{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_24096/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_24096","id":"gutenberg_24096","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24096","summary":null,"tags":["Antiheroes -- Fiction","Art and religion -- Fiction","Autobiographical fiction","Category: French Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Catholic Church -- Fiction","French fiction -- Translations into English","Psychological fiction"],"text":"E-text prepared by Camille Fran\u00e7ois, Suzanne Shell, and the Project\nGutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)\n\n\n\nEN ROUTE\n\nby\n\nJ. K. HUYSMANS\n\nTranslated by W. Fleming\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEN ROUTE.\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nDuring the first week in November, the week within the Octave of All\nSouls, Durtal entered St. Sulpice, at eight o'clock in the evening. He\noften chose to turn into that church, because there was a trained choir,\nand because he could there examine himself at peace, apart from the\ncrowd. The ugliness of the nave, with its heavy vaulting, vanished at\nnight, the aisles were often empty, it was ill-lighted by a few\nlamps--it was possible for a man to chide his soul in secret, as if at\nhome.\n\nDurtal sat down behind the high altar, on the left, in the aisle along\nthe Rue de St. Sulpice; the lamps of the choir organ were lighted. Far\noff, in the almost empty nave, an ecclesiastic was preaching. He\nrecognized, by the unctuousness of his delivery, and his oily accent, a\nwell-fed priest who poured on his audience, according to his wont, his\nbest known commonplaces.\n\n\"Why are they so devoid of eloquence?\" thought Durtal. \"I have had the\ncuriosity to listen to many of them, and they are much the same. They\nonly vary in the tones of their voice. According to their temperament,\nsome are bruised down in vinegar, others steeped in oil. There is no\nsuch thing as a clever combination.\" And he called to mind orators\npetted like tenors, Monsabre, Didon, those Coquelins of the Church, and\nlower yet than those products of the Catholic training school, that\nbellicose booby the Abbe d'Hulst.\n\n\"Afterwards,\" he continued, \"come the mediocrities, each puffed by the\nhandful of devotees who listen to them. If those cooks of the soul had\nany skill, if they served their clients with delicate meats, theological\nessences, gravies of prayer, concentrated sauces of ideas, they would\nvegetate misunderstood by their flocks. So, on the whole, it is all for\nthe best. The low-water mark of the clergy must conform to the level of\nthe faithful, and indeed Providence has provided carefully for this.\"\n\nA stamping of shoes, then the movement of chairs grinding on the flags\ninterrupted him. The sermon was over.\n\nThen a great stillness was broken by a prelude from the organ, which\ndropped to a low tone, a mere accompaniment to the voices.\n\nA slow and mournful chant arose, the \"De Profundis.\" The blended voices\nsounded under the arches, intermingling with the somewhat raw sounds of\nthe harmonicas, like the sharp tones of breaking glass.\n\nResting on the low accompaniment of the organ, aided by basses so hollow\nthat they seemed to have descended into themselves, as it were\nunderground, they sprang out, chanting the verse \"De profundis ad te\nclamavi, Do--\" and then stopped in fatigue, letting the last syllables\n\"mine\" fall like a heavy tear; then these voices of children, near\nbreaking, took up the second verse of the psalm, \"Domine exaudi vocem\nmeam,\" and the second half of the last word again remained in suspense,\nbut instead of separating, and falling to the ground, there to be\ncrushed out like a drop, it seemed to gather itself together with a\nsupreme effort, and fling to heaven the anguished cry of the\ndisincarnate soul, cast naked, and in tears before God.\n\nAnd after a pause, the organ, aided by two double-basses, bellowed out,\ncarrying all the voices in its torrent--baritones, tenors, basses, not\nnow serving only as sheaths to the sharp blades of the urchin voices,\nbut openly with full throated sound--yet the dash of the little soprani\npierced them through all at once like a crystal arrow.\n\nThen a fresh pause, and in the silence of the church, the verses mourned\nout anew, thrown up by the organ, as by a spring board. As he listened\nwith attention endeavouring to resolve the sounds, closing his eyes,\nDurtal saw them at first almost horizontal, then rising little by\nlittle, then raising themselves upright, then quivering in tears, before\ntheir final breaking.\n\nSuddenly at the end of the psalm, when the response of the antiphon\ncame--\"Et lux perpetua luceat eis\"--the children's voices broke into a\nsad, silken cry, a sharp sob, trembling on the word \"eis,\" which\nremained suspended in the void.\n\nThese children's voices stretched to breaking, these clear sharp voices\nthrew into the darkness of the chant some whiteness of the dawn, joining\ntheir pure, soft sounds to the resonant tones of the basses, piercing as\nwith a jet of living silver the sombre cataract of the deeper singers;\nthey sharpened the wailing, strengthened and embittered the burning salt\nof tears, but they insinuated also a sort of protecting caress, balsamic\nfreshness, lustral help; they lighted in the darkness those brief gleams\nwhich tinkle in the Angelus at dawn of day; they called up, anticipating\nthe prophecies of the text, the compassionate image of the Virgin,\npassing, in the pale light of their tones, into the darkness of that\nsequence.\n\nThe \"De Profundis\" so chanted was incomparably beautiful. That sublime\nprayer ending in sobs, at the moment when the soul of the voices was\nabout to overpass human limits, gave a wrench to Durtal's nerves, and\nmade his heart beat. Then he wished to abstract himself, and cling\nespecially to the meaning of that sorrowful plaint, in which the fallen\nbeing calls upon its God with groans and lamentations. Those cries of\nthe third verse came back to him, wherein calling on his Saviour in\ndespair from the bottom of the abyss, man, now that he knows he is\nheard, hesitates ashamed, knowing not what to say. The excuses he has\nprepared appear to him vain, the arguments he has arranged seem to him\nof no effect, and he stammers forth; \"If Thou, O Lord, shalt observe\niniquities, Lord, who shall endure it?\"\n\n\"It is a pity,\" said Durtal to himself, \"that this psalm, which in its\nfirst verses chants so magnificently the despair of humanity, becomes in\nthose which follow more personal to King David. I know well,\" he went\non, \"that we must accept the symbolic sense of this pleading, admit that\nthe despot confounds his own cause with that of God, that his\nadversaries are the unbelievers and the wicked, that he himself,\naccording to the doctors of the Church, prefigures the person of Christ;\nbut yet the memory of his fleshly desires, and the presumptuous praise\nhe gives to his incorrigible people, contracts the scope of the poem.\nHappily the melody has a life apart from the text, a life of its own,\nnot arising out of mere tribal dissensions, but extending to all the\nearth, chanting the anguish of the time to be born, as well as of the\npresent day, and of the ages which are no more.\"\n\nThe \"De Profundis\" had ceased; after a silence, the choir intoned a\nmotet of the eighteenth century, but Durtal was only moderately\ninterested in human music in churches. What seemed to him superior to\nthe most vaunted works of theatrical or worldly music, was the old plain\nchant, that even and naked melody, at once ethereal and of the tomb, the\nsolemn cry of sadness and lofty shout of joy, those grandiose hymns of\nhuman faith, which seem to well up in the cathedrals, like irresistible\ngeysers, at the very foot of the Romanesque columns. What music, however\nample, sorrowful or tender, is worth the \"De Profundis\" chanted in\nunison, the solemnity of the \"Magnificat,\" the splendid warmth of the\n\"Lauda Sion,\" the enthusiasm of the \"Salve Regina,\" the sorrow of the\n\"Miserere,\" and the \"Stabat Mater,\" the majestic omnipotence of the \"Te\nDeum\"? Artists of genius have set themselves to translate the sacred\ntexts: Vittoria, Josquin de Pres, Palestrina, Orlando Lasso, Handel,\nBach, Haydn, have written wonderful pages; often indeed they have been\nuplifted by the mystic effluence, the very emanation of the Middle Ages,\nfor ever lost; and yet their works have retained a certain pomp, and in\nspite of all are pretentious, as opposed to the humble magnificence, the\nsober splendour of the Gregorian chant--with them the whole thing came\nto an end, for composers no longer believed.\n\nYet in modern times some religious pieces may be cited of Lesueur,\nWagner, Berlioz, and Caesar Franck, and in these again we are conscious\nof the artist underlying his work, the artist determined to show his\nskill, thinking to exalt his own glory, and therefore leaving God out.\nWe feel ourselves in the presence of superior men, but men with their\nweaknesses, their inseparable vanity, and even the vice of their senses.\nIn the liturgical chant, created almost always anonymously in the depth\nof the cloisters, was an extraterrestrial well, without taint of sin or\ntrace of art. It was an uprising of souls already freed from the slavery\nof the flesh, an explosion of elevated tenderness and pure joy, it was\nalso the idiom of the Church, a musical gospel appealing like the Gospel\nitself at once to the most refined and the most humble.\n\nAh! the true proof of Catholicism was that art which it had founded, an\nart which has never been surpassed; in painting and sculpture the Early\nMasters, mystics in poetry and in prose, in music plain chant, in\narchitecture the Romanesque and Gothic styles. And all this held\ntogether and blazed in one sheaf, on one and the same altar; all was\nreconciled in one unique cluster of thoughts: to revere, adore and serve\nthe Dispenser, showing to Him reflected in the soul of His creature, as\nin a faithful mirror, the still immaculate treasure of His gifts.\n\nThen in those marvellous Middle Ages, wherein Art, foster-child of the\nChurch, encroached on death and advanced to the threshold of Eternity,\nand to God, the divine concept and the heavenly form were guessed and\nhalf-perceived, for the first and perhaps for the last time by man. They\nanswered and echoed each other--art calling to art.\n\nThe Virgins had faces almond-shaped, elongated like those ogives which\nthe Gothic style contrived in order to distribute an ascetic light, a\nvirginal dawn in the mysterious shrine of its naves. In the pictures of\nthe Early Masters the complexion of holy women becomes transparent as\nPaschal wax, and their hair is pale as golden grains of frankincense,\ntheir childlike bosoms scarcely swell, their brows are rounded like the\nglass of the pyx, their fingers taper, their bodies shoot upwards like\ndelicate columns. Their beauty becomes, as it were, liturgical. They\nseem to live in the fire of stained glass, borrowing from the flaming\nwhirlwind of the rose-windows the circles of their aureoles. The ardent\nblue of their eyes, the dying embers of their lips, keeping for their\ngarments the colours they disdain for their flesh, stripping them of\ntheir light, changing them, when they transfer them to stuffs, into\nopaque tones which aid still more by their contrast to declare the\nseraphic clearness of their look, the grievous paleness of the mouth, to\nwhich, according to the Proper of the season, the scent of the lily of\nthe Canticles or the penitential fragrance of myrrh in the Psalms lend\ntheir perfume.\n\nThen among artists was a coalition of brains, a welding together of\nsouls. Painters associated themselves in the same ideal of beauty with\narchitects, they united in an indestructible relation cathedrals and\nsaints, only reversing the usual process--they framed the jewel\naccording to the shrine, and modelled the relics for the reliquary.\n\nOn their side the sequences chanted by the Church had subtle affinities\nwith the canvases of the Early Painters.\n\nVittoria's responses for Tenebrae are of a like inspiration and an equal\nloftiness with those of Quentin Matsys' great work, the Entombment of\nChrist. The \"Regina Coeli\" of the Flemish musician Lasso has the same\ngood faith, the same simple and strange attraction, as certain statues\nof a reredos, or religious pictures of the elder Breughel. Lastly, the\nMiserere of Josquin de Pres, choirmaster of Louis XII., has, like the\npanels of the Early Masters of Burgundy and Flanders, a patient\nintention, a stiff, threadlike simplicity, but also it exhales like them\na truly mystical savour, and its awkwardness of outline is very\ntouching.\n\nThe ideal of all these works is the same and attained by different\nmeans.\n\nAs for plain chant, the agreement of its melody with architecture is\nalso certain; it also bends from time to time like the sombre Romanesque\narcades, and rises, shadowy and pensive, like complete vaulting. The \"De\nProfundis,\" for instance, curves in on itself like those great groins\nwhich form the smoky skeleton of the bays; it is like them slow and\ndark, extends itself only in obscurity and moves only in the shadow of\nthe crypts.\n\nSometimes, on the other hand, the Gregorian chant seems to borrow from\nGothic its flowery tendrils, its scattered pinnacles, its gauzy rolls,\nits tremulous lace, its trimmings light and thin as the voices of\nchildren. Then it passes from one extreme to another, from the amplitude\nof sorrow to an infinite joy; at other times again, the plain music, and\nthe Christian music to which it gave birth, lend themselves, like\nsculpture, to the gaiety of the people, associate themselves with simple\ngladness, and the sculptured merriment of the ancient porches; they take\nthe popular rhythm of the crowd, as in the Christmas carol \"Adeste\nFideles\" and in the Paschal hymn \"O Filii et Filiae;\" they become trivial\nand familiar like the Gospels, submitting themselves to the humble\nwishes of the poor, lending them a holiday tune easy to catch, a\nrunning melody which carries them into pure regions where these simple\nsouls can cast themselves at the indulgent feet of Christ.\n\nBorn of the Church, and bred up by her in the choir-schools of the\nMiddle Ages, plain chant is the aerial and mobile paraphrase of the\nimmovable structure of the cathedrals; it is the immaterial and fluid\ninterpretation of the canvases of the Early Painters; it is a winged\ntranslation, but also the strict and unbending stole of those Latin\nsequences, which the monks built up or hewed out in the cloisters in the\nfar-off olden time.\n\nNow it is changed and disconnected, foolishly overwhelmed by the crash\nof organs, and is chanted, God knows how!\n\nMost choirs when they intone it, like to imitate the rumbling and\ngurgling of water-pipes, others the grating of rattles, the creaking of\npullies, the grinding of a crane, but, in spite of all, its beauty\nremains, unextinguished, dulled though it be, by the wild bellowing of\nthe singers.\n\nThe sudden silence in the church roused Durtal. He rose and looked about\nhim; in his corner was no one save two poor women, asleep, their feet on\nthe bars of chairs, their heads on their knees. Leaning forward a\nlittle, he saw, hanging above him in a dark chapel, the light of a lamp,\nlike a ruby in its red glass; no sound save the military tread of the\nSuisse, making his round in the distance.\n\nDurtal sat down again; the sweetness of his solitude was enhanced by the\naromatic perfume of wax, and the memories, now faint, of incense, but it\nwas suddenly broken. As the first chords crashed on the organ Durtal\nrecognized the \"Dies irae,\" that despairing hymn of the Middle Ages;\ninstinctively he bowed his head and listened.\n\nThis was no more as in the \"De Profundis\" an humble supplication, a\nsuffering which believes it has been heard, and discerns a path of light\nto guide it in the darkness, no longer the prayer which has hope enough\nnot to tremble; it was the cry of absolute desolation and of terror.\n\nAnd, indeed, the wrath divine breathed tempestuously through these\nstanzas. They seemed addressed less to the God of mercy, to the Son who\nlistens to prayer, than to the inflexible Father, to Him whom the Old\nTestament shows us, overcome with anger, scarcely appeased by the smoke\nof the pyres, the inconceivable attractions of burnt-offerings. In this\nchant it asserted itself still more savagely, for it threatened to\nstrike the waters, and break in pieces the mountains, and to rend\nasunder the depths of heaven by thunder-bolts. And the earth, alarmed,\ncried out in fear.\n\nA crystalline voice, a clear child's voice, proclaimed in the nave the\ntidings of these cataclysms, and after this the choir chanted new\nstrophes wherein the implacable judge came with shattering blare of\ntrumpet, to purify by fire the rottenness of the world.\n\nThen, in its turn, a bass, deep as a vault, as though issuing from the\ncrypt, accentuated the horror of these prophecies, made these threats\nmore overwhelming, and after a short strain by the choir, an alto\nrepeated them in yet more detail. Then, so soon as the awful poem had\nexhausted the enumeration of chastisement and suffering, in shrill\ntones--the falsetto of a little boy--the name of Jesus went by, and a\nlight broke in on the thunder-cloud, the panting universe cried for\npardon, recalling, by all the voices of the choir, the infinite mercies\nof the Saviour, and His pardon, pleading with Him for absolution, as\nformerly He had spared the penitent thief and the Magdalen.\n\nBut in the same despairing and headstrong melody the tempest raged\nagain, drowned with its waves the half-seen shores of heaven, and the\nsolos continued, discouraged, interrupted by the recurrent weeping of\nthe choir, giving, with the diversity of voices, a body to the special\nconditions of shame, the particular states of fear, the different ages\nof tears.\n\nAt last, when still mixed and blended, these voices had borne away on\nthe great waters of the organ all the wreckage of human sorrows, all the\nbuoys of prayers and tears, they fell exhausted, paralyzed by terror,\nwailing and sighing like a child who hides its face, stammering \"Dona\neis requiem,\" they ended, worn out, in an Amen so plaintive, that it\ndied away in a breath above the sobbing of the organ.\n\nWhat man could have imagined such despair, dreamed of such disasters?\nAnd Durtal made answer to himself: \"No man.\"\n\nIn fact the attempt has been vain to discover the author both of the\nmusic and of the sequence. They have been attributed to Frangipani,\nThomas of Celano, St. Bernard and a crowd of others, and they have\nremained anonymous, simply formed by the sad alluvial deposits of the\nage. The \"Dies irae\" seemed to have, at first, fallen, like a seed of\ndesolation, among the distracted souls of the eleventh century; it\ngerminated there and grew slowly, nurtured by the sap of anguish,\nwatered by the rain of tears. It was at last pruned when it seemed ripe,\nand had, perhaps, thrown out too many branches, for in one of the\nearliest known texts, a stanza, which has since disappeared, called up\nthe magnificent and barbarous image of an earth revolving as it belched\nforth flames, while the constellations burst into shards, and heaven\nshrivelled like a parched scroll.\n\n\"All this,\" concluded Durtal, \"does not prevent these triple stanzas\nwoven of shadow and cold, full of reverberating rhymes, and hard echoes,\nthis music of rude stuff which wraps the phrases like a shroud, and\nmasks the rigid outlines of the work, from being admirable! Yet that\nchant which constrains, and renders with such energy the breadth of the\nsequence, that melodic period, which without variation, remaining always\nthe same, succeeds in expressing by turns prayer and terror, moves me\nless than the 'De Profundis,' which yet has not its grandiose\nspaciousness nor that artistic cry of despair.\n\n\"But chanted to the organ the psalm is earthy and suffocating. It comes\nfrom out the very depths of the sepulchre, while the 'Dies irae' has its\nsource only on the sill of the tomb. The first is the very voice of the\ndead, the second that of the living who inter him, and the dead man\nweeps, but takes courage a little, when those that bury him despair.\n\n\"To sum up,\" Durtal concluded, \"I prefer the text of the 'Dies irae' to\nthat of the 'De Profundis,' and the melody of the 'De Profundis' to that\nof the 'Dies irae.' It is true also that this last sequence is\nmodernized, and chanted theatrically here, without the imposing and\nneedful march of unison.\n\n\"This time, for instance, it is devoid of interest,\" he continued,\nceasing his thoughts for a moment, to listen to the piece of modern\nmusic which the choir was just then rendering. \"Ah, who will take on\nhimself to proscribe that pert mysticism, those fonts of toilet-water\nwhich Gounod invented!... There ought indeed to be astonishing\npenalties for choir masters who allow such musical effeminacy in church.\nThis is, as it was this morning at the Madeleine, when I happened to be\npresent at the interminable funeral of an old banker; they played a\nmilitary march with violin and violoncello accompaniments, with trumpets\nand timbrels, a heroic and worldly march to celebrate the departure and\nthe decomposition of a financier!... It is too absurd.\" And listening no\nmore to the music in St. Sulpice, Durtal transferred himself in thought\nto the Madeleine, and went off at full speed in his dreams.\n\n\"Indeed,\" he said to himself, \"the clergy make Jesus like a tourist,\nwhen they invite Him daily to come down into that church whose exterior\nis surmounted by no cross, and whose interior is like the grand\nreception-room at an hotel. But how can you make those priests\nunderstand that ugliness is sacrilege, and that nothing is equal to the\nfrightful sin of this confusion of Romanesque and Greek, these pictures\nof aged men, that flat ceiling studded with skylights, from which filter\nin all weathers the spoiled gleams of a rainy day, to that futile altar\nsurmounted by a circle of angels who, in discreet abandonment, dance in\nhonour of our Lady, a motionless marble rigadoon?\"\n\nYet in the Madeleine, at a funeral, when the door opens, and the corpse\nadvances in a gap of daylight, all is changed. Like a superterrestrial\nantiseptic, an extrahuman disinfectant, the liturgy purifies and\ncleanses the impious ugliness of the place.\n\nAnd thinking over his memories of the morning, Durtal saw again, as he\nclosed his eyes, at the end of the semicircular apse, the procession of\nred and black robes, white surplices, joining in front of the altar,\ndescending the steps together, making their way together to the\ncatafalque, dividing again on each aide, joining to mix afresh in the\ngreat gangway between the chairs.\n\nThis slow and silent procession, led by incomparable Suisses, in\nmourning, their swords horizontal, and a general's epaulets in jet,\nadvanced, preceded by a cross, in front of the corpse laid on tressels,\nand far-off in all that confusion of lights falling from the roof, and\nlighted flambeaux round the catafalque and on the altar, the white of\nthe tapers disappeared, and the priests who bore them seemed to march\nwith empty hands uplifted as though to point out the stars which\naccompanied them, twinkling above their heads.\n\nThen when the bier was surrounded by the clergy, the \"De Profundis\"\nburst forth from the depths of the sanctuary, intoned by invisible\nsingers.\n\n\"That was good,\" said Durtal to himself. At the Madeleine the voices of\nthe children are sharp and feeble, and the basses are badly trained and\nfailing; we are evidently far from the choir of St. Sulpice, but all the\nsame it was superb; then what a moment was that of the priests'\ncommunion, when suddenly arising from the murmuring of the choir, the\nvoice of the tenor threw above the corpse the magnificent plain chant\nantiphon--\n\n    \"Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine\n    Et lux perpetua luceat eis.\"\n\nIt seems that after all the lamentations of the \"De Profundis\" and the\n\"Dies irae,\" the presence of God, who comes then upon the altar, brings\nconsolation, and sanctions the confident and solemn pride of that\nmelodious phrase, which then invokes Christ, without dread and without\ntears.\n\nThe mass ended, the celebrant disappeared, and, as at the moment when\nthe corpse entered, the clergy, preceded by the Suisses, advanced\ntowards the body, and in the blazing circle of the tapers, a priest, in\nhis cope, said the mighty prayers of the general absolution.\n\nThen the liturgy took a higher tone, and became still more admirable.\nMediative between the sinner and the judge, the Church, by the mouth of\nher priest, implores the Lord to pardon the poor soul: \"Non intres in\njudicium cum servo tuo Domine\"--then after the amen given by the organ\nand all the choir, a voice arose in the silence, and spoke in the name\nof the dead:--\n\n\"Libera me!\"\n\nand the choir continued the old chant of the tenth century. Just as in\nthe \"Dies irae,\" which appropriates to itself fragments of these plaints,\nthe Last Judgment flamed out, and pitiless responses declare to the dead\nthe reality of his alarms, declare to him that at the end of Time the\nJudge will come with the crash of thunder to chastise the world.\n\nThe priest marched round the catafalque, sprinkling it with beads of\nholy water, incensed it, gave shelter to the poor weeping soul, consoled\nit, took it to himself, covered it, as it were, with his cope, and\nagain, intervened to pray that, after so much weariness and sorrow, the\nLord will permit the unhappy one to sleep the sleep that knows no\nwaking, far from earth's noises.\n\nNever, in any religion, has a more charitable part, a more august\nmission been assigned to man. Lifted, by his consecration, wholly above\nhumanity, almost deified by the sacerdotal office, the priest, while\nearth laments or is silent, can advance to the brink of the abyss, and\nintercede for the being whom the Church has baptized as an infant, who\nhas no doubt forgotten her since that day, and may even have persecuted\nher up to the hour of his death.\n\nNor does the Church shrink from the task. Before that fleshly dust\nheaped in a chest, she thinks of that sewage of the soul, and cries:\n\"From the gates of hell deliver him, O Lord!\" but at the end of the\ngeneral absolution, at the moment when the procession, turning its back,\nis on the way to the sacristy, she too seems disquieted. Perhaps\nrecalling in an instant, the ill deeds done by that body while it was\nalive, she seemed to doubt if her supplications were heard, and the\ndoubt her words would not frame, passed into the intonation of the last\namen, murmured at the Madeleine, by children's voices.\n\nTimid and distant, plaintive and sweet, this amen said: \"We have done\nwhat we could, but ... but ...\" And in the funereal silence which\nfollowed the clergy leaving the nave, there remained only the ignoble\nreality of the empty husk, lifted in the arms of men, thrust into a\ncarriage, like the refuse of the shambles carted off each morning to be\nmade into soap at the factories.\n\n\"If,\" continued Durtal, \"in opposition to these sad prayers, these\neloquent absolutions, we call up before us a marriage mass, all is\nchanged. There the Church is disarmed and her musical liturgy is as\nnought. Then she may well play Mendelssohn's Wedding March, and borrow\nfrom profane authors the gaiety of their songs to celebrate the brief\nand empty joy of the body. Imagine, and indeed it happens, the canticle\nof the Virgin used to magnify the glad impatience of a bride. Fancy the\nTe Deum, to hymn the blessedness of a bridegroom!\"\n\nFar away from this infamous barter of the flesh, plain chant remains\nshut up in the antiphonaries, like a monk in the cloister, and when it\ngoes forth, it is to cast up before Christ his garnered pains and\nsorrows. It gathers and sums them up in admirable supplications, and if,\nfatigued with pleading it adores, its impulse is to glorify eternal\nevents, Palm Sunday and Easter, Pentecost and the Ascension, Epiphany\nand Christmas, then its joy bursts forth so magnificently, that it\nsprings beyond the world to show its ecstatic joy at the feet of God.\n\nAs to the very ceremonies of the funeral, they are now only the regular\nway of getting money, an official routine, a prayer-wheel which is\nturned mechanically without thought of it.\n\nThe organist while he plays thinks of his family, and considers how\nwearied he is; the bellows-blower thinks, as he fills the pipes, of the\nhalf-pint which will dry his sweat; the tenors and basses are careful of\ntheir effects, and admire themselves in the more or less rippled water\nof their voices; the choir boys dream of their scampers after mass; and,\nmoreover, not one of them at all understands a word of the Latin they\nsing and abridge, as for instance the \"Dies irae,\" of which they suppress\na part of the stanzas.\n\nIn its turn beadledom calculates the sum the dead man brings in, and\neven the priest, wearied with the prayers of which he has read so many,\nand needing his breakfast, prays mechanically from the lips outward,\nwhile the assistants are in a hurry that the mass to which they have not\nlistened should come to an end, that they may shake hands with the\nrelations, and leave the dead.\n\nThere is absolute inattention, profound weariness. Yet how terrible is\nthat thing on the tressels that is waiting there in the church, that\nempty dwelling-place, that body which is already breaking up. Liquid\nmanure that stinks, gases which evaporate, flesh that rots is all that\nremains!\n\nAnd the soul, now that life is over, and all begins? No one thinks of\nit, not even the family worn out by the length of the service, absorbed\nin their own sorrow; who in fact regret only the visible presence of the\nbeing they have lost; no one except myself, thought Durtal, and a few\ncurious people, who associate themselves in their alarm with the \"Dies\nirae\" and the \"Libera,\" of which they understand both the language and\nthe meaning.\n\nThen by the external sound of the words, without the aid of\ncontemplation, without even the help of thought, the Church acts.\n\nThere it is, the miracle of her liturgy, the power of her word, the\nconstantly renewed prodigy of phrases created by revolving time, of\nprayers arranged by ages which are dead. All has passed, nothing exists\nthat was raised up in those bygone times. Yet those sequences remain\nintact, cried aloud by indifferent voices and cast out from empty\nhearts, plead, groan, and implore even with efficacy, by their virtual\npower, their talismanic might, their inalienable beauty by the almighty\nconfidence of their faith. The Middle Ages have left us these to help us\nto save, if it may be, the soul of the modern and dead fine gentleman.\n\nAt the present time, concluded Durtal, there is nothing left peculiar to\nParis, but the ceremonies, very like each other, of taking the veil and\nof funerals. It is unfortunate that when we have to do with a sumptuous\ncorpse, undertakers have their way.\n\nThey then bring out their terrible upholstery, plated statues of our\nLady in atrocious taste, zinc basins in which blaze bowls of green\npunch, tin candelabra at the end of a branch, like a cannon on end with\nits mouth upwards, supporting spiders on their backs, with burning\ncandles set about their legs, all the funeral ironmongery of the First\nEmpire, with curtain rods in relief, acanthus leaves, winged\nhour-glasses, lozenges and Greek frets. It is unfortunate, too, that to\ntouch up the miserable furniture of these ceremonies they play Massenet\nand Dubois, Benjamin Godard and Widor, or, worse still, the sacristy\norchestra, mystical bellowing, such as the women sing, who are\naffiliated to the confraternities of the month of May.\n\nAnd alas, we hear no longer the tempests of the great organs and the\nmajestic dolours of plain chant, save at the funerals of the monied\nclasses; for the poor, nothing--no choir, no organ, just a handful of\nprayers, then a few dips of the brush in the holy water stoup, and there\nis a dead man the more on whom the rain falls, who is carried away. But\nthe Church knows that the carrion of the rich rots as much as that of\nthe poor, while his soul stinks more, but she jobs indulgences and\nhaggles about masses; she, even she, is consumed by the lust of gold.\n\n\"Yet I must not think too ill of these wealthy fools,\" said Durtal,\nafter silent thought, \"for after all it is thanks to them that I can\nhear the admirable liturgy of the burial service, these people who\nperhaps have done no good action in their life, do at least this\nkindness to a few, without knowing it, after their death.\"\n\nA noise recalled him to St. Sulpice; the choir was going, the church was\nabout to close. \"I might as well have tried to pray,\" he said to\nhimself, \"it would have been better than to dream in the empty church on\na chair. Pray indeed? I have no desire for it. I am haunted by\nCatholicism, intoxicated by its atmosphere of incense and wax, I prowl\nabout it, moved even to tears by its prayers, touched even to the marrow\nby its psalms and chants. I am thoroughly disgusted with my life, very\ntired of myself, but it is a far cry from that to leading a different\nexistence! And yet--and yet ... If I am perturbed in these chapels, I\nbecome unmoved and dry again, as soon as I leave them. After all,\" he\nsaid to himself, getting up, and following the few persons who were\nmoving towards a door, driven out by the Suisse, \"after all, my heart is\nhardened and smoke-dried by dissipation, I am good for nothing.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nHow had he again become a Catholic, and got to this point?\n\nDurtal answered himself: \"I cannot tell, all that I know is that, having\nbeen for years an unbeliever, I suddenly believe.\n\n\"Let us see,\" he said to himself, \"let us try at least to consider if,\nhowever great the obscurity of such a subject, there be not common sense\nin it.\n\n\"After all, my surprise depends on preconceived ideas of conversions. I\nhave heard of sudden and violent crises of the soul, of a thunderbolt,\nor even of faith exploding at last in ground slowly and cleverly mined.\nIt is quite evident that conversions may happen in one or other of these\ntwo ways, for God acts as may seem good to Him, but there must be also a\nthird means, and this no doubt the most usual, which the Saviour has\nused in my case. And I know not in what this consists; it is something\nanalogous to digestion in a stomach, which works though we do not feel\nit. There has been no road to Damascus, no events to bring about a\ncrisis; nothing has happened, we awake some fine morning, and, without\nknowing how or why, the thing is done.\n\n\"Yes, but in fact this manoeuvre is very like that of the mine which\nonly explodes after it has been deeply dug. Yet not so, for in that case\nthe operations are material, the objections in the way are resolved; I\nmight have reasoned, followed the course of the spark along the thread,\nbut in this case, no! I sprang unexpectedly, without warning, without\neven having suspected that I was so carefully sapped. Nor was it a clap\nof thunder, unless I admit that a clap of thunder can, be occult and\nsilent, strange and gentle. And this again would be untrue, for sudden\ndisorder of the soul almost always follows a misfortune or a crime, an\nact of which we are aware.\n\n\"No, the one thing which seems certain, in my case, is that there has\nbeen divine impulse, grace.\n\n\"But,\" said he, \"in that case the psychology of conversion is\nworthless,\" and he made answer to himself,--\n\n\"That seems to be so, for I seek in vain to retrace the stages through\nwhich I have passed; no doubt I can distinguish here and there some\nlandmarks on the road I have travelled: love of art, heredity, weariness\nof life; I can even recall some of the forgotten sensations of\nchildhood, the subterranean workings of ideas excited by my visits to\nthe churches; but I am unable to gather these threads together, and\ngroup them in a skein, I cannot understand the sudden and silent\nexplosion of light which took place in me. When I seek to explain to\nmyself how one evening an unbeliever, I became without knowing it, on\none night a believer, I can discover nothing, for the divine action has\nvanished, and left no trace.\n\n\"It is certain,\" he continued, after silent thought, \"that in these\ncases the Virgin acts upon us, it is she who moulds and places us in the\nhands of her Son, but her fingers are so light, so supple, so caressing,\nthat the soul they have handled has felt nothing.\n\n\"On the other hand, if I ignore the course and stages of my conversion,\nI can at least guess the motives which, after a life of indifference,\nhave brought me into the harbours of the Church, made me wander round\nabout her borders, and finally gave me a shove from behind to bring me\nin.\"\n\nAnd he said to himself, without more ado, there are three causes:--\n\n\"First, the atavism of an old and pious family, scattered among the\nmonasteries;\" and the memories of childhood returned to him, of cousins,\nof aunts, seen in convent parlours; gentle women and grave, white as\nwafers, who alarmed him by their low voices, who troubled him by their\nlooks, and asked if he were a good boy.\n\nHe felt a sort of terror, and hid himself in his mother's skirts,\ntrembling when he went away, and was obliged to bend his brow to those\ncolourless lips, and undergo the touch of a chilly kiss.\n\nNow that he thought of them at a distance, the interviews which had\nwearied him so much in his childhood, seemed to him charming. He put\ninto them all the poetry of the cloister, clothed those bare parlours\nwith a faded scent of wainscotting and of wax, and he saw again the\nconvent gardens through which he had passed, impregnated with the bitter\nsalt scent of box, planted with clipped hedges, intermingled with\ntrellises, whose green grapes never ripened, divided by benches whose\nmouldering stone kept the traces worn by water; and a thousand details\ncame back to him of those silent lime alleys, of the paths where he ran\nin the interlaced shade which branches threw upon the ground. These\ngardens had seemed to him to become larger as he grew older, and he\nretained a somewhat confused memory of them, amid which was the vague\nrecollection of an old stately park, and of a presbytery orchard in the\nnorth, always somewhat damp, even when the sun shone.\n\nIt was not surprising that these sensations, transformed by time, had\nleft in him some traces of pious thought, which grew deeper as his mind\nembellished them; all this might have fermented indistinctly for thirty\nyears, and now began to work.\n\nBut the two other causes which he knew, must have been still more\nactive.\n\nThese were his disgust for his life, and his passion for art; and the\ndisgust was certainly aggravated by his solitude and his idleness.\n\nAfter having, in old days, made friends by chance, and having taken the\nimpression of souls which had nothing in common with his own, he had at\nlast chosen after much useless vagabondage; he had become the intimate\nfriend of a certain Doctor des Hermies, a physician, who devoted much\nattention to demoniac possession and to mysticism, and of a Breton,\nnamed Carhaix, the bell-ringer at St. Sulpice.\n\nThese friendships were not like those he had formerly made, entirely\nsuperficial and external, they were wide and deep, based on similarity\nof thought, and the indissoluble ties of soul, and these had been\nroughly broken; within two months of each other Des Hermies and Carhaix\ndied, the former of typhoid fever, the latter of a chill that\nprostrated him in his tower, after he had rung the evening Angelus.\n\nThese were frightful blows for Durtal. His life, now without an anchor,\ndrifted; he wandered all astray, declaring to himself that this\ndesolation was final, since he had reached an age at which new friends\nare not made.\n\nSo he lived alone, apart among his books, but the solitude which he bore\nbravely, when he was occupied, when he was writing a book, became\nintolerable to him now that he was idle. He lounged in an arm-chair in\nthe afternoons, and abandoned himself to his dreams: then, especially,\nfixed ideas took hold on him, and these ended by playing pantomimes of\nwhich the scenes never varied behind the lowered curtain of his eyes.\nNude figures danced in his brain to the tune of psalms, and he woke from\nthese dreams weak and panting, ready, if a priest had been there, to\nthrow himself at his feet with tears, just as he would have abandoned\nhimself to the basest pleasures, had the temptation suddenly come to\nhim.\n\n\"Let me chase away these phantoms by work,\" he cried. But at what should\nhe work? He had just published the \"Life of Gilles de Rais,\" which might\ninterest a few artists, and he now remained without a subject, on the\nhunt for a book. As, in art, he was a man of extremes, he always went\nfrom one excess to the other, and after having dived into the Satanism\nof the Middle Ages, in his account of \"Marshal de Rais,\" he saw nothing\nso interesting to investigate as the life of a saint. Some lines which\nhe had discovered in Goerres' and Ribet's \"Studies in Mysticism\" had put\nhim on the trace of a certain Blessed Lidwine in search of new\ndocuments.\n\nBut admitting that he could unearth anything about her, could he write\nthe life of a saint? He did not believe it, and the arguments on which\nhe based his opinion seemed plausible.\n\nHagiography was now a lost branch of art, as completely lost as wood\ncarving, and the miniatures of the old missals. Nowadays it is only\ntreated by church officers and priests, by those stylistic agents who\nseem when they write to put the embryos of their ideas on ballast\ntrucks, and in their hands it has become a commonplace of goody-goody, a\ntranslation into a book of the statuettes of Froc Robert, and the\ncoloured images of Bouasse.\n\nThe way then was free, and it seemed at first easy enough to plan it\nout, but to extract the charm of the legends needed the simple language\nof bygone centuries, the ingenuous phrases of the days that are dead.\nWho in our time can express the melancholy essence, the pale perfume of\nthe ancient translations of the Golden Legend of Voragine, how bind in\none bright posy the plaintive flowers, which the monks cultivated in\ntheir cloistered enclosures, when hagiography was the sister of the\nbarbaric and delightful art of the illuminators and glass stainers, of\nthe ardent and chaste paintings of the Early Masters?\n\nYet we may not think of giving ourselves over to studious imitations,\nnor coldly attempt to ape such works as these. The question remains,\nwhether we can with the present artistic resources, succeed in setting\nup the humble yet lofty figure of a saint; and this is at least\ndoubtful, for the lack of real simplicity, the over-ingenious art of\nstyle, the tricks of careful design and the false craft of colour would\nprobably transform the elect lady into a strolling player. She would be\nno longer a saint, but an actress who rendered the part more or less\nadroitly; and then the charm would be destroyed, the miracles would seem\nmechanical, the episodes would be absurd, then ... then ... one must\nhave a lively faith, and believe in the sanctity of one's heroine, if\none would try to exhume her, and put her alive again in a book.\n\nThis is so true that we may examine Gustave Flaubert's admirable pages\non the legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller. Their development is like a\ndazzling yet regulated tumult, evolved in superb language whose apparent\nsimplicity is only due to the complicated ingenuity of consummate skill.\nAll is there, all except the accent which would have made this work a\ntrue masterpiece. Given the subject, the fire which should course\nthrough these magnificent phrases is absent, there lacks the cry of the\nlove that faints, the gift of the superhuman exile, the mystical soul.\n\nOn the other hand, Hello's \"Physionomies de Saints\" are worth reading.\nFaith flashes out in each of his portraits, enthusiasm runs over in each\nchapter, unexpected allusions form deep reservoirs of thought between\nthe lines; but after all Hello was so little of an artist that the\nfairest legends fade when his fingers touch them; the meanness of his\nstyle impoverishes the miracles and renders them ineffectual. The art is\nlacking which would rescue the book from the category of pale and dead\npublications.\n\nThe example of these two men, in complete opposition as ever writers\nwere, neither of whom attained perfection, one in the legend of St.\nJulian because faith was wanting, the other because his art was poor and\nnarrow, thoroughly discouraged Durtal. He ought to be both at once, and\nyet remain himself, if not, there was no good in buckling to for such a\ntask, it were better to be silent; and he threw himself back in his\nchair sullen and hopeless. Then the contempt of his desolate life grew\nupon him, and once more he wondered what interest Providence could have\nin thus tormenting the descendants of the first convicts. If there were\nno answer, he was obliged to admit that the Church in these disasters\ngathered up the waifs, sheltered the shipwrecked, brought them home\nagain, and assured them a resting-place.\n\nNo more than Schopenhauer, whom he had once admired, but whose plan of\nlabelling every one before death and whose herbarium of dry sorrows had\nwearied him, has the Church deceived man, nor sought to decoy him, by\nboasting the mercy of a life which she knew to be ignoble.\n\nIn all her inspired books she proclaims the horror of fate, and mourns\nover the enforced task of living. Ecclesiasticus, Ecclesiastes, the book\nof Job, the Lamentations of Jeremias manifest this sorrow in their every\nline, and the Middle Ages too in the \"Imitation of Jesus Christ\" cursed\nexistence, and cried out loudly for death.\n\nMore plainly than Schopenhauer the Church declared that there is nothing\nto wish for here below, nothing to expect, but where the mere catalogues\nof the philosopher stop, the Church went on, overpassing the limits of\nthe senses, declared the end of man, and defined his limitations.\n\n\"Then,\" he said to himself, \"if it be well considered, the vaunted\nargument of Schopenhauer against the Creator, drawn from the misery and\ninjustice of the world, is not irrefutable, for the world is not as God\nmade it, but as man has refashioned it.\"\n\nBefore accusing heaven for our ills, it is, no doubt, fitting to examine\nthrough what phases of consent, through what voluntary falls the\ncreature has passed, before ending in the gloomy disaster it deplores.\nWe may well curse the vices of our ancestors and our own passions which\nbeget the greater part of the woes from which we suffer; we may well\nloathe the civilization which has rendered life intolerable to cleanly\nsouls, and not the Lord, who, perhaps, did not create us to be shot down\nby cannon in time of war, to be cheated, robbed, and stripped in time of\npeace, by the slave drivers of commerce and the brigands of the money\nmarket.\n\nBut that which remains for ever incomprehensible is the initial horror,\nthe horror imposed on each of us, of having to live, and that is a\nmystery no philosophy can explain.\n\n\"Ah!\" he went on, \"when I think of that horror, that disgust of\nexistence which has for years and years increased in me, I understand\nhow I am forced to make for the Church, the only port where I can find\nshelter.\n\n\"Once I despised her, because I had a staff on which to lean when the\ngreat winds of weariness blew; I believed in my novels, I worked at my\nhistory, I had my art. I have come to recognize its absolute inadequacy,\nits complete incapacity to afford happiness. Then I understood that\nPessimism was, at most, good to console those who had no real need of\ncomfort; I understood that its theories, alluring when we are young, and\nrich, and well, become singularly weak and lamentably false, when age\nadvances, when infirmities declare themselves, when all around is\ncrumbling.\n\n\"I went to the church, that hospital for souls. There, at least, they\ntake you in, put you to bed and nurse you, they do not merely turn their\nbacks on you as in the wards of Pessimism and tell you the name of your\ndisease.\"\n\nFinally Durtal had been brought back to religion by art. More even than\nhis disgust for life, art had been the irresistible magnet which drew\nhim to God. The day, when out of curiosity and to kill time, he had\nentered a church, and after so many years of forgetfulness, had heard\nthe Vespers for the dead fall heavily, psalm after psalm, in antiphonal\nchant, as the singers threw up, like ditchers, their shovelful of\nverses, his soul had been shaken to its depths. The evenings when he had\nlistened at St. Sulpice to the admirable chanting during the Octave of\nAll Souls, he had felt himself caught once for all; but that which had\nput most pressure on him, and brought him yet more completely into\nbondage were the ceremonies and music of Holy Week.\n\nHe had visited the churches during that week; and they had opened to him\nlike palaces ruined, like cemeteries laid waste by God. They were\nforbidding with their veiled images, their crucifixes wrapped\nlozenge-wise in purple, their organs dumb, their bells silent. The crowd\nflowed in, busy, but noiseless, along the floor over the immense cross\nformed by the nave and the two transepts, and entering by the wounds of\nwhich the doors were figures, they went up to the altar, where the\nblood-stained head of Christ would lie, and there on their knees eagerly\nkissed the crucifix which marked the place of the chin below the steps.\n\nAnd the crowd itself, as it ran in the cruciform mould of the church,\nbecame itself an enormous cross, living and crawling, silent and sombre.\n\nAt St. Sulpice, where the whole assembled seminary lamented the ignominy\nof human justice and the fore-ordained death of a God, Durtal had\nfollowed the incomparable offices of those mournful days, through all\ntheir black minutes, had listened to the infinite sadness of the\nPassion, so nobly and profoundly expressed at Tenebrae by the slow\nchanting of the Lamentations and the Psalms, but when he thought it\nover, that which above all made him shudder was the thought of the\nVirgin coming on the scene on the Thursday at nightfall.\n\nThe Church, till then absorbed in her sorrow, and prostrate before the\nCross, raised herself and fell a-weeping on beholding the Mother.\n\nBy all the voices of the choir, it pressed round Mary, endeavouring to\nconsole her, mixing the tears of the \"Stabat Mater\" with her own,\nsighing out that music of plaintive weeping, pressing the wound of that\nsequence, which gave forth water and blood like the wound of Christ\nHimself.\n\nDurtal left the church, worn out with these long services, but his\ntemptations to unbelief were gone; he had no further doubt; it seemed to\nhim that at St. Sulpice, grace mixed with the eloquent splendours of the\nliturgies, and that in the dim sorrow of the voices there had been\nappeals to him; and he therefore felt filial gratitude to that church\nwhere he had lived through hours so sweet and sad.\n\nYet, in ordinary weeks he did not go there; it seemed to him too great\nand too cold, and it was so ugly. He preferred warmer and smaller\nsanctuaries, in which there were still traces of the Middle Ages.\n\nThus on idle days when he came out of the Louvre, where he had strayed\nfor a long time before the canvases of the Early Painters, he was wont\nto take refuge in the old church of St. Severin, hidden away in a corner\nof the poorer part of Paris.\n\nHe carried with him the visions of the canvases he had admired at the\nLouvre, and contemplated them again, in this surrounding where they were\nthoroughly at home.\n\nThen he spent delightful moments, in which he was carried away in the\nclouds of harmony, divided by the white splendour of a child's voice\nflashing out from the rolling thunder of the organ.\n\nThere, without even praying, he felt a plaintive languor, a vague\nuneasiness steal over him; St. Severin delighted him, aided him more\nthan other churches on some days to gain an indescribable impression of\njoy and pity, sometimes even, when he thought of the filth of his\nsenses, to weave together the regret and the terror of his soul.\n\nHe often went there, especially on Sunday mornings to High Mass at ten\no'clock.\n\nHe was wont to place himself behind the high altar, in that melancholy\nand delicate apse, planted like a winter garden with rare and somewhat\nfantastic trees. It might have been called a petrified arbour of very\nold trunks in flower, but stripped of leaf, forests of pillars, squared\nor cut in broad panels, carved with regular notches near the base,\nhollowed through their whole length like rhubarb stalks, channelled like\ncelery.\n\nNo vegetation expanded at the summit of those trunks which bent their\nnaked boughs along the vaulting, joined and met and gathered at their\njunction, and thin, engrafted knots, extravagant bunches of heraldic\nroses, armorial flowers with open tracery; and for more than four\nhundred years no sap had run, no bud had formed in these trees. The\nshafts bent for ever remained untouched, the white bark of these pillars\nwas scarcely worn, but the greater part of the flowers were withered,\nthe heraldic petals were wanting, some keystones of the arches had only\nstratified calices, open like nests, with holes like sponges, in rags\nlike handfuls of russet lace.\n\nAnd among this mystic flora, amid these petrified trees, there was one,\nstrange and charming, which suggested the fanciful idea, that the blue\nsmoke of the rolling incense had condensed, and, as it coagulated, had\ngrown pale with age, to form, in twisting, the spiral of a column which\nwas inverted on itself, and ended broadening out into a sheaf, whereof\nthe broken stems fell from above the arches.\n\nThe corner where Durtal took refuge was faintly lighted by pointed\nstained windows, with black diamond-shaped divisions set with minute\npanes darkened by the accumulated dust of years, rendered still more\nobscure by the woodwork of the chapels, which cut off half their\nsurface.\n\nThis apse might have been called a frozen grove of skeleton trees, a\nconservatory of dead specimens belonging to the palm family, calling up\nthe memory of an impossible phoenix and unlikely palms; but it also\nrecalled by its half-moon shape and doubtful light, the image of a\nship's prow below water. In fact it allowed to filter through its bars,\nto its windows trellised with all black network, the murmur, suggested\nby the rolling of the carriages which shook the street, of a river which\nsifted the golden light of day through the briny course of its waters.\n\nOn Sundays, at the time of High Mass, the apse was empty. The public\nfilled the nave before the high altar, or spread themselves somewhat\nfurther into a chapel dedicated to Our Lady. Durtal was therefore almost\nalone, and even the people who crossed his refuge were neither stupid\nnor hostile, like the faithful in other churches. In this district were\nbeggars, the very poor, hucksters, Sisters of Charity, rag pickers,\nstreet arabs; above all, there were women in tatters walking on tiptoe,\nwho knelt without looking round, poor creatures overwhelmed by the\npiteous splendour of the altars, looking out of the corner of their\neyes, and bending low when the Suisse passed them.\n\nTouched by the timidity of this silent misery, Durtal listened to the\nmass chanted by a scanty choir, but one patiently taught. The choir of\nSt. Severin intoned the Credo, that marvel of plain chant, better than\nit was done at St. Sulpice, where, however, the offices were as a rule\nsolemn and correct. It bore it, as it were, to the top of the choir,\nand let it spread with its great wings open and almost without motion,\nabove the prostrate flock, when the verse \"Et homo factus est\" took its\nslow and reverent flight in the low voice of the singer. It was at once\nmonumental and fluid, indestructible like the articles of the Creed\nitself, inspired like the text, which the Holy Spirit dictated, in their\nlast meeting, to the united apostles of Christ.\n\nAt St. Severin a powerful voice declaimed a verse as a solo, then all\nthe children, sustained by the rest of the singers, delivered the\nothers, and the unchangeable truths declared themselves in their order,\nmore attentive, more grave, more accentuated, even a little plaintive in\nthe solo voice of a man, more timid perhaps, but also more familiar and\nmore joyous, in the dash, however restrained, of the boys.\n\nAt such a moment Durtal was roused, and exclaimed within himself: \"It is\nimpossible that the alluvial deposits of Faith which have created this\nmusical certainty are false. The accent of these declarations is such as\nto be superhuman, and far from profane music, which has never attained\nto the solid grandeur of this naked chant.\"\n\nThe whole mass, moreover, at St. Severin was perfect. The \"Kyrie\neleison,\" solemn and sumptuous, the \"Gloria in excelsis,\" shared by the\ngrand and the choir organs, the one taking the solos, the other guiding\nand sustaining the singers, was full of exultant joy; the \"Sanctus,\"\nconcentrated, almost haggard, resounded through the arches when the\nchoir shouted the \"Hosanna in excelsis,\" and the \"Agnus Dei\" was sung\nlow to a clear, suppliant melody, so humble that it dared not become\nloud.\n\nIndeed, except for a contraband \"O Salutaris,\" introduced there as in\nother churches, St. Severin maintained, on ordinary Sundays, the musical\nliturgy, sang it almost reverentially with the fragile but well-toned\nvoices of the boys, the solidly built basses bringing vigorous sounds\nfrom the deep.\n\nIt was a joy to Durtal to linger in the delightful surroundings of the\nMiddle Ages, in that shadowy loneliness, amid the chants which rose\nbehind him, without being annoyed by tricks of the mouths which he could\nnot see.\n\nHe ended by being moved to the very marrow, choked by nervous tears, and\nall the bitterness of his life came up before him; full of vague fears,\nof confused prayers which stifled him, and found no words, he cursed the\nignominy of his life and swore to master his carnal affections.\n\nWhen the mass was over, he wandered in the church itself, and was\ndelighted with the spring of the nave, which four centuries built and\nsealed with their arms, placing on it those strange impressions, those\nwonderful seals which expand in relief under the reversed groining of\nthe arches. These centuries combined to bring to the feet of Christ the\nsuperhuman effort of their art, and the gifts of each are still visible.\nThe thirteenth century shaped those low and stunted pillars, whose\ncapitals are crowned with water-lilies, water-parsley, foliage with\nlarge leaves, voluted with crochets and turned in the form of a crosier.\nThe fourteenth century raised the columns of the neighbouring bays on\nthe sides of which prophets, monks and saints uphold the spring of the\narches. The fifteenth and sixteenth created the apse, the sanctuary,\nsome windows pierced above the choir, and though they have been restored\nby incompetent builders, they have still retained a barbaric grace, and\na really touching simplicity.\n\nThey seem to have been designed by ancestors of the Epinal foundries,\nand stained by them with crude colours. The donors and the saints who\npass through these bright, stone-framed pictures are all awkward and\npensive, dressed in robes of gamboge, bottle-green, prussian-blue,\ngooseberry-red, pumpkin-purple and wine lees, and these are made still\ndeeper by contact with the flesh tints, either omitted or destroyed,\nwhich have at any rate remained uncoloured like a thin skin of glass. In\none of these windows Christ on His cross seems limpid, all in light,\nbetween blue splashes of sky, and the red and green patches, formed by\nthe wings of the two angels whose faces also seem cut in crystal and\nfull of light.\n\nThese windows differ from those of other churches, in that they absorb\nthe rays of the sun, without refracting them. No doubt they have been\ndeliberately divested of reflection that they may not by the insolent\njoyousness of stones on fire insult the melancholy sorrow of this church\nwhich rises in the squalid haunts of a quarter inhabited by beggars and\nthieves.\n\nThen these thoughts assailed Durtal. In Paris the modern churches are\nuseless, they remain deaf to the prayers which break against the icy\nindifference of their walls. No man recollects himself in those naves\nwhere souls have left nothing of themselves, or where they have perhaps\ngiven themselves away, have had to turn and fall back on themselves,\nrebuffed by the insolence of a photographic glare, darkened by the\nneglect of those altars at which no saint has ever said mass. It seemed\nthat God had always gone out, and would only come home to keep His\npromise to appear at the moment of consecration, and that He would\nretire immediately afterwards, despising these edifices which have not\nbeen built expressly for Him, since by the baseness of their form they\nmight be put to any profane use, since above all they do not bring Him,\nin default of sanctity, the only gift which might please Him, the gift\nof art which He has lent to man, and which allows Him to see Himself in\nthe abridged restitution of His work, and to rejoice in the development\nof that flower of which He has sowed the seed in souls which He has\ncarefully chosen, in souls which are truly the elect, second only to\nthose of His Saints.\n\nAh, those charitable churches of the Middle Ages, those chapels damp and\nsmoky, full of ancient song, of exquisite paintings, of the odour of\nextinguished tapers, of the perfume of burning incense!\n\nIn Paris there remain now only a few specimens of this art of other\nyears, a few sanctuaries whose stones really exude the Faith; among\nthese St. Severin seemed to Durtal the most exquisite and the most\ncertain. He only felt at home there, he believed that if he could ever\npray in earnest he could do it in that church; and he said to himself\nthat there lived the spirit of the fabric. It is impossible but that the\nburning prayers, the hopeless sobs of the Middle Ages, have not for ever\nimpregnated the pillars and stained the walls; it is impossible but that\nthe vine of sorrows whence of old the Saints gathered warm clusters of\ntears, has not preserved from those wonderful times emanations which\nsustain, a breath which still awakes a shame for sin, and the gift of\ntears.\n\nAs Saint Agnes remained immaculate in the brothels, this church remained\nintact amid infamous surroundings, when all near it in the streets from\nthe Chateau Rouge to the Cremerie Alexandre, only two paces off, the\nmodern rabble of rascality combine their misdeeds, mingling with\nprostitutes their brewage of crime, their adulterated absinthe and\nspirits.\n\nIn this especial territory of Satanism, the church rises, delicate and\nlittle, closely enveloped in the rags of taverns and hovels, and seen\nfar off, raises above the roofs its light spire, like a netting needle,\nits point below, and lifting its eye into the light and air, through\nwhich can be seen a minute bell surmounting a sort of anvil. Such it\nappears, at least, from the Place Saint Andre des Arts. Symbolically it\nmight be called a piteous appeal, always rejected by souls hardened and\nhammered by vice, of that anvil which was only an optical illusion, and\nthat very real bell.\n\n\"They say,\" thought Durtal, \"they say that ignorant architects and\nunskilled archaeologists wish to free St. Severin from its rags, and\nsurround it with trees in an enclosed square. But it has always lived in\nits network of black streets, and is voluntarily humble, in accordance\nwith the miserable district it aids. In the Middle Ages the church was a\nmonument seen only within, and not one of those impetuous basilicas\nwhich are put up as a show in open spaces.\n\n\"Then it was an oratory for the poor, a church on its knees, and not\nstanding; it would, therefore, be the most absolute nonsense to free it\nfrom its surroundings, to take it out of the day of an eternal twilight,\nout of those hours of shadow which brighten the melancholy beauty of a\nservant in prayer behind the impious hedge of hovels.\n\n\"Ah, were it possible to steep the church in the glowing atmosphere of\nNotre Dame des Victoires, and join to its meagre psalmody the powerful\nchoir of St. Sulpice, that would be complete,\" said Durtal, \"but alas,\nhere below, nothing whole, nothing perfect exists!\"\n\nIndeed from an artistic point of view, it was the only church which\nsatisfied him, for Notre Dame de Paris was too grand, and too much\noverrun by tourists; there were few ceremonies there, just the necessary\namount of prayers were weighed out, and the greater part of the chapels\nremained closed; and lastly the voices of the choir boys always wanted\nmending; they broke, while the advanced age of the basses made them\nhoarse. At St. Etienne du Mont it was worse still; the shell of the\nchurch was charming, but the choir was an offshoot of the school of\nSanfourche, you might think yourself in a kennel, where a medley pack of\nsick beasts were growling; as for the other sanctuaries on the right\nbank of the river, they were worthless, plain chant was as far as\npossible suppressed, and the poverty of the voices was everywhere\nornamented with promiscuous tunes.\n\nYet on the right bank were the more self-respecting churches, for\nreligious Paris stops on that side of the Seine, and comes to an end as\nyou pass the bridges.\n\nIn fact, to sum up all, he might believe that St. Severin by its scent,\nand the delightful art of its old nave, St. Sulpice by its ceremonies\nand its chanting, had brought him back towards Christian art, which in\nits turn had directed him to God.\n\nThen when once urged on this way, he had pursued it, had left\narchitecture and music, to wander in the mystic territories of the other\narts, and his long visits to the Louvre, his researches into the\nbreviaries, into the books of Ruysbroeck, Angela da Foligno, Saint\nTeresa, Saint Catherine of Genoa, Saint Magdalen of Pazzi, had confirmed\nhim in his belief.\n\nBut the upheaval of all his ideas which he had undergone was too recent\nfor his soul at once to regain its equilibrium. From time to time it\nseemed to wish to go back, and he discussed with himself in order to set\nit at rest. He spent himself in disputation, came to doubt the reality\nof his conversion, and said: \"After all I am united to the church only\non the side of art. I only go there to see or hear and not to pray; I do\nnot seek the Lord, but my own pleasure. This is not business. Just as in\na warm bath I do not feel the cold if I am motionless, but if I move I\nfreeze, so in the church my impulses are upset when I move, I am almost\non fire in the nave, less warm in the porch, and I become perfectly icy\noutside. These are literary postulates, vibrations of the nerves,\nskirmishes of thought, spiritual brawls, whatever you please, except\nFaith.\"\n\nBut what disquieted him still more than the need of helps to feeling,\nwas that his shameless senses rebelled at the contact of religious\nideas. He floated like wreckage between Licentiousness and the Church,\nthey each threw him back in turn, obliging him as he approached one to\nreturn at once to that which he had left, and he was inclined to ask if\nhe were not a victim to some mystification of his lower instincts,\nseeking to revive themselves, without his consciousness, by the cordial\nof a false piety.\n\nIn fact he had often seen realized in himself that unclean miracle, when\nhe had left St. Severin, almost in tears. Insensibly, without connection\nof ideas, without any welding together of sensations, without the\nexplosion of a spark, his senses took fire, and he was powerless to let\nthem burn themselves out, to resist them.\n\nHe loathed himself afterwards, and it was high time. Then came the\nreverse movement; he longed to run to some chapel, there to wash and be\nclean, and he was so disgusted with himself that now and then he went as\nfar as the door and dared not enter.\n\nAt other times, on the contrary, he rebelled against himself, and cried\nin fury: \"It is monstrous, I have in fact spoiled for myself the only\npleasure that remained to me--the flesh. Once I amused myself without\nblame, now I pay for my poor debauches with torments. I have added one\nmore weariness to existence--would that I could undo it.\"\n\nHe lied to himself in vain, trying to justify himself by suggesting\ndoubts.\n\n\"Suppose all this were not true, if there were nothing in it, if I were\ndeceiving myself, what if the freethinkers were right?\"\n\nBut he was obliged to be sorry for himself, for he felt distinctly to\nthe bottom of his soul, that he held unshaken the certitude of true\nFaith.\n\n\"These discussions are miserable, and the excuses I make for my\nfilthinesses are odious,\" he said to himself, and a flame of enthusiasm\nsprang up within him.\n\nHow doubt the truth of dogmas, how deny the divine power of the Church,\nfor she commands assent?\n\nFirst she has her superhuman art and her mysticism, then she is most\nwonderful in the persistent folly of conquered heresies. All since the\nworld began have had the flesh as their spring-board. Logically and\nhumanly speaking they should have triumphed, for they allowed man and\nwoman to satisfy their passions, saying to themselves there was no sin\nin these, even sanctifying them as the Gnostics, rendering homage to God\nby the foulest uncleanness.\n\nAll have suffered shipwreck. The Church, unbending in this matter, has\nremained upright and entire. She orders the body to be silent, and the\nsoul to suffer, and contrary to all probability, humanity listens to\nher, and sweeps away like a dung-heap the seductive joys proposed to\nher.\n\nAgain, the vitality of the Church is decision, which preserves her in\nspite of the unfathomable stupidity of her sons. She has resisted the\ndisquieting folly of the clergy, and has not even been broken up by the\nawkwardness and lack of ability in her defenders, a very strong point.\n\n\"No, the more I think of her,\" he cried, \"the more I think her\nprodigious, unique, the more I am convinced that she alone holds the\ntruth, that outside her are only weaknesses of mind, impostures,\nscandals. The Church is the divine breeding ground, the heavenly\ndispensary of souls; she gives them suck, nourishes them, and heals\nthem; she bids them understand, when the hour of sorrow comes, that true\nlife begins, not at birth, but at death. The Church is indefectible,\nbefore all things admirable, she is great--\n\n\"Yes, but then we must follow her directions and practise the sacraments\nshe orders!\"\n\nAnd Durtal, shaking his head, gave himself no further answer.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nBefore his conversion he had said like all unbelievers: \"If I believed\nthat Jesus Christ is God, and that eternal life is not a decoy, I would\nnot hesitate to change all my habits, to follow as far as possible the\nrules of religion, and, in any case, to live chaste.\" And he was\nsurprised that people he knew, who were in these conditions, did not\nmaintain an attitude higher than his own. He who had so long indulgently\nforgiven himself became singularly intolerant, so soon as he had to do\nwith a Catholic.\n\nHe now understood the injustice of his judgments, and confessed that\nbetween faith and practice was a gulf difficult to overpass.\n\nHe did not like to discuss this question with himself, but it returned\nand took possession of him all the same, and he was obliged to admit the\nmeanness of his arguments, the despicable reasons for his resistance.\n\nHe was still honest enough to say: \"I am no longer a child; if I have\nFaith, if I admit Catholicism, I cannot conceive it as lukewarm and\nunfixed, warmed up again and again in the saucepan of a false zeal. I\nwill have no compromise or truce, no alternations of debauch and\ncommunions, no stages of licentiousness and piety, no, all or nothing;\nto change from top to bottom, or not change at all.\"\n\nThen he drew back in alarm, endeavoured to escape the part he was about\nto take, endeavoured to exculpate himself, cavilling for hours, invoking\nthe most wretched motives for remaining as he was, and not budging a\njot.\n\n\"What am I to do? If I do not obey orders, which I feel with increasing\nforce, I am preparing for myself a life of uneasiness and remorse, for I\nknow well I ought not to remain for ever on the threshold, but to\npenetrate into the sanctuary and stay there. And if I make up my\nmind--no indeed--for then I must bind myself to a heap of observances,\nbend to a series of rules, assist at mass on Sunday, abstain on Friday,\nlive like a bigot, and look like a fool.\"\n\nAnd then to help his revolt, he thought of the air, the look of people\nwho frequented the churches; for two men who looked intelligent and\nclean, how many were without doubt rascals and impostors!\n\nAlmost all had a side-long look, an oily voice, downcast eyes, immovable\nspectacles, clothes like sacristans as if of black wood, almost all told\nthin beads ostentatiously, and with more strategy and more knavery than\nthe wicked, took toll from their neighbours on leaving God.\n\nThe devout women were still less reassuring, they invaded the church,\nwalking about as if quite at home, disturbing everybody, upsetting\nchairs, knocking against you without begging pardon; then they knelt\ndown with much ado, in the attitude of contrite angels, murmured\ninterminable paternosters, and left the church more arrogant and sour\nthan before.\n\n\"It is not encouraging to have to mix with this flock of pious geese,\"\nhe exclaimed.\n\nBut soon, against his will, he made answer to himself: \"You have nothing\nto do with others, were you more humble, these people would certainly\nseem less offensive; at any rate they have the courage you lack, they\nare not ashamed of their faith, and are not afraid to kneel to God in\npublic.\"\n\nAnd Durtal remained dumfounded, for he had to admit that the riposte\nstruck home. It was clear his humility was at fault, but what was worse,\nhe could not free himself from human respect.\n\nHe was afraid of being taken for a fool; the prospect of being seen on\nhis knees, in church, made his hair stand on end; the idea, that, if he\never had to communicate, he would have to rise and go to the altar in\nthe sight of all, was intolerable to him.\n\n\"If that moment ever come it will be hard to bear,\" said he; \"and yet I\nam an idiot, for what have I to do with the opinion of people I do not\nknow?\" but much as he might repeat that his alarms were absurd, he\ncould not get over them, or free himself from the fear of ridicule.\n\n\"After all,\" he said, \"even if I decide to jump the ditch, to confess\nand communicate, that terrible question of the senses would always have\nto be resolved. I must determine to fly the lusts of the flesh, and\naccept perpetual abstinence. I could never attain to that.\n\n\"Without counting that in any case, the time would be ill-chosen were I\nnow to make such an effort, for never have I been so tormented as since\nmy conversion; Catholicism unfortunately excites unclean suggestions\nwhen I prowl about it, without entering.\"\n\nAnd to this exclamation another answered at once: \"Yes, but you must\nenter.\"\n\nHe was irritated at this change of front without change of place, and he\ntried to turn the conversation, as though it had been held with another,\nwhose questions perplexed him; but he came back to it all the same, and,\nin his annoyance, summoned all his reasoning powers to his aid.\n\n\"Come, let us try to take stock at any rate! It is plain that as I have\ndrawn near the Church, my unclean desires have become more frequent and\nmore persistent; and yet another fact is certain that I have been so\nused up by twenty years of debauchery that I ought not to have any\nfurther carnal appetites. In fact, if I chose it, I could perfectly well\nremain chaste; but then I must bid my miserable brain be silent, and I\nhave no power to do so! It is frightful all the same that I am more\nexcited than in youth, for now my desires go a-travelling, and since\nthey have not their ordinary shelter they go off in search of evil\nhaunts. How may this be explained? It is a sort of dyspepsia of the\nsoul, which cannot digest ordinary meats, and tries to feed on spiced\ndreams, highly seasoned thoughts; it is then want of appetite for\nwholesome meals which has begotten this greediness for strange dishes,\nthis trouble of the mind, this wish to escape from myself, and jump were\nit but for a moment over the permitted limits of the senses.\n\n\"In that case Catholicism would play a part at once repellent and\ndepressing. It would stimulate these sick desires, and weaken me at the\nsame time, would give me over to nervous emotions without strength to\nresist them.\"\n\nWandering thus in self-examination, he came to a dead stand where was no\nissue, arriving at this conclusion: \"I do not practise my religion,\nbecause I yield to my baser instincts, and I yield to these instincts\nbecause I do not practise my religion.\"\n\nBrought up thus by a dead wall, he resisted, asking if this last\nobservation were indeed true; for, after all, nothing proved that if he\napproached the Sacraments he would not be attacked with even greater\nviolence. It was even probable he would be, for the devil makes a dead\nset at pious people.\n\nThen he rebelled against the cowardice of these remarks, and cried: \"I\nlie, for I know well, that if I made the least sign of resistance, I\nshould be powerfully aided from on high.\"\n\nClever at self-torture, he continued to harass his soul, always on the\nsame line. \"Suppose,\" he said, \"for the sake of argument, that I have\ntamed my pride, and subdued my body, suppose that at present there were\nnothing to do, but to go forward, I am still brought up, for the final\nobstacle terrifies me.\n\n\"Up to now I have been able to walk alone, without earthly assistance,\nwithout advice; I have been converted without the help of anyone, but\nnow I cannot make a step without a guide, I cannot approach the altar\nwithout the aid of an interpreter, and the bulwark of a priest.\"\n\nAnd once more, he drew back, for in former times he had been intimate\nwith a certain number of ecclesiastics, and had found them so mediocre,\nso lukewarm, above all so hostile to Mysticism, that he was revolted at\nthe very notion of laying before them the schedule of his requirements\nand his regrets.\n\n\"They will not understand me,\" he thought; \"they will answer that\nMysticism was interesting in the Middle Ages, but has now become disused\nand is in any case quite out of touch with the modern spirit. They will\nthink me mad, will assure me, moreover, that God does not want so much,\nwill advise me with a smile, not to make myself singular, to do as\nothers, and to think like them.\n\n\"I have indeed no intention of entering on the way of Mysticism, but\nthey may at least allow me to envy it and not inflict on me their\nmiddle-class ideal of a God.\n\n\"For, not to deceive oneself, Catholicism is not only that moderate\nreligion that they offer us; it is not composed only of petty cases and\nformulas; it is not wholly confined to rigid observances, and the toys\nof old maids, to all that goody-goody business, which spreads itself\nabroad in the Rue Saint Sulpice; it is far more exalted, far purer, but\nthen we must penetrate its burning zone, and seek in Mysticism, the art,\nthe essence, and the very soul of the Church.\n\n\"Using the powerful means at her disposal, we then have to empty\nourselves, and strip the soul, so that Christ if He will may enter it;\nwe have to purify the house, to cleanse it with the disinfectant of\nprayer and the sublimate of Sacraments; in a word, to be ready when the\nGuest shall come and bid us to empty ourselves wholly into Him, as He\nwill pour Himself into us.\n\n\"I know thoroughly well, that this divine alchemy, this transmutation of\nthe human creature into God, is generally impossible, for the Saviour,\nas a rule, keeps His singular favours for His elect; but after all,\nevery one, however unworthy, is presumably able to attain that majestic\nend, since God only decides, and not man, whose humble acquiescence\nalone is requisite.\n\n\"I see myself saying that to the priests! They will tell me I have no\nbusiness with mystical ideas, and will give me in exchange the petty\nreligion of rich women; they will wish to mix themselves up with my\nlife, to inquire about the state of my soul, to insinuate their own\ntastes; they will try to convince me that art is dangerous, will\nsermonize me with imbecile talk, and pour over me their flowing bowls of\npious veal broth.\n\n\"I know what I am; at the end of a couple of interviews I shall rebel,\nand become wicked.\"\n\nDurtal shook his head, remained in thought, and began again,--\n\n\"Yet one must be just; perhaps the secular clergy are only the leavings,\nfor the contemplative orders and the missionary army carry away every\nyear the pick of the spiritual basket; the mystics, priests athirst for\nsorrows, drunk with sacrifice, bury themselves in cloisters or exile\nthemselves among savages whom they teach. So when the cream is off, the\nrest of the clergy are plainly but skim milk, the scourings of the\nseminaries.\n\n\"Yes, but after all,\" he continued, \"the question is not whether they\nare intelligent or narrow, it is not my business to take the priest to\npieces to discover under the consecrated rind the nothingness of the\nman; not my business to abuse his inadequacy since it is thoroughly\nsuited to the understanding of the crowd. Would it not be, after all,\nmore courageous and more humble to kneel before a being of whose brains\nyou know the weakness?\n\n\"And then ... then ... I am not reduced to that, for indeed I know one\nin Paris, a true mystic. Suppose I go and see him!\"\n\nAnd he thought of a certain Abbe Gevresin, with whom he had formerly\nsome acquaintance; he had often met him at a bookseller's in the Rue\nServandoni, old Tocane, who had rare books on liturgy and the lives of\nthe saints.\n\nLearning that Durtal was looking for works on Blessed Lidwine, the\npriest was at once interested in him, and on leaving the shop they had a\nlong conversation. The abbe was very old and walked with difficulty,\ntherefore he willingly took Durtal's arm, who saw him home.\n\n\"The life of that victim of the sins of her time is a magnificent\nsubject,\" he said; \"you remember it, do you not?\" and as they walked he\nsketched its lines, broadly.\n\n\"Lidwine was born towards the end of the fourteenth century, at\nSchiedam, in Holland. Her beauty was extraordinary, but she lost it\nthrough illness at the age of fifteen. She recovered, but while skating\none day with her companions on the frozen canals, she fell and broke a\nrib. From the time of that accident to her death she was bed-ridden. She\nwas afflicted with most frightful ailments, her wounds festered, and\nworms bred in her putrefying flesh. Erysipelas, that terrible malady of\nthe Middle Ages, consumed her. Her right arm was eaten away, a single\nmuscle held it to the body, her brow was cleft in two, one of her eyes\nbecame blind, and the other so weak that it could not bear the light.\n\n\"While she was in this condition, the plague ravaged Holland, and\ndecimated the town in which she lived; she was the first attacked. Two\nboils formed, one under her arm, the other above the heart. 