CHAPTER VII

Cluny; a Capital from the Abbey

That night I dreamed a dream. I was back in the twelfth century, as a brother, participating in a solemn mass in the great abbey of Cluny. The sanctuary and the transepts of the mighty church were flooded in the soft light, that, streaming from gold and jewelled candelabras, flickered upon the bent forms of the dark-robed priests, and threw into strong relief the flutings of the pilasters that adorned the huge piers, and the strange birds and beasts that gazed from the foliage of the capitals. Above us, the lines of the soaring vault were lost in eternal shadows, and before us a thousand lights and jewels blazed upon the High Altar, where Hugues himself, gloriously arrayed in cope and mitre, was kneeling before the holy rood. The solemn chanting of the mass sobbed and echoed down the lofty nave, across the shadowy aisles, and up to where, upon the eastern dome, the Eternal Father Himself, cloud-borne, among the symbols of His creation, lifted the Right Hand in blessing, and laid His Left Hand upon the Book sealed with seven seals. Suddenly, while our souls were pouring themselves out in rapt adoration, a fearful detonation resounded above our heads. Startled, terrified, we looked up. As we did so, while yet the echoes of the shock were rolling through the upper darkness, a series of crackling explosions shook the whole fabric to its foundations. The floor heaved, the vaulting above our heads cracked from side to side, the huge pillars trembled and tottered. Then an awful cry of alarm was stilled into the louder silence of horror, as the whole mighty building swayed, and towers, columns, vaults, and capitals collapsed, and, with an appalling crash and a roar like the fall of many waters, buried all in universal ruin.... I awoke—to find myself yet alive, in the prosaic twentieth century, while from the house opposite proceeded uproarious sounds of revelry by night, carried on with that sustained exuberance which the Latin races alone can impart to their festivals. It was not Cluny that was falling again, but furniture, glasses and crockery. Then it all came back to me—the tale I had heard of the impending marriage of Yvonne.They were worthily celebrating the occasion. Blessings upon her! I rose and leaned out of the casement. Two or three songs were being sung, simultaneously, to the accompaniment of a running chorus of applause, and an obbligato with the chairs of the salon.

Until the orgy was at an end, I lay awake, meditating upon my dream, and finding, to my sorrow, a real historical analogy between that tipsy revel and the ever-to-be-regretted fall of the stones of Cluny.

The next morning, I started on my bicycle for Berzé-le Chatel, a castle about twelve miles from Cluny, on the road to Mâcon. On the steps of the hotel I was accosted affably, in the English tongue, by a gentleman, whose face was quite unfamiliar to me. He assured me, however, that he had met us at Bourg en Bresse; and I, being unable either to deny or to affirm the assertion, must needs listen. Having finished with the weather, he paused, turned, waved his hand towards the gray abbey tower, that rose above our heads, and said majestically, with an air of imparting valuable information; "C'est ancien." Being still heavy for want of sleep, I just cursed him inwardly, and went my ways.

As you mount the road that winds upwards towards Berzé, there opens out a most lovely view over the green valley of the Grosne, whose windings are marked by tall poplars, through which shine the distant towers and hills of Cluny. Then come four or five kilometres of typical Burgundian climbing, before you gain the crest of the ridge, and find yourself looking down, and away for mile after mile, until, between a succession of rugged hills, that lie like prehistoric monsters couchant towards the southern sun, among golden vineyards dotted with ancient villages and immemorial walls, the serpenting, poplar-fringed stream is lost to sight, where at last, far off, in the blue distance, the valley merges into the great plain of the Saône. To the left, on a spur of the hill, guarding proudly the hamlet that shelters at its base, rise the time-bronzed towers of the great castle of Berzé.

The Castle of Berzé, now the residence of the Comte de Milly, became one of the defensive fortresses of the Abbey and town of Cluny, according to the treaty of 1250, which, through the intervention of Blanche de Castille, set forth the respective powers, and adjusted the somewhat strained relations of the lords of Berzé and the Abbots of Cluny. It gave to theSeigneurs of Berzé-le Chatel, the right to administer justice over the abbatial lords in the neighbourhood of the castle, including Berzé-la Ville. Moreover, it bound the tenants of these lands to come together "at the clamour of the castle," to defend and guard it, in return for which assistance, they were granted, in war time, the right of shelter within the fortress, both for themselves and their goods. From that time forward, the Abbots and Seigneurs were on such good terms, that some of the latter subscribed liberally to the Abbey, and even obtained the privilege of burial within its precincts.

Château de Berzé

In legend, as well as in history, Berzé has played its part. A Seigneur of the castle, it is said, piqued by a morbid curiosity, shut up in the lowest donjon an ox and a man, that he might know which would die first. Tradition avers that his passion for knowledge remained unsatisfied, since both died together. In 1315, Geoffrey de Berzé, tiring of his diurnal occupations, namely, hunting in the morning and beating his servants at night, raised an impious hand against, and let it descend upon, the archdeacon of Mâcon, who, through the chapter, brought a complaint before parliament; with the result that Geoffrey and his successors were condemned, in perpetuity, to burn, every year, a candle of fifty pounds weight in the choir of the cathedral of Mâcon. This fine was still being paid, up to the close of the eighteenth century, when it was customary to setforth in bad verses, on a card at the foot of the chandelier that carried the candle, an explanation of this "amende honorable."

