English Benedictine Nuns in Exile in the Seventeenth Century : Living Spirituality [1 ed.] 9781526110046, 9781526110022

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English Benedictine nuns in exile in the seventeenth century

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SEVENTEENTH- AND EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY STUDIES General Editor Anne Dunan-Page Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Studies is a collection of the Société d’Études Anglo-Américaines des XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles pro­­ moting interdisciplinary work on the period c.1603–1815, covering all aspects of the literature, culture and history of the British Isles, colonial and post-colonial America, and other British colonies. The series welcomes academic monographs, as well as collective volumes of essays, that combine theoretical and methodological approaches from more than one discipline to further our understanding of the period and geographical areas. Previously published Radical voices, radical ways: Articulating and disseminating radicalism in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Britain Edited by Laurent Curelly and Nigel Smith

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English Benedictine nuns in exile in the seventeenth century Living spirituality Laurence Lux-Sterritt

Manchester University Press

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Copyright © Laurence Lux-Sterritt 2017 The right of Laurence Lux-Sterritt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Published by Manchester University Press Altrincham Street, Manchester m1 7ja, UK www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data applied for ISBN 978 1 5261 1002 2 hardback First published 2017 The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for any external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Typeset in Sabon with Palatino display by Koinonia, Manchester

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Contents

Acknowledgements List of abbreviations Notes on transcription and translation List of nuns cited Brief notes on Benedictine convents in exile Brief notes on the main archives used Introduction 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

page vii ix xi xii xvii xxi 1

The contemplative ideal of dying to the world When spiritual and secular families overlap The secular concerns of contemplatives The missionary spirit of enclosed nuns Taming worldly emotions and appetites Divine love, an emotional panacea? What place for the senses in contemplative life? Illness, death and beyond: the body as witness

23 47 77 101 136 160 185 217

Conclusion

248

Appendices Bibliography Index

255 259 288

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vi

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Acknowledgements

In order to study the manuscripts of the English Benedictines in exile, I visited twelve archives across Belgium, England and France. These trips required several weeks away from my current employment at Aix-Marseille Université and would not have been possible without the generous allocation of a sabbatical semester, from January to July 2012, by our national board, the Conseil National des Universités (CNU, section 11). I must also acknowledge the precious financial support I received from the European Society for the Study of English (ESSE), from the Société des Anglicistes de l’Enseignement Supérieur (SAES), and from the Laboratoire d’Études et de Recherche sur le Monde Anglophone (LERMA, E.A. 853), my research centre at Aix-Marseille Université. Moreover, there would have been no project at all without the openness and trust of the religious archives I visited. My deepest gratitude goes to the communities who have allowed me to use the manuscripts which document their heritage. More specifically, I would like to thank Sister Benedict at Colwich Abbey and Abbot Geoffrey Scott at Douai Abbey. Thanks are also due to the archivists who kindly guided me through their archives at Downside Abbey and at the archdiocesan archives at Mechelen and at Westminster. General thanks go to the staff at the diocesan and municipal archives at Ghent, the British Library in London, the Bodleian Library in Oxford, the Bibliothèque nationale and the Bibliothèque Mazarine in Paris, the Archives départementales du Nord in Lille and the Archives départementales du Val d’Oise in Cergy-Pontoise. vii

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Of course, I also owe an immense debt of gratitude to the team who worked on the project ‘Who Were the Nuns? A Prosopographical study of the English Convents in exile 1600–1800’. Unless otherwise stated, details of nuns’ birth, death, clothing and profession dates, as well as information on parentage, were taken from the database available on the project’s website.1 Amongst the people who have offered precious advice and support I am particularly grateful to Nicky Hallett and Carmen Mangion. I would also like to thank Jaime Goodrich, with whom I was privileged to work at the archdiocesan archives of Mechelen, for her excellent company, her patient answering of endless questions and the finesse of her remarks when she kindly read earlier drafts of this book. Finally, I must say the most heartfelt ‘merci’ to Caroline Bowden, not only for being determined enough to keep pushing for her initial project when nobody appeared to be very interested in early modern ­Catholic nuns, but also for inviting me to join her team. Since then, the study of English nuns has gone from strength to strength and many scholars, like myself, are in her debt for the opportunities she opened for us. She has spent much time reading my work and answering my questions, and any mistakes which remain in this study are entirely my own. Closer to home, my colleague Anne Dunan-Page’s trust and sup­­ port have meant more to me than I can say. I also wish to thank Jean Viviès for his kindness and advice. I am very grateful to Guyonne Leduc and to the board of the Société d’études angloaméricaines des XVIIème et XVIIIème siècles (SEAA) and to the entire team at Manchester University Press for making the publication of this monograph possible. Last, but by no means least, I am very grateful for the support of friends and relatives; my special thanks go to Simon, as ever, for his support and encouragement, not only for this particular project, but over the last twenty-three years. Note 1 https://wwtn.history.qmul.ac.uk/, accessed 25 May 2016.

viii

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Abbreviations

AAW AAM ADN ADVO AN BL CRS

CRS

CRS

CRS

CRS

Archives of the Archdiocese of Westminster Archives of the Archdiocese of Mechelen Archives départementales du Nord, Lille Archives départementales du Val d’Oise, Cergy-Pontoise Archives nationales, Paris British Library, London Misc. V, Neville  M. J. Rumsey (ed.), ‘Abbess Neville’s annals of five communities of English Benedictine nuns in Flanders 1598–1687’, Catholic Record Society, Misc. V, vol. 6 (1909), 1–72 Misc. VII, Paris  ‘The Benedictines of the convent of our Blessed Lady of Good Hope in Paris, now St. Benedict’s Priory, Colwich, Staffordshire’, Catholic Record Society, Misc. VII, vol. 9 (1911), 334–413 Misc. VIII, Cambrai  The Right Reverend Lady Cecilia Hey­­ wood, Abbess of Stanbrook and J. Gillow (eds), ‘Records of the abbey of Our Lady of Consolation nuns at Cambrai 1620–1793’, Catholic Record Society, Misc. VIII, vol. 13 (1913), 1–81 Misc. IX, Brussels  The Lady Abbess of East Bergholt and J. S. Hansom (eds), ‘Registers of the English Benedictine Nuns, Brussels … 1598–1856’, Catholic Record Society, Misc. IX, vol. 14 (1914), 174–99 Misc. X, Pontoise  The Lady Abbess of Teignmouth and the Archivist (eds), ‘Registers of the English Benedictine ix

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ABBREVIATIONS

nuns of Pontoise OSB, etc.’, Catholic Record Society, Misc. X, vol. 17 (1915), 248–326 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent  The Lady Abbess and Community (eds), ‘Obituary notices of the nuns of the English Benedictine abbey of Ghent in Flanders 1627–1811’, Catholic Record Society, Misc. XI, vol. 19 (1917), 1–92. Rule Alexia Grey (ed.), The Rule of the Most Blissed Father Saint Benedict, Patriarke of all the Munkes, Ghent, 1632. Statutes Alexia Grey (ed.), Statutes Compyled for the Better Ob­­­ser­­­ vation of the Holy Rule of the Most Glorious Father and Patriarch S. Benedict, Ghent, 1632.

x

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Notes on transcription and translation

This study aims at allowing the voices of seventeenth-century Benedictine nuns to be heard; it therefore presents quite a number of quotations from a variety of manuscripts. Editorial policy has been to render the manuscripts as faithfully as possible, resorting to editorial interventions only when the original text proved potentially confusing. All spelling, including capitalisation, is as in the original, except for the following: • the use of i and v has been modernised to j and u where necessary • archaic contractions (such as ye, yt or wn) have been silently expanded • punctuation has been altered when it was entirely lacking or, on the contrary, when it was so abundant that it obscured the meaning of the sentence. Translations from French manuscripts are by the author.

xi

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Nuns cited

Below is a list of the nuns cited by name in the various chapters of this book. They are listed according to the house in which they made their vows and were clothed. I have chosen to use their religious – rather than civil – names. Their UID number refers to the unique identity number attributed to each nun by the Who were the Nuns? database, which readers are encouraged to visit for further details, at https://wwtn.history.qmul.ac.uk/. Brussels Benedictines BB015 Berkeley, Joanna (d. 1616, prof. 1581 at Rheims). Founding member and abbess of Brussels, 1599–1616 BB025 Bond, Katherine Thecla (1599–1655, prof. 1619) BB039 Colford, Martha (1592–1634, prof. 1611) BB058 Deacon, Potentiana (also known as Pudentiana, 1581–1645, prof. 1608). She was a founding member of Cam­­brai in 1623 BB063 Digby, Magdalen (1583–1659, prof. 1611). Founding member of Ghent in 1624, where she stayed BB067 Ducket, Barbara (d. 1671, prof. 1618) BB076 Forster, Anne (1636–1717, prof. 1655), abbess 1677–82 BB077 Forster, Placida (1639–1714, prof. 1655) BB082 Gage, Teresa (1591–1654, prof. 1617) BB086 Gawen, Mary Frances (1576–1640, prof. 1600). Founding member of Cambrai in 1623, where she became abbess (1623–29) and where she stayed xii

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NUNS CITED

BB094 BB095 BB097 BB100 BB107

Hawkins, Barbara Benedict (1587–1661, prof. 1612) Healy, Anne (d. 1648, prof. 1614) Hewick, Ursula (1570–1638, prof. 1600) Ingleby, Anne (1593–1626, prof. 1612) Knatchbull, Lucy (1584–1629, prof. 1611). Founding mem­­­ ber of Ghent in 1624, where she became abbess (1624–29) and stayed BB113 Lovell, Mary (1564–1628); entered in 1608, but left in 1609 BB114 Lovell, Christina (1597–1639, prof. 1616) BB126 More, Joanna (d. 1634, prof. 1614) BB127 Morgan, Anastasia (1580–1646, prof. 1608) BB135 Percy, Mary (1570–1642, prof. 1600); abbess at Brussels, 1616–42 BB139 Phillips, Mary (1596–1654, prof. 1616) BB145 Poulton, Eugenia (1580–1646, prof. 1605). Founding member of Ghent in 1624 and abbess there after Lucy Knatchbull, 1629–42 BB146 Price, Cecelie (d. 1630, prof. 1604); founding member of Ghent in 1624 BB152 Roper, Mary (1598–1650, prof. 1619). A founding mem­­­ber of Ghent in 1624, and abbess of that house after Eugenia Poulton, 1642–50 BB162 Smith, Etheldred (1598–1666, prof. 1619) BB164 Smith, Renata (1595–1664, prof. 1615) BB165 Smith, Scholastica (1591–1660, prof. 1610) BB166 Southcote, Elizabeth (1580–1631, prof. 1600) BB186 Vavasour, Mary (1599–1676, prof. 1616); abbess, 1652–76 BB198 Wintour, Mary (1605–30, prof. 1620) BB199 Wiseman, Agatha (1585–1647, prof. 1603) Cambrai Benedictines CB004 Appleton, Marina (1624–94, prof. 1626). A founding member of Paris in 1651, she returned to Cambrai and became abbess after Christina Brent, 1681–94 CB015 Brent, Christina (1601–81, prof. 1629); abbess, 1641–45 and 1677–81 CB027 Cary, Clementia (1615–71, prof. 1640), left to help found Paris in 1651, where she stayed xiii

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CB028 Cary, Augustina (1617–82, prof. 1640) CB029 Cary, Magdalena (1619–50, prof. 1640) CB030 Cary, Mary of St Winifride (1621–93, prof. 1640); left in 1651 to help found Paris, then returned to Cambrai CB043 Constable, Barbara (1617–84, prof. 1640) CB075 Gascoigne, Justina of Santa Maria (1623–90, prof. 1640). She left in 1652 to help the new Paris house and stayed there; she was prioress, 1665–90 CB077 Gascoigne, Margaret (1608–37, prof. 1629) CB090 Hodson, Scholastica (1621–90, prof. 1642); left in 1652 to help in the new foundation in Paris, where she stayed CB091 Hodson, Gertrude (1626–52, prof. 1650); she left in 1652 with her sister, as a founding member of the Paris house, and died soon after CB121 Lusher, Bridgett (1633–90, prof. 1653) CB122 Lusher, Elizabeth (1629– 84, prof. 1651) CB123 Lusher, Francis (1624–87, prof. 1644) CB134 More, Anne (1600–62, prof. 1625) CB135 More, Brigitt (1609–92, prof. 1629). She left in 1652 to help found the Paris house, where she stayed; she was prioress there, 1652–65 CB136 More, Agnes (1591–1656, prof. 1625) CB137 More, Gertrude (1606–33, prof. 1625) CB156 Radcliffe, Ursula (1633–89, prof. 1655) CB164 Shafto, Gertrude (1631–54, prof. 1653) CB175 Smith, Barbara (1616–35, prof. 1635); professed on her deathbed Dunkirk Benedictines DB043 Conyers, Cecilia (1660–1710, prof. 1678) DB092 Knightly, Maura (1650– 1712, prof. 1666); prioress until 1712 DB134 Poulton, Mechtldis (1685–1753, prof. 1705) DB180 Warner, Agnes (1660–96, prof. 1680) Ghent Benedictines GB006 Bacon, Lucy (d. 1670, prof. 1625) GB007 Barefoot, Dorothy (c. 1603–34, prof. 1630) xiv

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NUNS CITED

GB010 Beaumont, Aloysia (1612–35, prof. 1631) GB015 Bedingfield, Tecla (1609–36, prof. 1630) GB028 Bradbery, Elizabeth (1600–30, prof. 1625) GB034 Butler, Ursula (1620–85, prof. 1637); she left in 1662 to help found Dunkirk, then moved on to found Ypres in 1683 GB040 Caryll, Mary Teresa (1630–1712, prof. 1650); abbess at Dunkirk, 1663–1712 GB050 Coningsby, Mary Ignatia (1583–1657, prof. 1639) GB058 Digby, Mary (1612–41, prof. 1637) GB071 Forster, Christina (1619–61, prof. 1641); left in 1652 to help found Boulogne, where she became abbess, 1657–61 GB074 Fortescue, Ignatia (1616–72, prof. 1632); she left in 1662 to help found Dunkirk, then in 1665 to help the foundation at Ypres. In 1672, she returned to Ghent GB075 Fortescue, Barbara (1617–66, prof. 1634) GB077 Gardiner, Teresia (1590–1650, prof. 1642) GB082 German, Aloysia (1606–72, prof. 1637); she left in 1665 as a founding member of Ypres, and returned to Ghent in 1666 GB089 Grey, Alexia (1606–40, prof. 1631) GB116 Knatchbull, Mary (1608–27; prof. 1626) GB117 Knatchbull, Margaret (1606–37, prof. 1627) GB118 Knatchbull, Mary (1610–96, prof. 1628); abbess, 1650– 96 GB121 Knatchbull, Paula (1607–82, prof. 1627). A founding member of Boulogne in 1652, she returned to Ghent in 1663. GB144 Matlock, Teresia (1602–50, prof. 1624) GB154 Radcliffe, Bridgitt (1631–81, prof. 1655) GB155 Minshall, Mary (1622–93, prof. 1649) GB157 Mounson, Mary (1605–58, prof. 1630) GB168 Neville, Anne (1605–89, prof. 1634). She left in 1652 to help found Boulogne, and relocated with the community to Pontoise in 1658, where she became abbess, 1667–87. She helped found Dunkirk in 1662 and finally returned to Ghent in 1689 GB176 Petre, Justina (1636–98, prof. 1653); abbess after Mary Knachbull, 1696–98 GB177 Petre, Catherine (1635–72, prof. 1654) GB207 Smythe, Winefride (1608–72, prof. 1635) GB227 Thorold, Eugenia (1623–67, prof. 1639). A founding member of Boulogne in 1652, she relocated at Pontoise in 1658 and became abbess there, 1662–67 xv

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NUNS CITED

GB232 Trevelyan, Mary (1610–34, prof. 1630) GB240 Wakeman, Elizabeth (1629–42, prof. 1642); professed on her deathbed GB241 Waldegrave, Hieronyma (1603–35, prof. 1627) GB251 Wigmore, Catherine (1596–1656, prof. 1626). A founding member of Boulogne in 1652, she was abbess there, 1653–56 Paris Benedictines Appleby, Maria of the Blessed Sacrament (d. 1704, prof. 1667) PB009 Bond, Mary Clare Joseph of Jesus (1734– 1789, prof. 1762); prioress, 1784–89 PB018 Coesneau, Placida of All Saints (1667–95, prof. 1683) PB020 Conyers, Catherine of the Holy Cross (d. 1703, prof. 1665) PB040 Hawes, Mary (d. 1690, prof. 1684) PB067 Pease, Benedicta of St Amando Martyr (1648–99, prof. 1670) PB001

Pontoise Benedictines (Boulogne) OB042 Fitzjames, Ignatia (1674–1704, prof. 1690) OB043 Fitzroy, Benedicta (1673–1737, prof. 1691); she left in 1720, being appointed prioress of the royal priory of St Nicolas, at Pontoise OB116 Stanihurst, Cecilia (1672–1746, prof. 1694) OB119 Swift, Mary Teresa (1635–1720, prof. 1662) OB130 Turner, Catherine (1695–1765, prof. 1716) OB134 Vaughan, Clare (1638–87, prof. 1657)

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Brief notes on Benedictine convents in  exile

Brussels (1598) The Glorious Assumption of Our Lady

Ghent (1624) Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception

Boulogne (1652) relocated to

Pontoise (1658)

Dunkirk (1662)

Ypres (1665)

Cambrai (1623) Our Lady of Consolation Paris (1651) Our Lady of Good Hope

Brussels Benedictines The monastery of the Glorious Assumption of Our Lady opened in 1598; it was the first of the English convents in exile, founded specifically for English women who, until then, had no choice but to join existing communities on the Continent, although they often did not speak their language. The convent was placed under the authority of the archbishop of Mechelen; with the support of missionaries in England, who acted as recruiting agents, it was initially successful in attracting high numbers of postulants. The social status and good repute of its founding members played in its favour, especially since the house enjoyed the support of both Archduke Albert and Archduchess Isabella. However, the convent fell prey to a bitter dispute xvii

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BRIEF NOTES ON BENEDICTINE CONVENTS IN EXILE

about governance and spiritual direction, especially over the degree of involvement of Jesuits in the spiritual life of the convent. That dispute divided the community and drastically affected the number of new entrants in the 1620s and 1630s. The community nevertheless managed to endure, but was forced to leave in the aftermath of the French Revolution, in 1794. The nuns returned to England, where they settled at Winchester until they transferred to St Mary’s Abbey at East Bergholt, Suffolk in 1857. During the Second World War, some of the nuns moved to Haslemere, then to St Scholastica’s Abbey, Teignmouth, before dying out altogether. Cambrai Benedictines Founded in 1623, the convent of Our Lady of Consolation was the only one of the seven Benedictine convents in exile to be established under the authority of the English Benedictine Congregation. It originated from the initiative of two Benedictine monks, Dom Rudesind Barlow, President General of the English Congregation (1621–29) and Dom Benedict Jones, Superior of the London District of the Order, who gathered nine postulants to create the new monastery. Augustine Baker acted as spiritual director of the Cambrai nuns from 1624 to 1633 and deeply influenced their spirituality. When the house’s official confessor, Dom Francis Hull, tried to enforce his Ignatian approach, the house remained faithful to Baker. Several nuns, such as Gertrude More, wrote to defend Baker’s teachings against his detractors. The convent and all its assets were taken by French Revolutionaries in October 1793. In May 1795 the nuns returned to England, where they joined the monks of the English Benedictine Congregation at Woolton, Lancashire. In 1807 they moved to Abbots Salford, Warwickshire, and in 1838 they settled at Stanbrook Abbey, Worcestershire; they recently settled in new, eco-friendly buildings at Wass, in North Yorkshire. Dunkirk Benedictines This convent was founded in 1662; it was Ghent’s second daughter house, after Boulogne/Pontoise in 1652, and before Ypres in 1665. When the Pontoise cloister closed, in 1786, its Dunkirk sister house welcomed six of the remaining nuns, along with their manuscripts. In 1793, however, the convent was seized by the French revoluxviii

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tionaries and its property was taken. The nuns initially stayed with the neighbouring English Poor Clares, and then with those at Gravelines. Finally, the three communities were sent to the local gaol together. Two Benedictine nuns died in captivity. In 1795 the nuns were given permission to leave and they travelled to London in May. There, they used a house formerly occupied by the Mary Ward sisters at Hammersmith. In 1863 they were able to move to their own, newly built convent in Teignmouth, Devon. The abbey has now closed due to lack of members. Ghent Benedictines The Ghent convent, also known as the Abbey of the Immaculate Conception of our Blessed Lady, was the direct result of the bitter dispute which opposed some of the nuns to their abbess at Brussels, Mary Percy. The Ghent house enjoyed very close links with Jesuit missionaries at home and was able to recruit new entrants even during hard times. It was also politically active, supporting both Charles and James Stuart during their exiles. It was founded in 1624 by a group of Sisters who left the Brussels convent in order to create their own community under the spiritual guidance of Jesuit confessors. In the aftermath of the French Revolution, as troubles spread across Flanders the community decided to return to England. It settled first in 1798 at Preston, Lancashire, then moved to Caverswall Castle, Staffordshire, in 1811. Finally, the nuns moved to Oulton, Staffordshire, where they remain today. Paris Benedictines The convent of our Blessed Lady of Good Hope was founded in 1651, from the cloister at Cambrai, partly through the personal acquaintances of Clementia Cary at Henrietta Maria’s English court. The nuns had to move five times before finally settling at rue du Chant de l’Alouette in April 1664. Initially under the authority of the English Benedictine Congregation, like their Cambrai mother house, they chose to submit to the authority of the archbishop of Paris. The agreement took effect in 1657 and Paris therefore came under the authority of the archbishop, while it retained Benedictine spiritual directors and confessors. Their close links with the monks of Port Royal meant that the nuns were, for a time, suspected of xix

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Jansenism. In 1793 the convent’s assets and papers were taken by revolutionary officers. In 1794 the nuns were removed to Vincennes, where they were held as prisoners at the castle before being allowed to join the Augustinian Canonesses in their convent. In March 1795 they left Paris; they arrived in London in July and moved several times before settling in 1836 at Colwich, Staffordshire, where they remain today. Pontoise Benedictines (Boulogne) This convent was a daughter house of Ghent, founded in 1652 by six of its Sisters, led by Mary Knatchbull. The initial foundation at Boulogne met with stern opposition from the local ecclesiastical authorities; François de Perrochel, the local bishop (1643–75), refused them entry into the town until they procured the necessary licence. When the climate proved contrary to the nuns’ health, Abbess Christina Forster sought permission to move to Pontoise, where the community settled in May 1658. The convent was chronically in debt and never managed to stabilise its finances, which adversely impacted its attractiveness to new entrants. When the annual deficit reached an estimated £10,000 the convent was suppressed in April 1786 and all its property and assets sold at auction. The nuns moved to other houses, and six of them joined the Dunkirk foundation. Ypres Benedictines The monastery of Gratia Dei was the last foundation of English Benedictine nuns in exile. A daughter house of the Ghent community, it was founded in 1665 by Mary Knatchbull, initially as an English house; when it proved unable to attract enough recruits to be viable, it was made into an Irish convent in 1682, and under this denomination it attracted a steady flow of Irish members. In 1688 the nuns moved to Dublin at the request of King James II, but they returned to Ypres following James’s defeat at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. Unlike the other English Benedictine houses, the community decided not to return to the British Isles in the eighteenth century. It left Ypres only when the abbey was destroyed in 1914; the nuns moved to Kylemore, Ireland, where they remain today. xx

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Brief notes on the main archives used

Archdiocesan Archives of Mechelen, Belgium The archdiocesan archives of Mechelen hold fifteen large boxes of manuscripts relating to the English convent of Brussels (file ref: Kloosters, Engelse Benedictinessen). They contain account books, ceremonials, examinations of novices before profession and many other texts on various aspects of the daily life of the house. But the gems of this collection are the contents of boxes 12/1 to 12/4: the manuscripts of the protracted dispute which divided the convent in the 1620s and 1630s. These boxes gather hundreds of letters, written by Abbess Mary Percy and her supporters, and by the nuns who opposed them, to their archbishops, Mathias Hovius (1596–1620) and Jacobus Boonen (1621–55). The correspondence also includes the answers written by clerics such as Robert Chambers, Anthony Champney, Gabriel Colford, Edward Lusher or John Norton, either to the nuns or to the archbishops. Lengthy visitation reports add details to the picture of this fractious house, with the official testimony of each nun answering the questions of the visitor. The documents are written in English, French and Latin, with a few in Dutch, Spanish or Italian. A carefully selected sample of the most representative papers, edited and translated, will be published as part of a volume comprising further documents relating to the Brussels controversy; see Jaime Goodrich, Laurence Lux-Sterritt and Paul Arblaster (eds), The Babylon of Brussels: Spiritual Controversies among English Benedictines, 1609–1642 (Toronto: PIMS, forthcoming). xxi

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BRIEF NOTES ON THE MAIN ARCHIVES USED

Archdiocesan Archives of Westminster, England In the Westminster collection, box YYG complements what can be found at the Mechelen archive on the Brussels dispute. But the real specificity of the documents held at Westminster is that they illustrate the link between the convents and the mission. They provide a revealing glimpse into the fact that nuns kept themselves well informed of on-going religious controversies and read a number of treatises relating to the mission in England. Box C.17, for instance, contains a copy of Edward Dicconson’s ‘Account of the English Mission’ and ‘Collections out of English Historians’ as well as writings about the English Acts of Parliament and penal laws meant to punish the practice of Catholicism on English soil. The file also contains discussions of a more theological nature, on transubstantiation, Holy Communion or Jansenism. There are several copies of letters on topical points of controversy, but also more practical documents of spiritual guidance, on the distribution of time or how to take the Spiritual Exercises, for instance. Most documents are written in English but many are in Latin. Archives départementales du Nord, Lille, France The papers held in this county archive were seized from the Cambrai nuns in the aftermath of the French Revolution, and prior to the nuns’ return to England. Boxes 20H-1 to 20H-59 contain thousands of manuscripts, most of which are of a spiritual nature and reveal much detail about the Bakerite spirit of that house. As is the case in all of the collections cited here, the contents of each box can be very diverse, with no apparent sequence or unity of topic or date. Among other precious papers, this archive holds manuscript copies of the Rule of the Order and the constitutions of the community. It also has a very informative selection of manuscripts documenting the official proceedings for the election of abbesses, the admission of novices, the ceremony of profession and funerals; these documents reveal much about the various stages of a nun’s life. The archive holds reports of visitations by the vicars-general and a large number of spiritual documents such as treatises on the virtues of a good nun, advice for spiritual retreats and prayer, exhortations against worldly affections, explanations of the mysteries of the Mass and many other writings reflecting the teachings of Augustine Baker. The documents are mostly written in English, and sometimes in French or Latin. xxii

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Archives départementales du Val d’Oise, Cergy-Pontoise, France These county archives hold the documents which were seized by the revolutionary officials who enforced the removal of the nuns at Pontoise. Unlike those held in Lille, which were obtained under similar circumstances, the manuscripts (twelve large boxes referenced 68H) are not of a spiritual nature but, rather, illustrate, in French, the more pragmatic aspects of daily life in the cloister. Several manuscripts relate to the difficulties encountered by the founding party when they initially tried to settle in Boulogne, and the official licences to settle in Pontoise have been carefully preserved. There are also detailed account books, held by the nuns over the years, as well as documents about dowry payments made and due, annual pensions or property deeds. The very precise inventories of the furniture and contents of each room, drawn up by the officers in charge of the repossession, yield a wealth of information about the interior of the house. Bibliothèque Mazarine, Paris, France The collection held at the Mazarine library holds the ceremonial of the English Benedictines of Paris, approved by the archbishop, as well as the constitutions of the community. It also holds a manuscript catalogue of the books owned by the nuns in the seventeenth century, especially those recommended by Augustine Baker. In addition, there are copies of some of Baker’s spiritual treatises. The ceremonial and constitutions are in French but the other documents are written in English. Diocesan Archives of Ghent, Belgium The manuscripts kept at Ghent are not as voluminous as those in the collections discussed above; overall, they testify to the tight bond between the Ghent convent and the Society of Jesus. They appear to indicate that the house was usually quite united when it took votes, for instance, on the matter of the election of the abbess, or when nominating clerics to represent it and act as translators and agents in the town (all of whom were Jesuits). The documents also show the great financial difficulties which plunged the convent into a cycle of considerable debt for years. Most manuscripts are written in Latin, and some in English. xxiii

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Douai Abbey, Upper Woolhampton, England Douai Abbey is a monastery of Benedictine monks; in 2010 the community obtained funding allowing it to build a magnificent library and archive, in keeping with the most modern standards of conservation. The collection relating to the nuns accounts for over seventy boxes, spanning the life of several convents, from their origins to the present. Most are in English or French, with some Latin texts. Early modern manuscripts relate mainly to the communities of Ghent, Boulogne/Pontoise and Dunkirk, with some documents concerning the Brussels convent. One of the difficulties of researching this particular collection is linked to its diversity; Douai has accrued a veritable treasure of chronicles (such as ‘The foundation of Bullogne’, written by Lucy Knatchbull), house histories (Dom Marus Estiennot’s ‘Histoire des monastères des DD. Bénédictines angloises’), biographies of exemplary nuns (Tobie Matthew’s ‘Life of Lucy Knatchbull’), documents on house management (such as Anne Neville’s ‘Instructions to Superiors’), guide books (such as the ceremonials of the Pontoise and Dunkirk communities) and spiritual notes. There is no itemised catalogue of the archive’s contents, rendering the process of researching painstakingly laborious. Yet, as one sifts through thousands of folios in order to get a better idea of the contents of each box, there can be no doubt that this archive is a veritable cornucopia of information. Downside Abbey, Stratton on the Fosse, England Downside Abbey’s imposing buildings bear witness to the prestige of the Benedictine Order in the nineteenth century in the Somerset area. The library and archive building is a modern extension, housing a wealth of documents tracing the history of the Order from the Middle Ages to today. Regarding the manuscripts of English Benedictine nuns in exile, Downside holds precious texts documenting the spiritual life of the Cambrai community, most of them written in English. It holds octavo volumes written by Augustine Baker and by some of his followers at the Cambrai convent, mainly Gertrude More and Margaret Gascoigne. Amongst the collection are the four manuscript volumes written by Barbara Constable, ‘Gemitus ­Peccatorum or the Complaints of Sinners’, ‘Considerations for Preests’, ‘Considerations and Reflexions upon the Rule of the most glorious father St Benedict’, and ‘Advices for xxiv

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Confessors and Spiritual Directors’. Some of the other documents have come from Haslemere and contain the necrologies of the Brussels nuns, as well as fragments of correspondence about the daily running of the Brussels house, the management of its properties and its dealings with the town authorities in order to be relieved of the payment of taxes. St Mary’s Abbey, Colwich, England The Abbey of St Mary is home to a small community of nuns, the descendants of the convent initially founded in Paris. The archives, like those at Douai or Downside, are private but, unlike them, are not held in new buildings but, rather, within the enclosure of the convent itself. Access is therefore limited and the little archive room is not designed to accommodate several readers at once. This is a most wonderful archive. Hundreds of volumes, used by the Sisters of Paris and remarkably preserved, yield unique information about the spiritual life of both the community and its individual nuns. Early printed books tell us about what they read, while the manuscript volumes testify to how they lived. This collection is one of the few to keep several examples of personal notes or ‘collections’. In these little manuscript books, nuns transcribed their favourite passages from sacred texts or sermons, compiled anthologies, added pious images as illustrations and wrote down their own thoughts and prayers. The archive also holds a record of Prioress Justina Gascoigne’s addresses to chapter, as well as more official documents such as the house constitutions. Works of memory have been preserved, in the form of obituaries and house chronicles. The documents are written mainly in English and sometimes in French. The Bodleian Library, Oxford, England For the purpose of this book, I consulted some of the Thurloe papers (Ms Rawlinson A.36). The manuscripts were intercepted during the Civil War by agents of John Thurloe, head of the intelligence services during Oliver Cromwell’s protectorate. They give a glimpse into the kind of information that is rarely found in conventual archives: in this case, the correspondence between Mary Knatchbull, abbess of the community of Ghent, and the representatives of Charles Stuart during his exile on the Continent. They show how xxv

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the abbess of Ghent facilitated exchanges between Charles and his English supporters by concealing letters in amongst the convent’s correspondence, and also how she allowed herself to volunteer both news and advice, as well as financial support. These documents are in English, and contain cyphered words. The British Library, London, England The manuscript collections in the British Library hold the letters exchanged between 1680 and 1690 by John Caryll and his sister Mary Teresa, then abbess of the Benedictine community of Dunkirk (Add Mss 28226 and 28227). These letters, written in English, cover various aspects of monastic life in exile: they give details about the living conditions of the community and demonstrate how difficult it was for the abbess to obtain the regular payment of the dowries and pensions due to the convent. But this correspondence also shows the emotional ties that continued to bind nuns to their families, through the exchange of small gifts or expression of concern about health problems, for example. Such letters are not often found in conventual archives, which is why this collection is so precious.

xxvi

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The holy Synod, renewing the constitution of Boniface VIII, which begins Periculoso, enjoins [...] that the enclosure of nuns be carefully restored, wheresoever it has been violated, and that it be preserved, wheresoever it has not been violated; repressing, by ecclesiastical censures and other penalties, without regarding any appeal whatsoever, the disobedient and gainsayers, and calling in for this end, if need be, the aid of the Secular arm.1

In its drive for reform, the Council of Trent (1545–63) allowed male regulars to become actively involved in the mission of ­Catholic recovery. Yet it imposed strict enclosure upon religious women, who should neither be seen nor heard. They were to live contemplative lives behind the high walls of their cloisters, abstracted, as it were, from the turbulent events of a society to which they allegedly no longer belonged. The ideal of strict clausura implied that cloisters should function as microcosms, separate from society at large. Contemplative nuns should die to the world as far as was humanly possible. This shift towards enclosure had wider consequences than could have been anticipated, particularly in terms of historical heritage. Until relatively recently, early modern contemplative nuns were all but absent from the pages of European history; moreover, the research that did exist implied – more or less explicitly – that the active endeavours of the Counter-Reformation held more intrinsic interest than cloistered forms of Catholic life in the seventeenth century. Excellent studies existed on mediaeval nunneries, but not much had been published on early modern convents, which were deemed to have little to offer.2 It was as though historians shared a 1

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common belief that ‘there could be nothing interesting in the history of the nun’.3 Yet the seventeenth century is known as the century of saints, a time of vivid renewal in European Catholic devotion.4 The proliferation of contemplative cloisters was such that municipalities often were reluctant to accept new foundations in towns which counted several already. Since religious houses were exempt from the payment of local taxes, they could become burdens for any town, particularly in hard times. The movement of monastic growth was accompanied by the multiplication of less traditional endeavours. In the troubled religious context of the seventeenth century, when the old faith faced its first widespread and organised Christian contender in the growth of Protestantism, some female religious recognised certain limitations in the contemplative model. For instance, although they were not allowed to adopt the missionary lifestyle reserved for male endeavours like that of the Society of Jesus, French Ursulines negotiated significant modifications to the Tridentine decrees on enclosure in order to take on the teaching of girls from modest (even poor) social backgrounds in their innovative day schools. Thus, their evangelisation reached out beyond the walls of the cloister and implied daily and direct interaction with the world.5 Other congregations, such as the congregation of NotreDame, negotiated new forms of approved, semi-enclosed female religious life.6 More striking still was the figure of Mary Ward who, with a group of followers who became known as ‘English Ladies’, founded houses for the catechising and education of girls in several countries and defeated overwhelming odds in the process. With their decidedly apostolic and missionary vocation, Ward’s ‘wandering girls’ addressed a crying need for a female equivalent to the male Jesuit mission. Yet by living an unenclosed life, they contradicted the decrees of the Council of Trent; moreover, they modelled themselves on the Society of Jesus, and as a result became caught in the crossfire of the bitter dispute which then raged between the secular clergy and the Society. Despite its undoubted timeliness and usefulness, Mary Ward’s Institute was suppressed in 1631.7 Further developments in female involvement in seventeenthcentury Catholic life saw devout laywomen forming companies which, although they answered a religious calling, remained secular in status. They often specialised in the catechising of girls, the care of the sick or charity to the poor. The region of Flanders abounded 2

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INTRODUCTION

in such informal groups, known as beguinages.8 In France, the most famous examples of this form of life were perhaps the Filles de la Charité founded by Vincent de Paul (1581–1660) and Louise de Marillac (1591–1660).9 In a majority of cases, however, these impromptu communities remained without religious status for a few years only, before giving in to institutional pressure and taking solemn vows under a recognised Rule. Such was the case of the Order of the Visitation of Holy Mary, founded by François de Sales (1567–1622) and Jeanne de Chantal (1572–1641).10 The women mentioned above were not contemplative in the Tridentine sense, since they vowed to work for the education of girls, which involved contact with the world and a degree of relaxation of clausura. These zealous dévotes carried the torch of their Catholic faith with militant fervour, challenging the gendered role definitions of the age. These were women worth writing about, or so did historiography imply. In the last twenty years, however, this area of research has evolved greatly. Carried by the swelling wave of publications in women’s studies, scholars began to inscribe contemplative women within the histories both of the modernising state and of a Church in the full swing of reform. To begin with, nuns were often presented in a dual manner. Some showed them as the hapless victims of family strategies and institutional greed, a representation encapsulated in Diderot’s La Religieuse (1796), and which had persisted ever since. Others preferred to depict them as strategists who managed to avoid these constraints in female communities (as portrayed in Margaret Cavendish’s The Convent of Pleasure in 1668). But more recent studies have started to dispel long-held assumptions about convents in general.11 They have revealed a variety of make-up and practice, and encouraged historians to view convents as heterogeneous ‘comprehensive schools’ rather than a ‘homogeneous sisterhood of like minds’.12 They have demonstrated that, despite strict decrees on enclosure, cloisters interacted with their patrons and remained very much part of a city’s life. Nothing can exist in a vacuum, and many convents became adept at social networking, becoming important elements of urban life. Contemplative women can no longer be seen simply as the guardians of a medieval past, nor as reactionaries who refused the changes of their day.13 The history of nuns has brought depth and nuance to the fields of religious history, of course, but also to the history of education, to family history, to social history, to cultural and art history, as well 3

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as to literary scholarship and women’s studies. The study of convent life is by definition a multi- and inter-disciplinary field, linking religion and ideology with considerations about gender and the body, but also with textual, cultural, political and societal issues. Despite the progress made in research on religious women, the history of early modern English nuns so far remains relatively under studied – unsurprisingly so, since so many factors played to their disadvantage. As women, they belonged to that half of humankind which was for so long deemed unworthy of study; as enclosed nuns, they were believed, like their Continental Sisters, to have nothing to offer to our understanding of society. And finally, as English Catholics, they were deliberately kept out of the historiography and literary canon of early modern England. Their faith excluded them from society at large, and from the grand narrative of the Protestant nation.14 After the 1559 Act of Supremacy gave the monarch authority over the state and the Church of England, the Act of Uniformity abolished Mass and enforced conformity to Anglican practice. Governments passed a series of penal laws prohibiting Catholicism on English soil and later, over the course of the seventeenth century, a veritable arsenal of laws was deployed to ensure orthodoxy to the established Church. In response, the Roman faith retired within the sphere of the household, where it was practised by extended families and tight networks of believers, behind closed doors. A consequence of these particular circumstances is that studies of English Catholicism have long focused upon the history of the clerical mission, unveiling the hardships faced by men who defended the Roman Catholic Church against the major threats of Protestant evangelism on the one hand, and acculturation on the other.15 Many have dwelt upon the mission’s internal politics and explored its desire to act as a counter-power to the Protestant state. Others have highlighted the secular involvement without which Catholicism in England could hardly have survived, and much is now known about the lay people who bolstered the work of the missionaries.16 Some of these were women, and the appealing stories of unabashed recusant ladies braving both penal laws and armed officials have been told, initially with a highly partisan agenda and more recently in more in-depth academic studies.17 But the history of English Catholicism is also a history of exile. Those who wanted the freedom to live their faith openly and 4

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INTRODUCTION

without fear of reprisals had little choice other than to leave their homeland. On the Continent, they initially found asylum in cities such as Antwerp, Bruges, Brussels, Douai or Louvain, before settling in other urban centres. In France, Paris became a major centre of English exiles, as did Rouen.18 Others gravitated towards universities and colleges further south, such as Valladolid, Madrid or Rome, and a large number also entered existing religious houses.19 The English government quickly became aware of these activities. In 1571, 13 Eliz. c. 3 aimed to put a stop to this Catholic emigration; it declared that subjects leaving England without the queen’s licence, and not returning within six months, were to forfeit their goods, chattels, and the profits of their lands. Soon, the sending of children abroad for the purposes of education was specifically targeted, and the transfer of money from England to the Continent was monitored and regulated by the penal laws. In 1603, 1 Jac. 1 c. 4 (‘Act for the due execution of the statute against Jesuits, seminary priests, etc.’) strengthened the Elizabethan legislation against religious exile and added a penalty of £100 for families sending one of their children to the Continent. In time, the parliaments of James I and Charles I also increased the penalties against Catholics at home, especially with the laws passed in 1605–6 in the aftermath of the Gunpowder Plot and in the late 1620s in the wake of the threat posed by the proposed marriage between Prince Charles and the Spanish Infanta Maria Anna. Life for English Catholics was increasingly difficult, and sending relatives away had become a very challenging enterprise. Yet, progressively, English exiles settled in a wide variety of locations all over the Continent. It has been estimated that between 3,000 and 5,000 English Catholics went into exile between the years 1598 and 1642.20 Many more joined them later. Female religious life had developed beyond the boundaries of the traditional monastic model and offered alternatives which turned towards the world. In this context, Catholic Englishwomen could choose between various types of religious modes to live out their vocations on the Continent. As mentioned at the beginning of this introduction, some of the women who left England in the early seventeenth century joined Mary Ward’s Institute. Despite breaching Tridentine decrees with their active mission, the English Ladies considered themselves as religious. Yet such an innovative and atypical lifestyle was not the choice of the great majority of 5

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postulants to religious exile.21 In great numbers, they embarked upon an enclosed life which was, ideally, to be secluded and separate from secular life. The only female community to survive the English Reformation was a group of Bridgettines at Syon Abbey (near London), which had relocated first in Flanders and in northern France before finally settling in Lisbon in 1594. But Portugal was far from the English coast, whereas the shores of the Spanish Netherlands or northern France offered the advantage of geographical proximity. English aspirants to the religious life therefore usually preferred to join established Continental convents, which implied that they had to adapt to communities in which they often struggled with local customs and language difficulties. Such was the case of Mary Ward herself when she initially joined the Poor Clares at Gravelines before founding her own Institute. Sometimes several postulants gravitated towards the same community and constituted small pockets of Englishness amidst Continental houses; this was the case, for instance, of the estimated twenty-eight Englishwomen who joined the Augustinian Canonesses at Louvain.22 As the number of religious exiles grew over time, houses specifically for the English were founded; this solved language problems and recreated spiritual homes away from home, carrying the standard of a specifically English brand of Catholicism. The convents benefited from the political support of French and Spanish leaders; in Flanders, foundations were endorsed by Archdukes Albert and Isabella, who generously patronised several communities and attended the inaugural ceremonies of the first English convent. Founded in 1598 by Lady Mary Percy with the specific purpose of welcoming her compatriots, the Brussels Benedictine convent was soon followed by foundations from other Orders: Poor Clares (1606), Augustinians (1609), Carmelites (1618), Sepulchrines (1642) and Dominicans (1660) all opened their own houses. Most of these, in turn, grew sufficiently to warrant offshoots in different locations, until finally there were twenty-two English convents in the Netherlands, France and Portugal. It has been estimated that 3,271 women became nuns in those convents between 1600 and 1800.23 Continental nuns, particularly Italian, Spanish and French, became recognised objects of study before their English counterparts. Indeed, until quite recently, the history of English nuns remained 6