'Two boils,\nit is well,' she said to the Lord, 'but three would be better in honour\nof the Holy Trinity,' and immediately a third pustule broke out on her\nface.\n\n\"For thirty-five years she lived in a cellar, taking no solid food,\npraying and weeping, so chilly in winter, that each morning her tears\nformed two frozen streams down her cheeks.\n\n\"She thought herself still too fortunate, and entreated the Lord not to\nspare her, and obtained from Him the grace that by her sufferings she\nmight expiate the sins of others. Christ heard her prayers, visited her\nwith His angels, communicated her with His own hand, gave her the\ndelight of heavenly ecstasies, and caused her festering wounds to exhale\ndelicious perfumes.\n\n\"At the moment of her death He stood by her, and restored her poor body\nto its former soundness. Her beauty, so long vanished, shone out again,\nthe town was moved, the sick came in crowds, and all who drew near were\nhealed.\n\n\"She is the true patroness of the sick,\" concluded the abbe, and, after\na silence, he added,--\n\n\"From the point of view of the higher mysticism, Lidwine is wonderful,\nfor in her we can verify that plan of substitution which was, and is,\nthe glorious reason for the existence of convents.\"\n\nAnd as, without answering, Durtal questioned him with a look, he went\non,--\n\n\"You are aware, sir, that in all ages, nuns have offered themselves to\nheaven as expiatory victims. The lives of saints, both men and women,\nwho desired these sacrifices abound, of those who atoned for the sins of\nothers by sufferings eagerly demanded and patiently borne. But there is\na task still more arduous and more painful than was desired by these\nadmirable souls. It is not now that of purging the faults of others, but\nof preventing them, hindering their commission, by taking the place of\nthose who are too weak to bear the shock.\n\n\"Read Saint Teresa on this subject; you will see that she gained\npermission to take on herself, and without flinching, the temptations of\na priest who could not endure them. This substitution of a strong soul\nfreeing one who is not strong from perils and fears is one of the great\nrules of mysticism.\n\n\"Sometimes this exchange is purely spiritual, sometimes on the contrary\nit has to do only with the ills of the body. Saint Teresa was the\nsurrogate of souls in torment, Sister Catherine Emmerich took the place\nof the sick, relieved, at least, those who were most suffering; thus,\nfor instance, she was able to undergo the agony of a woman suffering\nfrom consumption and dropsy, in order to permit her to prepare for death\nin peace.\n\n\"Well, Lidwine took on herself all bodily ills, she lusted for physical\nsuffering, and was greedy for wounds; she was, as it were, the reaper of\npunishments, and she was also the piteous vessel in which everyone\ndischarged the overflowings of his malady. If you would speak of her in\nother fashion than the poor hagiographies of our day, study first that\nlaw of substitution, that miracle of perfect charity, that superhuman\ntriumph of Mysticism; that will be the stem of your book, and naturally,\nwithout effort, all Lidwine's acts graft themselves on it.\"\n\n\"But,\" asked Durtal, \"does this law still take effect?\"\n\n\"Yes: I know convents which apply it. Moreover, Orders like the\nCarmelites and the Poor Clares willingly accept the transfer to them of\ntemptations we suffer; then these convents take on their backs, so to\nspeak, the diabolical expiations of those insolvent souls whose debts\nthey pay to the full.\"\n\n\"All the same,\" said Durtal, shaking his head, \"if you consent to take\non yourself the assaults intended for your neighbour, you must make\npretty sure not to sink.\"\n\n\"The nuns chosen by our Lord,\" replied the abbe, \"as victims of\nexpiation, as whole burnt-offerings, are in fact few, and they are\ngenerally, especially in this age, obliged to unite and coalesce in\norder to bear without failing the weight of misdeeds which try them, for\nin order that a soul may bear alone the assaults of Satan, which are\noften terrible, it must be indeed assisted by the angels and elect of\nGod.\" And after a silence the old priest added,--\n\n\"I believe I may speak with some experience in these matters, for I am\none of the directors of those nuns who make reparation in their\nconvents.\"\n\n\"And yet,\" cried Durtal, \"the world asks what is the good of the\ncontemplative Orders.\"\n\n\"They are the lightning conductors of society,\" said the abbe, with\ngreat energy. \"They draw on themselves the demoniacal fluid, they absorb\ntemptations to vice, preserve by their prayers those who live, like\nourselves, in sin; they appease, in fact, the wrath of the Most High\nthat He may not place the earth under an interdict. Ah! while the\nsisters who devote themselves to nursing the sick and infirm are indeed\nadmirable, their task is easy in comparison with that undertaken by the\ncloistered Orders, the Orders where penance never ceases, and the very\nnights spent in bed are broken by sobs.\"\n\n\"This priest is far more interesting than his brethren,\" said Durtal to\nhimself as they parted; and, as the abbe invited his visits, he had\noften called on him.\n\nHe had always been cordially welcomed. On several occasions he had\nwarily sounded the old man on several questions. He had answered\nevasively in regard to other priests. But he did not seem to think much\nof them, if Durtal might judge by what he said one day in regard to\nLidwine, that magnet of sorrows.\n\n\"Notice,\" he said, \"that a weak and honest soul has every advantage in\nchoosing a confessor, not from the clergy who have lost the sense of\nMysticism, but from the monks. They alone know the effects of the law of\nsubstitution, and if they see that in spite of their efforts the\npenitent succumbs, they end by freeing him by taking his trials on\nthemselves, or by sending them off to some convent in the country where\nresolute people can use them.\"\n\nAnother time the question of nationalities was discussed in a newspaper\nwhich Durtal showed him. The abbe shrugged his shoulders, putting aside\nthe patriotic twaddle. \"For me,\" he said calmly, \"for me my country is\nthat where I can best pray.\"\n\nDurtal could not make out what this priest was. He understood from the\nbookseller, that the Abbe Gevresin on account of his great age and\ninfirmity was incapacitated for the regular duties of the priesthood. \"I\nknow that, when he can, he still says his mass each morning in a\nconvent; I believe also he receives a few of his brethren for confession\nin his own house;\" and Tocane added with disdain, \"He has barely enough\nto live on, and they do not look on him with favour at the archbishop's\nbecause of his mystical notions.\"\n\nThere ended all he knew about him. \"He is evidently a very good priest,\"\nrepeated Durtal; \"his physiognomy declares it, and his mouth and eyes\ncontradict each other; his eyes certainly declare his entire goodness,\nhis lips, somewhat thick, purple and always moist, have on them an\naffectionate but somewhat sad smile, and to this his blue eyes give the\nlie--blue, childlike eyes which laugh out astonished under white\neyebrows in a rather red face, touched on the cheeks like a ripe\napricot, with little points of blood.\n\n\"In any case,\" said Durtal, waking from his meditations, \"I am very\nwrong not to continue the relations into which I have entered with him.\n\n\"Yes, but then nothing is so difficult as to become really intimate with\na priest; first by the very education he receives at the seminary the\necclesiastic thinks himself obliged to disperse his affections and not\nconcentrate himself on particular friendships; then, like a doctor, he\nis a man harassed with business, who is never to be found. You can catch\nthem now and then between two confessions or two sick calls. Nor even\nthen are you quite certain that the eager welcome of the priest rings\ntrue, for he is just the same to all who come to him, and indeed, since\nI do not call on the Abbe Gevresin for his help or advice, I am afraid\nof being in his way, and of taking up his time, hence I am acting with\ndiscretion in not going to see him.\n\n\"Yet I am sorry; suppose I write, or go to him one morning, but what\nhave I to say to him? I ought to know what I want before I allow myself\nto trouble him. If I go only to complain, he will answer I am wrong not\nto be a communicant, and I have nothing to answer. No: the better plan\nis to meet him as by chance, on the quays, where no doubt he sometimes\nlooks over the book-stalls, or at Tocane's, for then I can talk to him\nmore intimately, at least less officially, about my vacillations and\nregrets.\"\n\nSo Durtal searched the quays, and never once met the abbe. He went to\nthe bookseller's, and pretended to look over his stock, but as soon as\nhe pronounced the name Gevresin, Tocane exclaimed, \"I have heard nothing\nof him, he has not been here for the last two months.\"\n\n\"I will not turn back, but just disturb him in his own house,\" said\nDurtal, \"but he will wonder why I came back after so long an absence.\nBesides the awkwardness I feel in calling on people whom I have\nneglected, I am also troubled by thinking the abbe may suspect some\ninterested object in my visit. That is not convenient; if I had but a\ngood pretext; there is certainly that life of Lidwine which interests\nhim, I might consult him on various points. Yes, but which? I have not\nconcerned myself with that saint for a long time, and must read over\nagain the meagre old books on her biography. After all, it will be\nsimpler and better to be frank, and say, 'This is why I have come; I\nwant to ask advice, which I have not determined to follow, but I have so\nmuch need of speaking, of giving the reins to my soul, that I beg you to\nbe so kind as to lose an hour for my sake.'\n\n\"He will do it certainly and willingly.\n\n\"Then that is agreed on; suppose I go to-morrow?\" But he checked himself\nat once. \"There was nothing pressing; there was plenty of time; better\ntake time and think; ah, yes, here is Christmas close upon us, I cannot\ndecently trouble a priest who has his penitents to confess, for there\nare many communicants on that day. Let him get his hard work over, and\nthen we will see.\"\n\nHe was at first pleased at having invented that excuse, then he had to\nadmit in his heart that, after all, there was not much in it, for there\nwas nothing to show that this priest, who was not attached to a parish,\nwas busy in hearing confessions.\n\nIt was hardly probable, but he tried to convince himself that it might\nbe so after all, and his hesitation began again. Angry at last with the\ndiscussion, he adopted a middle course. For greater certainty, he would\nnot call on the abbe till after Christmas, but he would not be later\nthan a given time; he took an almanack, and swore to keep his\npromise--three days after that feast.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nOh! that midnight mass! He had had the unfortunate idea of going to it\nat Christmas. He went to St. Severin, and found a young ladies' day\nschool installed there, instead of the choir, who, with sharp voices\nlike needles, knitted the worn-out skeins of the canticles. He had fled\nto St. Sulpice, and plunged into a crowd which walked and talked as if\nin the open air; had heard there choral-society marches, tea-garden\nwaltzes, firework tunes, and had come away in a rage.\n\nIt had seemed to him superfluous to try St. Germain-des-Pres, for he\nheld that church in horror. Besides the weariness inspired by its heavy,\nill-restored shell, and the miserable paintings with which Flandrin\nloaded it, the clergy there were specially, almost alarmingly, ugly, and\nthe choir was truly infamous. They were like a set of bad cooks, boys\nwho spat vinegar, and elderly choir-men, who cooked in the furnace of\ntheir throats a sort of vocal broth, a thin gruel of sound.\n\nNor did he think of taking refuge in St. Thomas Aquinas, where he\ndreaded the barking and the choruses; there was indeed St. Clotilde,\nwhere the psalmody, at least, is upright, and has not, like that of St.\nThomas, lost all shame. He went there, but again encountered dance music\nand profane tunes, a worldly orgie.\n\nAt last he went to bed in a rage, saying to himself, \"In Paris, at any\nrate, a singular baptism of music is reserved for the New-Born.\"\n\nNext day, when he woke, he felt he had no courage to face the churches;\nthe sacrileges of last night would, he thought, continue; and as the\nweather was almost fine, he went out, wandered in the Luxembourg, gained\nthe square of the Observatoire, and the Boulevard de Port Royal, and\nmechanically made his way along the interminable Rue de la Sante.\n\nHe knew that street of old, and had taken melancholy walks in it,\nattracted by its poor houses, like those of a provincial town; then it\nwas fit for a dreamer, for it was bounded on the right by the Prison de\nla Sante and Sainte Anne's madhouse, and on the left by convents. Light\nand air circulated in the street, but, behind it, all was black; it was\na kind of prison corridor, with cells on either side, where some were\ncondemned to temporary sentences, and others, of their own free will,\nsuffered lasting sorrows.\n\n\"I can imagine,\" thought Durtal, \"how it would have been painted by an\nEarly Flemish master; the long street paved by patient pencils, the\nstories open from top to bottom, and the cupboards the same; and on one\nside massive cells with iron bedsteads, a stoneware jug; little\npeepholes in the doors secured by strong bolts, inside, scoundrels and\nthieves, gnashing their teeth, turning round and round, their hair on\nend, howling like caged animals; on the other side little rooms,\nfurnished with a pallet-bed, a stoneware jug, a crucifix, these also\nclosed by doors iron-banded, and within nuns or monks, kneeling on the\nflags, their faces clean cut against the light of a halo, their eyes\nlifted to heaven, their hands joined, raised from the ground in ecstasy,\na pot of lilies at their side.\"\n\nThen at the back of the canvas, between these two rows of houses, rises\na great avenue, at the end of which in a dappled sky sits God the Father\nwith Christ on His right, choirs of Seraphim playing on guitar and viol;\nGod the Father immovable under his lofty tiara, His breast covered by\nHis long beard, holds scales which balance exactly, the holy captives\nexpiating precisely by their penances and prayers the blasphemies of the\nrascals and the insane.\n\n\"It must be admitted,\" thought Durtal, \"that this street is very\npeculiar, that there is probably none like it in Paris, for it unites in\nits course virtues and vices, which in other quarters, in spite of the\nefforts of the Church, trend apart as far as possible from each other.\"\n\nThus thinking he had come as far as St. Anne's, where the street grows\nlighter and the houses are lower, with only one or two stories, then,\ngradually, there is greater space between them, and they are only\njoined to each other by blank ends of walls.\n\n\"At any rate,\" thought Durtal, \"if this street has no distinction, it is\nvery private; here at least one need not admire the impertinent\ndecoration of those modern shops which expose in their windows as\nprecious commodities, chosen piles of firewood, and in glass sweetmeat\njars, coal drops and coke lollipops.\"\n\nAnd here is an odd lane, and he looked at an alley which led down a\nsharp decline into a main street, where was to be seen the tricolor flag\nin zinc on a washhouse; he read the name: Rue de l'Ebre.\n\nHe entered it, it was but a few yards long; the whole of one side was\noccupied by a wall, behind which were half seen some stunted buildings,\nsurmounted by a bell. An entrance-gate with a square wicket was placed\nin the wall, which was raised higher as it sloped downwards, and at the\nend was pierced by round windows, and rose into a little building,\nsurmounted by a clock-tower so low that its point did not even reach the\nheight of the two-storied house opposite.\n\nOn the other side three hovels sloped down, closely packed together;\nzinc pipes ran everywhere, growing like vines, ramifying like the stalks\nof a hollow vine along the walls, windows gaped on rusty leaden hinges.\nDim courts of wretched hovels could be seen; in one was a shed where\nsome cows were reposing; in two others were coach-houses for\nwheel-chairs, and a rack behind the bars of which appeared the capsuled\nnecks of bottles.\n\n\"But this must be a church,\" thought Durtal, looking at the little clock\ntower, and the three or four round bays, which seemed cut out in emery\npaper to look like the black rough mortar of the wall; \"where is the\nentrance?\"\n\nHe found it on turning out of the alley into the Rue de la Glaciere. A\ntiny porch gave access to the building.\n\nHe opened the door, and entered a large room, a sort of closed shed,\npainted yellow, with a flat ceiling, with small iron beams coloured\ngrey, picked out with blue, and ornamented with gas-jets like a wine\nshop. At the end was a marble altar, six lighted tapers, and gilt\nornaments, candelabra full of tapers, and under the tabernacle, a very\nsmall monstrance, which sparkled in the light of the tapers.\n\nIt was almost dark, the panes of the windows having been crudely daubed\nwith bands of indigo and yellowish green; it was freezing, the stove was\nnot alight, and the church, paved like a kitchen floor, had no matting\nor carpet.\n\nDurtal wrapped himself up as best he could and sat down. His eyes\ngradually grew accustomed to the obscurity of the room, and what he saw\nwas strange; in front of the choir on rows of chairs were seated human\nforms, drowned in floods of white muslin. No one stirred.\n\nSuddenly there entered by a side door a nun equally wrapped from head to\nfoot in a large veil. She passed along the altar, stopped in the middle,\nthrew herself on the ground, kissed the floor, and by a sudden effort,\nwithout helping herself by her arms, stood upright, advanced silently\ninto the church, and brushed by Durtal, who saw under the muslin a\nmagnificent robe of creamy white, an ivory cross at her neck, at her\ngirdle a white cord and beads.\n\nShe went to the entrance-door, and there ascended a little staircase\ninto a gallery which commanded the church.\n\nHe asked himself what could be this Order so sumptuously arrayed, in\nthis miserable chapel, in such a district?\n\nLittle by little the room filled, choir-boys in red with capes trimmed\nwith rabbit's skin lighted the candelabra, went out, and ushered in a\npriest, vested in a grand cope, with large flowers, a priest tall and\nyoung, who sat down, and in a sonorous tone chanted the first antiphon\nof vespers.\n\nSuddenly Durtal turned round. In the gallery an harmonium accompanied\nthe responses of voices never to be forgotten. It was not a woman's\nvoice, but one having in it something of a child's voice, sweetened,\npurified, sharpened, and something of a man's, but less harsh, finer and\nmore sustained, an unsexed voice, filtered through litanies, bolted by\nprayers, passed through the sieves of adoration and tears.\n\nThe priest, still sitting, chanted the first verse of the unchanging\npsalm, \"Dixit Dominus Domino meo.\"\n\nAnd Durtal saw in the air, in the gallery, tall white statues, holding\nblack books in their hands, chanting slowly with eyes raised to heaven.\nA lamp cast its light on one of these figures, which for a second leant\nforward a little, and he saw under the lifted veil a face attentive and\nsorrowful, and very pale.\n\nThe verses of the vesper psalms were now sung alternately, by the nuns\nabove and by the congregation below. The chapel was almost full; a\nschool of girls in white veils filled one side; little girls of the\nmiddle-class, poorly dressed brats who played with their dolls occupied\nthe other. There were a few poor women in _sabots_, and no men.\n\nThe atmosphere became extraordinary. The warmth of the souls thawed the\nice of the room; here were not the vespers of the rich, such as were\ncelebrated on Sundays at St. Sulpice, but the vespers of the poor,\ndomestic vespers, in the plain chant of the country side, followed by\nthe faithful with mighty fervour in silent and singular devotion.\n\nDurtal could fancy himself transported beyond the city, to the depths of\nsome village cloister; he felt himself softened, his soul rocked by the\nmonotonous amplitude of these chants, only recognizing the end of the\npsalms by the return of the doxology, the \"Gloria Patri et Filio,\" which\nseparated them from each other.\n\nHe had a real impulse, a dim need of praying to the Unknowable,\npenetrated to the very marrow by this environment of aspiration, it\nseemed to him that he thawed a little, and took a far-off part in the\nunited tenderness of these bright spirits. He sought for a prayer, and\nrecalled what St. Paphnutius taught Thais, when he cried, \"Thou art not\nworthy to name the name of God, thou wilt pray only thus: 'Qui plasmasti\nme miserere mei;' Thou who hast formed me have mercy on me.\" He\nstammered out the humble phrase, prayed not out of love or of\ncontrition, but out of disgust with himself, unable to let himself go,\nregretting that he could not love. Then he thought of saying the Lord's\nPrayer, but stopped at the notion that this is the hardest of all\nprayers to pronounce, when the phrases are weighed in the balance. For\nin it we declare to God that we forgive our neighbours' trespasses. Now\nhow many who use these words forgive others? How many Catholics do not\nlie when they tell the All-knowing that they hate no one?\n\nHe was roused from these reflections by sudden silence; vespers were\nover. Then the organ played again, and all the voices of the nuns\njoined, those in the choir below and in the gallery above, singing the\nold carol \"Unto us a child is born.\"\n\nHe listened, moved by the simplicity of the strain, and suddenly, in a\nminute, brutally, without understanding why, infamous thoughts filled\nhis mind.\n\nHe resisted in disgust, wished to repulse the assault of these shameful\nfeelings, and they were persistent. He seemed to see before him a woman\nwhose perverse ways had long maddened him.\n\nAll at once this hallucination ceased; his eye was mechanically\nattracted towards the priest, who was looking at him, while speaking in\na low voice to a beadle.\n\nHe lost his head, imagining that the priest guessed his thoughts and was\nturning him out, but this notion was so foolish, that he shrugged his\nshoulders, and more sensibly thought that men were not admitted to this\nconvent of women, and that the abbe who had seen him was sending the\nbeadle to beg him to leave.\n\nThe beadle came straight to him; Durtal was ready to take his hat, when\nin persuasive and gentle tones that functionary said that the procession\nwas about to begin, that it was the custom for the gentlemen to follow\nthe Blessed Sacrament, and that although he was the only man there, the\nabbe thought he would not refuse to follow the procession about to\nstart.\n\nOverwhelmed by this request, Durtal made a vague gesture, in which the\nbeadle seemed to see assent.\n\n\"No,\" he thought as soon as he was left alone; \"I will not meddle with\nthe ceremony; first I know nothing about it, and I should spoil it all,\nand again I will not make a fool of myself.\" He prepared to slip away\nquietly, but he had no time to carry out his intention; the usher\nbrought him a lighted candle and asked him to accompany him. He put the\nbest face he could on the matter, and while thinking that he was\nblushing all over, he followed the beadle to the altar.\n\nThere the beadle stopped him and bid him not to move. The whole\ncongregation was now standing, the girls' school divided into two files,\npreceded by a woman carrying a banner. Durtal came in front of the first\nrank of nuns.\n\nTheir veils lowered before the profane, even in church, were raised\nbefore the Blessed Sacrament, before God. Durtal was able to look at\nthese sisters for a moment; at first his disillusion was complete. He\nhad supposed them pale and grave like the nun he had seen in the\ngallery, and almost all of them were red, freckled, crossing their poor\nhands swelled and wounded by chilblains. Their faces were puffy and all\nseemed at the beginning or end of a cold; they were evidently country\ngirls, and the novices, known by their grey robes under the white veil,\nwere still more common looking; they had certainly been accustomed to\nfarm labour, and yet on seeing them all turned to the altar, the poverty\nof their faces, the ugliness of their hands blue with cold, their broken\nnails, injured in the wash, disappeared; their eyes, modest and humble\nunder their long lashes, changed their coarse features into pious\nsimplicity. Lost in prayer, they did not even see his curious looks, and\ndid not even suspect a man was there examining them.\n\nDurtal envied the admirable wisdom of these poor girls who alone\nunderstood it was mad to wish to live. He thought: \"Ignorance leads to\nthe same result as knowledge. Among the Carmelites are rich and pretty\nwomen who have lived in the world and left it, wholly convinced of the\nvainness of its joys; and these nuns, who evidently know nothing, have\nhad an intuition of that vacuity which it has needed years of experience\nfor the others to gain. By different ways they have arrived at the same\nmeeting-place. Then what clearness of thought is revealed by their\nentrance into an Order! for if indeed they had not been gathered by\nChrist, what would have become of these unhappy girls? Married to\ndrunkards and hammered by beatings; or perhaps maids in taverns,\nill-treated by their masters, brutalized by the other servants, destined\nto the scorn of the streets and the dangers of ill-usage. And without\nknowing anything they have avoided it all, have remained innocent, far\nfrom these perils, and far from this defilement, under an obedience\nwhich is not ignoble, disposed by their very way of life to experience,\nshould they be worthy, the most powerful joys which the soul of a human\ncreature can feel. They remain, perhaps, beasts of burthen, but at any\nrate God's beasts of burthen.\"\n\nHe had got so far in his reflections when the beadle beckoned to him.\nThe priest, who had descended from the altar, held the little\nmonstrance; the girls' procession was moving before him. Durtal passed\nin front of the line of nuns who did not take part in the ceremony, and\ntorch in hand he followed the beadle, who carried behind the priest an\nopen white silk parasol.\n\nThen the harmonium in the gallery filled the church with its drawling\ntones, like an enlarged accordion, and the nuns standing beside it\nintoned the old chant, rhythmical as a march, the \"Adeste Fideles,\"\nwhile below the novices and the faithful repeated after each stanza the\nsweet chorus of invitation, \"Venite adoremus.\"\n\nThe procession went several times round the chapel, above the heads\nbowed in the smoke from the censers, which the choir boys swung, turning\nat each pause to face the priest.\n\n\"Well, after all, I have not come so badly out of it,\" said Durtal to\nhimself, when they had returned to the altar. He thought his part was\nfinished, but, this time without asking his permission, the beadle asked\nhim to kneel at the communion rail in front of the altar.\n\nHe was ill at ease and annoyed, at knowing that the whole school and the\nwhole convent was behind him, nor was he accustomed to kneel; it seemed\nas if wedges were thrust into his limbs, as if he were subjected to the\ntortures of the Middle Ages. Embarrassed by his taper, which was\nguttering, and threatened to cover him with spots, he shifted his\nposition quietly, trying to make himself more comfortable by slipping\nthe skirts of his great coat between his knees and the steps; but in\nmoving he only increased the evil, his flesh was folded back between the\nbones, and his skin was chafed and burning. He sweated at last with the\npain, and feared to distract the fervour of the community by falling;\nwhile the ceremony went on for ever, the nuns sang in the gallery, but\nhe listened no more and deplored the length of the service.\n\nAt last the moment of Benediction approached.\n\nThen in spite of himself, seeing himself there, so near to God, Durtal\nforgot his sufferings, and bowed his head, ashamed to be so placed, like\na captain at the head of his company, in the first rank of this maiden\ntroop; and when in a great silence, the bell tinkled, and the priest\nturning, lightly cut the air in the form of a cross, and, with the\nBlessed Sacrament, blessed the congregation kneeling at his feet, Durtal\nremained, his body bent, his eyes closed, seeking to hide himself, to\nmake himself small, and not be seen there in front amid that pious\ncrowd.\n\nThe psalm \"Laudate Dominum, omnes gentes,\" rang out when the beadle came\nto take his taper. Durtal could hardly resist a cry, when he had to\nstand up; his benumbed knees cracked, and their joints would hardly\nwork.\n\nYet he regained his place somehow; let the crowd pass, and approaching\nthe beadle, asked him the name of the convent, and the order to which\nthe nuns belonged.\n\n\"They are the Franciscan missionaries of Mary,\" answered the man, \"but\nthe chapel is not theirs as you seem to think; it is a chapel of ease\nfor the parish of St. Marcel de la Maison Blanche: it is only joined by\na corridor to the house those sisters occupy behind us there in the Rue\nde l'Ebre. They join in the offices, in fact, just as you and I may do,\nand they keep a school for the children of the district.\"\n\n\"It is a touching little chapel,\" thought Durtal, when he was alone. \"It\nis well matched with the neighbourhood it shelters, with the gloomy\nbrook of the tanners, which runs through the yards below the Rue de la\nGlaciere. It gives me the effect of being to Notre Dame de Paris what\nits neighbour the Bievre is to the Seine. It is the streamlet of the\nchurch, the pious pavement, the miserable suburb of worship.\n\n\"How poor and yet how exquisite are those nuns' voices, which seem\nnon-sexual and mellow! God knows how I hate the voice of a woman in the\nholy place, for it still remains unclean. I think woman always brings\nwith her the lasting miasma of her indispositions and she turns the\npsalms sour. Then, all the same, vanity and concupiscence rise from the\nworldly voice, and its cries of adoration accompanied by the organ are\nonly cries of carnal desire, its very pleadings in the most sombre\nliturgical hymns are only addressed to God from the lips outward, for at\nbottom a woman only mourns the mediocre ideal of earthly pleasure to\nwhich she cannot attain. Thus I thoroughly understand that the Church\nhas rejected woman from her offices, and that the musical robe of her\nsequences may not be contaminated she employs the voices of the boy and\nthe man.\n\n\"Yet in convents of women, that is changed; it is certain that prayer,\ncommunion, abstinence and vows purify the body and the soul, as well as\nthe vocal odour which proceeds from them. The emanations from them give\nto the voices of the nuns, however crude, however ill-trained they may\nbe, their chaste inflexions, their simple caresses of pure love, they\nrecall to it the ingenuous sounds of childhood.\n\n\"In certain orders, they seem even to prune it of the greater part of\nits branches, and concentrate the threads of sap which remain in a few\ntwigs;\" and he thought of a Carmelite convent to which he had gone from\ntime to time, remembered their failing, almost expiring voices, where\nthe little health that remained to them was concentrated in three notes,\nvoices which had lost the musical colours of life, the tints of open\nair, keeping only in the cloister those of the costumes they seemed to\nreflect, white and brown, chaste and sombre tones.\n\nAh! those Carmelites, he thought of them now, as he descended the Rue de\nla Glaciere, and he called up the memory of a profession, the thought of\nwhich took entire possession of him every time he meditated on convents.\nHe saw again in memory a morning in the little chapel in the Avenue de\nSaxe, a chapel, Spanish Gothic in style, with narrow windows glazed with\npanes so dark that the light which remained in their colours did not\npass through them.\n\nAt the end rose the high altar in shade, raised on six steps; on the\nleft a large iron grating in an arch was covered with a black curtain,\nand on the same side, but almost at the base of the altar, a little arch\ntraced on the plain wall, like a lancet window, with an aperture in the\nmiddle, a sort of square, a frame, without a panel, empty.\n\nThat morning the chapel, cold and dark, sparkled, lighted by groves of\ncandles; and the odour of incense, not adulterated as in other churches\nby spices and gums, filled it with a dull smoke; it was crammed with\npeople. Crouched in a corner, Durtal had turned round, and like his\nneighbours looked at the backs of the thurifers and priests, who were\ngoing towards the entrance. The door opened suddenly, and he saw, in a\nburst of daylight, a red vision of the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris,\npassing up the nave, turning from side to side a horse-like head, in\nfront of it a big spectacled nose, bending his tall form all on one\nside, blessing the congregation with a long twisted hand, like a crab's\nclaw.\n\nHe and his suite ascended the altar steps, and knelt at a prie-Dieu,\nthen they took off his tippet, and vested him in a silk chasuble with a\nwhite cross embroidered in silver, and the mass began. Shortly before\nthe communion, the black veil was gently withdrawn; behind the high\ngrating, and in a blueish light like that of the moon, Durtal faintly\nsaw white phantoms gliding and stars twinking in the air, and close to\nthe grating a woman's form, kneeling motionless on the ground, she too\nholding a star at the end of a taper. The woman did not move but the\nstar shook; then when the moment of communion was at hand, the woman\nrose, then disappeared, and her head, as if decapitated, filled the\nsquare of the wicket opened in the arch.\n\nThen as he leant forward he saw, for a second, a dead face, with closed\nlids, white, eyeless, like ancient marble statues. And all passed away,\nas the Cardinal bent above the grating, with the ciborium in his hand.\n\nAll was so rapid that he asked himself if he were not dreaming; the mass\nwas over. Behind the iron grating resounded mournful psalms, slow chants\ndrawn out, weeping, always on the same notes, wandering lights and white\nforms passed in the azure fluid of the incense. Monseigneur Richard was\nsitting, mitre on head, interrogating the postulant who had returned to\nher place, and was kneeling before him behind the grating.\n\nHe spoke in a low voice, and could not be heard. The whole congregation\nbent to listen to the novice as she pronounced her vows, but only a long\nmurmur was heard. Durtal remembered that he had elbowed his way, and got\nnear the choir, where, through the crossed bars of the grating, he saw\nthe woman clad in white, prostrate on her face, in a square of flowers,\nwhile the whole convent filed past, bending over her, intoning the\npsalms for the dead, and sprinkling her with holy water, like a corpse.\n\n\"It is admirable,\" he cried, moved in the street by the memory of the\nscene, and he thought of what a life was that of these women! To lie on\nan hair mattress without pillow or sheets, to fast seven months out of\nthe twelve, except on Sundays and feasts; always to eat, standing,\nvegetables and abstinence fare; to have no fire in winter, to chant for\nhours on ice-cold tiles, to scourge the body, to become so humble as,\nhowever tenderly nurtured, to wash up dishes with joy, and attend to the\nmeanest tasks, to pray from morning to midnight even to fainting, to\npray there till death. They must indeed pity us, and set themselves to\nexpiate the imbecility of a world which treats them as hysterical fools,\nfor it cannot even understand the joy in suffering of souls like these.\n\n\"We cannot be proud of ourselves, in thinking of the Carmelites, or even\nof those humble Franciscan Tertiaries, who are after all more vulgar. It\nis true they do not belong to a contemplative order, but all the same\ntheir rules are very strict, their existence is so hard that they too\ncan atone by their prayers and good works for the crimes of the city\nthey protect.\"\n\nHe grew enthusiastic in thinking of the convents. Ah! to be earthed up\namong them, sheltered from the herd, not to know what books appear, what\nnewspapers are printed, never to know what goes on outside one's cell,\namong men--to complete the beneficent silence of this cloistered life,\nnourishing ourselves with good actions, refreshing ourselves with plain\nsong, saturating ourselves with the inexhaustible joys of the liturgies.\n\nThen, who knows? By force of good will, and by ardent prayer, to succeed\nin coming to Him, in entertaining Him, feeling Him near us, perhaps\nalmost satisfied with His creature. And he called up before him the joys\nof those abbeys in which Jesus abode. He remembered that astonishing\nconvent of Unterlinden, near Colmar, where in the thirteenth century not\nonly one or two nuns, but the whole convent, rose distractedly before\nChrist with cries of joy, nuns were lifted above the ground, others\nheard the songs of seraphim, and their emaciated bodies secreted balm;\nothers became transparent or were crowned with stars; all these\nphenomena of the contemplative life were visible in that cloister, a\nhigh school of Mysticism.\n\nThus wrapped in thought, he found himself at his own door, without\nremembering the road he had taken, and as soon as he was in his room,\nhis whole soul dilated and burst forth. He desired to thank, to call\nfor mercy, to appeal to someone, he knew not whom, to complain of he\nknew not what. All at once the need of pouring himself forth, of going\nout of himself, took shape, and he fell on his knees saying to Our Lady,\n\n\"Have pity on me, and hear me; I would rather anything than continue\nthis shaken existence, these idle stages without an aim. Pardon me, Holy\nVirgin, unclean as I am, for I have no courage for the battle. Ah,\nwouldest thou grant my prayer! I know well that I am over bold in daring\nto ask, since I am not even resolved to turn out my soul, to empty it\nlike a bucket of filth, to strike it on the bottom, that the lees may\ntrickle out and the scales fall off, but ... but ... thou knowest I am\nso weak, so little sure of myself, that in truth I shrink.\n\n\"Oh, all the same I would desire to flee away, a thousand miles from\nParis, I know not where, into a cloister. My God! yet this is very\nmadness that I speak, for I could not stay two days in a convent; nor\nindeed would they take me in.\"\n\nThen he thought,--\n\n\"Though this once I am less dry, less unclean than is my wont, I can\nfind nothing to say to Our Lady but insanities and follies, when it\nwould be so simple to ask her pardon, to beg her to have pity on my\ndesolate life, to aid me to resist the demands of my vices, not to pay\nas I do the royalties on my nerves, the tax on my senses.\n\n\"All the same,\" he said, rising, \"enough of this, I will at least do\nwhat little I can; without more delay I will go to the abbe to-morrow. I\nwill explain the struggle of my soul, and we will see what happens\nafterwards.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nHe was really comforted when the servant said that Monsieur l'Abbe was\nat home. He entered a little drawing-room, and waited till the priest,\nwhom he heard speaking to someone in the next chamber, was alone.\n\nHe looked at the little room, and marked that nothing was changed since\nhis last visit. It was still furnished with a velvet sofa, of which the\nred, once crimson, had become the faded rose colour of raspberry jam on\nbread. There were also two tall arm-chairs on either side of the\nchimney, which was ornamented by an Empire clock, and some china vases\nfilled with sand, in which were stuck some dry stalks of reed. In a\ncorner against the wall, under an old wooden crucifix, was a prie-dieu,\nmarked by the knees, an oval table in the centre, some sacred engravings\non the walls; and that was all.\n\n\"It is like an hotel, or an old maid's lodging,\" thought Durtal. The\ncommonness of the furniture, the curtains in faded damask, the panels\nhung with a paper covered with bouquets of poppies and field-flowers in\nfalse colours, were like lodgings by the month, but certain details,\nabove all the scrupulous cleanliness of the room, the worked cushions on\nthe sofa, the grass mats under the chairs, an hortensia like a painted\ncauliflower placed in a flower-pot covered with lace, looked on the\nother hand like the futile and icy room of a devout woman.\n\n\"Nothing was wanting but a cage of canaries, photographs in plush\nframes, shell-work and crochet mats.\"\n\nDurtal had got so far in his reflections when the abbe came in with\nextended hand, gently finding fault with his long absence.\n\nDurtal made what excuses he could, unusual occupations, long weariness.\n\n\"And our Blessed Lidwine, how do you get on with her?\"\n\n\"Ah, I have not even begun her life; I am not in a state of mind which\nallows me to engage in it.\"\n\nDurtal's accent of discouragement surprised the priest.\n\n\"Come, what is the matter? Can I be of any use to you?\"\n\n\"I do not know, Monsieur l'Abbe. I am almost ashamed to talk to you\nabout such troubles,\" and suddenly he burst out, telling his sorrows in\nany chance words, declaring the unreality of his conversion, his\nstruggles with the flesh, his human respect, his neglect of religious\npractices, his aversion from the rites demanded of him, in fact from all\nyokes.\n\nThe abbe listened without moving, his chin on his hand.\n\n\"You are more than forty,\" he said, when Durtal was silent; \"you have\npassed the age when without any impulse from thought, the awakening of\nthe flesh excites temptations, you are now in that period when indecent\nthoughts first present themselves to the imagination, before the senses\nare agitated. We have then to fight less against your sleeping body than\nyour mind, which stimulates and vexes it. On the other hand, you have\narrears and prizes of affection to put out, you have no wife or children\nto receive them, so that your affections being driven back by celibacy,\nyou will end by taking them there where at first they should have been\nplaced; you try to appease your soul's hunger in chapels, and as you\nhesitate, as you have not the courage to come to a decision, to break\nonce for all with your vices, you have arrived at this strange\ncompromise; to reserve your tender feeling for the church and the\nmanifestations of that feeling for women. That, if I do not mistake, is\nyour correct balance-sheet. But, good heavens, you have not too much to\ncomplain of, for do you not see that the important thing is to care for\nwoman only with your bodily senses? When Heaven has given you grace to\nbe no longer taken captive by thought, all may be arranged with a little\neffort of will.\"\n\n\"This is an indulgent priest,\" thought Durtal.\n\n\"But,\" continued the abbe, \"you cannot always sit between two stools,\nthe moment will come when you must stick to the one, and push the other\naway.\"\n\nAnd looking at Durtal, who looked down without answering,--\n\n\"Do you pray? I do not ask if you say your morning prayers, for not all\nthose, who end by entering on the divine way, after wandering for years\nwhere chance might take them, call on the Lord so soon as they awake.\nAt break of day the soul thinks itself well, thinks itself firmer, and\nat once takes occasion of this fleeting energy to forget God. It is with\nthe soul as with the body when it is sick. When night comes our\nsensations are stronger, pain which was quieted awakes, the fever which\nslept blazes up again, filth revives and wounds bleed anew, and then it\nthinks of the divine Miracle-worker, it thinks of Christ. Do you pray in\nthe evening?\"\n\n\"Sometimes--and yet it is very difficult; the afternoon is tolerable,\nbut you say truly when the daylight goes, evils spring up. A whole\ncavalcade of obscene ideas then pass through my brain; how can any one\nbe recollected at such moments?\"\n\n\"If you do not feel able to resist in the street or at home, why do you\nnot take refuge in the churches?\"\n\n\"But they are closed when one has most need of them; the clergy put\nJesus to bed at nightfall.\"\n\n\"I know it, but if most churches are closed, there are a few which\nremain partly open very late. Ah, St. Sulpice is among the number, and\nthere is one which remains open every evening, and where those who visit\nit are always sure of prayers and Benediction: Notre Dame des Victoires,\nI think you know it.\"\n\n\"Yes, Monsieur l'Abbe. It is ugly enough to cause tears, it is\npretentious, it is in bad taste, and the singers churn up a margarine of\nrancid tones. I do not go there then as I go to St. Severin and St.\nSulpice, to admire there the art of the old 'Praisers of God,' to\nlisten, even if they are incorrectly given, to the broad, familiar\nmelodies of plain chant. Notre Dame des Victoires is worthless from the\naesthetic point of view, and yet I go there from time to time, because\nalone in Paris it has the irresistible attraction of true piety, it\nalone preserves intact the lost soul of the Time. At whatever hour one\ngoes there people are praying there, prostrate in absolute silence; it\nis full as soon as it is open, and full at its closing, there is a\nconstant coming and going of pilgrims from all parts of Paris, arriving\nfrom the depths of the provinces, and it seems that each one, by the\nprayers that he brings, adds fuel to the immense brazier of Faith whose\nflames break out again under the smoky arches like the thousands of\ntapers which constantly burn, and are renewed from morning till evening,\nbefore Our Lady.\n\n\"Well, I who seek the most deserted corners and the darkest places in\nthe chapels, I who hate mobs, mix almost willingly with those I find\nthere; because there everyone is isolated, no one is concerned with his\nneighbour, you do not see the human bodies which throng you, but you\nfeel the breath of souls around. However refractory, however damp you\nmay be, you end by taking fire at this contact, and are astonished to\nfind yourself all at once less vile; it seems to me that the prayers\nwhich elsewhere when they leave my lips fall back to the ground\nexhausted and chilled, spring upwards in that place, are borne on by\nothers, grow warm and soar and live.\n\n\"At St. Severin I have indeed experienced the sensation of a help\nspreading from the pillars and running through the arches, but, as I\nthink, the aid is less strong. Perhaps since the Middle Ages that church\nmakes use of, but cannot renew the celestial effluvia with which it is\ncharged; while at Notre Dame the help which springs up from the very\npavement is for ever vivified by the uninterrupted presence of an ardent\ncrowd. In the one it is the impregnate stone, the church itself which\nbrings consolation, in the other it is above all things the fervour of\nthe crowds which fill it.\n\n\"And then I have the strange impression that the Virgin, attracted and\nretained by so great faith, only spends a little while in other\nchurches, goes there as a visitor, but has made her home, and really\nresides in Notre Dame.\"\n\nThe abbe smiled.\n\n\"Come, I see that you know and love it; and yet the church is not on our\nleft bank, beyond which, you said to me one day, there is no sanctuary\nworth having.\"\n\n\"Yes, and I am surprised at it, especially as it is placed in a\nthoroughly commercial quarter, two paces from the Exchange, whose\nignoble shouts can be heard in it.\"\n\n\"It was itself an Exchange,\" said the abbe.\n\n\"In what way?\"\n\n\"After having been baptized by the monks, and having served as a chapel\nfor the discalced Augustinians, it was horribly desecrated in the\nRevolution, and the Exchange was set up within its walls.\"\n\n\"I was not aware of that detail,\" said Durtal.\n\n\"But,\" continued the abbe, \"it was with it, as with those holy women,\nwho, if we believe their biographers, recovered by a life of prayer the\nvirginity they had formerly lost. Our Lady washed it from its violation,\nand though it is comparatively modern, it is at the present day\nsaturated with emanations, infused by effluences of angels, penetrated\nwith divine drugs, it is for sick souls what certain thermal springs are\nfor the body. People keep their season there, make their novenas, and\nobtain their cure.\n\n\"Now to come back to our point; I tell you you will do wisely, if on\nyour bad evenings you will attend Benediction in that church. I shall be\nsurprised if you do not come out cleansed and at peace.\"\n\n\"If he have only that to offer me, it is little enough,\" thought Durtal.\nAnd after a disappointed silence he rejoined,\n\n\"But, Monsieur l'Abbe, even were I to visit that sanctuary, and follow\nthe offices in other churches, when temptations assail me, even were I\nto confess and draw near the Sacraments, how would that advantage me? I\nshould meet as I came out the woman whose very sight inflames my senses,\nand it would be with me as after my leaving St. Severin all unnerved;\nthe very feeling of tenderness which I had in the chapel would destroy\nme, and I should fall back into sin.\"\n\n\"What do you know about it?\" and the priest suddenly rose, and took long\nstrides through the room.\n\n\"You have no right to speak thus, for the virtue of the Sacrament is\nformal, the man who has communicated is no longer alone. He is armed\nagainst others and defended against himself,\" and crossing his arms\nbefore Durtal he exclaimed,--\n\n\"To lose one's soul for the pleasure of momentary gratification! what\nmadness. And since the time of your conversion, does not that disgust\nyou?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am disgusted with myself, but only after my swinish desires are\nsatisfied. If only I could gain true repentance.\"\n\n\"Rest assured,\" said the abbe, who sat down again, \"you will find it.\"\n\nAnd, seeing that Durtal shook his head,\n\n\"Remember what Saint Teresa said: 'One trouble of those who are\nbeginning is, that they cannot recognize whether they have true\nrepentance for their faults; but they have it, and the proof is their\nsincere resolution to serve God.' Think of that sentence, for it applies\nto you; that repugnance to your sins which wearies you is witness to\nyour regret, and you have a desire to serve the Lord, since you are in\nfact struggling to go to Him.\"\n\nThere was a moment of silence.\n\n\"Well, then, Monsieur l'Abbe, what is your advice?\"\n\n\"I advise you to pray in your own house, in church, everywhere, as much\nas you can. I do not prescribe any religious remedy, I simply invite you\nto profit by some precepts of pious hygiene, afterwards we will see.\"\n\nDurtal remained undecided, discontented, like those sick persons who\nfind fault with doctors, who, to satisfy them, prescribe only colourless\ndrugs.\n\nThe priest laughed.\n\n\"Confess,\" he said, looking him in the face, \"confess that you are\nsaying to yourself, 'It was not worth while to put myself out, for I am\nno further advanced, this good fellow, the priest, practises expectant\nmedicine; instead of cutting short my crises with energetic remedies, he\npalters, advises me to go to bed early, not to catch cold--'\"\n\n\"Oh, Monsieur l'Abbe,\" protested Durtal.\n\n\"Yet I do not wish to treat you like a child, or talk to you like a\nwoman; now attend to me!\n\n\"The way in which your conversion has worked leaves me in no doubt\nwhatever. There has been what Mysticism calls the divine touch,\nonly--note this--God has dispensed with human intervention, even with\nthe interference of a priest, to bring you back into the road you have\nleft for more than twenty years.\n\n\"Now we cannot reasonably suppose that the Lord has acted lightly, and\nthat He will now leave His work unaccomplished. He will carry it through\nif you put no obstacle in His way.\n\n\"In fact you are at this moment like a block in His hands; what will He\ndo with it? I do not know, but since He has kept to Himself the conduct\nof your soul, let Him act; be patient, He will explain His action; trust\nin Him, He will help you; be content to protest with the Psalmist: 'Doce\nme facere voluntatem tuam, quia Deus meus es tu.'\n\n\"I tell you again I believe in the preventive virtue, the formal power\nof the Sacraments. I quite understand the system of Pere Milleriot, who\nobliged those persons to communicate whom he thought would afterwards\nfall again into sin. For their only penance he obliged them to\ncommunicate again and again, and he ended by purifying them with the\nSacred Species, taken in large doses. It is a doctrine at once realistic\nand exalted.\n\n\"But reassure yourself,\" continued the abbe, looking at Durtal, who\nseemed wearied, \"I do not intend to experiment on you in this way; on\nthe contrary, my advice is that in the state of ignorance in which we\nare of God's will, you abstain from the Sacraments.\n\n\"For you should desire them, and it should come from you rather than\nfrom Him; be sure that sooner or later you will thirst for Penance,\nhunger for the Eucharist. Well, when unable to restrain yourself longer,\nyou ask for pardon and entreat to be allowed to approach the Holy Table,\nwe shall see, we will ask Him what way He will choose to take, in order\nto save you.\"\n\n\"But there are not, I presume, several ways of confessing and\ncommunicating?\"\n\n\"Certainly not, that is just what I meant to say ... but ...\"\n\nAnd the priest hesitated, at a loss for words.\n\n\"It is quite certain,\" he began again, \"that art has been the principal\nmeans which the Saviour has used to make you absorb the Faith. He has\ntaken you on your weak side--or strong side, if you like that better. He\nhas infused into your nature the chief mystical works; he has persuaded\nand converted you, less by the way of reason than the way of the senses;\nand indeed those are the special conditions you have to take into\naccount.\n\n\"On the other hand your soul is not humble and simple, you are a sort of\n'sensitive,' whom the least imprudence, the least stupidity of a\nconfessor would at once repel.\n\n\"Therefore that you may not be at the mercy of a troublesome impression,\ncertain precautions must be taken. In the state of weakness and\nfeebleness in which you are, a disagreeable face, an unlucky word,\nantipathetic surroundings, a mere nothing would be enough to rout\nyou--is it not so?\"\n\n\"Alas!\" sighed Durtal, \"I am obliged to answer that you are right; but,\nMonsieur l'Abbe, I do not think I shall have to fear such disillusions\nif when the moment you predict has come you will allow me to make my\nconfession to you.\"\n\nThe priest was silent for a while; then said,\n\n\"No doubt, since I have met you, I may probably be useful to you, but I\nhave an idea that my part will be confined to pointing out the road to\nyou; I shall be a connecting link, and nothing more, you will end as you\nhave begun, without help, alone.\" The abbe remained in thought, then\nshook his head, and went on: \"Let us leave the subject, however, for we\ncannot anticipate the designs of God; to sum up, try to stifle in prayer\nyour attacks of the flesh, it is a less matter not to be overcome at the\nmoment, than to direct all your efforts not to be so.\"\n\nThen the priest added gently to rouse the spirits of Durtal, whom he saw\nto be depressed,\n\n\"If you fall do not despair, and throw the handle after the hatchet. Say\nto yourself, that, after all Lust is not the most unpardonable of\nfaults, that it is one of two sins for which the human being pays cash,\nand which are consequently expiated in part at least before death. Say\nto yourself that wantonness and avarice refuse all credit and will not\nwait; and in fact, whoever unlawfully commits a fleshly act is almost\nalways punished in his lifetime. For some there are bastards to provide\nfor, sickly wives, low connections, broken careers, abominable\ndeceptions on the part of those they have loved. On whichever side we\nturn when women are concerned we have to suffer, for she is the most\npowerful instrument of sorrow which God has given to man.\n\n\"It is the same with the passion for gain. Every being who allows\nhimself to be overcome by that hateful sin, pays for it as a rule before\nhis death. Look at the Panama business. Cooks, housekeepers, small\nproprietors who till then had lived in peace, seeking no inordinate\ngains, no illicit profit, threw themselves like madmen into that\nbusiness. They had one only thought, to gain money; the chastisement of\ntheir cupidity was, as you know, sudden.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Durtal, laughing, \"the de Lesseps were the agents of\nprovidence, when they stole the savings of fools, who had moreover got\nthem probably by thieving.\"\n\n\"In a word,\" said the abbe, \"I repeat my last advice: do not be at all\ndiscouraged if you sink. Do not despise yourself too much; have the\ncourage to enter a church afterwards; for the devil catches you by\ncowardice, the false shame, the false humility he suggests, nourish,\nmaintain, solidify your wantonness in some measure.\n\n\"Well! no good-bye; come and see me soon again.\"\n\nDurtal found himself in the street a little confused. \"It is evident,\"\nhe murmured, as he stalked along, \"that the Abbe Gevresin is a clever\nspiritual watchmaker. He has dexterously taken to pieces the movement of\nmy passions, and made the hours of idleness and weariness strike, but,\nafter all, his advice comes only to this: stew in your own juice and\nwait.\n\n\"Indeed he is right; if I had come to the point I should not have gone\nto him to chatter, but really to confess. What is strange is that he\ndoes not at all seem to think he will have to put me through the\nwash-tub; and to whom does he mean me to go--to the first comer who will\nwind about me his spool of commonplaces, and stroke me with his big\nhands without seeing clearly?\n\n\"Well, well ... what is the time?\" He looked at his watch. \"Six o'clock,\nand I do not care to go home. What shall I do till dinner?\"\n\nHe was near St. Sulpice. He went in and sat down, to clear his thoughts\na little, taking a place in the Chapel of Our Lady, which at that hour\nwas almost empty.\n\nHe felt no wish to pray, and rested there, looking at the great arch of\nmarble and gold, like a scene in a theatre, where the Virgin, the only\nfigure in the light, advances towards the faithful, as from a decorated\ngrotto, on plaster clouds.\n\nMeanwhile two Little Sisters of the Poor came and knelt not far from\nhim, and meditated, their heads between their hands.\n\nHe thought as he looked at them,--\n\n\"Those souls are to be envied who can thus be abstracted in prayer. How\ndo they manage it? For, in fact, it is not easy, if one thinks of the\nsorrows of the world, to praise the vaunted mercy of God. It is all very\nfine to believe that He exists, to be certain that He is good; in fact,\nwe do not know Him--we are ignorant of Him. He is, and, in fact, He can\nonly be, immanent, permanent, and inaccessible. He is we know not what,\nand at most we know what He is not. Try to imagine Him, and the senses\nfail, for He is above, about, and in each one of us. He is three and He\nis one; He is each and He is all; He is without beginning, and He will\nbe without end; He is above all and for ever incomprehensible. If we try\nto picture Him to ourselves and give Him a human wrappage, we come back\nto the simple conception of the early times, we represent Him under the\nfeatures of an ancestor. Some old Italian model, some old Father\nTourgeneff, with a long beard, and we cannot but smile, so childish is\nthe likeness of God the Father.\n\n\"He is, in fact, so absolutely above the imagination and the senses,\nthat He comes only nominally into prayer, and the impulses of humanity\nascend especially to the Son, Who only can be addressed, because He\nbecame man, and is to us somewhat of an elder brother, because, having\nwept in human form, we think He will hear us more readily, and be more\ncompassionate to our sorrows.\n\n\"As to the third Person, He is even more disconcerting than the first.\nHe is especially the unknowable. How can we imagine this God formless\nand bodiless, this Substance equal to the two others, who, as it were,\nbreathe Him forth? We think of Him as a brightness, a fluid, a breath;\nwe cannot even lend to Him as to the Father the face of a man, since on\nthe two occasions that He took to Himself a body, He showed Himself\nunder the likenesses of a dove and of tongues of fire, and these two\ndifferent aspects do not help to a suggestion of the new appearance He\nmight assume.\n\n\"Certainly the Trinity is terrible, and makes the brain reel. Ruysbroeck\nhas moreover said admirably, 'Let those who would know and study what\nGod is, know that it is forbidden; they will go mad.'\n\n\"So,\" he continued, looking at the two Little Sisters, who were now\ntelling their beads, \"these good women are right not to try to\nunderstand, and to confine themselves to praying with all their heart to\nthe Mother and the Son.\n\n\"Moreover, in all the lives of the saints which they have read, they\nhave made certain that Jesus and Mary always appeared to the elect to\nconsole and strengthen them.\n\n\"In fact, how stupid I am. To pray to the Son is to pray to the two\nothers, for in praying to one among them I pray at the same time to the\nthree, since the three make but one. And the Substances are, however,\nspecial, because if the divine Essence is one and simple, it is so in\nthe threefold distinction of the Persons; but, again, what is the use of\nfathoming the Impenetrable?\n\n\"Yet,\" he continued, remembering the interview he had just had with the\npriest, \"how will all this end? If the abbe be right, I no longer\nbelong to myself; I am about to enter the unknown, which frightens me.\nIf only the sound of my vices consents to be silent, but I feel that\nthey rise furiously within me. Ah, that Florence\"--and he thought of a\nwoman to whose vagaries he was riveted--\"continues to walk about in my\nbrain. I see her behind the lowered curtain of my eyes, and when I think\nof her I am a terrible coward.\"\n\nHe endeavoured once more to put her away, but his will was overcome at\nthe sight of her.\n\nHe hated, despised, and even cursed her, but the madness of his\nillusions excited him; he left her disgusted with her and with himself;\nhe swore he would never see her again, but did not keep his resolve.\n\nHe saw her now in vision extend her hand to him.\n\nHe recoiled, struggling to free himself; but his dream continued\nmingling her with the form of one of the sisters whose gentle profile he\nsaw.\n\nSuddenly he started, returned to the real world, and saw that he was at\nSt. Sulpice, in the chapel. \"It is disgusting that I should come here to\nsoil the church with my horrible dreams; I had better go.\"\n\nHe went out in confusion, thinking, \"Perhaps if I visit Florence once\nagain, I may perhaps put an end to this haunting sense of her presence,\nseeing and knowing the reality.\"\n\nAnd he was obliged to answer himself that he was becoming idiotic, for\nhe knew by experience that past desire grows in proportion as it is\nnourished. \"No, the abbe was right; I have to become and to remain\npenitent. But how? Pray? How can I pray, when evil imaginations pursue\nme even in church? Evil dreams followed me to La Glaciere; here they\nappear again, and smite me to the ground. How can I defend myself? for\nindeed it is frightful to be thus alone, to know nothing and have no\nproof, to feel the prayers which one tears out of oneself fall into the\nsilence and the void without a gesture to answer, without a word of\nencouragement, without a sign. I do not even know if He be there, and if\nHe listens. The abbe tells me to wait an indication, an order from on\nhigh; but, alas! they come to me from below.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nMany months passed. Durtal continued his alternation of wanton and pious\nideas. Without power to resist, he saw himself slipping. \"All this is\nfar from clear,\" he cried, one day, in a rage, when, less apathetic than\nusual, he forced himself to take stock. \"Now, Monsieur l'Abbe, what does\nthis mean? Whenever my sensual obsessions are weaker, so also are my\nreligious impressions.\"\n\n\"That means,\" said the priest, \"that your adversary is holding out to\nyou the most treacherous of his baits. He seeks to persuade you that you\nwill never attain to anything unless you will give yourself up to the\nmost repugnant excesses. He tries to convince you that satiety and\ndisgust of these acts alone will bring you back to God; he incites you\nto commit them that they may, so to speak, bring about your deliverance;\nhe leads you into sin under pretext of delivering you from it. Have a\nlittle energy, despise these sophistries and resist him.\"\n\nHe went to see the Abbe Gevresin every week. He liked the patient\ndiscretion of the old priest, who let him talk when he was in a\nconfidential humour, listened to him carefully, manifested no surprise\nat his frequent temptations and his falls. Only the abbe always returned\nto his first advice, insisted on regular prayer, and that Durtal should\neach day, if possible, visit a church. He also now said, \"The hour is\nimportant for the success of these practices. If you wish that the\nchapels should be favourable to you, get up in time to be present at\ndaybreak at the first mass, the servants' mass, and also be very often\nin the sanctuaries at nightfall.\"\n\nThe priest had evidently formed a plan; Durtal did not yet wholly\nunderstand it, but he was bound to admit that this discipline of\ntemporizing, this constant call to thought always directed to God, by\nhis daily visits to the churches, acted upon him at last, and little by\nlittle softened his soul. One fact proved it: that he who for so long a\ntime had been unable to meditate in the morning, now prayed as soon as\nhe awoke. Even in the afternoon he found himself on some days seized\nwith the need of speaking humbly with God, with an irresistible desire\nto ask His pardon and implore His help.\n\nIt seemed then that the Lord knocked at his door with gentle touches,\nwishing so to recall his attention, and draw him to Him; but when,\nsoftened and troubled, Durtal would enter into himself to seek God, he\nwandered vaguely, not knowing what he said, and thinking of other things\nwhile speaking to Him.\n\nHe complained of these wanderings and distractions to the priest, who\nanswered,--\n\n\"You are on the threshold of the probationary life; you cannot yet\nexperience the sweet and familiar friendship of prayer. Do not sadden\nyourself because you cannot close behind you the gate of your senses.\nWatch and wait; pray badly if you can do nothing else, but pray all the\nsame.\n\n\"Be very sure too that every one has experienced the troubles which\ndistress you; above all, believe that we do not walk blindfold, that\nMysticism is an absolutely exact science. It can foretell the greater\npart of the phenomena which occur in that soul which the Lord intends\nfor a perfect life; it follows also spiritual operations with the same\nclearness as physiology observes the different states of the body. For\nages and ages it has disclosed the progress of grace and its effects,\nnow impetuous and now slow; it has even pointed out the modifications of\nmaterial organs which are transformed when the soul entirely loses\nitself in God.\n\n\"Saint Denys the Areopagite, Saint Bonaventure, Hugh and Richard of\nSaint Victor, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Saint Bernard, Ruysbroeck, Angela of\nFoligno, the two Eckharts, Tauler, Suso, Denys the Carthusian, Saint\nHildegarde, Saint Catherine of Genoa, Saint Catherine of Siena, Saint\nMagdalen of Pazzi, Saint Gertrude, and others have set forth in a\nmasterly way the principles and theories of Mysticism, and it has found\nat last an admirable psychologist to sum up its rules and their\nexceptions; a Saint who has verified in her own person the supernatural\nphases she has described--a woman whose lucidity was more than\nhuman--Saint Teresa. You have read her life, and her 'Castles of the\nSoul'!\"\n\nDurtal nodded assent.\n\n\"Then you have your information; you ought to know that before reaching\nthe shores of Blessedness, before arriving at the fifth dwelling of the\ninterior castle, at that prayer of union wherein the soul is awakened in\nregard to God, and completely asleep to all things of earth and to\nherself, she must pass through lamentable states of dryness, and the\nmost painful strainings. Take heart therefore; say to yourself that this\ndryness should be a source of humility, and not a cause of disquietude;\ndo, in fact, as Saint Teresa would have you: carry your cross, and not\ndrag it after you.\"\n\n\"That magnificent and terrible Saint frightens me,\" sighed Durtal. \"I\nhave read her works, and, do you know, she gives me the idea of a\nstainless lily, but a metallic lily, forged of wrought iron; you will\nadmit that those who suffer have scant consolations to expect from her.\"\n\n\"Yes; in the sense that she does not think of the creature except in the\nway of Mysticism. She supposes the fields already ploughed, the soul\nalready freed from its more vehement temptations, and sheltered from\ncrises; her starting-point is as yet too high and too distant for you,\nfor, in fact, she is addressing nuns, women of the cloister, beings who\nlive apart from the world, and who are consequently already advanced on\nthose ascetic ways wherein God is leading them.\n\n\"But make an effort in the spirit to free yourself from this mud, cast\naway for a few moments the memory of your imperfections and your\ntroubles, and follow her. See then how experienced she is in the domain\nof the supernatural, how, in spite of her repetitions and tediousness,\nshe explains wisely and clearly the mechanism of the soul unfolding when\nGod touches it. In subjects where words fail and phrases crumble away,\nshe succeeds in making herself understood, in showing, making felt,\nalmost making visible, the inconceivable sight of God buried in the\nsoul, and taking His pleasure there.\n\n\"And she goes still further into the mystery, even to the end; bounds\nwith a final spring to the very gates of heaven, but then she faints on\nadoration, and being unable to express herself further, she soars,\ndescribing circles like a frightened bird, wandering beyond herself, in\ncries of love.\"\n\n\"Yes, Monsieur l'Abbe, I recognize that Saint Teresa has explored deeper\nthan any other the unknown regions of the soul; she is in some measure\nits geographer, has drawn the map of its poles, marked the latitudes of\ncontemplation, the interior lands of the human sky. Other Saints have\nexplored them before her, but they have not left us so methodical nor so\nexact a topography.\n\n\"But in spite of this I prefer those mystical writers who have less\nself-analysis, and discuss less, who always do throughout their works\nwhat Saint Teresa did at the end of hers--that is, who are all on fire\nfrom the first page to the last, and are consumed and lost at the feet\nof Christ. Ruysbroeck is among these. The little volume which Hello has\ntranslated is a very furnace; and, again, to quote a woman, take Saint\nAngela of Foligno, not so much in the book of her visions which may not\nbe always effectual, as in the wonderful life which she dictated to\nBrother Armand, her confessor. She too explains, and much earlier than\nSaint Teresa, the principles and effects of Mysticism; but if she is\nless profound, less clever in defining shades, on the other hand she is\nwonderfully effusive and tender. She caresses the soul; she is a\nBacchante of divine love, a Maenad of purity. Christ loves her, holds\nlong conversations with her; the words she has retained surpass all\nliterature, and are manifestly the most beautiful ever written. This is\nno longer the rough Christ, the Spanish Christ who begins by trampling\non His creature to make him more supple; He is the merciful Christ of\nthe Gospels, the gentle Christ of Saint Francis, and I like the Christ\nof the Franciscans better than the Christ of the Carmelites.\"\n\n\"What will you say, then,\" said the abbe, with a smile, \"of St. John of\nthe Cross? You compared Saint Teresa just now to a flower in wrought\niron; he too is such, but he is the lily of tortures, the royal flower\nwhich the executioners were wont of old time to stamp on the heraldic\nflesh of convicts. Like red-hot iron, he is at the same time burning and\nsombre. As you turn over the pages, Saint Teresa now and then bends over\nand sorrows and compassionates us; he remains impenetrable, buried in\nhis internal abyss, occupied, above all things, in describing the\nsufferings of the soul which, after having crucified its desires, passes\nthrough the 'Night obscure,' that is to say, through the renunciation of\nall which comes from the sensible and the created.\n\n\"He wills that we should extinguish our imagination--so lethargize it\nthat it can no longer form images--imprison our senses, annihilate our\nfaculties. He wills that he who desires to unite himself to God should\nplace himself under an exhausted receiver, and make a vacuum within, so\nthat, if he choose, the Pilgrim should descend therein, and purify\nhimself, tearing out the remains of sins, extirpating the last relics of\nvice.\n\n\"Then the sufferings which the soul endures overpass the bounds of the\npossible, it lies lost in utter darkness, falls under discouragement and\nfatigue, believes itself for ever abandoned by Him to whom it cries, who\nnow hides Himself and answers not again, happy still when in that agony,\nthe pangs of the flesh are not added, and that abominable spirit which\nIsaias calls the spirit of confusion, and which is none other than the\ndisease of scrupulousness pushed to its extreme.\n\n\"Saint John makes you shudder when he cries out that this night of the\nsoul is bitter and terrible, and that the being who suffers it is\nplunged alive into hell. But when the old man is purged out, when he is\nscraped at every seam, raked over every face, light springs out, and God\nappears. Then the soul casts itself like a child into His arms, and the\nincomprehensible fusion takes place.\n\n\"You see Saint John penetrates more deeply than others into the depths\nof mystical initiation. He also, like Saint Teresa and Ruysbroeck, treats\nof the spiritual marriage, of the influx of grace, and its gifts; but he\nfirst dared to describe minutely the dolorous phases which till then had\nbeen but hinted at with trembling.\n\n\"Then if he is an admirable theologian, he is also a rigorous and\nclear-sighted saint. He has not those weaknesses which are natural to a\nwoman; he does not lose himself in digressions, nor return continually\non his own steps; he walks straight forward, but you often see him at\nthe end of the road, blood-stained and terrible, with dry eyes.\"\n\n\"But, but,\" said Durtal, \"surely not all souls whom Christ will lead in\nthe ways of mysticism are tried thus?\"\n\n\"Yes, almost always, more or less.\"\n\n\"I will confess that I thought the spiritual life was less arid and less\ncomplex. I imagined that by leading a pure life, praying one's best, and\ncommunicating, one would attain without much trouble, not indeed to\ntaste the infinite joys reserved for the saints, but at last to possess\nthe Lord, and live, at least, near Him, at rest.\n\n\"And I should be quite content with this middle class joy. The price\npaid in advance for the exaltation described by Saint John disconcerts\nme.\"\n\nThe abbe smiled, but made no answer.\n\n\"But do you know that if it be so,\" replied Durtal, \"we are very far\nfrom the Catholicism that is taught us? It is so practical, so benign,\nso gentle, in comparison with Mysticism.\"\n\n\"It is made for lukewarm souls--that is to say, for almost all the pious\nsouls which are about us; it lives in a moderate atmosphere, without too\ngreat suffering or too much joy; it only can be assimilated by the\nmasses, and the priests are right to present it thus, since otherwise\nthe faithful would cease to understand it, or would take flight in\nalarm.\"\n\n\"But if God judge that a moderate religion is amply sufficient--for the\nmasses believe that he demands the most painful efforts on the part of\nthose whom he deigns to initiate into the supremely adorable mysteries\nof His Person--it is necessary and just that he should mortify them\nbefore allowing them to taste the essential intoxication of union with\nHim.\"\n\n\"In fact, the end of Mysticism is to render visible, sensible, almost\npalpable, the God who remains silent and hidden from all.\"\n\n\"And to throw us into His deep, into the silent abyss of joy! But in\norder to speak correctly, we must forget the ordinary use of expressions\nwhich have been degraded. In order to describe this mysterious love, we\nare obliged to draw our comparisons from human acts, and to inflict on\nthe Lord the shame of our words. We have to employ such terms as\n'union,' 'marriage,' 'wedding feast'; but it is impossible to speak of\nthe inexpressible, and with the baseness of our language declare the\nineffable immersion of the soul in God.\"\n\n\"The fact is,\" murmured Durtal ... \"but to return to Saint Teresa....\"\n\n\"She too,\" interrupted the abbe, \"has treated of this 'Night obscure'\nwhich terrifies you; but she only speaks of it in a few lines. She calls\nit the soul's agony--a sadness so bitter that she strove in vain to\ndepict it.\"\n\n\"No doubt, but I prefer her to Saint John of the Cross, for she is not\nso discouraging as that inflexible saint. Admit that he belongs too much\nto the land of those large Christs who bleed in caverns.\"\n\n\"Of what nationality then was Saint Teresa?\"\n\n\"Yes, I know she was a Spaniard, but so complex, so strange, that race\nseems obliterated in her, less clearly defined.\n\n\"It is clear she was an admirable psychologist, but also how strange is\nin her the mixture of an ardent mystic and a cool woman of business.\nFor, in fact, she has a double nature; she is a contemplative outside\nthe world, and at the same time a statesman, a female Colbert of the\ncloister. In fact, never was woman so consummate a skilled artisan and\nso powerful an organizer. When we consider that, in spite of incredible\ndifficulties, she founded thirty-two nunneries, that she put them all\nunder obedience to a rule which is a model of wisdom, a rule which\nforesees and rectifies the most ignored mistakes of the heart, it is\nastonishing to hear her treated by strong-minded people as an hysterical\nmadwoman.\"\n\n\"One of the distinctive marks of the mystics,\" answered the abbe, with a\nsmile, \"is just their absolute balance, their entire common sense.\"\n\nThese conversations cheered Durtal; they planted on him seeds of\nreflection which sprang up when he was alone; they encouraged him to\ntrust to the advice of this priest, and follow his counsels. He found\nhimself all the better for this conduct, in that his visits to the\nchurches, his prayers and readings occupied his objectless life, and he\nwas no longer wearied.\n\n\"I have at least gained peaceable evenings and quiet nights,\" he said to\nhimself.\n\nHe knew the soothing help of a pious evening.\n\nHe visited St. Sulpice at those times when, under the dull gleam of the\nlamps, the pillars opened out and threw long panels of darkness on the\nground. The chapels which remained open were in shade, and in the nave\nbefore the high altar a single cluster of lamps, above in the darkness,\nshone out like a luminous bunch of red roses.\n\nIn the stillness no sounds were heard but the dull thud of a door, the\ncreaking of a chair, the short paces of a woman, the hurried stride of a\nman.\n\nDurtal was almost isolated in the obscure chapel which he had chosen; he\nkept himself there so far from all, so far from the city whose full\npulse was beating only two paces from him. He knelt down and remained\nstill, he prepared to speak, and had nothing to say, felt himself\ncarried away by an impulse, but no words came. He ended by falling into\na vague languor, experiencing that indolent ease, that dim sense of\ncomfort, which the body feels in a medicated bath.\n\nHe fell a-dreaming of the lot of the women who were round about him here\nand there, in chairs. Ah! those poor little black shawls, those\nmiserable pleated caps, those wretched tippets, those doleful seed\nrosaries they fingered in the shade.\n\nSome in mourning, sobbed still inconsolable; others, overwhelmed, bent\ntheir backs and hung their heads on one side; others prayed, their\nshoulders shaking, their head in their hands.\n\nThe task of the day was over; those wearied of their life came to ask\nfor mercy. Everywhere misfortune was kneeling, for the rich, the\nhealthy, the happy hardly pray; all around in the church were women,\nwidowed or old, without love, women deserted, women whose home was a\ntorture, praying that existence might become more merciful, that the\ndissoluteness of their husbands might cease, the vices of their sons\namend, the health of those they loved grow stronger.\n\nA lamentable perfume went up like incense to Our Lady from a very sheaf\nof woes.\n\nFew men came to this hidden meeting-place of trouble; still fewer young\npeople, for these have not yet suffered enough; there were only a few\nold men, and a few sick who dragged themselves along by the backs of the\nchairs, and a little hunchback, whom Durtal saw coming there every\nevening, an outcast who could only be loved by Her who does not even see\nthe body.\n\nA burning pity seized on Durtal at the sight of those unhappy ones who\ncame to beg from Heaven a little of the love refused them by men; and\nhe who could not pray on his own account ended by joining himself to\ntheir pleadings, and praying for them.\n\nSo indifferent in the afternoon, the churches were truly persuasive,\ntruly sweet, in the evening; they seemed to bestir themselves at\nnightfall, and to compassionate in their solitude the sufferings of\nthose sick creatures whose complaints they heard.\n\nAnd their first mass in the morning, the mass of working women and\nservant maids was no less touching; there were there no bigots nor\ncurious persons, but poor women who came to seek in communion strength\nto live their hours of onerous tasks and servile needs. They knew as\nthey left the church that they were the living custodians of a God, of\nHim who was ever while on earth the Poor Man, who took pleasure only in\nsouls who had scarce where to lay their head; they knew themselves His\nchosen, and did not doubt that when He entrusted to them under the form\nof bread the memorial of His suffering, He demanded of them in exchange\nthat they should live in sorrow and humility. And what harm then could\ndo to them the cares of a day spent in the salutary shame of base\noccupations?\n\n\"I now understand,\" thought Durtal, \"why the abbe made such a point of\nmy seeing the churches early or late; those are, in fact, the only times\nin which the soul expands.\"\n\nBut he was too idle to be often present at early mass; he was content to\ntake his relaxation after dinner in the chapels. He came out with a\nfeeling of peace, even if he had prayed badly or not prayed at all. On\nother evenings, on the contrary, he felt tired of solitude, tired of\nsilence, tired of darkness, and then he abandoned St. Sulpice and went\nto Notre Dame des Victoires.