I am now at Riberac--the Ribeyrac of Dante's commentators, who generally
prefer to abide by the old spelling. One might expect this ancient little
town to offer much interest to the archaeologist, but it does not. Its
interest lies almost wholly in its literary associations of Arnaud Daniel,
and of him mainly because Dante chanced to meet him in purgatory. Here
was the castle--there is nothing of it now--where the thirteenth-century
troubadour was born whom Petrarch described as '_Il grande maestro
d'amore,_' and whom Dante made Guido speak of as a poet in these words of
unqualified praise:
'Questi ch' io ti scerno
Fu miglior fabbro del parlar materno:
Versi d'amore e prose di romanzi
Soverchio tutti.'
Dante having asked for the name on earth of this gifted soul, the
troubadour replied in the tongue that he had learned from his mother's lips
at Riberac:
'Jeu sui Arnaulz che plor e vai cantan.'
Arnaud's modern critics admire him less than did Dante and Petrarch; but he
had a gift of sweet song, and he owed it doubtless in no small measure
to the influence of the lovely Dronne, on whose banks he must have often
rambled in childhood--that season when impressions are unconsciously laid
up which shape the future life of the intellect. No Englishman should pass
through Arnaud's birthplace with indifference, for he was the first to put
into literary form the story of Lancelot of the Lake.
Although Arnaud Daniel's castle has quite disappeared, much of the church,
that was almost a new one in his time, still remains. It was originally
Byzantine-Romanesque, but in the sixteenth century it underwent fantastic
restoration, and was badly married to another style without a name. What
struck me most on entering was the religious darkness through which one
sees the suspended lamp of the sanctuary gleaming like a star, and behind
it the dim outline of the altar. This crypt-like appearance is explained
by the absence even of a single window in the apse, which is covered by a
semi-dome. The Romanesque tower is very low and broad, with a broach spire
roofed with stones.
What a contrast to the deep shadow of the church was the brilliant white
light that I met outside, and to the grave-like silence the sawing sound of
the cicadas, drunk with sunshine, in the neighbouring tree-tops!
I set out from Riberac to cross that tract of country between the Dronne
and the Isle which is known as the Double. It is still one of the most
forlorn wildernesses in all France; but, like the Camargue, it has been
much changed of late years by drainage and cultivation, and is destined
to become productive and prosperous. For incalculable centuries it had
remained a baneful solitude, overgrown with virgin forest, except in
the hollows between the low hills, which succeed one another like the
undulations of the sea; and here, almost hidden in summer by tall reeds
and sedges, lay the pools and bogs that poisoned the air and rendered
the climate abominable. In the midst of this marshy, cretaceous desert,
stretching between the Isle and its tributary, the Dronne, and close to a
wretched fever-stricken village called Échourgnac, a small community of
Trappist monks established themselves in 1868. They did not go there merely
as ascetics fleeing from the world, but also as philanthropists, prepared
to sacrifice their lives for the good of humanity. Their mission was to
drain and to cultivate this most unhealthy part of the Double, and to
improve the condition of the peasants who eked out a miserable existence
there. With what success the monks have applied themselves to their task
of changing the climate by drainage, and assisting the peasants in their
struggle, is proved by the sentiments of the people towards them. When,
under the Third Republic, the unauthorized religious orders were expelled
from France, the inhabitants of the Double threatened to resist by force
any official interference with the Trappists at Échourgnac, and the
agitation was so great that the counsel given by the local authorities
to the Government was to leave these monks alone. It was acted upon. The
Trappists, like the Carthusians, were left undisturbed in this and in other
parts of the country.
When I had turned south-westward, on the road to Montpont, I saw nothing
for five or six miles that corresponded to what I had been told of the
Double. Yellow corn-fields and green meadows covered the fertile plain. It
was not until I had passed the village of St. Vauxains, and had reached the
top of the line of hills beyond, that the character of the country changed
decisively. Now, as I left the broad and favoured valley, and reached
the brow of the hilly range that helps to keep the water stagnant and
imprisoned in the Double, meadow and corn-field grew scarcer and scarcer,
and then passed altogether into the wooded moorland. Cultivation returned
at intervals, then vanished again. I was upon an undulating plateau with
far-off higher hills closing the horizon all around. The reclaimed land was
in the hollows or upon the surrounding slopes; but here, too, the scrubby
forest might be seen stretching for miles without a break. The heat was
intense, and the sky had become stormy.
When I left Riberac the blue above was without a spot, but now heavy masses
of cloud were hovering in the sky. As yet there was not wind enough to
rustle a leaf, and the dwarf oaks gave little shelter from the ardent sun.
The air that rose from the heather and bracken was like the breath of a
furnace. There were a few scattered cottages and farm-buildings, lying
chiefly near the road, and the turkeys and geese that roamed around them
were a sign that they were inhabited; but I rarely saw a human being.
I was resting awhile by a reedy pool fringed with gorse and heather, and
was listening to the oriels answering one another upon their Pan-pipes,
when I saw coming towards me a figure which might have disturbed me very
much had I been living in those days when--if there is any truth in
legendary lore--the devil only needed half a pretext for forcing his
society upon lonely travellers. This man--for man it was--had a face
so overgrown with coal-black hair that very little could be seen of
it excepting the eyes and nose. Beard, whiskers, and moustache were
inseparably mixed up. What skin was visible through the matted jungle of
hair was little less swarthy than a Hindu's. All the upper part of this
astonishing head was hidden by a large hat of black straw, shaped like
an inverted washing-basin. The rest of the figure was clad in a frock of
dark-brown serge, with hanging hood. Not expecting to see a Trappist where
I was, I was startled for a moment by the apparition, but I quickly guessed
that this was one of the brothers of the still distant monastery who had
been sent out on some little expedition into the district. As he passed,
he raised his hat just enough to show that the close-cropped black hair
beneath it was turning gray.
