The martyrs of Compiègne
From the book:
"RITRATTI DI SANTI" by Antonio Sicari ed. Jaca Book
The martyrs of Compiègne are sixteen Carmelite
nuns killed during the French Revolution.
Of this revolution today people especially
rememeber those three big words on which everyone seems to agree:
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.
Even John Paul II said at Bourget to the French
youth:
"It is well known what position the ideas
of liberty, equality and fraternity occupy in your culture and in your history.
Fundamentally, these are Christian ideas. I am telling it, aware of the fact
that the first men to formulate these ideals did not refer to the Eternal
Wisdom. But they wanted to operate in favour of man."
It is still in discussion whether the triplet
originates from Christianity or freemasonry; anyway it is known that at the
beginning, the Revolution preferred to insist more on the doublet Liberty-Equality
then on the word Fraternity, considered anyway too sentimental and too
"Christian".
As a matter of fact, the hardest fight was
unleashed in the name of those two first "values", so the opposite
manner with which enlightened and believers conceive "reason"
emerged.
For the so called "enlightened
reason", proclaiming that "men are free and equal in their
rights" (1st article of the Declaration of the Rights of Man,
1789) meant admitting nothing prior to this formulation, giving it no foundation
beyond that very reason that produces and recognises it. Only an indefinite and
extrinsic reference to the "presence" and to the "omens" of
the Supreme Being was maintained, but it disappeared in the Declarations of the
following centuries.
On the contrary, for "reason enlightened by
faith" men are free and equal in their rights because they all have a
first and inalienable dignity: to be all children of God, loved, created and
saved by Him.
The boundless distance between the two points of
view could be noticed by an opportune and deep reflection, but it is even more
apparent when those two widely displayed rights of "Liberty and
Equality" must be concretely recognised, defended and applied.
The history of our martyrs offers a
"bright" example, for with every clarity it puts in evidence the
different "light" of which reason makes use.
The famous Declaration of Rights of Man was
issued on 26th August 1789; a few months after, the prohibition of
swear religious vows (in the name of individual freedom) came just in time, as
well as the suppression of religious Orders, starting with the contemplative
ones.
The theorem was simple: he cannot be free he who
locks himself in a convent and ties himself down with vows; if one does it, it
means that he was forced. It is task of Reason (and of a Nation) to give
freedom back to him.
Then it was, when the Prioresses of three
Carmelite monasteries, speaking for all the others, sent to the National
Assembly a communication which reads:
The most complete liberty governs our vows; the
most perfect equality reigns in our houses; here we know neither the rich nor
the noble. In the world people say that monasteries contain victims slowly
consumed by regret, but we proclaim before God that if there is on Earth a true
happiness, we are happy.
Those revolutionaries, regarding vows and
monasteries, had their mind enlightened by what they had read or heard from
literate, actors, journalists and philosophers, who gave life to morbid and
romantic ideas, like those still found nowadays in some serials or
"telenovelas"
Thus the persecution began with the knightly and
ridiculous zeal of a troop of officials, who appeared at the monasteries' doors
to offer themselves as paladins and liberators.
We are able to describe exactly what happened in
Compiègne monastery, where then were 16 professed nuns. There was also a young
novice who at the last moment had been prevented taking her vows, by that very
decree that "did not recognise any more religious vows or other enrolment against
natural rights.
Then the officials came, violated the cloister
and settled in the big chapter hall. Four guards were placed near the two
doors. Other guards were set, one by each cell's door, to prevent the nuns from
communicating among themselves and moreover from keeping contact with the
Prioress; the other doors of the cloister were occupied as well.
The idea that otherwise the nuns would be
subjugated and forced to lie by the presence of their Mother Superior (or some
more despotic sister) was held for sure.
One by one the nuns were summoned, to each one
the president "announced (literally!) that he was carrier of freedom and
invited her to speak freely and declare if she wanted to leave the cloister and
return to her family..." A secretary in the while was taking accurate note
of the answers (thus their authenticity is granted by the
"opposers").
This unlimited presumptuousness of knowing what
freedom is and arrive as welcome liberators is more enlightening than philosophical
and theological debates, moreover if compared with the freedom experimented by
those nuns who they expected to set free.
The Prioress, called first, declared she
"wanted to live and die in that holy house".
An old nun said that "she had been a nun
for 36 years and she wished to have just as many more to consecrate to the
Lord."
A nun said she had made herself a nun "with
full pleasure and of her own free will" and that she was "firmly
decided to keep her cloth, even at her own blood's cost".
