by Nicolas Diat
Brother Laurent spoke little. When Brother Philippe changed the bandages, he learned to communicate with him through facial expressions and signs. Gentleness was still possible. One night, before going to sleep, the old monk calmly told a novice: “In my youth, I very much wanted to follow Jesus on the Cross; I talked a lot about it; and now I am there, and I am silent.”
Brother Philippe had to arm himself with courage: “One morning, I discovered that Brother Laurent had taken off all his bandages, and the naked sores had bled onto the sheets. I left for a short moment to pray to regain my calm. Brother Laurent, like all Cistercians, was used to solitude. By this action, he was demonstrating a kind of revolt against the barbarism of this last stage of his life.”
However, Brother Laurent showed no bitterness. In suffering, he was peaceful. One morning, as usual, Brother Philippe helped him to get dressed. All of a sudden, he collapsed and gave up his spirit. Brother Laurent fell like an angel deprived of his fragile wings. He was smiling.
Rapid deaths are often even more impressive than painful deaths. Father Tarcisius was a generous monk. For several years, he had been afflicted with Parkinson’s disease. He collapsed in a hallway. The religious placed him in a wheelchair to rush him to the infirmary. He died in this wheelchair. The paramedics tried to resuscitate him. But he was already with God.
Every day, the monks try to think of their dead. Why reflect on the last things just at the moment of departure? It is rather unreasonable to think we are going to meditate on death when we are sick and tired.
Brother Jérôme had the symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease. He knew he should prepare himself for death before his memory left him. He died in his sleep. I was struck to the heart by the strength, the generosity, and the simplicity of Brother Philippe.
Before we parted, I asked him if he wanted to add anything. I can still hear the sound of his deep and meditative voice: “Thinking about death is not morbid. On the contrary, it enables us to understand the meaning of life. It is necessary to learn to recognize the end of our road. Why be afraid? The Resurrection is the foundation of our faith. Real life is not on earth. Every day, we must prepare to die.”
No one can know how he will live his death. Will we be courageous, fearful, happy? Will we be cowards or heroes? If he had to depart under the same conditions as Father Jacques Hamel, assassinated during Mass at Saint-Étienne-du-Rouvray, Brother Philippe is unable to say if he would be as noble. He was struck by the final words of the priest: “Depart, Satan!” At the hour of death, our perceptions are not as acute. Life plays out in a fraction of a second. Brother Philippe loves the words of Christ in the Gospel of Saint Matthew (10:19): “When they deliver you up, do not be anxious about how you are to speak or what you are to say; for what you are to say will be given to you in that hour.”
How would the brother infirmarian of Cîteaux like to be accompanied at the hour of his own death? He has no doubt that the brothers he has cared for, the sons of Saint Bernard who have suffered, the monks who died in his arms, will come to find him to reassure him.
“How can I still be useful to others?” How many times has Brother Philippe heard these words from the mouths of religious who have reached the threshold of the great voyage? The question seems surprising for a man at the end of his road. The brothers have worked all their lives, and they want to serve while drawing on the last of their strength.
At Cîteaux, there is a workshop for the old monks. They make rosaries that are sent all over the world. Three days before departing, a ninety-seven-year-old brother was working with just one hand; the other was paralyzed. He succeeded in finishing one last rosary.
As we were about to part, on the doorstep, Brother Philippe bid me farewell with one last story: “One day, a diabetic brother had passed a sleepless night. But he was radiant. With his usual enthusiasm, he explained to me that he had spent his time traveling the world sowing ‘Hail Marys’. He told me that he had gone in spirit to all the continents, right to the end of the world. The brother had traveled the oceans before taking his vows. He was a sailor. The following day, he left us to sail on the waves of the good God.”
Brother Philippe headed back to the infirmary, walking peacefully under the rain that was flooding the countryside.
