Father Michel, with his radiant face and rosy features, appeared to be a kindly man of about thirty-five. He guided me to the office and poured me a glass of liqueur to sustain me until dinner. We engaged in conversation, or rather, he indulged my chatter with a certain patience, though he seemed somewhat detached, like a pure spirit in the presence of a creature of flesh and blood. Truth be told, when I consider that I mostly spoke of my appetite, and that over eighteen hours must have passed since Father Michel had last eaten, I must admit he likely found my words distinctly earthly. Nevertheless, his politeness, while tinged with an otherworldly spirituality, was absolutely exquisite, and I felt a profound desire to learn about his past.
After being left alone in the convent garden for a time, I surveyed the main courtyard. It was essentially a space partitioned by sandy paths and vibrant dahlia beds, centered around a fountain and a black statue of the Madonna. The austere buildings surrounded this square, still lacking the softening patina of time and weather. There was nothing visually striking aside from a turret and two slate-roofed gables. Monks clad in white and brown passed silently along the sandy walkways; upon my arrival, three hooded figures were kneeling in prayer on the terrace. A barren hill loomed over the convent on one side, while a dark forest crowded the other. The location was bitterly exposed to the winds. Snow fell intermittently from October through May, sometimes lingering for six weeks at a time. Yet, even if these structures reached the heavens and breathed celestial air, they would never cease to project a stern and forbidding demeanor from every angle.
As for myself, on that biting September day, I felt chilled to the bone before finally being summoned to the table. After a satisfying dinner, Brother Ambroise—an exuberant Frenchman, as those tasked with receiving foreigners are permitted to speak—escorted me to a cell reserved for retreatants. It was impeccably whitewashed and furnished only with the strictest necessities: a crucifix, a bust of the late pope, a French translation of "The Imitation of Christ," a volume of pious meditations, and a biography of Elizabeth Seton, a missionary evidently hailing from North America, specifically New England. To my knowledge, a vast frontier for evangelization still remains in those parts. But let us not overlook Cotton Mather.
I should have liked him to read this little volume in heaven, where I trust he now resides. Then again, he might already be familiar with it, perhaps better than I am. Without a doubt, Mrs. Seton and he have become the closest of friends, joyfully uniting their voices in an endless psalmody. To conclude the cell's inventory, a summary of rules for retreatants hung above the table: outlining what exercises to practice, when to recite the rosary and meditate, and the designated times to rise and sleep. At the bottom, a crucial note declared: "Free time is to be spent in the examination of conscience, confession, making good resolutions, etc." Making good resolutions, indeed... One might just as well command hair to grow on a bald head.
I had barely inspected my quarters when Brother Ambroise reappeared. It seemed an English resident wished to converse with me. I expressed my eagerness, and the monk ushered in a sprightly, cheerful little Irishman of about fifty, serving as a deacon in the church. He was attired in strict canonical dress and wore a headpiece that, lacking proper terminology, I can only describe as an ecclesiastical cap. He had served seven years as a chaplain in a Belgian nunnery before spending the last five at Notre Dame des Neiges. He had never read an English newspaper and spoke only broken French; yet even if he had spoken it flawlessly, his current residence offered few chances for conversation. Moreover, he was an intensely sociable man, starved for news, and possessed a charming, childlike naiveté. If I was glad to have a guide for my monastery tour, he was positively thrilled to see a British face and hear his native tongue. He graciously showed me his personal cell, where he divided his hours between breviaries, Hebrew bibles, and the novels of Waverley. From there, he led me into the cloister, through the chapter house, and into the vestiary where the brothers' robes and broad straw hats hung, each marked with a beautifully original name—such as Basil, Hilarion, Raphael, or Pacificus.
Ultimately, he brought me to the library, which housed the complete works of Veuillot and Chateaubriand, along with the Odes and Ballads, and astonishingly, Molière—not to mention countless Church Fathers and a vast array of local and general historians. From there, my amiable Irishman guided me through the workshops where the brothers baked bread, crafted cartwheels, and experimented with photography. One monk curated a collection of curiosities, while another managed a rabbit warren. For in a Trappist community, every monk selects a personal occupation to pursue alongside his religious vows and the general upkeep of the establishment.
