XIII.

THE ARRIVAL OF THE NOVICES.

 

The vision not only assured Stephen that the Cistercian way of life was acceptable to God, but seemed also to prophesy a speedy increase of numbers in the monastery. Shortly afterwards another event occurred, which the monks interpreted as pointing the same way. Another of the brethren was dying, and on his death­bed he told the abbot that he had dreamed that he saw a vast multitude of men washing their clothes in a fountain of most pure water near the church of Citeaux, and that he heard a voice saying that the name of the fountain was Enon.

This it will be remembered was the name of the place where the austere St. John baptized a multitude of men with the baptism of repentance. The dream then was taken to mean that a multitude would come to Citeaux to wash their stained garments white by penance. Whatever the vision portended, it is certain that the days of mourning for Citeaux were nearly over. Fourteen years of widowhood and barrenness had now passed away since its first foundation, and the fif­teenth at last was to bring consolation with it.

In the year 1113, the iron hammer which hung at the lowly gate of the monastery sounded, and a large number of men entered the cloister, which was hardly ever visited except by some traveler who had been benighted in the forest of Citeaux. Thirty men entered, and coming to Stephen, begged to be admitted as novices. There were amongst them men of middle age, who had shone in the councils of princes, and who had hitherto worn nothing less than the furred mantle or the steel hauherk, which they now came to exchange for the poor cowl of St, Benedict; but the greater part were young men of noble features and deportment, and well might they, for they were of the noblest houses in Burgundy.

The whole troop was led by one young man of about twenty-three years of age, and of exceeding beauty. He was rather tall in stature; his neck was long and delicate, and his whole frame very thin, like that of a man in weak health. His hair was of a light colour, and his complexion was fair; but with all its paleness, there was a virgin bloom spread over the thin skin of his cheek. His face was such as had attracted the looks of many high-born ladies; but an angelic purity and a dovelike simplicity shone forth in his eyes, which showed at once the serene chasteness of his soul. This young man was he who was afterwards St. Bernard, and who now came to be the disciple of Stephen, bringing with him four brothers and a number of young noblemen, to fill the empty cells of the novices of Citeaux.

Well was it worth toiling all the cold dreary night of expectation, if such was to be the ultimate result of the fishing. "On that day," says an old monk, "the whole house seemed to have heard the Holy Spirit responding to them in these words, 'Sing, 0 barren, thou that didst not bear; break forth into singing, and cry aloud, thou that didst not travail with child, for more are the children of the desolate than the children of the married wife."

Stephen's expectations were fulfilled to the letter; those regulations which appeared so little likely to attract novices to the convent, had brought St. Bernard to its gates. If he had wished to attract the lukewarm and indifferent, he would have made rules of another kind; so true is it that the children of wisdom have a policy of their own, though it be different from that of the world.

St. Bernard would have been received with open arms by the monks of any order,—nay, he might have created an order for himself; but he preferred finding out the poorest and most hidden monastery in the world, and he found that it was Citeaux, just following the train of reasoning which Stephen knew would be that of a saint-like mind.

During the whole time of the desolation of Citeaux, and the internal conflicts of its abbot, the Holy Spirit had been silently leading Bernard, and preserving him from the world, that he might come pure and undefiled to this poor abbey. All that concerns him is of such vital importance to a clear understanding of the work which Stephen was sent upon earth to perform, that the history would be incomplete without an account of the steps which brought him to sit at the feet of our abbot. It was not without a painful struggle that he had been brought there, as indeed such is God's way; all great saints have had great trials, for there can be no crucifixion without pain.

After the death of his mother, whom he loved tenderly, and to whom God entrusted the forming of his holy mind, he began to think seri­ously of becoming a monk. Though she died in his youth, yet her sacred memory haunted him even in manhood, and she is even said to have appeared to him to beckon him on to the cloister. The beauty of his person and the corrupt manners of the age, more than once at this critical time put his purity in danger, and though through the grace of the Holy Spirit, he walked through the midst of the burning fire even without feeling it, yet he determined to shun a world where wickedness so abounded.

His noble birth would have opened his way to the highest dignities of the Church; "but," says his historian, "he deliberated in what way he could most perfectly leave the world, and began to search and to trace out where he could most safely and most purely find rest for his soul under the yoke of Christ. The place which occurred to him in his search was the new plantation of Citeaux, where monastic discipline was brought anew to what it had been at first. There the harvest was plenty but the laborers were few, on account of the exceeding severity of the life and of its poverty, at a time when the fervor of the monks at their first conversion was hardly at all on the decline."