\n\nIn this well-lighted sanctuary there was no longer that depression, that\ndespair of poor wretches who dragged themselves to the nearest church\nand sat down in the shade. The pilgrims to Notre Dame des Victoires\nbrought a surer confidence, and that faith softened their sorrows, whose\nbitterness was dissipated in the explosions of hope, the stammering\nadoration, which spouted up all around. There were two currents in that\nrefuge, that of people who asked for favours, and that of those who,\nhaving gained them, were profuse in thankfulness and in acts of\ngratitude. Therefore, that church had its especial physiognomy, more\njoyous than sad, less melancholy, more ardent under all circumstances\nthan that of other churches.\n\nIt had, moreover, the peculiarity of being much frequented by men, but\nless by hypocrites, who will not look you in the face, or with upturned\neyes, than by men of all classes whose features were not degraded by\nfalse piety. There alone were to be seen clear expressions and clean\nfaces; there, above all, was not that horrible grimace of the working\nman of the Catholic clubs--that hideous creature in a blouse, whose\nbreath belies the ill-defined unction of his features.\n\nIn that church, covered with _ex votos_, plastered even above the arches\nwith inscriptions on marble celebrating the joy for prayers granted and\nbenefits received, before that altar of Our Lady where hundreds of\ntapers pierced the air blue with incense with the gilded blades of their\nlances, there were public prayers every evening at eight. A priest in\nthe pulpit said the rosary, sometimes the Litany of Our Lady was sung to\na singular air, a sort of musical cento, but it was impossible to say\nwhence it was constructed, very rhythmical, and continually changing its\ntone, now fast, now slow, bringing with it, for a moment, a vague\nrecollection of seventeenth-century airs, then turning sharply at a\ntangent, to a barrel-organ tune, a modern, almost vulgar, melody.\n\nYet, after all, there was something taking in this singular confusion of\nsounds after the \"Kyrie eleison\" and the opening invocations. The Virgin\ncame upon the scene to a dance measure like a ballet girl; but when\ncertain of her attributes were paraded, and certain of her symbolical\nnames declared, the music became singularly respectful; it became lower,\nhalting and solemn, thrice repeating, on the same motive, some of her\nattributes, the \"Refugium Peccatorum\" among others; then it went on\nagain, and began her graces again with a skip.\n\nWhen by chance there was no sermon, the Benediction took place\nimmediately afterwards.\n\nThen with raspings of the choir, a bass with a cold, and two boys who\nsnivelled began their liturgical chants: \"Inviolata,\" that languishing\nand plaintive Sequence, with its clear and drawling tune so weak, so\nfrail, that it would seem as if it should only be sung by voices in a\nhospital; then the \"Parce Domine,\" that antiphon so suppliant and so\nsad; lastly, that scrap, detached from the \"Panga Lingua,\" the \"Tantum\nergo,\" humble and thoughtful, attentive and slow.\n\nWhen the organ sounded out the first chords, and that plain chant melody\nbegan, the choir had only to cross their arms and hold their tongues. As\ntapers which are lighted by threads of fulminate attached one to the\nother, the faithful caught fire, and, accompanied by the organs, struck\nup for themselves the humble and glorious strains. They were then\nkneeling on the chairs, prostrate on the pavement, and when, after the\nexchange of antiphons and responses, after the \"oremus,\" the priest\nascended to the altar, his shoulders and hands enfolded in the white\nsilk scarf, to take the monstrance, then, at the shrill and hurried\nsounds of the bells, a wind passed which at once bent every head like\nthe mowing of grass.\n\nIn these groups of souls on fire there was a fulness of devotion, a\ncomplete and absolute silence, till the bells again rang out, and\ninvited human life which had been interrupted to wrap itself in a great\nsign of the Cross and resume its course.\n\nThe \"Laudate\" was not ended when Durtal left the church, before the\ncrowd began to move.\n\n\"Verily,\" he said, as he entered his lodgings, \"the fervour of that\ncongregation, who do not come as in other churches from the districts,\nbut are pilgrims from everywhere and one knows not where, is out of tune\nwith the blackguardism of this foolish age.\"\n\nThen at Notre Dame at least one hears curious singing, and he bethought\nhim of those strange litanies which he had heard nowhere else, and yet\nhe had experienced all kinds, in churches. At St. Sulpice, for example,\nit was recited to two tunes. When the choir sang it was set to a plain\nchant melody, bellowed by the gong of a bass to which the sharp fife of\nthe boys made answer; but during Rosary month, on every day except\nThursday the task of singing it was entrusted to young ladies; then in\nthe evening round a wheezy old harmonium, a troup of young and old\ngeese, made Our Lady run round on her litanies as on hobby horses to the\nmusic of a fair.\n\nIn other churches, at St. Thomas Aquinas, for example, where they were\nalso dropped out by women, the litanies were sprinkled with powder and\nperfumed by bergamot and ambergris. They were, in fact, adapted to a\nminuet tune, and therefore did not disagree with the operatic\narchitecture of the church, where they presented a Virgin walking with\nmincing steps, pinching her petticoat with two fingers, bending in\nbeautiful curtseys, and recovering herself with a fine bow. This has\nevidently nothing to do with church music, but it was none the less\ndisagreeable to hear. It would have made the whole performance complete\nif the harpsichord had been substituted for the organ.\n\nFar more interesting than this lay quavering was the plain chant, given\nmore or less badly, as it was moreover given, but yet given, when there\nwas no special ceremony at Notre Dame.\n\nIt was not arranged there as at St. Sulpice and the other churches where\nthe \"Tantum ergo\" is almost always dressed up in foolish flourishes,\ntunes for military ceremonials or public dinners.\n\nThe Church has not allowed the actual text of Saint Thomas Aquinas to be\naltered, but she has let any and every choirmaster suppress the plain\nchant in which it has been wrapped from its birth, which has penetrated\nto its marrow, has clung to each of its phrases, and become with it one\nbody and one soul.\n\nIt was monstrous, and it must really be that these cures have lost, not\nthe sense of art, for that they never had, but the most elementary sense\nof the liturgy, to accept such heresies, and tolerate such outrages in\ntheir churches.\n\nThese thoughts enraged Durtal, but he returned little by little to Notre\nDame des Victoires and grew calmer. It was well he should examine it\nunder all aspects, but it remained none the less mysterious nor the less\nunique in Paris.\n\nAt La Salette, at Lourdes, there have been apparitions. \"Whether these\nhave been authentic or controverted matters little,\" he thought. \"For\neven supposing Our Lady were not there at the moment her coming was\nannounced, she was attracted there, and dwells there now, retained there\nby the tide of prayer and the emanations cast up by the faith of\ncrowds. Miracles have happened there; it is therefore not astonishing\nthat pious crowds flock thither. But here at Notre Dame des Victoires\nhas been no apparition; no Melanie, no Bernadette, have seen and\ndescribed the luminous appearance of a 'beautiful Lady.' There are no\npiscinas, no medical staff, no public cures, no mountain top, no grotto,\nnothing. One fine day in 1836 the cure of the parish, the Abbe Dufriche\nDes Genettes, declared that while he was celebrating mass Our Lady\nmanifested to him her desire that the sanctuary should be specially\nconsecrated to her, and that alone was enough. The church, then a\ndesert, has never since been empty, and thousands of _ex votos_ declare\nthe graces which since that day the Madonna has accorded to the\nvisitors.\"\n\n\"Yes, but in fact,\" concluded Durtal, \"all these suppliants are not\nspecially extraordinary souls, for indeed the most part of them are like\nme, they come in their own interests, for themselves and not for Her.\"\n\nAnd he remembered the answer of the Abbe Gevresin, to whom he had\nalready made the observation.\n\n\"You must be singularly far advanced on the road to perfection if you go\nthere for Her only.\"\n\nSuddenly, after so many hours spent in the chapels, there was a\nreaction; the flesh extinguished under the cinders of prayers took fire,\nand the conflagration, springing up from below, became terrible.\n\nFlorence seemed present, to Durtal's imagination, at his lodgings, in\nthe churches, in the street, everywhere, and he was constantly on the\nwatch against her recurrent attractions.\n\nThe weather was mixed up with it all; the heaven broke up, a stormy\nsummer raged, shattering the nerves, enfeebling the will, letting the\nawakened troop of vices loose in their gloomy moisture. Durtal blenched\nbefore the dread of long evenings and the abominable melancholy of days\nthat never ended. At eight o'clock in the evening the sun had not set,\nand at three in the morning it seemed to wake again; the week was only\none uninterrupted day, and life was never arrested.\n\nOppressed by the ignominy of this angry sunshine and these blue skies,\ndisgusted at bathing in Niles of sweat, and feeling Niagaras run from\nhis hat, he did not stir from home, and then, in his solitude, foul\nthoughts assailed him.\n\nIt was an obsession by thought, by vision, in all ways, and the haunting\nwas all the more terrible that it was so special, that it never turned\naside, but concentrated itself always on the same point, the face and\nfigure of Florence.\n\nDurtal resisted, then in distraction, took to flight, tried to tire\nhimself out by long walks, and to divert his mind by excursions, but the\nignoble desire followed him in his course, sat before him in the Cafe,\ncame between his eyes and the newspaper he strove to read, becoming ever\nmore definite. He ended, after hours of struggle, by giving way and\ngoing to see this woman; he left her overwhelmed, half dead with disgust\nand shame, almost in tears.\n\nNor did he thus find any solace in his struggle, but the contrary; far\nfrom escaping it, the hateful charm took more violent and tenacious\npossession of him. Then Durtal thought of and accepted a strange\ncompromise, to visit another woman he knew, and in her society to break\nthis nervous state, to put an end to this possession, this weariness and\nremorse; and in doing so he strove to persuade himself that in thus\nacting he would be more pardonable, less sinful.\n\nThe clearest result of this attempt was to bring back the memory of\nFlorence, and her vicious charm.\n\nHe continued therefore his intimacy with her, and then he had, during a\nfew days, such a revolt from his slavery, that he extricated himself\nfrom the sewer, and stood on firm ground.\n\nHe succeeded in recovering and pulling himself together, and he loathed\nhimself. During this crisis he had somewhat neglected the Abbe Gevresin,\nto whom he dared not avow his foulness, but since certain indications\nwarned him of new attacks, he took fright, and went to see him.\n\nHe explained his crises in veiled words, and he felt so unnerved, so\nsad, that tears stood in his eyes.\n\n\"Well, are you now certain that you have that repentance which you\nassure me you have not experienced up to this time?\"\n\n\"Yes, but what is the good of it, if one is so weak, that in spite of\nall efforts one is certain to be overthrown at the first assault?\"\n\n\"That is another question. Come, I see that at present you are in fact\nin a state of fatigue requiring help.\"\n\n\"Comfort yourself therefore; go in peace and sin less, the greater part\nof your temptations will be remitted you; you can, if you choose, bear\nthe remainder, only take care, if you fall henceforward, you will be\nwithout excuse, and I do not answer for it, that instead of mending,\nyour condition will not be aggravated.\"\n\nAnd as Durtal, stupefied, stammered out: \"You believe--\"\n\n\"I believe,\" said the priest, \"in the mystical substitution of which I\nspoke to you; you will moreover experience it in yourself; the saints\nwill enter into the lists to help you; they will take the overplus of\nthe assaults which you cannot conquer; without even knowing your name,\nfrom their secluded province, nunneries of Carmelites and Poor Clares\nwill pray for you, on receiving a letter from me.\"\n\nAnd in fact, from that very day the most acute attacks ceased. Did he\nowe that cessation, that truce, to the intercession of the cloistered\nOrders, or to a change in the weather, which then took place, to the\nless heat of the sun, which gave way to floods of rain? He could not\ntell, but one thing was certain, his temptations were less frequent, and\nhe could bear them with impunity.\n\nThis idea of convents in their compassion dragging him out of the mud in\nwhich he had stuck, and by their charity bringing him to the bank,\nexcited him. He chose to go to the Avenue de Saxe, to pray in the home\nof the sisters of those who suffered for him.\n\nThis time there were no lights, no crowds, as on the morning when he had\nbeen present at a Procession, no odour of wax or incense, no sweeping by\nof robes of scarlet and cope of gold, all was deserted and dark.\n\nHe was there alone, in the sombre and dank chapel, smelling like\nstagnant water, and without saying rosaries mechanically, or repeating\nprayers by rote, he fell into a reverie, endeavouring to look somewhat\nclearly into his life, and take stock of himself. And while he thus\npulled himself together, far-off voices came behind the grating, drew\nnearer and nearer, passed by the black sieve of the veil, and dropped\nround the altar, whose form rose dimly in the shadow.\n\nThese voices of the Carmelites aided Durtal to probe his despair deeply.\n\nSeated in a chair, he said to himself: \"When any one is as incapable as\nI am when I speak to Him, it is almost shameful to dare to pray, for\nindeed, if I think of Him, it is that I may ask for a little happiness;\nand that is foolish. In the immediate shipwreck of human reason, wishing\nto explain the terrible enigma of the meaning of life, one only idea\ncomes to the surface, in the midst of the wreckage of thoughts which\nsink, the idea of an expiation felt rather than understood, the idea\nthat the sole end assigned to life is sorrow.\n\n\"Every one has a sum of physical and moral suffering to pay, and whoever\ndoes not settle it here below, defrays it after death; happiness is only\nlent, and must be repaid; its very phantoms are like duties paid in\nadvance on a future succession of sorrows.\n\n\"Who knows in that case whether anaesthetics which suppress corporal pain\ndo not bring into debt those who use them? Who knows whether chloroform\nis not a means of revolt, and if the shrinking of the creature from\nsuffering is not seditious, a rebellion against the will of Heaven? If\nthis be so, the arrears of torture, the balance of distress, the\nwarrants of pain avoided must accumulate terrible interest above, and\njustify the war cry of Saint Teresa, 'Lord, let me always suffer, or\ndie;' this explains why, in their trials, the saints rejoice, and pray\nthe Lord not to spare them, for they know that the purifying amount of\nills must be paid in order to be free from debt after death.\n\n\"To be just, human nature would be too ignoble without pain, for it\nalone can raise the soul while purifying it, but all that is nothing\nless than consoling,\" he added. \"What an accompaniment to these sad\nthoughts are the wailing voices of these nuns; it is truly frightful.\"\n\nHe ended by fleeing, and taking refuge, to shake off his depression, in\nthe neighbouring convent at the bottom of the alley de Saxe, in a\nsuburban lane, full of little cottages with gardens in front, where\nserpentine paths of pebbles wound round tufts of pot-herbs.\n\nThis was the convent of the Poor Clares of the Ave Maria, an Order\nstill more strict than that of the Carmelites, poorer, less fashionable,\nmore humble.\n\nThis cloister was entered by a little door, partly ajar; you ascended to\nthe second storey without meeting anyone, and found a little chapel,\nthrough whose windows trees were visible, rocking to the chirping of\nriotous sparrows.\n\nThis too was a place of burial, but no longer, as though opposite a tomb\nat the bottom of a dark cavern, but rather a cemetery where birds sang\nin the sun among the branches, you might have thought yourself in the\ncountry, twenty miles from Paris.\n\nThe decoration of this bright chapel tried, however, to be gloomy; it\nwas like those wine shops whose walls are made to look like those of\ncaves, with false stones painted in the imitation plaster. Only the\nheight of the nave manifested the childishness of the imposture, and\ndeclared the vulgarity of the deception.\n\nAt the end was an altar above a smooth waxed floor, and on either side\nof it a grating with a black veil. According to the rule of Saint\nFrancis, all the ornaments, the crucifix, the candlesticks, the\ntabernacle, were of wood, no object was to be seen in metal, no flower,\nthe only luxury in the chapel consisted of two modern stained windows,\none of which represented Saint Francis, the other Saint Clare.\n\nDurtal thought the sanctuary airy and delightful, but he only stayed\nthere a few minutes, for there was not here, as at the Carmelites, an\nabsolute solitude, a sombre peace; here there were always two or three\nPoor Clares trotting about the chapel, who looked at him while they were\narranging the chairs, and seemed surprised at his presence.\n\nThey were annoying to him, and he feared he was the same to them, so\nmuch so that he went away; but this short stay was enough to efface, or\nat least to lessen the funereal impression of the neighbouring convent.\n\nDurtal returned home, at once much appeased and much disquieted--much\nappeased in regard to his temptations, much disquieted about what he\nshould do next.\n\nHe felt rising in him, and increasing ever more and more, the desire to\nhave done with these strifes and fears, but he grew pale when he thought\nof reversing his life, once for all.\n\nBut if he still had hesitation and fear, he had no longer the firm\nintention of resisting; he now accepted in principle the idea of a\nchange of existence, only he tried to retard the day, and put off the\nhour; he tried to gain time.\n\nThen like people who grow angry at having to wait, on other days he\nwished to put off the inevitable moment no longer, and cried within\nhimself that this must end; anything rather than remain as he was.\n\nThen as this desire did not seem heard, he grew discouraged, would no\nlonger think of anything, regretted the time past, and deplored that he\nfelt himself carried along by such a current.\n\nAnd when he was rather more cheerful, he tried again to examine himself.\n\"In fact I do not at all know how I stand,\" he thought; \"this flux and\nreflux of different wishes alarms me, but how have I come to this point,\nand what is the matter with me?\" What he felt, since he became more\nlucid, was so intangible, so indefinite, and yet so continuous that he\nwas obliged to give up understanding it. Indeed every time he tried to\nexamine his soul, a curtain of mist arose, and hid from him the unseen\nand silent approach of he knew not what. The only impression which he\ncarried with him as he rose, was that it was less that he advanced\ntowards the unknown, but that this unknown invaded him, penetrated him,\nand little by little took possession of him.\n\nWhen he spoke to the abbe of this state, at once cowardly and resigned,\nimploring and fearful, the priest only smiled.\n\n\"Busy yourself in prayer, and bow down your back,\" he said one day.\n\n\"But I am tired of bending my back, and of trampling always on the same\nspot,\" cried Durtal. \"I have had enough of feeling myself taken by the\nshoulders and led I know not where, it is really time that in one way or\nanother this situation came to an end.\"\n\n\"Plainly.\" And standing up, and looking him in the face, the abbe said,\nimpressively,\n\n\"This advance towards God which you find so obscure and so slow is, on\nthe contrary, so luminous and so rapid that it astonishes me, only as\nyou yourself do not move, you do not take account of the swiftness with\nwhich you are borne along.\n\n\"Before long you will be ripe, and then without need to shake the tree\nyou will fall off of yourself. The question we have now to answer is\ninto what receptacle we must put you, when at last you fall away from\nyour life.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\n\"But ... but ...\" thought Durtal, \"we must at any rate come to an\nunderstanding; the abbe wearies me with his quiet assumptions, his\nreceptacle in which he must place me. He does not, I suppose, think of\nmaking me a seminarist or a monk; the seminary, at my age, is devoid of\ninterest, and as to the convent, it is attractive from the mystical\npoint of view, and even enticing from the artistic standpoint, but I\nhave not the physical aptitudes, still less the spiritual\npredispositions to shut myself up for ever in a cloister; but putting\nthat aside, what does he mean?\n\n\"On the other hand he has insisted on lending me the works of Saint John\nof the Cross, and has made me read them; he has then an aim, for he is\nnot a man to feel his way as he walks, he knows what he wishes and where\nhe is going; does he imagine that I am intended for the perfect life,\nand does he intend to put me on my guard by this course of reading\nagainst the disillusions which, according to him, beginners experience?\nHis scent seems to fail him there. I have a very horror of bigotry, and\npious polish, but though I admire, I do not feel at all drawn towards\nthe phenomena of Mysticism. No, I am interested in seeing them in\nothers, I like to see it all from my window, but will not go downstairs,\nI have no pretension to become a saint, all that I desire is to attain\nthe intermediate state, between goody-goodiness and sanctity. This is a\nfrightfully low ideal, perhaps, but in practice it is the only one I am\ncapable of attaining, and yet!\n\n\"Then these questions have to be faced! If I am mistaken and am obeying\nfalse impulses, I am, as I advance, on the verge of madness. How, except\nby a special grace, am I to know whether I am in the right way, or\nwalking in the dark towards the abyss? Here, for instance, are those\nconversations between God and the soul so common in the mystical life;\nhow can one be sure that this interior voice, these distinct words not\nheard with bodily ears, but perceived by the soul in a clearer fashion\nthan if they came by the channels of sense, are true, how be sure that\nthey emanate from God, not from our imagination or from the devil\nhimself?\n\n\"I know, indeed, that Saint Teresa treats this matter at length in her\n'Castles of the Soul,' and that she points out the signs by which we can\nrecognize the origin of the words, but her proofs do not seem to me\nalways as easy to discern as she thinks.\n\n\"'If these expressions come from God,' she says, 'they are always\naccompanied by an effect, and bring with them an authority which nothing\ncan resist; thus a soul is in affliction, and the Lord simply suggests\nthe words \"trouble not thyself,\" and at once the whirlwind passes, and\njoy revives. In the second place, these words leave an indissoluble\npeace of mind, they engrave themselves on the memory, and often cannot\nbe effaced.'\n\n\"'In the other case,' she continues, 'if these words proceed from\nimagination or from the demon, none of these effects are produced, a\nkind of uneasiness, anguish and doubt torments you, moreover the\nexpressions evaporate in part, and fatigue the soul which endeavours in\nvain to recall them in their entirety.'\n\n\"In spite of these tokens, we are, in fact, standing on shifting ground\nin which we may sink at every step, but in his turn Saint John of the\nCross intervenes, and tells you not to move. What then is to be done?\n\n\"'No one,' he says, 'ought to aspire to these supernatural\ncommunications and rest there, for two motives; first, humility, the\nperfect abnegation of refusing to believe in them; the second, that in\nacting thus, we deliver ourselves from the labour necessary to assure\nourselves whether these vocal visions are true or false, and so we are\ndispensed from an examination which has no other profit for the soul\nthan loss of time and anxiety.'\n\n\"Good--but if these words are really pronounced by God, we rebel against\nHis will if we remain deaf to them. And then, as Saint Teresa declares,\nit is not in our power not to listen to them, and the soul can only\nthink of what it hears when Jesus speaks to it. Moreover, all the\ndiscussions on this subject are uncertain, for one does not enter of\none's own will into the strait way, as the Church calls it, we are led,\nand even thrown into it often against the will, and resistance is\nimpossible, phenomena occur, and nothing in the world has power to check\nthem; witness Saint Teresa, who, resist as she would by humility, fell\ninto ecstasy under the divine breath, and was raised from the ground.\n\n\"No, these superhuman conditions alarm me, and I do not hold to knowing\nthem by experience. As to Saint John of the Cross, the abbe is not wrong\nin calling him unique, but though he sounds the lowest strata of the\nsoul, and reaches where human auger has never penetrated, he wearies me\nall the same in my admiration, for his work is full of nightmares which\nrepel me; I am not certain that his hell is correct, and some of his\nassertions do not convince me. What he calls the 'night obscure' is\nincomprehensible; 'The sufferings of that darkness surpass what is\npossible,' he cries on each page. Here I lose foothold. I can imagine,\nthough I have not experienced them, the moral and terrible pangs, of the\ndeaths of friends and relations, love betrayed, hopes which failed,\nspiritual sorrows of all kinds, but such a martyrdom as he proclaims as\nsuperior to all others, is beyond me, for it is outside our human\ninterests, beyond our affections; he moves in an inaccessible sphere, in\nan unknown world very far off.\n\n\"I am certainly afraid that this terrible saint, a true man of the\nsouth, abuses metaphor, and is full of Spanish affectation.\n\n\"Moreover I am astonished at the abbe on another point. He, who is so\ngentle, shows a certain leaning to the dry bread of Mysticism; the\neffusions of Ruysbroeck, of Saint Angela, of Saint Catherine of Genoa,\ntouch him less than the arguments of saints who are hard reasoners; yet\nby the side of these he has advised me to read Marie d'Agreda, whom he\nought not to fancy, for she has none of those qualities which are\nadmired in the works of Saint Teresa and Saint John of the Cross.\n\n\"Ah! he may flatter himself that he has inflicted on me a complete\ndisillusion, by lending me her 'Cite Mystique.'\n\n\"From the renown of this Spanish woman, I expected the breath of\nprophecy, wide outlooks, extraordinary visions. Not at all; her book is\nsimply strange and pompous, wearisome and cold. Then the phraseology of\nher book is intolerable. All the expressions which swarm in those\nponderous volumes, 'my divine princess,' 'my great queen,' when she\naddresses Our Lady, who in her turn speaks to her as 'my dearest,' just\nas Christ calls her 'my spouse,' 'my well-beloved,' and speaks of her\ncontinually as 'the object of my pleasure and delight,' the way in which\nshe speaks of the angels as 'the courtiers of the great King,' set my\nnerves on edge and weary me.\n\n\"They smell of perriwigs and ruffles, bows and dances like Versailles, a\nsort of court mysticism in which Christ pontificates, attired in the\ncostume of Louis XIV.\n\n\"Moreover Marie d'Agreda enters into most extravagant details. She tells\nus of the milk of Our Lady which cannot grow sour, of female complaints\nfrom which she was exempt, she explains the mystery of the conception by\nthree drops of blood which fell from the heart into the womb of Mary,\nand which the Holy Ghost used to form the child; lastly, she declares\nthat Saint Michael and Saint Gabriel played the part of midwives, and\nstood living, under human forms, at the lying-in of the Virgin.\n\n\"This is too strong. I know well that the abbe would say that we need\nnot concern ourselves with these singularities and these errors, but\nthat the 'Cite Mystique' is to be read in relation to the inner life of\nthe Blessed Virgin. Yes, but then the book of M. Ollier, which treats of\nthe same subject, seems to me curious and trustworthy in quite a\ndifferent way.\"\n\nWas the priest forcing the note, playing a part? Durtal asked himself\nthis, when he saw how determined he was not to avoid the same questions\nduring a certain time. He tried now and then, in order to see how the\nmatter was, to turn the conversation, but the abbe smiled, and brought\nit back to the point he wished.\n\nWhen he thought that he had saturated Durtal with mystical works, he\nspoke of them less, and seemed to attach himself mainly to the religious\nOrders, and especially to that of Saint Benedict. He very cleverly\ninduced Durtal to become interested in this institution, and to ask him\nabout it, and when once he had entered on this ground, he did not depart\nfrom it.\n\nIt began one day when Durtal was talking with him about plain chant.\n\n\"You have reason to like it,\" said the abbe, \"for even independently of\nthe liturgy and of art, this chant, if I may believe Saint Justin,\nappeases the desires and concupiscences of the flesh, 'affectiones et\nconcupiscentias carnis sedat,' but let me assure you, you only know it\nby hearsay, there is no longer any true plain chant in the churches,\nthese are like the products of therapeutics, only more or less audacious\nadulterations presented to you.\n\n\"None of the chants which are to some extent respected by choirs, the\n'Tantum ergo,' for example, are now exact. It is given almost faithfully\ntill the verse 'Praestet fides,' and then it runs off the rails, taking\nno account of the shades, which are, however, quite perceptible, that\nthe Gregorian melody introduces when the text declares the impotence of\nreason and the powerful aid of Faith; these adulterations are still more\napparent, if you listen to the 'Salve Regina' after Compline. This is\nabridged more than half, is enervated, blanched, half its pauses are\ntaken away, it is reduced to a mere stump of ignoble music, if you had\neven heard this magnificent chant among the Trappists, you would weep\nwith disgust at hearing it bawled in the churches at Paris.\n\n\"But besides the textual alteration of the melody as we now have it, the\nway in which the plain chant is bellowed is everywhere absurd. One of\nthe first conditions for rendering it well, is that the voices should go\ntogether, that they should all chant in the same time syllable for\nsyllable and note for note, in one word it must be in unison.\n\n\"Now, you can verify it yourself, the Gregorian melody is not thus\ntreated; every voice takes its own part, and is isolated. Next, plain\nmusic allows no accompaniment, it must be chanted alone, without organ,\nit bears at most that the instrument should give the intonation and\naccompany it very softly, just enough if need be to sustain the pitch\ntaken by the voices; it is not so that you will hear it given in the\nchurches.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know it well,\" said Durtal. \"When I hear it at St. Sulpice, St.\nSeverin, or Notre Dame des Victoires, I am aware that it is\nsophisticated, but you must admit that it is even then superb. I do not\ndefend the tricks, the addition of fiorituri, the falseness of the\nmusical pauses, the felonious accompaniment, the concert-room tone\ninflicted on you at Saint Sulpice, but what can I do? in default of the\noriginal I must be content with a more or less worthless copy, and I\nrepeat, even executed in that fashion the music is so admirable that I\nam enchanted by it.\"\n\n\"But,\" said the abbe quietly, \"nothing obliges you to listen to the\nfalse plain chant, when you can hear the true, for saving your presence,\nthere exists, even in Paris, a chapel where it is intact, and given\naccording to the rules of which I have spoken.\"\n\n\"Indeed, and where is that?\"\n\n\"At the Benedictine nuns of the Blessed Sacrament in the Rue Monsieur.\"\n\n\"And can anyone enter the convent and be present at the offices?\"\n\n\"Anyone. Every day in the week, Vespers are sung at three o'clock, and\non Sundays High Mass is said at nine.\"\n\n\"Ah, had I but known this chapel earlier,\" said Durtal, the first time\nhe came out.\n\nIn fact it combined all the conditions he could wish. Situated in a\nsolitary street, it had the completest privacy. The architect who built\nit had introduced no innovations or pretentiousness, had built a Gothic\nchurch, and introduced no fancies of his own.\n\nIt was cruciform, but one of the arms was scarcely the full length, for\nwant of room, while the other was prolonged into a hall, separated from\nthe choir by an iron grating above which the Blessed Sacrament was\nadored by two kneeling angels, whose lilac wings were folded over thin\nrose-coloured backs. Except these two figures, of which the execution\nwas truly sinful, the rest was at least veiled by shadow, and was not\ntoo afflicting to the eyes. The chapel was dim, and always at the time\nof the offices, a young sacristan-sister, tall and pale, and rather\nbent, entered like a shadow, and each time that she passed before the\naltar she fell on one knee and bowed her head profoundly.\n\nShe seemed strange and scarcely human, gliding noiselessly over the\npavement, her head bowed, with a band as low as her eyebrows, and she\nseemed to fly like a large bat when standing before the tabernacle she\nturned her back, moving her large black sleeves as she lighted the\ntapers. Durtal one day saw her features, sickly but charming, her\neyelids dark, her eyes of a tired blue, and he guessed that her body was\nwasted by prayers, under her black robe drawn together by a leathern\ngirdle ornamented by a little medal of the Blessed Sacrament of gilt\nmetal, under the trimming, near her heart.\n\nThe grating of the enclosure, on the left of the altar, was large, and\nwell lighted from behind, so that even when the curtains were drawn it\nwas possible to see the whole chapter drawn up in file in their oaken\nstalls surmounted at the end by a higher stall in which the abbess sat.\nA lighted taper stood in the middle of the hall, and before it a nun\nprayed day and night, a cord round her neck, to expiate the insults\noffered to Jesus under His Eucharistic form.\n\nThe first time Durtal had visited the chapel, he had gone there on\nSunday a little before the time of Mass, and he had been thus able to be\npresent at the entry of the Benedictine nuns, behind the iron screen.\nThey advanced two and two, stopped in the middle of the grating, turned\nto the altar and genuflected, then each bowed to her neighbour, and so\nto the end of this procession of women in black, only brightened by the\nwhiteness of the head-band and the collar, and the gilt spot of the\nlittle monstrance on the breast. The novices came last, to be recognized\nby the white veils which covered their heads.\n\nAnd when an old priest, assisted by a sacristan, began the mass softly\nat the end of the chapter, a small organ gave the tone to the voices.\n\nThen Durtal might well wonder, for he had never before heard a sole and\nonly voice made up of perhaps some thirty, of a tone so strange, a\nsuperterrestrial voice, which burnt upon itself, in the air, and\nintertwined its soft cooings.\n\nThis bore no resemblance to the icy and obstinate lament of the\nCarmelites, nor was it like the unsexed tone, the child's voice,\nsqueaking, rounded off at the end of the Franciscan nuns, but quite\nanother thing.\n\nAt La Glaciere in fact those raw voices, though softened and watered by\nprayers, kept somewhat of the drawling, almost vulgar, inflexion of the\npeople from whom they came; they were greatly purified, but remained\nnone the less human. Here the tenderness of tones was rendered angelic,\nthat voice with no defined origin long bolted through the divine sieve,\npatiently modelled for the liturgical chant, caught fire as it unfolded,\nblazed in virginal clusters of white sound, died down, flowered out\nagain in pale pleadings, distant, seraphic at the end of certain chants.\n\nThus interpreted the Mass gave a special accent to the sense of the\nsequences.\n\nStanding, behind the grating, the convent answered the priest.\n\nDurtal had then heard, after a mournful and solemn \"Kyrie Eleison,\"\nsharp and almost tragic, the decided cry, so loving and so grave, of the\n\"Gloria in Excelsis,\" to the true plain chant; he had listened to the\nCredo, slow and bare, solemn and pensive, and he was able to affirm that\nthese chants were totally different from those which were sung\neverywhere in the churches. St. Severin and St. Sulpice now seemed to\nhim profane; in the place of their gentle warmth, their curls and their\nfringes, the angles of their polished melodies, their modern endings,\ntheir incoherent accompaniments arranged for the organ, he found himself\nin the presence of a chant, thin, sharp and nervous, like the work of an\nearly master, and saw the ascetic severity of its lines, its sonorous\ncolouring, the brightness of its metal hammered out with the rude yet\ncharming art of Gothic jewels, he heard under the woven robe of sound,\nthe beating of a simple heart, the ingenuous love of ages, and he\nnoticed that curious shade in Benedictine music; it ended all cries of\nadoration, all tender cooings in a timid murmur, cut short, as though\nshrinking in humility, effacing itself modestly as though asking pardon\nof God for daring to love Him.\n\n\"Ah, you were very right to send me there,\" said Durtal to the abbe when\nnext he saw him.\n\n\"I had no choice,\" answered the priest, smiling, \"for the plain chant is\nrespected only in convents under the Benedictine rule. That grand Order\nhas restored it. Dom Pothier has done for it what Dom Gueranger has done\nfor the liturgy.\n\n\"Moreover, beyond the authenticity of the vocal text, and the manner of\nrendering it, there are still two essential conditions for restoring the\nspecial life of these melodies, and they are hardly found except in\ncloisters, first Faith, and next the understanding the meaning of the\nwords sung.\"\n\n\"But,\" interrupted Durtal, \"I do not suppose that the Benedictine nuns\nknow Latin.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, among the nuns of Saint Benedict, and even among the\ncloistered sisters of other Orders there are a certain number who study\nthe language enough to understand the Breviary and the Psalms. That is a\nserious advantage which they have over the choirs, composed for the most\npart of artisans without instruction and without piety, only simple\nworkers with their voices.\n\n\"Now without wishing to abate your enthusiasm for the musical honesty of\nthese nuns, I am bound to say, that in order to understand this\nmagnificent chant in its height and breadth, you must hear it, not\nwinnowed by the mouths of virgins, even if unsexed, but as it issues,\nunsmoothed, untrimmed from the lips of men. Unfortunately, though there\nare at Paris, in the Rue Monsieur and the Rue Tournefort, two\ncommunities of Benedictine nuns, there is not on the other hand a single\nmonastery of Benedictine monks.\"\n\n\"At the Rue Monsieur do they absolutely follow the rule of Saint\nBenedict?\"\n\n\"Yes; but over and above the usual vows of poverty, chastity, remaining\nin the cloister, obedience, they make a further vow of separation and\nadoration of the Blessed Sacrament, as formulated by Saint Mechtilde.\n\n\"And so they lead the most austere existence of any nuns. They scarcely\ntaste flesh; they rise at two in the morning to sing Matins and Lauds,\nnight and day, summer and winter, they take turns before the taper of\nreparation, and before the altar. It need not be said,\" continued the\nabbe after a pause, \"that woman is stronger and braver than man; no male\nascetic could live and lead such a life, especially in the enervating\natmosphere of Paris.\"\n\n\"What perhaps astounds me still more,\" said Durtal, \"is the kind of\nobedience exacted of them. How can a creature endowed with free will\nannihilate herself to such an extent?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the abbe, \"the obedience is the same in all the great\nOrders, absolute, without reserve; its formula is well summed up by\nSaint Augustine. Listen to this sentence which I remember to have read\nin a commentary on his rule:\n\n\"'We must enter into the feelings of a beast of burthen, and allow\nourselves to be led like a horse or a mule, which have no understanding;\nor rather, that obedience may be still more perfect, since these animals\nkick against the spur, we must be in the hands of a superior like a\nblock, or the stock of a tree, which has neither life, nor movement, nor\naction, nor will, nor judgment.' Is that clear?\"\n\n\"It is most frightful! I quite admit,\" said Durtal, \"that in exchange\nfor such abnegation, the nuns must be powerfully aided from on high, but\nare there not some moments of falling away, some cases of despair, some\ninstants in which they pine for a natural life in the open air, in which\nthey lament that death in life which they have made for themselves; are\nthere not days in which their senses wake and cry aloud?\"\n\n\"No doubt; in the cloistered life the age of twenty-nine is terrible to\npass, then a passionate crisis arises; if a woman doubles that cape, and\nshe almost always does so, she is safe.\n\n\"But carnal emotions are not, to speak correctly, the most troublesome\nassault they have to undergo. The real punishment they endure in those\nhours of sorrow is the ardent, wild regret for that maternity of which\nthey are ignorant; the desolate womb of woman revolts, and full of God\nthough she be, her heart is breaking. The child Jesus whom they have\nloved so well then appears so far off and so inaccessible, and His very\nsight would hardly satisfy them, for they have dreamed of holding Him in\ntheir arms, of swathing and rocking Him, of giving Him suck, in one\nword, of being mothers.\n\n\"Other nuns undergo no precise attack, no assault to which a name can be\ngiven, but without any definite reason they languish and die suddenly,\nlike a taper, blown out. The torpor of the cloister kills them.\"\n\n\"But indeed, Monsieur l'abbe, these details are far from encouraging.\"\n\nThe priest shrugged his shoulders. \"It is the poor reverse of a splendid\nstuff,\" he said, \"wonderful recompenses are granted, even in this\nworld, to souls in convents.\"\n\n\"Nor do I suppose that if a nun fall, stricken in the flesh, she is\nabandoned. What does the Mother abbess in such a case?\"\n\n\"She acts according to the bodily temperament and state of the soul of\nthe sick person. Note that she has been able to follow her during the\nyears of her probation, that she has necessarily gained an influence\nover her; at such times therefore she will watch her daughter very\nclosely, endeavour to turn the course of her ideas, breaking her by hard\nwork, and by occupying her mind; she must not leave her alone, must\ndiminish her prayers, if need be, restrict her hours of office, lessen\nher fasts, give her, if the case demands it, better food. In other\ncases, on the contrary, she will have recourse to more frequent\ncommunions, lessen her food or cause her to be blooded, mix cooling\nmeats with her diet, and above all things she and all the community must\npray for her.\n\n\"An old Benedictine abbess, whom I knew at Saint-Omer, an incomparable\nguide of souls, limited before all things the length of confessions. The\nmoment she saw the least symptoms arise she gave two minutes, watch in\nhand, to the penitent, and when the time was up she sent her back from\nthe confessional, to mix with her companions.\"\n\n\"Why so?\"\n\n\"Because in convents, even for souls which are well, confession is a\nmost dangerous relaxation, it is as it were too long and too warm a\nbath. In it nuns go to excess, open their hearts uselessly, dwell upon\ntheir troubles, accentuate them, and revel in them; they come out more\nweakened and more ill than before. Two minutes ought indeed to be enough\nfor a nun in which to tell her little sins.\n\n\"Yet ... yet ... I must admit it, the confessor is a danger for a\nconvent, not that I suspect his honour, that is not at all what I mean,\nbut as he is generally chosen from among the bishop's favourites, there\nare many chances that he may be a man who knows nothing, and quite\nignorant of how to deal with such souls, ends by unsettling them while\nhe consoles them. Again, if demoniac attacks, so common in nunneries,\noccur, the poor man can only gape, gives all sorts of confused counsel,\nand hinders the energy of the abbess, who in such matters knows far\nbetter than he.\"\n\n\"And,\" said Durtal, who chose his words carefully, \"tell me, I suppose\nthat tales like those which Diderot gives in his foolish volume 'La\nReligieuse' are incorrect?\"\n\n\"Unless a community is rotted by a superior given over to Satanism,\nwhich, thank God, is rare, the filthy stories told by that writer are\nfalse, and there is moreover a good reason why it should be so, for\nthere is a sin which is the very antidote of the other, the sin of\nzeal.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Yes: the sin of zeal which causes the denunciation of our neighbour,\ngives scope to jealousy, creates spying to satisfy hate, that is the\nreal sin of the cloister. Well, I assure you that if two sisters became\nquite shameless they would be denounced at once.\"\n\n\"But I thought, Monsieur l'Abbe, that tale-bearing was allowed by the\nrules of most orders?\"\n\n\"It is, but perhaps there is a temptation to carry it somewhat to\nexcess, especially in convents of women; for you can imagine that if\nnunneries contain pure mystics, real saints, they have in them also some\nnuns less advanced in the way of perfection, and who even still retain\nsome faults....\"\n\n\"Come, since we are in the chapter of minute details, dare I ask if\ncleanliness is not just a little neglected by these good women?\"\n\n\"I cannot say; all that I know is, that in the Benedictine abbeys I have\nknown, each nun was free to act as seemed good to her; in certain\nAugustinian constitutions, the case was provided for in contrary\nfashion, it was forbidden to wash the body, except once a month. On the\nother hand, amongst the Carmelites cleanliness is exacted. Saint Teresa\nhated dirt, and loved white linen, her daughters have even, I think, a\nright to have a flask of Eau de Cologne in their cells. You see this\ndepends on the order, and probably also, when the rule does not\nexpressly mention it, on the ideas which the superior may have on the\nsubject. I will add that this question must not be looked at only from\nthe worldly point of view, for corporal dirt is for certain souls an\nadditional suffering and mortification which they impose on themselves,\nas Benedict Labre.\"\n\n\"He who picked up vermin which left him, and put them piously in his\nsleeve. I prefer mortifications of another kind.\"\n\n\"There are harder ones, believe me, and I think they would suit you\nbetter. Would you like to imitate Suso, who, to subdue his passions,\nbore on his naked shoulders, for eighteen years, an enormous cross set\nwith nails, whose points pierced his flesh? More than that, he\nimprisoned his hands in leather gloves which also bristled with nails,\nlest he should be tempted to dress his wounds. Saint Rose of Lima\ntreated herself no better, she bound a chain so tightly round her body\nthat it penetrated the skin, and hid itself under the bleeding pad of\nflesh, she wore also a horsehair girdle set with pins, and lay on shards\nof glass; but all these trials are nothing in comparison of those\ninflicted on herself by a Capuchin nun, the venerable Mother Pasidee of\nSiena.\n\n\"She scourged herself with branches of juniper and holly, then poured\nvinegar into her wounds, and sprinkled them with salt, she slept in\nwinter on the snow, in summer on bunches of nettles, or pebbles, or\nbrushes, put drops of hot lead in her shoes, knelt upon thistles, thorns\nand sticks. In January she broke the ice in a cask and plunged into it,\nand she even half-stifled herself by hanging head downwards in a chimney\nin which damp straw was lighted, but that is enough; indeed,\" said the\nabbe laughing, \"if you had to choose, you would like best the\nmortifications which Benedict Labre imposed on himself.\"\n\n\"I would rather have none at all,\" answered Durtal.\n\nThere was a moment's pause.\n\nDurtal's thoughts went back to the Benedictine nuns: \"But,\" said he,\n\"why do they put in the 'Semaine religieuse,' after their title\nBenedictine Nuns of the Blessed Sacrament, this further name, 'Convent\nof Saint Louis du Temple?'\"\n\n\"Because,\" said the abbe, \"their first convent was founded on the actual\nruins of the Temple prison, given them by royal warrant, when Louis\nXVIII. returned to France.\n\n\"Their foundress and superior was Louise Adelaide de Bourbon Conde, an\nunfortunate princess of many wanderings, almost the whole of whose life\nwas spent in exile. Expelled from France by the Revolution and the\nEmpire, hunted in almost every country in Europe, she wandered by\nchance among convents seeking shelter, now among the nuns of the\nAnnunciation at Turin and the Capuchins in Piedmont, now among the\nTrappistines in Switzerland and the Sisters of the Visitation at Vienna,\nnow among the Benedictines of Lithuania and Poland. At last she found\nshelter among the Benedictines in Norfolk, till she could again enter\nFrance.\n\n\"She was a woman singularly trained in monastic science and experienced\nin the direction of souls.\n\n\"She desired that in her abbey every sister should offer herself to\nheaven in reparation for crimes committed; and that she should accept\nthe most painful privations to make up for those which might be\ncommitted; she instituted there the perpetual adoration, and introduced\nthe plain chant, in all its purity, to the exclusion of all others.\n\n\"It is, as you have been able to hear, there preserved intact; it is\ntrue that since her time, her nuns have had lessons from Dom Schmitt,\none of the most learned monks in that matter.\n\n\"Then, after the death of the princess, which took place, I think, in\n1824, it was perceived that her body exhaled the odour of sanctity, and\nthough she has not been canonized her intercession is invoked by her\ndaughters in certain cases. Thus, for example, the Benedictine nuns of\nthe Rue Monsieur ask her assistance when they lose anything, and their\nexperience shows that their prayer is never in vain, since the object\nlost is found almost at once.\n\n\"But,\" continued the abbe, \"since you like the convent so well, go\nthere, especially when it is lighted up.\"\n\nThe priest rose and took up a \"Semaine religieuse,\" which lay upon the\ntable.\n\nHe turned over the leaves. \"See,\" he said, and read, \"'Sunday 3 o'clock,\nVespers chanted; ceremony of clothing, presided over by the Very\nReverend Father Dom Etienne, abbot of the Grande Trappe, and\nBenediction.'\"\n\n\"That is a ceremony which interests me much.\"\n\n\"I too shall probably be there.\"\n\n\"Then we can meet in the chapel?\"\n\n\"Just so.\"\n\n\"These ceremonies of clothing have not now the gaiety they had in the\neighteenth century in certain Benedictine institutions, amongst others\nthe Abbey de Bourbourg in Flanders,\" said the abbe smiling, after a\nsilence.\n\nAnd since Durtal looked at him questioningly--\n\n\"Yes, there was no sadness about it, or at least it had a special\nsadness of its own; you shall judge. On the eve of the day that the\npostulant was to take the habit, she was presented to the abbess of\nBourbourg by the governor of the town. Bread and wine were offered to\nher, and she tasted them in the church itself. On the morrow she\nappeared, magnificently dressed, at a ball which was attended by the\nwhole community of nuns, where she danced, then she asked her parents'\nblessing, and was conducted, with violins playing, to the chapel, where\nthe abbess took possession of her. She had for the last time seen, at\nthe ball, the joys of the world, for she was immediately shut up, for\nthe rest of her days in the cloister.\"\n\n\"The joy of the Dance of Death,\" said Durtal, \"monastic customs and\ncongregations were strange in old days.\"\n\n\"No doubt, but they are lost in the night of time. I remember, however,\nthat in the fifteenth century there existed under the rule of Saint\nAugustine an order strange indeed, called the Order of the Daughters of\nSaint Magloire, whose convent was in the Rue Saint Denys at Paris. The\nconditions of admission were the reverse of those of all other charters.\nThe postulant had to swear on the holy Gospels that she had been\nunchaste, and no one believed her oath; she was examined, and if her\noath were false, she was declared unworthy to be received. Nor might she\nhave brought about this condition expressly in order to enter the\nconvent, she must have well and truly given herself over to sin, before\nshe came to ask the shelter of the cloister.\n\n\"They were in fact a troop of penitent girls, and the rule of their\nsubjection was savage. They were whipped, locked up, subjected to the\nmost rigid fasts, made their confessions thrice in the week, rose at\nmidnight, were under the most unremitting surveillance, were even\nattended in their most secret retirement; their mortifications were\nincessant and their closure absolute. I need hardly add that this\nnunnery is dead.\"\n\n\"Nor likely to revive,\" cried Durtal. \"Well then, Monsieur l'Abbe, we\nmeet on Sunday in the Rue Monsieur?\"\n\nAnd on the assent of the abbe, Durtal went his way, with the strangest\nideas in his head about the monastic orders. The thing would be, he\nthought, to found an abbey where one could work at ease in a good\nlibrary, there should be several monks, with decent meals, plenty of\ntobacco, and permission to take a turn on the quays now and then. And he\nlaughed; but then that would not be a monastery! or only a Dominican\nmonastery, with monks who dine out, and have, at least, the amusement of\npreaching.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nOn Sunday morning, on his way to the Rue Monsieur, Durtal chewed the cud\nof his reflections on the Monasteries. \"It is certain,\" he thought,\n\"that in the accumulated filth of ages, they alone have remained clean,\nare truly in relation with heaven, and serve as interpreters between it\nand earth. But we must thoroughly understand and specify that we are\nspeaking only of the cloistered orders, which have remained, as far as\npossible, poor....\"\n\nAnd thinking of the communities of women, he murmured as he hastened his\nsteps: \"Here is a surprising fact, which proves once more, the\nincomparable genius with which the Church is endowed; she has been able\nto bring into common life women who do not assassinate each other, and\nobey without recalcitrancy the orders of another woman--wonderful!\n\n\"Well, here I am\"--and Durtal, who knew he was late, hastened into the\ncourt of the Benedictine nunnery, took the steps of the little church\nfour at a time, and pushed the door open. He paused in hesitation on the\nthreshold, dazzled by the blaze of the lighted chapel. Lamps were lit\neverywhere, and overhead the altar flamed with a forest of tapers\nagainst which stood out as on a gold ground, the ruddy face of a bishop\nall in white.\n\nDurtal glided among the crowd, elbowing his way till he saw the Abbe\nGevresin beckoning to him. He joined him, and sat down on the chair the\npriest had kept for him, and examined the abbot of Grande Trappe,\nsurrounded by priests in chasubles, and choir boys some in red and\nothers in blue, followed by a Trappist with shaven crown, surrounded by\na fringe of hair, holding a wooden cross, on the reverse of which was\ncarved the small figure of a monk.\n\nClad in a white cowl, with long sleeves and a gold button on his hood,\nhis abbot's cross on his breast, his head covered with an old French\nmitre of low form, Dom Etienne, with his broad shoulders, his greyish\nbeard, his ruddy colour, had a look of an old Burgundian, tanned by the\nsun while working at his vines; he seemed, moreover, a good sort of man,\nuneasy under his mitre, oppressed by his honours.\n\nA sharp perfume which burnt the nose as a spice burns the tongue, the\nperfume of myrrh, floated in the air, the crowds surged; behind the\ngrating from which the curtain was withdrawn, the nuns standing sang the\nhymn of Saint Ambrose, \"Jesu corona virginum,\" while the bells of the\nabbey rang a peal; in the short aisle leading from the porch to the\nchoir, a bending line of women on either side, a cross-bearer and\ntorch-bearers entered, and behind them appeared the novice dressed as a\nbride.\n\nShe was dark, slight, and very short, and came forward shyly with\ndowncast eyes, between her mother and sister. At first sight Durtal\nthought her insignificant, scarcely pretty, a mere nobody; and he looked\ninstinctively for the other party, put out in his sense of fitness, by\nthe absence of a man in the marriage procession.\n\nStriving against her agitation the postulant walked up the nave into the\nchoir, and knelt on the left before a large taper, her mother and sister\non either side as bridesmaids.\n\nDom Etienne genuflected to the altar, mounted the steps, and sat down in\na red velvet arm-chair, placed on the highest step.\n\nThen one of the priests conducted the girl, who knelt alone, before the\nmonk.\n\nDom Etienne was motionless as a figure of Buddha; with the same gesture,\nhe lifted one finger, and said gently to the novice,--\n\n\"What is it you ask?\"\n\nShe spoke so low as scarcely to be heard.\n\n\"Father, feeling in myself an ardent desire to sacrifice myself to God,\nas a victim in union with our Lord Jesus Christ, immolated on our\naltars, and to spend my life in perpetual adoration of His divine\nSacrament, under the observance of the rule of our glorious Father Saint\nBenedict, I humbly ask of you the grace of the holy habit.\"\n\n\"I will give it you willingly if you believe you can conform your life\nto that of a victim devoted to the Holy Sacrament.\"\n\nAnd she answered in a firmer tone,\n\n\"I trust so, leaning on the infinite goodness of my Saviour Jesus\nChrist.\"\n\n\"God give you perseverance, my daughter,\" said the prelate; he rose,\nturned to the altar, genuflected, and with uncovered head began the\nchant \"Veni Creator,\" taken up by the voices of the nuns behind the\nlight screen of iron.\n\nThen he replaced his mitre, and prayed, while the chanted psalms rose\nunder the arches. The novice, who in the meantime had been reconducted\nto her place at the prie-Dieu, rose, genuflected to the altar, and then\nknelt between her two bridesmaids before the abbot of La Trappe, who had\nreseated himself.\n\nHer two companions lifted the veil of the bride, took off her wreath of\norange flowers, unrolled the coils of her hair, while a priest spread a\nnapkin on the knees of the prelate, and the deacon presented a pair of\nlong scissors on a salver.\n\nThen before the gesture of this monk, making himself ready, like an\nexecutioner, to shear the condemned person, whose hour of expiation was\nat hand, the terrible beauty of innocence becoming like crime, in\nsubstitution for sins of which she was ignorant, which she could not\neven understand, was evident to the public who had come to the chapel\nout of curiosity, and in consternation at the superhuman denial of\njustice, it trembled when the bishop seized the entire handful of her\nhair, and drew it towards him over her brow.\n\nThen there was as it were a flash of steel in a dark shower.\n\nIn the death-like silence of the church the grinding of the scissors was\nheard in the mass of hair which fell under the blades, and then all was\nsilent. Dom Etienne opened his hand, and the rain fell on his knees in\nlong black threads.\n\nThere was a sigh of relief when the priests and bridesmaids led away the\nbride, looking strange in her train, with her head discrowned and her\nneck bare.\n\nThe procession returned almost immediately. There was no longer a bride\nin a white skirt, but a nun in a black robe.\n\nShe bowed before the Trappist, and again knelt between her mother and\nsister.\n\nThen, while the abbot prayed the Lord to bless his handmaid, the master\nof the ceremonies and the deacon took, from a credence near the altar, a\nbasket, wherein under loose rose leaves were folded a girdle of untanned\nleather, emblem of the end of that luxury which the Fathers of the\nChurch placed in the region of the reins, a scapular, symbol of a life\ncrucified to the world, a veil, which signifies the solitude of the life\nhidden in God, and the prelate explained the sense of these emblems to\nthe novice, then taking the lighted taper from the candlestick before\nher, he gave it to her, declaring in one phrase the meaning of his\naction: \"Accipe, charissima soror, lumen Christi.\"\n\nThen Dom Etienne took the sprinkler which a priest handed him with an\ninclination, and as in the general absolution of the dead, he sprinkled\nthe girl with holy water in the form of a cross, then he sat down and\nspoke gently and quietly without using a single gesture.\n\nHe spoke to the postulant alone, praising the august and humble life of\nthe cloister. \"Look not back,\" he said, \"have no regrets, for by my\nvoice Jesus repeats to you the promise once made to the Magdalen, 'yours\nis the better part, which shall not be taken away from you.' Say also to\nyourself, my daughter, that, henceforward, taken away from the eternal\ntrifling of labours in vain, you will accomplish a useful work upon\nearth, you will practise charity in its highest form, you will make\nexpiation for others, you will pray for those who never pray, you will\naid, so far as your strength permits, to make amends for the hate the\nworld bears to the Saviour.\n\n\"Suffer and you will be happy; love your spouse, and you will see how\ntender He is to His elect. Believe me, His love is such that He will not\neven wait till you are purified by death to recompense you for your\nmiserable mortifications, your poor sufferings. Even before your hour is\ncome, He will heap His graces upon you, and you will beg Him to let you\ndie, so greatly will the excess of these joys exceed your strength.\"\n\nLittle by little the old monk grew warm, and returned to the words of\nChrist to the Magdalen, showing how in reference to her Jesus set\nforward the excellence of the contemplative over the other Orders, and\ngave brief advice, dwelling on the necessity of humility and poverty,\nwhich are, as Saint Clare says, the two great walls of cloistered life.\nThen he blessed the novice, who kissed his hand, and when she had\nreturned to her place, he prayed to the Lord, lifting his eyes to\nheaven, that He would accept this nun, who offered herself as a victim\nfor the sins of the world. Then, standing, he intoned the \"Te Deum.\"\n\nEvery one rose, and preceded by the cross and torch bearers, the\nprocession passed out of the church, and was massed in the court.\n\nThen Durtal might have believed himself carried back far from Paris,\ninto the heart of the Middle Ages.\n\nThe court, surrounded by buildings, was closed opposite the\nentrance-gate by a high wall, in the midst of which was a folding-door;\non each side six thin pines rocked to and fro, and chanting was heard\nbehind the wall.\n\nThe postulant, in front, alone, near the closed door, held her torch,\nwith her head bent. The abbot of La Trappe, leaning on his crosier,\nwaited, unmoving, a few paces from her.\n\nDurtal examined their faces, the girl, so commonplace in her bridal\ncostume, had become charming, her body was now full of a timid grace,\nthe lines, somewhat too marked under her worldly dress, were softened,\nunder her religious shroud her outline was only a simple sketch, it was\nas though the years had rolled back, and as though there was a return to\nthe forms only prophesied in childhood.\n\nDurtal drew near to examine her better, he tried to look at her face,\nbut under the chill bandage of her head-dress, she remained mute, and as\nif absent from life, with her eyes closed, and as though she lived only\nin the smile of her happy lips.\n\nSeen nearer, the monk who had seemed so stout and ruddy in the chapel,\nseemed also changed, his frame remained robust, and his complexion\nbright, but his eyes of a light blue, like chalk water, water without\nreflections or waves, eyes wonderfully pure, changed the common\nexpression of his features, and took away from him that look of a\nvine-dresser which he had at a distance.\n\n\"It is clear,\" thought Durtal, \"that the soul is everything in these\npeople, and their faces are modelled by it. There is a holy clearness in\ntheir eyes, and their lips, in those only apertures through which the\nsoul comes to look out of the body, and almost shows itself.\"\n\nThe chants behind the wall suddenly ceased, the girl made a step\nforward, and knocked with her closed fingers at the door, and then with\na failing voice she sang,--\n\n\"Aperite mihi portas justitiae: Ingressa in eas, confitebor Domino.\"\n\nThe door opened. Another large court, paved with pebbles was seen,\nbounded at the end by a building, and all the community, in a sort of\nsemicircle, with black books in their hands, cried,--\n\n\"Haec porta Domini: Justi intrabunt in eam.\"\n\nThe novice made another step to the sill and answered in her far-away\nvoice,--\n\n\"Ingrediar in locum tabernaculi admirabilis: usque ad domum Dei.\"\n\nAnd the choir of nuns, unmoving, answered,--\n\n\"Haec est domus Domini firmiter aedificata: Bene fundata est supra\nfirmam petram.\"\n\nDurtal hastily looked at those faces which could only be seen for a few\nminutes and on the occasion of such a ceremony. It was a row of dead\nbodies standing in black shrouds. All were bloodless, with white cheeks,\nlilac eyelids and grey lips, the voices of all were exhausted and fined\ndown by prayer, and most of them, even the young, were bent. \"Their poor\nbodies are worn with austere fatigue,\" thought Durtal.\n\nBut his reflections were cut short, the bride, now kneeling on the\nthreshold, turned to Dom Etienne and chanted in a low voice,--\n\n\"Haec requies mea in saeculum saeculi: Hic habitabo quoniam elegi eam.\"\n\nThe monk laid aside his mitre and crosier and said,--\n\n\"Confirma hoc Deus, quod operatus es in nobis.\"\n\nAnd the postulant murmured,--\n\n\"A templo sacro tuo quod est in Jerusalem.\"\n\nThen before re-covering his head and resuming his crosier, the prelate\nprayed God Almighty to pour the dew of His blessing on His handmaid;\nthen directing the girl towards a nun who left the group of sisters and\nadvanced to the threshold, he said to her,--\n\n\"Into your hands, Madame, we commit this new bride of the Lord, sustain\nher in the holy resolution she has so solemnly taken upon her, in asking\nto sacrifice herself to God as a victim, and to dedicate her life in\nhonour of our Lord Jesus Christ, sacrificed on our altars. Lead her in\nthe way of the divine Commandments, in the practice of the counsels of\nthe Holy Gospel, and in the observance of the monastic rule. Prepare her\nfor the eternal union to which the heavenly Spouse invites her, and from\nthis blessed increase of the flock committed to your charge draw a new\nmotive for maternal care. The peace of the Lord rest upon you.\"\n\nThis was all: the nuns one by one turned and disappeared behind the\nwall, while the girl followed them like a poor dog, who with drooping\nhead accompanies at a distance a new master.\n\nThe folding doors closed.\n\nDurtal remained stupefied, looking at the outline of the white bishop,\nthe backs of the priests who were mounting the steps to give Benediction\nin the church, while behind them came in tears, their faces in their\nhandkerchiefs, the mother and sister of the novice.\n\n\"Well?\" said the abbe, passing his arm through Durtal's.\n\n\"Well, this scene is to my mind the most touching alibi of death that it\nis possible to see, this living woman, who buries herself in the most\nfrightful of tombs--for in it the flesh continues to suffer--is\nwonderful.\n\n\"I remember that you have yourself told me of the pressure of this\nobservance, and I shivered in thinking of perpetual Adoration, in those\nwinter nights, when a child like this is awakened out of her first\nsleep, and cast into the darkness of a chapel where unless she faints\nfrom weakness or terror, she must pray alone, through the freezing hours\non her knees on the pavement.\n\n\"What passes in that conversation with the unknown, that interview with\nthe Shadow? Does she succeed in escaping from self, and in leaving the\nearth, in gaining, on the threshold of Eternity, the inconceivable\nSpouse, or does the soul, powerless to spring on high, remain riveted to\nthe soil?\n\n\"We figure her to ourselves, her face bent forward, her hands joined,\nmaking appeal to herself, concentrating herself, in order to pour\nherself forth the better, and we imagine her thus sickly, with no\nstrength left, trying to set her soul on fire in a shivering frame. But\nwho can tell if on certain nights she attains to it?\n\n\"Ah! those poor lamps of exhausted oil, of flames almost dead, which\ntremble in the obscurity of the sanctuary, what will God make of them?\n\n\"Then there was the family present at the taking the habit, and if the\ndaughter filled me with enthusiasm I could not restrain myself from\npitying the mother. Think if the daughter died, the mother would embrace\nher, would perhaps speak to her, or if she did not recognize her, it\nwould at least not be with her own good will; but in this case it is not\nthe body, but the very soul of her child that dies before her eyes. Of\nher own accord her child knows her no longer, it is the contemptuous end\nof an affection. You will admit that for a mother this is very hard.\"\n\n\"Yes, but this so-called ingratitude, gained at the price of God knows\nwhat struggles, is it not, even apart from the divine vocation, the most\nequitable repartition of human love? Think that this elect creature\nbecomes the scapegoat of sins committed, and like a lamentable daughter\nof Danaus she will unceasingly pour the offering of her mortifications\nand prayers, of her vigils and fastings, into the bottomless vessel of\noffences and crimes. Ah! if you knew what it was to repair the sins of\nthe world. In regard to this I remember that one day the abbess of the\nBenedictines in the Rue Tournefort said to me: 'Since our tears are not\nholy enough, nor our souls pure enough, God makes trial of us in our\nbodies.' Here are long illnesses which cannot be cured, illnesses which\ndoctors fail to understand, and we make thus much expiation for others.\n\n\"But if you will think over the ceremony which is just ended, you need\nnot be affected beyond measure or compare it to the well-known\nceremonies of a funeral; the postulant whom you saw has not yet\npronounced her final vows, she can if she choose leave the convent, and\nreturn to her own home. At present she is in regard to her mother, a\nchild in a foreign country, a child at school, but she is not a dead\nchild.\n\n\"You may say what you please, but there is a tragedy in that door which\nclosed upon her.\"\n\n\"Therefore in the Benedictine convent in the Rue Tournefort, the scene\ntakes place in the interior of the convent, and the family is not\npresent, the mother is spared, but mitigated thus, the ceremony is but a\nmere form, almost a foolish rule in the seclusion wherein the Faith is\nhidden.\"\n\n\"Those nuns are also Benedictines of the perpetual Adoration, are they\nnot?\"\n\n\"Yes, do you know their convent?\"\n\nAnd as Durtal shook his head, the abbe continued,--\n\n\"It is older, but less interesting than that in the Rue Monsieur, the\nchapel is mean, full of plaster statuettes, cotton flowers, bunches of\ngrapes and ears of corn in gold paper, but the old building of the\nnunnery is curious. It contains, what shall I call it? a school\ndining-room, and a retreatant's drawing-room, and so gives at once the\nimpression of old age and childhood.\"\n\n\"I know that class of convents,\" said Durtal. \"I used often to see one,\nwhen I used to visit an old aunt at Versailles. It always used to\nimpress me as a Maison Vauquer, brought to devotional uses, it had the\nair at once of a _table d'hote_ in the Rue de la Clef and the sacristy\nof a country church.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" and the abbe went on with a smile,--\n\n\"I had many interviews with the abbess in the Rue Tournefort; you guess\nat rather than see her, for you are separated from her by a screen of\nblack wood, behind which is stretched a black curtain which she draws\naside.\"\n\n\"I can see it,\" thought Durtal, who, remembering the Benedictine custom,\nsaw in a second a little face confused in neutral tinted light, and\nlower, at the top of her habit, the gleam of a medal of the Blessed\nSacrament in red enamelled in white.\n\nHe laughed and said to the abbe,--\n\n\"I laugh, because having had some business to transact with my nun aunt\nof whom I was speaking, only visible like your abbess through a trellis,\nI found out how to read her thoughts a little.\"\n\n\"Ah! how was that?\"\n\n\"In this way. Since I could not see her face, which was hidden behind\nthe lattice of her cage, and disappeared behind her veil, and if she\nshould answer me, having nothing to guide me but the inflexions of her\nvoice, always circumspect and always calm, I ended by trusting only to\nher great glasses, round, with buff frames, which almost all nuns wear.\nWell, all the repressed vivacity of this woman burst out there; suddenly\nin a corner of her glasses, there was a glimmer, and I then understood\nthat her eye had lighted up, and gave the lie to the indifference of her\nvoice, the determined quietness of her tone.\"\n\nThe abbe in his turn began to laugh.\n\n\"Do you know the Superior of the Benedictines, in the Rue Monsieur?\"\nsaid Durtal.\n\n\"I have spoken with her once or twice; there the parlour is monastic,\nthere is not the provincial and middle-class side of the Rue Tournefort,\nit is composed of a sombre room, of which all the breadth at the end is\ntaken up by an iron grating, and behind the grating are again wooden\nbars, and a shutter painted black. You are quite in the dark, and the\nabbess, scarcely in the light, appears to you like a phantom.\"\n\n\"The abbess is, I suppose, the nun, elderly, fragile and very short, to\nwhom Dom Etienne committed the novice?\"\n\n\"Yes. She is a remarkable shepherdess of souls, and what is more, a very\nwell educated woman of most distinguished manners.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" thought Durtal: \"I can imagine that these abbesses are charming,\nbut also terrible women. Saint Teresa was goodness itself, but when she\nspeaks in her 'Way of Perfection' of nuns who band themselves together\nto discuss the will of their mother, she shows herself inexorable, for\nshe declares that perpetual imprisonment should be inflicted on them as\nsoon as possible and without flinching, and in fact she is right, for\nevery disorderly sister infects the flock, and gives the rot to souls.\"\n\nThus talking they had reached the end of the Rue de Sevres, and the abbe\nstopped to rest.\n\n\"Ah,\" he said, as if speaking to himself, \"had I not had all my life\nheavy expenses, first a brother, then nephews to maintain, I should many\nyears ago have become a member of Saint Benedict's family. I have\nalways had an attraction towards that grand Order, which is, in fact,\nthe intellectual Order of the Church. Therefore, when I was stronger and\nyounger, I always went for my retreats to one of their monasteries,\nsometimes to the black monks of Solesmes, or of Liguge, who have\npreserved the wise traditions of Saint Maurus, sometimes to the\nCistercians, or the white monks of La Trappe.\"\n\n\"True,\" said Durtal, \"La Trappe is one of the great branches of the tree\nof Saint Benedict, but how is it that its ordinances do not differ from\nthose which the Patriarch left?\"\n\n\"That is to say that the Trappists interpret the rule of Saint Benedict,\nwhich is very broad and supple, less in its spirit than in its letter,\nwhile the Benedictines do the contrary.\n\n\"In fact, La Trappe is an offshoot of Citeaux, and is much more the\ndaughter of Saint Bernard, who was during forty years the very sap of\nthat branch, than the descendant of Saint Benedict.\"\n\n\"But, so far as I remember, the Trappists are themselves divided, and do\nnot live under a uniform discipline.\"\n\n\"They do so now, since a pontifical brief dated March 17th, 1893,\nsanctioned the decisions of the general Chapter of the Trappists\nassembled in Rome, and ordered the fusion into one sole order, and under\nthe direction of a sole superior, of the three observances of the\nTrappists, who were in fact ruled by discordant constitutions.\"\n\nAnd seeing that Durtal was listening attentively, the abbe continued,--\n\n\"Among these three observances, one only, that of the Cistercian\nTrappists, to which belonged the abbey of which I was a guest, followed\nin their integrity the rules of the twelfth century, and led the\nmonastic life of Saint Bernard's day. This alone recognized the rule of\nSaint Benedict, taken in its strictest application, and completed by the\nCharte de Charite, and the use and customs of Citeaux; the two others\nhad adopted the same rule, but revised and modified in the seventeenth\ncentury by the Abbe de Rance, and again one of them, the Belgian\ncongregation, had changed the statutes imposed by that abbot.\n\n\"At the present day, as I have just said, all the Trappists form only\none and the same institute under the name, Order of Reformed Cistercians\nof the Blessed Virgin Mary of La Trappe, and all resume the rules of\nCiteaux, and live again the life of the cenobites of the Middle Ages.\"\n\n\"But if you have visited these ascetics,\" said Durtal, \"you must know\nDom Etienne?\"\n\n\"No, I have never stayed at La Grande Trappe, I prefer the poor and\nsmall monasteries where one is mixed up with the monks, to those\nimposing convents where they isolate you in a guest-house, and in a word\nkeep you separate.\n\n\"There is one in which I make my retreats, Notre Dame de l'Atre, a small\nTrappist monastery a few leagues from Paris, which is quite the most\nseductive of shelters. Besides that the Lord really abides there, for it\nhas true saints among its children, it is delightful also with its\nponds, its immemorial trees, its distant solitude, far in the woods.\"\n\n\"Yes, but,\" observed Durtal, \"the life there must be unbending, for La\nTrappe is the most rigid order which has been imposed on men.\"\n\nFor his only answer the abbe let go Durtal's arm, and took both his\nhands.\n\n\"Do you know,\" he said, looking him in the face, \"it is there you must\ngo for your conversion?\"\n\n\"Are you serious, Monsieur l'Abbe?\"\n\nAnd as the priest pressed his hands more strongly Durtal cried,--\n\n\"Ah, no indeed, first I have not the stoutness of soul, and if that be\npossible I have still less the bodily health needed for such a course, I\nshould fall ill on my arrival, and then ... and then....\"\n\n\"And then, what? I am not proposing to you to shut you up for ever in a\ncloister.\"\n\n\"So I suppose,\" said Durtal, in a somewhat piqued tone.\n\n\"But just to remain a week, just the necessary time for a cure. Now a\nweek is soon over, then do you think that if you make such a resolution\nGod will not sustain you?\"\n\n\"That is all very fine, but ...\"\n\n\"Let us speak on the health question, then;\" and the abbe smiled a smile\nof pity that was a little contemptuous.\n\n\"I can promise you at once that as a retreatant, you will not be bound\nto lead the life of a Trappist in its austerest sense. You need not get\nup at two in the morning for Matins, but at three, or even at four\no'clock, according to the day.\"\n\nAnd smiling at the face Durtal made, the abbe went on,--\n\n\"As to your food it will be better than that of the monks; naturally you\nwill have no fish nor meat, but you may certainly have an egg for\ndinner, if vegetables are not enough for you.\"\n\n\"And the vegetables, I suppose, are cooked with salt and water, and no\nseasoning?\"\n\n\"No, they are dressed with salt and water only on fasting days; at other\ntimes you will have them cooked in milk and water, or in oil.\"\n\n\"Many thanks,\" said Durtal.\n\n\"But all that is excellent for your health,\" continued the priest, \"you\ncomplain of pains in the stomach, sick headaches, diarrhoea, well, this\ndiet, in the country, in the air, will cure you better than all the\ndrugs you take.\n\n\"Now let us leave, if you like, your body out of the question, for in\nsuch a case, it is God's part to act against your weakness. I tell you,\nyou will not be ill at La Trappe, that were absurd; it would be to send\nthe penitent sinner away, and Jesus would not then be the Christ; but\nlet us talk of your soul. Have the courage to take its measure, to look\nit well in the face. Do you see that?\" said the abbe after a silence.\n\nDurtal did not answer.\n\n\"Admit,\" said the priest, \"that you are horrified at it.\"\n\nThey took a few steps in the street, and the abbe continued,--\n\n\"You declare that you are sustained by the crowds of Notre Dame des\nVictoires and the emanations of St. Severin. What will it be then, in\nthe humble chapel, when you will be on the ground huddled together with\nthe saints? I guarantee you in the name of the Lord an assistance such\nas you have never had;\" and he went on with a laugh, \"I may add that the\nChurch will take pleasure in receiving you, she will bring out her\nornaments which she has now left off: the authentic liturgies of the\nMiddle Ages, true plain chant, without solos or organs.\"\n\n\"Listen, your propositions astound me,\" said Durtal with an effort. \"No:\nI assure you I am not at all disposed to imprison myself in such a\nplace. I know well that at Paris I shall never come to any good. I swear\nto you that I am not proud of my life, nor satisfied with my soul, but\nfrom thence ... to ... where I cannot tell; I want at least a mitigated\nasylum, a quiet convent. There must be, on those conditions, somewhere,\nhospitals for souls.\"\n\n\"I could only send you to the Jesuits, who make a specialty of retreats\nfor men: but knowing you as I think I know you, I feel sure you would\nnot stay there two days. You would find yourself among amiable and very\nclever priests, but they would overwhelm you with sermons, would wish to\ninterfere with your life, mix themselves up with your art, they would\nexamine your thoughts with a magnifying glass, and then you would be\nunder treatment with good young people, whose unintelligent piety would\nhorrify you, and you would flee in exasperation.\n\n\"At La Trappe it is the contrary. You would certainly be the sole\nretreatant there, and no one will have the least idea of troubling\nhimself about you; you will be free, you can if you choose leave the\nmonastery just as you entered it, without having confessed or approached\nthe Sacraments, your will will be respected there, and no monk will\nattempt to sound it without your authority. To you only it will\nappertain to decide whether you will be converted or no.\n\n\"And you will like me to be frank to the last, will you not? You are, as\nindeed I have already said to you, a sensitive and distrustful man;\nwell, the priest as you see him in Paris, even the religious not\ncloistered, seem to you, how shall I express it? second rate souls, not\nto go further....