The road led me through a little village where there was an old Romanesque
church. There were numerous archivolts over the broad portal, and above
these was a horizontal dog's-tooth moulding with grotesque heads at
intervals; but time had effaced most of the carving. All about the church
the long grass and gaudy mulleins stood over the bones of men and women
who, like their parents before them, had clung to their old homes in the
midst of the pestilential marshes, suffering continually from malaria,
watching their children grow paler and paler, and yet never thinking of
surrender. What a strange combination of heroism, obstinacy, and stupidity
do we find in human nature! But now things had changed here. There was an
air of prosperity in the village, and the people said that the fever had
almost left them.
While crossing another bit of wild and deserted country, I saw the dark
gleam of poisonous pools nearly hidden by sallows and reeds. The vibration
of my footsteps disturbed the vipers that lay near the hot road; they slid
down the banks and curved out of sight amongst the roots of the heather.
These reptiles abound in the Double; conditions that are baneful to men are
healthful to them. The sighing of the pines added to the sadness of the
land, for these trees now appeared in clumps along the way-side, and the
storm-wind had begun to blow. The sun was shining obliquely through a
dun-coloured haze when I reached the village of Échourgnac in a
cultivated valley. Here the cattle and the green fields were signs of
the cheese-making industry carried on at the monastery. The conventual
buildings were now visible on the top of the neighbouring hill, with the
church spire higher against the sky than all the rest. I made my way
towards this little fortress of asceticism hidden from the world amidst the
woods and marshes.
I had made up my mind to spend the night with the Trappists, even if I was
obliged to accept their charity and to allow myself to be classed with
those tramps who have no literary pretext for their vagabond ways. Indeed,
I had been given to understand by all to whom I had spoken on the subject
in the district, that the reverend fathers gave money sometimes to the
wayfarer, but accepted none in return for food and shelter. That part of me
in which the conventional is concentrated said: 'Stop at the inn;' but the
other part, which has the curiosity and the errantry of the man who has
never been perfectly civilized, said: 'Go on, and whatever happens pass the
night with the Trappists.'
Having reached the monastery gate, the next thing to do was to pull the
bell. The porter opened first his wicket and then the door. The superior
could not be approached for a quarter of an hour, so I was asked to wait
in the lodge. Thus I had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the
porter. Although he was very much in religion, having been a brother at
Échourgnac since the foundation, he might be termed without disrespect 'a
jolly old soul.' He was, as he said, a man who had no pretensions whatever
to be learned. His lack of book knowledge made him all the more natural.
His age appeared to be about sixty-five, but he had a body that was still
robust and vigorous under his dirty brown frock, although he had been
living so many years on bread and cheese and vegetables, and short commons
withal. The post of porter must have helped him not a little to bear up
against the discipline, for it allowed him the use of his tongue, and the
rule of silence would have been a more severe trial to him than to many
another. He poured out some beer for me from a great stone jar that he kept
near at hand. I had heard that the Trappists of Échourgnac added to their
other accomplishments the arts of beer-brewing and wine-making, and was
therefore not surprised by the porter's kindly offer; but when I noticed
the yellow colour and soup-like consistency of the fluid that he poured out
for me, I was sorry that I had accepted it.
'It is a little thick,' said the Trappist, whose keen eyes had noticed that
there was a lack of warmth in the manner in which I took the glass from his
hand, 'but the beer is good. It is rather new.'
'It must be very nourishing,' I replied, after heroically draining the cup
of tribulation.
'Have some more?' said this good-natured Trappist as he raised the jar
again. I saved myself from a second dose by an energetic '_Merci!_' and
changed his thoughts by asking him if he had been a long time at the
monastery.
'I was one of the first lot who came here in July, 1868. There were
twenty-two of us in all, _pères et frères_, and two or three weeks
afterwards seventeen were down with fever. You can have no idea of what it
was here five-and-twenty years ago. The country was unfit for human beings.
The people went shivering about in the heat of summer wrapped up as they
would be in the depth of winter. It was pitiful to see them.'
He then entered into details respecting the clearing of the land, the
draining of the pools, etc. Suddenly remembering the flight of time, he
disappeared with my card, and left me in charge of the lodge. Presently he
came back, and told me that the reverend father was unwell, and could not
see anybody, but that I could pass the night in the monastery if I wished
to do so. The porter led me through a great farmyard, then through a
doorway into a room, in the centre of which was a large table, and in
the corners were four very small and low wooden bedsteads with meagre
mattresses, a couple of sheets, and a coloured quilt.
When we entered, two men were seated at the table eating bread and
cheese and drinking home-brewed beer. One was quite young, perhaps
five-and-twenty, and it was to him that the brother who parleyed with the
outer world at the gate introduced me, with the recommendation that he
should do all in his power for me, adding, with an emphasis by which he
gained my friendship for ever: '_Je réponds sur vous._' The young man said
that as soon as he had finished his own meal he would see to my supper. I
begged him to take his time, as I was in no hurry.
