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THE CONVENT AS AN HISTORICAL FACT
From the point of view of history, of reason, and of truth,
monasticism is condemned.
Monasteries, when they abound in a nation, are clogs in its
circulation, cumbrous establishments, centres of idleness where
centres of labor should exist.
Monastic communities are to the great social community what
the mistletoe is to the oak, what the wart is to the human body.
Their prosperity and their fatness mean the impoverishment
of the country.
The monastic regime, good at the beginning of civilization,
useful in the reduction of the brutal by the spiritual, is bad
when peoples have reached their manhood.
Moreover, when it becomes relaxed, and when it enters into
its period of disorder, it becomes bad for the very reasons which
rendered it salutary in its period of purity, because it still
continues to set the example.
Claustration has had its day.
Cloisters, useful in the early education of modern civilization,
have embarrassed its growth, and are injurious to its development.
So far as institution and formation with relation to man are
concerned, monasteries, which were good in the tenth century,
questionable in the fifteenth, are detestable in the nineteenth.
The leprosy of monasticism has gnawed nearly to a skeleton two
wonderful nations, Italy and Spain; the one the light, the other
the splendor of Europe for centuries; and, at the present day,
these two illustrious peoples are but just beginning to convalesce,
thanks to the healthy and vigorous hygiene of 1789 alone.
The convent--the ancient female convent in particular, such
as it still presents itself on the threshold of this century,
in Italy, in Austria, in Spain--is one of the most sombre concretions
of the Middle Ages. The cloister, that cloister, is the point
of intersection of horrors. The Catholic cloister, properly speaking,
is wholly filled with the black radiance of death.
The Spanish convent is the most funereal of all.
There rise, in obscurity, beneath vaults filled with gloom,
beneath domes vague with shadow, massive altars of Babel, as high
as cathedrals; there immense white crucifixes hang from chains
in the dark; there are extended, all nude on the ebony, great
Christs of ivory; more than bleeding,--bloody; hideous and magnificent,
with their elbows displaying the bones, their knee-pans showing
their integuments, their wounds showing their flesh, crowned with
silver thorns, nailed with nails of gold, with blood drops of
rubies on their brows, and diamond tears in their eyes.
The diamonds and rubies seem wet, and make veiled beings in
the shadow below weep, their sides bruised with the hair shirt
and their iron-tipped scourges, their breasts crushed with wicker
hurdles, their knees excoriated with prayer; women who think themselves
wives, spectres who think themselves seraphim. Do these women
think?
No. Have they any will?
No. Do they love? No. Do they live?
No. Their nerves have turned to bone; their bones have turned
to stone.
Their veil is of woven night.
Their breath under their veil resembles the indescribably
tragic respiration of death.
The abbess, a spectre, sanctifies them and terrifies them.
The immaculate one is there, and very fierce.
Such are the ancient monasteries of Spain.
Liars of terrible devotion, caverns of virgins, ferocious
places.
Catholic Spain is more Roman than Rome herself.
The Spanish convent was, above all others, the Catholic convent.
There was a flavor of the Orient about it.
The archbishop, the kislar-aga of heaven, locked up and kept
watch over this seraglio of souls reserved for God.
The nun was the odalisque, the priest was the eunuch. The
fervent were chosen in dreams and possessed Christ. At night,
the beautiful, nude young man descended from the cross and became
the ecstasy of the cloistered one.
Lofty walls guarded the mystic sultana, who had the crucified
for her sultan, from all living distraction.
A glance on the outer world was infidelity. The in pace replaced
the leather sack.
That which was cast into the sea in the East was thrown into
the ground in the West. In both quarters, women wrung their hands;
the waves for the first, the grave for the last; here the drowned,
there the buried. Monstrous parallel.
To-day the upholders of the past, unable to deny these things,
have adopted the expedient of smiling at them.
There has come into fashion a strange and easy manner of suppressing
the revelations of history, of invalidating the commentaries of
philosophy, of eliding all embarrassing facts and all gloomy questions.
A matter for declamations, say the clever.
Declamations, repeat the foolish. Jean-Jacques a declaimer;
Diderot a declaimer; Voltaire on Calas, Labarre, and Sirven, declaimers.
I know not who has recently discovered that Tacitus was a
declaimer, that Nero was a victim, and that pity is decidedly
due to "that poor Holofernes."
Facts, however, are awkward things to disconcert, and they
are obstinate. The author of this book has seen, with his own
eyes, eight leagues distant from Brussels,--there are relics of
the Middle Ages there which are attainable for everybody,--at
the Abbey of Villers, the hole of the oubliettes, in the middle
of the field which was formerly the courtyard of the cloister,
and on the banks of the Thil, four stone dungeons, half under
ground, half under the water. They were in pace.
Each of these dungeons has the remains of an iron door, a
vault, and a grated opening which, on the outside, is two feet
above the level of the river, and on the inside, six feet above
the level of the ground.
Four feet of river flow past along the outside wall.
The ground is always soaked. The occupant of the in pace had
this wet soil for his bed. In one of these dungeons, there is
a fragment of an iron necklet riveted to the wall; in another,
there can be seen a square box made of four slabs of granite,
too short for a person to lie down in, too low for him to stand
upright in.
A human being was put inside, with a coverlid of stone on
top.
This exists.
It can be seen. It can be touched.
These in pace, these dungeons, these iron hinges, these necklets,
that lofty peep-hole on a level with the river's current, that
box of stone closed with a lid of granite like a tomb, with this
difference, that the dead man here was a living being, that soil
which is but mud, that vault hole, those oozing walls,-- what
declaimers!
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