He experienced that painful awakening of a sick man whom a doctor
deceives for months, who learns some fine morning that he is to be taken
at once to an hospital to undergo an urgent surgical operation. "But
that is not the way things should be done," cried Durtal, "people should
be prepared, little by little, accustomed by words of warning, to the
idea that they are to be cut up on a table, they are not struck down
thus unexpectedly!
"Yes, but what does that matter? since I know very well, in the depths
of my soul, that this priest is right; I must leave Paris if I wish to
amend; but all the same, the treatment he inflicts is hard indeed to
follow; I know not what to do."
And from this moment his days were haunted by Trappists. He turned over
the thought of his departure, and examined it on all sides, chewed the
cud of for and against, and ended by saying to himself, "That he would
take stock of his reflections and open an account, and this with a debit
and credit side, that he might know himself the better.
"The debit is terrible. To gather up his life, and cast it into the
stove of a cloister; and again, he ought to know if his body were in a
state to bear such a remedy; mine is frail and soft, accustomed to rise
late; it becomes weak if not nourished by flesh meat, and is subject to
neuralgia at any change of the hour of meals. I should never be able to
hold out down there with vegetables cooked in warm oil or in milk; first
I detest oily cookery, and I hate milk still more, which I cannot
digest.
"Then I think I see myself on my knees, on the floor for hours, I who
suffered so much at La Glacière in remaining in that posture, on a step,
for scarce a quarter of an hour.
"Again, I am so accustomed to cigarettes that it is absolutely
impossible to give them up, and it is pretty certain they will not let
me smoke in a monastery.
"No, indeed, from the bodily point of view, this plan is madness; in my
state of health there is no doctor who would not dissuade me from
undertaking such a risk.
"If I place myself in a spiritual point of view I must then again
recognize that it is terrible to enter La Trappe.
"I am afraid indeed that my dryness of soul, my want of love will
remain, and then what would become of me in such surroundings? then it
is equally probable, that in that solitude and absolute silence, I
should be wearied to death, and if it be so, what a miserable existence
is it to stalk about a cell and count the hours. No, for that one needs
to be firmly fixed on God, to be dwelt in wholly by Him.
"Moreover, there are two formidable questions which I have never
properly weighed, because it has been painful to think of them, but now
that they come before me, and stop the road, I must face them, the
questions of Confession and Holy Communion.
"Confession? Yes, I will consent to it, I am so tired of myself, so
disgusted with my wretched existence that this expiation appears to me
as deserved, even necessary. I desire to humble myself, I would ask
pardon with all my heart, but again this penance must be assigned me
under possible conditions. At La Trappe, if I believe the abbé, no one
will trouble himself about me, in other words no one will encourage me,
and aid me to submit to this sorrowful extraction of my shames. I shall
be somewhat like a sick man operated on in hospital, far from his
friends and relatives.
"Confession," he went on, "is an admirable discovery, for it is the most
sensitive touchstone of souls, the most intolerable act which the Church
has ever imposed on the vanity of men.
"Is this strange? We speak easily of our lapses, of our grosser actions,
even, indeed, to a priest in conversation, that does not seem to lead to
any consequences, and perhaps a little bragging enters into our
admission of easy sins, but to tell the same thing on one's knees,
accusing oneself, after prayer, is different, that which was only rather
amusing becomes a very painful humiliation, for the soul is not the dupe
of this false seeming, it knows so well in its inner tribunal that all
is changed, it feels so well the terrible power of the Sacrament, that
he who but now smiled, now trembles at the very thought.
"Now, were I to find myself face to face with an old monk who emerges
from an eternity of silence to listen to me, a monk who will not aid me,
perhaps cannot even understand me, this will be terrible. I shall never
get to the end of my troubles if he does not hold out a staff to me, if
he lets me stifle and gives no air to my soul, nor brings me help.
