Critique and Ideal: the Cistercian Renewal
The Cistercian Church at Fontenay, France. The community was founded in 1119 and the church was built between 1137 and 1147 under the guidance of St. Bernard himself. The photograph is taken from the east end, showing the plain facade and square "apse". Cistercian architecture eschewed decoration - Bernard was a severe critic of Cluniac ornament - for chose a severe style, typically with a square apse. The latter replaced the Cluniac rounded apse with its ambulatory and apsidal chapels. However, whilst decoration is rejected, beauty is: the Cistercian architects sought an impressive harmony of proportion.
The interior of Fontenay, showing the stark simplicity of Cistercian architecture. The eight one-storeyed bays are lit by plain windows in the side aisles and at either end of the building. This arrangement concentrates light around the east end, a symbol of the light of Christ's resurrection.
"Tears of Contrition or Gasps of Admiration:" St. Bernard and the Critique of Cluny
Controversy between Cistercians and Cluniacs (the "white" and the "black" monks) was exacerbated by "conversions" from one order to the other. By the 1120s, Cistercian writers were defending their order against the charge of conducting unfair and systematic polemic aimed at discrediting Cluny. For several decades, the orders fought a tournament of propaganda. St. Bernard entered the lists in 1124 with his Apology for William. This was written at the request of William, Abbot of St. Thierry, near Rheims. William had become a close friend of St. Bernard, eager to join him at Clairvaux. Bernard's Apology for William attempts to refute accusations of unjust criticism at the same time as showing that the Cluniacs had fallen below the standards of the Benedictine Rule. The work also includes an important statement of Cistercian aesthetics. Bernard advocates the simplicity of Cistercian architecture and illumination and castigates what he sees as the decorative excesses of the Cluniac tradition. The extracts below concern meals and artistic issues and begin with Bernard's attempt to turn the charge that the Cistercians are "running down other Orders" against the accusers.
from Bernard of Clairvaux, Apology for William
I have a point at issue here with certain members of our Order who are said to be running down other Orders and trying to establish their own righteousness instead of submitting to the righteousness of God, and this in despite of the saying: 'Do not pass judgement prematurely, before the Lord's coming: he will bring to light what is hidden in darkness, and reveal the secrets of men's hearts.' Now I have stated most clearly that these men, if they are in fact behaving thus, are not of our Order nor indeed of any other, inasmuch as those whose lives are 'ordered', but whose words are arrogant, make themselves into citizens of Babylon, meaning chaos; yes, truly, into sons of darkness, of hell itself, where there is no order, the dwelling-place of everlasting dread. And so to you, brothers, who trust in your own righteousness and look down on others, even after hearing the Lord's parable of the Pharisee and the publican, to you I say this: I have heard it said you are boasting that you alone among men are righteous, or at least holier than the rest, that you are the only monks to live according to the Rule; others honour it rather in the breach.
First, what business have you with another's servants? Whether they stand or fall concerns their master. Who has set you up as judges over them? In the next place, if, as is said, you stand upon your Order, what sort of order is it that has you peering and prying so diligently after the motes in your brothers' eyes before each of you has removed the beam from his own? You who glory in the Rule, why do you undermine it? Why do you go against the Gospel in judging prematurely and against St. Paul in judging another's servants? Surely the Rule accords with the Gospel and with Paul? Else the Rule is wrong, and so no rule at all. Listen and learn what order is, you who run counter to it in finding fault with other Orders: 'Hypocrite, first cast the beam out of your own eye and then you will see clearly to cast the mote out of your brother's.' Which beam, you want to know? What about the long, large beam of pride, pride that makes you think yourself something when you are nothing, that has you foolishly vaunting your fancied soundness, and taking others groundlessly to task about their motes while carrying a beam yourselves? 'I thank you, God,' you say, 'that I am not as other men, unjust, extortioners, adulterers.' Carry on and add: detractors. As motes go it is no smaller than the rest. Why, then, when you list the others so carefully, do you pass that one over? If you think it is a non-existent or trivial fault, listen to the Apostle: 'Nor will detractors inherit the kingdom of God.' And hear God himself fulminating in the Psalm: 'I will rebuke you and place you face to face with yourself' - the context leaves no doubt that he is addressing a detractor. And how right that the detractor should be wrenched round and made to look himself in the face, he who has spent his time prying into the faults of others rather than contemplating his own.
