The nun oxford worlds cl.., p.8
The Nun (Oxford World's Classics), page 8
‘You’ll earn my pardon’, she said, ‘by what you have to say. Get up. Your father is away, so you have all the time you need to explain yourself. You’ve seen Father Séraphin, so you now know who you are and what you can expect of me, if you intend not to punish me for the rest of my life for a mistake for which I have already paid so dearly. So, Mademoiselle! What do you expect of me? What have you decided to do?’
‘Mother,’ I replied, ‘I know that I have nothing and that I can expect nothing. I’ve no intention of adding to your woes, of whatever kind they may be. Perhaps you’d have found me more willing to do your will if you’d told me earlier about those things which it was difficult for me to suspect. But now I know, I know who I am, and all I have to do now is behave in a way that’s in keeping with my status. I’m no longer surprised by the different treatment meted out to my sisters and me. I recognize the justice of that difference, and I support it. But I’m still your child; you carried me in your womb; and I hope you won’t forget that.’
‘Woe betide me’, she added sharply, ‘if I didn’t tell you as much as I am able to.’
‘Very well, Mother,’ I said to her, ‘let me experience your goodness again; let me be with you again; let me enjoy again the tenderness of the man who thinks he’s my father.’
‘He’s almost as sure’, she added, ‘as you and I are about your birth. I can’t see you standing next to him without hearing his reproaches; he reproaches me by treating you harshly; you shouldn’t expect him to be like a tender father with you. What’s more, and I freely admit this, you remind me of a betrayal, someone else’s ingratitude that I find so utterly odious that I can’t bear to think about it any more. I can’t help seeing this man standing between us; he repels me, and I end up feeling for you the hatred that I feel for him.’
‘What!’ I said. ‘Can I not even hope that you, you and Monsieur Simonin, might treat me like a stranger, a waif whom you’ve humanely taken in?’
‘Neither of us can do that. My daughter, I don’t want you to poison my life any longer. If you didn’t have any sisters, I know what I’d have to do. But you have two sisters, and they both have a large family. The passion which once sustained me has long since died; now my conscience has resumed its rightful role.’
‘But what about the man who fathered me?...’
‘He’s dead; he died without giving you a second thought; and that’s the least of his failings...’
As she spoke, her expression changed, her eyes lit up, indignation was etched all over her face. She tried speaking, but she could not make the words come out properly, for her lips were trembling so much. She was sitting down; she put her head in her hands to prevent me from seeing the violent emotions she was experiencing. She stayed like that for some time, then stood up and walked around the room without saying a word. She fought back the tears which were welling up in her eyes, and she said:
‘The monster! It was no thanks to him that all the hurt he caused me didn’t kill you in my womb. But God saved us both so that the mother might atone for her sin through her child... My daughter, you have nothing, you’ll always have nothing. The little that I can do for you is stolen from your sisters: such are the effects of my weakness. Yet I hope to have nothing to reproach myself for when I die: I’ll have built up your dowry by my savings. I’m not taking advantage of my husband’s indulgence; but every day I put aside what he is occasionally generous enough to give me. I’ve sold all my jewellery, and he’s allowed me to do what I will with the money I received. I used to enjoy cards, but I’ve stopped playing. I used to like going to the theatre, but I do without now. I used to like socializing, but now I live a life of seclusion. I used to like the fine things in life, but I’ve given them up. If you become a nun, as Monsieur Simonin and I wish, your dowry will consist of all the money I put aside every day.’
‘But, Mother,’ I said, ‘some respectable men still come here. Perhaps one of them might like me and not even expect to receive the money that you’re saving for my marriage.’
‘You mustn’t think about that any more: the scandal you caused has been your undoing.’
‘Is there nothing to be done?’
‘Nothing.’
‘But if I don’t find a husband, does that mean I have to lock myself away in a convent?’
