"La vie d'un bon Chartreux doit être
Une oraison presque continuelle."
[Illustration: Entrance Court
to La Grande Chartreuse]
THE above is the legend that is painted on the door of every cell
occupied by a monk of the silent Order of Carthusians. To pray always
for those who never pray; to pray for those who have done you wrong; to
pray for those who sin every hour of their lives; to pray for all sorts
and conditions of men, no matter what their colour, no matter what their
creed; to pray that God will remove doubt and scepticism from the world,
and open all human eyes to the way of faith and salvation. Such is the
chief duty of the Chartreux. That the lives of these men is a continual
prayer would seem to be an undoubted fact; but they are more than
that--they are lives of silence, that must not be broken, save under
exceptional circumstances. Time has been when they were surrounded by
their families, their friends, when perhaps they had ambitions like
other men, hopes like other men, and, it may be, have given their love
to women. But then something has happened to change the current of their
lives, the course of their thought: the mundane world has become
distasteful, and with heavy hearts and weary feet they have sought the
lonely monastery, and, having once entered, the door has closed upon
them for ever. Henceforth the horizon of their world is the monastery
wall; and the only sounds they will hear save the wind when it howls, or
the thunder when it rolls, are the eternal tolling of the bell, and the
wail and chant of the monotonous prayers. It is difficult to understand
how men, young, rich, well-favoured, can seclude themselves in this busy
and wonderful age; and, renouncing all the pleasures and gaiety of the
world, take upon themselves solemn vows of chastity and silence, which,
once taken, are devoutly kept. To God and God's service they dedicate
themselves; and though on the earth, they are scarcely of it. They live,
but for them it is the beginning of eternity; the passion and fret of
the world will never more disturb them, and their one longing is to
change the finite for the infinite. It is surely no ordinary faith that
impels men to enter into a living death of this kind, nor is it
fanaticism, but a devotion too deep for words, too mysterious for
ordinary comprehensions to grasp. One must go back to the eleventh
century for the beginning of the history of this strange Order. It was
founded by St. Bruno, of Cologne, who imposed upon his votaries
"Solitude," "Silence," and "Fasting." For above eight hundred years the
Carthusians have been true to their saint, and wherever they have
established themselves they have lived their lives of silence, knowing
nothing of the seductive and tender influence of women, or the love and
sweetness of children; dying, when their time came, without a pang of
regret at leaving the world, and with nothing to perpetuate their
memories, save a tiny wooden cross, on which a number is painted. But in
half a dozen years or so the cross rots away, and is never renewed, and
the dead brother is referred to no more.
The lonely convent of the Grande Chartreuse is as old as the Order,
although it has undergone considerable change. It is now a great
building, occupying a considerable extent of ground, but originally it
must have been a single small house. It stands in a defile, in a region
of utter loneliness. Gradually it has grown and expanded, and in order
to protect it against the attacks of thieves and marauders, it is
surrounded by a massive wall that is loopholed and embrasured. For what
purpose it is difficult to say, for these monks would never take human
life, not even to save their own. So far, however, as I have been able
to learn there is no record of the convent having been seriously
attacked during any period of its history. But in the Revolution of 1792
the monks were cruelly expelled, and their most valuable library was
destroyed. They separated in little groups, and found refuge in holy
houses of their order in different parts of Europe, until the
restoration of 1815--that memorable year--when they reunited and
returned to their beloved monastery amid the solitude of the eternal
mountains.
La Grande Chartreuse is situated amidst scenes of savage grandeur, 3,800
feet above the sea, at the foot of the Mont Grand Som, which reaches a
height of 6,668 feet, and commands a view of surpassing magnificence. It
is in the Department of Isère, France, and eight hours' journey from
Grenoble, which is the capital of the Department, and famous for its
gloves. The nearest railway station is a five hours' journey away, and
there is no other human habitation within many miles of the convent. The
approaches are by wild and rugged gorges, through which excellent roads
have of late years been made, but formerly these gorges might have been
held by a handful of men against a host. In the winter the roads are
blocked with snow, and between the lonely convent and the outer world
there is little communication. In summer the pine woods look solemn and
dark, and the ravines are filled with the music of falling waters. There
is a strange absence of bird melody, and the wind sighs amongst the
pines, and moans around the rocks. And yet the region is one of
entrancing beauty, and full of a dreamy repose that makes its influence
felt.