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INTRODUCTION

the niche of Catholic scholars and Catholic presses. But although post-Reformation English nuns were left out of the national historical construct for a long time, it is now being revealed that they did take an active part in the construction of English history.24 The publications of a few scholars have heralded a new era for the study of early modern English convents in exile. Since the turn of the millennium, they have taken a little-known aspect of history into the spotlight and advanced our understanding of the roles played by English nuns in various fields. Caroline Bowden’s initial interest in Catholic contributions to girls’ education led her to discover some unsuspected political involvement on the part of Mary Knatchbull who, when abbess of the Benedictine community at Ghent, helped Charles II to gather funds and intelligence in preparation for his return to England.25 Since then, Bowden has published on a wide range of nun-related issues, such as education, politics, national identity, economic life, spiritual life and literary production in more depth, revealing fascinating insights into a multifaceted and yet little-explored world.26 Claire Walker’s work also has unveiled a wealth of sources which had so far remained untapped. Walker’s study of conventual involvement in England’s politics has offered clear-sighted interpretations of the nuns’ support of the Stuart cause and also, more critically, of the reasons for their being written out of history in subsequent years. She has argued that Knatchbull’s role was never made public, at least in part because it did not benefit Charles’s political agenda to reveal his alliance with nuns – women who were seen by many, in England, as defectors from the state and Church, and as dangerously misled. Walker’s publications show that nunneries, although enclosed and contemplative, played an important role in the economy of the towns in which they developed. Far from being insignificant, convents were bulwarks of resistance against the Protestant state and potential places of subversion. They facilitated the circulation of news, of ideas and of people from one side of the Channel to the other, and acted as bridges between English and Continental Catholicism.27 In the first decade of the twenty-first century, the tide truly turned for the study of early modern English nuns, thanks to an ambitious Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) and Leverhulme project based at Queen Mary University of London and carried out by Caroline Bowden. Entitled ‘Who Were the Nuns? A Prosopographical Study of the English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800’, the 7

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project began with the accurate locating of all the primary sources documenting the lives of the twenty-two convents-in-exile. That task alone, along with the cataloguing it involved, was monumental. The project team then elaborated a searchable database giving each known nun an identity number (UID) and a form containing the details of her dates of birth, clothing, profession and death, her parentage, the convents she joined, the offices she held, the publications she was involved in, all the details which are relevant to that particular individual.28 As the project advanced, it allowed a clearer view on recruitment, social status, regional associations, management, office-holding, reasons for leaving convents, spiritual direction and many more issues relating to religious life in exile.29 These initial insights have since provided invaluable stepping-stones for other studies to explore the links between the exiled convents and their local environments, as well as their attachment to a decidedly English identity.30 In addition, a growing number of literary studies have shed light upon the writing activities of the monasteries.31 Nuns chronicled the histories of their own communities and, as they did so, they became record keepers, historians and hagiographers, in charge of the perpetuation of their communities’ memories. They also wrote about their lives before and after they entered the convent, and such life writing played an important part in the proselytising endeavours of writers who aimed to edify through the dissemination of inspiring Catholic lives. Others expressed their views about issues relating to the governance of communities; they revealed fascinating glimpses into the ways early modern nuns envisaged their relationship to male Orders and authorities, and how they construed the level of autonomy of their own communities. Some translated spiritual texts in order to make them accessible to their Sisters, or copied the manuscripts necessary for the private reading and spiritual guidance of individuals. Finally, many documented their spiritual experiences, usually from a practical, personal point of view. In these writings, they did not so much theorise about spirituality as devise means to live it in a satisfying and fulfilling manner; they recorded their thoughts, their feelings and their prayers both in prose and in verse. Thanks to these recent studies across a range of disciplines, we know more than ever before about English religious women in exile. As literary scholar Frances Dolan has pointed out, they ‘worried about money, struggled with language problems, fought 8

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INTRODUCTION

about doctrine, and did hard or at least tedious physical work on an exhausting schedule’.32 Their real lives had little to do with the stereotypes found either in English anti-Catholic pamphlets or in French anticlerical literature, both of which contributed to robbing these communities of their resolve and their diligence in popular imagination. Yet there is much that remains to be explored, particularly where the gap between prescriptive guidebooks and lived ­experience is concerned. Nuns were excellent record keepers, chroniclers and hagiographers, but they also wrote, for themselves, a much more intimate type of literature. Where they have survived, such writings paint a lively, rich and multifaceted picture of conventual life. The purpose of this book is to offer some insight into the lived experience of the individuals who embraced the monastic life in the seventeenth century. It aims to compare how nuns were supposed to live with how they actually lived. For that purpose, the Benedictines appeared as a sound choice for several reasons. As Trent commanded, they embraced a life of enclosed contemplation and did not leave the cloister. Their existence therefore fitted the prescribed pattern more precisely than the mixed life preferred by the Augustinian canonesses, for instance. The Rule of St Benedict was reputedly fair and moderate; it focused on purity of intention, on humility and on core religious virtues, yet without the more stringent demands of the deeply ascetic Third Order communities, like Franciscans or Carmelites. Again, in this respect, the B ­ enedictine Rule fitted the letter of the Tridentine decrees on female religious life. Moreover, Benedictine nuns thrived in the seventeenth century, and their archives document all aspects of contemplative life in exile. The first English convent to open on the Continent was the Brussels Benedictine house (1598). Its first abbess, Dame Joanna Berkeley, had been clothed in 1580 at St Peter’s Abbey, a French convent in Rheims. She therefore had the necessary experience of the Rule of St Benedict to be a competent first abbess for the new English house. The convent grew rapidly, and with overcrowding and strong disagreements about the issue of confessors, it was soon necessary to start a new foundation, at Ghent (1624). ­Brussels had initially been strongly associated with Jesuit direction, but this closeness became the object of a bitter and protracted dispute, causing the house to loosen its bond with the Society of Jesus in favour of secular confessors before re-asserting its initial Jesuit bent from 9

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1650 onwards. The Ghent house was less troubled in its choice of confessors: it was entirely devoted to the Society of Jesus and chose to follow Jesuit rather than secular direction whenever possible. Other foundations were, in turn, made from the Ghent convent: first in 1652 at Boulogne (relocated to Pontoise in 1658), then Dunkirk (1662) and Ypres (1665). These foundations fell under the authority of their local bishops and embraced Jesuit spirituality. In parallel, a separate endeavour led to the foundation of another house at Cambrai, in 1623. It originated from the initiative of two Benedictine monks, Dom Rudesind Barlow, President General of the English Congregation (1621–29) and Dom Benedict Jones, Superior of the London District of the Order, who gathered nine postulants to create this new monastery. At Cambrai, the nuns depended upon the authority of the Benedictine Fathers and were keenly attached to Benedictine advisors. The house then expanded and created its own filiation in Paris (1652). Although it followed its motherhouse in its spiritual heritage, the new Paris convent was compelled to fall under diocesan jurisdiction, like the others, rather than adopt the model of Cambrai. Thus, the Cambrai house was distinctive as the only English Benedictine convent placed under the direction of the Anglo-Benedictine Congregation. The Benedictine nuns therefore offer an interestingly mottled picture of various strands of spirituality within the same Order. Another important factor in the choice of the English Benedictines for this monograph is the wealth of manuscripts they have preserved: although scattered in many depositories on the ­Continent and in England, their archives abound in both clerical guidance papers and personal documents written by the nuns themselves and for their own use. They were also involved in an unusually large number of publications, either as authors or as dedicatees. This wide variety of material offers a remarkable degree of detail. Many of the Cambrai, Paris and Pontoise documents were seized in the aftermath of the French Revolution and are now kept in state archives, whilst manuscripts about Ghent and Brussels are mostly kept in various ecclesiastical archives. Some of the papers, particularly letters which were addressed to correspondents in England, are kept in the British Library in London and the Bodleian Library in Oxford. Many more documents, concerning all the houses, remain in the private custody of the Sisters’ descendants in English convents. Some, particularly chronicles and obituaries, were published in the 10

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course of the twentieth century, in specialist publications for the use of the communities33 or as special issues of Catholic Record Society publications.34 Others, relating to the Bakerite spirituality which flourished at Cambrai, have been published more recently in special issues of the Analecta Cartusiana.35 But overwhelmingly, the writings of the English Benedictine nuns remain in manuscript form. They give rich information about the foundations, although to varying degrees, since some houses lost very large portions of their records when they returned to England (such was the case of Pontoise, Dunkirk and Ghent), whilst others preserved more of their papers (the Cambrai and Paris convents, for instance, were more fortunate). For these reasons, some houses will feature a little more prominently than others in this volume. Moreover, the Ypres house will be alluded to but not studied at length here. After some initial difficulties when it was founded in 1665, it soon blossomed as an Irish project, and adopted a different outlook from its sister houses; its history is closely bound to the story of the Church in Ireland and therefore does not fit very easily in a study which explores traits of religious Englishness in exile. The Ypres community was the focus of a dedicated volume which documents its history in great detail, and it deserves investigation in the broader context of early modern Ireland and Britain, an endeavour which lies beyond the scope of this book. Marie-Louise Coolahan, for instance, recently wrote about issues of national identities and Irish culture in English convents, including the Ypres Benedictine house.36 Recent publications on the convents in exile have taken a broad approach over the longue durée, spanning both seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.37 This study, however, will be restricted to the seventeenth century. The circumstances and practices surrounding English Catholicism, both at home and abroad, underwent deep changes after the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and over the course of the eighteenth century. Although they remained steadfast supporters of the Stuarts, exiled Benedictine nuns did not become very actively involved in Jacobite politics. Their hopes for the imminent conversion of England, which had known such highs and lows from the death of Elizabeth I, the accession of James I, the events of the Civil Wars, the Restoration and the accession of James II, were momentarily dashed. Moreover, politics at home evolved during the course of the eighteenth century. Although the Roman Catholic Relief Act was not passed until 1829, the practice of Catholicism 11

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was no longer subject to the stringent persecution of earlier days. Issues such as recruitment of girls into convents, economic stability or political involvement were deeply linked with such changes. The spirituality of eighteenth-century nuns was also a little different from that of their predecessors. Their contemplative modus vivendi evolved, new practices emerged, trends in spirituality shifted. For all these reasons, this study will focus on the earlier, formative years of conventual life in exile, which offer a more consistent picture for the purposes of a monograph. In an effort to compare the prescriptions and ideal of contemplative life with the lived experience of nuns, this study is divided into two broad parts, one exploring general and communal issues of recruitment, management and the interface with the world, and the other dealing with more personal issues and the rapport of spiritual individuals with their bodies. The first four chapters focus upon religious life within the enclosure and beyond; they highlight the tension between the ideal of a cloistered contemplative life and the reality of survival and expansion in the English Benedictine convents. Chapter 1 offers an exploration of the prescriptive literature used by the Benedictines and shows that the contemplative ideal demanded that nuns consider themselves as utterly dead to the world. They were to sever their links to others, both outside and inside the cloister, and become strangers even to themselves. Yet such a complete separation from the world was hardly possible. It was, in fact, incompatible with the very survival of convents which, as Chapter 2 demonstrates, depended greatly upon recruitment strategies to create links of support between convents and those who had major stakes in them. Moreover, as Chapter 3 illustrates, communities in exile were highly dependent upon networks of patrons in neighbourhoods where, as foreigners, they lacked the backing of locals. They were in constant negotiations with secular interlocutors regarding properties, security, funds, supplies or taxes, and never died to the world fully. They maintained daily commerce with the outside, to ensure the prosperity of their communities. Perhaps more strikingly, as Chapter 4 highlights, they took an active part in the mission of Catholic recovery in England. Despite their enclosure and lack of mobility, they played an important role in the spiritual welfare of their fellow Catholics back home. They offered lodging to English Catholic ladies, and were involved in the writing, translating and publishing of spiritual texts; their recusant friends valued 12

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their prayers highly, ever hopeful of their efficacy in bringing about the return of the faith to the kingdom. Moreover, many nuns were related to missionaries in England. Some, like Abbess Knatchbull at Ghent, were active supporters of the exiled Charles Stuart, to whom they offered valuable services. These Sisters pursued an ideal of secluded contemplation, lives of spirit detached from the petty concerns of the world; yet, at the same time, they managed the complex realities of life in exile and a spiritual zeal for the re-Catholicisation of their homeland, which made them important players in the ever uncertain world of early modern English Catholicism. After exploring the links of the cloister with the world, the study delves into the realm of the private, even intimate, experience of spirituality. The next four chapters of the book confront the nuns’ common spiritual ideal of disembodied purity and their personal apprehension of their physical (and therefore flawed) selves. In their efforts towards spiritual perfection, many of them struggled to reconcile what they really experienced with what they hoped to achieve. The personal experiences of individuals could rarely be smooth or straightforward and their relationships with emotions (and more generally with the body as the channel of emotions) were multilayered and complex.38 The lens of emotionology39 offers new readings of religious experience; it highlights some emotions as particularly religious, ranging from performative emotions (such as ceremonial tears) to deeply personal feelings of doubt or hopelessness, thereby revealing insights into the history of their collective and individual experiences of spirituality. Chapter 5 explores the lives of the Benedictine convents as ‘emotional communities’ with their own systems of feeling and modes of emotional expression.40 The nuns’ writings reveal their efforts to comply with clerical prescriptive literature on emotions; they adopted an orthodox discourse, decrying human emotions as hindrances on the road to spiritual perfection. Yet they also unveil a more multilayered and complex relationship with these natural emotions in which many nuns struggled to reconcile what they really did feel with what they knew they should feel. Chapter 6 moves on to show that the negative discourse towards emotions was counterbalanced by a typically Christian ‘hypervaluation of love’.41 Nuns sought to experience perfect union with their heavenly bridegroom and the bliss of His divine love. Benedictines such as Margaret Gascoigne or Gertrude More, as well as other, less famous 13

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(sometimes anonymous) Sisters, documented their mystical yearnings and their personal experiences in their search for divine love. Put simply, the contemplative ideal rejected the physical in favour of the spiritual, and treated the flesh as a stumbling block on the way to religious perfection. Yet, as Chapter 7 shows, what nuns felt even during moments of perfect prayer, when they were at their most spiritual, was by necessity experienced through the body. At Brussels and Ghent particularly, nuns related their experiences of divine love as highly physical moments of union, mediated through the senses. The corporal shell which they sought to subjugate was, at times, the very locus of their spiritual bliss. Such ambiguity towards the senses was felt keenly amongst the different Benedictine communities and led to issues of discernment regarding mystical spirituality. Finally, Chapter 8 deals with the body as a witness of spirituality. Through accounts of long-lasting diseases and extended deathbed scenes, and by relating the marvels which occurred to some corpses, conventual obituaries, biographies and chronicles conferred on the body a central place in the construction of spirituality. For nuns, to die was to be born to a truly spiritual life united with God. But death (with the protracted period of illness which often preceded it) was not simply an individual experience: a good death edified and strengthened the entire community. Beyond the grave, accomplished nuns lived on as exemplars, and their sufferings served as witnesses to their divine election. The hagiographical obituaries written by the Benedictine Sisters demonstrate a strong desire to propose new models of sanctity. The story of the English Benedictines is an intrinsically English one. The documents of the communities illustrate specifically national issues. They echo the circumstances of the Catholic diaspora and the strategies adopted by minorities in exile. The manuscripts also indicate very clearly that nuns were affected by the divisions between seculars and Jesuits, and the strife which plagued the English mission on issues of spiritual practice, governance and influence. Through the new perspective of female religious communities, these sources bring nuance and depth to the history of a conflict which has been studied predominantly from the point of view of the clergy. Taken as a whole, rather than individually, the archives of the Benedictines of Brussels, Ghent, Boulogne (relocated at Pontoise), Dunkirk, Cambrai and Paris provide a detailed and intricate picture of the complexities of English female Catholicism 14

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in exile. Yet, beyond their English specificities, they also show that these convents partook of the same general circumstances as their Continental counterparts and were inscribed within the same postTridentine context as Italian, French or Spanish cloisters. They yield precious insights into the personal and communal experiences of a piety striving to live up to highly challenging spiritual ideals, and allow a better understanding of what nuns felt and lived. Notes 1 Decree on regulars and nuns, 25th session of the Council of Trent, 4 December 1563. See H. J. Schroeder (ed.), Canons and Decrees of the Council of Trent (Rockford, IL: Tan Books, 1978). 2 A brief look at publications shows that medieval nuns continue to attract inter-disciplinary studies: David Bell, What Nuns Read: Books and Libraries in Medieval English Nunneries (Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 1995); Janet Burton and Karen Stöber (eds), Monasteries and Society in the British Isles in the Later Middle Ages (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2008); Barry Collett (ed.), Female Monastic Life in Early Tudor England: With an Edition of Richard Fox’s Translation of the Benedictine Rule for Women, 1517 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002); Paul Lee, Nunneries, Learning and Spirituality in Late Medieval English Society: The Dominican Priory of Dartford (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2001); Elizabeth Makowski, Canon Law and Cloistered Women: Periculoso and Its Commentators, 1298–1545 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1997); Anne Müller and Karen Stöber (eds), Self ­Representations of Medieval Religious Communities: The British Isles in Context (Berlin: Lit Verlag, 2009); Marilyn Oliva, The Convent and the Community in Late Medieval England: Female Monasteries in the Diocese of Norwich, 1350–1540 (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 1998); Nancy Warren Bradley, Spiritual Economies: Female Monasticism in Later Medieval England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001); Anne Bagnall Yardley, Performing Piety: Musical Practices in Medieval English Nunneries (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005). 3 Olwen Hufton, ‘Whatever happened to the history of the nun?’, Hayes Robinson Lecture Series 3 (2000), 1–32. Quotation at p. 5. 4 See Louis Chatelier, L’Europe des dévots (Paris: Flammarion, 1988). 5 On the active apostolate of the Ursulines in seventeenth-century France: Philippe Annaert, Les Collèges au féminin: Les Ursulines, enseignement et vie consacrée aux dix-septième et dix-huitième siècles (Namur: Vie Consacrée, 1992) ; Philippe Annaert, ‘Monde clos des cloitres et société urbaine à l’époque moderne: les monastères d’Ursulines dans les Pays-Bas méridionaux et la France du nord’, Histoire, économie et société 24:3

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(2005), 329–41; Françoise Deroy-Pineau (ed.), Marie Guyart de l’Incarnation: un destin transocéanique, Tours 1599–Québec 1672 (Paris: Harmattan, 2000); Marie Chantal Gueudré, Histoire de l’ordre des Ursulines en France, 3 vols (Paris: Editions St Paul, 1957–63); Laurence Lux-Sterritt, ‘Between the cloister and the world: the successful compromise of the Ursulines of Toulouse, 1604–1616’, French History 16:3 (2002), 247–68; Laurence Lux-Sterritt, ‘Les Religieuses en mouvement. Ursulines françaises et Dames anglaises à l’aube du XVIIème siècle’, Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine 52:4 (2005), 7–23; Claude Alain Sarre, Vivre sa soumission: L’exemple des Ursulines provençales et comtadines (1592–1792) (Paris: Publisud, 1997). 6 Elizabeth Rapley, The Dévotes. Women and Church in SeventeenthCentury France (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1990). 7 In 1909, Pope Pius X rehabilitated Mary Ward as the original foundress of the Institute of the Blessed Virgin Mary and recognised the value of her militant work. It was only in 2003 that the Roman branch of the IBVM became officially called the Congregation of Jesus (CJ) and was allowed to adopt Ignatian Constitutions, the text of which was adapted to women by omitting passages referring to priestly ministry. See Laurence Lux-Sterritt, ‘Mary Ward’s English Institute and prescribed female roles in the early modern church’, in Laurence Lux-Sterritt and Carmen Mangion (eds), Gender, Catholicism and Spirituality (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), pp. 83–98. On Mary Ward’s Institute, see (amongst others) M. C. E. Chambers, The Life of Mary Ward, 1585–1645, 2 vols (London: Burns and Oates, 1882–85); Margaret Littlehales, Mary Ward, Pilgrim and Mystic (London: Burns and Oates, 1998); Emmanuel Orchard (ed.), Till God Will: Mary Ward through her Writings (London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 1985) and Henriette Peters, Mary Ward. A World in Contemplation, trans. by Helen Butterworth (Leominster: Gracewing Books, 1994). All the primary documents can now be found in the definitive four-volume German edition by Ursula Dirmeier, CJ (ed.), Mary Ward und ihre Gründung. Die Quellentexte bis 1645, 4 vols, Corpus Catholicorum, Werke katholischer Schriftsteller im Zeitaler der Glaubensspaltung, vols 45–48 (Münster: Aschendorff Verlag, 2007). Some have been edited in English in Christina Kenworthy-Browne, CJ (ed.), Mary Ward, 1585–1645. A Briefe Relation with Autobiographical Fragments and a Selection of Letters (The Catholic Record Society Publication, vol. 81 (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2008). 8 Marit Monteiro estimates that around 5,000 women became ‘spiritual virgins’ in the northern Netherlands in the seventeenth century. See her ‘Power in piety: inspiration, ambitions and strategies of spiritual virgins in the northern Netherlands during the seventeenth century’, in Laurence Lux-Sterritt and Carmen Mangion (eds), Gender, Catholicism

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and Spirituality. Women and the Roman Catholic Church in Britain and Europe, 1200–1900 (Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), pp. 115–30. 9 See Matthieu Brejon de Lavergnée, Histoire des Filles de la Charité, XVIIe–XVIIIe siècle. La rue pour cloître (Paris: Fayard, 2011). 10 Bernard Dompnier and Dominique Julia (eds), Visitation et Visitandines aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles. Actes du colloque d’Annecy, 3–5 juin 1999, CERCOR, Travaux et Recherches XIV (Saint-Étienne: Publications de l’Université de Saint-Étienne, 2001). 11 The bibliography on European convents is too vast to include here. Eminent scholars such Judith Brown, Silvia Evangelisti, Helen Hills, Mary Laven, Kate Lowe, Craig Monson, Elissa Weaver and Gabriela Zarri have contributed to the rich historiography on Italian convents, whilst Gillian Ahlgren, Jodi Bilinkoff and Alison Weber have written enlightening studies on Spanish female spirituality. In France, the more active endeavours of the women religious have often been studied over traditional cloisters; see the works of Barbara Dienfendorf, Susan Dinan or Elizabeth Rapley. 12 Hufton, ‘Whatever happened to the history of the nun?’, p. 12. 13 Ulrike Strasser, ‘Early modern nuns and the feminist politics of religion’, The Journal of Religion 84:4 (2004), 529–54. 14 See Christopher Highley, Catholics Writing the Nation in Early Modern Britain and Ireland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp.  1–23 and Raymond D. Tumbleson, Catholicism in the English Protestant Imagination. Nationalism, Religion and Literature, 1600–1745 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 1–16. 15 A full bibliography cannot be given here but titles of note include Victor Houliston, Catholic Resistance in Elizabethan England: Robert Persons’s Jesuit Polemic, 1580–1610 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007); Thomas McCoog, The Reckoned Expense: Edmund Campion and the Early English Jesuits: Edmund Campion and the Early English Jesuits – Essays in Celebration of the First Centenary of Campion Hall, Oxford (1896– 1996) (New York: Boydell, 1996); Thomas McCoog, ‘And Touching Our Society’: Fashioning Jesuit Identity in Elizabethan England (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 2013); Malcolm South, The Jesuits and the Joint Mission to England during 1580–1581 (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1999) and the classic Ethelred Taunton, The History of the Jesuits in England, 1580–1773 (London: Methuen, 1901). 16 See for instance Patrick McGrath and Joy Rowe, ‘The Elizabethan priests: their harbourers and helpers’, Recusant History 19:3 (1989), 209–33. 17 On recusant women, see for instance Roland Connelly, Women of the Catholic Resistance: in England 1540–1680 (Durham: Pentland Press, 1997); Peter Lake and Michael Questier, The Trials of Margaret Clitherow: Persecution, Martyrdom and the Politics of Sanctity in ­

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­Elizabethan England (London: Continuum International, 2011); Christine Peters, Women, Gender and R ­ eligion in Late Medieval and Reformation England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009); Marie Rowlands, ‘Recusant Women 1560–1640’, in Mary Prior (ed.), Women in English Society 1500–1800 (London: Methuen, 1985), pp. 149–80; Claire Walker, Gender and Politics in Early Modern Europe: English Convents in France and the Low Countries (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003); Retha Warnicke, Women of the English Renaissance and Reformation (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1983); Diane Willen, ‘Women and religion in early modern England’, in Sherrin Marshall (ed.) Women in Reformation and Counter-Reformation Europe (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), pp. 140–66. 18 For a study of the exile presence in Paris, see Katy Gibbons, English Catholic Exiles in Late Sixteenth-Century Paris, Royal Historical Society Studies in History (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2011). 19 The distinct phases of the diaspora and exile are clearly mapped out in the introduction of Peter Guilday, English Catholic Refugees on the Continent, 1558–1795 (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1914). 20 Ibid., p. xx and J. C. H. Aveling, The Handle and the Axe: The Catholic Recusants in England from Reformation to Emancipation. London: Blond & Briggs (1976), p. 98. 21 Craig Harline, ‘Actives and contemplatives: the female religious on the Low Countries before and after Trent’, Catholic Historical Review 81:4 (1995), 541–67. 22 Caroline Bowden, ‘Patronage and practice: assessing the significance of the English convents as cultural centres in Flanders in the seventeenth century’, English Studies 92:5 (2011), 483–95. See also the Chronicles of the English Augustinian Canonesses Regular of the Lateran, At St Monica’s in Louvain (now at St Augustine’s Priory, Newton Abbot, Devon), 1548–1644 (London: Sands, 1906). 23 See chart in Caroline Bowden and James Kelly (eds), The English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800: Communities, Culture and Identity (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), p. 16. 24 Claire Walker, ‘Prayer, patronage, and political conspiracy: English nuns and the restoration’, The Historical Journal 43:1 (2000), 1–23. 25 Caroline Bowden, ‘“For the glory of God”: a study of the education of English catholic women in convents in Flanders and France in the first half of the seventeenth century’, Paedagogica Historica, Supplementary Series, Gent CSHP, vol. V (1999), 77–95 and ‘The abbess and Mrs Brown: Lady Mary Knatchbull and royalist politics in Flanders in the late 1650s’, Recusant History 24:3 (1999), 288–308. 26 Caroline Bowden, ‘Community space and cultural transmission: formation and schooling in English enclosed convents in the seventeenth century’, History of Education 34:4 (2005), 365–86; Caroline Bowden,

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‘The English convents in exile and questions of national identity, 1600– 1688’, in David Worthington (ed.), Emigrants and Exiles from the Three Kingdoms in Europe, 1603–1688 (Amsterdam: Brill, 2009), pp. 297–314; Caroline Bowden, ‘Women in educational spaces’, in Laura Knoppers (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Early Modern Women’s Writing (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 85–96; Caroline Bowden, ‘Books and reading at Syon Abbey, Lisbon in the seventeenth century’, in. A. Jones and Alexandra Walsham (eds), Syon Abbey and its Books: Religious Communities and Communication in Late Medieval and Early Modern England (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2010), pp. 177–202; Caroline Bowden, ‘Collecting the lives of early modern women ­religious: obituary writing and the development of collective memory and corporate identity’, Women’s History Review, 19:1 (2010), 7–20; Caroline Bowden (ed.), English Convents in Exile 1600–1800, 6 vols (London: Pickering and Chatto, 2012–13). 27 Claire Walker, ‘“Doe not supose me a well mortifyed nun dead to the world”: letter-writing in early modern English convents’, in J. Daybell (ed.), Early Modern Women’s Letter Writing 1450–1700 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2001), pp. 159–176; Claire Walker, Gender and Politics in Early Modern Europe: English convents in France and the Low Countries (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003); Claire Walker, ‘Spiritual property: the English Benedictine nuns of Cambrai and the dispute over the Baker manuscripts’, in N. E. Wright, M. W. Ferguson and A. R. Buck (eds), Women, Property and the Letters of the Law in Early Modern England (London: University of Toronto Press, 2004), pp. 237–55; Claire Walker, ‘Loyal and dutiful subjects: English nuns and Stuart politics’, in James Daybell (ed.), Women and Politics in Early Modern England, 1450–1700 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), pp. 228–42; Claire Walker, ‘Recusants, daughters and sisters in Christ. English nuns and their communities in the seventeenth century’, in S. Broomhall and S. Tarbin (eds), Women, Identities and Communities in Early Modern Europe (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), pp. 61–76; Claire Walker, ‘Securing souls or telling tales? The politics of cloistered life in an English convent’, in Cordula Van Wyhe (ed.), Female Monasticism in Early Modern Europe. An Interdisciplinary View (London: Ashgate, 2008), pp. 227–44; Claire Walker, ‘Priests, nuns, presses and prayers: the Southern Netherlands and the contours of English Catholicism’, in Benjamin Kaplan, Bob Moore, Henk van Nierop and Judith Pollman (eds), Catholic Communities in Protestant States: Britain and the Netherlands, c. 1570–1720 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009), pp. 139–55; Claire Walker, ‘Continuity and isolation: the Bridgettines of Syon in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries’, in E. A. Jones and A. Walsham (eds), Syon Abbey and its Books, pp. 155–76. 28 The women cited in this book are listed at the start of the volume,

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together with the UID which will allow readers to refer to the database and check the notice for each individual nun. 29 wwtn.history.qmul.ac.uk/index.html, accessed 11 February 2016. 30 Paul Arblaster, ‘The monastery of Our Lady of the Assumption in Brussels (1599–1794)’, English Benedictine History Symposium 17 (1999), 54–77; Liesbeth Corens, ‘Catholic nuns and English identities. English Protestant travellers on the English convents in the Low Countries, 1660–1730’, Recusant History 30:3 (2011), 442–59; James Kelly, ‘Essex girls abroad: family patronage and the politicisation of convent recruitment in the seventeenth century’, in Caroline Bowden and James Kelly (eds), English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800. Communities, Cultures and Identity (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), pp. 33–52. 31 Marie-Louise Coolahan, ‘Identity politics and nuns’ writing’, Women’s Writing 14 (2007), 306–20; Marie-Louise Coolahan, ‘Archipelagic identities in Europe: Irish nuns in English convents’, in Caroline Bowden and James Kelly (eds), The English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800. Communities, Cultures and Identity (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), pp. 211–28; Jaime Goodrich (ed.) Faithful Translators: Authorship, Gender, and Religion in Early Modern England (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2014); also Jaime Goodrich, ‘Monastic authorship, Protestant poetry, and the psalms attributed to Dame Clementia Cary’, in Michael Denbo (ed.), New Ways of Looking at Old Texts V: Papers of the Renaissance English Text Society (Tempe: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2014), pp. 189–203; Jaime Goodrich, ‘Translating Lady Mary Percy: authorship and authority among the Brussels Benedictines’, in Caroline Bowden and James Kelly (eds), The English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800. Communities, Cultures and Identity (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), pp. 109–22; Nicky Hallett, The Senses in Religious Communities, 1600–1800: Early Modern ‘Convents of Pleasure’ (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013); Nicky Hallett, ‘Shakespeare’s sisters: Anon and the authors in early modern convents’, in Caroline Bowden and James Kelly (eds), The English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800. Communities, Cultures and Identity (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), pp. 139–55; Nicky Hallett (ed.), English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800: Life Writing I (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2012); Nicky Hallett, ‘Philip Sidney in the cloister: the reading habits of English nuns in seventeenth-century Antwerp’, Journal of Early Modern Cultural Studies, 12:3 (2012), 87–115; Nicky Hallett, ‘“So short a space of time”: early modern convent chronology and Carmelite spirituality’, Journal for Medieval & Early Modern Studies, 42:2 (2012), 539–66; Nicky Hallett, ‘Paradise postponed: the nationhood of nuns in the 1670s’, in Tony Claydon and Tom Corns (eds), Religion, Culture and the National Community in the 1670s (University of Wales Press, 2011), pp. 10–34; Nicky Hallett, Lives of Spirit: English Carmelites

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Self-Writing of the Early Modern Period (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007); Nicky Hallett, Witchcraft, Exorcism and the Politics of Possession in a Seventeenth Century Convent: ‘How Sister Ursula was once bewitched and Sister Margaret twice’ (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007); Jenna Lay, ‘An English nun’s authority: early modern spiritual controversy and the manuscripts of Dame Barbara Constable’, in Laurence Lux-Sterritt and Carmen Mangion (eds), Gender, Catholicism and Spirituality. Women and the Roman Catholic Church in Britain and Europe, 1200–1900 (Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), pp. 99–114 and ‘The literary lives of nuns: crafting identities through exile’, in Caroline Bowden and James Kelly (eds), The English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800. Communities, Cultures and Identity (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), pp. 71–86; Victoria Van Hyning, ‘Naming names: chroniclers, scribes and editors at St Monica’s convent, Louvain, 1630–1906, in Caroline Bowden and James Kelly (eds), English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800. Communities, Cultures and Identity (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), pp. 87–108; Heather Wolfe, ‘Dame Barbara Constable: Catholic antiquarian, advisor and closet missionary’, in R. Corthell, F. E. Dolan, C. Highley and A. F. Marotti (eds), Catholic Culture in Early Modern England (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), pp. 158–88; Heather Wolfe, ‘Reading bells and loose papers: reading and writing practices of the English Benedictine nuns of Cambrai and Paris’, in Victoria E. Burke and Jonathan Gibson (eds), Early Modern Women’s Manuscript Writing (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), pp. 135–56; Heather Wolfe, ‘The scribal hands and dating of Lady Falkland: Her Life’, in Peter Beal and Margaret J. M. Ezell (eds), English Manuscript Studies 1100–1700, Vol. 9: Writings by Early Modern Women (London: British Library, 2000), pp. 187–217. 32 Frances Dolan, ‘Why are nuns funny?’, The Huntington Library Quarterly 70:4 (2007), 509–35. 33 For instance Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, now at St Mary’s Abbey, Oulton (Oulton, 1894); Chronicle of the First Monastery Founded at Brussels for English Benedictine Nuns, A.D. 1597 (Saint Mary’s Abbey, Bergholt, 1898); A History of the Benedictine Nuns of Dunkirk, now at St Scholastica’s Abbey, Teignmouth, Devon (London: Burns & Oates, 1958). 34 M. J. Rumsey (ed.), ‘Abbess Neville’s annals of five communities of English Benedictine nuns in Flanders 1598–1687’, Catholic Record Society, Misc. V, Vol. 6 (1909), 1–72 (hereafter CRS Misc. V, Neville); ‘The Benedictines of the convent of our Blessed Lady of Good Hope in Paris, now St. Benedict’s Priory, Colwich, Staffordshire’, Catholic Record Society, Misc. VII, vol. 9 (1911), 334–413(hereafter CRS Misc. VII, Paris); The Right Reverend Lady Cecilia Heywood, Abbess of Stanbrook and J. Gillow (ed.), ‘Records of the abbey of Our Lady of Consolation

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nuns at Cambrai 1620–1793’, Catholic Record Society, Misc. VIII, vol. 13 (1913), 1–81(hereafter CRS Misc. VIII, Cambrai; The Lady Abbess of East Bergholt and J. S. Hansom (eds), ‘Registers of the English Benedictine Nuns, Brussels, 1598–1856’, Catholic Record Society, Misc. IX, vol. 14 (1914), 174–99 (hereafter CRS Misc. IX, Brussels); The Lady Abbess of Teignmouth and the Archivist (eds), ‘Registers of the English Benedictine nuns of Pontoise OSB, etc. ’, Catholic Record Society, Misc. X, vol. 17 (1915), 248–326 (hereafter CRS Misc. X, Pontoise); The Lady Abbess and Community (eds), ‘Obituary notices of the nuns of the English Benedictine abbey of Ghent in Flanders 1627–1811’, Catholic Record Society, Misc. XI, vol. 19 (1917), 1–92 (hereafter CRS Misc. XI, Ghent). 35 Ben Wekking (ed.), ‘Fr. Augustine Baker’s The Life and Death of Dame Gertrude More’, in Analecta Cartusiana, 119: 19 (2001); John Clark (ed.), ‘Fr. Augustine Baker; The Life of Dame Margaret Gascoigne; Five Treatises; and Confession’, Analecta Cartusiana 119: 23 (2004); Julia Bolton Holloway, Colections by an English Nun in Exile: Bibliothèque Mazarine 1202’, Analecta Cartusiana 119: 26 (2006); John Clark (ed.), ‘Confessiones Amantis: The Spiritual Exercises of the most Vertuous and Religious Dame Gertrude More’, Analecta Cartusiana 119: 27 (2007); John Clark (ed.), ‘The Devotions of Dame Margaret Gascoigne’, Analecta Cartusiana 119: 28 (2007); John Clark (ed.), ‘Idiot’s Devotion’, Analecta Cartusiana 119: 29 (2008). 36 Marie-Louise Coolahan, ‘Identity politics and nuns’ writing’; MarieLouise Coolahan, ‘Archipelagic identities in Europe’; Patrick Nolan, The Irish Dames of Ypres, being a History of the Royal Irish Abbey of Ypres, A. D. 1665, and still Flourishing; and Some Account of Irish Jacobitism, with a Portrait of James II and Stuart Letters Hitherto Unpublished (Dublin: Browne and Nolan, 1908). 37 See Bowden (ed.), English Convents in Exile, and Bowden and Kelly (eds), The English Convents in Exile. 38 Niklaus Largier showed that the use of modern psychological concepts such as emotions, when used with care, could bring light to the study of earlier times without introducing anachronistic interpretations. Niklaus Largier, ‘Medieval Christian mysticism’, in John Corrigan (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Emotion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 364–79. 39 For a definition of the term ‘emotionology’, see Peter and Carol Stearns, ‘Emotionology: clarifying the history of emotions and emotional standards’, American Historical Review, 90 (1985), 813–36. 40 Barbara Rosenwein, Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell University Press, 2006). 41 John Corrigan (ed.), Religion and Emotions: Approaches and Interpretations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), p. 19.

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1 • The contemplative ideal of dying to the world

[A]s you seem to bid adue to the world for ever (& to your selfe; in outward apearance) soe likewise, inwardly in your hart wholy turn & aply your selfe to the Love of God, Dying to your selfe, and to all worldly Loves & fears.1

In her address to chapter in Paris, Prioress Justina Gascoigne voiced one of the universal precepts of early modern cloistered life: becoming a contemplative nun was to be dead to the world, to others and to oneself, to embrace life in the spiritual pursuit of God only. This ideal was shared by all contemplative Orders, who wished to ­dissociate themselves from the values of the secular world and build an altogether different frame of mind in which humility was valued over pride, obedience prized over self-reliance, poverty honoured over ostentatious affluence and chastity treasured over all sensuous delights. The desired separation from worldly values was such that it was often presented as a form of death of the nun’s old self. In the 1631 constitutions of the Sepulchrine Order, candidates were advised that they ‘must die to the world and to everything in order to live in God; they must bury their life in the life of Jesus Christ crucified, dead and buried’.2 The Order had originally been founded to take care of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Their vocation and their charism were therefore closely linked to the idea of death, as they aspired to live a life which was buried in Christ’s own sacrifice and burial. But the image of the convent as a tomb was present in other contemplative Orders too, and the Benedictines endorsed it fully. Upon becoming an enclosed Benedictine, a woman accepted the fact that she would neither dine with her friends and relatives, nor 23

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attend a dance, nor walk the city streets ever again. She would no longer look upon her own reflection in a mirror as she combed her long hair, nor delight in her beautiful clothes. She would become a stranger to friendships, to fashion, to entertainment, to sociability and to anything which was not of value to her spiritual advancement. This transformation was to be physical and public and also, most importantly, private, for without the necessary inward conversion of manners, there could be no benefit in outward displays of holiness. Entering religion implied total commitment; it was a choice which, in theory, could not be reversed. Yet we shall see in this chapter that this perfect paradigm posed many challenges.3 Not all individuals enjoyed sufficient spiritual gifts to become so abstracted from human society; many remained in close contact with their families and friends. Enclosure was rarely so tight as to effect a perfectly hermetic separation between the convent and the world outside. Friendships could be maintained at the grate, that liminal space where information seeped into the monastery, and also leaked out. Regular epistolary exchanges breached the seal of enclosure and allowed ‘crumbs of news’ to be conveyed in and out of the convent.4 The early modern ideal of social death demanded great efforts of the women who were willing to die to the world, to others and to themselves in order to be alive in Christ only. Dying to the world Becoming a nun was a long process, the stages of which were meant to ensure the postulant’s aptitude for contemplative life. The observance of religious duties was highly demanding and took its toll even on the most zealous women; physical health and fitness were amongst the considerations which decided upon the suitability of a candidate. Selection was of the highest importance, and although this was true of all convents, it was felt even more keenly in English houses, since postulants undertook a perilous and expensive voyage and exposed their families to great risks in order to travel to the Continent. Given the particular conditions of English Catholicism and the exile of the convents, some sort of selection process must be undertaken before postulants travelled. At Brussels, Mary Francis Gawen complained that this situation made it more difficult to refuse new entrants into English convents than into Continental 24

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ones. She explained that, since postulants had demonstrated their desire to commit by braving both the perils of the journey across the Channel and the brunt of the law, Christian charity tended to urge the Sisters to take them in, although they might not be entirely suited to the contemplative ideal.5 For instance, the ability of novice Francis Parker was the object of much discussion amongst the nuns; some defended her as a suitable candidate, while others bemoaned her levity but also her infirmity which, they argued, impeded the perfection of her religious observance and would be a heavy burden upon the other Sisters. Upon the community’s request, the archbishop sent a representative to examine Parker and test her vocation; eventually she became a professed nun at Brussels, after the chapter had taken a vote on the matter. Parker was not the only novice to cause problems. Margery Cotton was a similar case, also at Brussels. The votes cast by the choir nuns show that although most agreed to Cotton, some only timidly ‘inclined’ towards her admission, whilst others confessed to ‘difficulties’ in accepting the novice. They tentatively suggested that her constancy and suitability should be tested further. Some opposed her most categorically, arguing that a prospective nun had to be equal to the task spiritually, morally and physically, which they did not believe she was.6 Additional factors complicated the debate. As mistress of the novices, Ursula Hewick wrote in October 1624 to inform the archbishop that Cotton had told her she liked neither the abbess nor the convent, and that she prayed God not to be accepted. Although there is no record of any initial reluctance, she had come to conceive a strong dislike for the religious life, which Hewick feared would be the cause of much trouble if her profession went ahead as planned, on 10 November 1624.7 The novice was therefore put on probation, but by February 1625, Hewick still portrayed her as a troublesome novice who displayed neither obedience nor humility. She warned that such a young woman would be a ‘very irksome’ element of the community.8 In March 1625, the new mistress of novices, Martha Colford, wrote that she found Cotton much improved outwardly, although she doubted the sincerity of her apparent reform of manners.9 Anne Ingleby wrote to the archbishop and requested that Cotton be ‘verie searously examined before she bee permitted to make her Holy vowes and profession among us’.10 She feared Cotton’s uncharitable attitude would bring turmoil to the community; worse still, she suspected that she 25

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might be dabbling in the dark arts. Cotton eventually improved and several Sisters reported upon her efforts to adjust her attitude to the standards expected of a dutiful nun, but she nonetheless left the convent before her profession. When the process ran smoothly, the prospective religious spent a period of trial as a postulant; her entry was to be approved by the vote of the choir nuns, who alone had a voice in chapter. If she was accepted, the clothing ceremony bestowed the white veil upon the postulant, who then became a novice. After a minimum of one year, if she was deemed suited to the vocation, she then proceeded to profession and received the black veil she would wear for the rest of her life. The clothing ceremony, which marked the passage of a postulant from her secular status to her new religious status as a novice, was the first symbolic step towards her social death to the world. The ceremonial book of the Paris Benedictines shows that, after her trial period, the postulant was physically handed back to secular life by the novice mistress, the prioress and her two assistants, who returned her to her parents at the cloister gate. The prioress said to them: ‘I give you back your daughter, she is free to remain in the world or to embrace Holy Religion.’ The postulant then walked through the city streets to the main entrance of the church; this was the last time she would be seen outside with her relatives, and the last time she entered her church through its main doors. Once given away to the officiant, she was transferred into the care of the prioress. During the ceremony, she was stripped of the secular garments of an ‘honest and modest demoiselle’, to be given her new religious habit, her scapular, her belt and the white veil of a novice.11 She also received a breviary, a rosary and a crucifix. The ceremonial of the Pontoise community shows how, during this public ceremony, the postulant went through a symbolic transformation, shedding her lay attributes to don the new appearance of a nun, thereby signalling her changed nature. After the blessing of the religious habit, and before the postulant was allowed to put it on, the priest likened the secular state to ignoble slavery and prayed to God: ‘O God Almighty and eternal, be kind towards our sins and purify your servant from the slavery of the secular dress; may she eternally enjoy your grace.’ He then addressed the postulant, urging her to abandon her secular self: ‘May the Lord strip you of the old man born from the flesh, and of his actions, so that you may take on a new spirit.’12 When she received the crucifix symbolising Christ’s 26

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death for her salvation, the new novice was required to undertake a spiritual imitatio Christi and be ‘crucified to the world’, in order to overcome its vanities.13 At the end of the clothing ceremony, the novice left the church through the convent grille; accompanied by a procession of her new Sisters in religion, she entered the cloister, never to leave again.14 Her social death was finalised during her profession, when she received the black veil as ‘a mark of holy mortification’.15 But even the most ardent zeal could dampen if the individual found herself surrounded by a tepid or even slack community. In order to achieve collective detachment from the world and its pleasures, religious women were helped by a vast corpus of clerical writings providing guidance and support. In such prescriptive literature, secular preoccupations were usually depicted as so many traps for the virtuous soul. The Cambrai community heard a sermon ‘On the vanity and dangers of the World’, painting the world in the darkest colours, as: an abode of corruption and darkness where Jesus Christ is not known, [...] where his laws are violated with impunity, where the contagious air which is breathed carries corruption with it even to the inmost recesses of the heart [...] where virtue finds only contradictions or snares, where in a word, there is nothing according to the expression of Scripture, but malice, corruption, concupiscence of the flesh, concupiscence of the eyes, and luxury of life.16

The sermon resonated with the nuns’ preoccupations, and they decided to keep a copy of it for their own use. The theme of ‘corruption’ was strong, and the word was repeated three times in a short paragraph. Worldly values were associated with decay; like the poisonous fumes emanating from a rotting corpse, they contaminated the very air. The text continued in the same vein, showing lay society as a place of perdition which women with a religious vocation should leave at the earliest opportunity, for their own good: ‘the world is an abode of perpetual agitation, a school of vanity, a labyrinth of lies and errors, and land barren in sweetness and consolations, an ocean of bitterness and tears’. In this description, spiritual pursuits and worldly preoccupations appeared as incompatible. The author implied that individuals had to make a choice, since it was impossible ‘to serve at the same time two masters’. Spiritual fulfilment was to be found only in separation from the world; those who chose to remain in it ‘must absolutely renounce 27

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the love of God’. Conversely, when a woman entered religious life, she decided to leave a place of corruption for a haven of spiritual perfection in the cloister. As she ‘died to the world’, she left behind her relatives and friends, and also the values which codified social relationships. She must have no consideration for anything, and no personal attachment to anyone other than God Himself. In religion, the preoccupations of socially ambitious women were decried as so many sins. Worldly values were assessed on an inverted scale, where social advancement went hand in hand with spiritual decline. In a typical inversion of secular values, the same sermon on the dangers of the world declared: [the world’s] dignities [are] a load, it’s [sic] glory a painful & shameful subjection, it’s [sic] conversations a source of envy and of rage [...] it’s [sic] love is only inconstancy, it’s [sic] peace but trouble, it’s [sic] glory confusion, and it’s [sic] prosperity misery.