"The Eucharist also seems terrible. To dare to come forward, to offer
Him as a tabernacle the sewer of self scarce purified by repentance, a
sewer drained by absolution, but still hardly dry, is monstrous. I am
quite without such courage as to offer Christ this last insult, and so
there is no good in fleeing to a monastery.
"No; the more I think of it, the more I am obliged to conclude that I
should be mad if I ventured into a Trappist house.
"Now for the Credit side. The only proper work of my life would be to
make a parcel of my life, and take it to a cloister to disinfect it, and
if that cost me nothing, where is the merit?
"Nothing shows me, on the other hand, that my body, however weakened,
cannot support the regimen of La Trappe. Without believing or pretending
to believe with the Abbé Gévresin that that kind of food will be even
helpful to me, I ought to count on Divine consolations, to admit the
principle that, if I am sent there, it is not that I may take at once to
my bed, or be obliged to leave again as soon as I arrive--at least,
unless that is the chastisement prepared me, the expiation demanded, and
again no, for that would be to ascribe to God pitiless tricks, and would
be absurd!
"As to the cookery, it matters little that it is uncivilized, if my
stomach can digest it; to have bad food, and get up in the middle of the
night is nothing, provided the body can stand it, and no doubt I shall
find some means of smoking cigarettes by stealth in the woods.
"After all, a week is soon over, and I am not even obliged, if I feel
poorly, to remain a week.
"From the spiritual point of view, I must again count on the mercy of
God, believe that it will not abandon me, will dress my wounds, and
change the very foundation of my soul. I know well that these arguments
do not rest on any earthly certainty, but yet if I have proofs that
Providence has already taken part in my affairs, I have no reason to
suppose that these arguments are weaker than the purely physical motives
which served to support my other thesis. Now I must recall that
conversion, so outside my will; I must take account of a fact which
should encourage me, the weakness of the temptations which I now
experience.
"It is difficult to have been more rapidly and more completely heard.
Whether I owe this grace to my own prayers or to those of the convents
which have shielded me without knowing me, it is the case that for some
time past my brain has been silent and my flesh calm. That monster
Florence appears to me still at certain times, but she does not approach
me, she remains in the shade, and the end of the Lord's Prayer, the 'ne
nos inducas in tentationem,' puts her to flight.
"That is an unaccustomed fact, and yet a precise one. Why should I
doubt, then, that I shall be better upheld at La Trappe than I am in
Paris itself?
"There remain confession and communion.
"Confession? It will be what the Lord chooses it should be. He will
choose the monk for me; I shall only be able to make use of him; and
then the more disagreeable it is, the better worth it will be; and if I
suffer much, I shall think myself less unworthy to communicate.
"That is," he went on, "the most painful point! Communicate! But let us
consider, it is certain that I shall be base in proposing to Christ that
He should descend like a scavenger into my ditch; but if I wait till it
is empty, I shall never be in a state to receive Him, for my bulkheads
are not closed, and sins would filter through the fissures.
"All this well considered, the abbé spoke truth when he answered me one
day: 'But I too am not worthy to approach Him; thank God, I have not
those sewers of which you speak, but in the morning, when I go to say my
mass, and think of all the dust of the evening, do you not think that I
am ashamed? It is always necessary, you see, to go back to the Gospels,
and say to yourself that He came for the weak and the sick, the
publicans and lepers; and, in fact, you must convince yourself that the
Eucharist is a lookout post, a help, that it is given, as it is written
in the ordinary of the Mass "ad tutamentum mentis et corporis et ad
medelam percipiendam." It is, if I may say so, a spiritual medicine; you
go to the Saviour just as you go to a doctor, you take your soul to Him
to care for it, and He does so!'
