# Twelve Years in a Monastery/Chapter XII

CHAPTER XII
Before proceeding to summarise the information regarding monastic life which is dispersed through the preceding chapters, and to make it the basis of an opinion, it will be well to supplement and enlarge it as much as possible. For, however interesting the facts may be in themselves, they would throw little light on the general question of monasticism if it could be thought that they were merely illustrative of the condition of one particular order, and still less if they were said to be the outcome of the abnormal circumstances in which one small branch of that order chances to find itself. Nothing is more fatal to the solidity of an opinion than the narrowness of its empirical basis; and no fault is more frequently committed by English writers on the Church of Rome than that of hasty and undue generalisation. The Roman Church in England is unimportant; it is neither more nor less than a large and active mission in an ‘heretical’ land. Hence many writers fail to correct the insularity of their experience, and thus have not a due sense of the real proportions of sects ​and their institutions on the great world-stage; they likewise fail to make allowance for the peculiar effect of a missionary status. To avoid this fallacy the preceding description of monasticism in England, illustrated copiously from the life of the Grey Friars, needs collateral support from other countries or national ‘provinces’ of that order.
One other province has been described already at some length. The Belgian province, it must be remembered, is in an entirely different condition from the English province. It labours under no financial difficulties (the seven monasteries of the English friars bear a collective debt of about 50,000l.), it has no scarcity of vocations, it suffers not the slightest civic or legislative interference with its manner of life. It may be taken as a typical branch of modern monasticism, and is claimed to be such by its adherents. Yet although it differs considerably in literal fulfilment of the Franciscan rule, in formal discipline and ritual, it will be recognised from the contents of Chapter VII. that it agrees entirely with the English province in the features which are important to the philosophical observer.
A slight allusion has also been made to the condition of the Franciscan Order in Ireland. So unsatisfactory is it, from a monastic point of view, that the Roman authorities for many years were bent on extinguishing it. Ireland, the most Catholic and superstitious country in the civilised world, is the ​richest possible soil for monasticism; men who lead the lives of the mediæval monks will receive from its peasantry the deep reverence and hospitality of the mediæval world. Yet the Irish province of the Franciscan Order (the monastery at Killarney which I described belongs to the English province) is one of its most perverted and enfeebled branches. During years of persecution the scattered friars naturally discarded every monastic feature of their lives, and no amount of pressure from Rome has succeeded in restoring them in these more indulgent days. The friars individually possess money (thus cutting at the very root of the Franciscan idea), wear boots and stockings, and rarely don their habits, have secular servants, and are guilty of many other condemned practices. In a word, their lives are those of the ordinary Irish clergy; their profession of Assisian asceticism is little more than an empty formality.
Another numerous and flourishing branch of the order is found in Holland. Although it is in an 'heretical' country it has full civic liberty and is generously patronised: hence it has grown into a powerful body. During my sojourn in Belgium I gathered that it fell far short of the high standard of the Flemish province, and the fact seemed to be generally confirmed. But shortly after my return to England I received a curious confirmation of the opinion. We received a small pamphlet, written in Latin (for it was not intended to reach the eyes of the laity), having ​for its theme the condition of the Dutch Franciscan province. It was signed by a Dutch friar, who declared that he was incarcerated (and had been for some years) by his colleagues because he would not keep silence: he had written the pamphlet in his room of detention and managed to have it conveyed to friends in the outer world. He declared that the province was deeply corrupted: that asceticism was almost unknown, and a gross sensualism pervaded their ranks—even mentioning isolated cases of friars being brought home to the monastery by the undignified aid of police-stretchers, 'theologically drunk.' He further declared that the superiors of the monasteries bribed their provincial to overlook the state of things, and that the province secured tranquillity by sending large sums of money to the Roman authorities for their new international college. The pamphlet was clearly not the composition of an insane person, and none of our friars called its accuracy into question. Again, therefore, we meet the same unfavourable moral and intellectual features, much more accentuated than even in the Irish province.