The world was but a negative of religious life, its truth nothing but lies, its achievements damning to the soul. Nuns were urged to feel a ‘salutary horror against the world on which depend[ed] [their] salvation’; they were encouraged to feel little regret when separating from a life which they were taught to look upon with disgust.17 When they entered the Benedictine Order, Englishwomen embraced a religious ideal which sought to revive the grandeur of a long-established monastic life inspired by medieval mystics and exemplars. In accordance to the 1563 decree of the Council of Trent, later strengthened by Pius V’s 1566 constitution Circa Pastoralis, they observed strict enclosure.18 In theory, seventeenthcentury Benedictine nuns observed separation from the world in a much more rigorous manner than their medieval forebears had done. In their statutes and constitutions, the chapters on enclosure occupied a prominent place.19 They declared that no nun should venture out of the cloister, and no outsider was to be allowed in except on extremely rare occasions.20 In accordance with Tridentine requirements, and following the precepts advocated in Carlo Borromeo’s 1599 Instructions on Ecclesiastical Buildings, the architecture of the buildings the nuns purchased was modified to ensure a complete physical separation from the outside: high walls were built around the houses and gardens, and convents usually had only two gates (one for deliveries, including letters, and one for visitors), which were opened as infrequently as possible. The passing 28

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of small items was negotiated through ‘turns’, ingenious swivelling devices (also known as ‘wheels’) which permitted the exchange of goods without any contact between the people involved. The turns preserved the rule of enclosure, but as places of porosity between the two worlds, they were potentially dangerous. The lay Sisters selected to tend to them therefore had to be of especially sober character, and of unassailable integrity. This was reputedly the case of Benedicta Pease in Paris, whose obituary praised the twenty years she had served at the turn without ever being tempted out of her ‘retired way’; she was commended for her religious deportment and her detachment towards the outside, and the record notes that ‘she did not in all that time [...] draw to herselfe particuler amitys, or seeke acquaintances’.21 The turn was indeed a weak point. Nicky Hallett has shown that, in 1630, young Agnes Rosendael had braved her family’s opposition to her vocation and smuggled herself – semi-clad, in order to fit into the turn – into the Carmelite convent at Antwerp.22 The opposite had happened only a few months before with the Brussels Benedictines. In the 1620s, that house had fallen into a protracted period of turmoil over issues of governance and spiritual direction, but one of the most scandalous moments in this affair was when, in 1629, novice Francis Evers escaped through the kitchen turn, claiming that Abbess Percy had detained her against her will.23 Percy’s adversaries alleged that the abbess had used the facility of the turn to allow small children into the convent, in utter disregard of the rules of enclosure.24 However, such examples were the symptoms of a community in disarray, and there are no other Benedictine instances of such leakiness between inside and outside, besides the Brussels house. This vignette shows that the integrity of enclosure was fragile; moreover, it could be threatened in other, less obviously transgressive ways. In conventual architecture, certain places were, by definition, at the interface of both worlds. Beside the gates and the turns for large and small deliveries, windows were another point of permeability. Those overlooking the street had to be high enough to make it impossible for townspeople to see in; they were generally made of tinted glass, and always fitted with iron bars, as were those which faced the courtyards and gardens. Finally, the parlours, which were specifically designed to allow nuns to receive occasional supervised visits, managed levels of interaction with the utmost 29

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care, and were fitted with grates draped in heavy cloth. Ideally, the Sisters could be heard but never seen, not even in the sacristy, which was grated in the same manner. Augustine Baker (1575–1641), who acted as spiritual guide to the Cambrai community, wrote to his friend Richard Cotton that he never saw his penitents ‘unless it be rarely on extraordinary occasion’.25 Dying to others Mere physical seclusion was not enough to ‘die’ truly to the world; the link with the outside had to be broken psychologically as well as spatially. New entrants were urged to abandon their familiar sociability and to become estranged from their relatives and friends. The Rule of the Order demanded the abandonment of all affective links with the outside. A document advised nuns to ‘trample the world underfoot’ and added: Nor is it enough [...] that the convent door be kept allwaies shutt; the spouse of Christ must not only flie into a monastery to hide herselfe from the world, but even there seeke a farther retreate. Many in our times put them selves with in four walls, [yet] by their good will spend all the day at the turne or grat; & under pretext of spirit & piety, continually sit chatting with their friends & relations, & invite them to make frequent visits; wheras if they were truly spiritualized they would not so much as lift up their eyes to behold them, but with out making any accompt of their displeasure, chase them awaie with rude words & behaviour.26

It was useless to leave the world only to import its corrupt values into the convent. Nuns should break all bonds with their relatives and friends. For many nuns, this willing departure became the very badge of their spiritual zeal. In her spiritual exercises, Gertrude More embraced her social death as she would a perpetual vow, on an equal footing with those of chastity, poverty and obedience. She wrote: For the love of God I doe renounce all vayne complyinge, conversation, and correspondance with the world by letters, tokens, messages, or otherwise. And all seekings to please the world, with which in affection, I desire to have noe more to doe, then if I were really dead and buried […] I renounce all inordinate affection to my parents, Friends, and kindred […] I doe resigne my selfe to be neglected, and forsaken by them all.27

More’s words underlined her determination, particularly with the use of the modal ‘do’ when she repeatedly insisted, ‘I doe resigne’ or 30

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‘I doe renounce’. Her declarations were still echoed in those which were preached to her community over a century after her death. In order to strengthen their determination, novices were encouraged to represent to themselves the lives of the early hermits: ‘they shall finde there, sons who would not so much as endure the presence of their mothers, brothers who banished their sisters, sisters who avoided their brothers’.28 Blood ties were to be dissolved by the nun’s marriage to Christ: this ideal was universal throughout the Catholic Church, and many Orders praised the women who achieved it. For instance, the biography of the French Visitandine Jeanne de Chantal (1572–1641) described her clothing ceremony as a traumatising event for her son, who lay down on the convent’s threshold to prevent her from entering. In a gesture which was heavy with symbolism, the mother had to step over her son’s supine body in order to follow her vocation. The life story of French Ursuline Marie Guyart, in religion Marie de l’Incarnation (1599–1672), tells of a similar episode; the new nun had to overcome her motherly love by denying her son, who presented himself at the choir grille every day, weeping and crying out for his mother’s return.29 Some English nuns made a similar choice. Lady Warner left her husband and two daughters to become an English Poor Clare.30 Lady Mary Roper Lovel also left her two young children in order to enter religion; she first stayed at the Benedictine house at Brussels in 1608, before leaving in 1609.31 Aware that her decision would meet with disapproval, she justified herself to her patron, Robert Cecil, by declaring that her vocation was ‘more powerfull then the love of any mortall creture’.32 For some, achieving such detachment implied a radical transformation. This was the case for Mary Hawes, who, before she entered the Paris convent, had been an actress at Charles II’s court for several years; her obituary notice emphasised the extreme danger such a life of pleasure and entertainment had represented for her soul before she was saved by her timely conversion and complete reformation of manners.33 Alexia Grey also lived ‘according to the strain of worldly humours’, enjoying social events, dancing and other such ‘Terrean follies’ before she received a vision and entered the Ghent convent.34 Upon her conversion, however, she reformed entirely and led a life of exemplary retirement as a professed nun. However, such rigorous respect of separation was not observed everywhere with the same zeal, and in some places, the towns31

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people were entertained quite freely through what Frances Dolan has called ‘the titillating mediation of the convent grate’.35 The grate offered precious opportunities for conversations, and even if contacts were monitored, nuns could continue to interact with their relatives and friends. In the well-ordered convent at Paris, the constitutions allowed novices to speak with their parents unsupervised, although all other visits remained under the watchful eye of the novice mistress.36 These liberties were tolerated partly because they were seen as harmless; a little contact with the world was often beneficial to a community, especially if the nuns presented to the visitors an edifying picture of holiness. In fact, the grate was sometimes seen as a place to catechise and influence the outside. Liesbeth Corens has shown that in some houses belonging to Orders such as the Carmelites or the Augustinians, some nuns took the opportunity to converse and convert at the grate. She also found two seventeenth-century examples of English travellers being received by Benedictines. Both meetings happened at Ghent, where in 1664 Mary Minshall proselytised at the grate in a conversation with travelling Englishman Philip Skippon; in 1697 Abbess Mary Knatchbull also made a deep impression upon another Protestant traveller, named Harwood.37 Ghent was a house with a very strong Jesuit spirit, and its missionary heritage showed through rare examples such as these. Interestingly, the reports were of nuns speaking with other English speakers; the fact that they were established in foreign lands, of which most did not speak the language, probably helped them to stay away from too much interaction with locals at the grate. In Paris, Prioress Justina Gascoigne, like most of her nuns, did not speak French and resorted to interpreters when she had to meet French-speakers at the parlour to discuss convent business.38 Corens has shown that some travelling English Protestants were edified by their encounters with English nuns; where one would have expected them to relate scenes akin to those found in anti-Catholic literature, highlighting the vices of nunneries, on the contrary, they wrote rather positive accounts. Unlike what scholars such as Helen Hills, Mary Laven or Silvia Evangelisti have revealed about Italian convents, there is nothing to suggest that English nuns held public meetings or spent inordinate time at the parlour, nor that they entertained excessively.39 Such abuses appear to have been very rare in Benedictine houses, with a few exceptions at Brussels. In the case of that troubled house, which lived in disharmony for much of the 32

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1620s and the early 1630s, disorders at the parlour were symptomatic of the inner turmoil of the community. Agnes Lenthall once reported that Teresa Gage had spent seven days in conversation with her sister, who had come from England on business. The sister, she claimed, was given delicate meats for her meals and stayed at the grate all day, sometimes until eight at night, thereby causing much disruption in the regularity of the convent’s observance.40 Such actions were indicative of a failure to abandon worldly pursuits. They were the butt of pointed criticism in anticlerical pamphlets in France, or anti-Catholic publications in England, where authors mocked the hypocrisy of women who pretended to live a secluded spiritual life but in fact continued to hold mundane salons in their parlours. But it appears that English Benedictine houses, and other English convents in general, were very careful not to lay themselves open to such accusations. Gertrude More confessed that before her true conversion of spirit, she had tended to frequent the Cambrai grate, ‘for her own and others’ recreation’. She enjoyed hearing news from the world, keeping abreast of rumours, which she also did through a correspondence with friends and relatives.41 Once reformed, however, she understood that, whereas human friendships were highly changeable by nature, she should aspire to a state of stability and permanence which would not brook such fluctuations.42 Terrene pleasures became far from delectable to her: on the contrary, they represented heavy burdens which she happily abandoned. For zealous nuns like her, social death was to be considered as a source of freedom, which liberated them from the slavery of mundane pursuits: For when we leave our friends, riches, honours, pleasures – yea, and even (which is most of all) our very selves – what have we left or forsaken? […] we find we have left nothing to find Thee, Who art all things. We have left our friends, who fail us when we stand in most need of them; we have left honour, which being had, proveth nothing else but a mere burden to us.43

Once physically removed from the reach of the outside world, nuns were encouraged to go further, to abandon willingly the patterns and attitudes of secular society. They must strive towards a total transformation of their mindset. Prescriptive literature warned Sisters to avoid particular friendships and particular enmities even inside the convent. A good nun should abandon commerce with all creatures and show the same indifference to one and all.44 33

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Such an ideal demanded constant effort on the part of the nuns. Once more, Brussels provides the only recorded example of a Benedictine community in which some Sisters behaved in an unseemly manner. Francis Ward, the confessor who had chastised those he whom called ‘light’ nuns for their excessive use of the parlour, was himself the object of several complaints by these nuns, who bemoaned his constant contact with his penitents. In January 1623, Mary Roper – not to be confused with her aunt, Mary Roper, Lady Lovel, who had left in 1609 – wrote to the archbishop of Mechelen to complain that Ward was in ‘perpetual conversation with his penitents’, regardless of the time of day; this, she confessed, occasioned many disorders and what she euphemistically called ‘indiscreet familiarities’.45 Scholastica Smith confirmed that Ward spent much time at the grille of the sacristy, where his devotees flocked despite this being in breach of the house’s statutes.46 In April 1623, Mary Roper wrote again, this time about besotted nuns who could ‘thinke nor speake of any thing els but their Ghostly Father’. One of the deans, she reported, was ‘very passionately fond’ of him.47 She deplored their ‘many fond familiarities and indiscretions’, which she believed inappropriate for a spiritual father and his penitents. Christina Lovell also reported his over-familiarity with his penitents and condemned their ‘indiscreet follies’.48 Lucy Knatchbull recounted that when Ward seemed unwell, one of his devoted penitents insisted on passing him candles to warm himself with, as well as wine and sugar, through the vestry window or at the sacristy. She mentioned that some broke their observance by sneaking away from their duties in order to stay ‘by stealth at the Sacristie with him’, where they were seen to take and kiss his hands. When he hurt his foot, one of the nuns was keen to take upon herself the charge of dressing it (which had been given to another), and she took pleasure in handling and kissing it. He, in return, would feel their pulse when they claimed to be unwell. Such ‘familiar passions’ did not honour the religious restraint required of enclosed nuns, as they demonstrated only too clearly the Sisters’ personal attachment to a carnal man.49 The reports grew so alarming that the young priest was sent away, thereby putting an end to several months of troubles. Indiscretions such as these were not to be tolerated, even if they happened with the nuns’ own confessors, and perhaps out of overzealous spiritual enthusiasm. Yet, at Brussels, they continued over the years, involving different protagonists. In August 1628, 34

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Anne Ingleby wrote to the archbishop of Mechelen to report up­­on the misdemeanours of various Sisters with their confessors. She complained that the rules of enclosure were breached at the parlour, in the vestry, at the kitchen turn and indeed in other ‘secret’ places where there ought to be no contact between the nuns and the outside world. The prioress, Agatha Wiseman, and her good friend Mary Philip had developed bonds of ‘vehement and indiscreet affection’ with Dr Talbot and others, with whom they conversed until late at night.50 Ingleby declared that several Sisters met with ‘the young priests’ and behaved with unsuitable levity; she reported that Mr Wilson sometimes came early in the morning, or stayed until as late as 9.30 at night; Mr Lathan, she said, was in ‘continual and dayly conversation’ with the nuns, either in the vestry or in the little house where they played the organ. He even had commerce with the novices in private.51 Dying to oneself These vivid vignettes demonstrate how difficult it was for religious women to live a life of contemplation which was utterly detached from any human interaction with the outside world. To achieve this spiritual ideal, the nuns’ ego was to be subjugated; individuals had to surrender their wills to that of their divine spouse. Entering religion, then, should be like dying to oneself, and being reborn as God’s creature. The nun’s new name in religion, when it replaced the one she was given at birth, symbolised the death of her secular being and the birth of a new religious identity obeying different rules. This annihilation of the self could be achieved through physical and moral asceticism, both of which required constant effort on the part of the nun, who was to wage a daily battle against temptations. One could forsake others only by forsaking oneself. Lucy Knatchbull was able to accept the possibility that her friends might no longer care for her, but only because she had stopped caring for herself too. In the absence of self-love or pride, her friends’ good opinion no longer mattered.52 She renounced her loved ones, for God’s sake, and commended them to the Lord, symbolically passing her care of them on to Him: ‘I did offer him the harts of those whom I did most passionately love, and did beseech him to tourne their harts from mee toward himself.’53 In her exercises, Gertrude More also did her utmost to mortify her self-love by accepting the 35

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contempt of others, along with various humiliations which she enumerated in long lists such as this one: I am resigned not only not to be beloved, or well thought of by Superiors, bretheren, sisters, or other: but even hated […] To undergoe all manner of disgraces, Reproaches, slaunders, infamyes, Dishonors, Taunts, contempts, neglects, scoffs, backbittings, and injuries in my fame […] I am glad of the occasion growne by it, of my Resignation, and Mortification.54

More envisaged varied types of humiliation and stated her acceptance of them all. Such determination to overcome self-love and obey God’s will was also expressed, for instance, by Christina Brent, the abbess of Cambrai; in her writings, she invited her Sisters to give up both their free will and the pursuit of self-interest, in order to offer themselves entirely to God.55 Such abandonment was, she explained, necessary for those who aspired to spiritual perfection, since it could not possibly come from any other source than Christ himself.56 The monastic vows of poverty, chastity and obedience were designed to guard the Sisters against sin during their quest for a godly life. Christina Brent referred to these vows in martial terms, as weapons which allowed nuns to win their spiritual battle against their worst enemies, ‘the world, the flesh, the divill’.57 Although the three solemn vows already required the subjugation of self-will, the English Benedictines differed from other Orders by taking a fourth vow of enclosure and adding a further, explicit promise of ‘conversion of [their] manners’, which other English Orders did not require so specifically of their entrants.58 At Paris, the prioress reminded a new recruit that her ‘obligation’ was now to ‘labour & endeaver dayly to mortifie & overcome [her] ill habits, disordered inclinations & affections’, and to ‘endeavour to die to these’.59 Abnegation aimed at ‘crucifying’ the nuns’ pride and purifying the soul from misplaced self-esteem, ‘vanquishing all sense of their own importance’. One Cambrai document even compared the nuns’ lives to a spiritual martyrdom, since they suffered and died to themselves willingly, in imitation of Christ’s sacrifice.60 Everything must be undertaken for God’s sake; one’s own desires became irrelevant, as Lucy Knatchbull exemplified when she resolved: ‘If at any tyme I shall find my self goeing to doe or say any thinge which may be agreeable to any desire of mine owne esteem [...] I will say to my one hart thou art wicked, and I will doe this thinge for Gods greater Glory.’61 36

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The vow of poverty, one of the founding principles of monastic life, was a particularly precious ally in the humiliation of the self.62 Since most English Benedictines came from the upper echelons of society, they had been raised with a certain sense of their social worth; many were used to fine apparel and furniture, and to the finer things in life. Yet they were expected to abandon these privileges when they entered the convent, where they all became equal in religion. Titles of honour or social distinction, such as Madame or Lady, were no longer applicable; signs alluding to the grandeur of one’s family, such as coats of arms, were banned. All private property became communal, anything the entrant owned in her personal name was now the property of the convent. Religious life was founded upon the ideal of deprivation, a rejection of property which freed the mind and soul from material concerns. Convent life advocated what Silvia Evangelisti has called ‘basic living’, a simple life in which nuns had all the necessities of life, but no extra luxuries.63 Although families paid for cells, they were not allowed to consider them as their property, or to reserve them for another of their female members once the nun who occupied it had died. Upon entering the cloister, nuns wrote out poverty bills in which they established an itemised list of all the objects in their cells, including their beds, furnishings and habits.64 These were lent to them by the convent and would be returned to the convent when they died. Even lay Sisters, who had very little to give, were expected to renounce all sense of personal property and make everything communal. At Ghent, Dorothy Barefoot, the daughter of a physician, refused the cordials and remedies sent to her by a local friend during her illness and gave them up for the use of others in the infirmary.65 In her cell, each nun had a bed, a chest, a crucifix, a personal altar, a breviary, a prie-Dieu and, of course, a habit. Luxurious throws, pillows, tapestries or drapes, mirrors and any extra furniture were banned, as were any items of fashionable clothing which might be reminiscent of the perverted values of secular society. It would be absurd, wrote one anonymous writer to a prospective nun, ‘to leave in the world things of great value’ only to give importance to ‘petty trifles’ such as ‘a convenient & neat cell, a new habit, a fine breviary or other toyes’ once in the convent.66 This quotation, like many others, indicates that poverty also applied to the quality of the objects the nuns used: they must seek out what was humble or mediocre, and prefer simplicity to beauty or comfort. 37

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Enclosed religious women must not possess anything in their own name; even what they provided in their dowry was handed over to the community. Moreover, their religious dowry could not be compared to that of a secular marriage: a bride of Christ should seek to provide the necessities of her daily life, not to distinguish herself through habits of fine cloth, books or breviaries of value nor any precious utensils or trinkets. On the contrary, she should enter the monastery ‘poore, naked & dispicable’. Nuns from rich families should not think that quality items were more acceptable for them, on the pretext that they represented little sacrifice for their wealthy relatives, who could easily afford them. The social rank of their families was now altogether irrelevant, it meant nothing inside the convent. What they ought to consider was not what their families could afford but what they, as humble nuns, should possess.67 At Ghent, Lucy Knatchbull, although from a rich gentry family, was said to observe holy poverty to the letter, ‘mending & patching her owne old Cloaths, with her owne hands, as diligently as any Poore body would be’.68 In Paris, Mary Appleby was also noted for her exact practice of poverty, always using the oldest and most damaged breviaries, never taking any books for herself, and leaving her cell free of personal possessions.69 Individual property was deemed dangerous because it kept the soul tied to the material, when it was meant to soar towards the spiritual. By investing any affective value into objects, nuns remained trapped in themselves, in their fancies. In the c­ ontemplative ideal, these had to be annihilated; once the self truly disappeared, nuns were freer to be attentive to the divine. Silvia Evangelisti has shown that in Italian convents (including Benedictine houses) the ­religious poverty advocated in prescriptive literature was not matched in reality. Many of the women did enter their monasteries with an impressive range of material goods and substantial financial support; some even owned – and bequeathed – their own cells, which were rather comparable to apartments, with their private kitchens, living areas and gardens. Many entered with and kept the service of their own servants.70 Such was not the case of English convents in exile, which, as we shall see later, remained closer to the spirit of their Rule. But even if they did not own their cells or enjoy material luxury, English nuns were sensitive to the issue of ownership, which questioned the very concepts of individuality and, in turn, of privacy. 38

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Although they were not allowed to lock themselves in their cells, they did have the use of a safe box in which to keep their personal papers such as correspondence, meditations, prayers and other spiritual writings. These boxes were the only place where a nun might enjoy a little private space, though they remained subject to checks by the superiors. At Brussels, during the time of the ‘great storm’ of the 1620s, Elizabeth Southcote complained that Abbess Mary Percy had broken into the box where she kept her personal ‘secret papers’ under lock and key. This had been done surreptitiously, whilst Southcott herself was kept away by the abbess’s accomplices. Yet she immediately realised what had happened when she found her papers unfolded and out of sequence.71 Mary Philip also complained of similar exactions on the part of the abbess, who reportedly used some of the younger nuns to pick locks and spy upon certain members of the community.72 Abbess Percy herself protested that, when confronting Anne Healey about some secret letters she had ‘found’ in the chest in her cell, the nun had snatched the papers violently out of her hands, running away with them and refusing to give them back.73 She also reported seizing some secret papers from a nun’s cell and depositing them in a locked chest in her own quarters, only to find them gone when she returned to read them more fully.74 Where nuns usually accepted inspections of their private papers by a benevolent superior whom they loved and respected, it was a different matter when they felt themselves to be under the scrutiny of an ill-disposed abbess. Personal items took on a particular significance in the context of a community in disharmony, and it is worth noting that diffident or resentful comments about lack of privacy are not to be found in any other English Benedictine convent. These few examples stand out in their rarity. In order to foster serenity, monastic life was built upon obedience and the observance of Rules. Nuns followed a fixed horarium punctuated by offices; they ate communal meals in silence, whilst listening to the reading of selected religious texts. Although routines varied in matters of detail from convent to convent, they usually obeyed comparable broad patterns. These were described in the first instance in the general Rule of the Order, which was common to all convents of that Order, and then detailed according to the practice of each house in its own constitutions or statutes. In the 1652 A brief relation of the Order and institute of the English religious women at Liège, Susan Hawley presented the history of the Augus39

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tinians Canonesses and explained their particular charism. Such handbooks were meant to edify prospective members and help new ones to abide by the house’s customs. The author then moved on to more practical details to describe the daily routine: rising at 4.00 a.m. to meditate, before the 5.00 a.m. office. At 6.00, nuns would pray, read and converse in the work house. At 7.30 they retired to their cells, before singing Terce at 8.00, then attending Mass; at 9.00 they returned to the work house, before their examination of conscience at 10.30 and ‘dinner’ at 10.45. At noon the nuns retired to their cells once more, before returning to the work house at 1.00 p.m. At 3.00 they went to Vespers and meditated, before retiring to the work house until 5.00, at which time they went to Compline. At 5.00 they meditated, at 6.00 they had supper and recreation, at 7.30 they examined their consciences once more and said litanies. They then went to bed after hearing the De profondis.75 A comparable horarium was shared by the Benedictines, too. The statutes of the Brussels monastery indicate that the nuns rose at 3.00 a.m. and attended to the offices earlier than the ­Augustinians; they also had their meals earlier in the day. At Cambrai, the Sisters heard Matins in the middle of the night, at 12.30 a.m. Because of this, they delayed Prime until 6.30 a.m.76 The rest of their day was organised very much like that of their compatriots at Brussels. All monasteries followed a similar pattern punctuated by communal activities (offices, chapter, work, meals) and individual ones (meditation, prayer, reading). The distribution of time often varied depending on the time of the year, and introduced changes to accommodate special obligations during Lent, for instance. These are only very broad brush strokes, but they give a clear idea of the extent to which a nun’s life was strictly regulated, leaving no time for idleness or personal pursuits. The physical deportment of nuns was prescribed according to the Rule in the minutest detail.77 As novices, the young women learnt how to stand and sit with the proper stance; how to walk at the correct pace, never too hastily; how to discipline their gaze, looking down and averting their eyes appropriately; how to speak with reserve, never making hand gestures or getting animated; how to eat parsimoniously and with modesty. The manner of sleeping, the quantity of food and drink, everything was prescribed. The Rules of holy Orders left very little room for the personality of each woman to express itself spontaneously and, in this respect, the Benedictines were no exception.78 40

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Being a good nun proved a very tough challenge and the endeavour of a lifetime. When English women chose to become Benedictines, they made a commitment to an Order which allowed its monks to be an active part of the mission, but dedicated its nuns to the cloister. The choice of the Benedictine Order was, in part, an indication of a woman’s wish to be associated with male religious present in England on a missionary brief, whilst at the same time observing the strict rules of a contemplative ideal. Unlike their male counterparts, they could not be missionaries in England, and unlike their unenclosed Sisters, they could not interact with the populations of the Continent. Yet English Benedictines were active, although in a different form, through their very dedication to the ideal of spiritual perfection in contemplation. The vows of chastity, poverty and obedience, the fourth vow of enclosure and the particular promise of reformation of manners implied a total commitment to personal abnegation. The public ceremonies of clothing and profession enacted, in highly symbolic events, the death of a secular woman and the birth of a religious bride of Christ, but the process continued behind the convent walls for most of the nun’s life. This death was, in all cases, a physical one, since the religious would never return to the world, not even for burial. It was also supposed to be an immediate social death, since she irrevocably left her blood relatives and her social milieu. Ultimately, a nun’s spiritual quest demanded that she accept the idea of dying to herself. An anonymous Cambrai writer expressed her self-abandonment in her prayer: ‘I totally resigne myself to thy most holy will for tyme & eternity do thou dispose of me as thou wilt. [...] Sweet Jesus purifie this hart & soule of mine & make it a worthy habitation for thy selfe.’79 In order to be worthy of God’s benevolence, nuns endeavoured to purify their souls and become spiritual beings, detached from the world. In this respect, being a good nun could sometimes be a very solitary endeavour; as Teresa of Àvila pointed out in her writings, the devout nun strove daily to remain true to a highly demanding ideal, and she did so in a community where others probably lapsed, or became lax at certain times. The determined nun had to close her eyes and ears to the temptations of levity and sin represented by her less virtuous Sisters. She must ignore her own human weakness and remain focused on God alone.80 The Cambrai Benedictine Gertrude More urged the nun who had freed herself from social trivia to remain focused upon God ‘lest, 41

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like a dog, she return to her vomit’.81 To her, the religious soul had to be purged in order to be pure, just as a dog would bring up a poison that was making its body sick. To return to such preoccupations would be tantamount to allowing the soul to be defiled again by the poison it had worked so hard to expel. To nuns like her, dying to the world became the occasion to be reborn in Christ, and those who managed to overcome the obstacles of their mundane affections embraced such social death as a condition of their purification and salvation. Yet contacts with seculars outside still existed, and although they were prohibited by Tridentine law, they were tolerated because they could benefit the communities. In the next chapter, we will see that, when maintaining contact with their secular kin, English nuns often gave spiritual advice and comfort to their loved ones; they also exhorted them to a better life and took the opportunity to proselytise. Moreover, their positive portrayal of the monastic life constituted the best of all public relations campaigns. Thus, although prescriptive literature required religious women to die to the world and to others, the reality of lived conventual life was rarely in keeping with that ideal, and involved some degree of interaction with the nuns’ networks of kin. Notes 1 Colwich Abbey, Ms H71, Justina Gascoigne, ‘Instructions to Chapter’, fols 365–7. 2 Caroline Bowden, ‘“A distribution of tyme”: reading and writing practices in the English convents in exile’, Tulsa Studies in Women’s Literature 31:1/2 (2012), 99–116, p. 113. 3 For a study of this topic in medieval context, see Penelope D. Johnson, ‘La Théorie de la clôture et l’activité réelle des moniales françaises du XIe au XIIIe siècle’, in Les religieuses dans le cloître et dans le monde des origines à nos jours (Saint-Etienne: Publications de l’Université de Saint-Etienne, 1994), pp. 491–506. 4 Claire Walker, ‘“These crumms of nuse”: early modern English nuns and royalist intelligence networks’, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 42:3 (2012), 635–55. On enclosure, Francesca Medioli, ‘An unequal law: the enforcement of clausura before and after the Council of Trent’, in Christine Meek (ed.), Women in Renaissance and Early Modern Europe (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2000), pp. 36–52. 5 Archives of the Archdiocese of Mechelen (hereafter AAM), Box 12/2, Francis Gawen, undated (possibly 1623) visitation document 12, item 8.

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6 AAM, Box 12/1, votes regarding the profession of novice Francis Parker. 7 AAM, Box 12/1, Ursula Hewick to the archbishop of Mechelen, 29 October 1624. 8 AAM, Box 12/1, Ursula Hewick to the archbishop of Mechelen, 4 February 1625. 9 AAM, Box12/1, Martha Colford to the archbishop of Mechelen, 24 March 1625. 10 AAM, Box 12/1, Anne Ingleby to the archbishop of Mechelen, undated. 11 Bibliothèque Mazarine, Paris, Ms 1753, ‘Cérémonial des Religieuses Benedictines Angloises approuvé de l’authorité de Monseigneur l’Archevesque de Paris’. 12 Douai Abbey, box T. IV. 2, Pontoise ceremonial (unfoliated): ‘O Dieu tout puissant et eternel, soyez propice a nos pechés et purifiez de toute esclavage de l’habit seculier votre servante, afin que pendant qu’elle quitte l’ignominie de cet habit; elle jouisse eternellement de votre grace’ and ‘Que le Seigneur vous dépouille du vieil homme, avec ses actions, qui est né selon la chair, afin que vous preniez un nouvel esprit’. 13 Ibid., ‘afin qu’étant crucifiée au monde, vous surmontiez les vanités du siècle’. 14 Bibliothèque Mazarine, Paris, Ms 1753, ‘Cérémonial des Religieuses Benedictines Angloises ... de Paris’, fol. 6. 15 Douai Abbey, box T. IV. 2, Pontoise ceremonial (unfoliated), ‘pour marque de la sainte mortification’. 16 Archives départementales du Nord, Lille (hereafter ADN), Ms 20H-14, ‘A Discourse on the vanity and dangers of the World’, 22 April 1791, fol. 3. 17 Ibid., fols 2–7. 18 Norman Tanner (ed.), Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, London: Sheed and Ward, 1990, vol. 1, pp. 227–73. See also Elizabeth Makowski, Canon Law and Cloistered Women: Periculoso and its Commentators, 1298–1545 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1997). 19 See Alexia Grey (ed.), Statutes Compyled for the Better Observation of the Holy Rule of the Most Glorious Father and Patriarch S. Benedict (Ghent, 1632) (hereafter Statutes), ‘The First Parte’, chapter 5, ‘Of the Inclosure’, pp. 18–22. 20 The Constitutions of the Cambrai house give a list of rare exceptions to this rule, ADN, Ms 20H-1, ‘Constitutions compiled for the better observation of the holie Rule of our most glorious Fa: and Patriarch S. Bennet Confirmed by the Regiment of the English Benedictine Congregation, and by it Delivered to the English Religious Dames of the Same Order and Congregation, living in Cambray, and to all their Successors’, Chapter 2, pp. 15–17. 21 CRS Misc. VII, Paris, pp. 371–2.

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22 Nicky Hallett, Lives of Spirit. English Carmelite Self-Writing of the Early Modern Period (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 79–82. 23 AAM, Box 12/2, Mary Percy to the archbishop of Mechelen, 29 April 1629. 24 AAM, Box 12/2, Scholastica Smith, undated visitation document. 25 Augustine Baker to Sir Richard Cotton, cited in Benedict Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Inner Life of Dame Gertrude More (London: R. & T. Washbourne, 1910), p. xi. 26 ADN, Ms 20H-17, ‘A short treatise of the three principall vertues and vows of religious persons. Written in Italine by the Reverend Father Geronimo De Ferrara to a lady of great quality who was about to enter that state of life’ (Paris, 1665) (unfoliated). 27 Gertrude More, The Holy practices of a Devine Lover, or the Sainctly Ideots Devotions (Paris, 1657), pp. 194–5. 28 Ibid. 29 F-M. de Chaugy (ed.), Sainte Jeanne-Françoise Frémyot de Chantal, sa vie et ses oeuvres, vol. 1, La Vie (Paris: Plon, 1876), p. 129 and Claude Martin (ed.), La vie de la Vénérable Mère Marie de l’Incarnation (1667) (Solesmes, 1981). 30 Edward Scarisbricke, The Life of the Lady Warner in Which the Motives of Her Embracing the Roman Catholick Faith, Quitting Her Husband and Children to Become a Poor Clare at Graveling, Her Rigorous Life and Happy Death Are Declared (London, 1691). 31 Lady Lovel was a passionate and volatile character; she left Brussels when she disagreed with Abbess Joanna Berkeley over matters of spiritual direction. Her departure marked the beginning of several years of uncertainty in her vocation; she travelled to Louvain, Liege and Mechelen before finally founding the Carmelite convent at Antwerp in 1619. See Colleen M. Seguin, ‘Lovel, Mary, Lady Lovel (c.1564– 1628)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004; online edition, January 2014, www.oxforddnb.com/view/ article/69036, accessed 24 February 2016, doi:10.1093/ref:odnb/69036. 32 Public Record Office, State Papers, Flanders: 77/9, fol. 119, Lady Mary Lovel to Lord Treasurer Salisbury, August 1608, cited in Walker, Gender and Politics in Early Modern Europe, p. 36. 33 CRS Misc VII, Paris, p. 348. 34 CRS Misc XI, Ghent, p. 25. 35 Frances Dolan, ‘Why are nuns funny?’, Huntington Library Quarterly 70:4 (2007), 509–535. Quotation from p. 510. 36 Colwich Abbey, Ms P2, Constitutions of the Paris community, fol. 27v. 37 Liesbeth Corens, ‘Catholic nuns and English identities: English Protestant travellers on the English convents in the Low Countries, 1660– 1730’, Recusant History 30 (2011), 441–59. 38 I am very grateful to Sister Benedict for her comments on Justina

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Gascoigne and the Paris community’s use of translators. 39 See for instance Helen Hills, ‘Cities and virgins: female aristocratic convents in early modern Naples and Palermo’, Oxford Art Journal, 22:1 (1999), 29–54; Mary Laven, Virgins of Venice: Enclosed Lives and Broken Vows in the Renaissance Convent, London: Penguin, 2002 and Silvia Evangelisti, ‘Rooms to share: convent cells and social relation in early modern Italy’, Past and Present supplement 1 (2006), 55–71. 40 AAM, Box 12/2, Agnes Lenthall, undated and unaddressed document. 41 Benedict Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Inner Life and the Writings of Dame Gertrude More, 2 vols (London: R. & T. Washbourne, 1910), p. 96. 42 Ibid., p. 92: Gertrude More distances herself from a world which is in constant flux: ‘Thou […] showed me so plainly the uncertainty, instability, and changeableness of all created things, that my soul even loatheth the favour of any, how good soever.’ 43 Ibid., p. 16. 44 See Alexia Grey (ed.), The Rule of the Most Blissid Father Saint Benedict Patriarke of all Munkes (Ghent, 1632) (hereafter Rule), chapters 53 and 56. 45 AAM, box 12/1, Mary Roper to the archbishop of Mechelen, 20 January 1623. 46 AAM, Box 12/2, Scholastica Smith, undated document. 47 Ibid., Mary Roper to the archbishop of Mechelen, 9 April 1623. 48 Ibid., Christina Lovell, undated visitation document 28. 49 Ibid., Lucy Knatchbull, undated document. 50 AAM, Box 12/1, Anne Ingleby to the archbishop of Mechelen, undated (August 1628). 51 Ibid., Anne Ingleby to the archbishop of Mechelen, 28 August 1628. 52 Tobie Matthew, The Relation of the Holy and Happy Life and Death of the Ladye Lucie Knatchbull (unfoliated section), printed in Nicky Hallett (ed.), English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800, vol. 3, Life Writing (London: Pickering and Chatto, 2012), p. 199. Also, Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, p. 147. 53 Ibid., p. 169. 54 More, The Holy practices of a Devine Lover, pp. 170–1. 55 ADN, Ms 20H-10, fol. 786: ‘a total giving & abandoning of ourselves to Almighty God … deposing all self will, self interests & respects’; ‘entire resignation of ourselves to whatsoever it shall please God to ordaine’. 56 Ibid., fol. 870: ‘There is nothing so necessarie for a soul that aspires to perfection then to give & resigne herselfe wholly to the will of God Almighty.’ 57 ADN, Ms 20H-10. 58 ADN, Ms 20H-1, ‘Constitutions of the Cambrai community’, fols 13–22, ‘Of the Vow of Inclosure’, and Ms 20H-11: Joan Seller’s ­Profession of

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faith, 20 March 1631 at Cambrai, ‘Povertie, Chastitie and Obedience and Conversion of my manners’. 59 Colwich Abbey, Ms H71, Justina Gascoigne, ‘Instructions to Chapter’, fol. 162. 60 ADN, Ms 20H-10, fol. 657, ‘willingly undergoe the spirituall martirdome of a religious life’. 61 Matthew, The Relation (unfoliated section), in Hallett (ed.), English Convents in Exile, p. 204. 62 Statutes, ‘The First Parte’, chapter 2, ‘Of Povertie’, pp. 11–14. 63 Silvia Evangelisti, Nuns. A History of Convent Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), p. 28. 64 Archives nationales, Paris, Ms 4619, ‘Correspondance’. 65 CRS Misc XI, Ghent, p. 19. 66 ADN, Ms 20H-17, ‘A short treatise of the three principall vertues and vows of religious persons’ (unfoliated). 67 Ibid. 68 Matthew, The Relation (unfoliated section), printed in Hallett (ed.), English Convents in Exile, p. 191. 69 CRS Misc VII, Paris, p. 390. 70 Silvia Evangelisti, ‘Monastic poverty and material culture in early modern Italian Convents’, The Historical Journal 47:1 (2004), 1–20, p. 2 and Evangelisti, ‘Rooms to share’. 71 AAM, Box 12/1, Elizabeth Southcott to the archbishop of Mechelen, 24 April 1629. 72 Ibid., Mary Philip to the archbishop of Mechelen, 26 April 1629. 73 AAM, Box 12/2, Mary Percy to the archbishop of Mechelen, 16 September 1629. Anne Healey apparently kept some papers for Mary Vavasour, which she snatched from the abbess. 74 Ibid. 75 Bowden, ‘“A distribution of tyme”’. 76 ADN, Mss 20H-1, Constitutions. 77 See Nicky Hallett, The Senses in Religious Communities, 1600–1800. Early Modern ‘Convents of Pleasure’ (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), especially chapter 1 on deportment and conduct books. 78 Rule of St Benedict, Second Parte, pp. 31–3. 79 ADN, Ms 21H-49, nuns’ prayers. 80 Jody Bilinkoff, The Avila of St Teresa (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989). 81 Benedict Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More (London: R. & T. Washbourne, 1910), p. 65.

