บทที่ บทที่ 121 · THE OBEDIENCE OF MARTIN VERGA

This convent, which in 1824 had already existed for many a long year in

the Rue Petit-Picpus, was a community of Bernardines of the obedience

of Martin Verga.

These Bernardines were attached, in consequence, not to Clairvaux, like

the Bernardine monks, but to Cîteaux, like the Benedictine monks. In

other words, they were the subjects, not of Saint Bernard, but of Saint

Benoît.

Any one who has turned over old folios to any extent knows that Martin

Verga founded in 1425 a congregation of Bernardines-Benedictines, with

Salamanca for the head of the order, and Alcala as the branch

establishment.

This congregation had sent out branches throughout all the Catholic

countries of Europe.

There is nothing unusual in the Latin Church in these grafts of one

order on another. To mention only a single order of Saint-Benoît, which

is here in question: there are attached to this order, without counting

the obedience of Martin Verga, four congregations,—two in Italy,

Mont-Cassin and Sainte-Justine of Padua; two in France, Cluny and

Saint-Maur; and nine orders,—Vallombrosa, Granmont, the Célestins, the

Camaldules, the Carthusians, the Humiliés, the Olivateurs, the

Silvestrins, and lastly, Cîteaux; for Cîteaux itself, a trunk for other

orders, is only an offshoot of Saint-Benoît. Cîteaux dates from Saint

Robert, Abbé de Molesme, in the diocese of Langres, in 1098. Now it was

in 529 that the devil, having retired to the desert of Subiaco—he was

old—had he turned hermit?—was chased from the ancient temple of Apollo,

where he dwelt, by Saint-Benoît, then aged seventeen.

After the rule of the Carmelites, who go barefoot, wear a bit of willow

on their throats, and never sit down, the harshest rule is that of the

Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga. They are clothed in black,

with a guimpe, which, in accordance with the express command of

Saint-Benoît, mounts to the chin. A robe of serge with large sleeves, a

large woollen veil, the guimpe which mounts to the chin cut square on

the breast, the band which descends over their brow to their eyes,—this

is their dress. All is black except the band, which is white. The

novices wear the same habit, but all in white. The professed nuns also

wear a rosary at their side.

The Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga practise the Perpetual

Adoration, like the Benedictines called Ladies of the Holy Sacrament,

who, at the beginning of this century, had two houses in Paris,—one at

the Temple, the other in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève. However, the

Bernardines-Benedictines of the Petit-Picpus, of whom we are speaking,

were a totally different order from the Ladies of the Holy Sacrament,

cloistered in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève and at the Temple. There

were numerous differences in their rule; there were some in their

costume. The Bernardines-Benedictines of the Petit-Picpus wore the

black guimpe, and the Benedictines of the Holy Sacrament and of the Rue

Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève wore a white one, and had, besides, on their

breasts, a Holy Sacrament about three inches long, in silver gilt or

gilded copper. The nuns of the Petit-Picpus did not wear this Holy

Sacrament. The Perpetual Adoration, which was common to the house of

the Petit-Picpus and to the house of the Temple, leaves those two

orders perfectly distinct. Their only resemblance lies in this practice

of the Ladies of the Holy Sacrament and the Bernardines of Martin

Verga, just as there existed a similarity in the study and the

glorification of all the mysteries relating to the infancy, the life,

and death of Jesus Christ and the Virgin, between the two orders, which

were, nevertheless, widely separated, and on occasion even hostile. The

Oratory of Italy, established at Florence by Philip de Neri, and the

Oratory of France, established by Pierre de Bérulle. The Oratory of

France claimed the precedence, since Philip de Neri was only a saint,

while Bérulle was a cardinal.

Let us return to the harsh Spanish rule of Martin Verga.

The Bernardines-Benedictines of this obedience fast all the year round,

abstain from meat, fast in Lent and on many other days which are

peculiar to them, rise from their first sleep, from one to three

o’clock in the morning, to read their breviary and chant matins, sleep

in all seasons between serge sheets and on straw, make no use of the

bath, never light a fire, scourge themselves every Friday, observe the

rule of silence, speak to each other only during the recreation hours,

which are very brief, and wear drugget chemises for six months in the

year, from September 14th, which is the Exaltation of the Holy Cross,

until Easter. These six months are a modification: the rule says all

the year, but this drugget chemise, intolerable in the heat of summer,

produced fevers and nervous spasms. The use of it had to be restricted.

