The town of Luc lay just between the hills of Gévaudan and Vivarais. As Louis and Modestine, leaving Luc the following morning, made their way up the valley he paused to consider the border. Gévaudan was plainer, whereas Vivarais embraced more underwood, but both were mapped with patches of dark fir, broken up now and then with tended fields. A section of railroad track ran alongside the river, gleaming and new atop its clean ballast bed, its sleepers dark and ready for the weight. It was the only section of track in Gévaudan, but soon, Louis thought, the French would be speeding all over their fair country, just like in America. Or so he’d heard.
At La Bastide, Louis was directed by a bent peasant to leave the river and head into the hills of Vivarais via a road. Their intended destination: Our Lady of the Snows, a Trappist monastery. Compared to some of the crumbling fortresses he’d passed—and even some of the inns in which he slept—this place was of fairly new construct, having been built in 1850. Louis anticipated, though, an atmosphere older than time. The name of the strict Cistercian order derives from La Trappe Abbey, an abbey in Normandy; the order itself is the product of reform in 1660s as a reaction to the perceived lax practices of the Cistercian monasteries at the time. The monks follow the rule of Saint Benedict, adhering to the three vows: stability, fidelity to religious life, and obedience. Further, Louis had heard they practiced a strict vow of silence.
Again, his Protestant blood stirred, though chilled now instead of hot. There was, in Louis’s mind, something unnatural to discounting a man’s speech, for surely, these robed men—more than anyone—must have something useful to say.
The pair made their way along the road through a dark, piney wood, cool in the morning air, and upon emerging into a new valley, the sun dazzled their eyes and warmed their skin. All was heaven—the craggy rock shone blue through rise after rise of heather, twisting trunks stretched their limbs modestly throughout the hollows. Louis stood there for a few minutes, breathing deeply and letting the sun’s heat play on his face until his skin tingled. Modestine munched on something by the path. All around was pure nature, unbridled and rampaging wildly about him, a well-worn path the only sign of man.
Or he thought, until he noticed that each hilltop was marked with a spindly little cross, each calling attention to its corresponding religious house. About a quarter-mile away, a large statue of the Virgin, gleaming white, stood beckoning at the corner of a recently cultivated field. This, Louis thought, must be the post that pointed his way.
As they drew closer, the breeze brought with it the sound of a bell, causing both travelers to freeze. For a flash, Louis could swear it was the tinkling of the dead foal’s little bell, but as the wind came again, another toll—it was not the light chime he now so dreadfully associated with bloody death, but the clanging of the monastery’s signal. They continued, but he couldn’t shake this foreboding feeling. Turning past the statue of Mary, not nearly as large as she seemed from the ridge, Louis’s heart sank with each step. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t looking forward to his stay at Our Lady of the Snows—all the silent countenances, the shadowy corridors, the oppressive miasma of incense and wax that must certainly inundate all within the white walls. It was as if, upon entering the prison—for it seemed like one—he would essentially be damning any possibility that he would pull himself from this general malaise before he reached Alès.
Now it was Louis’s turn to drag his feet. Modestine trip-trotted along and even stopped at one point as if to wait for him. But as they turned the corner from around a hedge, his heart sank even deeper. For there, a little further up on the path he trod, was a friar. The man was exactly as Louis had seen in any number of Flemish paintings—his black and white robes hung heavily about him, gathering soil along the hem, and his hood was back on his shoulders, revealing a bald head as yellow as any parchment.
Apart from his familial religious background, holy men, particularly of the Catholic persuasion, presented him with a kind of abhorrence which he chalked up to his having read The Monk at, perhaps, too early an age. Could this creature, or any he might soon encounter, harbor any of the satanic lasciviousness of Lewis’s Ambrosio?
The cleric struggled with a barrowful of sod. As Louis approached him, he did so cautiously, completely at a loss as to how to greet a man who’d taken a vow of silence, and at the last moment he’d settled on a tilt of his cap. A simple greeting, saying nothing, and expecting nothing in return.