‘Yes, unless you wish to draw out my pain and remorse until the day I die. For that day must come. On that fateful day your sisters will be at my bedside. Imagine if I saw you there too; imagine what effect your being there would have in my dying moments! My daughter, for that’s what you are, whatever I may do, your sisters have the legal right to a name that you only have because of a crime: don’t make your dying mother suffer; let her go to her grave in peace so that she may tell herself, as she’s about to appear before the judge of all things, that she has atoned for her sin as far as she could, so that she can reassure herself that, after she is dead, you won’t make trouble for her family and you won’t lay claim to rights that aren’t yours.’
‘Mother,’ I said, ‘you have no need to worry. Send for a lawyer; have him draw up a deed relinquishing my claim; I shall agree to whatever you wish.’
‘That’s impossible: a child cannot disinherit itself; it’s a punishment meted out by fathers and mothers who have just complaint. If God chose to call me to him tomorrow, tomorrow I’d have to resort to that extremity and confide in my husband so that together we might follow the same course of action. Don’t force me to make a revelation to him that would make me abhorrent in his eyes and that would bring shame on you. If you outlive me, you’ll have no name, no wealth, and no status. You poor girl! What do you think would become of you? What do you want me to think as I die? I shall have to tell your father... But what shall I tell him? That you’re not his child!... My daughter, if only I had to throw myself at your feet to obtain from you... But you’re unfeeling; you have your father’s inflexible soul...’
At that point Monsieur Simonin walked in. He saw his wife’s distress. He loved her. He was furious. He stopped suddenly and, turning his terrifying gaze towards me, said:
‘Get out!’
If he had been my father, I would not have obeyed him, but he was not.
Speaking to the servant who was showing me out, he added:
‘Tell her never to come back.’
I locked myself away again in my little prison. I reflected on what my mother had said to me. I knelt and prayed for God to inspire me. I prayed for a long time, my face pressed against the ground. The voice of God is usually only ever invoked when one does not know oneself what to do, and in those instances the voice almost always advises obedience. That was my decision. ‘They want me to be a nun; perhaps that’s what God wants too. Very well, I shall be a nun. Since I have to be unhappy, what does it matter where I am!’ I told the servant girl to let me know when my father went out. The next day I requested a meeting with my mother. She sent a reply informing me that she had promised Monsieur Simonin that she would not see me, but that I could write to her using the pencil that the girl gave me. So I wrote on a piece of paper (this fateful piece of paper was later discovered and used against me all too effectively):
‘Mother, I bitterly regret all the suffering I have caused you; please forgive me. All I want to do now is end that suffering. Tell me to do whatever you wish. If it is your will that I should become a nun, then may that be God’s will too...’
The servant girl took this note to my mother. She came back to my room a little later and told me excitedly:
‘Mademoiselle, since you only needed to say one word to ensure your own happiness and that of your father and mother, why have you put it off for so long? Monsieur and Madame look such as I’ve never seen them since I’ve been here: they used to argue constantly about you; thank God that I shall never experience that again...’
As she was speaking, I began to suspect that I had just signed my own death warrant. And that suspicion will come true, Monsieur, if you forsake me.
A few days went by without my hearing anything. But one morning, at about nine o’clock, my door opened suddenly. It was Monsieur Simonin, in his dressing gown and nightcap. Since I had found out that he was not my father, I felt nothing but fear in his presence. I got up and curtseyed. I felt as if I had two hearts: I could not think of my mother without being moved, without wanting to cry; I felt quite differently about Monsieur Simonin. It is true that a father inspires feelings of a kind reserved solely for him. You can only appreciate this if, as I have, you have come face to face with the man who for so long had this august character and who has just lost it. Nobody else can ever know what this is like. If I went from being with him to being with my mother, I felt as if I was a different person. He said:
‘Suzanne, do you recognize this letter?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘Did you write it of your own accord?’
‘I have to say yes.’
‘Are you at least resolved to carry out what it promises?’
‘I am.’
‘Do you have a preference for a particular convent?’
‘No, they are all the same to me.’
‘Very well.’