Another one explained that "there was not
such a great happiness as that of living as a Carmelite" and "her
most burning wish was to live and die a Carmelite".
Another one insisted that "If she had had
one thousand lives, all of them she would consecrate to the status she had
chosen and nothing could convince her to abandon the house where she lived and
where she had found her happiness".
Another sister added that she "took
advantage of that circumstance to renovate her religious vows, and moreover she
exploited the occasion to give the court officials a poem she had just composed
about the topic of her vocation" (but they, going away, left the sheet on
the table with despise).
Another more remarked that "if she could
double the ties that bound her to God, she would make it with all her strength
and immense joy".
The youngest professed, who had taken the vows
during that year, noticed that "a well born bride remains with her groom,
and thus nothing could induce her to part from her divine Spouse, Our Lord
Jesus Christ".
Their answer was, saying it as simple as
possible, that they wanted "to live and die in their monastery".
Many of them did surely not remember, or had
never heard of it, but their answers were very similar to that given by Saint
bishop Polycarpus to the Roman prosecutor, in the first Christian centuries:
"Since eighty-six years I have being serving Christ, and He has never done
wrong to me: how could I renegade my king and my saviour?"
The nuns of Compiègne became martyrs when, not
even realising it, began to use the language of martyrs, the language of who,
put to a definitive test, states with all his heart that "nothing could
ever separate him from Christ".
And since the menace of death is approaching, this
is like giving the great witness, stating that Christ is part of the definition
of one's self, of one's life, so that dying for Him is not a misfortune, but a
gain.
In this life, one cannot speak the word
"I" in a fuller and more definitive way than when giving oneself in
the hands of those, who, for Christ's sake, wants to take one's life.
For it is then that Jesus totally makes one with
our fragile and fearful self, to sustain it and give it strength and joy.
The novice was not interrogated, since she had
not taken the vows, so sooner or later, she was forced to go back home.
Indeed her relatives had come to take her back,
but having heard her say that "nothing and no one could separate her from
the communion with the Mother and Sisters of that monastery" They had gone
away stating that they "did not want to hear of her any more, neither
receive her letters": thus acknowledging, in a paradoxical way, the girl's
choice.
The text of the answers, both in the unanimity
and in the characteristic traits, discloses the image of the martyrs whose
story we are narrating.
It is right to warn now that, from the canonical
point of view, it is improper to speak of the sixteen Carmelites of Compiègne.
To tell the truth fourteen nuns were killed, two other victims were the nuns'
laic maids, so loving that they wanted to share the same destiny of their nuns,
thus sharing their passion and glory, as well. Actually, after that
"solemn profession" about martyrdom, we cannot make distinctions
among them anymore: they are, for God's decision, "sixteen Carmelite
nuns".
We can also proudly add that in all the
monasteries in France, counting more or less 1900 priests, nuns and monks, the
apostasies were only five or six.
In the while, the National Assembly was giving traumatic
proof of how the so-called "enlightened reason" could not understand
that "new fact" (even if centuries old) constituted by Church. Words
like Revelation, Tradition, Authority, Belonging were stubbornly perceived as
opposed to Freedom.
The nuns stubbornly witnessed an evidence that
was denied at all costs: one is perfectly free only in the strict and devoted
self surrender, a loving freedom is not afraid to tie itself and depend,
freedom is not opposite to belonging but to constraint.
In the same way, in the name of a
rationalistically meant Equality they began to try and redesign the structure
of Church.
First of all they thought to give a civil
Constitution to the Clergy, with which force the priests to understate an oath
of loyalty to the Nation; entrust the department Assemblies with the election
of priests and bishops, reduce the dioceses to administrative structures,
renounce the distinctive signs (e.g. the religious clothes)
Who did not accept these regulations could be
sentenced to deportation or to death as "refractory", not wanting to
be made equal there, where Christ had meant some "inequality"
Not even the Pope could stand high in that marsh
of extremised equality: Christians, priests and bishops could at most worship and
inform him, but the tie with him should be kept immaterial and superfluous.
Further, the "liberation" process was
to be pushed until Reason was set free from all the undue shackles and could
triumphate over all the "fanaticisms": dogmas, miracles, beliefs in
the heaven and similar.
As this "liberty" and this
"equality" could not be accepted by Christians who wanted to stay
faithful to Christ and His Church, they could not be considered
"brother". And the Terror came.
Only in the month of September 1792, there were
1600 victims. Among them, at least 250 priests slaughtered in the Carmelite
convent in Paris.