The other branches of the order I only know by conversation with isolated members. The American provinces, North and South, especially those of the United States, present many similar features to the provinces described. The German provinces seem to be slightly better—a little more industrious and studious, as might be expected—on the whole not differing ​materially from their Belgian neighbours. France approaches more to the Southern type. On the whole, the Spanish and Italian provinces maintain a more rigorous discipline and are less material than their Northern brethren. Still, one can hardly say they are more spiritual in the religious sense: they are notoriously idle, and full of petty ambition and intrigue with their attendant strife and mutual hostility. I have met friars from all parts of the world, and there is a remarkable identity of features in their polyglot narrative.
Something has been said, too, in the ninth chapter, about other religious orders—enough to found an assumption that all are in an analogous condition. And, indeed, such a presumption needs but little, if any, positive proof: it is hardly likely that Rome would tolerate an unusual corruption of one particular monastic order. In spite of their great diversity of character and aim the same forces are at work in each. In fact, the various monastic congregations have so far lost sight of the special purposes for which they were severally founded, that they differ from the ordinary clergy in little more than dress and community-life and ceremonies. The orders which, like the Franciscan, were founded for the purpose of caring for the poor and embodying voluntary poverty in their own lives, are found to be continually seeking a higher level—vying with each other for the patronage of the rich (wherever they can escape the Jesuits), and always ​choosing a middle class in preference to a poor congregation. The Dominican order was intended to be an ‘Order of Friars Preachers,’ but it now has no more claim to that title than the other semi-monastic and semi-secular congregations. Carmelites, Servites, Marists, and Oblates were founded in order to increase the cult of the mother of Christ; Jesuits for the instruction of the young; Passionists to spread devotion to the Passion: in all of them the original object has dropped very much out of sight, and there is a very close resemblance of life and activity. It is said that there has been serious question at Rome of suppressing the majority of them and reducing the number to about four of different types, which would suffice for vocations of all complexions.
We are now in a position to answer with some degree of justice the often repeated question: What is the ethical significance and the ethical value of modern monasticism? The slightest reflection on the origin of the monastic bodies will make it clear that a high degree of spirituality and a keen faith in the supernatural are necessary in the earnest votary of monasticism. The orders have been founded by men of an abnormally neurotic and fanatical temperament, who were capable of almost any ascetical excesses. Extraordinary actions were their ordinary stimulant, and they devoted themselves with ardour to that ascetical rigour of life which the Christian Church has, from ​the earliest ages, derived from the teaching of its founder. It seems clear that Christ did (no doubt under earlier Essenian influence) lay great emphasis on the merit of self-denial; though it seems equally clear that He did not contemplate the selfish and cowardly system of eremitical and cenobitic life which commenced in the Thebaid a few centuries after His death, and which is still fully exemplified in the modern Trappists and Carthusians. However that may be, St. Bernard, St. Bruno, St. Francis, St. Dominic, &c., translated literally into their own lives, under the influence of an unusually fervid religious imagination, the principles of Christian ethics, as expounded universally up to the fifteenth century.
In those ages of vicarious virtue and expiation they became centres of a great public interest, and attracted many disciples. Then, in an evil hour, they drew up certain rules of life, which were slightly modified versions of their own extraordinary lives, and bade their followers bind themselves by the most solemn and indissoluble obligation to their observance. Such rules could only be observed by men who possessed their own temperament and imagination, and one needs very little experience of human life to understand their scarcity, and the great error of supposing that any large body of men would observe them with fidelity. In the middle ages the average faith of men was much keener than it is in the nineteenth: the disturbing influence of science, of scientific history, ​and of critical literature was unknown, and tradition was a paramount authority, so that men were not only chronologically nearer to the great drama of the foundation of Christianity, but accepted the traditional version with unquestioning confidence.