Such were my replies, but unfortunately they were not written down. For a fortnight I was not told what was happening, though I surmised that a number of convents had been approached and that they had refused to accept me as a postulant because of the scandal caused by my behaviour in my first convent. The convent at Longchamp* was less concerned about that, no doubt because it was suggested to them that I was musical and that I could sing. I was given an exaggerated account of the difficulties that had been faced and of the kindness that was being shown to me by my acceptance into this convent. I was even urged to write to the Mother Superior. I had no sense then of what the consequences would be of this written testimony that was expected of me. Apparently it was feared that one day I would rescind my vows, so it was felt necessary to have a statement in my own hand to the effect that I had taken those vows of my own accord. Otherwise, how could this letter, which was supposed to remain in the hands of the Superior, have subsequently passed into the hands of my brothers-in-law? But let us quickly close our eyes to that matter, for it makes me see Monsieur Simonin in a way I do not want to see him: he is no longer with us.
I was taken to Longchamp, accompanied by my mother. I did not ask to say farewell to Monsieur Simonin, and I admit that the thought only occurred to me after we had left. They were expecting me: accounts both of my past and of my talents had gone before me. Nothing was said about the former, but there was a great deal of interest in finding out if this new acquisition was worth the effort. Once we had spoken about a lot of trivial things, since, after what had happened to me, you can rest assured that no reference was made to God, a vocation, the dangers of the world, or the comforts of the religious life, and not a word was uttered of the pious platitudes with which these first moments are usually filled, the Mother Superior said: ‘Mademoiselle, you can read music, you can sing. We have a harpsichord. If you’d like, we could go into our parlour...’ I felt a pang of anguish, but this was not the time to show my repugnance. My mother led the way, I followed her, and the Mother Superior brought up the rear with a few nuns who had come out of curiosity. It was evening, and candles were brought in for me. I sat down at the harpsichord and improvised for a long time, trying to remember one of the many pieces I knew by heart, though in vain. But the Mother Superior insisted, and so, without a second thought and out of habit, because I knew it well, I sang Sorrowful decorations, faint candles, a light more terrible than the darkness*... I do not know what effect it had, but they did not listen to it for long. I was interrupted by words of praise which I was very surprised to have earned so quickly and with so little effort. My mother handed me over to the Mother Superior, gave me her hand to kiss, and then left.
So I found myself in another convent as a postulant, to all intents and purposes of my own free will. But you, Monsieur, knowing everything that has happened up to this point, what do you think? Most of these things were not put forward when I wanted to renounce my vows, some because they were true but unproved, others because they would have made me look odious and would not have helped my case: I would have been seen as an unnatural child who was blackening the memory of her parents in order to obtain her freedom. The evidence against me was well established, but that for me could not be put forward or proved. I did not even want the judges to be given the slightest hint about my birth. Some people, unfamiliar with the law, advised me to implicate my mother’s and father’s spiritual director. That was impossible. And even if it had been possible, I would not have allowed it to happen. By the way, in case I forget and your desire to help me stops you from thinking about it, I think, though I am willing to bow to your better judgement, that we should keep quiet about my musical ability and harpsichord-playing, for it would take no more than that to reveal my identity: the display of these talents is not conducive to the obscurity and security that I seek. People in my walk of life do not have such talents, and neither should I. If I am forced to go abroad, then I will make use of them. Go abroad! Why does this idea fill me with such horror? Because I do not know where to go; because I am young and inexperienced; because I am afraid of poverty, men, and vice; because I have always led a sheltered life, and if I were away from Paris, I would feel utterly lost in the world. None of that may be true, but that is how I feel. Monsieur, whether or not I know where to go and what to do depends on you.