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2 • When spiritual and secular families overlap

Entering an enclosed convent was no small decision. The women who became Benedictines must accept the prospect of being cloistered for the rest of their lives, and of taking perpetual vows which would bind them eternally to the Order, without the possibility of returning to their loved ones at home. The Rule of St Benedict declared that once she entered the novitiate, a woman ‘may never depart from the Monastery nor may withdraw her neeke from the yoake of the Rule’.1 Such a decision should be based upon a firm resolve, which came from the prospective nun herself and not from external pressures; it must come from her wish to enter the contemplative life with a full awareness of its hardships, and with the expectation of the happiness it could bestow. In short, it must rest upon a true contemplative vocation. This concern was present in the houses of all other Orders, too. The Carmelites kept a lengthy treatise entitled ‘Instructions for thos who give voices in the reception of Novices or Professions’, which began with this cautionary sentence: ‘The greatest disorder in nunneries […] is to receive Novices without a vocation.’ The treatise went on to warn communities of the disorders which such a novice would bring to any convent, and called choir nuns to keep in mind that ‘solid vocations are few’, and to beware the ‘human motives’ and ‘temporal considerations’ of postulants’ families.2 Yet studies have shown that on the Continent, particularly in France, Italy, Portugal or Spain, convents often served as safe houses where noble and wealthy families placed their supernumerary or 47

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physically unattractive daughters, in order to maximise the dowries of their more eligible sisters and therefore make more profitable matches. Where possible, some of the families who used such strategies chose to group their women either in the same convent or in the same Order, or in the same city; by doing so, they accrued high levels of influence upon the economic, political and religious life of the places where they had become prominent. Silvia Evangelisti has shown that in some early modern Italian convents, nuns from influential families enjoyed both political leverage and material affluence in a manner that contradicted the tenets of poverty, obedience and humility. Mary Laven has revealed that aristocratic daughters population in formed around three-quarters of the conventual ­ Venice, although a large proportion of them had no religious calling whatsoever – at least initially. Helen Hills has illustrated the power and influence of Neapolitan aristocratic families in the very architecture of the religious buildings they patronised, where their coats of arms were emblazoned in stained-glass windows, or symbolic representations of their names were carved in the stonework.3 Even without those levels of interference from secular families, social patterns always persisted within the cloister, and indeed they provided the blueprint for much of its organisation. Nunneries were no strangers to the hierarchy and power play that occurred in the world, of which they were microcosms. As they welcomed the representatives of the English Catholic community, English cloisters not only reproduced family patterns and networks, but also mirrored the broader social hierarchies that defined early modern society. However, they appear not to have followed the exact same patterns as their Continental counterparts. Barbara Harris has demonstrated that even before the Reformation, aristocratic women were not a significant element of the population of English convents.4 As we will see, the prosopographical study of the English convents in exile in the seventeenth century indicates that in matters of recruitment and provision for the nuns, they were quite different from the picture which has emerged from research into Italian and Spanish nunneries. The English conventual experience was special, different from that of Continental houses. This was certainly fostered by the fact that the population of English houses was made up almost exclusively of English women. The settlements of the convents in northern France and Flanders were very often dependent upon their promise not to deplete the resources of local houses and not to recruit local 48

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girls. For instance, when the archbishop of Rouen published the king’s lettres patentes authorising the foundation of the Benedictine house at Pontoise on 7 November 1659, he did so ‘uppon condition that [the English nuns] shold tak non of the French Nation’.5 But even when authorised to recruit locally, English Benedictines did not often do so: in Cambrai, the town magistrate had specified that local French girls ought to be admitted, but the choir nuns were in fact all English, as were all but one of the lay Sisters. The trend was similar in Ghent, where registers show only six instances of local girls becoming nuns (out of a total of 257).6 By recruiting English women almost exclusively, the English convents in exile became mirrors of recusant circles, giving strong representation to the most prominent Catholic families of the kingdom and strengthening the networks between them from across the Channel. Many of the most notable Catholic families in England entrusted several of their women to convents on the Continent, and in some cases developed a strong influence over certain houses. However, the privileges accorded to the nuns involved were not of the same nature of those found in Spanish or Italian cases. What were the specificities of the prosopographical profile of English Benedictine convents in exile in the seventeenth century? The convent as family We have seen how the women who entered contemplative communities committed themselves to an ideal in which they were dead to the world. In the case of English women, this extraction from society was even more clearly marked, since taking the veil implied exile from their native country. Some Continental writers hailed the sacrifice made by these zealous Catholics. In his work about the Pontoise community, Dom Claude Estiennot (1639–99)7 wrote of Catherine Wigmore that she ‘forsook her frends and country’, and of Anna Christina Forster that ‘She relinquisht both her friends and country; / And what by birth she might have challenged as her du’. He used the same trope again about Eugenia Thorold, comparing the exiled English women to ‘the example of the auncient fathers; / In leaving all to follow Christ’.8 In forsaking their island, English nuns made a commitment to religious life which appeared even more commendable than that of their Continental counterparts, because it was more radical. It was in the true spirit of abandonment, in 49

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the direct line of Christ’s disciples. Their geographical displacement implied a complete uprooting of these postulants from everyone and everything they knew as familiar. Prospective nuns not only accepted but positively embraced detachment from their previous social networks; they swapped their biological families for a new, spiritual one. Indeed, family patterns persisted in the convent, and when nuns renounced their blood kin, they acquired new spiritual Sisters, Mothers and Fathers. Prescriptive literature such as the Rule of the Order, or the constitutions of individual houses, as well as confessors’ advice and abbesses’ instructions to chapter gave nuns important guidelines about their particular role in the community. The Rule demanded that the abbess should show ‘an equall affection to all’ her spiritual Daughters, never displaying any preference for one over another.9 The statutes written for the Brussels community and its followers depicted a united community which functioned as a family, bound, controlled and protected by a Mother abbess who, like every materfamilias, was to be both loved and feared, to maintain her house in good order and preserve its unity. It recommended that the abbess should ‘shew a motherly affection as well to her exemplary as to her more troublesome daughters’, and ‘carry to all a motherly harte and affection, and endeavour to make them familier and tyed in love towards her selfe, that with great confidence they may make their recourse unto her, as to their common mother’.10 The office of the abbess (or, in the absence of an abbess, that of the prioress) implied heavy responsibilities. As the overall manager of the house’s business, she oversaw its finances and ensured that her Daughters should not go wanting for food or clothing. She kept a close eye on her officers and she checked they were well suited to their charges and fulfilled their roles honourably. As the spiritual Mother of the house, she was also responsible for its observance of the Rule, and she set the tone for the regularity, devotion and zealousness of the entire community. It was the abbess or prioress who decided upon the punishment of those who had committed faults, because, as the dispenser of justice, she must prove benevolent and understanding of human weakness, but fair and irreproachable in her protection of the house rules.11 The distribution of power in early modern English convents was, as elsewhere, heavy with political stakes. Much rested upon the election of a competent abbess, whose quadrennial mandate could 50

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be renewed many times, as long as she continued to obtain the required two-thirds of the total votes cast in chapter. It was not uncommon for abbesses to rule for very long periods. Mary Percy was abbess at Brussels from 1616 to 1642, and Mary Vavasour from 1652 to 1676; at Cambrai, Catherine Gascoigne served two separate terms, from 1329 to 1641, then again from 1645 to 1673, for a total of forty years in office. At Ghent, Mary Knatchbull ruled even longer, her forty-six years spanning from 1650 to 1696; a short time before her, Eugenia Poulton had remained abbess from 1623 to 1642, when she resigned her office for reasons of ill health.12 At Dunkirk, Mary Teresa Caryll was abbess for forty-nine years, from 1663 to 1712. It is easy to understand why the constitutions of the Paris convent highlighted the fact that the welfare, order and concord of the house depended upon its judicious choosing of an able superior. Elections were of crucial importance, especially since the quadrennial mandate could be renewed indefinitely.13 After first defining the different sorts of religious, the Rule of the Order showed how essential the abbess was to the life of a cloister. The second chapter was dedicated to explaining ‘What a Kinde of Person the Abbesse ought to bee’. She must be of ­irreproachable character and experience, of sound health and gifted with the strong temperament of a leader. Her role was to ensure the exact observance of the vows and Rule by each and every member of the convent without exception. She was a teacher and a parental figure, and as such she should lead by example, but also punish those who misbehaved. It was her duty to ‘reprehend sharpely and correct those that are negligent and despisers of disciplyne’. She must be benevolent but by no means lax, since laxity could bring chaos into a house. Thus, the Rule advised her to ‘reprehend with onely Words the more honest and docile natures for the first and second tyme’, but also exhorted her to ‘punish with bodily punishment and blowes the stubborne hard harted and disobedient’.14 Severity was the lesser of two evils, a necessity to redress the faults of those who, if kept unchecked, would dishonour themselves, their religious vows and the entire community. The second part of the Brussels statutes dedicated its first chapter to the manner of choosing and electing the abbess, and its third chapter to the abbatial office and its responsibilities. It described the abbess as appointed by God to be a ‘Governesse over the Spouses of Jesus-Christ, to direct and confirme them in the way of his holy Commandements’.15 51

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In cases where the abbess proved inadequate, or when her authority was questioned for any reason, the consequences for the community could be utterly disastrous. Hence, the constitutions of Cambrai urged choir nuns to vote most carefully in elections, ‘to laye aside all human respect, all vain feare, all motives that flesh and bloode, the worlde and self love may suggest’, to vote in their conscience for the person most suited to such a task.16 This echoed the statutes of the Brussels house, in which it was noted that ‘[a] lthoughe they may have an Eye to the Nobilitie, and honor of the kindred of any that is to bee elected, yet the Convent must be very carefull, that they doe not neglect the spiritual good of their Monastery, whyle they regard the temporall commodity’.17 This recommendation is a good indication of the political dimension of such elections, which defined both the spiritual identity and the pragmatic strategies of the house for the next four years. Since the distribution of power was reconfigured with each new abbess, voters stood to gain or lose the positions they either currently held or sought to attain in the hierarchy of conventual offices. Elements of political manoeuvring, tactical decision making or clique mentality were never entirely absent from such important elections. To be considered for such high office, nuns had to be over forty years of age – if younger, a dispensation was required – and to have lived at least eight years as a professed Sister.18 Much depended upon the abbess’s manner of interacting with her Daughters. The balance to be achieved between kindness and laxity was a delicate one and was left to the abbess’s discretion. In 1676, when abbess at Pontoise, Anne Neville wrote a book of ‘Advice to Superiors’, which she claimed to have drafted merely for her own use. In it, she warned abbesses never ‘to command a subject in peremptory and absolute terms’ but, rather, to incline her to obey through a sense of moral obligation (rather than by force) by reminding her of the Rule and of her vow of obedience. To her, the best way of government was ‘sweetnes and prudence’, except in cases where the subject would not be brought to obedience willingly, in which case ‘absolut power must be used, or religion will be destroyed’.19 Although she was never abbess but remained a simple choir nun, Barbara Constable wrote abundantly on the subject of authority. She was the author of a lengthy manuscript giving advice to priests, confessors and spiritual directors, but also to convent superiors. In her ‘Speculum Superiorum’, she insisted that nothing was more 52

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important than ‘the maintaininge of [the house’s] union and peace’ and cited the Rule of St Clare to exhort abbesses to benevolence towards their Daughters in times of spiritual turmoil.20 Regardless of their rank or place, from scholars and lay Sisters to novices and professed choir nuns, all women in religious communities obeyed the authority of their superior, who, in keeping with the familial archetype, was their materfamilias. The language of filial and motherly bonds was used extensively in conventual documents. At the death of Catherine Wigmore, abbess of the Boulogne community, she was said to be ‘leaving her Children in Tears & sorrow for the loss of so Good a mother’.21 When Eugenia Poulton became abbess at Ghent, ‘all her children thought themselves most happy in having such a mother’. Her obituarist wrote that she was loved for her ‘solicitude both for the bodys and souls of her Children, in the tenderness of a motherly heart’, and compared her to ‘a hen feeding and clocking them all to-gether under the wings of her tender soli[ci]tude, brooding and warming them with the fervent zeal of common order and disciplin’. This comparison to a mother hen caring for her chicks highlighted Poulton’s protective and loving attitude towards her community, as well as her sense of duty. Such images abound in conventual literature and were not specific to the Benedictine Order. For instance, when Abbess Mary of St Francis Taylor, of the Poor Clares of Rouen, delivered her dying speech in 1685, she repeatedly addressed her Daughters as ‘my deare harts’, openly embracing the bonds of affections which tied her to her community. She called her religious Sisters ‘my deare Children’, and she echoed St Paul when she said she had begotten them ‘in the bowels of Jesus Christ’. By doing this, she anchored the trope of the spiritual family in an organic image.22 The image used in all convents, regardless of Order, was that of a spiritual family, and the familial structure of the convent promoted affectionate bonds between nuns. The abbess was the mother, the nuns her daughters, and they were all sisters to each other, regardless of age, social status, particular office or, indeed, type of vows. Noble women must not despise those of lower status, choir nuns must show respect to converse Sisters and young nuns should respect older ones. The Rule prescribed that junior nuns should ‘request the benediction’ of their elders when they met, adding that ‘when soever the elder paseth by, the younger must rise upp and give her place to sitt downe’.23 During her time as prioress of the 53

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Paris community (1665–90), Justina Gascoigne gave detailed advice on how nuns should behave towards each other. She insisted upon sisterly benevolence, charity, ‘honour & good example’, ‘mutual reverence’ and ‘respect’. Like in secular families, juniors were to respect, obey and help their elders, and the prioress reminded new members to ‘reverence & respect their Ancients’. Novices and newly professed nuns had much to learn from those who, with the advantage of years, had acquired valuable experience in spiritual matters. Conversely, just as juniors must obey their elders, those who enjoyed the wisdom of ‘antiquity’ – as she called it – had a duty of care and exemplarity towards their younger Sisters. They must help them to achieve all the virtues of perfect contemplatives, see them through their trials and their doubts, and guide them in their vocation to serve God to the best of their abilities. Thus, holy emulation served as a powerful tool towards spiritual perfection, and all Sisters were urged to ‘Love & Respect Each other in god & for god’ in ‘sisterly charity’.24 Novices, like the youngest children of a secular family, were deemed to be the most vulnerable members of the community, since the severance of their links with the world was recent. The period of adaptation to contemplative life was often troubled with doubts and moments of discouragement, and the novitiate was therefore a critical time of intense spiritual training which took its toll on young souls. It was one of the highest stakes of a well-managed religious life, both for the individual concerned and for her community. The constitutions of Paris highlighted the crucial importance of ‘the right education of Novices’, upon which ‘all good order & discipline & true Religion doe depend’.25 The novice mistress supervised them and acted as an elder sister who taught her younger siblings how to behave in the family and how to serve it well. The abbess and her council therefore chose her amongst the more experienced and achieved professed Sisters: she was to be able ‘to gain Soules by words, but more by example’. Under her care, novices learnt to sing and to say the divine office, to perform all ceremonies impeccably, but also, and just as importantly, they learnt to behave with humility and modesty.26 The progress of novices was examined every three months in chapter until, after at least one full year, they could be considered for profession. In this spiritual family, each member had a very precise place and role. There were postulants, novices, and professed, choir nuns 54

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and converse nuns. Within the professed, some were elected or appointed to the offices necessary for the good running of the house. The abbess was at the top of the hierarchy and was helped by the prioress, who could also act on her behalf when necessary. Below them were the deans and their assistants, who watched over the good order of the community and reported anything untoward. The mistress of the novices initiated new recruits to the ­contemplative life and helped them to transition from the secular world to the cloister. The ‘depositayre’ was in charge of the necessities in the life of the family: she oversaw their clothes and their money, kept accounts and (together with the abbess) held one of the two keys to the convent’s money chest. The cellarer organised the convent’s provisions, ordered the necessary food and oversaw the converse Sisters who worked in the buttery and kitchen. She also oversaw the secular servants who worked for the house, and, as such, her office was crucial in keeping the relationships between the nuns and their servants above reproach. The portress was entrusted with one of the two keys to the convent’s gate: she supervised deliveries and visits, overseeing those crucial spaces of interaction between the cloister and the outside. The respect of enclosure depended upon her diligence and discretion. In a comparable position were the prefect of the parlour and the thourier, who kept watch over the turns (those devices for passing parcels). The convent also needed a chantress, a sacristan, an infarmarian and a guarderobe. Choir Sisters held all of these responsibilities with the essential help of their converse Sisters. Although they have been hailed as matriarchies in which women were able to enjoy a degree of power, freedom and auto-determination which they would never have been allowed to exercise outside the convent walls, early modern nunneries could not escape the gendered assumptions of the age. Thus, although abbesses or prioresses enjoyed in their communities a sphere of influence they would have been denied in the world, their matriarchal role was ever to be approved and controlled by male clerical authority. First of all, their elections by the general chapter took place at the grate, where they were supervised by the ordinary (or his deputy), who acted as witness to the correct procedure. The superior was then installed and soon officially blessed by either the local bishop or the archbishop.27 The matriarchal authority of abbesses and prioresses was therefore made possible only through male validation. 55

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For instance, Joanna Berkeley, the first abbess of the Brussels community, was blessed on 14 November 1599 by the archbishop of Mechelen, Mathias Hovius, as were her successors Mary Percy on 14 November 1616, Agnes Lenthall on 13 November 1642 and Mary Vavasour on 2 September 1652. In Ghent, Lucy Knatchbull was blessed in her own church on 21 March 1626, by bishop Anthony Tryst, as were her successors Eugenia Poulton on 17 September 1629, Mary Roper on 11 December 1642 and Mary Knatchbull on 15 May 1650; in Boulogne, Catherine Wigmore had to travel to the bishop’s palace to be blessed there on 18 October 1653.28 Moreover, the convent was placed under the ecclesiastical authority of a male superior. The Brussels community fell under the supervision of the archbishop of Mechelen, and Boulogne (later Pontoise), Dunkirk, Ghent, Paris and Ypres answered to their local bishops; however, the house of Cambrai was overseen by the president of the English Benedictine Congregation.29 Through the issue of ecclesiastical jurisdiction, convents vividly reflected, in microcosm, the general patterns of their time. Moreover, male supervisors and spiritual guides constantly monitored the spiritual life of individual nuns.30 In agreement with the gendered hierarchy of early modern society, the paternal authority of clerics (confessor, chaplain or vicar) was deemed superior to that of the abbess, although it was more remote from the day-to-day life of the convent. The constitutions of Benedictine houses indicate that each community conceded varying degrees of power to these clerics. For instance, the vicar of the ordinary (or visitor) played a more important part in the life of the congregation of Cambrai than in its daughter house in Paris. The Cambrai constitutions dedicated a whole chapter to the vicar, and this information preceded that concerning the office of abbess. The vicar was to be assisted by ‘one or two Monkes of our Congregation’, who acted as chaplains and helped him in his duties over the Mass, as well as the confession and spiritual direction of the nuns. He was given a voice in the convent’s chapter, a place at high table and ‘the title of Paternitie’.31 His role was so crucial that the abbess was commanded to take his advice ‘in all matters of her government spirituall or temporall’. She had to obtain his consent for any substantial expenditure, be it for food provisions or work on the convent building.32 He acted as ‘Procurator’ on the nuns’ behalf to put forward their petitions or promote their cause outside of the community. 56

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The constitutions of Paris, however, did not have a chapter dedicated to the vicar; rather, they presented a chapter which clearly defined the roles of the superior diocesan and the visitor, and in which it was made clear that they did not interfere with the convent’s daily business.33 They subtly restricted the powers of male authorities and promoted that of the prioress by urging confessors to direct nuns to confide in their spiritual Mother and ‘declare to her freely all their difficultys [...] for God does often give grace & light to Women Superiours to direct & comfort the consciences of such as shall have recourse to them’. The text further protected matriarchal authority by adding that ‘No preist or Relligious that shall live with the Confessour, or any other, shall goe about to deal with the Nunnes in matters of Conscience, but with the consent & approbation of the Prioresse.’34 In Paris, although the prioress’s role in the spiritual direction of her Daughters did not compete with that of the confessor, it was to be construed as a legitimate complement to it.35 Conventual networks of kin In order to allow convents to function as spiritual families or organic, self-reliant entities, exterior influences had to be kept under control. This was true of male clerics, whose advice was eagerly sought but whose authority was received with varying degrees of willingness, but it applied even more to lay influences, which in theory should be kept to a minimum. English convents were aware of the difficulties of some Continental houses, where certain families had accrued undue amounts power, either through holding considerable financial stakes in the foundation and buildings or by placing several of their women in the same community. To avoid such pitfalls, the normative texts of English Benedictines took steps to curb the power of families by limiting the number of siblings in the same community. The statutes written for the Brussels community and its daughter houses declared that ‘Widowes, sisters, or such as are neere of bloode, may not bee received without great Cause, nor they very easely who have had goverment over others in the world, and we subordinate to none.’ Efforts were made to avoid the grouping of kin under the same roof, and postulants were questioned about their reasons for choosing that particular house, so as to establish whether they were the result of familial strategies. A postulant would be asked ‘[i]f perhaps, for that shee hath here 57

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of her kindred, or some Sister, or Cozens in the Congregation, who might incline here unto’.36 However, a quick glance at the list of entrants is enough to reveal that although the spiritual ideal of contemplative life required the forsaking of one’s natural family and a spirit of detachment towards kin, the reality was more diverse. This should not be surprising, considering the practicalities of religious placements. By asking entrants if a rapprochement was the reason for choosing a particular house, the Brussels statutes acknowledged the powerful draw of kinship. Family networks did form, which attracted postulants to particular houses for reasons which might be spiritual, but also pragmatic. For any English postulant, the presence of a relative in a particular house offered the assurance of at least one familiar face in an otherwise daunting exile on the Continent. Conversely, and even though this was prohibited, professed nuns sometimes campaigned in favour of the application of a relative, making its success more likely. They would argue the need for the dowry money, and the facilitated adaptation of the new candidate thanks to the support and comfort her kin could provide during the difficult period of the novitiate. In order to prevent abuses linked to such pragmatic considerations, the Benedictine Rule declared that a Sister must not ‘defend or beare out another in the Monastery […] though they bee never soe familiar and neere in bloode’. It warned that preference given to kin was the gateway to great scandals and unrest in communities, and that those who presumed to get their relatives preferred in any way should be severely punished. Nonetheless, it made sense for a family to contribute to the financial stability of a house in which they had placed a relative by sending others there too, and the recruitment patterns of English convents were not entirely devoid of such practices. For instance, the chronicle of the Poor Clares of Rouen mentions that in 1652, the Browne family tried to withdraw three of their daughters, who had been in the school for three years and had a desire to become nuns there. The plan was, initially, to place them with the Benedictines, preferably at Cambrai with their aunt Ebba Browne. Yet their mother was too impoverished to pay for the required three dowries and a profitable arrangement was made, allowing Anne to return to Rouen as she wished, but compelling her sisters (against their will) to enter the French Benedictine abbey of Chelles, where their dowries were paid by the queen herself. This case illustrates the 58

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impact families could have upon the placement of their daughters and shows that the choices which were made answered to practical as well as spiritual considerations.37 Over the course of the seventeenth century, 588 English women took their vows in the Benedictine Order. By the end of the seventeenth century, the Ghent convent had recruited more nuns than the others, by a comfortable margin: 218 women became Benedictines at Ghent, whereas only 123 professed at Brussels, despite the fact that Brussels was the first English cloister to be founded in exile, twenty-six years before Ghent opened. Next were the convents of Cambrai (with 95 nuns) and Pontoise (with 81 professions). The Dunkirk and Paris communities remained smaller, with 35 and 32 women, respectively. Only four nuns had entered the Ypres house during the course of the century.38 The reasons for the differences in numbers can only be guessed at. Brussels was agitated by violent controversies regarding the authority of the abbess and the matter of spiritual direction. During the 1620s and 1630s, the community was cloven into two opposing camps, each pointing to the other as the source of the troubles, with growing acrimony. This disquiet became well known outside the walls of the cloister, causing scandal even in England, where family members wrote to their enclosed kin to urge them to minimise the damage done to the reputation of a convent which, by 1620, was already compared to the ruins of Troy.39 This could explain why recruitment dwindled from thirtyone nuns in the 1610s to nineteen in the 1620s, and dropped to only two and one in the 1630s and 1640s, respectively. Conversely, the monastery at Ghent developed idiosyncratic traits, with a militant brand of Jesuit spirituality. Ghent stood out in the nature of its piety and adopted a missionary spirit which probably influenced its recruitment patterns, especially since its links with missionaries were very close, prompting the Jesuits working in England to send women to Ghent more readily. James Kelly has shown the influence of Jesuit missionary activities in England over the recruitment patterns of Essex nuns.40 Strong links with Jesuits in the mission contributed largely to Ghent’s success; more research is yet to be done on the intricacies of conventual recruitment. In the 1640s, during the years of the Civil Wars which so adversely affected many royalist Catholic families, Ghent was the only one of the twentytwo convents in exile (of all Orders) to manage as many as twentysix recruits. 59

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Thanks to the wonderful database provided by the AHRCfunded project ‘Who Were the Nuns? A Prosopographical Study of the English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800’, scholars can now garner a wealth of information about the make-up of communities.41 Looking at all the Orders combined, it appears that around 60 per cent of seventeenth-century English nuns had at least one recorded relative who was also in a convent. The bonds of kin varied, ranging from rare cases of mothers and daughters to more common examples of sisters, cousins, nieces and aunts. Although they did not always live the course of their cloistered lives concurrently (with great-nieces sometimes taking the veil shortly before great-aunts passed away, for instance), they constituted networks of kin which linked Catholic families and English convents through more than their common devotion and nationality. Women from an extended family sometimes entered the same Order.42 Amongst the Benedictines who had relatives in English nunneries, approximately 88 per cent had a least one in the Benedictine Order. Some families may have felt a particular affinity with the Rule of St Benedict, but such a high percentage seems to indicate that placement strategies sought to group daughters in the same Order, when possible. This hypothesis appears to be vindicated by the fact that 73 per cent of the Benedictines who had relatives in the Order counted at least one in the very same house as themselves. Whether this was the result of a decision taken by the postulant, by her family or by the agents they dealt with remains yet to be ascertained. It is likely that the convents’ agents, who worked in the mission, must have played an important role in patterns of recruitment at home. Even though the practice was criticised in the statutes, some Benedictine houses accepted related women under the same roof. When sending several daughters into the same convent, a family naturally became an important influence upon that house. This was the case for the extended Gascoigne family, where nineteen women became nuns, twelve with the Benedictines. Eight of those went to Cambrai, thereby making the Gascoigne family a major player in the life of that house. The More-Lusher household entrusted eight of its daughters to the Benedictines. Joanna More entered the house at Brussels, but her two sisters, Anne and Agnes More, her two cousins Brigitt and Gertrude More, and her three nieces Francis, Elizabeth and Bridgett Lusher, all entered the house at Cambrai: 60

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there were therefore seven closely related women from the same family at Cambrai in the course of the seventeenth century, three of whom entered together in 1625. Cambrai also housed four Cary sisters, who entered together as a foursome in 1640, thereby immediately making their family a force to be reckoned with in the convent. Although all four sisters may have had a particular vocation for the Benedictine Order, or felt specifically drawn to the Bakerite brand of spirituality which, by 1640, was typical of Cambrai, the fact that they entered the same cloister at the same time evokes other factors too. One can only guess at the possible causes for such an unusual pattern, but its consequences for the Cambrai community are obvious: the Cary family became a major element of the house’s life. Clementia and Mary later moved on to Paris, where they became founding members in 1661. Such familial rapprochement had an impact upon the individual nuns, who found in their relatives sources of comfort and natural support, but it also influenced the life of the convent as a corporate entity, by creating lobbies and affording certain families undeniable power. The tables in Appendix 1 show that it was not rare for Benedictines to have at least one relative in the same house as themselves.43 Similarly, the Ghent community welcomed ten women from the Caryll family (with another four relatives entering other Benedictine convents).44 Four of the remarkable total of eighteen Bedingfields who entered holy Orders professed there. But one of the most influential families at Ghent was that of Lucy Knatchbull. Lucy, who initially professed at Brussels, became one of the founders of the Ghent community in 1624, of which she became the first abbess, from 1624 to 1629. There, her influence acted as a force of ­attraction on her relatives. She was joined in quick succession by four of her nieces, Paula and Mary in 1626, Margaret in 1627 and Mary in 1628. It is likely that her nieces trusted that they would find a benevolent abbess in the person of their aunt and relished the prospect of entering a house under her protection. Moreover, by sending the four nieces to Ghent, the Knatchbull family supported Lucy’s community through their dowries and donations. Without entrants, a new convent was bound to struggle: by sending four of their daughters to Ghent, the Knatchbulls became major patrons of the house. In the beginning, the first English Benedictine convent (at ­Brussels) recruited from the eminent Catholic families of England. The list of 61

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its choir nuns echoes the names of the aristocratic families found in the recusant rolls returned to government. Mary Percy, who was to be abbess of the community from 1616 to 1642, was the daughter of Lord Thomas Percy, seventh earl of Northumberland. Aristocratic lineage existed – although it was never dominant – in the other Benedictine houses too. In Paris, the Cary sisters45 were the daughters of Henry Cary, first viscount Falkland of Aldenham in Hertfordshire and Viceroy of Ireland under Charles I; their grandfather was Sir Lawrence Tanfield, chief baron of the exchequer. In Boulogne, Marie Roper and her niece Frances were the daughters of barons.46 In Cambrai, the sisters Catherine and Margaret Gascoigne and their nieces Justina and Francis were the daughters of baronets, as were Bridgitt and Ursula Radcliffe. In the small community at Pontoise, association with great names appears to have superseded the purity of lineage. Thus, the convent housed Benedicta Fitzroy, the daughter of Barbara Villiers, duchess of Cleveland (former mistress of Charles II) and Ignatia Fitzjames, the illegitimate daughter of James II and Arabella Churchill.47 Barbara Smith was the illegitimate daughter of a baronet. Incidentally, the presence of illegitimate daughters showed that Pontoise had a much more flexible policy than Brussels, where legitimacy of birth was considered necessary in order to become a nun.48 The presence of noble women amongst the ranks of nuns – and particularly amongst founding members – added tremendous clout to any house. Association with prestigious names was a considerable advantage to any given convent, which gained in reputation by association. Sometimes, the clothings of eminent young ladies drew crowds and were the occasion of lavish displays. The participation of distinguished guests, as well as the music and the banquets, which could last for hours, gave a magnificent public aura to a solemn, spiritual rite of passage. At Brussels, the clothing ceremony of the founding members of the first English convent in exile was intended to publicise the excellence of the new foundation; it was, one could argue, a well-managed exercise in public relations. An English eye-witness described how the ‘8 Englishe gentellwemen whereof were chiefe the Lady Marye Percy and Mrs Dorethie Arundell’ were ‘bravely appareled and adorned with rich jewelles like brides’. Rank and wealth combined to make this event memorable to all. The officiants were none other than the Pope’s nuncio and Mathias Hovius, the archbishop of Mechelen; the archduke 62

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patronised the ceremony, and the Infanta led the first two religious herself, as their Godmother. The Spanish ambassador was present also. The ceremony was described by an admiring eye-witness as ‘one of the sollempnes thinges that was sene this 100 yeares’, and it had the desired impact upon the audience, reducing many to tears in a display where the sacred and the profane mutually enhanced each other.49 Although prescriptive texts described clothings and professions as moments of solemn meditation to be held with the very minimum of fuss, the reality rarely matched this ideal. Early modern convents could not completely achieve separation from secular patterns. The presence of a number of women from privileged backgrounds in each community meant that the social hierarchy which distinguished highborn women from their less fortunate Sisters endured within the walls. Official conventual discourse claimed that those who sought spiritual perfection were equal in the eyes of their heavenly Father. Yet social distinctions remained present within the walls, bolstered by the persistence of social hierarchy. In English convents as in others, women who came from privileged social backgrounds generally became choir nuns (and therefore had a vote in chapter), and those from the most modest families became lay Sisters. The lay Sisters paid a much reduced dowry; those who could not contribute any money brought their own clothing and bed linen only. They were not given a voice in chapter, did not take part in convent votes and were not expected to keep the full Divine Office. Some entered the convent as the maids of postulants who would become choir nuns. At Brussels, Elizabeth Bradbery entered with her servant, Elizabeth Bacon; she became a choir Sister and Bacon a lay Sister. Officially, their employer/employee relationship was nullified by their entry into religion, but the fact that they later moved together to help the new foundation at Ghent indicates that they still functioned as a pair, and probably maintained a relationship which was akin to that between a mistress and her maid. The same pattern is applicable to Frances Parker, the daughter of William Parker, Lord Morley and Monteagle of Great Hallingbury, Essex, who entered with her servant, Margaret Robinson. We saw in Chapter 1 that, as Parker was infirm, her profession with the Brussels Benedictines had posed various problems, and that she had left before her profession. She did become professed, but with the Louvain Augustinians; the fact that Robinson went with her to become a 63

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lay Sister in the same house indicates that both women continued to function as they had in the world, as mistress and servant. There are a few other examples of women entering the cloister with their maid. From the age of fourteen, Mary Appleby was determined to enter the convent of Paris. When she was finally allowed to do so, and perhaps on account of her young age, it was in the company of her servant, Bridget Swales, who was admitted on her employer’s portion. Mary professed at the age of sixteen but, sadly, Bridget died before she could take the veil as a lay Sister. This relationship is echoed also at Cambrai, where Elizabeth Collingwood and her servant, Anne Batmanson, both entered in 1677; mirroring their stations in secular life, the former became a choir nun, whilst the latter became a lay Sister. The social profiles of English convents Despite the elements described here, which indicate a degree of remanence of secular patterns in cloisters, the social profile of English monasteries did differ from that of their Continental counterparts. Many European convents were clearly dominated by wealthy and aristocratic families, and their aura of spiritual holiness was linked with the presence of noble nuns amongst them. In the case of Neapolitan convents, Helen Hills has argued that ‘upper-class women actually enhanced sacredness, even produced it, because of, and not despite, their noble blood’.50 In their chronicles and obituaries, communities insisted upon the noble lineage of their members and drew parallels between that lineage and their virtues, as though implying that nobility somewhat enhanced the holiness of the person and, by extension, of the entire community. Early modern Continental convents were reputed as finishing schools of aristocratic daughters, as places of retreat for wealthy widows, but more infamously as enclosed facilities where noble families unburdened themselves of their supernumerary daughters in order to favour a few advantageous marriage alliances. Their detractors presented them as places of wealth and privilege rather than monastic poverty and humility, and contemporary pamphleteers pictured English convents as very similar to the most worldly of European cloisters. In A List of the Monasteries, Nunneries and Colleges belonging to the English Papists in several Popish Countries beyond Sea, spies for the English crown reported that there was in the town 64

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of Dunkirk ‘a monastery of Benedictine nuns, commonly called the rich Dames, under the Direction of the Jesuits’.51 The adjective ‘rich’ served the purposes of anti-Catholic propaganda, which endeavoured to show Catholic exiles as unpatriotic subjects who drained the resources from England. The sobriquet ‘rich Dames’ indicated the antagonistic perception of a community decried as socially elitist and in breach of its monastic vows, but it was far from an adequate description of the Dunkirk Benedictines, whose economic circumstances never allowed them to be wealthy. Even if, as we have seen, some aristocratic names did feature amongst the list of recruits of English Benedictine convents, they did so mostly in the earlier days of the foundations, and never in great proportion. The majority of the nuns were in fact the daughters of gentlemen and esquires. Of all Benedictine convents, it was Brussels which chose to emphasise its connections to the nobility in England in the most obvious manner. It was part of the monastery’s strategy to display tangible signs of affluence, in order to signal to the world the stability of its foundation and to draw postulants to enter the first English convent to be founded on the Continent. But the other Benedictine houses did not opt for that strategy at all. Moreover, English communities (unlike Continental convents) did not allow their nuns to continue to behave as noblewomen, enjoying large and richly furnished cells and the services of several lay Sisters, whom they treated as their personal servants. Moreover, converse Sisters could become key elements of their convents and enjoy considerable kudos. For instance, Scholastica and Gertrude Hodson, both lay Sisters at Cambrai, became founding members of the Paris community in 1652, and they were greatly admired. The religious respect with which the lay Sisters were considered in English Benedictine convents and, it appears, in English cloisters at large, may owe something to the particular circumstances of English Catholicism. At home, the safety of the entire family depended upon discretion and a sense of utter loyalty and mutual trust. Servants were a very important part of the household, they played a major role in keeping it safe and discreet. The background of a life under penalty created a bond between mistresses and their servants, which was clearly visible in the few cases of English Benedictines who entered religion with their helps. Upon entering, both became religious Sisters and even though they might have different statuses, both were equally valued in the convent.52 .

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We saw that, since the Middle Ages, Continental convents had acquired a reputation as dumping grounds for the unwanted girls of ­ rotestant the aristocracy; this had become one of the prongs of the P attacks against cloistered life, and later it would be the target of the criticism of enlightenment philosophers.53 Families whose power depended upon wealth and property avoided the great costs of bridal dowries which depleted the family’s assets by placing their less eligible daughters in reputed institutions which offered safe, prestigious and economically advantageous alternatives to secular marriages.54 To put an end to those practices and change the public perception of nunneries, the Council of Trent had dedicated part of its 1563 session to the subject of forced vocations. In chapter 17, it had decreed: ‘If a girl, who is more than twelve years of age, wish to take the Regular Habit, she shall be questioned by the ­Ordinary, and again before Profession.’ In chapter 18, it added: ‘No one shall, except in the cases by law expressed, compel a woman to enter a Monastery; or prevent her, if she desire to enter.’ Those who presumed to force a girl into the cloister against her will, whoever they were, lay or clerical, were placed under anathema.55 In English convents, examinations took place in a period of one to ten days prior to the clothing and again just before profession; as postulants, then as novices, aspirants were questioned following a formulaic pattern which varied little from Order to Order, or from place to place. The bishop or his representative asked a series of questions aimed at ascertaining the candidate’s identity, age, origins and lineage, with her parents’ names, occupations and social status. She was then asked about her vocation, whether it was voluntary, long standing and well informed. At Pontoise, when probed about her ‘end and motive’ for entering religion, Catherine Turner replied: ‘to save my soul & to avoid the obstacles of the world’. She then confirmed this was her own ‘pious and free choice’ and not the result of any ‘flattering’, ‘fear’ or ‘threats’.56 She had to promise that she was free from any prior engagements, whether to a man in marriage or to another Order. Practical matters such as her physical ability to work in the convent and observe its rules, as well as the amount of her dowry, were also evoked. But the most important part was focused upon the girl’s reasons for entering: the cleric made sure that she did not feel pressured by anybody, that she had not been persuaded by her parents, friends or any others. He impressed upon her the responsi66

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bilities which a contemplative life implied, and begged her to ponder upon them at length before committing. He checked whether she felt any kind of doubt. The signed manuscripts of these examinations were then kept preciously, to guard against future court actions.57 The very concept of personal choice is of course subject to question. In her analysis of medieval convents, Penelope D. Johnson pointed out that choice belonged to the family group rather than to the individual, since it was perceived that ‘individuals benefitted if their own families prospered’.58 Such group strategies of kin were still prevalent in early modern Europe and weighed heavily upon decisions regarding marriage alliances, monastic professions, patronage, God-parenthood or even economic or political alliances. Yet cases of forced vocations appear to have been rare in English convents at large, and they certainly were so amongst the English Benedictines. English conventual archives record a very low rate of withdrawal on the part of the nuns; it is estimated that only 3 per cent of the women who embarked upon the religious life did, at some point (usually during the novitiate), decide to leave.59 For the Benedictines, we saw the case of Francis Parker, and also that of Margery Cotton, who was a troublesome novice and decided to leave the convent, declaring she liked neither the abbess nor the community.60 We also saw the sad case of young Francis Evers, who attempted to flee the Brussels convent through the kitchen turn in 1629.61 However, these were exceptions, and documents generally do not record difficulties of the sort amongst other Benedictine communities. Perhaps because of the particular circumstances of Catholicism in England, recusant families do not appear to have forced their daughters into convents. In the context of a minority faith under penalty, missionaries often encouraged women to remain on English soil, where they could be of more practical use to the organisation of networks of support and become mothers of children whom they would, in turn, educate as Catholics. Moreover, women were much less likely to be prosecuted than their fathers, brothers or husbands. This situation led John Bossy to describe English Catholicism as a matriarchy, in which women were able to exploit the gendered loopholes of the law.62 Alexandra Walsham pointed at dysfunctions in a penal system which concentrated mostly on fines and attacks against property and office-holding to punish nonconformity.63 This legal arsenal was quite ineffectual against married women who, 67

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under common law, saw their possessions vested in their husbands. Because femes covert had no property of their own, penalties really did not apply to them until their husbands died. It was only in 1610 that Parliament passed the ‘Act for the administration of the oath of allegiance and the reformation of married women recusants’, yet even then, the full force of the law fell upon the paterfamilias who failed to ensure the conformity of his household. Patriarchal scorn for women as property owners in fact enabled them to enjoy a level of religious freedom which their spouses were denied.64 Paradoxically, the centrality of women in the recusant network was partly fostered by the inadequacies of the English law to sanction them. Modern historians have highlighted a recusant modus operandi of collaboration between outwardly conforming husbands and wives entrusted with the private Catholic observance of the family.65 In such cases, wives became the bearers of their households’ recusant identity, raising their children as Catholics and upholding the private practice of the faith, whilst husbands conformed in order to preserve the family from financial ruin. In this particular context, it made sense for Catholic families to keep their daughters in England, where they would, in turn, become the wives and mothers of the future generations of English Catholics. The financial factor should also be considered: penalties took a heavy toll even upon the wealthiest of Catholic families. In addition to these sanctions, many of them became involved in the Civil Wars, where they took side for the king and invested whatever they could in support of his cause. Amongst the Catholics of England, even the nobility were relatively impoverished. Since Catholics tended to intermarry rather than seek alliances with Protestant conformists, the price of a marital dowry likely sank accordingly, neither party being in a position to demand or offer very much. Financially speaking, then, there was little to gain from sending a daughter who did not have a vocation into a Continental convent. In this respect, English contemplative life presents an original profile which differs from that of its Continental counterparts. On the issue of dowries, English convents were quite unique. Claire Walker’s study has shown that although dowry prices varied with the different Orders and increased over time, they remained much more affordable than those required in French, Italian, Spanish or Portuguese cloisters. The dowries varied greatly depending on the circumstances of the entrants. At Brussels, in 1600, five women 68

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were professed, with dowries ranging from only 500 to 5,500 florins. In the initial years, there does not appear to have been any standardisation in amounts; a few ranged between 3,000 and 5,000 florins, the lowest being in 1622, of 400 florins, and the highest in 1615, of 10,000 florins.66 In 1665, Clare Newport professed at Paris with £300; two years later, in 1667, Mary Appleby brought £2,500, which proved to be a great manna for the convent (although we will see that the money was not obtained easily). In 1677, the convent took on Gertrude Hanne, whose father had been ruined in his support of the king during the Civil Wars, for the sum of £100. Unlike in Continental convents, the amount of a Sister’s dowry was not an influence upon the positions she could or could not hope to hold in the English Benedictines. Anne Neville had entered religion at Ghent without any portion, and yet became a founding member of the Boulogne community in 1652 and of the Dunkirk house in 1662. She returned to her community, helped its translation to Pontoise and at the death of her dear friend Eugenia Thorold, in 1667, was elected as her successor as abbess of Pontoise; she remained in that office until her death in 1689. Money did not appear to play a determinant role in either recruit­­­­ ment or promotion in English Benedictine convents. The constitutions of the Paris community specified that no zealous postulant should be refused entry on account of her poverty: if the convent had the means to sustain her, any woman displaying the requisite qualities to make a good nun would be accepted, even if she could not find the sum necessary for her dowry.67 Paris was quite representative of the great disparities which existed in endowments, and testified to the flexibility of the English Benedictine convents, who adapted their requests so as to accommodate families whose financial resources were otherwise badly drained by personal circumstances and to reflect the situation of Catholics at home. In her study of Neapolitan convents, Helen Hills argued: ‘Local politics, not religious Order, determined dowry rates.’68 What was true of Naples was perhaps felt even more acutely in the case of English convents in exile, but this time it was the national plight of Catholic families which determined dowry rates. Money was so scarce that even amongst the noblest families many appreciated affordable dowries; by adapting to the circumstances of an impoverished recusant community, convents were able to continue recruiting. 69

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Given the context of the penalties which weighed upon their families at home, some candidates for the profession found themselves at the heart of bitter disputes. The payment of sums due to the convents necessitated constant attention from abbesses or prioresses and, at times, the active involvement of the nuns whose dowries were outstanding. Such preoccupation detracted heavily from the ideal of separation from the world and, in such situations, contemplatives could not afford to be considered dead to the world. Reasons varied why families were not forthcoming with payments. Very rarely did it come down to simple lack of support for their daughters’ vocations. More often, initial support was withdrawn when the creditors’ situation changed, generally when a father remarried or died. These situations were common in Continental cloisters, and historians have brought to life the stories of nuns such who had to sue various family members for a share in the inheritance, in order to contribute towards their upkeep.69 In disputes over financial issues, convents did not hesitate to initiate legal proceedings. These lawsuits were somewhat of a doubled-edged sword, to be used only in the most desperate cases, when all other mediations had failed. Indeed, they exposed the convents’ conflicts with the secular world’ and publicly showed the worldly essence of even the most holy communities. At Ghent, Mary Trevelyan had to return to England in order to obtain that payment from her family.70 This also happened in Paris to Mary Appleby, who, as we have seen, had entered the convent at a young age with her servant, Bridget Swales. Her father refused to pay the promised £2,000 to the convent. He had remarried, and his obligations towards his second wife and their children meant that he took to the law to avoid the payment of his daughter’s dowry. The situation required Mary’s presence in England: she travelled there in the greatest secrecy and presented herself at the trial under a false name. Her father argued that the dowry payment was no longer necessary since his daughter’s profession had already taken place in Paris; he did not see the need to pay after the fact. To everyone’s surprise, Mary then spoke out to contradict him; her very presence, she argued, showed that she had not yet taken her vows. Her father pretended that she was an impostor, but a mark she bore on her hand provided evidence of her identity. The young woman therefore returned to Paris with her dowry of £2,000, to which an extra £500 was added, as the chronicler said, ‘given or left her as a legacy, I cannot wel tel which, nor by whom’.71 70

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Such pursuits were lowly rather than spiritual, but they were necessary for the continued economic buoyancy of the monasteries concerned. Even at the risk of losing some of their sacred aura, convents did take their debtors to court when absolutely necessary. English communities in exile had very few means of raising money, and they needed to protect their finances in order to ensure the welfare of their religious. The future of their spiritual mission was dependent upon that of their financial stability.72 When writing about mediaeval convents, Penelope Johnson argued that ‘the natal family routinely became intertwined with the monastic family’.73 This was applicable to early modern communities as well. Some degree of networking was unavoidable and, although English convents avoided gathering too many closely related women under the same roof, a significant proportion of entrants did count at least one relative in the same Order, or even in the same convent. The presence of several members of the same extended family bolstered a sense of loyalty and solidarity amongst the Sisters; moreover, it was the natural family which gave the spiritual household its organisational model and allowed it to function harmoniously. Whilst enclosed nuns pursued an ideal of separation from or even death to the secular world, they found another expression of family life in their experience of the cloister. They left their homes and relatives in England to form new spiritual families, with new mothers and sisters, new rules and new roles to play. Convents could therefore be construed as microcosms of the societies from which they sprang, and English Benedictine houses reflected the specific patterns and circumstances of early modern English Catholicism. The most prominent Catholic families were represented amongst the latter’s ranks, and the networks which existed in England were mirrored in the convents.74 Yet English Benedictine convents were not places reserved for the upper echelons of the social elite; although noblewomen did enter, the majority belonged to the gentry. Because of the penalties which depleted the resources of most Catholic households, English convents adopted a much more flexible approach to dowry amounts than did their Continental counterparts. The settlement of plentiful dowries was therefore both their main strength and, potentially, their main weakness. When the recruitment of novices was successful, when vocations proved firm, when families paid up, then the dowry system enabled communities to thrive. The failure of just 71

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one of these factors, however, could have disastrous consequences upon their survival. Overall, the picture which emerges from this prosopographical profile is one in which women entered religion for religion’s sake rather than in order to comply with their families’ economic strategies. It appears that, for a great many English nuns, conventual life was a matter of genuine spiritual calling. Notes 1 Rule, p. 82. 2 Laurence Lux-Sterritt (ed.), Spirituality, vol. 2 in Caroline Bowden (ed.), English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800, 6 vols (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2012), p. 33. 3 See Silvia Evangelisti, Nuns: A History of Convent Life, 1450–1700 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); Silvia Evangelisti, ‘Rooms to share: convent cells and social relations in early modern Italy’, Past and Present supplement 1 (2006), 55–71; Silvia Evangelisti, ‘Monastic poverty and material culture in early modern Italian convents’, The Historical Journal 47:1 (2004), 1–20 and Silvia Evangelisti, ‘“We do not have it, and we do not want it”: women, power, and convent reform in Florence’, The Sixteenth Century Journal 34:3 (2003), 677–700. See also Mary Laven, Virgins of Venice. Enclosed Lives and Broken Vows in the Renaissance Convent (New York: Penguin Books, 2002) and Helen Hills, ‘“Enamelled with the blood of a noble lineage”: tracing noble blood and female holiness in early modern Neapolitan convents and their architecture’, The American Society of Church History, 73:1 (2004), 1– 40 and Helen Hills, Invisible City: The Architecture of Devotion in Seventeenth Century Neapolitan Convent (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). 4 Barbara J. Harris, ‘A new look at the Reformation: aristocratic women and nunneries, 1450–1540’, Journal of British Studies 32 (1993), 89–113. Harris tackles the argument which shows nunneries as microcosms within which women enjoyed more freedom and agency than they would otherwise have done in medieval society. Her study of English nunneries shows that the Reformation did not play an adverse role upon aristocratic women, since in fact they did not form a significant part of the population of convents. 5 CRS Misc. V, p. 49. 6 ‘Consentement et permission du magistrat’, 15 May 1623, in CRS Misc. VIII, p. 4. For lists of nuns at Cambrai and Ghent, see http:// wwtn.history.qmul.ac.uk/, accessed 11 February 2016. 7 Claude Estiennot de la Serre was a monk and a historian at the Benedictine monastery of St Martin in Pontoise.

