sisters of mercy going quickly through the streets, with black dresses
and flappy white caps, to visit their poor people. If you look at their
faces, you will notice how curiously smooth and unlined they are, even
when they are not young any more, and their expression is generally
quiet and contented, while the women of their own age who live in the
world appear tired and anxious.
The other picture is one that most of us have to make for ourselves, as
few have had a chance of seeing it. This nun is also dressed in black
robes, and has a flowing black veil, and a white band across her
forehead, under which her hair, cut short when she takes her vows, is
hidden away. She never leaves her convent, except for a walk in the
garden, but she often has children to teach, for many convents are great
Roman Catholic schools, and the nuns have to take care that they can
tell their scholars about the discoveries of the present day: about
wireless telegraphy, about radium, about the late wars and the changes
in the boundaries of kingdoms, and many other things.
Of course, nuns are divided into various orders, each with its own
rules, and some, the strictest, do not admit anyone inside the convent
at all, even into a parlour. After a girl has taken the veil, she is
allowed to receive one visit from her friends and relations, and then
she says good-bye to them for ever.
* * * * *
But if you had been living in Paris towards the end of the sixteenth
century, when Catherine de Médicis was queen-mother, and into the days
when Henry IV. was king, and his son Louis succeeded him, you would have
found this picture of a convent very far from the truth. Convents were
comfortable and even luxurious houses, richly endowed, where poor
noblemen and gentlemen sent their daughters for life, paying on their
entrance what money they could spare, but keeping enough to portion one
or two girls--generally the prettiest of the family--or to help the son
to live in state. If, as often happened, the father did not offer
enough, the abbess would try to get more from him, or else refuse his
daughter altogether. If she was accepted, he bade her farewell for the
time, knowing that he could see her whenever he chose, and that she
would lead quite as pleasant and as amusing an existence as her married
sister. Perhaps, too, she might even be allowed to wear coloured
clothes, for there was one order in which the habit of the nuns was
white and scarlet; but even if the archbishop, or the abbot, or the
king, or whoever had supreme power over the convent, insisted on black
and white being worn, why, it would be easy to model the cap and sleeves
near enough to the fashion to look picturesque; and could not the dress
be of satin and velvet and lace, and yet be black and white still?
As to food, no one was more particular about it than the abbess of a
large convent, or else the fine gentlemen and elegant ladies would not
come from Paris or the country round to her suppers and private
theatricals, where the nuns acted the chief parts, or to the balls for
which she was famous. How pleasant it was in the summer evenings to sit
with their friends and listen to music from hidden performers; and could
anything be so amusing as to walk a little way along the road to Paris
till the nuns reached a stretch of smooth green turf, where the monks
from a neighbouring monastery were waiting to dance with them in the
moonlight?
No, decidedly, nuns were not to be pitied when Henry IV. was king.
Yet soon all these joys were to be things of the past, and it was a girl
of sixteen who set her hand to the work.
* * * * *
The family of the Arnaulds were well known in French history as soldiers
or lawyers--sometimes as both, for the grandfather of the child whose
story I am going to tell you commanded a troop of light horse in time of
war, and in time of peace was, in spite of his being a Huguenot--that
is, a Protestant--Catherine's trusted lawyer and adviser. This Antoine
Arnauld, or M. de la Mothe, as he was called, was once publicly insulted
by a noble whose claim to some money Arnauld had been obliged to refuse.
[Illustration: 'You are mistaking me for somebody else.']
'You are mistaking me for somebody else,' answered M. de la Mothe,
quietly.
'What do you mean? I thought you just admitted that you _were_ M. de la
Mothe?' replied the angry nobleman.
'Oh, yes,' said the lawyer, 'so I am; but sometimes I change my long
robe for a short coat, and once outside this court you would not dare to
speak to me in such a manner.'
At this point one of the attendants whispered in his ear that this was
the celebrated soldier, and the nobleman, who seems to have been a
poor-spirited creature, instantly made the humblest apologies.