The good porter, still solicitous, asked where I was going to sleep, and
the young man, who I afterwards learnt was a postulant, pointed to a bed
in one of the corners. I was then left with my two new acquaintances. The
postulant had very soon finished, and having brushed the crumbs off his
part of the bare board with his hand, he disappeared, to see what he could
find for me in the kitchen. The man who remained also brought his meal to
a close, but he did not whisk the crumbs away; he brushed them into little
heaps, and, wetting his forefinger, raised them by this means to his mouth.
He was about fifty; his chin was shaved, but he wore whiskers, and a long
rusty overcoat hung nearly down to his heels. He was very quiet, and I
thought he looked like a repentant cabman. There was something about the
man that excited my curiosity, but I felt that, considering where I was, it
would be very bad taste to put any leading questions to him respecting his
history. I nevertheless found a way of getting into conversation with him,
and he did not need much persuasion to talk. He was rather incoherent,
but I gathered from what he said that he had wandered a good deal from
monastery to monastery, now in the world and now almost 'in religion,'
without finding anchorage anywhere.
'The world,' he said, 'is like a rotten plank, and we are like smoke that
comes and goes. If we do not think of eternity, we are shipwrecked.'
Feeling, perhaps, that something in the world was a little more solid after
the bread and cheese and beer than it was before, he was working himself up
to a communicative humour, and I was beginning to hope that I should
soon know what sort of a character he really was, when the return of the
postulant changed his ideas as effectually as if a bucket of water had been
thrown in his face. When he ventured to speak again, the younger man told
him that it was six o'clock, and that the whole community was now expected
to observe the rule of silence.
'Do not be angry,' he added, as he heard the other mutter something that
escaped me.
'I am not angry,' replied the owner of the long coat as he glided softly
out of the room.
I was now alone with the postulant, who made matters pleasanter for me by
giving a generous interpretation to the rule of silence in so far as it
applied to himself. He told me that, as I had come after the hour of the
second meal, the _frère cuisinier_ was not in the kitchen, but at _salve;_
consequently there was no possibility of getting even an omelet made
for me. After looking, however, into all the corners of the kitchen, my
providential man had discovered some cold macaroni, which he presented to
me in a small tin plate. I do not know how it had been cooked, but its
very dark colour made me suspicious of it. Although I knew it was quite
wholesome, I thought it safer to leave it untouched, and to be satisfied
with bread and cheese. Now, this cheese, made by the Trappists of the
Double upon the Port-Salut recipe, which is a secret of the Order, is of
excellent quality, and deserves its reputation. The monastery bread, made
from the wheat grown by the monks, was of the substantial and honest kind
which in England would probably be called 'farmhouse bread,' although the
great wheel or trencher-shaped loaves of the French provinces might cause
some surprise there. My meal, therefore, might have been worse than it was,
and as it was given to me for nothing, it would have been very bad manners
not to appear pleased. The truth is, the novelty of my position--that of
a tramp taken in and fed on charity--amused me so much that I found
everything perfect. I had an idea 'at the back of the head' that I should
find a way of squaring matters financially with the holy men, but I did
not wish to tell it even to myself then. I must confess that when a black
bottle was placed beside the bread and cheese on the bare table, I was weak
enough to hope that it contained some of the excellent white wine which I
was told the Trappists made; but when the liquor came out the colour of pea
soup, I recognised the religious beer which had already disappointed me. As
I could get nothing better, and the water being distinctly bad, the most
sensible thing to do was to be reconciled to the beer, and in this I
succeeded very fairly. Necessity is not the mother of invention only. The
wine, I afterwards learnt, is only drunk at the convent in winter. Much of
it is sold to priests for sacramental use.
When I had taken the keen edge off my hunger, I began to feel a fresh
interest in the postulant. Somehow, he did not appear to me to be of the
stuff out of which monks, especially Trappists, are made, although I know
that in all that relates to the interior workings of a man there are
no outward signs to be relied upon. There is puzzle enough in our own
contradictions to discourage us from trying to find consistency in others;
but we try all the same. We have a fine sense of proportion and harmony
when we analyze our fellow-beings, but none whatever when we turn the
faculty introspectively. The sanctimonious undertone in which this young
man spoke struck me as being false, for there was nothing in him that I
could discover which linked him to the ascetic ideal of life. But then the
question arose, Why was he there? He was strong and healthy; he had a deep
colour on his cheeks, and a humorous twinkle in his eye. He did not look as
if he had been crossed in love, or had received any of the scars of passion
such as might account for his wish to become a Trappist. He had seen
something of the world. He had been to Chili, among other countries, and
the war there had ruined his prospects, so he told me. I concluded, from
what he said, that on his return to France he had sought a temporary refuge
with the Trappists, and that he preferred to remain under the shelter that
he had found there rather than run the risk of worse in the struggle for
life outside. Becoming more confidential, he told me that what was most
difficult to be borne by those in his position was the rule of absolute
submission and obedience.
I had not been at the table long, when this postulant glided out of the
room, saying:
'I will see if there is a way of getting another bottle of beer.'
Presently he returned with a bottle under his arm, and then I learnt that
the abbot had given orders that I was to pass the night _dans la chambre
de Monseigneur._ The prospect of sleeping in the bishop's bed furnished me
with a conscientious reason for not drawing the cork from the second
bottle of monastic barley-brew; but my companion, who was more or less in
religion, did not give me a chance of refusing, for he drew it himself and
filled two glasses.
