by Nicolas Diat
A full community is composed of the living and the dead. The canons’ present is nourished by the memory of the dead. When the canons are in the choir stalls, which date back to 1743, they know that many brothers have gone before them. They do not necessarily know their names. But they do not forget them.
In general, the young brothers who enter Mondaye have never had contact with death. The departure of an elderly brother is always a discovery. They grow familiar with death. They learn to say goodbye.
We forget men of power. Father Joël was not one. But it is difficult to recover from the death of a servant.
Today, a father is missed by his brothers.
Before leaving Mondaye, on a beautiful sunny morning, I returned to the famous tomb. The wildflowers had disappeared. An anonymous hand had left white lilies there.
VIII
The Deaths of the Recluses
The Grande Chartreuse Monastery
In the austere library of Fontgombault, my attention was drawn to an old book in which biographies of saints were collected. I spent a long while reading an entry about Bruno.
A few lines about the founder of the Grande Chartreuse are enough to draw the reader into mysterious lands. Admiration and curiosity rise like waves during a spring tide:
Saint Bruno. Day of death: October 6, 1101. Tomb: in the monastery of Saint-Stephen, at La Torre, in Calabria. Life: Saint Bruno is the founder of the Carthusian order. Along with Saint Norbert, he is the only German founder of an order. He was born in Cologne, around the year 1030; his contemporaries call him the light of the Church, the flower of the clergy, the glory of Germany and France. The persecutions by Manasses, the simonist archbishop of Reims, made his resolution to retire into solitude develop and mature (1076). After a brief stay at Molesmes Abbey, where he spoke with Abbot Robert, the bishop of Grenoble, Hugh, assigned him as his residence a place that took its name of “Chartreuse” from the surrounding mountains. The order founded by Saint Bruno is one of the strictest that exists in the Church: the Carthusians adopted the rule of Saint Benedict, but added to it the obligation of silence and abstinence from all meat (they eat only bread, vegetables, and water). Saint Bruno wanted to revive the ancient hermit life. This order is renowned for having never been unfaithful to the spirit of its founder, so that it never needed to be reformed. Six years after the founding of his order, Bruno was called to Rome by Pope Urban II to be his advisor. He went only reluctantly. But, when the pope was obliged to flee from Emperor Henri IV to Campania, Saint Bruno discovered a deserted place, similar to Chartreuse, where he founded a second residence that became a flourishing monastery. It is there that he was struck, in September 1101, by a serious illness. He summoned his disciples and made before them, in the manner of an apostolic profession of faith, a public confession; after which he died, at the age of seventy-one.
The Grande Chartreuse is the result of a mystical encounter between a place and an ascetic, a great alchemy, the transfiguration of a landscape by the silence of hermits. Dom Dysmas de Lassus, minister general of the order, repeats that he tries to fight against the myth that surrounds his monastery. It would take him several lifetimes to succeed. . .
On that beautiful day in July 2017, it was nine-thirty in the evening at the Grande Chartreuse. A pale, red light flooded the horizon, striking the walls, the forests, and the crests of the mountains. The narrow valley was already sleeping, and I was the only one to stay up to contemplate the sunset falling over the monastic city.
On summer evenings, when the hikers leave the trails and the monks close their shutters, silence envelops the still nature. There are only the owls to let out long, magnificent hoots. Far off, the barking of sheep dogs is sometimes heard.
The little houses of the sons of Saint Bruno are surrounded by high mountains that completely encircle the whole countryside. High above, flying over the Charmant Som, a plane passed through the sky. I imagined life in the cabin. Below, in their humble cells, the Carthusians were piously asleep. During the day, the monks who walk in their little gardens see the planes passing above them. What do they think then? Are they secretly praying for passengers going to unknown destinations?
Two hours later, the sky was sprinkled with stars and the bells were joyously ringing. The monks were opening their eyes; they had finished the first part of their night. After the solitary recitation of Matins de Beata, they went through the long corridors of the cloister to attend night office.
I crossed the vast gallery of maps to reach the gallery in the church. It was twelve-ten A.M. I saw the brothers enter the sanctuary plunged in complete darkness. The Carthusians slowly reached their stalls. With help from small torches, they prepared the liturgical books in which they could follow the psalms, the responses, the antiphons, and the hymns. Night prayer is long, between two and three hours. That day, we returned to our cells around two-thirty in the morning.
Matins began, and the church remained in darkness. The chanting of the psalms, solemn, profound, had never seemed so beautiful to me. The Carthusians know them from memory. The red flame of the Blessed Sacrament was the only light. Then an angelic voice, as pure as water from a spring, began the reading from a text of Saint Irenaeus.
These moments of grace are the heart of Carthusian life. Every night, the Carthusians offer this wonderful prayer to God. Lauds followed Matins; the austerity, the starkness, the beauty of these chants stunned me. There is nothing comparable to the Carthusian offices.
Leaving, I saw a postulant wrapped in a large black cape, the hood raised over his head. He was walking unhurriedly back to his cell. Every night, until his death, he would come to sing the great night prayer.
