The communities—which might number anything from a dozen to close on a hundred members—were divided into Choir Nuns and Lay Sisters.
The Choir Nuns—each of whom had brought a dowry—spent their time chiefly in prayer, manual work and the recitation of the Divine Office in choir. The Lay Sisters, who were drawn originally from the peasant class, gave—instead of dowries—their services for the heavier work of the house.
The Superior—known as the Reverend Mother Prioress—was elected triennially by the votes of the Choir Nuns. (Lay Sisters were not allowed a vote.) Her position was less that of mistress than of mother to the Community. The extreme respect shown to her was based upon the idea that in the monastery she held the place of Christ. The nuns, until they had been for a certain number of years in the Community, always knelt when she spoke to them. When she passed, they had to rise and bow to her as she went by. For anything that was in any way an exception to the Rule, her leave had to be asked. Her will was supreme.
She herself was expected to be in all things a model of perfection—a point which, surprisingly, seemed in no way to daunt those members of the community (and they exist in every convent) who felt themselves to be peculiarly fitted by Providence for the office of Prioress.
From among themselves the Choir Nuns also elected perhaps sixteen or seventeen who represented them, much as an M.P. represents his constituency. These Sisters were consulted when important decisions had to be taken by the Prioress; they would be asked to vote, for instance, when there was a question of a novice being allowed to take her Vows.
To these few fell also the choosing of a much smaller and even more carefully selected body. This was the Council: a kind of Privy Cabinet who assisted the Prioress in the administration of the monastery.
The actual work of the house was divided up among the heads of the various departments. These were known as the ‘Officers’. The more important were elected triennially; the rest were nominated—usually once a year—by the Prioress.
Each nun had her business laid down for her, even to the minutest details. Thus and thus was each thing to be done, and no otherwise. Short work was made of enterprising novices who came forward with bright ideas for new and better ways of doing things. Moreover, every least object employed by a nun in her ‘Office’ was entered in an inventory and an exact account had to be rendered when another Sister succeeded her.
First in rank among the Officers was the Subprioress, whose chief business was to safeguard the observance and internal discipline of the monastery. She also replaced the Prioress when the latter was unable to preside and, like her, was treated with the greatest reverence by the community. As she was liable to severe criticism if ever she failed to be kind, humble, wise, patient and a living example of religious observance at all times, her Office was hardly one to be coveted.
The Procuratrix ordered and gave out the provisions, had charge of the Lay Sisters, and looked after the general upkeep of the house. A Martha-job, if ever there was one, and fatiguing—but apparently a swift highroad to holiness.
The Cellaress did a certain amount to help the Procuratrix and had besides quite a number of odd little jobs of her own. One of these was to wash the eggs served to the community; another, to read aloud the life of some saint to the Lay Sisters as they sat over their sewing in the afternoon. She also presided at the hatch between the refectory and kitchen-quarters at meal-times, and gave out any special dish that had to be served to anyone who was ill.
The Refectorian’s work was to keep the refectory in order, lay the tables, and, with the assistance of the weekly server, to wait upon the community at dinner and supper every day. She had to keep the great oak tables clean and polished, set the salt, lay a plate and porringer at each one’s place, and wash the water-jugs in the lavatory outside.
And on Maundy Thursday, when the Prioress served in the refectory and washed the feet of the twelve eldest nuns (in memory of Christ, who on the eve of his Passion washed the feet of his disciples), the whole room had to be scoured, polished and adorned with flowers and draperies.
An Under-Refectorian helped the Refectorian to set the mugs and porringers. It was also her task to remove with a moist and malodorous dish-rag all stains from the Refectory floor.
The Office of Refectorian was not particularly sought after. The daily serving could be intensely tiring and it was not easy to keep oneself free from a faint aroma of grease. There was, too, a most unattractive duty attached to it—that of mending the vast sheet-like table-napkins which custom ordained that, when the Prioress gave the signal, each nun should affix to her bosom with a pin. These had to be darned before the Lay Sisters washed them. And it was an occupation which—to put it mildly—could be very unpleasant indeed.
