XII.

THE MORTALITY AT CITEAUX.

 

All, however, was not over yet; the sorest trial of all was yet to come, far worse than the obstinacy of the monks of Molesme, or the penury of Citeaux. In the year 1111 and 1112, a mortality broke out amongst the brethren; and Stephen saw several of his spiritual children dying off one by one before his eyes. In that year the whole Church was sick, for it was then that pope Pascal was held in captivity by the emperor Henry V, and what was worse, gave up the right of granting investitures. Then some bishops spoke harsh words against the sovereign pontiff, that he should be deposed, and the hearts of all men were failing them for fear. But the repentance of Pascal and the firmness of the bishops, and specially of Guido, archbishop of Vienne, saved the Church after a season. It was during this time of confusion for all Christendom, that Citeaux was in mourning.

First one brother went, and then another; independently of all other considerations, the loss of men who had borne with him the burden and heat of the day, must have been most painful to Stephen. The ties which bound one member of a religious community to another, in death as well as in life, were of the closest kind. As in life they had helped one another on in the painful task of crucifying the flesh, so in death they who remained behind on earth helped their brother, who was passing away before them from this world, by their prayers and by their presence.

Though monks all their lives through looked death in the face in frequent meditations, yet they did not consider that they could ever be too well prepared for that dreadful moment. It is dreadful, not only because the soul is about to appear before its God, but also because it is an hour of actual conflict with the devil, who then often marshals all his powers for a last effort, and endeavors to shake the faith of the dying man.

It was therefore the rule in a convent, that all the brethren should come unto the death­bed of a dying monk to help him against his spiritual enemy. The death of a brother was thus a subject of personal interest to each member of a convent, and in this point of view alone, the successive deaths of his friends must have been a bitter trial to Stephen. As abbot, it was his lot to go, at the head of the brethren, clad in alb, stole, and maniple, and with his pastoral staff in his hand, to the chamber of the dying man, to administer to him extreme unction, and to give him the holy rood to kiss.

Again and again during those two painful years he was summoned to the bedside of the brother, to anoint his limbs before his soul passed away from his body. And how often when the last agony was actually come, did the harsh strokes of the wooden mallet which usually called the convent together, re­sound through the cloister, together with the tolling of the bell, to summon the community to the death-bed of a brother! Then all labor was hastily given up, and even the divine office was broken off, and all went to the dying man's room, repeating aloud the words of the Creed. There they found him lying on ashes sprinkled on the floor in the form of a cross, for that was the posture in which monks died; and then they commended his soul to God with Litanies and the Penitential Psalms.

In all these mournful ceremonies, and in all those which took place around the corpse before and at the burial, Stephen as abbot had the chief place; the crosses and the graves silently multiplied before him in the church­yard, and still no novices arrived to fill the empty stalls of those who were dead. The cause of the mortality is not known; it may have been that the marshy soil of the wood had not been properly drained, and that the brethren sunk under the damp air, to which, from their long abstinence, their bodies were peculiarly sensitive. It could not have been the austerity of their life alone, for thousands afterwards followed their steps, and died of a good old age; still it was certain that the world would put it down to that cause, and even the monks of the day would look upon the convent as one cursed by God on account of the fanatical austerities of its inmates.

Stephen's cares thus multiplied upon him, and he found no consolation from them except in the time of the divine office. It is recorded of him, that after the evening collation was read, as he entered into the church he used to pause at the entrance with his hand pressing on the door. One of the brethren, whom he especially loved, frequently observed this silent gesture as he went into church, and ventured to ask him what it meant. "The holy father", says the Exordium, "answered, 'I am forced during the day to give free course to many thoughts for the ordering of the house; all these I bid to remain outside the door, and I tell them not to venture in, and to wait till the morrow, when I find them all ready for me after Prime has been said.'"

However the abbot might manage to drive away dis­tressing thoughts during the quiet hours of the night, while the monks were chanting the office in church, yet they recurred with tenfold force during the day, when all the cares of the house came upon him, while his spiritual children were dying about him. At times even his faith all but failed; it crossed his mind that the monks who scoffed at Citeaux might after all be right. The Cistercian manner of life might be displeasing to God, and the frequent deaths of the brethren and the barrenness of the monastery might be a punishment for their presumption in attempting to go beyond what God allowed. Pain in itself is not pleasing to God, and an austere life, unless it be joined by charity to Christ's sufferings, becomes simple pain, for His merits alone convert our sufferings into something sacramental, and make them meritorious in the eyes of God. He might therefore have been leading his poor brethren into the wilderness, and have made them there perish with hunger, and their blood would be required at his hands.