To this lonely convent I travelled one day in the late autumn, when the
falling leaves spoke sadly of departed summer glories, and the shrill
blasts that came down the glens were messengers from the regions of ice
and snow. I had gone by train to Voiron, between Rives and Grenoble, and
thence had tramped through the beautiful gorges of Crossey for five
hours. The afternoon had been sullen, and bitterly cold, and the shades
of night were fast falling as, weary and hungry, I rang the great bell
at the convent gate, and begged for hospitality. A tall, cowled monk
received me, but uttered no word. He merely made a sign for me to follow
him, and, closing the gate and shooting the massive bolts, he led the
way across a court, where I was met by another monk, who was allowed to
break the rigid vow of silence so far that he could inquire of strangers
what their business was. He asked me if I desired food and rest, and on
my answering in the affirmative he led me to a third and silent brother,
and by him I was conducted to a cell with whitewashed walls. It
contained a small bed of unpainted pine wood, and a tiny table, on which
was an iron basin and a jug of water. A crucifix hung on the wall, and
beneath it was a _prie-dieu_. The cell was somehow suggestive of a
prison, and yet I am not sure that there was as much comfort to be found
in it as a prison cell affords in these humanitarian times. Everything
about the Grande Chartreuse is of Spartan-like simplicity. There the
body is mortified for the soul's sake, and nothing that could pander in
the least degree to luxurious tastes is allowed. As I was to learn
afterwards, even such barren comfort as is afforded by this "Visitor's
Cell" is unknown in the cells occupied by the monks.
[Illustration: A VISITORS CELL]
When I had somewhat freshened myself up by a wash, I went into the
corridor where my attendant was waiting, and, following him in obedience
to a sign he made, I traversed a long, lofty, cold passage, with bare
walls and floor. At the end of the passage there was carved in the stone
the Latin inscription, _Stat crux dum volvitur orbis_. Passing through
an arched doorway we reached the refectory. The great hall or supper
room was cold, barren, and dismal. Everything looked ghostly and dim in
the feeble light shed by two small swinging lamps, that seemed rather to
emphasise the gloom than dispel it. Comfort there was none in this
echoing chamber, with its whitewashed walls and shadowy recesses, from
which I half expected to see the spirit forms of dead monks glide.
Taking my seat at a small, bare table, a silent brother placed before me
a bowl of thin vegetable soup, in which some chopped eggs floated. Fish
followed, then an omelette, and the whole was washed down with a bottle
of excellent red wine. It was a frugal repast, but an Epicurean spread
as compared with the dietary scale of the monks themselves. Meat of
every kind is rigorously interdicted, that is, the flesh of animals in
any form. Each brother only gets two meals a day. They consist of hot
water flavoured with egg; vegetables cooked in oil; while the only drink
allowed is cold water. The monks do not eat together except on Sundays
and religious _fête_ days, when they all sup in the refectory.
On other days every man has his meals alone, in the solitude of his
cell, and but a brief time is allowed him, for it is considered sinful
to spend more time in eating and drinking than is absolutely necessary
to swallow down so much food as will hold body and soul together. That
men may keep themselves healthy, even on such meagre diet as that I have
mentioned, is proved by the monks of the Grande Chartreuse, for they
enjoy excellent health, and generally live to a green old age. Even the
weak and delicate grow strong and hardy under the severe discipline. The
rasping friction of the nervous system, which annually slays its tens of
thousands in the outer world, is unknown here. All is calm and peaceful,
and the austerity of the life led is compensated for by the abiding and
hopeful faith. It is a brief preparation for an eternal life of
unsullied joy in a world where man's sin is known no more. Surely
nothing else but such a faith could sustain mortal beings under an
ordeal so trying.
[Illustration: CARTHUSIAN FATHER GOING TO MIDNIGHT OFFICE]
This strange community of Carthusians is divided into categories of
"Fathers" and "Brothers." The former wear robes of white wool, cinctured
with a girdle of white leather. Their heads and faces are closely
shaven, and the head is generally enveloped in a cowl, which is attached
to the robe. They are all ordained priests, and it is to them the rule
of silence, solitude, and fasting, more particularly applies. The
fasting is represented by the daily bill of fare I have given, and it
never varies all the year round, except on Fridays and certain days in
Lent, when, poor as it is, it is still further reduced. The solitude
consists of many hours spent in prayer in the loneliness of the cell,
and the silence imposed is only broken by monosyllabic answers to
questions addressed to them. Sustained conversation is a fault, and
would be severely punished. Aspirants for the Fatherhood have to submit
to a most trying novitiate, which lasts for five full years. After that
they are ordained, and from that moment they renounce the world, with
all its luring temptations and its sin. Their lives henceforth must be
strictly holy in accordance with the tenets of their religion. The
Brothers are the manual labourers, the hewers of wood and drawers of
water. They do everything that is required in the way of domestic
service. They wear sandals on their bare feet, and their bodies are
clothed in a long, loose, brown robe, fastened at the waist by a rope
girdle. On both branches of the Order the same severe _régime_ is
compulsory, but on Fridays the Brothers only get a morsel of black bread
and a cup of cold water. The attention to spiritual duties is
all-absorbing, and under no circumstances must it be relaxed. Matins
commence in the chapel at twelve o'clock at night, and continue until
about two o'clock. After a short rest, the Divine service is resumed at
six o'clock. But all the monks do not attend the matins at one time.