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8 CRS Misc X, Pontoise, pp. 268, 270 and 272. 9 Rule, p. 17. 10 Statutes, ‘The Second Parte’, pp. 18–20. 11 See Colette Friedlander, ‘Les Pouvoirs de la Supérieure dans le cloître et dans le monde du Concile de Trente à nos jours’, in Les Religieuses dans le cloître et dans le monde des origines à nos jours (Saint-Etienne: Publications de l’Université de Saint-Etienne), 1994, pp. 239–48. 12 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, p. 40. 13 Colwich Abbey, Ms P2, ‘Constitutions of Our Lady of Good Hope, Paris, in M. Clementia Cary’s own hand’, fol. 40. 14 Rule, p. 18. 15 Statutes, ‘The Second Parte’, p. 18. 16 ADN, Ms 20H-1, ‘Constitutions of the Paris community’, fol. 64, item 1. 17 Statutes, ‘The Second Parte’, p. 8. 18 ADN, Ms 20H-1, ‘Constitutions of the Paris community’, fol. 66, item 5, or Statutes, ‘The Second Parte’, p. 4. 19 Douai Abbey, box IV. 1, item 13: Anne Neville, ‘Instructions to Superiors’, 1676, fols 13 and 15, respectively. 20 Colwich Abbey, Ms H43, Barbara Constable, ‘Speculum Superiorum’ (2 December 1650), fols 282 and 286. 21 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, p. 62. 22 Caroline Bowden (ed.), History Writing, vol. 1, in Caroline Bowden (ed.), English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800 (London: Pickering and Chatto, 2012), pp. 64–5. 23 Rule, p. 89. 24 Colwich Abbey, Ms H71, Justina Gascoigne, ‘Instructions to Chapter’ (copied in 1710), vol. II, chapter 21, ‘That we ought to prevent Each other with honour & good Example’, fols 135–9. 25 Colwich Abbey, Ms P2, Constitutions of the Paris community, fol. 25, item 1. 26 Ibid., fol. 27, items 7 and 8. 27 In the case of Cambrai, which fell under the authority of the AngloBenedictine Congregation, the abbess was approved by the Father President of the Congregation or one of his representatives. In the early years, this was also the case of the prioress at Paris; ADN, Ms 20H-10, Constitutions of the Paris community, fols 65–72. 28 Joanna Berkeley (d. 1616, prof. 1581 at Rheims); Mary Percy (1570– 1642, prof. 1600); Agnes Lenthall (d. 1651, prof. 1603); Mary Vavasour (d. 1676, prof. 1616); Lucy Knatchbull (1584–1629, prof. 1611); Eugenia Poulton (1580–1646, prof. 1605); Mary Roper (1598–1650, prof. 1619); Mary Knatchbull (1610–1696, prof. 1628) and Catherine Wigmore (1596–1656, prof. 1626). 29 On the shift of the Paris community (daughter house of Cambrai) from the jurisdiction of the English Benedictines to that of the archbishop of

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Paris, see Peter Guilday, Catholic Refugees on the Continent, 1558– 1795 (London: Longman, Green and Co.P, 1914, pp. 256 and 282. 30 Claire Walker, Gender and Politics in Early Modern Europe: English Convents in France and the Low Countries (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), pp. 58–60. 31 ADN, Ms 20H-1, Constitutions of the Cambrai community, fol. 60, item 7. 32 Ibid., fols 62–3, items 12 and 13. 33 Colwich Abbey, Ms P2, Constitutions of the Paris community, fols 35–9. 34 Ibid., fol. 39, items 4 and 5. 35 I am grateful to Sister Benedict, of Colwich Abbey, for her clarifications regarding issues of clerical authority at Paris. 36 Statutes, ‘The Second Parte’, ‘Of those that are admitted in to the Monastery to receave the Habitt, and to make holy Vowes, and Profession of Religion’, pp. 66 and 67, respectively. 37 Bowden, History Writing, pp. 44–5. 38 See the table of recruitment figures in Caroline Bowden and James Kelly (eds), The English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800: Communities, Culture and Identity (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), p. 16. 39 The archdiocesan archives of Mechelen keep the records documenting the Brussels troubles under ‘Kloosters, Engelse Benedictinessen’. An edition of primary sources documenting the dispute is forthcoming, see Jaime Goodrich, Laurence Lux-Sterritt and Paul Arblaster (eds), The Babylon of Brussels: Spiritual Controversies among English Benedictines, 1609–1642 (Toronto: PIMS, forthcoming). 40 James E. Kelly, ‘Essex girls abroad; family patronage and the politicisa­­­ tion of convent recruitment in the seventeenth century’, in Claire Bowden and James Kelly (eds), The English Convents in Exile, 1600– 1800: Communities, Culture and Identity (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), pp. 33–52. 41 See Who Were the Nuns? A Prosopographical Study of the English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800, http://wwtn.history.qmul.ac.uk/search/ csearch.html, accessed 28 April 2015. 42 Marilyn Oliva, ‘We are family? Monastic and clerical careers among family members in the late Middle Ages’, Medieval Prosopography 20 (1999), 161–80. 43 See appendices. 44 Sisters Justina, Mary Teresa and Eugenia were followed by their cousin Agatha Webb, and their nieces and great-nieces Justina, Teresa, Mary Magdalena, Mary Benedict, Benedicta and Mary Romana Caryll. 45 Augustina, Magdalena, Winifride and Clementia. 46 Mary Roper was the daughter of Lord Christopher Roper, second baron Teynham of Lynsted, Kent, and Frances was born to Lord John Roper, third baron Teynham of Kent.

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47 Barbara Villiers’s second daughter, Cecilia Fitzroy, entered the Benedictines at Dunkirk. 48 Statutes, ‘The Second Parte’, p. 67, item 6: that ‘shee that is unlwafully begotten or is held for such, ought not to bee admitted’. There was, however, a sub-clause which allowed exceptions, for ‘some reason of especiall moment’. 49 Public Record Office, State Papers, Flanders: 77/6/Part 1 f73, anonymous and undated document. I am grateful to Caroline Bowden for sharing her transcription of this document with me. 50 See Hills, ‘“Enamelled with the blood of a noble lineage”’, p. 4. 51 A List of the Monasterys, Nunnerys, and Colleges, belonging to the English Papists in several Popish Countrys beyond Sea published to inform the People of England of the Measures taken by the Popish Party for the Re-establishing of Popery in these Nations: in a Letter to a Member of Parliament (London, 1700). 52 I am deeply grateful to Sister Benedict, at Colwich Abbey, for suggesting these points. 53 See Marilyn Oliva, The Convent and the Community in Late Medieval England; Female Monasteries in the Diocese of Norwich, 1350–1540 (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1998), pp. 52–60. Barbara Harris, on the other hand, argued that by the time the Henrician Reformation dissolved the monasteries, the involvement of aristocratic women in convents was negligible; see Barbara J. Harris, ‘A new look at the Reformation: ­aristocratic women and nunneries, 1450–1540’, Journal of British Studies, 32 (1993), 89–113. 54 Evangelisti, Nuns, p. 20. 55 Twenty-fifth session of the Council of Trent, 1563, in The Canons and Decrees of the Sacred and Oecumenical Council of Trent, ed. and trans. J. Waterworth (London: Dolman, 1848), pp. 248–9. 56 Archives départementales du Val d’Oise, Cergy-Pontoise (hereafter ADVO), Ms G151, file 3 (unfoliated). 57 For Brussels, see AAM, Engelse Benedictinessen Brussel, Box 7–11, file EN 7, professions and clothings/enquiries 1611–1793. For Pontoise, see ADVO, file G151. 3. 58 Penelope D. Johnson, Equal in Monastic Profession: Religious Women in Medieval France (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), p. 14. 59 See http://wwtn.history.qmul.ac.uk/analysis/leavers.php; accessed 11 February 2016. 60 AAM, Box 12/1, Ursula Hewick to the archbishop of Mechelen, 4 February 1625. 61 AAM, Box 12/2, Mary Percy to the archbishop of Mechelen, 29 April 1629. 62 John Bossy, The English Catholic Community, 1570– 1850 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976).

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63 Alexandra Walsham, Church Papists: Catholicism, Conformity and Confessional Polemic in Early Modern England (Royal Historical Society Studies in History, Woodbridge: Boydell, 1993), pp. 78–81. 64 See also Marie Rowlands, ‘Recusant women 1560–1640’, in Mary Prior (ed.), Women in English Society 1500–1800 (London: Routledge, 1985), pp. 149–80. 65 See for instance Walsham, Church Papists and Frances Dolan, Whores of Babylon. Catholicism, gender and seventeenth-century print culture. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1999. 66 See James Kelly (ed.), Convent Management, vol. 5 in Claire Bowden (ed.), The English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800, 6 vols (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2012), pp. 67–99. 67 Colwich Abbey, Ms P2, ‘Constitutions of the Paris community’, fol. 25 v., item 3. 68 Hills, ‘“Enamelled with the blood of a noble lineage”’, p. 16. 69 Elizabeth Lehfeldt, ‘Convents as litigants: dowry and inheritance dis­­ putes in early modern Spain’, Journal of Social History (2000), 645–64. 70 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, p. 16. 71 CRS Misc. VII, Paris, pp. 389–90. 72 See Lehfeldt, ‘Convents as litigants’, p. 650. 73 Johnson, Equal in Monastic Profession, p. 248. 74 In Chapter 4, we will see that feuds which opposed recusant families were also carried over within the convent walls.

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3 • The secular concerns of contemplatives

The management of religious communities implied necessary interaction with secular life. If their raison d’être was spiritual, monasteries nevertheless depended upon pragmatic factors to survive. It was rarely possible for religious women to die to the world fully, and the survival of their houses demanded that they maintained a modicum of commerce with the outside.1 Contemplative life could not exist without constant negotiations with local authorities and secular interlocutors regarding settlements, lands, properties, security, supplies or taxes. English cloisters followed the same religious Rules as their Continental counterparts: they obeyed the decrees of the Council of Trent, observed the same Rule as others in their Order, and lived according to a well-established set of spiritual guidelines. Yet they were distinctively English in many respects; the particular circumstances of English Catholicism led them to develop a particular profile. As Catholics in England, they were members of a minority which developed strategies to survive, living in secrecy and lacking many of the spiritual comforts enjoyed by their Continental neighbours, despite all the best efforts of the mission. As exiles abroad, they were also a minority which did not benefit from long-established local support and for whom the necessary steps to obtain legal authorisations, licences or funding were by definition quite complicated. As a consequence, English convents relied both on the support of the most significant Catholic families in England and on the new networks they developed in the towns in which 77

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they settled.2 They enrolled the help of secular agents, both English exiles and locals, whom they entrusted with the important business they could not carry out themselves. The endowment of new foundations, the purchase of adequate property, the management of real estate and the payment of dowries were all achieved through networks of translators, lawyers and representatives who acted on behalf of the Sisters. Nuns might not be creatures of the world, but they needed to live in the world. Without sound financial planning, good leadership, competent development strategies and efficient management, those havens of spirituality could not survive. How much did it cost to be ‘dead to the world’, especially for foreign communities with no local networks of support? How did English convents in exile manage their economic circumstances? The finances of spiritual houses The management of conventual expenses fell under the responsibility of the depositor, whose duty it was ‘to keepe all such things as belong to the necessary provision of the monastery’.3 She kept the account books and reported to the abbess, with whom she shared the keys to the double-locked chest containing the house money. Since the nuns were enclosed, they employed people to get the convent’s necessities for them and to fetch items from the town. Most of the time, however, they received deliveries straight through the great doors designed for that purpose. The overseeing of that highly sensitive area of permeation between the enclosure and the outside world was the duty of the portress, who shared the keys to the double-locked door with the abbess and supervised all movements whilst the enclosure was penetrated by outsiders.4 Manuscripts documenting the accounts of Benedictine communities in the seventeenth century are much scarcer than those for the eighteenth century, but a few examples have survived. Although they do not allow a precise reckoning of income and expense over a period of several years for any given house, they offer evocative snapshots of the situation of a particular convent at a particular time. As can be seen from the tables provided in Appendix 2, it appears that, globally, the biggest expense by far during a typical year, excluding extraordinary projects such as buildings, was the purchase of food (especially meat, which was costly), followed by fuel (coal and wood) and clothing (wool, cloth and leather) (see 78

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appendix Table A2.1). Other ordinary expenses comprised maintenance work on the building, candles, medicine, books, paper, the postage of letters, the giving of alms and the payment of wages, as can be gleaned from the accounts of the Brussels community. A few seventeenth-century accounts have survived to document the Pontoise cloister, but they are rather scant.5 Expenses increased sharply in the eleven-year period between 1657 and 1668 (see appendix Table A2.2). The difference in the totals must take into account, first and foremost, the fact that the Pontoise community had grown from only nine nuns in the 1650s to 28 by 1668. Moreover, outgoings for fuel, books and paper and ‘for the church’ were not recorded in the 1657 accounts, therefore resulting a naturally lower total, and works on the building consumed more of the budget in 1668 than in 1657. A larger total in 1668 is therefore to be expected, and does not indicate that the nuns had become frivolous in their spending. By all accounts, they were extremely careful and thrifty. But a larger community naturally cost more to feed: although the Pontoise nuns spent less on beer, milk, butter and cheese in 1668, the bills for meat, wine and oil were multiplied by three or four. Could these modifications indicate a change of diet, using more of the local produce in the French manner? Medical bills also grew at a great rate. In 1668, the community’s revenue amounted to 19,167 livres tournois, the greater part coming from rents (9,467 livres tournois), dowries (8,600 livres tournois) and gifts and alms (1,100 livres tournois). As appendix Table A2.2 shows, the expenditure of 18,366 livres tournois was thus dangerously close to the amount of total revenues. The most important extraordinary expense was often work undertaken either to extend a conventual building or to build a new one. In the houses which experienced success in recruitment, a fast expansion rate sometimes proved to be a double-edged sword. For one thing, the convent had to provide new habits and a properly equipped cell for each new nun. This cost 500 florins (equivalent to 625 livres tournois) per novice. In 1600, Brussels received five novices, at a cost of 2,500 florins for their clothes and the furnishing of their cells; in 1603, 2,000 florins were dedicated to the provision of four new novices, in 1605, 1,500 florins for three new novices and in 1608, 2,000 florins for another four novices.6 Of course, new nuns meant new dowries for the communities, but their entry into religion had an initial cost; although these were only occasional 79

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expenses, they represented a drain upon the meagre resources of English convents. A fast growth implied not only increased expenses for the nuns’ clothing and food but also overcrowding in houses which had generally been bought or designed for small congregations. Such was the case at Ghent, where the community had built their own convent in 1628, only to see it become ‘full even to overflowing’ throughout the 1630s. Living in such cramped conditions was a health hazard, increasing the risk of contagion. Several nuns died prematurely and in quick succession.7 Their poor state of health was attributed to their ‘wanting ayre & conveniency of loging’. Conscious that such a situation could deter potential new entrants, and in order to improve the comfort of existing nuns, Abbess Eugenia Poulton – who was otherwise praised for her frugality – ordered a vast extension scheme in 1639.8 When the £2,000 which she had initially budgeted for the work failed to cover even the cost of the new building’s foundations, she was forced to borrow money from Mr Hobroocke, a local merchant who spoke good English and who had acted as the nuns’ agent in overseeing the building works. His rates were high and plunged the convent into an unsustainable cycle of debt, particularly when, in 1642, the Civil Wars in England halted all revenues from English investments. When Mary Knatchbull became abbess in 1650, she faced a disastrous financial situation: the house was running a debt of nearly £6,000 (or 68,100 florins). 9 Knatchbull therefore established a policy of austerity to reduce the convent’s debt and, in 1655, she reported her managerial plans to the bishop of Ghent. She showed how, each year, the convent spent 4,000 florins more than it received, with an annual expenditure of around 12,000 florins for an income of 8,000 florins. She explained that the 100,000 florins invested in England had been lost through the Civil Wars there, leaving the convent without resources.10 She clearly identified six main sources of revenue: the fees from scholars and boarders, the pensions of the novices, alms, the sale of silk flowers and other crafts, the negotiation of better rates of interest on the sale of the house’s investments in stocks and the renegotiation of loans. She managed to bring the interest rates of the Hobroocke loan down from 10,300 florins per annum to a mere 90 florins, a much more manageable sum; thanks to this, the debt was repaid by 1661, ending two decades of dire financial need.11 In order to save her house from financial ruin, Mary Knatchbull had to interact 80

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actively with the outside, privately entreating with her own creditors and attracting new patrons. She continued her lobbying after the convent’s initial recovery, and made an ally of Bishop Eugene Albert d’Allamont, who, in 1669, appealed to the charity of the Catholics of Ghent to support those English exiles whose situation he described as ‘most pitiful and most worthy of compassion’.12 Mary Knatchbull also reduced the strain on her community’s resources by sponsoring the foundation of a filiation in the town of Boulogne in 1652, which she justified by the high number of Sisters (forty professed, sixteen converse and six novices and scholars). She hoped that her own convent would be under less strain when six of the Sisters left for the new foundation. Yet the Ghent community never achieved a level of comfortable living and, although the 1660s proved fairly favourable, the low number of entries meant that the house was again in trouble by the 1670s. Upon Abbess Knatchbull’s death in 1696, her successor, Justina Petre, found the situation so desperate that she obtained leave from the bishop to get out of the enclosure and travel to England to muster the help of her ‘relations and friends’. It was understood that, unless the abbess went to England in person, the community would be condemned to ‘such want and poverty that even the smallest means possible for the maintenance of its religious’ would be wanting, given ‘the difficulties of the times and the disturbed state of England and Ireland’.13 In cases such as this, the enclosure of contemplative nuns had to be relaxed to ensure the survival of communities. The Boulogne convent was in a comparable situation to its mother­­­­ house. Abbess Christina Forster repeated the mistakes Eugenia Poulton had made in Ghent.14 After six years in Boulogne, she deemed the climate unhealthy for her nuns, who suffered from ‘agues’. Moreover, Dunkirk had fallen to the Cromwellian forces a few months earlier: fearing a similar fate for the town of Boulogne, she felt moved to translate her community to Pontoise in 1658. There, after purchasing a small house, she embarked upon an extension programme for which she borrowed money at a high rate of interest, thereby starting a cycle of debt which continued steadily through the 1680s and 1690s and reached highs of over 10,000 livres.15 When trying to cope with the considerable drain upon their resources, English nunneries suffered from a twofold disadvantage linked to sex and nationality. Since the Council of Trent, nuns’ means of generating income were much more restricted than 81

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those of monks, who were allowed a broader range of activities. The work they could do and their involvement in society were limited by the rules of clausura. Yet, in times of penury some nuns used their special skills to generate income. For instance, first at Brussels and then at Ghent, Teresia Matlock was described as the ‘mistress of making and teaching the silke flowers’. Her work with silk was reputed to be so life-like that the sale of her flowers proved a successful earner at Ghent, where it fetched ‘some times 30 pound at a time’. Sister Teresia’s skills were much valued by her community, who bemoaned her loss and lamented during her last illness: ‘we cannot Spare you – who shall Do the silk work when you’r Dead?’16 This was one of the rare instances when an obituary mentioned practical abilities more than spiritual achievement, and Teresia’s demise was felt keenly as a loss of income and skill. The making and selling of silk flowers, tapestries and other such types of needlework was also practised at Boulogne.17 But, aside from such endeavours, there were few avenues open to enclosed Benedictines who wished to earn money from the fruit of their work. To this handicap they must add the disadvantage of their situation as exiles on the Continent. As foreigners, they did not share the same cultural background as longer-established local institutions and did not have the benefit of neighbourly networks. They did not have a vast pool of local benefactors, since they were mostly unknown to the indigenous populations and did not speak the same language – although some did become proficient French or Dutch speakers. The convents’ main supporters were English Catholics, either in exile themselves or back in England. Even a summary breakdown of the various sources of income reveals the great vulnerability of such resources. In Paris, for instance, a large proportion of the nuns’ money (4,664 livres tournois) came from England in the form of gifts from recusant patrons; a further 623 livres came from pensions, and 149 livres were deposited with them. These revenues were entirely dependent upon the circumstances of the convent’s patrons, and in periods of hardship in England (as, for instance, during and after the Civil Wars) payments dried up altogether. Only 698 livres came in the form of rents, which were less dependent upon the continued prosperity of wealthy English benefactors. The fate of English convents was closely linked to that of their compatriots, and when the assets of their supporters at home were frozen or seized, the nuns found themselves without resources. 82

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In order to understand why seventeenth-century English Benedictine houses were so ill equipped to thrive without jeopardising their economic stability, a cursory glance at their sources of income will suffice. For convents in general, the main revenue was the payment of dowries by new entrants. As we have seen in Chapter 2, the sums paid for these dowries varied greatly, according to the Order, but also, and perhaps even to a greater extent, according to the financial circumstances both of the communities and, on the other side of the Channel, of the families.18 In periods of hardship, a convent would seek to get money more urgently, but it appears that the draw of a substantial dowry was not enough to induce the Paris convent to take on postulants whose vocation and ability they doubted. In the 1660s, although faced with penury, they refused the entry of a young woman who was recommended by ‘a Lady of Quallity’, because they deemed her unsuited to contemplative life. In doing so, they dared to alienate a potential patron and faced an immediate loss of income, since they returned the £500 which had been paid. The lady who had recommended the young woman had promised to become a great benefactress and felt personally insulted by the community’s decision. In a gesture of spite, she raised ‘great troubles & stormes’ and made threats against the abbess. Yet the Paris nuns elected to remain steadfast in their choice, and continued to value religious qualities over material benefits.19 Some candidates for profession were faced with a conundrum: whereas they were supposed to use their novitiate to devote themselves entirely to a life of contemplation, there were times when they found themselves at the heart of very worldly disputes about the payment of their portions. In such cases, they had no choice but to renew contact with their families, even sometimes to leave the convent in order to ensure the payment of the agreed sums. Cases such as these illustrate how the payment of sums due to the convents necessitated constant attention from abbesses or prioresses and, at times, the active involvement of the nuns whose dowries were outstanding. Although such preoccupations detracted heavily from the ideal of monastic life, these were situations when contemplatives simply could not afford to be considered dead to the world. This was, of course, a plight which English communities shared with their Continental counterparts. Studies such as Elizabeth Lehfeldt’s have shown that because convents fought for their due, and did not shrink from the court house, and since they were 83

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funded partly through gifts of privileges, endowments and property, nunneries created for themselves an ‘undeniably secular presence’. They had to protect their finances in order to prosper and ensure the continuity of their spiritual mission.20 What they could not do themselves – because of their exile and enclo­­sure – they entrusted to friends and relatives to achieve. At Dunkirk, Abbess Mary Teresa Caryll regularly used the services of her brother John to act on her behalf. He was secretary to Mary of Modena at St-Germain-en-Laye and, thanks to this influential agent, the convent could hope to collect the money it was owed even when debtors were forgetful. Thus, in a letter dated 23 June 1688, Abbess Mary wrote: ‘I must now mind you to call upon Mr Thornton; for the time draws neare, it being att Midsomer he is to pay his youngest Sisters portions; if, Brother, you should not mind him of it I know not what advantages he may make.’21 At times, the difficulty seemed to be chronic, and on 17 February 1699, the abbess was exasperated with the trouble caused by those who did not pay the agreed portions. She wrote: ‘I shall be glad this buesenes of Dame Stricklands portion may be att an end, that has cost you soe much troble, and I feare from my self some unrelishable letters to Mrs Strickland.’22 If some families were not forthcoming with the payment of their debt, this did not always betray lack of support for their daughters’ vocations or a waning zeal in the faith. As mentioned earlier, the Civil Wars and their aftermath had tragic consequences upon the lives of English Catholics at home and abroad. Many had been royal supporters and suffered great financial losses both during the years of conflict and after, when Oliver Cromwell’s regime imposed penalties upon them. Faced with such dire circumstances, many could not afford to honour their debt to convents. We have seen how the Ghent convent nearly went bankrupt after the Civil Wars cost it the 100,000 florins it had invested in England. In 1650, Abbess Mary Roper was unable to allow the profession of four of her novices, whose parents could not pay their dowries. As a consequence, these women chose to leave, although others in similar circumstances opted to stay on, prolonging their novitiate for up to seven years in the hope that their families’ situations would improve sufficiently to provide for them.23 At Brussels, nuns were unable to obtain the payment of the interest on their dowries, which they had placed in England; they had no choice but to seek authorisation to beg for alms so as not to become destitute. 84

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The non-payment of dowry money was a chronic handicap which continued to afflict English nunneries through the decades. In 1681, Abbess Anne Forster experienced difficulties in Brussels: for over eighteen months, the duke of Norfolk had failed to pay his mother-in-law’s pension for the novitiate. He also seemed unlikely to honour his debt for her dowry, and the profession of this novice could not proceed. The Lady was allowed to stay on as a simple beata, a status which implied she had to subsist by her own means and could be discharged if she proved to be a burden to the ­community.24 Even when relationships between the convent and the family appeared to be cordial and the payments were made diligently, postulants could always decide not to go through with their noviceship in the agreed Order. Such was the case of the Lord Marquis Worcester’s youngest daughter, Anne, who, after entering the Ghent Benedictines in 1641, decided to move to Antwerp, where she became a Carmelite. This decision deprived the Ghent c­ ommunity of her promised dowry and of the many advantages they had negotiated with Lord Worcester: Anne’s portion was to be a very generous £10,000, ‘besids jewells and many other advauntages, with 5,000 pound land a yeare of inheritance’. Worse still, the three women who had entered with this noble postulant followed her to Antwerp, thus leaving the Ghent Benedictines short of four p ­ rospective novices.25 Generating revenue in enclosed convents The settlement of dowries, or ‘portions’ as they were known, was the umbilical cord through which English Catholic families fed the convents in exile. It was life giving, but at the same time it implied total dependence upon the resources it provided. Thus, when agents in England sent new recruits regularly, when the vocations of these novices proved solid and when families were in a position to pay up, then the dowry system enabled communities to thrive. But it was a fragile equation. The failure of just one of these factors could have disastrous consequences upon the economic stability of the communities involved. Thus, in order to generate revenue from more varied sources, some envisaged means to diversify; they compromised a little with the rules of enclosure and, through a modicum of commerce with the world outside their walls, embarked upon subsidiary activities which were meant to supplement their income. 85

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For instance, in return for Lord Worcester’s anticipated generosity, the Ghent community had agreed to furnish a small house at the end of their garden (outside the enclosure) for the use of twelve ‘young youths of the Welch nation’, under the supervision of a priest. They were to receive £20 a year for the settlement of rent and food, during the time of Anne’s postulancy and novitiate; it was agreed that when Anne became professed, the £20 would be included in the yearly allowance of £5,000. The Ghent annals do not mention what happened to this Welsh college after Anne’s defection, but it may be supposed that it, too, departed with its wealthy patron.26 The accommodation of scholars or simple boarders was one of the means which allowed nuns to generate extra revenue. In that matter, as in others, there was no blanket practice to suit all Benedictine communities. Each convent developed its own modus operandi. True to its determined focus on an introspective type of contemplative life, the Paris convent elected not to take on boarders, who would be a distraction to the spiritual peace and contemplative spirit of the house. Most of the other English Benedictines, however, resorted to this practice from the 1650s to the 1680s, in order to supplement their income. Others started even earlier: at Brussels, where the convent was sufficiently endowed, building programmes began quickly; by 1609 (only ten years after the settlement), the school building was complete. The nuns then spent 7,000 florins for the building of a house for scholars, located outside the monastery itself, beyond the boundary walls.27 Most boarders were young scholars, children sent to Continental schools to acquire a good Catholic education. Some would stay on as nuns, but many would return to England once their e­ ducation was complete. Most entered between the ages of fourteen and sixteen but some were much younger. In Boulogne, Diana ­Stanihurst and Margaret Neville both came in at the age of eight, which was much below the usual age. Diana later professed to become Sister Cecilia in 1694, which means she spent all but the first eight years of her life in the convent. Yet they were not the youngest, as the Sisters ‘Anne & Teresa Hunlocke’ took board at the ages of four and five, respectively.28 Admitting such young children posed many problems. At Brussels, Thecla Bond wrote of her concern about the very young age of some of the scholars: the school was already quite overcrowded and the nuns were unable to give the youngest 86

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girls the attention and the standard of education that were expected of a religious house. She worried that such pupils, when sent back home, would reflect poorly upon the convent; their families might think less of the convent if they were disappointed in the quality of the schooling it dispensed.29 This very same concern was also voiced by her sister, Mary Francis Gawen, who bemoaned the disturbances caused to the nuns’ contemplative life and feared the consequences of a system where very young children could not be educated and looked after as well as their parents might expect.30 Both argued that such young children would be better at home with their families, until they were mature enough to know whether or not they felt inclined towards an education which predisposed them to life in the cloister. As it was, conventual boarding quarters were places of interaction with the world or, at least, of relaxation of the rules of clausura. They acted as one of the interfaces between the convent and the world. In some houses, where they were built outside the enclosure, they welcomed a more diverse population than schoolgirls, allowing the presence of male guests, like the personal masters or tutors of some of the scholars, and the priests who worked in close quarters with the convents. The register of Boulogne mentioned that Thomas Higby, a priest and ‘Brother to my Lord the Earle of Bristoll’, became a boarder for a yearly pension of 400 livres tournois.31 Some houses even opened their boarding houses to Catholic women in precarious situations or in need of spiritual retreat. We saw how the fate of English convents was closely linked to that of English Catholics at home. During the unrest of the Civil Wars, such boarders sought refuge at the convents and brought with them a certain prestige, rekindling public interest in the houses and attracting wealthy visitors and patrons as a consequence. For instance, the former Duchess of Buckingham, then married to the Earl of Antrim, fled the troubles in Ireland to find refuge at Ghent in 1642. She remained there for over a year. Diana Digby, the P ­ rotestant daughter of George Digby, Earl of Bristol, was also lodged at Ghent in 1657, whilst her cousin Magdalen Digby entered the community as a nun.32 Boarders came from a social background comparable to that of the religious themselves, and their names echoed those of the most famous recusant families of England. In 1652, the municipality of Boulogne reported that the Benedictines housed some boarders ‘from good English families’.33 Over the years, the house received 87

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several widows from renowned Catholic lineage: in March 1664, Lady Throckmorton entered with her maid, and in September, she was followed by ‘Madame Thimbleby’, with her daughter and a maid.34 In September 1688, ‘the Rt Hoble the Lady Widdrington Dowiger’ came to board with her maid. When Lady Mary Stonor came to board, she entered with her daughter and paid for the stay of her own priest. Unlike the novitiate, the boarding quarters also took on women from the local nobility: in order to alleviate the convent’s poverty, the community of Ghent unanimously agreed in June 1646 to receive ‘l’Altesse de Madame la Duchesse de Loraine’ for six days every year, except on holy days and on Wednesdays and Saturdays, which were confession days.35 In 1650, the duchess renegotiated the terms of her contract to be allowed to enter twelve times a year, together with three or four of her ladies.36 Her stays with the Ghent Benedictines were facilitated by the presence of ­Christina Forster, a young nun who mastered the French language and offered her services as the duchess’s personal interpreter. Such provisions made to accommodate a noblewoman were rare, however. This is the only case recorded for the English Benedictines in the s­eventeenth century. They were much more common, for instance, with the Augustinian Canonesses of Paris, who provided boarding accommodation for English and (mostly) French noblewomen and their servants, with a separate refectory known as the high table. Some arrived with up to three servants, others stayed for over fifty years. As the chronicler noted, however, such an expedient source of income was not without its disadvantages, since nuns had to take care of their boarders, especially when they became ill, and to interact with their heirs when they died, dealing with the very time-consuming matters of succession.37 Dowries and pensions, mostly from English patrons at home, remained the most regular sources of income for English Benedictine houses in exile. Claire Walker has argued that, although they belonged to the European Catholic Church, English convents ‘first and foremost […] were English, and did all they could to secure patrons and supports from amongst the expatriate English and from their homeland’.38 In order to maintain a steady flow and sustain interest, nuns had to nourish close links with their recusant patrons at home; through correspondence, and with the help of agents who acted as go-betweens, enclosed Sisters endeavoured to draw zealous 88

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Catholics to the religious life, either in their capacities as sponsors or by sending their daughters to the novitiate. But such sources of revenue were rarely sufficient to cover the communities’ costs, especially when debt had to be reimbursed. At Pontoise, the nuns returned an honourable 6,000 livres tournois from rents on dowries in 1667, which were supplemented by 2,966 livres from pensions paid by boarders and converse Sisters. But they had an outstanding debt of 16,348 livres, for which they had taken out two separate loans of 5,000 and 3,000 livres at a rate of 5 per cent. The financial pressure was enormous, and was in great tension with the nuns’ contemplative ideal of separation from the world.39 Aside from the regular revenues provided by dowries and pensions, the English convents were entirely dependent upon the generosity of benefactors, whose contributions were essential in order to foster new foundations and to survive times of dearth. Nuns had to be active, bold even, in order to solicit the engagement of English patrons who struggled with their own financial difficulties at home. Some communities dared to apply a little pressure and sell themselves door-to-door to influential recusant families. In 1663, the fledgling community of Dunkirk – still under the authority of Abbess Knatchbull at the motherhouse of Ghent – was struggling with a chronic lack of resources. When Prioress Mary Teresa Caryll received the visit of her brother Peter (a Benedictine monk, Dom Alexius in religion), it was decided that the community should appeal to all potential English patrons in order to generate a more acceptable income. A little troop composed of Mary Teresa Caryll, Anne Neville, Dom Alexius Caryll OSB, a postulant and their confessor (‘Mr Gerard’) left for England on 2 June 1663; there, they were housed by the prioress’s parents, the Carylls of Harting, who expressed their disgruntlement at their being expected to contribute to the funding of the Dunkirk convent. Despite initial resentment, they gave the community ‘rich presents’ and an endowment of £100 per annum; the prioress’s uncle, Sir John Webbe, also contributed £100.40 When creditors had to be found and persuaded to make investments into a convent, Mary Knatchbull did not hesitate to travel. She herself went to England several times, but when she was needed back at Ghent, she sent others to act in her place and oversee business. In 1663, she extracted her sister Paula from her own community of Pontoise, to join Anne Neville and the others and to stay for the duration, until all business was concluded. That period lasted for four years, 89

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an extraordinary length of time, during which Caryll, Neville and Knatchbull were away from their ­communities and lived a life which could only be a far cry from the enclosed regularity and contemplation they had embraced when they took their vows.41 The active soliciting of patrons in England was, however, a last resort. It required the absence of several nuns from their enclosure for considerable lengths of time; the voyage itself was costly and perilous, all for very uncertain returns. Moreover, as we have seen, the financial situation of English Catholics was too dire to guarantee the payment of sums which had been promised in earnest. The Ghent convent had secured the most powerful of patrons in the person of Charles Stuart, who pledged £5,000 in pensions and alms, with an annuity of £500. Yet the exiled prince could not afford to pay such sums and left the community in a delicate situation.42 In times of hardship, nuns received alms in the form of provisions; such gifts were often frequent and numerous enough to warrant the keeping of a special account book or register, differentiating these revenues from those made in a more traditional manner. In 1679 and 1680, Royal Princess Louisa sent the Pontoise Benedictines wine, poultry and corn on several occasions, and the local Carmelites and Ursulines also sent some corn, possibly as a result of a request for help at a particularly difficult time. From 1698 to 1714, the nuns in Paris received gifts of pulse and grains (peas, beans, barley, wheat, oatmeal) as well as essentials such as bread, rice, flower, sugar and salt. Other foodstuffs included small quantities of salt fish or fresh fish (herring, salmon, carp) as well as red meat, butter, honey, oil and wine. They were also bequeathed essential material for the cooking of these foods, the heating of the convent, and the proper clothing of the nuns; thus, they noted down frequent gifts of wood and faggots, charcoal, and also (though much more rarely) wax candles, shoe leather and habit material.43 Yet these gifts, although generous, could go only a very little way towards the settling of the monthly bills of a community. For houses to thrive and be safe, they must benefit from the full support of influential nobility and clergy, who must feel involved and implicated in their welfare. By creating personal bonds with powerful patrons, a convent ensured both the direct benefits of their patronage and the associated advantages of greater appeal to other, lesser benefactors who would wish to see their names associated with them. 90

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Creating networks of spiritual philanthropy through patronage The Paris house is a case in point. It was started partly thanks to the personal acquaintances of Clementia Cary. During her youth, she had lived at Henrietta Maria’s English court, which she had left to take the habit at Cambrai in 1639. She had been one of the queen’s favourites, and it was therefore quite natural for her to solicit the help of her royal patrons in 1651, when she arrived in the French capital with the hope of settling a new Benedictine house. She was received favourably, and she used her personal kudos at court to benefit the community. The queen offered to pay for the temporary accommodation which Cary and her two Sisters had procured with the Augustinian nuns of the Fossé St Victor, and continued her patronage of the Paris community until her death. Encouraged by this success, Clementia Cary renewed her acquaintances with other influential names such as Lord Aubigny, Lord Montague and others, at both the English court in exile and the French court. She lobbied most actively and obtained promises of support from all those wealthy patrons and soon felt able to inform the president of the English Benedictine Congregation of her good progress. It was only then, confident that such powerful patronage ensured the safety of the convent, that the president of the Benedictine Congregation gave his leave to rent a house in the rue Saint Dominique, where Cary began the new Parisian convent. In Brussels, the convent also owed its economic success to the private investments of wealthy and loyal patrons. In 1598, the Jesuit William Holt, agent of Philip III in Brussels and former rector of the English College in Rome, acted as the nuns’ emissary; he procured the necessary episcopal grants allowing the foundation in the city. But he went the extra mile and secured the protection and active interest of Archdukes Albert and Isabella. When his fellow Jesuit in Rome, Robert Persons, obtained authorisations from Pope Clement VIII in 1599, the establishment of the nuns in the city became something of a local event. Mathias Hovius, the archbishop of Mechelen, blessed Joanna Berkeley himself and confirmed her as the monastery’s first abbess on 14 November 1599. The week following, the archbishop in person clothed the first eight novices. Both the archduke and the archduchess were present at the ceremony, as well as ‘the cheefe of that Towne of Brusselles’. They all returned to attend the profession of the novices a year later (on 21 November 1600); 91