Many of his relatives remained Huguenots up to the end, but M. de la
Mothe returned to the old religion after the Massacre of St. Bartholomew
in 1572. No man ever had a narrower escape of his life, for his house in
Paris was attacked during the day, and though his servants defended it
bravely, neither he nor his children would have been left alive had
not a messenger wearing the queen's colours been seen pushing through
the crowd. The leaders then called upon the mob to fall back, and the
messenger produced a paper, signed by the queen, giving the family leave
to come and go in safety.
M. de la Mothe's son, Antoine Arnauld, had in him more of the lawyer
than the soldier, and he was clever enough to escape detection for acts
which _we_ should certainly call frauds. But he was an excellent husband
to the wife of thirteen whom he married, and a very affectionate father
to the ten out of his twenty children who lived to grow up.
Monsieur Arnauld was much thought of at the French bar, and was
entrusted with law cases by the court and by the nobles. He was a
pleasant and clever man, and made friends as easily as money, and if he
and his wife had chosen they might have led the same gay life as their
neighbours. But the little bride of thirteen did not care for the balls
and plays in which the fashionable ladies spent so much of their time,
and her dresses were as plain as those of the nuns _ought_ to have been.
She looked well after her husband's comfort, and saw that her babies
were well and happy, and when everything in her own house was arranged
for the day, she went through the door that opened into her father's
Paris dwelling, and sat with her mother, who was very delicate and could
scarcely leave her sofa.
The summer months were passed at monsieur Arnauld's estate of Andilly,
not far from Paris, to which they all moved in several large coaches.
Even here the lawyer was busy most of the day over his books and papers,
but in the evening he was always ready to listen to his wife's account
of her visits to their own poor people, or to those of the village near
by. At a period when scarcely anyone gave a thought to the peasants, or
heeded whether they lived or died, Arnauld's labourers were all well
paid, and the old and ill fed and clothed. And if monsieur Arnauld did
not go amongst them much himself, he allowed his wife to do as she
liked, and gave her sound advice in her difficulties.
As they grew older the children used often to accompany their mother on
her rounds, and learnt from her how to help and understand the lives
that were so different from their own. They saw peasants in bare
cottages contented and happy on the simplest food, and sometimes on very
little of it. They did not think about it at the time, of course, but in
after-years the memory of these poor people was to come back to them;
and they no longer felt strange and shy of those whom they were called
upon to aid.
* * * * *
Madame Arnauld's second daughter, Jacqueline, was a great favourite with
her grandfather, monsieur Marion, and was very proud of it. In Paris
every morning she used to run into his house, locking the door of
communication behind her. If, as often occurred, her brothers and
sisters wanted to come too, and drummed on the panels to make Jacqueline
open it, she would call out through the key-hole:
'Go away! You have no business here, this house belongs to _me_,' and
then she would run through the rooms till she found her grandfather, and
sit chattering to him about the things she liked and the games she was
fond of. She was quick and clever and easily interested, and it amused
monsieur Marion to listen to her when he had no work to occupy him; but
one fact he plainly noticed, and that was that Jacqueline was never
happy unless she was put first.
[Illustration: 'Go away! You have no business here.']
In the year 1599, madame Arnauld, though only twenty-five, had eight
children, and her father, monsieur Marion, who was already suffering
from the disease which afterwards killed him, began to be anxious about
their future. After talking the matter over with his son-in-law, they
decided that it was necessary that the second and third little girls,
Jacqueline and Jeanne, should become nuns, in order that Catherine, the
eldest, might have a larger fortune and make a more brilliant marriage.
Not that monsieur Marion intended that they should be common nuns. He
would do better than that for Jacqueline, and as his majesty Henry IV.
had honoured him with special marks of his favour, he had no doubt that
the king would grant an abbey to each of his granddaughters.
When the plan was told to madame Arnauld, she listened with dismay.
'But Jacqueline is hardly seven and a half,' she said, 'and Jeanne is
five;' but monsieur Marion only laughed and bade her not to trouble
herself, as he would see that their duties did not weigh upon them, and
that though he hoped they would behave better than many of the nuns, yet
they would lead pleasant lives, and their mother could visit them as
often as she liked.