I looked far away at the statue of Saint Bernard. He knew doubts and sorrows that are not far from those of the monks in our times. The great Cistercian mourned the death of his brother Gerard, who had been the cellarer of Clairvaux. In his twenty-sixth sermon on the Song of Songs, he spoke of his sadness in extraordinary detail:
You understand how faithful a companion has been taken from my side “in the way in which I was walking.” You know what was his attentiveness to duty, his diligence at work, his sweetness and amiability of character. Who was so indispensable to me? By whom was I so much beloved? He was my brother by blood, but more my brother by religious profession. Oh, pity my lot, you to whom these things are known!
I was weak in body, and he supported me. I was pusillanimous, and he encouraged me. I was slothful and negligent, and he spurred me on. I was improvident and forgetful, and he acted as my monitor. Oh, whither hast thou been taken from me? Why hast thou been torn from my arms, “a man of one mind,” “a man according to my heart”? We have loved each other in life, how then is it that we are separated in death? O most cruel divorce, which only death could have power to cause! For when in life wouldst thou have so deserted me? Yes, it is unmistakably the work of death, this most woeful separation. For what but death, that enemy of all things sweet, would not have spared the sweet bond of our mutual love? With good reason is that called death and a double death, which in its rage has slain two in carrying off one. Has not that separation been death to me also? Yea, and especially to me, for whom is preserved a life more bitter than any death. For I live indeed, but only to endure a living death. And I shall call such an existence life? O unfeeling death, how much kinder it had been to deprive me of the possession of life than of its fruit! For life without fruit is worse than death, since we are told that two evils, the axe and the fire, await the tree that bears no fruit. Therefore, through envy of my labours, “thou hast removed far from me my friend and my neighbour,” to whose zeal was mainly due whatever fruit those labours yielded.
Hence it were far better for me to have lost my life than thy company, O my brother, who wert the earnest stimulator of my studies in the Lord, my faithful helper, and my prudent counsellor. Why, I ask, have we been so united in brotherly love? Or, so united, why so parted? O most mournful lot! But it is my fate that is pitiable, not his. For thou, sweet brother, if separated from thy dear ones, art now united to others still more dear. But what consolation remains now to wretched me, after losing thee, my only comfort? Our bodily companionship was a source of enjoyment to both of us, on account of the conformity of our wills and sentiments, but I alone have suffered from our separation. The enjoyment was common, but I am left the monopoly of the sadness and the sorrow. “Wrath hath come upon me”; “wrath is strong over me.” Sweet was the presence of each to other, sweet our companionship, sweet our conversation. But whilst I have lost the happiness of us both, thou hast only exchanged it for better. For in this exchange “there is a great reward.”1
Reading these lines, I think of Brother Philippe. He has accompanied so many monks to the gates of eternity. Over the years spent with the sick in the infirmary, has he also lost all the joys described by Bernard of Clairvaux? The founder of the Cistercian order speaks of a “great reward”. It is enough to observe Brother Philippe for a moment to know that they are innumerable and that they illuminate his life.
VI
The Art of a Happy Death
Fontgombault Abbey
Fontgombault Abbey is nestled in the heart of the countryside. On the banks of the Creuse, on the Berry frontier, fields, forests, and caves surround the walls of the enclosure. The boscage protects Fontgombault from intrusive eyes.
Past the heavy wooden door of th
e porch, the abbey church reveals its splendor. At every office, a splendid group of Benedictines in black, entering the choir, impresses the pilgrims.
The Father Abbot Dom Jean Pateau and Dom Antoine Forgeot, his predecessor, lead the slow and solemn procession.
The Gregorian chant at Fontgombault is one of the most beautiful in the world. On Sundays, when the choir organ discreetly accompanies the monks, for solemn Mass or Vespers, the beauty of the voices reaches the sublime. The gentleness, precision, and richness of this music can transform a man.