'_Nous allons trinquer,_' said he.
We clinked glasses, and talked with greater freedom, although the postulant
still spoke under his breath--it was a habit that he had fallen into. We
were interrupted by a scuffling outside, and by the opening of the door. A
couple of monks in brown frocks were on the threshold. A small gray-bearded
brother with a bent back held in one hand a pewter plate and in the other
a little basin of the same metal. He was the _frère cuisinier_, who had
returned from _salve_, and he had come to offer me some vegetable soup
and some more macaroni, both of which I declined. Not a word did these
Trappists say, but they carried on with the postulant a conversation in
dumb show as to what my requirements would be on the morrow. They stroked
their noses, rubbed their fingers together, and grimaced so expressively
all on my account that I was much amused, and would have liked to laugh
outright; but I durst not in such company.
When they had left I took a stroll outside, for as yet I felt no
inclination to go to bed, notwithstanding that a bishop had slept upon the
same mattress that was waiting for me. Keeping within the convent bounds,
where no woman is allowed to set her foot--that troublesome foot whose
imprint may be found on most of the paths that lead to a Trappist monastery
in the obscure forest of human motives--wandering beyond the buildings,
but still within the enclosure, I came to a bit of waste land covered with
heather and gorse that overlooked the wooded wilderness towards the west,
as a headland bluff overlooks the sea.
The sun had set, and the wild spirits of the storm had drawn a translucent
drapery of vapour from the dark thundercloud hovering overhead to where the
fringe of the forest broke the blood-stained bar upon the horizon's verge,
and this luminous orange-coloured curtain was crossed every moment upwards
and downwards by silvery shafts of lightning. Such an effect of sunset
combined with storm was like a new revelation of nature, and the sublimity
of the spectacle would have held me fast to the patch of wild heath if the
rain had not begun to fall in splashes. The long summer day was over, and
the night came forth in trouble and with gushing tears. The roar of the
thunder grew louder, and the flash of the lightning brightened every
minute.
I returned to the monastery, and found the postulant quite anxious to
have done with me, and to put me into the bishop's room. He was
sleepy--everybody gets sleepy in these country places at about nine
o'clock, irrespective of canonical hours, whereas I grow livelier, like
a night-bird, as the dusk deepens. All the monks must have been in their
cells snoring with the clear conscience which is the gift of the day that
has been well filled up when I reluctantly entered the only room in the
place that had any pretension to comfort, but which to me was like a
prison. I was making an effort to acquire the virtue of resignation, when
the postulant spoilt the mood by speaking again of beer. Had he picked up
in his wanderings the notion that an Englishman could not live unless he
were kept well supplied with beer, or had he formed an exaggerated idea of
the seductiveness of the strange but innocent liquor that the Trappists
brewed? Whatever his thoughts may have been, he darted away in spite of my
endeavour to stop him, and presently reappeared with another black bottle.
I knew that he had not obtained it without diplomacy, and that he had made
my unquenchable thirst the excuse; but by this time I had perceived that
his solicitude was not wholly unselfish. He muttered something about
'charity' as he filled a glass for me, notwithstanding my refusal; then
vanished with the bottle. He had promised to wake me at two o'clock for
matins.
When left alone, I made an inspection of the bishop's room. It was spacious
enough for fifty people to dance in, and the furniture would not have been
greatly in the way. The stones which made the floor had no carpet, not even
the _descente de lit_, which in France is considered indispensable even
when the floor is of wood. In the corner was a low wooden bedstead with
dingy curtains suspended from a rafter, and a paillasse of maize-leaves
with a thin wool mattress above it. Coarse hempen sheets and a coloured
coverlet completed the bedding. By the side against the wall was a broad
_prie-Dieu_, with a lithograph just above it of the Holy Child bearing the
cross. A plain table in the centre without a cloth, a _secrétaire_ with
high crucifix attached, another bare table with washing-basin, jug, and
folded towel, with a few chairs and several religious prints, made up the
furniture.
This room was on the ground-floor, and looked out upon a long covered
terrace, with the farmyard immediately beyond. I opened the sashes--I had
already prevailed upon the postulant not to fasten the shutters--and,
having blown out the candle, I lit my pipe. I suppose if I had had any
sense of propriety I should have refrained from smoking in the bishop's
room; but what was I to do, a prisoner there at nine o'clock in the
evening, and not a bit sleepy? If it had been a fine evening, I do not
think I could have resisted the temptation to jump out of the window and to
stroll back to the patch of imprisoned moor. First a cat and then a great
dog came sneaking along, and I tried to get on friendly terms with them
from the window; but they, too, seemed to have renounced the world, with
all its pomps and vanities, to conform to the Trappist rule, for each of
them looked at me with pity and reproach out of the corner of the eye, and
described a wide semicircle, at the risk of getting wet, in order not to
be drawn into conversation. But the storm, at all events, had not been
silenced; the thunder growled and groaned, and every half-minute the
lightning lit up all the stones and puddles of the great farmyard, beyond
which my vision was cut off by the roofs of the outbuildings.