\"\n\nDurtal protested vaguely, with a gesture.\n\n\"Let me go on. An afterthought will come to you in regard to the\necclesiastic to whom will fall the task of cleansing you, you will be\nquite certain that he is not a saint; this is not very theological, for\nwere he even the worst of priests his absolution would have just the\nsame value, if you merit it, but indeed here is a question of sentiment\nwhich I respect, you will think of him in a word: he lives as I do, he\nis not more self-denying than I am, nothing shows that his conscience is\nvery superior to mine, and thence to losing all confidence, and\nthrowing up the whole thing there is but a step. At La Trappe, I will\ndefy you to reason in this way, and not to become humble. When you see\nmen, who after having abandoned everything to serve God, lead a life of\nprivations and penance such as no government would dare to inflict on\nits convicts, you will indeed be obliged to admit that you are no great\nthing by their side.\"\n\nDurtal was silent. After the astonishment he had felt at the suggestion\nof such an issue, he became dully irritated against this friend, who\nhitherto so discreet, had suddenly rushed upon his soul and opened it by\nforce. There came out the disgusting vision of an existence stripped,\nused up, reduced to a state of dust, a condition of rags. And Durtal\nshrank from himself, convinced that the abbe was right, that he must at\nany rate stanch the discharge of his senses, and expiate their\ninappeasable desires, their abominable covetousness, their rotten\ntastes, and he was seized with a terror irrational and intense. He had\nthe giddy fear of the cloister, a terror which attracted him to the\nabyss over which Gevresin made him lean.\n\nEnervated by the ceremony of taking the habit, stunned by the blow with\nwhich the priest had assailed him as they left the church, he now felt\nan anguish almost physical, in which everything ended in confusion. He\ndid not know to what reflections he should give himself, and only saw,\nswimming on this whirlpool of troubled ideas, one clear thought, that\nthe moment had come so dreaded by him in which he must make a\nresolution.\n\nThe abbe looked at him, saw that he was really suffering, and was full\nof pity for a soul so unable to support a struggle.\n\nHe took Durtal's arm, and said gently,--\n\n\"My son, believe me that the day you go yourself to the house of God,\nthe day you knock at its door, it will open wide, and the angels will\ndraw aside to let you pass. The Gospel cannot lie, and it declares that\nthere is more joy over one sinner that repents than over ninety and nine\njust persons who need no repentance. You will be much better welcomed\nthan you expect, and be sufficiently my friend to think that the old\npriest you leave here will not remain inactive, and that he and the\nconvents he can influence will pray their best for you.\"\n\n\"I will see,\" said Durtal, really moved by the affectionate tone of the\npriest, \"I will see. I cannot decide thus, unexpectedly; I will think.\nAh! it is not simple.\"\n\n\"Above all things pray,\" said the priest, who had reached his door. \"I\nhave on my side sought the Lord much that He would enlighten me, and I\ndeclare to you that the solution of La Trappe is the only one He has\ngiven me. Ask Him humbly, in your turn, and you will be guided. I shall\nsoon see you again, shall I not?\"\n\nHe pressed Durtal's hand, who, left alone, recovered himself at last.\nThen he recalled the strategic smiles, the ambiguous phrases, the dreamy\nsilences of the Abbe Gevresin, he understood the kindness of his\ncounsels, the patience of his plans; and a little put out at having\nbeen, without knowing it, led so wisely, he exclaimed in spite of\nhimself, \"This, then, was the design the priest was ripening, with his\nair of not concerning himself with it at all.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nHe experienced that painful awakening of a sick man whom a doctor\ndeceives for months, who learns some fine morning that he is to be taken\nat once to an hospital to undergo an urgent surgical operation. \"But\nthat is not the way things should be done,\" cried Durtal, \"people should\nbe prepared, little by little, accustomed by words of warning, to the\nidea that they are to be cut up on a table, they are not struck down\nthus unexpectedly!\n\n\"Yes, but what does that matter? since I know very well, in the depths\nof my soul, that this priest is right; I must leave Paris if I wish to\namend; but all the same, the treatment he inflicts is hard indeed to\nfollow; I know not what to do.\"\n\nAnd from this moment his days were haunted by Trappists. He turned over\nthe thought of his departure, and examined it on all sides, chewed the\ncud of for and against, and ended by saying to himself, \"That he would\ntake stock of his reflections and open an account, and this with a debit\nand credit side, that he might know himself the better.\n\n\"The debit is terrible. To gather up his life, and cast it into the\nstove of a cloister; and again, he ought to know if his body were in a\nstate to bear such a remedy; mine is frail and soft, accustomed to rise\nlate; it becomes weak if not nourished by flesh meat, and is subject to\nneuralgia at any change of the hour of meals. I should never be able to\nhold out down there with vegetables cooked in warm oil or in milk; first\nI detest oily cookery, and I hate milk still more, which I cannot\ndigest.\n\n\"Then I think I see myself on my knees, on the floor for hours, I who\nsuffered so much at La Glaciere in remaining in that posture, on a step,\nfor scarce a quarter of an hour.\n\n\"Again, I am so accustomed to cigarettes that it is absolutely\nimpossible to give them up, and it is pretty certain they will not let\nme smoke in a monastery.\n\n\"No, indeed, from the bodily point of view, this plan is madness; in my\nstate of health there is no doctor who would not dissuade me from\nundertaking such a risk.\n\n\"If I place myself in a spiritual point of view I must then again\nrecognize that it is terrible to enter La Trappe.\n\n\"I am afraid indeed that my dryness of soul, my want of love will\nremain, and then what would become of me in such surroundings? then it\nis equally probable, that in that solitude and absolute silence, I\nshould be wearied to death, and if it be so, what a miserable existence\nis it to stalk about a cell and count the hours. No, for that one needs\nto be firmly fixed on God, to be dwelt in wholly by Him.\n\n\"Moreover, there are two formidable questions which I have never\nproperly weighed, because it has been painful to think of them, but now\nthat they come before me, and stop the road, I must face them, the\nquestions of Confession and Holy Communion.\n\n\"Confession? Yes, I will consent to it, I am so tired of myself, so\ndisgusted with my wretched existence that this expiation appears to me\nas deserved, even necessary. I desire to humble myself, I would ask\npardon with all my heart, but again this penance must be assigned me\nunder possible conditions. At La Trappe, if I believe the abbe, no one\nwill trouble himself about me, in other words no one will encourage me,\nand aid me to submit to this sorrowful extraction of my shames. I shall\nbe somewhat like a sick man operated on in hospital, far from his\nfriends and relatives.\n\n\"Confession,\" he went on, \"is an admirable discovery, for it is the most\nsensitive touchstone of souls, the most intolerable act which the Church\nhas ever imposed on the vanity of men.\n\n\"Is this strange? We speak easily of our lapses, of our grosser actions,\neven, indeed, to a priest in conversation, that does not seem to lead to\nany consequences, and perhaps a little bragging enters into our\nadmission of easy sins, but to tell the same thing on one's knees,\naccusing oneself, after prayer, is different, that which was only rather\namusing becomes a very painful humiliation, for the soul is not the dupe\nof this false seeming, it knows so well in its inner tribunal that all\nis changed, it feels so well the terrible power of the Sacrament, that\nhe who but now smiled, now trembles at the very thought.\n\n\"Now, were I to find myself face to face with an old monk who emerges\nfrom an eternity of silence to listen to me, a monk who will not aid me,\nperhaps cannot even understand me, this will be terrible. I shall never\nget to the end of my troubles if he does not hold out a staff to me, if\nhe lets me stifle and gives no air to my soul, nor brings me help.\n\n\"The Eucharist also seems terrible. To dare to come forward, to offer\nHim as a tabernacle the sewer of self scarce purified by repentance, a\nsewer drained by absolution, but still hardly dry, is monstrous. I am\nquite without such courage as to offer Christ this last insult, and so\nthere is no good in fleeing to a monastery.\n\n\"No; the more I think of it, the more I am obliged to conclude that I\nshould be mad if I ventured into a Trappist house.\n\n\"Now for the Credit side. The only proper work of my life would be to\nmake a parcel of my life, and take it to a cloister to disinfect it, and\nif that cost me nothing, where is the merit?\n\n\"Nothing shows me, on the other hand, that my body, however weakened,\ncannot support the regimen of La Trappe. Without believing or pretending\nto believe with the Abbe Gevresin that that kind of food will be even\nhelpful to me, I ought to count on Divine consolations, to admit the\nprinciple that, if I am sent there, it is not that I may take at once to\nmy bed, or be obliged to leave again as soon as I arrive--at least,\nunless that is the chastisement prepared me, the expiation demanded, and\nagain no, for that would be to ascribe to God pitiless tricks, and would\nbe absurd!\n\n\"As to the cookery, it matters little that it is uncivilized, if my\nstomach can digest it; to have bad food, and get up in the middle of the\nnight is nothing, provided the body can stand it, and no doubt I shall\nfind some means of smoking cigarettes by stealth in the woods.\n\n\"After all, a week is soon over, and I am not even obliged, if I feel\npoorly, to remain a week.\n\n\"From the spiritual point of view, I must again count on the mercy of\nGod, believe that it will not abandon me, will dress my wounds, and\nchange the very foundation of my soul. I know well that these arguments\ndo not rest on any earthly certainty, but yet if I have proofs that\nProvidence has already taken part in my affairs, I have no reason to\nsuppose that these arguments are weaker than the purely physical motives\nwhich served to support my other thesis. Now I must recall that\nconversion, so outside my will; I must take account of a fact which\nshould encourage me, the weakness of the temptations which I now\nexperience.\n\n\"It is difficult to have been more rapidly and more completely heard.\nWhether I owe this grace to my own prayers or to those of the convents\nwhich have shielded me without knowing me, it is the case that for some\ntime past my brain has been silent and my flesh calm. That monster\nFlorence appears to me still at certain times, but she does not approach\nme, she remains in the shade, and the end of the Lord's Prayer, the 'ne\nnos inducas in tentationem,' puts her to flight.\n\n\"That is an unaccustomed fact, and yet a precise one. Why should I\ndoubt, then, that I shall be better upheld at La Trappe than I am in\nParis itself?\n\n\"There remain confession and communion.\n\n\"Confession? It will be what the Lord chooses it should be. He will\nchoose the monk for me; I shall only be able to make use of him; and\nthen the more disagreeable it is, the better worth it will be; and if I\nsuffer much, I shall think myself less unworthy to communicate.\n\n\"That is,\" he went on, \"the most painful point! Communicate! But let us\nconsider, it is certain that I shall be base in proposing to Christ that\nHe should descend like a scavenger into my ditch; but if I wait till it\nis empty, I shall never be in a state to receive Him, for my bulkheads\nare not closed, and sins would filter through the fissures.\n\n\"All this well considered, the abbe spoke truth when he answered me one\nday: 'But I too am not worthy to approach Him; thank God, I have not\nthose sewers of which you speak, but in the morning, when I go to say my\nmass, and think of all the dust of the evening, do you not think that I\nam ashamed? It is always necessary, you see, to go back to the Gospels,\nand say to yourself that He came for the weak and the sick, the\npublicans and lepers; and, in fact, you must convince yourself that the\nEucharist is a lookout post, a help, that it is given, as it is written\nin the ordinary of the Mass \"ad tutamentum mentis et corporis et ad\nmedelam percipiendam.\" It is, if I may say so, a spiritual medicine; you\ngo to the Saviour just as you go to a doctor, you take your soul to Him\nto care for it, and He does so!'\n\n\"I stand before the unknown,\" pursued Durtal, \"I complain that I am\narid, and have wandered from the right way, but who will declare to me\nthat, if I determine to communicate, I shall remain in the same mind;\nfor indeed, if I have Faith, I ought to believe in the occult work of\nChrist in the Sacrament. Lastly, I am afraid of being wearied by\nsolitude; I am not much amused here as it is, but at La Trappe I shall\nno longer have those vacillations at every minute, those constant fears;\nI shall at least have the advantage of having my time to myself; and\nthen ... and then ... how well I know solitude. Have I not lived apart\nsince the deaths of des Hermies and Carhaix? Indeed, whom do I see? A\nfew publishers, a few literary men, and my relations with these people\nare not interesting. As to silence, it is a blessing. I shall not hear\nany foolish sayings at La Trappe; I shall not listen to pitiable\nhomilies and poor sermons; but I ought to rejoice on being at last\nisolated, far from Paris, far from men.\"\n\nHe was silent, and made, as it were, a return in upon himself; and said\nto himself, in a melancholy manner: \"These strifes are useless, these\nreflections vain. I need not try to take account of my soul, to make out\nthe debit and credit; I know, without knowing how, that I must go; I am\nthrust out of myself by an impulse which rises from the very depths of\nmy being, to which I am quite certain I have to yield.\"\n\nAt that moment Durtal had decided, but ten minutes afterwards the\nattempt at resolution vanished. He felt his cowardice gain on him once\nmore, he chewed once more the cud of arguments against his moving; came\nto the conclusion that his reasons for remaining in Paris were palpable,\nhuman, certain, while the others were intangible, extra-natural, and\nconsequently subject to illusions, perhaps false.\n\nAnd he invented for himself the fear of not obtaining the thing he\nfeared, said to himself that La Trappe would not receive him, or\ncertainly that it would refuse him communion; and then he suggested to\nhimself a middle term: to confess at Paris and communicate at La\nTrappe.\n\nBut then there passed in him an incomprehensible fact: his whole soul\nrevolted at this idea, and the formal order not to deceive himself was\ntruly breathed into him, and he said to himself: \"No, the bitter draught\nmust be drained to the last drop, it is all or nothing; if I confess to\nthe abbe it will be in disobedience to absolute and secret directions; I\nshould be capable of not going afterwards to Notre Dame de l'Atre.\n\n\"What shall I do?\" And he accused himself of distrust, called to his aid\nonce more the memory of benefits received, how scales had fallen from\nhis eyes, his insensible progress towards Faith, his encounter with that\nsingular priest, perhaps the only one who could understand him, and\ntreat him in a way so benign and so elastic; but he tried in vain to\nreassure himself, then he called up the dream of the monastic life, the\nsovereign beauty of the cloister; he imagined the joy of renunciation,\nthe peace of exalted prayers, the interior intoxication of the spirit,\nthe delight of not being at home any longer in his own body. Some words\nof the abbe about La Trappe served as a spring-board for his dreams, and\nhe perceived an old abbey, grey and warm, immense avenues of trees,\nclouds flying confusedly amid the song of waters, silent strolls in the\nwoods at nightfall; he called up the solemn liturgies of Saint\nBenedict's time; he saw the white pith of monastic chants rise under the\nscarcely pruned bark of sound. He succeeded in his decision, and cried:\n\"You have dreamed for years of the cloisters, now rejoice that you will\nknow them at last,\" and he wished to go at once and live there; then\nsuddenly he fell down into reality, and said to himself: \"It is easy to\nwish to live in a monastery, to tell God that you would desire to take\nshelter therein, when life in Paris weighs you down, but when it comes\nto the real point of emigration, it is quite another matter.\"\n\nHe turned over these thoughts everywhere, in the street, at home, in the\nchapels. He hurried like a shuttle from one church to another, hoping to\nsolace his fears by changing his place, but they persisted, and rendered\nevery place intolerable.\n\nThen in the sacred places came always that dryness of soul, the broken\nspring of impulse, a sudden silence within, when he desired consolation\nin speaking to Him. His best moments, his pauses in the hurly-burly,\nwere a few minutes of absolute torpor, which rested like snow on the\nsoul and he heard nothing.\n\nBut this drowsiness of thought lasted but a while, the whirlwind blew\nonce more, and the prayers which were wont to appease it refused to\nleave his lips, he tried religious music, the despairing sequences of\nthe psalms, pictures of the Crucifixion by the Early Masters, to excite\nhim, but his prayers ran on and became confused on his lips, were\ndivested of all sense, mere words, empty shells.\n\nAt Notre Dame des Victoires, where he dragged himself that he might thaw\na little under the warmth of his neighbours' prayers, he did in fact\nfeel less chilly, and seemed to break up a little, fell drop by drop\ninto sorrows which he could not formulate, and were all summed up in the\ncry of a sick child, in which he said to Our Lady, in low tones: \"My\nsoul is sorrowful.\"\n\nThence he returned to St. Severin, sat down under those arches browned\nby the rust of prayers, and, haunted by his fixed idea, he pleaded for\nhimself extenuating circumstances, exaggerated the austerities of La\nTrappe, tried almost to exasperate his fear to excuse his weakness in a\nvague appeal to Our Lady.\n\n\"But I must go and see the Abbe Gevresin,\" he murmured, but his courage\nstill failed him to pronounce the \"Yes\" which the priest would surely\nrequire from him. He ended by discovering a reason for his visit,\nwithout thinking himself obliged to promise just yet.\n\n\"After all,\" he thought, \"I have no precise information about this\nmonastery; I do not even know whether it may not be necessary to take a\nlong and expensive journey to get there; the abbe indeed declares that\nit is not far from Paris, but it is impossible to decide on this simple\ndeclaration; it will be useful also to know the habits of these\ncenobites before going to stay with them.\"\n\nThe abbe smiled when Durtal mentioned these objections.\n\n\"The journey is short,\" he said. \"You start from the Gare du Nord at\neight o'clock in the morning for Saint Landry, where you arrive at a\nquarter to twelve; you lunch at an inn close to the station, and while\nyou are drinking your coffee they get you a carriage, and after a drive\nof four hours you arrive at Notre Dame de l'Atre for dinner. There is no\ndifficulty there.\n\n\"Then the cost is moderate. As far as I remember the railway fare is\nabout fifteen francs, add two or three francs for lunch, and six or\nseven for the carriage ...\"\n\nAnd as Durtal was silent, the abbe went on: \"Well?\"\n\n\"Ah yes, yes ... if you knew ... I am in a pitiable state, I will and\nwill not, I know well that I ought to take refuge there, but in spite of\nmyself, I wish to gain time and put off the hour of departure.\"\n\nAnd he continued: \"My soul is out of gear, when I would pray, my senses\ngo all astray, I cannot recollect myself, and if I succeed in pulling\nmyself together, five minutes do not pass but I am all astray again; no,\nI have neither fervour nor true contrition, I do not love God enough, if\nit must be said.\n\n\"And, indeed, during the last two days, a frightful certainty has grown\nup in me; I am sure that, in spite of my good intentions, if I found\nmyself in the presence of a certain person, whose sight troubles me, I\nshould send religion to the devil, I should return eagerly to my vomit;\nI only hold on because I am not tempted, I am no better than when I was\nsinning. You will admit that I am in a wretched state to enter a\nTrappist monastery.\"\n\n\"Your reasons are at least weak,\" answered the abbe. \"You say first that\nyour prayers are distracted, that you are unable to concentrate your\nattention; but in fact you are just like everybody else. Even Saint\nTeresa declares that often she was unable to recite the Credo without\ndistraction, it is a weakness in which we must just take our portion\nhumbly: above all things it is necessary not to lay too much stress on\nthese evils, for the fear of seeing them return ensures their assiduity;\nyou are distracted in prayer by the very fear of distraction, and by\nregret for it; go forth more boldly, look at things more widely, pray as\nbest you can, and do not trouble yourself.\n\n\"Again, you declare that if you meet a certain person whose attraction\nis a trouble to you, you will succumb. How do you know that? why should\nyou take care about seductions which God does not yet inflict upon you,\nand which He will perhaps spare you? Why doubt His mercy? Why not\nbelieve, on the contrary, that if He judge the temptation useful, He\nwill aid you enough to prevent your sinking under it?\n\n\"In any case you ought not, by anticipation, to fear disgust at your\nweakness; the Imitation declares 'There is nothing more foolish and\nvain, than to afflict ourselves about future things which may perhaps\nnever happen.' No, it is enough to occupy ourselves with the present,\nfor 'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,'--'sufficit diei\nmalitia sua.'\n\n\"Finally you say you do not love God; again I answer, what do you know\nabout it? You have this love by the very token that you desire to have\nit, and that you regret you have it not; you love our Lord by the very\nfact that you desire to love Him.\"\n\n\"That is special pleading,\" murmured Durtal. \"But indeed,\" he went on,\n\"suppose at La Trappe, the monk revolted at the long outrage of my sins,\nrefused me absolution, and forbade me to communicate.\"\n\nThe abbe burst out laughing.\n\n\"You are mad! What is your notion of Christ?\"\n\n\"Not of Christ, but of His intermediary the human being who replaces\nHim.\"\n\n\"You can only chance upon a man pointed out beforehand from above to\njudge you; moreover, at Notre Dame de l'Atre you have every chance of\nkneeling at the feet of a saint, therefore God will inspire him, will be\npresent, you have nothing to fear.\n\n\"As to the Communion, the prospect of being rejected terrifies you, but\nis not that one proof the more that, contrary to your opinion, God does\nnot leave you insensible?\"\n\n\"Yes, but the idea of communicating alarms me none the less.\"\n\n\"I say to you again: if Jesus were indifferent to you, it would be just\nthe same to you, to consume or not to consume the sacred species.\"\n\n\"All that does not convince me,\" sighed Durtal. \"I do not know where I\nam; I am afraid of a confessor, of others, of myself; it is foolish, but\nit is stronger than I. I cannot gain the upper hand.\"\n\n\"You are afraid of the water; imitate Gribouille, throw yourself in\nboldly; look, suppose I write to La Trappe this very day to say you are\ncoming; when?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Durtal, \"wait a while.\"\n\n\"To get an answer, we need two days each way; will you go there five\ndays hence?\"\n\nAnd, as Durtal was astounded and silent,\n\n\"Is that settled?\"\n\nThen, at that moment, Durtal had a strange experience, as often at St.\nSeverin, a sort of caressing touch and gentle push; he felt a will\ninsinuate itself into his own, and he drew back disquieted at seeing he\nhad a double self, to find he was no longer alone in the depth of his\nbeing; then he was inexplicably reassured, and gave himself up, and as\nsoon as he had said \"Yes\" he felt immensely relieved; then passing from\none extreme to the other, he was troubled at the idea that his departure\ncould not take place at once, and was sorry that he had still to pass\nfive days in Paris.\n\nThe abbe laughed. \"But the Trappists must have notice, it is a simple\nformality, for with a word from me, you will be received at once, but\nwait at least until I have sent this word; I will post it this evening,\nso have no anxiety, and sleep in peace.\"\n\nDurtal in his turn laughed at his own impatience. \"You must think me\nvery ridiculous,\" he said.\n\nThe priest shrugged his shoulders. \"Come, you asked me about my little\nmonastery; I must try to satisfy you. It is very small, if compared with\nthe grande Trappe at Soligny, or the establishments at Sept Fonds,\nMeilleray or Aiguebelle, for there are only about ten choir fathers, and\nabout thirty lay brothers or 'conversi.' There are also a certain number\nof peasants who work with them, and help them to till their land, and\nmake their chocolate.\"\n\n\"They make chocolate!\"\n\n\"That surprises you. How do you think they live? Ah! I warn you, you are\nnot going into a sumptuous monastery.\"\n\n\"I like it so. But in regard to the stories of La Trappe, I suppose the\nmonks do not greet each other with 'Brother, we must die,' and that they\ndo not dig their graves every morning?\"\n\n\"All that is false. They take no trouble about their graves, and they\nsalute each other silently, since they are forbidden to speak.\"\n\n\"Then what am I to do if I need anything?\"\n\n\"The abbot, the confessor, and the guest-master have the right of\nconversing with the guests, you will have to do with them alone; the\nothers will bow when you meet them, but if you speak to them they will\nnot answer.\"\n\n\"It is well to know that. What is their dress?\"\n\n\"Before the foundation of Citeaux, the Benedictines wore, or so it is\nsupposed, the black habit of Saint Benedict; the Benedictines properly\nso-called wear it still, but at Citeaux the colour was changed, and the\nTrappists, who are a twig of this branch, have adopted the white robe of\nSaint Bernard.\"\n\n\"Pray pardon all these questions, which must seem childish, but since I\nam about to visit these monks, I ought to be in some measure acquainted\nwith the customs of their order.\"\n\n\"I am wholly at your disposition,\" replied the abbe.\n\nDurtal asked him about the situation of the abbey itself, and he\nreplied,\n\n\"The present monastery dates from the eighteenth century, but you will\nsee in the gardens the ruins of the old cloister, which was built in the\ntime of Saint Bernard. In the Middle Ages there was a succession of\nBlessed in this convent; it is a truly sanctified land, fit for\nmeditation and regret.\n\n\"The abbey is situated at the bottom of a valley, according to the\norders of Saint Bernard; for you know that if Saint Benedict loved the\nhills, Saint Bernard sought the low and moist plains wherein to found\nhis convents. An old Latin line has preserved the different tastes of\nthese two saints:\n\n     \"'Bernardus valles, colles Benedictus amabat.'\"\n\n\"Was it on account of his own personal liking, or for a pious end, that\nSaint Bernard built his hermitages in unwholesome and flat places?\"\n\n\"In order that his monks, whose health was enfeebled by the fogs, might\nhave constantly before their eyes the salutary image of death.\"\n\n\"The deuce he did!\"\n\n\"I may add at once that the valley in which Notre Dame de l'Atre rises\nis now drained, and the air is very pure. You will stroll by delightful\nponds, and I may recommend you, on the borders of the enclosure, an\navenue of secular chestnuts, where you may take some refreshing walks\nat daybreak.\"\n\nAnd after a silence the Abbe Gevresin continued,--\n\n\"Walk there a good deal, traverse the woods in all directions; the\nforests will tell you more about your soul than books: 'Aliquid amplius\ninvenies in sylvis quam in libris,' wrote Saint Bernard--'pray and your\ndays will seem short.'\"\n\nDurtal went away from the priest's house comforted, almost joyful; he\nfelt at least the solace of a fixed decision, a resolution taken at\nlast. He said to himself that the only thing now to be done was to\nprepare himself as best he could for the retreat, and he prayed and went\nto bed for the first time for months with his mind at rest.\n\nBut next day, when he woke, his mood changed, all his preconceived\nideas, all his fears returned; he asked himself if his conversion were\nripe enough to allow him to cut it separate, and carry it to La Trappe;\nthe fear of a confessor, the dread of the unknown, assailed him afresh.\n\"I was wrong to have answered so soon,\" and he asked himself, \"Why did I\nsay 'yes'?\" The recollection of this word pronounced by his lips,\nconceived by a will which was still his own and yet other than his, came\nback to his mind. \"It is not the first time that such a thing happened\nto me,\" he thought, \"I have already experienced when alone in the\nchurches unexpected counsels, silent orders, and it must be admitted\nthat it is terrifying to feel this infusion into self of an invisible\nbeing, and to know that he can, if he choose, almost turn you out of the\ndomain of your personality.\n\n\"But no, it is not that, there is no substitution of an exterior will to\none's own, for one's free will is absolutely intact; neither is it one\nof those irresistible impulses endured by certain sick persons, for\nnothing is more easy than to resist it; it is still less a suggestion,\nsince, in this case, there are no magnetic passes, no somnambulism\ninduced, no hypnotism; no, it is the irresistible entrance into oneself\nof a strange will, the sudden intrusion of a precise and discreet\ndesire, a pressure on the soul at once firm and gentle. Ah! again I am\nincorrect, and play the fool, but nothing can describe that close\npressure, which vanishes at the least movement of impatience--it is felt\nbut cannot be expressed.\n\n\"Its introduction is always attended by surprise, almost with anguish,\nsince it does not make use of even an interior voice to make itself\nheard, and is formulated without the aid of words, all is blotted out,\nthe breath which has thrilled you disappears. You would wish that this\nincitement should be confirmed, that the phenomenon should be repeated\nin order to be more closely observed, to try to analyze it and\nunderstand it, when lo! it is gone; you remain alone with yourself, are\nfree not to obey, your will is unfettered and you know it, but you know\nalso that if you reject these invitations you take on yourself\nunspeakable risks for the future.\n\n\"In fact,\" pursued Durtal, \"it is an angelic influx, a divine touch,\nsomething analogous to the interior voice so well known by the mystics,\nbut it is less complete, less precise, and yet it is quite as certain.\"\n\nHe ended his dreams concluding, \"I am consumed and collared by myself,\nbefore being able to answer this priest, whose arguments would scarce\npersuade me, unless I had had this help, this unexpected succour.\n\n\"But then, since I am thus led by the hand, what have I to fear?\"\n\nHe feared all the same, and could not be at peace with himself; then if\nhe profited by the comfort of a decision, he was consumed for the moment\nby the expectation of his departure.\n\nHe tried to kill time in reading, but he had to admit once more that he\ncould not expect consolation from any book. None came even distantly\ninto relation with his state of mind. High Mysticism was so little\nhuman, soared at such heights far from our mire, that no sovereign aid\ncould be expected from it. He ended by falling back on the \"Imitation,\"\nin which Mysticism, placed within the reach of the crowd, was like a\ntrembling and plaintive friend who stanched your wounds within the cells\nof its chapters, prayed and wept with you, and in any case\ncompassionated the desolate widowhood of souls.\n\nUnfortunately, Durtal had read so much, and was so saturated with the\nGospels, that he had temporarily exhausted their sedative and soothing\nvirtues. Tired of reading, he again began his courses in the churches.\n\"And suppose the Trappists will not have me,\" he thought, \"what will\nbecome of me?\"\n\n\"But I tell you that they will receive you,\" said the abbe, whom he went\nto see. He was not easy till the day the priest handed him the answer\nfrom La Trappe.\n\nHe read:--\n\n     \"We will receive with pleasure, for a week, in our guest-house the\n     retreatant whom you wish to commend to us, and I do not see at the\n     moment any reason why the retreat should not begin next Tuesday.\n\n     \"In the hope, Monsieur l'Abbe, that we shall also have the pleasure\n     of seeing you again in our solitude, I beg to assure you that I am\n     yours most respectfully,\n\n     \"F. M. ETIENNE,\n     \"_Guestmaster._\"\n\nHe read and re-read it, at once delighted and terrified. \"There is no\nfurther doubt; it is irrevocable,\" he said, and he went at once in haste\nto St. Severin, having less need of prayer than of going near to Our\nLady; of showing himself to her, paying her, as it were, a visit of\nthankfulness, and expressing his gratitude by his very presence.\n\nHe was taken by the charms of that church, its silence, the shadow which\nfell on the apse, from the height of its palm trees of stone, and he\nended by caring for nothing and sinking on a chair, filled with one sole\ndesire, not to enter again on the life of the streets, never to leave\nhis refuge, never to move.\n\nThe next day, which was a Sunday, he went to the Benedictine nuns to\nhear High Mass. A black monk celebrated; he recognized a Benedictine\nwhen the priest chanted \"Dominous vobiscoum,\" for the Abbe Gevresin had\ntold him that the Benedictines pronounced Latin like Italian.\n\nThough he was not inclined to like that pronunciation which took away\nfrom Latin the sonorous tones of its words, and turned after a fashion\nthe phrases of that tongue into a ring of bells with their clappers\nmuffled or their vases stuffed with tow, he let himself go, taken hold\nof by the unction, by the humble piety of the monk, who almost trembled\nwith reverence and joy when he kissed the altar, and he had a deep\nvoice, to which, behind the grating, answered the clear high voices of\nthe nuns.\n\nDurtal panted, listening to the fluid pictures of the Early Masters\nsketch and form and paint themselves on the air; he was affected to his\nvery marrow, as he had formerly been during High Mass at St. Severin. He\nhad lost that emotion now in that church, where the flower of melody had\nfaded for him since he knew the Benedictine plain song, and he now found\nit again, or rather he took it with him from St. Severin to this chapel.\n\nAnd for the first time he had a wild desire, a desire so violent that it\nseemed to melt his heart.\n\nIt was at the moment of the Communion. The monk, elevating the Host,\nuttered the \"Domine non sum dignus.\" Pale, with drawn features,\nsorrowful eyes, and serious mouth, he seemed to have escaped from a\nmonastery of the Middle Ages, cut out of one of those Flemish pictures\nwhere the monks are standing in the background, while, before them, nuns\nare praying on their knees with joined hands, near the donors, to the\nchild Jesus on whom the Virgin smiles, while lowering her long lashes\nunder her arching brow.\n\nAnd while he descended the steps and communicated two women, Durtal\ntrembled, and his desires went forth towards the ciborium.\n\nIt seemed to him that if he were nourished on that Bread, there would be\nan end of all his dryness and all his fears; it would seem to him that\nthe wall of his sins, higher and higher from year to year, and now\nbarring his view, would roll away, and at last he would see. And he was\nin haste to set off for La Trappe, that he too might receive the Sacred\nBody from the hands of a monk.\n\nThat mass gave him new strength like a tonic, he came out of the chapel\njoyful and firmer, and when the impression grew somewhat feebler in the\ncourse of hours, he remained perhaps less affected, but still resolute,\njoking in the evening with a gentle melancholy about his condition:\n\"There are many people who go to Bareges or Vichy to cure their bodies,\nand why should not I go and cure my soul in a Trappist monastery?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\n\"I shall make myself a prisoner in two days,\" sighed Durtal; \"it is time\nto think about packing. What books shall I take to help me to live down\nthere?\"\n\nHe searched his library, and turned over the mystical books, which had,\nby degrees, replaced profane works on the shelves.\n\n\"I will not talk of Saint Teresa,\" he thought; \"neither she, nor Saint\nJohn of the Cross, would be indulgent enough to me in solitude; I have\nneed of more pardon and consolation.\"\n\n\"Saint Denys the Areopagite, or the apocryphal book known under that\nname? He is the first of the Mystics, and perhaps has gone the furthest\nin his theological definitions. He lives in the rarefied air of the\nmountain tops, above the gulfs, on the threshold of the other world\nwhich he sees in part by flashes of grace, and he remains lucid,\nundazzled in the blaze of light around him.\n\n\"It seems that in his 'Celestial Hierarchies,' in which he brings out in\nprocession the armies of heaven, and shows the meaning of angelic\nattributes and symbols, he has already passed the limits assigned to\nman, and yet in his 'Divine Names' he ventures even a step further, and\nthen he raises himself into the super-essence of metaphysics at once\ncalm and stern.\n\n\"He over-heats the human word to give it greater force, but when after\nall his efforts he endeavours to define the Indescribable, to\ndistinguish those never to be confounded Persons of the Trinity who in\ntheir plurality never lose their unity, words fail on his lips, and his\ntongue is paralyzed under his pen; then tranquilly and without any\nastonishment he makes himself again a child, comes down from those\nheights among us, and in order to try and explain to us what he\nunderstands, he has recourse to comparisons with domestic life; and that\nhe may explain the Trinity in Unity he notices how, if many torches be\nlighted in one hall, lights, though distinct, mingle in one, and are in\nfact no more than one.\n\n\"Saint Denys,\" thought Durtal, \"is one of the boldest explorers of the\neternal regions, but he would be dry reading at La Trappe.\"\n\n\"Ruysbroeck?\" he thought--\"perhaps, and yet I hardly am sure--I might put\nhim in my bag as well as for a cordial the little collection distilled\nby Hello; as for the Spiritual Marriages, so well translated by\nMaeterlinck, they are disconnected and obscure, they stifle me, this\nRuysbroeck oppresses me less. This hermit is singular, all the same, for\nhe does not enter into us, but rather goes round about us; he\nendeavours, like Saint Denys, to arrive at God, rather in heaven than in\nthe soul, but in wishing to take such a flight, he strains his wings,\nand stammers incomprehensibly when he comes down.\n\n\"We will leave him behind, then. Now let us see. Saint Catherine of\nGenoa? Her discussions between the soul, the body, and self-love are\nunmeaning and confused, and when in her 'Dialogues,' she treats of the\noperations of the interior life, she is greatly below Saint Teresa and\nSaint Angela. On the other hand her Treatise on Purgatory is clear. It\ndeclares that she alone has penetrated into the spaces of unknown\nsorrows, and that she has disentangled and taken hold of the joys; she\nhas in fact succeeded in reconciling two contraries which seemed\neternally repugnant; the suffering of the soul in its purification from\nsin, and the joy of the same soul, which at the very moment it is\nenduring frightful torment experiences immense happiness, for little by\nlittle it draws near to God, and feels His rays attract it more and\nmore, and His love inundate it with such excess, that it would seem the\nSaviour desires nought but only it.\n\n\"Saint Catherine sets forth also that Jesus forbids heaven to none, that\nit is the soul herself who, deeming herself unworthy to attain it,\nflings herself by her own motion into Purgatory there to cleanse\nherself, for she has only one end, to re-establish herself in her\nprimitive purity, only one desire, to attain her last end, by\ndestroying herself, annihilating herself, losing herself in God.\n\n\"This is a conclusive study,\" murmured Durtal, \"but not that which would\nlead to La Trappe. We must try again.\"\n\nHe touched other volumes in the book-cases.\n\n\"Here, for instance, is one which obviously I should use,\" he went on,\nas he took down the \"Seraphic Theology\" of Saint Bonaventure, \"for he\ncondenses the means of self-examination, of meditation for communion, of\nthoughts on death, then in these 'Selections' is a treatise on the\nContempt of the World, whose terse phrases are admirable; it is the true\nessence of the Holy Spirit, a jelly of unction firm set--we will put\nthat on one side.\n\n\"I shall hardly find a better help to remedy the probable weariness of\nsolitude,\" murmured Durtal, turning over new ranks of volumes. He looked\nat the titles. \"The Life of the Blessed Virgin,\" by M. Olier.\n\nHe hesitated, saying to himself, \"Under a style which is like water with\nscarcely the chill off, there are some interesting observations, some\ntasteful comments. M. Olier has in a way traversed the mysterious\nterritory of hidden designs, and has there discovered the unimaginable\ntruths which the Lord is sometimes pleased to reveal to His saints. He\nhas made himself the liege-man of Our Lady, and living near her has made\nhimself also the herald of her attributes, the legate of her graces. His\nLife of Mary is certainly the only one which seems really inspired and\nis possible to read. Where the abbess of Agreda wanders, he alone\nremains vigorous and clear. He shows us the Virgin existing from all\neternity in God, conceiving without ceasing to be immaculate, like the\ncrystal which receives and reflects the rays of the sun, yet loses\nnothing of its lustre, and indeed shines with greater brightness,\nbringing forth without pain, but suffering at the death of her Son the\npangs she would have borne at His birth. Then he gives us learned\ndissertations on Her whom he calls the Treasure-house of all good, the\nMediatrix of love and impetration. Yes, but to converse with Her nothing\nis so good as the 'Officium parvum beatae Virginis,' and that,\" concluded\nDurtal, \"I will put in my bag with my Prayer-book; we will not disturb\nM. Olier's volume.\"\n\n\"My stock begins to give out,\" he continued. \"Angela of Foligno?\nCertainly she is a brasier at which one may warm one's soul. I will take\nher with me. What more--Tauler's Sermons? I am tempted to do so, for\nnever has any treated better than this monk the most abstruse subjects\nwith a more perfectly lucid mind. By aid of familiar images, humble\nanalogies, he has rendered accessible the highest speculations of\nMysticism. He is homely and deep, then he borrows a little from\nquietism, and, perhaps, it will be no bad thing to absorb, down there, a\nfew drops of that mixture. Yet on the whole, no; I have rather need of\nnerve tonics. As to Suso, he is a remedy far inferior to Saint\nBonaventure, or Saint Angela. I put aside also Saint Bridget of Sweden,\nfor in her conversations with heaven she seems aided by a God morose and\ntired, who reveals to her nothing unexpected, nothing new.\n\n\"There is also Saint Magdalen of Pazzi, that voluble Carmelite whose\nwork is a series of apostrophes. An exclamatory person, clever at\nanalogies, expert in coincidences, a saint infatuated with metaphors and\nhyperboles. She talks directly with God the Father, and stammers out in\necstasy explanations of the mysteries revealed to her by the Ancient of\ndays. Her books contain one sovereign page on the Circumcision, another\nmagnificent one, entirely made up of antitheses, on the Holy Spirit,\nothers, very strange, on the deification of the human soul, on its union\nwith heaven, and on the part assigned in this operation to the wounds of\nthe Word.\n\n\"These are inhabited nests; the eagle which is the symbol of Faith\nresides in the eyrie of the left foot; in the hole of the right foot\nresides the melancholy sweetness of the turtle-doves; in the wound of\nthe left hand the dove ensconces herself, the symbol of surrender, and\nin the cavity of the right hand reposes the pelican, the emblem of love.\n\n\"These birds leave their nests and come to seek the soul that they may\nlead it to the nuptial chamber of the wound which bleeds in the side of\nChrist.\n\n\"Was it not also that Carmelite nun who, ravished by the power of grace,\ndespised so greatly the certitude acquired by the way of the senses, as\nto say to the Lord: 'If I saw Thee with mine eyes, I should have Faith\nno more, because Faith ceases where evidence comes in'?\n\n\"All things considered,\" he said; \"Magdalen of Pazzi, with her dialogues\nand contemplations, opens eloquent horizons, but the soul, snared in the\nbird-lime of its sins, cannot follow her. No; this saint cannot reassure\nme in the cloister.\n\n\"Ah!\" he went on, shaking the dust from a volume in a grey cover; \"ah!\nit is true I have The Precious Blood, of Father Faber.\" And he began to\ndream as he turned over its pages where he stood.\n\nHe remembered the impression, till now forgotten, produced on him when\nhe read it. The work of this Oratorian was at least strange. The pages\nboiled over, ran forth tumultuously, carrying with them grandiose\nvisions, such as Hugo conceived, developing historical perspectives such\nas Michelet loved to paint. In this volume was seen advancing the solemn\nprocession of the Precious Blood, starting from the confines of\nhumanity, from the origin of the ages, and it broke the bounds of the\nworlds, overwhelmed the nations, submerged history.\n\nFather Faber was less a mystic, properly so-called, than a visionary and\na poet; in spite of the abuse of rhetoric transferred from the pulpit to\na book, he tore up souls by roots, carried them away on the rush of the\nstream, but when one regained footing, and sought to remember what had\nbeen heard and seen, one could recall nothing; on reflection one\nrecognized that the theme of the work was very thin, too slender to have\nbeen executed by so noisy an orchestra, and there remained of that\nreading something distracting and feverish which made you uneasy, and\nmade you think that this kind of book had only very distant relation to\nthe heavenly fulness of the great mystics.\n\n\"No, not that,\" thought Durtal. \"Now what have we selected? I keep the\nlittle collection of Ruysbroeck, the Life of Angela of Foligno, and Saint\nBonaventure, and the best of all for my state of soul,\" he said,\nstriking his forehead. He went back to his book-case, and seized a\nlittle book, which lay alone in a corner.\n\nHe sat down, and turned it over, saying, \"Here is the tonic, the\nstimulant in weakness, the strychnine for failure of Faith, the goad\nwhich drives you in tears to the feet of Christ, the 'Dolorous Passion'\nof Sister Emmerich.\"\n\nShe was no chemist of the spiritual being, like Saint Teresa; she had\nnothing to do with our interior life; in her book she forgot herself,\nand left us on one side, for she saw only Jesus crucified, and wished\nonly to show the stages of His agony, and to leave marked on her pages,\nas on the veil of Veronica, the imprint of the Holy Face.\n\nThough she was of our time, for Catherine Emmerich died in 1824, this\ngreat work dates from the Middle Ages. It is a picture which seems to\nbelong to the early schools of Franconia and Swabia. This woman was the\nsister of the Zeitbloms and the Gruenewalds, she had their clear visions,\ntheir vivid colouring, their wild scent; but she seemed to bring back\nalso, by her care for exact detail, by her precise indication of places,\nthe old Flemish Masters, Roger Van der Weyden and Bouts; she united in\nherself two currents, springing one from Germany, the other from\nFlanders, and this painting brushed in with blood, and varnished with\ntears, was transposed by her into a prose style which has no relation to\nany known literature, of which we can only find by analogy the ancestry\nin the panels of the fifteenth century.\n\nMoreover, she was quite illiterate, had never read a book, nor seen a\npainting; she told quite plainly what she saw in her ecstasies.\n\nThe pictures of the Passion unfolded themselves before her while she was\nbed-ridden, crushed by suffering, bleeding from the wounds of her\nstigmata; she mourned and wept, brought to nothingness by love and pity,\nbefore the torments of Christ.\n\nAccording to her words, which a scribe took down, Calvary rose, and the\nwhole rascaldom of the soldiers rushed at the Saviour and spat on Him;\nfrightful episodes took place where Jesus, chained to a pillar, twisting\nlike a worm, under the lashes of the scourgers, then falling, looking\nwith His failing eyes, at the fallen women who held Him by the hand, and\nturned away in disgust from His lacerated body, from His face covered\nwith threads of blood as with a red net.\n\nThen slowly, patiently, only stopping to sob, and cry for mercy, she\ndescribed the soldiers tearing away the stuff which had stuck to the\nwounds, the Virgin weeping; her face livid and her lips blue, she\nrelated the agony of His bearing His Cross, how He fell on His knees,\ngrew weaker and more worn when death came.\n\nIt was a frightful spectacle, told in its every particular, forming a\nsublime and frightful whole. The Redeemer was extended on a cross laid\non the ground, one of the executioners placed a knee against His side,\nwhile another spread His fingers abroad, and a third hammered in a\nflat-headed nail as broad as a crown, and so long that the point came\nout behind the wood. And when the right hand was riveted the torturers\nsaw that the left would not reach to the place they intended to pierce,\ntherefore they attached a rope to the arm, pulled it with all their\nforce, dislocated the shoulder, and the cries of the Saviour were heard\nabove the blows of the hammer, His breast was seen heaving, while His\nbody was anguished and furrowed by terrible shuddering.\n\nThe same scene was repeated to fix His feet. They also did not reach the\nplace which the executioners had marked. The body had to be tied and the\narms bound so as not to tear the hands from the wood, and then it was\nnecessary to hang on the legs so as to lengthen them as far as the\nbracket on which they were to rest; all at once the entire body yielded,\nthe ribs moved under the skin; the shock was so fearful, that the\nexecutioners believed that the bones would start, and burst the flesh,\nwherefore they made haste to rest the left foot on the right, but their\ndifficulties began again, the feet turned over, and it was necessary to\nbore them with an auger to fasten them.\n\nThis continued till Jesus died, when Sister Emmerich fainted from\nterror, her stigmata bled afresh, and her wounded head rained blood.\n\nIn this book the whole pack of Jewish hounds was seen in full cry, the\nimprecations and shouts of the crowd were heard, the Virgin was shown\ntrembling with fever, the Magdalen, beyond herself, was terrible by her\ncries, and towering above this lamentable group, Christ appeared, pale\nand swollen, His legs entangled in His robe, when He mounted to Golgotha\nclenching His broken nails on the cross as it slipped from His grasp.\n\nThis extraordinary visionary, Catherine Emmerich, also described the\nsurroundings of these scenes, the landscapes of Judaea, which she had\nnever visited, but have since been recognized as exact; without knowing\nit, without willing it, this illiterate woman became an unique and\npowerful artist.\n\n\"Wonderful visionary, wonderful painter,\" cried Durtal, \"and also\nwonderful saint,\" he added, running over the life of this nun, placed as\na preface to the book.\n\nShe was born in 1774, in the diocese of Muenster, the child of poor\npeasants. From her infancy she had conversations with the Virgin, and\npossessed the gift which also was given to Saint Sibylline of Pavia, Ida\nof Louvain, and more recently to Louise Lateau, of discerning, when she\nlooked at, or touched them, objects which had been blessed from those\nwhich had not. She entered, as a novice, the Augustinian convent at\nDulmen, made her profession when she was twenty-nine; her health failed\nand incessant pain tortured her, which she increased, for, like Blessed\nLidwine, she obtained from Heaven permission to suffer for others, and\nsuccour the sick by taking their maladies. In 1811, under the government\nof Jerome Bonaparte, King of Westphalia, the convent was suppressed and\nthe nuns dispersed. Infirm and penniless, she was carried to a room in\nan inn where she had to bear every sort of curiosity and insult. Christ\nadded to her martyrdom in giving her the stigmata for which she asked;\nshe could neither rise, nor walk, nor sit, could take no food but the\njuice of a cherry, but she was transported by long ecstasies. In these\nshe visited Palestine, following the Saviour step by step, dictated with\ngroans this fond book, then said with her death-rattle, \"Let me die in\nshame with Jesus on the Cross,\" and died overwhelmed with joy, thanking\nHeaven for the life of suffering she had endured.\n\n\"Ah, yes; I will take the 'Dolorous Passion!'\" cried Durtal to himself.\n\n\"Take the Gospels also,\" said the abbe, who came in meanwhile; \"they are\nthe heavenly phials from which you will draw the oil you need to dress\nyour wounds.\"\n\n\"It will be equally useful, and truly in accordance with the atmosphere\nof La Trappe, to be able to read in the abbey itself the works of Saint\nBernard, but they consist of unmanageable folios, and the abridgments\nand extracts in volumes of a more convenient form are so ill-chosen,\nthat I have never had the courage to buy them.\"\n\n\"They have Saint Bernard at La Trappe, and will lend you the volumes if\nyou ask them; but where are you from the spiritual point of view? How\nare you getting on?\"\n\n\"I am melancholy, badly prepared and resigned. I cannot tell if\nweariness has come from my turning always on the same round, like a\ncircus horse, but at this moment I am not suffering. I am persuaded that\nthis change of place is necessary, and that it would be useless to\nhesitate. All the same,\" he said, after a silence, \"it is very odd that\nI am going to imprison myself in a monastery, and in truth, in spite of\nmyself, that astonishes me.\"\n\n\"I will admit,\" said the abbe, laughing, \"that when I first met you at\nTocane's, I never thought I was pointed out to direct you to a\nmonastery; ah, you see I must evidently belong to that category of\npeople whom I may call mere bridges, involuntary brokers of souls who\nare imposed on you for a certain end which you do not suspect, and of\nwhich even themselves are ignorant.\"\n\n\"Rather, if any one were a mere bridge in this matter,\" answered Durtal,\n\"it was Tocane, for it was he who brought us together, and we kick him\naway as soon as he has finished his unconscious task; it was evidently\ndesigned that we should know each other.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" said the abbe, with a smile; \"now I do not suppose I\nshall see you again before you start, for I go to-morrow to Macon, where\nI shall stay five days, time to see my nephews and to sign some law\npapers: at any rate keep up your courage, and do not forget to send me\nnews of yourself. Write to me without much delay, that I may find your\nletter when I return to Paris.\"\n\nAnd as Durtal thanked him for his constant kindness, he took his hand\nand held it in his own.\n\n\"Say nothing about that,\" he said; \"you have only to thank Him, whose\nfatherly impatience has broken the obstinate slumber of your Faith; you\nowe thanks to God only.\n\n\"Thank Him in getting rid of your nature as soon as possible, and\nleaving the house of your conscience empty for Him. The more you die to\nyourself the better will He live in you. Prayer is the most powerful\nascetic means by which you can renounce yourself, empty yourself and\nrender yourself humble in this matter; pray therefore without ceasing at\nLa Trappe. Implore our Lady especially, for like myrrh which consumes\nthe proud flesh of wounds, she heals the ulcers of the soul; I on my\nside will pray for you as best I can; you can thus in your weakness\nlean, so as not to fall, on that firm and protecting pillar of prayer of\nwhich Saint Teresa speaks. Once again, a safe journey to you; we shall\nmeet soon again, my son, good-bye.\"\n\nDurtal remained much disturbed. \"It is most tiresome,\" he thought, \"that\nthis priest is leaving Paris before me, for indeed if I have need of\nspiritual help or counsel, to whom shall I go? It is clearly written\nthat I must end as I have begun, alone, but ... but ... solitude under\nthese conditions is alarming. I am no spoilt child, whatever the abbe\nmay say.\"\n\nNext morning Durtal awoke ill; furious neuralgia bored his temples like\na gimlet; he tried to stop it with antipyrine, but this medicine in a\nlarge dose put his stomach out of order without abating the strokes of\nthe machine which penetrated his skull. He wandered about his rooms,\nchanging from one seat to another, coiling himself up in an arm-chair,\ngetting up to lie down again, jumping from his bed in fits of sickness,\nupsetting his furniture from time to time.\n\nHe could assign no precise cause for this attack; he had slept his fill,\nand had not exceeded in any way the night before.\n\nHe thought, with his head in his hands, \"There are still two days\ncounting to-day before I leave Paris, and very fit I am for it! I shall\nnot be in a state to travel by train, and if I travel, the food at La\nTrappe will finish me.\"\n\nHe had a minute's comfort from the idea that through no fault of his own\nhe might perhaps avoid his painful duty, and remain at home; but the\nreaction was immediate; he understood that if he did not go, he was\nlost; the vacillation of his soul had become chronic, the crisis of\ndisgust of self, the acute regret of an effort consented to with pain,\nand suddenly missed, the certainty that it would only be postponed for a\ntime, that he would have to pass again through alternations of revolt\nand terror, and begin again to fight with himself for conviction.\n\n\"Admitting that I am not in a state to travel, I have always the\nresource of making my confession to the abbe when he returns, and of\ncommunicating in Paris,\" he thought, but he shook his head, saying to\nhimself once more that he felt and knew that was not his duty. \"But\nthen,\" he said to God: \"since Thou dost implant this idea in me so\nviolently that I cannot even discuss it, in spite of its entire common\nsense--for after all it is not necessary to immure myself in a Trappist\nmonastery in order to reconcile myself to Thee--then let me go!\"\n\nAnd he spoke to God quietly.\n\n\"My soul is an evil place, sordid and infamous; till now it has loved\nonly perverse ways; it has exacted from my wretched body the tithe of\nillicit pleasures and unholy joys, it is worth little, it is worth\nnothing, and yet down there near Thee, if Thou wilt succour me, I think\nthat I shall subdue it, but if my body be sick, I cannot force it to\nobey me; this is worse than all, I am disarmed if Thou do not come to my\naid.\n\n\"Take count of this, O Lord; I know by experience that when I am\nill-fed, I have neuralgia; humanly, logically speaking, I am certain to\nbe horribly ill at Notre Dame de l'Atre; nevertheless, if I can get\nabout at all, the day after to-morrow, I will go all the same.\n\n\"In default of love, this is the sole proof I can give that I truly\ndesire Thee, that truly I hope and believe in Thee, but then, O Lord,\naid me.\"\n\nHe added sadly, \"Ah! indeed I am no Lidwine or Catherine Emmerich, who\nwhen Thou didst strike them cried out, More, more!--Thou dost scarce\ntouch me, and I protest; but what wouldest Thou? Thou dost know better\nthan I; physical suffering breaks me down, drives me to despair.\"\n\nHe went to sleep at last to kill the day in bed; slumbering to wake\nagain suddenly from frightful nightmares.\n\nThe next day his head seemed empty and his heart feeble, but his\nneuralgia was less violent. He rose, saying to himself that he must eat,\nthough he was not hungry, for fear his pain should return. He went out\nand wandered in the Luxembourg, saying to himself that he must arrange\nhis time, that after breakfast he would visit St. Severin, then he would\ngo home and pack, and afterwards finish the day at Notre Dame des\nVictoires.\n\nThe walk did him good, his head was lighter, and his heart free. He went\ninto a restaurant, where because of the early hour nothing was ready; he\nspent the time before a newspaper, on a bench. How often he had held\npapers thus without reading them, how many evenings he had waited in\ncafes with his nose in an article, thinking of other matters, at those\ntimes especially when he was striving with his vices; when Florence\nappeared to him, still keeping the clear smile of a little girl on her\nway to school, her eyes cast down, her hands in the pockets of her\napron.\n\nSuddenly the child changed into a ghoul who whirled round him wildly,\nand made him silently understand the horror of his desires....\n\nAll that was now far distant; almost in one day the charm was broken,\nwithout any real strife or true effort, without inward struggles; he had\nabstained from seeing her, and now when she roused his memory again she\nwas no more in fact than a recollection odious and sweet.\n\n\"After all,\" thought Durtal, as he cut up his beefsteak, \"I wonder what\nshe thinks of me; she must certainly suppose me dead or lost; happily I\nhave never met her, and she does not know my address.\n\n\"Well,\" he went on, \"there is no use in stirring the mud, it will be\ntime to cleanse it when I am at La Trappe,\" and he shuddered, for the\nidea of the confessor again took root in him, and he was obliged to tell\nhimself for the twentieth time that the expected never happens, and to\ndeclare that he should find some good fellow of a monk who would listen\nto him; then he was afraid again, putting things at their worst, and\nfancying himself turned out, like a mangy dog.\n\nHe finished his breakfast, and went to St. Severin; there the crisis\ndeclared itself, the overcharged soul gave way, struck down by a\ncongestion of sadness.\n\nHe lay on a chair in such a state of depression that he could think no\nmore, he remained inert without the power of suffering, till little by\nlittle the soul, recovered from its torpor, came to itself in a flood of\ntears.\n\nThese tears gave him solace; he wept over his lot, thought himself so\nunhappy, so worthy of pity, that he hoped still more for help, yet he\ndare not address himself to Christ, whom he thought less accessible, but\nhe spoke in low tones to the Virgin, murmuring that prayer in which\nSaint Bernard reminds the Mother of Christ that never in human memory\nwas it heard that she abandoned any of those who sought her aid.\n\nHe left St. Severin, consoled and more resolved, and, when once at home,\nwas taken up with preparations for departure. Afraid that he would find\nnothing he wanted down there, he determined to stuff his portmanteau\nfull; he crammed into the corners sugar, packets of chocolate, that he\nmight try to deceive if needful the anguish of a fasting stomach, took\ntowels thinking there would be few at La Trappe, prepared a stock of\ntobacco and matches; then besides books, paper, pencils, ink, packets of\nantipyrine, a phial of laudanum, which he wrapped in handkerchiefs and\nwedged into his slippers.\n\nWhen he had strapped his portmanteau, he said to himself, looking at the\nclock: \"To-morrow at this time I shall be jolting in a cab, and my\nseclusion will be near at hand; never mind, I shall do well, in\nanticipation of bodily ailment, to ask for the confessor as soon as I\nget there, and suppose that turns out badly, I shall have time to make\narrangements and take the train back at once.\n\n\"All the same this will not prevent my having a wretched moment this\nevening when I enter Notre Dame des Victoires,\" but his anxieties and\nemotions vanished when the hour of Benediction came. He was seized by\nthe giddy infection of the church, and he wrapped, steeped, and lost\nhimself in the prayer which arose from all those souls, in the chant\nwhich went up from every mouth, and when the monstrance was brought\nforward to make its sign in the air, he felt a vast peace descend upon\nhim.\n\nAt evening as he undressed he sighed: \"To-morrow I shall lie down in a\ncell, amazing when I think of it! I should have considered anyone mad,\nwho, a few years ago, had prophesied that I should take refuge in a\nTrappist monastery; yet now I am going there of my own accord, and yet\nno, I am going driven by an unknown power, I am going as a whipped cur.\n\n\"After all, what a symptom of the time it is! Society must indeed be\nunclean, if God has no longer the right to be hard, and is reduced to\npick up what He finds, and to content Himself with gathering to Himself\npeople like me!\"\n\n\n\n\nSECOND PART.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nDurtal awoke, gay and brisk, astonished at not hearing himself groan,\nwhen the moment had come in which he should set off for La Trappe; he\nwas wonderfully reassured. He tried to recollect himself, and to pray,\nbut he felt his thoughts more scattered and wandering than usual; he\nremained indifferent and unmoved. Surprised at this result, he tried to\nexamine himself, and touched the void; he was slack that morning, in one\nof those sudden dispositions in which a man becomes a child again,\nincapable of attention, in which the wrong side of things disappears,\nand everything distracts.\n\nHe dressed hastily, got into a cab, was too early at the station; and\nthere experienced a perfectly childish attack of vanity. Looking at the\npeople who hurried through the waiting rooms, thronged the ticket\noffices, or resignedly followed their luggage, he was not far from\nadmiring himself. \"If these travellers who think only of their pleasures\nor their business, knew where I am going,\" he thought.\n\nThen he reproached himself for the stupidity of these reflections, and\nas soon as he was settled in his compartment, in which he chanced to be\nalone, he lighted a cigarette, saying to himself, \"Let us profit at\nleast by the time there is still for smoking,\" and he began to wander,\nto dream about the position of the monastery, and rove about the\nneighbourhood of La Trappe.\n\nHe remembered that a review had recently estimated the number of nuns\nand monks in France at two hundred thousand.\n\n\"Two hundred thousand persons, who, in such an epoch, have understood\nthe wickedness of the struggle for life, the filth of sexual relations,\nthe horror of lyings-in, those are they who save the honour of the\ncountry,\" he thought.\n\nThen, passing at a bound from cloistered souls to the treatises he had\nput in his portmanteau, he went on: \"It is, all the same, curious how\ncompletely the temperament of French art rebels against Mysticism!\n\n\"All exalted writers are foreigners. Saint Denys the Areopagite was a\nGreek; Eckhart, Tauler, Suso, Sister Emmerich, were Germans; Ruysbroeck\ncame from Flanders; Saint Teresa, Saint John of the Cross, Saint Marie\nd'Agreda, were Spaniards; Father Faber was English; Saint Bonaventure,\nAngela of Foligno, Magdalen of Pazzi, Catherine of Genoa, Jacopo de\nVoragine, were Italians....\n\n\"Ah!\" he said, struck by the last name he had cited, \"I ought to have\nbrought his Golden Legend in my bag; how was it I did not remember it,\nfor that book is, in fact, the very crowning work of the Middle Ages,\nthe stimulant for hours rendered languid by the prolonged uneasiness of\nfasting, the simple aid of pious vigils? For the most incredulous souls\nof our time, the Golden Legend at least still seems like one of those\npure parchments, on which simple illuminators painted the faces of\nsaints with gum water, or white of egg on golden backgrounds. Jacopo de\nVoragine is the Jehan Fouquet, the Andre Beaunevue, of literary\nminiature, of mystic prose!\n\n\"It is quite absurd to have forgotten that book, for it would have made\nme pass precious days, like those of old, in La Trappe.\n\n\"Yes, it is strange,\" he thought, returning on his thoughts, and coming\nback to his first idea; \"France can count religious authors, more or\nless celebrated, but very few mystical writers, properly so-called, and\nit is just the same also in painting. The true Early Masters are\nFlemish, German or Italian, none are French, for our Burgundian School\ndescended from the Flemish.\n\n\"No, it cannot be denied, the genius of our race cannot easily follow\nand explain how God acts when He works in the central depths of the\nsoul, which is the ovary of thought, the very source of conception; it\nis refractory at explaining, by the expressive power of words, the crash\nor the silence of grace; bursting forth in the domain which is wasted by\nsin, it is inapt at extracting from that secret world, works of\npsychology like those of Saint Teresa and Saint John of the Cross, works\nof art, like those of Voragine or Sister Emmerich.\n\n\"Besides that our field is scarcely arable, and our soil harsh, where\nshall we now find the labourer who sows and harrows it, who prepares not\neven a mystical harvest, but even any spiritual fruit, capable of\nassuaging the hunger of the few who stray and are lost, and fall from\ninanition in the icy desert of our time?\n\n\"He who should be the cultivator of that land, the farmer of souls, the\npriest, has not strength to clear the ground.\n\n\"The seminary has made him arbitrary and puerile, life outside has made\nhim lukewarm. Therefore it seems that God has withdrawn Himself from\nhim, and the proof of this is that He has taken away all ability from\nthe priesthood. There are no priests now who have talent, either in the\npulpit or in books; the laity have inherited that grace which was so\ncommon in the Church of the Middle Ages. Another example proves it still\nmore, priests make so few conversions. In these days the being who\npleases Heaven does without them, the Saviour Himself strikes him down,\nhandles him, works directly on him.\n\n\"The ignorance of the clergy, their want of education, their\nunintelligence of their surroundings, their dislike for Mysticism, their\nincomprehension of art, have taken away all their influence on the\naristocracy of souls. Their only action is now on the childish brains of\nbigots and pretenders; and this is no doubt providential; it is better\nso, for if the priest became the master, if he succeeded in raising and\nvivifying the wearisome tribe he manages, it would be like a waterspout\nof clerical stupidity beating down on a country, would be the end of all\nliterature and all art in France.\n\n\"To save the Church there remains the monk, whom the priest detests, for\nthe life of the cloister is a constant reproach to his own existence,\"\ncontinued Durtal; \"always supposing that my illusions are not again\ndestroyed when I see a monastery ... but no, I am lucky; I have\ndiscovered in Paris one of those few abbes who is neither indifferent\nnor a pedant; why should I not, in an abbey, come into contact with\nauthentic monks?\"\n\nHe lighted a cigarette, and looked at the landscape from the carriage\nwindow; the train was passing through fields in front of which the\ntelegraph wires danced in puffs of steam; the landscape was flat and\nuninteresting. Durtal fell back sulkily in his corner.\n\n\"The arrival at the convent disturbs me,\" he murmured; \"since there are\nno useless words to proffer, I shall confine myself to giving his letter\nto the Father Guestmaster; ah! and then all will arrange itself.\"\n\nHe felt, in fact, a perfect calm, and was astonished at not finding in\nhimself any disgust or fear, at being almost in high spirits: \"Well, my\ngood priest was right in declaring that I was creating monsters in\nadvance;\" and he thought of the Abbe Gevresin, was surprised that long\nas he had visited him, he knew nothing whatever of his antecedents, that\nhe was no more intimate with him than on the very first day; \"In fact,\nit only rested with me to question him discreetly, but the idea never\nentered my head: it is true that our intercourse has been strictly\nlimited to matters of religion and art; this perpetual reserve does not\ncreate very thrilling friendships, but it institutes a sort of Jansenism\nof the affections which is not without charm.\n\n\"In any case that ecclesiastic is a holy man; he has not even that\nmanner at once caressing and reserved of other priests. Apart from\ncertain gestures, his habit of rolling his arms in his cincture, of\nwrapping his hands in his sleeves, of liking to walk backwards when in\nconversation; apart from his innocent mania of interlarding his phrases\nwith Latin, he does not recall either the attitude or the unfashionable\nspeech of his brethren. He loves mysticism and plain song; he is\nexceptional, and therefore he must have been also carefully chosen for\nme in heaven.\n\n\"Ah well! we must be getting near,\" he sighed, looking at his watch, \"I\nam beginning to feel hungry; come, that is all right, we shall be at\nSaint Landry in a quarter of an hour.\"\n\nHe strummed on the windows of the carriage, saw the fields and woods fly\npast, smoked a cigarette or two, took his bag from the rack, at last\narrived at the station and got out.\n\nClose to the tiny station he recognized the inn of which the abbe had\ntold him. He found a good woman in the kitchen who said, \"All right,\nsir, sit down, they will put the horse to while you breakfast.\"\n\nHe fed himself on uneatable things, they brought him a calf's head\nforgotten in a tub, some cutlets that were high, vegetables blackened\nwith gravy from the stove.\n\nIn his present mood he was amused at this infamous meal, fell back upon\na thin wine which rasped his throat, and resignedly drank coffee which\nleft a sediment of peat at the bottom of the cup.\n\nThen he climbed into a jolting car driven by a young man, and the horse\nwent off at a smart pace through the village and into the country.\n\nOn the way he asked the driver for some information about La Trappe, but\nthe peasant knew nothing. \"I often go there,\" he said, \"but never enter,\nthe carriage stays at the gate, so you see I can tell you nothing.\"\n\nThey went for an hour rapidly through the lanes, and the peasant saluted\na roadmaker with his whip, and said to Durtal,\n\n\"They say that the eminets eat their bellies.\"\n\nAnd as Durtal asked what he meant,\n\n\"They are idle dogs, they lie all the summer on their bellies in the\nshade.\"\n\nAnd he said no more.\n\nDurtal thought of nothing; he digested and smoked, dizzy with the\nrumbling of the carriage.\n\nAt the end of another hour they came into the heart of the forest.\n\n\"Are we near?\"\n\n\"Oh, not yet!\"\n\n\"Can we see La Trappe from a distance?\"\n\n\"Oh no, you must have your nose just over it to see it, it is quite in a\nbottom, at the end of a lane, like that,\" said the peasant, pointing to\na grassy lane into which they turned.\n\n\"There is a fellow coming from the place,\" he said, pointing out a\nvagabond, who was crossing the copse at a great pace.\n\nAnd he explained to Durtal that every beggar had a right to food and\neven to lodging at La Trappe; they gave them the ordinary fare of the\ncommunity in a room close to the brother porter's lodge, but did not let\nthem into the convent.\n\nWhen Durtal asked him the opinion which the villagers round about had of\nthe monks, the peasant was evidently afraid of compromising himself, for\nhe answered,\n\n\"Some say nothing about them.\"\n\nDurtal began to be rather weary, when suddenly as they turned out of a\nlane, he saw an immense building below him.\n\n\"There is La Trappe!\" said the peasant, gathering his reins for the\ndescent.\n\nFrom the height where he was, Durtal looked over the roofs, and saw a\nlarge garden, with thickets, and in front of them a formidable crucifix.\n\nThen the vision disappeared, the carriage again went through the wood,\ndescending by zig-zag roads where the foliage intercepted the view.\n\nThey came at last, by long circuits, to an open place, at the end of\nwhich rose a wall with a large gate in the middle. The carriage stopped.\n\n\"You have only to ring,\" said the peasant, showing Durtal an iron chain\nalong the wall; and he added,\n\n\"Shall I come for you again to-morrow?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then you remain here?\" and the peasant looked at him with astonishment,\nturned about, and drove up the hill.\n\nDurtal remained as one crushed, his portmanteau at his feet, before the\ndoor; his heart beat violently; all his assurance, all his enthusiasm,\nhad vanished, and he stammered: \"What will happen to me within?\"\n\nAnd with a swift feeling of dread, there passed before him the terrible\nlife of the Trappists; the body ill-nourished, exhausted from want of\nsleep, prostrate for hours on the pavement; the soul trembling, squeezed\nlike a sponge in the hand, drilled, examined, ransacked even to its\nsmallest folds; and at the end of its failure of an existence, thrown\nlike a wreck against this rude rock, into the silence of a prison, and\nthe dreadful stillness of the tomb!\n\n\"My God, my God, have pity upon me!\" said he, as he wiped his brow.\n\nMechanically he looked around, as if he expected some help; the roads\nwere deserted and the woods were empty; no sound was heard in the\ncountry, or in the monastery.\n\n\"At any rate I must make up my mind to ring;\" and, his limbs sinking\nunder him, he pulled the chain.\n\nThe sound of the bell, hard, rusty, grumbling, sounded on the other side\nof the wall.\n\n\"Get up and don't be a fool,\" he said to himself, as he heard the\nclatter of a pair of sabots behind the door.\n\nThis opened, and a very old monk, clad in the brown cloth of the\nCapuchins, looked at him inquiringly.\n\n\"I come to make a retreat, and I wish to see Father Etienne.\"\n\nThe monk bowed, took up the portmanteau, and made a sign to Durtal to\nfollow him. He went with bent head and short steps across an orchard.\nThey reached a grating, passed on the right of the vast building a sort\nof dilapidated chateau, flanked by two wings advancing on a court.\n\nThe brother entered the wing close to the grating. Durtal followed him\nalong a corridor into which several grey doors opened; on one of these\nhe read the word \"Auditorium.\" The Trappist stopped before it, lifted\nthe wooden latch, ushered Durtal into the room, and after some minutes\nhe heard repeated calls on the bell.\n\nDurtal sat down and looked at this gloomy chamber, for the window was\nhalf closed by shutters. There was little furniture; the most important\na dining-table with an old cover; in the corner, a \"prie-Dieu\" above\nwhich was nailed a figure of Saint Antony of Padua rocking the infant\nJesus in his arms; a large crucifix on the other wall, and here and\nthere were placed two high-backed chairs and four ordinary chairs.\n\nDurtal took from his pocket-book the letter of introduction to the\nfather. \"What sort of reception will he give me?\" he asked himself; \"he\nat any rate can speak; well, we shall soon see,\" he said, as he heard\nsteps.\n\nA monk in white with a black scapular whose two ends fell, one on his\nshoulders, the other on his breast, appeared; he was young and smiling.\n\nHe read the letter, then he took Durtal's hand, and led him in silent\nastonishment across the court to the other wing of the building, opened\na door, dipped his finger in a holy-water stoup, and offered it to him.\n\nThey were in a chapel. The monk invited Durtal by a sign to kneel on a\nstep before the altar, and he prayed in a low voice; he then rose,\nreturned slowly to the threshold, offered Durtal holy water again, still\nwithout opening his lips, and leading him by the hand they went the way\nthey came to the Auditorium.\n\nThere, he inquired after the health of the Abbe Gevresin, seized the\nportmanteau, and mounted an immense staircase falling into ruin. At the\ntop of this staircase, which had only one story, there extended a vast\nlanding bounded at each of its extremities by a door.\n\nFather Etienne entered that on the right, crossed a broad vestibule, and\nled Durtal into a room, which a ticket printed in large letters placed\nunder the invocation of St. Benedict, and said, \"I am sorry, sir, to be\nonly able to put at your disposal this room, which is not very\ncomfortable.\"\n\n\"But it will do very well,\" said Durtal, \"and the view is charming,\" he\ncontinued, approaching the window.\n\n\"At least you will be in good air,\" said the monk, opening the casement.\n\nBelow stretched the orchard through which Durtal had passed under the\nconduct of the brother porter. An enclosure full of apple trees stunted\nand clipped, silvered by lichens, and gilt by moss; then beyond the\nmonastery, and above the walls, rose fields of clover intersected by a\ngreat white road, extending to the horizon, which was notched by the\nfoliage of trees.\n\n\"You will see, sir,\" Father Etienne went on, \"if you need anything in\nthis cell, and tell me quite simply, will you not? for otherwise we\nshould heap up regret for both of us, for you who have only to ask for\nwhat might be useful to you, for me who should only discover it later\nand be sorry for my forgetfulness.\"\n\nDurtal looked at him reassured by this frank greeting; he was a young\npriest, about thirty years old. His face bright, and finely cut, was\nstreaked with red fibres on the cheeks; this monk wore a beard, and\nround his shaven head was a crown of brown hair. He spoke somewhat\nrapidly, and smiled, with his hands pushed into the large leathern belt\nround his waist. \"I will come back directly, for I have some important\nwork to finish,\" he said; \"try to make yourself at home as much as\npossible, and if you have time glance over the rule which you have to\nfollow in this monastery--it is written on one of these cards on the\ntable; we will talk about it after you have mastered it, if you like.\"\n\nAnd he left Durtal alone.\n\nHe soon made an inventory of the room; it was very high and extremely\nnarrow like a gun-barrel, the door was at one end, the window at the\nother.\n\nAt the bottom, in a corner, near the casement, was a little iron bed,\nand a small round table in chestnut wood. At the foot of the bed which\nstood along the wall was a prie-Dieu in faded rep, upon which was a\ncrucifix, and a branch of dried fir below it; on the same side was a\ntable of white wood covered with a towel, on which were placed an ewer,\na basin, and a glass. On the opposite wall was a wardrobe, and by the\nfireplace, on the mantelpiece of which a crucifix was placed, was a\ntable opposite the bed near the window; three straw chairs completed the\nfurniture of this room. \"I shall never have water enough to wash in,\"\nthought Durtal, gauging the miniature jug, which held about a pint;\n\"since Father Etienne shows himself so obliging, I must ask him for a\nlarger ration.