Every man must sing in the choir if he possesses the voice and the ear, and join the harvest if he knows how to swing a scythe. But during his leisure time, though he is far from idle, he may engage in work that suits his tastes. Thus, I learned that one brother devoted himself to literature, Father Apollinaire constructed roads, and the Abbot dedicated his time to bookbinding. This Abbot had only recently been installed, and to mark the occasion, his mother was granted the extraordinary privilege of entering the chapel to witness the consecration. What a proud day it must have been for her to see her son mitred! It is heartening to know she was briefly permitted inside the cloister walls. As we wandered the grounds, we crossed paths with many fathers and brothers. Usually, they paid no more attention to us than to a drifting cloud. Occasionally, however, the excellent deacon would venture a question; he would then receive either a peculiar hand gesture resembling a dog paddling in water, or a clear refusal conveyed through standard signs of negation. In either scenario, their eyelids remained lowered, projecting an air of deep contrition, as if they had just narrowly avoided the devil himself.
By the Abbot's exceptional decree, the monks were still taking two meals a day. But they were on the threshold of their great fast, which commences in September and stretches until Easter. During this grueling period, they eat but once every twenty-four hours, at two in the afternoon—a full twelve hours after beginning their daily labor and vigils. Their meals are meager, and even of these simple provisions, they partake sparingly. Although each monk is allotted a small carafe of wine, many voluntarily forgo this modest luxury. Undoubtedly, most people overindulge in our modern age; our meals serve not merely for sustenance, but as a pleasant and expected diversion from life's daily grind.
Still, even acknowledging the dangers of excess, I could not help but feel the Trappist diet bordered on insufficient. Yet I am continuously astonished, upon reflection, by their glowing complexions and unmistakable zest for life. I can scarcely picture a group of men in better spirits or better health. In truth, on this harsh plateau, compounded by their relentless toil, life expectancy is uncertain, and death is a frequent visitor to Notre Dame des Neiges—or so I was informed. However, if they pass away without regrets, they must also live remarkably free of chronic illness, for they all appeared robust and full of color. The only potentially morbid trait I detected was an unusually intense brightness in their eyes, which paradoxically seemed to amplify their overall aura of longevity and vigor.
The monks I interacted with were exceptionally gentle, projecting a profound, wholesome contentment of the soul in both their expressions and their words. A notice warned visitors not to take offense at the brothers' reticence, as their way of life demands silence. This warning, however, proved entirely unnecessary. My hosts were brimming with innocent chatter, and I frequently found it easier to start a conversation than to gracefully conclude one. With the exception of Father Michel, a true man of the world, they all displayed an authentic curiosity about any topic: politics, my travels, even the mechanics of my sleeping bag. It seemed they simply relished the rare opportunity to hear their own voices.
As for those bound by absolute silence, I can only marvel at their ability to endure such profound and icy isolation. Yet, beyond the obvious element of mortification, I suspect a shrewd underlying policy—not only in the total exclusion of women, but in the vow of silence itself. I have had some encounters with defunct artistic phalansteries, to say nothing of purely bacchanalian ones. I have watched such associations form with ease, only to collapse and dissolve even faster. Governed by Cistercian discipline, they might have survived longer. Whenever women are introduced, it is nearly impossible for such insular brotherhoods of defenseless men to endure.
The positive electrode inevitably dominates. The dreams of childhood and the grand schemes of adolescence are cast aside after a ten-minute encounter; the arts, sciences, and male professional camaraderie surrender instantly to a pair of tender eyes and a soothing voice. Furthermore, once that threshold is crossed, language becomes the greatest common denominator of ruin. I almost blush to apply such secular critiques to a devout religious order. But there is another aspect of the Trappist rule that I must commend as a masterpiece of practical wisdom. Around two in the morning, the clapper strikes the bell, and this rhythm continues, hour by hour—sometimes every fifteen minutes—until eight in the evening, the blessed hour of rest. The day is meticulously carved into distinct, manageable duties. The monk assigned to the rabbits, for instance, hurries from his hutches to the chapel, then to the chapter house, and onto the refectory, in a continuous daily cycle. At any given moment, he has a specific hymn to sing or a concrete chore to complete. From two in the morning, waking in the freezing dark, until eight at night, when he finally receives the merciful gift of sleep, he remains on his feet, fully absorbed by a rotation of varied tasks. I know countless individuals, thousands every year, who desperately lack such structured purpose in their lives. In how many households would the commanding ring of a monastery bell, dividing the day into conquerable segments, bring profound mental peace and satisfying physical exhaustion!