Madame Arnauld was too much afraid of her father to raise any more
objections, but she had also heard too much of convents and their ways
to wish her daughters to enter them. Meanwhile the affair was carried
through by the help of the abbé of Citeaux, and as a rule existed by
which no child could be appointed abbess, the consent of the Pope was
obtained by declaring each of the girls many years older than she really
was. Both Arnauld and Marion considered themselves, and were considered
by others, to be unusually good men, yet their consciences never
troubled them about this wicked fraud.
However, by the aid of the false statement all went smoothly, and the
old and delicate abbess of Port Royal, an abbey situated in a marshy
hollow eighteen miles from Paris, agreed to take Jacqueline as helper or
coadjutrix, with the condition that on the death of the old lady the
little girl was to succeed her, while Jeanne was made abbess of
Saint-Cyr, six miles nearer Paris, where madame de Maintenon's famous
girls' school was to be founded a hundred years later. The duties of
the office were to be discharged by one of the elder nuns till Jeanne
was twenty.
* * * * *
It is always the custom that the young girls or novices should spend a
year in the convent they wish to enter before they take the vows, which
are for life. During that time they can find out if they really wish to
leave the world for ever, or if it was only a passing fancy; while the
abbess, on the other hand, can tell whether their characters are suited
to a secluded existence, or if it would only make them--and therefore
other people--restless and unhappy. When Jacqueline became a novice in
1599, her father invited all his friends, and a very grand company they
were. The child was delighted to feel that she was the most important
person present, and no doubt amused her grandfather by her satisfaction
at being 'first.' No such fuss seems to have been made over Jeanne on a
similar occasion, but in a few weeks both little girls were sent for
eight months to Saint-Cyr.
Abbesses though they might be, they were still the children who had
played in their father's garden only a few weeks before. Jacqueline and
her elder sister Catherine, the one who was 'to be married,' and very
unhappily, were chief in all the games and mischief. They were very
daring, and were always quick at inventing new plays. They were very
sensible, too, and if one of their brothers or sisters hurt themselves
during their games, these two knew what was best to be done without
troubling their mother. They were all fond of each other, and never had
any serious quarrels; but Jacqueline was generally the leader, and the
others, especially the shy and dreamy Jeanne, let themselves be ruled by
her. At Saint-Cyr, Jacqueline, who felt no difference, and speedily
became a favourite of the other novices, ordered her sister about as she
had been accustomed to do, and generally Jeanne obeyed her meekly; but
at last she rebelled and informed Jacqueline, much to her surprise, that
it was _her_ abbey, and that if Jacqueline did not behave properly she
might go away to her own.
* * * * *
Some months of Jacqueline's noviciate had still to run when she was sent
to the abbey of Maubuisson, which belonged to the same order of nuns as
Port Royal, whereas the nuns of Saint-Cyr belonged to another community.
The abbess, Angélique d'Estrées, was a famous woman, and her nuns were
some of the worst and most pleasure-loving in the whole of France. Most
likely madame Arnauld heard of the change with trembling, but she could
do nothing: in October 1600, Jacqueline, then nine years old, took the
veil and the vows of poverty and obedience in the midst of a noble
company. She was far too excited to think about the religious ceremony
which had bound her for life to the cloister, and certainly nobody
else--unless her mother was present--thought about it either. Her very
name was changed too, and instead of 'Jacqueline' she became
'Angélique,' as 'Jeanne' became 'Agnes.'
As soon as the little girl was a professed nun, monsieur Marion and
monsieur Arnauld, who were not satisfied that the pope's consent already
obtained was really sufficient, began afresh to prepare a variety of
false papers, in order that when Angélique took possession of her abbey
no one should be able to turn her out of it. Seventy years before a law
had been passed declaring that no nun could be appointed abbess under
forty, and though this was constantly disregarded, the child's father
and grandfather felt that it was vain to ask the Pope to nominate a
child of nine to the post. So in the declaration her age was stated to
be seventeen; but even that Clement considered too young, and it
required all the influence that monsieur Marion could bring to bear to
induce him at last to give his consent. Permission was long in coming,
and in the midst of the negotiations the old abbess died suddenly, and
Angélique, now ten and a half, was 'Madame de Port Royal.'