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the ceremony became a public event which inscribed the English Benedictines within the daily life of the city of Brussels, with ‘all the princes and magistrates of that towne expressing great joy’.44 The Brussels Benedictines continued to enjoy a prestigious reputation over the years. When Eugenia Poulton and two other Sisters were clothed on 10 February 1604, the ceremony was celebrated by the papal nuncio himself in the presence of ‘a Great Concours of people’, among whom we are told were ‘a company of English hereticks with their minister’, who came away much edified by what they had witnessed during the ceremony.45 The profession of Teresa Gage in 1617 attracted many members of high society, and the rectors of the three Jesuit houses in the Low Countries (St Omer, Liege and Louvain) assisted at Mass.46 In subsequent years, the widowed Archduchess Isabella, who acted as godmother to the community, was present at several of its profession ceremonies in 1622, 1623 and 1625. The English Benedictines of Brussels benefited from very favourable circumstances and a rich network of local patrons in the early years of their settlement. They enjoyed, from the beginning, an excellent relationship with both Archduke Albert and Archduchess Isabella; this, in turn, helped them to secure an annual pension from King Philip III of Spain. This was the most illustrious patronage the convent could hope for; it vouched for its good reputation and secured the good will of other dignitaries who wished to see themselves associated with those great names. The archdukes did not patronise any of the other English convents quite so liberally. Yet, at Brussels, they covered some of the cost of the building, gave generous alms in times of need and exempted the house from various taxes, granting them the same privileges as those given to mendicant Orders such as the Poor Clares. Bolstered by such strong support, and thanks to the industry of their Jesuit agents, Fathers William Holt and William Baldwin, the nuns secured the patronage of some English ‘Collonells & soldiers’ (from the regiment of Sir William Stanley), who raised the sum of 12,000 florins in 1614.47 Given such circumstances, the Benedictines of Brussels were affluent enough to build quickly and prosper. Considering the strength of these allies, it is not surprising that the daughter house of Brussels at Ghent was received ‘most kyndly’ in that town, by both religious and secular authorities in 1623. Although Anthony Tryst, the bishop of Ghent, did not meet the nuns 92

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in person upon their arrival, he sent George Chamberlain, the dean of Ghent,48 to dispense his benediction in his stead. The presence of an English cleric, who became their visitor and superior under the bishop’s authority, was greatly to facilitate the Benedictines’ business in their early days at Ghent.49 By 1629, the community had grown prosperous enough to purchase, with the authorisation of the secular authorities and of the abbot, some houses and gardens on Mont Blandinus, which fell under the jurisdiction of St Peter’s abbey. To this, they added the purchase of a small building with a chapel and choir, which was better suited to the conventual life than their initial residence.50 The founding nuns of the Ghent house were lucky to meet with such bonhomie on the part of the local authorities, be they secular or religious. Indeed, when they left Brussels, they did so as a result of a dispute with the abbess, who sent them out ‘without on[e] penny in theyr pockets’. They therefore relied entirely upon the generosity of the archbishop and other patrons.51 Even before they entered Ghent, they were already running a debt of 1,500 florins, which had been spent on their behalf by their lay agent, a kinsman of Dame Martha Colford at Brussels. He had rented and prepared a house ahead of their arrival and procured the necessary grants from the local bishop and magistrates.52 The establishment of the English Benedictines at Ghent was precarious: it relied heavily upon the portion of Elizabeth Bradbery, which was to be of £3,000. The Sisters were aware that the promise of such money could never be taken for granted, and chronicler Anne Neville later expressed this clearly when she wrote: ‘yet of certaynity theyr could be no assurance, in regard both of mortality and the casuallity of other reasons, that might be incident to work a change in a Novice’.53 Things were even more delicate for the foundation in Boulogne. Indeed, when in 1652 six of the English Benedictines of Ghent had travelled to Boulogne in order to settle a new house there, they did so without securing the necessary licence. They were dealt a hard blow when François de Perrochel, the local bishop (1643–75), refused them entry into the town. He ordered them to return home under pain of excommunication; he was both infuriated by Mary Knatchbull’s lack of decorum in overlooking his authority and wary of the newcomers, since he knew very well that the finances of their Ghent mother house were extremely fragile. He sternly denied them the right to found a convent there.54 His reasons for such antago93

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nism were complex, but they arose in large part from the nuns’ lack of sufficient funds for this foundation. It was one of the nuns who finally secured the necessary money. Christina Forster (who became the convent’s second abbess from 1657 to 1661) persuaded her father, Sir Richard Forster, first baronet of Stokesley in Yorkshire and treasurer to Henrietta Maria, to subsidise the foundation. In 1655, he supplied the initial 3,000 pistoles for the convent.55 The French regent, Anne of Austria, also helped with community’s relocation to Pontoise in 1658. Without the help of these powerful benefactors, the nuns could not have secured the large amounts of money necessary to reassure the bishop that they would not be a burden upon the town. The Boulogne example was far from unique and can be found in various forms in all the Orders of English convents in exile. For instance, the ecclesiastical authorities in Lisbon initially met the Bridgettines with great reluctance, wary of their very unreliable sources of income and insufficient initial funding.56 Such examples illustrate how, in order to flourish, English religious communities depended upon a solid network of both local and English patronage. Richard Forster’s intervention, for instance, all but saved the convent. After his crucial contribution to the foundation at Boulogne, he extended his generosity to the relocation at Pontoise, giving a total of 41,000 livres tournois. The Pontoise Benedictines considered him as one of their original founders, alongside Lord Walter Montague (almoner to Henrietta Maria), who also provided part of the money for the settlement. Montague was abbot of St Martin’s abbey, near Pontoise, and although his money – an impressive 64,150 livres in rents – was over two years delayed, it did in the end arrive to underpin the Pontoise foundation. Moreover, the abbot paid off some of the expenses for the construction and maintenance of the building, and settled two of the nuns’ portions himself. In total, he gave 76,219 livres. The list of the Pontoise community’s patrons is highly informative and reveals a network in which secular and religious patrons, both English and Continental, contributed regularly to the convent’s expenses. Amongst the English nobility were the duchess of Cleveland (countess of Castlemaine and one time paramour of Charles II), Lord Castlemaine (then ambassador to James II), Lord Carrington and the Lady Tichborne, who provided a satin set of ‘church stuffe’ ornamented with gold and silver lace.57 The French ‘Royall 94

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­ reasury’ gave yearly sums which were usually of 300 livres tournois T but could vary from nothing at all in 1677 to 1,300 livres in 1679 or even 2,000 livres in 1685. The community eventually counted patrons amongst the most eminent figures of the French court, such as the royal princess Louisa, the duchess of Lorraine,58 the duchess Lonerbrook or Chancellor Tilly. Religious benefactors included the cardinal of Boulogne, who – after relenting his initial opposition to the English Benedictines – endowed the convent with 4,000 livres each year; others from the secular and regular clergy, both French and English, contributed smaller sums, as well as sacred objects. These contingencies were all too familiar to the secular and religious authorities of Flemish and French towns. Like François de Perrochel in Boulogne, many local officials were cautious in extending their welcome to foreign convents which could drain local resources. Hence, though the community of Cambrai met with no true resistance from municipal authorities, the conditions put forward by the town magistrates were clear: the English convent was to provide entirely for its own subsistence and never to become a burden upon the resources of Cambrai. The nuns and their patrons must provide enough money for the construction of adequate ­buildings, as well as for furnishings, clothes and food. Any other possible needs must be provided for by the community and their friends, ‘so that the town of Cambrai and the region of Cambraisis [...] cannot at any time or in any case whatsoever feel any burden from them or their monastery’. For that reason, the magistrates specified that new entrants should all bring at least 200 florins for their keeping and a solid dowry.59 It was notoriously difficult to secure long-lasting, stable and generous support; to achieve this goal, nuns must make sure that benefactors felt personally implicated in the welfare of the house. In short, they must get a return on investment. Although these patrons were zealous, charitable Catholics, they could not be expected to act entirely selflessly. Helping convents must be perceived as a beneficial thing to do. And it was. The giving of alms returned considerable spiritual benefits. The abbess decided upon the prayers and good works to be undertaken for the benefactors’ ‘du return’ and ordained anniversary Masses to honour the most bountiful even after their deaths. In Boulogne, for instance, George Slaughter and his wife, Bridgit Fielding, were thanked for their gift of 6,000 livres by the community’s prayers ‘for theyr happy long life and ­prosperity’; 95

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they would benefit from solemn Mass upon their death, and from sung Masses on the third, seventh and thirtieth days afterwards. Moreover, each nun was to hear Mass, communicate and say her beads, once for George Slaughter, and once for Bridgit Fielding.60 At Pontoise, Montague and Forster enjoyed ‘thos privileges which the statute ordayns for founders’ and were commemorated by solemn anniversary Masses. 61 Anne Neville, during her time as abbess of Pontoise, decided that during her prelature, six other patrons were to be honoured by low Masses.62 The abbess also chose whether or not it was appropriate to enter into the book of benefactors the personal gifts made to an individual nun by her kin; all those registered in this book would benefit from communal prayers, whilst those left out of it would be thanked privately by the nun whom they had endowed. Dunkirk honoured its patrons in a more tangible, visible manner. Its cloister displayed the coats of arms of the families who were closely connected to the convent, and the stained-glass windows of its work room were similarly adorned with the coats of arms of the community’s main benefactors, such as Lord Petre, Lord Dormer, Lord Caryll, Lord Belayse and Sir Fortescue. The windows also evoked other prestigious donors such as Lord Arundell, the marquis of Winchester, the marquis of Worcester or the marquis of Powis.63 Patrons therefore benefited greatly in terms of reputation for holiness, and the salvation of their souls was furthered by the nuns’ grateful prayers. The prestige of a recognised status as a founder and the benefit of the nuns’ prayers were highly advantageous to patrons’ ­reputations and spiritual welfare. Such was the case for all ­Catholics across Europe. But sponsoring an English convent rather than a C ­ ontinental one also reaped special rewards. The specific situation of English convents in exile meant that they lacked natural support in the towns where they settled; they had to struggle harder than local houses to secure networks of patronage and steady funding. English nuns had no option but to develop various strategies, ruthlessly securing the money they were owed from England and chasing bad debtors. Because of these hardships, when they supported English nuns in exile, patrons felt personally involved in the missionary spirit of Catholic recovery. English convents represented the fighting spirit of a Church under attack by its Protestant foes. Nuns suffered much 96

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from their status as exiles, but they also benefited from it when they used it as an opportunity, portraying themselves as victims of Protes­ hristian exemtant persecution. They could be compared to early C plars, who remained steadfast in the faith and survived their enemies’ attempts to wipe them out. English nunneries came to embody the future of Roman Catholicism as a whole, and not only English Catholicism. They became living symbols of its struggle against Protestantism and, although they remained enclosed, they partook ­ eformation. of the missionary spirit at the heart of the Catholic R Notes 1 For the English Benedictines, see for instance Caroline Bowden, ‘Patronage and practice: accessing the significance of the English convents as cultural centres in Flanders in the seventeenth century’, English Studies 92:5 (2011), 483–95 and ‘The abbess and Mrs Brown: Lady Mary Knatchbull and royalist politics in Flanders in the late 1650s’, Recusant History 24:3 (1999), 288–308. 2 Bowden, ‘Patronage and practice’. 3 Statutes, ‘The Second Parte’ (Ghent, 1632), p. 41. As administrator of the budget, the depositor worked in conjunction with the cellarer (who oversaw the convent’s provisions), the guarderobe (who managed the nuns’ clothes and the house’s linen) and the procuratrix. 4 Statutes, ‘The Second Parte’, p. 48. 5 Later, in the eighteenth century, the community started to keep separate registers for different expenses: one for money spent on spices and eggs, another for grains, bread, butter and wine, another for poultry and fish and a separate one for meat. There was also a special register for money spent on cloth and another one for wood. Finally, there was one for the payment of staff and exterior specialists such as doctors, apothecaries, organists, gardeners or labourers. This specialisation denotes a desire to keep very precise, organised accounts, for the community but also perhaps for its assessors and creditors. 6 James Kelly (ed.), Convent Management, vol. 5 in Claire Bowden (ed.), The English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800, 6 vols (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2012). See the accounts of the Brussels Benedictines in ‘The Receipts, Disbursements and Debts Of our Monastery, from the year 1599 to 1736’, pp. 72–99. 7 Hieronyma Waldergrave, Margaret Knatchbull, Elizabeth Bradbery and Aloysia Beaumont all died ‘young of consumption’. See Anon, Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, now at St Mary’s Abbey, Oulton in Staffordshire (Oulton, 1894), pp. 17–18. 8 CRS Misc. V, pp. 24–6. Eugenia Poulton was abbess at Ghent from

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1629 to 1642. 9 Mary Knatchbull was abbess of Ghent from 1650 to 1696. 10 Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, pp. 162–4. 11 Ibid., p. 65. 12 Ibid., pp. 166–7. 13 Ibid., pp. 167–8. 14 Christina Forster was abbess of Boulogne from 1657 to 1661. 15 CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 50. See Claire Walker, Gender and Politics in Early Modern Europe: English Convents in France and the Low Countries (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), p. 82. 16 Ibid., pp. 12 and 25. CRS Misc XI, Ghent, p. 52. 17 ADVO, Ms 68H-7/1. 18 Helen Hills, ‘“Enamelled with the blood of a noble lineage”: tracing noble blood and female holiness in early modern Neapolitan convents and their architecture’, Church History: Studies in Christianity and Culture, 73:1 (2004), 1–40. 19 CRS Misc. VII, Paris, pp. 356–7. 20 Elizabeth Lehfeldt, ‘Convents as litigants: dowry and inheritance disputes in early modern Spain’, Journal of Social History (2000), 645–64. This case study gives the example of Gómez de Mendoza Manrique who opposed his sister, Inés de Velasco, a nun at Santa María de las Huelgas in Valladolid. During the trial it was revealed that Gómez paid over 90,000 maravedis towards the upkeep of his sisters who were nuns in the city’s convents. He was shouldering a huge financial burden, and his case was highly representative other citizens’ in a city with such thriving convents; for him, the costs incurred were large and, in the end, nearly impossible to meet. 21 BL, Add Ms 28226, Letters and papers of John Caryll, fol. 112. 22 Ibid., fol. 117. 23 CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 33. 24 AAM, box 7, unfoliated document dated 10 March 1681. 25 CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 27. 26 Ibid. 27 Caroline Bowden, ‘Community space and cultural transmission: formation and schooling in English enclosed convents in the seventeenth century’, History of Education 34:4 (2005), 365–86. See p. 382. 28 ADVO, Ms 68H-3; they entered respectively in May 1680, July 1682 and April 1692 29 AAM, Box 12/2, Thecla Bond, undated visitation document 37 (1623). 30 Ibid., Francis Gowen, visitation document 12, item 20, undated (1623?). 31 ADVO, MS 68H-3, in December 1659 and March 1689, respectively. 32 Bowden, ‘The abbess and Mrs Brown’, 290. 33 ADVO, Ms 68H-7/1, bundle 1, unfoliated document.

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34 ADVO, Ms 68H-3. 35 Ghent Record Office, Ms B 2773/6. 36 Nicole de Lorraine (1608–57) had been estranged from her husband Charles de Vaudémont since 1625. CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 33. 37 F-M-Th. Cédoz (ed.), Un couvent de religieuses anglaises à Paris de 1634 à 1884 (Paris, 1891), p. 40. 38 Claire Walker, ‘Continuity and isolation: the Bridgettines of Syon in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries’, in E. A. Jones and Alexandra Walsham (eds), Syon Abbey and its Books. Reading, Writing and Religion c. 1400–1700 (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2010), p. 163. 39 Ibid., p. 253. The house counted 51 nuns. 40 A History of the Benedictine Nuns of Dunkirk, now at St Scholastica’s Abbey, Teignmouth, Devon (London: The Catholic Book Club, 1957), p. 14. 41 CRS Misc. V, Neville, pp. 41–2. 42 Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, p. 179. 43 Archives nationales, Paris (hereafter AN), Ms H5–4078, ‘Receved in provitions since the visset made by the Very Rd Father Barnard Tregson Presedent Generall of the English Congregationof Benedictien Monkes and in the 3rd Election of the V Rd Mother Agnes Temple of the Infant Jesus the 3rd Priourise of this our Monastery of Our Bs Lady of good hope in Paris the 15th of December 1698’. 44 CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 3. 45 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, p. 38. 46 Arblaster, ‘The Monastery of our Lady of the Assumption in Brussels(1599–1794)’, English Benedictine History Symposium 17 (1999), 54–77, p. 52. 47 CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 5; the Spanish pension was withdrawn in 1624. 48 An Englishman in exile at Ghent with his extended family, including his sisters; he entered the religious life there and became dean of the Cathedral (he later became bishop of Ypres). 49 CRS Misc. V, Neville, pp. 19–20. 50 Ibid., p. 21. The sums of 13,516 and 12,000 florins were paid respectively for these purchases, testifying to the community’s financial ease. 51 Ibid., p. 19. 52 Ibid. 53 Ibid. 54 ADVO, Ms 68H-7, ‘Installation des religieuses anglaises à Boulognesur-Mer – consentement de la commune et du maréchal d’Aumont, Gouverneur du Boulonais. Lettres patentes de Louis XIII, autorisation de l’Évêque Monsieur François Perrochel, 1652–1653’. 55 CRS Misc. X, Pontoise, p. 262 ‘Registers of the Benedictine Nuns of Pontoise OSB’. See also ADVO, Ms 68H-8, bundle 3, ‘Papiers de Richard Forster, frère de la seconde abbesse et trésorier de la reine

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d’Angleterre, Henriette, femme de Charles Ier et sœur de Louis XIII, 1646–1655’. 56 Walker, ‘Continuity and isolation’, p. 168. 57 Mary Anne Tichborne (1661–1734, prof. 1678), daughter of Sir Henry Tichborne, baronet of Tichborne, Hants, entered the Pontoise community in 1677. 58 Nicole de Loraine, see note 15. 59 CRS Misc. VIII, Cambrai, p. 4, ‘Consentement et permission du magistrat’, 15 May 1623; my translation from the French. At Dunkirk, the local authorities on the contrary encouraged the convent to take one Maura Knightly as a choir nun, although she had no dowry. See A History of the Benedictine Nuns of Dunkirk, p. 23. 60 CRS Misc. X, Pontoise, p. 266. 61 Ibid., pp. 252–3. 62 Anne Neville was abbess of Pontoise between 1667 and 1687. She ordered low Masses for Catherine Wigmore and Eugenia Thorold, who had been abbesses, respectively, at Boulogne and Pontoise, as well as for two priests, John Digby and Mr Walsinghame, a Jesuit, William Wigmore, SJ and a secular patron, Lord Carrington. 63 A History of the Benedictine Nuns of Dunkirk, p. 15.

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4 • The missionary spirit of enclosed nuns

Despite the strict decrees of the Council of Trent on conventual enclosure, female religious institutions in the seventeenth century were in frequent interaction with the outside world. Communities depended upon it for their economic stability and growth. In return, nuns played an active role in the spiritual welfare of their patrons. They educated the young, and they provided counsel and offered retreats for adults; they also prayed for the souls of the departed. Because of the situation of Catholics at home, and compared with their Continental counterparts, English nuns were invested with an especially important mission. As members of a clandestine community under penalty, English Catholics valued the spiritual role of nuns perhaps more keenly than people did in countries where Catholicism had remained the established religion. Despite their physical separation from the world and their lack of geographical mobility, the exiled Sisters were part of the on-going English Catholic effort not only to survive but also to rekindle the flame of a fervent and militant piety. The vigour of this spirit becomes striking when we consider how the first new foundation (the Benedictine cloister at Brussels) inaugurated a movement which led to the opening of several houses of other Orders in quick succession. Poor Clares settled at Gravelines in 1606, Augustinians at Louvain in 1609, Carmelites at Antwerp in 1618 and Franciscans at Brussels in 1619. Around the time of the negotiations for a match between Prince Charles and the Infanta Maria Anna, when Catholic hopes were high in England, the Benedictines opened two new 101

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houses, at Cambrai in 1623 and at Ghent in 1624; the Poor Clares created another foundation at Dunkirk in 1625, and a third at Aire in 1629. That same year, the Augustinians settled at Bruges. This early efflorescence answered a need for cloisters to receive English women who wished to take the veil; once this initial need was taken care of, the houses simply grew at their own pace, without necessitating newer settlements. There was a gap of five years before the ­Augustinians opened their second house, in Paris, in 1634. Later, despite adverse circumstances in England during the Civil Wars and the Interregnum, more convents were founded: the Sepulchrines at Liège in 1642, the Poor Clares at Rouen in 1644, the Carmelites at Lierre in 1648, and the Benedictines, who opened their fourth and fifth convents at Paris in 1653 and at Pontoise in 1658. After the Restoration, the Dominicans founded their only English Continental house in 1660, and the Benedictines continued to show their typical dynamism with their sixth and seventh convents at Dunkirk in 1662 and Ypres in 1665. The Benedictines occupied a particular position. With seven convents, they displayed incredible vitality; moreover, they were the first new foundation, at Brussels in 1598, and also the last, at Ypres in 1665, which testifies to their drive and motivation and to the leading role they played in the overall movement of the English convents in exile. Their particular vigour may be linked to the fact that they belonged to a regular Order which was actively involved in the mission and which organised its own operations on English soil, alongside the Jesuits and secular missionaries. After nearly disappearing altogether during Elizabeth’s reign, the English Benedictine Congregation was revived in the early seventeenth century. Between 1607 and 1633, English monks who had entered Continental convents began to congregate once more in specifically English communities. From 1619 onwards, the revitalised national branch of the Order enjoyed its own independent General Chapter, and was overseen by its own English President. The English Benedictine Congregation (EBC) was then entrusted with the re-Catholicisation of the island, alongside other missionaries. At the heart of the Benedictine nunneries lay the desire to return to the piety at the heart of the heritage of English monasticism. The nuns were familiar with publications such as Robert Persons’s Treatise of Three Conversions of England, Richard Verstegan’s Restitution of Decayed Intelligence or Thomas Stapleton’s translation of Bede’s History.1 We will see in 102

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this chapter that they felt deeply attached to the specific Catholic tradition of their nation, and that they strove to define for themselves an identity which was specifically English, even in their Continental exile. If, on account of their sex, the Benedictine Sisters could not be sent out to proselytise, that is not to say that they remained entirely cut off from the operations. This chapter will show that Benedictine nuns took a keen interest in the affairs of the English mission. They kept themselves informed of the conditions of their co-religionists at home and were up to date on topical controversies, partly through their close relationships with missionaries. We will see that, even from within the confines of their cloisters, some nuns managed to play an active political role in support of the Stuart dynasty, facilitating the Restoration and gaining powerful allies at the courts of both Charles II and James II.2 Vindicating a shared English Catholic heritage The notion of religious heritage was at the core of the English Benedictine nuns’ definition of themselves as communities, and of their vocation as contemplatives. In their writings, they stressed their sense of belonging to a long tradition of Roman Catholicism which was both dedicated to the Roman Church and, at the same time, specifically English. Although they had moved to the Continent and enjoyed the freedom allowed by Catholic states, English nuns never forgot their co-religionists at home. Their vocation was to pray for England from the safety of their Flemish and French cloisters; they were never fully assimilated by Continental culture, but remained very much Englishwomen in a state of temporary exile. The bond of memory between the cloisters and their homeland is visible in the documents that survive in their archives. The Brussels community, for instance, collated a book of Fragments out of Histories of England, briefly retracing the reigns of the Tudor and Stuart monarchs, to which it added copies of letters and documents of religious controversy. One such document, simply entitled ‘Controversies’, contained ‘the number of Catholic martyrs under Elizabeth’.3 In the eighteenth century, the nuns used manuscript copies of Edward Dicconson’s Account of the English Mission, which related events occurring prior to and during his time as Vicar Apostolic of the Northern District of England (1740–52). This provided a record of known Catholics and missionaries in England at the time.4 In 103

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their archives, they kept lists of those Catholics who had suffered at home, which they sometimes expanded to give some details about the circumstances of the martyr’s life and death. At Cambrai, the Sisters made a chronological account of recent events, starting at the beginning of Elizabeth’s reign and itemising the changes to the anti-Catholic legislation. The ‘account’ is, in fact, a simple factual list, in which they gave the dates of significant events regarding the troubles in Scotland, the fate of Mary Stuart, the Elizabethan laws, the first stages of the Jesuit mission and the various papal bulls and plots against the queen.5 They logged a list of all the missionaries known to have been active during the reign of Elizabeth, and noted down those who had been martyred. They quoted martyrologist John Bridgewater’s Concertatio Ecclesiae Catholicae in Anglia and his estimate of numbers involved in the mission in 1588, at the crucial time of the Armada crisis. The Cambrai Benedictines felt a keen interest in the recent history of Catholicism in England and paid particular attention to key moments of political crisis, when the future of the Church of England and the life of Elizabeth herself were at stake. English Catholics, by nature, had an ambiguous relationship with political coups; although plotters were but a small minority, their actions, if successful, would have immense consequences for the entire Catholic population. Many Catholics declared their political allegiance to the English monarch, yet they naturally felt a personal interest in the fate of those plots, even if many did not openly wish for their success. Those were intense moments when everything was held in the balance, when hopes flourished to see Catholicism restored. But for Benedictine nuns, the plight of recusants at home and the dangers of the mission were not merely constructs to be read about in books; they had a very palpable reality, which the nuns experienced through their personal acquaintance with the people involved. The convents nourished close bonds with English missionaries, through either blood or patronage. Being part of such a rich Catholic heritage was important to the Sisters, individually and collectively. For instance, Mary Percy’s gravestone proudly mentioned that her father, Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland, had ‘suffered long time imprisonment, in England’ for the Catholic faith. Yet, if they were keen to show their ancestors as defenders of the Catholic faith, obituarists and eulogists were careful to avoid any possible association with the idea of political treason. The 104

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hagiographical reference to the Northumberland line of Catholic activists carefully avoided political subjects and never expressly mentioned that Percy’s grandfather had been executed for treason because of his involvement in the 1536 Pilgrimage of Grace, or that her father was also executed for treason as one of the key leaders of the 1569 Rising of the North against Elizabeth I.6 A vindication of the oppressed faith was to be praised, but mentions of political disobedience were avoided. Similarly, Frances Wright’s obituary noted that she was the sister of Peter Wright SJ, ‘the celebrated martyr’, who was executed on 19 May 1651 at Tyburn, focusing on faith only.7 Other English Benedictine nuns were directly related to men who were involved in plots, particularly at Brussels. Winefrid Tresham was only five years old at the time of the Gunpowder Plot, when her father was found guilty of treason and sent to the Tower, where he died. When the young girl reached the age of fourteen, she left her country to dedicate herself to the contemplative life. Madgalen Digby was also affected by the events of the Gunpowder Plot. She was twenty-two when her brother, Everard Digby, who had supported the plot, was sentenced to death on a charge of high treason. He was executed on 30 January 1606, and Magdalen was clothed three years later. Yet, despite their close relationships with militant Catholics at home, the Benedictines did not keep any documents which would imply their direct involvement in any attempts to depose or overthrow their legitimate monarchs. Of course, it would have been unwise to keep any such documents, if they ever existed in the first place. The safety of communities was paramount, and their archives are unlikely to yield much evidence of political plotting. But I would also like to argue that, in their relationship to the mission, the Benedictine Sisters appeared less interested in bringing down Protestant rulers than in constructing a new form of sanctity for English Catholics, an identity in which being a recusant in England was, in itself, a form of suffering leading to sainthood. The Cambrai community kept a long and moving poem testifying to the complex emotions of those who were accused of treason.8 The author of this doleful poem wrote that he had been found guilty of treason for plotting against the king’s life, ‘upon the Evidence of false witnesses’. Like many Catholics accused of treason, he protested his allegiance to the monarch and declared: ‘My Conscience rejoycing Testifies / That I never yet harboured / In 105

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my heart at any Tyme / So much as one Disloyal thought / Against my king and sovereign.’ Yet, amongst protestations of his innocence, the poet also found cause to rejoice at the news of his impending execution, which would make him a martyr for the Catholic faith. He wrote: ‘My Jesus calls me by this sentence / To beare his Crosse & follow him.’ Like a leitmotiv he repeated, ‘It is told me I must dye ... O happy News.’9 Such documents show that the nuns at Cambrai were keen to know about the fates of their co-religionists and felt part of that same tradition, both in that tradition’s lived experience as a persecuted minority and in its efforts to create its own narrative of English Catholicism through hagiographical texts. They endured a life of exile for their faith, and they empathised with those who, at home, suffered in the flesh. Those who braved such hardships often embraced them gladly; they were their offerings to God and to the Church. They became models of sanctity to be imitated and they carried a holy message of unconditional dedication to the Catholic cause. In such a context, highlighting their links with missionaries who suffered for their faith was a means for religious women in exile to inscribe themselves within a continued and lively tradition of Catholic resistance and of martyrdom. Several of the nuns’ relatives also found themselves embroiled in the aftermath of the 1678 Popish Plot of Titus Oates, in one way or another. In Paris, Justina Gascoigne was directly concerned with the events since, in July 1679, her aged father, Thomas Gascoigne, was arrested for treason and sent to the Tower, despite being eightyseven years old. He was imprisoned for four months before being released after a difficult trial. Soon after this ordeal, no longer feeling safe in his own home, he entered his brother Placidus’s community of Benedictine monks at Lambspring, where he lived a further six years ‘like a religious man’. Nor was Justina Gascoigne’s father the only one of her relatives to be affected by the Oates troubles. In York, her brother Thomas and her eldest sister, Anne (the widowed Lady Tempest), were both imprisoned and questioned. After such trials, Lady Tempest tried out her vocation at Paris, but died before she could take the habit.10 Most of Justina’s relatives were acquitted, but her cousin the missionary Thomas Thwing was hanged, drawn and quartered at York on 23 October 1680; the various charges were a cruel blow to the family, and Dame Justina felt the stigma very keenly. In an address to chapter on the subject of the Popish Plot, she exhorted her Sisters to exercise patience in times where 106

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‘nothing is to be expected of our poor Country but to hear of sharp persecution, imprisonmts, and unheard of sufferings, miseries, & blood-sheding’. She prayed God for patience, both for the exiled nuns and ‘for all the afflicted Catholiks of our Nation’.11 Such examples illustrate how the fate of Catholics in England resonated with the communities on the Continent and had an impact upon recruitment. Both Thomas Gascoigne and Lady Tempest entered religion as a direct result of persecution; in these cases, the monasteries benefited from the crisis at home. But sometimes, pressure from England worked to the detriment of the communities. In 1678, the correspondence between Lady Powis and the abbess of the Ghent Benedictines, Anne Neville, was intercepted by spies and found ‘to foment Rebellion’; in order to protect herself and prove she was not disloyal to her country, the lady had no choice but to remove the two daughters she had placed in the convent.12 Once more, it was made clear that clausura did not achieve a sort of monastic parallel universe, hermetically sealed and separate from the world. Benedictine cloisters were part of the Catholic mission, and events which affected the one never failed to affect the other. Links with missionaries In their daily lives, the nuns came into frequent contact with missionaries, often Jesuits or Benedictines. Male presence, initiative and agency were essential to the very existence of female communities, which benefited from their support, and even from their active involvement, from the very first steps of the initial foundation. Indeed, the Brussels nuns owed much to the zealous assistance provided by their confessor William Holt, SJ, who secured the required permissions and briefs from Rome, as well as the approbation of the local bishop and the archdukes.13 In his defence of the project, he presented the foundation as an asset in the on-going mission, calling upon his network of English acquaintances and impressing upon them the need for institutions to educate Catholic girls and further the spiritual cause of English recusancy. The link between the Brussels house and the missionary effort continued after his death. In 1601, William Baldwin, SJ, was appointed as the nuns’ new confessor. Baldwin had returned from England in 1598 to succeed William Holt as vice-prefect of the English mission. He was known as one of the foremost players in the mission in 107

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England, where he had been captured and tortured. Anne Neville, in her annals, described him as ‘a person of great vertu and veneration, who had binn prisoner long in the Towre of London’, a pseudo-martyr who suffered the rack ‘for not discovering the Confessions he had heard of some of thos that were put to death for the gunnpowder treason plott’. Neville conveyed her admiration for the Jesuit and his mission, and showed the close bond which Benedictines continued to feel with the country they had chosen to leave. In her evocation of the Gunpowder Plot, in which, as we have seen, several of the English nuns’ closest allies became embroiled, Neville presented events in a manner which differed drastically from the usual account: she reversed the established narrative, to describe the Plot as ‘a reall plot by the heriticks agaynst the catholicks, to distroy them’. Neville expressed a partisan conviction which was shared by many of her co-religionists: she believed that Catholics were the innocent victims of a nationwide concerted effort to eradicate them entirely from English soil.14 By writing to that effect, she contributed to the construction of a specifically Catholic version of English history, a type of collective quasi-hagiography. Circumstances were similar at Ghent, where John Knatchbull (alias Norton, SJ) became the spiritual director of the convent. Knatchbull facilitated the founding of a new house in Ghent when trouble arose about spiritual direction at the Brussels motherhouse in the 1620s. He used his connections in influential spheres, contacting ‘many powrefull frends both in Spayn and Flaunders’.15 Later, he enrolled the help of fellow Jesuits, in 1623 inciting them to write to their networks of friends in England and solicit their patronage for the Ghent Benedictines.16 His influence upon the Ghent house was closely related to and strengthened by the appointment of his own sister, Lucy, as first abbess of the community in 1624. She had been deeply attached to Jesuit direction in her initial convent at Brussels and, following long years of discord there, she was one of the founding members of the Ghent daughter house, which from the start was committed to the Fathers of the Society. Through the combined agency of Lucy and John Knatchbull, the Ghent convent came to be viewed as an important part of English Catholic life; it was recognised as a partner to the Jesuit missionaries. When in England, the Jesuits from Ghent’s prosperous college informed recusant families about this new asset on the Continent; they incited them to send their daughters to be educated with the English Bene108

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dictines. Once fully catechised, they could either return to England and become mothers, or stay at Ghent to become nuns there.17 Thanks to this missionary support, the nuns were able to establish a new house and to flourish and recruit during what they described generally as an ‘Iron age’ of ‘cold’ piety and charity, in which even long-settled convents struggled to exist.18 The Knatchbull example was not an isolated exception. The bond between the Ghent Benedictines and the most active English Catholic families was very tight, and several nuns came from ­families who also sent their sons to train for the mission. Helping their daughters to become nuns was an equally important statement of their commitment to the faith, and a token of their participation in the effort of Catholic recovery. A number of the Ghent Benedictines had brothers, fathers or uncles who worked on the English mission and kept them informed of the latest developments. The chronicler of the community wrote that ‘[t]he number of Howards, Giffards, Petres, Bedingfelds, Carylls, Jerninghams, Tempests, ­Cliffords, Corbys, Poultons, Lawsons, &c, &c, who were nuns may be equalled by the Jesuit, Benedictine and secular missioners of the same names’.19 Two of Eugenia Poulton’s brothers (Thomas and Ferdinand) were members of the Society of Jesus, and Eugenia herself was amongst the little group which, at Brussels, fervently demanded Jesuits as directors and confessors, before moving from Brussels to Ghent. The bond between Ghent and the Society remained strong throughout the seventeenth century. Catherine Petre belonged to one of the most politically and religiously active families in and around the London area. Three of her brothers were Jesuits. Edward Petre served as rector of the Hampshire district in 1678–79 and was in favour with the duke of York. He was arrested and imprisoned in September 1678, on evidence given by Titus Oates. When he escaped trial and was released on bail in June 1680, rumours attributed his good fortune to James’s protection. Indeed, with the accession of James II in February 1685, Edward was appointed dean of the new Chapel Royal at St James’s Palace; he then became a new member of the Privy Council in November 1685, and openly supported the more radical Catholics at court. His brother, William Petre, consolidated the influence of the Petre family over the London district when he became its rector, before being elevated to the position of vice-provincial of England. His prestige was short 109

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lived, however, since he was imprisoned again from October 1680 to February 1683. Finally, Charles Petre also played an active role in the re-Catholicisation of the country when he became first rector of the college of the Society in London in 1686. With the events of the Glorious Revolution, the college was closed and Charles himself was arrested.20 The example of Catherine Petre shows how some of the nuns belonged to the most active Catholics families in England; despite their choice to leave their homeland, these women continued to feel a deep personal involvement in the events of the mission and with the fate of Catholics at home. The Ghent cloister had particularly strong ties with the Society of Jesus, but its connection to the mission was not unique. Other Benedictine houses also recruited from active families, and many of their members were the daughters, sisters, aunts or nieces of missionaries, either Jesuits, Benedictines or seculars. At Brussels, Anne and Placida Forster were related to at least five known Jesuits: their brothers, Joseph and Michael, two of their uncles, Robert Forster (alias Wilson) and Bartholomew Forster (alias Darcy), and even their father, who joined the Society by becoming a lay brother upon his wife’s death. Still at Brussels, Cecilia Atslow’s father had suffered torture under Elizabeth I, and her brother trained at the English College in Rome. Her uncle, Luke Astlow, left England to join the Jesuits, but died before he could do so. Two of Barbara Hawkins’s brothers took part in the conversion of England. Thomas translated recusant works and Henry became a Jesuit in 1615. He was captured early in his mission on English soil and, after three years of imprisonment, was sent into exile in 1618; yet he returned to work in the London area for another twenty-five years. Like his brother, he was a prolific writer and translator of recusant books. Later, one of their nephews, Francis, followed in their footsteps and also became a Jesuit. The examples of nuns related to missionaries are many, and it is interesting to notice that they apply not only to choir nuns but also to lay Sisters. For instance, Joanna More was a lay Sister at Brussels; her brother Henry was a high-profile Jesuit, who became deeply involved in political issues and engaged in controversy. His first mission in London began in May 1622 and lasted until his capture in March 1628. Upon his release in December 1633, he removed himself to East Anglia and worked at the College of the Holy Apostles, until he reached the highest echelons of command 110

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in the English mission with his appointment as Jesuit Provincial in August 1635. After his term, he continued to serve as vice-­ provincial, from 1639 to 1642 and again in 1644. From such positions of power, Henry More was deeply involved in the political negotiations which affected the status of Catholics in England. In 1647, he agreed to the ‘three propositions’ in which Cromwell’s army officials offered to rescind penal laws if Catholics refrained from writing, teaching and preaching on the pope’s deposing power. Yet such endeavours to procure a more comfortable degree of toleration for his fellow English Catholics met with disapproval from the Holy See, and More was recalled from England in 1648. Henry More’s plight testified to the delicate situation of English Catholics at the time: although they served the Roman Church, the particular circumstances of England sometimes pleaded in favour of a certain pragmatism which did not meet with the approval of ecclesiastical authorities who had no experience of life under penalty. More later played an important part in the building of a collective memory of the Jesuit mission with his Historia Provinciae Anglicanae ­Societatis Jesu,21 a hagiographical work focused upon the suffering of the Catholic community in England, which hoped to foster a deep sense of fellowship and empathy in its Catholic readers. Such cases were not rare, and other nuns had male relatives who took an active part in the mission, from its early days under Elizabeth I into the eighteenth century. The close links between the English mission and the Brussels and Ghent convents also existed elsewhere. In Pontoise, Catherine Wigmore had three brothers, William, Richard and Robert, working in the Society. From 1644, William served in England, where he was known as William Campion or Campian. He was one of the key agents of the English mission and between 1653 and 1655 he acted as rector of the college of St Francis Xavier, which covered Wales and parts of the West of England. In 1657, he became involved in matters of controversy when he published The Catholicke Doctrine of Transubstantiation. Towards the end of his life, he returned to the Continent and, in 1659, he was appointed confessor to the Benedictine convent at Pontoise, where Catherine was cloistered. In this new position, he embodied the connectedness of the convent with the mission. At Dunkirk, Cecilia Conyers counted three brothers amongst the Jesuits.22 Two of Mechtldis Poulton’s brothers became Jesuits, 111

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as well as four of her nephews, whilst another nephew became a secular priest.23 Agnes Warner was the daughter of Sir John Warner, who, after his conversion to the faith in 1664, became a Jesuit, before rising to the position of Provincial of the English Mission from 1679 to 1683 and publishing A Vindication of the English Catholics (1680) to protest the accusations levelled by Titus Oates against the Society. When his daughter Agnes entered the Dunkirk convent, he became one of the closest benefactors of the community.24 He also produced a Latin account of his time as Provincial25 and published some Latin works of controversy on specific points of theology, as well as some works in English for a broader readership, such as A Defence of the Doctrine and Holy Rites of the Roman Catholic Church from the Calumnies and Cavils of Dr. Burnet’s ‘Mystery of iniquity unveiled’ (1688). Arguably, the main alliance which bound the Dunkirk convent to the mission was that of Abbess Mary Teresa Caryll, whose brother Peter became a Benedictine monk, and who also remained very close to her brother John, who was created a peer by James II. As shown in the previous chapter, John Caryll was a great benefactor to the community and acted as the abbess’s agent in the outside world. Through his constant correspondence with her, he kept his sister informed of the political and religious events of the time. As a man of letters, he wrote for courtly entertainment, and also on matters of politics and religious controversy. His treatise, Not Guilty, or, the Plea of the Roman Catholick in England, written during the early years of the Restoration, was a militant piece to support English Catholics under the rule of Charles II.26 He continued to defend the cause through the Popish Plot and the exclusion crisis. In The hypocrite, he lampooned the first earl of Shaftesbury’s opportunistic use of anti-Catholic fears to exclude James, Duke of York from the Stuart succession. He took great risks when he published his poem of protest entitled Naboth’s Vineyard, or, the Innocent Traytor (1679). As a result of his political involvement in the polemic, he was himself committed to the Tower for four months, being released on 22 May 1680.27 With allies such as John Caryll, the community at Dunkirk was kept abreast of the most up-to-date political developments at court and in the literary polemic. Whilst Mary Teresa Caryll relied upon John to help her with the material management of dowries and other patronage, she also learnt much about current affairs through her correspondence with him. 112

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The spiritual bent of each house was reflected in (and was a reflection of) the affiliations of members’ male relations: thus, whilst Brussels, Ghent, Pontoise or Dunkirk claimed strong alliances with Jesuits missionaries, the Cambrai and Paris nuns developed stronger affiliations with the Benedictine Order. At Cambrai, Marina Appleton’s brother was Prior Laurence Appleton OSB, whilst Gertrude Shaftoe had two brothers in the Benedictine Order: Dom Celestine, who was confessor of the Paris community between 1690 and 1698 and Dom Placid, Vicar at Cambrai from 1673 to 1681. At Paris, Justina Gascoigne’s uncle was the abbot of Lambspring (John Placidus Gascoigne OSB), and Placida Coesneau was related to Joseph Shirburne OSB, President General of the English Benedictine congregation, who arranged her place at the convent. Those were bonds which derived from blood relations, but others were developed through the nuns’ choices of confessors. A brief list of confessors from the Paris convent testifies to the intense involvement of the nuns with Benedictine confessors who were active in the mission. Most of them, like Serenus Cressy, came to the convent only for a brief time before returning to the mission. Cressy was soon recalled to England and occupied with the writing of his ecclesiastical history.28 Some died in the course of their work, or suffered imprisonment. This was the case of Dunstan Pettinger, who served the convent for three years (1653–58) before going back to England, where he died, and also of Dom Jerome Hesketh, who left for England after only three years (1675–78) in Paris and was later imprisoned in the aftermath of the Popish Plot. All the examples above indicate that contemplative nuns in exile were an organic part of the fabric of English Catholic activism. Although they were not physically present on English soil, their existence and development testified to their importance for the Catholic communities in England. The ministry of enclosed convents All the nunneries founded on the Continent were the result of the concerted efforts of several members of at least one extended family or network of kin, and usually relied on clerical patrons who saw the project through. Cloisters were envisaged as an intrinsic part of the mission in its effort to provide English women with all the options of Catholic life, including the pursuit of the contemplative 113