We often complain of fatigue, but true exhaustion stems from living like a numb simpleton, allowing our lives to be mismanaged by our own narrow and foolish whims. Viewed through this lens, the highly regimented existence of the monks makes perfect sense. A lengthy novitiate and rigorous tests of spiritual endurance and physical stamina are mandatory before full admission into the order. Yet, this grueling process does not seem to deter many applicants.
In the photographic studio, awkwardly situated among the utility buildings outside the main cloister, a portrait caught my eye: a young man wearing the uniform of a second-class infantryman. This was one of the monks who had fulfilled his military duty, enduring exhausting marches, drills, and guard duty in a harsh Algerian garrison. Here was a man who had undeniably experienced the grueling realities of the secular world before making his choice. And yet, the moment his military service ended, he voluntarily returned to complete his monastic novitiate.
This unforgiving discipline practically guarantees a man his place in heaven. When a Trappist falls ill, he never sheds his habit. He lies on his deathbed exactly as he lived—praying and toiling in a world of frugality and silence. And when death finally releases him, even before his robed body is carried to the chapel amidst the endless drone of plainchant, the joyous bells ring out from the slate-roofed tower. They chime as merrily as wedding bells, proudly announcing to the surrounding valleys that a soul has finally gone home to God.
As night fell, guided by my trusty Irishman, I took a seat in the choir to observe Compline and the Salve Regina, the rituals that close the Cistercian day. The ceremony lacked any of the theatrical or childish elements that often alienate Protestants witnessing Roman Catholic liturgy. Instead, a profound, unyielding simplicity, elevated by the romantic setting, spoke directly to my heart. I clearly recall the whitewashed chapel walls, the cowled figures gathered in the choir, the shifting play of hidden and revealed light, the deep, rugged chanting of the men, the heavy silence that followed, and the moving sight of hoods bowed low in prayer. Finally, the sharp, decisive strike of the bell abruptly signaled the end of the final office, declaring that the sacred hour of sleep had arrived. Looking back, it hardly surprises me that I stumbled out into the inner courtyard, dizzy and overwhelmed, standing foolishly in the biting wind beneath a canopy of stars. I was deeply exhausted, having unfortunately attempted to relax my mind with the incredibly tedious memoirs of Elizabeth Seton!
The stinging cold and the hollow moaning of the wind through the pines—my room happened to face the woods—quickly coaxed me to sleep. I was jolted awake in what felt like the dead of midnight, though it was merely two in the morning, by the first harsh clangs of the bell. Instantly, the brothers hurried silently toward the chapel. These living dead, at this ungodly, freezing hour, were already embarking upon the relentless toil of a new day. The living dead! It is a phrase that chills the blood. At that moment, the lyrics of an old French folk song echoed in my mind, perfectly capturing the beautiful paradox of our fleeting lives:
What beautiful girls you have,
Giroflée,
Girofla!
What beautiful girls you have,
Love will count them!
And I silently thanked God that I was still free to roam, free to hope, and free to love!
There was, however, an entirely different side to my stay at Notre Dame des Neiges. Given the late season, there were very few guests. But I was not the sole occupant of the monastery's public quarters. Located near the main gate, this area featured a modest ground-floor dining room and an upper corridor lined with cells identical to mine. I foolishly neglected to note the exact daily rate for a standard retreatant; it hovered between three and five francs, though I suspect it was closer to the lower figure. Passersby like myself were permitted to leave a voluntary offering; absolutely nothing was demanded of us.
I must point out that, upon my departure, Father Michel refused my offering of twenty francs, deeming it far too generous. I earnestly explained why I wished to leave that amount, but bound by a peculiar sense of honor, he refused to accept the funds himself. "I am not permitted to decline a donation to the convent," he clarified, "but I would much prefer you hand it directly to one of the brothers." Because I had arrived late, I ate my first meal alone; but by supper, two other guests had joined the table. One was a country priest who had hiked the entire morning from his remote parish near Mende to partake in four days of prayerful retreat. He was built like a grenadier, boasting a flushed, robust complexion and the deep, weathered wrinkles of a lifelong farmer.
