--Drink this, friend,; and tell me what you think of it.
At this, the priest of Graveson, with all the care of a jeweller
counting pearls, poured me two fingers of what proved to be a fresh,
golden, cordial, sparklingly exquisite liqueur.... It warmed the
cockles of my heart.
--It's Father Gaucher's elixir, the pleasure and toast of Provence,
crowed the kind man, it's made at the White Canons' Monastery, a few
kilometres from your windmill.... Now, isn't that worth all the
Chartreuses in the world?... And if you'd like to know the amusing
story of this delightful elixir, listen to this....
The presbytery's dining room was genuine, and calm, with little
pictures of the Stations of the Cross, and attractive, clear curtains
starched like a surplice. It was in there that the priest began this
short, and lightly sceptical and irreverent story, in the manner of
Erasmus, but completely without art, or malicious intent.
* * * * *
Twenty years ago, the Norbertian monks, called the White Canons in
Provence, hit some really hard times. To see their living conditions at
that time was to feel their pain.
Their great wall and St. Pacôme's tower were crumbling away. The
cloister was disappearing under the weeds, the columns were splitting,
and the stone saints were collapsing in their niches. There was no
stained glass window unbroken; nor door still on its hinges. Within the
chapels and the inner cloister, the Rhone wind entered, just like in
the Camargue, blowing out candles, bending the lead and breaking the
glass, and skimming the holy water from its font. Tellingly sadly, the
convent bell hung as silent as an empty dovecote, forcing the penniless
Fathers to call to matins with an almond wood clapper!...
Oh, the woeful White Canons. I can still see them in procession on
Corpus Christi day, sadly filing past in their patched capes--pale,
emaciated, as befitted their mainly watermelon diet--followed by his
grace the abbot, head lowered, shamed by his tarnished crosier, and his
eaten away, white, wool mitre. The lady followers of the brotherhood
were reduced to tears of pity in the procession, and the well-built
banner-carriers were tittering quietly amongst themselves as the poor
monks appeared,
--Those who dream together, starve together
The fact is that the unfortunate White Canons had come to the point
where they were wondering if they wouldn't be better off finding a
place in the real world with every man for himself.
One day when this grave matter was under discussion in the chapter, the
prior was informed that Brother Gaucher wanted to be heard in the
assembly.... Brother Gaucher was the monastery cowherd, which meant
that he spent his entire day wandering around the cloister, driving two
old, emaciated cows from one archway to another, to graze the grass in
the gaps in the paving. He had been looked after for twelve years by an
old woman from the Baux country, known as aunty Bégon, before he was
taken in by the monks. The unfortunate cowherd had been unable to learn
anything but how to look after his cattle and to recite his Our Father;
and then only in the Provencal language, as he was too dull witted for
anything else, and about as sharp as a butter-knife. Otherwise, he was
a fervent Christian, although a touch extreme, at ease in a hair shirt
and doing self-chastisement with commendable vigour, and, oh, brother,
his strong arms!...
As he entered the chapter room, simple and uncouth, and greeted the
assembly with a sort of curtsey, the Prior, Canons, Treasurer, in fact,
everybody began to laugh. His greying hair, goatee beard and slightly
wild eyes, always had this effect. It didn't bother Brother Gaucher,
though.
--Reverend Fathers, he said meekly, as he twiddled with his rosary of
olive pips, Although it's very true that empty vessels make the most
noise, I want you to know that by further furrowing my already poor,
furrowed brow, I think I have found a way to deliver us from our
hardship.
--This is what I propose. You all know about aunty Bégon, the kind
woman who looked after me when I was little. (May her soul rest in
peace, the old vixen! She used to sing filthy songs after drinking.) I
must tell you, Reverend Fathers, that when she was alive, she was as
familiar with the herbs of the mountainside, as the old Corsican
blackbird. Now, before she died, she developed a unique elixir made
from several different kinds of herbs that we had gathered in the
Alpilles.... All this was a long time ago, but, with the help of St.