In the Carmel the idea of martyrdom was neither
strange nor far away. This religious order remembered vividly the teaching of
St. Teresa of Avila, who since her childhood had looked for martyrdom for the
wish to "see God" and make the encounter with Him closer, and had
then prophesised: "In the future this Order will have many martyrs".
"When one wants really serve God, she taught, the least he can do is offer
Him the sacrifice of life"
St. John of the Cross heard one day a brother
saying that "with God's grace he hoped to bear patiently even the
martyrdom, if it was really necessary" and had replied with boundless
wonder: "and you say it with such lukewarm heart, friar Martin? You should
tell it with tremendous desire!"
And moreover the French Carmelites could not
forget that St. Teresa of Avila had reformed the Carmel just because she was
"moved by the distress that wasted the French land and Church."
Offering their lives for this purpose was a part of their very original
vocation.
In 1792, at Easter, the Prioress of Compiègne,
letting each nun free to choose, proposed to offer themselves as a holocaust to
appease the wrath of God, and in order that the divine peace which his dear Son
had come to bring into the world would be bestowed on the church and the state.
At first, the two oldest were taken by anguish:
they were terrorized by the thought of the gloomy guillotine; but afterwards,
they wanted to offer themselves together with their sisters. Since then, the
community would renovate the act of offer every day, during the Holy Mass,
binding more and more consciously to Christ's sacrifice.
On 12th September they were ordered to abandon
the monastery, which was seized.
They rented some rooms in the same quarter, in
four close houses, divided in small groups managed to communicate passing
through the internal gardens and courts.
They had no more monastery, nor cloister;
neither grate nor church. They gathered regularly in the Prioress' dwelling, to
be sustained and guided, otherwise they tried as they could to respect their
rule of prayer, silence and work, even in such an unexpected and provisional
situation.
And the whole quarter knew and tried to live
more quietly and silently and with moderation, while the nun were praying.
In the while, the Great Terror had begun,
(October 1793 – June 1794) favoured by the war of France against other European
countries, by the inner civil war, as well as by a grave economical crisis.
The revolutionary tribunal decreed the "law
of suspicion". On trial no proof, no witness was necessary any more; the
sheer suspicion was enough to sentence to death.
The most rigorous Jacobean ideology held power and
it required a complete erasing of the Christian tradition: abolition of the
Christian calendar, week and Sundays, substitution of Christian names for
people, streets, squares, villages, cities; sealing off and destruction of
churches and relics, desecration of every cult building, introduction of new
cults and festivities.
In this very occasion the word
"vandalism" was created to indicate the mindless destruction of the
artistic patrimony, just to remove each and every sign of the ancient faith.
We own some letters sent in that period to the
national security committee in Paris by the responsible for Compiègne district,
André Dumont, who had abandoned his name of André to be called Pioche
("pickaxe"):
"Citizen colleagues, the ecclesiastic
rabble feels its last hour approaching... the impostures of these animals are
now unmasked, and the citizen themselves offer help to clear the former
churches. The benches are used in the popular societies and in hospitals. The
wood pieces, once called saints serve to heat the rooms of public
administration. The niches once called confessionals are converted in shacks
for the sentinels. The barkers' theatres, once called altars, where the priest
played tricks, are knocked over. The pulpits, needed for the imposture, are
kept for the publication of laws and to educate the people. The churches are
transformed in markets, so people go buying goods and foodstuff there, where
they had been swallowing poison for many centuries.
But as such zeal was not trusted in Paris, he
went on insisting after some weeks:
"Your fear, regarding priests and the
madmen listening to them has no foundation. The truth has made the imposture
disappear, the darkness of the latter could never cast shadows over the light
of the former, thus every effort of this church people would be of no avail. If
the safety of the nation is so sure as it is unquestionable that here priests
are unmasked, we can rightly state that here "the Republic is safe",
or, rather, that both the salvation of the fatherland and the slaughter of
priests are granted.
Actually, that Pioche would then boast he had
stuffed them of chat: he "had contented himself with sending ink, when
they asked for blood". And went on proclaiming: "Compiègne is
infinitely far away from fanaticism".
"Fanatical – fanaticism: here is the word
that in those days summarised and expressed the worst suspicions. It, alone,
was enough to support dozens of death sentences and still is a must of the
anticlerical language nowadays.
As a matter of fact, a man can be well
fanatical, even in the most wicked and vulgar ways and this is part of the
freedom of expression, but if the Church wants to allude at what it cannot
renounce, or at what men cannot renounce, because of their dignity, then the
charge with intolerance and fanaticism is never to be waited for long and
always fins a choir that amplifies and spreads it. This is another inheritance
of Enlightenment.