As he complained about how his heavy cassock had impeded his long hike, I easily pictured him in my mind: a sturdy, powerful figure taking massive strides across the bleak, rugged hills of Gévaudan, his robes practically bundled up in his fists. The other guest was a short, stocky, gray-haired man in his late forties, wearing tweed, a thick sweater, and a prominent red ribbon of distinction in his buttonhole. He was a fascinating, hard-to-pin-down character. A seasoned military veteran, he had spent his life in the army, rising to the rank of captain. He still carried the sharp, authoritative edge typical of a military encampment. Yet, the moment his resignation was approved, he traveled to Notre Dame des Neiges as a guest, and after briefly sampling the austere monastic routine, decided to stay permanently as a novice. This drastic life change was already softening his rugged face. He was beginning to radiate the same tranquil, smiling aura shared by the brothers. At this stage, he was neither purely a soldier nor fully a Trappist, straddling both worlds. He was a man navigating a profound crossroads in his existence. Leaving behind the deafening roar of artillery and bugles, he was quietly stepping into this silent, tomb-like realm, where men sleep in their burial shrouds and converse only through phantom-like gestures.
During supper, the conversation turned to politics. Whenever I am in France, I make it a point to advocate for political goodwill and tolerance, frequently using the tragic fate of Poland as a cautionary tale—much like English alarmists constantly invoke the fall of Carthage. Both the priest and the commander enthusiastically agreed with my sentiments, collectively sighing over the bitter, toxic nature of modern political discourse.
"It is a tragedy," I remarked, "that one can hardly debate someone with differing views without them immediately flying into a blind rage." Both men solemnly agreed that such hostility was fundamentally anti-Christian. As we were getting along so famously, how on earth did I let slip a single, ill-fated compliment regarding Gambetta's moderation? The old soldier's face instantly went crimson. He slammed both hands onto the table like a petulant child.
"What, sir!" he roared in indignation. "How? Gambetta moderate! Do you dare defend such an outrageous statement?"
Fortunately, the priest remembered the agreeable tone we had established just moments before. At the very peak of his outburst, the old soldier caught the priest's severe, warning glare. Realizing the sheer absurdity of his temper tantrum, the veteran fell silent, and the storm passed without another word being spoken.
It was not until the next morning over coffee (Friday, September 27) that my pious companions discovered I was, in fact, a heretic. I suspect my glowing praise of the monastic lifestyle the night before had thrown them off the scent. Only a blunt, direct question finally brought the shocking truth to light. I had been treated with wonderful tolerance by the innocent Father Apollinaire, the astute Father Michel, and the jovial Irishman—who, upon learning of my theological shortcomings, merely patted my shoulder and cheered, "You must become a Catholic and go to heaven!" Now, however, I found myself trapped with a far more rigid breed of orthodox believers. The two men instantly transformed, becoming as bitter, uncompromising, and narrow-minded as the most fanatical Scotsmen. Honestly, I would wager they were even more puritanical.
The priest snorted violently, like a warhorse scenting battle.
"And you intend to die clinging to such a belief?" he demanded harshly. No printing press holds ink black or bold enough to capture the sheer condemnation in his voice. I meekly replied that I had no immediate plans to change my faith. But he found this monstrous complacency completely unacceptable. "No! No!" he shouted, "You must convert. You are here. God has brought you to this place, and you are obligated to seize the moment." I attempted a polite retreat. I cited my deep familial loyalties, fully aware of the irony of using family ties as an excuse to a priest and a soldier—two professions entirely divorced from domestic life. "Your father and mother?" the priest countered passionately, "You shall convert them as well when you return home in triumph!" I could vividly imagine my father's horrified reaction! I would much rather wrestle the ferocious Getulian lion in its den than launch a theological crusade against my own family.
The great hunt had officially begun. The priest and the soldier morphed into a relentless pack, hounding me for my immediate conversion. The grand mission of the Propagation of the Faith—a cause for which the good citizens of Cheylard had raised forty-seven francs and ten centimes in 1877—was now directing its full, coordinated offensive squarely at me. It was a bizarre, overwhelming display of proselytizing. They never once tried to engage me in a logical theological debate where I might have mounted a feeble defense. Instead, they operated on the absolute certainty that I was secretly ashamed and terrified of my own spiritual standing. Their sole tactic was to hammer away at the urgency of the moment. "Now," they insisted, "now that Divine Providence has guided you to Notre Dame des Neiges, the predestined hour has struck."
"Do not let foolish pride hold you back," the priest added, thinking it an encouragement.