The door that opened onto the corridor of officers was open. I heard the wind picking up. The courtyard of honor was still and deserted. The delicate lapping of water in the stone basins resounded gently. At the Grande Chartreuse, singing is never accompanied by instruments. There is no organ. The only music comes from the works of nature.
The next day, I stayed a long time in the cloister. The doors of the thirty-two pavilions remained closed. Generations of monks have walked on these old stones. But the silence has never varied.
To go to Mass, Vespers, the night office, the fathers pass through these galleries. According to custom, they leave their cells without a word and walk as closely as possible to the walls.
During the summer, the windows of the cloister are open to the interior courtyards and the cemetery. The light colors walls already patinated by the centuries. The Carthusians try to retain a bit of warmth. Then they can better see the graves at their doors. Sometimes birds come in, like curious little visitors.
In the winter, the wooden crosses marking the location of graves bend and yield under the weight of snow. Night falls quickly, the wind carries the echoes of the tall pine forests, and the murmuring of the snow speaks instead of the monks.
This summer morning, an elderly brother was walking slowly in the endless corridors of the Grande Chartreuse. Filled with emotion, I watched him advancing with measured steps with the help of a wooden cane. In work clothes, his back injured, he carried a large wicker basket. Despite his ninety-three years, Brother Michel-Marie was in charge of sewing. He stopped in front of the cell doors to collect the clothes that the fathers needed mended.
The old lay brothers never stop working. These worker brothers are awaiting God, but they do not like to leave the last word to time, which passes. They want to continue the work as in the early stages of their lives.
In 2015, one of them, Brother Joachim, had to go to the hospital. The Carthusians remember that he had no longer wanted to eat the day he understood that his faltering health would prevent him from going back to work. The brother was the bursar; in the language of a Carthusian, this means that he took care of organizing the meals alongside the brother cook.
In general, the brothers who can no longer work devote themselves entirely to saying the rosary. Brother Marie-Bernard remained thus for years i
n his cell, between two stays at the hospital to fix his legs. He was simply waiting, as if this situation were the most natural in the world. Several years before his death, he decided that Saint Joseph would come to get him. And in fact, during Lent, he had declined. But March 19 had arrived, and Saint Joseph did not come. Brother Marie-Bernard was a little disappointed. For three years, he had watched for the feast of Saint Joseph without anything happening. In the end, he was right. The monk died on March 19. At the moment of his death, the end-of-winter sun was dazzling.
Brother Louis had become completely deaf. He had worked all his life on the vast roofs of the Grande Chartreuse. Overtaken by the unproductiveness of old age, he prayed continuously in his cell. During the night, he came to the church. Despite his deafness, he followed every office in the big books. Around two o’clock in the morning, the old Carthusian died returning to his cell. Without a sound.
Brother Hilaire died at the age of ninety-nine. For as long as he could, he participated in the liturgy, remaining at the back of the brothers’ choir. Dom Innocent told me about him: “I remember his last week, in the cell where we had kept vigil over him for several days. It’s a distant memory, but I still see his oratory completely lined in pious images, so much so that you could no longer see the wood. He died without complications. One day, we were told he was dead, and that was all.”
The deaths of the fathers of the cloister are often even more extraordinary. From a human perspective, they are almost incomprehensible.
The death agony of Dom Landuin made an impact on the Carthusians. This monk, born in 1925, was gifted with a tenacious character and a resilient spirit. During recreation, Dom Landuin spoke little. He was tough, laconic, humble. One day in Lent 2015, after Vespers, he wanted to speak with Dom Innocent. They left for the Chapter room. Quietly, Dom Landuin told him: “I am tired. I am going to die the day after tomorrow or maybe Sunday.” The monk tried to reassure him. Dom Landuin continued: “In any case, I am certain that it will be before the end of the year.” He had spoken these words calmly. The prospect of his end made him serene. He was sure that God was approaching him. And, indeed, Dom Landuin died within the two months that followed his little prophecy.
He had begun to arrange his things for his successor. In his role as archivist, he had accumulated an incredible mass of papers and books that were strewn on the floor of his cell. Two weeks before his death, he was obliged to give up night office. Dom Dysmas suggested he move to the infirmary so he could be closer to the church. He always declined this offer.
Dom Landuin continued to burn the documents he judged useless, and the Carthusians came to give him Communion in his room. His fatigue became evident; Dom Dysmas wanted to call the community’s doctor. Dom Landuin’s response was final: “What would you want him to do? We must leave this earth.” Already, he was hardly eating anymore.
One Sunday evening, Dom Innocent asked him if he would agree to being watched. Carthusians live lives of solitude. They dream of preserving this eremitical existence until death. However, Dom Landuin was not opposed to the monks coming to pray in his room. They came to visit him in turns.
He was not suffering. He was gently slipping toward God. The Carthusians were witnesses to this slow walk of their brother toward eternity. The second night of the vigil, Dom Landuin stopped speaking. The old man had become a little aphasic child. One morning, his breathing stopped for long seconds. But the body was holding on.
