Among the Visitandines the one who enters says: “Ave Maria,” and the one whose cell is entered says, “Gratia plena.”
It is their way of saying good day, which is in fact full of grace.
At each hour of the day three supplementary strokes sound from the church bell of the convent.
At this signal prioress, vocal mothers, professed nuns, lay-sisters, novices, postulants, interrupt what they are saying, what they are doing, or what they are thinking, and all say in unison if it is five o’clock, for instance,
“At five o’clock and at all hours praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar!”
If it is eight o’clock,
“At eight o’clock and at all hours!” and so on, according to the hour.
This custom, the object of which is to break the thread of thought and to lead it back constantly to God, exists in many communities; the formula alone varies.
Thus at The Infant Jesus they say,
“At this hour and at every hour may the love of Jesus kindle my heart!”
The Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga, cloistered fifty years ago at Petit-Picpus, chant the offices to a solemn psalmody, a pure Gregorian chant, and always with full voice during the whole course of the office.
Everywhere in the missal where an asterisk occurs they pause, and say in a low voice,
“Jesus-Marie-Joseph.”
For the office of the dead they adopt a tone so low that the voices of women can hardly descend to such a depth.
The effect produced is striking and tragic.
The nuns of the Petit-Picpus had made a vault under their grand altar for the burial of their community.
The Government, as they say, does not permit this vault to receive coffins so they leave the convent when they die.
This is an affliction to them, and causes them consternation as an infraction of the rules.
They had obtained a mediocre consolation at best,—permission to be interred at a special hour and in a special corner in the ancient Vaugirard cemetery, which was made of land which had formerly belonged to their community.
On Fridays the nuns hear high mass, vespers, and all the offices, as on Sunday.
They scrupulously observe in addition all the little festivals unknown to people of the world, of which the Church of France was so prodigal in the olden days, and of which it is still prodigal in Spain and Italy.
Their stations in the chapel are interminable.
As for the number and duration of their prayers we can convey no better idea of them than by quoting the ingenuous remark of one of them:
“The prayers of the postulants are frightful, the prayers of the novices are still worse, and the prayers of the professed nuns are still worse.”
Once a week the chapter assembles: the prioress presides; the vocal mothers assist.
Each sister kneels in turn on the stones, and confesses aloud, in the presence of all, the faults and sins which she has committed during the week.
The vocal mothers consult after each confession and inflict the penance aloud.
Besides this confession in a loud tone, for which all faults in the least serious are reserved, they have for their venial offences what they call the coulpe.
To make one’s coulpe means to prostrate one’s self flat on one’s face during the office in front of the prioress until the latter, who is never called anything but our mother, notifies the culprit by a slight tap of her foot against the wood of her stall that she can rise.
The coulpe or peccavi, is made for a very small matter—a broken glass, a torn veil, an involuntary delay of a few seconds at an office, a false note in church, etc.; this suffices, and the coulpe is made.
The coulpe is entirely spontaneous; it is the culpable person herself (the word is etymologically in its place here) who judges herself and inflicts it on herself.
On festival days and Sundays four mother precentors intone the offices before a large reading-desk with four places.
One day one of the mother precentors intoned a psalm beginning with Ecce, and instead of Ecce she uttered aloud the three notes do si sol; for this piece of absent-mindedness she underwent a coulpe which lasted during the whole service: what rendered the fault enormous was the fact that the chapter had laughed.
When a nun is summoned to the parlor, even were it the prioress herself, she drops her veil, as will be remembered, so that only her mouth is visible.
The prioress alone can hold communication with strangers.
The others can see only their immediate family, and that very rarely.
If, by chance, an outsider presents herself to see a nun, or one whom she has known and loved in the outer world, a regular series of negotiations is required.
If it is a woman, the authorization may sometimes be granted; the nun comes, and they talk to her through the shutters, which are opened only for a mother or sister.
It is unnecessary to say that permission is always refused to men.
Such is the rule of Saint-Benoit, aggravated by Martin Verga.
These nuns are not gay, rosy, and fresh, as the daughters of other orders often are.
They are pale and grave.
Between 1825 and 1830 three of them went mad.
CHAPTER III—AUSTERITIES
One is a postulant for two years at least, often for four; a novice for four.
It is rare that the definitive vows can be pronounced earlier than the age of twenty-three or twenty-four years.
The Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga do not admit widows to their order.
In their cells, they deliver themselves up to many unknown macerations, of which they must never speak.
On the day when a novice makes her profession, she is dressed in her handsomest attire, she is crowned with white roses, her hair is brushed until it shines, and curled. Then she prostrates herself; a great black veil is thrown over her, and the office for the dead is sung.
Then the nuns separate into two files; one file passes close to her, saying in plaintive accents,