by Nicolas Diat
The day of June 3rd began with Matins, followed by Lauds. These long prayers were the two last offices sung in the presence of Brother Pierre. The silence settled again when the community left the choir. An old Benedictine came for a moment of reflection near the body. He approached slowly, recited a prayer, and retreated. All the lights were extinguished except for the candle of the deceased.
Brother Buisson had passed the baton. From now on, he was a part of Solesmes from above. The torch that burned in front of his body resembled all those he had carried since 1949—when he was eighteen, with his whole life ahead of him. Now, he was passing on this flame to the community. I had the feeling that he wanted them to carry it with courage and perseverance.
In small groups, the monks came to pray their breviaries. Outside, near the sacristy, old Brother Remy was lovingly taking care of the geraniums. An agreeable odor of wet soil rose from the ground.
At eleven fifteen A.M., the death knell sounded again. The church filled little by little. A novice arranged candles in the stalls. Another extinguished the candle placed in front of the coffin. The procession of celebrants left the sacristy and went up quickly toward the choir. In front of the deceased, the choristers intoned the Requiem chant: “Requiam aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis” (Give them eternal rest, Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them).
The Father Abbot was seated on an episcopal throne of wrought iron. He wore a magnificent Art Deco chasuble designed by an artist monk of Solesmes, Dom Henri de Laborde. Two novices were seated on the floor at his feet. One carried the crozier, and the other the miter.
The Mass was simple. The big organ remained silent. Dom Dupont did not give a homily or a eulogy. The monks had written a simple and uplifting obituary, placed in the church pews: “Born in Paris on January 24, 1919, to Victor Buisson and Marthe Sureau, baptized the following March 23 at Saint Lambert’s parish and confirmed June 13, 1929, in the chapel of Notre-Dame-de-1 a-Salette, Pierre Robert Buisson took the habit at Solesmes on September 12, 1947, made his first vows February 11, 1950, on the feast of Our Lady of Lourdes, and his solemn profession three years later on the same date. For as long as his strength permitted, he worked in the abbey sewing room, where monastic habits are made and repaired. Very helpful and even-tempered, a man of prayer very attached to the Divine Office, he won the esteem and affection of everyone.”
The offertory hymn was beautiful, slow, and solemn: “Domine Iesu Christe, Rex Gloriae, libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum. . . .”:
Lord Jesus Christ, King of glory, deliver the souls of all the faithful departed from the pains of hell and the deep abyss; deliver them from the lion’s jaws, so that the abyss will not swallow them, so that they will not fall into darkness; but so that the standard-bearer Saint Michael will bring them to the holy light that you once promised to Abraham and his posterity. Behold, Lord, our sacrifices and our prayers offered to your praise; accept them for these souls whom we remember today. Lord, let them pass from death to the life you once promised to Abraham and his posterity.
The Mass proceeded like all the others at which the deceased had assisted. After Communion, I was struck by the look full of friendship and tenderness of an old brother, as he passed near the coffin.
Brother Buisson was a quiet person. In the final weeks, he had daily nausea. He could hardly eat anymore. His life had become difficult, but he bore it without complaining. He remained simple and good. The monks could not count how many dozens of rosaries he was able to say each day. At the end, he was always thirsty. When the infirmarians helped him to drink a glass of water, he thanked them abundantly. But he was waiting for death. Father Pierre said: “It’s not right, it’s not right, I have to leave.” The religious died suddenly. He prayed God would call him home. He was answered.
The Mass ended, the liturgy displayed its final lights. The funeral rites of the Church are an inverted mirroring of the first actions of a midwife who swaddles a newborn who has just left its mother’s womb. The monks are committed to giving the dead the same care they received from the woman who opened them to life.
At Solesmes, for funerals, all the monks leave in procession to the cemetery holding large, lit candles in their hands. They sing the hymn “In paradisum”: “In paradisum deducant te angeli, in tua adventu suscipiant te martyres, et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Ierusalem” (May choirs of angels escort you into Paradise: and at your arrival, may the martyrs receive you and welcome you; may they bring you home into the holy city, Jerusalem.)
