Guest at a Medieval monastery-- a day in the Life, Pt 1

6:05 AM:
Alarm blares, bleeps and is promptly slammed off. Light comes on, twenty seconds of leisurely blinking and eye rubbing is engaged in, then pants are yanked on and young guest swims into a heavy sweater. Feet are socked and shoed, missal and psalter are grabbed, two flights of steps are pounded down, one wood, one stone, a deep breath is taken, then a five inch thick oak door is slowly pushed open on its iron hinges – if done right it doesn’t creak - and a muffled figure slips into the church. Everything is darkness, the vault of the ceiling invisible, a few candles gleam by the ancient (and miraculous) statue of Notre Dame, with perhaps a few lay brothers kneeling around in their black capes, watching.

The choir monks have been up since 4:45 singing Matins, their heads are bent over their books and their droning Latin half floats, half booms off the grey stone vaults and columns. Laudes is about to begin. The guest is hunched over in his pew, head in hands, dropping to sleep, then lurching back again. It seems like an abyss of restful oblivion is there waiting to envelop him if he could just keep still… This continues for two minutes and then all the monks stand up, a few more lights come on, the lay brothers march to their places, the organ breathes a couple notes, and the voice of a very old monk tremulously intones Deus in adjutorium meum intende… all monks responding with a sonorous Domine, ad aduvandum me festina… which drifts into the Gloria Patri for which all, guests and monks, bend almost double, the body forming an ninety degree angle at the waist. The antiphon is then sung, and the psalms begin.

Lauds comes from the Latin laudare meaning to praise and all the psalms used in this office as well as the simple notes they are set to have a tone of praise. The guest is still half asleep, and as he follows the Latin in the little book, the words seem to drift into his soul, for his mind is too tired to analyze, his intellect to feeble to comprehend...

The poetry of the psalms is very touching and in their simple humility is a sort of childlike abandon, acknowledging human weakness and the inadequacy of human strength like a little child calling to his father when he is tormented by fear: Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea, et a peccato meo munda me (Wash from me my iniquity, and hide me from my sins) continuing with more addresses towards the Almighty, at the same time both humble and intimate. “Cast me not from thy face” “against you alone I have sinned” “Give unto me the joy of thy help” “For thy mercy is sweeter than life” “I shall shelter under thy wings, and there shall I hope” etc. After trembling at his sin and begging mercy for his weakness, the psalmist is swept into exuberant praise of the infinite and tender mercy of God in his salvation overflowing into promises of spreading his glory over the nations.

Other psalms suggest a young David, alone in the wilderness, tending his sheep, breathing words to God in the great silences of the wind, the rocks, the trees and the sky. Simple food, quiet solitude, blanketed by stars, whispered to by the grasses and trees, lost in intuitive, marveling contemplation of the infinite source of his being. Singing of his greatness, praising his might, feeling his mercy, thundering his justice. A little boy in the arms of his Father. This was king David.

Laudes ends as always, with the singing of the Benedictus, or the Canticle of Zachariah, father of John the Baptist who, miraculously regaining his power of speech after years of dumbness, is overshadowed by the Holy Spirit and delivers the prophetic Canticle of the power, wisdom, and fidelity of the Lord of Israel to his people.
The melody used for the Benedictus is identical to the one used for the Magnificat of the Virgin Mary after vespers. Thus the monks sing as the sun rises the Canticle of an old man, father of the last prophet and greatest witness to the Messiah, and end as the sun is setting with the same melody on the same subject matter, taken from the same chapter in Luke, but from the mouth of a young girl who is to be mother of the Messiah.

After the Benedictus and the closing prayers of Lauds, the monks all thus to their knees, two brothers go, and, grasping the enourmous bell ropes, tug in at a certain rhythm using their entire body weight to produce a steady Dong…Dong which remains constant for perhaps seven dongs, then increases in volume and intensity. The monks kneel in silence during the ringing until the tap of the Abbots mallet, then the all rise and go prepare for the masses. So, for a time our guest relapses into his pew, head in hands, and waits in silence.