Notwithstanding the unpleasantness of being shut up, I felt that if the
management of the weather had been left to me I could not have arranged
things better for my first night in a Trappist monastery. Here I was in the
midst of the desolation of the Double under the same roof with men who were
driven into this shelter by the desolation of their souls. Tempest-tossed
by the conflict of the spirit and the flesh, wounded, perhaps, by secret
griefs and humiliations, strong, perchance, in the eyes of others, while
never sure of themselves from one hour to another, putting out upon the
same sea again and again only to be thrown back upon the same desert shore,
they at length settled down here, and they must have done so with the calm
conviction that they had found the medicine to suit their kind of sickness
in a life of incessant punishment of self and labour for others.
It was about eleven when I felt tired enough to lie down. I had not been in
this position long when something bit me. I thought I knew the enemy, but
I dared not whisper its name even to myself, for I was overcome by its
condescension. From a bishop to me was a fall in the social scale that
ought to have made the most voracious insect tremble on the edge of the
precipice. Maybe it did tremble before it yielded to temptation and forgot
its dignity.
The storm continued all night with intervals of calm. A little before two
o'clock the bell was rung for matins. The clang of the metal must have been
heard clear and shrill far over the Double, even when the storm seemed to
be rending the black sails of the clouds asunder. The postulant fetched me,
as he had promised, and he led me through a labyrinth of passages to the
church. Although the building was almost in darkness, I could see that
it was in the Pointed style, and that it was marked by a cold elegance
befitting its special purpose. The nave was divided near the middle by a
Gothic screen of wood artistically carved, although the ornamental motive
had been kept in subjection. The half that adjoined the sanctuary was
somewhat higher than the other, and here the Trappist fathers had their
stalls. The brothers' stalls were in the lower part. I was led to a
place below the screen. The office had already commenced; the monotonous
plain-chant by deep-toned voices had reached me in the corridors. Perhaps
it was half an hour later when the chanting ceased. The lamps were darkened
in the stalls above the screen--in the lower part there was but one very
small light suspended from the vault--then the monks knelt each upon the
narrow piece of wood affixed to his stall for this purpose, and for half an
hour with heads bent down they prayed in silence, while the thunder groaned
outside, and the lightning flashed through the clerestory windows. To the
Trappists, who day after day, year after year, at the same hour had been
going through the same part of their unchanging discipline, heedless
whether the stars shone overhead or the lightning glittered, there was
nothing in all this to draw their minds from the circle of devotional
routine: I alone felt as if I was going down into my grave. The gray light
that was now making the ribs of the vaulting dimly visible was like the
dawn of eternity breaking through the brief night called Death, which is
not perhaps so dark as it seems. At three o'clock the chill and awful
silence was broken by the white-robed prior, who rose from his low posture
like a dead man in his shroud, and began to chant in another tone and
measure from what had gone before. It had in it the sadness of the wind
that I heard moaning in the pine-tops on the moor before the storm broke.
The voice was strong and clear, but so solemn that it was almost unearthly;
and it seemed in some strange way to mingle with the purity of the cold
dawn that comes when all the passions of the world are still, but which
makes the leaves tremble at the crime and trouble of another day.
When the prior stood up, the brothers left to begin their manual labour,
each one in his allotted place. The fathers remained in their stalls until
after the four o'clock mass, and then they, too, fell to work until six
o'clock--the hour of prime. I soon followed the brothers, although not so
far as the fields, the cheese-rooms, and farm-buildings. I returned to my
room; but as I had to pass on the upper side of the screen on leaving the
church, I looked at the two rows of white figures standing in their stalls.
It may have been the effect of the mingled daylight and lamplight: whatever
the reason, I thought during those few seconds that I had never before seen
such a collection of strange and startling faces. They were those of sombre
men who had walked through hell like Dante, and who bore upon their calm
and corpse-like features the deep-cut traces of the flame and horror.
I took up my old place by the window, and watched in the twilight of
morning an aged brother, with frock hitched up above his naked ankles and
his feet in great _sabots_, fetch sack after sack of what I supposed to be
bran, and carry it away on his shoulders. He passed close to me, and looked
at me with an expression which I interpreted to mean: 'You must be a
lunatic to stare at me instead of going to bed--you, who have Monseigneur's
soft bed, and are at liberty to sleep.' But no word passed between us. At
length I did go to bed again, and slept.
I was awakened by a noise in my room, and on opening my eyes I saw a long
figure in white two or three yards from me, and I realized that a Trappist
father was watching me. Then, when he perceived that I was awake, he glided
from the room without saying a word. Had I spoken, he would have replied,
and explained what he wanted; but I had not recovered sufficiently from my
surprise to remember the rule until he was gone. I now called to mind that
the postulant had told me over-night that a certain father would show me
round the monastery after prime. This, then, was he, and I was doubtless
keeping him waiting, for it was seven o'clock. A few minutes later he
returned. I was then at my ablutions.
Now, although I have grown pretty well accustomed to go through this daily
duty with the aid of salad-bowls and slop-basins while living in the French
provinces, I think it good for the mind to keep up the illusion of a
thorough wash even when this is practically impossible. When, therefore,
the Trappist stalked again into my room without giving me warning, his
costume, simple as it was, was surpassed by the simplicity of mine. I told
him that I would be with him in two or three minutes, and he retired with
a slow and stately nod. I tried very hard to keep my word, for I expected
every moment to see the door open again. When I opened it myself, I found
the father pacing slowly in the passage. Knowing that there is not much to
be had in a Trappist monastery without asking, I opened the conversation
by making some delicate allusions to breakfast. The truth is that the
bread-and-cheese supper was nothing to me now but an unsatisfactory
recollection, and, with the sense of vacuum that distressed me, I was
unwilling to follow the monk upon the promised round, lest I should die of
inanition on the way. He asked me what I would like to eat, and I said,
'Anything that is near at hand.' Had I suggested that a chop or a steak
would be suitable after so light a dinner, I should not have had it; but I
might have received a large measure of silent reprobation for my bad taste
in asking for it, and also for having reminded a Trappist of such vanities
of the past.
