by Nicolas Diat
The man who consecrates his life to God can fear the end of the road. He stalls in front of the door of the brothers staying in the infirmary. The struggle exists; it is useless to hide it.
Dom David inspires admiration because he looks truth in the face. He knows from experience that the selfishness, cowardice, and fear of one who suffers are always lurking in a corner of our heart. Suffering reveals to everyone his limits. Laymen, like monks, can become dwarfs or giants.
No one chooses his end. And yet, God allows doctors to shorten lives. When I asked Dom David about this subject, a silence came over the room where we had been speaking for so many hours: “Today, the problem of sedation is serious. We have to fight against intolerable sufferings. But if we do not feel pain anymore, life goes away. Now, with the progress of analgesics, we no longer feel anything. We no longer feel life. We no longer feel humanity. We no longer feel God approaching. Man becomes an abstract machine. Several brothers wanted to write instructions for the end of life. They refuse life-prolonging interventions, and they do not want deep sedation. We would all like to die in our sleep. The doctors induce artificial comas to be certain that the patient does not suffer anymore. Fear is a bad counselor. It is the ultimate antithesis of faith. Our materialist societies have an irrepressible obsession with pain. Why has our world forgotten that life does not exist without suffering? In the West, we are well-off, and we have trouble imagining the daily lives of the vast majority of mankind. How should I react when a ninety-year-old monk asks for a hearing aid? How should I react when this investment of three thousand euros could help twenty people in an African village? How should I react when a ninety-five-year-old brother asks for new dentures? When you consider we eat mostly eggs, fish, and little meat. . . There are hypochondriac monks. These are weaknesses. If a brother agrees to work on this weakness, a big step is made. His fault is shocking, but God pardons everything.” So does Dom David. His patience is immense.
En-Calcat is an oasis that one leaves with regret. To remember that time, it is enough for me to listen to Dom David one last time. In 1986, when he returned to the abbey after a first unsuccessful attempt, he had the sense of being in mourning. The young brother entered into monastic life in order to be as close as possible to the cross. He did not leave a love-interest behind him, and yet, it took him a year to regain interior joy. Every brother experiences, in his own way, a widowhood.
Entering a monastery is the first step toward death. Every day, Dom David reflects on his last hour: “When I am face to face with the Grim Reaper, I might not have the courage to look at him. But I do not see him as a threat. Death is a passage toward Christ. I hope that the son of God will come to take me by the hand. There is a Hindu allegory about the last moments that I particularly like. It distinguishes young monkeys from kittens. The latter wait without doing anything for their mother to take them in her mouth, while the little monkeys cling to their mother in order to go from branch to branch. . . At the hour of death, the monk would like to be a kitten carried in the mouth of Christ.”
III
A Fortress Away from the World
Solesmes Abbey
I arrived at Solesmes on June 1, 2017. The heat of an early summer overpowered the village and surrounding areas. A few minutes after having passed through the abbey gates, while speaking with the father guestmaster, I heard the sound of a death knell. It was announcing the death of Brother Pierre Buisson, an old monk who had died in his ninety-ninth year.
Shortly after, Dom Philippe Dupont came to welcome me. The Father Abbot of Solesmes is an influential person in the Catholic Church, a man well known for his culture, experience, and simplicity. Coming toward me at a brisk pace, he called out with disconcerting lightness: “We offer you a dead man!” The stage for my trip was strangely set. But I could hardly complain. I had come to Solesmes to talk about the last things.
The bells rang for twenty long minutes. With exquisite kindness and politeness, Father Bruno Lutz led me to my room. I did not wait long in the little cell that had been assigned to me. I wanted to walk around the monastery to immerse myself in the atmosphere that reigned there when it had just lost one of its sons.
The Benedictines of Solesmes are used to the overwrought descriptions of visitors who discover the majestic walls where they have chosen to pass their lives. Situated along the banks of the Sarthe, the monastery complex has an extraordinary appearance. The church dates back to the eleventh century. It houses two groups of statues called the “Saints of Solesmes”. The entombment of the Virgin faces that of Christ. The multitude of people with solemn faces around the heavenly dead, the beauty of their features, the gracefulness of their figures are fascinating.