However, even in the middle ages, monasticism was no purer an institution than it is now. Soon after the foundation of the several orders there begins the long history of corruptions, reforms, and schisms inside the order, and of papal and episcopal fulminations and historical impeachments from without. Long before the death of Francis of Assisi his order was deeply corrupted; indeed, his own primitive companions had made him tear up, or had torn up for him, the first version of his rule, and it was only by the intrigue of certain patrons at Rome that he secured the papal assent to his second rule. And scarcely had the supreme command passed, during Francis’ lifetime, into the hands of Fr. Elias, than a powerful party of moderates arose, and dissension, intrigue, and schism threw the entire body into a fever of agitation. Elias was a clever and ambitious friar, with a much wider acquaintance with human nature and much less ascetical fervour than Francis; the manner of life which he advocated was, like that of modern monks, much more sensible—his error was, also like that of the moderns, to cling to the original profession. And that struggle of human nature against the unnatural standard of life it had somehow adopted has never ​ceased. The many branches of the Franciscan Order, Capuchins, Recollects, Reformed, Conventuals, and Observants, mark so many different schisms over the perpetual quarrel; yet, at the present day, they are all once more on a common level. And, apart from this internal evidence, secular history gives abundant proof of the periods of deep degradation into which the orders of monks have periodically fallen; if secular historians are not trusted, a judicious selection of papal decrees and episcopal letters would place the fact beyond controversy.
Hence it is only natural to expect that, in these days of less luminous and tranquil faith and less fervid imagination, the spirit of monasticism will be less potent than ever—the more so as a large section of Christianity has now repudiated the ascetical ideal entirely, and emphatically dissociated it from the teaching of Christ. Protestantism first fell upon monasticism, flail in hand, for its corruption, and nearly extinguished it; then it sought theological justification, and convinced itself that monasticism was unscriptural. Although, it is curious to add, there have been many vain attempts in modern days to reanimate it, the vast majority of non-Catholics persist in regarding monasticism as founded on an exegetical error and humanly unjustifiable; and that conviction, together with the causes that produced it or occasioned its formation, has re-acted on the old Church. That mental attitude which in former ages ​passed at once and instinctively from deep fervour to great ascetical rigour is rarely found now in educated spheres; and that very fervour and keen faith is rarer still in this age of universal soul-disturbing scepticism. It is an age of compromise; moral heroism (such, at least, as is dependent on theological sanctions) is rare, and, as only moral heroes can faithfully live the ideal monastic life, true monasticism is likewise rare.
Such a presumption is clearly borne out by the description of monastic life in many spheres which has preceded. The idyllic life of the monk, a life of prayer and toil and unworldliness or other-worldliness, does not exist to any great extent outside the pages of Catholic apologists and a few non-Catholic poets. The forms of monasticism remain, but the spirit is almost departed from them; one is forcibly reminded of that passage of Carlyle where he speaks of institutions as fair masks under which, instead of fair faces, one catches a glimpse of shuddering corruption. Not that monasticism, judged apart from its profession, is an object of special moral reprobation; its fault, its title to contempt, lies rather in its continued profession of an ideal from which it has hopelessly fallen, and in its constant effort to hide that discrepancy.
There are, of course, isolated members who are deeply corrupted in monasteries and nunneries, as in every other sphere; and there are, also, many individuals of an unusually high character. But the vast ​majority of the inmates of monastic institutions may be divided, as is clear from the preceding, into two categories. One is the category of those who are religiously inclined, but whose whole merit consists in the equivocal virtue of having bound themselves to a certain system of religious services, through which they pass mechanically and with much resignation, and which they alleviate by as much harmless pleasure and distraction as they can procure. The other category, and, perhaps, the larger one, consists of those who seem to have exhausted their moral heroism in the taking of the vows; for the rest of their lives (and one of the most remarkable features of monks of all classes is the anxiety they show to prolong their 'earthly exile'—doubtless in a penitential spirit) they chafe under the discipline they have undertaken, modify it and withdraw from it as much as possible, and add to it as much 'worldly' pleasure as circumstances permit. Both categories lead lives of ordinary morality—but only ordinary, so that the garments of the saints sit very incongruously on their shoulders, to the ordinary observer; they seem to appreciate the good things of this life as keenly as ordinary mortals, and shrink from death as naively as if death meant annihilation instead of entrance into Paradise.
