One day we went together into the cell of a certain Carthusian monk, a man
whose rare beauty of mind, and extraordinary piety, drew many to visit him,
and in later days have taken his candlestick from under its bushel and set
it up on high as one of the lights of the French Church.
He had written in capital letters round the walls of his cell these two
beautiful lines of an old Latin poet:
_Tu mihi curarum requies, tu nocte vel atra
Lumen, et in solis tu mihi turba locis._[1]
Thou art my rest in grief and care,
My light in blackest gloom;
In solitude which thou dost share,
For crowds there is no room.
Our Blessed Father read and re-read these lines several times, thinking
them so beautiful that he wished to engrave them on his memory, believing
that they had been written by some Christian poet, perhaps Prudentius.
Finding, however, that they were composedly a pagan, and on a profane
subject, he said it was indeed a pity that so brilliant a burst of light
should only have flashed out from the gross darkness of heathenism.
"However," he continued, "this good Father has made the vessels of the
Egyptians into a tabernacle, lining it with the steel mirrors which had
lent themselves to feminine vanity. Thus it is that to the pure all
things are pure. This, indeed, is quite a different thing from the way of
acting of those who make light of the holy words of Scripture, using them
carelessly and even jestingly in idle conversation, a practice intolerable
among Christians who profess to reverence these oracles of salvation."
We then began to analyse these beautiful lines, taking them in the sense in
which the holy monk had taken them when he wrote them on his walls, namely,
as addressed to God. Our Blessed Father said that God alone was the repose
of those who had quitted the world and its cares to listen to His voice
speaking to their hearts in solitude, and that without this attentive
hearkening, solitude would be a long martyrdom, and a source of anxiety in
place of a centre of tranquillity.
At the same time he said that those who were burdened with Martha's busy
anxieties would not fail to enjoy in the very midst of their hearts the
deep peace of Mary's better part, provided they carried all their cares to
God.
We saw afterwards another inscription containing these words of the
Psalmist:
_This is my rest for ever and ever:
Here will I dwell for I have chosen it._[2]
"It is in God," said our Blessed Father, "rather than in a cell, that we
should choose our abode, never to change it. Oh! happy and blessed are they
who dwell in that house, which is not only the house of the Lord, but the
Lord Himself. Happy, indeed, for they shall praise Him for ever and ever."
Then we came upon another inscription, bearing these words: _One thing I
have asked of the Lord, this will I seek after; that I may see the delight
of the Lord and visit His Temple._[3]
"This true dwelling of the Lord," said he, "is His holy will; which is
signified by the word delight; i.e., pleasure. Since in God there is no
pleasure that is not good, what difference can there be between the _good
pleasure_ and the _will_ of God? The will of God never tends but towards
goodness."
We then went back to the second part of the Latin distich: _Tu nocte vel
atra, lumen: my light in blackest gloom._
"Yes, truly," he said, "Jesus born in Bethlehem brought a glorious day-dawn
into the midst of night; and by His Incarnation did He not come to
enlighten those who were sitting in darkness and in the shadow of death? He
is, indeed, our Light and our Salvation; when we walk through the valley of
the shadow of death we need fear nothing if He is at our side. He is the
Light of the world; He dwells in light inaccessible, light that no darkness
can overtake. He alone can lighten our darkness."
Upon the last clause of the beautiful verse:
_Et in solis tu mihi turba locis.
In solitude which thou dost share, For crowds there is no room._
he said: "Yes, communion with God in solitude is worth a thousandfold
the pleasantest converse with the gay crowds who throng the doors of the
wealthy; for the rich man can only maintain his splendour by dint of much
toil, and is worn out by his cares and by the importunity of others.
Miserable, indeed, are riches acquired at so great cost, retained with so
much trouble, and yet lost with such painful regret."
This was one of his favourite sayings: "We must find our pleasure in
ourselves when we are alone, and in our neighbour as in ourselves when we
are in his company. Yet, wherever we may be, we must primarily find our
pleasure in God alone, who is the maker of both solitude and society. He
who does otherwise will find all places wearisome and unsatisfying; for
solitude without God is death, and the society of men without God is more
harmful than desirable. Wherever we may be, if God is there, all is well:
where He is not, nothing is well: without Him we can do nothing that has
any worth."
[Footnote 1: Tibul iv., Eleg xiii. ii. 12.]
[Footnote 2: Psal. cxxxi. 14.]
[Footnote 3: Psal. xxvi. 4.]