Berzé-le Chatel was prominent, too, in those bloody wars of the Armagnacs and Bourguignons, which, for more than thirty years, drenched the stricken land of France in the blood of her bravest men. Later on, it fell into the hands of the Dauphin, afterwards Charles VII., who, by magnificent promises, succeeded in inducing the governor to betray the Duke of Burgundy. It did not remain long in the hands of the French; for local knowledge of the subterranean passages soon effected its recapture by the Burgundians, who, to the terror of the French soldiers, seemed to have arisen mysteriously from the earth. The last siege of the castle took place in 1591, when the Duc de Namours after making a breach in the walls with artillery, captured it for the Huguenots, whose attacks it had resisted hitherto.[94]

A path leads off the road, down through the vines, and up to the cottages at the castle foot, where you can climb, by another steep stony way, to the great, double-towered gate, guarded by machicolations and portcullis, and bearing the coat-of-arms of the house of Berzé. Within is a lawn, encircling a little pond, and an ivied avenue of ancient firs, whose sombre hues set off, in summer, the vivid scarlet of the geraniums, and the soft tints of the laburnum. Crossing this grassy, stoutly-walled terrace, you pass beneath another fortified gate, where scarlet creepers cling, to the court yard of the castle, bright with beds of fuschias, and masses of ball-shaped white flowers. Shade is given by a great walnut-tree; and here, too, is an adjunct, indispensable now, as in mediæval times,—a well. The façade of the house shows, upon its soft, gray stone, the typical cupid's bow windows of the fifteenth century. Across the dwarf wall, the view extends away, eastward, over a lower terrace, to the trimly-kept kitchen gardens, and ancient out-buildings; westward to the vine-clad hills. This is a castle of enchantment, in whose flowery courts one can recall visions of the purple past that has floated over the towers of Berzé.

Leaving the castle, and passing down the great double avenue of walnuts and sycamores which connect it with the romanesque church of the Village of Berzé, I stood, looking at the curious staircase that leads, between roofed-in buttresses, to the church tower. An old woman passed me, carrying, by a yoke on her shoulders, two large buckets of water.

"Whose castle is this, Madame?"

"This is Monsieur le Comte de Milly's, monsieur," and she bowed slightly; whether to me or to the great name, I do not know. Two jets of water splashed over her sabots.

We went our ways; she looking down at her wet feet, and I thinking of the Marquis of Carabas—not by reason of any legendary connection between that potentate and the château of Berzé, but because the turn of her phrase had recalled my first reading of "Puss in Boots."

Château de Lourdon

Another of the guardian castles of Cluny, that to which in dangerous times the treasures, charts, and title deeds of the Abbey were taken, was the Château de Lourdon. It was pillaged in 1575 by the partisans of the Duc d'Alençon, who burned so many of the original papers that Claude de Guise, after his reconciliation with Henry IV., obtained letters patent rendering valid the existing copies of the parchments. In 1632, Richelieu, who had obtained possession of the Abbey of Cluny, ordered the demolition of the donjon and castle of Lourdon, a command so faithfully carried out that nothing was left of the fortress, except what is to be seen to-day—a ruined ivy-hung wall, its line broken by a round tower, through whose windows you can see the concierge moving, and by a curious row of great columns, like organ pipes, now generally supposed to be the remains of a kind of mediæval tennis court. From the castle rising high above the bush-covered rocks, you can look down over the grape vines to the village of Lourdon, and the hills of the Grosne valley. Looking up at it, through the houses of thevillage street, it must have appeared a not unworthy guardian of a trust so great as were the treasures of Cluny.

The best way to get there by the valley road from Cluny, is to turn up the hill when you come to a small sentinel tower. If you ask the way, you will probably be told, as we were, to turn at the next lane, which is longer, less convenient, and gives a much less striking approach to the castle. Persistent mis-direction of strangers is a common Burgundian failing.

Those who have wandered about the streets of Cluny may have happened upon the late fifteenth century, or early sixteenth century, house of the Prat family, the ancestors of the poet Lamartine, whose name is frequently heard by travellers in the Mâconnais or the Dauphiné; though the nation as a whole, soon forgot him, after that swiftly rising wave of latin enthusiasm had swept him into the seats of the mighty, and, receding, had dragged him with it, to face, as best he might, the obscure, penniless life of a literary hack.

His birthplace, at Milly, is not now in existence; but the prospect of seeing the family Château de Saint Point, where part of his youth, and some later years of retirement, were passed, tempted me to pay a visit to that valley. In a very improbable, though naturally written and pathetic study of rustic life, "Le Tailleur de Pierres de St. Point"—he who died of that, unhappily, rare malady, the love of God—we have Lamartine's own description of his home.

From the mountain side projects a low hill "dominated at its summit by an old castle flanked by compact towers, and by the notched spire of a romanesque church tower. At the foot of the hill are pastures bordered with alders, cherry and large nut trees, between whose trunks can be seen the walls, roofs and rustic bridge of a hamlet built in the shadow of the castle and comprising fifteen or twenty cottages of workmen, small farmers or shopkeepers, all grouped around the village church. These old towers, undermined at their bases by the weather, and cracked by the weight of stone above them, shorn of the spires at their summits, are useless to-day, except to flank a heavy square mass of naked stone, pierced with a winding stair and several vaulted rooms—such is my abode.... Thence the view, falling and rising, extends over the most beautiful part of the valley of St. Point. One's glance, following the rapid slope of the pastures, rests upon a field throughthe middle of which runs the river 'Vallonge.' Great nut trees with bronze foliage, motionless as metal leaves, poplars with trunks storm-twisted, and with foliage more hairy and whiter than the head of an old man, European cypresses, alders, birches, willows rescued by me, twenty-five years ago now, from the bill of the tree-trimmer, leaning from bank to bank of the river they love and are loved by, interwoven over its course, form a lofty, floating, capricious vault of foliage of every tint, a very mosaic of vegetation. The lightest airs of summer sway this moving curtain, and summon thence waves of sound, breathings, the watery sheen of leaves, flights of birds and vegetable scents, which gladden the eyes, vary the outlook, and rise in sweet sounds and wandering fragrances to the balcony of my house."