Thus, on the one hand, certain anti-papal lecturers err in representing monasticism, as a body, as an institution of a particularly dark character; on ​the other hand, the pious belief of the average Catholic layman that it is an institution of unusual meritoriousness—that convents 'are the lightning conductors averting the divine wrath from great cities,' &c.—is pitifully incorrect. Monasticism, not for the first time in its history, has in spite of its high spiritual profession a luxurious overgrowth of sensuousness; indeed, there are many who contend that the whole spirituality of the Church of Rome, paradoxical though it may seem, is generously blended with sensuousness. 'People are led away by the senses,' said F. B. Vaughan, when asked about the operatic performances of his church and the theatrical aspect of his own work, 'and so we must lead them back by the senses.' In monastic life, however, we find a sensuousness pure and simple, quite distinct from the æsthetic influences that are clothed with a religious dignity.
This is partly due to their inactivity, partly to their vow of celibacy. Of their idleness, which is one of the most uniform features of monastic establishments, enough has been said. Their religious ceremonies do not afford serious occupation of mind; they never undertake manual labour in these days, and they are conspicuously deficient in study; the amount of work they are entrusted with does not give occupation to half their members. Hence results much idleness, and idleness, as Francis of Assisi tells them, is the 'devil’s pillow.
​ Then there is the absence of contact (entire absence in Catholic countries) with the sex which is, by instinct and education, more refined, and exercises a refining influence. In the absence of that influence, whose effect is too notorious to be insisted upon, a natural masculine tendency to coarseness develops freely—unless it receives a check in deep spirituality, which cannot be said to be frequently the case. In point of fact most of the founders of orders seem to have appreciated that influence very sensibly. St. Augustine, of course, in his saintly days, does not, for obvious reasons, but St. Benedict had his Scholastica, St. Francis his Clare, St. Francis de Sales his Jeanne Françoise, and even the grim St. Peter of Alcantara had his Teresa. Their modern disciples have also many 'spiritual' friendships, but the fact is unable to counterbalance the effect of their celibate home-life; their intercourse with women, in the face of their ascetical teaching, is necessarily either very limited or hypocritical.
Thus it is that, wherever there is not deep piety, selfish individualism, which is the root of all that undignified intrigue, meanness, and dissension which has been described, is engendered. Thus it is also that there is a morbid craving for indulgence in food and drink—making a mockery of their long fasts and abstinences: in the midst of a long fast they will celebrate an accidental feast-day most luxuriously, and at the close of the fast have quite a gastronomic ​Saturnalia. Nevertheless it must be said that, whilst there is much more drink than is supposed, there is not much drunkenness. Usually, as long as the convent is in good circumstances, there is a constant and liberal supply of drink, but excess is rare; though its isolated occurrence, when it has not become public, is not treated seriously.
And a third effect of this pious exclusion of females is seen in the tone of their conversation; it is too frequently of an unpleasant character—not immoral, rarely suggestive, but very often coarse and malodorous. Tales which the better class of Catholic laymen would not suffer to be told in their presence, which could not be whispered in the presence of ladies, and which are only found in such literature as 'La Terre' and 'L'Assommoir,' are very frequently told in clerical circles—especially monastic.