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ideal. The foundation of the first English convents in exile was a significant event, a sign of recusant vigour and a token of English women’s dedication to the ideal of conventual life. It was also, in itself, a political act and was understood as such by both Anglican authorities and anti-Catholic polemicists, who saw in nunneries the very embodiment of the papist threat. Lists of nunneries and anecdotes about nuns were part of the arsenal of anti-Catholic printing presses. Writers such as John Gee warned their readers about the machinations of missionaries who sang the praises of the cloisters and used the testimonies of nuns the better to attract new postulants. The pamphleteer denounced the machinations of missionaries, ‘Priests & Jesuits who entice the daughters of divers of our Gentry here in England to the nunneries beyond the Seas’. In Gee’s pamphlet, enclosed Sisters were depicted as active agents in the recruitment of new novices; they were incited by their abbesses to write letters to relatives and friends in England, extolling the virtues of conventual life, whilst soliciting financial support. Gee devoted an entire section of his book to the dangers of nunneries, presenting ‘A discourse of English Nunnes’ and ‘A catalogue of English nunnes of the late transportations within these two or three yeares’ and ‘Factors employed for the conveying over of the said Women to the Nunneries’, in which he gave a list of agents.29 The picture drawn by John Gee was a far cry from that of the retiring nun who lived in complete isolation from the world. It highlighted the proselytising endeavours of enclosed communities and treated them on a par with the activities of missionary priests. Yet, much to Gee’s chagrin (‘I wish it were duly considered’, he wrote), the rising number of nuns did not foster the same anxiety as that of their male counterparts. Male colleges, seminaries and monasteries were the source of much tribulation for the Protestant a­ uthorities and polemicists, but nunneries were rather seen as houses for deceived individuals, easily manipulated by priests because of the intrinsic limitations of their sex.30 Few of the many anti-Catholic pamphlets written during the course of the century even broached the subject of nunneries. Thomas Robinson, in his Anatomie of the English nunnery at Lisbon, discussed the Bridgettine house there and described the nuns as ‘silly seduced women’ ensnared by cunning manipulators. James Wadsworth’s English Spanish Pilgrime mentioned the existence of nunneries on the Continent, and ­emphasised the links between the English Benedictines at Brus114

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sels and the Catholic community in England, especially with the activities of Jesuit missionaries. He wrote: ‘The ghostly Fathers that are overseers of this monastery, are two English Jesuites, Father Gardiner, and Father Walgrave alias Flower, who are likewise Agents for the Jesuites in England, and intelligencers for the Archduchesse.’31 Lewis Owen published The Running Register: Recording a True Relation of the State of the English Colledges, Seminaries and Cloysters in all Forraine Parts.32 In 1642, Lawrence Anderton published The English nunne, in which he imagined the stratagems and sophisms through which Catholic schemers would endeavour to persuade an Englishwoman to become a nun.33 But in these publications, references to the nunneries evoked women governed and overseen by Jesuits, and never appeared to take nuns very seriously as agents in themselves. These gendered preconceptions contributed to the construction of religious women as hapless, harmless creatures, a view which was bolstered by the fact that, unlike male missionaries – and with the extraordinary and notable exception of Mary Ward’s English Ladies – female exiles did not return to England as active proselytisers. Nunneries did not appear to pose a direct threat to national security. Yet they remained of more consequence than their d ­ etractors gave them credit for. In Catholic circles, the foundation of English convents abroad testified to the dynamism of the faith and became part of the hagiographical construction of English Catholicism. The houses were living testimonies not only to the survival, but also to the revival of English Catholicism. Though they were not at liberty to roam the land in an active mission, nuns would, by the exemplarity of their saintly lives, and through their correspondence with relatives, provide a model for English Catholics to imitate and, as such, were part of the effort of Catholic recovery in seventeenthcentury England. This aspect of religious women’s agency was valued by missionaries in England who recognised the importance of exemplary models for an entire generation of Catholic women who could now aspire to a contemplative life in an English cloister. Even those who did not envisage entering religion could be edified by their godly reputations, and spurred on to more zealous practice in their daily lives. The correspondence of nuns with their friends and families partook of a movement of ministry; in their letters, they showed great care for the souls of their correspondents, and advised them 115

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in matters of spirituality. This applied to all English Orders; Anne Throckmorton (1687–1734), an Augustinian Canoness in Paris, penned a series of moving poems which show her in her role of zealous proselytiser. She wrote ‘Upon the clothing of a friend’, ‘For a Profession of a friend’, and ‘To a friend upon the death of her sister’. In the latter, she expressed compassion and exhortation, saying: ‘I justly in your present pain do share / For sisters shou’d each other’s crosses bear / Yet let us not excessively lament / But reverence the hand whence this is sent […] By suff’ring well we best can make appear / That our Lord’s will is unto us most clear’. Throckmorton also bitterly bemoaned her sister’s decision not to become a nun, but to return to secular life in England, in a poem entitled ‘When my sister Betty went to England’, in which she warned her against the constant dangers of the world. In a somewhat threatening tone, she exhorted her sibling: ‘on your guard stand with continual care / Rememb’ring in whose presence you appear / whom to displeasure you more than death shou’d fear’.34 Cloistered nuns did enjoy a certain spiritual charisma with their co-religionists back home. In that context, clerical authors and translators were making a point when they chose to dedicate their publications to Benedictine abbesses of the first communities at Brussels, Ghent and Cambrai. These works were translations of pious treatises, the very purpose of which was to allow English Catholics to benefit from the wisdom of foreign divines through the vernacular version. Translations expressed the deep attachment of Catholic exiles for their mother tongue; their re-appropriation of Latin pieces through the medium of the English language participated in the construction of an emotionally charged definition of Englishness.35 In the early years, when Brussels was still the only English Benedictine house founded on the Continent, its abbesses, Joanna Berkeley and Mary Percy, became the focus of devotional and literary interest. Authors sought their spiritual patronage and dedicated their works to them, asking for their blessing and spiritual support. In 1603, Richard Verstegan dedicated his translation of Peter of Lucca, The Dialogue of Dying Wel, to Joanna Berkeley, the first abbess of the Brussels Benedictines. He wrote: ‘you [are] the first Abbess of your holy Order revyved in our nation, whose posteritie by the devine providence may come to brighten our country with their shynining sancittie as your predecessors heretofore have done’.36 It was clear 116

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to Verstegan that the English Benedictine nuns, although in exile and cloistered, were the heirs of the Benedictine tradition; they shared the same missionary spirit and, by their example, they would effect conversions and have a deep impact upon their country. In 1604, when Richard Gibbons translated Luca Pinelli’s The Virgin Maries Life, which he too dedicated to Berkeley, he pleaded to ‘be remembred in your fervent devotions’.37 The abbess of the first English convent on the Continent benefited from an undeniable spiritual prestige, and her patronage (which was of course a metonymy for that of her entire community) was avidly sought after. In 1617, John Wilson dedicated Everard Thomas’s translation of Albert the Great’s The Paradise of the Soule, or a Treatise of Vertues to ‘The right honourable, right reverend and most religious lady, the Lady Mary Percy, abbesse of the monastery of the English Dames, of the Order of S. Benedict in Bruxells’.38 He specifically desired English patronage, someone ‘of the same nation’ who would be worthy of the work. He hoped his book would procure spiritual comfort to the abbess and her community in their exile. Percy was also the recipient of a translation of Vincenzo Puccini’s Life of the Holy and Venerable Mother Suor Maria Maddalena de Patsi in 1619. By his dedication, the translator hoped to repay his debt to the abbess – whether spiritual or otherwise he did not say. He also wished that her virtuous example would encourage others to walk in her footsteps. He considered her to be the first ‘who made so high Nobility of bloud (as high perhaps as any Subject in Christendome doth beare) stoope so low to the lure of Evangelicall Poverty, and other perfections’.39 Percy was represented as a paragon of virtue, to be admired and imitated by her fellow English Catholics; she was hailed as an exemplary model. In 1632, Miles Carre’s dedication of his translation of Jean-Pierre Camus’s A Spirituall Combat testified to the continued good reputation of Mary Percy as an example of religious virtue to be held in the highest respect and encouraged.40 At Ghent, Lucy Knatchbull was also the dedicatee of several works translated by Jesuits. In 1625, she received Desiderius’s A Most Godly Religious and Delectable Dialogue (translated by Peter Canisius) and in 1627, Tobie Matthew (who was to become her biographer) dedicated his translation of Alfonso Rodriguez’s treatises on mental prayer ‘to the right reverend Lady abesse of the English Religious Dames, of the Order of S. Benet in Gant’.41 In 1665, as abbess of the Ghent community, Mary Knatchbull 117

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received a dedication from her kinsman Francis Chamberlain for his translation of Paul de Barry’s Think Well on it.42 In 1633, the Benedictine Anthony Batt dedicated his translation of Bernard de Clairvaux’s A Rule of Good Life to Mary Francis Gawen, first abbess at Cambrai.43 In 1638 Clementia Cary was the dedicatee of The Second Booke of Dialogues.44 Dedications echoed the convents’ affiliations. In the early days at Brussels, and always at Ghent, the spiritual heritage of the Society of Jesus was clearly expressed. At Cambrai and Paris, bonds with the Benedictine Order were also stated through the same means. Of course, they emphasised the dedicatees’ religious virtues and portrayed them as embodiments of perfection. But it is equally revealing that, by dedicating their translations of pious works to English abbesses, authors trusted that such patronage would stimulate interest and increase the outreach of their publications. The endorsement of nuns was a valuable asset: it gave readers a guarantee of the religious value and orthodoxy of the book, which came recommended by the most dedicated brides of Christ. By associating the abbesses and prioresses of English convents with this endeavour towards a broader readership, writers counted them as an integral part of the mission of outreach. Translations were essential in the Catholic struggle against Protestant progress: they were a militant way to help ordinary readers to practise their faith, and Jaime Goodrich’s study has shown that religious women were not the passive recipients of male-authored works.45 As implied in several of the dedications, the abbesses were familiar with the works in their original language. On occasion, it was their influence that prompted clerics to produce their translations, which indicates that they took an active part in the circulation and dissemination of Catholic devotional books. Moreover, Jaime Goodrich has shown that some nuns, like Mary Percy and Potentiana Deacon, used their translating skills to anchor their spiritual authority within the on-going debates of English Catholicism. It was customary for nuns to address their work to their own communities or maybe to their own Order; their productions therefore remained mostly in manuscript form and were used within the enclosed sphere of the cloister. Yet Percy and Deacon chose to have their translations printed, with a view to a much broader readership; by this choice, they deliberately inscribed their spiritual authority within the English Catholic community. In the same way as the 118

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dedications reflected the convents’ spiritual affinities with regard to the internal disputes of the mission, nuns used their translations to position themselves on the spiritual spectrum.46 In 1612, a few month after Lucy Knatchbull and Magdalen Digby had returned to Brussels after their failed attempt to found a separate pro-Jesuit convent, Brussels abbess Mary Percy translated An Abridgement of Christian Perfection. Jaime Goodrich has argued that Percy’s reasons for doing so may have been to appeal to the pro-Jesuit faction in her divided convent. In the context of the dissention which was spoiling the unity of her community, Percy probably hoped to win over some of her pro-Jesuit sisters by providing them with a translation of this subtly Ignatian text.47 But her ambitions on a wider scale were made clear when she dedicated her book to the ‘religious men and women of our Nation and To all others who desire to attain to the eminent state of Christian Perfection’.48 She hoped to enable English Catholics to become familiar with and strive towards a mystical ideal even if, at home, they were more likely to come into contact with Jesuit missionaries. In 1632, at Ghent, Alexia Grey edited and printed both the Benedictine Rule and statutes; her work was a direct consequence of the bitter disputes at Brussels, where the pro-Jesuit faction accused Abbess Percy of violating the statutes. By publishing an English translation of both Rule and statutes, Grey gave the nuns an opportunity to check for themselves and use the text to support their case. Yet, on a wider scale, Grey also aimed to restore the reputation of the Benedictine cloisters as keepers of good spiritual order in the eyes of English Catholics. Her edition clearly sided with the Ignatian supporters amongst the Order but its main overarching theme was the promotion of the Benedictine Order, which she likened to the life-giving sun, ‘a bright beame of divine light’, in her prefatory dedication to the abbess at Ghent, Eugenia Poulton. Grey wished to limit the damage done to the Order’s reputation by the rather public Brussels scandals. Indeed, the house at Brussels attracted no entrants during that troubled period, but Grey, with her edition of the Rule and statutes, wished to reassure English Catholic families that Ghent, on the contrary, was a safe, zealous and most deserving institution. Her English books, once printed, could be widely distributed and they allowed readers to know exactly what nuns did during the day, how their lives were organised. This was an effort to reassure and to secure new recruits.49 119

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Nuns often used their translating skills in an effort to position themselves in terms of spiritual heritage. At Cambrai, Potentiana Deacon manifested her support of Jesuit spiritual direction in her translation of François de Sales’s Delicious Entertainments of the Soule.50 At a time when the Cambrai community experienced tension between Ignatian spirituality as advocated by their official confessor Francis Hull (a Benedictine who practised Ignatian methods) and a more mystical type of life promoted by their unofficial spiritual guide, Augustine Baker, Deacon hoped to influence her Sisters towards a Jesuit outlook. François de Sales was not in opposition to Benedictine or Bakerite spirituality, but Deacon’s translation supported Ignatian ideals and methods. Her introduction made it clear that she envisaged it being read by a wider audience – comprising even Protestants and Catholics who might not support Continental cloisters – and that she hoped to change their minds. But the most productive scribe, translator and author at Cambrai was without doubt Barbara Constable. Throughout the 1640s and 1650s, she became the author of eleven original works, and she transcribed at least twenty-five devotional treatises; through her life’s dedication to such work, she demonstrated an acute awareness of the importance of texts in the essential positioning of each house, and also in the wider spiritual welfare of English Catholic circles. As Heather Wolfe has shown, Barbara Constable became a sort of ‘closet missionary’, enclosed yet reaching far beyond the walls of her convent through her indefatigable dissemination of Catholic devotional texts. She dedicated and sent her work to her immediate relatives, like her brother Marmaduke Constable and her sister, Catherine Sheldon. Faithful to the Bakerite heritage of her house, she also copied Augustine Baker’s writings, and in doing so she passed on his teachings and his revival of mystical writers such as the author of The Cloud of Unknowing, Blosius, Walter Hilton, Julian of Norwich or John Tauler, to name but a few. Constable felt an obligation to provide her compatriots, both religious and secular, with copies of these seminal texts, and with an institutional memory. In her own compositions, such as her ‘Gemitus peccatorum’ or ‘Advises for confessors & spiritual directors’ and ‘Speculum Superiorum’, she displayed a vast and unusual range of knowledge, quoting indifferently from sources spanning centuries, and from various Orders.51 120

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English Benedictine nuns wrote, copied and translated texts with the keen awareness that they were building a strong legacy; these texts both shaped and stated the contours of their spiritual identity, and were meant to be inspirational for future generations. This legacy was revived and vindicated with the edition and publication of many of the communities’ annals in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. As the annals of the Ghent convent put it: ‘there can be no doubt that while the [missionaries] laboured, suffered, and even died for the propagation of the true faith in their native country, the [nuns] contributed with their heartfelt and earnest prayers to the same great object, and thus all worked in concert for the good of their fellow-countrymen’.52 The feeling of participating ‘in concert’, ‘towards the same great object’, was the very raison d’être of the Benedictine convents in exile, and an ideal which was praised and respected by the editors of annals two centuries later. In Paris, the nuns had a particular devotion to St Gregory, ‘by whose means the whole Realm of England was converted’. After they had pronounced their solemn vows of religion, they made a special offering which testified to their deep dedication to the English Catholic cause and the on-going mission: I, Sister N. N., do further, according to the Vocation and Holy Institute of this Convent, offer my self, & all my actions, for the Conversion of England, in union with our Father’s Labour of the Mission, and as they promise to go, and return as they are commanded; so will I live & dye in this my Offering, in this convent.53

This very specific declaration, which was representative of the spirit of the Paris community, clearly stated that the very raison d’être of the nuns’ contemplative life was to advance God’s work – which was, for these nuns, the return of England to the Catholic fold. In her death notice, Mary Clare Joseph of Jesus Bond was known to have ‘such strong and ardent desires for the Conversion of Souls, and in particular for that of England that her Prayers were continual for that purpose, and she became as a suffering Victim before the throne of God for the good of her fellow Creatures’.54 It is clear that nuns like her envisaged their spiritual calling as a counterpart to the active vocations of their missionary brethren. To them, contemplative life was as necessary as apostolic work on English soil, since prayer helped to further the happy issue of the mission. The efficacy of their intercession was a belief shared by 121

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their Catholic compatriots. Nunneries received gifts to pay for their prayers in order to further the Catholic cause at home. In 1673, the Pontoise ­community received 150 livres tournois ‘for the good success of the war’.55 Yet, sometimes, the nuns were able to act through means other than contemplative prayers. The religious of Paris acted through their prayers, from within the walls of their enclosure. At Cambrai, their Sisters did the same, never allowing themselves to be ‘seen at Grates’.56 But the Ghent community adopted a different outlook, which fitted their Ignatian spirit: they were prone to actions which redefined the traditional understanding of contemplative female enclosure, and took their message out of the cloister walls by several means. As abbess of the convent in the 1640s, Mary Roper attracted many English expatriates to the convent grate and there conversed with ‘both Catholicks and Heretickes’, some of whom she is said to have converted through ‘the modesty and gravity of her Religious behaviour’ and sound religious arguments.57 The obituary of Clare Vaughan, at Pontoise, reveals that she, too, was dedicated to edifying the local populations and passing visitors at the grate of her convent. Like Mary Roper, Vaughan ‘was powreful in word, and in works instructing’; her success was such that she was remembered for ‘reduceing into the boosome of our holy mother the Roman Catholicke Church, many heriticques English souldiers which were quartere’d in the town’.58 Nuns managed to play an active proselytising role, from their place of exile, at their local level, and despite the constraints of enclosure. Of course, they remained cloistered, but in their own varied ways they took part in the effort of the mission and some were politically active. As women and enclosed religious, they have until recently been doubly excluded from the history of these events. However, they did play a role – or rather, various types of roles – which scholars interested in women’s studies and religious history have started to recover.59 Studies such as those by Caroline Bowden or Claire Walker have revealed that certain Benedictine Sisters played an important part in the history of the Restoration; they were politically involved at a time when the Stuart kings, their queen consorts and their entire courts were in exile on the Continent. They shared a common fate with the Stuart court and, like them, they sought to return to their native land and regain what they saw as their due. They used their financial assets and their social networks to support 122

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the Stuart cause in the hope of future reward. During their exile, both Charles and James Stuart welcomed the nuns’ support and gave public signs of their gratitude; they visited convent parlours many times before they were kings. Unsurprisingly, their attitude was echoed by their courtiers, several of whom sought asylum at the convents, sometimes for long periods of time; moreover, as we have seen earlier, the daughters of several Jacobite families became boarders or even nuns in English cloisters. Royalist and activist nuns Arguably, the Benedictines became more actively involved in the support of the Stuart court than did other English convents. In her annals, Abbess Neville described Charles I’s execution as ‘that horrible sacrilegious murther’.60 At Paris, Justina Gascoigne’s address to chapter in the aftermath of the Glorious Revolution painted a vivid picture of the times, ‘the Extream misery & distress, of our Country & Friends that live in great afflictions, in wants, in persecutions, in troubles & disquiets’; she felt particularly deeply for ‘our dear Kings great sufferances, hardships & dangers’.61 At Pontoise, the connection with James II was particularly strong, since his daughter, Ignatia Fitzjames, was professed there. Ignatia’s favours were much in demand, and there was no shortage of clerics who were keen to be well considered by the royal family. In 1691, the author of A Short Instruction for the Better Understanding and Performing of Mental Prayer dedicated his work to Ignatia, in a none too subtle attempt to gain the exiled king’s favours through pages of undisguised flattery.62 But, apart from attracting such pleas for patronage, the presence of Ignatia in Pontoise fostered a feeling of particular closeness with James Stuart. The obituary notice they produced for him expressed the nuns’ devotion to the exiled king and to the Stuart succession: King James the 2nd whilst Duke of York sufferd twice bannishment for the Catholick faith, and now was miracuously preserv’d from being excluded his succession in 1679. Peaceably Crown’d in 1685, and treacherously unthrown’d in 1688, he took his refuge in France where for 13 year’s [sic] liv’d in perfect Conformity as a mirror of al vertue, and dy’d most happily at St Germains in the 17th year of his raigne, and the 68 year of his age. The 16th of September 1701. Requiescat in Pace.63

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When the obituarist wrote that the king had suffered for the Catholic faith, she adopted a typically hagiographical phrase meant to present James as one of the English martyrs; her mention of his miraculous preservation from peril, of his peaceful and virtuous reign and of his happy death manifests the same intent. James was constructed, immediately after his death, as a martyr and a saint to be honoured, revered and imitated by his English Catholic subjects. When considering the missionary spirit of enclosed Orders, Caroline Bowden wrote about the ‘dichotomy of seemingly irreconcilable roles’; this apparent contradiction was embodied in her case study of Mary Knatchbull’s leadership of the Ghent convent. Knatchbull ruled in observance of her vows, extolling humility, silence, obedience and retirement from the world, whilst at the same time interacting with the most influential royal advisers of the court in exile and participating in the campaign for Charles II’s return to England.64 Despite the monastic ideal of dying to the world, nuns were neither ignorant of politics, nor cut off from the networks of power. As Claire Walker has noted, relationships between convents and royalty were not uncommon in early modern Catholic states; indeed, in France, monarchs often appointed their female relatives to the highest posts of reputed cloisters as a means to ensure a modicum of royal control over their resources and, more generally, over religious institutions on national soil. Of course, the Reformation changed this situation for English convents, causing a rift between the English monarchy and the Catholic institutions which, banned from their native soil, developed on the Continent. Yet, the personal tolerance of the Stuart kings allowed some of these ­relationships to be rekindled. The marriage of Charles I to the French Henrietta Maria in 1625 had heralded a reappraisal of the forces at play upon the English political scene. From afar, exiled Catholics built their hopes upon the potential consequences of this union. At the English court, the entourage of Henrietta Maria fostered a favourable climate for the conversion of high-profile aristocrats (such as the former Duchess of Buckingham) who, in their turn, became influential supporters of exiled convents. We saw in the previous chapter that the duchess became a regular boarder of the Ghent Benedictines in the 1640s, and she was at the origin of a project to found a daughter house in Ireland.65 Later, during the Interregnum, both Charles and James resorted to the hospitality of English convents on the Continent. The 124

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Ghent community in particular enjoyed close links with the exiled Stuart court, where their relatives acted as powerful patrons. In March 1650, Abbess Mary Roper entertained Charles as he passed through the town, on his way to Scotland. The future king reportedly found the house much to his taste; he promised his support to the ­community, which he visited again on occasion. The convent’s annals recorded that, after Charles’s departure, the nuns prayed ‘hartily for his conversion and the good success of his bleeding affairs’, comparing the prince to Jesus Christ himself, as he appeared ‘deserted by his own people’.66 The cordial relationship between the abbess and the prince was further illustrated when Abbess Roper became critically ill and Charles dispatched his own physician to assist her.67 Although Mary Roper did not survive this final illness, her convent continued to enjoy the prince’s favour. Her successor, Mary Knatchbull, entertained Charles regularly from 1654 onwards, and the abbess reportedly discussed crown affairs with Charles during these visits and imparted both spiritual and political advice.68 Christina Forster’s father had followed Charles into exile during the Civil Wars, and served as treasurer-general to the queen and later as keeper of the king’s Privy Purse. Such close acquaintances favoured a rapprochement between the court and the convent. Forster was in an ideal position to patronise his daughter’s community, and to encourage others at court to do the same. He assisted the Sisters with their new settlement when they moved from Boulogne to Pontoise, where Christina became abbess from 1657 to 1661. She was certainly chosen for her many religious qualities, but having a father in such a prominent position at court is likely to have influenced her election: she was the obvious choice if the community wanted to benefit from the largesse of aristocratic patrons, but she could also relay information and inscribe her community more closely within a network of support to the Stuart cause. The relationship between the nuns and the monarch was understood as a fruitful exchange between both parties. Whilst the monarch bestowed the favours which his wealth and political influence allowed, the Benedictines, in return, bestowed precious spiritual gifts upon their royal patron. During Charles’s exile, they prayed for the success of the royalist cause; when he stayed at Ghent, they even offered daily prayers for his restoration.69 In fact, the fate of their exiled king remained ever present in the nuns’ prayers over 125

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the years, and in January 1660, Mary Knatchbull offered prayers as a New Year’s gift for the Stuart prince.70 Moreover, the particular circumstances of English Catholicism modified the balance of power. As the law applied pressure upon usually dominant groups, it empowered traditionally less influential spheres. The relative penury which afflicted the court in exile allowed convents to play an extraordinary role as its financial patrons. This became particularly important in the 1650s, after the official rapprochement of the French court with the English Commonwealth put an end to the payment of the annual pension it had so far given Charles during his Parisian exile.71 As Caroline Bowden and Claire Walker have shown, the Ghent Benedictines were able to play a very unusual political part in the events leading the Charles II’s restoration. From 1656, Mary Knatchbull began a steady correspondence with the king’s closest adviser and future Lord Chancellor, Edward Hyde, earl of Clarendon (1609– 74), seizing the opportunity provided by Charles’s difficulties to strengthen links with the Stuart prince. Knatchbull obtained the consent of her community to contract loans on her own credit in order to help the royal cause, and this despite the convent’s already crippling debt of £6,000 and the eighty people she had to provide for. As she saw it, this investment would yield an incomparable return if it contributed to the restoration of the Stuart prince to his English throne: her actions were meant to secure the toleration of Catholics in England. The Ghent nuns took a leap of faith and risked financial precariousness in order to buttress a cause which, they hoped, would ensure the toleration of Catholicism in England upon the king’s return to what they saw as his rightful position. Their role did not stop there: as well as lending Charles substantial sums of money, they helped the safe passage of some of his sensitive correspondence, using the seeming innocuousness of their conventual post as a smoke-screen to bypass Cromwell’s spies. Since 1649, all correspondence between England and the Continent had been the object of a close watch at major Channel ports; in 1655, the secretary of state of the Protectorate, John Thurloe (1616–68), took control over the post and organised a network of spies. In such circumstances, Charles found it expedient to use the Ghent Benedictines as a kind of post-office box: from 1657 onwards, in agreement with Abbess Knatchbull, he regularly used the nuns’ mail service to escape detection of his correspondence. 126

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The letters from the exiled courtiers were sent to the abbey, to join Knatchbull’s already voluminous mail packet. The convent’s agent in England then dispatched the letters to their addressees. The same system also functioned in reverse. Mary Knatchbull was very well informed. She kept herself up to date on controversies and new publications, and reported the news and rumours which she gathered from her own correspondents in Spain, England and France.72 She even bribed those who could ensure the better safety of her post, and used ciphers and codes.73 Thus the Ghent Benedictines helped the king’s closest advisers and provided a safe communications channel. They benefited from what Claire Walker called ‘the generally dismissive attitudes of English spies and officials, who denied the religious women any capacity for political agency’.74 The established misogyny of English officials was even exploited further, in the royal correspondence, when authors used female pseudonyms in order to deflect attention, should the letters be opened.75 Of course, such close relationships between convents and court became much more difficult with Charles’s restoration; since the king of an Anglican kingdom could not be seen to favour Catholic institutions, the bonds between Charles and the convent became looser, although they were never entirely dissolved. Mary Knatchbull personally congratulated the king on his Restoration, and the monarch gratified her with an answer on 31 May 1660, in which he expressed his ‘particular kindness’ for the abbess and the community at Ghent. With the letter was enclosed a generous gift of 500 gold pistols and the – empty – promise of a further 400 English gold pieces.76 The nuns joined in the city’s celebrations of bonfires, music and singing, and extended the festivities over a three-day period of feasting; the abbess even granted the community a whole week’s recreation.77 Yet, after Charles’s return to England, the relationship between the Caroline court and the Ghent Benedictines was curtailed. It was a bitter blow to Knatchbull and to her nuns when, in September 1662, Charles disavowed their newly established daughter house at Dunkirk. The choice of the city, which was then an English territory, had been highly symbolic for the Benedictines, who hoped that it would herald a future return to their homeland. At Dunkirk, it was the specific duty of two of the Sisters to observe particular devotions for the conversion of England and to pray weekly for that purpose, as well as for God’s grace to allow the convent to return to 127

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England.78 Yet it was impossible for Charles, the king of a ­Protestant kingdom and head of the Church of England, to condone such a foundation publicly. Eventually, the nuns’ hopes were s­hattered even further when the town was sold back to the French court in October 1662. They were then on Catholic land, but no longer on English soil. Despite such significant setbacks, the nuns remained steadfast in their support and prayed for the conversion both of Charles II and of his ministers. In the meantime, they entered into a sustained correspondence with James, the now openly Catholic duke of York, whose consort, Anne Hyde, was one of the most generous benefactors of the Ghent community. After her death in 1671, and as a token of gratitude for her generosity, the nuns commemorated her anniversary with a requiem mass.79 James’s marriage to Mary of Modena and his accession to the throne in 1685 heralded great expectations for the Ghent Benedictines, who had supported his cause for so long. Abbess Knatchbull wrote both to James II and to Mary of Modena on many occasions.80 After years of loyal service to Charles II, and with the accession of the Catholic James II, the nuns expected to see their efforts come to fruition and to be allowed to return to England. They had good cause to hope, for the king had shown his favour expressly in recent times. However, the brevity of James’s reign shattered their dreams of a return to their homeland; yet, as the court fled to the Continent once more after the Revolution of 1688, the bonds between convents and exiled court were again strengthened. In that period, the Benedictines of Brussels, Cambrai, Dunkirk and Ypres also received visits from the royal court and they all unanimously mourned the passing of their royal patron in 1701, and pledged their Jacobite allegiance. In her study of nuns’ involvement in Jacobite support from 1688 to 1745, Claire Walker has shown that, despite being all but written out of history, religious women’s spiritual patronage was highly sought after at the English court.81 The contemplative ideal of separation from the world took on particular significance in the context of the English convents in exile. The women who entered these cloisters were answering a spiritual urge, a vocation that called them to dedicate themselves to God in a house where time and place were defined to serve Him, and where a person’s body and soul were to be turned towards the 128

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divine, away from the base preoccupations of the world. Yet, even as they vowed themselves to a contemplative life, English nuns were in a very atypical situation. Like all Catholics, they were part of the Roman Church, whose creed and rules they shared, in common with other Continental houses. They were subject to the same hierarchy as others, under the ultimate authority of the pope; they inscribed themselves within the same long spiritual heritage and observed the same traditions. In essence, they were Roman Catholic before anything else. Yet the convents they entered were founded as centres of piety whose raison d’être was to relieve the spiritual distress of the English Catholic communities. They were a response to a painful situation, and they were conceived as part of a strategy of ministry and mission which hoped to bring about the return of Catholicism on English soil. Thus, although the cloisters were separated from the world, they were at the same time an intrinsic part of that specific English microcosm from which they sprang. Their ­compatriots sought the prayers and spiritual patronage of the communities. Some nuns remained within the private sphere yet interacted with their relatives and patrons to further the cause of a militant and buoyant Catholicism with ambitions for expansion. Some, like Mary Percy or Potentiana Deacon, chose to become active in print and used spiritual controversy as their weapon of choice. They took part in the Catholic literary and devotional productions of their age. At Ghent, Mary Knatchbull became politically active and engaged with the events leading to the Restoration. When she did so, she hoped to gain the king’s favour for a potential return on English soil. Despite their walls, these English nuns partook of a movement in which protagonists organised networks and risked their lives and fortunes in the pursuit of a common goal. As such, English Benedictines were contemplatives, but they were also the bearers of a missionary ideal. When one looks at their documents in their totality, there emerges a picture which is both rooted in the universal Roman Catholic doctrine and practice that applied to all convents on the Continent, and yet steeped in their particular Englishness. The first part of this book has shown that the life of English convents in exile hinged on perpetual duality and tension. One such point of tension focused upon the national idiosyncrasies of communities which belonged to a pan-national Church. On the one hand, these houses of God were, first and foremost, Roman Catholic and 129

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shared the universal heritage of the Church which they served; but on the other hand, they also displayed traits which emerged from the particular circumstances of Catholicism in England, where it was a minority under penalty. English convents in exile all expressed their intention to return to England as soon as their faith was tolerated in their homeland, to which they never ceased to feel bound. Another difficulty resided in the tension between the theory and the practice of enclosed religious life; the chapters above have shown that the ideal of dying to the world and to others, as prescribed in clerical literature and desired by all zealous nuns, was in practice unachievable. If nuns must not be creatures of the world, they nonetheless had no choice but to live in the world. In order to survive and serve their Church, they needed to attend to the more mundane aspects of life, such as financial safety, community management, recruitment and economic stability. Without success in those very worldly fields, English nuns in exile could never hope to live up to their spiritual vocation. Thus, the contemplative Brides of Christ, who were supposed to be enclosed, unseen and unheard, and perfectly dead to the world outside, were in fact in frequent contact with their networks of kin and patrons, in an interaction which was mutually beneficial. If dying to the world and to others was all but impossible, what of the ideal of dying to oneself? The second part of this study, in the next four chapters, takes a closer look at the personal experience of individual nuns. It focuses particularly upon the embodied experience of women who desired a spiritual life: how did Benedictine nuns feel about their life of prayer? Did their personal experience of the contemplative modus vivendi match their expectations, and those of their superiors? In the same way as communities were perpetually forced to stray from their ideal and have contact with the world, individual nuns who aspired to spiritual perfection were constantly dragged back to their corporeal natures; how did they reconcile their longing for the spirit with their physical limitations? Through an analysis of their personal papers, this study will now turn to the ways in which seventeenth-century English nuns related to their emotions, to their senses, and to their bodies.

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Notes 1 Robert Persons, A Treatise of Three Conversions of England from Paganisme to Christian Religion (St Omer, 1603–4); Richard Verstegan, A Restitution of Decayed Intelligence: in Antiquities, Concerning the Most Noble, and Renowned English nation (Antwerp, 1605); Bede, The Historie of the Church of England (St Omer, 1622). 2 Claire Walker, ‘Prayer, patronage, and political conspiracy: English nuns and the restoration’, The Historical Journal, 43:1 (2000), 1–23 and ‘Loyal and dutiful subjects: English nuns and Stuart politics’, in James Daybell (ed.), Women and Politics in Early Modern England, 1450–1700 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), pp. 228–42; or Heather Wolfe, ‘Dame Barbara Constable: Catholic antiquarian, advisor and closet missionary’, in R. Corthell, F. E. Dolan, C. Highley and A. F. Marotti (eds), Catholic Culture in Early Modern England (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), pp. 158–88. 3 Archives of the Archdiocese of Westminster (hereafter AAW), Box C17, unnumbered documents. 4 Ibid., Ms ‘BP Dicconson’s Account of the English Mission’. 5 ADN, Ms 20H-54, fols 7–10, ‘An Account of Chronological Occurrences’. 6 CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 14. 7 Anon., A History of the Benedictine Nuns of, now at St Scholastica’s Abbey, Teignmouth, Devon (London: Burns & Oates, 1958), p. 27. 8 The manuscript copy is undated and anonymous, but the poem has been attributed to Richard Langhorne (1624–79), who was found guilty of treason in the aftermath of the events linked to the Popish Plot. Langhorne was a Roman Catholic barrister at the Inner Temple and financial adviser of Jesuit missionaries. He was executed at Tyburn on 14 July 1679, and later beatified by Pius XI on 15 December 1929. See the details in ‘The Trial of Richard Langhorn, esq. at the Old Bailey, for High Treason’, 31 Charles II, A.D. 1679, vol. 7 in A Complete Collection of State Trial and Proceedings for High Treason and Other Crimes and Misdemeanours, 33 vols ed. by William Cobbett (London, 1809–26). I am deeply grateful to Jaime Goodrich for her identification of the poem’s author. 9 ADN, Ms 20H-33, ‘The Affections of my Soule after judgment given against me in a Court of Justice upon the Evidence of false witnesses’. 10 CRS Misc. VII, Paris, pp. 350–2. 11 Colwich Abbey, Ms H71. See also V. A. L. Challoner, Martyrs to the Catholic Faith: Memoirs of Missionary Priests and other Catholics of both sexes that have suffered death in England on religious accounts from the year 1577 to 1684 (1741), Edinburgh: Grange (1878), pp. 232–4.

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12 CRS Misc. V, Neville, pp. 69–70. I have been unable to trace the precise identity of this Lady. 13 Ibid., p. 2. 14 Ibid., p. 3. 15 Jaime Goodrich, ‘Early Modern Englishwomen as Translators of Religious and Political Literature, 1500–1641’, PhD dissertation, Boston College, submitted May 2008, p. 434. Also CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 10. 16 Ibid., p. 11. 17 Ibid., p. 20. 18 Ibid., p. 10. 19 Anon., Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, now at St Mary’s Abbey, Oulton (Oulton, 1894), p. 1. 20 Stuart Handley, ‘Petre, Sir Edward, third baronet (1630x33–1699)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press (2004); online edn, May 2011, http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/ article/22046, accessed 6 August 2016. 21 Henry More, Historia Provinciae Anglicanae Societatis Jesu (St Omer, 1660). 22 A History of the Benedictine Nuns of Dunkirk, p. 49. The three brothers were Thomas Conyers, Christopher Conyers and Leonard Conyers. 23 Ibid., p. 40. Mechtldis Poulton became a nun at Dunkirk, where she joined her two sisters who had already taken the veil there, and was soon followed by two of her nieces. 24 Ibid., p. 46 and Bernard Basset, The English Jesuits from Campion to Martindale (Leominster: Gracewings, 2004), p. 91. 25 This has since been published under the title The History of English Persecution of Catholics and the Presbyterian Plot, ed. by T. A. Birrell, Catholic Record Society, vols 47–48 (London, 1953). 26 Not guilty, or, The plea of the Roman Catholick in England (BL, Add. MS 28252, fols 140–8). 27 Howard Erskine-Hill, ‘Caryll, John, Jacobite first Baron Caryll of Durford (bap. 1626, d. 1711)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press (2004), http://www.oxforddnb.com/ view/article/4847, accessed 6 August 2016. 28 Only the first volume of this monumental work was published as The Church History of Brittanny or England, from the beginning of Christianity to the Norman Conquest (Rouen, 1668). 29 John Gee, New Shreds of the Old Snare … (London, 1624), pp. 113–21. 30 See my ‘La Séduction au service de la perfidie: Représentation des missionnaires de la contre–réforme en Angleterre’, Revue de la Société d’Etudes Anglo-Américaines des XVIIe et XVIIIe Siècles 65 (2008), 57–75. 31 Thomas Robinson, The Anatomie of the English Nunnery at Lisbon (London, 1630), p. 14 and James Wadsworth, The English Spanish

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Pilgrime (London, 1629), 72–3. 32 Lewis Owen, The Running Register: Recording a True Relation of the State of the English Colledges, Seminaries and Cloysters in all Forraine Parts (London, 1626). 33 Lawrence Anderton, The English Nunne: Being a Treatise, Wherein (by Way of Dialogue) the Author Endeavoureth to Draw Young & Unmarried Catholike Gentlewomen to Imbrace a Votary, and Religious Life (London, 1642). 34 Laurence Lux-Sterritt (ed.), Spirituality, vol. 2, in Caroline Bowden (ed.) English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800, 6 vols (London: Pickering and Chatto, 2012), 449–60, quotations at pp. 456 and 459, r­ espectively. 35 Christopher Highley, Catholics Writing the Nation in Early Modern Britain and Ireland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), p. 45. 36 Pietro da Luca, A Dialogue of Dying Wel. First written in the Italian tongue, by the reuerend father Don Peeter of Luca, a chanon regular, a Doctor of Divinitie and famous preacher. Wherin is also contayned sundry profitable resolutions, upon some doubtful questions in divinitie, trans. by Richard Verstegan (Antwerp, 1603). 37 Luca Pinelli, The Virgin Maries Life Faithfully gathered out of auncient and holie fathers. Togeather with meditations and documents upon the same, trans. by Richard Gibbons (Douai, 1604). 38 Albert the Great, The Paradise of the Soule. Or a treatise of vertues (Saint Omer, 1617). 39 Vincenzo Puccini, The Life of the Holy and Venerable Mother Suor Maria Maddalena De Patsi a Florentine Lady, & Religious of the Order of the Carmelites, trans. by Tobie Matthew (Saint Omer, 1619), pp. 4–5. 40 Jean-Pierre Camus, A spirituall combat, a tryall of a faithfull soule or consolation in temptation, trans. by Thomas Carre (Douai, 1632). 41 Alfonso Rodriguez, A treatise of mentall prayer, With Another of the presence of God, trans. by Tobie Matthew (Saint Omer, 1627). Also Two Treatises on mentall prayer, trans. by Tobie Matthew (Saint Omer, 1627). 42 Paul de Barry, Pensez-y bien, or, Thinke well on it containing the short, facile, and assured meanes to salvation, trans. by Francis Chamberlain (Ghent, 1665). 43 Bernard de Clairvaux, A Rule of good life: written by the mellifluous doctor S. Bernard (monke and abbot of the holie order of S. Benet) especiallie for virgins, and other religious woemen; and may profitably be read likewise by all others, that aspire to Christian perfection, trans. Anthony Batt (Douai, 1633). 44 I am grateful to Caroline Bowden for sharing with me her preliminary investigations in dedications to nuns as she prepared for her session (3 June 2014) at the Seminar on the History of Libraries, organised by the

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Institute of English Studies, School of Advanced Study, University of London. 45 Jaime Goodrich, Faithful Translators: Authorship, Gender, and Religion in Early Modern England (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2013) pp. 145–84. 46 On translation, edition and the single author paradigm, see Jaime Goodrich, ‘Nuns and community-centered writing: the Benedictine Rule and Brussels Statutes’, Huntington Library Quarterly 77:3 (2014), 287–304. 47 I am very grateful to Jaime Goodrich for her suggestions on this particular point. 48 Isabella Berinzaga and Achille Gagliardi, An Abridgement of Christian Perfection, Conteining many excellent precepts, & advertisments, touching the holy, and sacred mysticall diuinity, trans. by Mary Percy (St Omer, 1612), rA2. The translation was falsely attributed to Anthony Hoskins S.J., confessor at the Brussels convent, who helped Percy with the final edition of the work. 49 Rule. 50 François de Sales, Delicious Entertainements of the Soule, trans. by Potentiana Deacon (Douay, 1632). 51 Heather Wolfe, ‘Dame Barbara Constable: Catholic antiquarian, advisor and closet missionary’, in Ronald Corthell, Frances E. Dolan, Christopher Highley and Arthur F. Marotti (eds), Catholic Culture in Early Modern England, Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007, pp. 158–88. 52 Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, p. 2. 53 Colwich Abbey, Ms R1, House History, pp. 73–4. Also ‘Constitutions’, Ms. P2, fol. 30 and in French, Bibliothèque Mazarine, ‘Constitutions’, Ms 3326. 54 CRS Misc. VII, Paris, p. 399. 55 CRS Misc X, Pontoise, p. 255. 56 CRS Misc V, Neville, p. 10. 57 Ibid., p. 31. 58 CRS Misc. X, Pontoise, p. 282. 59 Caroline Bowden, ‘The abbess and Mrs. Brown: Lady Mary Knatchbull and royalist politics in Flanders in the late 1650s’, Recusant History 24:3 (1999), 271–87; Walker, ‘Loyal and dutiful subjects’, pp. 228–42 and Claire Walker, Gender and Politics in Early Modern Europe: English Convents in France and the Low Countries (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan), pp. 122–6. 60 CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 31. 61 Colwich Abbey, from a small pamphlet ‘This our most Deare & Venerable Mother Prioresse, the Very Reverend Mother Justina Gascoigne, St Mary’s Abbey, Colwich, Stafford’.