* * * * *
When Angélique said good-bye to the nuns at Maubuisson, all of whom had
been fond of her, her mother took her to Port Royal, fearing in her
heart lest the customs of the convent might be as bad as in the one
ruled by madame d'Estrées. But she was consoled at finding the abbey far
too poor to indulge in all the expensive amusements of Maubuisson, and
that it contained only thirteen nuns, so that Angélique would not have
so many people to govern. It was thirty years since a sermon had been
preached within its walls, except on a few occasions when a novice had
taken the veil, and during the carnival, just before Lent, all the
inmates of the convent, the chaplain or confessor among them, acted
plays and had supper parties. Like the Maubuisson sisters, the nuns
always kept their long hair, and wore masks and gloves; but they were
only foolish, harmless young women following the fashion, except the
oldest of them all, whom madame Arnauld managed to get dismissed.
Angélique was now nearly eleven, but much older in her thoughts and ways
than most children of her age, though she was still fond of games, and
spent part of the day playing or wandering about the garden. If it was
wet, she read Roman history, and perhaps she may have learnt something
of housekeeping from the prioress, who saw that all was kept in order.
The abbess said carefully the short prayers appointed for certain hours
of the day, and heard matins every morning at four and evensong every
afternoon. After this was over, she did as she was bidden by her
superior, the abbot of Citeaux, and took all her nuns for a solemn walk
on the hills outside the abbey.
[Illustration: She took all her nuns for a solemn walk.]
At first the young abbess was full of self-importance, and much occupied
with her position. After Agnes's taunts when they were both at St.
Cyr--oh, _long_ ago now!--it was delightful to be able to send her _own_
carriage for her, and play at the old home games in the garden. But
by-and-by the novelty wore off, and she became very tired of her life,
which was always the same, day after day, and would never, never be
different. If only she could be back at Andilly with the rest! and then
she would shut her eyes very tight so that no tears might escape them.
Lively and impulsive though she was, she was not accustomed to speak of
her feelings to others, and did her best to thrust her longing for
freedom into the background. But she grew pale and thin in the struggle,
and at last there came a day when a visitor, guessing what was the
matter, hinted that as she had taken her vows before she was old enough
to do so by law, it would be easy to get absolved from them. Something
of the kind may have perhaps occurred to Angélique, but, put into words,
the idea filled her with horror, for deep down in her mind she felt that
though her profession had been thrust upon her before she knew what she
was doing, she would feel ashamed and degraded all her life if she broke
her vows. Still, she wanted to forget it all if she could, and in order
to distract her thoughts she began to receive and pay visits in the
neighbourhood, to the great grief of her mother, who feared this was the
first step towards the moonlight balls of Maubuisson.
Angélique was far too tender-hearted to withstand her mother's tears,
and gave up paying calls; spending the time instead in reading
Plutarch's 'Lives' and other books about ancient history, and pretending
to herself that she was each of the heroes in turn. But even Plutarch
was a poor substitute for home life, and when her fifteenth birthday was
drawing near she began to wonder if she _could_ stand it any longer.
'I considered,' she says herself, 'if it would be possible for me to
return to the world, and even to get married, without telling my father
or mother, for the yoke had become unsupportable.' Perhaps, she
reflected, she might go to La Rochelle, where some of her Huguenot aunts
were living, and though she had no wish to change her own religion, yet
she was sure they would protect her. As to the difficulties of a young
abbess travelling through France alone, they did not even occur to her,
and she seems to have arranged her plans for escape without informing
the good ladies of their expected visitor.
