1.C.6.11. 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.