But, you reply, what about those who wear furs, who eat meat
or animal fat when in perfect health, and three or four cooked
dishes a day, all of which things the Rule forbids; who don't
do the manual work that it prescribes? and who alter this, add
that or subtract the other as they see fit - in what way are they
keeping the Rule? These things exist; there's no denying it. But
give heed to the rule of God with which St Benedict's is certainly
not at odds. 'The kingdom of God is within you', that is to say,
not in outward things like clothing and food for the body, but
in the virtues of the inner man. Which is why St Paul says that
the kingdom of God is not food and drink, but righteousness and
peace and joy in the Holy Spirit; and again, that the kingdom
of God does not consist in talk but in virtue. You traduce the
Fathers therefore in this matter of outward observances, and,
by forgetting that spiritual institutions are greater than any
Rule, you strain out the gnat while swallowing the camel. What
sophistry! It is your greatest concern that the body should be
clothed as stipulated, and yet you break that same Rule in leaving
the naked soul without its garments. When so much zeal is employed
to furnish the body with the tunic and cowl that are supposed
to make the monk, why is there not the same concern to attire
the spirit in piety and humility? Sublime in our tunics we shudder
at the thought of furs - as though humility wrapped in furs were
not better than pride draped in a tunic. God, after all, made
Adam and Eve garments of skin, John wore a leather girdle round
his waist in the desert, and Benedict himself in his hermitage
wore animal skins rather than a tunic.
Having filled our belly with beans and our mind with pride, we
condemn rich foods, as though it were not better to eat a modicum
of fat as need requires than to stuff oneself to belching point
with flatulent pulses. Remember that it was not meat but lentils
that got Esau his reproof, not meat but fruit that was Adam's
downfall, while Jonathan was condemned to death for tasting not
meat but honey. On the other hand, no harm came to Elijah from
eating meat, Abraham found favour by serving meat to the angels,
and God ordered animals to be offered to him in sacrifice. Again,
it is better to use a little wine for one's infirmity than to
slake one's thirst greedily with water. Paul, after all, advised
Timothy to take a little wine, and the Lord himself drank and
was even called a drunkard; he gave it, too, to his apostles to
drink, and established in wine the sacrament of his blood. Conversely,
he would not have water drunk at the marriage feast, and punished
the people severely for their complaining at the waters of Meribah.
As for David, he feared to drink the water he had longed for,
and those of Gideon's men who from greed had lain fiat on their
bellies to drink from the river were not judged worthy to go into
battle. Lastly, how should we pride ourselves on manual work when
Martha was rebuked for working and Mary praised for sitting quiet.
As for Paul, he states openly that manual work is of some avail,
but godliness is all-availing. Best of all is the work to which
the Prophet referred when he said: 'I labour in my groaning',
and again: 'I think of God and I am ravished. I am exercised and'
(lest we should think of this exertion as physical) 'my spirit
faints'. Clearly the work referred to is spiritual, since it is
the spirit and not the body that is wearied by it.
'What then?' you exclaim. 'Do you so press the inward and spiritual side that you condemn the outward and bodily practices which the rule enjoins on us?' Not at all. It is rather a matter of doing the one and not neglecting the other. In general, if there has to be a choice, it is better to omit the bodily rather than the spiritual exercises; for even as the soul is superior to the body, so are the spiritual exercises more beneficial than the physical'. So when you smugly find fault with others for their neglect of the practices which you observe, you are surely the greater transgressor, for while you keep the minutiae of the Rule, you turn your back on the higher gifts which Paul describes as earnestly to be desired. When you run down your brothers while vaunting your own virtue, you lose humility, and charity when you trample them in the dust, both without doubt among the higher gifts. Granted, you wear yourself out with constant hard work, and use the austerity of the Rule to do to death whatever is earthly in you; and you do well. But what if the brother who in your view labours less hard has yet performed some of that bodily work which is of limited value, while being richer than you in all-availing godliness? Which of you, I should like to know, keeps your common Rule better? Surely, the better man? And who is better, the humbler or the wearier monk? Is it not he who has learned from the Lord to be meek and humble of heart, and who has chosen with Mary the better part, which shall not be taken away from him?