Even with this palliation, when the nuns put on this chemise on the

14th of September, they suffer from fever for three or four days.

Obedience, poverty, chastity, perseverance in their seclusion,—these

are their vows, which the rule greatly aggravates.

The prioress is elected for three years by the mothers, who are called

_mères vocales_ because they have a voice in the chapter. A prioress

can only be re-elected twice, which fixes the longest possible reign of

a prioress at nine years.

They never see the officiating priest, who is always hidden from them

by a serge curtain nine feet in height. During the sermon, when the

preacher is in the chapel, they drop their veils over their faces. They

must always speak low, walk with their eyes on the ground and their

heads bowed. One man only is allowed to enter the convent,—the

archbishop of the diocese.

There is really one other,—the gardener. But he is always an old man,

and, in order that he may always be alone in the garden, and that the

nuns may be warned to avoid him, a bell is attached to his knee.

Their submission to the prioress is absolute and passive. It is the

canonical subjection in the full force of its abnegation. As at the

voice of Christ, _ut voci Christi_, at a gesture, at the first sign,

_ad nutum, ad primum signum_, immediately, with cheerfulness, with

perseverance, with a certain blind obedience, _prompte, hilariter,

perseveranter et cæca quadam obedientia_, as the file in the hand of

the workman, _quasi limam in manibus fabri_, without power to read or

to write without express permission, _legere vel scribere non

addiscerit sine expressa superioris licentia_.

Each one of them in turn makes what they call _reparation_. The

reparation is the prayer for all the sins, for all the faults, for all

the dissensions, for all the violations, for all the iniquities, for

all the crimes committed on earth. For the space of twelve consecutive

hours, from four o’clock in the afternoon till four o’clock in the

morning, or from four o’clock in the morning until four o’clock in the

afternoon, the sister who is making _reparation_ remains on her knees

on the stone before the Holy Sacrament, with hands clasped, a rope

around her neck. When her fatigue becomes unendurable, she prostrates

herself flat on her face against the earth, with her arms outstretched

in the form of a cross; this is her only relief. In this attitude she

prays for all the guilty in the universe. This is great to sublimity.

As this act is performed in front of a post on which burns a candle, it

is called without distinction, _to make reparation_ or _to be at the

post_. The nuns even prefer, out of humility, this last expression,

which contains an idea of torture and abasement.

_To make reparation_ is a function in which the whole soul is absorbed.

The sister at the post would not turn round were a thunderbolt to fall

directly behind her.

Besides this, there is always a sister kneeling before the Holy

Sacrament. This station lasts an hour. They relieve each other like

soldiers on guard. This is the Perpetual Adoration.

The prioresses and the mothers almost always bear names stamped with

peculiar solemnity, recalling, not the saints and martyrs, but moments

in the life of Jesus Christ: as Mother Nativity, Mother Conception,

Mother Presentation, Mother Passion. But the names of saints are not

interdicted.

When one sees them, one never sees anything but their mouths.

All their teeth are yellow. No tooth-brush ever entered that convent.

Brushing one’s teeth is at the top of a ladder at whose bottom is the

loss of one’s soul.

They never say _my_. They possess nothing of their own, and they must

not attach themselves to anything. They call everything _our_; thus:

our veil, our chaplet; if they were speaking of their chemise, they

would say _our chemise_. Sometimes they grow attached to some petty

object,—to a book of hours, a relic, a medal that has been blessed. As

soon as they become aware that they are growing attached to this

object, they must give it up. They recall the words of Saint Thérèse,

to whom a great lady said, as she was on the point of entering her

order, “Permit me, mother, to send for a Bible to which I am greatly

attached.” “Ah, you are attached to something! In that case, do not

enter our order!”

Every person whatever is forbidden to shut herself up, to have _a place

of her own, a chamber_. They live with their cells open. When they

meet, one says, “Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the

altar!” The other responds, “Forever.” The same ceremony when one taps

at the other’s door. Hardly has she touched the door when a soft voice

on the other side is heard to say hastily, “Forever!” Like all

practices, this becomes mechanical by force of habit; and one sometimes

says _forever_ before the other has had time to say the rather long

sentence, “Praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar.”