While some sleep others pray. And it is doubtful if amongst the
religious orders of the world anything more solemn and impressive than
this midnight service could be found. To witness it was my chief aim in
going to the convent, and so I left my cell after a short sleep, and
proceeded to the chapel as the deep-toned bell struck twelve with
sonorous sounds that rolled in ghostly echoes along the lofty corridors.
The passage through which I made my way was a vast one, and a solitary
lamp ineffectually struggled to illumine the darkness. I groped along
until I reached a door that swung silently open to my touch. Then I
stood within the chapel, where all was silent, and a Cimmerian gloom
reigned. Far in the depths of the darkness was a glimmering, star-like
lamp over the altar, but its beams, feeble and straggling, revealed
nothing, it only accentuated the pitchy blackness all around. The feeble
lanterns of the monks, one to every third stall, were invisible from my
position. Everything was suggestive of a tomb far down in the bowels of
the earth--the silence, the cold, the damp earthy smell that filled
one's nostrils, all seemed to indicate decaying mortality. Suddenly,
with startling abruptness, a single voice broke into a plaintive,
monotonous chant. Then others took up the cadence with a moaning wail
that gradually died away until there was unbroken silence again. There
was something strange and weird in this performance, for the
impenetrable darkness, the star-like lamp, the wailing voices of unseen
figures, seemed altogether unnatural. It begot in me a shudder that I
could not repress, for the moaning and wailing appeared to be associated
with death rather than life. There was nothing in the whole ceremony
indicative of joy or hope, but rather their converse--sadness and
despair. Throughout those weary hours the wailing chant and the silence
alternated. I wanted to go away, but could not. Some strange fascination
kept me there, and I recalled some of the wonderful descriptive scenes
in Dantè which were irresistibly suggested. My imagination was wrought
on to such an extent that I pictured that vast gloomy space as filled
with unquiet spirits condemned to torture; and the lamp as typical of
the one ray of hope that told them that after a long period of penance
they should pass from the gloom of woe to the lightness and joy of
eternal day, when their anguish should cease for ever and rest be found.
At last, to my great relief, I saw the beams of a new morn steal in at
the chapel windows. The bowed forms of the cowled monks were faintly
discernible, kneeling before the altar, where still burned the
watch-lamp. One by one they rose and flitted away like shadows; no sound
came from their footfalls, no rustle from their garments. Warmly clad
though I was, I shivered with the cold, and was cramped with the
position I had maintained for hours; for I had been fearful of moving
lest any harsh, grating noise should break in upon that solemn and
impressive silence. When all had gone I too went, and made my way back
to the cell, where I tried to snatch a few hours' sleep, but it was all
in vain, for my mind seemed as if it had been upset by a strange and
terrible dream. Although I have had a wide and varied experience of men
and manners in all parts of the world, I never witnessed such a strange
scene before as I witnessed that night. It was like a nightmare picture,
a poem evolved from a distorted imagination. I say a poem because it had
the elements of poetry in it, but it was the poetry of ineffable human
sadness.
[Illustration: IN THE CHAPEL: DAYBREAK.]
Truly it is singular that men can so strengthen their faith, so enwrap
themselves, as it were, in a gloomy creed, that they are willing to deny
themselves every pleasure in life, to shut themselves off from all that
is joyous and beautiful in the world, in order to submit to an endless
sorrowing for human sins; a sorrowing that finds expression every hour
of their lonely, saddened lives. For from sunset to sunrise, and sunrise
to sunset again, they are warned by the mournful tolling of the iron
bell, every quivering stroke of which seems to say "death," to pray
without ceasing.