Nestled against the abbey church, the eighteenth-century priory in tuffeau stone is elegant and understated. The Maurist cloister from the same era, the huge, nineteenth-century Melet building, which houses the refectory, the large, twentieth-century cloister, with finely chiseled column capitals that the changing light never ceases to show in a new perspective, and the library, which numbers over two hundred thousand volumes, create a harmonious, solid, and radiant monastery.
The stones do not sum up the monks. These men are right to contest the grand images that have led to the creation of the Solesmesian myth. All abbeys want to be great, contemplative boats launched toward heaven. The Benedictines who pray, sing, and work at Solesmes seek God just as do the sons of Saint Benedict from the humblest of priories in an isolated area. Death is the same in a Sarthe fortress as it is in the little cells of an African monastery. God does not differentiate between them.
Brother Buisson had died in the early afternoon. Despite his departure, I had the impression that the Benedictines continued to attend to their daily tasks.
The cemetery, near an old greenhouse, was deserted. Among the graves of the monks, I noticed that of Prince Xavier of Bourbon, Duke of Parma, who died in 1977. He was the brother of Empress Zita, a great friend of the nuns of Solesmes. I followed my path toward the landscaped gardens below the abbey. The well-cut paths smelled of roses. Near a long gardeners’ house, a retreatant was smoking a pipe and reading Thomas Merton. A little farther, seated around small tables, some English students, stylish and focused, were going over their exams. The bucolic and mild day seemed to ward off death, who had just knocked on the door of the place.
Built facing the bakery and the Grand Hotel, the abbey is situated in the center of a peaceful town. Solesmes is a perfect image of a tranquil France. The streets are calm and wise. At the end of the main thoroughfare, on the other side of the bridge that spans the Sarthe, I found the famous view of the abbey. The image of a rich and powerful monastery, renowned the world over.
Near the road that runs along the river, walkers suddenly rushed to find shelter. Dark clouds were gathering in the sky. Wind was blowing in the tall trees on the languid banks. The monastic fortress was changing color. The shimmering, romantic façades were becoming sad walls the color of soot.
Around four o’clock, I returned to the monastery. The storm had burst. In one corner of the cemetery, two young monks armed with heavy shovels were just beginning to dig a grave. The exercise was physical. The religious did not seem discouraged by the work ahead of them. After each office, the pile of earth grew next to the grave.
In a little while, I would be talking with Father Jean-Philippe Lemaire. Several monks had warned me. I should prepare myself to meet a saint.
For a long time, Father Jean-Philippe held the highest office at Solesmes. Sickness and old age led him to give up his responsibilities. His face is pale and his gaze envelops his interlocutors with an infinite sweetness.
Thin, hunched, he never mentions the double scoliosis that causes him great suffering. With a touching modesty, he speaks about his role with the sick: “I am the spare wheel for my biological brother, Father Joseph-Michel Lemaire. He is the infirmarian of the monastery.” Five monks work regularly with him. Since he left his position as prior, Father Jean
-Philippe helps them. In particular, he takes care of a severely handicapped brother.