The Mothers Superior at Longchamp, as in most convents, change every three years. A certain Madame de Moni had just arrived when I was taken there. I cannot speak too highly of her, and yet her kindness was my undoing. She was a sensible woman who understood the human heart. She was indulgent, though nobody needed that quality less: we were all her children. She only ever saw the faults which she could not help seeing, or which were so serious that she could not overlook them. I do not speak of this out of self-interest. I was careful to do my duty, and, in fairness to me, she would say that I never did anything for which she had to punish me or forgive me. If she had her favourites, she chose them according to merit. Now that I have said that, I do not know if I should tell you that she loved me dearly and that I was not the least of her favourites. I realize that I am praising myself highly, more highly than you can imagine, since you never met her. The word favourite is used by the others to refer enviously to those whom the Mother Superior particularly loves. If I had one criticism to make of Madame de Moni, it would be that she let herself be very obviously swayed by her taste for virtue, piety, openness, gentleness, talent, and decency, and that she knew very well that those who could not lay claim to these qualities felt only more humiliated. She also had the ability, which is perhaps more common in the convent than in the world, promptly to weigh up people’s characters. It was rare for her ever to like a nun whom she did not like from the outset. She was not slow to take a liking to me and from the start I put my complete trust in her. Woe betide those whose trust she did not win without her first having to make an effort: they must be bad, beyond the pale, and admit as much. She talked to me about my adventure at Sainte-Marie. As with you, I told her openly what had happened. I told her everything I have written to you, everything to do with my birth and my troubles: nothing was left out. She pitied me, consoled me, and encouraged me to hope for a happier future.
Meanwhile my time as a postulant came to an end, the time came for me to take the habit, and I took it. I undertook my noviciate without any feeling of distaste. I pass quickly over these two years because the only sadness they held for me was the feeling deep inside me that I was moving step by step towards assuming a way of life to which I was not suited. Sometimes this feeling would strike me with renewed force, but whenever that happened I would run straight to my good Mother Superior who would embrace me, put things straight for me, explain her reasons very clearly, and always finish by saying: ‘And don’t other ways of life have their thorns too? One only ever feels one’s own. Come along, my child, let us kneel down and pray.’
She would then prostrate herself and pray out loud, but with such unction, eloquence, gentleness, elevation, and strength that she seemed to be inspired by the spirit of God. Her thoughts, her expressions, and her images went straight to the heart. At first you would listen to her, but little by little you were swept along, you found yourself becoming one with her, your soul thrilling as you shared her ecstasy. Her aim was not to seduce, but that was certainly the result. You would leave her room with your heart on fire, joy and ecstasy radiating from your face, and weeping such sweet tears. She too was affected in the same way, and for a long time, as we were. I am not simply relying here on my own experience, but on that of all the nuns. Some of them have told me that they felt growing within them the need to be consoled like the need for a very great pleasure, and I think that I too might have reached such a state if I had become more used to the experience.
However, as the time for my profession drew near, I was overcome by such a deep melancholy that it put my dear Mother Superior to the severest test. Her talent failed her, as she herself admitted to me.
‘I don’t know’, she said, ‘what’s happening to me. It’s as if, when you come near, God withdraws and his spirit falls silent. I stir myself, I search for ideas, I try to lift up my soul, but it’s all in vain, for I’m just an ordinary, flawed woman. I’m afraid to carry on speaking...’
‘Oh, dear Mother!’ I replied, ‘what a feeling to have! Perhaps it’s God who’s preventing you from speaking!...’
One day, when I was feeling more uncertain and despondent than ever, I went to her cell. At first she was disconcerted by my presence. She seemed to be able to tell from my eyes, indeed from everything about me, that the deep emotion within me was more than she could cope with, and she did not want to struggle against it without being sure of victory. Nevertheless she took me to task, she became more and more heated, and, as my pain dwindled, her enthusiasm grew. She suddenly fell to her knees, and I did likewise. I thought I was going to share in her ecstasy: that is what I wanted to happen. She said a few words and then suddenly went silent. I waited in vain. She said nothing else, stood up, burst into tears, took hold of my hand, and, holding me in her arms, said: ‘Oh! Dear child, what a cruel effect you’ve had on me! That’s it, the Spirit has left me, I can feel it. Go, and may God speak to you himself, for it does not please him to do so through my mouth.’