To be blunt: neither you nor he keep the Rule as you reckon it should be kept by all who profess it, that is, to the letter without admitting of any dispensation. He may indeed, in the matter of outward observance, offend in many particulars; it is none the less impossible that you should not offend in one, and, as you know, he who offends in a single point is guilty of all. But if you accept the possibility of dispensation, then without question both of you keep the Rule, but differently: you more strictly, he perhaps more prudently. I am not saying that outward observances should be neglected, nor that the monk who shunned their practice would become spiritual overnight, but rather that the spiritual virtues, for all they are higher, are acquired and preserved with difficulty, if at all, without the external exercises, for, in the words of Scripture: it is not the spiritual that comes first but the physical, and then comes the spiritual. Thus Jacob was unfit for Rachel's much desired embraces until he had knowledge of Leah. And again we read in the Psalm: 'Raise a song and sound the timbrel', meaning take up spiritual things, but practise first the physical. The man best placed is he who toils with discretion and relevancy on either front.
If this is to be a letter, it is time I finished it. I have
taken up the pen and rebuked as vigorously as I could those monks
of ours whom you, Father, complained of as having criticized your
Order, and have cleared myself at the same time, as it behoved
me, of any unfounded suspicion on this count. However, I feel
bound to add a few remarks. Because I give our own men no quarter,
I might seem to condone the behaviour of certain monks of yours
- conduct which I know you disapprove of, and which all good monks
must necessarily avoid. I refer to abuses that, if they exist
in the Order, God forbid should ever be a part of it. Certainly
no order can contain an element of disorder, for disorder and
order are incompatible. So long, therefore, as I attack in the
men I censure not the Order they belong to but their vices, I
shall be seen as arguing for the Order and not against it. In
doing this I have no fear of offending those who love the Order.
On the contrary they will surely thank me for hunting down what
they themselves detest. Any who might be displeased would prove
by their refusal to condemn the vices that corrupt it that they
did not have the Order's good at heart. To them I make the Gregorian
rejoinder: better that scandal erupt than that the truth be abandoned.
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Meanwhile course after course is brought in. To offset the
lack of meat - the only abstinence - the laden fish dishes are
doubled. The first selection may have been more than enough for
you, but you have only to start on the second to think you have
never tasted fish before. Such are the skill and art with which
the cooks prepare it all that one can down four or five courses
without the first spoiling one's enjoyment of the last, or fullness
blunting the appetite. Tickle the palate with unaccustomed seasonings
and the familiar start to pall, but exotic relishes will restore
it even to its preprandial sharpness; and since variety takes
away the sense of surfeit, one is not aware that one's stomach
is overburdened. Foodstuffs in their pure and unadulterated state
have no appeal, so we mix ingredients pell-mell, scorning the
natural nutriments God gave us, and use outlandish savours to
stimulate our appetite. That way we can eat far more than we need
and still enjoy it.
To give but one example: who could itemize all the ways in which
eggs are maltreated? Or describe the pains that are taken to toss
them and turn them, soften and harden them, botch them and scotch
them, and finally serve them up fried, baked and stuffed by turns,
in conjunction with other foods or on their own? What is the purpose
of all this unless it be to titillate a jaded palate? Attention
is also lavished on the outward appearance of a dish, which must
please the eye as much as it gratifies the taste buds, for though
a belching stomach may announce that it has had enough, curiosity
is never sated. Poor stomach! the eyes feast on colour, the palate
on fiavour, yet the wretched stomach, indifferent to both but
forced to aecept the lot, is more often oppressed than refreshed
as a result.