The Sacristan had one of the most important and arduous Offices in the monastery. Two other nuns—usually chosen from among the strongest in the community—were allowed her as helps. One of them was always responsible for the bell-ringing in choir and cloister which called the nuns to various duties during the day. She had also to start the ‘peal’ rung in the choir for five minutes or so before each part of the Divine Office. On high festivals, the Under-Sacristan’s life was a perfect nightmare of bell-ringing; for, besides the peals for Mass, Office, Strict Silence and Spiritual Reading which enlivened the morning, she had also to ring in the cloister at 2 p.m. for the Lesser Silence; at 3 o’clock in choir and cloister for Strict Silence; again there at 3.15 ‘because such was the custom’; at 3.25 in the cloister, summoning the nuns to Vespers, and again in the choir at 3.30 to ‘start the peal’. And with Compline, a whole programme of evening ringing began. As it was a considerable distance from choir to cloister, the Under-Sacristan seldom put on weight for lack of exercise. Should she be late to ring, or forget altogether, the earth shook and trembled, for the entire community would be seriously inconvenienced.
Between them, the Sacristans were responsible for keeping the church, choir and sacristy in a state of spotless perfection. The High Altar and the Altar of Our Lady had always to be immaculate; there were the huge brass and silver candlesticks to be polished, flowers cut and continually rearranged. Twice daily the massive sanctuary lamp needed replenishing; new candles had to be unpacked and set up in place of others that were scraped and laid away in the long shelves behind a curtain in the outer Sacristy. Vestments were prepared for the two daily Masses and for Benediction; while bells, censers, crucifixes, incense-boats, lanterns, cruets and holy water-stoups were constantly in need of a refill or a rub.
The Head Sacristan had the key of the safe in which the sacred vessels were kept. Amongst them was an exquisite jewelled ciborium of pure gold and a beaten silver chalice that might have belonged to the shrine of some mediaeval saint. I remember, too, a great gem-encrusted monstrance—magnificent but hideous—which literally blazed with brilliants when the Host was lifted up at Benediction on the greater feasts.
The Church linen and vestments were kept in a small, ancient room called the Custry. Here were long chests with deep drawers full of cottas and albs, each one folded according to custom, in the tiniest possible accordion pleats and then bound tightly—like a della Robbia bambino—with strappings of linen or tape. The snowy gossamer lawn out of which most of them were fashioned was lace-edged—priceless, historic lace, inducing sharp intakes of breath and wide eye-openings when shown to connoisseurs. And what masses of it. Cream, foam-colour, ivory, linen-white, ghost-grey or palest oyster—all the faint, indescribable quarter-tones between white and white that exist only in lace. Each piece had its pedigree. Most of it was well over a yard in depth.
On wide, sliding shelves, inside deep cupboards, vestments were laid full-length between dust-sheets and damp-proof paper to prevent the gold and silver embroidery from tarnishing. To describe such a magnificent collection in these pages is impossible, but I cannot resist the temptation to mention two or three which, if I ever attempt to burgle the convent, I shall certainly carry away with me in my bag
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There was a set—complete with cope, chasuble and dalmatics—of stiff, sprigged Jacobean silk. It dated from the time of James II, and was as much a masterpiece as any of the ancient church-pictures in the refectory. Despite the passage of centuries, neither the lovely old-fashioned gold ‘galloon’, nor the enchanting colours in which the silk was woven, were tarnished or faded. Old rose, pale green and pinkish lilac made a delicate background to embroidery worked in heavy ropes of twisted gold. The linings were mulberry-colour, shot with a curious green, like shadowed cypress. When you lifted the chasuble, the faintest possible fragrance—suggesting lavender, pot-pourri and ancient incense—exhaled from its folds. To me it was a living link with a historic past. It evoked awareness of all kinds of long-forgotten happenings, about which nobody would otherwise have known.
There was another complete set of cloth-of-gold, enormously heavy, and only used once a year at Midnight Mass—perhaps because the embossed angels on the magnificent material suggested a vision of the first Gloria in excelsis Deo seen through Melozzo da Forli’s eyes. It was lined with stiff, poppy-coloured satin and produced the effect of a fanfare of golden trumpets under a sunset sky.
