by Nicolas Diat
Traditionally, the latest novice to enter the monastery holds the processional cross, placed at the foot of the grave. It is he who most clearly sees the body of his elder and the hood lowered over the face.
According to the directives of Guigues, fifth prior of the Grande Chartreuse and legislator of the order, who wrote the “Statutes of the Carthusians” at the beginning of the twelfth century, the head of the deceased is turned toward the conventual church. The young monk watches the four Carthusians designated by the prior to throw in the shovelfuls of dirt, sometimes pebbles, to close the grave. He hears the muffled sound of clumps of earth that fall on the body. The verb “to bury” takes on its full meaning. The community waits until the grave is filled.
Dom Innocent told me with his usual humor that life would be a disaster if we did not know that death would come for us one day. How could men remain indefinitely in this valley of tears? “We are born to meet God. The old Carthusians ask him not to delay. Death is the end of school. Afterward comes Paradise. A monk has given his life to God, and he has never met him. It is normal for him to be impatient to see him. As in the poems of Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross, the Carthusians die from not dying. To our great regret, the Holy Spirit is not in a hurry to come for us. In our order, purifications and great trials are not common. In the final months, Christ has already taken hold of our elderly monks. The worn-out body returns to the earth, but it is to await the glory of its resurrection. We do not know yet what our body really is, its beauty, its glory, and its light. The most beautiful, by far, is yet to come.”
In speaking with the Carthusians, I realized there were not many who died of cancer. Two or three monks had had a tumor; but they were spared suffering. The brothers think that the rigor of the Carthusian diet explains their good health. The Carthusians, including the sick, do not eat meat. The fathers do not eat breakfast. For half the year, from September 14 to Easter, the great monastic fast, they dine on a simple piece of bread with fruit juice or a glass water. The only meal is lunch. In Carthusian language, they call it a pittance. It consists of eggs or fish and vegetables from the kitchen garden. During Advent and the fast that precedes Easter, the Carthusians abstain from dairy products.
Since the founding of the order, funeral days have been considered moments of celebration. The Carthusians eat, as an exception, in the refectory; in ordinary times, they come here on Sundays and for solemnities. If the funerals fall on a fast day, it will not be observed. In the evening, they will also have a full meal in their cell.
After the burial, the community meets in the Chapter room. The prior gives a sermon and recalls the life of the deceased. In general, during the recreation that follows the funeral, the Carthusians speak of the brother who just died.
They can come into the chapel of the dead to reflect near the bones of the first Carthusians from the eleventh and twelfth centuries. A few paces from the cells, the companions of Bruno sleep in this sad and somber oratory. Their ancient skulls rest under the high altar. On hiking days, the Carthusians come to this place to pray before leaving to climb the mountain trails.
In the cemetery, there are no names on the graves. On one side, thin, black wooden crosses indicate the graves of the fathers and lay brothers. On the other side, stone crosses are reserved for the last earthly dwelling of the priors. The Carthusians choose to disappear from the eyes of the world and then from their own brothers. Often, they are incapable of finding the precise grave of a monk in the cemetery. The hermits die without leaving a trace. Forgetfulness immediately follows death. The dreadful phrase from Genesis comes to mind (3:19): “In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
At the end of the enclosure, however, two small, discreet graves bear the names of the dead. One day, on the occasion of the annual family visit, the father of a monk died from a heart attack during his sleep. He was staying in the beautiful building of the exterior guesthouse. The family asked that he be buried in the cemetery of the monks. The Carthusians agreed. He rests beside the father of Dom Andre Poisson. The night that preceded the solemn profession of his son, death came for him, too. The young Carthusian thought it was a confirmation of the action that was going to see a page of his life turned. These two men are the exceptions in the cemetery of the Grande Chartreuse.
Saint Bruno himself left few traces. He sent only two letters that allow us to grasp his spirituality and thought. The Carthusians themselves know almost nothing about his life. In a homily from 1983, Dom Andre Poisson could say: “It is thus a kind of stylized image of our Blessed Father that Providence has wanted to present to our love and our devotion.”
In the same way, monks who write books simply sign them “A Carthusian”. Men often make great efforts to leave a trace. In all the Carthusian monasteries of the world, the attitude is the opposite.
Unlike the oldest monastic traditions, the Carthusians are reluctant to write biographical notes about their dead. Some brothers request that their death not be announced. Even in eternity, they are afraid of being recognized.
The desire for obscurity is so strong that few Carthusians have been canonized. The priors have never spoken of the lives of their most exemplary monks. Dom Innocent sums up the situation with a saying that does not lack spirit: “The Carthusian monastery makes saints; it does not publish them.”
In the nineteenth century, the monks made an astonishing discovery. While digging a grave, next to the oldest ones, they came upon a perfectly preserved corpse. Its preservation, after decades in the ground, was a miracle. The monks ran to the Reverend Father. His response was final: “Close the grave, dig next to it, and don’t tell anyone about it.” Similarly, in the middle of the seventeenth century, in the cemetery of the old Carthusian monastery in Paris, at the site of the current Luxembourg garden, miracles were multiplying on the grave of a lay brother who had died in the odor of sanctity. Dom Innocent says the prior came to the place to address the deceased: “In the name of holy obedience, I forbid you to perform miracles.” The extraordinary phenomena ceased immediately.