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But these are minor points. I am coming to the major abuses, so common nowadays as to seem of lesser moment. I pass over the vertiginous height of churches, their extravagant length, their inordinate width and costly finishings. As for the elaborate images that catch the eye and check the devotion of those at prayer within, they put me more in mind of the Jewish rite of old. But let this be: it is all done for the glory of God. But as a monk I ask my fellow monks the question a pagan poet put to pagans: 'Tell me, O priests, why is there gold in the holy place?'? 'Tell me, O poor men,' say I - for it is the meaning, not the measure that concerns me - 'tell me, O poor men, if poor you are, what is gold doing in the holy place?' It is one thing for bishops but quite another for monks. Bishops are under an obligation both to the wise and the foolish. Where people remain impervious to a purely spiritual stimulus, they use material ornamentation to inspire devotion. But we who have separated ourselves from the mass, who have relinquished for Christ's sake all the world's beauty and all that it holds precious, we who, to win Christ, count as dung every delight of sight and sound, of smell and taste and touch, whose devotion do we seek to excite with this appeal to the senses? What are we angling for, I should like to know: the admiration of fools, or the offerings of the simple? Or have we perhaps, through mixing with the Gentiles, learned their ways and taken to worshipping their idols?
To put it plainly: suppose that all this is the work of cupidity,
which is a form of idol-worship; suppose that the real objective
is not yield but takings. You want me to explain? It's an amazing
process: the art of scattering money about that it may breed.
You spend to gain, and what you pour out returns as a flood tide.
A costly and dazzling show of vanities disposes to giving rather
than to praying. Thus riches elicit riches, and money brings money
in its train, because for some unknown reason the richer a place
is seen to be the more freely the offerings pour in. When eyes
open wide at gold-cased relics, purses do the same. A beautiful
image of a saint is on show: the brighter the colours the holier
he or she will be considered. Those who hasten to kiss the image
are invited to leave a gift, and wonder more at the beauty than
at the holiness they should be venerating.
Instead of crowns one sees in churches nowadays great jewelled
wheels bearing a circle of lamps, themselves as good as outshone
by the inset gems. Massive treelike structures, exquisitely wrought,
replace the simple candlestick. Here too the precious stones glimmer
as brightly as the flames above.
What is this show of splendour intended to produce'? Tears of contrition or gasps of admiration? O vanity of vanities, but above all insanity! The walls of the church are ablaze with light and colour, while the poor of the church go hungry. The Church revets its stones in gold and leaves its children naked. The money for feeding the destitute goes to feast the eyes of the rich. The curious find plenty to relish and the starving nothing to eat. As for reverence, what respect do we show for the images of the saints that pattern the floor we tread beneath our feet? People often spit on angels' faces, and their tramping feet pummel the features of the saints. If we care little for the sacred, why not save at least the lovely colours? Why decorate what is soon to be defaced? Why paint what is bound to be trodden on? What good are beautiful pictures where they receive a constant coating of grime? And lastly, what possible bearing can this have on the life of monks, who are poor men and spiritual? And yet perhaps the poet's well-known line can be countered by the Prophet's words: 'Lord, I have loved the beauty of your house and the place where your glory dwells'. Very well, we will tolerate such doings in our churches on the ground that they harm only the foolish and the grasping and not the simple-hearted and devout.
But what can justify that array of grotesques in the cloister where the brothers do their reading, a fantastic conglomeration of beauty misbegotten and ugliness transmogrified? What place have obscene monkeys, savage lions, unnatural centaurs, manticores, striped tigers, battling knights or hunters sounding their horns? You can see a head with many bodies and a multi-bodied head. Here is a quadruped with a dragon's tail, there an animal's head stuck on a fish. That beast combines the forehand of a horse with the rear half of a goat, this one has the horns in front and the horse's quarters aft. With such a bewildering array of shapes and forms on show, one would sooner read the sculptures than the books, and spend the whole day gawking at this wonderland rather than meditating on the law of God. Ah, Lord! if the folly of it all does not shame us, surely the expense might stick in our throats?