\" He unpacked his portmanteau, undressed, put on flannel\ninstead of his starched shirt, arranged his toilet things on the\nwashing-stand, folded his linen in the wardrobe; then sat down, looked\naround the cell, and thought it sufficiently comfortable, and above all\nvery clean. He then went towards the table on which were laid a ream of\nruled paper, an inkstand, and some pens; he was grateful for this\nattention of the monk, who knew no doubt by the Abbe Gevresin's letter\nthat his business was writing, opened two volumes bound in leather and\nshut them again. The one was \"The Introduction to the Devout Life,\" by\nSaint Francis de Sales, the other was \"Manresa,\" or \"The Spiritual\nExercises\" of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, and he arranged his own books on\nthe table.\n\nThen he took up, just as it came, one of the cards spread on the table\nand read:--\n\n     \"Exercises of the Community for ordinary days--from Easter to the\n     Invention of the Cross in September.\n\n          Rise. 2.\n          Prime and Mass.  5.15.\n          Work after the Chapter.\n          End of work and leisure time.  9.\n          Sext.  11.\n          Angelus and Dinner.  11.30.\n          Siesta after Dinner.\n          End of Siesta.  1.30.\n          None and work, five minutes after waking.\n          End of work and leisure.  4.30.\n          Vespers followed by prayer.  5.15.\n          Supper and leisure.  6.\n          Compline.  7.25.\n          Retire to rest.  8.\"\n\nHe turned the card, and on the other side was a new horary, entitled:--\n\n     \"Winter Exercises, from the Invention of the Cross in September to\n     Easter.\"\n\nThe hour of rising was the same, but bed-time was an hour earlier;\ndinner was changed from 11.30 to 2; siesta and supper at 6 o'clock were\nsuppressed; the canonical hours were the same, except vespers and\ncompline, which were changed from 5.15 and 7.25 to 4.30 and 6.15.\n\n\"It is not pleasant to drag oneself from bed in the middle of the\nnight,\" sighed Durtal, \"but I am inclined to think that the Retreatants\nare not subject to this rule of wakefulness,\" and he took up another\ncard. \"This must be the one intended for me,\" he said, reading the head\nof the card:--\n\nRules of Retreat from Easter to the Invention of the Cross in September.\n\nLet us look at these rules rather more closely.\n\nHe examined the two tables, brought together, one for the morning, and\none for the evening.\n\n          MORNING.\n\n          4.     Rise at the Angelus bell.\n          4.30.  Prayer and Meditation.\n          5.15.   Prime and Mass.\n          6-7.    Examination of Conscience.\n          7.      Breakfast.\n          7.30.   Way of the Cross.\n          8.      Sext and None.\n          8.30.   Second Meditation.\n          9.      Spiritual Reading.\n          11.     Adoration and Examination. Tierce.\n          11.30.  Angelus. Dinner. Recreation.\n          12.15.  Siesta. Absolute Silence.\n\n\n          EVENING.\n\n          1.30.   End of Siesta. Rosary.\n          2.      Vespers and Compline.\n          3.      Third Meditation.\n          3.15.   Spiritual Reading.\n          4.15.   Matins and Lauds.\n          5.15.   Reflections. Choir Vespers.\n          5.30.   Examination and Prayer.\n          6.      Supper and Recreation.\n          7.      Litanies. Absolute Silence.\n          7.15.   Assist at Compline.\n          7.30.   Salve Regina. Angelus.\n          7.45.   Private Examination. Retire to rest.\n\n\"This at any rate is more practical--four o'clock in the morning is an\nalmost possible hour, but I do not understand it, the canonical hours on\nthis tablet do not agree with those of the monks, and then why these\ndouble Vespers and Compline? Lastly, these little points in which you\nare invited to meditate so many minutes, to read so many more, scarcely\nsuit me. My mind is scarcely malleable enough to run in those\nchannels--it is true that after all I am free to do as I please, for no\none can verify what tricks I may play, can know, for instance, if I\nmeditate....\n\n\"Ah, here is again a regulation at the back,\" he went on, as he turned\nthe card, \"the regulation for September, I need not trouble myself about\nit, it differs, moreover, little from the other; but here is a\npostscript which concerns both horaries.\"\n\n     NOTE.\n\n     1. Those who are not bound to say the Breviary will say the Little\n     Office of the Blessed Virgin.\n\n     2. The Retreatants are requested to make their Confessions at an\n     early date, in order to have their mind more free for meditation.\n\n     3. After each meditation an analogous chapter of the Imitation must\n     be read.\n\n     4. The best time for confessions and the Way of the Cross is from\n     6-9 in the morning, 2-5 in the afternoon, and in summer from 9 in\n     the morning till 5 in the afternoon.\n\n     5. To read the table of notices.\n\n     6. It is well to be punctual at meals to keep no one waiting.\n\n     7. The Father Guestmaster alone is charged with providing for the\n     wants of guests.\n\n     8. Guests may ask for books for the retreat, if they have none\n     themselves.\n\nConfession! He saw this word only in the whole series of rules. He must\nat once have recourse to it. He felt a cold shiver down his back; and\nknew that he must speak to Father Etienne about it as soon as he\nreturned.\n\nHe had not long to wrestle with himself, for the monk entered almost at\nonce and said,\n\n\"Have you noticed anything you need, and the presence of which may be\nuseful to you?\"\n\n\"No, Father; yet if you could let me have a little more water.\"\n\n\"Nothing is easier; I will send you up a large pitcher every morning.\"\n\n\"Thank you ... see, I have been studying the rules.\"\n\n\"I will at once put you at ease,\" said the monk. \"You are compelled to\nnothing but the strictest punctuality. You must follow the canonical\noffices to the letter. As to the exercises marked on the card, they are\nnot of obligation; they may be useful, as they are laid down, for people\nwho are very young and devoid of all initiative, but, as I think at\nleast, they somewhat hamper others, and as a general rule we do not\ntrouble the retreatants here, we let solitude act on them; it belongs to\nyourself to discriminate and distinguish the best mode of occupying your\ntime holily. Therefore I will not impose on you any of the reading laid\ndown on this card, and only take leave to get you to say the Little\nOffice of the Blessed Virgin. Have you it?\"\n\n\"Here it is,\" said Durtal, holding out a bound book.\n\n\"Your volume is charming,\" said Father Etienne, as he turned over the\npages exquisitely printed in red and black. He paused at one of them,\nand read aloud the third lesson of Matins.\n\n\"Is it not fine?\" he cried. A sudden joy sprang up in his face; his eyes\ngrew bright, his hands trembled on the cover. \"Yes,\" he said, closing\nit, \"read this office, here especially, for you know our true patroness,\nthe true Abbot of the Trappists, is the Blessed Virgin!\"\n\nAfter a silence he continued: \"I have fixed a week as the duration of\nyour retreat, in the letter I sent to the Abbe Gevresin, but I need not\nsay that if you are not too weary here, you can stay as long as seems\ngood to you.\"\n\n\"I hope to be able to prolong my stay among you, but this must depend\nupon the way in which my body stands the struggle; my stomach is\nsomewhat weak, and I am not without some fear; I shall, therefore, be\nmuch obliged to you if you will let me see the confessor as soon as\npossible.\"\n\n\"Good; you shall see him to-morrow. I will tell you the time this\nevening, after compline. As for the food, if you think it insufficient,\nI will see that you have an extra egg, but there ceases the discretion I\ncan exercise, for the rule is precise, no fish, no flesh--vegetables,\nand I am bound to admit they are not first rate.\n\n\"But you shall judge, and, indeed, as it is just upon supper-time, I\nwill show you the room where you will dine in company with M. Bruno.\"\n\nAnd as they descended the staircase, the monk went on: \"M. Bruno is a\nperson who has renounced the world, and, without having taken the vows,\nlives enclosed. He is what our rule calls an oblate, he is a holy and\nlearned man, whom you will certainly like; you can talk with him during\nthe meal.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Durtal, \"and before and after I must keep silence?\"\n\n\"Yes, unless you have anything to ask, in which case I shall be always\nat your service, ready to answer you. As for that question of silence,\nas for those of the hours of rising and going to bed, and the offices,\nthe rule allows no modification, it must be observed to the letter.\"\n\n\"Good,\" said Durtal, a little taken aback by the decided tone of the\nFather, \"but I saw on my card a note directing me to consult a table of\nregulations, and I have not that table.\"\n\n\"It hangs on the wall of the staircase, near your room; you can read it\nwhen your head is rested to-morrow. Will you go in?\" he said, opening a\ndoor in the lower corridor, just opposite that of the auditorium.\n\nDurtal bowed to an old gentleman who came to meet him; the monk\nintroduced them and vanished.\n\nThe dishes were on the table, two poached eggs, a bowl of rice, another\nof French beans, and a pot of honey.\n\nM. Bruno said grace, and proceeded to help Durtal.\n\nHe gave him an egg.\n\n\"This is a poor supper for a Parisian,\" he said, with a smile.\n\n\"Ah, as long as there is an egg and wine it is bearable. I was afraid, I\nconfess, that my only drink would be cold water.\"\n\nThey talked as friends.\n\nThe man was pleasant, and distinguished, with ascetic features, but with\na bright smile, lighting up a grave face, yellow and wrinkled.\n\nHe lent himself with perfect good grace to Durtal's inquiries, and told\nhim, that after a tempestuous life, he felt that Grace had touched him,\nand he had retired from the world to expiate by years of austerities and\nsilence his own sins and those of others.\n\n\"And you have never grown tired of being here?\"\n\n\"Never, during the five years that I have spent in this cloister, time,\ncut up as it is at La Trappe, seems short.\"\n\n\"You are present at all the exercises of the Community?\"\n\n\"Yes; I only replace manual labour by meditation in my cell; my position\nas oblate, however, dispenses me, if I so wish, from getting up at two\no'clock to follow the night office, but it is a great joy to me to\nrecite the magnificent Benedictine Psalter before daybreak--but you are\nlistening to me, and eat nothing. Let me give you a little more rice.\"\n\n\"No, thank you, but I will take, if you will allow me, a spoonful of\nhoney.\n\n\"The food is not bad,\" he said, \"but I do not quite understand the same\nstrange and identical taste in all the dishes; it smells, how shall I\nexpress it? like burnt fat or suet.\"\n\n\"That is the warm oil with which the vegetables are dressed, you will\nsoon grow accustomed to it, in a couple of days you will cease to notice\nit.\"\n\n\"But in what consists, precisely, the part of an oblate?\"\n\n\"His life is less austere, and more contemplative than that of a monk;\nhe may travel if he will, and though he is not bound by vows, he shares\nin all the spiritual advantages of the order.\n\n\"In old times the rule admitted those whom it styled 'familiars.'\n\n\"Those were oblates who received the tonsure, wore a distinct costume,\nand pronounced the three greater vows; they led in fact a mitigated\nlife, half layman, half monk. This rule, which still exists among the\ntrue Benedictines, has disappeared among the Trappists since the year\n1293, the date at which it was suppressed by the Chapter General.\n\n\"At the present time, in the Cistercian abbeys are only the fathers, the\nlay brothers, the oblates, when there are any, and the peasants employed\nin field labour.\"\n\n\"The lay brothers, I suppose, are those whose heads are completely\nshaven, and who are clothed in a brown habit, like the monk who opened\nthe door to me?\"\n\n\"Yes; they do not sing office, and have only manual tasks.\"\n\n\"By the way, the rule for retreat which I read in my room does not seem\nclear. As far as I recall it, it doubles certain offices, places Matins\nat four in the afternoon, and Vespers at two; in any case the horary is\nnot the same as that of the Trappists; how am I to understand and\nreconcile them?\"\n\n\"You have only to take into consideration the exercises set out on your\ncard; Father Etienne must, I think, have said so; that mould was only\nmade for people who cannot occupy and guide themselves. That explains to\nyou how, to prevent them from becoming idle, the priests' breviary has\nbeen in some degree taken to pieces, and their time has been\ndistributed in small slices, so that, for instance, they may be obliged\nto recite the psalms for Matins at hours when there is no psalm.\"\n\nDinner was over; M. Bruno said grace, and said to Durtal,\n\n\"You have twenty minutes free from now to Compline; you can make\nacquaintance with the garden and woods.\" He bowed politely and went out.\n\n\"I can smoke a cigarette,\" thought Durtal, when he was alone. He took\nhis hat and left the room. Night was coming on. He passed through the\ngreat court, skirted a small building surmounted by a long\nchimney-stack, discovered by the smell that it was a chocolate factory,\nand entered an avenue of trees.\n\nThe sky was so obscure that he could scarcely see the group of trees he\nentered, and not seeing anyone he rolled his cigarettes, and smoked them\nslowly, with enjoyment, consulting his watch from time to time by his\ncigar lights.\n\nHe was astonished at the silence of the monastery; not a sound, however\nhushed, however distant, save now and then a gentle rustle of boughs; he\nwent to the side whence the noise came, and saw a piece of water, on\nwhich a swan was sailing, which came towards him.\n\nHe saw its white plumage oscillate against the darkness which it\ndisplaced with a splash, when a bell sounded with slow strokes; \"Ah,\"\nsaid he, looking again at his watch, \"that is the hour of Compline.\"\n\nHe went to the chapel, which was still empty; and he took occasion of\nthe solitude to examine it at his ease.\n\nIt was in the form of a truncated cross, a cross without a foot, rounded\nat the summit, holding out two square arms, with a door at either end.\n\nThe upper part of the cross, below a cupola painted blue, formed a\nlittle circular apse, round which was a circle of stalls placed back\nagainst the wall; in the middle rose a great altar of white marble,\nsurmounted by wooden chandeliers, flanked on the left and right by\ncandelabra also of wood, placed on marble shafts.\n\nThe lower part of the altar was hollow, and closed in front by a glass,\nbehind which appeared a shrine in Gothic style, which reflected in its\ncopper gilt mirror the light of the lamps.\n\nThe apse opened into a large porch, with three steps in front, on the\narms of the cross, which were prolonged into a kind of vestibule serving\nat once as nave and side aisles to this stumpy church.\n\nThe hollowed arms, at their extremities near the doors, held two very\nsmall chapels set back in niches painted blue, like the cupola,\ncontaining above two stone altars without ornament, two mediocre\nstatues, one of Saint Joseph, the other of Christ.\n\nLastly, a fourth altar, dedicated to the Virgin, was situated in this\nvestibule opposite the steps leading to the apse, opposite therefore to\nthe high altar. It was relieved against a window whose lights\nrepresented Saint Bernard in white on one hand, and Saint Benedict in\nblack on the other, and it appeared to recede into the church, because\nof the two ranges of seats which stood on the left and right before the\ntwo other little chapels, leaving only room necessary to pass along the\nvestibule, or to go in a straight line from this altar of the Virgin in\nthe apse, to the high altar.\n\n\"This sanctuary is alarmingly ugly,\" said Durtal, who had sat down on a\nbench in front of the statue of Saint Joseph. \"To judge by the few\nsubjects carved along the walls, this edifice dates from the time of\nLouis XVI., an abominable date for a church.\"\n\nHe was disturbed in these thoughts by the sound of bells, and at the\nsame time all the doors were opened; one situated in the apse itself, on\nthe left of the altar, gave passage to about half a score monks, wrapped\nin great white cowls, who spread out into the choir, and occupied the\nstalls on either side.\n\nThen, by the two doors of the vestibule, came a crowd of brown monks,\nwho knelt at the benches on the two sides of Our Lady's altar.\n\nDurtal had some of them near him; but they bowed their heads, and joined\ntheir hands, he dared not observe them; moreover, the vestibule had\nbecome almost dark, the light was concentrated in the choir, where the\nlamps were kindled.\n\nHe could make out the faces of the white monks in their stalls in the\npart of the apse he could see, and among them he recognized Father\nEtienne on his knees near a short monk; but another at the end of the\nstalls near the porch, almost opposite the altar, and in full light,\nattracted him.\n\nHe was tall and strong, and looked like an Arab in his white burnous.\nDurtal could only see him in profile, and he distinguished a long grey\nbeard, a shaven skull, surrounded by the monastic crown, a high\nforehead, and a nose like an eagle's beak. He had a grand appearance,\nwith his imperious features, and his fine figure as it swayed under the\ncowl.\n\n\"That is probably the abbot of La Trappe,\" thought Durtal, and he felt\ncertain when this monk struck a little bell hidden under the desk before\nhim, and directed the office.\n\nAll the monks bowed to the altar; the abbot recited the opening prayers,\nthen there was a pause, and, from the other side of the apse, which\nDurtal could not see, rose the frail voice of an old man, a voice which\nhad returned to the clear tones of childhood, but was just a little\ncracked, growing higher as it declaimed the antiphon,\n\n\"Deus in adjutorium meum intende.\"\n\nAnd the other side of the choir, that on which were Father Etienne and\nthe abbot, answered, scanning the syllables very slowly, with voices of\nbass pitch,--\n\n\"Domine ad adjuvandum me festina.\"\n\nAnd all bowed their heads over the folios placed before them, and took\nup the words,--\n\n\"Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto.\"\n\nAnd they lifted their heads while the other part of the Fathers\npronounced the response, \"Sicut erat in principio, etc.\"\n\nThe office began.\n\nIt was not chanted but declaimed, now rapid and now slow. The side of\nthe choir which Durtal saw made all the vowels sharp and short letters;\nthe other, on the contrary, altered them all into long letters and\nseemed to cap all the Os with a circumflex accent. It might be said that\none side had the pronunciation of the South, the other that of the\nNorth; thus chanted, the office became strange, and ended by rocking\nlike an incantation, and soothing the soul which fell asleep in the\nrolling of the verses, interrupted by the recurrent doxology like a\nrefrain after the last verse of each of the psalms.\n\n\"Ah well, I cannot understand it,\" thought Durtal, who had his Compline\nat his fingers' ends, \"they are not singing the Roman office at all.\"\n\nThe fact is that one of the psalms was wanting. He caught indeed, at one\nmoment, the hymn of Saint Ambrose, the \"Te lucis ante terminum,\" sung to\na simple and rugged tune of the old plain chant, and yet the last stanza\nwas not the same; but he lost himself afresh, and waited for the \"Short\nLessons\" and the \"Nunc Dimittis\" which never came.\n\n\"Yet Compline does not vary like Vespers,\" he thought, \"I must ask\nFather Etienne the meaning of this to-morrow.\"\n\nThen his reflections were disturbed by a young white monk, who passed\nhim, genuflected to the altar, and lighted two tapers.\n\nSuddenly all rose, and with a great shout, the \"Salve Regina\" shook the\narches.\n\nDurtal was affected as he listened to this admirable chant, which had\nnothing in common with that which is bellowed at Paris in the churches.\nThis was at once flexible and ardent, sustained by such suppliant\nadoration, that it seemed to concentrate in itself alone, the immemorial\nhope of humanity, and its eternal lamentation.\n\nChanted without accompaniment, unsustained by the organ, by voices\nindifferent to themselves and blending in one only, masculine and deep,\nit rose with quiet boldness, sprang up with irresistible flight towards\nOur Lady, then made, as it were, a return upon itself, and its\nconfidence was lessened; it advanced more tremblingly, but so different,\nso humble, that it felt itself forgiven, and dared then in passionate\nappeals to demand the undeserved pleasures of heaven.\n\nIt was the absolute triumph of the neumes, those repetitions of notes on\nthe same syllable, the same word, which the Church invented to paint the\nexcess of that interior joy or sorrow which words cannot render; it was\na rush, a going forth of the soul, escaping in the passionate voices,\nbreathed forth by the bodies of the monks as they stood and trembled.\n\nDurtal followed in his prayer-book this work with so short a text, so\nlong a chant; and as he listened to, and read it with recollection, this\nmagnificent prayer seemed to decompose as a whole, and to represent\nthree different states of the soul, to exhibit the triple phase of\nhumanity, during its youth, its maturity, and its decline; it was, in a\nword, an essential summary of prayer for all ages.\n\nFirst, there was the canticle of exultation, the joyous welcome of a\nbeing yet little, stammering forth respectful caresses, petting with\ngentle words, and fondness of a child who seeks to coax his mother--this\nis the \"Salve Regina, Mater misericordiae, vita, dulcedo et spes nostra,\nsalve.\" Then the soul so candid, so simply happy, has grown, and knowing\nthe wilful failings of thought, the repeated loss through sin, joins her\nhands, and asks, sobbing, for help. She adores no longer with a smile,\nbut with tears; it is \"Ad te clamamus, exsules filii Hevae; ad te\nsuspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lachrymarum valle.\" At last old\nage comes; the soul lies, tormented by the memory of counsels neglected,\nby regret for lost graces; and having become weaker, and more full of\nfears, is alarmed before her deliverance, before the destruction of that\nprison of the flesh which she feels at hand, and then she thinks of the\neternal death of those whom the Judge condemns. On her knees she\nimplores the Advocatress of earth, the Consultrix of heaven; it is the\n\"Eia ergo Advocata nostra; illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos\nconverte; et Jesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui, nobis post hoc\nexilium ostende.\"\n\nAnd to that essence of prayer composed by Peter of Compostella or\nHermann Contract, Saint Bernard, in an excess of hyperdulia, added the\nthree invocations at the end, \"O clemens, O pia, O dulcis Virgo Maria,\"\nsealing the inimitable prose with a triple seal, by those three cries of\nlove which recall the hymn to the affectionate adoration of its\nbeginning.\n\n\"This is unprecedented,\" thought Durtal, as the Trappists chanted these\nsweet and eager appeals; the neumes were prolonged on the Os, which\npassed through all the colours of the soul, through the whole register\nof sound; and these interjections summed up again, in the series of\nnotes which clothed them, the inventory of the human soul, which now\nrecapitulated the whole body of the hymn.\n\nAnd suddenly at the word \"Maria,\" at the glorious cry of that name, the\nchant fell, the tapers were extinguished, the monks fell on their knees,\na silence like death came upon the chapel. The bells rang slowly, and\nthe Angelus unfolded under the arches the separated petals of its clear\nsounds.\n\nAll, now prostrate, their faces buried in their hands, were praying, and\nthis lasted long; then the sound of the little hand-bell was heard,\neveryone rose, genuflected to the altar, and in silent file the monks\ndisappeared through the door in the apse.\n\n\"Ah! the true creator of plain music, the unknown author who cast into\nthe brain of man the seed of plain chant, was the Holy Ghost,\" said\nDurtal, sick and dazzled, with tears in his eyes.\n\nM. Bruno, whom he had not noticed in the chapel, came and joined him.\nThey crossed the court without speaking, and when they had entered the\nguest-house, M. Bruno lighted two candles, gave one to Durtal, and said\ngravely, \"I wish you a good night, sir.\"\n\nDurtal went up the staircase behind him. They bowed again on the\nlanding, and Durtal entered his cell.\n\nThe wind blew under the door, and the room, scarcely lighted by the low\nflame of the candle, seemed to him gloomy, the high ceiling vanished in\nshadow, and rained down darkness.\n\nDurtal sat down by his bed, discouraged.\n\nAnd yet he was thrust forward by one of those impulses it is impossible\nto translate into words, in which it seems that the heart swells almost\nto bursting, and before his inability to get away and fly from self,\nDurtal ended by becoming a child again, by weeping without definite\ncause, simply from the need of relieving himself by tears.\n\nHe sank down at the prie-Dieu, expecting he knew not what, which never\ncame; then before the crucifix which stretched its arms above him, he\nbegan to speak to Him, and to say to Him in low tones:\n\n\"Father, I have driven the swine from my being, but they have trampled\non me, and covered me with mire, and the very stye is in ruins. Have\npity on me, for I return from a distant land. Have mercy, O Lord, on the\nswine-herd without a house. I have entered into Thy house; do not send\nme away, be to me a kindly host, wash me.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" he said suddenly, \"that reminds me that I have not seen Father\nEtienne, who was to tell me the hour at which the confessor would\nreceive me to-morrow; he has no doubt forgotten to ask him; so much the\nbetter. At any rate it will put it off for a day; my soul is so cramped\nthat I have indeed need of rest.\"\n\nHe undressed, sighing: \"I must be up at half-past three to be in the\nchapel at four: I have no time to lose if I wish to sleep. If only I\nhave no neuralgia to-morrow, and can wake before dawn!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nHe passed a most terrible night; it was so special, so dreadful, that he\ndid not remember, in the whole of his existence, to have endured such\nanguish, undergone the like fears.\n\nIt was an uninterrupted succession of sudden wakings and of nightmares.\n\nAnd these nightmares overpassed the limits of abomination that the most\ndangerous madness dreams. They developed themselves in the realm of\nlust; and they were so special, so new to him, that when he woke Durtal\nremained trembling, almost crying out.\n\nIt was not at all that involuntary and well known act, that vision which\nceases just at the moment when the sleeper clasps an amorous form; it\nwas as and more complete than in nature, long and accomplished,\naccompanied by all the preludes, all the details, all the sensations,\nand the orgasm took place with a singularly painful acuteness, an\nincredible spasm.\n\nA strange fact, which seemed to point the difference between this state,\nand the unconscious uncleanness of night, was, beyond certain episodes\nand caresses which could only follow each other in reality, but were\nunited at the same moment in the dream, the sensation clear and precise\nof a being, of a fluid form disappearing, with the sharp sound of a\npercussion cap, or the crack of a whip close by, on waking. This being\nwas felt near him so distinctly, that the sheet, disarranged by the wind\nof the flight, was still in motion, and he looked at the empty place in\nterror.\n\n\"Ah,\" thought Durtal, when he had lighted his candle, \"this carries me\nback to the time when I used to visit Madame Chantelouve, and reminds\nme of the stories of the Succubus.\"\n\nHe remained sitting up in bed, astonished, and looked with real\nuneasiness round the cell steeped in shadow. He looked at his watch, it\nwas only eleven o'clock at night. \"God,\" he said, \"if the nights are\nalways like this in monasteries!\"\n\nHe had recourse to bathing with cold water in order to recover himself,\nopened his window to change the air, and lay down again, thoroughly\nchilled.\n\nHe hesitated to blow out his candle, uneasy at the darkness which seemed\nto him inhabited, full of ambushes and threats. He decided at last to\nextinguish it, and repeated the stanza he had already heard sung that\nevening in chapel:\n\n    Procul recedant somnia\n    Et noctium phantasmata,\n    Hostemque nostrum comprime,\n    Ne polluantur corpora.\n\nHe ended by falling asleep and dreamt again of impurity, but he came to\nhimself in time to break the charm, experiencing again the impression of\na shadow evaporating before he could seize it in the sheets. He looked\nat his watch; it was two o'clock.\n\n\"If this goes on, I shall be broken down to-morrow,\" he thought, but he\nsucceeded somehow or other in dozing, and waking every ten minutes to\nwait for three o'clock.\n\n\"If I fall asleep again, I shall not be able to wake at the moment I\nwish,\" he thought, \"suppose I get up.\"\n\nHe sprang out of bed, dressed, prayed, reduced his thoughts to order.\n\nReal excesses would have exhausted him less than these sham freaks, but\nwhat seemed to him especially odious was the want of satisfaction left\nby the completed rape of these ghosts. Compared with their greedy\ntricks, the caresses of a woman only diffused a temperate pleasure, and\nended in a feeble shock, but with this Succuba one remained in a fury at\nhaving clasped only the void, at having been the dupe of a lie, the\nplaything of an appearance, of which one could not remember the form or\nthe features. It necessarily brought with it the desire of the flesh,\nthe wish to clasp a real body, and Durtal began to think of Florence;\nshe at least quenched his desires, and did not leave him thus, panting\nand feverish, in quest of he knew not what, in an atmosphere where he\nwas surrounded, spied upon by an unknown whom he could not discern, by a\nphantom he could not escape.\n\nThen Durtal shook himself, and would repulse the assault of these\nmemories. \"At any rate I will go and breathe the fresh air, and smoke a\ncigarette; we will see afterwards.\"\n\nHe descended the staircase, whose walls seemed not to keep their place,\nand danced in the light of his candle, threaded the corridors, blew out\nhis light, placed the candlestick near the auditorium, and rushed out.\n\nIt was pitch dark; at the height of the first story a round window in\nthe wall of the chapel cut a hole through the darkness like a red moon.\n\nDurtal took a few whiffs of a cigarette, and then made his way to the\nchapel. He turned the latch of the door gently; the vestibule into which\nhe entered was dark, but the apse, though it was empty, was lighted by\nnumerous lamps.\n\nHe made a step, crossed himself, and fell back, for he had stumbled over\na body; and he looked down at his feet.\n\nHe had come upon a battle-field.\n\nOn the ground human forms were lying, in the attitudes of combatants\nmowed down by grape shot, some flat on their faces, others on their\nknees, some leaning their hands on the ground as if stricken from\nbehind, others extended with their fingers clenched on their breast,\nothers again holding their heads or stretching out their arms.\n\nAnd from this group in their agony rose no groan, no complaint.\n\nDurtal was stupefied as he looked at this massacre of monks, and\nsuddenly stopped with open mouth. A shaft of light fell from a lamp\nwhich the Father Sacristan had just placed in the apse, and crossing the\nporch, it showed a monk on his knees before the altar dedicated to the\nVirgin.\n\nHe was an old man of more than four-score years; motionless as a statue,\nhis eyes fixed, leaning forward in such an access of adoration, that the\nfaces in ecstasy in the Early Masters seemed, compared with his, forced\nand cold.\n\nYet his features were vulgar, his shaven skull, without a crown, tanned\nby many suns and rains, was brick-coloured, his eye was dim, covered\nwith a film by age, his face was wrinkled, shrivelled, stained like an\nold log, hidden in a thicket of white hair, while his somewhat snub nose\nmade the general effect of the face singularly common.\n\nBut there went out, not from his eyes, nor his mouth, but from\neverywhere and nowhere, a kind of angelic look which was diffused over\nhis head, and enveloped all his poor body, bowed in its heap of rags.\n\nIn this old man the soul did not even give herself the trouble to reform\nand ennoble his features, she contented herself in annihilating them\nwith her rays; it was, as it were, the nimbus of the old saints not now\nremaining round the head, but extending over all the features, pale and\nalmost invisible, bathing his whole being.\n\nHe saw nothing and heard nothing; monks dragged themselves on their\nknees, came to warm themselves, and to take shelter near him, and he\nnever moved, dumb and deaf, so rigid that you might have believed him\ndead, had not his lower lip stirred now and then, lifting in this\nmovement his long beard.\n\nThe dawn whitened the windows, and as the darkness was gradually\ndissipated, the other brethren were visible in turn to Durtal; all these\nmen, wounded by divine love, prayed ardently, flashed out beyond\nthemselves noiselessly before the altar. Some were quite young, on their\nknees, with their bodies upright; others, their eyeballs in ecstasy,\nwere leaning back, and seated on their heels; others again were making\nthe way of the cross, and were often placed each opposite another face\nto face, and they looked without seeing, as with the eyes of the blind.\n\nAnd among these lay brethren, some fathers buried in their great white\ncowls lay prostrate and kissed the ground.\n\n\"Oh to pray, pray like these monks!\" cried Durtal within himself.\n\nHe felt his unhappy soul grow slack within him; in this atmosphere of\nsanctity he unbent himself, and sank down on the pavement, humbly asking\npardon from Christ, for having soiled by his presence the purity of this\nplace.\n\nHe prayed long, unsealing himself for the first time, recognizing his\nunworthiness and vileness so that he could not imagine how, in spite of\nHis mercy, the Lord could tolerate him in the little circle of His\nelect; he examined himself, saw clearly, and avowed that he was inferior\nto the least of these lay brothers who perhaps could not even spell out\na book, understood that the culture of the mind was naught and the\nculture of the soul was all, and little by little, without perceiving\nit, thinking only of stammering forth acts of gratitude, he disappeared\nfrom the chapel, his soul borne up by the souls of others, away, away\nfrom the world, far from his charnel-house, far from his body.\n\nIn this chapel, the impulse had come at last, the going forth from self,\ntill now refused, was at last permitted; he no longer strove with self\nas in the time when he escaped with so great difficulty from his\nprison-house, as at St. Severin or Notre Dame des Victoires.\n\nThen he again realized this chapel, where his animal part had alone\nremained, and he looked round him with astonishment; the greater part of\nthe brethren had gone, one father remained prostrate before Our Lady's\naltar; he quitted it in his turn, and went back to the apse, as the\nother fathers entered it.\n\nDurtal looked at them; they were of all sizes and all kinds; one fat and\nbald, with a long black beard and spectacles, some little fair and puffy\nmen, some very old, bristling with skin like a wild boar, others very\nyoung, with a vague air of German dreaminess, with their eyes under\ntheir glasses; and almost all except the very young had this feature in\ncommon: a large belly, and cheeks with little red streaks.\n\nSuddenly through the open door in the apse itself appeared the tall monk\nwho had conducted the office the evening before. He threw back on his\nchasuble the woollen hood which covered his head, and assisted by two\nwhite monks went up to the high altar to say mass.\n\nAnd it was not one of those masses served as so many are cooked in\nParis, but a mass slow, meditated, and profound, a mass where the priest\ntakes long to consecrate, overwhelmed before the altar, and when he\nelevated the Host no little bell tinkled, but the bells of the monastery\nspread abroad their slow peal, brief dull strokes, almost plaintive,\nwhile the Trappists disappeared; crouched on all-fours, their heads\nhidden below their desks.\n\nWhen the mass ended it was nearly six o'clock. Durtal took the same way\nas the evening before, passed before the little chocolate factory, and\nsaw through the windows the fathers wrapping up the tablets in lead\npaper, and in another room a tiny steam engine which a lay brother was\ndirecting.\n\nHe reached the walk where he had smoked the cigarettes in the shade. So\ngloomy at night, it was now charming with its two rows of aged limes\nwhich rustled gently while the wind wafted to him their enervating\nscent.\n\nSeated on a bench, he could see at a glance the whole front of the\nabbey.\n\nBefore it was a long kitchen garden, with here and there some rose trees\nspread over the blueish basins and large balls of cabbages, and the old\nhouse, built in the monumental style of the seventeenth century,\nextended, solemn and immense, with eighteen windows in a row, and a\npediment, in the span of which was placed a mighty clock.\n\nIt was roofed with slate, and surmounted by a ring of small bells, and\nwas reached by a flight of several steps. It reached a height of at\nleast five stories, though it had in reality only a ground and a first\nfloor, but to judge by the unexpected height of the windows, the rooms\nhad to accommodate their ceilings to the vast altitude of the church; on\nthe whole the building was striking and cold, more apt, since it had\nbeen converted into a convent, to shelter the disciples of Jansen, than\nthe sons of Saint Bernard.\n\nThe weather was warm that morning; the sun was filtered through the\nmoving sieve of foliage, and the daylight, thus screened, was changed to\nrose colour as it touched the white. Durtal, who was about to read his\nprayer-book, saw the pages growing red, and by the law of complementary\ncolours all the letters printed in black ink grew green.\n\nHe was amused by these details, and with his back to the warmth, he\nbrightened up in this aromatic breeze, rested in this bath of sunshine\nfrom his fatigues of the night, when at the end of the walk he saw some\nof the brothers. They walked in silence, some carrying under their arms\ngreat round loaves, others holding milk cans, or baskets full of hay and\neggs; they passed before him, and bowed respectfully.\n\nAll had a joyous and serious aspect. \"Ah, good fellows,\" he thought,\n\"for they helped me this morning, it is to them I owe it that I could\nkeep silence no longer, and was able to pray, to have at last known the\njoy of supplication which at Paris was only a snare for me! to them, and\nabove all to Our Lady de l'Atre, who had pity on my poor soul.\"\n\nHe sprang from his bench in an access of joy, went into the lateral\nwalks, reached the piece of water he had partially seen the evening\nbefore; in front of it rose the huge cross he had seen at a distance\nfrom the carriage, in the wood, before he reached La Trappe.\n\nIt was placed opposite the monastery itself, and turned its back upon\nthe pond; it bore an eighteenth-century Christ, of natural size, in\nwhite marble; the pond also took the form of a cross such as is shown on\nthe greater part of the plans of churches.\n\nThis brown and liquid cross was spotted by duckweed, which the swan\ndisplaced as he swam.\n\nHe came towards Durtal, with extended beak, expecting, no doubt, a piece\nof bread.\n\nNot a sound arose in this deserted spot, save the rustle of dry leaves\nwhich Durtal brushed as he walked. The clock struck seven.\n\nHe remembered that breakfast would be ready, and he walked quickly to\nthe abbey. Father Etienne was waiting for him, shook hands, asked if he\nhad slept well, then said:\n\n\"What would you like? I can only offer you milk and honey; I will send\nto-day to the nearest village and try to get you a little cheese, but\nyou will have only a poor meal this morning.\"\n\nDurtal proposed to exchange the milk for wine, declaring that he should\nthen do very well, and said, \"In any case I should do ill to complain,\nfor you are fasting.\"\n\nThe monk smiled. \"Just now,\" he said, \"we are doing penance, on account\nof certain feasts of our order.\" And he explained that he only took food\nonce a day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, after Nones.\n\n\"And you have not even wine and eggs to keep up your strength!\"\n\nFather Etienne smiled again. \"One gets accustomed to it,\" he said. \"What\nis this rule in comparison with that adopted by Saint Bernard and his\ncompanions, when they went to till the valley of Clairvaux? Their meal\nconsisted of oak leaves, salted, cooked in muddy water.\"\n\nAnd after a silence the Father continued: \"No doubt the Trappist rule is\nhard, but it is mild if we carry our thoughts back to the rule of Saint\nPacomius in the East. Only think; whoever wished to join that order had\nto remain ten days and nights at the door of the convent, and had to\nendure spitting and insults; if he still desired to enter, he fulfilled\na three years' novitiate, inhabited a hut where he could not stand up,\nnor lie at full length, ate only olives and cabbage, prayed twelve times\nin the morning, twelve times in the afternoon, twelve times in the\nnight; the silence was perpetual, and his mortifications never ceased.\nTo prepare himself for this novitiate, and to learn to subdue his\nappetite, Saint Macarius thought of the plan of soaking his bread in a\nvessel with a very narrow neck, and only fed on the crumbs which he\ncould take out with his fingers. When he was admitted into the\nmonastery, he contented himself with gnawing leaves of raw cabbage on\nSunday. Ah! they could stand more than we. We, alas! have no longer\nsouls nor bodies stout enough to bear such fasts; but do not let that\nstop your meal; make as good an one as you can. Ah, by the way,\" said\nthe monk, \"be in the auditorium at ten precisely, where the Father Prior\nwill hear your confession.\"\n\nAnd he left the room.\n\nIf Durtal had received a blow on his head with a mallet, he could not\nhave been more overwhelmed. All the scaffolding of his joys, so rapidly\nrun up, fell. This strange fact had occurred, in the impulse of joy he\nhad felt since daybreak he had wholly forgotten that he had to confess.\nHe had a moment of aberration. \"But I am forgiven,\" he thought; \"the\nproof is that state of happiness, such as I have never known, that truly\nwonderful expansion of soul which I experienced in the chapel and in the\nwood.\"\n\nThe idea that nothing had begun, that all was still to do, terrified\nhim; he had not the courage to swallow his bread, he drank a little\nwine, and rushed out of doors in a wind of panic.\n\nHe went, wildly, with great strides. Confession! The prior? Who was the\nprior? He sought in vain among the fathers whose faces he remembered the\none who would hear him.\n\n\"My God!\" he said, all at once, \"but I do not even know how a confession\nis made.\"\n\nHe sought a deserted corner, where he could recollect himself a little.\nHe was striding along without even knowing how he came there, along a\nwalnut-tree walk with a wall on one side. There were some enormous\ntrees, he hid himself behind the trunk of one of them, and sitting on\nthe moss, turned over the leaves of his prayer-book, and read: \"On\narriving at the confessional, place yourself on your knees, make the\nsign of the cross, and ask the priest for his blessing, saying, 'Bless\nme, Father, for I have sinned;' then recite the Confiteor as far as _mea\nculpa_ ... and ...\"\n\nHe stopped, and without any need of probing it his life sprang out in\njets of filth.\n\nHe shrank from it, there was so much, of every kind, that he was\noverwhelmed with despair.\n\nThen by an effort of his will he pulled himself together, endeavoured to\ncontrol and bank up these torrents, to separate them so as to understand\nthem, but one affluent rolled back all the others, ended by overwhelming\nthem, and became the river itself.\n\nAnd this sin appeared at first ape-like and sly, at school where\neveryone tempted and corrupted others; then there was all his greedy\nyouth, dragged through tap-rooms, rolled in swine troughs, wallowing in\nthe sinks of prostitution, and then an ignoble manhood. To his regular\ntasks had succeeded toll paid to his senses, and shameful memories\nassailed him in a crowd; he recalled to mind how he had sought after\nmonstrous iniquities, his pursuit of artifices aggravating the malice of\nthe act, and the accomplices and agents of his sins passed in file\nbefore him.\n\nAmong all, at one time, there was a certain Mme. Chantelouve, a\ndemoniacal adulteress who had drawn him headlong into frightful\nexcesses, who had linked him to nameless crimes, sins against holy\nthings, to sacrileges.\n\n\"How can I tell all this to the monk?\" thought Durtal, terrified by the\nremembrance; \"how can I even express myself, so as to make him\nunderstand without defilement?\"\n\nTears rushed from his eyes. \"My God, my God!\" he sighed, \"this is indeed\ntoo much.\"\n\nAnd in her turn Florence appeared with her little street-arab smile, and\nher childish haunches. \"I can never tell the confessor all that was\nbrewed in the perfumed shade of her vices,\" cried Durtal. \"I can by no\nmeans make him face these torrents of pus.\n\n\"Yet they say this has to be done;\" and he bowed under the weight of the\nfoulness of this girl.\n\n\"How shameful to have been riveted to her, how disgusting to have\nsatisfied the abominable demands of her desires!\"\n\nBehind this sewer extended others. He had traversed all the districts of\nsin which the prayer-book patiently enumerated. He had never confessed\nsince his first communion, and with the piling up of years had come\nsuccessive deposits of sins. He grew pale at the thought that he was\nabout to detail to another man all his dirt, to acknowledge his most\nsecret thoughts, to say to him what one dares not repeat to one's own\nself, lest one should despise oneself too much.\n\nHe sweated with anguish, then nausea at his being, remorse for his life\nsolaced him, and he gave himself up; regret for having lived so long in\nthis cesspool was a very crucifixion to him; he wept long, doubting\npardon, not even daring to ask it, so vile did he feel himself.\n\nAt last he sprang up; the hour of expiation must be at hand, in fact his\nwatch pointed to a quarter to ten. His agony as he thus wrought with\nhimself had lasted more than two hours.\n\nHe hurriedly reached the main path which led to the monastery. He walked\nwith his head down, forcing back his tears.\n\nHe slackened his pace somewhat as he drew near the little pond; he\nlifted his eyes in supplication to the cross, and as he lowered them he\nmet a look so moved, so compassionate, so gentle, that he stopped, and\nthe look disappeared with the bow of a lay brother, who passed on his\nway.\n\n\"He read my thoughts,\" said Durtal to himself. \"Oh, this charitable monk\nhas good reason to pity me, for indeed I suffer. Ah, Lord, that I might\nbe like that humble brother!\" he cried, remembering that he had seen\nthat very morning the young tall lad, praying in the chapel with such\nfervour that he seemed to rise from the ground, before Our Lady.\n\nHe arrived at the auditorium in a frightful state, and sank on a chair;\nthen, like a hunted animal that thinks itself discovered, he sprang up,\nand, disturbed by his fears, moved by a wind of disorder, he thought of\nflight, that he would pack his bag, and make for the train.\n\nHe mastered himself, undecided and trembling, his ear on the watch, his\nheart beating with great strokes, and he heard the sound of distant\nsteps. \"My God,\" he said, waiting for the steps that drew near, \"what\nmanner of monk is coming?\"\n\nThe steps were silent, and the door opened. Durtal in his alarm dared\nnot look at the confessor, in whom he recognized the tall Trappist, with\nthe imperious profile, whom he believed to be the abbot of the\nmonastery.\n\nHis breath was taken away, and he drew back without saying a word.\n\nSurprised at this silence, the prior said,--\n\n\"You have asked to make your confession, sir?\"\n\nAnd at a sign from Durtal, he pointed out the prie-Dieu placed against\nthe wall, and himself knelt down, turning his back.\n\nDurtal braced himself, fell down at the prie-Dieu, and then completely\nlost his head. He had vaguely prepared how to enter on the matter, noted\nthe points of his statement, classified his sins in some degree, and now\nremembered nothing.\n\nThe monk rose, sat down on a straw chair, leant towards the penitent,\nhis hand behind his ear to hear the better.\n\nHe waited.\n\nDurtal wished rather to die than speak; he succeeded, however, in\nmastering himself, and bridling his shame; he opened his lips, but no\nword came; he remained overwhelmed, his head in his hands, repressing\nthe tears he felt ready to fall.\n\nThe monk did not move.\n\nAt last he made a desperate effort, stammered the beginning of the\nConfiteor, and said,\n\n\"I have not confessed, since my childhood; since then I have led a\nshameful life, I have ...\"\n\nThe words would not come.\n\nThe Trappist remained silent, and did not assist him at all.\n\n\"I have committed every kind of debauch, I have done everything ...\neverything ...\"\n\nHe choked, and the tears he had repressed flowed, he wept, his body was\nshaken, his face hidden in his hands.\n\nAnd as the prior, still bending over him, did not move,\n\n\"But I cannot,\" he cried; \"I cannot.\"\n\nAll that life he could not bring out, stifled him; he sobbed in despair\nat the view of his sins, and crushed also at finding himself thus\nabandoned, without a word of kindness, without help. It seemed to him\nthat all was giving way, that he was lost, repulsed even by Him who yet\nhad directed him to this abbey.\n\nThen a hand was laid on his shoulder, while a gentle, low voice said,\n\n\"Your soul is too tired for me to fatigue you with questions, come back\nat nine o'clock to-morrow, we shall have time before us, we shall not\nthen be hurried by any office; from now till then, think of the story of\nCalvary; the cross, which was made for the sins of the whole world, lay\nso heavily on the shoulders of the Saviour, that His knees bent and He\nfell. A man of Cyrene passed by who helped the Lord to bear it. You, in\ndetesting, in weeping for your sins, have alleviated and rendered\nlighter, if one may say so, the cross of the burthen of your sins, and\nhaving made it less heavy, have thus allowed Our Lord to lift it.\n\n\"He has recompensed you by the most astonishing of miracles, the miracle\nof having brought you here from so far off. Thank Him, then, with all\nyour heart, and be not discomforted. You will say to-day for your\npenance, the Penitential Psalms, and the Litany of the Saints. I will\ngive you my blessing.\"\n\nAnd the prior blessed him and went out. Durtal raised himself up after\nhis tears; what he feared so much had happened; the monk who would take\nhim in hand was impassive, almost dumb. \"Alas!\" he thought, \"my\nabscesses are ripe, but it needs the cut of a lancet to open them.\"\n\n\"After all,\" he went on, as he went upstairs to bathe his eyes in his\ncell, \"this Trappist was compassionate at last, not so much in what he\nsaid, as the tone in which he said it; then, to be just, he was perhaps\nconfused by my tears; the Abbe Gevresin certainly did not tell Father\nEtienne that I was taking refuge in La Trappe in order to be converted,\nlet us put ourselves in the place of a man living in God, far from the\nworld, over whose head a shower bath is suddenly discharged.\n\n\"Well, we shall see to-morrow;\" and Durtal made haste to sponge his\nface, for it was nearly eleven o'clock and the office of Sext was about\nto begin.\n\nHe went to the chapel, which was almost empty, for the brothers were\nworking at that time in the chocolate factory, and in the fields.\n\nThe fathers were in their places in the apse. The prior struck his bell,\nall signed themselves with a large cross, and on the left, where he\ncould not see, for Durtal had taken the same place as in the morning,\nnear Saint Joseph's altar, a voice arose:\n\n\"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.\"\n\nAnd the other part of the choir answered:\n\n\"Et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus.\"\n\nThere was a moment's pause, and the pure thin voice of the old Trappist\nsang as before the office of Compline the evening before:\n\n\"Deus in adjutorium meum intende.\"\n\nAnd the liturgy continued its course, with its \"Gloria Patri,\" etc.,\nduring which the monks bowed their foreheads on their books, and with\nits series of psalms, accented in short tones on the one side, and long\non the other.\n\nDurtal, as he knelt, allowed himself to be rocked by the psalmody, too\ntired to be able to pray himself.\n\nThen, when Sext was ended, all the fathers meditated, and Durtal caught\na look of pity from the prior, who turned a little towards his bench. He\nunderstood that the monk implored the Saviour for him, and perhaps asked\nGod to show him the way in which he might conduct himself on the morrow.\n\nDurtal rejoined M. Bruno in the court; they shook hands, and the oblate\nannounced the presence of a new guest.\n\n\"A retreatant?\"\n\n\"No; a curate from the neighbourhood of Lyons, he has come to see the\nabbot, who is ill.\"\n\n\"But I thought the abbot of Notre Dame de l'Atre was the tall monk who\nled the office?\"\n\n\"Oh no; that was the prior Father Maximin, you have not seen the abbot,\nand I doubt if you will see him, for I do not think he will leave his\nbed before you go.\"\n\nThey reached the guest-house, and found Father Etienne making excuses to\na short fat priest for the poor fare he could offer.\n\nHe was a jovial priest, with strong features moulded in yellow fat.\n\nHe joked M. Bruno, whom he seemed to have known some time, on the sin of\ngluttony which must so often be committed at La Trappe, then tasted,\npretending a chuckle of delight, the scentless bouquet of the poor wine\nhe poured out, and lastly, when he divided with a spoon the omelette\nwhich was the main dish of their dinner, he pretended to cut up a fowl,\nand to be delighted with the fine appearance of the flesh; saying to\nDurtal, \"This is a barley-fed fowl, may I offer you a wing?\"\n\nThis kind of pleasantry exasperated Durtal, who had no wish to laugh\nthat day; he therefore was satisfied to make a vague bow, wishing to\nhimself that the end of dinner was at hand.\n\nThe conversation continued between the priest and M. Bruno.\n\nAfter it had spread over various commonplaces, it took a more definite\nform, in regard to an invisible otter which plundered the abbey ponds.\n\n\"But, no doubt,\" said the curate, \"you have found its lair?\"\n\n\"Never; it is easy to see in the lain grass the paths it traverses to\nget to the water, but we always lose its traces at the same spot. We\nhave watched for days with Father Etienne, but it has never shown\nitself.\"\n\nThe abbe explained various traps which might be set with advantage.\nDurtal thought of the otter-hunt which Balzac tells so pleasantly at the\nbeginning of his \"Paysans,\" when the dinner came to an end.\n\nThe curate said grace, and said to M. Bruno, \"Suppose we take a turn;\nthe fresh air will do instead of the coffee, which they forget to give\nus.\"\n\nDurtal returned to his cell.\n\nHe felt himself emptied, injured, cheated, reduced to a state of fibre,\na state of pulp. His body, crushed by the nightmares of the night,\nenervated by the scene of the morning, needed entire rest, and if his\nsoul had not still that infatuation which had broken it in tears at the\nmonk's feet, it was sad and restless, and it also asked for silence,\nrepose, and sleep.\n\n\"Let us see,\" said Durtal, \"I must not give way, let me bestir myself.\"\n\nHe read the Penitential Psalms and the Litanies of the Saints; then he\nhesitated between two volumes of Saint Bonaventure and Saint Angela.\n\nHe decided on the Blessed Angela. She had sinned and had been converted,\nand she seemed less far from him, more intelligible, more helpful than\nthe Seraphic Doctor, than a Saint who had always remained pure,\nsheltered from falls. For she too had been a carnal sinner; she too had\nreached the Saviour from afar.\n\nA married woman, she lived in adultery and shame; lovers succeeded one\nanother, and when she had exhausted them she threw them aside like\nhusks. Suddenly grace rose in her and made her soul break forth; she\nwent to confession, not daring to avow the more awful of her sins, and\nshe communicated, thus grafting sacrilege upon her other faults.\n\nShe lived, day and night tortured by remorse, and finally prayed to\nSaint Francis of Assisi to help her; and the next night the saint\nappeared to her. \"My sister,\" he said, \"if you had called on me sooner,\nI should have granted your prayer before this.\" The next day she went to\nchurch, heard a priest preaching, understood she must address herself to\nhim, and laid all before him in a full confession.\n\nThen began the trials of an appalling life of purification. In blow\nafter blow she lost her mother, her husband, her children; she went\nthrough such violent temptations to impurity that she was obliged to\nseize on lighted coals and cauterize the plague of her senses with fire.\n\nDuring two years the demon sifted her. She parted her goods among the\npoor, assumed the habit of the Third Order of Saint Francis, gathered in\nthe sick and infirm, and begged for them in the streets.\n\nOne day a feeling of sickness came over her before a leper whose sores\nwere stinking. To punish herself she drank the water in which she had\nwashed the sores; she was overcome with nausea; and punished herself\nyet more by forcing herself to swallow a scab which had not gone down\nwith the water and remained dry in her throat.\n\nFor years she dressed ulcers and meditated on the Passion of Christ.\nThen her novitiate of sorrows drew to a close and a radiant day of\nvisions dawned on her. Jesus treated her as a spoilt child, called her,\n\"My sweetest, my well-beloved daughter;\" He dispensed her from the\nnecessity of eating, and nourished her only with the Sacred Species; He\ncalled her, drew her, absorbed her in uncreated light, and by\nanticipating her inheritance, enabled her to understand, in life, the\njoys of heaven.\n\nAnd she was so simple and timid that she feared in spite of all, for the\nmemory of her sins alarmed her. She could not believe herself forgiven,\nand said to Christ; \"Ah, if I could but put myself in an iron collar and\ndrag myself to the market-place to proclaim my shame.\"\n\nAnd He consoled her: \"Be easy, My daughter, My sufferings have atoned\nfor your sins;\" and as she reproached herself for having lived in\nopulence and having delighted in clothes and jewels, He addressed her,\nsmiling: \"To buy you riches, I have wanted for everything; you required\na great number of clothes, and I had but one garment of which the\nsoldiers stripped Me, for which they drew lots; My nakedness was the\nexpiation of your vanity in ornaments.\"\n\nAnd all her conversations with Christ were in this tone. He passed His\ntime in comforting this humble creature whom His benefits overwhelmed;\nand this has made her the most loving of the saints! her work is a\nsuccession of spiritual outpourings and caresses; her book is such a\nliving hearth that beside it the volumes of other mystics seem but dull\ncoal.\n\n\"Ah,\" said Durtal to himself, in turning over these pages, \"it was\nindeed the Christ of Saint Francis, the God of mercy who spoke to this\nFranciscan!\" and he went on: \"that ought to give me courage, for Angela\nof Foligno was as great a sinner as I am, but all her sins were\nremitted! Yes, but then what a soul she had, while mine is good for\nnothing; instead of loving, I reason; nevertheless it is right to\nremember that the conditions of the Blessed Angela were more favourable\nthan mine. Living in the thirteenth century she had a shorter journey\nto make to approach God, for since the Middle Ages, each century takes\nus further from Him! she lived in a time full of miracles, which\noverflowed with Saints. For me, I live in Paris in an age when miracles\nare rare and Saints scarcely abound. And once away from here, what a\nvista is before me of falling away, of soaking myself in a stew of\ninfamy, in a bath of the sins of great cities.\"\n\n\"By the way\" ... he looked at his watch and started; it was two\no'clock--\"I have missed the office of Nones,\" he said; \"I must simplify\nmy complicated horary, or I shall never know where I am;\" and at once he\ntraced in a few lines:\n\n\"Morning. Rise at 3 o'clock, or rather at 3.30. Breakfast at 7--Sext at\n11, dinner at 11.30--Nones at 1.30--Vespers at 5.15--Supper at 6, and\nCompline at 7.25.\"\n\n\"There, at least that is clear and easy to remember--If only Father\nEtienne have not noticed my absence from chapel!\"\n\nHe left his room. \"Ah, here is the famous rule,\" he said to himself, on\nseeing a framed table hung on the landing.\n\nHe approached and read:--\n\n      \"Rule for Visitors.\"\n\nIt was composed of numerous paragraphs, and opened as follows:--\n\n     \"Those whom Divine Providence has guided to this monastery are\n     requested to note the following:--\n\n     \"They will at all times avoid meeting the religious and lay\n     brothers, and will not go near their places of work.\n\n     \"They are forbidden to leave the cloister for the farm or the\n     neighbourhood of the monastery.\"\n\nThen came a series of instructions which he had already seen on the\nprinted horary.\n\nDurtal skipped several paragraphs, and read again:--\n\n     \"Visitors are requested not to write anything on the doors, not to\n     strike matches on the wall, and not to spill water on the floor.\n\n     \"They are not allowed to visit each other's rooms or to speak to\n     one another.\n\n     \"Smoking is not allowed in the house.\"\n\n\"Nor indeed outside,\" thought Durtal. \"But I want a cigarette badly;\"\nand he went down.\n\nIn the corridor he ran against Father Etienne, who immediately observed\nthat he had not seen him in his place during the office. Durtal excused\nhimself as well as he could. The monk said no more, but Durtal\nunderstood that he was observed, and that under his childlike aspect the\nguest-master would, where discipline was concerned, hold him in an iron\ngrip. He was confirmed in this impression when at Vespers he noticed\nthat the monk's first glance on entering the chapel was at him, but that\nday he felt so sore and broken that he cared but little. This sudden\nchange of existence, and of the manner in which he had been accustomed\nto spend his time, astounded him, and since the crisis of the morning he\nhad been in a kind of torpor which took from him all power of recovery.\nHe drifted to the end of the day, no longer thinking of anything,\nsleeping as he stood, and when the evening came he fell on his bed a\nmere inert mass.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nHe woke with a bound at eleven o'clock, with an impression of someone\nlooking at him in his sleep. Lighting a match, he ascertained the time,\nand seeing no one, fell back in bed again, and slept at a stretch till\nfour o'clock. Then he dressed himself in haste and ran to the church.\n\nThe vestibule, which had been dark on the previous evening, was lit up\nthat morning, for an old monk was celebrating mass at the altar of St.\nJoseph. He was bald and infirm, with a white beard waving from side to\nside in long threads with every gust of wind.\n\nA lay brother was assisting him, a small man with black hair and a\nshaven head, like a ball painted blue; he looked like a bandit, with his\nbeard in disorder and his worn-out robe of felt.\n\nAnd the eyes of this bandit were gentle and startled like those of a\nlittle boy. He served the priest with an almost timid respect and a\nsuppressed joy which was touching to see.\n\nOthers, kneeling on the flagstones, prayed with concentrated attention\nor read their mass. Durtal noticed the old man of eighty, immovable with\noutstretched face and closed eyes; and the youth whose look of pity had\nhelped him near the pond, was following the office in his prayer-book\nwith attentive meditation. He looked about twenty years old, tall and\nstrong; his face, with an air of fatigue, was at once masculine and\ntender, with emaciated features, and a light beard which fell over his\nhabit in a point.\n\nDurtal gave way to his emotions in this chapel, where everyone did a\nlittle to help him, and thinking of the confession he was about to make,\nhe implored the Saviour to help him, and prayed that the monk would\ncompletely explore his soul.\n\nAnd he felt himself less dismayed, more master of himself, and firmer.\nHe collected and pulled himself together, feeling a melancholy\nconfusion, but he had no longer the sense of desolation which had\novercome him the evening before. He set his mind on the idea that he\nwould not abandon himself, that he would help himself with all his\nmight, and that in any case he could not collect himself better.\n\nThese reflections were interrupted by the departure of the old Trappist,\nwho had finished offering the sacrifice, and by the entry of the prior,\nwho went up in the rotunda between two white fathers to say mass at the\nhigh altar.\n\nDurtal was absorbed in his prayer-book, but he ceased reading when the\npriest had consumed the Species, for all rose, and he was amazed at a\nsight of which he had never dreamed, a communion of monks.\n\nThey advanced in single file, silent and with downcast eyes, and when\nthe first arrived before the altar, he turned round to embrace the\ncomrade who followed; he in turn took in his arms the religious who\nfollowed him, and so on to the last. All, before receiving the\nEucharist, exchanged the kiss of peace, then they knelt, communicated,\nand came back in single file, turning into the rotunda behind the altar.\n\nAnd the return was unexpected; with the white fathers at the head of the\nline, they made their way very slowly with closed eyes and joined hands.\nThe faces seemed to be somewhat altered; they were differently lit from\nwithin; it seemed that the soul, driven by the power of the Sacrament\nagainst the sides of the body, filtered through the pores and lit up the\nskin with a special light of joy, with that kind of brightness which\npours from white souls, and makes way like a rose-coloured vapour along\nthe cheeks, and shines, as if concentrated, on the brow.\n\nWatching the mechanical and hesitating gait of these monks, it seemed as\nif their bodies were no more than automata moving from habit, and that\nthe souls, being elsewhere, gave no heed to them.\n\nDurtal recognized the old lay brother, bent so much that his face\ndisappeared in his beard which pressed against his chest, and his two\ngreat knotty hands trembled as he clasped them; he also noticed the tall\nyoung brother, his features seeming drawn on a dissolved surface,\ngliding with short steps, his eyes closed.\n\nBy a fatal chance he thought upon himself. He was the only one who did\nnot communicate, for he saw M. Bruno coming last from behind the altar\nand returning to his place with folded arms. This exclusion brought home\nto him clearly how different he was, and how far apart, from those\naround him! All were admitted, and he alone remained outside. His\nunworthiness was more apparent, and he grew sad at being put aside,\nlooked on, as he deserved to be, as a stranger, separated like the goat\nof the Scriptures, penned, far from the sheep, on the left of Christ.\n\nThese reflections were of use to him, for they relieved him of the\nterror of confession which was again coming over him. This act seemed to\nhim so natural and just, in his necessary humiliation and unavoidable\nsuffering, that a desire came over him to accomplish it at once, so that\nhe might appear in this chapel purified and washed, and with at least\nsome resemblance to the others.\n\nWhen the mass was over, he made his way towards his cell to get a tablet\nof chocolate.\n\nAt the top of the stairs M. Bruno, with a large apron round him, was\ngetting ready to clean the steps.\n\nDurtal looked on him with surprise. The oblate smiled and shook hands\nwith him.\n\n\"This is an excellent task for the soul,\" he said, showing his broom;\n\"it recalls modest sentiments which one is too inclined to forget after\nliving in the world.\"\n\nAnd he began sweeping vigorously, and collecting into a pan the dust\nwhich like pepper filled every crevice in the floor.\n\nDurtal carried his tablet into the garden. \"Let us consider,\" he said to\nhimself as he nibbled it; \"supposing I took another walk and tried an\nunknown part of the wood?\" And he felt no wish to do so. \"No, placed as\nI am, I would rather haunt the same spot and not leave the places to\nwhich I am accustomed; I am already so little under control, and so\neasily disturbed, that I do not wish to risk anything by curiosity to\nsee new places.\" And he went down to the cross pond. He went along the\nbanks, and having reached the end, was astonished to find, a few steps\nfarther, a stream spotted with green pellicules, hollowing its way\nbetween two hedges which fenced in the monastery. The fields stretched\nout beyond, and the roofs of a large farmhouse were visible in the\ntrees, and all round the horizon on hills were forests which seemed to\nstop the way before the sky.\n\n\"I imagined the grounds were larger,\" he said to himself, retracing his\nsteps; and having reached the end of the cross pond, he gazed on the\nhuge wooden crucifix reared in the air which was reflected in that black\nmirror. It sank down, seen from behind, trembling in the small waves\nstirred up by the breeze, and seemed to fall whirling round in that\nstretch of ink. And as the body of the marble Christ was hidden by the\nwood, only the two white arms which hung below the tree could be seen,\ntwisted in the blackness of the water.\n\nSeated on the grass, Durtal gazed on the hazy image of the recumbent\ncross, and thinking of his soul, which, like the pond, was tanned and\nstained by a bed of dead leaves and a dunghill of sins, he pitied the\nSaviour whom he was about to invite to bathe Himself there, for it would\nno longer be the Martyr of Golgotha to whom at all events death came on\na hill, His head high, by daylight, in the open air! but it would be by\nan increase of outrages, the abominable plunging of the crucified body,\nthe head low, by night, into a depth of mud.\n\n\"Ah! it would be time to spare Him, in filtering and clarifying me,\" he\ncried to himself. And the swan, till then motionless in an arm of the\npond, swept over the lamentable image in advancing, and whitened the\nmoving mourning of the waters with its peaceful reflection.\n\nAnd Durtal thought of the absolution which he would perhaps obtain, and\nhe reopened his prayer-book and numbered his faults; and, slowly, as on\nthe day before, he tapped, in his innermost being, a fountain of tears.\n\n\"I must control myself,\" he said, trembling at the idea that he would\nsuffocate again and be unable to speak; and he resolved to begin his\nconfession at the other end, first going over the minor sins, keeping\nthe great ones for the end so as to finish with the avowal of his carnal\nmisdeeds: \"if I succumb then I can explain myself in two words. My God!\nmay the prior only not remain silent as he did yesterday, may he only\nabsolve me!\"\n\nHe shook off his sadness, left the pond, and returning to the lime\navenue, he interested himself in a closer inspection of the trees. They\nraised huge trunks, covered with reddish-brown stonecrop, silvered grey\nby mosses; and several that morning were wrapped as in a mantle trimmed\nwith pearls, gossamer threads studded with drops of dew.\n\nHe sat down on a bench, but fearing a shower, for it looked threatening,\nhe retired to his cell.\n\nHe felt no desire to read; he was eager for, while yet he dreaded, the\narrival of nine o'clock, to have done with, to get rid of the weight\nupon his soul, and he prayed mechanically, without knowing what he\nmumbled, always thinking on this confession, full of alarm and harassed\nwith fears.\n\nHe went down a little before the time, and when he entered the\nauditorium his heart failed him.\n\nIn spite of himself, his eyes were fixed upon the prie-Dieu, where he\nhad suffered so cruelly.\n\nTo think that he had to put himself on that hurdle again, to stretch\nhimself on that rack of torture! He tried to collect himself, to compose\nhimself--and he drew himself up quickly; he heard the footsteps of the\nmonk. The door opened, and, for the first time, Durtal dared to look the\nprior in the face; it seemed to be hardly the same man, nor the face, he\nhad noticed from a distance; the profile was so haughty, and the full\nface so sweet; the eye dulled the proud energy of the features, an eye\nfamiliar and deep, when at the same time there was a quiet joy and a sad\npity.\n\n\"Come,\" he said, \"do not be disturbed, you are about to speak to our\nSaviour alone, who knows all your faults.\" And he knelt down and prayed\nfor some time and came, as on the day before, to sit by the prie-Dieu;\nhe bent towards Durtal and listened.\n\nSomewhat reassured, the penitent began without too great anguish. He\naccused himself of faults common to all men, want of charity towards his\nneighbour, evil speaking, hate, rash judgment, abuse, lies, vanity,\nanger, etc.\n\nThe monk interrupted him for a moment.\n\n\"You said, just now, I think, that in your youth you contracted debts;\nhave you paid them?\"\n\nAnd on an affirmative sign from Durtal, he said, \"Good,\" and went on,\n\n\"Have you belonged to any secret society? have you fought a duel?--I am\nobliged to ask these questions for they are reserved cases.\"\n\n\"No?--Good\"--and he was silent.\n\n\"Before God, I accuse myself of everything,\" resumed Durtal; \"as I\nconfessed to you, yesterday, since my first communion I have given up\neverything; prayers, mass, everything; I have denied God, I have\nblasphemed, I had entirely lost faith.\"\n\nAnd Durtal stopped.\n\nHe was reaching the sins of the flesh. His voice fell.\n\n\"Here I do not know how to explain myself,\" he said, keeping back his\ntears.\n\n\"Let us see,\" the monk said gently; \"you told me yesterday that you had\ncommitted all those acts which are comprised in the sin of lust.\"\n\n\"Yes, father;\" and trembling, he added, \"Must I go into the details?\"\n\n\"No, it is useless. I will confine myself to asking you, for it alters\nthe nature of the sin, whether in your case there have been any private\nsins, or any sins committed between persons of the same sex?\"\n\n\"Not since I left school.\"\n\n\"Have you committed adultery?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Am I to understand that in your relations with women, you have\ncommitted every possible excess?\"\n\nDurtal made an affirmative sign.\n\n\"That is sufficient.\"\n\nAnd the monk was silent.\n\nDurtal choked with disgust; the avowal of these horrors was a terrible\neffort to him; yet crushed as he was by shame, he was beginning to\nbreathe, when suddenly he plunged his head again in his hands.\n\nThe remembrance of the sacrilege in which Madame Chantelouve had made\nhim share, came back to him.\n\nHesitatingly he confessed that he had from curiosity assisted at a black\nmass, and that afterwards, without wishing it, he had defiled a Host\nwhich that woman, saturated with Satanism, concealed about her.\n\nThe prior listened without moving.\n\n\"Did you continue your visits to that woman?\"\n\n\"No; that had given me a horror of her.\"\n\nThe Trappist reflected and said,\n\n\"That is all?\"\n\n\"I think I have confessed everything,\" replied Durtal.\n\nThe confessor was silent for some minutes, and then in a pensive voice,\nhe murmured,\n\n\"I am struck, even more than yesterday, by the astonishing miracle which\nHeaven has worked in you.\n\n\"You were sick, so sick that what Martha said of the body of Lazarus\nmight truly have been said of your soul, 'Iam foetet!' And Christ has,\nin some manner, raised you. Only do not deceive yourself, the conversion\nof a sinner is not his cure, but only his convalescence; and this\nconvalescence sometimes lasts for several years and is often long.\n\n\"It is expedient that you should determine from this moment to fortify\nyourself against any falling back, and to do all in your power for\nrecovery. The preventive treatment consists of prayer, the sacrament of\npenance, and holy communion.\n\n\"Prayer?--you know it, for without much prayer you could not have\ndecided to come here after the troubled life you had led.\"\n\n\"Ah! but I prayed so badly!\"\n\n\"It does not matter, as your wish was to pray well! Confession?--It was\npainful to you; it will be less so now that you no longer have to avow\nthe accumulated sins of years. The communion troubles me more; for it is\nto be feared that when you have triumphed over the flesh the Demon\nshould await you there, and endeavour to draw you away, for he knows\nwell that, without this divine government, no healing is possible. You\nwill therefore have to give this matter all your attention.\"\n\nThe monk reflected a minute, and then went on,\n\n\"The holy Eucharist ... you will have more need of it than others, for\nyou will be more unhappy than less cultured and simpler beings. You will\nbe tortured by the imagination. It has made you sin much; and, by a just\nrecompense, it will make you suffer much; it will be the badly closed\ndoor of your soul by which the Demon will enter and spread himself in\nyou. Watch over this, and pray fervently that the Saviour may help you.\nTell me, have you a rosary?\"\n\n\"No, father.\"\n\n\"I feel,\" said the monk, \"that the tone in which you said 'No' shows a\ncertain hostility to the rosary.\"\n\n\"I admit that this mechanical manner of saying prayers wearies me a\nlittle; I do not know why, but it seems to me that at the end of some\nseconds I can no longer think of what I am saying; I should mock, and\nshould certainly end by stammering out something stupid.\"\n\n\"You have known,\" quietly answered the prior, \"some fathers of families.\nTheir children stammer forth caresses, and tell them no matter what, and\nyet they are delighted to listen! Why should not our Lord, who is a good\nFather, love to hear His children when they drawl, or even when they\ntalk nonsense?\"\n\nAnd after a pause he went on,\n\n\"I scent the devil's artifice in what you say, for the highest graces\nare attached to this crown of prayers. The most Blessed Virgin herself\nrevealed to the saints this means of prayer; she declared she delighted\nin it; that should be enough to make us love it.\n\n\"Do it, then, for her who has powerfully assisted in your conversion,\nwho has interceded with her Son to save you. Remember, also, that God\nwished that all graces should come to us through her. St. Bernard\nexpressly declares 'Totum nos habere voluit per Mariam.'\"\n\nThe monk paused anew, and added,\n\n\"However, the rosary enrages fools, and that is a sure sign. You will\nfor a penance recite ten every day for a month.\"\n\nHe ceased, and then went on again, slowly,\n\n\"All of us, alas! retain that scar of original sin which is the\ninclination towards evil; each man encourages it more or less; as for\nyou, since you grew up, the scar has been always open, but as you hate\nthe wound God will close it.\n\n\"So I will say nothing of your past, as your repentance and your firm\nresolve to sin no more efface it. To-morrow, you will receive the pledge\nof reconciliation, you will communicate; after so many years the Lord\nwill set out on the way to your soul and will rest there; approach Him\nwith great humility, and prepare yourself from this moment, by prayer,\nfor this mysterious meeting of hearts which His goodness desires. Now\nsay your act of contrition and I will give you holy absolution.\"\n\nThe monk raised his arms, and the sleeves of his white cowl rose above\nhim like two wings. With uplifted eyes he uttered the imperious formula\nwhich breaks the bonds, and the three words, \"Ego te absolvo,\" spoken\nmore distinctly and slowly, fell upon Durtal, who trembled from head to\nfoot. He almost sank to the ground, incapable of collecting himself or\nunderstanding himself, only feeling, in the clearest manner, that Christ\nHimself was present, near him in that place, and finding no word of\nthanks, he wept, ravished and bowed down under the great sign of the\ncross with which the monk enveloped him.\n\nHe seemed to be waking from a dream as the prior said to him,\n\n\"Rejoice, your life is dead; it is buried in a cloister, and in a\ncloister it will be born again; it is a good omen; have confidence in\nour Lord and go in peace.\"\n\nAnd the father added, pressing his hand, \"Do not be afraid of disturbing\nme, I am entirely at your service, not only for confession, but for\ninterviews and for any advice which may be of use to you; you quite\nunderstand me?\"\n\nThey left the auditorium together; the monk bowed to him in the corridor\nand disappeared. Durtal hesitated whether to meditate in his cell or in\nthe church, when M. Bruno met him. Approaching Durtal he said,\n\n\"Well? that is a fine weight the less on your stomach!\"\n\nAnd as Durtal looked at him in astonishment he laughed.\n\n\"Do you think that an old sinner like me could not tell from a thousand\nnothings, if only from the way your poor eyes are now shining, that you\nhad not been reconciled when you landed here? Now I have just met the\nreverend father returning to the cloister, and I find you coming out of\nthe auditorium; there is no need to be particularly sly to guess that\nthe great wash has just taken place.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Durtal, \"you could not have seen the prior with me, for he\nhad left before you came in, and he might have been performing some\nother duty.\"\n\n\"No, for he was not in his scapular; he had his cowl on. And as he\nnever puts on that robe except to go to church or at confessions, I was\nquite certain that he came from the auditorium, as there is no office at\nthis hour. I may also point out that as the Trappists do not come to\nconfession in this room, two persons only could have been with him, you\nor I.\"\n\n\"You may say as much,\" replied Durtal, laughing.\n\nFather Etienne met them in the midst of all this, and Durtal asked him\nfor a rosary.\n\n\"But I have not one,\" exclaimed the monk.\n\n\"I have several,\" said M. Bruno, \"and shall be most happy to offer you\none. You will allow me, father?...\"\n\nThe monk acquiesced by a sign.\n\n\"Then if you will come with me,\" replied the oblate, addressing Durtal,\n\"I will hand it you without delay.\"\n\nThey went upstairs together, and Durtal then learnt that M. Bruno lived\nin a room at the bottom of a small corridor, not far from his own.\n\nHis cell was very simply furnished with old middle-class furniture, a\nbed, a mahogany bureau, a large book-case full of ascetic books, an\nearthenware stove and some arm-chairs. These articles were evidently the\nproperty of the oblate, for they were nothing like the furniture of La\nTrappe.\n\n\"Pray be seated,\" said M. Bruno, indicating an arm-chair; and they\nconversed.\n\nHaving first discussed the Sacrament of Penance, the talk came round to\nthe subject of Father Maximin, and Durtal admitted the high bearing of\nthe prior had terrified him at first.