Huysmans The Oblate

L' Oblat
1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-1-915568-06-9
Verlag: Dedalus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 367 Seiten

Reihe: Dedalus European Classics

This is the final part in the spiritual journey of Durtal, J.-K. Huysmans' alter ego. From the satanism of La-Bas (1891), he makes his way to the foot of the cross and embraces Roman Catholicism, first retreating to a Trappist monastery in En Route (1895), then living in Chartres and studying Catholic symbolism in The Cathedral (1898), and finally joining a community of monks in The Oblate (1903). Here, Durtal's spiritual quest collides with contemporary political reality when the monastery is closed down by an anti-clerical Republican government and the religious community at Val-des-Saints is forced to disperse.

J.-K. Huysmans (1847-1907) changed from being an obscure author and art critic to one of the most famous authors of his day with the publication of A Rebours (Against Nature) in 1884. A Rebours is a ground-breaking novel which captures the decadent spirit of the day and marks his final break with Zola and naturalism. Dedalus have published 12 books by J.-K. Huysmans, 11 in new translations by Brendan King; Marthe, Parisian Sketches, The Vatard Sisters, Stranded (En Rade), Drifting, Against Nature, Las Bas, Modern Art, Certain Artists, The Cathedral and The Oblate of St Benedict. In addition to an old translation of En Route which will be replaced by a new translation by Brendan King in 2023. Robert Baldick's brilliant book The Life of J.-K. Huysmans was published by Dedalus in the autumn of 2005, updated and edited by Brendan King.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Huysmans, J. -K.