The novices and the father infirmarian carried the coffin one last time. They crossed the nave with measured steps. From the retreatants’ pews, I could see the face of the deceased, who was slowly moving away. I had the impression that he was looking one last time at the vaulted ceiling that had carried his prayer. When the coffin passed under the doorway, the emotion was strong. The monks returned to the church. For Brother Pierre, everything was finished in this valley of tears.
The procession left the abbey. The wind picked up. The monks headed toward the cemetery, where they arranged themselves in two long lines. The Father Abbot came to the foot of the coffin. He incensed it for a long time. Then the father infirmarian brought a board to close the large box. The novices quickly lowered the coffin. The Father Abbot was standing closest to the grave. He was the first to bless the grave, soon followed by all the monks.
In the wide lane that bordered the church, Dom Philippe Dupont greeted the family with kindness. Brother Buisson was old. He had few relatives. But his nephews and his nieces who were present that day were deeply moved. The monks slowly entered the sacristy. The funeral was over. The rain started again. Brother Pierre was in heaven.
During the lunch that followed, the obituary of the day spoke of Dom Antony Bonnet, who had died in 1990. Recto tono, a monk described his heroic captivity in Germany during the Second World War, his musical talent, and his sudden death. The monks listened in silence. They sang the benediction and left the refectory, passing by the enormous double chimney.
In the early afternoon, two monks came to fill in the grave. The little storm that was blowing did not make their task any easier. In work clothes, armed with their famous shovels, they were orderly and meticulous. When their work was done, they placed a small bouquet of red and yellow flowers and foliage on the grave. I could not help thinking of the verses of Victor Hugo:
And when I come, I’ll place upon your tomb Some flowering heather and a holly spray.1
For the monks of Solesmes, the death of a very old monk is not an ordeal. Dom Philippe Dupont confided in me with unaffected certitude: “At Solesmes, death is peaceful. With age, the monks become holy. I think of our good Father Joseph Gajard. He was afraid of death. God allowed him to overcome his anxiety. He died simply. He was resting in his room. For two days, he had felt tired. Father Joseph departed like a candle. A little breeze came to collect his soul. I realized that the monks of Solesmes were leaving quickly, unpredictably. I am certain that Brother Pierre Buisson is in heaven and that he is happy.” In the church, the brothers were installing a large carpet in the choir for the feast of Pentecost. Life was renewing its usual course at Solesmes.
Every evening, after Compline, Dom Philippe Dupont goes down into the crypt that is situated under the abbey choir. In these sacred depths are buried the former Father Abbots of Solesmes. Since the resumption of Benedictine life, in 1833, there have been six in succession. Dom Prosper Gueranger, the illustrious restorer, who marked the French spiritual life of the nineteenth century, Dom Charles Couturier, the zealous successor, Dom Paul Delatte, a brilliant intellect and great theologian, Dom Germain Cozien, tenacious and courageous, Dom Jean Prou, craftsman of the conciliar aggiornamento, and, since 1992, Dom Philippe Dupont. The latter kneels at the precise spot where he will be buried: “I come to pray to our founder, so that he may help me in my task and watch over the salvation of my soul.”
Dom Philippe remembers with precision the magn
ificent departure of his predecessor: “In November 1999, as a community we lived through the death of the Father Abbot emeritus Jean Prou. His dying lasted longer than usual in our abbey. He received the sacrament of the sick in front of all the monks gathered in his cell. The day before his death, we recited the prayer of the dying. He spoke to ask the brothers for forgiveness for all his failings. The day after his death, I was saying the rosary in the garden, and I reflected that I had not had time to cry; I immediately burst into tears. And yet, in a monastery, we do not cry for the dead. That must not be seen as a lack of feeling on our part. We know where our brothers are going. The burials are always joyful. Our existence must be a novitiate for eternity. The entire liturgical life of a monk prepares him for the final hours. When the monks depart, I ask them not to forget us once they are in heaven. Sometimes, I tell myself that our brothers are so happy near God that they neglect us a little. We are in profound communion with our dead. We think of them every day.”