"I stand before the unknown," pursued Durtal, "I complain that I am
arid, and have wandered from the right way, but who will declare to me
that, if I determine to communicate, I shall remain in the same mind;
for indeed, if I have Faith, I ought to believe in the occult work of
Christ in the Sacrament. Lastly, I am afraid of being wearied by
solitude; I am not much amused here as it is, but at La Trappe I shall
no longer have those vacillations at every minute, those constant fears;
I shall at least have the advantage of having my time to myself; and
then ... and then ... how well I know solitude. Have I not lived apart
since the deaths of des Hermies and Carhaix? Indeed, whom do I see? A
few publishers, a few literary men, and my relations with these people
are not interesting. As to silence, it is a blessing. I shall not hear
any foolish sayings at La Trappe; I shall not listen to pitiable
homilies and poor sermons; but I ought to rejoice on being at last
isolated, far from Paris, far from men."
He was silent, and made, as it were, a return in upon himself; and said
to himself, in a melancholy manner: "These strifes are useless, these
reflections vain. I need not try to take account of my soul, to make out
the debit and credit; I know, without knowing how, that I must go; I am
thrust out of myself by an impulse which rises from the very depths of
my being, to which I am quite certain I have to yield."
At that moment Durtal had decided, but ten minutes afterwards the
attempt at resolution vanished. He felt his cowardice gain on him once
more, he chewed once more the cud of arguments against his moving; came
to the conclusion that his reasons for remaining in Paris were palpable,
human, certain, while the others were intangible, extra-natural, and
consequently subject to illusions, perhaps false.
And he invented for himself the fear of not obtaining the thing he
feared, said to himself that La Trappe would not receive him, or
certainly that it would refuse him communion; and then he suggested to
himself a middle term: to confess at Paris and communicate at La
Trappe.
But then there passed in him an incomprehensible fact: his whole soul
revolted at this idea, and the formal order not to deceive himself was
truly breathed into him, and he said to himself: "No, the bitter draught
must be drained to the last drop, it is all or nothing; if I confess to
the abbé it will be in disobedience to absolute and secret directions; I
should be capable of not going afterwards to Notre Dame de l'Atre.
"What shall I do?" And he accused himself of distrust, called to his aid
once more the memory of benefits received, how scales had fallen from
his eyes, his insensible progress towards Faith, his encounter with that
singular priest, perhaps the only one who could understand him, and
treat him in a way so benign and so elastic; but he tried in vain to
reassure himself, then he called up the dream of the monastic life, the
sovereign beauty of the cloister; he imagined the joy of renunciation,
the peace of exalted prayers, the interior intoxication of the spirit,
the delight of not being at home any longer in his own body. Some words
of the abbé about La Trappe served as a spring-board for his dreams, and
he perceived an old abbey, grey and warm, immense avenues of trees,
clouds flying confusedly amid the song of waters, silent strolls in the
woods at nightfall; he called up the solemn liturgies of Saint
Benedict's time; he saw the white pith of monastic chants rise under the
scarcely pruned bark of sound. He succeeded in his decision, and cried:
"You have dreamed for years of the cloisters, now rejoice that you will
know them at last," and he wished to go at once and live there; then
suddenly he fell down into reality, and said to himself: "It is easy to
wish to live in a monastery, to tell God that you would desire to take
shelter therein, when life in Paris weighs you down, but when it comes
to the real point of emigration, it is quite another matter."
He turned over these thoughts everywhere, in the street, at home, in the
chapels. He hurried like a shuttle from one church to another, hoping to
solace his fears by changing his place, but they persisted, and rendered
every place intolerable.
Then in the sacred places came always that dryness of soul, the broken
spring of impulse, a sudden silence within, when he desired consolation
in speaking to Him. His best moments, his pauses in the hurly-burly,
were a few minutes of absolute torpor, which rested like snow on the
soul and he heard nothing.
But this drowsiness of thought lasted but a while, the whirlwind blew
once more, and the prayers which were wont to appease it refused to
leave his lips, he tried religious music, the despairing sequences of
the psalms, pictures of the Crucifixion by the Early Masters, to excite
him, but his prayers ran on and became confused on his lips, were
divested of all sense, mere words, empty shells.
