The Convent Entry--Díalogue--A Chair in Church--Arrival of the
Nun--Dress--José María--Crowd--Withdrawal of the Black Curtain--The Taking
of the Veil--The Sermon--A Dead Body--Another Victim--Convent of the
Encarnación--Attempt at a Hymn--Invitation--Morning Visit--The Nun and her
Mother--Banquet--Taking Leave--Ceremony of the Veil-taking--A Beautiful
Victim--The Last Look--Presentation to the Bishop--Reflections--Verses.
4th June.
Some days ago, having received a message from _my nun_ that a girl was
about to take the veil in her convent, I went there about six o'clock, and
knowing that the church on these occasions is apt to be crowded to
suffocation, I proceeded to the _reja_, and speaking to an invisible
within, requested to know in what part of the church I could have a place.
Upon which a voice replied--
"Hermanita (my sister), I am rejoiced to see you. You shall have a place
beside the godmother."
"Many thanks, Hermanita. Which way shall I go?"
_Voice_.--"You shall go through the sacristy. José María!"
José María, a thin, pale, lank individual, with hollow cheeks, who was
standing near like a page in waiting, sprang forward--"_Madrecita_, I am
here!"
_Voice_.--"José María--That lady is the Señora de C---n. You will conduct
her excellency to the front of the grating, and give her a chair."
After I had thanked the _voice_ for her kindness in attending to me on a
day when she was so much occupied with other affairs, the obsequious José
María led the way, and I followed him through the sacristy into the church,
where there were already a few kneeling figures; and thence into the
railed-off enclosure destined for the relatives of the future nun, where I
was permitted to sit down in a comfortable velvet chair. I had been there
but a little while when the aforesaid José María reappeared, picking his
steps as if he were walking upon eggs in a sick-room. He brought me a
message from the Madre---that the nun had arrived, and that the madrecita
wished to know if I should like to give her an embrace before the ceremony
began. I therefore followed my guide back into the sacristy, where the
future nun was seated beside her god-mother, and in the midst of her
friends and relations, about thirty in all.
She was arrayed in pale blue satin, with diamonds, pearls, and a crown of
flowers. She was literally smothered in blonde and jewels; and her face was
flushed as well it might be, for she had passed the day in taking leave of
her friends at a fête they had given her, and had then, according to
custom, been paraded through the town in all her finery. And now her last
hour was at hand. When I came in she rose and embraced me with as much
cordiality as if we had known each other for years. Beside her sat the
Madrina, also in white satin and jewels; all the relations being likewise
decked out in their finest array. The nun kept laughing every now and then
in the most unnatural and hysterical manner, as I thought, apparently to
impress us with the conviction of her perfect happiness; for it is a great
point of honour amongst girls similarly situated to look as cheerful and
gay as possible; the same feeling, though in a different degree, which
induces the gallant highwayman to jest in the presence of the multitude
when the hangman's cord is within an inch of his neck, the same which makes
the gallant general whose life is forfeited, command his men to fire on
him; the same which makes the Hindoo widow mount the funeral pile without a
tear in her eye, or a sigh on her lips. If the robber were to be strangled
in a corner of his dungeon; if the general were to be put to death
privately in his own apartment; if the widow were to be burnt quietly on
her own hearth; if the nun were to be secretly smuggled in at the convent
gate like a bale of contraband goods,--we might hear another tale. This
girl was very young, but by no means pretty; on the contrary, rather
_disgraciee par la nature_; and perhaps a knowledge of her own want of
attraction may have caused the world to have few charms for her.
But José María cut short my train of reflections, by requesting me to
return to my seat before the crowd arrived, which I did forthwith. Shortly
after, the church doors were thrown open, and a crowd burst in, every one
struggling to obtain the best seat. Musicians entered, carrying desks and
music-books, and placed themselves in two rows, on either side of the
enclosure where I was. Then the organ struck up its solemn psalmody, and
was followed by the gay music of the band. Rockets were let off outside the
church, and, at the same time, the Madrina and all the relations entered
and knelt down in front of the grating which looks into the convent, but
before which hung a dismal black curtain. I left my chair and knelt down
beside the godmother.
Suddenly the curtain was withdrawn, and the picturesque beauty of the scene
within baffles all description. Beside the altar, which was in a blaze of
light, was a perfect mass of crimson and gold drapery; the walls, the
antique chairs, the table before which the priests sat, all hung with the
same splendid material. The bishop wore his superb mitre and robes of
crimson and gold; the attendant priests also glittering in crimson and gold
embroidery.
In contrast to these, five-and-twenty figures, entirely robed in black from
head to foot, were ranged on each side of the room prostrate, their faces
touching the ground, and in their hands immense lighted tapers. On the
foreground was spread a purple carpet bordered round with a garland of
freshly-gathered flowers, roses and carnations and heliotrope, the only
thing that looked real and living in the whole scene; and in the middle of
this knelt the novice, still arrayed in her blue satin, white lace veil and
jewels, and also with a great lighted taper in her hand.
The black nuns then rose and sang a hymn, every now and then falling on
their faces and touching the floor with their foreheads. The whole looked
like an incantation, or a scene in Robert le Díable. The novice was then
raised from the ground and led to the feet of the bishop, who examined her
as to her vocation, and gave her his blessing, and once more the black
curtain fell between us and them.
In the _second act_, she was lying prostrate on the floor, disrobed of her
profane dress, and covered over with a black cloth, while the black figures
kneeling round her chanted a hymn. She was now dead to the world. The
sunbeams had faded away, as if they would not look upon the scene, and all
the light was concentrated in one great mass upon the convent group.
Again she was raised. All the blood had rushed into her face, and her
attempt at a smile was truly painful. She then knelt before the bishop and
received the benediction, with the sign of the cross, from a white hand
with the pastoral ring. She then went round alone to embrace all the dark
phantoms as they stood motionless, and as each dark shadow clasped her in
its arms, it seemed like the dead welcoming a new arrival to the shades.
But I forget the sermon, which was delivered by a fat priest, who elbowed
his way with some difficulty through the crowd to the grating, panting and
in a prodigious heat, and ensconced himself in a great arm-chair close
beside us. He assured her that she "had chosen the good part, which could
not be taken away from her;" that she was now one of the elect, "chosen
from amongst the wickedness and dangers of the world;"--(picked out like a
plum from a pie). He mentioned with pity and contempt those who were "yet
struggling in the great Babylon;" and compared their miserable fate with
hers, the Bride of Christ, who, after suffering a few privations here
during a short term of years, should be received at once into a kingdom of
glory. The whole discourse was well calculated to rally her fainting
spirits, if fainting they were, and to inspire us with a great disgust for
ourselves.
When the sermon was concluded, the music again struck up--the heroine of
the day came forward, and stood before the grating to take her last look of
this wicked world. Down fell the black curtain. Up rose the relations, and
I accompanied them into the sacristy. Here they coolly lighted their
cigars, and very philosophically discoursed upon the exceeding good fortune
of the new-made nun, and on her evident delight and satisfaction with her
own situation. As we did not follow her behind the scenes, I could not give
my opinion on this point. Shortly after, one of the gentlemen civilly led
me to my carriage, and _so it was_.
As we were returning home, some soldiers rode up and stopped the carriage,
desiring the coachman to take to the other side of the aqueduct, to avoid
the body of a man who had just been murdered within a few doors of our
house.
In the Convent of the Incarnation, I saw another girl sacrificed in a
similar manner. She was received there without a dowry, on account of the
exceeding fineness of her voice. She little thought what a fatal gift it
would prove to her. The most cruel part of all was, that wishing to display
her fine voice to the public, they made her sing a hymn alone, on her
knees, her arms extended in the form of a cross, before all the immense
crowd; "Ancilla Christi sum," "The Bird of Christ I am." She was a good-
looking girl, fat and comely, who would probably have led a comfortable
life in the world, for which she seemed well fitted; most likely without
one touch of romance or enthusiasm in her composition; but having the
unfortunate honour of being niece to two chanoines, she was thus honourably
provided for without expense in her nineteenth year. As might be expected,
her voice faltered, and instead of singing, she seemed inclined to cry out.
Each note came slowly, heavily, trembingly; and at last she nearly fell
forward exhausted, when two of the sisters caught and supported her.
I had almost made up my mind to see no more such scenes, which, unlike
pulque and bull-fights, I dislike more and more upon trial; when we
received an invitation, which it was not easy to refuse, but was the more
painful to accept, being acquainted, though slightly, with the victim. I
send you the printed note of invitation.
"On Wednesday, the----of this month, at six o'clock in the evening, my
daughter, Doña María de la Conception, P---e---, will assume the habit of a
nun of the choir and the black veil in the Convent of Our Lady of the
Incarnation. I have the honour to inform you of this, entreating you to
co-operate with your presence in the solemnity of this act, a favour which
will be highly esteemed by your affectionate servant, who kisses your hand.
"MARÍA JOSÉFA DE -----.
"Mexico, June---, 1840."
Having gone out in the carriage to pay some visits, I suddenly recollected
that it was the very morning of the day in which this young girl was to
take the veil, and also that it was necessary to inquire where I was to be
placed; for as to entering the church with the crowd on one of these
occasions, it is out of the question; particularly when the girl being, as
in the present case, of distinguished family, the ceremony is expected to
be peculiarly magnificent. I accordingly called at the house, was shown
upstairs, and to my horror, found myself in the midst of a "goodlie
companie," in rich array, consisting of the relations of the family, to the
number of about a hundred persons; the bishop himself in his purple robes
and amethysts, a number of priests, the father of the young lady in his
general's uniform; she herself in purple velvet, with diamonds and pearls,
and a crown of flowers; the _corsage_ of her gown entirely covered with
little bows of ribbon of divers colours, which her friends had given her,
each adding one, like stones thrown on a cairn in memory of the departed.
She had also short sleeves and white satin shoes.
Being very handsome, with fine black eyes, good teeth, and fresh colour,
and above all with the beauty of youth, for she is but eighteen, she was
not disfigured even by this overloaded dress. Her mother, on the contrary,
who was to act the part of Madrina, who wore a dress fac-simile, and who
was pale and sad, her eyes almost extinguished with weeping, looked like a
picture of misery in a balldress. In the adjoining room, long tables were
laid out, on which servants were placing refreshments for the fête about to
be given on this joyous occasion. I felt somewhat shocked, and inclined to
say with Paul Pry, "Hope I don't intrude." But my apologies were instantly
cut short, and I was welcomed with true Mexican hospitality; repeatedly
thanked for my kindness in coming to see the nun, and hospitably pressed to
join the family feast. I only got off upon a promise of returning at
half-past five to accompany them to the ceremony, which, in fact, I greatly
preferred to going there alone.
I arrived at the hour appointed, and being led upstairs by the Senator Don
-----, found the morning party, with many additions, lingering over the
dessert. There was some gaiety, but evidently forced. It reminded me of a
marriage feast previous to the departure of the bride, who is about to be
separated from her family for the first time. Yet how different in fact is
this banquet, where the mother and daughter met together for the last time
on earth!
At stated periods, indeed, the mother may hear her daughter's voice
speaking to her as from the depths of the tomb; but she may never more fold
her in her arms, never more share in her joys or in her sorrows, or nurse
her in sickness; and when her own last hour arrives, though but a few
streets divide them, she may not give her dying blessing to the child who
has been for so many years the pride of her eyes and heart.
I have seen no country where families are so knit together as in Mexico,
where the affections are so concentrated, or where such devoted respect and
obedience are shown by the married sons and daughters to their parents. In
that respect they always remain as little children. I know many families of
which the married branches continue to live in their father's house,
forming a sort of small colony, and living in the most perfect harmony.
They cannot bear the idea of being separated, and nothing but dire
necessity ever forces them to leave their _fatherland_. To all the accounts
which travellers give them of the pleasures to be met with in the European
capitals, they turn a deaf ear. Their families are in Mexico--their
parents, and sisters, and relatives--and there is no happiness for them
elsewhere. The greater therefore is the sacrifice which those parents make,
who from religious motives devote their daughters to a conventual life.
-----, however, was furious at the whole affair, which he said was entirely
against the mother's consent, though that of the father had been obtained;
and pointed out to me the confessor whose influence had brought it about.
The girl herself was now very pale, but evidently resolved to conceal her
agitation, and the mother seemed as if she could shed no more tears--quite
exhausted with weeping. As the hour for the ceremony drew near, the whole
party became more grave and sad, all but the priests, who were smiling and
talking together in groups. The girl was not still a moment. She kept
walking hastily through the house, taking leave of the servants, and naming
probably her last wishes about everything. She was followed by her younger
sisters, all in tears.
But it struck six, and the priests intimated that it was time to move. She
and her mother went downstairs alone, and entered the carriage which was to
drive them through all the principal streets, to show the nun to the public
according to custom, and to let them take their last look, they of her, and
she of them. As they got in, we all crowded to the balconies to see her
take leave of her house, her aunts saying, "Yes, child, _despídete de tu
casa_, take leave of your house, for you will never see it again!" Then
came sobs from the sisters, and many of the gentlemen, ashamed of their
emotion, hastily quitted the room. I hope, for the sake of humanity, I did
not rightly interpret the look of constrained anguish which the poor girl
threw from the window of the carriage at the home of her childhood.
They drove off, and the relations prepared to walk in procession to the
church. I walked with the Count S---o, the others followed in pairs. The
church was very brilliantly illuminated, and as we entered, the band was
playing one of _Strauss's_ waltzes! The crowd was so tremendous that we
were nearly squeezed to a jelly in getting to our places. I was carried off
my feet between two fat Señoras in mantillas and shaking diamond pendants,
exactly as if I had been packed between two moveable feather-beds.
They gave me, however, an excellent place, quite close to the grating,
beside the Countess de S---o, that is to say, a place to kneel on. A great
bustle and much preparation seemed to be going on within the convent, and
veiled figures were flitting about, whispering, arranging, etc. Sometimes a
skinny old dame would come close to the grating, and lifting up her veil,
bestow upon the pensive public a generous view of a very haughty and very
wrinkled visage of some seventy years standing, and beckon into the church
for the major-domo of the convent (an excellent and profitable situation by
the way), or for padre this or that. Some of the holy ladies recognised and
spoke to me through the grating.
But at the discharge of fireworks outside the church the curtain was
dropped, for this was the signal that the nun and her mother had arrived.
An opening was made in the crowd as they passed into the church, and the
girl, kneeling down, was questioned by the bishop, but I could not make out
the dialogue, which was carried on in a low voice. She then passed into the
convent by a side door, and her mother, quite exhausted and nearly in
hysterics, was supported through the crowd to a place beside us, in front
of the grating. The music struck up; the curtain was again drawn aside. The
scene was as striking here as in the convent of the Santa Teresa, but not
so lugubrious. The nuns, all ranged around, and carrying lighted tapers in
their hands, were dressed in mantles of bright blue, with a gold plate on
the left shoulder. Their faces, however, were covered with deep black
veils. The girl, kneeling in front, and also bearing a heavy lighted taper,
looked beautiful, with her dark hair and rich dress, and the long black
lashes resting on her glowing face. The churchmen near the illuminated and
magnificently-decked altar formed, as usual, a brilliant background to the
picture. The ceremony was the same as on the former occasion, but there was
no sermon.
The most terrible thing to witness was the last, straining, anxious look
which the mother gave her daughter through the grating. She had seen her
child pressed to the arms of strangers, and welcomed to her new home. She
was no longer hers. All the sweet ties of nature had been rudely severed,
and she had been forced to consign her, in the very bloom of youth and
beauty, at the very age in which she most required a mother's care, and
when she had but just fulfilled the promise of her childhood, to a living
tomb. Still, as long as the curtain had not fallen, she could gaze upon
her, as upon one on whom, though dead, the coffin-lid is not yet closed.
But while the new-made nun was in a blaze of light, and distinct on the
foreground, so that we could mark each varying expression of her face, the
crowd in the church, and the comparative faintness of the light, probably
made it difficult for her to distinguish her mother; for, knowing that the
end was at hand, she looked anxiously and hurriedly into the church,
without seeming able to fix her eyes on any particular object; while her
mother seemed as if her eyes were glazed, so intently were they fixed upon
her daughter.
Suddenly, and without any preparation, down fell the black curtain like a
pall, and the sobs and tears of the family broke forth. One beautiful
little child was carried out almost in fits. Water was brought to the poor
mother; and at last, making our way with difficulty through the dense
crowd, we got into the sacristy. "I declare," said the Countess ----- to
me, wiping her eyes, "it is worse than a marriage!" I expressed my horror
at the sacrifice of a girl so young, that she could not possibly have known
her own mind. Almost all the ladies agreed with me, especially all who had
daughters, but many of the old gentlemen were of a different opinion. The
young men were decidedly of my way of thinking; but many young girls, who
were conversing together, seemed rather to envy their friend, who had
looked so pretty and graceful, and "so happy," and whose dress "suited her
so well," and to have no objection to "go, and do likewise."
I had the honour of a presentation to the bishop, a fat and portly prelate,
with good manners, and well besuiting his priestly garments. I amused
myself, while we waited for the carriages, by looking over a pamphlet which
lay on the table, containing the ceremonial of the veil-taking. When we
rose to go, all the ladies of the highest rank devoutly kissed the bishop's
hand; and I went home, thinking by what law of God a child can thus be
dragged from the mother who bore and bred her, and immured in a cloister
for life, amongst strangers, to whom she has no tie, and towards whom she
owes no duty. That a convent may be a blessed shelter from the calamities
of life, a haven for the unprotected, a resting-place for the weary, a safe
and holy asylum, where a new family and kind friends await those whose
natural ties are broken and whose early friends are gone, I am willing to
admit; but it is not in the flower of youth that the warm heart should be
consigned to the cold cloister. Let the young take their chance of sunshine
or of storm: the calm and shady retreat is for helpless and unprotected old
age.
-----, to whom I described one of these ceremonies, wrote some verses,
suggested by my account of them, which I send you.
In tropic gorgeousness, the Lord of Day
To the bright chambers of the west retired,
And with the glory of his parting ray
The hundred domes of Mexico he fired,
When I, with vague and solemn awe inspired,
Entered the Incarnation's sacred fane.
The vaulted roof, the dim aisle far retired,
Echoed the deep-toned organ's holy strain,
Which through the incensed air did mournfully complain.
The veiling curtain suddenly withdrew,
Op'ning a glorious altar to the sight,
Where crimson intermixed its regal hue
With gold and jewels that outblazed the light
Of the huge tapers near them flaming bright
From golden stands--the bishop, mitre-crowned,
Stood stately near--in order due around
The sisterhood knelt down, their brows upon the ground.
The novice entered: to her doom she went,
Gems on her robes, and flowers upon her brow.
Virgin of tender years, poor innocent!
Pause, ere thou speak th' irrevocable vow.
What if thy heart should change, thy spirit fail?
She kneels. The black-robed sisters cease to bow.
They raise a hymn which seems a funeral wail,
While o'er the pageant falls the dark, lugubrious veil.
Again the veil is up. On earth she lies,
With the drear mantle of the pall spread o'er.
The new-made nun, the living sacrifice,
Dead to this world of ours for evermore!
The sun his parting rays has ceased to pour,
As loth to lend his light to such a scene....
The sisters raise her from the sacred floor,
Supporting her their holy arms between;
The mitred priest stands up with patriarchal mien.
And speaks the benediction; all is done.
A life-in-death must her long years consume
She clasped her new-made sisters one by one.
As the black shadows their embraces gave
They seemed like spectres from their place of doom.
Stealing from out eternal night's blind cave,
To meet their comrade new, and hail her to the grave.
The curtain fell again, the scene was o'er,
The pageant gone--its glitter and its pride,
And it would be a pageant and no more,
But for the maid miscalled the Heavenly Bride.
If I, an utter stranger, unallied
To her by slightest ties, some grief sustain,
What feels the yearning mother, from whose side
Is torn the child whom she hath reared in vain,
To share her joys no more, no more to sooth her pain!