This is a rich vein, and there is plenty more to be quarried,
but I am prevented from carrying on by my own demanding duties
and your imminent departure, Brother Oger. Since I cannot persuade
you to stay, and 'you do not want to leave without this latest
little book, I am falling in with your wishes: I am letting you
go and shortening my discourse, particularly since a few words
spoken in a spirit of conciliation do more good than many that
are a cause of scandal. And would to heaven that these few lines
do not occasion scandal! I am well aware that in rooting out vices
I shall have offended those involved. However, God willing, those
I fear I may have exasperated may end up grateful for my strictures
if they desist from their evil ways - that is to say, if the rigorists
stop carping and the lax prune back their excesses, and if both
sides act in conscience according to their own beliefs, without
judging the others who hold different views. Those who are able
to live austerer lives should neither despise nor copy those who
cannot. As for the latter, they should not be led by admiration
for their stricter brethren to imitate them injudiciously: just
as there is a danger of apostasy when those who have taken a more
exacting vow slip into easier ways, not everyone can safely scale
the heights.
The humanized face of Christ from the typanum of the Church of the Madeleine, Vezelay in Burgundy. Christ and the apostles as they appear on the Vezelay typanum evoke "not the world invisible, but, for the first time, the world of man, the world whose time is measured by the twelve months of the year, and whose space extends to the confines of the world, peopled by strange races. It is as if, on the brink of the 12th century, the Romanesque dream-world was fading out and the Gospel message at long last being diffused everywhere, freeing man from his atavistic fears and urging him on to conquest" (George Duby, Medieval Art).
Peace on Earth: a Contemporary Description of Clairvaux
The following passage is an anonymous description of Clairvaux dating from after 1140. The author, who may have been a monk or simply a regular visitor to the community, provides a richly visual account that includes allegorical elements, the reference to "the bastard slips," for instance, and evokes Clairvaux as an earthly anticipation of Paradise.
Anonymous, A Description of Clairvaux
Should you wish to picture Clairvaux, the following has been written to serve you as a mirror. Imagine two hills and between them a narrow valley, which widens out as it approaches the monastery. The abbey covers the half of one hillside and the whole of the other. With one rich in vineyards, the other in crops, they do double duty, gladdening the heart and serving our necessities, one shelving flank providing food, the other drink. On the ridges themselves it is often the monks' work (pleasant indeed and the more so for being peaceful) to collect dead brushwood and tie it in bundles for burning, sorting out the prickly brambles and cutting and tying only what is fit for the fires. Their job too to grub out the briars, to uproot and destroy what Solomon calls the bastard slips, which throttle the growing branches or loosen the roots, lest the stout oak be hindered from saluting the height of heaven, the lime from deploying its supple branches, the pliant ash that splits so readily from growing freely upwards, the fan-shaped beech from attaining its full spread.
Farther on, the rear of the abbey extends
to the wide valley bottom, much of which lies inside the great
sweep of the abbey wall. Within this cincture many fruit-bearing
trees of various species make a veritable grove of orchards, which
by their nearness to the infirmary afford no small solace to the
brothers in their sickness: a spacious promenade for those able
to walk, an easeful resting-place for the feverish. The sick man
sits on the green turf, and, when the merciless heat of the dog
days bakes the fields and dries up the streams, he in his sanctuary,
shaded from the day's heat, filters the heavenly fire through
a screen of leaves, his discomfort further eased by the drifting
scent of the grasses. While he feeds his gaze on the pleasing
green of grass and trees, fruits, to further his delight, hang
swelling before his eyes, so that'he can not inaptly say: 'I sat
in the shadow of his tree, which I had desired, and its fruit
was sweet to my taste.' A chorus of brightly feathered birds caresses
his ears with sweetest melody. Thus for a single illness God in
his goodness provides many a soothing balm: the sky smiles serene
and clear, the earth quivers with life, and the sick man drinks
in, with eyes, ears and nostrils, the delights of colour, song
and scent.