At Notre Dame des Victoires, where he dragged himself that he might thaw
a little under the warmth of his neighbours' prayers, he did in fact
feel less chilly, and seemed to break up a little, fell drop by drop
into sorrows which he could not formulate, and were all summed up in the
cry of a sick child, in which he said to Our Lady, in low tones: "My
soul is sorrowful."
Thence he returned to St. Severin, sat down under those arches browned
by the rust of prayers, and, haunted by his fixed idea, he pleaded for
himself extenuating circumstances, exaggerated the austerities of La
Trappe, tried almost to exasperate his fear to excuse his weakness in a
vague appeal to Our Lady.
"But I must go and see the Abbé Gévresin," he murmured, but his courage
still failed him to pronounce the "Yes" which the priest would surely
require from him. He ended by discovering a reason for his visit,
without thinking himself obliged to promise just yet.
"After all," he thought, "I have no precise information about this
monastery; I do not even know whether it may not be necessary to take a
long and expensive journey to get there; the abbé indeed declares that
it is not far from Paris, but it is impossible to decide on this simple
declaration; it will be useful also to know the habits of these
cenobites before going to stay with them."
The abbé smiled when Durtal mentioned these objections.
"The journey is short," he said. "You start from the Gare du Nord at
eight o'clock in the morning for Saint Landry, where you arrive at a
quarter to twelve; you lunch at an inn close to the station, and while
you are drinking your coffee they get you a carriage, and after a drive
of four hours you arrive at Notre Dame de l'Atre for dinner. There is no
difficulty there.
"Then the cost is moderate. As far as I remember the railway fare is
about fifteen francs, add two or three francs for lunch, and six or
seven for the carriage ..."
And as Durtal was silent, the abbé went on: "Well?"
"Ah yes, yes ... if you knew ... I am in a pitiable state, I will and
will not, I know well that I ought to take refuge there, but in spite of
myself, I wish to gain time and put off the hour of departure."
And he continued: "My soul is out of gear, when I would pray, my senses
go all astray, I cannot recollect myself, and if I succeed in pulling
myself together, five minutes do not pass but I am all astray again; no,
I have neither fervour nor true contrition, I do not love God enough, if
it must be said.
"And, indeed, during the last two days, a frightful certainty has grown
up in me; I am sure that, in spite of my good intentions, if I found
myself in the presence of a certain person, whose sight troubles me, I
should send religion to the devil, I should return eagerly to my vomit;
I only hold on because I am not tempted, I am no better than when I was
sinning. You will admit that I am in a wretched state to enter a
Trappist monastery."
"Your reasons are at least weak," answered the abbé. "You say first that
your prayers are distracted, that you are unable to concentrate your
attention; but in fact you are just like everybody else. Even Saint
Teresa declares that often she was unable to recite the Credo without
distraction, it is a weakness in which we must just take our portion
humbly: above all things it is necessary not to lay too much stress on
these evils, for the fear of seeing them return ensures their assiduity;
you are distracted in prayer by the very fear of distraction, and by
regret for it; go forth more boldly, look at things more widely, pray as
best you can, and do not trouble yourself.
"Again, you declare that if you meet a certain person whose attraction
is a trouble to you, you will succumb. How do you know that? why should
you take care about seductions which God does not yet inflict upon you,
and which He will perhaps spare you? Why doubt His mercy? Why not
believe, on the contrary, that if He judge the temptation useful, He
will aid you enough to prevent your sinking under it?
"In any case you ought not, by anticipation, to fear disgust at your
weakness; the Imitation declares 'There is nothing more foolish and
vain, than to afflict ourselves about future things which may perhaps
never happen.' No, it is enough to occupy ourselves with the present,
for 'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,'--'sufficit diei
malitia sua.'
"Finally you say you do not love God; again I answer, what do you know
about it? You have this love by the very token that you desire to have
it, and that you regret you have it not; you love our Lord by the very
fact that you desire to love Him."
"That is special pleading," murmured Durtal. "But indeed," he went on,
"suppose at La Trappe, the monk revolted at the long outrage of my sins,
refused me absolution, and forbade me to communicate."