The father--he was becoming fatherly indeed--went to a cupboard of the
_salle à manger_ already described, and brought out what I had left of the
bread and cheese set before me the previous evening. Having placed this
on the table, with a bottle of beer--the postulant had led me to hope
for coffee and milk, but there was evidently no escape from malt liquor
here--he withdrew to a little office close by where he was wont to perform
the daily duty of keeping the cheese accounts of the monastery. I felt sure
that when he had reckoned up a few figures he would be coming round to
tear me away from the bread and cheese, so I endeavoured to hasten the
consumption with as much speed as I could decently put on. I was right in
my conjecture. I had not been seated five minutes, when he came back and
wandered half round the table.
'_J'aurai fini dans un petit moment, mon père,_' said I, as I cut off
another piece of cheese. By-the-bye, nobody should call a Trappist
'_monsieur_,' because the monk has ceased to have even a name of his
own other than his religious one, and has become a father or brother to
everybody. He returned to his accounts; but he had not gone very deeply
into them when he saw me standing at the door of his little den. He left
his books at once, and we walked side by side where he chose to lead me. He
was a rather tall man, with a face that was an enigma. The features were
so like those of the late Mr. Charles Bradlaugh, that if the English
Freethinker had disappeared mysteriously I might have strongly suspected
him of having turned Trappist.
This father volunteered no information whatever; it had all to be drawn out
of him. He spoke in a low voice, and, as it appeared to me, with something
of the hesitation of a man who is recalling his mother tongue after many
years of disuse. His face was large and heavy; but there was a keen light
in his eyes which at times was that of gaiety well kept under. He soon let
me see that even a Trappist may give out an occasional flash of humour.
I was questioning him respecting the help that the monastery gave to the
poor, and he told me that in addition to thirty or forty persons living
in the locality who received regular assistance every day, about the same
number of wanderers stopped at the gate and waited for the bread and cheese
which was never refused them.
'Men looking for work?' I asked innocently.
'Yes,' replied the monk, without moving a muscle of his stolid face; 'and
who pray to God that He will not give them any.'
It was evident that no sentimental illusions respecting the begging class
were entertained by the community. The monk confirmed what people in the
country had already told me of the help afforded by the Trappists to
peasant agriculturists in difficulties. The sick were, moreover, supplied
with medicines gratuitously from the small pharmacy attached to the
monastery. I did not ask the question, but I concluded that at least one of
the fathers had a medical diploma. The medicine that was chiefly wanted in
the Double when the Trappists settled there was quinine. The demand upon it
was very heavy years ago, but by removing to a great extent the cause of
the fever-breeding miasma, the monks have been able to economize the drug.
Talking about these matters, we reached the refectory. A great cold room
with whitewashed walls, and five long narrow tables with benches on each
side, stretching from end to end, was the place where the monks took their
very frugal meals. The tables were laid for the first meal. There were
no cloths, and it is almost needless to add that there were no napkins,
although these are considered so essential in France that even in the most
wretched auberge one is usually laid before the guest. Trappists, however,
have little need of them. At each place were a wooden spoon and fork, a
plate, a jug of water, and another jug--a smaller one--of beer, and a
porringer for soup, which is the chief of the Trappists' diet. Very thin
soup it is, the ingredients being water, chopped vegetables, bread, and
a little oil or butter. Until a few years ago no oily matter, whether
vegetable or animal, was allowed in the soup, nor was it permissible,
except in case of sickness, to have more than one meal a day; but the
necessity of relaxing the rule a little was realized. Now, during the six
summer months of the year, there are two meals a day, namely, at eleven and
six; but in winter there is still only one that is called a meal, and this
is at four. There is, however, a _goûter_--just something to keep the
stomach from collapsing--at ten in the morning. No flesh, nor fish, nor
animal product, except cheese and butter, is eaten by these Trappists
unless they fall ill, and then they have meat or anything else that they
may need to make them well. There is, however, very little sickness amongst
them. The living of each Trappist probably costs no more than sixpence a
day to the community. Assuming that the money brought into the common fund
by those who have a private fortune--the fathers, as a rule, are men of
some independent means--covers the establishment expenses and the taxation
imposed by the State, there must remain a considerable profit on the work
of each individual, whether he labours in the fields or in the dairy and
cheese rooms, or concerns himself with the sales and the accounts, or, like
the porter at the gate, tests with an instrument the richness of the milk
that is brought in by the peasants, lest they who have been befriended
by the monks in sickness and penury should steal from them in return. To
devote this surplus, obtained by a life of sacrifice compared to which
the material misery of the beggars whom they relieve is luxury, to the
lessening of human suffering, to the encouragement of the family, offering
the hand of charity to the worthy and to the unworthy--expecting no honour
from all this, not even gratitude--is a life that makes that of the
theoretical philanthropists and humanitarian philosophers look rather
barren. Let every man who lives up to an unselfish ideal have full credit
for it, whether he be a Trappist or a Buddhist.
