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<h2> CHAPTER II—THE CONVENT AS AN HISTORICAL FACT </h2>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>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 Abb�y 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!</p>
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