[Illustration: A MONKS CELL]
Many of the monks at the Grande Chartreuse are still in the very prime
of their manhood, and not a few of them are members of distinguished and
wealthy families. Yet they have renounced everything; all the advantages
that influence and wealth could give them; all the comforts of home; the
love of wife and children; the fascination of travel and of strange
sights--every temptation that this most beautiful world could hold out
has been resisted, and they have dedicated themselves to gloom, fasting,
and silence. Verily, human nature is an unfathomable mystery. One may
well ask if these monks are truly happy? If they have no longings for
the flesh-pots of Egypt? If they do not sometimes pine and sigh for the
busy haunts and the excitement of the great towns? Such questions are
not easily answered, unless we get the answer in the fact that the
monastic vows are faithfully and religiously kept; and there is no
record of a Carthusian monk ever having broken his vow. Surely then
there must be something strangely, even terribly attractive in that
stern life which is so full of hardship and trial, and from year's end
to year's end knows no change, until the great change which comes to us
all, sooner or later, whether we be monks or revellers.
I have already mentioned that notwithstanding their sparse and meagre
diet, which seems to us ordinary mortals to lack nutriment and
sustaining power, the monks of the Grande Chartreuse are healthy and
vigorous. The Brothers labour in their fields and gardens, and they
cultivate all the vegetables that they use, as well as grow most of
their own corn for the bread. They do any bricklaying, carpentering, or
painting that may be required, as well as all the washing and mending of
the establishment, for a woman is never allowed to enter the sacred
precincts. The furniture of each cell consists of a very narrow bed as
hard as a board, and with little covering; a small stove, for the
rigours of the climate render a fire indispensable at times, and yet the
fires are used but sparingly; a little basin, with a jug of water for
ablutions; and of course there is the _prie-dieu_, and the image of a
saint. Attached to the convent is a cemetery, which cannot fail to have
a very melancholy interest for the visitor. It is divided into two
parts, one being for the Fathers, the other for the Brothers, for as the
two branches of the Order are kept distinct in life, so they are
separated in death. No mounds mark the last resting-places of the quiet
sleepers; but at the head of each is a wooden cross, though it bears no
indication of the name, age, or date of death of the deceased--only a
number. Having played his little part and returned to the dust from
whence he sprang, it is considered meet that the Carthusian should be
forgotten. And the cross is merely an indication that beneath moulder
the remains of what was once a man.
As is well known, the monks distil the famous liqueur which finds its
way to all parts of the world, and yields a very handsome revenue. The
process of its concoction is an inviolable secret, but it is largely
composed of herbs and cognac. It is said that the recipe was brought to
the convent by one of the fathers, who had been expelled in 1792, and
that at first the liqueur was used as a medicine and distributed amongst
the poor. In the course of time, however, it was improved upon, for its
fame having spread a demand for it sprang up, and it was resolved to
make it an article of commerce. For this purpose a separate building was
erected apart from the monastery, and placed in charge of one of the
Fathers, who has a staff of brothers under him. The basis of the liqueur
is supposed to be an indigenous mountain herb combined with the petals
of certain wild flowers. These are macerated with honey until
fermentation takes place. The liquid is then refined and brandy is
added. Formerly it was made without brandy. The "green" is most favoured
by connaisseurs, and its exquisite, delicate fragrance and flavour have
never been imitated. More care is bestowed upon the "green" than the
"yellow," which is somewhat inferior in quality and of a coarser
flavour. On several occasions very large sums have been offered for the
right to manufacture the chartreuse by financial speculators, but all
such offers have been resolutely refused. Although I believe that the
greater part of the income of the convent is spent in deeds of charity,
it may be doubted by some people whether it is not a somewhat
questionable way for a religious Order to augment its funds by the
preparation of an intoxicating liquor for which, according to their own
doctrine, there is absolutely no need. The chartreuse has a strong rival
in the well-known benedictine, made by the Benedictine Monks; and which,
while being similar in character, is said by some to be superior. There
is little doubt, however, that the chartreuse has much the larger sale
of the two. Many attempts have been made from time to time by outsiders
to manufacture both these liqueurs, but without success, and the exact
secret of their decoction is as religiously preserved as are the secrets
of Freemasonry.
Like the Great St. Bernard, the Grande Chartreuse, though not to the
same extent, is a show place in summer. Perhaps this is hardly a fair
way of putting it, for it would be a cruel injustice to let it be
supposed that the Chartreux had the slightest desire to make an
exhibition of their lonely convent. But the travelling facilities
afforded the tourist nowadays enable him to penetrate to the remotest
recesses of the earth. No place is sacred to him; and as he thinks
nothing of going into a Continental theatre dressed in a tweed suit, so
he does not hesitate, garbed in hob-nailed boots and knickerbockers, to
demand entrance into the Grande Chartreuse, whose mystery he does not
understand and cares nought for, and whose solemnity does not awe him.