Bernard had no intention of becoming a monk, with a mitre and pastoral staff in reversion; his object was that his life should be hid with Christ in God, and that his conversation should be in heaven. His first step was, however, comparatively easy; but much remained to be done before Stephen received his illustrious disciple within the walls of Citeaux.

Bernard had gained a victory over the concupiscence of the flesh, and over the pride of high-birth; military glory, which was the passion of all his brothers, had no attractions for him, but he had still a weak side on which the tempter could assail him, and this was the pride of intellect. No one can read his writings without seeing the wonderful genius which they show: the same burning eloquence which made him a Christian preacher, if it had been heard in kings' courts would have carried all before it; and the acuteness with which he at once sees deep into metaphysical questions, would have put him at the head of philosophical schools. And was all this to go too? Was his tongue to remain silent in Cistercian dreariness? and his acuteness to be buried with rude and unlearned monks?

Yes, so it was; all was to be sacrificed, beauty of form, noble birth, quickness and depth of thought, brilliant eloquence; all were to be nailed to the cross, and he was to become a common laborer, planter, reaper, ploughman, and if so be, hedger and ditcher, wrapped in a coarse cowl, with low-born men for his fellows.

We have not yet spoken of one tie, perhaps the strongest of all, and the one which cost the most pain to break, and that was the love of friends and relations. The slightest acquaintance with his life will show the painful struggle of his affections, even when he was abbot of Clairvaux; how he mourns with passionate grief over the death of his brother, or still more over the spiritual death of any one whom he knew. Besides his kinsmen, his brilliant and amiable qualities had endeared him to all the flower of the nobles of Burgundy. As soon as the slightest hint was known of Bernard's intention, all these were up in arms; there were his sister Humbeline, a noble and beautiful young lady, his eldest brother Guido, already a married man, and a good soldier of the duke of Burgundy; Gerard too, the accomplished knight, the enthusiastic soldier, and the prudent leader, beloved for his sweet disposition, and his friend Hugh, the lord of Macon, all thinking his project absurd, and himself half mad. Was he to throw himself at the feet of a fanatic, like Stephen, and to bury himself in the corner of an old wood?

The thing must not be.

Impossible indeed it was with man; but very possible with God. This was one of the wonders of the cross, going on about them, which was in time to shake the whole of France,—nay, the whole world. Even they themselves discovered that it was possible; it was a dangerous thing to come across Bernard in his vocation, as they soon found to their cost. However, though they could not move, yet they could cause much pain to Bernard. As he acknowledged afterwards, his steps were well nigh turned back, and the struggle was most painful. If it had not been for his mother's memory he would have fallen, but her sweet lessons were evermore recurring to his mind and urging him on.

One day, he was on his way to see his brothers, who were then with the army of the duke besieging the castle of Grancey; these thoughts burst so forcibly on his mind that he entered into a church which was open by the wayside, and prayed with a torrent of tears, stretching his hands to heaven, and pouring out his heart like water before the Lord his God. From that hour the purpose of his heart was fixed, and he set his face stedfastly to go to Citeaux. "It was not, however," pursues his historian, "with a deaf ear, that he heard the voice of one saying, 'Let him that heareth say, Come.' Truly, from that hour, like a flame which burning the wood, and a fire consuming the mountains, here and there, first seizing on all about it, then going forth to things farther away, thus the fire which the Lord had sent into the heart of his servant, and had willed that it should burn, first attacks his brothers, all but the youngest, who could not yet go into religion, and who was left to comfort his old father, then his kinsmen, fellows, and friends, and all of whose conversion there could be any hope."

First came his uncle Galdricus, a puissant noble and a valiant knight, well known for feats of arms; he quitted his good castle of Touillon, his vassals and his riches, and gave in to the burning words of his nephew. Then the heavenly fire kindled his young brother Bartholomew; his heart gave way easily, for he had not yet been made a knight, having still his spurs to win. Then came Andrew, the fourth brother; it was a sore trial to him to give up the world, for he had just received his knightly sword from the altar, at the hands of a bishop, and had seen his first field; but at last he yielded, for he saw in a vision his sainted mother smiling upon him, and he cried out to Bernard "I see my mother," and at once gave in.