Next come the Messes Basses or “whispered masses”, an experience never found outside a monastery. Since every priest is required to say one mass per day, and upwards of 30 of the monks are priests, there are a large number of tiny stone altars in front of every column and continuing around the entire circumference of the church. Each altar amounts to a step, a table, two forged iron candlesticks jutting out from the wall or column as the case may be, a forged iron crucifix mounted in the same manner, three altar cards, a bookstand and a tiny pillar in the shadow of the column to hold cruets and other necessities.

It is a fine sight to see dozens of monks, arrayed for mass in their sweeping gothic chasubles of matching colors, marching out in the cold, candle lit semi darkness to all corners of the church, heads down and hoods up, each preceded by a lay brother in a long black cape, carrying a large red leather missal bound with bronze.

Each priest is completely absorbed in his own mass. For thirty minutes each morning, the entire world is equal to one stone table, a gold cup, a white wafer, and a book of Latin prayers. Every word is whispered in the lowest tone, every gesture is made with the utmost care, every genuflection slow, calm and contemplative.

The world could end, the church could fall down, the cock could crow, a baby could shriek and he would be utterly unphased and continue, giving every whispered word its full measure, every bow its full depth, and every motion its full, slow time as he has done every morning from the day of his ordination and will do for the rest of his life.

The intensity of focused energy at these masses is so powerful, to say nothing of the overall mystery of the place, that the guest becomes not just a passive witness, but an active part. His entire attention is absorbed it the rite before his eyes, he kneels only six feet away from the priest, he can see the shadow of his cheekbones, the scars on his hands, and every line of his face in the dim candlelight. He can just barely hear the whispered words, the thud of the hand at the mea culpa, the rustle of the chasuble, the flick of a turning page in the missal, and the trickle of the water and wine into the chalice, but beyond this everything is silent. He can almost hear the candles burning.
So intent is the guest that his mouth hangs open, he barely breathes, and he is almost insensible to the ache of his knees as he kneels on the hard wooden plank that serves as a rest on the bottom of the pew. Neither does he feel the cold in his hands or the chilling dampness in his bones. The breath of the priest steams in the cold air, the golden chalice glitters in the candlelight, the stained glass windows begin to glow with  dawn, but inside it is still dark. Some masses are already over and monks are threading their way through the columns back to the darkness of the cloister. Suddenly, the mass ends. The server grabs the missal, the priest bows to the altar, pulls his hood over his head, and they both disappear. A few people remain, kneeling, bowed and completely still. The guest stays for a few minutes, says his thanksgiving, then creeps to the door and, after slipping out as quietly as he came in, pounds up two flights of stairs, one stone, one wood, walks into his cell and slips fully clothed, under his now cold blankets and tries to catch some sleep before breakfast.

The Messe Basse is probably the most mediaeval experience that it is still possible to have on this earth, and it takes place here, every morning, before sunrise.

8:30 AM
Alarm blares, bleeps and is even more promptly slammed off. Guest swivels to a sitting position, pulls on shoes, pounds a little more energetically down two flights of stairs, one stone, one wood, and arrives in the guest dining hall for breakfast.

He is one of the first people in the room. Quickly he grabs his checkered blue and white napkin which has been rolled and labeled with his name inside a wooden ring, says a silent grace, takes his thick white porcelain bowl off of his thick white porcelain plate, places one rectangular sugar cube vertically at the bottom so that it looks like a tiny crystal skyscraper, seizes the enormous stainless steel pot of coffee, pours into the bowl, aiming for the little skyscraper, and watches the hot black waterfall melt and demolish it so that he won’t have to stir it later. He pours the bowl exactly one third full; he is very careful about this, which is why he always tries to take possession of the pot before some overzealous and ignorant Frenchman insists on pouring for half the people at the table and consequently messing up his ratio. He then fills the other two thirds with hot milk. Now that the beverage is prepared, he grabs a hard slice of white bread from the little basket on the table, places it on his plate, and sits down.