Augustine, and your permission, Father Abbot, I should, if I search
thoroughly, be able to find the ingredients for this elixir. We will
then only have to bottle it, and sell it at a good profit. This would
allow the community to quietly fill its coffers, like our brother
Trappists and ... and their liqueur, Grand Chartreu ...
Before he could finish, the Prior had stood up and leapt round his
neck. The Canons shook him by the hand. But it was the treasurer, who
was more moved than all the others, and respectfully kissed the edge of
Brother Gaucher's frayed hood.... Each one then went back to his seat
and the chapter, still in session, elected to entrust the cows to
Brother Thrasybule, so that Brother Gaucher could dedicate himself to
making his elixir.
* * * * *
How what trials and tribulations the good Brother underwent to retrieve
aunty Bégon's recipe, history doesn't tell us. But what you can be
assured of, is that after only six months the White Canons' elixir was
very popular. Throughout the districts of Avignon and Arles there
wasn't a single farm which didn't have a store room containing a small
brown earthenware bottle showing the arms of Provence, and a silver
label depicting a monk in ecstasy, standing amongst the bottles of
sweet wine and jars of picholine olives. The elixir sold in a big way,
and the house of the White Canons soon became wealthy. St. Pacôme's
tower was rebuilt. The Prior gloried in a new mitre, the church was
fitted with finely worked stained glass; and in the fine filigree stone
work of the bell tower, a whole range of bells, large and small, rang
out their first fulsome peal on one fine Easter morning.
Brother Gaucher, the poor lay Brother, whose rustic charms, who had so
enlivened the chapter, is no longer to be found there. From now on, he
is known only as the Reverend Father Gaucher, a capable man of great
learning. He lives apart from the many petty concerns of the cloister,
locked all day in his distillery, while thirty monks scour the
mountainside collecting pungent herbs for him.... The distillery was in
an old unused chapel at the very bottom of the Canons' garden, and no
one, not even the Prior himself, had a right of access. The innocence
of the good Fathers had transformed it into a place of mystery and
wonder. If, on occasion, a bold and curious young monk made use of the
climbing vines to reach the rose window of the door, he would scramble
down soon enough, alarmed by the sight of Father Gaucher, who looked
like a bearded magician, leaning over his flames, holding his
elixir-strength-gauge. All around, there were pink stoneware retorts,
huge stills, coiled glass condensers, and all sorts of bizarre
equipment, which gleamed eerily in the red light from the stained glass
windows....
At nightfall, as the last angelus bell was ringing, the door of this
mysterious place silently opened, and the Reverend Father Gaucher
emerged to attend the evening church service. It warmed the heart to
see him greeted with such joy as he crossed the monastery grounds. The
brothers rushed to be at his side. They said:
--Hush! That's the Father with his secret!...
The Treasurer used to join him and spoke to him humbly....
With these adulations ringing in his ears, the Father walked on,
mopping his brow, and placed his wide brimmed tricorne hat on the back
of his head, where it gave all the appearance of a halo, and looked
complacently around at the great courtyard planted with orange trees,
and the new working weathercocks on the blue roofs. In the sparklingly
white cloister--between the elegant columns decorated with flowers--the
Canons, in new clothes, were filing past in pairs, in renewed health
and well-being.
--It's thanks to me they can enjoy all that! the Reverend thought; and
each time he did, he flushed with pride.
But, the unfortunate man was to be well punished for his pride, as you
will see....
* * * * *
Who would have thought, that one evening, during the service, he would
come to church in an extraordinarily agitated state: red-faced, out of
breath, his cowl askew, and so beside himself, that as he took the holy
water, he wet his sleeves up to the elbow. At first, it was thought it
was the embarrassment of coming late, but he was then seen bowing
deeply to the organ and the gallery instead of genuflecting to the high
altar, and then breezing quickly across the church, and wandering about
for five minutes looking for his stall. After all this, once seated, he
turned to right and left, smiling beatifically, prompting a murmur of
astonishment that spread down the three naves. From prayer book to
prayer book the whisper went,
--What on earth is the matter with Father Gaucher?... What's wrong with
Father Gaucher?