“Why hello!” said the friar, his face like two red apples capping the corners of a wide, white smile. “Are you heading for the monastery?”
Louis hadn’t expected so cheerful a salutation, or any greeting at all. He nodded and was about to explain his purpose.
“Are you English? Irish?” the friar went on.
“Scots,” Louis answered, much to the man’s delight.
“Wonderful,” he beamed. “I am Father Apollinaris. I’ve never seen a Scotsman before. What is this?” He motioned towards Modestine.
Louis looked at him strangely and wondered exactly how isolated this monastery was.
“She is my donkey,” he began, and the friar laughed.
“Oh, no, I mean this,” and he stepped forward and patted Louis’s sleeping sack, stretched sausage-like over Modestine’s back.
Louis explained.
“You must show this to Father Prior,” Father Apollinaris insisted. “Now, I regret to say that Our Lady of the Snows cannot receive you, but you can certainly get a meal, and then . . .”
“But I was hoping for lodging,” Louis said, confused.
“Well,” the friar stumbled. “It’s . . . there is a policy . . . for peddlers . . .”
Louis laughed.
“Oh, I’m not here, or anywhere, to sell anything,” he said. “I’m writing a book.”
Father Apollinaris clapped his hands together, his eyes dancing.
“Oh, how exciting! That is very different, then,” he said. “Come, I will take you to the gates. May I say you are a geographer?”
“Um, no,” Louis thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. In the interest of truth.”
“I see,” the friar said. He almost sounded disappointed, which amused Louis. “An author, then?”
Louis agreed, and so the friar joined him in his walk, and they talked of the ecclesiastical affairs of England, for Father Apollinaris had been in seminary with a number of Irish. They talked about the road on which they walked, a road, apparently, the friar had constructed entirely himself, as this was his preferred industry. They skirted the issue of Louis’s own faith, and upon admitting that he was, indeed, not of the friar’s “true faith,” the honorable man merely waved his hand and smiled, determined to preserve the good will between them. Louis’s admiration for him, and his faith, grew.
Before long, the holy edifice loomed before them. What Louis assumed were the living quarters stood almost five stories and was peaked with thirteen gables across; behind this stood the abbey, its steeple jutting skyward from the side of the roof. The whole was whitewashed, the tile rooves of dark ochre—all of the outbuildings matched the main.
“Here, I must stop,” said Father Apollinaris. “I certainly mustn’t be seen in conversation, as you understand.”
Louis nodded and was grateful for the private, loose chat they’d had, for he figured the next evening and day would be like one long, silent burial.
“Ask for Brother Porter,” the friar continued. “All will be well. We must not speak, but do see me on your way out. I am charmed by your acquaintance.” And with that, he gathered his robes and turned, his torso twisting back and flapping his fingers at Louis as if to wave him on his way. “I must not speak!” he called back and patted his lips, grinning.
Louis smiled, waved, and turned to the daunting holy castle before him.
* * *
As a knight-errant, Louis pounded on the door in what he thought was a rather valiant form, then he stood back with Modestine, who, for the first time, seemed resistant to barging into someone’s house.
The entrance creaked and a single eye peered warily out at them. With the half-look of only one eye, Louis realized that perhaps his tact hadn’t been the customary thing. He took his hat in his hands and lowered his head.
“Pardon,” he stammered. “Father Apollinaris suggested I—”
The eyeball disappeared and the door closed. Louis heard whispering, and then the sound of the bolt being drawn. Three robed figures, one followed by two others, filed out, heads bowed.
“How can we help you?” asked the head man. The black scapular he wore over his white robe, like Father Apollinaris, distinguished him from his companions, whose white habits were unadorned. He cut a tall, intimidating figure, his hands presumably joining through his wide sleeves, his head shaved in tonsure, his monastic crown silver and trimmed very short. His face was stern, but his eyes kind.
Louis explained whom he was and that Father Apollinaris had directed him here.