But the trial was still sorer when it came to the turn of Guy, the eldest of the brothers; he was a married man, and his young wife loved him tenderly, besides which he had more than one daughter, with whom it was hard indeed to part in the age of their childhood; and even after he had yielded to his brother's persuasions, and had broken through all these ties a greater difficulty than all remained behind. It was a law of the Church, that neither of a married pair could enter a cloister without the consent of the other; and how was it possible that a delicate and high-born woman could consent to part with her husband and enter into a monastery? Bernard, however, declared to Guy, that if she did not consent, God would smite her with a deadly disease; and so it turned out; she soon after fell ill, and "finding," says William of St. Thierry, "that it was hard for her to kick against the pricks, she sent for Bernard" and gave her consent. None, however, clung to the world with such deep-rooted affection as Gerard, the second brother: as we said before; he was a frank and high-spirited soldier, yet, withal, sage in counsel, and he had won all about him by his kind-heartedness. The world was all open before him ; his talents were sure to raise him to high rank and honour; and he was ardently fond of feats of chivalrous daring. To him the conduct of his brothers seemed to be mere folly, and he abruptly repelled Bernard's advice. But the fire of charity was still more powerful than the young knight's ardor;  "I know, I know,"  said  Bernard, "that pain alone will give wisdom to your ears," and laying his hands upon Gerard's side, he continued, "A day will come, and that soon, when a lance, piercing this side, will tear a way to your heart for this counsel of your salvation which you do despise; and thou shall be in fear, but shall not die." 

A few days after this, Gerard had, in the heat of the battle, charged into the midst of the enemy; there he was unhorsed, wounded with a lance in the very place where Bernard had laid his finger, and dragged along the ground. His brother's words rose before him, and he cried out, "I am a monk, a monk of Citeaux."

Little did Stephen think, in the midst of his perplexities, that the name of his poor monastery had been heard in the thick of a deadly fight, and that a nobleman had chosen that strange place to make his profession, with swords pointed at his breast, and lances and pennons flying about him. Notwithstanding Gerard's exclamations, he was taken captive, and lodged in a dungeon within the castle of his enemies; he, however, soon after made his escape from prison in a way which seemed perfectly miraculous, and joined his brother Bernard. Now the whole band of brothers had been won over; but Bernard was not yet satisfied; the fields were white for the harvest, and he went about collecting his sheaves, that he might lay them all up in the garners of Citeaux.

Hugh, the lord of Macon, was also to be brought to Stephen's feet; the young nobles drew together into knots in self-defence, whenever Bernard passed by, for fear of being carried away by his powerful word; mothers hid their sons, lest in the flower of youth they should hide themselves in a cloister. All, however, was in vain; "as many", says the abbot of St. Thierry, "as were so pre-ordained by the grace of God working in them, and the word of his strength, and through the prayer and the earnestness of His servant, first hesitated, then were pierced to the heart; one after another they believed and gave in."

Thirty men of the most noble blood in Burgundy were thus collected together; as many of them were married men, their wives also had to give up the world; all these arrangements required time, and for six months they put off their conversion till their affairs could be arranged. The females retired to the Benedictine monastery of Juilly, whence afterwards it is supposed that many were transferred to the first Cistercian nunnery, the abbey of Tard, near Dijon. When the time for proceeding to Citeaux was come, Bernard and his four brothers went to the castle of Fountains, which was their family place, to take leave of their father and sister. This was their last glimpse of the world; they then left all and followed Christ. The little Nivard was playing about with other boys as they passed. Guy, the eldest brother, stopped his childish glee for a moment, to tell him that all the broad lands of Fountains, and many a fair portion of the earth, were to be for him. "What", said the boy, "earth for me, heaven for you! the bargain is not a fair one." Probably he knew not then what he said, but as soon as he could he followed his brothers. Thus the old father was left to sit alone in his deserted halls with his daughter Humbeline; he was now a barren trunk, with the choice boughs lopped off; his noble line was to come to an end, and when he dropped into the grave, the castle of his fathers was to pass into the hands of strangers.

