But happier recollections than those were in my mind when last I rode to Citeaux from Dijon, on a dull and rainy morning of October, a fitting day on which to visit that savage and lonely site. There are people—cultured people, even, such as Emile Montégut—who will tell you that, because the country here is flat, and the old monastery almost entirely destroyed, Citeaux is not worthy of a visit. I find it hard to understand how anyone possessing a spark of historic imagination, can thus deprive himself of the pleasure of seeing the abbey; though there were certainly less inducement to go there when the place was a penitentiary school, than now, when it is again in the occupation of the white monks. I hope that this account of my own pilgrimage there will induce others to follow my example.
I rode to Citeaux by way of Rouvres, a lonely village on the plain south of Dijon. It has, or had, a château—not now visible within its belt of trees—that has some interesting historical associations, and there is a Romanesque church accessible, I remember, by a somewhat unique bridge, consisting of gravestones, evidently taken from the churchyard, laid, with the inscriptions uppermost, across the stream where the ducks paddle.
Passing through many a tangled and dilapidated Burgundian village, I came at last, after miles of plodding across the plain, to a spot so savage of aspect, that it might well be a halting-place, even to-day, for an ascetic brotherhood faring forth in search of a site for a new foundation. On the left of the lonely road was a stagnant marsh, bordered with clumps of yellow reeds and brown bullrushes. Before me, a great expanse of sullen water, fringed with a line of distant, black fir trees, reflected on its broken surface the drifting, gray clouds. A dismal lake it was, marged with red and green rushes, dappled with broad-leaved water plants, and spotted with splashing drops. No human note broke the silence; no sound but the harsh cry of wild fowl, the croaking of frogs, the monotonous swish of falling rain. At my feet were growing thistles and deadly night-shade; through the reeds I caught a glimpse of a pink sow snouting in the mud. A feeling of intense exaltation arose within me—the delight born of unity with Nature in her elemental mood. I knew now why the Cistercians loved these spots. There welled up in me the same sensation of burning pleasure that lightened the life of the ascetic of eight hundred years ago, when, leaning upon the handle of his spade, as he paused for a moment from his labour, he watched the wind furrowing the rippled water, and heard the holy spirits of the air singing to the bending rushes on the bank.
I rode on, past the gateway of the Abbey grounds, to the village of Citeaux, where I lunched with an asceticism that, though not inappropriate to the occasion, was due, I must confess, rather to the limitations of the innkeeper's resources, than to a voluntary compliance with the rule of St. Benedict. During the repast, Madame, standing before me, and punctuating her remarks with an occasional sweep of the back of her hand across her mouth, held forth upon the history of the Abbey. Learning from her that the buildings could be visited, I determined to see what was to be seen. Cycling boldly up to the gate of the monastery, and ignoring utterly a mighty hound, who nearly strangled himself in his efforts to rend me limb from limb, I looked about me. Near the gate was a white monk, walking slowly, with his eyes upon the ground. He bowed in response to my salutation; but, when he raised his head, his hesitation, and the spasmodic movements of his lips before he spoke, betrayed the effect of the rule of silence. The words came with an effort.
"Vous n'avez qu'à sonner à la porte."
I rang the bell accordingly, when there emerged, from the lodge opposite to the gate, another little, square-headed, white-robed monk, who, smiling, and bowing low, with spread hands, welcomed me to the monastery.
My guide was an intelligent, affectionate, resigned little Flamand, his natural cheerfulness of disposition tempered by the inevitable sadness of a vocation now generally despised, and quite apart from the swiftly-flowing current of modern life. Together we traversed the rooms and corridors of the modern buildings—until recently a penitentiary school—from which the members of the chapter, held annually in September, had departed only the day before my visit. On the walls of the assembly room were plans of the four daughter abbeys of Citeaux—La Ferté, Pontigny, Clairvaux, and Morimond; "Une mère bien féconde," as my guide said—and the signed letter of Pope Leo XIII., restoring Citeaux to the Cistercian order. The chapter table, round which ran the names of the abbeys represented, was still littered with pens and ink for use at the function. My monk pointed out the little ballot-box, filled with white beans, by means of which the voting was done. A majority of one carries the day, and the ballot is open, unless one member expresses a desire for it to be secret. The rule of St. Benedict, and the book of the constitutions, are kept on the table for reference, if necessary.
We passed beneath the bust of St. Bernard, which is over the door, and descended to the foot of the stairs, where my companion put on again, over his sandalled feet, the sabots he had kicked off on entering. A moment later we were standing in the refectory, where, upon the table, were laid the spoons, the brown earthenware plates, the bowls and the napkins, all ready for the next meal. The abbot sits, as of old, at the head of his twenty-five monks, and in the middle is a table with three "couverts," where the same vegetarian repast is served to three souls in purgatory, the remains being given to the poor. Thence, I was taken to see the little cloister, the staircase tower and library, probably of the fourteenth century, all that remains of the great Abbey. On the way we passed through the garden, where a dozen or more black and white-robed brethren were busily digging the ground, still carrying on the tradition of St. Benedict, that in the sweat of their brow they should eat bread. That sight alone repaid well the trouble of coming to Citeaux in the rain.