Where the orchard ends the garden begins, marked out into rectangles,
or, more accurately, divided up by a network of streamlets; for,
although the water appears asleep, it is in fact slipping slowly
away. Here too a pretty spectacle is afforded to the sick, who
can sit on the grassy banks of the clear runnels watching the
fish at play in the translucent water, their manoeuvres recalling
troops in battle. This water, which serves the dual purpose of
feeding the fish and irrigating the vegetables, is supplied by
the tireless course of the river Aube, of famous name, which flows
through the many workshops of the abbey. Wherever it passes it
evokes a blessing in its wake, proportionate to its good offices;
for it does not slip through unscathed or at its leisure, but
at the cost of much exertion. By means of a winding channel cut
through the middle of the valley, not by nature but by the hard
work of the brethren, the Aube sends half its waters into the
monastery, as though to greet the monks and apologize for not
having come in its entirety, for want of a bed wide enough to
carry its full flow. And should this stream in spate surge forward
in a tumultuous sally, repulsed by the fronting wall under which
it has to flow, it falls back into itself, and the current once
again embraces the reflux. As much of the stream as this wall,
acting as gatekeeper, allows in by the sluice gates hlarls itself
initially with swirling force against the mill, where its ever-increasing
turbulence, harnessed first to the weight of the millstones and
next to the fine-meshed sieve, grinds the grain and then separates
the flour from the bran.
The stream now fills the cauldron in a nearby building and suffers itself to be boiled to prepare the brothers' drink (should husbandry have been ill rewarded by a poor yintage, and malt, in default of grape juice, have to supply the want).' Nor does it hold itself acquitted yet. The fullers, next door to the mill, invite it in, claiming with reason on their side that, if it swirls and eddies in the mill, which provides the brothers with food, it should do no less by those who clothe them. The stream does not demur, nor indeed refuse any request made of it, Instead, raising and lowering by turns the heavy pestles (unless you prefer the term mallets or, better still, wooden feet - the expression which seems most suited to the gymnastic occupation of the fullers), it frees these brothers from their drudgery. And should their gravity be broken by some jest, it frees them too from punishment for their sin. O Lord, how great are the consolations that you in your goodness provide for your poor servants, lest a greater wretchedness engulf them! How generously you palliate the hardships of your penitents, lest perchance they be crushed at times by the harshness of their toil! From how much back breaking travail for horses and arm aching labour for men does this obliging torrent free us, to tile extent that without it we should be neither clothed nor fed. It is most truly shared with us, and expects no other reward wheresoever it toils under the sun than that, its work done, it be allowed to run freely away. So it is that, after driving so many noisy and swiftly spinning wheels, it flows out foaming, as though it too had been ground and softened in the process.
The tannery is next to capture the stream, and here it displays its zeal in the fashioning of all that goes to make the brothers' footwear. Thereafter, its water decanted into a sutcession of channels, it carries out a dutiful inspection of each workshop, diligently inquiring where it can be of service and offering its ungrudging help in the work of cooking, sifting, turning, whetting, watering, washing, grinding and softening. Lastly, to ensure that no cause for gratitude be wanting, that its tasks be left in no respect unfinished, it carries the waste products away and leaves everything clean ill its wake, and, while Clairvaux renders it thanks for all its blessings, it courteously returns the abbey's greetings as it hastens away to pour back into the river the waters siphoned off into the monastery. The two currents are indistinguishably mingled and the river, shrunken and sluggish since the diversion, surges forward under the onrush of water.
Now that we have returned the stream to its bed, let us go back to those rills we left behind. They too are diverted from the river and meander placidly through the meadows, saturating the soil that it may germinate. And when, with the coming of the mild spring weather, the pregnant earth gives birth, they keep it watered too lest the springing grasses should wither for lack of moisture. As it is, these have no need to depend on drops begged from the clouds, fostered as they are by the care of the kindred river. These rills, or more properly trenches, their job done, are swallowed once more by the river that spewed them forth, and the Aube, now fully replenished, rushes off on its steep downhill course. And we, who have kept it company all this way, until it, in Solomon's words, has returned to its place, let us too return to our point of departure and, wasting no words, leap lightly over the wide expanse of the meadow.
Here is a spot that has much to delight the eye, to revive the weak spirit, to soothe the aching heart and to arouse to devotion all who seek the Lord. It brings to mind the heavenly bliss to which we all aspire, for the smiling face of the earth with its many hues feasts the eyes and breathes sweet scents into the nostrils. Both the sight and the scent of the meadow put me in mind of tales of long ago. Their scent recalls to me that the smell of Jacob's garments was compared to the fragrance of a fertile field; their colour, how the splendour of Solomon's purple was displayed. And yet he, who lacked neither the skill derived from wisdom nor the means that power affords, could not in all his glory rival the lilies of the field. And so it is that, while agreeably employed in the open, I get no little pleasure from the mystery beneath the surface.