Another set, presented to the convent when Queen Anne was reigning, was of many-coloured tapestry, thick as a carpet, an unusual medley of curious reds, dull greens, deep purples and mysterious blues. There was white in it, too, and a brownish gold that somehow suggested Byzantine mosaic. This, too, was used only once a year, for the Ceremonies of Holy Saturday. To me, it always seemed like a harmony of the colour and magic of spring.
The more modern vestments, especially the new Gothic chasubles used for the greater festivals of Our Lady, were perhaps faintly reminiscent of evening gowns. But, after all, why not? I remember especially one of silver peaud’ange with a lining of palest hyacinth. Its chief glory was a medallion of Fra Angelico’s Coronation of the Virgin, perhaps unequalled as an example of the technical skill to which the embroiderer’s needle can attain. I have never seen anything lovelier of its kind than the way in which the delicate rainbow-hued draperies were treated. They might have been dipped in the heart of an opal. The whole thing was like a key-hole glimpse of heaven’s glory, seen through a veil of iridescent mist.
Finally, there were the splendid copes worn for Vespers at Easter and Pentecost. Cloth-of-silver with a stupendous hood and jewelled orphreys; and one of embossed brocade whose magnificent lining suggested firelight glowing dimly behind claret-coloured glass.
Even to handle such vestments gave one emotions that were at once sensuous and aesthetic. The rich hues, exquisite textures, faint, subtle perfumes, were somehow a little intoxicating after so much that was bleak and austere.
The Vestiarians, charged with the making, mending and distribution of the habit, were usually about six in number—two head officers and four underlings. Their lives could hardly have been a greater contrast to those of the sacristans. For about five hours daily they sat and sewed in silence in a hot stuffy room whose windows were nearly always tightly shut.
And when, on a green and golden April morning, the blackbirds fluted among the lilac bushes and called them out into the sun-drenched garden to smell the fragrance of spring, the vestiarians had to remember that the Rule—which was the Will of God for them—forbade the lifting of their noses from their work, unless it should be absolutely necessary. The fact that the outer garments worn by the religious had, like the table-napkins, to be mended before being sent to the laundry, certainly did not make the temptation to join the blackbirds easier to resist.
When, every six weeks or so, there was a great ‘wash’ of some part of the habit, the vestiarians had to ensure that each garment was properly dealt with before being put carefully away. This was a tremendous business. At about eight o’clock in the morning, every member of the community who was able to stand on two legs was expected to scurry along to the long low-raftered garrets under the monastery roof.
Here the Lay Sisters had prepared great baskets of wet linen or woollen garments which the nuns had to shake, lay out on the long wooden tables, slap and flatten by way of ironing, fold across, and finally hang up to dry on the long wire lines that stretched across the garret from end to end.
This business usually took from one to three hours, according to the quantity of the garments and the numbers of those who had come to help. With the exception of the vestiarians, it was not obligatory to show up for ‘Garrets’; not to do so, however, was looked upon as shirking and, sooner or later, one would be sure to hear about it from the Superior.
Talking was generally allowed till the bell in the cloister rang for work; after that, silence reigned. In summer, ‘Garrets’ was a pleasantly cool occupation, but in winter—when the snow was sometimes lying on the roof a few feet above one’s head—the cold was frightful. Quite often, the wet linen was frozen stiff in the baskets and one’s hands became so numbed that they refused to work. Later on in the morning, when the circulation was restored to them, the pain in one’s blue and chilblained fingers was quite agonizing.
The Infirmarian, with a Lay Sister as her handmaid, ruled over the infirmary, which had a special wing to itself. Here the grandes malades, with the very old nuns, and anyone who might be recovering from an operation, were looked after with extraordinary kindness and care.
Any infirmarian who carried out all the detailed instructions laid down for her in the Rule and Constitutions could hardly fail to make of the infirmary a place of happiness and peace. The idea, of course, behind all this charity was the one set forth in St. Matthew, xxv. 40, ‘Mihi fecistis… I was sick, and you visited Me … What you did unto them, you did to Me.’