At one end of the refectory, below the line of tables, was a small wooden
bench for a single person. The monk pointed to it with half a smile upon
his face.
'What is it?' I asked.
'The stool of penitence,' he replied.
Here the monk who had brought upon himself some disciplinary correction sat
by order of the abbot in view of everybody, and had the extra mortification
of watching the others eat, while he, the penitent, had nothing to put
between his teeth. I wondered if my cicerone had ever been perched there,
but I was not on such terms of familiarity with him that I could ask the
question.
From the refectory we went to the dormitory, an oblong room with a passage
down the middle, and cells on each side--about fifty altogether. They
were very narrow, and were separated by lath and plaster partitions, only
carried to the height of about six feet. These partitions, which had been
whitewashed over, looked very fragile and dilapidated, and altogether the
appearance of this great dormitory was wretched in the extreme. A glance
into the interior of two or three of the cells deepened this impression. In
each was a small wooden bedstead about a foot and a half high, with nothing
upon it but a very thin paillasse, a black blanket (the colour of the
wool), and a little bolster. Upon a nail hung a small cat-o'-nine-tails of
knotted whipcord.
'How often do you administer to yourselves the discipline?' I asked.
'Every Friday,' said the monk.
To other questions that I put to him he replied that about ten members
of the community were priests, and that fathers and brothers used the
dormitory in common. There was no distinction between the two classes as
regards the vows that were taken.
We passed into the cloisters, which were very plain, without any attempt
at architectural ornament; but the garden that filled the centre of the
quadrangle was carefully kept, and the many flowers there were evidently
watered and otherwise tended by hands that were gentle to them. Then I
asked if it was true that the members of the community, when they passed
one another in their ordinary occupations, were allowed to break the rule
of silence only to say, 'Remember death!'
'No,' replied the monk, 'it is a legend that originated with
Châteaubriand.'
We reached the chapter-house, a plain room with benches along the walls and
a case containing a small collection of books. I saw nothing of interest
here excepting a genealogical tree of the order of Reformed Cistercians,
called Trappists, showing its descent from the Abbey of Cîteaux, and a
portrait of Père Dom Sébastien, Abbot-General of the Trappists, who was a
pontifical zouave before he put on the monastic habit.
I asked to see the cemetery, and was led to an uncultivated spot a little
beyond the block of convent buildings. A small grassy enclosure, with a
wooden paling round it, was the monks' burying-place. About twelve had died
in the twenty-five years of the monastery's existence, but most of the
graves looked recent. This was explained to me by the father, who actually
smiled as he said:
'We who came here at the commencement are getting old now, and are
following one another to the cemetery rather quickly.'
Wearers of the white frock and wearers of the brown frock were lying in
perfect equality side by side as they happened to die, each having a
small cross of white wood standing in the grass of his grave. I read: 'N.
Raphaël, monachus----, natus----, professus----, obiit----.' The dates
I took no note of. With the exception of the name and the dates, the
inscription on each cross was the same. And the name, it need scarcely be
said, was the one taken in religion.
'Do you know one another's family names?' I asked of the living monk by my
side, who appeared to have lapsed into meditation, thinking, perhaps, how
far his place would be from the last on the line.
'As a rule we do not. There are only two or three monks here whose names I
know.'
Lastly, I was taken to the farm buildings, where there were about fifty
cows and one hundred pigs. A young brother, a novice, was busy, with his
frock hitched up, cleaning out the pigsties. He was piously plying the
shovel, but his face had not yet acquired an expression of perfect
resignation. He was young, however, and perhaps he had been brought up in
better society than that of pigs.
I was invited with much kindness and courtesy to stay until after the
eleven o'clock meal; but, grateful as I felt to the Trappists for their
bread and cheese and home-brewed beer, which had enabled me to sustain life
for more than twelve hours, I was quite content with what I had received in
that way. My curiosity being also satisfied, I gladly went forth into the
wicked world again after exchanging a cordial farewell with the genial
porter, who, when he caught sight of me returning to his lodge, looked
sharply to see if the jar of beer was safe, and his mind being made easy on
the point, he begged me to let him pour me out a glass. Then he gazed at me
with round eyes of surprise and reproach when I declined the offer.
It was only a little past eight when I left the monastery. 'Ah,' I thought,
as I felt the gentle glow of the early sunshine and breathed the fresh air
of the wide world, 'there is time enough for me to become a Trappist.'
I continued on the road to Montpont. It was a sad and silent land over
which I passed, with frequent crosses by the wayside, telling of the
influence of the monks. The words, '_O crux, ave!_' met me amidst the
heather and on the margin of lonely pools. I was now in the most forlorn
part of the Double, where all around the eye rested upon forest, swamp, and
moor. Not that I found it dismal: I drew delight from the lonesomeness,
and revelled in the wildness of all things. Sunshine and flowers made the
desert beautiful. The waysides were red with thyme or purple with heather,
and the blooming lysimachia was like a belt of gold around the reedy pools.