This balcony was the construction in sculptured stone, in imitation of the old Gothic Balustrades of Oxford, that he had added to the principal façade. Here the peacocks perching, day and night, bordered its heavy stones with a row of living caryatides, as they spread their brilliant tails to the sun.[95]

Meanwhile, with such passages as these in my mind, I was making for the village. Having climbed the winding staircase that leads up to the terraced churchyard, I saw, as I drew near, across the tangled graves, the tomb of Lamartine, a pretentious, but quite unsuccessful, production, in bastard gothic style, the interior hung round with horrible wreaths of artificial flowers. On a pedestal was a bust of the poet, with a metal urn on each side, and, below, a recumbent statue of his wife, and memorials of other descendants.

It was with a feeling of intense relief that I turned from the artificial to the real, to the monument in which nature's art, that is not artifice, has immortalized the memory of Lamartine.

Here is the primitive little romanesque church, whose gracious tower is now hoary with years, and golden with the kisses of the sun. One's glance rests long upon those stones, where, above the slender colonettes, among the waving grasses, wild flowers, ferns, and soft moss of the slag roof, the stone corner-heads of a thousand years ago watch silently over a tree-embowered, weed-entangled, dreamy garden of the dead. For these are the living memorials of a poet—the wide, green meadow of the valley, the undulating boughs, and gray and silver glimpses of the breeze-swung poplars, the red tiles of the ancient village, the stream willow-fringed, the creamy cattle browsing in upland pastures, the gracious contours of woodland hill, touched by Autumn's mellowing hand, the blue dome above, whose silver islands float on the wings of a warm, south wind.

His memories linger, too, in melodious songs, sung by poets not less than he, the lark in the blue, the thrush on the bough, the zephyrs among the leaves; the distant tap, tap, tap, of the woodpecker in the far-off forest, or of some follower of that stone-cutter of St. Point, with whom Lamartine, high up in the mountain quarry, talked of the ways of God with man. One day, perhaps, France will realize these truths; then she will cease to desecrate, with hideous monuments, the open spaces of her ancient villages, and the resting place of her illustrious dead.

Having been assured by a villager that visits to the Château were permitted, encouraged even, I effected an entrance to the grounds, through a gate in the wall on the north side of the church. The building appears to be a patchwork of many dates, marred by some wretched, modern imitations, and the hideous device, not infrequent hereabouts, of painting sham gothic windows on a plaster wall; but the general effect of the whole, matured by age, set in finely timbered grounds, is not unpleasing. I wish I could say the same for my welcome, which might be summed up in these words: "Come in, go through; damn you, get out!"

The cicerone who, by the way, was kind enough to inform me that no part of the building was of earlier date than the nineteenth century,[96]was so rude that I felt much more disposed to discuss with her, gently but firmly, the question of manners, than to look at the many relics she was able to show me.[97]

It is obvious that only three courses are open to the owner of an historic house. He can refuse admission to the public; he can grant admission unconditionally; or he can grant admission on payment, or on other reasonable conditions; but, upon whatever terms he admits you, he must make you welcome, so long as you, in your turn, conform to the exigencies of polite society. A thinly veiled attitude of hostility deprives the self-respecting visitor of all pleasure.

Be it added, however, lest I should discourage others from visiting the castle, that the account of my experience was received most apologetically by several villagers, who assured me that the present inhabitants were "gentils," and that my cold reception must have been due to the fact, of which I was, of course, unaware, that there was illness in the house.

My wrath having been appeased by lunch, and the attentions of a good-natured hostess, I proceeded boldly to climb to the head of the Valley of St. Point, and, after many kilometres of very hard work, was rewarded by a look back over the Valley, from below Tramaye. In the middle distance, shone, in the afternoon sun, bronze and white among the tapering poplars, the Village of St. Point, crowned by the ancient gray church; and, higher yet, the sombre trees of the garden, and the towers of Lamartine's château. Above Tramaye, itself a very eagle's aerie, one by one the lower valleys open out to view, until, at last, crossing the "col," you descend, for kilometre after kilometre, to Clermain in the Valley of the Grosne, one of the once-fortified advance-guard villages protecting the approach to Cluny from the South.

End of chapter VI; House of Lamartine

Footnotes:[90]Lorain, p. 95.[91]"Undermining of the monastic state and ruin of good monasteries."—Penjon's "Cluny," p. 125.[92]It was found in the façade of a barn, but once formed part of the arch of a Romanesque house.[93]For further particulars see the article on "Maisons" in Viollet-le-Duc's "Dictionnaire Raisonné," Tome vi., p. 222 and on. Also the chapter "Maisons Particuliéres" in M. Penjon's book.[94]"Cluny, la Ville et l'Abbaye," par A. Penjon, pp. 4-5.[95]"Le Tailleur de Pierre de St. Point," cap. vii., viii.[96]In the sixteenth century the castle was occupied by Guillaume de St. Point, Governor of Mâcon, a bitter enemy of the Calvinists.[97]You are shown the bed on which he died, many interesting photographs, articles of wearing apparel, and other personal relics of Lamartine, also many paintings by Mme. Lamartine, an English lady. There are others in the church.

Footnotes:

[90]Lorain, p. 95.

[91]"Undermining of the monastic state and ruin of good monasteries."—Penjon's "Cluny," p. 125.

[92]It was found in the façade of a barn, but once formed part of the arch of a Romanesque house.

[93]For further particulars see the article on "Maisons" in Viollet-le-Duc's "Dictionnaire Raisonné," Tome vi., p. 222 and on. Also the chapter "Maisons Particuliéres" in M. Penjon's book.

[94]"Cluny, la Ville et l'Abbaye," par A. Penjon, pp. 4-5.

[95]"Le Tailleur de Pierre de St. Point," cap. vii., viii.