The Carmelites, who still lived as they were in
the monastery, were then charged with fanaticism: the dwellings were searched,
the nuns arrested, their holy things profaned and broken. When the tabernacle
was thrown on the floor and cracked, one of the sans-culottes kicked the
fragments towards a young girl saying:
"Citizen, take it: you can make a hut for
your dog."
In the while, the nuns were at first gathered in
an old convent changed in prison, then sent to Paris with a suit that accused
them, among the rest, of "halting the progress of the public spirit,
allowing in their houses people who were then admitted in another congregation,
called of the scapular".
They travelled all day and night long on a cart
escorted by two gendarmes, a marshal and two dragoons: the following afternoon
they were thrown in the Conciergerie, the death jail.
Once arrived there, each one did what she could:
the eldest, seventy-nine years old, with tied arms and without her walking
stick, was not able to go down the cart and was thrown roughly to the pavement.
She was thought dead, but with extreme effort
she stood up bleeding: "I am not angry," said she, *I thank you for
not having killed me. I would have lost the happiness of martyrdom that is
awaiting me".
The tribunal held the sessions at quick rhythm,
and there were two simultaneous sessions: one in the "hall of
Equality" the other in the "hall of Liberty". And the
prosecutor, the notorious Fonquier-Triville easily shifted from one to the
other.
This way, from fifty to sixty prisoners per day
were tried.
The Carmelites arrived on Sunday 13th
July, a day when the tribunal inflicted forty death condemns. On 14th
the sessions were suspended, since it was the anniversary of the capture of the
Bastille. On 15th thirty prisoners were sentenced to death and
thirty-six on 16th.
It was the feast of the Virgin of the Carmel and
the nuns did not want to quit the nice tradition to compose a new song for the
circumstance.
They rewrote "la Marseillese": same
rhythm, same music, some identical expression, but a completely different song
of rebellion and victory.
It heard, for instance: "... the day of glory has
arrived / now that the bleeding sword is hold high / let's prepare for victory
/ below the standards of an agonising God / anyone go forth as a winner / Let's
run altogether towards glory / for our bodies belong to God" It was poor
and limited verse, but with intuition full of light and pride: "if we owe
God our life / for Him we accept death"
They wrote them with a piece of coal.
The evening of the same day, they were told that
the following day they would be judged by the revolutionary Tribunal.
They stood trial in the "Hall of
Freedom"
The prosecution was supported by a load of
elements that expected to demonstrate how that small group of nuns was no other
that " a crowd of rebels, of rabble-rousers, fostering in their hearts the
criminal lust to see the French people set again in shackles by their tyrants
and in slavery by bloody and impostor priests: the desire to see liberty drown
in the blood flood that their machinations have always made pour in the name of
heaven".
It would have been laughable, had it not been
the usual style of the revolutionary documents that infallibly preluded a death
sentence. The most unbelievable charges were not missing. We recall, among many
others that of "having exposed the Holy Sacrament under a baldachin in the
shape of a royal mantle".
In the judge's opinion this was a certain clue
of affection to the idea of royal sovereignity, and thus to the deposed family
(of Louis XVI)".
But the nuns did not want their charges to be
confused or entangled with politics: they wanted it to be clear that they were
offering their lives to Christ and for Christ. And they made it so that every
ambiguity was removed.
Here is what happened, as stated in a witness'
account:
"Nun Henrietta Pelras, having heard the
prosecutor calling them "fanatical" (word that she knew well),
pretended she did not know that word and said: "Would you like, citizen,
explain what you want to mean with the word "fanatical"?
The judge replied angrily with a stream of
insults against her and her companions. But the nun, not shaken at all, with
dignity and self control replied: "Citizen, it is your duty to satisfy the
question of a convict. Thus I ask you to answer and declare what you do mean
with the word "fanatical".
I want to mean (Fouquier-Tinville said) that
affection of yours to childish beliefs, those silly religious practises of
yours" Nun Henrietta thanked him, then exclaimed to the Mother Prioress:
"My dear Mother and Sister, you have heard
the prosecutor declare that every thing is happening because of the love we
bring to our holy religion. we all desired this confession and have obtained
it. Thank He who preceded us along the way of the Calvary! What a happiness and
consolation when we can die for our God!"
The witness remarks: "in those times
fanatical and christian were considered synonyms and this title, if bestowed by
judges, corresponded to a written sentence to death because of faith"
It was six o'clock in the evening when, the same
day, hands tied behind, they mounted a cart to be led towards the barrier of
Vincennes, were the guillotine was raised.
