CHAPTER V. ON CONVENTS. CON CON - OMNIPOTENCE OF THE DIRECTOR. DITION OF THE NUN FORLORN AND WATCHED. VENTS THAT ARE AT THE SAME TIME BRIDEWELLS AND BEDLAMS. BARBAROUS DISCIPLINE. STRUGGLE BETWEEN THE SUPERIOR NUN AND THE THE MAGIS INVEIGLING. DIRECTOR. CHANGE OF DIRECTORS. FIFTEEN years ago I occupied, in a very solitary part of the town, a house, the garden of which was adjacent to that of a convent of women. Though my windows overlooked the greatest part of their garden, I had never seen my sad neighbours. In the month of May, on Rogation-day, I heard numerous weak, very weak voices, chanting prayers, as the procession passed through the convent garden. The singing was sad, dry, unpleasant, their voices false, as if spoiled by sufferings. I thought for a moment they were chanting prayers for the dead; but listening more attentively, I distinguished, on the contrary, "Te rogamus, audi nos," the song of hope which invokes the benediction of the God of life upon fruitful nature. This May-song, chanted by these lifeless nuns, offered to me a bitter contrast. To see these pale girls crawling along on the flowery verdant turf, these poor girls, who will never bloom again! The thought of the middle ages, that had at first flashed across my mind, soon died away: for then, monastic life was connected with a thousand other things; but in our modern harmony what is this but a barbarous contradiction, a false, harsh, grating note? What I then beheld before me was to be defended neither by nature, nor by history. I shut my window again, and sadly resumed my book. This sight had been painful to me, as it was not softened or atoned for by any poetical sentiment. It reminded me much less of chastity than of sterile widowhood, a state of emptiness, inaction, disgust of an intellectual and moral fast, the state in which these unfortunate creatures are kept by their absolute rulers. * I have already spoken of Sister Marie Lemonnier, persecuted for knowing too well how to write, and draw flowers, &c.—" My confessor," says she, "forbade me to gather flowers, and to draw. Unfortunately, walking in the garden with the nuns, there were on the edge of the grass two wild poppies, which, without any intention, I lopped between my fingers, in passing. One of the sisters saw me, and ran to inform the superior nun, who was walking in front, and who immediately came towards me, made me open my hand, and, seeing the poppies, told me that I had done for myself. And the confessor having come the same evening, she accused me before him of disobedience, in having gathered flowers. 'It was in vain I told him that it was done unintentionally, and that they were only wild poppies; I could not obtain permission to confess myself." Note of Sister Marie Lemonnier, in Mr. Tilliard's Mémoire. The newspapers and the reviews in March, 1845, give extracts from it. K We were speaking of habit: it is certainly there that it reigns a tyrant. Very little art is required to rule over these poor insulated, immured, and dependent women; as there is no outward influence to counterbalance the impression that one person, ever the same person, makes on them daily. The least skilful priest may easily fascinate their natures, already weakened, and brought down to the most servile, trembling obedience. There is little courage or merit in thus trampling over the creature which is already crushed. To speak first of the power of habit: nothing of all that we see in the world can give us an idea of the force with which it acts upon this little immured community. Family society, doubtless, modifies us, but its influence is neutralised by outward events. The regularity, with which our favourite newspaper comes every morning with uniform monotony, has certainly some influence; but this newspaper has its rivals, its opponents. Another influence which exists less in our time, but is still very powerful over secluded persons, is that of a book, the captivating perusal of which may detain us for months and years. Diderot confesses that Clarissa was read by him over and over again, and that it was for a long time his very life, his joy, his grief, his summer and winter. But the finest thing of this class is, after all, but a book, a dumb, inanimate thing, which, though you may call it as animated as you please, does not hear, and cannot answer; it has no words with which it may answer yours, nor eyes to reflect your own. Away, then, with books, those cold paper images! Imagine in a monastery, where nothing else intrudes, the only living object, the only person who has a right to enter, who monopolises all the influences of which we have spoken, who is, in himself, their society, newspaper, novel, and sermon; a person whose visit is the only interruption to the deadly monotony of a life devoid of employment. Before he comes, and after he has been, is the only division of time, in this life of profound monotony. We said a person, we ought to have said a man. Whoever will be candid would confess that a woman would never have this influence; that the circumstance of his being of the opposite sex has much to do with it, even with the purest, and with those who had never dreamed of sex. To be the only one, without either comparison or contradiction, to be the whole world of a soul, to wean it, at pleasure, from every reminiscence that might cause any rivalry, and efface from this docile heart even the thought of a mother that might still* * It is often from an instinctive tyranny, that the superiors delight in breaking the ties of kindred. "The curate of my parish exhorted me to write to my father, who had just lost my mother. I let advent go by (during which time nuns are not permitted to write letters), and the latter days of the be cherished within it! To inherit every thing, and remain alone and be master of this heart by the extinction of all natural sentiments! The only one! But this is the good, the perfect, the amiable, the beloved! Enumerate every good quality, and they will all be found to be contained in this one term. A thing even (not to say a person), a thing if it be the only one, will in time captivate our hearts. Charlemagne seeing from his palace always the same sight, a lake with its verdant border, at last fell in love with it. Habit certainly contributes much; but also that great necessity of the heart to tell every thing to what we are always in the habit of seeing: whether month which are passed in retirement, in the institution, to prepare us for the renewing of our vows, which take place on new-year's day. But, after the holy term, I hastened to fulfil my duty towards the best of fathers, by addressing to him both my prayers and good wishes, and endeavouring to offer him some consolation in the afflictions and trials with which it had pleased God to visit him. I went to the cell of the superior nun, to beg her to read over my letter, fix the convent seal to it, and send it off; but she was not there. I therefore put it in my cell upon the table, and went to prayers; during which time our Reverend Mother the superior, who knew that I had written, because she had sent one of the nuns to see what I was about, beckoned to one of the sisters and bid her to take from me my letter. She did so every time I wrote, seven times running, so that my father died five months afterwards, without ever obtaining a letter from me, which he had so much desired, and had even asked me for, on his death-bed, by the curate of his parish Note of Sister Lemonnier, in Mr. Tilliard's Mémoire. See also the National, March, 1845. |