[96]In the sixteenth century the castle was occupied by Guillaume de St. Point, Governor of Mâcon, a bitter enemy of the Calvinists.

[97]You are shown the bed on which he died, many interesting photographs, articles of wearing apparel, and other personal relics of Lamartine, also many paintings by Mme. Lamartine, an English lady. There are others in the church.

Heading, chapter VII; St. Bernard

Purity and simplicity having been always potent factors in the development of the spiritual life, it followed, as the night the day, that Cluny's ever-growing indulgencies and luxury, while they sapped her own strength, laid her open to supercession by the devotees of an uncorrupted order. By the time of Pierre le Vénérable, that rival had already arisen. The Cistercian Order, under the rule of St. Bernard, at Clairvaux, had already supplanted Cluny as the first religious power of Europe. The story of the rise of Citeaux is full of legendary and historical interest.

About the middle of the eleventh century, Eringarde, the wife of Theodoric, a nobleman of Normandy, was about to become a mother. On the eve of the expected birth, the Holy Virgin appeared to the lady, and showed to her a golden ring, saying: "With this ring I betrothe to myself the son whom you shall bring into the world." The child was baptized under the name of Robert. When he was grown up, and had heard the story of his mother's vision, he left his native home, and betook himself to Burgundy, there to consecrate a monastery to the cult of God and St. Mary. The spot he chose for the foundation, in the year 1075, was in the forest of Molême, beyond Châtillon. There a company of fellow anchorites built, of the branches of trees, a chapel in honour of the Virgin, and there, in that solitude,they led a life so austere, so laborious, so fervent, that the monks of Molême came to be known rather as angels than men.

But, before many years had passed, abundance and prosperity had brought about a general lassitude, and departure from the austerity of the early rule. Robert's disciples mutinied against their Abbot, who then knew that the time for departure was come. Early in the year 1098, a little band of Benedictine monks, twenty-one in number, including Robert, the prior, and sub-prior, might have been seen issuing from the abbey gateway of Molême. They took with them no other provision for their travels than the vestments and sacred vessels for the celebration of the most holy mysteries, and a large breviary for the due performance of the divine office. Through wild and rugged paths, by mountain and forest, they journeyed on, chanting the divine praises, until, in the midst of the great plain of Burgundy, they came upon a vast solitude, the haunt of wild beasts, which, among the forest trees, found shelter in the underwood and brambles. Here, as they wended their way along the banks of a stream, beside reed-fringed, stagnant pools, where only the discordant cry of the water-fowl broke the awful silence of nature, the travellers heard a voice from Heaven, crying "Sistite hic!" (halt here), and knew that this forest was the spot in which God willed that they should serve Him.

Obtaining grant of the land, and aid, from Eudes, Duke of Burgundy, and the Vicomte de Beaune, whose it was, they raised their monastery, which was solemnly dedicated, on the 21st March, 1098, to the Virgin Mary, and named Citeaux, in memory of the divine command they had heard.[98]

St. Robert stayed only for one year in Citeaux, before an order of the sovereign pontiff recalled him to Molême; but the new monastery continued to flourish under the guidance of Stephen Harding, a young English monk.

About this time it pleased the Virgin to show conspicuously to the brethren her good pleasure in the life they were leading in her honour. One day, when they were chanting matins, Mary, Queen of Heaven and Earth, resplendent in glory, appeared to them with the first rays of the dawn, and, in a moment, with a touch of her hand, changed the tawny robes of the Cistercians into garments of spotless purity. The vision vanished; but cowl and tunic retained the dazzling brilliancy of snow.

Then the pious cenobites understood that they must adopt, henceforth, the white dress, as symbol of her—that flawless lily-of-the-valley—whose servants they were, and towards whose unspotted purity they were ever to strive.[99]

In after years, when the black monks reproached the Cistercians with wearing a garment fit only for a time of joy, whilst the monastic state was one of penitence, the white monks would answer, that the religious life was not only one of penitence, but was like that of the angels, and therefore they wore white garments to show the spiritual joy of their hearts.[100]The Cistercian habit bore about it another touch of grace, derived from long and holy association. In the black scapular, worn over the white tunic, broad about the shoulders, then falling in a narrow strip to the feet, they saw the form of the Lord's cross, and thus they loved to bear it about with them, even in their sleep.[101]And notwithstanding their coarser bread, hard beds, and clothing no better than that of the peasantry, there was ever a cheerfulness about the Cistercians that comes always to him whose heart beats in sympathy with the warm heart of mother nature, whose work lay where their days were passed, not in towns, but in sequestered valleys and lonely uplands, among fruitful vineyard, meadow, and cornfield.

After a while, upon Citeaux, too, in its turn, came evil days, when one by one the monks fell away and died, until Stephen began to doubt whether the austerities of his rule were not above human strength, and to fear that God had willed the destruction of the new community. One day, when he, with his brothers, was seated at the bed-side of a dying priest, he told the sufferer of his fear, and ordered him, in Christ's Name, to return from among the dead, and reveal to him God's Will concerning the future of the Abbey.

The monk promised to do so, in so far as might be permitted him. Then he died.

Some days after the passing of that brother, Stephen, at work in the fields, gave the signal for rest. Withdrawing himself from the others, he knelt down to pray, when the dead monk, ashine with heavenly light, and seeming rather to float above the ground than to be standing upon it, appeared to him.

"Father," said he, "The Lord Christ has sent me to tell you that your way of life is good in His sight, and that the desolation and sterility of Citeaux are about to pass away. Soon your children will be saying to you, 'Make room for us; the abode is too narrow; enlarge its boundaries.' Multitudes of men will come to range themselves beneath your crook, and among them shall be many learned ones, and many a lord. Your disciples, in number as bees when they swarm, shall go hence to found new abbeys in far off lands."