\n\nM. Bruno laughed. \"Yes,\" he said, \"he produces that effect on those who\nnever come near him, but when one associates with him, one finds that he\nis only strict for himself, for no one is more indulgent to others. In\nevery acceptation of the term he is a true and holy monk; besides, he\nhas great judgment....\"\n\nAnd as Durtal spoke to him of the other cenobites, and wondered that\nthere were some quite young men among them, M. Bruno replied,\n\n\"It is a mistake to suppose that most Trappists have lived in the world.\nThe idea, so widespread, that people take refuge in La Trappe after long\nsorrows or disorderly lives, is absolutely false; besides, to be able to\nstand the weakening rule of the cloister it is necessary to begin\nyoung, and not to come in worn out with every kind of abuse.\n\n\"It is also necessary to avoid confounding misanthropy with the monastic\nvocation; it is not hypochondria, but the divine call, which leads to La\nTrappe. There is a special grace, which makes all young men who have\nnever lived in the world long to bury themselves in silence and therein\nsuffer the hardest privations; and they are happy as I hope you will be;\nand yet their life is still more rigorous than you would think; take the\nlay brothers, for example.\n\n\"Think of their giving themselves up to the most painful labour, and\nthat they have not, like the fathers, the consolation of singing and\nassisting at all the offices; remember that even their reward, the\ncommunion, is not very often conceded to them.\n\n\"Now think of the winter here. The cold is frightful; in these decayed\nbuildings nothing shuts properly, and the wind sweeps the house from top\nto bottom; they freeze without fires, they sleep upon pallets, and they\ncannot help or encourage each other, for they hardly know each other, as\nall conversation is forbidden.\n\n\"Think, also, that these poor people never hear a kindly word, a word\nwhich would soothe and comfort them. They work from dawn till night, and\nthe master never thanks them for their zeal, never tells the good\nworkman that he is pleased.\n\n\"Consider, also, that in summer when men are hired from the neighbouring\nvillages to reap the harvest, these rest when the sun scorches the\nfields; they sit in their shirt sleeves under the shade of the ricks,\nand drink, if they are thirsty, and eat; and the lay brother in his\nheavy clothes looks at them and goes on with his work, and neither eats\nnor drinks. Ah! men must have well-tempered souls to stand such a life.\"\n\n\"But surely there must be some off days,\" said Durtal, \"when the rule is\nrelaxed?\"\n\n\"Never; there is not even, as in some very strict orders--the\nCarmelites, to take one instance--an hour of recreation, when the\nreligious may talk and laugh. Here, the silence is eternal.\"\n\n\"Even when they are together in the refectory?\"\n\n\"Then they read the Conferences of Cassien, the 'Holy Ladder' of\nClimacus, the Lives of the Fathers of the Desert, or some other pious\nbook.\"\n\n\"And on Sunday?\"\n\n\"On Sunday they rise an hour earlier; but on the whole it is their best\nday, for they can follow all the offices and pass their whole time in\nchurch.\"\n\n\"Humility and self-denial carried to such an extent are superhuman!\"\ncried Durtal. \"But they are surely given a sufficient quantity of strong\nnourishment to enable them to give themselves up from morning till\nevening to exhausting work in the fields?\"\n\nM. Bruno smiled.\n\n\"They simply get vegetables which are not even as good as those which\nare served to us, and, by way of wine, they quench their thirst with a\nsour and insipid liquid, which leaves half a glass full of sediment.\nThey get a pint each, and if they are thirsty they can add water.\"\n\n\"And how often do they eat?\"\n\n\"That depends. From the 14th September to Lent they only eat once a day,\nat half-past two--and during Lent this meal is put off till four\no'clock. From Easter to the 14th September, when the Cistercian fast is\nless strict, dinner is at about half-past eleven, and to this may be\nadded a light meal in the evening.\"\n\n\"It is frightful! to work for months on one meal a day, two hours after\nnoon, after being up since two o'clock in the morning; having had no\ndinner the evening before.\"\n\n\"It is sometimes necessary to relax the rule a little, and when a monk\nfails from weakness he is not refused a morsel of bread.\n\n\"It would be well,\" continued M. Bruno, pensively, \"to relax still\nfurther the grasp of these observances, for this question of food is\nbecoming a veritable stumbling-block in recruiting for La Trappe; souls\nwhich delight in these cloisters are forced to fly them, because their\nbodies cannot stand the rule.\"[1]\n\n     [1] The opinion of M. Bruno has been lately adopted by all the\n     abbeys of the order. In a General Chapter of La Trappe, held from\n     the 12th to the 18th September, 1894, in Holland, at Tilburg, it\n     was decided that except in seasons of fasting, the monks might eat\n     a little in the morning, dine at eleven, and sup in the evening.\n\n     Article CXVI. of the new constitutions, voted by this assembly of\n     the Chapter and approved by the Holy See, is in effect thus\n     conceived:--\n\n     \"Diebus quibus non jejunatur a Sancto Pascha usque ad Idus\n     Septembris, Dominicis per totum annum et omnibus festis Sermonis\n     aut feriatis extra Quadrigesimam, omnes monachi mane accipiant\n     mixtum, hora undecima prandeant et ad seram coenent.\"\n\n\"And the fathers lead the same life as the lay brothers?\"\n\n\"Absolutely--they set the example; they all swallow the same pittance,\nand sleep in the same dormitory on similar beds; there is complete\nequality. Only, the fathers have the advantage of singing the office and\nobtaining more frequent communions.\"\n\n\"Among the lay brothers there are two who have interested me\nparticularly, one quite young, a tall fair man with a pointed beard, the\nother a very old man, quite bent?\"\n\n\"The young one is Brother Anacletus; this young man is a veritable\ncolumn of prayer, and one of the most precious recruits whom Heaven has\nbestowed upon our abbey. As for old Simeon, he is a child of La Trappe,\nfor he was brought up in an orphanage of the order. There you have an\nextraordinary soul, a true saint, who already lives absorbed in God. We\nwill talk of him at greater length another day, for it is time we went\ndown; the hour of Sext is near.\n\n\"Wait, here is the rosary which I am pleased to offer you. Allow me to\nadd to it a medal of Saint Benedict.\" And he made over to Durtal a small\nwooden rosary, and the strange circle engraved with cabalistic letters,\nthe amulet of Saint Benedict.\n\n\"Do you know the meaning of these signs?\"\n\n\"Yes; I read it once in a pamphlet of Dom Gueranger.\"\n\n\"Good. And, by-the-bye, when do you communicate?\"\n\n\"To-morrow.\"\n\n\"To-morrow; it is impossible!\"\n\n\"Why impossible?\"\n\n\"Because there will be only a single mass to-morrow, that of five\no'clock, and at that the rule prevents your communicating alone. Father\nBenedict, who usually says an earlier mass, went away this morning and\nwill not return for two days. There is some mistake.\"\n\n\"But the prior positively declared to me that I should communicate\nto-morrow!\" exclaimed Durtal. \"Not all the fathers here, then, are\npriests?\"\n\n\"No, in fact, as to priests, there is the abbot who is ill, the prior\nwho will offer the sacrifice to-morrow at five o'clock, Father Benedict\nof whom I spoke to you, and another whom you have not seen and who is\ntravelling. And then, if it had been possible, I also should have\napproached the Holy Table.\"\n\n\"Then, if the fathers are not all ordained, what difference is there\nbetween those who have obtained the priesthood and the simple lay\nbrothers?\"\n\n\"Education--to be a father a man must have studied, must know Latin, and\nin a word must not be what the lay brothers are, peasants or workmen. In\nany case I shall see the prior, and as to the communion to-morrow, I\nwill let you know, after the office. But it is tiresome; it is a pity\nyou could not have come up this morning, with us.\"\n\nDurtal made a gesture of regret. He went into the chapel, dwelling on\nthis misfortune and praying God not to delay his re-entry into grace any\nlonger.\n\nAfter Sext, the oblate came to rejoin him. \"It is just as I thought,\" he\nsaid, \"but nevertheless you will be admitted to take the Sacrament. The\nfather prior has arranged with the curate who dines with us. He will say\na mass to-morrow morning before leaving, and you will then communicate.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" groaned Durtal.\n\nThis news broke his heart. That he should have come to La Trappe to\nreceive the Eucharist from the hands of a priest of passage, from a\njovial priest such as this man! \"Ah, no, I have confessed to a monk, and\nI wished to receive the communion from a monk!\" he exclaimed. \"It would\nhave been better to wait till Father Benedict returned--but what can I\ndo? I can hardly explain to the prior how repugnant this unknown priest\nis to me, and how terribly painful it would be to me, after having gone\nthrough so much, to end by being thus reconciled in a cloister.\"\n\nAnd he complained to God, telling Him that all the joy he might have\nfelt in being purified and clean at last, was now spoilt by this\ndisappointment.\n\nHe arrived at the refectory hanging his head.\n\nThe curate was there already. Seeing Durtal's sad demeanour, he\ncharitably tried to cheer him, but the jokes he attempted produced the\nopposite effect. Durtal smiled in order to be polite, but his air was so\nwearied that M. Bruno, who saw it, turned the conversation and\nmonopolized the priest.\n\nDurtal was in a hurry for his dinner to be over. He had eaten his egg\nand was painfully swallowing a warm potato soup made with hot oil, which\nfrom its appearance might have been mistaken for vaseline; but he now\ncared little about his food.\n\nHe said to himself, \"It is dreadful to carry away an irritating and\npainful recollection of a first communion--and I know it will haunt me\nfor ever. I know well enough that from a theological point of view it\ndoes not matter whether I am dealing with a priest or a Trappist; both\nare but interpreters between God and me, but yet, I feel very well that\nit is not at all the same thing. For once at least I need a guarantee of\ncertain holiness, and how can I have it with an ecclesiastic who hawks\nabout jokes like a bagman?\" He stopped, remembering that the Abbe\nGevresin, fearing this mistrust, had specially sent him to a Trappist\nmonastery. \"What a run of ill-luck!\" he said to himself.\n\nHe did not even hear the conversation which was going on beside him\nbetween the curate and the oblate.\n\nHe struggled with himself all alone, as he chewed, with his nose in his\nplate.\n\n\"I do not wish to communicate to-morrow,\" he went on, and he was\nshocked. He was cowardly, and becoming foolish at the last. Would not\nthe Saviour give Himself to him all the same?\n\nHe rose from the table, stirred by a dull anguish, and he wandered in\nthe park and went down the paths as chance led him.\n\nAnother idea was now growing in him, an idea that Heaven was inflicting\na trial upon him. \"I want humility,\" he repeated. \"Well, it is to punish\nme that I am refused the joy of being sanctified by a monk. Christ has\nforgiven me, that is much. Why should He do more by taking note of my\npreferences and granting my wishes?\"\n\nThis thought appeased him for a few minutes, and reproaching himself\nfor rebelling, he accused himself of being unjust towards a priest who,\nafter all, might be a saint.\n\n\"Ah, enough of that,\" he said; \"I must accept the fact, and try for once\nto be a little humble! but I have to recite my rosary.\" He seated\nhimself on the grass and began.\n\nHe had not reached the second bead, when misunderstanding again pursued\nhim. He began again on the Pater and Ave, and went on thinking no more\nof the sense of his prayers, reflecting: \"What ill-luck that the one\nmonk who says mass every day should be away, so that I have to go\nthrough such a disappointment to-morrow!\"\n\nHe was silent and had a moment of calm, when suddenly a new element of\ntrouble burst upon him.\n\nHe looked at the rosary, of which he had told ten beads.\n\n\"Let me see, the prior told me to recite ten every day--ten beads or ten\nrosaries?\"\n\n\"Beads,\" he said, and almost at the same moment answered, \"Rosaries.\"\n\nHe remained perplexed.\n\n\"But that is idiotic, he could not have told me to go through the rosary\nten times a day; that would amount to something like five hundred\nprayers on end; no one could do such a task without losing his wits.\nThere is no doubt, it is clear he meant ten beads!\n\n\"But no! for if a confessor gives a penance, it must be admitted that he\nwould proportion it to the greatness of the sins. And as I have such\nrepugnance for these drops of devotion taken in globules, it is natural\nthat he should gorge me with a large dose of the rosary!\n\n\"Still ... still ... it cannot be! I should not have even time for it\nall in Paris; it is absurd!\"\n\nAnd the idea that he was deceiving himself came intermittently charging\nback.\n\n\"Still, there must be no haggling; in ecclesiastical language 'ten'\nmeans ten beads; no doubt ... but I remember very well that after he\npronounced the word rosary, the father expressed himself thus: 'you will\nsay ten,' that means ten rosaries, for otherwise he would have specified\nten ... of a rosary.\"\n\nAnd so he thrust and parried with himself--\"The father had no need to\nput the dots on all the i's, if he were using an ordinary phrase, known\nto everyone. This cavilling about the value of a word is ridiculous.\"\n\nHe tried to get rid of this torment by appealing to his reason; and\nsuddenly there came out some argument which unsettled him.\n\nHe found out that it was through cowardice, idleness, desire for\ncontradiction and the necessity of rebelling, that he did not wish to\nwind his ten reels. \"Of the two interpretations I have chosen the one\nwhich would relieve me of all effort and trouble, it is really too\neasy!--that alone proves that I deceive myself when I try to persuade\nmyself that the prior only ordered me to pick out ten beads!\"\n\n\"Then a Pater, ten Aves, and a Gloria are nothing; it is not heavy as a\npenance!\"\n\nAnd then he answered himself, \"But it is much for you, for you cannot\neven attempt so much without wandering.\"\n\nHe was turning on himself without advancing a step.\n\n\"I have never felt such hesitation,\" he said, trying to pull himself\ntogether; \"I am not stupid and yet I am fighting against my good sense,\nfor it is not a matter of doubt, I know it, I ought to say ten Aves and\nnot one more!\"\n\nHe remained nonplussed, almost frightened at his condition which was new\nto him.\n\nAnd, to get out of the difficulty, to silence himself, he thought of a\nnew idea to conciliate both parties, which seemed most concise and which\npresented at least a provisional solution.\n\n\"In any case,\" he reflected, \"I cannot communicate to-morrow if I do not\ncomplete my penance to-day; in the doubt, the wisest course is to yoke\nmyself to the ten rosaries; later I shall see; if necessary I shall be\nable to consult the prior. It is true that he will think me an idiot if\nI speak to him of these rosaries! so I shall not be able to ask him\nthat!\"\n\n\"But then, you see, you admit yourself, it can only be ten beads!\"\n\nHe was furious with himself, and for silence' sake rushed upon the\nrosary.\n\nHe might well shut his eyes, and try to collect himself, it was\nimpossible for him at the end of the second ten to follow his prayers;\nhe hesitated, forgetting the large beads of the Paters, losing his way\nin the small beads of the Aves, stamping on the ground.\n\nTo check himself, he thought of transporting himself in imagination at\neach dose, into one of the chapels of the Virgin which he loved to\nattend in Paris, at Notre Dame des Victoires, at St. Sulpice, at St.\nSeverin; but these Virgins were not numerous enough for him to dedicate\neach set of ten to them, so he evoked the Madonnas of the early masters,\nand, absorbed before their images, he turned the windlass of his\nprayers, not understanding what he mumbled, but praying the Mother of\nthe Saviour to accept his paternosters, as she would receive the lost\nsmoke of a censer forgotten before the altar.\n\n\"I cannot force myself any more,\" he said. He left this toil worried and\ncrushed and wanting to take breath; there were still three rosaries to\nexhaust.\n\nAnd as soon as he had stopped, the question of the Eucharist, which had\nbeen dropped, came up again.\n\n\"Better not to communicate than to communicate badly;\" and it was\nimpossible that after such debates and with such prejudices he could\nproperly approach the Holy Table.\n\n\"Yes, but then what shall I do?--in reality, was it not monstrous of me\nto dispute the monk's orders, to wish to carry them out in my own way,\nto take them up at my convenience! If this goes on, I shall sin so much\nto-day that I shall have to confess again,\" he said.\n\nTo break through this feeling, he threw himself again upon his wheel,\nbut then stupefied himself completely; the device he had tried to keep\nhimself before the Virgin at least was used up. When he wished to\nabstract himself and to bring up a recollection of Memling, he could not\nsucceed, and his lip-prayers, wearying him, distressed him.\n\n\"My soul is worn out,\" he thought, \"I should do well to let it rest,\nwhile I stay quiet.\"\n\nHe wandered round the pond, not knowing what to do next.\n\n\"Suppose I go to my cell!\" He went there, tried to become absorbed in\nthe Little Office of the Virgin, and did not grasp a single word of the\nphrases he was reading. He went down and began to prowl about the park\nagain.\n\n\"This is enough to drive me mad,\" he cried--and mournfully he exclaimed,\n\"I ought to be happy, to pray in peace and prepare myself for\nto-morrow's act, yet never have I been so restless, so upset, so far\nfrom God!\n\n\"But I must finish this penance!\" Despair seized him, and he was on the\npoint of letting all go; he mortified himself again, and compelled\nhimself to tell the beads.\n\nHe finished by despatching them; he was at the end of his powers. And he\nimmediately found a new means of torture.\n\nHe reproached himself with having moaned the prayers negligently,\nwithout having even seriously tried to follow their meaning. And he was\non the point of beginning the rosary over again, but in the face of the\nevident folly of this suggestion he pulled himself up, refused to\nlisten, and then he worried himself again.\n\n\"It is none the less true that you have not literally fulfilled the task\nassigned you by the confessor, for your conscience reproaches you for\nyour want of reflection and your wandering.\"\n\n\"But I am half dead!\" he exclaimed. \"I cannot go through the exercises\nagain in this condition!\"--and once again he ended, by giving a casting\nvote, and finding a new weakness.\n\nBy saying over another ten, thoughtfully pronouncing the prayers with\ncare, he might make up for all the beads of the rosary which he had\nmumbled without understanding them.\n\nAnd he tried to turn the crank, but as soon as he had got out the Pater,\nhe wandered; he was obstinate in wishing to grind out the Aves, but then\nhis mind gave way and became thoroughly distracted.\n\nHe stopped, thinking, \"What is the use of it? besides, would one set of\nten, however well said, be equal to five hundred prayers that have\nmissed fire? and then why one set of ten and not two, why not three? it\nis absurd!\"\n\nHe grew angry; \"After all,\" he concluded, \"these repetitions are absurd;\nChrist positively declared that we should not use vain repetitions in\nour prayers. Then what is the object of this wheel of Aves?\"\n\n\"If I dwell upon such ideas, if I cavil at the injunctions of the monk,\nI am lost,\" said he suddenly; and by an effort of will, he stifled the\nrevolt which was rumbling in him.\n\nHe took refuge in his cell; the hours lengthened interminably; he killed\nthe time by recapitulating all the same objections with all the same\nanswers. It was a repetition of which he was himself ashamed.\n\n\"So much is certain, that I am the victim of an aberration,\" he said. \"I\ndo not speak of the Eucharist; there my thoughts may not be exact, but\nat least they are not maddening, while as for this question of\npaternosters!\"\n\nHe confused himself so much that he felt hammered like an anvil between\nthese two opposing ideas, and finally sank drowsily on a chair.\n\nThus he passed the time till the hour of vespers and supper. After this\nmeal he returned to the park.\n\nAnd then the slumbering dispute revived and all came back. A furious\nbattle was raging within him. He remained there, immovable, astounded,\nlistening to himself, when a rapid footstep approached and M. Bruno said\nto him,\n\n\"Take care, you are possessed by the devil!\"\n\nAnd as Durtal, stupefied, did not answer,\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"God sometimes allows me intuitions, and I am certain at\nthis moment that the devil is working in you. Let us see, what is wrong\nwith you?\"\n\n\"I ... I do not know myself;\" and Durtal told him of the extraordinary\nconflict about the rosary which had been raging in him since the\nmorning.\n\n\"But this is madness,\" exclaimed the oblate; \"it is ten beads the prior\nordered you to tell; ten rosaries would be impossible.\"\n\n\"I know it ... and yet I doubt still.\"\n\n\"Always the same tactics,\" said M. Bruno; \"contriving to render\ndisgusting the thing you ought to do. Yes, the devil wished to make the\nrosary odious to you by crushing you with it. And what is there besides?\nYou do not wish to communicate to-morrow?\"\n\n\"True,\" replied Durtal.\n\n\"I thought as much, when I was watching you at supper. Ah! well, after\nconversions the Evil One is at work; and it is nothing, believe me; he\nwas harder on me than that.\"\n\nHe slipped his arm under Durtal's, and leading him to the auditorium,\nbegged him to wait, and disappeared.\n\nSome minutes afterwards, the prior entered.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"M. Bruno tells me that you are suffering. What is it,\nexactly?\"\n\n\"It is so stupid that I am ashamed to explain myself.\"\n\n\"You will never astonish a monk,\" said the prior, smiling.\n\n\"Well, I know precisely, I am certain that you gave me ten beads of the\nrosary to recite every day for a month, and, since this morning, I have\nbeen arguing with myself against all common sense, to convince myself\nthat my daily penance is to be the rosary ten times.\"\n\n\"Hand me your rosary,\" said the monk, \"and look at these ten beads;\nwell, that is all I prescribed for you, and all you have to recite. So\nyou have told all the beads ten times to-day?\"\n\nDurtal signified assent.\n\n\"And naturally you were perplexed, you lost all patience, and ended up\nby rambling.\"\n\nAnd seeing Durtal's pitiful smile,\n\n\"Well, listen to me,\" declared the father, in an energetic tone, \"I\nabsolutely forbid you for the future to begin a prayer again; it has\nbeen badly said; so much the worse, go on, do not repeat it.\n\n\"I need not ask you if the idea of abstaining from communion occurred to\nyou, for that comes of itself; it is there that the enemy directs all\nhis efforts. Do not listen to the devil's voice which would keep you\naway; whatever happens you will communicate to-morrow. You should have\nno scruple, for I command you to receive the Sacrament; I take it all\nupon myself.\n\n\"And now another question; what sort of nights have you?\"\n\nDurtal told him of the awful night of his arrival at La Trappe, and of\nthe feeling of being spied upon which had awakened him the day before.\n\n\"We have long known these manifestations, they are without imminent\ndanger; do not therefore let them trouble you. At the same time, if they\ncontinue you will let me know, and we will not neglect attending to\nthem.\"\n\nAnd the Trappist left quietly, while Durtal remained thinking.\n\n\"I never doubted that those phenomena were satanic,\" he thought, \"but I\ndid not understand these attacks upon the soul, this charge at full\nspeed against my reason which remains untouched, and yet is overcome;\nthat is remarkable; if only this lesson may be useful to me so that I\nmay not be unhorsed on the first alarm!\"\n\nHe went up to his cell again and a great peace fell upon him. All had\ndied down at the voice of the monk; he now only felt surprise at having\nbeen off the rails for hours; he understood now that he had been\nassailed unawares and that the struggle had not been with himself.\n\nHe said his prayers and lay down. And, suddenly, the assault began again\nby new tactics he had not guessed at.\n\n\"No doubt I shall communicate to-morrow,\" he said to himself; \"but ...\nbut ... am I prepared for such an act? I ought to have collected my\nthoughts in the day-time, I ought to have thanked the Lord for having\nabsolved me, and I have lost my time in nonsense.\"\n\n\"Why did I not say that just now to Father Maximin? how is it I did not\nthink of it? Then I ought to have confessed again. And this priest who\nwill give me the communion, this priest!\"\n\nThe horror which he felt for this man increased suddenly and became so\nvehement that he was astonished. \"Ah, but there I am again knocked about\nby the enemy,\" he said, and he went on:\n\n\"All that shall not prevent me from receiving the Heavenly Bread\nto-morrow, for I have quite decided; only how frightful it is that the\nSpirit of Malice should be allowed to oppress and harass me without\nrespite while I have no sign from Heaven which does not interfere, and I\nknow nothing.\n\n\"Ah! Lord, if I were only certain this communion would please Thee! Give\nme a sign, show me that I may ally myself with Thee without remorse; let\nthe impossible take place so that, to-morrow, it may be a monk and not\nthis priest....\"\n\nAnd he stopped himself, astonished at his boldness, asking himself how\nhe dared ask for, and indicate a sign.\n\n\"It is idiotic!\" he exclaimed; \"in the first place, no one has a right\nto claim such favours from God; and then, as He will not grant my\nprayer, what shall I have gained? I shall infer from the refusal that my\ncommunion will be worth nothing!\"\n\nAnd he prayed the Lord to forget his wish, excused himself for having\nformed it, and wished to convince himself that He should not take it\ninto account, and, helped by the agitations of the day, he ended by\nfalling asleep as he prayed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nWhen he left his cell he said to himself, \"This morning I shall\ncommunicate,\" and these words, which should have thrilled him through\nand through, woke no zeal in him. He remained dull, tired and caring for\nnothing, feeling cold in the depth of his being.\n\nNevertheless a fear stimulated him when he was outside. \"I do not know,\"\nhe said to himself, \"when I must leave my seat and go to kneel before\nthe priest; I know that the congregation should communicate after the\ncelebrant; but at what moment exactly ought I to move? It is indeed\nanother misfortune that I should have to go up, alone, towards this\nTable which so disturbs me; otherwise I shall only have to follow the\nothers and at least be sure of not doing anything improperly.\"\n\nHe scrutinized the chapel as he went in, looking round for M. Bruno who,\nhad he been by his side, might have kept off his scruples, but the\noblate could not be found. Durtal sat down, disabled, dreaming of the\nsign he had asked for the evening before, endeavouring to throw off the\nrecollection, thinking of it all the same.\n\nHe wished to examine himself and collect himself, and he was praying\nHeaven to forgive him his mental vacillations when M. Bruno came in, and\nwent to kneel before the statue of the Virgin.\n\nAlmost at the same minute a brother, who had a beard like seaweed\ngrowing from a face like a pear, took up to the altar of St. Joseph a\nsmall rustic table on which he placed a basin, a towel, two vases and a\nnapkin.\n\nBefore these preparations, which recalled the imminence of the\nSacrifice, Durtal stiffened himself and succeeded by an effort in\nkeeping back his anxieties and overthrowing his troubles, and escaping\nfrom himself he ardently implored Our Lady to intervene so that he\nmight, for this hour at least, without wandering, pray in peace.\n\nAnd when he had finished his prayer he lifted his eyes and looked with a\nstart at the priest who was advancing, preceded by a lay brother, to\ncelebrate mass.\n\nThis was not the curate whom he knew, but another, younger, very tall,\nwith a majestic air, with cheeks pale and shaven, and a bald head.\n\nDurtal was watching him solemnly marching towards the altar with his\neyes cast down when he suddenly noticed a violet flame light up his\nfingers.\n\n\"He wears an episcopal ring, he is a bishop,\" thought Durtal, who leant\nforward to see the colour of the vestment underneath the chasuble and\nalb. It was white.\n\n\"Then it is a monk,\" he said, astounded; and, mechanically, he turned\ntowards the statue of the Virgin, summoning the oblate by a hasty\nglance, who came to sit beside him.\n\n\"Who is he?\"\n\n\"Dom Anselm, the abbot of the monastery.\"\n\n\"He who was ill?\"\n\n\"Yes, he will give us communion.\"\n\nDurtal fell upon his knees, suffocated, almost trembling: he was not\ndreaming! Heaven was answering him by the sign on which he had fixed.\n\nHe ought to abase himself before God, to be overwhelmed at His feet, to\nspread himself in a passion of gratitude; he knew and wished it! And\nwithout knowing how, he was exercising himself in seeking natural causes\nwhich might account for the substitution of a monk for the priest.\n\nNo doubt it was very simple; for on the whole, before admitting a kind\nof miracle.... \"anyhow, I will keep an open mind, for after the ceremony\nI wish to clear the matter up.\"\n\nAnd he repelled the insinuations which crept into him. Well! what\ninterest could there be in the motive of this change? there clearly must\nbe a motive, but it was only a consequence, an accessory; the important\npoint was the supernatural will which had produced it. \"In any case you\nhave obtained more than you asked; you have even a better than the\nsimple monk you wished for, you have the abbot of La Trappe himself!\"\nAnd he cried: \"Oh, to believe, to believe like these poor lay brothers,\nnot to be endowed with a soul which is blown about by every wind; to\nhave the faith of a child, an immovable faith, a faith which cannot be\nrooted up! Ah, Father, Father, bury it, rivet it in me!\"\n\nAnd such was his enthusiasm that he came out of himself; all around him\nseemed to disappear and he cried, stammering, to Christ: \"Lord, go not\nfar from me. Let Thy pity curb Thy justice; be unjust, forgive me;\nreceive Thy poor bedesman for communion, the poor in spirit!\"\n\nM. Bruno touched his arm, and with a glance invited him to accompany\nhim. They went up to the altar and knelt upon the flagstones, then, when\nthe priest had blessed them, they knelt closer on the single step, and\nthe lay brother handed them a napkin, for there was no bar or cloth.\n\nAnd the abbot of La Trappe gave them the communion.\n\nThey returned to their places. Durtal was in a state of absolute torpor;\nthe Sacrament had, in a manner, anaesthetized his mind; he fell on his\nknees at his bench, incapable even of unravelling what might be moving\nwithin him, unable to rally and pull himself together.\n\nAnd all of a sudden the impression came over him that he was suffocating\nand wanted air; the mass was finished; he rushed out and ran to his\nwalk; there he wished to take an account of himself and he found\nnothing.\n\nAnd in front of the cross pond, in whose waters the Christ was drowning,\nthere came over him an infinite melancholy, a vast sadness.\n\nIt was a true syncope of the soul; it lost consciousness; and when it\ncame to itself, he was astonished that he had not felt an unknown\ntransport of joy; then he dwelt on a troublesome recollection, on the\nall too human side of the deglutition of a God; the Host had stuck\nagainst his palate, and he had had to seek it with his tongue and roll\nit about like a pancake in order to swallow it.\n\nAh! it was still too material! he only wanted a fluid, a perfume, a\nfire, a breath!\n\nAnd he tried to explain to himself the treatment that the Saviour made\nhim follow.\n\nAll his anticipations had returned; it was the absolution and not the\ncommunion which had worked. When with the confessor he had very clearly\nperceived the presence of the Redeemer; all his being had, in a manner,\nbeen injected with divine effluvia, and the Eucharist had only brought\nhim suffocation and trouble.\n\nIt seemed that the effects of the two Sacraments had changed places the\none with the other; they had worked the wrong way with him; Christ had\nbeen perceptible to his soul before and not afterwards.\n\n\"But it is easy enough to see,\" he reflected, \"that the great question\nfor me is to have an absolute certainty of my forgiveness! By a special\nfavour, Jesus has ratified my faith in the healing power of Penance. Why\nshould He have done more?\"\n\n\"And then, what bounties would He reserve for His saints? After all I am\nastonishing. It is too much that I should wish to be treated as He\ncertainly treats Brother Anacletus and Brother Simeon.\"\n\n\"I have obtained more than I deserve. And what an answer I had, this\nvery morning? Yes, indeed, but why should such advances end suddenly in\nthis recoil?\"\n\nAnd making his way towards the abbey to eat his bread and cheese, he\nsaid to himself: \"My error towards God is to be always arguing, when I\nought to adore stupidly as these monks here do. Ah! to be able to keep\nsilence, silence to one's self, that is indeed a grace!\"\n\nHe reached the refectory, which, as a rule, he had to himself, M. Bruno\nnever coming to the meal at seven o'clock in the morning. He was\nbeginning to cut himself a piece of bread, when the father guest-master\nappeared.\n\nHe had a whetstone and some knives in his hand, and smiling at Durtal,\nhe said: \"I am going to polish the knives of the monastery, for they\nwant it badly.\" And he placed them on a table in a small room attached\nto the refectory.\n\n\"Well, are you satisfied?\" he said, on coming back.\n\n\"Certainly--but, what happened this morning, how is it I was\ncommunicated by the abbot of La Trappe, when I should have been by the\ncurate who dines with me?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" exclaimed the monk, \"I was as much surprised as you. On waking,\nthe Father Abbot suddenly declared that he must say mass this morning.\nHe got up in spite of the observations of the prior, who as a doctor,\nforbade him to leave his bed. Neither I, nor any one else, knows what\ntook him. Then they told him that a retreatant would communicate and he\nanswered 'Just so, I shall communicate him.' And then M. Bruno took the\nopportunity of also approaching the Sacrament, for he loves to receive\nour Saviour from the hands of Dom Anselm.\"\n\n\"And this arrangement also satisfied the curate,\" the monk went on,\nsmiling; \"for he left La Trappe at an earlier hour this morning and has\nbeen able to say his mass in a parish where he was expected.... By the\nway, he told me to make his excuses to you for not having been able to\nbid you good-bye.\"\n\nDurtal bowed. \"There is no doubt about it,\" he thought, \"God wished to\ngive me an unmistakable answer.\"\n\n\"And your health?\"\n\n\"It is good, father; I am astounded; my digestion has never been so good\nas it is here; to say nothing of the fact that the neuralgia, which I\nfeared so much, has spared me.\"\n\n\"That shows that Heaven protects you.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed. But now that I remember it, I have long wished to ask you\nthis--how are your offices arranged? They do not correspond with those\nprinted in my prayer-book.\"\n\n\"No, they differ from yours, which belong to the Roman ritual. At the\nsame time, the Vespers are almost similar, except sometimes the lessons,\nand then what may put you out is that ours are often preceded by the\nVespers of the Blessed Virgin. As a general rule we have a psalm less in\nthe office, and the lessons are nearly always short.\n\n\"Except,\" Father Etienne went on, smiling, \"in Compline, the very one\nyou recite. Thus you may have noticed we know nothing of 'In manus tuas,\nDomine,' which is one of the few short lessons sung in parish churches.\n\n\"We have also a special Proper of Saints; we celebrate the commemoration\nof the Blessed of our order which you will not find in your books. In\nfact we follow the letter of the monastic breviary of Saint Benedict.\"\n\nDurtal had finished his breakfast. He rose, fearing to trouble the\nfather by his questions.\n\nOne word of the monk, however, was troubling his brain, that relating to\nthe prior as a doctor; and before going out he spoke of this again to\nFather Etienne.\n\n\"No--the Reverend Father Maximin is not a doctor, but he understands\nsimples very well, and he has a small pharmacy which is enough as long\nas no one is seriously ill.\"\n\n\"And in that case?\"\n\n\"In that case the practitioner can be called in from one of the nearest\ntowns, but no one is ever so ill as that; or else the end is approaching\nand the doctor's visit would be useless....\"\n\n\"So on the whole the prior looks after soul and body at La Trappe.\"\n\nThe monk signified assent.\n\nDurtal went out. He hoped to get rid of his suffocation by a long walk.\n\nHe took a road which he had not been along before, and came out on a\nglade where stood the ruins of an ancient convent, some bits of wall,\ntruncated columns and capitals in the Roman style; unhappily these\nremains were in a deplorable condition, rough, covered with moss and\nriddled with holes like pumice stones.\n\nHe went on and came to the end of a long walk, at the top of which was a\npond five or six times as large as the small one in the form of a cross,\nwhich he frequented.\n\nThe walk was planted with old oaks on each side, and in the middle, near\na wooden bench, stood a cast-iron statue of the Virgin.\n\nHe groaned as he looked at it. The crime of the church followed him once\nmore; even in this little chapel so full of divine compassion, all the\nstatues came from the religious bazaars of Paris or Lyons.\n\nHe took his position below, near the pond whose banks were bordered by\nreeds surrounded by tufts of osiers; and he amused himself by examining\nthe colours of these shrubs, with their smooth green leaves and stalks\nof citron yellow, or blood red, noticing the curling water which began\nto foam with a gust of wind. And the martins skimmed it, touching it\nwith the tips of their wings from which drops of water fell like pearls\nof quicksilver. And the birds rose whirling above and giving out their\ncries of weet, weet, weet, while the dragon-flies shone brightly in the\nair which they slashed with blue flames.\n\n\"Peaceful refuge!\" thought Durtal; \"I ought to have come to rest here\nbefore.\" He sat down on a bed of moss and interested himself in the\nnoiseless and active life of the waters. Now the splash and flash of the\nturn of a leaping carp; now great spiders skating on the surface, making\nlittle circles and driving one against another, stopping, going back and\nmaking new rounds; then, near him on the ground, Durtal noticed jumping,\ngreen grasshoppers with vermilion bellies, or, scaling the oaks,\ncolonies of queer insects on whose backs a devil's head was painted in\nred lead on a black ground.\n\nAnd above all that, if he raised his eyes, there was the silent upturned\nsea of heaven, a blue sea crested with surging white clouds like waves;\nand at the same time this firmament moved in the water where it billowed\nunder a blueish gray glass.\n\nDurtal felt himself expand as he smoked cigarettes; the melancholy which\nhad oppressed him since the dawn began to melt away, and joy crept into\nhim as he felt his soul was washed in the pool of the Sacraments and\ndried in the air of a cloister. And he was at once happy and uneasy;\nhappy, for the meeting he had had with the father guest-master, had\nremoved all the doubts he had entertained as to the supernatural side to\nthe sudden change of a priest for a monk to communicate him; happy,\nalso, to know that not only had Christ not repulsed him in spite of all\nthe disorders of his life, but that He was encouraging him and giving\nhim pledges, ratifying the signs of His favours by perceptible acts. And\nnevertheless he was uneasy, for he knew himself to be barren, and felt\nthat it was necessary for him to be grateful for this goodness by a\nstruggle with himself and an entirely new existence differing completely\nfrom that he had hitherto led.\n\n\"Well, we shall see!\" and he went off to the office of Sext almost\ncalmed, and thence to dinner, where he found M. Bruno.\n\n\"We will go for a walk to-day,\" said the oblate, rubbing his hands.\n\nDurtal looked at him with astonishment.\n\n\"Yes, indeed, I thought that after a communion a little air outside the\nwalls would do you good, and I proposed to the Reverend Father Abbot to\nfree you from the rule for to-day, if the offer is not disagreeable to\nyou.\"\n\n\"I gladly accept, and thank you sincerely for your kind attention,\" said\nDurtal.\n\nThey dined off a soup made with oil in which a stick of cabbage and some\npeas were swimming; it was not bad; but the bread made at La Trappe\nreminded him, when stale, of the bread in the siege of Paris, and made\nthe soup turn sour.\n\nThen they tasted an egg with sorrel and some rice steeped in milk.\n\n\"If it suits you,\" said the oblate, \"we will begin by paying a visit to\nDom Anselm, who has expressed a wish to know you.\"\n\nAnd M. Bruno led Durtal through a labyrinth of passages and staircases\nto a small cell where the abbot was. He was dressed like the fathers in\na white robe and a black scapular; only at the end of a violet cord he\nbore on his breast an abbot's cross of ivory, in the centre of which,\nunder a round glass, some relics were inserted.\n\nHe gave his hand to Durtal and begged him to sit down.\n\nThen he asked if the food seemed to be enough for him. And on receiving\na reply in the affirmative from Durtal he inquired if the long silence\ndid not weigh upon him too much.\n\n\"Not at all, this solitude suits me perfectly.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the abbot, laughing, \"you are one of the few laymen who\nhave borne our rule so easily. Generally those who have tried to make a\nretreat here have been devoured by home sickness and spleen, and have\nhad but one idea, to get away.\"\n\n\"Let us see,\" he said after a pause; \"it is not possible, all the same,\nthat such a sudden change of habits should not bring with it some\npainful privations; there must be at least one which you feel above all\nthe others?\"\n\n\"True, I feel the want of being able to light a cigarette whenever I\nlike.\"\n\nThe abbot answered smiling, \"But I suppose you have not been entirely\nwithout smoking, since you came here?\"\n\n\"I should tell a lie if I said I had not smoked in secret.\"\n\n\"Why, bless me, tobacco was not foreseen by St. Benedict; there is no\nmention of it in his rule, and I am therefore free to allow its use; so\nsmoke as many cigarettes as you like without being uneasy.\"\n\nAnd Dom Anselm added:\n\n\"I hope shortly to have a little more time to myself, unless, indeed, I\nam obliged to keep my room, in that case I shall be happy to have a\nlonger talk with you.\"\n\nAnd the monk, who seemed exhausted, shook them by the hand.\n\nGoing down into the court with the oblate Durtal exclaimed,\n\n\"The Father Abbot is charming, and quite young.\"\n\n\"He is hardly forty.\"\n\n\"He appears to be really ill.\"\n\n\"Yes, he is not well, and he required no common energy to say his mass\nthis morning; but let us see, we will first of all visit the grounds of\nLa Trappe which you can hardly have been over completely, then we will\nleave the enclosure and push on to the farm.\"\n\nThey started, skirting the remains of the ancient abbey, and as they\nwalked, turning by the piece of water near which Durtal had been seated\nin the morning, M. Bruno entered into explanations about the ruins.\n\n\"This monastery was founded in 1127 by St. Bernard, who installed the\nBlessed Humbert as abbot, an epileptic Cistercian, whom he had cured by\na miracle. At that time there were apparitions in the convent; a legend\nrelates that two angels came and cut one of the lilies planted in the\ncemetery every time one of the monks died.\n\n\"The second abbot was the Blessed Guerric, who was famous for his\nknowledge, his humility and his patience in enduring evils. We possess\nhis relics and they are enclosed in the shrine under the high altar.\n\n\"But the most remarkable of the superiors, who succeeded each other here\nin the middle ages, was Peter Monoculus, whose story was written by his\nfriend, the member of the synod, Thomas de Reuil.\n\n\"Pierre, called Monoculus, or the one-eyed, was a saint thirsting for\nausterities and sufferings. He was assailed by horrible temptations at\nwhich he laughed. Exasperated, the Devil attacked his body and, by fits\nof neuralgia, broke his skull, but Heaven came to his aid and cured it.\nBy shedding tears from a spirit of penitence, Peter lost an eye, and he\nthanked our Lord for this blessing, 'I had' he said, 'two enemies; I\nhave escaped the first, but the one I retain troubles me more than the\none I have lost.'\n\n\"He worked miracles of healing. The king of France, Louis VII.,\nvenerated him so much that, on seeing the empty eyelid, he wished to\nkiss it. Monoculus died in 1186; they soaked linen cloths in his blood,\nand washed his entrails in wine which was distributed, for the mixture\nwas a powerful remedy.\n\n\"The property of the abbey was then immense; it comprised all the\ncountry which surrounds us, kept up several lazar houses in the\nneighbourhood, and was the home of more than three hundred monks.\nUnfortunately what happened to others happened to Notre-Dame de l'Atre.\nUnder the rule of abbots in commendam it declined, and it was dying with\nonly six religious to look after it when the Revolution suppressed it.\nThe church was then pulled down and afterwards replaced by the rotunda\nchapel.\n\n\"Only in 1875 the present house, which I think dates from 1733, was\nreconciled and became a monastery again. Trappists were brought here\nfrom Sainte Marie de la Mer, in the diocese of Toulouse, and this small\ncolony has made Notre-Dame de l'Atre the Cistercian nursery you see.\n\n\"Such, in few words, is the history of the convent,\" said the oblate.\n\"As for the ruins they are buried underground, and no doubt precious\nfragments might be discovered, but for want of money and men no\nexcavations have been made.\n\n\"In addition to the broken columns and the capitals we passed, there\nremains from the old church a large statue of the Virgin which has been\nerected in one of the corridors of the abbey; besides this there are two\nangels fairly well preserved and which you may see down there at the end\nof the cloister in a small chapel, hidden behind a curtain of trees.\"\n\n\"A virgin, before which St. Bernard may possibly have knelt, ought\nsurely to have been put in the church on the altar dedicated to Mary,\nfor the coloured statue, which surmounts it, is of crying\nugliness--like that one also,\" said Durtal, pointing out in the distance\nthe cast-iron Madonna which towered above the pond.\n\nThe oblate bowed his head and did not reply.\n\n\"Do you know,\" exclaimed Durtal, who in the face of this silence did not\npersist and changed the conversation, \"do you know that I envy you\nliving here?\"\n\n\"It is certain that I do not deserve this favour, for, on the whole, the\ncloister is less an expiation than a reward; it is the only place where,\nfar from the world and near heaven, the only place where a man may give\nhimself up to this mystic life which only develops in solitude and\nsilence.\"\n\n\"Yes, and if possible, I envy you yet more that you should have had the\ncourage to venture into regions which, I confess, frightened me. And I\nknow so well that, in spite of the spring-board of prayers and fasts, in\nspite of the green house, or orchid house atmosphere, wherein mysticism\nis grown, I should wither away in these regions without ever expanding\nagain.\"\n\nThe oblate smiled. \"What do you know about it?\" he replied, \"the thing\nis not done in an hour; the orchid you speak of does not flower in a\nday; the advance is so slow, that mortifications space themselves out,\nfatigues are distributed over years, and, on the whole, are easily\nborne.\n\n\"As a general rule it is necessary, to cross the distance which\nseparates us from the Creator, to go through three grades to attain that\nscience of Christian perfection which is called mysticism; we must live\nin turn the life of Purification, of Illumination and of Unity--to join\nthe uncreated Good and be poured out in Him.\n\n\"It matters little that these three grand phases of ascetic existence\nsubdivide themselves into an infinity of stages; which are degrees\naccording to Saint Bonaventure, dwelling places according to Saint\nTeresa, steps according to Saint Angela; they may vary in length and\nnumber, according to the will of the Lord and the temperament of those\nwho go through them. It is not disputed that the journey of the soul\ntowards God includes, first, perpendicular and breakneck roads--these\nare the roads of the life of Purification--next, narrower paths still,\nbut well marked out and accessible--these are the paths of the life of\nIllumination--at length, a wide road almost smooth, the road of the\nlife of unity, at the end of which the soul throws itself into the\nfurnace of Love, and falls into the abyss of the most adorable Infinity!\n\n\"On the whole, these three ways are successively reserved to those who\nstart in Christian asceticism, to those who practise it, and finally to\nthose who attain to the supreme end, the death of self and the life in\nGod.\n\n\"Long,\" pursued the oblate, \"I have placed my desires beyond the\nhorizon, yet I progress little; I am scarcely disengaged from the life\nof Purification, scarcely....\"\n\n\"And you do not fear--how shall I say--material infirmities, for if at\nlast you succeed in attaining the limits of contemplation, you risk the\nruin of your body for ever. Experience seems to show, in effect, that\nthe deified soul acts on the constitution and brings incurable\ntroubles.\"\n\nThe oblate smiled. \"In the first place I should, no doubt, fail to\nattain to the last degree of initiation, the extreme point of mysticism;\nthen, supposing I attain it, what would corporal accidents be in the\nface of such results?\n\n\"Let me also assure you that these accidents are neither so frequent nor\nso certain as you seem to think.\n\n\"A man may be a great mystic, or an admirable saint, and not be the\nsubject of visible phenomena for those who surround him. Would you not\nthink, for example, that levitation, or the flight of bodies in the air,\nwhich seems to constitute the highest state of rapture, is one of the\nrarest? Whom can you quote to me? Saint Teresa, Saint Christina the\nAdmirable, Saint Peter of Alcantara, Dominic of Mary Jesus, Agnes of\nBohemia, Margaret of the Blessed Sacrament, the Blessed Gorardesca of\nPisa, and above all Saint Joseph of Cupertino, who raised himself at\nwill from the ground. But they are ten or twenty out of thousands of the\nelect!\n\n\"And note well that these gifts do not prove their superiority over\nother Saints. Saint Teresa declares expressly: it must not be imagined\nthat anyone, blessed as he may be in this respect, is better than those\nwho are not so blessed, for our Lord directs each one according to his\nparticular need.\n\n\"And then the doctrine of the Church is seen in the untiring prudence\nshown in the canonization of the dead. Qualities and not extraordinary\nacts decide this; for the Church, miracles themselves are only secondary\nproofs, for she knows that the Spirit of Evil imitates them.\n\n\"In the lives of the Blessed you will find, too, the most unusual deeds,\nand more amazing phenomena than in the biographies of the Saints. These\nphenomena have rather hindered than helped them. After having beatified\nthem for their virtues, the Church has put off--and no doubt for a long\ntime--their promotion to the sovereign dignity of Saints.\n\n\"It is difficult, on the whole, to formulate an exact theory on this\nsubject, for if the cause, if the mental action is the same in all\nmystics, it differs a little, as I have said, according to God's will\nand the character of the subjects; the difference of sex often changes\nthe form of the mystic flow, though in essence it never varies; the rush\nof the Spirit from on High may produce different effects, but is none\nthe less identical.\n\n\"The only observation we dare make in these matters is that women, as a\nrule, are more passive and less reserved, while men resist more\nviolently the wishes of Heaven.\"\n\n\"That makes me think,\" said Durtal, \"that even in religion there are\nsouls which seem to have mistaken their sex. Saint Francis of Assisi,\nwho was all love, had rather the feminine soul of a nun, and Saint\nTeresa, who was the most attentive of psychologists, had the virile soul\nof a monk. We might correctly speak of Saint Francis as a woman and\nSaint Teresa as a man.\"\n\nThe oblate smiled. \"To return to your question,\" he resumed, \"I do not\nat all believe that illness can be the necessary consequence of\nphenomena aroused by the impetuous force of mysticism.\"\n\n\"But look at Saint Colette, Lidwine, Saint Aldegonde, Jane-Mary of the\nCross, Sister Emmerich and how many more who passed their existence,\nhalf paralyzed, upon a bed! They are a small minority. Besides, the\nSaints or Blessed ones whose names you quote were victims of\nsubstitution, expiating the sins of others, a part God had reserved to\nthem; it is not, therefore, surprising that they were bed-ridden and\ncripples, and were constantly half dead.\n\n\"No, the truth is that mysticism can modify the needs of the body,\nwithout, for all that, having much effect on, or destroying the health.\nI know well, you would answer me with that terrible phrase of Saint\nHildegarde, a phrase at once just and sinister: 'the Lord dwells not in\nthe bodies of the healthy and vigorous,' and you might add, with Saint\nTeresa, that evils are more frequent in the last of the castles of the\nsoul. Yes, but these saints hoist themselves on the summit of life and\nretain God in a permanent manner in their carnal shell. Having reached\nthis point, nature, too feeble to support a perfect state, gives way,\nbut, I assert again, these cases are an exception and not a rule. And,\nalas, such maladies are not contagious.\n\n\"I am quite aware,\" resumed the oblate, after a pause, \"that the very\nexistence of mysticism is resolutely denied by some who in consequence\ncan never admit the possibility of any influence over the bodily organs,\nbut the experience of this supernatural reality is from all time, and\nproofs abound.\n\n\"Let us take the stomach for example. Well, under the heavenly\ninfluence, it becomes transformed, omits all earthly nourishment and\nconsumes the Holy Species only.\n\n\"Saint Catherine of Siena and Angela of Foligno lived for years\nexclusively on the Sacrament; and this gift devolved equally upon Saint\nColette, Saint Lidwine, Dominic of Paradise, Saint Columba of Rieti,\nMary Bagnesi, Rose of Lima, Saint Peter of Alcantara, Mother Agnes of\nLangeac and on many others.\n\n\"Under the divine impress the senses of smell and taste presented no\nless strange metamorphoses. Saint Philip Nevi, Saint Angela, Saint\nMargaret of Cortona recognized a special taste in unleavened bread, when\nafter the consecration there was no longer any wheat, but the very flesh\nof Christ. Saint Pacomius knew heretics by their foul smell; Saint\nCatherine of Siena, Saint Joseph of Cupertino and Mother Agnes of Jesus\ndiscovered sins by their evil odours; Saint Hilarion, Saint Lutgarde,\nGentilla of Ravenna, could tell merely by the scent of those whom they\nmet what faults they had committed.\n\n\"And the Saints themselves, whether living or dead, exhaled powerful\nperfumes.\n\n\"When Saint Francis de Paul and Venturini of Bergamo offered the\nSacrifice they smelt sweet. Saint Joseph of Cupertino secreted such\nfragrant odours that his track could be followed; and sometimes it was\nduring illness that these aromas were diffused.\n\n\"The pus of Saint John of the Cross and of the Blessed Didee gave forth\nstrong and distinct scent of lilies; Barthole, the tertiary, gnawed to\nthe bones by leprosy, gave out pleasant emanations, and the same was the\ncase with Lidwine, Ida of Louvain, Saint Colette, Saint Humiliana,\nMaria-Victoria of Genoa, Dominic of Paradise, whose wounds were boxes of\nperfume, whence fresh scents escaped.\n\n\"And thus we can enumerate organs and senses one after another, and\ndeclare marvellous effects. Without speaking of those faithful stigmata\nwhich open or shut according to the Proper of the liturgical year, what\nis more astounding than the gift of bilocation, the power of doubling\noneself, of being in two places at the same time, at the same moment?\nAnd yet what numerous examples exist of this incredible fact: many are\ncelebrated, amongst others those of Saint Antony of Padua, Saint Francis\nXavier, Marie of Agreda, who was at the same time in her monastery in\nSpain and in Mexico when she was preaching to infidels, Mother Agnes of\nJesus, who came to visit M. Olier at Paris without leaving her convent\nat Langeac. And, again, the action from on High seems singularly\nenergetic when it takes hold of the central organ of circulation, the\nmotor which drives the blood into all parts of the body.\n\n\"Numbers of the elect had such a burning heart that the linen they wore\nwas singed; the fire which consumed Ursula Benincasa, the foundress of\nthe Theatines, was so strong that this saint breathed columns of smoke\nas soon as she opened her mouth; Saint Catherine of Genoa dipped her\nfeet or her hands in iced water and the water boiled; snow melted round\nSaint Peter of Alcantara, and, one day when the blessed Gerlach was\ncrossing a forest in the depth of winter he advised his companion, who\nwalked behind him, and who could not go on, as his legs were numb, to\nput his feet into his footsteps, and immediately he ceased to feel cold.\n\n\"I will add that certain of these phenomena, which make freethinkers\nsmile, have been renewed and have been verified quite recently.\n\n\"Linen scorched by the fire of the heart has been observed by Dr.\nImbert-Gourbeyre on the stigmatized Palma d'Oria, and phenomena of high\nmysticism, which no science can explain, were watched in the case of\nLouise Lateau, minute by minute, and noted and controlled by Professor\nRohling, Dr. Lafebvre, Dr. Imbert Gourbeyre, Dr. de Nouee, by medical\ndelegates from all countries....\n\n\"But here we are,\" said the oblate; \"excuse me, I will go first to show\nyou the way.\"\n\nThey had left the enclosure as he spoke, and cutting across the fields,\nreached an immense farm. Trappists bowed respectfully as they entered\nthe court yard. M. Bruno, addressing himself to one of them, asked him\nto be good enough to take them over the property.\n\nThe lay brother took them to the cattle sheds, then to the stables, then\nto the poultry yard; Durtal, who was not interested in such sights,\nconfined himself to admiring the grace of these good people. No one\nspoke, but they replied to questions by signs and winks.\n\n\"But how do they communicate with each other?\" asked Durtal, when they\nwere outside the farm.\n\n\"You have just seen; they correspond by signs; they have a simpler\nalphabet than that of the deaf and dumb, for each idea that they may\nrequire to express for their common work is foreseen.\n\n\"Thus the word 'wash' is translated by one hand tapping on the other;\nthe word 'vegetable' by scratching the left forefinger; sleep is feigned\nby leaning the head upon the fist; drink by raising a closed hand to the\nlips. And for more spiritual expressions they employ a like method.\nConfession is translated by a finger kissed and laid upon the heart;\nholy water by five fingers of the left hand clasped on which a cross is\nmade with the thumb of the right hand; fasting by fingers which close\nthe mouth; the word 'yesterday' by turning the arm back towards the\nshoulder; shame by covering the eyes with the hand.\"\n\n\"But supposing they wished to indicate me, who am not one of themselves,\nhow would they set about it?\"\n\n\"They would use the sign of 'guest,' which they make by stretching out\nthe hand and bringing it near the body.\"\n\n\"That means that I come to them from far, an open and even transparent\nfact if you like.\"\n\nThey went silently along a walk which led down into the labour fields.\n\n\"I have not noticed Brother Anacletus or old Simeon among these monks,\"\nexclaimed Durtal, suddenly.\n\n\"They are not occupied on the farm; Brother Anacletus is employed in the\nchocolate factory, and Brother Simeon looks after the pigs; both are\nworking in the immediate neighbourhood of the monastery. If you like, we\nwill go and wish Simeon good-morning.\"\n\nAnd the oblate added, \"You can tell them, when you go back to Paris,\nthat you have seen a real saint, such as existed in the eleventh\ncentury; he carries us back to the time of St. Francis of Assisi; he is\nin some sense the reincarnation of that astonishing Juniper whose\ninnocent exploits the Fioretti celebrate for us. You know that work?\"\n\n\"Yes; after the Golden Legend it is the book on which the soul of the\nMiddle Ages is most clearly impressed.\"\n\n\"But to return to Simeon; this old man is a saint of uncommon\nsimplicity. Here is one proof out of a thousand. Several months ago I\nwas in the prior's cell when Brother Simeon appeared. He made use of the\nordinary formula in asking permission to speak, 'Benedicite.' Father\nMaximin replied 'Dominus,' and on this word, which permitted him to\nspeak, the brother showed his glasses and said he could no longer see\nclearly.\n\n\"'That is not very surprising,' said the prior, 'you have been using the\nsame glasses for nearly ten years, and since then your eyes may well\nhave become weaker; never mind, we will find the number which suits your\nsight now.'\n\n\"As he spoke, Father Maximin mechanically moved the glass of the\nspectacles between his hands, and suddenly he laughed, showing me his\nfingers, which were black. He turned round, took a cloth, cleaned the\nspectacles, and replacing them on the brother's nose, said to him, 'Do\nyou see, Brother Simeon?'\n\n\"And the old man, astonished, cried 'Yes ... I see!'\n\n\"But this is only one side of this good man. Another is the love of his\nbeasts. When a sow is going to bring forth, he asks permission to pass\nthe night by her, and delivers her, looking after her like his child,\nweeps when they sell his little pigs or when the big ones are sent to\nthe slaughter-house! And how all the animals adore him!\"\n\n\"Truly,\" the oblate went on, after a silence, \"God loves simple souls\nabove all, for he loads Brother Simeon with graces. Alone, here, he can\nreabsorb and even prevent the demoniacal accidents which arise in\ncloisters. Then we assist at strange performances: one fine morning all\nthe pigs fall on their sides; they are ill and at the point of death.\n\n\"Simeon, who knows the origin of these evils, cries to the Devil: 'Wait,\nwait, and you will see!' He runs for holy water, and sprinkles them with\nit, praying the while, and all the beasts who were dying jump up,\nfrisking about and wagging their tails.\n\n\"As for diabolic incursions into the convent itself, they are but too\nreal, and sometimes are only driven back after persistent prayers and\nenergetic fastings; at certain times in most convents the Demon sows a\nharvest of hobgoblins of whom no one knows how to get rid. Here, the\nfather abbot, the prior, and all those who are priests have failed; it\nwas necessary, to give efficacy to the exorcisms, that the humble lay\nbrother should intervene; so, to forestall new attacks, he has obtained\nthe right to wash the monastery with holy water and to use prayers\nwhenever he thinks well to do so.\n\n\"He has the power of feeling where the Evil One is hidden, and he\nfollows him, tracks him, and finally casts him out.\"\n\n\"Here is the piggery,\" continued M. Bruno, showing a tumble-down old\nplace in front of the left wing of the cloister, surrounded by\npalisades; and he added,\n\n\"I warn you, the old man grunts like a pig, but he will not answer your\nquestions except by signs.\"\n\n\"But he can speak to his animals?\"\n\n\"Yes, to them only.\"\n\nThe oblate opened a small door, and the lay brother, all bent, lifted\nhis head with difficulty.\n\n\"Good-day, brother,\" said M. Bruno; \"here is a gentleman who would like\nto see your pupils.\"\n\nThere was a grunt of joy on the lips of the old man. He smiled and\ninvited them by a sign to follow him.\n\nHe introduced them into a shed, and Durtal recoiled, deafened by\nhorrible cries, suffocated by the pestilential heat of the liquid\nmanure. All the pigs jumped up behind their barrier, and howled with\njoy at the sight of the brother.\n\n\"Peace, peace,\" said the old man, in a gentle voice; and lifting an arm\nover the paling, he caressed the snouts which, on smelling him, were\nalmost suffocated by grunting.\n\nHe drew Durtal aside by the arm, and making him lean over the trellis\nwork, showed him an enormous sow with a snub nose, of English breed, a\nmonstrous animal surrounded by a company of sucking pigs which rushed,\nas if mad, at her teats.\n\n\"Yes, my beauty; go, my beauty,\" murmured the old man, stroking her\nbristles with his hand.\n\nAnd the sow looked at him with little languishing eyes, and licked his\nfingers; she ended by screaming abominably when he went away.\n\nAnd Brother Simeon showed off other pupils, pigs with ears like the\nmouth of a trumpet and corkscrew tails, sows whose stomachs trailed and\nwhose feet seemed hardly outside their bodies, new-born pigs which\nsucked ravenously at the teats, larger ones, who delighted in chasing\neach other about and rolled in the mud, snorting.\n\nDurtal complimented him on the beasts, and the old man was jubilant,\nwiping his face with his great hand; then, on the oblate inquiring about\nthe litter of some sow, he felt his fingers in a row; replying to the\nobservation that the animals were very greedy, by stretching his arms to\nheaven, showing the empty troughs, lifting ends of wood, tearing up\ntufts of grass which he carried to his lips, grunting as if he had his\nmuzzle full.\n\nThen he took them into the courtyard, placed them against the wall,\nopened a door beyond, and hid himself. A formidable boar passed like a\nwaterspout, upset a wheelbarrow, scattering everything round him with a\nnoise like a shell bursting; then he broke into a gallop all round the\ncourtyard, and ended by taking a header into a sea of liquid manure. He\nwallowed, turned head over heels, kicked about with his four feet in the\nair, and got up black and disgusting as the inside of a chimney.\n\nAfter this he halted, grunted a cheerful note, and wished to fawn on the\nmonk, who checked him with a gesture.\n\n\"Your boar is splendid!\" said Durtal.\n\nAnd the lay brother looked on Durtal with moist eyes as he rubbed his\nneck with his hand, sighing.\n\n\"That means they are going to kill him soon,\" said the oblate.\n\nAnd the old man acquiesced with a melancholy shake of his head.\n\nThey left him, thanking him for his kindness.\n\n\"When I think of how this being, who is devoted to the lowest duties,\nprays in church, I long to kneel before him and, like his pigs, kiss his\nhands!\" exclaimed Durtal after a silence.\n\n\"Brother Simeon is an angelic being,\" replied the oblate. \"He lives the\nUnitive life, his soul plunged, drowned in the divine essence. Under a\nrough exterior an absolutely white soul, a soul without sin, lives in\nthis poor body; it is right that God should spoil him! As I have told\nyou, He has given him all power over the Demon; and in certain cases He\nallows him also the power of healing by the imposition of hands. He has\nrenewed here the wonderful cures of the ancient saints.\"\n\nThey ceased speaking, and, warned by the bells which were ringing for\nVespers, they moved towards the church.\n\nAnd, coming to himself again, trying to recover, Durtal remained\nastounded. Monastic life retarded time. How many weeks had he been at La\nTrappe, and how many days since had he approached the Sacraments? that\nwas lost in the distance. Ah, life was double in these cloisters! And\nyet he was not tired of it; he had bent himself easily to the hard rule,\nand, in spite of the scanty meals, he felt no sick headaches or failing;\nhe had never felt so well!--but what remained was a feeling of stifling,\nof restrained sighs, this burning melancholy for hours, and, more than\nall, this vague anxiety at listening again within himself, and hearing\nunited in his person the voices of this Trinity, God, the Devil, and\nMan.\n\n\"This is not the peace of the soul I dreamed of--and it is even worse\nthan at Paris,\" he said to himself, recalling the maddening trial of the\nrosary--\"and yet--how can I explain it? I am happy here all the same.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nRising, somewhat earlier than his wont, Durtal went down to the chapel.\nThe office of Matins was over, but some lay brothers, amongst whom was\nBrother Simeon, were praying on their knees on the ground.\n\nThe sight of this holy swine-herd threw Durtal into a long train of\nthought. He tried in vain to penetrate into the sanctuary of that soul,\nhidden like an invisible chapel behind the dunghill rampart of a body;\nhe did not even succeed in representing to himself the docile and\nclinging soul of this man, who had attained the highest state to which\nthe human creature can reach here below.\n\n\"What a power of prayer he has,\" thought he, as he looked at the old\nman.\n\nHe remembered the details of his interview the evening before. \"It is\ntrue,\" he thought, \"that in this monk I find something of the charm of\nthat brother Juniper, whose surprising simplicity has come down through\nthe ages.\"\n\nAnd he brought to mind the adventures of that Franciscan whom his\ncompanions left one day by himself in the convent, telling him to\nprepare dinner against their return.\n\nJuniper reflected, \"What an amount of time is spent in preparing food!\nThe brothers who take turns in that work have not even time to\npray\"--and desiring to lighten the work of those who should succeed him\nin the kitchen, he determined to cook such plentiful dishes that the\ncommunity might dine on them for a fortnight.\n\nHe lighted all the stoves, procured, we are not told how, enormous\nboilers, filled them with water, threw into them, pell-mell, eggs with\ntheir shells, chickens with their feathers, vegetables he had neglected\nto trim, and before a fire which would roast an ox, he exerted himself\nto pile up and stir the ridiculous jumble of his stock-pots.\n\nWhen the brothers came home, and sat down in the refectory, he ran, his\nface browned and his hands burnt, and joyously served up his stew. The\nsuperior asked him if he were not mad, while he remained stupefied that\nno one gobbled up this astonishing mess. He declared in all humility\nthat he thought he was doing a service to his brethren, and only when he\nobserved that so much food would be wasted, did he weep hot tears, and\ndeclare himself a wretch; he cried that he was good for nothing but to\nspoil the property of Almighty God, while the monks smiled, admiring\nthis debauch of charity, and the excess of Juniper's simplicity.\n\n\"Brother Simeon would be humble enough and simple enough to renew again\nsuch splendid jokes,\" thought Durtal, \"but better still than the good\nFranciscan, he recalls the memory of that astonishing Saint Joseph of\nCupertino, of whom the oblate spoke yesterday.\"\n\nHe, who called himself brother Ass, was a charming and poor creature, so\nmodest, and so ignorant, that he was turned away wherever he went. He\npassed through life, with open mouth, thrusting himself eagerly against\nall the cloisters that repulsed him. He wandered about unable to perform\neven the lowest tasks. He was, to use a popular expression, a regular\nbutter-fingers, and broke whatever he touched. They ordered him to go\nand fetch water, and he wandered without understanding, absorbed in God,\nand at the end, when no one thought about it any more, brought some\nafter a month.\n\nA monastery of Capucins which had received him, got rid of him. He went\nhis way, vaguely, out of his orbit among the towns, stumbled into\nanother convent where he employed himself in taking care of the animals,\nwhom he adored, and he rose into a perpetual ecstasy, revealing himself\nas the most singular of wonder workers, putting the demons to flight,\nand healing the sick. He was at once idiotic and sublime; in the\nhagiography he stands alone, and seems to figure there to furnish a\nproof that the soul is identified with Eternal Wisdom, rather by\nignorance than by science.\n\n\"He also loves animals,\" said Durtal to himself, as he looked at old\nSimeon; \"and he too puts to flight the Evil One, and works cures by his\nsanctity.\n\n\"In a time when all men are exclusively haunted by the thoughts of\nluxury and lucre, the soul appears extraordinary when divested of its\nbark, as the candid and naked soul of this good monk. He is eighty years\nold and more, and he has led from his youth up the restricted life of\nthe Trappists; he probably does not know in what time he lives, nor what\nlatitudes he inhabits, whether he is in America or in France, for he has\nnever read a newspaper, and outside rumours do not reach him.\n\n\"He does not even know the taste of flesh meat or wine; he has no notion\nof money, of which he does not suspect the value nor the appearance; he\ndoes not imagine how a woman is made; and save for the breeding of his\npigs, he perhaps cannot even guess the meaning and the consequences of\nthe sin of the flesh.\n\n\"He lives alone ringed round by silence, and buried in the shade; he\nmeditates on the mortifications of the Fathers in the Desert, which are\nread to him as he eats, and the frenzy of their fasts makes him ashamed\nof his miserable repast, and he accuses himself that he is so well to\ndo.\n\n\"Ah! this Father Simeon is innocent; he knows nothing that we know, and\nknows that of which all others are ignorant; his education has been\ntaken in hand by the Lord Himself, who teaches him truths which we\ncannot comprehend, models his soul after heaven, infuses Himself into\nhim, possesses him, and deifies him in the union of Blessedness.\n\n\"This puts us somewhat at a distance from hypocrites and devout persons;\nas far indeed as modern Catholicism is from Mysticism, for certainly\nthat religion is as grovelling on the ground as Mysticism is high!\n\n\"And that is true. Instead of directing all our forces to that unknown\nend, of taking our soul to fashion it in that form of a dove which the\nMiddle Ages gave to the pyxes; instead of making it the shrine where the\nHost reposes in the very image of the Holy Spirit, the Catholic confines\nhimself to trying to conceal his conscience, to deceive his Judge by the\nfear of a salutary hell; he acts not by choice, but by fear: he with the\naid of his clergy, and the help of his imbecile literature, and his\nfeeble press, has made of religion a mere fetishism, a ridiculous\nworship composed of statuettes and alms boxes; candles and\nchromo-lithographs; he has materialized the ideal of Love, in inventing\nan entirely physical devotion to the Sacred Heart.\n\n\"What baseness of conception!\" continued Durtal, who had come out of the\nchapel, and was strolling along the bank of the great pond. He looked at\nthe reeds, which bent like an harvest still green, under a puff of wind;\nthen he half saw as he leant forward, an old boat, which bore almost\neffaced on its blueish hull the name \"Alleluia.\" This bark disappeared\nunder the tufts of leaves round which were twined the bells of the\nconvolvulus, a symbolic flower, since it widens out like a chalice, and\nhas the dead white of a wafer.\n\nThe scent of the water, at once enticing and bitter, intoxicated him.\n\"Ah!\" he thought, \"happiness certainly consists in being restricted to a\nplace closely locked, a prison very confined, or a chapel always open,\"\nand he caught himself up: \"Ah! there is Brother Anacletus;\" the lay\nbrother was coming towards him, bending under a hamper.\n\nHe passed before Durtal, smiling at him with his eyes: and while he went\nhis way, Durtal thought, \"This man is a true friend of mine; when I was\nsuffering so much before my confession, he expressed all to me in a\nlook. To-day when he believes me serener, and more joyous, he is\ncontent, and shows it to me by a smile; and I shall never speak to him,\nI shall never thank him, I shall never even know who he is, I shall\nperhaps never even see him again.\n\n\"In leaving this place, I shall keep a friend, for whom I too feel\naffection; yet neither of us has even exchanged a gesture with the\nother.\n\n\"After all,\" he thought, \"does not this absolute reserve make our\nfriendship more perfect? it is stamped in the eternal distance, it\nremains mysterious and incomplete, and more certain.\"\n\nWhile thinking over these reflections, Durtal went towards the chapel,\nwhere the Office called him, and thence to the refectory.\n\nHe was surprised to find the table laid only for one. \"What has happened\nto M. Bruno? Yet I may as well wait a while,\" and to kill time, he\noccupied himself by reading a printed card, hung upon the wall.\n\nIt was a sort of advertisement which began thus:\n\n     \"ETERNITY.\n\n     \"Fellow sinners, you will die. Be ye always ready.\n\n     \"Watch then, pray without ceasing, never forget the Four Last\n     Things which you see here traced\n\n    \"Death, the gate of Eternity,\n    Judgment, which decides Eternity,\n    Hell, the abode of unhappy Eternity,\n    Paradise, the abode of blessed Eternity.\"\n\nFather Etienne interrupted Durtal, telling him that M. Bruno had gone to\nSaint Landry to make some purchases, and would only return at bed-time\nat eight o'clock. \"Dine then without waiting, and make haste, or all\nyour dishes will be cold.\"\n\n\"And how is the father abbot?\"\n\n\"Better, he keeps his room still, but he hopes to be able to come down a\nwhile, the day after to-morrow, and assist at least at some of the\noffices.\"\n\nAnd the monk bowed and disappeared.\n\nDurtal seated himself at table, ate some bean broth, swallowed a\nsoft-boiled egg and a spoonful of warm beans, then once outside, he\npassed along the chapel, entered it, and knelt before the altar of the\nVirgin; but at once the spirit of blasphemy filled him; he wished,\nwhatever it cost him, to insult the Virgin; it seemed to him that he\nwould experience a sharp joy, an acute pleasure in soiling her; but he\nrestrained himself, he wrinkled his face not to allow the coal-heaver's\nabuse, which was on his lips, to escape.\n\nAnd he detested these abominations; he revolted against them, strove\nagainst them with horror; and the impulse became so irresistible, that\nin order to keep silence he was obliged to bite his lips till they bled.\n\n\"This is somewhat strong,\" he said, \"to hear grumbling in oneself, the\ncontrary of what one is thinking;\" but he had need to call to his help\nall his will, he felt that he should yield, and spit out all these\nimpurities; wherefore he fled, thinking, that should he find no means of\nresistance, it were better to vomit this filth in the court rather than\nin the church.\n\nAnd so soon as he quitted the chapel this madness of blasphemy ceased;\nhe walked along the pond astonished by the strange violence of the\nattack.\n\nLittle by little there came to him the unexplained intuition of a danger\nthat menaced him. As a beast that scents a hidden enemy, he looked with\nprecaution within himself, and ended by seeing a black point on the\nhorizon of his soul, and suddenly, before he had time to reconnoitre,\nand take account of the danger he saw arising, this point extended, and\ncovered him with its shadow; there was no more light in him.\n\nHe had that minute of unrest which precedes the storm, and in the\nanxious silence of his being, arguments fell like drops of rain.\n\nThe painful effects of the Sacrament justified themselves, had he not\nproceeded in such a way that his communion could not but be unfaithful?\nEvidently; instead of collecting and straining himself, he had passed an\nafternoon of revolt and anger; the very evening before he had unworthily\njudged an ecclesiastic whose only wrong was that he took pleasure in the\nvanity of easy jokes. Had he confessed this injustice, and these\nrevolts? Not the least in the world; and after the communion still less;\nhad he, as he should have done, shut himself up alone with his Guest? He\nhad abandoned Him, without thinking more of Him; had quitted his\ninnermost cell, had taken a walk in the wood, had not even been present\nat the Offices.\n\n\"But come, come, this blame is foolish. I communicated, just as I was,\non the formal order of the confessor; as for the walk, I did not ask for\nit nor wish for it. M. Bruno, in agreement with the abbot of La Trappe,\ndecided it would do me good; I have then nothing to reproach myself\nwith; I am blameless.\n\n\"This does not prove that you would not have done better to spend the\nday in prayer, in the church.\n\n\"But,\" he cried, \"with such a system one could not move, one could not\neat, nor sleep, for one should never leave the church. There must be\ntime for everything, or the devil take it all!\n\n\"No doubt, but a more diligent soul would have refused that excursion,\njust because it was pleasant; would have avoided it, out of\nmortification, in a spirit of penance.\"\n\n\"Evidently, but\" ... these scruples tortured him; \"the fact is,\" he\nsaid, \"I might have employed my afternoon more wholesomely than that;\"\nto believe that he had spent it ill was but a step, and he made it. He\npelted himself for an hour, sweating with agony, heaping on himself\nimaginary sins, and entering so far on that road that he ended by\nsuddenly realizing his position and understanding he was out of the\nright track.\n\nThe story of the rosary returned to his memory, and then he blamed\nhimself for allowing himself to be again driven into a corner by the\ndemon. He began to breathe again, to regain his footing, when other\nattacks equally formidable presented themselves.\n\nIt was no longer an insinuation of arguments which ran drop by drop, but\na furious rain, which threw itself like an avalanche on his soul. The\nstorm, of which the wave of scruples was only the prelude, burst in its\nfulness; and in the panic of the first moment, in the violence of the\ntempest, the enemy unmasked his batteries, and struck him to the heart.\n\nHe had got no good from that communion, but he was also too young at it.\nAh! indeed, was he to believe that because a priest uttered five Latin\nwords over a bit of unleavened bread, that bread was transubstantiated\ninto the flesh of Christ? That a child should accept such nonsense,\nmight be possible, but that a man past forty should listen to such\nformidable shams, was excessive; almost disquieting.