Twice, the Prior struck his crosier impatiently on the flagstones to
command silence.... Over at the back of the choir, the psalms were
still echoing out, but without any responses....
Suddenly, right in the middle of the _Ave Verum_, Father Gaucher
slumped back into his stall and began singing in a piercing voice:
In Paris, there was a White Canon,
Who went all the way with a black nun....
This caused everyone great dismay, and they all stood up. Somebody said:
--Take him out ... he's possessed!
The Canons crossed themselves. His Grace's crosier was clattering madly
away.... But Father Gaucher, was oblivious to all this; and two monks
were obliged to carry him out through the little choir door, struggling
as if he were being exorcised, and continuing with his hmm ... tune....
* * * * *
Very early the next day, the unhappy Father was in the Prior's oratory
on his knees, in floods of tears, showing his contrition:
--It's the elixir, your Grace, which caught me out, he said, striking
his chest. The good Prior himself was very moved to see him so grieved
and penitent.
--Come, come, Father Gaucher, calm down. All this will disappear like
dew in the sunshine.... After all, worse things happen at sea. Lots of
people begin to sing when they are a little... hmm, hmm! We must hope
that novices wouldn't have understood it.... For the moment, let's see,
tell me just how this thing came to pass.... You were trying out the
liqueur, weren't you? You were perhaps a little generous with your
measure.... Yes, yes, I understand.... It's just like Brother Schwartz,
the inventor of gunpowder: you succumbed to your own invention.... Tell
me, my dear friend, is it really necessary to test this terrific
liqueur on yourself?
--Alas, yes your Grace ... the elixir-strength-gauge tells me the
degree of the alcohol, but for the smoothness of the finished product,
I can trust nothing but my own palate....
--Oh yes, that's right ... but if I might press you a little further
... when you taste the elixir in that way, does it seem good to you? Is
it enjoyable?...
--Yes, I'm afraid it does your Grace, admitted the miserable Father,
flushing.... For two nights now, I found it had such a bouquet, such an
aroma!... The devil himself has played this dirty trick on me.... From
now on, I am determined only to try it by means of the
elixir-strength-gauge. Never mind if the liqueur is not good enough,
and if it isn't quite a diamond of a drink....
--Hold it right there, interrupted the Prior, sharply, We must not risk
upsetting the customers.... All you need to do for the moment, as a
precaution, is to keep a eye on yourself.... Let's see, how much does
it take to fully establish the quality?... Lets say twenty drops.... It
would need a hell of a devil to catch you out with just twenty
drops.... Moreover, to avoid any possibility of accident, I am giving
you a dispensation not to have to come to church. You can have a
private evening service in the distillery.... And now, you may go in
peace, Reverend, but ... be sure to count the drops.
Unfortunately, it was no use counting the drops.... The demon held of
him anyway, and having held him, wouldn't let go.
So, now it was the distillery that heard the _unusual_ service!
* * * * *
In the daytime all went well ... for a while. The Father was quite
relaxed: he prepared the stoves, the stills, and carefully selected the
herbs, fine, grey, dentate, the very scented essence of Provencal
sunshine.... But in the evening while the basic ingredients were
infusing and the elixir was cooling down in the large red coppers, the
poor man's torture began.
--... Seventeen ... eighteen ... nineteen ... twenty!...
The drops fell tantalisingly from the pipette into the silver-gilt
goblet. These twenty, the Father swallowed in one go, almost without
tasting them. Oh! How he would have loved to drink the health of that
twenty first drop! To escape temptation, he had to lose himself in
prayer kneeling at the far end of the laboratory. Unfortunately, the
still warm liqueur was still releasing a hint of aromatic fumes, which
swirled around him, and led him on regardless towards the vats.... The
liqueur was of such a lovely golden green colour.... Poised above it,
his nostrils aquiver, he stirred it very gently with his pipette, and
in the twinkling eddies, which were spreading throughout the emerald
ambrosia, he thought he saw the sparkling, laughing eyes of aunty Bégon
looking back at him....