With regard to the important point of immorality, specifically so called, a direct answer must here be given, as far as the author feels justified in giving one. My experience has been wide, but not of long duration, so that I could not deny an opposite and more damaging statement of experience. Still I am convinced that there has been much exaggeration in this respect. The evidence of the majority of 'escaped' nuns and monks seems unreliable; there is only one—the nun of Kenmare, Miss Cusack—whom I should feel inclined to follow. I knew several priests who were well acquainted (indirectly) with her, and they ​never questioned her substantial truthfulness; at that time she had not made any statements of this particular character, but I believe she has done so since. In any case, if all their tales were true, it would only prove, what everybody expects, that there are many isolated cases of immorality; to extend the accusation to the whole body is unwarranted. It can only be said that these cases are numerous, and that there is a vast amount of solitary morbidity; and there is nothing either startling or instructive in the statement. I have no doubt it would be less true of the clergy than of an ordinary body of men if their lives were healthier; but as long as they are indiscriminately bound to celibacy, and to a life which is so productive of egotism, sensuousness, and indolence, it is the only possible condition for them.
Hence the same must be said of the vow of chastity of the secular clergy as of the asceticism and celibacy of monks and nuns. In theory it is admirable for the ecclesiastical purpose, and very noble and graceful to contemplate from the standpoint of Christian asceticism; in practice it is a deplorable blunder, and in these days of little faith it leads to much subterfuge and petty hypocrisy. Like morasticism, it would not be accepted by one half the number if it were not for the practice of involving them in irrevocable engagements before they are conscious of its meaning. Like monasticism, it will probably disappear when the Church of Rome rises at length from her conservative ​lethargy, with the din and roar of a vital battle in her ears.
Finally, an answer is also ready to that other question which is not infrequently heard in these days: What is the relation of the monastic orders to Socialism? Socialising Christians, or Christian Socialists, frequently hold up the monastic orders as embodiments of a true social spirit. The argument rests, of course, on a very superficial analogy; there is really no parallel between monasticism and Socialism. On the contrary, they are at the very opposite poles of economics. Monasticism, in the first place (except the modified monasticism of the Jesuits), does not counsel a community of goods; neither in individual nor in common does it permit ownership. But it parts company with Socialism very emphatically when it goes on to impose extraordinary limits on production; Socialism urges a common use of the conveniences produced, and urges the production of as many as possible. And lest it should seem that monasticism at least sympathises with the Socialists of simpler life, such as Mr. E. Carpenter, it must be remembered that it limits production on an exactly opposite principle. Mr. Carpenter thinks simplicity (and sandals) conducive to comfort and happiness; monasticism trusts that they are productive of discomfort and mortification. In fine, it wishes its votaries to be uncomfortable in this world, which is the very antithesis of the socialistic aim.
​In a minor degree its celibacy is anti-socialistic; whatever relation of the sexes the Socialist may advocate, he certainly advocates some form of intimate relation. And the Socialist would not for a moment sanction the withdrawal of a large number of citizens from every civic duty on the plea that they were more interested in another world. He would not exempt a large number of able-bodied men from labour on the plea that they were ‘waterspouts of divine grace’ or ‘lightning conductors of divine wrath’ for their sinful brethren. He would be impatient of all indolence, and mendicancy, and parasitism of any complexion.
However, the parallel has never been very seriously entertained, and does not merit further criticism. Monasticism has neither interest nor advantage for the modern world; it is an enfeebled and corrupted survival of an institution whose congenial environment seems to have disappeared. Even in the stern monasteries of Trappists and Carthusians, where it still retains its full rigour of asceticism and solitude, it alienates the sympathy of the modern world; merit is now thought to consist in the fulfilment of the whole duty of man, in works that produce visible fruit, and that tend to remove the actual evils of life. But, for the majority of the monastic bodies, with their indolent withdrawal from life’s difficulties and duties, without any real compensating virtue, or with their pitiful compromise between external occupation and their antiquated theories of detachment, one cannot ​but feel contempt. At the best, a monk would merely have the equivocal merit of making himself a part of a great penitential machine; as it is, his profession of preternatural virtue and unworldliness is a hollow formality that only appeals to credulous devotees.