\n\nAnd these insinuations lashed him like hail showers: how could bread\nmade of wheat before, have only the appearance of wheat afterwards; what\nis flesh that is neither seen nor felt; what is a body, which has such\nubiquity as to be at the same time on the altars of divers countries;\nwhat is that power which is annihilated when the Host is not made of\npure wheat?\n\nAnd this became a regular deluge which overwhelmed him, and yet like an\nimpenetrable pile, that Faith he had acquired without ever having known\nhow, remained immovable, disappeared under torrents of interrogation,\nbut never stirred.\n\nHe revolted, and said to himself: \"This only proves that the sacramental\ndarkness of the Eucharist cannot be sounded. Moreover, if it were\nintelligible, it would not be divine. If the God whom we serve could be\ncomprehended by reason, He could not be worth the trouble of serving,\nsaid Tauler; and the 'Imitation' declares plainly also at the end of the\nIVth book that if the works of God were such as man's intelligence could\neasily grasp, they would cease to be marvellous, and could not be\nqualified as ineffable.\"\n\nAnd a mocking voice replied,\n\n\"That is what you call answering, avowing that there is nothing to\nanswer.\"\n\n\"In fact,\" said Durtal, who reflected, \"I have been present at\nspiritualistic experiences, where no trickery was possible. It was quite\nevident that there was no fluid from the spectators, no suggestion of\npersons surrounding the table who dictated the responses; then in giving\nits raps, the table expressed itself suddenly in English, though no one\nspoke that language, then a few minutes later, addressing itself to me,\nwho was at a distance from it, and consequently was not touching it, it\ntold me this time in French, facts which I had forgotten, and I alone\ncould know. I am then certainly obliged to suppose an element of the\nsupernatural, using a table in guise of an interpreter, to accept if not\nthe evocation of the dead, but at least the proved existence of ghosts.\n\n\"Then it is not more impossible, more surprising that Christ should\nsubstitute Himself for a piece of bread, than that a ghost should hide\nand brag in the foot of a table. These phenomena equally put our senses\nto rout; but if one of them be undeniable, and spiritualistic\nmanifestation certainly is so, what motives can we invoke to deny the\nother, which is moreover attested by thousands of saints?\n\n\"After all,\" he went on with a smile, \"we have already demonstration by\nthe absurd, but this may be called demonstration by the abject, for if\nthe Eucharistic mystery is sublime, it is not the same with\nspiritualism, which is after all only the latrine of the supernatural!\"\n\n\"If this were the only enigma,\" began the voice again, \"but all the\nCatholic doctrines are on the same model; examine religion from its\nbirth, and see if it do not always issue by an absurd dogma.\n\n\"Here is a God, infinitely perfect, infinitely good, a God who is not\nignorant of past, present, or future. He knew then that Eve would sin;\ntherefore of two things, one; either He is not good, in that He\nsubmitted her to that proof knowing that she had not power to stand it;\nor again, He was not certain of her defeat; in that case He is not\nomniscient, He is not perfect.\"\n\nDurtal gave no answer to this dilemma; which is in fact difficult to\nresolve.\n\n\"Yet,\" he thought, \"we may at once exclude one of these two\npropositions, the latter; for it is childish to concern ourselves about\nthe future, when we have to do with God; we judge Him by our miserable\nunderstanding, and there is for Him neither present nor past, nor\nfuture; He sees them all at the same moment in light uncreate. For Him\ndistance has no figure, and space is nought. It is consequently\nimpossible to doubt that the Serpent will conquer. This amputated\ndilemma is then out of order.\"\n\n\"Be it so, but the other alternative remains; what do you make of His\ngoodness?\"\n\n\"His goodness?\" And Durtal had need to repeat again the arguments drawn\nfrom free will, and the promised coming of the Saviour; and he was\nobliged to admit that these answers were weak.\n\nAnd the voice became more pressing,\n\n\"Then you admit original sin?\"\n\n\"I am obliged to admit it, because it exists. What are heredity and\natavism, save, under another name, the terrible sin of the beginning?\"\n\n\"And does it appear to you just that innocent generations should make\namends now and always for the sin of the first man?\"\n\nAnd as Durtal did not reply, the voice insinuated gently,\n\n\"This law is so iniquitous that it seems as if the Creator were ashamed\nof it, and that in order to punish Himself for His ferocity, and not to\nmake Himself for ever execrated by His creature, He wished to suffer on\nthe Cross, and expiate His crime in the person of His own Son.\"\n\n\"But,\" cried Durtal, exasperated, \"God could not commit a crime and\npunish Himself: were that so, Jesus would be the Redeemer of His Father,\nand not ours; it is madness!\"\n\nLittle by little he recovered his balance; he recited slowly the\nApostles' Creed, while the objections which demolished it, pressed one\nafter the other within him.\n\n\"There is one fact certain,\" he said to himself, for in all this\ntumult, he was perfectly lucid, \"that for the moment we are two persons\nin one. I can follow my reasonings, and I hear on the other side, the\nsophisms my double breathes in me. This duality has never appeared so\nclear to me.\"\n\nAnd the attack grew feebler, on this reflection; it might have been\nbelieved that the enemy now discovered was beating a retreat.\n\nBut nothing of the kind; after a short truce, the assault began again on\nanother point.\n\n\"Are you very sure that you have not suggested and shown the blow to\nyourself? By having wished, you have ended by begetting belief, and by\nimplanting in yourself a fixed idea, disguised under the name of grace,\nround which everything now clings. You complain that you did not\nexperience sensible joys after your communion; this simply proves that\nyou were not careful enough, or that, tired by the excess of the evening\nbefore, your imagination showed itself unready to play the infatuating\nfairy story you expected from yourself after the mass.\n\n\"Moreover, you ought to know that in these questions all depends on the\nmore or less feverish activity of the brain and the senses; see what\ntakes place in the case of women, who deceive themselves more easily\nthan men; for that again declares the difference of conformations, the\nvariety between the sexes; Christ gives Himself carnally under the\nappearances of bread; that is mystical marriage, the divine union\nconsummated by the way of the lips; He is indeed the spouse of women,\nwhile we men, without willing it, by the very lodestone of our nature,\nare more attracted by the Virgin. But she does not give herself, like\nher Son, to us; she does not reside in the Sacrament; possession is in\nher case impossible; she is our Mother, but she is not our Spouse, as he\nis the Spouse of virgins.\n\n\"We conceive, therefore, that women are more violently duped, that they\nadore better, and imagine more easily the more they are petted.\nMoreover, M. Bruno said to you yesterday, 'Woman is more passive, less\nrebellious to the action of Heaven ...'\n\n\"Well, what has that to do with me; what does that prove? that the more\nwe love the better we are loved: but if that axiom is false, from the\nearthly point of view, it is certainly exact from the divine point of\nview; which would be monstrous, and would come to this, that the Lord\nwould not treat the soul of a Poor Clare better than mine.\"\n\nThere was again a time of rest, and the attack turned and rushed on a\nnew place.\n\n\"Then you believe in an eternal hell? You suppose a God more cruel than\nyourself, a God who has created people, without their having been\nconsulted, without their having asked to be born; and after having\nsuffered during their existence, they will be again punished without\nmercy after their death; but consider, if you were to see your worst\nenemy in torture, you would be taken by pity, and would ask pardon for\nhim. You would pardon, and the Almighty be implacable; you will admit\nthis is to have a singular idea of Him.\"\n\nDurtal was silent; hell going on infinitely became in fact wearisome.\nThe reply that it is legitimate, that punishment should be infinite,\nbecause rewards are so, was not decisive, since indeed it were the\nproperty of perfect goodness, to abridge the chastisements and prolong\nthe joys.\n\n\"But, in fact,\" he said to himself, \"Saint Catherine of Genoa has\nelucidated the question. She explains very well that God sends a ray of\nmercy, a current of pity into hell, that no damned soul suffers as much\nas it deserves to suffer; that if expiation ought not to cease, it may\nbe modified, and weakened, and become at length less rigorous, less\nintense.\n\n\"She remarks also, that at the moment of its separation from the body,\nthe soul becomes obstinate or yields; if it remain hardened and shows no\ncontrition for its faults, its guilt cannot be remitted, since, after\ndeath, free will subsists no more; the will which we possess at the\nmoment of quitting the world remains invariable.\n\n\"If, on the contrary, it does not persist in those impenitent\nsentiments, a part of the repression will no doubt be removed; and\nconsequently is not devoted to a continual gehenna, as that which\ndeliberately, while there is yet time, will not return to amendment,\nrefuses in fact to lay aside its sins.\n\n\"Let us add that according to the saint, God does not even make the soul\nempty to be never polluted by sin, for it goes there of itself; it is\nled there by the very nature of its sins, it flings itself in as into\nits own good; is, if one may say so, naturally engulfed there.\n\n\"In fact we may imagine to ourselves a very small hell, and a very large\npurgatory; may imagine that hell is scantily peopled, is only reserved\nfor cases of rare wickedness, that in reality the crowd of disincarnate\nsouls presses into Purgatory and there endures punishments proportioned\nto the misdeeds it has willed here below. These ideas have nothing which\ncannot be sustained, and they have the advantage of being in accord with\nthe ideas of mercy and justice.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" replied the voice in railing tones. \"Man then will do well to\nconstrain himself; he may steal, rob, kill his father, and violate his\ndaughter; the price is the same; provided he repent at the last minute,\nhe is saved!\"\n\n\"But no, contrition takes away the eternity of punishment only, and not\npunishment itself; everyone must be punished or rewarded according to\nhis works. He who will be soiled by a parricide or an incest will bear a\nchastisement different in pain and length to him who has not committed\nthem; equality in expiatory suffering, in reparative pain, does not\nexist.\n\n\"Moreover this idea of a purgative life after death is so natural, so\ncertain, that all religions assume it. All consider the soul is a sort\nof air balloon, which cannot mount and attain its last end in space\nexcept by throwing away its ballast. In the religions of the East, the\nsoul is re-incarnistic; in order to purify itself it rubs itself against\na new body, like a blade in sandstone troughs, to brighten it. For us\nCatholics it undergoes no terrestrial avatar, but it lightens and scours\nitself, clears itself in the Purgatory, where God transforms it, draws\nit out, extracts it little by little from the dross of its sins, till it\ncan raise itself and lose itself in Him.\n\n\"To have done with this irritating question of a perpetual hell, why not\nconceive that divine justice hesitates in the majority of cases to\npronounce inexorable decrees? Humanity is for the most part composed of\nunconscious rascals and fools, who do not take any count of the reach of\ntheir faults. These are saved by their complete want of comprehension.\nAs for others who rot, knowing what they do, they are evidently more\nblameworthy, but society which hates superior beings takes on itself\ntheir punishment, humiliates and persecutes them; and it is therefore\nallowed us to hope that our Lord will pity these poor souls so miserably\npelted during their stay upon earth by a horde of fools.\"\n\n\"Then there is every advantage in being imbecile, since one is spared\nboth on earth and in heaven?\"\n\n\"Ah! certainly, and yet ... and yet.... What is the good of discussion,\nsince we cannot frame for ourselves the least idea of the infinite\njustice of a God?\"\n\n\"Moreover, this is enough, these debates overwhelm me.\" He tried to\ndistract his thoughts from these subjects, and would feign to break the\nobsession, betake himself to Paris; but five minutes had not passed\nbefore his double returned to the charge.\n\nHe entered once more on that halting dilemma which had so recently\nassailed the goodness of the Creator in regard to the sins of man.\n\"Purgatory is then exorbitant, for after all,\" said he, \"God knew that\nman would yield to temptations; then why allow them, and above all why\ncondemn them? Is that goodness, is that justice?\"\n\n\"But it is a sophism,\" cried Durtal, growing angry. \"God has left to\nevery man his liberty; no one is tempted beyond his power. If in certain\ncases, he allows the seduction to overpass our means of resistance, it\nis to recall us to humility, to bring us back to Him by remorse, for\nother causes which we know not, which it is not His business to show us.\nThen probably those transgressions are appreciated in a different way to\nthose which we have practised with our full accord.\"\n\n\"The liberty of man! it is a pretty thing. Yes, let us speak of it, and\natavism, and our surroundings and diseases of the brain, and of the\nmarrow. Is a man driven by the impulses of sickness, overwhelmed by\ntroubles of the generative organs, responsible for his acts?\"\n\n\"But what can be said if under these conditions these acts are imputed\nto him on high. It is after all idiotic always to compare divine justice\nto man's tribunals; for it is exactly the contrary; human judgments are\noften so infamous that they attest the existence of another equity.\nRather than the proofs of a theodicy, the magistrature proves God; for\nwithout Him, how can be satisfied that instinct of justice so innate in\neach of us, that even the humblest beast possesses it?\"\n\n\"Yet,\" replied the voice, \"all this does not hinder the change of\ncharacter according as the stomach does its work ill or well; slander,\nanger, envy are accumulated bile, or faulty digestion; good temper, joy,\ncome from a free circulation of blood, the expansion of the body at\nwill; mystics are anemo-nervous people; your ecstatics are hysterical\npatients badly-fed, madhouses are full of them; they depend on science\nwhen visions begin.\"\n\nAll at once Durtal recovered himself, the material arguments were but\nlittle disquieting, for none could remain standing: all confounded the\nfunction and the organ, the lodger and the lodging, the clock and the\nhour. Their assertions rested on no base. To liken the happy lucidity\nand unequalled genius of a Saint Teresa to the extravagances of\nnymphomaniacs and other mad women were so obtuse, so clumsy, that it\ncould only raise a smile!\n\nThe mystery would remain complete; no doctor has been able to discover\nor could discover the psyche in those round or fusiform cells, in the\nwhite matter or grey substance of the brain. They would recognize more\nor less justly the organs which the soul uses to pull the strings of the\npuppet, which it is condemned to move, but itself remains invisible; it\nhas gone, when after death they force open the rooms of its habitation.\n\n\"No; these newsmongers have no effect on me,\" Durtal assured himself.\n\n\"But does this one do any better? Do you believe in the utility of life,\nin the necessity of this endless chain, this towage of sufferings, to be\nprolonged for the most part after death? True goodness would have\nconsisted in inventing nothing, creating nothing, in leaving all as it\nwas, in nothingness, in peace.\"\n\nThe attack turned round on itself, and after apparent variations,\nreturned always to the same starting point.\n\nDurtal lowered his head, for this argument dismasted him; all the\nreplies which could be imagined were remarkably weak, and the least\nfeeble, that which consists in denying to ourselves the right to judge\nbecause we only see the details of the divine plan, because we can\npossess no general view of it cannot avail against that terrible phrase\nof Schopenhauer: \"If God made the world I would not be that God, for\nthe misery of the world would break my heart!\"\n\n\"There is no haggling in the matter,\" he said to himself. \"I can quite\nunderstand that sorrow is the true disinfectant of souls, yet I am\nobliged to ask myself why the Creator has not invented a less atrocious\nway of purifying us?\n\n\"Ah! when I think of the sufferings shut up in madhouses, and hospital\nwards, I am revolted, and inclined to doubt everything.\n\n\"If, again, grief were an antiseptic for future misdeeds or a detersive\nfor past faults, one might again understand, but now it falls\nindifferently on the bad and on the good; it is blind. The best proof is\nthe Virgin who was without spot, and who had not like her Son to expiate\nfor us. She consequently ought not to be punished; yet she too underwent\nat the foot of Calvary the punishment exacted by this horrible law.\n\n\"Good; but then,\" replied Durtal, after a silence of reflection, \"if the\ninnocent Virgin has given us an example, by what right do we who are\nculpable dare to complain?\n\n\"No; we must therefore resolve to dwell in darkness, to live surrounded\nby enigmas. Money, love, nothing is clear; chance if it exist is as\nmysterious as Providence, and indeed still more so; it is inexplicable.\nGod is at least an origin of the unknown, a key.\n\n\"An origin which is itself another secret, a key which opens nothing!\n\n\"Ah! it is irritating,\" he said to himself, \"to be thus harassed in\nevery sense. Enough of it; besides these are questions which a\ntheologian is alone able to discuss; I am unarmed, the game is not\nequal; I will not answer any more.\"\n\nAnd he could not but hear a vague laughter which arose in him.\n\nHe quitted the garden, and directed his steps towards the chapel, but\nthe fear of being seized again by the madness of blasphemy turned him\naway from it. Knowing not whither to go, he regained his cell, saying to\nhimself, that he ought not to wrangle thus; yes, but how could he help\nhearing the cavils which rose he knew not whence? He almost shouted\naloud: \"Be silent, let the other speak!\"\n\nWhen he was in his chamber he desired to pray, and fell on his knees at\nhis bedside.\n\nThis was abominable; for memories of Florence recurred to him. He rose,\nbut the old aberrations returned.\n\nHe thought of that creature, her strange tastes, her mania for biting\nhis ears, for drinking toilet scents in little glasses, for nibbling\nbread and butter with caviare, and dates. She was so wild, and so\nstrange; a fool no doubt, but obscure.\n\n\"And if she were in this room, before you, what would you do?\"\n\nHe stammered to himself: \"I would try not to yield.\"\n\n\"You lie; admit then that you would send your conversion, the monastery,\nall, to the devil.\"\n\nHe grew pale at the thought; the possibility of his cowardice was a\npunishment. To have communicated, when one was no more certain of the\nfuture, no more certain of oneself, was almost a sacrilege, he thought.\n\nAnd he became angry. Up till now he had kept right, but the vision of\nFlorence subdued him. He threw himself, in desperation, on a chair, no\nlonger knowing what would become of him, gathering what of courage\nremained to him to descend to the church, where the Office was\nbeginning.\n\nHe dragged himself there, and held himself down, assailed by filthy\ntemptations, disgusted with himself, feeling his will yielding, wounded\nin every part.\n\nAnd when he was in the court he remained overwhelmed, asking himself\nwhere he could take shelter. Every place had become hostile to him; in\nhis cell were carnal memories, outside were temptations against Faith,\n\"or rather,\" he cried, \"I carry these with me always. My God, my God! I\nwas yesterday so tranquil.\"\n\nHe strolled by chance into an alley, when a new phenomenon arose.\n\nHe had had, up to this hour, in the sky within him, a rain of scruples,\na tempest of doubts, a thunderstroke of lust; now was silence and death.\n\nComplete darkness was within him.\n\nHe sought his soul by groping for it, and found it inert, without\nconsciousness, almost icy. He had a body living and healthy; all his\nintelligence, all his reason, and his other powers, his other faculties,\nwere benumbed little by little, and stopped. In his being there was\nmanifested an effect at once analogous and contrary to that which curara\nproduces on the organism, when it circulates in the network of the\nblood; the members are paralyzed, no pain is experienced, but cold\nrises, the soul ends by being sequestered alive in a corpse; in this\ncase it was the living body that detained a dead soul.\n\nHarassed by fear, he disengaged himself with a supreme effort, he would\nmake a visit to himself, see where he was, and like a sailor who\ndescends into the hold in a ship that has sprung a leak, he had to step\nbackwards, for the gangway was cut, the steps opened upon an abyss.\n\nIn spite of the terror which rushed upon him, he hung fascinated over\nthe hole, and by fixing the black point he distinguished appearances; in\na light as of eclipse in rarefied air, he perceived at the basis of\nhimself the panorama of his soul, a desert twilight on the horizons that\napproached the night, and under this doubtful light there seemed\nsomething like bare fields, a marsh heaped with rubbish and cinders; the\nplace of the sins torn up by the confessor remained visible, but besides\nthe dry darnel of dead vices which grew still, nothing budded.\n\nHe saw himself exhausted; he knew that he had no further force to\nextirpate the last roots, and he fancied that he had again to sow the\nseed of virtues, to till this arid soil, manure this dead ground. He\nfelt himself incapable of all work, and had at the same time the\nconviction that God rejected him, that God would aid him no more. This\ncertainty tore him to pieces. It could not be expressed, for nothing\ncould translate the anxiety, the anguish of a state through which he\nmust have passed who could understand it. The terror of a child who has\nnever left its mother's petticoats, and who is deserted, without\nwarning, in the open country in a fog, could only give a vestige of an\nidea of it, and again by reason of his age the child after having felt\ndesolate would end by growing calmer, by distracting himself from his\ngrief, no longer seeing the danger which surrounds him, while in this\nstate is danger, clinging and absolute, the immovable thought of\nabandonment, obstinate fear, which nothing diminishes, nothing appeases.\n\nOne dare not advance nor retreat; rather cast oneself on the ground,\nwith bowed head, and wait the end of what we know not, and be assured\nthat the menaces we ignore, and those at which we guess, are removed.\nDurtal was at this point; he could not return on his steps, for the way\nhe had quitted horrified him. He would rather have died than return to\nParis, there to begin again his carnal experiences, to live again his\nhours of libertinage and lassitude; but if he could not again retrace\nhis road, neither could he advance, for the road ended in a blind alley.\nIf earth repulsed him, heaven at the same time was closed for him.\n\nHe was lying, half on his side, in the darkness, in the shade, he knew\nnot where.\n\nAnd this state was aggravated by an absolute failure to understand the\ncauses which brought him there, was exaggerated by the memory of graces\nbefore received.\n\nDurtal remembered the sweetness of the beginning, the caress of the\ndivine touches, the steady progress without obstacles, the encounter\nwith a solitary priest, his being sent to La Trappe, the very ease with\nwhich he bent to the monastic life, the absolution which had such truly\nsensible effects, the rapid and clear answer that he might communicate\nwithout fear.\n\nAnd suddenly, without his will, he had in fact failed. He who had till\nthen held him by the hand, refused to guide him, cast him off into the\ndarkness without a word.\n\n\"All is over,\" he thought; \"I am condemned to float here below, like a\nwaif which no one wants; no shore is henceforward accessible, for if the\nworld refuses me, I disgust God. Ah! Lord, remember the garden of\nGethsemani, the tragic defection of the Father whom Thou didst implore\nin unspeakable pangs.\" In the silence which received his cry he gave\nway, and yet he desired to react against this desolation, endeavoured to\nescape from his despair; he prayed, and had again that very precise\nsensation that his petitions did not carry, were not even heard. He\ncalled her who superintends allegiance, the Mediatrix of pardon, to his\naid, and he was persuaded that the Virgin heard him no longer.\n\nHe was silent and discouraged, while the shade grew still more dense,\nand complete darkness covered him. He did not then suffer any longer in\nthe true sense of the word, but it was worse, for this was annihilation\nin the void, the giddiness of a man who is bent over a gulf; and the\nscraps of reasoning which he could gather and knit together in this\nbreaking up, ended by branching out into scruples.\n\nHe sought for any sins which since his communion might justify such a\ntrial, and he could not find them. He even tried to magnify his small\nfaults, enlarge his want of patience; he wished to convince himself that\nhe had taken a certain pleasure in finding the image of Florence in his\ncell, and he tortured himself so violently that he reanimated the soul,\nwhich had half fainted, by these moxas, and placed it again, without\nwishing it, in that acute state of scruples, in which it was when the\ncrisis declared itself.\n\nAnd in these brawling reflections he did not lose the sad faculty of\nanalysis. He said to himself while gauging himself at a glance: \"I am\nlike the litter in a circus, trodden down by all the sorrows which go\nand come to play their parts. Doubts about Faith, which seemed to\nstretch into every sense, turned in fact in the same circle. And now\nscruples, from which I thought myself freed, reappear and course through\nme.\"\n\nHow should he explain this? Was he who inflicted this torture on him the\nSpirit of Malice, or God?\n\nThat he had been bruised by the Evil One was certain, the very nature of\nhis attacks showed his handiwork, but how could this abandonment of God\nbe explained, for in fact, the Demon could not prevent the Saviour from\nassisting him, and he was quite obliged to conclude that if he were\nmartyrized by the one, the Other took no interest in him, let him be,\nand retired from him completely?\n\nThis certainty deduced from precise observations, this reasoned\nassurance, finished him. He cried out from the anguish of it, looking at\nthe pond by which he was walking, wishing he might fall in, thinking\nthat death by drowning were preferable to such a life.\n\nThen he trembled before the water which attracted him, and carried away\nhis sorrows to the charm of the woods. He tried to wear himself out by\nlong walking, but he wearied himself without effect, and he ended by\nsinking down worn and broken at the refectory table.\n\nHe looked at his plate, with no courage to eat, no desire to drink; he\nbreathed hard, and, exhausted as he was, could not keep in one place. He\nrose and wandered in the court till Compline, and there in the chapel,\nwhere at least he hoped to find some solace, was the crowning point of\nall; the mine went off; the soul, sapped since the morning, exploded.\n\nOn his knees, desolate, he tried again to invoke help, and nothing came;\nhe choked, immured in so deep a trench, under a vault so thick, that\nevery appeal was stifled, and no sound vibrated. Without courage, he\nwept with his head in his hands, and while he complained to God that He\nhad brought him thither to punish him in a Trappist monastery, ignoble\nvisions assailed him.\n\nFluids passed before his face, and peopled the space with priapisms. He\ndid not see them with the eyes of his body, which were in no degree\nhallucinated, but perceived them outside him, and felt them within him;\nin a word, the touch was external, and the vision internal.\n\nHe tried to gaze on the statue of Saint Joseph, before which he kept\nhimself, and to see nothing but it, but his eyes seemed to revolve, to\nsee only within, and were filled with indecencies. It was a medley of\napparitions with undecided outlines, and confused colours, which gained\nprecision only in those parts coveted by the secular infamy of man. And\nthis changed again. The human forms vanished. There remained only, in\ninvisible landscapes of flesh, marshes reddened by the fires of what\nsunset it was impossible to say, marshes shuddering under the divided\nshelter of the grasses. Then the sensual spot grew smaller still, but\nremained, and this time did not move; it was the growth of an unclean\nflood, the spreading of the daisy of darkness, the unfolding of the\nlotos of the caverns, hidden at the bottom of the valley.\n\nAnd there, burning gasps excited Durtal, enwrapped him, stifled him with\nfurious gasps which drank his mouth.\n\nHe looked in spite of himself, unable to withdraw himself from the\noutrages imposed by these violations, but the body was still and\nremained calm, while the soul revolted with a groan; the temptation was\nthen of no effect; but if the tricks only succeeded in suggesting to him\ndisgust and horror, they made him suffer beyond measure, while they\ndelayed; all the days of his shameful existence came to the surface, all\nthese enticements to greedy desires crucified him. Joined to the sum of\nsorrows accumulated since the dawn, the overcharge of these sorrows\noverwhelmed him, and a cold sweat bathed him from head to foot.\n\nHe was in agony, and suddenly, as though he had come to overlook his\nministers, and to see if his orders were carried out, the executioner\nhimself entered on the scene. Durtal did not see him, but felt him, and\nit was indescribable. Since he had the impression of a real demoniac\npresence, his whole soul trembled and desired to fly, like a terrified\nbird that clings to the window-panes.\n\nAnd it fell back exhausted; then unlikely as it may appear, the parts of\nhis life were inverted, the body was upright, and held its own,\ncommanding the terrified soul, repressed this panic in a furious\ntension.\n\nDurtal perceived very plainly and clearly for the first time the\ndistinction, the separation of the soul from the body, and for the first\ntime also, he was conscious of the phenomenon of a body, which had so\ntortured its companion by its needs and wants, to forget all its hatred\nin the common danger, and hinder her who resisted it, the habit of\nsinking.\n\nHe saw that in a flash, and suddenly all vanished. It seemed that the\nDemon had taken himself off, the wall of darkness which encompassed\nDurtal opened, and light issued from all parts; with an immense impulse\nthe \"Salve Regina,\" springing up from the choir, swept aside the\nphantoms, and put the goblins to flight.\n\nThe elevated cordial of this chant restored him. He took courage, and\nbegan again to hope that this frightful desertion might cease; he\nprayed, and his petitions found vent; he understood that they were at\nlast heard.\n\nThe Office was at an end; he gained the guest-house, and when he\nappeared so worn out and pale before Father Etienne and the oblate, they\ncried: \"What is the matter with you?\"\n\nHe sank on a chair, and endeavoured to describe to them the terrible\nCalvary he had climbed. \"This has lasted,\" he said, \"for more than nine\nhours; I wonder that I have not gone mad;\" and he added, \"Yet I never\ncould have believed that the soul could suffer so much.\"\n\nThe face of the father was illuminated. He pressed Durtal's hands and\nsaid,\n\n\"Rejoice, my brother, you have been treated here like a monk.\"\n\n\"How is that?\" said Durtal, surprised.\n\n\"Yes, this agony, for there is no other word to define the horror of the\nstate, is one of the most serious trials which God inflicts on us; it is\none of the operations of the purgative life. Be happy, for it is a great\ngrace which Jesus does to you.\"\n\n\"And this proves that your conversion is good,\" affirmed the oblate.\n\n\"God! But it was not He at any rate who insinuated doubts about the\nFaith, who caused to be born in me that madness of scruples, who raised\nin me that spirit of blasphemy, who caressed my face with disgusting\napparitions.\"\n\n\"No, but He allows it. It is frightful, I know it,\" said the\nguest-master. \"God conceals Himself, and however you may call on Him, He\ndoes not answer you. You think yourself deserted, yet He is very near\nyou; and while He effaces Himself, Satan advances. He twists you about,\nplaces a microscope over your faults, his malice gnaws your brain like a\ndull file, and when to all this are joined, to try you to the utmost,\nimpure visions....\"\n\nThe Trappist stopped; then, speaking to himself, he said, slowly,\n\n\"It would be nothing to be in presence of a real temptation, of a true\nwoman in flesh and bone, but these appearances on which imagination\nworks, are horrible!\"\n\n\"And I used to think there was peace in the cloister!\"\n\n\"No, we are here on this earth to strive, and it is just in the cloister\nthat the Lowest works; there, souls escape him, and he will at all price\nconquer them. No place on earth is more haunted by him than a cell, no\none is more harassed than a monk.\"\n\n\"A story which is told in the Lives of the Fathers in the Desert, is\ntypical from this point of view. One demon only was charged to watch a\ntown; and he went to sleep while two or three hundred demons who had\norders to guard a monastery had no rest, but behaved themselves, here is\nthe place for the phrase, like very devils.\n\n\"And indeed, the mission to increase the sin of the towns is a sinecure,\nfor Satan holds them, though they are not aware of it; all then he has\nto do is to torment them so as to take from them trust in God, since all\nobey him without his taking the least trouble about it.\n\n\"And so he keeps his legions to besiege convents where resistance is\ndetermined. And indeed, you see the way in which he conducts the\nattack.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" exclaimed Durtal, \"it is not he who makes you suffer the most; for\nwhat is worse than scruples, worse than temptations against purity, or\nagainst the Faith, is the supposed abandonment of Heaven; no, nothing\ncan describe that.\"\n\n\"That is what mystical theology calls 'the Night Obscure,'\" answered M.\nBruno.\n\nAnd Durtal exclaimed,\n\n\"Ah! now I am with you; I remember.... That is why Saint John of the\nCross declares that it is impossible to describe the sorrows of that\nnight, and why he exaggerates nothing when he says, that one is then\nplunged alive into hell.\n\n\"And I doubted the veracity of his books, I accused him of excess;\nrather he minimized. Only one must have felt this oneself to believe\nit.\"\n\n\"And you have seen nothing,\" the oblate replied quietly; \"you have\npassed through the first portion of that night, through the night of the\nsenses; it is terrible enough, as I know by experience, but it is\nnothing in comparison with the Night of the Spirit which sometimes\nsucceeds it. That is the exact image of the sufferings which our Lord\nendured in the Garden of Olives, when, sweating blood, He cried at the\nend of His force, 'Lord, let this chalice pass from me.'\n\n\"This is so terrible ...\" and M. Bruno was silent and grew pale.\n\"Whoever has undergone that martyrdom,\" he said, after a pause, \"knows\nbeforehand what awaits the damned in another life.\"\n\n\"But,\" said the monk, \"the hour of bed-time has struck. There exists but\none remedy for all these evils, the Holy Eucharist; to-morrow, Sunday,\nthe community approaches the Sacrament; you must join us.\"\n\n\"But I cannot communicate in the state in which I am....\"\n\n\"Well, then, be up to-night, at three o'clock. I will come for you to\nyour cell, and will take you to Father Maximin, who confesses us at that\ntime.\"\n\nAnd without waiting for his answer, the guest-master pressed his hand\nand went.\n\n\"He is right,\" said the oblate; \"it is the true remedy.\"\n\nAnd when he had regained his room, Durtal thought,\n\n\"I now understand why the Abbe Gevresin made such a point of lending me\nSaint John of the Cross; he knew that I should enter into the 'Night\nObscure'; he did not dare warn me clearly, for fear of alarming me, and\nyet he would put me on my guard against despair, and aid me by the\nremembrance here of that reading. Only how could he think that in such a\nshipwreck I should remember anything!\n\n\"All this makes me think that I have omitted to write to him, and that\nto-morrow I must keep my promise by sending him a letter.\"\n\nAnd he thought again of Saint John of the Cross, that extraordinary\nCarmelite who described so placidly that terrible phase of the mystic\ngenesis.\n\nHe took count of the lucidity, the power of spirit of this saint,\nexplaining the most obscure vicissitude of the soul and the least known,\ncatching and following the operations of God, who dealt with that soul,\npressed it in His hands, squeezed it like a sponge, then let it suck up\nagain, fill itself out with sorrows, then wrung it again; making it drip\ntears of blood to cleanse it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\n\"No,\" said Durtal, in a whisper, \"I will not take the place of these\ngood people.\"\n\n\"But I assure you it is quite the same to them.\"\n\nAnd while Durtal was still refusing to go before the lay brothers who\nwere waiting their turn for confession, Father Etienne insisted: \"I will\nstay with you, and as soon as the cell is free, you will enter.\"\n\nDurtal was then on the landing of a staircase on every step of which was\nposted a brother kneeling or standing, his head wrapped in his hood, his\nface turned to the wall. All were sifting and closely examining their\nsouls.\n\n\"Of what sins can they really accuse themselves?\" thought Durtal. \"Who\nknows?\" he continued, perceiving Brother Anacletus, his head sunk on his\nbreast, and his hands joined, \"who knows if he does not reproach himself\nfor the discreet affection he has for me; for in monasteries all\nfriendship is forbidden!\"\n\nAnd he called to memory in the \"Way of Perfection\" of Saint Teresa, a\npage at once glowing and icy in which she cries out on the nothingness\nof human ties, declares that friendship is a weakness, and asserts\nclearly that every nun who desires to see her relations is imperfect.\n\n\"Come,\" said Father Etienne, who interrupted these reflections, and\npushed him towards the door of the cell out of which a monk came. Father\nMaximin was there, seated close to a prie-Dieu.\n\nDurtal knelt, and told him briefly his scruples and strifes of the\nevening before.\n\n\"What has happened to you is not surprising after a conversion; indeed,\nit is a good sign, for those persons alone for whom God has views are\nsubmitted to these proofs,\" said the monk slowly, when Durtal had ended\nhis story.\n\nAnd he continued,\n\n\"Now that you have no more grave sins, the Demon endeavours to drown you\nby spitting at you. In fact, in these episodes of malice at bay, there\nis for you temptation and no sin.\n\n\"You have, if I may sum up what you have said, undergone temptation of\nthe flesh, and of Faith, and you have been tortured by scruples.\n\n\"Let us leave on one side the sensual visions; such as they have been\nwere produced independently of your will, painful no doubt, but\nineffectual.\n\n\"Doubts about Faith are more dangerous.\n\n\"Steep yourself in this truth that besides prayer there exists but one\nefficacious remedy against this evil, to despise it.\n\n\"Satan is pride; despise him, and at once his audacity gives way; he\nspeaks; shrug your shoulders and he is silent. You must not discuss with\nhim; however good a reasoner you may be, you will be worsted, for he is\na most tricky dialectician.\"\n\n\"Yes, but what can I do? I do not wish to listen to him, but I hear him\nall the same. I was obliged to answer him if only to refute him.\"\n\n\"And it was just on that he counted to subdue you; keep this carefully\nin your mind; in order to let you give him an easy throw, he will\npresent you at need grotesque arguments, and so soon as he sees you\nconfident, simply satisfied with the excellence of your replies, he will\ninvolve you in sophisms so specious that you will fight in vain to solve\nthem.\n\n\"No; I repeat to you, had you the best reasons to oppose to him, do not\nriposte, refuse the strife.\"\n\nThe prior was silent; then he began again, quietly,\n\n\"There are two ways of getting rid of a thing which troubles you--to\nthrow it far away, or let it fall. To throw it to a distance demands an\neffort of which one may not be capable; to let it fall imposes no\nfatigue, is simple, without danger, within the reach of all.\n\n\"To throw to a distance implies again a certain interest, a certain\nanimation, perhaps even a certain fear; to let it fall is indifference,\ncomplete contempt; believe me, use this means and Satan will fly.\n\n\"This weapon of contempt will be also all-powerful to conquer the\nassault of scruples, if in combats of this nature the person assailed\nsees clear. Unfortunately, the peculiarity of scruples is to alarm\npeople, to make them lose at once the clearing breeze, and then it is\nindispensable to have recourse to a priest to defend oneself.\n\n\"Indeed,\" pursued the monk, who had interrupted himself a moment to\nthink--\"the closer one looks the less one sees; one becomes\nshort-sighted the moment one observes; it is necessary to place oneself\nat a certain point of view to distinguish objects, for when they are\nvery close they become as confused as if they were far. Therefore in\nsuch a case we must have recourse to the confessor, who is neither too\ndistant, nor too near, who holds himself precisely at the spot where\nobjects detach themselves in their relief. Only it is with scruples as\nwith certain maladies which, when they are not taken in time, become\nalmost incurable.\n\n\"Do not allow them, then, to become implanted in you; scruple cannot\nresist being told as soon as it begins. The moment you formulate it\nbefore the priest it dissolves; it is a kind of mirage which a word\neffaces.\n\n\"You will object to me,\" continued the monk, after a silence, \"that it\nis very mortifying to avow delusions which generally are absurd; but it\nis for this very reason that the demon suggests to you less clever\narguments than foolish. He takes hold of you thus by vanity, by false\nshame.\"\n\nThe monk was silent again; then he continued,\n\n\"Scruples not treated, scruples not cured, lead to discouragement which\nis the worst of temptations; for in other cases Satan attacks one virtue\nonly in particular, and he shows himself; while in this case he attacks\nall at once, and he hides himself.\n\n\"And this is so true that if you are seduced by lust, by the love of\nmoney, or by pride, you can, in examining yourself, give yourself\naccount of the nature of the temptation which exhausts you; in\ndiscouragement, on the contrary, your understanding is obscured to such\na degree that you do not even suspect that the state in which you\nsuccumb is only a diabolic manoeuvre which you must combat; and you let\ngo all, you give up the only arm which can save you, prayer, from which\nthe demon turns you aside as a vain thing.\n\n\"Never hesitate, then, to cut the evil at its root, to take care of a\nscruple as soon as it is born.\n\n\"Now tell me; you have nothing else to confess?\"\n\n\"No, except the indesire for the Eucharist, the languor in which I now\nfaint.\"\n\n\"There is some fatigue in your case, for no one can endure such a shock\nwith impunity; do not be uneasy about that, have confidence, do not\nattempt to present yourself before God all neat and trim; go to Him\nsimply, naturally, in undress even, just as you are; do not forget that\nif you are a servant you are also a son; have good courage, our Lord\nwill dispel all these nightmares.\"\n\nAnd when he had received absolution, Durtal went down to the church to\nawait the hour of mass.\n\nAnd when the moment for communion came, he followed M. Bruno behind the\nlay brothers. All were kneeling on the pavement, and one after the other\nrose to exchange the kiss of peace, and reach the altar.\n\nThough he repeated to himself the counsels of Father Maximin, though he\nexhorted himself to dismiss all his unrest, Durtal could not help\nthinking as he saw these monks approach the Table, \"The Lord will find a\nchange when I advance in my turn; after having descended into the\nsanctuaries, He will be reduced to visit hovel.\" And sincerely, humbly,\nhe was sorry for Him.\n\nAnd as the first time that he approached this peace-giving mystery, he\nexperienced a sensation of stifling, as if his heart were too large when\nhe returned to his place. As soon as the mass was over, he quitted the\nchapel and escaped into the park.\n\nThen gently, without sensible effects, the Sacrament worked; Christ\nopened, little by little, his closed house and gave it air, light\nentered into Durtal in a flood. From the windows of his senses which had\nlooked till then into he knew not what cesspool, into what enclosure,\ndank, and steeped in shadow; he now looked suddenly, through a burst of\nlight, on a vista which lost itself in heaven.\n\nHis vision of nature was modified; the surroundings were transformed;\nthe fog of sadness which visited them vanished; the sudden clearness of\nhis soul was repeated in its surroundings.\n\nHe had the sensation of expansion, the almost childlike joy of a sick\nman who takes his first outing, of the convalescent, who having long\ncrawled in a chamber, sets foot without; all grew young again. These\nalleys, this wood, through which he had wandered so much, which he began\nto know in all their windings, and in every corner, began to appear to\nhim in a new aspect. A restrained joy, a repressed gladness emanated\nfrom this site, which appeared to him, instead of extending as formerly,\nto draw near and gather round the crucifix, to turn, as it were, with\nattention towards the liquid cross.\n\nThe trees rustled trembling, in a whisper of prayers, inclining towards\nthe Christ, who no longer twisted His painful arms in the mirror of the\npool, but He constrained these waters, and displayed them before Him,\nblessing them.\n\nThey were themselves different; the dark fluid was covered with monastic\nvisions, in white robes, which the reflections of clouds left there in\npassing, and the swan scattered them, in a splash of sunlight, making as\nhe swam great oily circles round him.\n\nOne might have said that these waves were gilt by the oil of the\ncatechumens, and the sacred Chrism, which the Church exorcises on the\nSaturday of Holy Week, and above them heaven half-opened its tabernacle\nof clouds, out of which came a clear sun like a monstrance of molten\ngold in a Blessed Sacrament of flames.\n\nIt was a Benediction of nature, a genuflection of trees and flowers,\nsinging in the wind, incensing with their perfume the sacred Bread which\nshone on high, in the flaming custody of the planet.\n\nDurtal looked on in transport. He desired to cry aloud his enthusiasm\nand his Faith to the landscape; he felt a joy in living. The horror of\nexistence counted for nothing when there were such moments, as no\nearthly happiness can give. God alone had the power of thus filling a\nsoul, of making it overflow, and rush in floods of joy; and He alone\ncould also fill the basin of sorrows, as no event in this world could\ndo. Durtal had just tried it; his spiritual sufferings and joys attained\nunder the divine imprint an acuteness, which people most humanly happy\nor unhappy cannot even suspect.\n\nThis idea brought him back to the terrible distresses of the evening\nbefore. He endeavoured to sum up what he had been able to observe of\nhimself in this Trappist monastery.\n\nFirst, the clear distinction between body and soul; then the action of\nthe demon, insinuating and obstinate, almost visible, while the heavenly\naction remained, on the contrary, dull and veiled, appeared only at\ncertain moments, and seemed at others to vanish for ever.\n\nAnd all this, when felt and understood, had an appearance simple in\nitself, but scarcely explaining itself. The body appearing to throw\nitself forward to the rescue of the soul, and no doubt borrowing from it\nits will, to help it when it fainted, was unintelligible. How a body\ncould itself react obscurely, and yet show, all at once, so strong a\ndecision that it pressed its companion into a vice, and prevented its\nflight--\n\n\"It is as mysterious as the rest,\" thought Durtal, and as in a dream he\ncontinued,\n\n\"The secret action of Jesus in His Sacrament is not less strange. If I\nmay judge by what has happened to me; a first communion exasperates the\naction of the devil, while a second represses it.\n\n\"Ah, and how I put myself in line with all my calculations! In taking\nshelter here I thought myself pretty sure of my soul, and that my body\nwould trouble me; whereas just the contrary has been the case.\n\n\"My stomach has grown vigorous and shown itself fit to support an effort\nof which I should never have thought it capable, and my soul has been\nbelow everything, vacillating and dry, so fragile, so feeble!\n\n\"But we will let all that alone.\"\n\nHe walked about, lifted from earth by a confused joy. He grew vaporized\nin a sort of intoxication, in a vague etherization, in which arose,\nwithout his even thinking of formulating words, acts of thanksgiving; it\nwas an effort of thanks of his soul, of his body, of his whole being, to\nthat God whom he felt living in him, and diffused in that kneeling\nlandscape which also seemed to expand in mute hymns of gratitude.\n\nThe hour which struck by the clock in the portico reminded him it was\nbreakfast time. He went to the guest-house, cut himself a slice of bread\nand butter with some cheese, drank half a glass of wine, and was about\nto go out again when he reflected that the horary of the offices was\nchanged.\n\n\"They must be different from those of the week,\" he thought; and he went\nup into his cell to consult his placards.\n\nHe found only one, that of the rule of the monks themselves, which\ncontained the regulations for the Sunday practices for the cloister; and\nhe read:\n\nEXERCISES OF THE COMMUNITY FOR ALL ORDINARY SUNDAYS.\n\n          MORNING.\n\n           1.     Rise. Little Office. Prayer till 1.30.\n           2.     Grand Canonical Office chanted.\n           5.30.  Prime, Morning Mass, 6 o'clock.\n           6.45.  Chapter Instructions. Great Silence.\n           9.15.  Asperges, Tierce, Procession.\n          10.     High Mass.\n          11.10.  Sext and special examination.\n          11.30.  Angelus, Dinner.\n          12.15.  Siesta, Great Silence.\n\n\n          EVENING.\n\n           2.     End of Repose. None.\n           4.     Vespers and Benediction.\n           5.45.  Quarter of an hour for Prayer.\n           6.     Supper.\n           7.     Reading before Compline.\n           7.15.  Compline.\n           7.30.  Salve, Angelus.\n           7.45.  Examination of conscience and Retreat.\n           8.     Bed time, Great Silence.\n\n     Note.--After the Cross of September, no siesta. None is at 2\n     o'clock; Vespers at 3; Supper at 5; Compline at 6, and bed time at\n     7.\n\nDurtal copied this rule for his use on a scrap of paper. \"In fact,\" he\nsaid to himself, \"I have to be in chapel at 9.15 for Asperges, High Mass\nand the Office of Sext, afterwards at 2 for None, then at 4 for Vespers\nand Benediction, and lastly at 7.30 for Compline.\n\n\"Here is a day which will be occupied, without counting that I got up at\nhalf-past two this morning,\" he concluded; and when he reached the\nchapel, about nine o'clock, he found the greater part of the lay\nbrothers on their knees, the others saying their rosary; and when the\nclock struck all returned to their place.\n\nAssisted by two fathers in cowls, the prior, vested in a white alb,\nentered, and while the antiphon \"Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et\nmundabor\" was sung, all the monks in succession defiled before Father\nMaximin, standing on the steps, turning his back to the altar; and he\nsprinkled them with holy water, while they regained their stalls, each\nmaking the sign of the cross.\n\nThen the prior descended from the altar, and came to the entrance to the\nvestibule, where he dispersed the water crosswise, traced by the\nsprinkler over the oblate, and over Durtal.\n\nAt last he vested, and went to celebrate the sacrifice.\n\nThen Durtal was able to think over his Sundays at the Benedictine nuns.\n\nThe \"Kyrie Eleison\" was the same but slower and more sonorous, more\ngrave on the prolonged termination of the last word; at Paris the voices\nof the nuns drew it out and put a gloss on it at the same time, turned\ninto satin its final sound, rendered it less dull, less spaced, less\nample. The \"Gloria in Excelsis\" differed; that of La Trappe was more\nprimitive, more mounting, more sombre, interesting by its very\nbarbarism, but less touching, for in its forms of adoration, in the\n\"Adoramus te,\" for example, the \"te\" did not detach itself, did not drop\nlike a tear of amorous essence, like an avowal retained by humility on\nthe tip of the lips; but it was when the Credo arose, that Durtal could\nuplift himself at ease.\n\nHe had never yet heard it so authoritative, and so imposing; it\nadvanced, chanted in unison, developing its slow procession of dogmas,\nin sounds well furnished and rigid, of a violet almost obscure, a red\nalmost black, growing lighter towards the end, till it expired in a long\nand plaintive Amen.\n\nIn following the Cistercian office Durtal could recognize the morsels of\nplain chant still preserved in parish masses. All the part of the Canon,\nthe \"Sursum Corda,\" the \"Vere Dignum,\" the Antiphons, the \"Pater,\"\nremained intact. Only the \"Sanctus\" and the \"Agnus Dei\" were changed.\n\nMassive, built up, as it were, in the Roman style, they draped\nthemselves in the colour, glowing and dull, which clothes, in fact, the\noffices of La Trappe.\n\n\"Well,\" said the oblate, when, after the ceremony, they sat at the table\nof the refectory; \"well, what do you think of our High Mass?\"\n\n\"It is superb,\" answered Durtal. And he said dreamily, \"Would that one\ncould have the whole complete! to bring here, instead of this\nuninteresting chapel, the apse of St. Severin; hang on the walls the\npictures of Fra Angelico, Memling, Gruenewald, Gerard David, Roger van\nden Weyden, Bouts; add to these, admirable sculptures such as those of\nthe great door of Chartres, altar screens of sculptured wood, such as\nthose of the Cathedral of Amiens, what a dream!\"\n\n\"Yet,\" he went on after a silence, \"this dream has been a reality, it is\nevident. This ideal church existed for ages, everywhere in the Middle\nAges! The chant, the goldsmith's work, the panels, the sculptures, the\ntissues were all attractive; the liturgies possessed, to give them\nvalue, fabulous caskets, but all that is far off.\"\n\n\"But you certainly cannot say,\" replied M. Bruno, with a smile, \"that\nthe church ornaments are ugly here!\"\n\n\"No; they are exquisite. First, the chasubles have not the shapes of a\nminer's apron, and they do not hoist themselves up on the shoulders of\nthe priest, that excrescence, that puffing like the ear of a little\ndonkey lying back, which the vestment makers use at Paris.\n\n\"Nor is it any more that cross in stripe or woven, filling all the\nstuff, falling like a sack-coat over the back of the celebrant; the\nTrappist chasubles have kept the old form, as the old image makers and\nthe old painters preserved them in their religious scenes; and that\ncross with four leaves, like those which the Gothic style chiselled on\nthe walls of its churches, is related to the very expanded lotus a\nflower so full-blown that its falling petals droop.\"\n\n\"Without counting,\" pursued Durtal, \"that the stuff which seems cut in a\nsort of flannel or thick soft felt must have been plunged in threefold\ndyes, for it takes a depth, and a magnificent clearness of tone. The\nreligious trimming-makers could trim these watered and plain silks with\nsilver and gold, yet never attain to give a colour at once so vehement\nand so familiar to the eye as that crimson with sulphur-yellow flowers,\nwhich Father Maximin wore the other day.\"\n\n\"Yes, and the mourning chasuble with its lobed crosses, and its discreet\nwhite fullings, in which the Father abbot vested himself, the day on\nwhich he communicated us, is not it also a caress for the eyes?\"\n\nDurtal sighed: \"Ah! if the statues in the chapel showed a like taste!\"\n\n\"By the way,\" said the oblate, \"come and salute that Notre Dame de\nl'Atre, of which I have spoken to you, found among the remains of the\nold cloister.\"\n\nThey rose from table, passed along a corridor, and struck into a lateral\ngallery, at the end of which they stopped before a statue of life size,\nin stone.\n\nIt was heavy and massive, representing in a robe of long folds, a\npeasant woman, crowned, and round-cheeked, holding on her arm a child\nwho blessed a ball.\n\nBut in this portrait of a robust peasant woman, sprung from Burgundy or\nFlanders, there was a candour, a goodness almost tumultuous, which\nsprang from her smiling face, her innocent eyes, her good and large\nlips, indulgent, ready for all forgiveness.\n\nShe was a rustic Virgin made for the humble lay brothers; she was not a\ngreat lady who could hold them at a distance, but she was indeed the\nnursing mother of their souls, their true mother. \"How was it they had\nnot understood her here? how instead of presiding in the chapel, did she\ngrow chill at the end of a corridor?\" cried Durtal.\n\nThe oblate turned the conversation--\"I warn you,\" he said, \"that\nBenediction will not take place after Vespers as your placard indicates,\nbut directly after Compline; this latter office will therefore be\nadvanced a quarter of an hour at least.\"\n\nAnd the oblate went up to his cell, while Durtal went towards the large\npond. There he lay down on a bed of dry reed, looking at the water which\nbroke in wavelets at his feet. The coming and going of these limited\nwaters, folding back on themselves, yet never overpassing the basin they\nhad hollowed for themselves, led him on into long reveries.\n\nHe said to himself that a river was the most exact symbol of the active\nlife; one follows it from its source through all its courses across the\nterritories it fertilizes; it has fulfilled its assigned task before it\ndies, immersing itself in the gaping sepulchre of the seas; but the\npond, that tamed water, imprisoned in a hedge of reeds which it has\nitself caused to grow in fertilizing the soil of its bank, has\nconcentrated itself, lived on itself, not seemed to achieve any known\nwork, save to keep silence and reflect on the infinite of heaven.\n\n\"Still water troubles me,\" continued Durtal. \"It seems to me that unable\nto extend itself, it grows deeper, and that while running waters borrow\nonly the shadows of things they reflect, it swallows them without giving\nthem back. Most certainly in this pond is a continued and profound\nabsorption of forgotten clouds, of lost trees, even of sensations seized\non the faces of monks who hung over it. This water is full, and not\nempty, like those which are distracted in wandering about the country\nand in bathing the towns. It is a contemplative water, in perfect accord\nwith the recollected life of the cloisters.\n\n\"The fact is,\" he concluded, \"that a river would have here no meaning;\nit would only be passing, would remain indifferent and in a hurry, would\nbe in all cases unfit to pacify the soul which the monastic water of the\nponds appeases. Ah! in founding Notre Dame de l'Atre, Saint Bernard knew\nhow to fit the Cistercian rule and the site.\n\n\"But we must leave these fancies,\" he said, rising; and, remembering\nthat it was Sunday, he transferred himself to Paris, and revisited in\nthought his halts on this day in the churches.\n\nIn the morning St. Severin enchanted him, but he ought not to thrust\nhimself into that sanctuary for the other Offices. Vespers there were\nbotched and mean; and if it were a feast day the organ master showed\nhimself possessed by the love of ignoble music.\n\nOccasionally Durtal had taken refuge at St. Gervais, where at least they\nplayed at certain times motets of the old masters; but that church was,\nas well as St. Eustache, a paying concert, where Faith had nothing to\ndo. No recollection was possible in the midst of ladies who fainted\nbehind, their faces in their hands, and grew agitated in creaking\nchairs. These were frivolous assemblies for pious music, a compromise\nbetween the theatre and God.\n\nSt. Sulpice was better, where at least the public was silent. There,\nmoreover, Vespers were celebrated with more solemnity and less haste.\n\nIn general the seminary reinforced the choir, and rendered by this\nimposing choir they rolled on majestically sustained by the grand organ.\n\nChanted, only in half, and not in unison, reduced to a state of\ncouplets, given, some by a baritone, others by the choir, they were\ntwisted and frizzled by a curling iron, but as they were not less\nadulterated at the other churches, there was every advantage in\nlistening to them at St. Sulpice, whose powerful choir, very well led,\nhad not, as for example at Notre Dame, those dusty voices which break at\nthe least whisper.\n\nThis only became really odious when, with a formidable explosion, the\nfirst strophe of the Magnificat struck the arches.\n\nThe organ then swallowed up one stanza out of two, and under the\nseditious pretext that the length of the Office of incensing was too\nlong to be filled up entirely by singing, M. Widor, seated at his desk,\nrolled forth stale fragments of music splashed about above, imitating\nthe human voice and the flute, the bagpipe and the bassoon, or indeed,\ntired of affectations, he blew furiously on the keys, ending by\nimitating the roll of locomotives over iron bridges, letting all the\nstops go.\n\nAnd the choirmaster, not wishing to show himself inferior to the\norganist in his instinctive hatred of plain chant, was delighted, when\nthe Benediction began, to put aside Gregorian melodies and make his\nchoristers gurgle rigadoons.\n\nIt was no longer a sanctuary, but a howling place. The \"Ave Maria,\" the\n\"Ave Verum,\" all the mystical indecencies of the late Gounod, the\nrhapsodies of old Thomas, the capers of indigent musicasters, defiled in\na chain wound by choir leaders from Lamoureux, chanted unfortunately by\nchildren, the chastity of whose voices no one feared to pollute in these\nmiddle-class passages of music, these by-ways of art.\n\n\"Ah,\" thought Durtal, \"if only this choirmaster, who is evidently an\nexcellent musician; for indeed, when he must, he knows how to get\nexecuted better than anywhere else in Paris, the 'De Profundis' with\norgan accompaniment, and the 'Dies Irae'; if only this man would as at\nSt. Gervais give us some Palestrina and Vittoria, some Aichinger and\nAllegri, some Orlando Lasso and De Pres; but no, he must detest these\nmasters also, consider them as archaic rubbish, good to send into the\ndust-heaps.\"\n\nAnd Durtal continued,\n\n\"What we hear now at Paris, in the churches, is wholly incredible! Under\npretence of managing an income for the singers, they suppress half the\nstanzas of canticles and hymns, and substitute, to vary the pleasure,\nthe tiresome divagations of an organ.\n\n\"There they howl the 'Tantum Ergo' to the Austrian National air; or what\nis still worse, muffle it up with operatic choruses, or refrains from\ncanteens. The very text is divided into couplets which are ornamented\nlike a drinking song with a little burthen.\n\n\"The other Church sequences are treated in the same manner.\n\n\"And yet the Papacy has formally forbidden, in many bulls, that the\nsanctuary should be soiled by those liberties. To cite one only, John\nXXII., in his Extravagant 'Doctor Sanctorum,' expressly forbade profane\nvoices and music in churches. He prohibited choirs at the same time to\nchange plain chant into fiorituri. The decrees of the Council of Trent\nare not less clear from this point of view, and more recently still a\nregulation of the Sacred Congregation of Rites has intervened to\nproscribe musical rioting in holy places.\n\n\"Then what are the parish-priests doing who, in fact, have musical\npolice charge in their churches? Nothing, they laugh at it.\n\n\"Nor is this a mere phrase, but with those priests who, hoping for\nreceipts, permit on fete days the shameless voices of actresses to dance\ngambols to the heavy sounds of the organ, the poor Church has become far\nfrom clean.\n\n\"At St. Sulpice,\" Durtal went on, \"the priest tolerates the villainy of\njolly songs which are served up to him; but at least he does not, like\nthe one at St. Severin, allow strolling women players to lighten up the\nOffice by the shouts of such voices as remain to them. Nor has he\naccepted the solo on the English horn which I heard at St. Thomas one\nevening during the Perpetual Adoration. In short, if the grand\nBenedictions at St. Sulpice are a shame, the Complines remain in spite\nof their theatrical attitude really charming.\"\n\nAnd Durtal thought of those Complines of which the paternity is often\nattributed to Saint Benedict; they were in fact the integral prayer of\nthe evenings, the preventive adjuration, the safeguard against the\nattempts of the Demon, they were in some measure the advanced sentinels\nof the out-posts placed round the soul to protect it during the night.\n\nAnd the regulation of this entrenched camp of prayer was perfect. After\nthe benediction the best trained voice, the most threadlike of the\nchoir, the voice of the smallest of the children, sang forth the short\nlesson taken from the first Epistle of Saint Peter, warning the faithful\nthat they must be sober and watch, not allow themselves to be surprised\nunexpectedly. A priest then recited the usual evening prayers; the choir\norgan gave the intonation, and the psalms fell, chanted one by one, the\ntwilight psalms, in which before the approaches of night peopled with\ngoblins, and furrowed by ghosts, man calls God to aid, and prays Him to\nguard his sleep from the violence of the ways of hell, the rape of the\nlamias that pass.\n\nAnd the hymn of Saint Ambrose, the \"Te lucis ante terminum,\" made still\nmore precise the scattered meaning of these psalms, gathering it up in\nits short stanzas. Unfortunately, the most important, that which\nforesees and declares the luxurious dangers of darkness, was swallowed\nup by the full organ. This hymn was not rendered in plain chant at St.\nSulpice as at La Trappe, but was sung to a pompous and elaborate air, an\nair full of glory, with a certain proud attractiveness, originating no\ndoubt in the eighteenth century.\n\nThen there was a pause--and man, feeling himself more sheltered, behind\na rampart of prayers, recollected himself, more assured, and borrowed\ninnocent voices to address new supplications to God. After the chapter\nread by the officiant, the children of the choir chanted the short\nresponse \"In manus tuus Domine, commendo spiritum meum,\" which rolled\nout, dividing in two parts, then doubled itself, and resolved at the\nlast its two separate portions by a verse, and part of an antiphon.\n\nAnd after that prayer there was still the canticle of Simeon, who, as\nsoon as he had seen the Messiah, desired to die. This \"Nunc dimittis,\"\nwhich the Church has incorporated in Compline to stimulate us at\neventide to self-examination--for none can tell whether he shall wake on\nthe morrow--was raised by the whole choir, which alternated with the\nresponses of the organ.\n\nIn fact, to end this Office of a besieged town, to take its last\ndispositions and try to repose in shelter from a violent attack, the\nChurch built up again a few prayers, and placed her parishes under the\ntutelage of the Virgin, to whom it chanted one of the four antiphons\nwhich follow, according to the Proper.\n\n\"At La Trappe Compline was evidently less solemn, less interesting than\nat St. Sulpice,\" concluded Durtal, \"for the monastic breviary is, for a\nwonder, less complete for that Office than the Roman breviary. As for\nSunday Vespers, I am curious to hear them.\"\n\nAnd he heard them; but they hardly differed from the Vespers adopted by\nthe Benedictine nuns of the Rue Monsieur; they were more massive, more\ngrave, more Roman, if it may be said, for necessarily the voice of women\ndrew them out into sharp points, made them like acute arches, as it\nwere, in Gothic style, but the Gregorian tunes were the same.\n\nOn the other hand they resembled in nothing those at St. Sulpice, where\nthe modern sauces spoilt the very essences of the plain chants. Only the\nMagnificat of La Trappe, abrupt, and with dry tone, was not so good as\nthe majestic, the admirable Royal Magnificat chanted at Paris.\n\n\"These monks are astonishing with their superb voices,\" said Durtal to\nhimself, and he smiled as they finished the antiphon of Our Lady, for he\nremembered that in the primitive Church the chanter was called \"Fabarius\ncantor,\" \"eater of beans,\" because he was obliged to eat that vegetable\nto strengthen his voice. Now, at La Trappe, dishes of beans were common;\nperhaps that was the secret of the ever young monastic voices.\n\nHe thought over the liturgy and plain chant while smoking cigarettes, in\nthe walks, after Vespers.\n\nHe brought to mind the symbolism of those canonical hours which recalled\nevery day to the Christian the shortness of life in summing up for him\nits image from infancy to death.\n\nRecited soon after dawn, Prime was the figure of childhood; Tierce of\nyouth; Sext the full vigour of age; None the approaches of old age,\nwhile Vespers were an allegory of decrepitude. They belonged, moreover,\nto the Nocturns, and were sung about six o'clock in the evening, at that\nhour when, at the time of the Equinoxes, the sun sets in the red cinder\nof the clouds. As for Compline, it resounds when night, the symbol of\ndeath, has come.\n\nThis canonical Office was a marvellous rosary of psalms; every bead of\neach of these hours bore reference to the different phases of human\nexistence, followed, little by little, the periods of the day, the\ndecline of destiny, to end in the most perfect of offices, in Compline,\nthat provisional absolution of a death, itself represented by sleep.\n\nAnd if, from these texts so wisely selected, these Sequences so solemnly\nsealed, Durtal passed to the sacerdotal robe of their sounds, to those\nneumatic chants, that divine psalmody all uniform, all simple, which is\nplain chant, he had to admit, that except in Benedictine cloisters, an\norgan accompaniment was everywhere added, that plain chant had been put\nforcibly in modern tonality, and it disappeared under vegetations which\nstifled it, became everywhere discoloured, amorphous and\nincomprehensible.\n\nOne only of its executioners, Niedermayer, showed himself at least\npitiful. He tried a system more ingenious and more honest. He reversed\nthe terms of torture. Instead of wishing to make plain chant supple and\nto thrust it into the mould of modern harmony, he constrained that\nharmony to bend itself to the austere tonality of plain chant. He thus\npreserved its character, but how far more natural would it have been to\nleave it solitary and not obliged it to tow an useless companion and\nawkward following?\n\nHere at least at La Trappe it lived and spread in all security, without\ntreason on the part of the monks. There was always sameness of sound, it\nwas always chanted without accompaniment in unison.\n\nHe was able to satisfy himself about this truth once more after supper,\nthat evening, when at the end of Compline the father sacristan lighted\nall the candles on the altar.\n\nAt that moment, in the silence of the Trappists on their knees, their\nhead in their hands, or their cheek resting on the sleeve of their great\ncowl, three lay brothers entered, two carrying torches, and another\npreceding them with a censer, and behind them a few paces, came the\nprior with his hands joined.\n\nDurtal looked at the changed costume of the three brothers. They had no\nlonger their robes of serge, made of bits and scraps, stained mud\ncolour, but robes of violet-brown, like plums on which was spread the\nwhite twilling of a new surplice.\n\nWhile Father Maximin, vested in a copy of milky white, woven with a\ncross in orange yellow, placed the Host in the monstrance, the thurifer\nput down the censer, on the coals of which melted tears of real incense.\nContrary to what takes place in Paris, where the censer, swung before\nthe altar, sounds against its chains, and is like the clear tinkling of\na horse which, as he lifts his head, shakes his curb and bit, the censer\nat La Trappe remained immovable before the altar, and smoked by itself\nbehind the officiants.\n\nAnd everyone chanted the imploring and melancholy antiphon \"Parce\nDomine,\" then the \"Tantum Ergo,\" that magnificent song, which could be\nalmost acted, so clear in their changes are the sentiments which succeed\neach other in their rhymed sequence.\n\nIn the first stanza it seems indeed to shake the head gently, to put\nforward the chin, so to speak, so as to affirm the insufficiency of the\nsenses to explain the dogma of the real presence, the finished avatar of\nthe Bread. It is then admiring and reflective; then that melody so\nattentive, so respectful, does not wait to affirm the weakness of the\nreason, and the power of faith, but in the second stanza it goes\nforward, adores the glory of the three Persons, exults with joy, only\nrecovers itself at the end, where the music adds a new sense to the text\nof Saint Thomas, in avowing in a long and mournful Amen the unworthiness\nof those present to receive the Benediction of the Flesh placed upon\nthat cross which the monstrance is about to trace in the air.\n\nAnd slowly, while unrolling its coil of smoke, the censer spread, as it\nwere, a blue gauze before the altar, while the Blessed Sacrament was\nlifted like a golden moon, amid the stars of the tapers, sparkling in\nthe growing darkness of that fog, the bells of the abbey sounded with\nmusical and sweet strokes. And all the monks bowed low with their eyes\nclosed, then recovered themselves and entoned the \"Laudate\" to the old\nmelody which is also sung at Notre Dame des Victoires at the Benediction\nin the evening.\n\nThen one by one, having genuflected before the altar, they went out,\nwhile Durtal and the oblate returned to the guest-house, where Father\nEtienne was waiting for them.\n\nHe said to Durtal: \"I would not go to bed without knowing how you have\nborne the day;\" and as Durtal thanked him, assuring him that this Sunday\nhad been very peaceful, Father Etienne smiled and revealed in a word,\nthat under their reserved attitude all at La Trappe were more interested\nin their guest than he had himself believed.\n\n\"The reverend Father abbot and the Father prior will be glad when I give\nthem this answer,\" said the monk, who wished Durtal good-night, pressing\nhis hand.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nAt seven o'clock, just as he was preparing to eat his bread, Durtal\nencountered Father Etienne.\n\n\"Father,\" he said, \"to-morrow is Tuesday; the time of my retreat has\nexpired, and I am going; how should I order a carriage for Saint\nLandry?\"\n\nThe monk smiled. \"When the postman brings the letters I can charge him\nwith the commission, but let us see; are you in a great hurry to leave\nus?\"\n\n\"No, but I would not trespass....\"\n\n\"Listen, since you are so well broken in to the life at La Trappe, stay\nhere two days more. The Father procurator must go to settle a dispute at\nSaint Landry. He will take you to the station in our carriage. So you\nwill avoid some expense, and the journey hence to the railroad will seem\nto you less long, since there will be two of you.\"\n\nDurtal accepted, and as it rained, he went up to his room. \"It is\nstrange,\" he said, as he sat down, \"how impossible one finds it in a\ncloister to read a book; one wants nothing, one thinks of God by\nHimself, and not by the volumes which speak about Him.\"\n\nMechanically he had taken up from a heap of books one in octavo, which\nhe had found on his table the day he took possession of his cell; it\nbore the title \"Manresa,\" or the \"Spiritual Exercises\" of Ignatius of\nLoyola.\n\nHe had already run through the work at Paris, and the pages which he\nturned over afresh did not change the harsh, almost hostile, opinion\nwhich he had retained of this book.\n\nThe fact is that these exercises leave no initiative to the soul; they\nconsider it as a soft paste good to run into a mould; they show it no\nhorizon, no sky. Instead of trying to stretch it, and make it greater,\nthey make it smaller deliberately; they put it back into the cases of\ntheir wafer box, nourish it only on faded trifles, on dry nothings.\n\nThis Japanese culture of deformed toes which remain dwarf; this Chinese\ndeformation of children planted in pots, horrified Durtal, who closed\nthe volume.\n\nHe opened another, the \"Introduction to the Devout Life,\" by Saint\nFrancis de Sales.\n\nCertainly he found no need to read it again, in spite of its\naffectations, and its good nature, at first charming, but which ends by\nmaking you sick, by making the soul sticky with sweets with liqueurs in\nthem, and lollypops; in a word, that work so much praised by Catholics\nwas a julep scented with bergamot and ambergris. It was like a fine\nhandkerchief shaken in a church in which a musty smell of incense\nremained.\n\nBut the man himself, the Bishop Saint Francis de Sales, was suggestive;\nwith his name was called up the whole mystical history of the\nseventeenth century.\n\nAnd Durtal recalled the memories he had kept of the religious life of\nthat time. There were then in the Church two currents:\n\nThat of the high Mysticism, as it was called, originating from Saint\nTeresa and Saint John of the Cross; and this current was concentrated on\nMarie Guyon.\n\nAnd another that of so-called temperate Mysticism, of which the adepts\nwere Saint Francis de Sales and his friend the celebrated Baroness de\nChantal.\n\nIt was naturally this second current which triumphed. Jesus, putting\nHimself within the reach of drawing-rooms, descending to the level of\nwomen of the world, a moderate and proper Jesus, only dealing with the\nsoul of His creature just enough to give it one attraction the more,\nthis elegant Jesus became all the fashion; but Madame Guyon, whose\nsource was above all Saint Teresa, who taught the mystical theory of\nlove, and familiar intercourse with heaven, raised the opposition of the\nwhole clergy who abominated Mysticism without understanding it; she\nexasperated the terrible Bossuet, who accused her of the fashionable\nheresy, Molinism and Quietism. She refuted, unhappy as she was, this\ntrouble without much difficulty, but he persecuted her for it none the\nless; he was furious against her, and had her imprisoned at Vincennes;\nrevealed himself obstinate, surly, and atrocious.\n\nFenelon, who tried to conciliate these two tendencies in preparing a\nsmall Mysticism neither too hot nor too cold, a little less lukewarm\nthan that of Saint Francis de Sales, and above all things much less\nardent than that of Saint Teresa, ended in his turn by displeasing the\ncormorant of Meaux, and though he abandoned and denied Madame de Guyon,\nwhose friend he had been for long years, he was persecuted and tracked\ndown by Bossuet, condemned at Rome, and sent in exile to Cambrai.\n\nAnd here Durtal could not but smile, for he remembered the desolate\ncomplaints of his partisans weeping for this disgrace, representing thus\nas a martyr this archbishop whose punishment consisted in quitting his\npost as courtier at Versailles to go at last and administer his diocese,\nin which he appeared till then to have never resided.\n\nThis mitred Job, who remained in his misfortune Archbishop and Duke of\nCambrai, Prince of the Holy Roman Empire, and rich, so unhappy because\nhe was obliged to visit his flock, well shows the state of the\nepiscopate under the redundant reign of the great king. It was a\npriesthood of financiers and valets.\n\nOnly there was at any rate a certain attraction, there was talent in\nevery case; while now bishops are not for the most part less intriguing\nnor less servile, but they have no longer either talent or manners.\nCaught in part, in the fishpond of bad priests, they show themselves\nready for everything, and turn out to be souls of old usurers, low\njobbers, beggars, when you press them.\n\n\"It is sad to say it, but so it is,\" concluded Durtal. \"As for Madame\nGuyon,\" he went on, \"she was neither an original writer nor a saint; she\nwas only an unwelcome substitute for the true mystics; she was presuming\nand certainly lacked that humility which magnified Saint Teresa and\nSaint Clare; but after all she burst into a flame, she was overcome by\nJesus; above all, she was not a pious courtier, a bigot softened by a\ncourt like the Maintenon.\n\n\"After all, what a time for religion it was? All its saints have\nsomething formal and restricted, wordy and cold, which turns me away\nfrom them. Saint Francis de Sales, Saint Vincent de Paul, Saint Chantal\n... No, I prefer Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Bernard, Saint Angela\n... The Mysticism of the seventeenth century is all the fashion with its\nemphatic and mean churches, its pompous and icy painting, its solemn\npoetry, its gloomy prose.\n\n\"But look,\" he said, \"my cell is still neither swept nor set in order,\nand I am afraid that in lingering here I may give some trouble to Father\nEtienne. It rains, however, too hard to allow of my walking in the wood;\nthe simplest thing is to go and read the Little Office of Our Lady in\nthe chapel.\"\n\nHe went down there; it was at this hour almost empty; the monks were at\nwork in the fields or in the factory; two fathers only, on their knees\nbefore the altar of Our Lady, were praying so absorbedly that they did\nnot even hear the opening of the door.\n\nAnd Durtal, who had placed himself near them opposite the porch which\ngave upon the high altar, saw them reflected in the sheet of glass,\nplaced before the shrine of the Blessed Guerric. This sheet had indeed\nthe effect of a mirror, and the white fathers were in the depths of it,\nlived in prayers under the table, in the very heart of the altar.\n\nAnd he also appeared there in a corner, reflected, at the back of the\nshrine, near the sacred remains of the monk.\n\nAt one moment he lifted his head, and saw that the round window in the\napse, behind the altar, reproduced on its glass ornamented with grey and\nblue, the marks engraved on the reverse of the medal of Saint Benedict,\nthe first letters of its imperative formulas, the initials of its\ndistiches.\n\nIt might have been called an immense clear medal, sifting a pale light,\nstraining it through prayers, not allowing them to penetrate to the\naltar till sanctified and blessed by the Patriarch.\n\nAnd while he was dreaming, the clock struck; the two Trappists regained\ntheir stalls, while the others entered.