The Carthusians who have had important duties in the order are nonetheless worried about the future of the work they have done. So it was for Dom Maurice, who was the novice master for thirty-five years at the Carthusian monastery of Selignac, then at the Grand Chartreuse. Generations of young monks were impacted by his demanding and rough instruction. Before his death, Dom Maurice wanted to know who would succeed him. In 1990, Dom Dysmas came to tell him of his nomination to the position he had occupied. Dom Dysmas corresponded in every way to the choice for which he had secretly hoped. A few short weeks later, he left this world reassured.
The solitary life of the Carthusians is often the source of great human and spiritual richness. Their ways of dying are radiant with this freedom.
Solitude is also a field of combat. Paradoxically, resistance to God is stronger outside the world. In a homily for the feast of the Ascension, 1984, Dom Andre Poisson described, in a few perfectly chosen words, the truth about the eremitical existence: “Our life in the desert is beautiful; it is attractive. But it lays bare the fragilities of our heart insofar as it tests the legitimate attractions of our nature.”
The beauty of Carthusian deaths, sweet and simple, seems to bear witness to the fact that the spiritual combat of the sons of Bruno is so powerful that, in the final hour, fears are abolished. In the last moments, the peace that dwells in them is so profound that the majority of them are not afraid to die alone. They have spent their lives in the silence of an austere cell that sees them leave this earth.
For these men, death is a final exam that is easy to pass, and eternal life is like summer vacation. Earthly life is a simple school for understanding God. Students are not made to sit on benches facing a blackboard. After the exam, they leave on other paths.
Saint Teresa of Avila compared life to a night in a bad inn. Dom Innocent i
magines existence like a night on a train: “The important thing is not the journey but the place of arrival. I spend half my life thinking about eternal life. It is the constant backdrop that lines my whole existence. I am not afraid of the Grim Reaper. It makes me curious. Eternity passes through death. We must love this door that will allow us to know the Father. We are born for heaven. Earthly life and eternal life are intimately connected. Why fear the junction between these realities? Christians no longer really believe in the resurrection of bodies. Paradise is likened to a void of floating souls. But men are in the image of God. It will not be necessary to leave our humanity in order to be united with God. Eternity will be much more human than we can imagine. We should cultivate an imaginary image of eternal life.”
The Carthusians often feel the limits of this world more strongly than men plunged in the thick of everyday life. They have a keen sense of the incompleteness of earthly life.
Dom Innocent knows by heart the beautiful poem by Charles Péguy, from The Portal of the Mystery of Hope:
The faith that I love the best, says God, is hope.
Faith doesn’t surprise me.
It’s not surprising.
I am so resplendent in my creation. . . .
Charity, says God, that doesn’t surprise me.
It’s not surprising.
These poor creatures are so miserable that unless they had a heart of stone, how could they not have love for each other. . . .
What surprises me, says God, is hope.
And I can’t get over it. . .
Hope is a little girl, nothing at all.
Who came into the world on Christmas day just this past year. . . .
This little girl, nothing at all.
She alone, carrying the others, who will cross worlds past. . . .
Faith is obvious. . . .
Unfortunately Charity is obvious. . .
But hope is not obvious. Hope does not come on its own.
To hope, my child, you would have to be quite fortunate, to have obtained, received a great grace. . . .
Faith sees what is. . . .
Charity loves what is. . . .
Hope sees what has not yet been and what will be.
She loves what has not yet been and what will be. . . .
On the uphill path, sandy and troublesome.
On the uphill road.
Dragged along, hanging from the arms of her two older sisters,
Who hold her by the hand,
The little hope.
Pushes on.
And in between her two older sisters she seems to let herself be carried.
Like a child who lacks the energy to walk.
And is dragged along the road in spite of herself.
But in reality it is she who moves the other two.
And who carries them,
And who moves the whole world.
And who carries it.
Because no one ever works except for children.
And the two older ones don’t walk except for the youngest.1
Little Hope is the salt of Carthusian life. The Carthusians have left the whirlwind of the earth. Yet, they still have a keen awareness of the fragility of human ways. They know that the actions of this world bear weight in eternity. The inspiration of these men is in the Apocalypse of Saint John (Rev 14:13): “And I heard a voice from heaven saying, ‘Write this: Blessed are the dead who from now on die in the Lord.’ ‘Blessed indeed,’ says the Spirit, ‘that they may rest from their labors, for their deeds follow them!’ ”
The hope of the Carthusians is so great, they place so much confidence in God, that they often receive their doctor with a cheerful detachment. For example, one day, an elderly monk, near death, met with the monastery doctor. The doctor said: “How are you?” The answer was not very precise: “Much better than I deserve.” And the doctor retorted: “That doesn’t tell a doctor anything!”
The Carthusians remember a number of equally surprising anecdotes. Dom Guigues was having disturbing pains. The doctor came urgently. After a few moments, he told him: “This is serious. You could die!” And the religious replied without stopping to think: “Well if it’s only that. . .”