The abbé burst out laughing.
"You are mad! What is your notion of Christ?"
"Not of Christ, but of His intermediary the human being who replaces
Him."
"You can only chance upon a man pointed out beforehand from above to
judge you; moreover, at Notre Dame de l'Atre you have every chance of
kneeling at the feet of a saint, therefore God will inspire him, will be
present, you have nothing to fear.
"As to the Communion, the prospect of being rejected terrifies you, but
is not that one proof the more that, contrary to your opinion, God does
not leave you insensible?"
"Yes, but the idea of communicating alarms me none the less."
"I say to you again: if Jesus were indifferent to you, it would be just
the same to you, to consume or not to consume the sacred species."
"All that does not convince me," sighed Durtal. "I do not know where I
am; I am afraid of a confessor, of others, of myself; it is foolish, but
it is stronger than I. I cannot gain the upper hand."
"You are afraid of the water; imitate Gribouille, throw yourself in
boldly; look, suppose I write to La Trappe this very day to say you are
coming; when?"
"Oh!" cried Durtal, "wait a while."
"To get an answer, we need two days each way; will you go there five
days hence?"
And, as Durtal was astounded and silent,
"Is that settled?"
Then, at that moment, Durtal had a strange experience, as often at St.
Severin, a sort of caressing touch and gentle push; he felt a will
insinuate itself into his own, and he drew back disquieted at seeing he
had a double self, to find he was no longer alone in the depth of his
being; then he was inexplicably reassured, and gave himself up, and as
soon as he had said "Yes" he felt immensely relieved; then passing from
one extreme to the other, he was troubled at the idea that his departure
could not take place at once, and was sorry that he had still to pass
five days in Paris.
The abbé laughed. "But the Trappists must have notice, it is a simple
formality, for with a word from me, you will be received at once, but
wait at least until I have sent this word; I will post it this evening,
so have no anxiety, and sleep in peace."
Durtal in his turn laughed at his own impatience. "You must think me
very ridiculous," he said.
The priest shrugged his shoulders. "Come, you asked me about my little
monastery; I must try to satisfy you. It is very small, if compared with
the grande Trappe at Soligny, or the establishments at Sept Fonds,
Meilleray or Aiguebelle, for there are only about ten choir fathers, and
about thirty lay brothers or 'conversi.' There are also a certain number
of peasants who work with them, and help them to till their land, and
make their chocolate."
"They make chocolate!"
"That surprises you. How do you think they live? Ah! I warn you, you are
not going into a sumptuous monastery."
"I like it so. But in regard to the stories of La Trappe, I suppose the
monks do not greet each other with 'Brother, we must die,' and that they
do not dig their graves every morning?"
"All that is false. They take no trouble about their graves, and they
salute each other silently, since they are forbidden to speak."
"Then what am I to do if I need anything?"
"The abbot, the confessor, and the guest-master have the right of
conversing with the guests, you will have to do with them alone; the
others will bow when you meet them, but if you speak to them they will
not answer."
"It is well to know that. What is their dress?"
"Before the foundation of Citeaux, the Benedictines wore, or so it is
supposed, the black habit of Saint Benedict; the Benedictines properly
so-called wear it still, but at Citeaux the colour was changed, and the
Trappists, who are a twig of this branch, have adopted the white robe of
Saint Bernard."
"Pray pardon all these questions, which must seem childish, but since I
am about to visit these monks, I ought to be in some measure acquainted
with the customs of their order."
"I am wholly at your disposition," replied the abbé.
Durtal asked him about the situation of the abbey itself, and he
replied,
"The present monastery dates from the eighteenth century, but you will
see in the gardens the ruins of the old cloister, which was built in the
time of Saint Bernard. In the Middle Ages there was a succession of
Blessed in this convent; it is a truly sanctified land, fit for
meditation and regret.