\n\nWaiting thus in the chapel, the hour of Sext had struck. The abbot\nadvanced. Durtal saw him again for the first time since their\nconversation; he seemed less ill, less pale; he marched majestically in\nhis great white cowl, at the hood of which hung a violet acorn, and the\nfathers bowed, kissing their sleeve before him; he reached his place,\nwhich was designated by a wooden cross standing before a stall, and all\nenfolded themselves with a great sign of the cross, bowed to the altar,\nand the feeble imploring voice of the old Trappist rose: \"Deus in\nadjutorium meum intende.\"\n\nAnd the Office continued, in the monotonous and charming pitch of the\ndoxology, interrupted by profound reverences, large movements of the arm\nlifting the sleeve of the cowl as it fell to the ground, to allow the\nhand freedom to turn the pages.\n\nWhen Sext was over Durtal went to rejoin the oblate.\n\nThey found on the table of the refectory a little omelette, leeks cooked\nin a sauce of flour and oil, haricots and cheese.\n\n\"It is astonishing,\" said Durtal, \"how in regard to mystics, the world\nerrs on preconceived ideas, on the old string. Phrenologists declare\nthat mystics have pointed skulls; now here that their form is more\nvisible than elsewhere, because they are all hairless and shaven, there\nare no more heads like eggs than anywhere else. I looked this morning at\nthe shape of their heads, no two are alike. Some are oval and depressed,\nothers like a pear and straight, some have lumps on them, and some have\nnone; and it is just the same with faces; when they are not transfigured\nby prayer they are ordinary. If they did not wear the habit of their\norder, no one could recognize in these Trappists predestined beings\nliving out of modern society, in the full Middle Ages, in absolute\ndependence on a God. If they have souls which are not like those of\nother people, they have, after all, faces and bodies like those of the\nfirst comer.\"\n\n\"All is within,\" said the oblate. \"Why should elect souls be enclosed in\nfleshly prisons different to others?\"\n\nThis conversation, which continued on different points of Trappist life,\nended by turning on death in a monastery, and M. Bruno revealed some\ndetails.\n\n\"When death is near,\" he said, \"the Father abbot traces on the ground a\ncross in blessed ashes covered with straw, and the dying man is placed\non it wrapped in serge cloth.\n\n\"The brothers recite near him the prayers of the dying, and at the\nmoment of his death the response 'Subvenite Sancti Dei' is chanted in\nchoir. The Father abbot incenses the body, which is washed while the\nmonks sing the Office of the Dead in another room.\n\n\"Then his regular habit is put on the dead monk, and he is borne in\nprocession to the church, where he lies on a stretcher with his face\nuncovered, until the hour destined for the funeral.\n\n\"Then on the way to the cemetery the community intones no longer the\nchant of the dead, the psalms of grief, and the sequences of regret, but\nrather 'In exitu Israel de AEgypto,' which is the psalm of deliverance,\nthe free song of joy.\n\n\"And the Trappist is buried without a coffin, in his robe of stuff, his\nhead covered with his hood.\n\n\"Lastly, during thirty days, his place remains empty in the refectory,\nhis portion is served as usual, but the brother porter distributes it to\nthe poor.\n\n\"Ah! the happiness to die thus,\" said the oblate, as he ended, \"for if\none dies after having honestly fulfilled one's task in the order, one is\nassured of eternal happiness, according to the promises made by our Lord\nto Saint Benedict and to Saint Bernard!\"\n\n\"The rain is over,\" said Durtal; \"I should like to visit to-day that\nlittle chapel at the end of the park of which you spoke to me the other\nday. Which is the shortest way to reach it?\"\n\nM. Bruno told him the way, and Durtal went off, rolling a cigarette, to\ngain the great pond, thence he struck a path to the left and mounted a\nlane of trees.\n\nHe slipped on the wet ground, and got on with difficulty. At last,\nhowever, he gained a clump of chestnuts, which he skirted. Behind these\nrose a dwarf tower topped by a very small dome, pierced by a door. To\nthe left and right of this door, on sockets where ornaments of the\nRomanesque epoch still were seen under the velvety crust of moss, two\nstone angels were still standing.\n\nThey belonged, evidently, to the Burgundian school, with their big round\nheads, their hair puffed and divided into waves, their fat faces with\nturned-up noses, their solid draperies with hard folds. They also came\nfrom the ruins of the old cloister, but the interior of the chapel was\nunfortunately thoroughly modern; it was so small that the feet of him\nwho knelt at the altar almost touched the wall at the entrance.\n\nIn a niche veiled by white gauze a Virgin smiled with extended hands.\nShe had blue plaster eyes and apple-shaped cheeks. She was wearisome in\nher insignificance, but her sanctuary retained the warmth of places\nalways shut up. The walls, hung with red calico, were dusted, the floor\nwas swept, and the holy water basins full; superb tea roses flourished\nin pots between the candelabra. Durtal then understood why he had so\noften seen M. Bruno walking in this direction with flowers in his hand;\nhe was going to pray in this place, which he loved no doubt because it\nwas isolated in the profound solitude of this Trappist monastery.\n\n\"Excellent man!\" cried Durtal, thinking over the affectionate services,\nthe fraternal care the oblate had had for him; and he added, \"He is a\nhappy man too, for he is self-contained, and lives so placidly here.\n\n\"And, indeed,\" he went on, \"where is the good of striving, if not\nagainst oneself? to agitate oneself for money, for glory, to conduct\noneself so as to keep others down, and gain adulation from them, how\nvain a task!\n\n\"Only the Church, in decking the temporary altars of the liturgical\nyear, in forcing the seasons to follow step by step the life of Christ,\nhas known how to trace for us a plan of necessary occupations, of useful\nends. She has given us the means of walking always side by side with\nJesus, to live day by day with the Gospels; for Christians she has made\ntime the messenger of sorrows and the herald of joys; she has entrusted\nto the year the part of servant of the New Testament, the zealous\nemissary of worship.\"\n\nAnd Durtal reflected on the cycle of the liturgy which begins on the\nfirst day of the religious year, with Advent, then turns with an\ninsensible movement on itself till it returns again to its\nstarting-point, to the time when the Church prepares by penitence and\nprayer to celebrate Christmas.\n\nAnd turning over his prayer-book, seeing the extraordinary circle of\noffices, he thought of that prodigious jewel, that crown of King\nRecceswinthe preserved in the Museum of Cluny.\n\nThe liturgical year was, like it, studded with crystals and jewels by\nits admirable canticles and its fervent hymns set in the very gold of\nBenedictions and Vespers.\n\nIt seemed that the Church had substituted for that crown of thorns with\nwhich the Jews had surrounded the temples of the Saviour, the truly\nroyal crown of the Proper of the Seasons, the only one which was\nchiselled in a metal precious enough, with art pure enough to dare to\nplace itself on the brow of a God.\n\nAnd the grand Lapidary had begun his work by incrusting, in this diadem\nof offices, the hymn of Saint Ambrose, and the invocation taken from the\nOld Testament, the \"Rorate Coeli,\" that melodious chant of expectation\nand regret, that obscure gem violet-coloured; the lustre declares itself\nthen, when after each of its stanzas rises the solemn prayer of the\npatriarchs, calling for the longed-for presence of Christ.\n\nAnd the four Sundays of Advent disappeared with the turned pages of the\nprayer-book; the night of the Nativity was come. After the \"Jesu\nRedemptor\" of Vespers, the old Portuguese chant, the \"Adeste Fideles,\"\narose at Benediction from every lip. It was a sequence of a truly\ncharming simplicity, an old carving wherein defiled the shepherds and\nthe kings to a popular air appropriate to great marches, apt to charm,\nto aid by the somewhat military rhythm of its steps, the long lines of\nthe faithful quitting their cottages to go to the distant churches in\nthe towns.\n\nAnd imperceptibly, like the year in an invisible rotation, the circle\nturned, and stopped at the Feast of the Holy Innocents, where there\nflourished out, like a flower from a slaughter-house, on a shoot culled\nfrom a soil irrigated by the blood of lambs, this sequence, red, and\nsmelling of roses, the \"Salvate Flores Martyrum\" of Prudentius; the\ncrown moved again, and the hymn of the Epiphany, the \"Crudelis Herodes\"\nof Sedudius, appeared in its turn.\n\nNow the Sundays grew heavy, the violet Sundays when the \"Gloria in\nExcelsis\" is no more heard, when the \"Audi Benigne\" of Saint Ambrose is\nchanted, and the \"Miserere,\" that cinder-coloured psalm, which is\nperhaps the most perfect masterpiece which the Church has ever drawn\nfrom her store-houses of plain chants.\n\nIt was Lent, when the amethysts fade in the moist grey of onyxes, in the\nembrowned white of quartz, and the magnificent invocation, \"Attende\nDomine,\" rose beneath the arches. Sprung like the \"Rorate Coeli\" from\nthe sequences of the Old Testament, this humble and contrite chant,\nenumerating the deserved punishments of sins, became, if not more\nsorrowful, at all events more grave and more pressing when it\nconfirmed, when it resumed in the initial stanza of its burthen, the\navowal of shame already confessed.\n\nAnd suddenly on this crown there burst out after the expiring fires of\nLent, the flaming ruby of the Passion. On the upturned yellow of the sky\na red cross was raised, while majestic shouts and despairing cries\nproclaimed the blood-stained fruit of the tree; and the \"Vexilla Regis\"\nwas again repeated the following Sunday at the Feast of Palms, which\njoined to that Sequence of Fortunatus the green hymn which it\naccompanied with a silky noise of palms, the \"Gloria laus et honor\" of\nTheodulph.\n\nThen the fires of precious stones grew grey and died. To the glowing\ncoals of gems succeeded the dead cinders of obsidians, black stones\nscarcely swelling, without a gleam above the tarnished gold of their\nmountings; one entered no Holy Week, everywhere the \"Pange Lingua\" and\nthe \"Stabat Mater\" wailed under the arches, and then came the \"Tenebrae,\"\nthe lamentations, and the psalms, whose knell shook the flame of the\nbrown waxen tapers, and after each halt, at the end of each of the\npsalms, one of the tapers expired, and its column of blue smoke\nevaporated still under the lighted circumference of the arches, while\nthe choir recommenced the interrupted series of complaints.\n\nAnd the crown turned once more; the beads of this musical rosary still\nran on, and all changed. Jesus had risen, and songs of joy issued from\nthe organs. The \"Victimae Paschali Laudes\" exulted before the gospel of\nthe masses, and at the Benediction the \"O Filii et Filiae,\" created\nindeed to be intoned by the wild jubilations of crowds, ran and sported\nin the joyous hurricane of the organs, which uprooted the pillars and\nunroofed the naves.\n\nAnd the feasts rung in with bells followed at longer intervals. At\nAscension the heavy and clear crystals of Saint Ambrose filled with\ntheir luminous water the tiny basin of the catkins; the fire of rubies\nand garnets lighted up again with the crimson hymn and scarlet sequence\nof Pentecost the \"Veni Creator\" and \"Veni Spiritus.\" The Feast of the\nTrinity passed, signalized by the stanzas of Gregory the Great; and for\nthe Feast of the Blessed Sacrament, the liturgy could exhibit the most\nmarvellous jewel case of its dower, the Office of Saint Thomas, the\n\"Pange Lingua,\" the \"Adore Te,\" the \"Sacris Solemniis,\" the \"Verbum\nSupernum,\" and above all the \"Lauda Sion,\" that pure masterpiece of\nLatin poetry and scholasticism, that hymn so precise, so lucid in its\nabstraction, so firm in its rhymed words, round which is rolled the\nmelody perhaps the most enthusiastic, the most supple in plain chant.\n\nThe circle displaced itself again, showing on its different faces the\ntwenty-three to twenty-eight Sundays which defile after Pentecost, the\ngreen weeks of the time of Pilgrimage, and stopped at the last feast, at\nthe Sunday after the Octave of All Saints, at the Dedication of Churches\nwhich the \"Coelestis Urbs\" incensed, old stanzas of which the ruins were\nbadly consolidated by the architects of Urban VIII., old jewels, on\nwhich the troubled water slept and was reanimated only in rare lights.\n\nThe juncture of the religious crown, of the liturgical year, was then\nmade at the masses, in which the gospel of the last Sunday after\nPentecost, the Gospel according to Saint Matthew, repeats, as well as\nthe Gospel according to Saint Luke, recited on the first Sunday in\nAdvent, the terrible predictions of Christ on the desolation of the\ntime, on the end of the world.\n\n\"This is not all,\" Durtal continued, who was interested in this run\nthrough his prayer-book. \"In this crown of the Proper of the Seasons are\ninserted, like smaller stones, the sequences of the Proper of Saints\nwhich fill the empty places, and finish the round of the circle.\n\n\"First the pearls and gems of the Blessed Virgin, the limpid jewels, the\nblue sapphires and rose rubies of her antiphons; then the aquamarine, so\nlucid and pure, of the 'Ave Maris Stella,' the topaz, pale as tears, of\nthe 'O Quot nudis Lacrymarum' on the Feast of the Seven Dolours, the\nhyacinth, colour of dried blood, of the 'Stabat;' then were told the\nfeasts of the Angels and the Saints, the hymns dedicated to the Apostles\nand the Evangelists, to the Martyrs, whether solitary or in couples,\nboth out of and during the Paschal season, to the Confessors, Pontiffs,\nand non-Pontiffs, to Virgins, to Holy Women, all Feasts differentiated\nby special Sequences, by special Proses of which some are very simple,\nlike those stanzas made in honour of the Nativity of Saint John the\nBaptist, by Paul the Deacon.\n\n\"There still remains All Saints, with the 'Placare Christe,' and the\nthree blows on the alarm bell, the knell in triplets of the 'Dies Irae,'\nwhich resounds on the day set apart for the Commemoration of the Dead.\n\n\"What an immense fund of poetry, what an incomparable estate of art the\nChurch possesses!\" he cried, closing his book; and many memories rose\nfor him at this excursion into his prayer-book.\n\nOn how many evenings had the sadness of life been dissipated in\nlistening to these proses chanted in the churches!\n\nHe thought over again of the suppliant voice of Advent, and recalled one\nevening, when he had wandered under a fine rain along the quays. He had\nbeen driven from home by ignoble visions, and at the same time had been\nharassed by the increasing disgust of his vices. He had ended by being\nbrought up against his will at St. Gervais.\n\nIn the chapel of the Virgin, some poor women were prostrate. He had\nknelt, tired and dazed, his soul so ill at ease, that he slumbered\nwithout power to wake himself. Some men and boys of the choir were\ninstalled in the chapel, with two or three priests; they had lighted\ncandles, and the voice, light and sustained, of a child, had in the dark\nof the church chanted the long antiphons of the \"Rorate.\"\n\nIn the state of overwhelming sadness in which he was stagnant, Durtal\nfelt himself open and bleeding to the bottom of his soul; then a voice\nolder and less trembling, which understood the words it said, narrated\ningenuously, almost without confusion, to the Just One, \"Peccavimus et\nfacti sumus tanquam immundus nos.\"\n\nAnd Durtal took up these words, and spelt them over in terror, thinking,\n\"Ah! yes, we have sinned and become like the leprous, O Lord!\" And the\nchant continued, and in His turn, the Most High borrowed that same\ninnocent organ of childhood, to declare to man His pity, and to confirm\nto him the pardon assured by the coming of the Son.\n\nAnd the evening had ended by the Benediction in plain chant, in the\nmidst of the silence and prostration of unhappy women.\n\nDurtal remembered how he left the church refreshed, freed from his\nhauntings, and he had gone away in the drizzling rain, surprised that\nthe way was so short, humming the \"Rorate,\" of which the air had taken\npossession of him, ending by seeing in it the personal touch of a kindly\nunknown.\n\nAnd there were other evenings ... the Octave of the Feast of All Souls\nat St. Sulpice and at St. Thomas Aquinas, where, after the Vespers of\nthe Dead, they brought out again the old Sequence which has disappeared\nfrom the Roman Breviary, the \"Lanquentilus in Purgatorio.\"\n\nThis church was the only one in Paris which had retained these pages of\nthe Gallican hymnal, and had them sung by two basses without a choir;\nbut these singers, so poor as a rule, no doubt were fond of this air,\nfor if they did not sing it with art, at least they put a little soul\ninto its delivery.\n\nAnd this invocation to the Madonna, in which she was adjured to save the\nsouls in Purgatory, was as sorrowful as the souls themselves, and so\nmelancholy, so languid, that the surroundings were forgotten, the\nugliness of that sanctuary of which the choir was a theatre scene,\nsurrounded by closed dressing-rooms and garnished with lustres, one\nmight think oneself for a few moments far from Paris, far from that\npopulation of devout women and servant girls, which attend that place in\nthe evening.\n\n\"Ah! the Church,\" he said to himself, as he descended the path which led\nto the great pond, \"what a mother of art is she!\" and suddenly the noise\nof a body falling into the water interrupted his reflections.\n\nHe looked behind the hedge of reeds and saw nothing but great circles\nrunning on the water, and all at once in one of these rings a small\ndog-like head appeared holding a fish in its mouth; the beast raised\nitself a little out of the water, showed a thin body covered with fur,\nand gazed on Durtal quietly with its little black eyes.\n\nThen in a flash it passed the distance which separated it from the bank,\nand disappeared under the grasses.\n\n\"It is the otter,\" he said to himself, remembering the discussion at\ntable between the stranger priest and the oblate.\n\nAnd he went to gain the other pond, when he encountered Father Etienne.\n\nHe told him his adventure.\n\n\"Impossible!\" cried the monk, \"no one has ever seen the otter; you must\nhave mistaken it for a water rat, or some other animal, for that beast,\nfor which we have watched for years, is invisible.\"\n\nDurtal gave him a description of it.\n\n\"It is certainly the otter,\" admitted the guest-master, surprised.\n\nIt was evident that this otter lived in the pond in a legendary state.\nIn monotonous lives, in days like those in a cloister, it took the\nproportions of a fabulous subject, of an event whereof the mystery would\noccupy intervals seized between prayers and offices.\n\n\"We must point out to M. Bruno the exact spot where you remarked it, for\nhe will begin to hunt it again,\" said Father Etienne after a silence.\n\n\"But how can it trouble you in eating your fish, since you do not angle\nfor them?\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon; we fish for them to send them to the Archbishop,\"\nanswered the monk, who went on: \"Still, it is very strange that you saw\nthe beast!\"\n\n\"When I leave this,\" thought Durtal, \"they will certainly speak of me as\nthe gentleman who saw the otter.\"\n\nWhile talking, they had arrived at the cross pond.\n\n\"Look,\" said the father, pointing out the swan, who rose in a fury, beat\nhis wings, and hissed.\n\n\"What is the matter with him?\"\n\n\"The matter is that the white hue of my habit infuriates him.\"\n\n\"Ah! and why?\"\n\n\"I do not know; perhaps he wants to be the only one who is white here;\nhe spares the lay brothers, while as for a father ... wait, you will\nsee.\"\n\nAnd the guest-master walked quietly towards the swan.\n\n\"Come,\" he said to the angry creature, who splashed him with water; and\nhe held out his hand which the swan snapped.\n\n\"See,\" said the monk, showing the mark of a red pinch printed on the\nflesh.\n\nAnd he smiled, holding his hand, and quitted Durtal, who asked himself\nwhether, in acting thus, the Trappist were not wishing to inflict on\nhimself some corporal punishment to atone for some distraction the\nevening before; some peccadillo.\n\n\"That stroke of the beak must have pinched him horribly, for the tears\ncame into his eyes. How could he expose himself with joy to such a\nbite?\"\n\nAnd he remembered that one day at the office of None, one of the young\nmonks made a mistake in the tone of an antiphon; at the moment that the\noffice ended, he knelt before the altar, then he lay his whole length on\nthe tiles on his face, his mouth pressed on the ground, till the stroke\nof the prior's bell gave him the order to get up.\n\nThis was a voluntary punishment for a negligence committed, a\nforgetfulness. Who knows whether Father Etienne did not in his turn\npunish himself for a thought he deemed to border on sin, in getting\nhimself thus pinched?\n\nHe consulted the oblate on the point in the evening, but M. Bruno\ncontented himself with a smile, without answering.\n\nAnd when Durtal spoke to him of his speedy departure for Paris, the old\nman shook his head.\n\n\"Considering,\" he said, \"the fear and the discomfort that Communion\ncaused you, you would act wisely if you approach the Holy Table\nimmediately on your return.\"\n\nAnd seeing that Durtal did not reply, but hung his head,\n\n\"Believe a man who has known these trials; if you do not force yourself\nwhile you are still under the warm impression of La Trappe, you will\nfloat between desire and regret without advancing; you will be ingenious\nin discovering excuses for not making your confession; you will try to\nthink it impossible to find in Paris an abbe who understands you. Now\nallow me to assure you nothing is more false. If you desire an expert\nand easy confidant, go to the Jesuits; if you wish above all a\nzealous-souled priest, go to St. Sulpice.\n\n\"You will find there honest and intelligent ecclesiastics, excellent\nhearts. In Paris, where the clergy of the parishes are so mixed, they\nare at the top of the basket of the priesthood, and, as may be imagined,\nthey form a community, live in cells, do not dine out; and as the\nSulpician rule forbids them to aspire to honours, or places, they do not\nrun the chance of becoming bad priests by ambition. Do you know them?\"\n\n\"No; but to resolve that question, which in fact constantly troubles me,\nI count on a priest whom I often see, on the very man who, in fact, sent\nme into this Trappist monastery.\n\n\"And that,\" he went on, \"makes me remember,\" and he rose to go to\nCompline, \"that I have as yet forgotten to write to him. It is true that\nnow it is too late, I should arrive at his house almost as soon as my\nletter. It is strange, but by force of walking in one's own, by force of\nliving to oneself, the days run by, and there is no time to do anything\nhere!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nHe had hoped for his last day at La Trappe a morning of quiet, when his\nmind might lounge, a mixture of spiritual siesta and of working, charmed\nby a round of offices, and not at all that the idea persistent and\nobstinate that he must quit the monastery next day, would spoil all the\npleasures he had promised himself.\n\nNow that he had no longer to cleanse himself, and pass under the\nwinnowing of confession, to present himself for the Communion in the\nmorning, he remained irresolute, not knowing any longer how to occupy\nhis time, terrified by the recommencement of that life of the world\nwhich would upset all the barriers of forgetfulness, and would get at\nhim at once above all the broken defences of the cloister.\n\nLike a captured animal, he began to rub against the bars of his cage,\nmade the tour of the enclosure, filling his sight with those places\nwhere he had tasted hours so kindly and so cruel.\n\nHe felt in himself a shaking of the ground, a disturbance of soul, an\nabsolute discouragement before the prospect of re-entering into his\nhabitual existence, of mixing himself anew with the coming and going of\nmen, and he experienced at the same time a great fatigue of brain.\n\nHe dragged himself along the walks in a state of complete discomfort, in\none of those attacks of religious spleen which determine, while they\nlast during years, the \"taedium vitae\" of the cloisters. He had a horror\nof any life but this, and the soul overwrought by prayers was failing in\na body insufficiently rested and ill-nourished; it had no further\ndesire, asked only to be let alone, to sleep, to fall into one of those\nstates of torpor in which everything becomes indifferent, in which one\nends by losing consciousness gently, by being stifled without\nsuffering.\n\nHe might well, to re-act on him as a consolation, promise himself to\nassist in Paris at the offices of the Benedictine nuns, that he would\nkeep himself on the outskirts of society, to himself; and he was at once\nobliged to answer that these subterfuges are impossible, that the very\nmovement of the town is against all decoys, that isolation in a chamber\nis in no degree like the solitude of a cell, that masses celebrated in a\nchapel open to the public cannot be likened to the private Offices of\nthe Trappists.\n\nThen what is the good of trying to misunderstand? It is with the soul as\nwith the body, which is better on the sea shore, or in the mountains,\nthan shut up in a town. There is a better spiritual air even at Paris,\nin certain religious quarters of the left bank, than in the districts\nsituated on the other bank, more lively in certain churches, more pure,\nfor example, at Notre Dame des Victoires than in churches such as La\nTrinite and the Madeleine.\n\nBut the monastery was, as it were, the true shore and high plateau of\nthe soul. There the atmosphere was balsamic, strength returned, lost\nappetite for God was there recovered, there was health succeeding\nweakness, a regimen, fortified and sustained, instead of languor and the\nrestricted exercises of the towns.\n\nThe conviction that no trickery was possible to him at Paris brought him\nto the ground. He wandered from cell to chapel, from chapel to woods,\nawaiting the dinner hour with impatience, in order to be able to speak\nto someone, for in his disorder a new need arose. For more than a week\nhe had spent the whole afternoon without opening his lips; he did not\nsuffer from it, was even satisfied with his silence, but since he was\npressed by this idea of departure he could not keep silence any longer,\nthought aloud in the walks to assuage the sensations of his swelling\nheart, that stifled him.\n\nM. Bruno was too sagacious not to guess the uneasiness of his companion,\nwho became by turns taciturn and over talkative during the meal. He\nmade, however, as though he saw nothing, but after he had said grace he\ndisappeared, and Durtal, who was strolling near the great pond, was\nsurprised to see him coming in his direction with Father Etienne.\n\nThey greeted him, and the Trappist with a smile proposed to him, if he\nhad made no other plan, to pass his time in visiting the convent, and\nespecially the library, which the Father prior would be delighted to\nshow him.\n\n\"If convenient to me! I shall be delighted!\" cried Durtal.\n\nAll three returned towards the abbey; the monk lifted the latch of a\nlittle door fashioned in a wall near the church, and Durtal entered a\nminute cemetery, planted with wooden crosses on grass graves.\n\nThere was no inscription, no flower in this enclosure which they\ntraversed; the monk pushed another door, which opened on a long corridor\nsmelling of rats. At the end of this gallery, Durtal recognized the\nstaircase he had ascended one morning for his confession in the prior's\nroom. They left it on their right, turned into another gallery, and the\nguest-master led them into an immense hall, pierced by high windows,\ndecorated with eighteenth century pier-glasses, and _grisailles_; it was\nfurnished only with benches and stalls, above which was a single chair\nsculptured and painted with abbatial arms, which marked the place of Dom\nAnselm.\n\n\"Oh! this chapter-house has nothing monastic,\" said Father Etienne,\ndesignating the profane pictures on the walls; \"we have kept just as it\nwas the drawing-room of this old chateau, but I beg you to believe that\nthis decoration hardly pleases us.\"\n\n\"And what takes place in this hall?\"\n\n\"Well, we meet here after mass; the chapter opens by reading the\nmartyrology, followed by the concluding prayers of Prime. Then we read a\npassage from the rule, and the Father abbot comments on it. Lastly, we\npractise the exercise of humility, that is to say, that whoever among us\nhas committed any fault against the rule, prostrates himself, and avows\nit before his brethren.\"\n\nThey went thence to the refectory. This room had also a high ceiling,\nbut was smaller, and garnished with tables in form of a horse-shoe. A\nkind of large cruets, each containing two half-bottles of wine and\nwater, separated by a water bottle, and before them, instead of glasses,\ncups of brown earthenware, with two handles, were placed at equal\ndistances. The monk explained that these sham cruets with three branches\nindicated the place of two covers, each monk having a right to his half\nbottle of drink, and partaking with his neighbour the water in the\nbottle.\n\n\"This pulpit,\" said Father Etienne, pointing out a large wooden box\nfixed against the wall, \"is destined for the reader of the week, the\nfather who reads during the meal.\"\n\n\"How long does the meal last?\"\n\n\"Just half an hour.\"\n\n\"Yes; and the cookery which we eat is delicate in comparison with that\nwhich is served to the monks,\" said the oblate.\n\n\"I should lie if I were to affirm that we make good cheer,\" answered the\nguest-master. \"Do you know that the hardest thing to bear, in the\nearlier time especially, is the want of seasoning in our dishes. Pepper\nand spices are forbidden by our rule, and as no salt-cellar has place on\nour table, we swallow our food just as it is, and it is for the most\npart scarcely salted.\n\n\"On certain days in summer, when one sweats in big drops, this becomes\nalmost impossible, the gorge rises. Yet one must begin upon this warm\npaste, and at least swallow a sufficient quantity not to give out before\nthe next day; we look at each other discouraged, unable to get any\nfurther; there is not another word to define our dinner in the month of\nAugust, it is a punishment.\"\n\n\"And all, the Father abbot, the prior, the fathers, the brethren, have\nthe same food?\"\n\n\"All. Now come and see the dormitory.\"\n\nThey ascended to the first floor. An immense corridor, furnished like a\nstable with wooden boxes, extended before them, closed at each end by a\ndoor.\n\n\"This is our lodging,\" said the monk, as he stopped before one of these\ncases. Cards were placed on them, affixing the name of each monk, and\nthe first bore a ticket with this inscription: \"The Father Abbot.\"\n\nDurtal felt the bed against one of the two walls.\n\nIt was as rough as a carding comb, and as biting as a file. It was\ncomposed of a simple quilted paillasse extended on a plank; no sheets,\nbut a prison coverlet of grey wool, a sack of straw instead of pillows.\n\n\"God! it is very hard,\" said Durtal, and the monk laughed.\n\n\"Our habits soften the roughness of this straw mattress,\" he said; \"for\nour rule does not allow us to undress, we may only take off our shoes,\ntherefore we sleep entirely clad, our head wrapped in our hood.\"\n\n\"And it must be cold in this corridor swept by all the winds,\" added\nDurtal.\n\n\"No doubt the winter is rough here, but it is not that season which\nalarms us; we live pretty well, even without fire in time of frost, but\nthe summer--! If you knew what it is to wake in habits still steeped in\nsweat, not dried since the evening before, it is terrible!\n\n\"Then, though because of the great heat we have often hardly slept, we\nmust before dawn jump out of bed, and begin at once the great night\noffice, the Vigils, which last at least two hours. Even after twenty\nyears of Trappist life, one cannot but suffer at that getting up; in\nchapel you fight against sleep which crushes you, you sleep while you\nhear a verse chanted, you strive to keep awake, in order to be able to\nchant another, and fall asleep again.\n\n\"One ought to be able to turn the key on thought, and one is incapable\nof it.\n\n\"Truly, I assure you that even beyond the corporal fatigue which\nexplains that state in the morning, there is then an aggression of the\ndemon, an incessant temptation to make us recite the office badly.\"\n\n\"And you all undergo this strife?\"\n\n\"All; and this does not hinder,\" concluded the monk, whose face was\nradiant, \"this does not hinder us from being very happy here.\n\n\"Because all these trials are nothing beside the deep and intimate joys\nwhich our good God gives us. Ah! He is a generous Master; he pays us a\nhundred-fold for our poor sorrows.\"\n\nAs they spoke, they had passed through the corridor and had arrived at\nits other end.\n\nThe monk opened the door, and Durtal was astounded to find himself in a\nvestibule just opposite his own cell.\n\n\"I did not think,\" he said, \"that I was living so near you.\"\n\n\"This house is a regular labyrinth--but M. Bruno will take you to the\nlibrary where the Father prior is waiting for you; for I must go to my\nbusiness. We shall meet presently,\" he said, with a smile.\n\nThe library was situated on the other side of the staircase by which\nDurtal reached his chamber. It was large, furnished with shelves from\ntop to bottom, occupied in the middle by a sort of counter table on\nwhich also were spread rows of books.\n\nFather Maximin said to Durtal,\n\n\"We are not very rich, but at any rate we possess tools for work fairly\ncomplete on theology and the monography of the cloisters.\"\n\n\"You have superb volumes,\" cried Durtal, who looked at magnificent\nfolios in splendid bindings with armorial bearings.\n\n\"Wait; here are the works of Saint Bernard in a fine edition,\" and the\nmonk presented to Durtal enormous volumes, printed in heavy letters on\ncrackling paper.\n\n\"When I think that I promised myself to make acquaintance with Saint\nBernard in this very abbey which he founded, and here I am on the eve of\nmy departure, and have read nothing!\"\n\n\"You do not know his works?\"\n\n\"Yes; scattered fragments of his sermons and of his letters. I have run\nthrough some _selectae mediocres_ of his works, but that is all.\"\n\n\"He is our chief master here; but he is not the only one of our\nancestors in Saint Benedict whom the convent possesses,\" said the monk\nwith a certain pride. \"See,\" and he pointed out on the shelves some\nheavy folios, \"here: 'Saint Gregory the Great,' 'Venerable Bede,' 'Saint\nPeter Damian,' 'Saint Anselm.' ... And your friends are there,\" he said,\nfollowing Durtal with a glance as he read the titles of the volumes,\n\"'Saint Teresa,' 'Saint John of the Cross,' 'Saint Magdalen of Pazzi,'\n'Saint Angela,' 'Tauler,' ... and she who like Sister Emmerich dictated\nher conversations with Jesus during her ecstasy.\" And the prior took\nfrom the range of books in octavo, \"The Dialogues of Saint Catherine of\nSiena.\"\n\n\"That Dominican nun is terrible for the priests of her time,\" the monk\nwent on. \"She insists on their misdeeds, reproaches them roundly with\nselling the Holy Spirit, with practising sortilege, and with using the\nSacrament to compose evil charms.\"\n\n\"And there are besides the disorderly vices of which she accuses them\nin the series concerning the sin of the flesh,\" added the oblate.\n\n\"Certainly, she does not mince her words, but she had the right to take\nup that tone, and menace in the name of the Lord, for she was truly\ninspired by Him. Her doctrine was drawn from divine sources. 'Doctrina\nejus infusa non acquisita,' says the Church in the bull of her\ncanonization. Her Dialogues are admirable; the pages in which God\nexposes the holy frauds which He sometimes uses to recall men to good,\nthe passages in which she treats of the monastic life, of that barque\nwhich possesses three ropes: chastity, obedience, and poverty, and which\nfaces the tempest under the conduct of the Holy Spirit, are delightful.\nShe reveals herself in her work the pupil of the well-beloved disciple\nand of Saint Thomas Aquinas. One might believe that one heard the Angel\nof the School paraphrasing the last of the Evangelists.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the oblate, striking in, \"if Saint Catherine of Siena does\nnot give herself to the high speculations of Mysticism; if she does not\nanalyze like Saint Teresa the mysteries of divine love, nor trace the\nitinerary of souls destined to the perfect life, she reflects directly\nat least the conversations of Heaven. She calls, she loves! You have\nread, sir, her treatises on Discretion and Prayer?\"\n\n\"No. I have read Saint Catherine of Genoa, but the books of Saint\nCatherine of Siena have never fallen into my hands.\"\n\n\"And what do you think of this collection?\"\n\nDurtal looked at the title, and made a face.\n\n\"I see that Suso hardly delights you.\"\n\n\"I should tell a lie if I assured you that the dissertations of this\nDominican pleased me. First, however illuminated the man may be, he does\nnot attract me. Without speaking of the frenzy of his penances, what\nscrupulousness of devotion and narrowness of piety was his! Think that\nhe could not decide on drinking till he had first, as a preliminary,\ndivided his beverage into five parts. He thought thus to honour the five\nwounds of the Saviour, and, moreover, he swallowed his last mouthful in\ntwo gulps to call up before himself the water and the blood which flowed\nfrom the side of the Word.\n\n\"No! these sort of things would never enter into my head; I would never\nadmit that such practices would glorify Christ.\n\n\"And remark well that this love of pounding things small, this passion\nfor small blessings, is found in all his work. His God is so difficult\nto content, so scrupulous, so meddling, that no one would ever get to\nheaven if they believed what he said. This God of his is the\nfault-finder of eternity, the miser of paradise.\n\n\"On the whole, Suso expands himself in impetuous discourses on trifles;\nthen what with his insipid allegories, his morose 'Colloquy on the Nine\nRocks' knocks me down.\"\n\n\"You will, however, admit that his study on the Union of the Soul is\nsubstantial, and that the 'Office of the Eternal Wisdom' which he\ncomposed is worth reading?\"\n\n\"I cannot say, Father, I do not now remember that Office; but I\nrecollect tolerably well the treatise on 'Union with God,' it seems to\nme more interesting than the rest, but you will admit that it is very\nshort ... and then Saint Teresa has also elucidated that question of\nhuman renunciation and divine fruition; and, hang it then...!\"\n\n\"Come,\" said the oblate, with a smile, \"I give up the attempt to make\nyou a fervent reader of the good Suso.\"\n\n\"For us,\" said Father Maximin, \"if we had a little time to work, this\nought to be the leaven of our meditations, the subject of our reading;\"\nand he took down a folio which contained the works of Saint Hildegarde,\nabbess of the Convent of Rupertsberg.\n\n\"She, you see, is the great prophetess of the New Testament. Never,\nsince the visions of Saint John at Patmos, has the Holy Spirit\ncommunicated to an earthly being with such fulness and light. In her\n'Heptachronon' she predicts Protestantism and the captivity of the\nVatican; in her 'Scivias, or Knowledge of the Ways of the Lord,' which\nwas edited, according to her recital, by a monk of the Convent of Saint\nDesibode, she interprets the symbols of the Scriptures, and even the\nnature of the elements. She also wrote a diligent commentary on our\nrules and enthusiastic pages on sacred music, on literature, on art,\nwhich she defines admirably; a reminiscence, half-effaced, of a\nprimitive condition from which we have fallen since Eden. Unfortunately,\nto understand her, it is necessary to give oneself to minute researches\nand patient studies. Her apocalyptic style has something retractile,\nwhich retreats and shuts itself up all the more when one will open it.\"\n\n\"I am well aware that I am losing my little Latin,\" said M. Bruno. \"What\na pity there is not a translation of her works, with glosses to help.\"\n\n\"They are untranslatable,\" said the father, who went on,\n\n\"Saint Hildegarde is, with Saint Bernard, one of the purest glories of\nthe family of Saint Benedict. How predestinate was that virgin, who was\ninundated with interior light at the age of three, and died at\neighty-two, having lived all her life in the cloister!\"\n\n\"And add that she was as a permanent state, prophetical!\" cried the\noblate. \"She is like no other woman saint; all in her is astonishing,\neven the way in which God addresses her, for He forgets that she is a\nwoman, and calls her 'man.'\n\n\"And she,\" added the prior, \"employs, when she wishes to designate\nherself, the singular expression, 'the paltry form.' But here is another\nwriter who is dear to us,\" and he showed Durtal the two volumes of Saint\nGertrude. \"She is again one of our great nuns, an abbess truly\nBenedictine, in the exact sense of the word, for she caused the Holy\nScriptures to be explained to her nuns, wished that the piety of her\ndaughters should be based on science, that this faith should be\nsustained by liturgical food, if I may say so.\"\n\n\"I know nothing of her but her 'Exercises,'\" observed Durtal, \"and they\nhave left with me the memory of echoed words, of things said again from\nthe sacred books. So far as one may judge from simple extracts, she does\nnot appear to have original expression, and to be far below Saint Teresa\nor Saint Angela.\"\n\n\"No doubt,\" answered the monk. \"But she comes near Saint Angela by the\ngift of familiarity when she converses with Christ, and also by the\nloving vehemence of what she says; only all this is transformed on\nleaving its proper source; she thinks liturgically; and this is so true,\nthat the least of her reflections at once presents itself to her clothed\nin the language of the Gospels and the Psalms.\n\n\"Her 'Revelations,' her 'Insinuations,' her 'Herald of Divine Love,' are\nmarvellous from this point of view; and then her prayer to the Blessed\nVirgin is exquisite which opens with this phrase: 'Hail, O white lily\nof the Trinity, resplendent, and always at rest....'\n\n\"As a continuation of her works, the Benedictine Fathers of Solesmes\nhave edited also the 'Revelations' of Saint Mechtilde, her book on\n'Special Grace,' and her 'Light of the Divinity'; they are there on that\nshelf....\"\n\n\"Let me show you,\" said in his turn M. Bruno, \"guides wisely marked out\nfor the soul which escapes from itself, and will attempt to climb the\neternal mountains,\" and he handed to Durtal the \"Lucerna Mystica\" of\nLopez Ezquerra, the quartos of Scaramelli, the volumes of Schram, the\n\"Christian Asceticism\" of Ribet, the \"Principles of Mystic Theology\" of\nFather Seraphin.\n\n\"And do you know this?\" continued the oblate; the volume he offered was\ncalled \"On Prayer,\" was anonymous, and bore at the bottom of its first\npage \"Solesmes, printed at the Abbey of Saint Cecilia,\" and above the\nprinted date, 1886, Durtal made out the word written in ink,\n\"Confidential.\"\n\n\"I have never seen this little book, which seems moreover to have never\nbeen brought into the market. Who is the author?\"\n\n\"The most extraordinary nun of our time, the abbess of the Benedictine\nnuns at Solesmes. I regret only that you are going so soon, for I should\nhave been happy to let you read it.\n\n\"As far as the document is concerned, it is of a most extraordinary\nscience, and it contains admirable quotations from Saint Hildegarde and\nCassien: as far as Mysticism is concerned, Mother Saint Cecilia\nevidently only reproduces the works of her predecessors, and she tells\nus nothing very new. Nevertheless, I remember a passage which seems to\nme more special, more personal. Wait....\"\n\nAnd the oblate turned over a few pages. \"Here it is:\n\n\"'The spiritualized soul does not appear exposed to temptation properly\nso-called, but by a divine permission it is called upon to conflict with\nthe Demon, spirit against spirit.... The contact with the Demon is then\nperceived on the surface of the soul, under the form of a burn at once\nspiritual and sensible.... If the soul hold good in its union with God,\nif it be strong, the pain, however sharp, is bearable; but if the soul\ncommit any slight imperfection, even inwardly, the Demon makes just so\nmuch way, and carries his horrible burning more forward, until by\ngenerous acts the soul can repulse him further.\"\n\n\"This touch of Satan, which produces an almost material effect on the\nmost intangible parts of our being, is, you will admit, at least\ncurious,\" concluded the oblate, as he closed the volume.\n\n\"Mother Saint Cecilia is a remarkable strategist of the soul,\" said the\nprior, \"but ... but ... this work, which she edited for the daughters of\nher abbey, contains, I think, some rash propositions which have not been\nread without displeasure at Rome.\"\n\n\"To have done with our poor treasures,\" he continued, \"we have only on\nthis side,\" and he pointed out a portion of the book-cases which covered\nthe room, \"long-winded works, the 'Cistercian Menology,' 'Migne's\nPatrology,' dictionaries of the lives of the saints, manuals of sacred\ninterpretation, canon law, Christian apology, Biblical exegesis, the\ncomplete works of Saint Thomas, tools of work which we rarely employ,\nfor as you know we are a branch of the Benedictine trunk vowed to a life\nof bodily labour and penance; we are men of sorrow for God, above all\nthings. Here is M. Bruno, who uses these books; so do I at times, for I\nhave special charge of spiritual matters in this monastery,\" added the\nmonk with a smile.\n\nDurtal looked at him; he handled the volumes with caressing hands,\nbrooded over them with the blue lustre of his eye, laughed with the joy\nof a child as he turned their pages.\n\n\"What a difference between this monk who evidently adores his books, and\nthe prior with his imperious profile and silent lips who heard his\nconfession the second day;\" then thinking of all these Trappists, the\nseverity of their countenances, the joy of their eyes, Durtal said to\nhimself that these Cistercians were not at all as the world believed,\nsolemn and funereal people, but that, quite the contrary, they were the\ngayest of men.\n\n\"Now,\" said Father Maximin, \"the reverend Father abbot has charged me\nwith a commission; knowing that you will leave us to-morrow, he is\nanxious, now that he is better, to pass at least some minutes with you.\nHe will be free this evening: will it trouble you to join him after\nCompline?\"\n\n\"Not at all; I shall be glad to talk with Dom Anselm.\"\n\n\"That is understood, then.\"\n\nThey went downstairs. Durtal thanked the prior, who re-entered the\nenclosure of the corridors, and the oblate, who went up to his cell. He\ntrifled about, and in spite of the torment of his departure, which\nhaunted him, reached the evening without too much trouble.\n\nThe \"Salve Regina,\" which he heard perhaps for the last time thus sung\nby male voices; that airy chapel built of sound, and evaporating with\nthe close of the antiphon, in the smoke of the tapers, stirred him to\nthe bottom of his soul; the Trappist monastery showed itself truly\ncharming this evening. After the office, they said the Rosary, not as at\nParis, where they recite a Pater, ten Aves, and a Gloria, and so over\nagain; here they said in Latin a Pater, an Ave, a Gloria, and began\nagain till in that manner they had finished several decades.\n\nThis rosary was said on their knees, half by the prior, half by all the\nmonks. It went at so rapid a pace that it was scarcely possible to\ndistinguish the words, but as soon as it was ended, at a signal there\nwas a great silence, and each one prayed with his head in his hands.\n\nAnd Durtal took notice of the ingenious system of conventual prayers:\nafter the prayers purely vocal like these, came mental prayer, personal\npetitions, stimulated and set a-going by the very machine of\npaternosters.\n\n\"Nothing is left to chance in religion; every exercise which seems at\nfirst useless has a reason for its being,\" he said to himself, as he\nwent out into the court. \"And the fact is, that the rosary, which seems\nto be only a humming-top of sounds, fulfils an end. It reposes the soul\nwearied with the supplications which it has recited, applying itself to\nthem, thinking of them; it hinders it from babbling and reciting to God\nalways the same petitions, the same complaints; it allows it to take\nbreath, to take rest, in prayers in which it can dispense with\nreflection, and, in fact, the rosary occupies in prayer, those hours of\nfatigue in which one would not pray.... Ah! here is the Father abbot.\"\n\nThe Trappist expressed to him his regret at visiting him only thus for a\nfew moments; then after he had answered Durtal, who inquired after the\nstate of his health, which he hoped was at last re-established, he\nproposed to him to walk in the garden, and begged him not to\ninconvenience himself by not smoking cigarettes if he had a mind to do\nso.\n\nAnd the conversation turned on Paris. Dom Anselm asked for some\ninformation, and ended by saying with a smile, \"I see by scraps of\nnewspapers which come to me, that society just now is infected with\nsocialism. Everyone wishes to solve the famous social question. How does\nthat get on?\"\n\n\"How does that get on? Why, not at all! Unless you can change the souls\nof workmen and masters, and make them disinterested and charitable\nbetween to-day and to-morrow, in what can you expect these systems to\nend?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the monk, enwrapping the monastery with a gesture, \"the\nquestion is solved here.\n\n\"As wages do not exist, all sources of conflicts are suppressed.\n\n\"As every task is according to aptitudes and powers, the fathers who are\nnot strong-shouldered and big-armed fold the packages of chocolate, or\nmake out the bills, and those who are robust dig the ground.\n\n\"I add that the equality in our cloisters is such that the prior and the\nabbot have no advantage over the other monks. At table the portions, and\nin the dormitory the paillasses, are identical. The sole profits of the\nabbot consist on the whole in the inevitable cares arising from the\nmoral conduct and the temporal administration of an abbey. There is\ntherefore no reason why the workmen of a convent should go on strike,\"\nconcluded the abbot with a smile.\n\n\"Yes, but you are minimists, you suppress the family and woman, you live\non nothing, and expect the only real recompense for your labours after\ndeath. How can you make the people in the towns understand that?\"\n\n\"The social system may thus be summed up, as I think: the masters wish\nto profit by the workmen, who in their turn desire to be paid as much as\npossible for as little work as possible. Well, then, there is no way out\nof that.\"\n\n\"Exactly, and there is the sad part of it, for socialism in fact arises\nfrom kindly ideas, just ideas, and will always run up against egotism\nand gain, against the inevitable breakers of the sins of man.\n\n\"And your little chocolate factory gives you at least some income?\"\n\n\"Yes; that saves us.\"\n\nThe abbot was silent for a second; then he went on,\n\n\"You know, sir, how a convent is founded. I take for example our Order.\nA domain and the lands about it are offered the Order on condition that\nit peoples them. The Order takes a handful of its monks, and settles\nthem as a swarm on the soil given to it. There its task stops. The grain\nmust spring up of itself, or to put it differently, the Trappists,\nsevered from their mother-house, must gain their livelihood, and suffice\nfor themselves.\n\n\"So when we took possession of these buildings we were so poor, that\nfrom bread to shoes everything was lacking; but we had no anxiety for\nthe future, for there is no example in monastic history that Providence\nhas not succoured abbeys who trusted in it. Little by little we drew our\nfood from the estate, and we learnt useful trades; now we make our\nhabits and our shoes; we reap our wheat and make our bread; our material\nexistence is therefore assured, but the taxes crush us; therefore we\nhave founded this factory, of which the report becomes better from year\nto year.\n\n\"In a year or two the building which shelters us, and for want of money\nwe have been unable to repair, will tumble down, but if God then allows\ngenerous souls to come to our aid, perhaps we shall be in a condition to\nbuild a monastery, which is the wish of all of us; for indeed this hovel\nwith its rooms in confusion, and its rotunda-chapel, is painful to us.\"\n\nThe abbot was silent again, then after a pause he said in a low voice,\nspeaking to himself,\n\n\"It cannot be denied, a convent which has not the look of a cloister is\nan obstacle to vocations; the postulant has need--and this is quite\nnatural--to mould himself in surroundings which please him, to encourage\nhimself in a church which wraps him round, in a somewhat sombre chapel;\nand to obtain that result you want the Romanesque or Gothic style.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, indeed. And have you many novices?\"\n\n\"We have especially many subjects who desire to feel the life of\nTrappists, but the greater part do not succeed in supporting our way of\nlife. Beside even the question of knowing whether the vocation of the\nbeginners is imaginary or real, we are from the physical point of view\nclearly fixed after a fortnight's trial.\"\n\n\"Eating vegetables only must crush the most robust constitutions; I do\nnot even understand how, leading an active life, you can bear it.\"\n\n\"The truth is that bodies obey where souls are resolute. Our ancestors\nendured the life of the Trappists very well. We want souls at the\npresent day. I remember that when I made my probation in a Cistercian\ncloister I had no health, and yet had it been necessary I would have\neaten stones!\n\n\"Moreover, the rule will soon be softened,\" pursued the abbot; \"but in\nany case there is a country which, if there should be scarcity, assures\nus a good number of recruits, Holland.\"\n\nAnd seeing Durtal's look of astonishment, the father said,\n\n\"Yes, in that Protestant country mystic vegetation is flourishing.\nCatholicism is all the more fervent that it is, if not persecuted, at\nleast despised, drowned in the mass of Calvinists. Perhaps this belongs\nalso to the nature of the soil, to its solitary plains, its silent\ncanals, to the very taste of the Dutch for a regular and peaceable life;\nbut in that little knot of Catholics the Cistercian vocation is always\nvery common.\"\n\nDurtal looked at the Trappist as he walked majestic and quiet, his head\nburied in his hood, his hands passed under his cincture.\n\nFrom time to time his eyes grew bright inside his hood, and the amethyst\nwhich he wore on his finger sparkled in brief flames.\n\nNo sound was heard; at this hour the monastery was asleep. Durtal and\nthe abbot were walking on the banks of the great pond, where the water\nwas alive, it alone wakeful in the slumber of the woods, for the moon,\nwhich shone in a cloudless sky, sowed a myriad of goldfish, and this\nluminous spawn, fallen from the planet, mounted, descended, sparkled in\na thousand little points of fire, of which the wind as it blew increased\nthe brightness.\n\nThe abbot spoke no longer, and Durtal, who was thinking, intoxicated by\nthe sweetness of the night, groaned suddenly. He had just considered\nthat at this same hour the next day he would be at Paris, and seeing the\nmonastery, whose pale front appeared at the end of a walk as at the end\nof a dark tunnel, he cried, thinking of all the monks who inhabited it,\n\n\"Ah! they are happy!\"\n\nAnd the abbot answered, \"Too happy.\"\n\nThen gently, in a low voice,\n\n\"Yes, it is true we enter here to do penance, to mortify ourselves, and\nwe have hardly begun to suffer when God consoles us. He is so good that\nHe Himself wishes to deceive Himself about our merits. If at certain\nmoments He allows the Demon to persecute us, He gives us in exchange so\nmuch happiness that there is no proportion preserved between the\nrecompense and the sorrow. Sometimes when I think of it, I ask myself\nhow there still subsists that equilibrium that nuns and monks are\ncharged to maintain, since neither of us suffer enough to neutralize the\nrepeated sins of towns?\"\n\nThe abbot stopped, and then went on pensively,\n\n\"The world does not even conceive that the austerity of the abbeys can\nprofit it. The doctrine of mystical compensation escapes it entirely. It\ncannot represent to itself that the substitution of the innocent for the\nguilty is necessary when to suffer merited punishment is concerned. Nor\ndoes it explain to itself any more that in wishing to suffer for others,\nmonks turn aside the wrath of heaven, and establish a solidarity in the\ngood which is a counter-weight against the federation of evil. God\nknows, moreover, with what cataclysms the unconscious world would be\nmenaced, if in consequence of a sudden disappearance of all the\ncloisters, the equilibrium which saves it were broken.\"\n\n\"The case has already presented itself,\" said Durtal, who while\nlistening to the Trappist thought of the Abbe Gevresin, and remembered\nhow that priest had expressed himself on the same subject in nearly\nsimilar terms. \"The Revolution, in fact, suppressed all convents with\none stroke of a pen, but I think that the history of that time when so\nmany hucksters were busy is still to be written. Instead of searching\nfor documents on the acts, and even on the persons of the Jacobins, the\narchives of the religious orders which existed at that time should be\nransacked.\n\n\"In working thus at the side of the Revolution, in sounding its\nneighbourhood, its foundations will be exhumed. Its causes will be\nbrought to the surface, and it will certainly be discovered that in\nproportion to the suppression of convents, monstrous excesses had birth.\nWho knows if the demoniacal madness of Carrier or Marat do not accord\nwith the death of an abbey whose sanctity preserved France for years.\"\n\n\"To be just,\" answered the abbot, \"it is right to say that the\nRevolution destroyed ruins only. The rule of _in commendam_ ended by\ngiving the monasteries over to Satan. It was they, alas! that by the\nrelaxation of their morals, inclined the balance, and drew down the\nlightning on the land.\n\n\"The Terror was only a consequence of their impiety. God, whom nothing\nlonger withheld, let things take their course.\"\n\n\"Yes; but how can you now prove the necessity of compensations to a\nworld which wanders out of the way in continued accesses of gain; how\npersuade it that it is an urgent need, as a preventive against new\ncrises, to shelter towns behind the sacred bulwarks of cloisters?\n\n\"After the siege of 1870, Paris was wisely sheltered behind an immense\nnet of impregnable forts; but is it not also indispensable to surround\nit with a cincture of prayers, to buttress its neighbourhood with\nconventual houses, to build everywhere in its suburbs convents of Poor\nClares, Carmelites, Benedictine nuns of the Blessed Sacrament,\nmonasteries which will be in some degree powerful citadels, destined to\narrest the forward march of the armies of evil?\n\n\"Certainly the towns have great need of being guaranteed against\ninfernal invasions by a sanitary defence of Orders.... But come, sir, I\nmust not deprive you of necessary rest, I will join you to-morrow,\nbefore you quit our solitude. I have now but to say that you have only\nfriends here, and that you will be always welcome. I hope that on your\nside you will keep no unfavourable memory of our poor hospitality, and\nthat you will prove it in coming to see us again.\"\n\nAs they talked they had come in front of the guest-house.\n\nThe father pressed Durtal's hands, and slowly ascended the stairs,\nsweeping with his robe the silver dust of the steps, as he mounted, all\nwhite, in a ray of the moon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nDurtal wished immediately after Mass to visit for the last time that\nwood through which he had walked, in turn so languidly and so rapidly.\nHe went at first to the old lime alley, whose pale emanations were\nverily for his spirit what an infusion of their leaves is for the body,\na sort of very weak panacea, a kindly and soothing sedative.\n\nThen he sat down in their shade on a stone bench. As he leant forward a\nlittle he could see through the moving spaces in the branches, the\nsolemn front of the abbey, and opposite it, separated by the kitchen\ngarden, the gigantic cross standing before that liquid plan of a church\nwhich the pond simulated.\n\nHe rose, and approached the watery cross, of which the sky turned the\nmarble water blue, and he contemplated the great crucifix in white\nmarble, which towered above the whole monastery, and seemed to rise\nopposite to it as a permanent reminder of the vows of suffering which he\nhad accepted, and reserved to himself to change at length into joys.\n\n\"The fact is,\" said Durtal, who thought over again the contradictory\ndeclarations of the monks, confessing that they led at once the most\nattractive and the most atrocious life; \"the fact is that the good God\ndeceives them. They attain here below Paradise, while they seek hell\nthere. I have myself tasted how strange is existence in this cloister,\nfor I have been here, almost at the same time, very unhappy and very\nhappy; and now I feel well the mirage which is already beginning: before\ntwo days are over the remembrance of the sorrows which then were, if I\nrecall them with care, greatly above the joys, will have disappeared,\nand I shall only recall those interior emotions in the chapel, those\ndelicious stolen moments in the morning in the pathways of the park.\n\n\"I shall regret the open-air prison of this convent. It is curious I\nfind myself attached to it by obscure bonds; when I am in my cell, there\nreturn to me all kinds of memories, like those of an ancient race. I\nfind myself at once at home again, in a place I had never seen; I\nrecognize from the first moment a very special life, of which\nnevertheless I know nothing. It seems to me that something which\ninterests me, which is indeed personal to me, passed here before I was\nborn. Truly, if I believed in metempsychosis I might imagine I had been\na monk in anterior existences; a bad monk then,\" he said, smiling at his\nreflections, \"since I should have been obliged to be reincarnate and to\nreturn to a cloister to expiate my sins.\"\n\nWhile thus talking with himself, he had passed across a long alley which\nled to the end of the enclosure, and, cutting across the road, and\nthrough the thickets, he strayed into the wood of the great pond.\n\nIt was not in motion, as on certain days when the wind made hollows in\nit, and swelled it, made it flow and return on itself as soon as it\ntouched its banks. It remained immovable, and was only stirred by the\nreflections of the moving clouds and of the trees. At moments a leaf\nfallen from the neighbouring poplars swam on the image of a cloud, at\nothers bubbles of air came from the bottom and burst on the surface in\nthe reflected blue of heaven.\n\nDurtal looked for the otter, but it did not show itself; he saw only the\nswallows which skimmed the water with their wing, the dragon-flies which\nsparkled like jewels, flashing like the blue flames of sulphur.\n\nIf he had suffered near the cross-pond, before the sheet of water of the\nother pond he could only call up the memory of healing hours, which he\nhad passed lying on a bed of moss, or a couch of dry reeds, and he\nlooked at it tenderly, trying to fix and carry it away in his memory to\nre-live again in Paris, shutting his eyes on the bank.\n\nHe pursued his walk, and stopped in an alley of chestnuts along the\nwalls above the monastery; thence he went into the court in front of the\ncloister, the outbuildings, the stables, the woodsheds, even the\npig-styes. He tried to see Brother Simeon, but he was probably engaged\nin the stables, for he did not appear. The buildings were silent, the\npigs were shut up; only some lean cats prowled about in silence,\nscarcely looking when they met each other, going each on its own side,\nno doubt seeking some nourishing game which would console them for the\neternal meals of vegetable soup served them at the monastery.\n\nTime was getting on; he prayed for the last time in the chapel, and went\nto his cell to get his portmanteau ready.\n\nWhile putting his things in order he thought of the inutility of\ndecorated rooms. He had spent all his money at Paris in buying ornaments\nand books, for till now he had detested bare walls.\n\nBut now, considering the blank walls of this room, he admitted to\nhimself that he had done better between these four white-washed walls\nthan in his room at Paris, hung with stuffs.\n\nSuddenly he recognized that La Trappe had weaned him from his\npreferences, had in a few days completely upset him. \"The power of such\nan environment!\" he said to himself, a little alarmed at feeling how he\nwas transformed. And he thought in buckling his portmanteau, \"I must\nhowever, go and find Father Etienne, for I must settle my account; I\ncannot be altogether a debtor to these good people.\"\n\nHe went along the corridors, and ended by meeting the father in the\ncourt.\n\nHe was a little confused how to open the question; at the first words\nthe guest-master smiled.\n\n\"The rule of Saint Benedict is formal,\" he said; \"we must receive our\nguests as we receive our Lord Jesus Himself, that is to tell you that we\ncannot exchange our poor care for money.\"\n\nAnd when Durtal insisted, embarrassed,\n\n\"If it does not suit you to have partaken of our meagre pittance without\npaying, do as you please; only the sum which you may give will be\ndistributed in coins of ten or twenty sous, to the poor who come each\nmorning, often from a great distance, to knock at our monastery gate.\"\n\nDurtal bowed and handed the money, which he had ready in his pocket, to\nthe father, but he inquired if he might not have a word with Father\nMaximin before his departure.\n\n\"Certainly; moreover, Father prior would not have let you go without\nshaking hands with you. I will go and make certain if he be free. Wait\nfor me in the refectory.\" And the monk disappeared, and came back a few\nminutes afterwards, preceded by the prior.\n\n\"Ah, well,\" said he, \"then you are going to plunge again into the\nhurly-burly?\"\n\n\"Oh! without any pleasure, Father.\"\n\n\"I understand that. It is so good, is it not, no longer to hear anything\nand to be silent. However, take courage; we will pray for you.\"\n\nAnd as Durtal thanked both of them for their kind attentions,\n\n\"It is a pleasure to receive a retreatant such as you,\" cried Father\nEtienne, \"nothing repulses you, and you are so exact that you are about\nbefore the hour: you rendered my task of overseer easy. If all were as\nlittle exacting and as pliable.\"\n\nAnd he admitted that he had given lodging to priests sent by their\nbishops as a penance, ecclesiastics of ill-repute whose complaints about\nfood, lodging, the need of rising early in the morning, never ceased.\n\n\"If, again,\" said the prior, \"one could hope to recall them to good, to\nsend them back healed to their parishes; but no, they go away still more\nrebellious than before, the Devil does not let them alone.\"\n\nDuring this conversation a lay brother brought in some dishes covered\nwith plates and placed them on the table.\n\n\"We have changed the hour of your dinner, because of the train,\" said\nFather Etienne.\n\n\"Good appetite, adieu, and may the Lord bless you,\" said the prior.\n\nHe raised his hand, and enwrapped Durtal, with a great sign of the\ncross, who knelt surprised at the sudden emotion in the monk's tone. But\nFather Maximin recovered himself at once, and he bowed to him as M.\nBruno entered.\n\nThe meal was silent; the oblate was visibly distressed at the departure\nof the companion whom he loved, and Durtal looked with a swelling heart\nat the old man, who had so charitably come out of his solitude to give\nhim aid.\n\n\"Will you not come some day to see me in Paris?\" he said.\n\n\"No. I have quitted life without any mind to return to it. I am dead to\nthe world. I do not wish to see Paris again. I have no wish to live\nagain.\n\n\"But if God lend me still a few years of existence I hope to see you\nhere again, for it is not in vain that one has crossed the threshold of\nmystic asceticism, to verify by one's own experience the reality of the\nrequirements which our Lord brings about. Now, as God does not proceed\nby chance, He will certainly finish His work by sifting you as wheat. I\nventure to recommend you to try not to give way, and attempt to die in\nsome measure to yourself, in order not to run counter to His plans.\"\n\n\"I know well,\" said Durtal, \"that all is displaced in me, that I am no\nlonger the same, but what frightens me is that I am now sure that the\nworks of the Teresan school are exact ... then, then ... if one must\npass-through the cylinders of the rolling mill which Saint John of the\nCross describes....\"\n\nThe noise of a carriage in the court interrupted him. M. Bruno went to\nthe window and looked out.\n\n\"Your luggage is down.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThey looked at each other.\n\n\"Listen! I would wish indeed to say to you....\"\n\n\"No, no, do not thank me,\" cried the oblate. \"See, I have never so\nthoroughly understood the misery of my being. Ah! if I had been another\nman, I might, by praying better, have aided you more.\"\n\nThe door opened and Father Etienne declared,\n\n\"You have not a minute to lose, if you do not wish to miss the train.\"\n\nThus hurried, Durtal had only time to press the hand of his friend, who\naccompanied him to the court. He found waiting a sort of open wagon\ndriven by a Trappist, who, below a bald head, and cheeks streaked with\nrose threads, had a great black beard.\n\nDurtal pressed the hands of the guest-master and the oblate for the last\ntime, when the Father abbot came in his turn to wish him a safe journey;\nand at the end of the court Durtal perceived two eyes fixed on him,\nthose of Brother Anacletus, who, at a distance, said adieu by a slight\nbow, but without other gesture.\n\nEven this poor man, whose eloquent look told of a truly touching\naffection, had a saint's pity for the stranger whom he had seen so\ntumultuous and so sad in the desolate solitude of the wood!\n\nCertainly the stiffness of the rule forbade all show of feeling to these\nmonks, but Durtal felt thoroughly that for him they had gone to the\nlimit of concessions allowed, and his affliction was great as he cast\nthem in parting a last expression of thanks.\n\nAnd the door of the monastery closed; that door at which he had trembled\nin arriving, and at which he now looked with tears in his eyes.\n\n\"We must get on fast,\" said the procurator, \"for we are late,\" and the\nhorse went at a great speed along the lanes.\n\nDurtal recognized his companion, as having seen him in the chapel,\nsinging in the choir during the Office.\n\nHe had an air at once good-natured and firm, and his little grey eye\nsmiled as it glanced behind his branched spectacles.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"how have you borne our regimen?\"\n\n\"I have had every chance; I came herewith my stomach out of order, my\nbody ill, and the simple Trappist meals have cured me.\"\n\nAnd when Durtal narrated briefly the stages of soul he had undergone,\nthe monk murmured,\n\n\"That is nothing in regard to demoniacal attacks; we have had here true\ncases of possession.\"\n\n\"And Brother Simeon discovered them!\"\n\n\"Ah! you know that....\" And he replied quite simply to Durtal, who spoke\nto him of his admiration for the poor lay brothers,\n\n\"You are right, sir; if you could talk with these peasants and\nilliterate men, you would be surprised at the often profound answers\nwhich these people give you; then they alone at the monastery are really\ncourageous; we, the Fathers, when we think ourselves too weak, accept\nwillingly the authorized addition of an egg; they never; they pray more,\nand it must be admitted that our Lord listens to them, since they get\nwell again, and indeed are never ill.\"\n\nAnd to a question of Durtal who asked him in what consisted the\nfunctions of procurator, the monk answered,\n\n\"They consist in keeping the accounts, in being the commercial agent, in\ntravelling, in managing, alas! everything which does not concern the\nlife of the cloister; but we are so few in number at Notre Dame de\nl'Atre, that we become necessarily Jacks-of-all-trades. For instance,\nFather Etienne is cellarer of the Abbey and guest-master, he is also\nsacristan and bell-ringer. I too, am first cantor and professor of plain\nsong.\"\n\nAnd while the carriage rolled along, shaken by the ruts, the procurator\ndeclared to Durtal, who told him how much the offices chanted at the\nmonastery had delighted him,\n\n\"It is not with us that you ought to hear them; our choirs are too\nrestricted, too weak to be able to raise the giant mass of those chants.\nYou ought to go to the black monks of Solesmes or Liguge if you wish to\nfind the Gregorian melodies executed as they were in the Middle Ages. By\nthe way, do you know in Paris, the Benedictine nuns in the Rue\nMonsieur?\"\n\n\"Yes; but do you not think they coo a little?\"\n\n\"I cannot say; all the same their collection of tunes is authentic, but\nat the little seminary at Versailles, you have better still, since they\nchant there exactly as at Solesmes; note this well, moreover, at Paris,\nwhen the churches decline to repudiate liturgical music, they use for\nthe most part the false notation printed and spread in abundance in all\nthe dioceses in France by the house of Pustet of Ratisbon.\"\n\n\"But the errors and frauds with which those editions abound are well\nknown.\"\n\n\"The legend on which its partisans rely is incorrect. To assert, as they\ndo, that this version is no other than that of Palestrina who was\ncharged by Pope Paul V. to revive the musical liturgy of the Church, is\nan argument destitute of truth and void of force, for everyone knows\nthat when Palestrina died, he had hardly begun the correction of the\nGradual.\n\n\"I will add that even if that musician had finished his work, that would\nnot prove that his interpretation ought to be preferred to that which\nhas been recently constituted after patient researches by the Abbey of\nSolesmes, for the Benedictine texts are based on the copy preserved at\nthe monastery of St. Gall of the antiphonary of Saint Gregory, which\nrepresents the most ancient and the most certain monument which the\nChurch preserves of the true plain chant.\n\n\"This manuscript, of which photographic facsimiles exist, is the code of\nGregorian melodies, and it ought to be, if I may use the expression, the\nneumatic Bible of choirs.\n\n\"The disciples of Saint Benedict are then absolutely right when they\ndeclare that their version alone is faithful, alone correct.\"\n\n\"How then comes it that so many churches get their music from Ratisbon?\"\n\n\"Alas, how comes it that Pustet has so long acquired the monopoly of\nliturgical books, and ... but no, better hold one's peace ... take this\nonly for certain, that the German volumes are the absolute negation of\nthe Gregorian tradition, the most complete heresy of plain chant.\"\n\n\"By the way, what time is it? We must make haste,\" said the procurator,\nlooking at the watch which Durtal held up to him. \"Come up, my beauty,\"\nand he whipped up the mare.\n\n\"You drive with spirit,\" cried Durtal.\n\n\"It is true; I forgot to say to you, that over and above my other\nfunctions, I also have, if need be, that of coachman.\"\n\nDurtal thought all the same that these people were extraordinary who\nlived an interior life in God. As soon as they consented to redescend on\nearth they revealed themselves as the most sagacious and the boldest of\nbusiness men. An abbot founded a factory with the few pence he succeeded\nin gathering; he discerned the employment which suited each of his\nmonks, and with them he improvised artisans, writing clerks, transformed\na professor of plain chant into an agent, plunged into the tumult of\npurchases and sales, and little by little the house which scarcely was\nraised above the soil, grew, put forth shoots, and ended by nourishing\nwith its fruit the abbey which had planted it.\n\nTransported into another environment these people would have as easily\ncreated great manufactories and started banks. And it was the same with\nthe women. When one thinks of the practical qualities of a man of\nbusiness, and the coolness of an old diplomatist which a mother abbess\nought to possess in order to rule her community, one is obliged to admit\nthat the only women, truly intelligent, truly remarkable are, outside of\ndrawing-rooms, outside of the world, at the head of cloisters.\n\nAnd as he expressed his wonder aloud, that monks were so expert at\nsetting up business.\n\n\"It must be so,\" sighed the father, \"but if you believe that we do not\nregret the time necessarily spent in digging the ground! then our spirit\nat least was free, then we could sanctify ourselves in silence which to\na monk is as necessary as bread, for it is thanks to it, that he stifles\nvanity as it rises, that he represses disobedience as it murmurs, that\nhe turns all his aspirations, all his thoughts towards God, and becomes\nat last attentive to His presence.\n\n\"Instead of that ... but here we are at the station; do not trouble\nyourself about your portmanteau, but go and take your ticket, for I hear\nthe whistle of the train.\"\n\nAnd in fact Durtal had only time to shake hands with the father, who put\nhis luggage into the carriage.\n\nThere, when he was alone, seated, looking at the monk as he departed, he\nfelt his heart swell, ready to break.\n\nAnd in the clatter of the rails the train started.\n\nSharply, clearly, in a minute, Durtal took stock of the frightful\ndisorder into which he had thrown the monastery.\n\n\"Ah! and outside it, all is the same to me, and nothing matters to me,\"\nhe cried. And he groaned, knowing that he should never more succeed in\ninteresting himself in all that makes the joy of men. The uselessness of\ncaring about any other thing than Mysticism and the liturgy, of thinking\nabout aught else save God, implanted itself in him so firmly that he\nasked himself what would become of him at Paris with such ideas.\n\nHe saw himself submitting to the confusion of controversies, the\ncowardice of conventionality, the vanity of declarations, the inanity of\nproofs. He saw himself bruised and thrust aside by the reflections of\neverybody, obliged henceforward to advance or retire, dispute or hold\nhis tongue?\n\nIn any case peace was for ever lost. How in fact was he to rally and\nrecover when he was obliged to dwell in a place of passage, in a soul\nopen to all winds, visited by a crowd of public thoughts?\n\nHis contempt for relations, his disgust for acquaintances grew on him.\n\"No, everything rather than mix myself again with society,\" he declared\nto himself, and then he was silent in despair, for he was not ignorant\nthat he could not, apart from the monastic zone, live in isolation.\nAfter a short time would come weariness and a void, therefore why had\nhe reserved nothing for himself, why had he trusted all to the cloister?\nHe had not even known how to arrange the pleasure of entering into\nhimself, he had discovered how to lose the amusement of bric-a-brac, how\nto extirpate that last satisfaction in the white nakedness of a cell! he\nno longer held to anything, but lay dismantled, saying, \"I have\nrenounced almost all the happiness which might fall to me, and what am I\ngoing to put in its place?\"\n\nAnd terrified, he perceived the disquiet of a conscience ready to\ntorment itself, the permanent reproaches of an acquired lukewarmness,\nthe apprehensions of doubts against Faith, fear of furious clamours of\nthe senses stirred by chance meetings.\n\nAnd he repeated to himself that the most difficult thing would not be to\nmaster the emotions of his flesh, but indeed to live Christianly, to\nconfess, to communicate at Paris, in a church. He never could get so far\nas that, and he imagined discussions with the Abbe Gevresin, his gaining\ntime, his refusal, foreseeing that their friendship would come to an end\nin these disputes.\n\nThen where should he fly? At the very recollection of the Trappist\nmonastery the theatrical representations of St. Sulpice made him jump.\nSt. Severin seemed to him distracted and worn. How could he live among\nstupid people like the devout, how listen without gnashing his teeth to\nthe affected chants of the choirs? How, lastly, could he seek again in\nthe chapel of the Benedictine nuns, and even at Notre Dame des\nVictoires, that dull heat radiating from the souls of the monks, and\nthawing little by little the ice of his poor being?\n\nAnd then it was not even that. What was truly crushing, truly dreadful,\nwas to think that doubtless he would never again feel that admirable joy\nwhich lifts you from the ground, carries you, you know not where, nor\nhow, above sense.\n\nAh, those paths at the monastery wandered in at daybreak, those paths\nwhere one day after a communion, God had dilated his soul in such a\nfashion that it seemed no longer his own, so much had Christ plunged him\nin the sea of His divine infinity, swallowed him in the heavenly\nfirmament of His person.\n\nHow renew that state of grace without communion and outside a cloister?\n\"No; it is all over,\" he concluded.\n\nAnd he was seized with such an access of sadness, such an outburst of\ndespair, that he thought of getting out at the first station, and\nreturning to the monastery; and he had to shrug his shoulders, for his\ncharacter was not patient enough nor his will firm enough, nor his body\nstrong enough to support the terrible trials of a noviciate. Moreover,\nthe prospect of having no cell to himself, of sleeping dressed\nhiggledy-piggledy in a dormitory, alarmed him.\n\nBut what then? And sadly he took stock of himself.\n\n\"Ah!\" he thought, \"I have lived twenty years in ten days in that\nconvent, and I leave it, my brain relaxed, my heart in rags; I am done\nfor, for ever. Paris and Notre Dame de l'Atre have rejected me each in\ntheir turn like a waif, and here I am condemned to live apart, for I am\nstill too much a man of letters to become a monk, and yet I am already\ntoo much a monk to remain among men of letters.\"\n\nHe leapt up and was silent, dazzled by jets of electric light which\nflooded him as the train stopped.\n\nHe had returned to Paris.\n\n\"If they,\" he said, thinking of those writers whom it would no doubt be\ndifficult not to see again, \"if they knew how inferior they are to the\nlowest of the lay brothers! if they could imagine how the divine\nintoxication of a Trappist swine-herd interests me more than all their\nconversations and all their books! Ah! Lord, that I might live, live in\nthe shadow of the prayers of humble Brother Simeon!\"","title":"En Route","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":118089}