* * * * *
The day Angélique had fixed for her flight had almost come when she fell
very ill of a sort of nervous fever, chiefly the result of the trouble
of mind she had been going through, though the unhealthy marshes round
Port Royal may have had something to do with her illness. Monsieur and
madame Arnauld at once sent a litter drawn by horses to fetch her to
Paris, where the best doctors awaited her. Her mother hardly left her
bedside, and for some time Angélique was at rest, feeling nothing except
that she was at home, and that the old dismal life of the convent must
be a dream. But as she grew stronger her perplexities came back. She
_could_ not bring such grief on her parents, who loved her so much, yet
the sight of her aunts in their beautiful dresses with long pointed
bodices, and the pretty hoods that covered their hair when they came to
inquire after her, revived all her longings for the amusements of other
girls. Again she kept silence, but secretly induced one of the maids to
make her a pair of corsets, 'to improve her figure.'
* * * * *
It may have been the sight of the corsets which caused monsieur Arnauld,
whose keen eyes nothing escaped, to take alarm. At any rate, one day he
brought a paper, so ill-written that it could hardly be read, and
thrust it with a pen into Angélique's hand, saying, 'Sign this, my
daughter.'
The girl did not dare to refuse, or even to question her father, though
she did manage to make out a word or two, which showed her that the
paper contained a renewal of the vows she so bitterly regretted.
Though custom and respect kept her silent, Angélique's frank and
straightforward nature must have felt bitterly ashamed as well as angry
at the way her father had tried to trick her, and she seems on the whole
to have been rather glad to return to her abbey. The nuns were delighted
to have her back again, and as she remained very delicate all through
the winter, she was a great deal indoors, too tired to do anything but
rest, and read now and then a little book of meditations, which one of
the sisters had given her.
* * * * *
Just at this time an event happened which turned the whole course of
Angélique's life.
A Capuchin monk, father Basil by name, stopped at Port Royal one
evening, and asked the abbess's leave to preach. At first she refused,
saying it was too late; then she changed her mind, for she was fond of
hearing sermons, which, even if they were bad, generally gave her
something to think of. There does not seem to have been anything very
striking about this one, but when it was ended 'I found myself,' says
Angélique, 'happier to know myself a nun than before I had felt wretched
at being one, and that there was nothing in the whole world that I would
not do for God.'
Now Angélique's inward struggles took a different turn; she no longer
desired to be free of her vows, but rather to carry them out to the
utmost of her power, and to persuade her nuns to do so likewise. For
some time she met with little encouragement. Another friar of the order
of the Capuchins, to whom she opened her heart when he came to preach on
Whit Sunday, was a man of no sense or tact, and urged such severe and
instant reforms that the poor nuns were quite frightened. Then the
prioress, whom Angélique also consulted, told her that she was not well,
and excited, and that in three months' time she would think quite
differently; all of which would have been true of a great many people,
but was a mistake as regarded Angélique. Thus disappointed in both her
counsellors, the abbess longed to resign her post, and to become a
simple nun in some distant convent; but she dared not disobey her newly
awakened conscience, which told her to stay where she was and do her
work.
* * * * *
It is to be noted that, unlike most reformers, Angélique took care that
her reforms began at the right end--namely, with herself. Again and
again we see that when she made a new rule or revived an old one she
practised it secretly herself long before she asked any of her nuns to
adopt it. At this time she was torn between the advice of two of the
Capuchin monks, one of whom urged her to lay down her burden and to
enter as a sister in some other convent; while the other, the father
Bernard, who had alarmed the nuns by his zeal, at last seemed to
understand the position of Angélique, and told her that, having put her
hand to the plough, she must not draw back.
Angélique was only sixteen and in great trouble of mind, and in her sore
distress she did some foolish things in the way of penances which she
afterwards looked on with disapproval, for she never encouraged her nuns
to hurt their bodies so as to injure their minds. Indeed, her character
was too practical for her to adopt the follies which were the fashion in
some of the religious houses not wholly given over to worldly pleasures.
She had no wish to become famous or to be considered a saint when she
knew how far she was from being one, and prayed earnestly and sensibly
never to be allowed to see visions--the visions which she was well
aware were often the result first of fasting, and next the cause of
vanity, with its root in the praise of men.
* * * * *