To refuse hospitality even to the irreverent curiosity-monger would be
contrary to the Carthusian's creed, which teaches charity to all men,
and to "turn no deaf ear to him who asks for bread and succour." And so
anything of the masculine gender is admitted and fed with the frugal
fare that is now specially provided for visitors; and very properly he
who partakes of this hospitality, not being in actual want of it, is
required to pay for his entertainment. The ordinary visitor is not
allowed to pass the night under the roof of the convent, and therefore
that strange and ghostly service in the chapel during the hours of
darkness is rarely witnessed. The Grande Chartreuse boasts of a
magnificent library, which numbers upwards of 20,000 volumes, for the
most part of a theological nature. Many of these books are unique and of
great age, and to the theological student would probably prove a mine of
wealth. Amongst the volumes are some very rare Bibles and Prayer-books
of nearly every civilised country in the world. This library replaces
the one that was destroyed, and has been collected during the present
century.
[Illustration: CARTHUSIAN BROTHERS IN THE KITCHEN]
What is known as the Chapter-room is an exception to the rest of the
place, inasmuch as it is hung with portraits of the Father Superiors
from the very foundation of the Order. There are about fifty of these
portraits altogether, and some of the earlier ones are more curious than
artistic. The "Superiors" are the only men of the Order whose memory is
thus kept alive.
The Grand Cloister is the largest apartment in the building. It is a not
quite perfect square, and is lighted by a hundred and thirty windows. A
portion of this cloister dates back to the early part of the thirteenth
century. There are two main corridors, seven hundred and twenty-two feet
long, and abutting on these corridors are the cells, thirty-six in
number. There is also a Chapelle des Morts, built about the end of the
thirteenth century. Here the bodies of the dead monks rest during the
religious services that are held over them before they are finally
consigned to the little cemetery to which I have already made reference.
Nor must I forget to mention what is known as the Map-room, where there
is a very valuable collection of maps of different parts of the world,
but particularly of France. There is also a small museum of insects and
butterflies indigenous to the mountains of the region in which the
convent is situated. That region is the southern group of the singularly
interesting limestone Alps of Savoy, and the convent stands in about the
middle section of the group which culminates in the Pointe de
Chamchaude, 6,845 feet high.
In choosing the site for the convent, there is little doubt that
isolation as well as a position of natural defence were aimed at.
Isolated it truly is, and up to a couple of hundred years ago it must
have been absolutely impregnable. But it is well known that the monks of
old had an eye also to beauty of surroundings, and it is doubtful if the
faithful followers of St. Bruno could have found a site commanding a
view of more magnificent beauty in all France than that which the Grande
Chartreuse occupies, and by ascending to the summit of the Grand Som,
which throws its shadow over the convent, a panorama of unsurpassed
grandeur is unfolded to the wondering gaze. To the west it embraces the
valley of the Rhône, the town of Lyons, and the mountains of Ardèche and
Forez; to the east the chain of glittering Alps that stretches from Mont
Visio to Mont Blanc; to the north is the Mont du Chat of Chambéry, the
Lake of Bourget, and that part of the Rhône Valley which is bounded by
the rugged peaks of the purple Jura, while to the south are smiling
valleys and rolling uplands.
This view of the outer world is all the monks ever obtain, for, having
once taken the vows, they leave the convent no more; and they know
little of what goes on in the busy haunts of men, where the passion of
life reaches fever heat, save what they gather from the chattering of
the throngs of summer idlers. In winter they live in a silent, white
world, and the face of a stranger is very rarely seen.
Before leaving the neighbourhood I paid a visit to the Chapelle de St.
Bruno, which is within half an hour's walk of the monastery. It is
erected in a very wild spot, said to be the site of the saint's original
hermitage. There is nothing particularly interesting in the chapel,
which is in a state of dilapidation. But it is curious to speculate that
here dwelt, in what was little more than a cavern, the man who, by the
austerity of his life and his gloomy views, was able to found a
religious Order which has endured for many ages, and is one of the few
that escaped destruction during the revolutions and upheavals of the
last century. The situation of the Chapelle is one of singular
loneliness and desolation, and for eight months of the year at least it
is buried in snow.
As I turned my back upon the Grande Chartreuse, after that memorable
night spent under its roof, and feeling grateful for the shelter and
refreshment it had afforded me, the morning sun was gilding the glorious
landscape, and I breathed a sigh of relief and gladness, for I seemed to
have come from a region of sorrow and gloom, where the coldness of death
was ever present, into the healthy, joyous life of the throbbing,
breathing world.
[Illustration: CHAPEL OF ST. BRUNO]
_Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives._