The Convent.
It was Mr. Byerley’s wish to avoid Paris on his way into Touraine, as it
had been agreed with the Fletchers that they should spend three months
there together, on their return to England. Mr. Byerley therefore took a
passage in a Rochelle packet, for himself, his daughters, and their
maid, whom they could not resolve to leave behind. Mr. Byerley had
political friends in every country, and especially many in France, who
were discontented with the government, as most sensible and upright men
at that time were. They were not engaged in any plots or underhand
doings, but were glad to cultivate a correspondence with the friends of
freedom, and to learn every thing which such men as Mr. Byerley could
communicate respecting the best institutions of a more favoured country.
With some of these friends Mr. Byerley had planned a meeting; and his
dislike of leaving his own country was softened by the hope of doing
something abroad to forward his favourite objects. His daughters were
aware of this, and would have dreaded the political discussions which
they knew must take place, if they had not hoped to find a refuge with
Mrs. Fletcher and her daughters, from company which at home they could
not have escaped. It was not till their father took out the packet of
letters with which he was charged, while sitting on deck, the day they
sailed, that the girls were aware how numerous were his connexions
abroad.
“If you were sinking, papa, which would you try hardest to save, me or
those letters?” said Anna, laughing.
“If I could burn the letters first, I would save you, my dear; but I
should not like the risk of their floating.”
“Then I wish they were at the bottom of the sea,” said Mary. “I am
afraid of them.”
“There is no occasion, Mary. There is nothing in them that I should
hesitate to show you; but they are too good to fall into hands which
might do harm to the writers. There is no treason, privy conspiracy, or
rebellion in them: nothing more than an Englishman may write and put in
the newspaper any day if he chooses.”
Mary was satisfied.
The voyage was very pleasant to all the party but Susan, who was the
only one who suffered much from sickness. There were no cabin-passengers
but two or three French merchants, who, being known to each other,
readily took the hint given by Mr. Byerley’s somewhat unsociable
manners, that he wished for no other intercourse than that of his
daughters. The girls had seen so little of their father during their
late bustling life, that they enjoyed the present opportunity of being
always together. They had never before been at sea, and no minds could
be better prepared to feel the delicious pleasures of the first short,
favourable voyage. All day they were on deck, talking, singing—sometimes
reading, but suffering no new object to pass unnoticed. Late at night,
they were still leaning over the vessel’s side, no longer singing, for
fear of disturbing those who were gone to rest, but talking in low
voices of things high and deep, far and near. When the moon shone, they
traced her silvery path over the billows: when obscured, they looked
with awe on the tossing surface round them, and felt their solitude on
the watery waste. In a very short time, Anna’s imagination, which had
received a new direction from the new scene in which she was placed,
returned to its accustomed trains of images, and she saw little and
heard nothing of what passed near her; while Mary, who (whatever Anna
might think) possessed the same faculty in much greater strength and
perfection, learned and experienced something new every hour. There was
not a passing cloud in the sky, or a purple shadow on the waters, not a
drifting weed or a sprinkling of foam which escaped her glance, or
failed to awaken some thought or feeling. She was the first to mark the
rising star, and to understand the intimation that some far-distant
beacon might be discerned. Yet she never forgot the pleasure of others
while experiencing her own. When Anna raised her head and saw how her
sister pointed out to Susan such objects as she could understand, she
owned it was very well for poor Susan that somebody tried to amuse her,
but wondered how it was possible under such a moon, amidst such a scene,
to let down the tone of feeling so far as to talk with a servant. The
cabin was surely the place to talk to Susan. She forgot how
“the sun is fixed,
And the infinite magnificence of heaven
Within the reach of every human eye;
The sleepless Ocean murmurs for all ears.”
Mary remembered this, and was not so presumptuous as to pretend to an
aristocracy of mind in scenes where the Creator ordained that there
should be none. Their father knew their different feelings by their
different conduct. “My dear Anna,” said he, “if you want to enjoy your
aristocracy, go down to the cabin. That is the only place where there is
room for it.” Anna took him at his word; not because she assented to
what he said, but because, having been once disturbed, she thought she
could resume her reverie best in her berth. Susan, who was always glad
of something to do, ran to assist her; and Mary returned to her father’s
side.
It will be easily supposed that Anna’s thoughts were much with her
friend Selina, all this time. Every circumstance of their meeting had
been often planned and anticipated, and had been so exalted in her
imagination, that the reality fell somewhat short of her expectation.
Yet it would have satisfied any reasonable person. The journey from
Rochelle was prosperous throughout, and the rich province of Touraine
presented many pleasures and much prospect of future enjoyment to our
travellers. The approach to the fine city of Tours charmed them,
animated as they were with the expectation of presently meeting the
friends they sought. They bowled along the wide, straight road, planted
like an avenue, and leading to the eminence on which stood the city;
crowning with its picturesque buildings the green slopes which descended
to the ample river. The sun was just setting, and its golden light
gleamed through the arches of the magnificent bridge, and poured in a
flood of radiance through the stems of the trees. The pleasure was
enhanced, especially to Mr. Byerley, by the expectation of seeing
English faces, and receiving an English welcome in a foreign land. As
the clatter of their horses’ hoofs resounded between the rows of high
houses, he believed that, though so far from home, listening ears were
watching their approach, and friendly hearts were beating with
expectation. He was not mistaken. The moment the carriage stopped Mr.
Fletcher appeared at the door of his house, and glancing eyes and
smiling faces flitted past the windows. Then followed the greetings
which filled many hearts with perfect pleasure—every heart but Anna’s;
and she could have given no better reason for the passing cloud that
came over her spirits, than that there was rather too much joy to be
quite consistent with the tenderness of sympathy.
The evening was passed, as the first evenings of meeting generally are,
in talking of a multitude of unconnected and unimportant things.
Subjects of a deeper interest are naturally deferred till the mind and
heart are more tranquil—till there is time and opportunity for full and
uninterrupted communication. Opportunity was found, however, for mutual
congratulation among the parents upon the apparent improvement of their
children. Rose and Selina were grown into fine young women; and Mrs.
Fletcher was amazed at the change of manners and appearance in her young
friends—Mary especially—which she had believed could be only effected by
their residence abroad.
“Somebody has taken my task out of my hands,” said she: “I am afraid
there is nothing left for me to do.”
“More than you are prepared for, I am afraid,” replied Mr. Byerley. “But
I will not turn informer against my children. I will leave it to your
judgment (a better judgment in many respects than mine) to discover
whatever deficiency or excess there may be.”
“I know what that word ‘excess’ means,” replied Mrs. Fletcher, smiling:
“by and bye we will resume our old argument upon it.”
The next day, in the course of communication between the young people
respecting their various occupations and pursuits, it appeared that Rose
and Selina had frequently visited a convent in their neighbourhood, and
were well acquainted with the abbess and some of the nuns. Mary and Anna
were equally anxious to see the interior of a convent, and to converse
with persons who had had a fair experience of a monastic life. It was
settled that they should be gratified that very day. Mary began to pour
out questions respecting the nuns; but her father, smiling, forbade Rose
Fletcher to answer any of them, as he wished that Mary should form her
own judgment, unbiassed, of what she should see and hear; observing that
he was aware Mary had some romantic notions about a monastic life.
Mary hoped her notions were not romantic now; for as she had grown up,
she had learned more of the nature of religion than she knew when she
longed, in her childhood, to be a nun.
“Had she never, since her childhood, longed to be a nun?” her father
enquired.
Mary blushed, and owned that, notwithstanding her knowledge that the
duties of Christians lie in society, and that the purest affections of
the heart—the devotional feelings themselves—must languish in a life of
perfect exclusion, she had never yet been able to divest a monastic
life, in idea, of peculiar purity and peace. She would not, even if she
were a catholic, and free from family ties, become a nun; but she still
felt a kind and degree of respect for religious devotees, which she felt
for none besides. Anna and Selina nodded assent; the rest of the party
smiled; but Mrs. Fletcher said she believed all thoughtful young people
felt like Mary.
“Do you remember Felicia Haggerston?” enquired Mr. Byerley.
“Oh! yes, papa; I always think of her when nuns are mentioned: it is a
very useful case to know of.”
“Who is Felicia Haggerston?” enquired Mrs. Fletcher.
“A young lady of a high catholic family, whose character was oddly made
up of devotion and family pride. Her mother was left in poor
circumstances, with this one daughter and several sons. It became
necessary for Felicia to relieve her mother of the burden of her
maintenance. She might have been happily placed as a governess; but a
fit of devotion came in the way of her mother’s wishes, and Felicia took
the vows in a convent abroad.”
“Had she never thought of being a nun before her friends thought of her
being a governess?”
“Never; and it appears equally strange that she should mistake her
motive for one of pure piety, and that her mother should object to her
choice, believing, as she professes to do, in common with all catholics,
that devotees are sure of heaven.”
“There is always,” said Mrs. Fletcher, “a hope that, though they do live
in the world, they may reach heaven; and one cannot wonder that a
widowed mother should rest on this hope, rather than be severed for life
from an only daughter. But what has become of Felicia?”
“I do not know,” said Mary: “I saw Mrs. Haggerston in London, and she
did not look happy; so that I dared not make any particular enquiries.
But I am afraid Felicia’s was not a mind fitted to be quite happy in a
convent.”
“What sort of mind is?” said Mr. Fletcher.
“I should think a really humble, benevolent heart might find much ease
and many blessings in the best kind of convent life; not in those where
the discipline is very severe, and the whole time must be passed in
devotion or idleness; but where the rich, and the poor, and the young,
are taken care of, and the hands, as well as the lips, are allowed to
praise God and bless mankind.”
“Are you aware that it is more difficult to be humble and benevolent
where the sole business of life is to be so, than in the world, where
there is a greater variety of objects?”
Mary looked doubtful.
“It is one of the clearest possible proofs,” continued Mr. Fletcher,
“that God designed man for a social state—that in all very small
communities separated from the world, envy and pride have ever
subsisted, and that utter selfishness is the consequence of entire
seclusion.”
The girls would not readily believe this in its full extent: they were
aware that the intellect must be weakened by unsocial habits, and that,
therefore, it was impossible for the best homage of the heart and mind
to ascend from monastic retreats; but they could scarcely imagine any
scope for pride or envy in a state of such perfect equality; and as for
selfishness, how could it consist with perpetual self-mortification?
“Of the first case you shall judge from your own observation by and
bye,” said Mr. Fletcher; “and as for the other, you need only read the
records which remain of some of the most sainted anchorites to be
convinced. But, tell me now, what is your notion of the life of a nun;
what picture have you in your mind’s eye of one day of a convent life?”
“The having one’s time and one’s cell to oneself,” said Anna, “is a
pleasant idea. The sun shining in through a high window, and one’s own
bed and chair, and chafing-dish in winter; and one’s own table with the
book and skull and crucifix that nobody touches, and the certainty that
nobody will come to interrupt one’s reading or thinking.”
“Abundance of selfishness to begin with,” said Mr. Fletcher, laughing.
“And then to feel such satisfaction with one’s own lot,” continued Rose,
“to look down from such pure solitude upon the world, and pity those who
are struggling and toiling there; and to remember that one’s safety is
owing to one’s virtuous resolution.”
“Selfishness again, and more pride,” interrupted her father. “But,
Selina, which is the greatest charm in your eyes? for you look as if the
very thought of it inspired you.”
“I was thinking of the grandest day of a whole life—the day of taking
the veil. What a tide of feelings must rush in upon the young creature’s
mind when she sees her family for the last time, they grieving to part
with her, but admiring her for her piety! And then the glow of
resolution, the noble contempt of the world, and the delight of setting
such an example, at such an age! The old priests admiring and blessing
her, the music, sometimes wailing and sometimes triumphant, as if it
would celebrate her funeral and her marriage at the same time; and the
crowd pressing to catch a glimpse of such a holy heroine——”
Selina stopped short, struck with the expression of disgust in Mary’s
countenance.
“Mary sees what you are blind to,” said Mr. Fletcher: “she sees that
half of this is enthusiasm, and the other half vanity. Mary, I had
rather hear what would be most tempting to you.”
“No part would be tempting,” said Mary, “unless I could have one dear
friend with me; but if there was one to whom I might speak and listen
about those human sympathies which feed the life of our minds, I could
be happy, I think, in praying and meditating, and doing all the good my
heart and hands could effect. But I must also be free from all spiritual
domination: I would never give up my soul in slavery to abbess or
confessor. Unless I might worship as my spirit prompted, unless I might
do good as the gospel enjoins, and love as human hearts are made to
love, my devotion would be worthless, and I should be fit neither for
heaven nor earth.”
“You will make a poor devotee,” observed Mr. Fletcher, smiling.
“There is no convent on earth that would admit you,” said her father:
“you would not be pure enough; you do not go far enough beyond the
gospel: you must be content with trying to be above the world while you
are in the world.”
The happy father silently observed how his last words called up, as such
thoughts never failed to do, the flush of strong emotion into his
daughter’s cheek. Mary was not unfrequently inspired with a resolution
quite as holy, and much more rational and modest, than animates a
devotee in taking the veil.
When they were going out, Mr. Fletcher desired Anna, in case of strong
temptation from what she should see to become a nun, to remember, that
in the new jails in England every inmate has a cell, a bed, and a high
window, all to himself; and that he is quite sure of his reveries being
uninterrupted. There was no use in Anna’s looking indignant, the laugh
was against her.
At the convent gate, the gentlemen left their party, and proceeded to
make some visits. Mr. Fletcher wished to introduce his friend to such of
the inhabitants of Tours as he was acquainted with, and among others, to
a gentleman who held a high office among the magistracy of the city.
Mary and Anna could scarcely believe, when the portress opened the gate,
that they were actually entering a convent. A feeling of awe crept over
them, as if they had set foot in some sacred enclosure; and this feeling
was not lessened by the first view of the flitting figures which
disappeared before them wherever they went—figures clothed in a dark and
most unbecoming costume, which did not appear so remarkably convenient
as to make up for its want of beauty. When the abbess joined them in her
parlour, however, there was nothing particularly venerable in her
appearance: she seemed very glad to see Mrs. Fletcher, (who was provided
with a plea of business,) and inclined her head politely when introduced
to the strangers. She asked some questions about their voyage, and their
opinion of France in general, and Tours in particular, and astonished
them by laughing very loud and heartily when there was any opportunity
for laughing at all.
“While you are busy with mamma, ma mère, we will seek Sister Célestine,”
said Rose: “come, Mary, we will leave our two mothers together.”
“Oh! she is a little heretic!” exclaimed the abbess, laughing, as the
girls left the room.
They first entered the refectory, where the nuns were talking in groups,
having just finished their dinner. One and another ran to meet their
heretical acquaintance, while others stood at a distance, and stared in
a manner which rather abashed the strangers. Some withdrew, with an
appearance of propriety, and two or three stood reading at the windows,
which looked into the convent garden; but the greater number were
evidently remarking on the dress and countenances of the English girls.
Sister Célestine and Sister Priscille after a while led the way up
stairs to their cells. The first cell looked just like what Anna
expected, except that there was no skull on the table. The book was
turned down open: it was a book of devotion, and in Latin, and the page
at which Mary looked contained a marvellous account of the miraculous
deeds of a female saint. Mary, with some hesitation, enquired of Sister
Célestine if she believed every part of it. She looked rather shocked at
the question, as she replied that, of course, she believed the whole of
it.
“Had she known the book when she was young?” Anna enquired, thinking
that this might account for her credulity.
“No; it was given to her when she entered the convent.”
She had previously learned to read Latin, they supposed.
“Oh dear no! they none of them thought that necessary. The priest read
it over to them first, so that they knew what it was about, and nothing
more was required than that they should read it over very frequently, so
as not to forget it.” This cell had now lost its charm for Anna.
In the next, they found some disorder: cuttings and snippings of gay
silk were lying beside the crucifix on the table. Sister Priscille,
laughing and blushing, swept them away, owning that she had, contrary to
the rules, carried work into her cell.
“The truth is,” said she, “that poor little Caliste, whom I was teaching
to dress a doll in the school-room this morning, was obliged to go
before we had finished the cloak, and I brought it here, that she might
not be disappointed. But, sisters, I trust to you not to complain of me
to la mère.”
Célestine looked grave, but promised to let her off this time. Anna
could not join Selina’s laugh.
One lively little nun, Sœur Agathe, was very impatient for the strangers
to be conducted to some place at the top of the building, which she
seemed to think better worth seeing than any thing else. “Presently,”
said Célestine, repeatedly; but she would not let them alone for five
minutes together. They looked into several cells as they passed, in some
of which the nuns were reading intently. Mary would rather have staid
behind in one of these than have proceeded, if she could have done so
without disturbing their inmates; but when, at last, they burst in upon
one who was on her knees at prayers, she recoiled in great distress, and
begged that no more disturbance might be caused on their account.
“Oh! it does not signify,” said Agathe: “she will know where to follow
us when she has done.”
Mary resolved to say nothing more till she should meet with one whose
countenance and manner should promise better things. At length they
reached the last staircase which Agathe was so anxious for them to
climb: it was steep, and opened out upon some leads on the roof of the
building. Agathe skipped up before them, and handed out first one and
then another, and then looked eagerly for their admiration.
“What a fine view!” exclaimed Mary, as her eye wandered over the rich
fields and woods, and the verdant hills of Touraine, which were spread
out before her.
“How you must long——” said Anna—but she checked herself, as she was
going to remind the recluses what pleasures they lost by beholding this
fair scene only from a distance.
[Illustration: _Page 196_]
[Illustration: _Page 230_]
“Oh no! we long for nothing,” said Agathe, lightly: “a holy life, you
know, and certainty of heaven, are far better than the sin and misery of
the world. But look on this side: you have not seen what I brought you
to see yet.”
They looked, and saw a multitude of the chimneys of Tours, but little
besides. Perceiving them at a loss, Agathe pointed between two piles of
building, crying, “Mais voyez donc! you do not look. There is the great
road from the north; and there is not a carriage which comes from Paris
that we may not see from this place as the road winds.”
“This exceeds every thing,” thought Mary: “to talk one moment of a holy
life, and the next to be proud and pleased to see the carriages come
from Paris! I wish we could get away.”
Her composure was somewhat restored, however, by a conversation which
she contrived to obtain with one of the more serious nuns whom she met
in her way down. In her she found neither enthusiasm nor levity: she did
not pretend to despise or to fear the world, or believe that she must be
perfectly holy and safe, because she had left it. She was thankful, she
said, for peace and freedom from care; she had no family ties to bind
her to society, and had felt so forlorn in her youth, from being an
orphan, that she had longed for an asylum above every thing; she had
obtained her desire, and was satisfied. Mary wished to know how far the
improvement of the intellect was checked, and how soon the natural
feelings were deadened or perverted by the discipline and influences of
this strange community; but this was tender ground. She could scarcely
make herself understood without wounding the feelings of the persons she
compassionated. She enquired, however, whether there was not a great
difference of rank and education among the young persons admitted. Not
so much, she was told, as appeared to be generally thought.
“Since you took the vows, have the candidates been, for the most part,
companions to you?”
“Yes. We have two or three who are sadly vulgar; but the rest have been
educated in a convent like myself, except poor Sister Thérèse and Sister
Magdalen, whom you might see going to her cell as you came in.”
“Why _poor_ Thérèse? what became of her?”
