Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER II—THE OBEDIENCE OF MARTIN VERGA
2555 words | Chapter 196
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.
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