In the church, at the height of summer, coolness caresses the skin. But in winter, the icy, wet, merciless cold can grip the body to the bone. On late-autumn nights, at the hour of Matins, the temperature rarely exceeds 40 or 45 degrees in the beautiful wooden stalls.
On this Wednesday in May, heavy rain was falling in gusts on Fontgombault. From the windows in the cell where the father guestmaster had placed me, I saw soaking-wet brothers passing through the courtyard. With their heads bent forward, they did not linger on the muddy road that led to the portal of honor.
In the evening, in the medieval refectory, the steaming soup finally warmed the monks. Streams of light were coming in through the high windows. From his pulpit, in the silence punctuated by the sound of utensils and dishes, the lector was reading through speeches delivered during a papal trip.
Then the melancholy of Compline again calmed hearts and souls. After the blessing, the monks came to kneel before the statue of Our Lady of a Happy Death. A few moments after my arrival, I had already seen Dom Antoine Forgeot praying before this Virgin. The flames from the candles illuminated the walls and pavement. His fingers slipped over the beads of a large rosary made of Job’s Tears. I could hear the murmurings of his voice. If one day I learn of his death, this image will come to mind. And I know I will weep.
At night, I could hear the far-off sound of water pounding in the reservoirs of a dam. Built along the Creuse, it allowed the monks to produce their own electricity. After the rain, a thick fog covered the countryside and abbey grounds.
Around seven in the morning, I went down to the abbey church. About fifteen monks were saying their daily Mass. In front of the small stone altars positioned near pillars facing east, they were offering their prayers for the world. I heard the murmuring of sacred words spoken in low voices.
A few prayerful faithful, some words in Latin, some attentive lay brothers, monks walking slowly, the hoods of their habits raised over their heads, a nave flooded with springtime light—this May morning, the grace of Fontgombault was ageless.
I went into the ambulatory of the church to see the tombstones of two former Father Abbots, Dom Roy and Dom Roux. They were on either side of the Blessed Sacrament altar. One day, Dom Forgeot and Dom Pateau will join them. Their places are ready.
In the little cemetery nestled right against the church, solemn white crosses stood out in the lush grass. At the back, a small white gate opened onto a magnificent apple, pear, and quince orchard. In the middle of the nineteenth century, the Trappists were in charge of Fontgombault. They were forced to leave it in 1903. Today, when the Benedictines dig new graves, they often find remains of the bodies and habits of their predecessors.
The great monastic chain spans the centuries. Emile Verhaeren, in his poem “To the Monks”, describes this beautiful mystery:
Monks approaching us from gothic horizons,
whose soul, whose spirit of tomorrow dies,
who confine love to your mystic gardens
to purify it of all human pride,
resolute, you advance down the roads of men,
eyes deluded by the fires of perdition
from distant times to our present day,
through ages of silver and centuries of iron,
and ever the same step pious and broad.
Alone, majestic, you survive a dead Christian world
Alone with back unbowed you bear its load
like a royal corpse sunk in a coffin of gold.
Monks—seekers of sublime chimeras
your cries of eternity penetrate the necropolis,
your spirit is haunted by the glow of summits,
you are the bearers of cross and flame
around the divine ideal buried in the earth.
O monks, vanquished, unbowed, silenced,
O giants who tower above the din of the world,
who hear the only sound that heaven forged;
monks grown tall in exile and enslavement,
monks hunted down, but whose ruby garments
illumine the world’s night, and whose heads
fade in the lucidity of supreme suns,
we, the peaceful poets, we magnify your forms.
And whilst no pride today is victor,
and palm leaves are trodden into the muck,
monks, great solitaries of thought and heart
before the last soul becomes extinct,
my verses will build you mystic altars
beneath the wandering veil of a chaste cloud,
that one day this soul in eternal desire,
pensive, lonely, despairing, in the depths of pale night,
will rekindle the fire of your extinguished glory,
will dream of you still when the final blasphemy
like an immense sword skewers God.1
Today, two figures represent Fontgombault Abbey. The first is Dom Jean Pateau. He entered the abbey in 1990 and was elected Father Abbot twenty-one years later. Calm, smiling, intelligent, he always seemed to me the embodiment of a righteous man. His abbatial motto sums up his spirituality: “Modo geniti infantes” (Like newborn infants).