The monk in question is not very old. He just celebrated his eighty-second birthday: “Father Bernard Andry was the sub-prior of our Palendriai foundation in Lithuania. In six years, he lost all his intellectual faculties. We organized his return with care. Father Bernard entered the monastery in 1954. Joyful, mischievous, warm, he was the principal cantor for many years. Today, he is totally dependent. We have to feed him, get him up, and put him to bed. Every morning, I see to getting him dressed. No one knows if he understands what we say to him. The doctors cannot diagnosis it for certain as Alzheimer’s disease. Specialists have the greatest difficulty defining this kind of cerebral degeneration. Father Bernard does not receive any treatment. At mealtimes, he swallows an analgesic. I could not tell you if he is suffering. Sometimes, I notice a grimace on his face that seems to indicate pain. Our brother is an invalid full of kindness. Physically, he is still strong. When he shakes your hand, he is capable of breaking your palm. He has more energy than I do.” I should say that Father Jean-Philippe is seventy-nine years old, the age of his patients: “My weakness allows me to understand the sick better. I know suffering, and I understand the burdens of age. In the evenings, putting Father Andry to bed takes more than twenty minutes. There is a temptation to give care quickly. When we repeat such difficult tasks over so many years, how can we avoid a kind of dehumanized routine? Seeking to save time, we transform the sick person into a poor object. I need to be attentive so as not to rush through my work in order to flee to other, more rewarding occupations. If you look after a patient going to bed two hundred times a year, it is difficult to maintain the same attentiveness as during the early days. We are not looking to avoid the facts. The infirmary monks need to be vigilant so as not to transform a brother into a thing they take care of mechanically and as quickly as possible. The risk of commodification of the sick exists. I must pray to keep the strength of my desire to serve awake. Father Andry is Christ. When we come before God, we will be accountable for our charity toward the weakest. I need to know how to lose my time for the sick. In life, giving freely is essential. Christ said that the man who loses his life gains it. When I enter the room, I stroke his hand to revive our brotherhood; and I tell him: ‘Ah, Brother Bernard, you are my brother, my beloved brother, my big brother!’ ”
The monks do not know if Father Andry understands them. They want to believe that the patient makes use of a faculty of comprehension mysterious in the eyes of men: “The days when we take him to recreation and the monks laugh, he bursts out laughing. Is it simple mimicry or a desire to have fun? A few months ago, he responded ‘yes’ to the question of a brother infirmarian. I suspect he understands certain things. I know almost nothing about his life of prayer. I try to lead him often to the chapel in the infirmary. I tell him: ‘Brother Bernard, I am leaving you in front of the tabernacle. Jesus is there.’ Then I say a Hail Mary. The prayer helps me not to become an automaton. In his little chair, he stays a moment in the chapel. When Mass is celebrated in the oratory, I always come with Father Bernard. He no longer receives Communion since we do not know if he is cognizant. But I place the rosary in his hands. He does not say a single word.”
The words of Father Jean-Philippe are a reflection of his greatness of spirit. I understood that he was filled with wonder at all the patients in his charge. Father Pierre Estorges, ninety-one years old, is one of them. This monk has been blind for almost thirty years. He has refused to eat for several months. Should the infirmarians respect a decision that would slowly kill him? The only action he can still do alone is drink. Father Pierre is easy, simple, he never complains. His brothers do not know if he still distinguishes what he eats. The invalid opens his mouth like an infant and swallows the spoonful the infirmarians give him. Every monk has a different relationship with suffering. Some are sensitive; others demonstrate an incredible strength. Telling me about Father Pierre, my interlocutor wondered: “People who have never known suffering should avoid speaking to those who experience it. Suffering is a great mystery. It is always unpleasant. The monk offers himself to God to pray, and he gives his life to the Church. The final step, even if in fear, is desired and known. The monk, remains completely a man, and he reaches out toward the divine.”
Decades later, some deaths still raise questions and heartache. Father Jean-Phillipe has not forgotten anything about the day of May 30, 1961. That day, Brother Roland du Bourblanc died at the age of nineteen. He was in the novitiate, having just received the habit. After having served Mass, Brother Roland left for the refectory to have breakfast. There, he dropped dead. Father Jean-Philippe arrived shortly after. He noticed that Brother Roland had not eaten his bread. When he left, headed toward the sacristy, he asked a monk where Brother Roland was. He told him that the young monk had gone to heaven. The doctors suspected a heart defect. The memories of the old monk come rushing back: “October 7, 1958, when I entered Solesmes, I was struck by the joy that inhabited the monastery at the time of deaths. In civil life, I was used to mourning, tears, black. In our abbey, I understood that death was simple and uneventful. Certainly, Christ cried at the death of Lazarus. But in a house of God, we do not cry. The monk spends his life desiring heaven. I often think of Father Paul, who was a great theologian. When the Father Abbot came see him in his room, he exclaimed: ‘I am at peace. In a few hours, I will see God. How thrilling!’ We should be happy for our brothers who are arriving at the gates of Paradise. The one great desire of a monk is to ascend to heaven. Human reflexes exist: we can be sad at the thought of waiting a long time before meeting again those whom we love. However, the joy is stronger. Our burials are happy. In the cemetery, we do not have the feeling of a goodbye. It is a little step before eternity. The monastery is the antechamber of a great happiness. Monks often die in small groups. Solesmes goes through long periods without deaths, then several group departures. It is the will of God. The Father calls when he wills. But from an arithmetical perspective, there is a general rule.”