Not long after this vision, one evening, in the year 1113, whilst Stephen and the remnant of his little flock were imploring God to fulfil His promises, a band of thirty persons, under the guidance of a young man, was slowly traversing the forest towards the abbey. Soon the sound of the iron knocker, clanging upon the gate, summoned the porter, whose bell announced the arrival of strangers. The new-comers entered, prostrated themselves at the feet of Stephen, and begged to be admitted into the number of his monks. They were a notable company; young lords, noble in feature and deportment, from among the greatest houses in Burgundy; older men who had shone in the councils of princes, and had worn, hitherto, only the furred mantle, or the steel hauberk, now to be exchanged for the lowly cowl of St. Benedict.

"At the head of the troops was a young man of about twenty-three years of age, of exceeding beauty. He was rather tall of stature, his neck long and delicate, his whole frame very thin like that of a man in weak health. His hair was of a light colour, and his complexion fair; but with all its pallor, there was a virgin bloom spread over the thin skin of his cheek; an angelic purity and a dove-like simplicity shone forth from his eye, which showed at once the serene chastity of his soul."[102]Such, in aspect, was Bernard, the young saint, who, before many years had passed, was to be the dominant force in the policies of western Europe.

Bernard's origin was not less worthy than that of his companions. His father, Tescelin le Roux (the Red), could trace back his descent through the chevaliers of old, to immemorial times. Born at Châtillon on Seine, he belonged to the seigneurial family of that town, though he resided much at his castle of Fontaines-les-Dijon, where Bernard was born, only a short distance from the Burgundian capital. Tescelin's wife, Alethea, was descended in direct line from the Counts of Montbard, and through them was connected with the Dukes of Burgundy, in whose court, as counsellor of Eudes I. and Hugues II., Tescelin was high in favour. He was a man of honour, strong and firm of character; she, a girl of fifteen at the time of her marriage, was of gentle disposition, sorrowing often because God had seen fit to thwart her leanings towards the cloister life. As the mother of Bernard, third of her seven children, a yet nobler destiny was reserved for her. Shortly before the birth of this third child, there came to Alethea a mysterious dream, in which she seemed to see, imprisoned within her own body, a little red and white dog, who barked without ceasing. Astonished and troubled by this vision, she consulted a priest, as to what it might mean. His interpretation filled her heart with joy.

"Fear not," said he, "You are to become the mother of a marvellous child. Like unto a faithful dog he will keep guard over the House of the Lord, and shall make his cry heard against the enemies of the faith. He shall surpass all other preachers, and his word, full of light and authority, shall be the saving of many."[103]

The young child in every way fulfilled the heavenly promise; yet, for many a year, he was torn mentally between the calls of the world and of the cloister; both in his early training at the schools of Châtillon-sur-Seine, and later, when in spiritual solitude, at the château of Fontaines, he looked down upon the dead body of his mother. The world would not yield, without a struggle, so promising a recruit as Bernard, whose father, never dreaming that the gates of the monastery were soon to close upon him too, was not alone in his endeavours to keep his son from the religious life.

Bernard, however, was proof against all persuasion; nor was it long before his fast-developing strength of character and conviction caused him, in his turn, to become the aggressor. One by one the brothers were won over, until, at last, all, save Gérard, were upon Bernard's side. Resolute, he still turned with indignation from all the young saint's proposals. Bernard laid his hand upon his brother's side:

"I see," said he, "that misfortune alone can enlighten thee. A day is coming, and it is not far off, when a lance shall pierce this body, and open, towards the heart, an easy passage to the thought of salvation."

And so it came about; for some days later, at the siege of the castle of Grancy, Gérard fell, struck by a lance; and, covered with blood, was carried into the fortress prison. Then he recalled Bernard's saying, saw his destiny clearly, and accepted the religious life.

Bernard's brothers were among the company who had knocked that day at the gate of Citeaux. The new-comers remained for a week in the guest house of the monastery. On the eighth day they were taken into the chapter house, where the Abbot and his monks were assembled. As they knelt before him, the Abbot put to each of them the question prescribed by the rule:

"What seek you?" to which they replied in turn:

"My Father, God's Mercy, and yours." Then were read to them the stricter points of the Cistercian rule, and the Abbot dismissed them saying,

"My sons; may God fulfil in you that which His Grace has begun."[104]

From the commencement of his novitiate, Bernard practised austerities that were severe—even for a Cistercian. He would kneel until, on rising, his swollen limbs refused, almost, to support him, and, while always ready with a helping hand to lighten the toil of other monks in the forest or the marsh, he prepared himself for his labours with nourishment so poor that his body wasted and fever consumed him, until his life was despaired of. Devoting all his mind to the inward and spiritual, to answering well the question he was always asking himself, "Bernarde ad quid venisti?" (Bernard, wherefore art thou here?), he seems to have been almost unobservant of outward things. The old chronicler relates how, one day, being thirsty, the saint drank, without noticing its taste, (nihil sapiebat gustandi) a jar of oil whose contents he had mistaken for water. On another occasion, when asked whether the ceiling of his cell was flat or vaulted, he was quite unable to answer.

The immediate result of the coming of such a man, with such companions, was an enormous increase in the numbers and power of that order. Postulates flocked in hundreds to the Abbey of Citeaux, and, by the year 1113, it had become necessary to establish daughter abbeys. The first was La Ferté (Firmitas), so called to signify the strength and consistency that the Almighty had already bestowed upon the rising order. Then followed Pontigny, where Bernard's friend, Hugues de Mâcon, was sent as abbot; then, in 1115, Morimond, and Clairvaux (Claire Vallée)—once the robber-haunted Valley of Wormwood. Before long, the order had the choice of the fairest fields of France; indeed, of all Europe.

But Clairvaux had no abbot; and Citeaux must supply one. The choice fell upon St. Bernard, twenty-five years of age, hardly out of his novitiate, scarce able to support the exercise of his rule, and little fitted, as it seemed, to undertake a voyage of discovery to the loneliest forest in all the diocese of Langres. Yet he must go.

The form in which such an expedition set out was characteristic, and impressive in its simplicity. The monks, having been assembled by sound of the bell, all the community went down upon their knees. After a long silence, the Abbot intoned a psalm; then, taking a cross of wood from the altar, he handed it, as the token of office, to the new Abbot. The latter received it in silence, kissed it, still without speaking, and left his stall, followed by twelve other monks, symbols of the Christ and apostles. All the brothers then ranged themselves in the cloister, while, with heads bowed, the thirteen passed between them. Silently the gates of the monastery swung open, revealing to all a glimpse of the dangerous world beyond. The pilgrims filed out; and the clang of closing gates announced the termination of the ceremony.

We have not space to follow further the career of the "Last of the Fathers," as he was called, or to trace in detail the growth of an influence so extraordinary, that about the year 1148, we find Pierre le Vénérable, Abbot of Cluny, writing of "Bernard of Clairvaux, the splendid and immovable column that sustains not the monastic order only, but the entire church," while Bernard himself, broken down by the weight of affairs pressing upon him, writes to Eugène III: "People are pretending everywherethat you are not pope, but I; and all who have business, flock to me for help," (Aiunt non vos esse papam, sed me). Geoffrey, Bernard's secretary and successor, writing two years after his master's death, said: "Whoso has met Bernard has seen Christ. For in him the whole Christ dwelt."[105]

Without, indeed, going so far in praise as did his secretary, we may agree that Bernard's character comprised most of those elemental virtues, that, blended, make the perfect man. In him, calmness and vehemence, tenderness and serenity, tenacity and flexibility, vivid imagination and unswerving rectitude, were all present; ever ready to meet the necessities of any occasion that might arise. With all these varied gifts he never flattered, never betrayed the truth, never dissembled the sacred ardour that burned within him. Everywhere he was listened to with profound respect; his stern voice was heard in the cottages of the poor, and in the palaces of kings. Neither his enthusiasm, nor his ceaseless activities, caused him to lose lucidity nor precision of argument in debate. His repartee was gentle and penetrating; swift to disentangle truth from error, without practising the subtleties of the schools. He was that rarest of phenomena, a practical idealist, an enlightened fanatic. And with all these varied faculties, high above men of his time though his intellect was, he remained ever a true son of the Church, nor sought to free himself from the yoke of Catholic authority. Therein lay the secret of his subsequent bitter antagonism to the teachings of Abélard.

A few words as to Cistercian ideals, and especially as to Cistercian rule, as compared with that of Cluny, may not be out of place here.

For the sites of all their monasteries, they chose invariably lonely and wild lands, marshy valleys, swamps, or lake, or forest, where the monks would be under no temptation from the vicinity of worldly attractions, nor from too close contact with the secular clergy, whose influence was sometimes harmful. The Cistercian's first duty was the first duty of man—to reclaim the dark places of the earth from watery desolation to culture and fertility; just as, later on, the first duty of preaching friars was to win back the souls of men, from the power of Satan unto God. Faurtride, third abbot of Clairvaux, quotes St. Bernard as giving another reason. "It is not sufficient for a monk to allege illness (as an excuse for shirking the austerities of the rule).

The holy fathers, our predecessors, sought deep damp valleys for their monasteries, so that the monks might be often ailing, and having death always before their eyes, should never live in security."[106]

St. John: Burgundian SchoolST. JOHN, BURGUNDIAN SCHOOL

ST. JOHN, BURGUNDIAN SCHOOL

It may be well imagined, that an order founding its houses upon such sites, and for such a reason, did not err upon the side of indulgence. The rule was more strict, even, than that followed by Cluny in early days, both as regards abstinence from food and the rigid enforcement of silence. Vegetables were not to be served with fat or butter; meat was absolutely forbidden, unless sometimes to the sick; and fish, except herrings during Advent and Lent, was allowed only on rare occasions. When Pope Innocent II. visited Clairvaux in 1131, the monks had a hard task to find a single herring for his table. In the matter of clothing, too, they were much more simple than the Clunisians, and closer to the Benedictine rule; for instance, the gloves, boots, and furred pelisses, permitted in the older abbey during the winter, were forbidden to monks of the rival order.

The whole secret of Citeaux's influence may be summed up in two words—simplicity and self-sacrifice. These principles extended right through the life of the order, even to its architecture and to its art. Already, at the time of the coming of St. Bernard, the Clunisians were beginning to lighten with sculpture the splendid severity of their Romanesque buildings, to deck their statues with precious stones, and with beautiful glass; to adorn with gilding and voluptuous colour the gray stones of aisle and nave.

St. Bernard, quick to see the danger, sent his masons back to the essential. Nave and choir were to be of low elevation, and without towers; within must be neither painting, nor sculpture, nor crucifix, nor colour, nor any other ornament. Even the tympanum of the porch, so richly carved in Clunisian churches, might show only a cross in bas-relief, sometimes surmounted by the Lamb of God. Any sculpture in the interior must be confined to simple flowers and foliage on the capitals, with perhaps a claw at the base of the pillars; the apse and chapels were to be square, not polygonal nor semi-circular, as in the work of the other school. Above all, the Cistercians banished from their churches the scenes from the Ancient and New Testaments, the symbolical figures and fantastic animals, of which the Clunisians were so fond. Their cloisters were low and heavy, and the windows of the monastic buildings were narrow, almost, as loopholes.