For a man who holds a fairly neutral, equal view of all religious frameworks, and who has never spent a single minute seriously evaluating the eternal superiority of one dogma over another—despite acknowledging their various temporal and societal merits and flaws—this aggressive confrontation was deeply uncomfortable and distressing. I then committed a second tactical blunder by attempting a philosophical compromise: I suggested that, in the grand scheme of things, all faiths boil down to the same essence, and we are all simply walking different paths toward the same undefined Friend and Father. To a moderate, secular mind, this seems like the only Gospel worth preaching. Unfortunately, not everyone shares this viewpoint. This perceived burst of revolutionary liberalism caused the priest to unleash the full terrifying weight of divine law. He launched into a gruesome, highly detailed description of hell. According to a small pamphlet he had read just days prior—a text he fully intended to carry in his pocket to fortify his own convictions—the damned are frozen in their final agonizing postures for all eternity, enduring unimaginable and horrific tortures. As he painted this apocalyptic picture, his face shone with a terrifying blend of nobility and fanatical zeal.
Ultimately, my interrogators decided that, since the Abbot was away, I must urgently present my dire spiritual crisis to the Prior.
"This is my formal advice as a veteran," the commander declared, "and the advice of this gentleman, as a priest."
"Indeed," the priest confirmed with a grave nod, "as a veteran and as a priest."
Just as I was struggling to find an appropriately evasive reply, we were saved by the bell—or rather, by a monk. A small, dark-haired brother, as slippery and energetic as an eel and possessing a thick Italian accent, walked in and immediately joined the fray. However, his approach was infinitely more gentle and persuasive, perfectly suiting his amiable monastic persona. "One need only look at him," the monk reasoned. "The rule is incredibly harsh. He would have much preferred to remain in his homeland, Italy—and everyone knows how stunningly beautiful Italy is. But alas, there were no Trappist monasteries in Italy, and since he had a soul to save, he found himself here."
I fear that beneath all these noble religious sentiments lies a truth an Indian critic once shared with me: "A dying hedonism." Because this bluntly pragmatic explanation for the Italian brother's monastic vows actually shocked me. I would have much preferred to believe he embraced this agonizing lifestyle for its inherent spiritual beauty, rather than as a calculated transaction for his soul's salvation. This stark disconnect proved just how far I truly was from understanding these good Trappists, no matter how hard I tried to bridge the gap.
To the priest, however, the Italian monk's logic was a slam dunk. "Listen to that!" he crowed triumphantly. "And I have seen a marquis within these walls—a marquis, a marquis!—he chanted the sacred title three times for emphasis—along with other elites of society. Even generals! And look right beside you: this decorated veteran who served under arms for decades. A brave old warrior, now fully prepared to surrender his life to God!" This relentless barrage of preaching left me so thoroughly cornered that I feigned having freezing feet and made a cowardly dash for the door. Outside, a ferocious wind whipped under a brilliantly clear sky, pierced by long, dazzling shafts of sunlight. I spent the hours until dinner hiking through the untamed eastern wilderness, taking a brutal beating from the gale-force winds but reaping the reward of breathtaking, picturesque landscapes.
At dinner, the Crusade for the Propagation of the Faith resumed its assault, and this time the tone was decidedly uglier. The priest peppered me with pointed, insulting questions regarding the "despicable" faith of my ancestors, greeting my measured responses with a haughty, ecclesiastical sneer. "Your sect," he scoffed at one point, "because I am sure you agree that calling it a religion would be granting it far too much dignity..."
"Say what you will, sir," I replied coldly. "The floor is yours."
Eventually, my stubborn refusal to yield sent him into a genuine fury. Although he was on his home turf, and his advanced age technically warranted my respect, I could no longer bite my tongue and firmly protested his blatant lack of manners. He immediately wilted, looking genuinely ashamed. "I swear to you," he pleaded, "I have no desire to mock you in my heart. My only motivation is my profound concern for your immortal soul." And with that, the crusade to save my soul finally ground to a halt. The poor fellow! He was no manipulative fanatic; he was simply a rural parish priest overflowing with genuine zeal and unshakable faith. May he spend many more years trekking across Gévaudan, his cassock hiked up to his knees—a man steadfast on the trail, and an unwavering pillar of comfort for his flock at the hour of their death! I have no doubt he would march fearlessly into a blizzard to perform his holy duties. It goes to show that the most passionately faithful believer does not always make for the most effective apostle!
by Robert Louis Stevenson. Excerpt from "Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes"