The Abbot’s Last Lament

I do not pre­tend that work like the fol­low­ing is good, much less great. Most of the writ­ing with­in this jour­nal is exper­i­men­tal, my mea­ger attempt to craft beau­ti­ful things, that needn’t nec­es­sar­i­ly yeild to a broad audi­ence. Take it for what it is, a pro­lix, over­ly detailed account of a man’s last thoughts in a con­text that is sup­posed to be more reveal­ing than any abstract idea.

The abbot reclines with a sus­tained and throaty sigh, sink­ing deeply into a plush, smoke-stained leather arm­chair. Domed gas-lamps with scin­til­lat­ing flames cast a gar­ish gleam over the musty, lice-rid­dled tomes that line the room’s four walls. The spines of these oppres­sive vol­umes stand cracked, lit­ter­ing the lip of each shelf with red-rot­ted dust. This car­pen­ter-cor­nered sep­ul­cher suf­fo­cates the abbot with its ruinous deca­dence and unyield­ing rigid­i­ty, the residu­um of long past gains. Deeply cof­fered ceil­ings are strung with gos­samer threads spun by minute, creep­ing occu­pants sequestered into the crevices and recess­es of the warped struc­ture. A bur­den­some ceil­ing bears down, a copi­ous pal­li­um of dearth and decay, evok­ing a sense of small­ness and insignif­i­cance in the aging churchman.

He breathes in the unclean air, the mildewy odor of neglect. Heaps of brit­tle, dust-laden, mold-mot­tled, twine-bound paper sheaves are strewn across an ornate­ly carved library table, its veneer peel­ing and var­nish dap­pled with water spots. The abbot clos­es his heavy eye­lids, creas­ing his fore­head and screw­ing his face with deter­mi­na­tion. Innu­mer­able fine, hatched lines etch his fea­tures, betray­ing the harsh­ness of his lat­ter years, years of want and iso­la­tion. A slow, thun­der­ous rum­bling peels over the room, shak­ing loose fran­gi­ble plas­ter from buck­led laths and caus­ing sev­er­al books to shed their spines in a cas­cade of filth.

The abbot col­lects him­self, recall­ing the clois­ter at its apex, filled with over two hun­dred broth­ers, none alike, each a man­i­fes­ta­tion of their Lord, their Sav­ior, the Redeemer of their being, Jesus Christ. Each was dis­parate in their expres­sion as an alter Chris­tus, but all were com­mit­ted to their call­ing, to their mission.

The once teem­ing monastery mate­ri­al­izes in his mind’s eye. Thick brown­stone walls enclos­ing the can­dlelit chapel filled and peo­pled with per­pet­u­al prayer, now light­less and bar­ren. The close with its trail­ing ivy, now inva­sive, chok­ing a stat­ue of the Wals­ing­ham madon­na. The open gal­leries where count­less men strolled con­tem­pla­tive or con­ver­sa­tion­al, now pool­ing with water and lit­tered with debris. The almshouse where the poor once came for surcease of their mis­for­tunes, now the abode of rodents and nest­ing birds. The refec­to­ry with its rough-hewn tables bedecked with sim­ple meat and drink, the men sit­ting in refec­tion rosy-faced and laugh­ing, now a hol­low shad­ow draped in desolation.

So much had fall­en into dis­re­pair includ­ing the soci­ety of shire. Ten­ant­ed farm­ers and shep­herds had fled to the city, to the fac­to­ries. The monastery once a nucle­us of hope, one of the few to have been restored after Hen­ry Tudor had raped them of their worth, now lay emp­ty, all the hum­ming of com­mon life gone, replaced with a silent ener­vat­ing stillness.