He wanted to explain this choice to his brothers. In a moving text, he described his vision of the monastic ideal: “Becoming a child implies a change, an effort, real work. This transformation, however, is the indispensable condition for entering into the family of God, into his sanctuary, into the kingdom of heaven, for entering into this game that is the monastic life. But spiritual childhood, of what does it consist? In a word, it is made of simplicity, trust, complete abandonment in the hands of God. . . . Thus, the monastic life is a life made for children. The monastic life is a game, the great game of charity. In a game, it is necessary to respect the rules; it is the same in the monastic life. The monastic life is a game played with God and with those the Lord has chosen to lead to the monastery, those we call our brothers. Truly, monastic life is a conspiracy of charity.”
In the rule, Saint Benedict calls on his sons to fear the day of judgment, to be afraid of hell, and to desire eternal life.
Paraphrasing Ignatius of Antioch, Dom Jean Pateau explained to me on several occasions that it was better to die well than to reign over the ends of the earth: “Here below, monks want to become transitory pilgrims.”
The second name associated with Fontgombault is that of Dom Forgeot. Born in 1933 in the Basque country, he chose to join the abbey at twenty, far from his homeland. His biological brother, Xavier, had already entered religious life. Then, from 1977 to 2011, he was the Father Abbot of the monastery.
He told me with simplicity about his arrival in Berry. Listening to him, I felt that monastic life was consistently happy. Dom Forgeot is aware of being the memory of the abbey. But he never dwells on the feelings of admiration that can be evoked by the sixty-five years he has spent at Fontgombault. Humble, wise, Dom Forgeot is a perfect image of an elderly monk at the end of his life. Slightly stooped, with a quick step and an alert intelligence, he has a keen view of the world. The former Father Abbot does not look for the right words; he describes things precisely and seriously.
Dom Forgeot has seen twenty-six monks from the abbey leave this world. But he does not have a single memory of a tragic or painful death. He remembers silent passings, in peace. Gentle deaths.
The death of Brother Clement touched him deeply. A lay brother, self-effacing and courageous, he spent his religious life in the abbey kitchens. Afflicted with Parkin
son’s disease, he lived in the monastery infirmary. One morning, he felt mildly fatigued. The father infirmarian advised him to stay in bed and get some rest. He saw that his condition was rapidly deteriorating. Dom Forgeot was quick to come visit him. When he entered his room, Brother Clement’s breathing had greatly weakened. He gave up his soul without difficulty.
Dom Forgeot, who was still prior of Fontgombault, remembers with emotion old Father Julien. The Father Abbot Roy often told him: “You will not die in my absence.” One winter morning, after a bad case of the flu, the doctor realized that the end was very near. But Dom Jean Roy was absent for the day. Dom Forgeot called him to tell him the bleak diagnosis. Dom Roy asked him to administer the last rites immediately. After dinner, Father Julien asked Dom Forgeot if the Father Abbot had returned. Dom Forgeot replied in the negative. He was breathing with infinite difficulty, but he was holding on. Two long hours later, Dom Roy returned to the abbey. He went to see him without delay, and Father Julien died in his presence. For Dom Forgeot, “he died in obedience.”
In the Benedictine tradition, the Father Abbot is Christ’s representative. The departing monks like to die in his presence.
In November 1956, Dom Forgeot was present at the death of his biological brother, Xavier. He died in Val-de-Grâce hospital in Paris. He was doing his military service. A stroke victim, he had little glimmers of consciousness, but he could no longer express himself. For two months, Brother Xavier Forgeot remained in this difficult state.