In the tranquility of Solesmes, difficult deaths are all the more striking because they are rare: “The most horrible death was that of Father Guy Oury, November 12, 2000. He was the master of novices, and he collapsed in the refectory in front of the whole community. We were standing, I had begun to say the blessing. Our brother let out a horrifying, high-pitched cry, and he collapsed with all his weight to the floor. I rushed forward to give him absolution. God was already waiting for him; Father Guy fell into a deep coma, and he died a few moments later. The psychological blow was intense. We resumed the meal. But we were shattered.”
Dom Philippe also told me about Brother Jean-Marie Lemonnier, who died of pancreatic cancer in 1999. He was a Breton, son of a farmer, a late vocation, and his endurance of suffering was incredible. He never complained. He was an example for the community with his unfailing patience when the cancer became aggressive. He spoke of his suffering only at the very end of his life. Five minutes before dying, he said to the father infirmarian: “It is the end. Yes, it is the end. I don’t know how I am going to do it.” He died gently. Dom Dupont had asked him to wait for his return from his trip before leaving earth. Brother Jean-Marie kept his word until the last minute of his life. This filial obedience in articulo mortis deeply touched the monks.
Without doubt, the “most beautiful death”, to use Father Abbot’s words, was that of Father Henri Rousselot, who left for heaven in 2013. He was ninety-six years old. His face in death was magnificent. He was supernaturally radiant. The monks had the impression that his features had been drawn by God. Everyone who entered his room was struck by this beauty. Each found the child that Father Henri had always been. This perfect death was far from being an exception: “At the moment of death of many of my brothers,” Dom Dupont explained to me, “I knew that they were going directly to heaven. Brother Pierre was a saint. Father Rousselot and many monks died in the odor of sanctity. The old lay brothers have had difficult and bitter lives. But they retained a wonderful humility, constancy, and docility. While we were praying in the rooms of the dying, it has happened that we did not see them leave. The brothers were dead. The monks had seen nothing. I went forward to close their eyes. The monks often leave as they have lived. For most of them, the hour of death is easy, simple, clear. Some brothers have suffered. For them, God wanted a final purification. The monks who experienced cruel diseases nonetheless have a beautiful passing. At the last moment, their life is sweet.”
Dom Philippe has a belief. In the last hours of our life, God prepares us for his arrival: “He wants us to be able to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. We sense him coming. We see a great light because God awaits our response. He asks us if we want him.”
The Father Abbot had to leave. His heavy responsibilities were calling him away. My afternoon was also busy. I needed to meet the biological brother of Father Jean-Philippe, Father Joseph-Michel Lemaire. The principal infirmarian of the abbey since 1997, he told me humorously, “[I] was at that time perfectly incompetent. The sight of blood made me sick. When God gives a car, he also furnishes the fuel. . . I learned everything on the job.”
Among the monks whom Father Joseph-Michel accompanied in their final moments was Father Antoine des Mazis, who died of stomach cancer in 1975. “Father Antoine suffered greatly. We remember him as a scholarly, funny, absent-minded, and whimsical monk. At the end of his life, he lost his mind a bit. From his cell window, he was reliving the Second World War and tracking down Germans. The last day, all the community came to say goodbye and embrace him. The monks were able to say a few words to him, to ask pardon, recall a memory. The final brotherly goodbyes are always deeply moving.”
Several brothers have died in the arms of Father Joseph-Michel. In those moments, the hand is the last contact. It can reassure as never before. Father Guy Mesnard died in 2014. He had been one of the founders of the monastery of Keur Moussa, in Senegal. This frail monk was an ascetic and mystic. At the end of his life, he refused to eat. Father Guy was reassured when the infirmarians took his hand. He had a surprising interior strength, but he panicked when he sensed death approaching.
For Father Joseph-Michel, the monks “take care of the sick in the light of faith. We are a united family. From a material point of view, the work and the time we spend have no limits. We are caring for Christ himself. I was not prepared for this work. I had a vocation for work in education and childcare. Extremes are coming together.”