Where­from didst this decline find its ori­gin? Where­from didst the dev­il make his entrance? Was it the scan­dalous affair of Broth­er Albert, dis­cov­ered dead, strung up from the rafters of his cell, a case of erot­ic asphyx­i­a­tion? The local papers rel­ished that account and the abbot remem­bered the Arch­bish­op in his unholy apron descend­ing on the monastery, as if he were some­thing more than a gar­den par­ty socialite woo­ing the aris­toc­ra­cy in gaiters. Was it when Broth­er Edmund, the alms­man, was found thiev­ing from the alms­box, a five per­cent embez­zle­ment over six years to pay for his Dionysian attrac­tion to scotch whiskey? What did the provin­cial bur­sar say,

— It is our pol­i­cy that such crim­i­nal over­sight should be dealt with swift­ly and with­out mer­cy by the mag­is­trate rather than an eccle­si­as­ti­cal tri­bunal with­out penal recourse?

— The abbot had respond­ed, did not our Lord for­give the sin­ner, dis­patch­ing them into the world say­ing, go and sin no more?

— In fis­cal and fidu­cia­ry mat­ters, we take a harsh­er view than does our Father in Heav­en, the beak-nosed bur­sar replied peer­ing over his wire-rimmed spectacles.

Or was it the year that the near­by uni­ver­si­ty stu­dents protest­ed the war­mon­ger­ing of the Amer­i­cans, when monas­tic voca­tions seemed to trick­le in and then stop entire­ly? In 1882 Niet­zsche declared that God was dead, but God was still in his death throes in 1969, the rat­tle deep­en­ing and fore­telling the end. The six­ties were nei­ther kind to the abbot nor to his monastery and as the decade closed, debt increased even as novices decreased. How did they sur­vive so long for­sak­en, he thought? Long­time broth­ers lai­cized, mar­ried, apo­s­ta­tized, or died; the build­ings and grounds fell into ruin, like muse­um-pieces exca­vat­ed by arche­ol­o­gists, arti­facts of a bygone era.

The abbot breathes in the musty air, his heart is like a lead­en weight cast into the sea. The room quakes again, a pile of books sup­port­ing a bro­ken table-leg wrench­es loose and piles of paper scat­ter across the floor in a spray of dust.

— Heloi Heloi lama sabac­thani – Deus meus Deus meus ut quid dereliquisti me, the Abbot mut­ters, his breath quickening.

Did not the man­u­als of sys­tem­at­ic moral the­ol­o­gy, all of that Jesuit casu­istry, pro­vide for this moment? Did they not say that while the preser­va­tion of one’s life was a moral imper­a­tive, they con­di­tioned that imper­a­tive on ordi­nary means. He thought of all that he had lost, had he lost his faith in god? Had he become naught but a legal­ist, observ­ing Mat­tins and Even­song and aping the words Davidic psalmody? Did he believe? Did he trust? The abbot asked him­self whether stand­ing up and leav­ing that which he held most dear, the mem­o­ry of this monastery, the mem­o­ry of his faith, was ordi­nary? Was it not an extra­or­di­nary act to aban­don it, to pre­tend that his very life was not inex­tri­ca­bly tied to it?

He hears voic­es in the dis­tance, the thick accents of workmen,

— All’s clear! Bring ’er fore.

— Right, mate.

Sud­den­ly the tremors increase with the vio­lence of apoc­a­lypse, the last bat­tle rages out­side and the earth beneath the hooves of the horse­men shud­ders with each blade’s thrust. The walls begin to shiv­er and in an opaque cloud of dust the abbot rais­es his voice to heav­en saying,

— Pater, in manus tuas com­men­do spir­i­tum meum.

The walls col­lapse inward, bury­ing the abbot beneath them. His bones crack and the blood seeps out of his face. Star­ing upward, his eyes wide with won­der, he sees in those last moments a light flick­er­ing out and a boom­ing voice,

— There’s a lamp on in ’ere!?

— Fuck, mate, someone’s in ’ere!?

The abbot’s eyes close as shock over­pow­ers his sens­es. And that brief flame that lit his coun­te­nance is snuffed out forever­more. Dies iræ! Dies illa sol­vet sæclum in fav­il­la: teste David cum Sibylla!

Image Cred­it /​/​James Char­lick (mod­i­fied)