--Oh! Alright! Just one more drop!
One drop, yes. And then another. And another, and another, and another,
until his goblet almost overflowed. By now, his struggle was over, and
he collapsed into a large armchair, his body cast off, his eyelids half
closed, in pleasure--and in pain--as he continued to sip his sinful cup
and said with sweet remorse:
--Oh! I'm damned if I do.... I'm damned if I don't....
But the worst was still to come. As he reached the end of the
diabolical liqueur, he recalled, by who knows what spell, some of the
dirty songs of aunty Bégon: _In Paris there was a White Canon_ ... and
so on....
Imagine the fuss the next day, when his neighbouring cell mates joked
to him knowingly:
--Hey! Hey! Father Gaucher, you were well off your head last night when
you went to bed.
It all ended in tears, recriminations, fasting, the hair shirt, and
chastisement, of course. But nothing, nothing could defeat the demon of
the drink, and every evening, at the same time, the same story.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, the orders were flooding into the abbey, and it was a
blessing. They came from Nîmes, Aix, Avignon, Marseilles.... Day by day
the monastery was gradually turning into a factory. There were Brother
packers, Brother labellers, Brother accountants, and even Brother
wagoners. The service to the Lord, though, was getting well and truly
lost, despite the odd peal of bells. But, I can reveal to you that the
poor folk of the area weren't losing out by it....
And then, one fine Sunday morning, as the Treasurer was reading out his
end of year report before the whole chapter, and the good Brothers,
wide eyed and smiling, were listening, Father Gaucher rushed into the
meeting shouting:
--It's all over.... I am doing no more.... I want my cows back.
--So what's wrong, Father Gaucher? asked the Prior, who could well
imagine something of what was wrong.
--What is wrong, your Grace?... What is wrong is that I am making an
eternity of hell fire and forks for myself.... It is wrong that I am
drinking, and I am drinking like a sot....
--But I told you to count the drops.
--Oh! Yes, of course, count the drops! Actually, I count by tumblers
these days.... Yes, Reverends, that's how bad things are. Three flagons
every evening.... You must understand that this can't continue.... Have
the elixir made by whomever you choose.... But, may I burn in God-sent
fire, if I have anything more to do with it.
This sobered up the chapter, at least.
--But, wretched man, you will ruin us! the treasurer shouted,
brandishing his account book.
--Would you rather that I am damned?
With that the Prior stood up:
--Reverends, he said, stretching out his elegant white hand with its
shining pastoral ring, there is a way to settle this.... It's in the
evening, isn't it, my dear son, when the demon tempts you?...
--Yes, Prior, regularly every evening.... As well as that, as the night
approaches, I get, begging your pardon, the sweats, which grip me just
like Capitou's ass when he sees them coming to saddle him.
--Well then, let me reassure you.... Henceforth, every evening, during
the service, we will say, for your benefit, the prayer of St.
Augustine, to which a plenary indulgence is attached.... After that,
you are covered no matter what happens.... It brings absolution during
the actual commission of the sin.
--Oh that's really excellent! Thank you so much, Prior!
And without asking for more, Father Gaucher went happily back to his
stills, walking on air.
Actually, from that moment, every evening, at the end of the last
service of the day, the celebrant never forgot to add:
--Let us pray for our unfortunate Father Gaucher, who is sacrificing
his soul for the benefit of the community.... Pray for us, Lord....
And while, on all the white hoods of the Brothers, prostrated in the
shade of the naves, the prayer fluttered like a slight breeze on snow,
elsewhere, at the back of the monastery, behind the flickering reddened
glass of the distillery, Father Gaucher could be heard singing at the
top of his voice,
In Paris, there was a White Canon,
Who went all the way with a black nun....
* * * * *
... Here, the good priest paused, horrified:
--Mercy me! If my parishioners could only hear me!