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END OF THE PETIT-PICPUS
At the beginning of the Restoration, the convent of the Petit-Picpus
was in its decay; this forms a part of the general death of the
order, which, after the eighteenth century, has been disappearing
like all the religious orders.
Contemplation is, like prayer, one of humanity's needs; but,
like everything which the Revolution touched, it will be transformed,
and from being hostile to social progress, it will become favorable
to it.
The house of the Petit-Picpus was becoming rapidly depopulated.
In 1840, the Little Convent had disappeared, the school had disappeared.
There were no longer any old women, nor young girls; the first
were dead, the latter had taken their departure.
Volaverunt.
The rule of the Perpetual Adoration is so rigid in its nature
that it alarms, vocations recoil before it, the order receives
no recruits.
In 1845, it still obtained lay-sisters here and there. But
of professed nuns, none at all.
Forty years ago, the nuns numbered nearly a hundred; fifteen
years ago there were not more than twenty-eight of them.
How many are there to-day? In 1847, the prioress was young,
a sign that the circle of choice was restricted. She was not forty
years old.
In proportion as the number diminishes, the fatigue increases,
the service of each becomes more painful; the moment could then
be seen drawing near when there would be but a dozen bent and
aching shoulders to bear the heavy rule of Saint-Benoit. The burden
is implacable, and remains the same for the few as for the many.
It weighs down, it crushes.
Thus they die. At the period when the author of this book
still lived in Paris, two died.
One was twenty-five years old, the other twenty-three. This
latter can say, like Julia Alpinula:
"Hic jaceo.
Vixi annos viginti et tres."
It is in consequence of this decay that the convent gave up
the education of girls.
We have not felt able to pass before this extraordinary house
without entering it, and without introducing the minds which accompany
us, and which are listening to our tale, to the profit of some,
perchance, of the melancholy history of Jean Valjean. We have
penetrated into this community, full of those old practices which
seem so novel to-day. It is the closed garden, hortus conclusus.
We have spoken of this singular place in detail, but with respect,
in so far, at least, as detail and respect are compatible. We
do not understand all, but we insult nothing.
We are equally far removed from the hosanna of Joseph de Maistre,
who wound up by anointing the executioner, and from the sneer
of Voltaire, who even goes so far as to ridicule the cross.
An illogical act on Voltaire's part, we may remark, by the way;
for Voltaire would have defended Jesus as he defended Calas; and
even for those who deny superhuman incarnations, what does the
crucifix represent?
The assassinated sage.
In this nineteenth century, the religious idea is undergoing
a crisis.
People are unlearning certain things, and they do well, provided
that, while unlearning them they learn this:
There is no vacuum in the human heart.
Certain demolitions take place, and it is well that they do,
but on condition that they are followed by reconstructions.
In the meantime, let us study things which are no more.
It is necessary to know them, if only for the purpose of avoiding
them.
The counterfeits of the past assume false names, and gladly
call themselves the future. This spectre, this past, is given
to falsifying its own passport. Let us inform ourselves of the
trap.
Let us be on our guard. The past has a visage, superstition,
and a mask, hypocrisy.
Let us denounce the visage and let us tear off the mask.
As for convents, they present a complex problem,--a question
of civilization, which condemns them; a question of liberty, which
protects them.
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