“I was told to justify myself to a Brother Porter,” Louis added, thinking the more names he dropped, the more legitimate he might appear. “And to show Father Prior this.” He gestured to his sleeping sack.
“This is Brother Porter,” the head man said, gesturing to the man at his left. “I’m afraid,” he turned to the man on his right, “we are, perhaps, one too many. Brother Michael, you may return to your prayers.”
Brother Michael, his face smooth and young, smiled slightly, nodded silently, and disappeared inside the door. Brother Porter neither smiled nor frowned, but only gazed on pleasantly.
“I am Father Prior,” the head man said. “And what is this that Father Apollinaris thought I should like to see?”
Louis untied the cord that fastened the sack to Modestine and removed the bundle. He noticed a hand gesture, almost imperceptible, from Father Prior to Brother Porter, and the novice stepped forward and led Modestine away to the stable. By this, Louis assumed, he could, indeed, stay the night.
When Brother Porter returned, Father Prior was still enthusiastically inspecting Louis’s sleeping sack.
“Quite an amazing invention,” he said, and then showed it to Brother Porter, speaking in low tones. The young monk joined the old in his interest. He whispered an inquiry, the father answered, and Louis heard none of it. For a moment, he missed Modestine.
Finally, the sack was returned to Louis.
“An author,” Father Prior said.
“Yes.” He wanted to add more—to somehow defend his occupation—but he wasn’t sure what would sound better or worse. So he changed the subject. “May I ask?”
Father Prior nodded benignly.
“I was of the understanding that there was a vow—”
“Of silence?” The father smiled. He moved closer to Louis and Brother Porter understood the signal for privacy and stepped away. “There is no vow, on its face. Saint Benedict did not want us to cut our chords, so to speak. He only intended that words be used with temperance. No idle chit chat, but to converse only when it is necessary.”
Louis nodded. “I see.”
The monk moved even closer and whispered.
“Here, you will find some have indeed taken the vow entirely, and as a rule, talk is kept to a minimum, as we can easily communicate with signals, but,” he paused, and glanced at Brother Porter. “When we have guests, some of our brothers find that they’d forgotten how much they enjoy the sound of their own voices.”
Louis thought of jolly Father Apollinaris, waving his hands and calling I cannot speak! in what, to Louis, was a good and pleasant accent. It seemed a shame, for even if the men themselves should not take too much pride in their own speech, surely the sound of a pleasant voice should be allowed to give comfort to his fellow man in the midst of trying times.
Louis nodded again.
“But come,” said Father Prior. “We will give you a glass of brandy to keep you until the next meal, and then Brother Porter will show you to your cell.”
And that’s what happened.
Following a dry aperitif, Brother Porter led Louis into the monastery garden.
“Please rest,” he said in a voice so quiet Louis sped to him and faced him with his ear. “I will confirm where you will sleep and then come fetch you.”
Louis thanked him and then watched the man’s feet move beneath his robes, hardly disturbing the small pebbles of the path.
It was one of many that very attractively segmented the garden, which was enclosed like a large courtyard with buildings on all sides—two dormitories, the abbey, and the stable. There were two dormitories, not because there were so many brothers, but because one was reserved for messieurs les retraitants—gentlemen who, perhaps not equipped to make the kind of commitment the men here have, came for a quiet, religious retreat of calm and contemplation.
In a way, Louis thought, that’s exactly what he was doing. Not specifically in this place, but his reason for journeying at all—contemplation. Rather than practitioners of either faith—Catholic or Protestant—Louis preferred to make his confession and do his penance to the naked sky, the infinite space above where his atonement housed itself in the stabbing sparkle of a stupefying inventory of stars. He favored the council of the wind through the trees. And this, perhaps, represents a small but significant measurement of the rift between he and his father. Louis didn’t quite know which made him more miserable—that the trappings of his religion carried more weight with his father than did his morality and endeavors to be a good man, or that, in the end, they would all be so much stardust.
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