We went to
dinner in a great arched refectory, where a monk, perched up in a
high pulpit, read us Thomas a Kempis in a droning monotone.
Complete silence was observed. At La Trappe no meat or butter is
ever used, but we were given a most excellent dinner of vegetable
soup, fish, omelets, and artichokes dressed with oil, accompanied
by the monks' admirable home-grown wine. There were quite a number
of visitors making "retreats," and I had hard work keeping the
muscles of my face steady, as they made pantomimic signs to the
lay-brothers who waited on us, for more omelet or more wine. After
dinner the "Frere Hospitalier," a jolly, rotund little lay-
brother, who wore a black stole over his brown habit as a sign
that he was allowed to talk, drew me on one side in the garden. As
I was a heretic (he put it more politely) and had the day to
myself, would I do him a favour? He was hard put to it to find
enough fish for all these guests; would I catch him some trout in
the streams in the forest? I asked for nothing better, but I had
no trout-rod with me.
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