Each place in the guest hall has, besides its plate and bowl, a knife and a large tablespoon. Our guest takes his knife, and butters his bread with the thick, yellow, crumbly butter made with cream from the monks cows. He butters one half of his oblong slice more thickly than the other, then with his knife, separates the two halves and dollops on the more thinly buttered one a scoop of creamy golden honey from the monks bees. He never uses his spoon, for he knows he must wash everything afterwards, and the spoon is, strictly speaking, unnecessary.
Now that his knife has slight amounts of residual honey and butter on it, he uses it to stir his bowl of hot milk and coffee, not in order to dissolve the sugar cube, but firstly to avoid using the spoon, and secondly to melt the butter and honey off of the knife. Usually this takes around two and a half stirs. If the coffee milk is extra hot, he will deliberately leave slightly more butter smeared on his knife which will melt into little bits of yellow oil floating on top so that when he takes a drink, the melted butter will coat his tongue just the necessary amount to keep it from getting burnt. This is also why he always eats the buttered half of his bread before the butter and honeyed half. Scalding the tongue first thing in the morning is not only annoying, but it prevents the full enjoyment of the limited mouthfuls he will have throughout the rest of the day.

If it is towards the beginning of the week and the butter is freshly made, and consequently soft and delicious, the guest may become extravagant and enjoy an entire slice of bread thickly buttered and then a second with butter and honey, but this is a rare treat.

He now begins eating his bread and sipping from his bowl, while allowing himself to be entertained by the inefficiency of the other guests and the peculiarities of their eating habits.

The French are by most people considered to have some of the most refined manners in the world, but there are some things he has seen them do at the table which, though perhaps not disgusting, are most definitely quite bizarre. For example, almost every Frenchman will gather his crumbs into a pile at the end of a meal, lick his finger, and proceed to put them into his mouth via that intermediary vehicle. When they butter their bread, they often will place it on the table surface, or possibly their plate, cut a small hunk from the main stick, place it on their plate and proceed to timidly cut smaller hunks off of their personal small hunk and in turn, distribute these hunks onto the bread, as if they were spreading gravel or setting a chess board, but with the butter knife all the time delicately balanced between their fingers.

The honey is the real entertainment. Taking the enormous tablespoon and dipping it into the jar, usually taking more than is necessary, our neophyte Frenchman holds it over the butter checkered bread, expectantly waiting for it to obligingly run down in an even stream so than he can painstakingly and unevenly dribble it into his desired pattern. But no, it is not to be. The stubborn golden liquid remains phlegmatic and does not budge. Any American in this situation would unhesitatingly scrape the stuff off with a knife and spread it onto his bread with maximum evenness and efficiency, but the French are a very precise, logical people who would never use the already soiled utensil used for condiment one in step one, as an aid for condiment two step two, which already has its own utensil anyway. If perhaps he is an extremely square, practical individual, who works on cars and has at least two engineering degrees from the Sorbonne as well as lots of experience at previous monastery breakfasts, he might use his knife at some point, but it goes against the grain. So, since the honey will not move, he shakes it, gently at first but then with an extremely fast, irritable, finicky vibration which sometimes actually works, insofar as a certain portion of honey makes it onto the bread, and is then delicately globbed in small lumps around the surface area with the very tip of the butter knife. He then takes an experimental bite, being sure not to let his lips touch the surface (I have no idea why this is), chews once or twice, then takes a sip of coffee. Often he will dip his bread into his coffee bowl and eat it soggy, bit by bit.

The young gest always finishes first or second, for he does not want to wait in line to wash his dishes, and breakfast is not a lingering meal anyway. He walks into a little wash closet, containing a tub of hot soapy water, dunks and scrubs bowl, plate and knife and takes them back to the dining hall, where they are then dried and put into the armoire.

With the exception of major feasts such as Easter and Christmas when there may perhaps be a roll instead of bread and honey based comfiture with figs apricots and peaches drowned in it instead of plain honey, breakfast is always this same monotonously necessary meal every day.

The guest then pounds back up two flights of stairs, one stone, one wood, uses the bathroom (same time every day like clockwork) does some light reading, and then studies for the remaining half hour before the high mass.

10:00 AM

On a brown bench at the back of the church, a muffled figure slumps inside of a wool peacoat and regards the slanting colored rays from the stained glass windows. The other pews are peppered with villagers and other visitors who have come to attend the high mass. A monk stands motionless in the sanctuary, grasping the bottom of an enormous bell rope, waiting for the exact moment. Suddenly he heaves several time in rapid succession, the bell clangs and the monks process into the church from the cloister and rank themselves along the choir booths.

To be continued in Pt 2...