Weitere Mitwirkende

King, Brendan

Leseproben

CHAPTER I
For more than eighteen months now, Durtal had been living in Val-des-Saints. Tired of Chartres, where he had provisionally settled, and plagued by desultory longings for the cloister, he’d left for the abbey of Solesmes.1 Recommended to the head of the monastery by Abbé Plomb, one of the curates at Chartres who had known his reverence for a number of years, Durtal had been cordially received and had stayed at the monastery on several occasions for more than a fortnight, but he always came back more ill at ease, more uncertain than before. He would meet up again joyfully with his old friends, Abbé Gévresin and his housekeeper, Madame Bavoil; he would return to his lodgings with a sigh of relief, and then the same thing would happen: little by little he was seized again by memories of the conventual life at Solesmes, so utterly different from that which he’d experienced at La Trappe.2 Indeed, there was none of the iron rule of the Cistercians, the perpetual silence, the rigorous fasts and never-ending abstinence, the sleeping fully clothed in a dormitory, the getting up in the dark at two in the morning, working at some trade or labouring on the land; the Benedictines could speak, and on certain days eat meat; they could sleep undressed and each had his own private cell; they would rise at four, and devote themselves to intellectual work, toiling away in a library rather than in a workshop or a field. The Rule of St Benedict, so inflexible among the White Monks, had been tempered by the Black Monks;3 it easily adapted itself to the dissimilar needs of the two Orders, the aims of which, indeed, were not the same. The Trappists were more particularly devoted to the work of mortification and repentance, whereas the Benedictines, properly called, to the divine service of praising God; consequently, the former, under the impetus of St Bernard,4 had emphasised all that was strict and harsh in the rule; whereas the latter, on the contrary, had adopted, and even relaxed, the more appealing and indulgent dispositions it contained. Guests and those on retreat would keenly feel this difference; to the same degree that his reception had been curt and austere when Durtal had first visited La Trappe – already ten years ago now – in order to convert, so his welcome at Solesmes, when he’d gone with a plan to test out his vocation, had been affable and friendly. He’d profited when at the Benedictines from the good-natured aspect of their observances; he had been given almost complete liberty as regards getting up in the morning, going out for a walk, or attending services; he would eat his meals with the monks, not, as at the Cistercians, in a room apart; he was no longer kept at a distance, on the outskirts of the community, or on the fringes of the cloister, but was right inside it, living with the fathers,5 talking and working with them. The duties of hospitality, so expressly recommended by the Order’s patriarch, were truly carried out to the letter by the Black Monks. This paternal characteristic made him smile when he got back to Chartres; over time, the image of Solesmes clarified in his mind, would become idealised in proportion to its distance. ‘There’s no place like Solesmes!’ he would exclaim, ‘the only monastic life possible for me is there.’ And yet he couldn’t forget that every time he’d left the abbey and was sitting in the cab that would take him to Sablé station, he’d exhaled deeply, like a man relieved of an insupportable burden, and once installed on the train would say to himself: ‘My God, what luck, here I am free again!’ – and yet he would continue to miss the embarrassment of being with others, the relief of fixed hours with no unexpected amusements and no unforeseen disturbances. He found it difficult to analyse these changing impressions, these opposing feelings. ‘Yes, certainly,’ he would declare, ‘Solesmes is unique in France; religious art shines here like nowhere else; its plainchant is perfect; its services are conducted with a matchless pomp; and what’s more nowhere else would I come across an abbot of Dom Delatte’s stature, or musical palaeographers more skilled or learned than Dom Mocquereau and Dom Cagin,6 and I could also add, monks that were more helpful and pleasant – yes, but …’ But what? And then, by way of response, his whole being seemed to recoil with a sort of instinctive repulsion for this monastery, whose splendidly illuminated façade, by contrast, made the unlit outbuildings that adjoined it darker still; and so he advanced with precaution, like a cat that sniffs around a strange appartment, ready to bolt at the slightest alarm. ‘But that doesn’t make any sense,’ he admitted, ‘I don’t have a shadow of a proof that the inside of a cloister differs in spirit to that of its façade; it’s strange what’s going on inside me.’ ‘Come on, let’s have it out: what is it that I don’t like?’ And he answered himself: ‘Everything and nothing.’ Nevertheless, certain observations stood out in the light, came to the fore as regards the setting of the abbey. First of all, the grandeur of this monastery and its army of monks and novices, which detracted from the intimacy and charm possessed by less-imposing retreats, such as La Trappe at Our Lady of the Hearth,7 for example. With its huge buildings, and the crowd of monks that cluttered them, Solesmes inevitably took on the air of an army barracks. It felt like you marched to a service as if you were on parade; like the abbot was a general surrounded by his staff, and that the others were no more than humble privates. No, one could never feel at ease, and one could never be sure of the morrow, if one belonged to that religious garrison, which has something uneasy and fearful about it, always on its guard; and indeed, one fine morning you could, if you ceased to please, be sent off, like a mere package, to some distant cloister. Then, what was there to say about the unutterable dreariness of those recreation periods, of those supervised and inevitably gloomy conversations, the irritation produced over time by the lack of the solitude that is so delightful at La Trappe, but which is impractical at Solesmes, where there are neither ponds nor woods, and where the garden is flat and bare, with no winding path, no alcove where one could mediate, hidden from sight, alone. ‘That’s all well and good,’ he continued, ‘but to be fair, I ought to admit now that, with the exception of the place itself – and again everyone except me likes it – my other grievances are devoid of meaning. Indeed, how would it be possible to get the effect of Solesmes as a whole, the solemnity of its services and the glory of its plainchant, without that serried mass of monks? How, without a grip of iron, could you direct an army of nearly a hundred men, whose different temperaments, by dint of constant contact, are ready to burst into flame? So it’s essential that discipline be as strict in a monastery – more even – than in an army c and lastly, it has to help out other monastries in the congregation that are less well staffed, sending them those they lack, whether it’s a director of liturgy, a precentor, or a nurse – in short, the specialist they need. ‘That the inmates of Solesmes dread such an exile proves that they are happy in their abbey, and isn’t that the highest praise you can make? In any case, such enforced departures are, for the most part, less down to disgrace than loans from monastery to monastery, necessitated by the very interests of the Order. ‘As to the repugnance I feel about living among that ever-changing crowd, a priest to whom I spoke quite openly about it judiciously replied: “Where would the merit be if we didn’t suffer from being rolled around like a pebble on the shore of the great cloister?” ‘Well, yes, I can’t deny it, but that doesn’t stop me from preferring something else …’ And Durtal would reflect and then bring out more substantial arguments, more conclusive reasons to justify his apprehensions. ‘Suppose,’ he said to himself, ‘that the abbot allows me to work on my books in peace, and agrees not to interfere in literary matters – and he is so broadminded he would no doubt allow this dispensation – it would count for nothing because I’d be absolutely incapable of writing a book in this abbey. ‘I’ve tried the experiment on several occasions, but the mornings and afternoons are so chopped up by services, it makes all artistic work impossible. This life, divided into little slices, may be excellent for collecting materials and for putting together notes, but to work on actual pages, no.’ And he remembered those sad occasions when, escaping from a service, he’d wanted to get down to work on a chapter, only to be discouraged by the thought that as soon as he started to get underway, he’d have to leave his cell and go back to the chapel for another service, and he concluded: ‘The cloister is useful when preparing a book, but it’s best to write it elsewhere.’ And what did it mean to be an oblate anyway? He’d never been able to get a clear answer. ‘It depends on the goodwill of the abbot, and consequently can change according to the monastery; but was that seriously the case? The profession of oblate among the Benedictines has existed since the eighth century, and is governed by age-old regulations, but where were they? No one seems to know. ‘The goodwill of an abbot! But that would be to surrender oneself, bound hand and foot, to a man who, in short, one knows only by...