In ceremonial observances they were equally simple, and contented themselves with a monotonous psalmody, poor and thin compared with the melodious chants that rang down the aisles of Cluny. The manuscripts showed the same scorn of art. Cluny bound their parchments beautifully in gold and silver, and ornamented them with precious stones; Citeaux was content with a rough binding of pig-skin, decorated with nails, and fastened with copper bands.

It was inevitable that such vital difference of opinion should find contemporary expression in words, as well as deeds. Bernard protests vehemently against luxe. His correspondence on the subject with his friend, Pierre le Vénérable, is full of interest.

"I do not speak," he writes, "of the prodigious height of the churches, of their immeasurable length, of their unnecessary width, of their sumptuous ornaments, of their curious paintings, which draw the glances of those who are at prayer, and prevent them from praying. As a monk, I address myself to monks, and I say to them: You who should be poor, what do you with this gold in the sanctuary? Other than this should be the conduct of the bishops, other than this that of the monks. The bishops, as we know, extend their solicitude to the foolish as well as to the wise. That they should seek to arouse by exterior ornament the devotion of a carnal people insensible to the ornaments of the soul, we can well understand; but we who have come forth from the bosom of this people, who, for the love of Christ, have left the world andall which is precious and apparent, we who regard as dung all that shines by beauty, all that flatters the ear by harmony, that pleases the senses of smell and touch, in a word, all that can give rise to sensual pleasure, whose devotion do we aspire to arouse by these ornaments?

"And to speak my thought openly, is it not avarice, that idolatry of slaves, which inspires us, and do we not seek rather the gifts of matter than the fruits of the spirit? How so, will you reply? I will tell you. Gold is lavished on every hand that it may multiply; it is spread abroad that it may be augmented. At the sight of these sumptuous vanities which excite astonishment, men feel themselves inflamed with the will to give, rather than with the will to pray. I do not know what this penchant may be, that bids us give more willingly to him that already has much. Eyes are dazzled by reliquaries covered with gold, and the sight of them opens every purse. The more the chasse shines in beauty, the more sacred are the relics held to be. We hasten to kiss them, and we feel ourselves drawn on into giving; we admire that which strikes the eye, rather than venerate holy things. In the churches are exposed, not crowns, but wheels encrusted with pearls, and the lamps which surround them cast a light less bright than the precious stones. For candalabra, we see rise a tier of enormous weight, fashioned with a marvellous art, which glitters less by the candles which surmount it, than by the diamonds with which it is adorned.

"What seek ye in all that, I ask you; is it the compunction of penitence or the astonishment of the eye? O Vanity of Vanities, O Folly! In her buildings, the church is ashine, in her poor she is all impoverished. She clothes her stones with gold, she leaves her children naked. 'Tis at the expense of the poor that we seek to flatter the eye of the rich. The curious find wherewithal to charm them; the unfortunate seek in vain their daily bread. Do we not abuse our veneration of the images of the saints, until they are ready to rise from the paving-stones? Here one is spitting in an angel's mouth; there the passers-by tread upon the face of a saint. If you do not respect these holy images, why do you not respect at least their brilliant colouring? Of what use is it to decorate these figures if they are to be continually soiled with dust? Of what use are they to the poor, to the monks, to spiritual men?

"What is the meaning in the cloisters, before the brother occupied in reading, of those ridiculous monsters, those deformed beauties, those beautifuldeformities? What do they there, those unclean apes, those fierce lions, those monstrous centaurs, those figures half man, half beast, those striped tigers, those fighting soldiers, those huntsmen who sound the horn? On one side, I see many heads on a single body; on the other, many bodies with a single head; here a beast with a serpent's tail; there a fish with an animal's head. Half a horse ends in half a goat; a horned animal bears a horse's croup. Everywhere appears a multitude of varied and uncouth forms. More pleasure is taken in reading on marble than in books; we choose rather to pass the whole day in looking upon these pictures than in meditating upon the Divine Law. Great God, though we blush not at such follies, let us blush, at least, at the sums they cost!"[107]

However worthy such ideals might be from the spiritual point of view—and no one, surely, can read Bernard's letter without feeling its power and sincerity—it is obvious that, like those of the later Puritanism, they bore within them the germs of their own destruction. No community of man, even in those glorious days of the early middle ages, could live, for long, up to that standard; and as the order established itself all over Europe, almost, the diffusion of its forces resulted necessarily in a swift falling away, and loss of prestige. That change, though, perhaps, a disaster for the Christian church, was the salvation of Western Europe; for, had the ideals of Citeaux finally prevailed over those of Cluny, the glorious Gothic arts of the next three centuries, upon which Cluny certainly exercised great influence—of which, indeed, she was the mother—would not have attained the same development.

Among the distinguished visitors to Citeaux, were Louis le Gros, in 1127; Pope Eugène III., who presided over the chapter general, in 1148; Louis VII., in 1166; and Louis IX. (St. Louis), who came here from Vézelay, in 1244.

On that occasion, according to custom, the Duke of Burgundy, Hugues IV., preceded the royal cortège up to the limit of his lands. As they approached Citeaux, coming in sight of the church, all left their horses, and advanced on foot in the attitude of prayer. The prelates, the abbots who were there, and the monks, to the number of five hundred, came forth in procession to welcome the monarch visiting them for the first time. Louis IX. and Queen Blanche did not lodge in the abbey, but in the Hotel du Duc de Bourgogne, without the walls. They were specially authorized to eat meat during their stay, on condition that such permission would not be granted on a future occasion.[108]

Upon the fair fame of the later history of the order there rests one indelible stain. Citeaux was largely responsible for that series of awful crimes and massacres known as the Albigensian crusade. Early in the thirteenth century, Innocent III., weary of vain attempts by spiritual force to crush out heresy from the church, decided to employ the not unwilling Cistercians to preach a new crusade. A great army of "Crusaders," under the command of Eudes III., Duke of Burgundy, crossed the Rhône at Avignon, and passing through Montpellier, came to Béziers, where they proceeded to indulge in "the greatest massacre ever committed in all the world; for they spared neither young nor old, nor even infants at the breast." It seems a cruel irony that from Arnaud, Abbot of Citeaux, a successor of St. Robert and St. Bernard, should have come the answer to the question how they were to deal with the heretics: "Kill them all; God will know His Own!"