My day ended with Compline. Every evening, the monks sing a hymn asking God to banish night terrors: “Procul recedant somnia, et noctium phantasmata” (Let the dreams and phantoms of the night flee far away). Brother Pierre Buisson did not have need of this prayer. He would never again have bad dreams. For several hours, his sleep had been eternal. I crossed the gardens to return to the church. The wind played in the flowering linden trees. The smell of geraniums, the well-trimmed boxwood in the French-style gardens—time seemed frozen. The noise of the world was already a distant memory.
The nave of the abbey church resembles a long ship, narrow and dark. It opens into the magnificent gothic choir in which the sixteenth-century stalls are a masterpiece of the last French Renaissance.
Near the entrance, a monk was ringing the bells to announce the final office. I seated myself on one of the benches reserved for those making retreats. The atmosphere was recollected and serious. A little bell sounded. It was calling each person away from his personal prayer. The procession of monks slowly extended to the center of the sanctuary.
Then I saw the novices who were carrying on their shoulders the open casket of Brother Pierre. The young monks who were beginning their monastic lives were carrying the old brother who had left the world.
The white, wooden coffin, of great simplicity, had been made by the monastery’s brother cabinetmaker. The novices placed it on the floor in the middle of the stalls. They placed at its foot a candle and a bouquet of multi-colored roses, freshly gathered from the garden. The brother’s body was facing the altar. His hood had been raised over his head, and he held a rosary in his hands. He held a large wooden cross on his chest.
A deathly silence filled the whole church. The monks said the first words of an office that the deceased had recited thousands of times throughout his life. I observed the Father Abbot. He was collected and dignified. The luminous gravity of his furrowed face reminded me of the seventeenth-century por
traitists, particularly Philippe de Champaigne.
I remembered his respectful and sensitive manner speaking about a monk whom he loved: “I always ask my brothers to die when I am at the abbey. I travel a lot because of my duties as superior of the congregation of Solesmes. Brother Pierre Buisson did not want to reach one hundred. So, I knew that time was running out. For several weeks, he had been declining. At the end of the month of May, when I left for Spain, I asked him to wait for my return to die. He obeyed me. Returning to the abbey, I went quickly to his room. We were on the brink of his death. He went out like a little flame. He said that his suitcase was ready. Up until the end, Brother Pierre spent hours in prayer. He visited the cemetery every day to honor the dead. He never spoke ill of anyone. Our brother left before the office of Sext, while the infirmarian had briefly left to prepare an IV. I went to give him absolution.” The Father Abbot was happy and peaceful. He had been able to see him one last time. He could not imagine being absent from Solesmes at such special moments as these.
Upon leaving, some monks looked at the body. Others preferred to lower their eyes. Brother Pierre Buisson would spend the night at the church in his coffin, watched over by the religious one at a time, surrounded by vigilant and affectionate prayer; in his day, he had kept watch near all his dead brothers.
The old monk had the face and hands of a wax figure. He resembled a praying child, confident and naïve, a slight smile at the corner of his lips, a happy smile.
Outside the sun was setting. The birds were no longer singing in the tress; the storm had started again, and the breeze was weaving through the pathways. Far off, along the Sarthe, thunder rumbled. A young religious was praying alone in the cemetery as the rain fell loudly on the sheet metal covering the grave that awaited the body of Brother Pierre.
Walking toward my cell, I saw on a little bench the bouquets of lilies that a brother gardener had carefully prepared for the burial the following day.