"The abbey is situated at the bottom of a valley, according to the
orders of Saint Bernard; for you know that if Saint Benedict loved the
hills, Saint Bernard sought the low and moist plains wherein to found
his convents. An old Latin line has preserved the different tastes of
these two saints:
"'Bernardus valles, colles Benedictus amabat.'"
"Was it on account of his own personal liking, or for a pious end, that
Saint Bernard built his hermitages in unwholesome and flat places?"
"In order that his monks, whose health was enfeebled by the fogs, might
have constantly before their eyes the salutary image of death."
"The deuce he did!"
"I may add at once that the valley in which Notre Dame de l'Atre rises
is now drained, and the air is very pure. You will stroll by delightful
ponds, and I may recommend you, on the borders of the enclosure, an
avenue of secular chestnuts, where you may take some refreshing walks
at daybreak."
And after a silence the Abbé Gévresin continued,--
"Walk there a good deal, traverse the woods in all directions; the
forests will tell you more about your soul than books: 'Aliquid amplius
invenies in sylvis quam in libris,' wrote Saint Bernard--'pray and your
days will seem short.'"
Durtal went away from the priest's house comforted, almost joyful; he
felt at least the solace of a fixed decision, a resolution taken at
last. He said to himself that the only thing now to be done was to
prepare himself as best he could for the retreat, and he prayed and went
to bed for the first time for months with his mind at rest.
But next day, when he woke, his mood changed, all his preconceived
ideas, all his fears returned; he asked himself if his conversion were
ripe enough to allow him to cut it separate, and carry it to La Trappe;
the fear of a confessor, the dread of the unknown, assailed him afresh.
"I was wrong to have answered so soon," and he asked himself, "Why did I
say 'yes'?" The recollection of this word pronounced by his lips,
conceived by a will which was still his own and yet other than his, came
back to his mind. "It is not the first time that such a thing happened
to me," he thought, "I have already experienced when alone in the
churches unexpected counsels, silent orders, and it must be admitted
that it is terrifying to feel this infusion into self of an invisible
being, and to know that he can, if he choose, almost turn you out of the
domain of your personality.
"But no, it is not that, there is no substitution of an exterior will to
one's own, for one's free will is absolutely intact; neither is it one
of those irresistible impulses endured by certain sick persons, for
nothing is more easy than to resist it; it is still less a suggestion,
since, in this case, there are no magnetic passes, no somnambulism
induced, no hypnotism; no, it is the irresistible entrance into oneself
of a strange will, the sudden intrusion of a precise and discreet
desire, a pressure on the soul at once firm and gentle. Ah! again I am
incorrect, and play the fool, but nothing can describe that close
pressure, which vanishes at the least movement of impatience--it is felt
but cannot be expressed.
"Its introduction is always attended by surprise, almost with anguish,
since it does not make use of even an interior voice to make itself
heard, and is formulated without the aid of words, all is blotted out,
the breath which has thrilled you disappears. You would wish that this
incitement should be confirmed, that the phenomenon should be repeated
in order to be more closely observed, to try to analyze it and
understand it, when lo! it is gone; you remain alone with yourself, are
free not to obey, your will is unfettered and you know it, but you know
also that if you reject these invitations you take on yourself
unspeakable risks for the future.
"In fact," pursued Durtal, "it is an angelic influx, a divine touch,
something analogous to the interior voice so well known by the mystics,
but it is less complete, less precise, and yet it is quite as certain."
He ended his dreams concluding, "I am consumed and collared by myself,
before being able to answer this priest, whose arguments would scarce
persuade me, unless I had had this help, this unexpected succour.
"But then, since I am thus led by the hand, what have I to fear?"
He feared all the same, and could not be at peace with himself; then if
he profited by the comfort of a decision, he was consumed for the moment
by the expectation of his departure.