These melancholy thoughts tormented him, and at last they broke out into words, when with the whole convent he was summoned to attend the deathbed of another brother who was about to follow the many inmates of Citeaux who had already died. All the brethren wondered, as he spoke the words, at the calm faith with which he pronounced them, notwithstanding the deep anxiety which they displayed. Thus then in the presence of all he addressed the dying man. "You see, dearest brother, in what great weariness and foiling of heart we are, for we have done our best to enter upon the strait and narrow way which our most blessed father Benedict has proposed in his rule, and yet we are not well assured whether this our way of life is pleasing to God; especially since by all the monks of our neighborhood we have long been looked upon as devisers of novelty, and as men who kindle scandal and schism. But more than all, I have a most piercing grief which cuts me through to the heart like a spear, and that is, the fewness of our members; for one by one, and day after day, death comes in and hurries us away. Thus I very much fear this our new religious institute will perish with ourselves, for God has not thought fit, up to this time, to associate with us any zealous persons, who love the lowliness of holy poverty, through whom we could hand down to posterity the model of this our rule of life. Wherefore, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, for whose love we have entered upon the strait and narrow way which He proposes to His followers in the Gospel, and by virtue of your obedience, I command you, at whatever time and in whatever way the grace of the same our Lord may determine, that you return to us, and give us information touching this our state, as far as His mercy will allow."

He spoke these words with a quiet confidence, which looked beyond the grave, so that he appalled the brethren; but the dying monk, with a bright smile lighting up his features, said, "Willingly will I do, my lord and father, what you command, if only I, through the help of your prayers, shall be allowed to fulfill your command." The result of this strange dialogue, held on the confines of life and death, was not long in appearing. The brother died, and a few days after he had passed away, the abbot was in the fields working with the brethren. At the usual time he gave the signal for rest, and they laid aside their labor for a while. He himself withdrew a little way from the rest, and with his head buried in his cowl, sat down to pray. As he was in this position, lo! the departed monk appeared before him, surrounded by a blaze of glory, and, as it seemed, rather buoyed up in air, than standing on the ground.

Stephen asked him how he fared. "Well, good father abbot", he answered, "well is it with me, and well be it with you, for by your teaching and care I have merited to obtain that never-ending joy, that unknown peace of God, which passes all understanding, to gain which I patiently and humbly bore the hard toils of our new order. And now according to your bidding I have returned to bring news of the grace and mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ to thee, father, and to your brethren; you bade me certify you of your state, and I say unto you, Lay aside all doubt, and hold it for certain that your life and conversation is holy and pleas­ing to God. Moreover, the grief at your want of children to leave behind you, which gnaws deep into your heart, shall very soon disappear and turn to joy and triumph; for even yet the children, which you who was childless shall have, shall cry in your ears, 'The place is too strait for us, give place to us that we may dwell! For behold, from this time forth, the Lord has done great things for you, in sending many men unto you, and among them very many of noble birth and learned. Yea, and like bees swarming in haste and flowing over the hive, they shall fly away and spread themselves through many parts of the world; and out of that seed of the Lord, which by His grace has been heaped together here, they shall lay up in the heavenly granaries many sheaves of holy souls, gathered from all parts of the world."

On hearing these words the abbot sat wrapt in joy at the favor which the Lord had shown to him. Though the heavenly messenger had finished his task, he still lingered and remained visible to Stephen; he had undertaken the mission while on earth, in obedience to his superior, and he must not go without the leave of him who had imposed the task upon him; just as he would have done had he been still a living monk, speaking to his abbot in the little parlour at Citeaux, the glorified spirit waited for the benediction of the father.

At length he said to Stephen, "It is now time, lord abbot, that I return to Him who sent me; I pray you dismiss me in the strength of your blessing." Stephen shrank back at the thought of assuming autho­rity over that blessed soul, and at last broke silence: What is it that thou say? You have passed from corruption to incorruption, from vanity to reality, from darkness to light, from death to life, and thou would be blessed by me, who am still groaning under all these miseries? This is against all just right and reason; I ought rather to be blessed by you, and therefore I pray you to bless me."

But the glorified brother answered: "Not so, father, for the Lord has given to you the power of blessing, for He has placed you on a pinnacle of dignity and of spiritual rule. But me, your disciple, who by your healthful doctrine have escaped the stains of the world, it befits to receive your blessing; nor will I go hence till I have received it."

Stephen, though confused and filled with wonder, did not dare to refuse, and lifting his hand, he blessed him, and the happy soul immediately disappeared, leaving him in a transport of wonder at the favor which our Lord had accorded to him. It required a holy daring at first to seek for this mysterious meeting; and none but one who, like Stephen, had from dwelling alone with the Lord, in the wilderness and forest, realized the unseen world, could have behaved with calmness and presence of mind, when that world was so suddenly opened upon him.

A modern philosopher has in mere wantonness sported on the brink of the grave, and made such an agreement as Stephen made with his dying disciple; but this boldness arose from infidelity, Stephen's from strong faith, and God punished the infidel for thus tempting Him by leaving him in his error, while He rewarded the holy abbot by a vision. Let no one venture into the world unseen, who does not live above the world of sense. Stephen, however, was now rewarded for all his trials, and for his confidence in God, who never forsakes those that trust in Him. He passed at once from the dreadful state of uncertainty which had harassed him, to one of assurance; he had still a long and dreary journey before him, and his crown was not yet won,—nay it might still be lost; but at all events, he now felt sure that the path on which he had entered was the very narrow way of the Lord, and not one which he had chosen for himself in self-will.