared quite
gay, in comparison with the others I had passed, and owes its
cheerfulness to a large window (ornamented with slabs of polished
marble) that admits the view of a lovely wood, and allows a full blaze
of light to dart on the chapel door; which is also adorned with marble,
in a plain but noble style of architecture.
The father sacristan stood ready on the steps of the portal to grant us
admittance; and, throwing open the valves, we entered the chapel and
were struck by the justness of its proportions, the simple majesty of
the arched roof, and the mild solemn light equally diffused over every
part of the edifice. No tawdry ornaments, no glaring pictures disgraced
the sanctity of the place. The high altar, standing distinct from the
walls, which were hung with a rich velvet, was the only object on which
many ornaments were lavished; and, it being a high festival, was
clustered with statues of gold, shrines, and candelabra of the
stateliest shape and most delicate execution. Four of the latter, of a
gigantic size, were placed on the steps; which, together with part of
the inlaid floor within the choir, were spread with beautiful carpets.
The illumination of so many tapers striking on the shrines, censers, and
pillars of polished jasper, sustaining the canopy of the altar, produced
a wonderful effect; and, as the rest of the chapel was visible only by
the feint external light admitted from above, the splendour and dignity
of the altar was enhanced by contrast. I retired a moment from it, and
seating myself in one of the furthermost stalls of the choir, looked
towards it, and fancied the whole structure had risen by “subtle magic,”
like an exhalation.
Here I remained several minutes breathing nothing but incense, and
should not have quitted my station soon, had I not been apprehensive of
disturbing the devotions of two aged fathers who had just entered, and
were prostrating themselves before the steps of the altar. These
venerable figures added greatly to the solemnity of the scene; which as
the day declined increased every moment in splendour; for the sparkling
of several lamps of chased silver that hung from the roofs, and the
gleaming of nine huge tapers which I had not before noticed, began to be
visible just as I left the chapel.
Passing through the sacristy, where lay several piles of rich
embroidered vestments, purposely displayed for our inspection, we
regained the cloister which led to our apartment, where the supper was
ready prepared. We had scarcely finished it, when the coadjutor, and the
fathers who had accompanied us before, returned, and ranging themselves
round the fire, resumed the conversation about St. Bruno.
Finding me disposed by the wonders I had seen in the day to listen to
things of a miraculous nature, they began to relate the inspirations
they had received from him, and his mysterious apparitions. I was all
attention, respect, and credulity. The old secretary worked himself up
to such a pitch of enthusiasm, that I am very much inclined to imagine
he believed in these moments all the marvellous events he related. The
coadjutor being less violent in his pretensions to St. Bruno’s modern
miracles, contented himself with enumerating the noble works he had done
in the days of his fathers, and in the old time before them.
It grew rather late before my kind hosts had finished their narrations,
and I was not sorry, after all the exercise I had taken, to return to my
cell, where everything invited to repose. I was charmed with the
neatness and oddity of my little apartment; its cabin-like bed, oratory,
and ebony crucifix; in short, every thing it contained; not forgetting
the aromatic odour of the pine, with which it was roofed, floored, and
wainscoted. The night was luckily dark. Had the moon appeared, I could
not have prevailed upon myself to have quitted her till very late; but,
as it happened, I crept into my cabin, and was by “whispering winds soon
lulled asleep.”
Eight o’clock struck next morning before I awoke; when, to my great
sorrow, I found the peaks, which rose above the convent, veiled in
vapours, and the rain descending with violence.
After we had breakfasted by the light of our fire (for the casements
admitted but a very feeble gleam), I sat down to the works of St.
Bruno; of all medleys one of the strangest. Allegories without end; a
theologico-natural history of birds, beasts, and fishes; several
chapters on paradise; the delights of solitude; the glory of Solomon’s
temple; the new Jerusalem; and numberless other wonderful subjects, full
of the loftiest enthusiasm. The revered author of this strangely
abstruse and mystic volume was certainly a being of no common order, nor
do we find in the wide circle of legendary traditions an event recorded,
better calculated to inspire the utmost degree of religious terror than
that which determined him to the monastic state.
St. Bruno was of noble descent, and possessed considerable wealth. Not
less remarkable for the qualities of his mind, their assiduous
cultivation obtained for him the chair of master of the great sciences
in the University of Rheims, where he contracted an intimate friendship
with Odo, afterwards Pope Urban II. Though it appears that a very
cheering degree of public approbation, and all the blandishments of a
society highly polished for the period, contributed, not unprofitably
one should think, to fill up his time, always singular, always
visionary, he began early in life to loathe the world, and sigh after
retirement.
But a most appalling occurrence converted these sighs into the deepest
groans. A man, who had borne the highest character for the exercise of
every virtue, died, and was being carried to the grave. The procession,
of which Bruno formed a part, was moving slowly on, when a low, mournful
sound issued from the bier. The corpse was distinctly seen to lift up
its ghastly countenance, and as distinctly heard to articulate these
words--“_I am summoned to trial._” After an agonizing pause, the same
terrific voice declared--“_I stand before the tribunal._” Some further
moments of amazement and horror having elapsed, the dead body lifted
itself up a third time, and moving its livid lips uttered forth this
dreadful sentence--“_I am condemned by the just judgment of God._”
“Alas! alas!” exclaimed Bruno--“of how little avail are apparent good
works, or the favourable opinion of mankind!