Someone says that the nuns managed to have their
white mantles back, for sure on that cart, at twilight, they sang Compieta,
then Miserere, Te Deum and Salve Regina.
The carts usally had to work their way between
wings of screaming and drunken crowd. The witnesses says that that cart passed
in through such a silent crowd "as it never happened during the revolution".
From the crowd, a priest, dressed as a revolutionary, gave them last
absolution.
They reached the scaffold, in the old Throne
Square, towards eight o'clock in the evening.
The Prioress asked and obtained from the
executioner the grace to die last, so she could give assistance, and sustain as
Mother all her nuns, especially the youngest.
They wanted to die together, also spiritually,
as they were making a unique and last "act of community". It was a
liturgical gesture. The Prioress asked again the executioner to wait a while,
he agreed and she started singing Veni Creator Spiritus followed by the nuns.
They sang it all, then renovated their vows.
At the end the Prioress moved to the scaffold's side,
holding in her hand a small clay statue of the Holy Virgin, which she had
managed to keep hidden so far. The young novice was the first justiced. She was
surely recalling how her confessor had tenderly prepared her for this dramatic
and solemn moment, to fear not the guillotine.
-
They order you to mount the
scaffold. Do you feel pain?
-
No, Father.
-
Then they make you lay your head
under the blade and bend your head. Is it a torture?
-
Not yet.
-
The executioner let the blade fall
and you feel just for an instant that the heads separates from the body, and
you enter Heaven at once. Are you happy?
-
Yes, Father.
The dialogue can seem strange and in bad taste,
were it not that then the guillotine worked at full service (thirty- forty
execution each day) and the decapitated heads were shown to a screaming public,
while the smell of blood spread through the city.
In such conditions of persisting horror, a
dialogue like this we quoted is of moving purity and whiteness, even from a
psychological point of view.
The novice then knelt in front of the Prioress,
asked her the blessing and permission to die, kissed the statue of the Virgin
and walked the scaffold's stair, "glad, the witnesses said, as she were
going to a party" and while she climbed she started singing "Laudate
dominum omnes gentes", followed by the others who, one at a time, followed
her with the same peace and joy, even if it was necessary to help the oldest.
The Prioress was the last, after delivering the
little statue to a person nearby (it was kept and still is in the monastery at
Compiègne).
"The blow of the weighbridge, the sheer
noise of the cut, the dumb sound of the head falling... No screams, no clapping
or disorderly shouts (as instead it used to happen). Even the drums are muted.
In this place, sickened by the stink of blood, rotting in the summer heat, a
solemn silence fell down the beholders and maybe the Carmelites' prayed had
already touched their hearts." (E. Renault)
People would have known that, among those who were
present, more then a girl, inside her heart, promised God to take the martyrs'
place.
"We are the victims of the century",
one of them had said with humble pride: victims of an "enlightened
reason" that without faith had become more and more obscure and cruel.
Everyone knows that two great writer meditated on this page of history, giving
us work of great artistic value: Gertrud von Le Fort wrote the novel "Song
of the Scaffold" and G. Bernanos the even more famous "Dialogues of
Carmelites"
Despite the beauty of these works, it is
necessary to say that they are based on an artistic intuition not corresponding
to history. The tragedy of the sixteen Carmelites is told in the light of
Jesus' agony on Getsemani. Thus it becames the tragedy of a community represented
on one side by a proud and brave nun who desires martyrdom, but would not
obtain it, because she should "pour the blood" of her wounded honor,
on the other side by a young nun, weak and scared, who flees and only at last
moment, thanks to a prodigy of grace, finds the strength to offer herself
freely and die with her sisters, singing their offering song.
The historical truth, on the contrary, tells of
a community that rather lives the mystery of the last meal, when Jesus freely
and liturgically offers His body and blood.
Anyway it is right to recall some phrases of
Bernanos' tragedy.
A burning exchange of judgements between the
most fiery non and the police commissary:
People do not need any servant!
But they need martyrs, and that task we can
undertake!
The sweet and abandoned reflection by one of the
young nuns:
"We can fall only in God"
The conclusion (tis is indeed correspondent to
history) of the wise Prioress:
"Blessed God who makes this suffering we
are going to withstand together the last ceremony of our dear community".
Pope John Paul II, in the Angelus, on 24th
September 1978, recalled the example of these carmelites and said: "the
last one, Mother Therese of St. Augustine (the Prioress) spoke these last
words: "Love will always be winning, love can everything. [...] Let's aks
the Lord a new wave of love for our neighbour in this poor world.