I asked to see the cemetery, and was led to an uncultivated spot a little
beyond the block of convent buildings. A small grassy enclosure, with a
wooden paling round it, was the monks' burying-place. About twelve had died
in the twenty-five years of the monastery's existence, but most of the
graves looked recent. This was explained to me by the father, who actually
smiled as he said:

'We who came here at the commencement are getting old now, and are
following one another to the cemetery rather quickly.'

Wearers of the white frock and wearers of the brown frock were lying in
perfect equality side by side as they happened to die, each having a
small cross of white wood standing in the grass of his grave. I read: 'N.
Raphael, monachus----, natus----, professus----, obiit----.' The dates
I took no note of. With the exception of the name and the dates, the
inscription on each cross was the same. And the name, it need scarcely be
said, was the one taken in religion.

'Do you know one another's family names?' I asked of the living monk by my
side, who appeared to have lapsed into meditation, thinking, perhaps, how
far his place would be from the last on the line.

'As a rule we do not. There are only two or three monks here whose names I
know.'

Lastly, I was taken to the farm buildings, where there were about fifty
cows and one hundred pigs. A young brother, a novice, was busy, with his
frock hitched up, cleaning out the pigsties. He was piously plying the
shovel, but his face had not yet acquired an expression of perfect