The day of his death, the Carthusians present around his bed all had the same feeling: the Virgin Mary and the celestial court had descended to come take him by the hand. In this little gray room with walls covered with soot from an outdated wood-burning stove, the floor still strewn with loose papers scribbled by his hand, a son of Saint Bruno left the world. Dom Landuin was radiant.
For the hermits, the indigence of the place, the emaciated face of their brother, the poverty of care were not important. They saw only the light that radiated from his face. Dom Landuin died without suffering during the great night office. Discreetly informed by Dom Foulques-Marie, the prior left the church to go to his cell.
The monks understood that their brother had just died. In their stalls, they continued the prayer. Dom Landuin had entered the Grande Chartreuse in 1950. He had flown away without a word.
In the middle of the night, helped by two other Carthusians, Dom Dysmas prepared the body. They put his white habit back on him and the rosary of his profession. Then they placed him on a plank in the center of the room, and Dom Dysmas lit the Paschal candle, a symbol of the Resurrection.
The death of Dom Landuin left a particular imprint. It deviated from the customs of the recluses. There really is a Carthusian way. A beginning full of enthusiasm, a middle of difficult and contrasted experiences, then a peace that announces eternity. When the Carthusians arrive at the end of their road, they are already detached from life.
Brother Jean was found dead in the oratory of his cell. One evening in 2010, he died with his eyes fixed on the ivory crucifix that had supported his prayer for half a century. The Carthusians found him the next morning, on his knees, his hands joined and eyes closed.
Dom Gabriel had breathing problems. Up until the last day of his life, he wanted to go to the church. He walked the long halls with a bottle of oxygen. He died during Mass. After Communion, seated in his stall, Dom Gabriel lowered his head. He never raised it again.
Dom Andre Poisson was the minister general of the order and prior of the Grande Chartreuse from 1967 to 1997. In 2005, he died alone during night office. He was afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease and cancer. But he never suffered. The Carthusians had not seen his end coming. Dom Andre died two days before the general Chapter: the priors of all the monasteries around the world were at Chartreuse. So, they were all present for his funeral. This sign touched the monks.
A few months before his death, some novices went to greet him. Brother Marie-Pierre asked him how long he had been at Chartreuse. Dom Andre answered: “It is sixty years.” He was silent for a moment before adding: “Sixty years, it goes by quickly!”
Dom Andre was a very honest man. A graduate from the Ecole Polytechnique, a former resistance worker, he had chosen to renounce a promising career to enter the Grande Chartreuse. In a sermon given on the occasion of the nine-hundredth anniversary of Bruno’s arrival in the valley, he had described the character of the founder of the order. This portrait was a bit his own:
And yet, Bruno was not a sentimental person who allowed himself to be guided by superficial impressions. Others have already noted how important the notion of utility was to him. Not, certainly, in the sense of a human achievement to be conquered, but in the sense of a life that must bear authentic divine fruits. Bruno was a practical man. For him, contemplative life did not consist in entertaining streams of sublime thought: it was a matter of using effective ways of reaching God. He was perfectly aware that his solitude was the place where “he opened himself to very busy idleness and perfectly relaxed activity. Here,” he said, “for the price of effort in battle, God gives his fighters the awaited recompense: the peace that the world does not know and joy in the Holy Spirit.” In the same way, from the moment when the grace of conversion pierced his soul, he did not procrastinate. Concrete decisions immediately followed: to leave the world, to take the monastic habit, to seek eternal realities. The choice was made: he bound himself by a vow.
On Sundays, as a general rule, Dom Jacques attended to the spiritual meeting of lay brothers. He left the recreation of the fathers a half hour before it finished. That day, he got up, and, contrary to habit, he said: “This is it, it is time, I am leaving you.” Ten minutes later, he died alone on a staircase leading to the cloister.
At the Grande Chartreuse, there is no death agony. It is rare that sick monks suffer. They die serenely, in the perfect solitude of their cells. “Dying alone is part of our charism. This death resembles us”, Dom Innocent sums up with humor.
Some Carthusians at the end
of life are no longer able to eat. They die, then, like fledglings fallen to the ground. In the final weeks, Dom Marc, who was blind, took only one glass of milk a day. One day, his heart stopped. The community did not have time to keep vigil with him.
The Carthusians are not afraid of leaving this world. The cemetery is in the middle of the large cloister. Every day, beginning in the novitiate, the fathers have walked beside the enclosure in order to get to the church.
When a Carthusian dies, the whole community gathers in the cell of the deceased for the lifting of the body. The body is led in procession to the church. In the choir, between the stalls, the deceased is no longer alone. Near the body laid on the floor, the monks pray for him.
The Carthusians themselves dig the graves that welcome the bodies of their own. The deceased is secured to a simple board lowered into the clay soil. The cemetery is not large; regularly, the monks have to empty the old graves by hand to make room. The skulls and bones are first set aside before being put back in the grave at the same time as the new body.