CHAPTER IX.The Convent.

CHAPTER IX.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. Byerleycould 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 sufferingno 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 bediscerned. 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 heavenWithin the reach of every human eye;The sleepless Ocean murmurs for all ears.”

“the sun is fixed,And the infinite magnificence of heavenWithin the reach of every human eye;The sleepless Ocean murmurs for all ears.”

“the sun is fixed,And the infinite magnificence of heavenWithin the reach of every human eye;The sleepless Ocean murmurs for all ears.”

“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 sheassented 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, andits 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, notwithstandingher 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 severalsons. 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 particularenquiries. 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 itsfull 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 sametime; 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 theirparty, 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, andTours 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 inLatin, 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 thatshe 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, theyburst 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.

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“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 believethat 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 aconvent like myself, except poor Sister Thérèse and Sister Magdalen, whom you might see going to her cell as you came in.”

“WhypoorThérèse? 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 nolonger; 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 itwasvery 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 sheused 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.

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