He tried to kill time in reading, but he had to admit once more that he
could not expect consolation from any book. None came even distantly
into relation with his state of mind. High Mysticism was so little
human, soared at such heights far from our mire, that no sovereign aid
could be expected from it. He ended by falling back on the "Imitation,"
in which Mysticism, placed within the reach of the crowd, was like a
trembling and plaintive friend who stanched your wounds within the cells
of its chapters, prayed and wept with you, and in any case
compassionated the desolate widowhood of souls.
Unfortunately, Durtal had read so much, and was so saturated with the
Gospels, that he had temporarily exhausted their sedative and soothing
virtues. Tired of reading, he again began his courses in the churches.
"And suppose the Trappists will not have me," he thought, "what will
become of me?"
"But I tell you that they will receive you," said the abbé, whom he went
to see. He was not easy till the day the priest handed him the answer
from La Trappe.
He read:--
"We will receive with pleasure, for a week, in our guest-house the
retreatant whom you wish to commend to us, and I do not see at the
moment any reason why the retreat should not begin next Tuesday.
"In the hope, Monsieur l'Abbé, that we shall also have the pleasure
of seeing you again in our solitude, I beg to assure you that I am
yours most respectfully,
"F. M. ETIENNE,
"_Guestmaster._"
He read and re-read it, at once delighted and terrified. "There is no
further doubt; it is irrevocable," he said, and he went at once in haste
to St. Severin, having less need of prayer than of going near to Our
Lady; of showing himself to her, paying her, as it were, a visit of
thankfulness, and expressing his gratitude by his very presence.
He was taken by the charms of that church, its silence, the shadow which
fell on the apse, from the height of its palm trees of stone, and he
ended by caring for nothing and sinking on a chair, filled with one sole
desire, not to enter again on the life of the streets, never to leave
his refuge, never to move.
The next day, which was a Sunday, he went to the Benedictine nuns to
hear High Mass. A black monk celebrated; he recognized a Benedictine
when the priest chanted "Dominous vobiscoum," for the Abbé Gévresin had
told him that the Benedictines pronounced Latin like Italian.
Though he was not inclined to like that pronunciation which took away
from Latin the sonorous tones of its words, and turned after a fashion
the phrases of that tongue into a ring of bells with their clappers
muffled or their vases stuffed with tow, he let himself go, taken hold
of by the unction, by the humble piety of the monk, who almost trembled
with reverence and joy when he kissed the altar, and he had a deep
voice, to which, behind the grating, answered the clear high voices of
the nuns.
Durtal panted, listening to the fluid pictures of the Early Masters
sketch and form and paint themselves on the air; he was affected to his
very marrow, as he had formerly been during High Mass at St. Severin. He
had lost that emotion now in that church, where the flower of melody had
faded for him since he knew the Benedictine plain song, and he now found
it again, or rather he took it with him from St. Severin to this chapel.
And for the first time he had a wild desire, a desire so violent that it
seemed to melt his heart.
It was at the moment of the Communion. The monk, elevating the Host,
uttered the "Domine non sum dignus." Pale, with drawn features,
sorrowful eyes, and serious mouth, he seemed to have escaped from a
monastery of the Middle Ages, cut out of one of those Flemish pictures
where the monks are standing in the background, while, before them, nuns
are praying on their knees with joined hands, near the donors, to the
child Jesus on whom the Virgin smiles, while lowering her long lashes
under her arching brow.
And while he descended the steps and communicated two women, Durtal
trembled, and his desires went forth towards the ciborium.
It seemed to him that if he were nourished on that Bread, there would be
an end of all his dryness and all his fears; it would seem to him that
the wall of his sins, higher and higher from year to year, and now
barring his view, would roll away, and at last he would see. And he was
in haste to set off for La Trappe, that he too might receive the Sacred
Body from the hands of a monk.
That mass gave him new strength like a tonic, he came out of the chapel
joyful and firmer, and when the impression grew somewhat feebler in the
course of hours, he remained perhaps less affected, but still resolute,
joking in the evening with a gentle melancholy about his condition:
"There are many people who go to Barèges or Vichy to cure their bodies,
and why should not I go and cure my soul in a Trappist monastery?"