Dom Robert also consulted a doctor. The latter questioned him: “How are you?” His response was somewhat equivocal: “Me, I’m quite well. It’s my health that’s rather bad.”
Dom Ferdinand Vidal, Dom Andre Poisson’s predecessor, greeting a nurse, answered in his own way: “Reverend Father, how is your health?” Dom Ferdinand explained that everything was perfectly fine. Then he listed fifteen infirmities that were attacking him and that would have led any other man to the emergency room.
For a Carthusian, illness is as simple as death. Does a hermit want to die? Dom Innocent responds simply: “God decides. Modern society presents death in an unappealing way. We must move away from this vision. We must accept the darkness of the earth and wait impatiently for heaven.”
A few weeks after my trip, Dom Innocent sent me a note: “You had asked me if I were waiting for death. I did not say yes right away, for a basically obvious reason: it is not the door I am waiting for, but what is on the other side of the door. I am not waiting for death, but for Life. This should go without saying, but curiously enough it is not so common. Perhaps I reacted this way because I often take a little walk, in faith and in imagination—what I call ‘dreaming’. But when one knows that the reality is even more incredible than the dream. . . then, yes, there is a little impatience.”
In a Carthusian monastery, in the eyes of the world, nothing happens. The existence is monotonous. After death, lost in an anonymous cemetery and without history, the memory of the sons of Bruno vanishes. A Carthusian, who wished to remain anonymous, confided to me in a solemn voice: “Your book will be a rare exception. For the first time, we will speak of our lives and of our deaths.”
The hermit monk does not turn back to the past. He is on his way to God. In this land of slowness and humility, the stones of the Grande Chartreuse are the only ones to remember the monks.
The beautiful cloister of the officers looks like a wonderful road. Near the monumental gate, a stained-glass window represents Saint Bruno. The head bent down, he protects his sons, and the thousand-year-old motto of the order: “Stat crux dum volvitur orbis” (Above the changing world, the cross remains immutable).
The day of my departure, I was able to enter the cell of Dom Landuin. Two years after his death, this place remains unchanged. The blackened walls, the straw on the plank of the cupboard-bed, a few papers, a few books, some blank leaves of paper, the old rough floor, the little window looking onto the abandoned garden: a view of the poor surroundings of a solitary life was presented to me. Outside, the sun was shining. The birds were singing, and a few buzzing insects entered through the workshop window. The simplicity was dizzying.
Then, while packing my suitcase, I saw far off a young lay brother who was hoeing in the garden of the reverend father. The man was taking care of the community vegetables. He was sparing no effort. Sometimes, he raised his head, caught his breath, and then continued his humble labor. The vegetable garden is just a few hundred yards from the cemetery. Not far from God.
EPILOGUE
A Bus in the Night
When he was the master of novices, Dom Dysmas once took a postulant to the six A.M. bus. During the night, the two men went down to the little main road, near La Correrie.
In the winter, from the Grande Chartreuse onward, it was necessary to make your way through thick snow. Often, gusts of wind slowed the walk.
Below, the bus stop was not marked. An edge of the road, nothing more. Dom Dysmas and the postulant waited patiently. Headlights in the distance. The bus? No, just a car. The time had not come yet. When it finally appeared, Dom Dysmas immediately recognized its illuminated strip. They had just enough time to give each other a hug, hail the driver, load the suitcase. Farewell. One minute later, the bus disappeared into the darkness of the forest, out of s
ight, and Dom Dysmas remained alone on the side of the road.
For the monks, death is not so different.
In telling me this story, Dom Dysmas spoke softly, with eyes full of kindness: “It’s an old friend who drives the bus; we wave to her as she passes, indicating that, the next time, perhaps it is you whom she will take for the beautiful trip. Or someone else, who knows? But we must leave that to God.”
THOSE FOR WHOM THE
ROAD BEGINS
Brother Vincent, Father Michel-Marie, Dom Landuin were links in a great chain. They have walked the paths that generations of monks have taken before them. They have also seen the new generation of religious who would bring them to the cemetery. These men knew they were not alone.
During my travels, I spoke with the young monks, the successors of the brothers to whom I have dedicated this book.
At Lagrasse, I remember Brother Jean-Marie, a prodigious musician, who illuminated the ceremonies with his music. Often, I could hear him at the organ, alone in the church, or at the piano. The notes escaped into the majestic courtyard of honor.
At Solesmes, in the refectory, the long table of novices was in the middle. The youngest of the sons of Saint Benedict listened attentively to the reading of the day. From the pulpit, Dom Geoffroy Kemlin enunciated each syllable with precision and made an age-old text wonderful.
At the Grande Chartreuse, a Dutch student in his twenties had come to spend ten days to reflect on his vocation. That afternoon in July, I can still see him, in jeans and sneakers, a bit lost, in the gallery of the church where it is possible to follow the offices. During night prayer, another, more seasoned aspirant had helped him to follow along in the Latin antiphonaries. A few months later, I learned that their visit had borne fruit. They were considering entering the Carthusians.