After walking some miles over this country, patches of maize, potatoes, and
vines told me I was nearing a village. At length I came to one, and it
was called St. Barthélemy. It was on the top of a bare chalky hill, and
commanded an extensive view of the wasteful Double. It had a windblown,
naked appearance, like many villages near the sea, although the ocean was
still far from here. Moreover, there was a strange quietude--the stillness
of a fever-stricken spot. The men and women looked undersized and
prematurely old, and the children were pale and thin. Although the village
was on a hill, the evil influence of the marshes reached it. I was told,
however, that it had become much less unhealthy of late years. On the
highest spot was a poor and plain little church, with a paddock-like
cemetery on one side of it.
Although the hour was still early, I stopped for a meal at St. Barthélemy,
for it seemed to me that I had been fasting a day or more. Choosing the
only inn that looked promising, I sat down in a large room, where there
were two long tables and a bed in one corner. The shutters of the windows
were carefully closed to keep out the flies, and all the light that entered
came through the chinks and cracks. In the South, people prefer to eat in
semi-darkness rather than be tormented by flies. The only other person in
the house was a young woman, and she was very uncouth. She may have held
me in suspicion, for not a word would she say beyond what was rigorously
necessary; but, as she cooked much better than I had expected, I thought no
ill of her. She gave me, after an _omelette au cerfeuil_, a _fricassée_ of
chicken, with very fair wine of the district, red and white. Dessert and
coffee followed, and the charge was not much over a shilling.
As I left the village, I noticed upon a low building these words in large
letters, '_Dépôt de Sangsues_,' and concluded that catching leeches in the
pools about here was a local industry. On inquiring, however, I was told
that such was not the case, but that a man here had had a quantity of
leeches sent from Bordeaux to supply the district.
'But what is the meaning of this great liking for leeches?' I asked.
'Well,' replied my informant, 'I should tell you that the people about here
always used to be bled when they had anything the matter with them. But the
doctors will do it no longer, consequently we do it ourselves.'
The sad-looking peasants, with pale dark faces, whom I saw reaping their
meagre wheat on the outskirts of the village, seemed, like many more I had
met since I left Riberac, to be in much greater need of blood than leeches.
Women, wearing straw-bonnets of the coal-scuttle shape, were reaping with
men in the noonday heat. Upon all the burden of life appeared to press very
heavily. The chalky soil produced miserable crops of wheat, maize,
and potatoes that yielded no just return for the labour expended. The
luxuriance of the young vines, planted where the old ones had perished
from the phylloxera, showed that the hillsides here are better suited for
wine-growing than for anything else.
As I went on, the country became more sombre from the increasing number of
pines bordering the road and mingling with the distant forest. Very weird
pines these were, chiefly covered with closely-packed dead foliage, with
a living tuft of dark green at the end of each branchlet. A living death
seemed to be their lot, and they moaned without moving as the light wind
passed on its way.
But the descent towards the valley of the Isle had now begun. Huts built of
brick and mud and wood became frequent, with hedges of quince bordering the
gardens or little fields. Quite unexpectedly the river shone beneath me,
and by following its course downward I soon came to a large block of
scarcely connected buildings with high Mansard roofs. This was a monastery
of the Carthusians. I did not recognise it at once as the conventual
establishment well known in the district as the Chartreuse de Vauclaire,
nor did I show any better understanding as regards a certain human form
hoeing in a field beside the road with back towards me.
Wishing for information, I hailed this fellow-being as 'Madame!' The figure
straightened itself immediately and turned towards me a head covered with
a broad-brimmed straw hat, such as women wear in the fields; but the face
ended in a long, grizzly beard. Then I noticed that what I had taken for a
brown stuff dress was a monk's frock.
It was a Carthusian Brother whom I had addressed as 'Madame!' As he gave
no sign to indicate what his feelings were with regard to this mistake, I
thought it better not to make excuses, but asked him if I was on the road
to Montpont Learning that I was, I went on, and having reached the convent,
which I now recognised for what it was, I pulled the bell of the porter's
lodge. I was at once admitted to the presence of a tall and meagre
Carthusian father, with a long, coal-black beard and very dark eyes, with a
fixed expression that expressed nothing that I could be sure about. What
I fancied that I read in them was doubtfulness as to my motives, and the
necessity of being cautious.
By far the greater number of visitors who call here ask for food. I wished
to see the monastery. After a little hesitation, this father, who before I
left him was so communicative as to tell me he was a Spaniard, made a
sign to me to follow him. He showed me the church--which contains some
interesting carvings--the cloisters, and the cemetery; but every bit of
information had to be drawn from him as if it were a tooth. This was the
kind of conversation that passed between us:
'Are there many monks here?'
'Not a small number.'
'Do you make cheese?'
'Yes.'
'For sale?'
'No.'
'Do you make the _liqueur?_'
'Oh no.'
He would have allowed me to leave with the impression that the Carthusians
of Vauclaire did nothing beyond observing the canonical hours; but I learnt
from the peasants of the country that, like the Trappists, they laboured
industriously in clearing and draining the desert.
My walk across the Double ended at Montpont, a small agricultural centre on
the banks of the Isle, offering no charm to the traveller, unless he be a
commercial one. It was a little fortified town of some importance in the
Middle Ages. In 1370 the Bretons in garrison at Périgueux besieged it, and
it was surrendered without a struggle by the baron, Guillaume de Montpont,
an English partisan. The Duke of Lancaster then hurried up and besieged the
place with one hundred men-at-arms and five hundred archers. For eleven
weeks the little band of Bretons held out, but a breach having been made in
the wall, Montpont again fell into the power of the English.
[Illustration: THE DRONNE AT COUTRAS.]