In the convent infirmary, the sick were looked upon quite simply as being Christ. The rest followed automatically.
The minor ailments of the community were, as has been said before, attended to by the Apothecary. Should you need her services, you knocked at the door of the dark little stone-floored chamber where she plied her trade. Within, the white-washed walls were hung with rows of pots, pans and tiny long-handled pipkins of polished copper and brass. An immense, sinister-looking cupboard contained remedies for every emergency: bottles of elder-syrup for coughs in the winter; orange-flower water for insomnia; large, round, gelatinous pills containing black, fishy-smelling liquid to be taken as a ‘help’ to fasting during the forty days of Lent; bark—another unpopular but efficacious remedy for weakness; ‘tilly-tea’—brewed from the flowers of the tilleul or lime-tree—sovereign cure for colds … and more modern remedies, tubes, boxes, bottles, packets of them; and a small, ancient bookshelf containing endless little old wives’ recipes and instructions for the care and healing of the sick.
Here was to be found the short, simple, but absolutely infallible Remedy for Rheumatism, which produced its astounding results in under fifteen days. Here was Dr. Ralalife’s Recipe for a Consumption, consisting of crabs’ claws finely powdered, asses’ milk, and crabs’ eyes. And here—in Mr. Jenison’s Receipts, Both Galenicall and Chimicall Who First Teach Us to Make Our Drugs in the Year 1702—is the account of the virtue contained in Lady Carringtori’s Cerecloth, which ‘cured ye King’s evil or any other sore by washing your sore with milk or butter and beere’ and ‘applying this cerecloth till it’s cured’.
When I myself was given the office of Apothecary, I wrote to one of my aunts, lamenting my ignorance of even the most elementary medical knowledge. She immediately sent me a large and excellent Encyclopaedia of Nursing. This—though I should have found it quite invaluable—was immediately taken away from me. The reason given was that it contained a great deal which it was quite unnecessary for me to know.
The most responsible office was undoubtedly that of Mistress of Novices. To train young and chosen souls in the way of perfection was undoubtedly an exacting occupation; and in some ways the Novice Mistress ruled over her small domain rather like a queen. Canon Law obliged the novices to be separated as much as possible from the community durin
g the earlier stages of their religious life. Until they had made their Vows, the young nuns had their own table in the Refectory, their own living-room (known as the ‘Noviceship’), their dormitory, their garden, and a special cloister where they walked up and down for spiritual reading on rainy days. Conversation with the community nuns was prohibited, and—except upon special occasions—they seldom saw the Superior. As a result, the Novice Mistress soon became everything to them—guide, philosopher and friend, as well as mother and confidante.
The position was one of great trust and great importance. It was accompanied by privileges, not the least of which was much intimate converse with the Prioress, to whom everything concerning the novices had to be made known. Small wonder that she who held this office had sometimes to pay a price for it at the hands of certain members of the community.
The Organist, Choir Mistress, Chantress and Succentress were responsible for the music.
The Librarian kept the books in order and watched, argus-eyed, lest any Sister should so far forget herself as to take out a volume without marking it down on the shelf-catalogue.
The Portress and her relief opened the guichet to visitors, dispensed bread, soup and alms to the poor, and flew backwards and forwards between the Great Door and the Prioress’ chamber for ‘leaves’ and directions whenever the door-bell rang.
One more office—that of the Prioress’ Chaplain—must be mentioned. The title is misleading, since it suggests that nuns sometimes encroach upon the territory of the priesthood. Actually, the office was simply that of a kind of lady-in-waiting to the Superior. Chaucer’s Prioress, it may be remembered, was attended by one:
‘Another Nonne also with her hadde she
That was hire chappeleine, and Preestes thre.’
She prepared and marked the places in the Prioress’ Plain-chant books and breviary; arranged hours for her interviews with members of the community; accompanied her at the annual visitation of the cells and on Maundy Thursday, when she served in the refectory and washed the feet of the community.
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