This meadow is refreshed by the floodwaters
of the Aube, which runs through it, so that the grass, thanks
to the moisture at its roots, can stand the summer heat. Its extent
is great enough to tire the community for the space of twenty
days when the sun has baked to hay its shorn grassy fleece. Nor
is the haymaking left to the monks alone: alongside them a countless
multitude of lay-brothers and voluntary and hired helpers gather
the mown grass and comb the shorn ground with wide-toothed rakes?
Two granges divide this meadow between them, the Aube serving
as an equitable judge and surveyor in the settling of disputes.
Assigning to each its share, like a marking-rope it sets the bounds
that neither dares cross to invade the other's portion. You would
take these granges not for the living quarters of lay-brothers
but for monastic cloisters were it not that ox yokes, ploughs
and other farm implements betray the inhabitants' status, and
that no books are opened there. As regards the monastic buildings
themselves, you will admit that they are well-fitted in size,
siting and appearance to a large community of monks.
In thc part of the meadow nearest the wall, a watery lake has
been created from the solid field. Where in former times the sweating
labourer mowed the hay with a sharp scythe, today the brother
in charge of the fishponds, seated on a wooden horse, is borne
over the smooth surface of this liquid field. Wherever he goes,
a light pole serves him for spurs to speed his progress, for a
curb when turning. The net destined to entangle the fish is spread
under the water, and its favourite baits are set, but primed with
a hidden hook to catch the unwary - an example which teaches us
to spurn delights, for pleasure harms and suffering is its price.
Only the man who has never sinned or never done true penance for
sin can possibly ignore that the outcome of pleasure is pain.
May God keep pleasure far removed from us - that pleasure at whose
doorway death stands posted, and which a wise man likens to bees
on the wing, which, as soon as they have shed their sweet burden
of honey, turn and strike the addicted heart with a deep-seated
sting? The high bank surrounding the mere is faced with wattle
made from withy roots to prevent the soil from slipping into the
water that washes it. A brook some thirty feet distant keeps the
water level constant by means of feeder ditches, which carry and
regulate both inflow and outflow.
But while I am winging my way across the plain, breathless with the exertion, whether it be describing the vivid surface of the meadow painted by Wisdom's own hand or the ridges of the hills with their shaggy pelt of trees, I am taxed with ingratitude by that sweet spring from which I have drunk times without number and whose deserts I have ill requited. It has often quenched my thirst, humbled itself to wash not only my hands but my feet, and done me many a kindness and service - good offices which merited a better reward. For now it reproaches me bitterly with having assigned it the last place, and that only just, in my topographical list, when the first, by right of reverence, was its due. And indeed I cannot deny that my memory was laggard when it gave others precedence. This spring, like the waters of Siloam which move silently, glides to and fro unheard down subterranean channels. Its course cannot be detected by the faintest murmur, and, as though it feared discovery, it hangs its head and turns its face aside. Why should I not think it wanted to be passed over in silence when it secretes itself under cover? Like all good springs it sallies out over against the rising sun, so that midsummer finds it greeting the roseate splendour of dawn full in the face. A small but pretty hut, or tabernacle to use a more reverential word, encloses it and protects it from any dirt. It wells out of the hillside only to be swallowed by the valley, and in the very place of its birth it seems to die, nay, even to be buried. But do not look for the sign of Jonah the prophet, expecting it to lie hidden away for three days and three nights: at once, a thousand feet away, it rises again in the abbey cloister, as it might be from the bowels of the earth, and, as it were restored to life, offers itself to the sight and use of the brethren, lest its future lot should be with any but the holy.
The English Cistercian Abbey at Fountains, built during the second half of the C12th.
Sources:
Andrea Petzold, Romanesque Art.
Georges Duby, Medieval Art.
C. H. Lawrence, Medieval Monasticism.
Pauline Matarasso ed., The Cistercian World: Monastic Writings of the C12th.
The Rule of St. Benedict: a good translation is published by Sheed and Ward and an application of the Rule for contemporary lay spirituality may be found in Ester de Waal, Seeking God, the Way of St. Benedict.