In the beautiful guest garden where we were seated, Father Joseph-Michel discussed his personal limitations without reserve. One day a month, the infirmarian leaves to pray in an isolated chapel and take long walks in the forest. He loves to go to the sanctuary of Montligeon. There, the nuns pray for him. He has the sense of accomplishing work that is complementary to that of his brother. Father Joseph-Michel is seventy years old, Father Jean-Philippe is seventy-nine: “I try to provide the best diagnosis, and Father Jean-Philippe reassures the patients by his mere presence. He is even-tempered and is remarkably gentle.”
The infirmarians of Solesmes are lucky to have docile and joyful patients. There are not many who complain. . . So Father Claude Gay, who died in 2003, was an exception: “This brother was a dissatisfied saint. A talented organist, a true artist, and extremely sensitive, he was depressive. You had to put him to bed one way, tuck him in another way, give him his medicine in a precise order that he alone established; the days were ritualized according to his anxieties. And yet, I am sure that God welcomed him to Paradise. In a monastery, the monks are preparing all their lives to meet God. Death is a violent rupture. The soul and the body are made to be together. If we live for ourselves, we are necessarily unhappy. If we live for Christ, we already have one foot in eternity. Some saints may have had bursts of fear at the last minute. The combat ceases only with the final heartbeat.”
The bells were ringing. The father infirmarian said farewell to leave for Vespers.
The vigil of the feast of Pentecost, I left Solesmes. I carried with me the memory of Brother Pierre Buisson. In passing the cemetery one last time, I saw Brother Remy. In overalls, he was explaining to a young retreatant how to prune roses bushes properly. His gravelly Mayenne farmer’s voice was timeless.
One cannot leave behind the walls of Solesmes Abbey without a twinge of regret. With the monks, life is simple. However, it is possible to rediscover from some very distinguished pens the emotions and joys born on the banks of the Sarthe. Leon Bloy, Joris-Karl Huysmans, Simone Weil, Paul Claudel, Jacques Copeau, François Mauriac, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, Pierre Reverdy, Paul Valery, and Julien Green all loved Solesmes. In his Petite suite benedictine (Little Benedictine suite), the journalist and poet Alphonse Mortier, a great friend of the monastery, composed some delicate verses that echo my personal experience:
I saw the cemetery where the Monks pursue
The ecstatic dream of their only Love.
They are scattered in the enclosure, and the nights and days,
Like an endless psalm whose responses follow each other,
<
br /> In the brightness of days and fairness of nights.
The eternal liturgy, O Monks, for which you are,
And to the grave, pious interpreters!
Human memories, forever, have fled you.
Laid to rest in your robes, with their long, motionless folds,
Faithful to the Rule to the final verse,
Mystical servants of the humble Prophet,
Still you fulfill this difficult office. . . .
On the lonely mound, I came to think.
June was shining with all its fire and the tall trees
Were gently shading the Abbey and its stones.
I was all alone, far away from the deceitful world.
The peace that you have known on our earth
And that you discover at the bottom of your graves,
Deep down, I was envying it, and you seem more beautiful
For having fulfilled with love your solitary lives.
And, under the bare turf, to enclose so much hope!
The hour was passing, clear as a bright sunrise
That never stopped giving its light. . . .
And I would stay near you until evening,
When I heard the monastery bell ring
Calling to Choir your brothers, the living. . . .
This fresh and pure morning, I often recall it,
O departed Monks. Benedictine shadows. . . .
IV
The Smile of Brother Théophane
Sept-Fons Abbey
Near the gates of the Trappist abbey of Sept-Fons, little In memoriam cards are placed next to the prayer books. On the front, the photograph of a young brother, in a white habit, with a chubby face and beautiful dark eyes, serious and sad, looks into the distance toward a mysterious horizon. To accompany the image, the religious chose a simple message: “Brother Marie-Théophane, monk of the abbey of Notre-Dame de Sept-Fons, born December 7, 1961, first profession June 24, 1986, solemn profession June 24, 1989, at rest in the peace of God on December 7, 1989, his twenty-eighth birthday, vigil of the feast of the Immaculate Conception. Rich in human and intellectual gifts, he completely fulfilled his monastic vocation in the righteousness of his heart after a long illness.”