Among the Visitandines the one who enters says: “Ave Maria,” and the

one whose cell is entered says, “Gratia plena.” It is their way of

saying good day, which is in fact full of grace.

At each hour of the day three supplementary strokes sound from the

church bell of the convent. At this signal prioress, vocal mothers,

professed nuns, lay-sisters, novices, postulants, interrupt what they

are saying, what they are doing, or what they are thinking, and all say

in unison if it is five o’clock, for instance, “At five o’clock and at

all hours praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar!”

If it is eight o’clock, “At eight o’clock and at all hours!” and so on,

according to the hour.

This custom, the object of which is to break the thread of thought and

to lead it back constantly to God, exists in many communities; the

formula alone varies. Thus at The Infant Jesus they say, “At this hour

and at every hour may the love of Jesus kindle my heart!” The

Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga, cloistered fifty years ago at

Petit-Picpus, chant the offices to a solemn psalmody, a pure Gregorian

chant, and always with full voice during the whole course of the

office. Everywhere in the missal where an asterisk occurs they pause,

and say in a low voice, “Jesus-Marie-Joseph.” For the office of the

dead they adopt a tone so low that the voices of women can hardly

descend to such a depth. The effect produced is striking and tragic.

The nuns of the Petit-Picpus had made a vault under their grand altar

for the burial of their community. _The Government_, as they say, does

not permit this vault to receive coffins so they leave the convent when

they die. This is an affliction to them, and causes them consternation

as an infraction of the rules.

They had obtained a mediocre consolation at best,—permission to be

interred at a special hour and in a special corner in the ancient

Vaugirard cemetery, which was made of land which had formerly belonged

to their community.

On Fridays the nuns hear high mass, vespers, and all the offices, as on

Sunday. They scrupulously observe in addition all the little festivals

unknown to people of the world, of which the Church of France was so

prodigal in the olden days, and of which it is still prodigal in Spain

and Italy. Their stations in the chapel are interminable. As for the

number and duration of their prayers we can convey no better idea of

them than by quoting the ingenuous remark of one of them: “The prayers

of the postulants are frightful, the prayers of the novices are still

worse, and the prayers of the professed nuns are still worse.”

Once a week the chapter assembles: the prioress presides; the vocal

mothers assist. Each sister kneels in turn on the stones, and confesses

aloud, in the presence of all, the faults and sins which she has

committed during the week. The vocal mothers consult after each

confession and inflict the penance aloud.

Besides this confession in a loud tone, for which all faults in the

least serious are reserved, they have for their venial offences what

they call the _coulpe. To make one’s coulpe_ means to prostrate one’s

self flat on one’s face during the office in front of the prioress

until the latter, who is never called anything but _our mother_,

notifies the culprit by a slight tap of her foot against the wood of

her stall that she can rise. The _coulpe_ or _peccavi_, is made for a

very small matter—a broken glass, a torn veil, an involuntary delay of

a few seconds at an office, a false note in church, etc.; this

suffices, and the _coulpe_ is made. The _coulpe_ is entirely

spontaneous; it is the culpable person herself (the word is

etymologically in its place here) who judges herself and inflicts it on

herself. On festival days and Sundays four mother precentors intone the

offices before a large reading-desk with four places. One day one of

the mother precentors intoned a psalm beginning with _Ecce_, and

instead of _Ecce_ she uttered aloud the three notes _do si sol_; for

this piece of absent-mindedness she underwent a _coulpe_ which lasted

during the whole service: what rendered the fault enormous was the fact

that the chapter had laughed.

When a nun is summoned to the parlor, even were it the prioress

herself, she drops her veil, as will be remembered, so that only her

mouth is visible.

The prioress alone can hold communication with strangers. The others

can see only their immediate family, and that very rarely. If, by

chance, an outsider presents herself to see a nun, or one whom she has

known and loved in the outer world, a regular series of negotiations is

required. If it is a woman, the authorization may sometimes be granted;

the nun comes, and they talk to her through the shutters, which are

opened only for a mother or sister. It is unnecessary to say that

permission is always refused to men.

Such is the rule of Saint-Benoît, aggravated by Martin Verga.

These nuns are not gay, rosy, and fresh, as the daughters of other

orders often are. They are pale and grave. Between 1825 and 1830 three

of them went mad.