But happier recollections than those were in my mind when last I rode to Citeaux from Dijon, on a dull and rainy morning of October, a fitting day on which to visit that savage and lonely site. There are people—cultured people, even, such as Emile Montégut—who will tell you that, because the country here is flat, and the old monastery almost entirely destroyed, Citeaux is not worthy of a visit. I find it hard to understand how anyone possessing a spark of historic imagination, can thus deprive himself of the pleasure of seeing the abbey; though there were certainly less inducement to go there when the place was a penitentiary school, than now, when it is again in the occupation of the white monks. I hope that this account of my own pilgrimage there will induce others to follow my example.

I rode to Citeaux by way of Rouvres, a lonely village on the plain south of Dijon. It has, or had, a château—not now visible within its belt of trees—that has some interesting historical associations, and there is a Romanesque church accessible, I remember, by a somewhat unique bridge, consisting of gravestones, evidently taken from the churchyard, laid, with the inscriptions uppermost, across the stream where the ducks paddle.

Passing through many a tangled and dilapidated Burgundian village, I came at last, after miles of plodding across the plain, to a spot so savage of aspect, that it might well be a halting-place, even to-day, for an ascetic brotherhood faring forth in search of a site for a new foundation. On the left of the lonely road was a stagnant marsh, bordered with clumps of yellow reeds and brown bullrushes. Before me, a great expanse of sullen water, fringed with a line of distant, black fir trees, reflected on its broken surface the drifting, gray clouds. A dismal lake it was, marged with red and green rushes, dappled with broad-leaved water plants, and spotted with splashing drops. No human note broke the silence; no sound but the harsh cry of wild fowl, the croaking of frogs, the monotonous swish of falling rain. At my feet were growing thistles and deadly night-shade; through the reeds I caught a glimpse of a pink sow snouting in the mud. A feeling of intense exaltation arose within me—the delight born of unity with Nature in her elemental mood. I knew now why the Cistercians loved these spots. There welled up in me the same sensation of burning pleasure that lightened the life of the ascetic of eight hundred years ago, when, leaning upon the handle of his spade, as he paused for a moment from his labour, he watched the wind furrowing the rippled water, and heard the holy spirits of the air singing to the bending rushes on the bank.

I rode on, past the gateway of the Abbey grounds, to the village of Citeaux, where I lunched with an asceticism that, though not inappropriate to the occasion, was due, I must confess, rather to the limitations of the innkeeper's resources, than to a voluntary compliance with the rule of St. Benedict. During the repast, Madame, standing before me, and punctuating her remarks with an occasional sweep of the back of her hand across her mouth, held forth upon the history of the Abbey. Learning from her that the buildings could be visited, I determined to see what was to be seen. Cycling boldly up to the gate of the monastery, and ignoring utterly a mighty hound, who nearly strangled himself in his efforts to rend me limb from limb, I looked about me. Near the gate was a white monk, walkingslowly, with his eyes upon the ground. He bowed in response to my salutation; but, when he raised his head, his hesitation, and the spasmodic movements of his lips before he spoke, betrayed the effect of the rule of silence. The words came with an effort.

"Vous n'avez qu'à sonner à la porte."

I rang the bell accordingly, when there emerged, from the lodge opposite to the gate, another little, square-headed, white-robed monk, who, smiling, and bowing low, with spread hands, welcomed me to the monastery.

My guide was an intelligent, affectionate, resigned little Flamand, his natural cheerfulness of disposition tempered by the inevitable sadness of a vocation now generally despised, and quite apart from the swiftly-flowing current of modern life. Together we traversed the rooms and corridors of the modern buildings—until recently a penitentiary school—from which the members of the chapter, held annually in September, had departed only the day before my visit. On the walls of the assembly room were plans of the four daughter abbeys of Citeaux—La Ferté, Pontigny, Clairvaux, and Morimond; "Une mère bien féconde," as my guide said—and the signed letter of Pope Leo XIII., restoring Citeaux to the Cistercian order. The chapter table, round which ran the names of the abbeys represented, was still littered with pens and ink for use at the function. My monk pointed out the little ballot-box, filled with white beans, by means of which the voting was done. A majority of one carries the day, and the ballot is open, unless one member expresses a desire for it to be secret. The rule of St. Benedict, and the book of the constitutions, are kept on the table for reference, if necessary.

We passed beneath the bust of St. Bernard, which is over the door, and descended to the foot of the stairs, where my companion put on again, over his sandalled feet, the sabots he had kicked off on entering. A moment later we were standing in the refectory, where, upon the table, were laid the spoons, the brown earthenware plates, the bowls and the napkins, all ready for the next meal. The abbot sits, as of old, at the head of his twenty-five monks, and in the middle is a table with three "couverts," where the same vegetarian repast is served to three souls in purgatory, the remains being given to the poor. Thence, I was taken to see the little cloister, the staircase tower and library, probably of the fourteenth century, all that remains of the great Abbey. On the way we passed through the garden, where adozen or more black and white-robed brethren were busily digging the ground, still carrying on the tradition of St. Benedict, that in the sweat of their brow they should eat bread. That sight alone repaid well the trouble of coming to Citeaux in the rain.

Meanwhile, my gentle guide talked resignedly of the ruin of the building, of the decay of the order. There was a note of deep sadness in his voice, as he said:—

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