Now, it may he asked, that Stephen has housed his thirty novices, what has he or any one else gained by it! what equivalent is gained for all these domestic ties rudely rent, for all these bleeding hearts torn asunder, and carrying their wounds unhealed into the clois­ter? Would not rustics suit Stephen's purpose well, if he would cultivate a marsh in an old wood, without desolating the hearths of the noblest houses of Burgundy? Human feeling revolts when high nobles wich their steel helmets, shining hauberks, and painted surcoats, are levelled with the commonest tillers of the soil; and even feelings of pity arise when high-born dames, blazing with jewels, cast all aside for the rough sackcloth and the poor serge of St. Benedict; what shall we say, when young mothers quit their husbands and their families to bury themselves in a cloister? There are here no painted windows and golden candlesticks, with chasubles of white and gold to help out the illusion; feeling an imagination, all are shocked alike, and every faculty of the natural man is jarred at once at the thought. Such words might have been spoken even in Stephen's time, but "wisdom is justified of her children."

One word suffices to silence all these murmurers; Ecce Homo, Behold the Man!

The wonders of the incarnation are an answer to all cavils. Why, it may as well be asked, did our blessed Lord choose to be a poor man, instead of being clothed in purple and fine linen? why was His mother a poor virgin? why was he born in an inn, and laid in a manger? why did He leave His blessed mother, and almost repulse her, when she would speak to Him? why was that mother's soul pierced with agony at the sufferings of her divine Son? why, when one drop of His precious blood would have healed the whole creation, did He pour it all out for us? in a word, why, when He might have died (if it be not wrong to say so) what the world calls a glorious death, did He choose out the most shameful, besides heaping to Himself every form of insult, and pain of body and soul?

He did all this to show us, that suffering was now to be the natu­ral state of the new man, just as pleasure is the natural state of the old. Suffering and humiliation are the proper weapons of the Christian, precisely in the same way that independence, unbounded dominion and power, are the instruments of the greatness of the world. No one can see how all this acts to bring about the final triumph of good over evil; it requires faith, but so does the spectacle of our blessed Lord, naked on the cross, with St. Mary and St. John weeping on each side. After casting our eyes on the holy rood, does it never occur to us to wonder how it can be possible to be saved in the midst of the endearments of a family, and the joys of domestic life?

God forbid that any one should deny the possibility! but does it not at first sight require proof that heaven can be won by a life spent in this quiet way? Again, let us consider the dreadful nature of sin, even of what are called the least sins, and would not any one wish to cast in his lot with Stephen, and wash them away by continual penance? Now if what has been said is not enough to reconcile the reader's mind to their leaving their father in a body, which looks like quitting a positive duty, it should be considered that they believed themselves to be acting under the special direction of God. Miracles were really wrought to beckon them on; at least they were firmly convinced of the truth of those miracles, which is enough for our purpose, and they would have disobeyed what they conceived to be God's guidance, if they had remained in the world.

Miracles, indeed, cannot be pleaded to the reversing of commands of the Decalogue; but persons leave their parents for causes which do not involve religion at all, as to follow some profession in a distant quarter of the globe, or to marry; and we may surely excuse St. Bernard and his brothers for conduct which was so amply justified by the event. One word more; every one will allow, that he who is continually meditating on heaven and heavenly things, and ever has his conversation in heaven, where Christ is sitting at the right hand of God, is more perfect than he who is always thinking on worldly affairs. Let no one say that this perfection is ideal, for it is a mere fact that it has been attained. Stephen and Bernard, and ten thousand other saints, have won this perfection, and it may be and is won now, for the Church verily is not dead, nor have the gates of hell prevailed against her. All cannot attain to such a high state on earth, for it is not the vocation of all. It was, however, plainly God's will that all Bernard's convertites should be so called, from the fact of their having attained to that state of perfection.    

They were happy, for to them it was given not to fear those words of our Lord, "Whosoever loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me;" or again, that terrible saying, spoken to one who asked to go and bury his father, "Let the dead bury their dead."    

Moreover, they knew that blessing, "Verily, I say unto you, There is no man that hath left house, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands for my sake and the Gospel's, but he shall receive an hundred-fold now in this time, houses, and brethren, and sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands, with persecutions; and in the world to come eternal life."

Bernard did receive back both father and sister, for his father died in his arms a monk at Clairvaux, and his sister also in time retired to a cloister. Let any one read St. Bernard's sermons on the Song of Solomon, and he will not doubt that monks have joys of their own, which none but those who have felt them can comprehend.

 

THE WORLD EDIFIED BY CITEAUX.