“Father, I have driven the swine from my being, but they have trampled on me, and covered me mire, and the very stye is in ruins. Have pity on me, for I return from a distant land. Have mercy, O Lord, on the swine-herd a house. I have entered into Thy house; do not send me away, be to me a kindly host, wash me.”
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Suddenly all rose, and with a great shout, the “Salve Regina” shook the arches.
Durtal was affected as he listened to this admirable chant (La Trappe), which had nothing in common with that which is bellowed at Paris in the churches. This was at once flexible and ardent, sustained by such suppliant adoration, that it seemed to concentrate in itself alone, the immemorial hope of humanity, and its eternal lamentation.
Chanted without accompaniment, unsustained by the organ, by voices indifferent to themselves and blending in one only, masculine and deep, it rose with quiet boldness, sprang up with irresistible flight towards Our Lady, then made, as it were, a return upon itself, and its confidence was lessened; it advanced more tremblingly, but so different, so humble, that it felt itself forgiven, and dared then in passionate appeals to demand the undeserved pleasures of heaven.
It was the absolute triumph of the neumes, those repetitions of notes on the same syllable, the same word, which the Church invented to paint the excess of that interior joy or sorrow which words cannot render; it was a rush, a going forth of the soul, escaping in the passionate voices, breathed forth by the bodies of the monks as they stood and trembled.
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Durtal followed in his prayer-book this work with so short a text, so long a chant; and as he listened to, and read it with recollection, this magnificent prayer seemed to decompose as a whole, and to represent three different states of the soul, to exhibit the triple phase of humanity, during its youth, its maturity, and its decline; it was, in a word, an essential summary of prayer for all ages.
First, there was the canticle of exultation, the joyous welcome of a being yet little, stammering forth respectful caresses, petting with gentle words, and fondness of a child who seeks to coax his mother—this is the “Salve Regina, Mater misericordiæ, vita, dulcedo et spes nostra, salve.” Then the soul so candid, so simply happy, has grown, and knowing the willful failings of thought, the repeated loss through sin, joins her hands, and asks, sobbing, for help. She adores no longer with a smile, but with tears; it is “Ad te clamamus, exsules filii Hevae; ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lachrymarum valle.” At last old age comes; the soul lies, tormented by the memory of counsels neglected, by regret for lost graces; and having become weaker, and more full of fears, is alarmed before her deliverance, before the destruction of that prison of the flesh which she feels at hand, and then she thinks of the eternal death of those whom the Judge condemns. On her knees she implores the Advocatress of earth, the Consultrix of heaven; it is the “Eia ergo Advocata nostra; illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte; et Jesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui, nobis post hoc exilium ostende.”
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“Ah! the true creator of plain music, the unknown author who cast into the brain of man the seed of plain chant, was the Holy Ghost,” said Durtal, sick and dazzled, with tears in his eyes. –J.K. Huysmans ‘En Route’
It is amazing how precisely Huysmans captures my personal experiences at monasteries. Speaking with the Jesuit potential Spiritual Director, we covered nicely my various adventures exploring monasteries throughout the United States. I expressed a simmering frustration that I missed my call to the cloistered life. The priest did not dismiss the possibility. Rather, he concentrated upon my prayer life, attempting to discern what worked for me. It was an overall approach he administered, not addressing my life experiences, my thoughts and concerns, not trying to tackle the entirety of my life. He placed aside, while registering and listening attentively, details. Utilizing tunnel vision, he was focused upon how we could deepen my relationship with God. Within all the other aspects of my life, I am convinced he has established a wise beginning.
Words from the Jesuit author, Father William A.Barry, S.J., recommended reading by Father Matthew.
Before you begin, let me say something about the word ‘contemplation’. For Ignatius, contemplation was a rather simple exercise, one in which we allow our heart, mind, senses, and imagination free rein so that God can get a word in edgewise. You are contemplative when you pay attention to the play of sunlight on snow, for example; as you do, you forget about the pain in your back or the concern about your bank account, and God has a chance to break through to reveal something important to you. –Father William Barry ‘Changed Heart, Changed World’.