“She died, poor thing, four years after she came in. I was really
relieved when she was gone, for I am sure she was very wretched. Some of
the sisters said she must have been in love when she took the vows; but
I believe she was not.”
“What made her wretched then?”
“La mère said that it was the pride and wantonness of her own heart,
that made her hanker after the world, and would not let her be satisfied
with being the spouse of Christ. I dare say it might be so; but it
always seemed to me that she made a mistake in coming here at all. She
expected that she should find companions who would feel holy raptures
like her own; and that was too much to expect. She was never happy but
when she was alone, and of course the sisters did not like her the
better for that. She kept her place in the chapel till she could stand
no longer; and yet Father Ambrose was not pleased with her: he said she
was high-minded.”
“That was indeed the truth,” murmured Mary, who thought of a different
kind of highmindedness than Father Ambrose had any idea of.
“Perhaps it was; yet she was lowly in her prayers: I know this, because
I nursed her when she could not leave her cell; prayer was like meat and
drink to her. ‘I have no stay but Thee,’ was on her lips perpetually in
the long nights when her sickness wasted her.”
“What was her disease?”
“We never could find out. Father Ambrose told the sisters that it came
from the Evil One, to show that, though a nun, she was not safe. I hope
he did not really think this; but it _was_ very strange, as he said,
that it always loosened its hold upon her when the holy bell rang. At
the first sound of the matin bell, she would look so peaceful; and often
fell asleep presently, though she had been tossing through the whole
night.”
“And how long did this last?”
“Oh! many months: it was four years after she came in, as I told you,
when she died. But,” after a pause, “let me request you to tell no one
here that I have said so much about poor Thérèse; for la mère thinks so
ill of her, that she does not like we should mention her name.”
The request was needless: Mary would almost as soon have thought of
taking the vows, after what she had heard, as of speaking to any one of
the sisterhood about poor Thérèse.
“And did Sister Magdalen, whom you mentioned, know Thérèse?” she
enquired.
“No; and I have sometimes wondered whether it would have been a good
thing for them if Sister Magdalen had entered a year sooner. I think she
might have saved Thérèse, or perhaps she might have gone the same way
herself. They were a good deal alike in some things; but, happily,
Magdalen is not so high-minded; she knows better how to submit.”
“Then she has submitted?”
“Yes: when she first took the vows, she used to write a great deal in
her cell; and la mère found that it was sometimes poetry. Then she used
to sing, sometimes in the night, and very often indeed in the day; but
they were not always hymns that she sang. Now, la mère said this would
never do, and that nobody must bring the vanities of the world within
these walls; so she took away the ink and paper she had, and put the
oldest of the sisters into the next cell, to inform her if she heard her
sing any thing but what we all sing.”
“And how did she bear this?” cried Mary, indignantly.
“She took it very quietly, which was the best thing she could do; for
there was no help for it, you know. At first, she was rather unsociable,
though never so much so as poor Thérèse; but she came round by degrees,
and now, though the sisters still joke her about her gravity, she is
very like the rest, and can be as droll as the merriest of them: there
is no occasion to pity Sister Magdalen now.” And the nun looked amazed
at Mary’s expression of grief.
“You do not mean,” she continued, “that you pity Magdalen as you pity
Thérèse?”
“More, a thousand times more!”
“Mais cela est inconcevable! when I tell you that Sister Magdalen is so
happy! c’est inconcevable!”
And inconceivable it remained to her, while she followed Mary’s hasty
steps down to the abbess’s parlour, where her party were waiting for
her. Lively tongues were busy on all sides, exchanging adieus, and
uttering last jokes. La mère herself rallied Mary on her gravity,
observing that she was almost solemn enough to be a nun. Mary escaped as
soon as she could. While within the gates, a sense of oppression weighed
upon her, as if she were in a prison: when she trod the grass on which
shadows from the trees were dancing, and felt the breeze blow in her
face, tears sprang forth, and she thought with a less tumultuous grief
of the fate of poor Thérèse, and even of Sister Magdalen.