old stones

France is as full of monasteries as it is of other old things – some working, some crumbling, and even some belonging to the Carthusian order, the unusual monks about whom I wrote my graduate thesis, in a land long ago and far away. (The Carthusians were also recently brought into the international spotlight through the documentary film “Into Great Silence,” which I haven’t seen yet but opened to long lines in New York and Boston, making me feel retroactively hip). On two previous occasions I’ve been within spitting distance of one of these monasteries but was unable to visit, due to complications of itinerary or under two-year-old. But last week in Loches, where we spent a marvelous holiday imposing on the hospitality of G and M, we discovered quite by accident that there were ruins of a Carthusian monastery only about 25 km away – in fact, our hosts had been to see a set of one-act plays presented there. We had no special plans for the week and decided on a day trip.

The Chartreuse, or Charterhouse, of Liget was founded by Henry Plantagenet as one of the many penances strewn across the UK and France as acts of contrition for the murder of Thomas à Becket (nothing says “I’m sorry” like a nice bouquet of monastery). At its height there were 20 learned, probably aristocratic monks – including Richelieu’s brother – leading a contemplative life in a rather lovely setting deep in the Loire valley. The monastery was almost completely destroyed at the time of the Revolution, and the monks had to escape for their lives through an underground passageway in their sous-sol that went over half a mile through the limestone (and served originally as a connection between the monastery and the servant brothers housed down the road at the Corroirie). After the Revolution, the land – including all the old stones – was bought back from the republic by an aristocratic family that had survived the Terror, who built a manor house on the property and have more or less lived their ever since.

How do I know this? I got it straight from the mouth of the great-great-grand nephew (or something like that) of the land’s most recent purchaser.

When we arrived at the monastery – which, like many French monuments, is private property open to the public at the discretion and generosity of the owner – there were signs indicating that we should park at the road and then pay a call at the “lower house” to be admitted. Unfortunately, there were a number of lower houses, one of which seemed to be occupied by a party of German painters having lunch, and no clear place to make ourselves known. Just as I started to talk to a couple of curious Germans, two boys about twelve or thirteen years old came up the hill toward us and our stroller and gave us a cheerful wave. They were both wearing tee shirts, shorts and wellies (the latter item of clothing leading me to believe that the level of their enthusiasm in greeting us had much to do with avoiding some kind of chore). "Vous voudriez voire la monastère?” the taller one asked politely. “There are some leaflets at the bottom of the hill,” he continued, “but I can give you a guided tour if you want.” We did, of course, want, and so the six of us set out across the forecourt of the manor towards the ruins of the church and the old monastery walls.

The tour was excellent – heavy on the blood and destruction, but also very correct about the lives and habits of the brothers. I found myself distracted as we walked around, though, not just by the second language and my two-year-old, but also by my growing infatuation with our junior tour guide. Like many other French boys his age that we’ve met, he was incredibly gentle with B and made much of G, in what seemed like a natural inclination. I don’t know if it’s just manners bred in the bone, or the fact that generations of government encouragement of familles nombreuses virtually ensures younger siblings and cousins for just about every French child, but it’s a patience I’ve come to appreciate. I was also impressed by his attention to small details, like the giant chestnut that stood in the place of the original monastery well, or the legend of the naughty monk, who, when caught out skipping vespers in order to drink the last of the monastery wine, crawled inside the oak barrel and was turned to stone (this stone barrel now sits on top of a trickling fountain next to a sign that reads “Eau non potable.” Tant pis.). And he didn’t rush through the details as if they were memorized from index cards – he had a sense of the story, and at the appropriate moments even paused for effect. Most of all, though, I was entranced by the sound of his French, which rolled out in fluid prose that seemed to have bypassed entirely the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and come directly from the court of Louis XVI. There were none of the French equivalents of um, or you know and he didn’t use any slang, which not only made it easier for me to understand but also made me feel like I was in the middle of a movie whose main plot device was to have the adolescent hero possessed by the ghost of his great-great grandfather. It would have to be called something like “Jean-Louis and the Revolution,” or “My Dinner With King Louis.” It was all quite wonderful.

At one point during the tour, G did something especially hair-raising, I forget what, and I scolded him by calling out his full name in three long, drawn-out syllables, in the French pronunciation.

“I’m sorry, what did you say his name was?” our tour guide asked. I told him.

An amazed smile bloomed across his face and he said, “That’s my name, too!”

I said something like, well, I hope he can live up to the honor – and then I took his picture. I plan to use it for future reference as Exhibit A in child-rearing. Even if there was more than a little noblesse oblige involved there, it was still an impressive display – only made more charming by the fact that, as we walked back up the hill to our car, both boys were being screamed at by their older sister (cousin?) for spraying water out of the barrel-fountain.

It was only a minor slippage, considering. Because most twelve year old boys I know, if they’re talking about old stones, they usually mean Keith Richards.


*The photo is of a small window featured in the lower story of each monk’s cell. Their food was passed in through this window every day, so as not to interrupt their study and prayer. Sometimes I would like to have the same thing for G.