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62 A Short instruction for the better understanding and performing of mental prayer, attributed to Christopher Abercrombie, S.J. (Paris, 1691). 63 ADVO, Ms. 68H-4, fol. 60. 64 Bowden, ‘The abbess and Mrs. Brown’, p. 288. 65 See CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 31. 66 Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, p. 25. 67 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, vol. 19, 1917, p. 45. 68 CRS Misc. V, Neville, pp. 30–6 and Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, pp. 24–5. 69 Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, p. 25. 70 Bodleian library, Clarendon MS. 60, fol. 65. 71 Negotiations between Louis XIV and Oliver Cromwell began in 1652, but the treaty was signed only in October 1655. 72 Bowden, ‘The abbess and Mrs. Brown’, p. 296. 73 Ms Clarendon, vol. 67, fol. 83. See Bowden, ‘The abbess and Mrs. Brown’, p. 298. 74 Walker, ‘Loyal and dutiful subjects’, p. 238. 75 Bodleian Library, Ms Clarendon vol. 57, fol. 21. 76 Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, p. 39. 77 CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 39. 78 A History of the Benedictine Nuns of Dunkirk, pp. 10–11. 79 Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, pp. 43–4. 80 Walker, ‘Prayer, patronage, and political conspiracy’, p. 19. 81 Claire Walker, ‘“When God shall restore them to their kingdoms”: nuns, exiled Stuarts, and English Catholic identity, 1660–1745’, in Sarah Apetrei and Hannah Smith (eds), Religion and Women in Britain, c. 1660–1760 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), pp. 79–98.

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5 • Taming worldly emotions and appetites

In his Poetics, Aristotle (383–322 BC) stated that passions were an intrinsically human trait and could not be ignored; he c­ onsidered that, although some passions could be harmful, others might be acceptable in a good and virtuous life. Yet such was not the general view in seventeenth-century Europe. Early modern authors were more receptive to the Stoicism of Cicero (106–43 BC) and Seneca (c. 1–45) and to their much harsher judgement of pathos as perturbation, giving emotions a much more negative and disruptive interpretation. To Stoics, passions were responses to external events outside of our control; they disturbed the ideal state of apatheia, or emotional quietness, which should be that of a well-regulated person. It was this view on emotions which prevailed largely in the writings of early modern Catholic authors, via the prism of highly influential writers such as Augustine or Aquinas. According to Augustine (354–430), all passions derived from the misappropriation of the love that was owed to God only; in his City of God (426), he described apatheia as a most desirable state of being, although he added that men and women were incapable of experiencing such lack of affect. Faced with the limitations of human nature, he prescribed that natural emotions should be regulated in order to achieve a state of mind close to apatheia, in which the soul was free from the emotions which were most unsettling or sinful, such as fear, anger or inordinate love.1 Early modern philosophers and divines also held the teachings of Thomas Aquinas (1225–74) in great respect. In his Summa 136

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­Theologica (1274), Aquinas presented a classification of eleven passions, which he paired as love and hate, desire and aversion, joy and pain, hope and desperation, fear and daring. Anger stood alone and had no contrary. Aquinas explained that such passions belonged to both the physical and spiritual realm. They were experienced through the body, and effected a change in the soul, a change which was usually for the worse. Early modern Catholic philosophers such as the Jesuit Francesco Suarez (1548–1617) contributed to the revival of such ancient philosophies in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In his Tractatus de Anima (published posthumously in 1621), Suarez provided a detailed commentary on Aquinas’s theories on emotions. English Benedictine nuns, like those of other Orders, were familiar with the works of Francesco Suarez and owned copies of his publications. They were therefore aware of the debate upon the nature of emotions. In the early seventeenth century, the Benedictine monk Augustine Baker (1575–1641) condemned human nature and what he perceived as its tendency to seek self-gratification at the expense of spiritual fulfilment. By the time his writings were compiled and published as Sancta Sophia by his Benedictine Brother Serenus Cressy in 1657, Baker’s spirituality had made a deep and lasting impression upon the nunneries of Cambrai and Paris. As spiritual director of the Cambrai nuns from 1624 to 1633, Baker influenced their experience of contemplative life, and his teachings were a source of inspiration for writers both at Cambrai and at its daughter house in Paris. If the orthodoxy of some of Baker’s writings came under close scrutiny in 1633, it was not on the subject of emotions that they were deemed dangerous. On this particular topic, his teachings voiced the traditional position of the post-Tridentine Church, which continued to engage with the debate on emotions (or passions) initiated by ancient Greek philosophers. In an echo of Augustine’s teachings, Baker argued that all emotions derived from love, which he described as ‘[t]he principle of all our actions, whether internal or external’. To him, love was the precursor of all other emotions; as he put it: ‘Love also sets in motion all other passions, not only grief and anger, but even hatred itself.’ Since the love of God was the only pure type of love and the only goal of a Christian soul, Baker condemned what he called ‘sensible affections’ and worldly feelings as hindrances on the path to divine union: 137

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How wonderfully great, then, must be the depravity of our nature and of our actions [...] for we were created to love and enjoy God alone, and we love and seek principally ourselves! Our sensible affections are carried to nothing but what is pleasing to our sensitive nature; our spiritual affections to self-love, liberty, self-esteem, and self-will, and to those things which nourish these depraved affections. By these things we are turned away from our last end and eternal happiness. How many thoughts that we naturally think, how many words that we speak, how many actions that we perform, carry us further from God, our last end and perfection.2

Baker’s harsh treatment of human emotions implied that they all revolved around the self rather than around God; as such, they were corrupted and depraved, antithetical to the search for spiritual perfection. Baker’s opinion was echoed in many of the texts written by his followers at Cambrai and Paris. But, as we have said, his brand of spirituality was not particularly distinctive on this point; it inscribed itself within the very spirit of the Benedictine Rule, which all English Benedictine convents obeyed and embraced equally. The Rule, edited and published in English by Alexia Grey at Ghent in 1632, exhorted nuns to improve themselves3 and issued guidelines to achieve that goal, encouraging the reader ‘To hate her owne will; […]; To love Chastitie; To hate no one; To beare envy and an evill mynde towards none; [...]; To fly vanting and bragging; […] And never mistrust the Mercyes of God.’4 To become holy, a religious woman was to concentrate on the subjection of human emotions such as desire, hate, jealousy, envy, pride, resentment or despair. In the cloister, the self was to be subdued; nuns should be as blank slates on which the divine spirit was free to inscribe its will. This was to be achieved through the mortification of the senses (and physical asceticism), as well as through the humiliation of emotions (or moral asceticism). This negative interpretation of emotions considered ‘passions’ as the manifest symptoms of the disorders of the soul. Many aspects of the multifaceted topic of emotions remained under-studied or even ignored until the more recent burst of interest, which has generated a wealth of publications and attracted funding from awarding bodies in neurosciences, social sciences, anthropology, literature and religious studies. Despite the launch of a history of mentalities by Lucien Febvre and the école des annales in the 1940s, the field of history lagged behind until the 2000s, when 138

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publications5 and research centres focusing on emotions began to flourish worldwide.6 The lens of emotions studies has offered new readings of religious experience. It has highlighted some emotions as particularly ‘religious’ and discerned different cultural constructions of performative emotions such as ceremonial tears. Such work has shown the importance of affectivity in the broad spectrum of religious experiences of both societies and individuals.7 The danger of human affects The documents written for and by early modern nuns offer revealing insights into the history of their collective and individual affective experiences of contemplative spirituality. English nuns in exile did write about emotions – although in their writings they preferred terms such as ‘affects’, ‘appetites’, ‘passions’ or ‘humours’, which all conveyed similar, though not strictly identical, meanings.8 In keeping with the beliefs of their time, most viewed passions as disorders due to an imbalance of the humours.9 The English Benedictines belonged to what Barbara Rosenwein has called ‘emotional communities’ with their own systems of feeling and modes of emotional expression.10 In this chapter, personal emotional experiences will be differentiated from the collective constructions which composed the general ‘emotionology’ of their contexts.11 The nuns’ writings reveal their efforts to comply with clerical prescriptive literature on emotions. They constructed their own emotionality in imitation of what their Church presented as models; individuals adopted a highly orthodox discourse, decrying human or ‘natural’ emotions as hindrances on the road to spiritual perfection. The feelings of fear, despair or aridity which most felt at some point in their lives were envisaged as obstacles separating them from their God. On their way to spiritual fulfilment, many nuns struggled to reconcile what they really did feel with what they knew they should feel. The personal experiences of individuals could rarely be perfectly controlled and straightforward and their relationships with emotions (and more generally with the body as the channel of emotions) were multilayered and complex. As they endeavoured to shake off the shackles of earthly emotions, religious women were helped by an abundance of prescriptive literature; the aim was not the complete lack of affect of Stoic apatheia but, rather, a more Augustinian determination to avoid worldly 139

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emotions, which disturbed the soul and diverted it from God.12 Those were impediments to a contemplative vocation. Religious women were taught to shun the love of creatures or any worldly feelings; they must refrain from spontaneous outbursts of joy and laughter, but also from anger or hatred, and from any emotion which did not participate in good worship. Prescriptive writings described emotions as intrusive disorders in a life which was regulated in its smallest details; they were to be resisted as attacks against the integrity of the nuns’ spirituality.13 In 1655 at Cambrai, Barbara Constable explained that passions were disruptive both to the individual and to the entire community: ‘for everie one naturallie haveinge severall humours fancies judgments & opinions how can there be but great disorder & confusion when they strive to maintaine them & will not by the virtue of obedience & submission of will subject them either to god or man superior for god’.14 Emotions were therefore to be considered with great defiance, since they contradicted the very principles of religious life, both for the individual and for her convent as a whole. At Paris, Prioress Justina Gascoigne relayed this advice when she encouraged her Sisters to combat their natural emotions. She exhorted them: ‘forsake & renounce your selfe’, and [...] [l]earne to acustome your selfe to mortifie your undue inclinations & affections’.15 Nuns should brace themselves against moral slovenliness: they must be attentive to their natural tendencies and systematically counter any feelings which did not tend to God’s glory. She told the congregation: ‘The ways that you are to tend towards God are Rugged, Sharp & Austere. For it must be by mortifying, forsaking & restraining your immortified Inclinations, Affections, Passions & Desires.’16 Her words echoed Baker’s on the domestication of ‘unruly passions’, which required the mortification of natural feelings such as ‘anger, impatience, melancholy, fear, or scrupulosity’ and the patient seeking of ‘peace, tranquillity, and cheerfulness, not suffering passions to be raised in our mind’.17 In her instructions to chapter, Prioress Justina Gascoigne exhorted her Sisters to strive towards abnegation; without it, she explained, there could be ‘no fighting & resisting of passions’. Abnegation, she told them, abated pride and enabled them to consider their lives as ‘a continuall mortification & death to nature’. She urged her spiritual daughters to imagine that Jesus spoke to their hearts and said: ‘upon the cross for Love I died for thee. Upon the cross of 140

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abnegation to nature, die for me.’ In considering the selflessness of His sacrifice, nuns should feel compelled to imitate Jesus and ought willingly ‘to die dayly to [their] corrupt nature’.18 Combined with a spirit of abnegation, the religious virtues of humility, patience and obedience helped virtuous nuns to consider their lives ‘as a continuall Crosse & martirdome to nature’, to embrace the cross given to them by Christ and bear it gladly until their death.19 The nuns’ personal writings show that many of them internalised these prescriptions and adopted them as a way to reach their spiritual ideal; for how could they hope to know the love of God if they remained hindered by lowly human affections? This thorny issue was at the core of all female contemplative life, since early modern standards credited women with a more sensual and emotive nature than men. In her collections, one author from the Paris convent copied out instructions ever to remain defiant towards her natural inclinations: ‘Beware of the impulses & impetuosities of nature to which you are subject, especialy in maters wherin you have an habitual propension, of love, hatred or other nere concern.’20 These ‘impulses’ or ‘impetuosities’ stood in sharp contrast to the deliberate collectedness of mind befitting a religious. As spontaneous outbursts surging from the baser part of their being, from ‘nature’, such emotions were considered as the channels of expression of the animal part of the self; they must therefore be subdued on the way to spiritual perfection. The advice given was clear: ‘If you be overtaken with any suden pasion go to God imediatly & desist not from prayer till you find yourself at quiet again.’21 Their personal papers clearly indicate that the English Benedictines shared the received ideas of their time about affects. Although they rarely wrote specifically about their emotions as a topic in itself, Benedictine nuns did offer insights into their feelings. Christina Brent’s personal papers echo those she wrote with a communal purpose as abbess of the Cambrai community. In a manual destined for the novices, she reminded new recruits that their vows were precious allies in their battle against worldly feelings.22 When they abandoned their social privileges in order to enter the convent, they became equal in religion to the other choir Sisters; their private property became communal and their natural pride was chastised. Brent encouraged them to acquire ‘an empire conquest commaund not over men but the spiritual enemies of our souls, the world, the flesh, the divill, by a religious poverty, 141

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chastitie and obedience’.23 The correlation was striking with her private notes, which she wrote as a dialogue in which her intellect warned her soul of the constant dangers it faced. Acutely aware of her natural inclinations, Brent urged herself to embrace this fight with unfailing courage. From the moment she became a novice, she apparently viewed her vocation in terms of hardship and struggle: Our life is truly said to be a warfare upon earth, there being a continuall combat to be undertaken against the world and the divill besides our owne evill affections & unruly passions which joyne with our enemies, in which respect it is necessarie to be ever armed both with expectations of difficulties and resolution to go through them, always calling to mind that glorious victories are only gained in hard enterprises […]24

Brent construed affects as evil and passions as synonymous with disorder. To her, the pursuits of a religious life became shrouded with the aura of a mystical quest, a mission in enemy territory. One was to fight every moment of every day to overcome one’s ‘passions’ and navigate through a minefield of temptations and sins. Augustine Baker advocated ‘the mortification of inordinate attach­­­ ment to creatures’ and the breaking of ‘useless entangling friendships’ in order to concentrate solely upon God, thereby becoming absent to any human emotions which could interfere with a nun’s spiritual pursuits. Some nuns were more successful than others in the subjugation of their feelings. At Cambrai, Baker praised the spiritual achievements of his penitent Gertrude More, explaining that her success was due partly to her masterly command of emotions. Yet he warned that the internal way of prayer which she practised would not benefit all nuns, and might be particularly difficult for those of a melancholy nature ‘or subject to violent passions’. Luckily, More was gifted with a quiet temperament, but Baker recognised that ‘souls with less quiet passions will take longer to attain to c­ ontemplation.’25 Such stringent requirements could be very trying, and some nuns felt intimidated by the high standards expected of them. Even for the most pious souls, contemplative detachment could appear so arduous as to feel nearly impossible. Emotional ties were very difficult to sever, and most nuns continued to feel affection for those they had left behind, as well as for their friends inside the convent. Spontaneous emotional responses to daily events were also very hard to suppress. At Cambrai, Gertrude More herself initially experienced difficulties in leaving behind her fondness for worldly behaviour; in time, however, she assimilated these teachings so well 142

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that, in her acts of contrition, she expressed her determination to feel nothing but disgust for such things: ‘Oh, that I could esteeme all things as dunge and filth.’26 Yet, in that very exclamation, the tension is clear between her intentions to detest the world and her natural tendencies to cling to it despite herself. As a zealous seeker of spiritual perfection, she wrote that ‘Nothing that could happen to [her] soul would so afflict and discomfort [her] as to see it adhere to any created thing’;27 she also bitterly lamented her shortcomings, as she failed to achieve her goals: ‘I have spread my Armes which thou hast consecrated to thy love, to embrace and hugge the filthie Love of Creatures.’28 Gertrude More’s position is representative of conventual writings in general; she associated bonds of ­friendship with negative emotions such as distress, turmoil and guilt. She was certain that such affections endangered the very salvation of her soul: ‘Shall I any more be so miserable as, by loving, having, adhering to, or desiring any created thing, to become estranged from [God]?’29 In the Paris house, Placida Coesneau wrote a prayer in which she vowed ‘not to take the least complaisance in any Creature, or thing but God’. The first years following her profession had been a trial for her lively and active temperament, and she found that her extroverted nature did not accommodate contemplation easily. Despite her difficulties, through dedication and persistence, she finally obtained God’s ‘grace to enter into herselfe’ and die to nature.30 One of the choir nuns from Cambrai testified to the difficulty of interpersonal detachment; she confessed her inability to break her friendship with another woman inside the convent and asked for spiritual guidance on the matter. She felt guilty about this relationship which, although born in the cloister, remained of the same nature as the affections of the secular world. The reply she received was virulent, to say the least: its author assumed the voice of God and, in this persona, reproved the penitent: […] through a complacence which she hath for a gentlewoman that is in the convent […] she loves better to comply with her then me & to be tyed to her then me. When this creature comes to see her in her cell, she chases me away from her to receave her, & she thinkes no more on me, but thinkes only of deverting herselfe with her. […] instead of speaking of me & desiring that I should be with them in their discourses, they chase me a way & speak not but of the vanities & follies of the world. Thus they spoyle one another, & incourage one another to love the world, instead of incouraging one another to love nothing but me.31

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The object of the nun’s affection is referred to as a ‘gentlewoman’, rather than a nun; the use of this secular status may be interpreted in diverse ways.32 She may have been a secular woman boarding for a time with the nuns, a person who, therefore, brought with her fresh news from the outside. As such, she would represent a strong draw for those nuns who were keen to gather snippets of information or gossip about secular and current affairs. Boarders were not to remain in the house and their very presence in the convent brought an element of changeability to a place which otherwise sought immutability; they were a potential disturbance to contemplative life. It is equally possible, however, that the term ‘gentlewoman’ was used slightingly as an indictment of the mundane temperament of a nun who should have been more spiritually inclined; in this case, the term showed that the religious woman failed in her spiritual duties and remained a creature of the world, defined by lay standards. This passage illustrates why it was so essential that a religious woman should die to all other creatures. ‘Terrene’ affections were ­considered as distractions from the pursuit of divine love: they contradicted the very raison d’être of a religious vocation. At Brussels, particular friendships were noted as the source of trouble, and during the years of discord in that house, these friendships created cliques which, in turn, exacerbated the fractious state of the house. In the context of the conflict which divided the most vocal pro-Jesuit nuns from those who resented Jesuit influence, personal affinities were more openly avowed. Like in any dispute, when a small group embraced the same points of view against the positions of others, they came to feel close to each other, sometimes partly through their shared antipathy for particular individuals in the other camp. In a divided community, they found comfort in each other. Margaret Persons told the visitor how the dean (Madgalen Digby) and the cellarer (Lucy Knatchbull) were in constant interaction, always chatting together despite having been rebuked by the abbess. They appeared to enjoy a certain connivance with the prioress, too.33 Potentiana Deacon confirmed the existence of particular friendships between nuns and named some notorious pairs: Magdalen Digby and Lucy Knatchbull were one, but there were others too: Eugenia Poulton and Benet Hawkins, Anastasia Morgan and Mary Philip, Christina Lovell and Mary Wintour. Mary Vavasour formed a trio with Dame Teresa Gage and a lay Sister, Barbara Ducket. Those nuns, she reported, talked lightly and 144

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laughed together even in time of religious silence, and late at night, thereby upsetting the serenity and gravity of the house.34 Ursula Hewick also complained about the levity of some of her Sisters, who spent their time making ‘curiosities’ to send to their friends outside the convent, and behaved with little religious decorum during recreation time, dancing, leaping, running and holding hands. Such ‘rustic’ attitudes were in direct contradiction to the statutes of the house and testified that some of the lighter nuns were slaves to worldly affections.35 Their light-heartedness disturbed others in their spiritual efforts and, perhaps more importantly, they turned their backs on the very essence of their vocation by focusing on unimportant friendships. Each moment spent in frivolities with friends was stolen from the time they should have dedicated to their search of union with God.36 In such writings, emotional ties were described as gateways to a multitude of sins. At Cambrai, a collection of thoughts on the subject of love reminded the nuns that God must be loved even above parents; echoing Matthew 10, it declared: ‘Who loveth Father or Mother more than me is not worthy of me.’ Parents could not offer what God could, and neither could friends.37 An anonymous nun from Paris wrote in her devotions: ‘I am fully resolved from having any farther commerce & amities with Creatures. I being in a state consecreated to divine love & solitude, my hart, my Body, my soule, with all their faculties, are by solemne vowes and covenants now Gods and not my owne.’ She explained that, as a bride of Christ, all the ‘Emotions & tenderness of [her] hart must be in & for him’. Any other object of affection would be ‘a competitor’, which could not but displease her bridegroom. This particular author reminded herself of the basic axiom that God ‘hates a Religious spouse with a devided heart’.38 The negative perception of human emotions was not specific to a particular brand of Catholic spirituality but, rather, was one of the common themes of Catholic orthodoxy in the seventeenth century. English Benedictine convents sometimes differed in their views about management, about spiritual direction or about ways of prayer, for instance. But on the subject of emotions they expressed shared common beliefs, whether they followed Bakerite or Jesuit guidance. The discrepancy between the spiritual emotions they strove towards and the human feelings they actually experienced was therefore a source of despondency and anxiety in many nuns, both in the 145

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houses influenced by Augustine Baker and in those under Ignatian direction. Lucy Knatchbull, who, during the troubles at Brussels, had vigorously supported Jesuit confessors before leaving to found the Ghent house, with its decidedly Ignatian spirituality, expressed her views on emotions in a manner which was comparable to that of Gertrude More at Cambrai, although on other points their ways of piety were strikingly different. Knatchbull confessed that, in the early years of her religious life, her worldly emotions had hindered her spiritual progress. When evoking her first years in the convent, she wrote: it greeved [me] that all my affections were not always in him [God]; for a lass, I found that much of my hart was devided amongst a few Creaturs and the distraction which the love I bore them caused me, made me understand that Charity was not well ordered in mee.39

Knatchbull’s mortuary bill referred to this period of her life as one in which ‘the Enemy cast clouds and mists before her’, and made her ‘weary of a solitary life’. In order to overcome such reluctance, Lucy Knatchbull fought a daily battle against her natural emotions. In the following years, she managed to mortify her desires to such an extent that her biographer later extolled her achievements in ‘killing the old Adam in her self’.40 She willingly offered God what she called ‘the three powers of [her] Soule’, namely her memory, her understanding and her will. She declared: ‘I have purifyed all my intention and desires with as much true love as I could. I have likwise given [God] those very desires and by degrees all that I am.’41 Lucy Knatchbull made herself hollow; she became an empty vessel to be penetrated by God only, and filled with his divine light. To vanquish fear and trust in God Though some achieved perfection, most nuns did not manage to live their spirituality in a passionless manner; they felt a strong tension between what they were told to feel and what they actually ­experienced. The personal writings of individual religious women, their notes, collections, prayers or poems yield precious insights into the ways nuns lived or felt their spirituality and experienced it in its immediacy – as opposed to the way they constructed it as an ideal. When studying these writings, paying special attention to the expression of emotions can help scholars better to understand the lived experiences of individuals.42 146

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One of the most salient observations to be derived from the scrutiny of nuns’ manuscripts if that, as they strove to live for God only, the frailty of their natural dispositions appeared to them as a weakness; when they fell short of contemplative life’s demanding standards, it was not rare for nuns to feel disheartened and anxious. As a result, one of the best-documented emotions in their writings is that of fear, which appears to have played a major role in their affective lives.43 Upon rare occasions, that fear was the result of interpersonal strife between nuns and their superiors. On that subject, in her ‘Speculum Superiorum’, Barbara Constable urged superiors to be ‘pittifull and mercifull’ rather than ‘cruell & severe’ with their flocks. She advised them to be ‘so meeke & sweete in conversation that the religious may not be affraid or have difficultie to come unto them’.44 The many manuscripts documenting the long crisis which shook the Brussels community show that, at times, certain nuns became afraid of some of their Sisters. On 5 October 1629, the appellant nuns who opposed their abbess, Mary Percy, wrote to the archbishop explaining that they felt compelled to keep together and to shut themselves off from the rest of the community, for fear of violence. They took refuge in one of the bedrooms of the infirmary. Despite periods of relative calm, the troubles endured into the 1630s, and on 18 February 1638, Agatha Wiseman accused Mary Percy of treating those who opposed her with undue violence. She later implied that Percy was responsible for the untimely death of a sick Sister. On 15 April, Teresa Gage reported very harsh treatment from Percy, and even complained of physical blows which, she claimed, caused her to feel scared and unsafe.45 Yet the type of fear which plagued religious women was usually of a more spiritual kind. The novitiate, for instance, was often experienced as a frightening experience; as a time of transition from a secular to a religious life, this period of adjustment was sometimes felt as a painful trial. Its stringent demands could be the source of moral turmoil for some women, even for those who felt moved by a great zeal for the cloister. When the ideal met with reality, some novices failed to find the bliss they had hoped for. Lucy Knatchbull, for instance, sank into a deep depression. Later, she remembered: I fell soone after Easter, into extreame, darkness of mind; and the ­observance of holy Religion grew tedious to me; I saw myself fail soo faste that I begann to despare of ever being able to gett vertue in any reasonable degree. […] I fell in soe deep a malancholy […] I hated to live, and yet extreamly feared to dye.46

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For over three years, Knatchbull struggled to overcome ‘extreme sadness’, great fears or ‘apprehensions’, ‘turmoil of the heart’, which caused her such emotional turmoil that she felt incapable of achieving the serenity which was necessary to contemplation. In their personal notes or collections, English Benedictines reflected upon their failings and on their smallest sins. They confessed to feeling overwhelmed by fear, anxiety, even despair when considering their shortcomings on the road to spiritual perfection. Augustine Baker advised his followers to mortify this fear, which he described as a type of tenderness of conscience or ‘scrupulousness’, a ‘mixed passion […] most opposed to that peace of mind which is so necessary in the spiritual life’. This affection, he wrote, was likely to affect women more than men, and especially the most devout.47 The collections of one anonymous Sister at Paris evoked her fear of the ‘perill & danger [...] of living and dieng in mortall sinne & being seperated from thee [Jesus]’.48 Here, fear stemmed from the nun’s sense of her own imperfection, her dejection at constantly falling short of the ideals towards which she strove. Her human sinfulness and flawed nature appeared as so many reasons to fear the worst. In her writings, the author expressed the struggle between the emotions she felt spontaneously and those she knew she should feel if she was to comply with clerical and patristic rules of conduct. This nun knew that the Bible taught that fear kept the believer from the true love of God: ‘There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.’49 But, despite this clear warning, her personal notes tell the tale of a constant battle between her natural fearfulness and her determination to overcome this tendency by putting all her trust in God’s infinite benevolence. She was torn between religious hope and personal despair; this tension was palpable even as she resolved never to give consent to ‘all the feare and horror’ which she found in her conscience and which she believed to be ‘contrarye to [God’s] Blessed will’.50 Braced against the distress of her soul, she vowed to avoid the sin of despair by singing the name of her saviour with joy, ‘for thy sweet goodness & marcie do afforde me a thowands times more joie & comforte then do my sinnes sorrowe’. She concluded: ‘contrary to hope I will abide in hope’.51 Yet, despite her intentions to keep her spirits in a buoyant mood, her prose testified to her underlying state of fear even as she swore to hope in God: ‘Though in my selfe I see nothing but confusion & cause of feare’, or ‘Though 148

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the Divells terrifie me, my conscience accuse me, & all creatures secke to terrifie me’.52 For this fearful nun, trust in God was the only remedy to the disorders of her soul. Confidence in His mercy acted as a panacea against the turmoil of her conscience: ‘If thou, o Lorde, wouldst judge me according to my owne mirits, I might indeed have just cause to feare; If my happinesse did depend upon any but thee well might I feare; If thou wert not my God, well might I ever wither in feare.’ But the certainty of God’s redemptive benevolence comforted the author, who observed that its power was the only force strong enough to ‘overcom & even kill all [her] feares’. Spiritual fear was an interesting double bind: striving for purity, many scrupulous nuns feared that they remained marred by sin. But the very fact of being afraid was in itself a sin, a sign of imperfect trust in God. At Cambrai, Margaret Gascoigne wrote abundantly about her fears. She asked God’s forgiveness for this, her most recurring fault, which she condemned as a lack of trust in His absolute salvific power. She addressed Him directly in her prayers, begging: O pardon this my offence [...] in that I, being in thy hands and protection, yet did admit of any feare. [...] O never permitt me, I beseech thee, my God & my only good, to entertaine willingly this feare within me, who should be a cabinet for thy fearles & holy love; by the which admittance of unworthy feare, it seemes to me I should doe a most manifest injury even to the most Sacred Trinity & the proprieties of it.53

Gascoigne’s metaphor of the nun as ‘a cabinet’ for God’s love is revealing. The love of God was felt by the nun, but did not come from her: it was inspired by God himself, in her. Divine love in its purest expression was therefore fearless by nature. Any feeling of fear came from the flawed nature of the penitent. She must empty her soul of such worldly emotions to become an empty vessel, a pure receptacle of God-inspired love. Yet Gascoigne wrote at length about her ‘miseries’ and what she called her ‘lamentable’ and ‘damnable’ case; she depicted herself as ‘the most miserable of all creatures’.54 Her soul was often tormented by the knowledge that she had sinned in the past and could not be certain she would never sin again. Reproachfully, she accused herself of tepidity and ingratitude and bemoaned: ‘I am in my nature frighted with vain humaine feares.’55 Gascoigne, like her Sisters, found it difficult to pursue God’s path towards perfection without giving in to over-scrupulousness; yet she 149

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realised that this was tainted both with pride and distrust towards her Saviour. She resolved to follow Augustine Baker’s counsel and ‘hop contrary to hop’. Lifting her spirits, she wrote: ‘I more hope & rejoyce (O my God) in thy love and thy power to help me in all my dangers of falling, then I feare the evil inclinations of my owne soule towards such falling.’56 Margaret Gascoigne was not the only nun to write about her struggle against fear. In its various guises, it appears as a major preoccupation in many of the manuscripts which document the spiritual lives of the English Benedictines in exile. Other manuscripts express sadness and torment, indicating that many nuns experienced such painful emotions.57 Like Lucy Knatchbull or Margaret Gascoigne, they believed such feelings caused them to fail their divine bridegroom. At Cambrai, Abbess Christina Brent’s papers deal at length with ‘fear’, ‘dread’, ‘anguish’ or ‘unquietness’. For Brent, these feelings occurred when the soul, on its journey towards spiritual perfection, experienced such distress that it sank into an ‘Abyssall profound depth of darknesse’.58 The abbess warned her Sisters against such emotions, which she represented vividly as the devil’s work, ploys to distract devout souls and hinder their progress towards spiritual advancement.59 She also wrote of fear as a figment of a troubled imagination, a chimera which caused horror and despair where there should be hope and joy: Feare or dread is no other thing but a sadness or anguish of the soule ­troubled with the imagination of a neer evill full of horror that one had no hope to avoid. The causes of feare are often vaine and imaginarie, for as much as we often feare to ourselves an evill whereof the apprehension tortours ours minds, in such sort that the feare does us more harme than the thing itselfe.60

Brent knew that most nuns were subject to moments of fear; it is likely that she had experienced such dark times herself. Yet, she argued, fear should not be allowed to get a hold of the nun’s soul. As a base emotion, it stemmed from over-scrupulousness and a certain pride in those who believed they could achieve spiritual perfection through their own will, and who felt dejected when they predictably failed. She chastised all ‘pride & confidence in oneself’ and ‘strife to avoid even the least little fault’; in that state of mind, she wrote, the nun would become ‘impatient, insupportable to herselfe’, thereby leaving herself open to the devil’s torments, to ‘vexation’, 150

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‘disquiet’, ‘disgust’, ‘discouragement” and ‘dispaire’.61 As abbess, she exhorted her nuns to commend themselves entirely to God and fear nothing at all. To her, fear was a useless emotion which had no reality or grasp upon those who kept their minds focused upon the joy of knowing their divine bridegroom. Those who trusted in His mercy need not pay any attention to such distractions; through hope, they would know the mental peace which was necessary for contemplation. ‘Let light shine out of darkness’62 Augustine Baker encouraged his readers to mortify their fears, and warned them about ‘tenderness of conscience’ and over-scrupulousness; he wrote: ‘To such souls, partly out of ignorance of the nature, degrees, and circumstances of sins, and partly because their minds are darkened by fear, every sin appears to be mortal [...] and the mere thought of such a possibility pierces them with grief and fear.’63 Humility was key in the life of any religious and it held a central place in the Benedictine Rule, which explained its twelve varying degrees in some detail, along with their specificities and benefits. Since self-love was envisaged as the source of most other sinful passions, humility represented a great panacea, mortifying pride, impatience or anger.64 Where natural pride might arouse feelings of frustration, perhaps even anger or despair, especially at times when the penitent was faced with a situation she might find unfair, religious humility would help her to overcome such negative emotions. Thus, when they experienced anxiety, anger or despair, nuns were encouraged to consider these feelings as stemming from their own pride and self-love. If they abandoned themselves entirely to God and accepted His will, they would be freed from such toxic passions and be in harmony with His designs. On the way to this quiet state, the experience of spiritual turmoil was but a normal phase. Feelings of melancholy, dread or fear arose when the nun succumbed to the temptation of despair; as she clung on to her human pride, willing herself actively to be more perfect, she did not manage fully to trust God to effect this transformation in her. Thus, when she failed to achieve her goal – as she was bound to do, because of her human nature – she fell into despondency, which was but a by-product of her pride. The true contemplative had to accept her flawed nature and let go, forget herself, and 151

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trust in God’s absolute salvific power. This was the prerequisite to contemplative prayer, in which she would attain a level of absolute spiritual emptiness or hollowness which would allow her to be filled with the divine. In her Exercises, Gertrude More accepted times of spiritual aridity and occasional lack of fervour and understood that her l­imitations must not be fought but, rather, accepted as God’s divine will. She forsook her personal ambitions and resolved to serve God as He intended, that is to say, as an imperfect creature.65 Thus, despite her great zeal, she accepted a spiritual life which she described in terms of mediocrity, and in which she renounced all particular distinction: ‘I renounce all Affections to sensible gifts, and Devotion; to Spirituall lights, to facilitie in Prayinge; to elevated contemplation […] rapts, and extases, Visions, apparitions, Extraodinarie Illuminations, Revelations.’66 To aspire to spiritual excellence through her own efforts appeared to her as a form of pride which was incompatible with a nun’s humility. Renouncing her own will, she abandoned herself to God’s: ‘I doe reserve to my selfe noe manner of will but in all things doe make the will of God to be my will utterlye neglectinge my owne will; as if I had none at all.’67 Through this reversal of the usual lay patterns, in which the person is driven forward through auto-determination, nuns hoped to find spiritual joy through the subjugation of their selves. In this pattern, humility did not signify abasement but, rather, it allowed nuns to transcend feelings such as pride, frustration, anger or fear, to overcome the limits of the self, and to access a more spiritual state of being. These resolutions conveyed a radical expression of the vow of obedience, through which the Sisters accepted God’s will, whatever it may be, even when it ran contrary to their own inclinations. John Murasse, once confessor at Cambrai, advised the Sisters to accept sadness and desolation without a fight, since they were God’s gift; by their accepting this ‘night of the soul’, their sadness would be transformed into joy.68 His message was one of hope: ‘to be contented in darknesse is the way to find the light’.69 The dark night of the soul was an integral part of a pious religious woman’s efforts to make herself available to God. It was even a crucial element of the mystical tradition passed on since the Desert Fathers and Gregory of Nyssa to early modern mystics such as Teresa of Àvila (1515–82) and John of the Cross (1542–91).70 The Cambrai nuns, whose spirituality drew heavily upon such writers, 152

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were taught that there was much to profit from ‘the night of the senses’. A manuscript directed at beginners explained that such ‘arriditys’ and ‘drynesse’ forced nuns to face their limitations and to come to terms with their ‘basenesse and misery’. Hard times were an excellent means to achieve humility, and to put an end to the over-confidence of those who, in their first zeal, thought themselves quite holy. The author explained that, through such darkness of the soul, good nuns had no choice but to put themselves entirely into the hands of God, and therefore become ‘sweet and tractable towards God’. They must not despair but, rather, accept that they could not become holy through their own will.71 Margaret Gascoigne embraced the same point of view, although we have seen that fear plagued her life regularly. To combat her disruptive feelings, she resolved to trust in God’s forgiveness and His power to take away all her sins past, present and future. Thus liberated from anxiety, she would be able to abandon herself to her divine bridegroom. It was in this act of complete surrender that happiness and bliss were to be found. Yet, if Gascoigne believed that joy was to be experienced in God only, this joy was always envisaged and hoped for, rather than actual and present. Her writings told of a happiness she anticipated rather than experienced, as she trusted in her eventual salvation and looked forward to sharing in heavenly bliss: I desire that with all the might & powers of my soule, & with all the affections of my heart, I could rejoyce in thy infinite happines. [...] I desire according to such abilitie as is in me of thy guift, to joy & rejoyce together with thee. [...] I do rejoyce in my salvation, which I confidently hope, in vertue of thy most free & liberall goodnesse, in the end to obtaine at the hand of thy mercy.72

Gascoigne wrote of these emotions as one writes of an aspiration or a dream. Her prose testified to the fact that spiritual happiness remained a goal towards which she strove, rather than a reality she experienced daily. Her fear did persist, despite all her best efforts; somewhat regretful, she noted: ‘[I] cannot but wonder that all sorrow, feare, & heavines be not overcome & turned all into joy by the remembrance of this so great an happines, which is of having thee to be our God.’73 Although she dutifully fought her fearful nature, she could not entirely shake it off, even when she hoped for everlasting joy. 153

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The early modern understanding of emotions or ‘passions’ as the undesirable affects of distempered bodies led religious women to consider fleeting feelings as incompatible with a contemplative ­ rescriptive vocation. Helped by their monastic vows and guided by p literature and clerical advice, zealous nuns tried to root out worldly emotions from their lives, in an effort to experience the affective vacuum which alone could allow them to be entirely receptive to divine love. This life on earth was a time of trials where contemplatives attempted to die to their bodily selves, which kept them away from their spiritual rebirth in Christ; yet there was hope, for successful abstraction from emotions was rewarded with divine union. Between the theory and the practice of perfect contemplative life were many hurdles. The emotions nuns experienced sometimes prevented them from reaching their spiritual ideals. Many, like Margaret Gascoigne, hoped for spiritual joy but were frequently brought back to earthly fear. What Gascoigne experienced was akin to what her niece Justina would later explain in her Instructions to the Paris chapter. Even as she exhorted her spiritual daughters to value the mortification of natural inclinations in order to please God, Justina highlighted the difficulty of such an endeavour. Inner peace, spiritual bliss and a total abandon to God’s will would require much effort; nuns, she explained, could declare outwardly that they belonged to Him, but would not be able to ‘say this hartily’ – that is, with their entire heart – ‘untill you come by Experience to find it; which will be when you are truly mortified, & have learned to overcome your passions & inordinations of nature’.74 Her use of the term ‘experience’ is particularly interesting. It implies that the body occupied a central, albeit highly ambiguous, place in the very spiritual experience of early modern nuns. It was decried as the channel of base passions, the site of temptations and the fleshly tomb of the zealous soul. Yet it was also the necessary locus of the nun’s spiritual experience; it was, by necessity, through the body that religious emotions were felt. Thus, if the body, with its humours, was considered a hindrance, it was also the vehicle of spiritual emotions, which gave access to the divine. More than mere disorders, emotions were closely linked to cognition, and it was agreed that some could lead to the knowledge of divine bliss. In the strongly patriarchal societies of early modern Europe, where emotions and passions were viewed as moral defects and 154

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associated with the female – against the male model, which was deemed more rational and made in God’s image – gendered preconceptions shaped the nuns’ lived experience of their feelings. Their writings echoed the received and misogynistic discourse on female failings. Yet they do not indicate that nuns related to Christ in a clearly gendered manner. Arguably, at a time when women were encouraged to cultivate humility and obedience as their utmost virtues, nuns who claimed their unworthiness can appear as the very embodiments of the suppressed early modern female. Yet, in the context of religious Orders, humility and obedience were not the sole preserve of women: the Benedictine Rule ordered both men and women to obedience, and exhorted both to the twelve degrees of humility. When talking about nuns, a holistic Christian paradigm seems at least as important as, if not more relevant than, a gendered one. Readers who pay attention to the feelings hidden in nuns’ personal papers will discover a rich and detailed map of the emotional paths religious women took on their way towards contemplative perfection. Instead of the one straight highway advocated in spiritual guidelines, they will discover as many little paths as there were individuals. Most were, at times, dark, winding, perilous and taxing. Yet all converged towards the one Christian pathway to holy knowledge: the spiritual emotion of divine love. Notes 1 On Stoicism and emotions, see Sarah Catherine Byers, Perception, Sensibility and Moral Motivation in Augustine. A Stoic-Platonic Synthesis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013); Marcia Colish, The Stoic Tradition from Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages, vol. 2 (Leiden: Brill, 1985); Margaret Graver, Stoicism and Emotion (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007) and Beàta Tòth, The Heart Has its Reasons. Towards a Theological Anthropology of the Heart (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2015). 2 Augustine Baker, in Benedict Weld-Blundell (ed.), Contemplative Prayer: Ven. Father Augustine Baker’s Teaching thereon from ‘Sancta Sophia’ (London: Washbourne, 1907), pp. 141–42. 3 Rule, p. 10. Jaime Goodrich, ‘Nuns and community-centered writing: the Benedictine Rule and Brussels Statutes’, Huntington Library Quarterly 77:3 (2014), 287–303. I am very grateful to Jaime Goodrich for allowing me to read her paper prior to publication.

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4 Rule, chapter 4, ‘Of the Instruments of good Works’, pp. 25–6. 5 See Lucien Febvre’s pioneering study, ‘La Sensibilité et l’histoire: comment reconstituer la vie affective d’autrefois?’, Annales d’histoire sociale 3:1 (1941), 5–20. Amongst many others, these general publications on emotions in history are most useful: Daniel M. Gross, The Secret History of Emotion: From Aristotle’s Rhetoric to Modern Brain Science (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006); William M. Reddy, ‘Historical research on the self and emotions’, Emotion Review, 1:4 (2009), 302–15, and The Navigation of Feeling: A Framework for the History of Emotions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); Barbara H. Rosenwein, ‘Worrying about emotions in history’, American Historical Review 107:3 (2002), 821–45; and Richard Sorabji, Emotion and Peace of Mind: From Stoic Agitation to Christian Temptation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). 6 To cite but a few: Australian Research Council Centre of Excellence for the Studies of Emotions (University of Western Australia, dir. Philippa Maddern); Centre for the History of the Emotions (Queen Mary University of London, dir. Thomas Dixon); CHEP (‘An International Network for the Cultural History of Emotions in Premodernity’); and EMMA (‘Pour une anthropologie historique des émotions au Moyen Âge’, eds Damien Boquet and Piroska Nagy). 7 The conference entitled Feeling the Divine: Emotions in Religious Practice – Historical and Cross–Cultural Approaches, held at the Max Planck Institute for Human Development, Center for the History of Emotions, in Berlin in 2009, attracted papers from over thirty scholars in the fields of anthropology, social sciences, religious studies or history. 8 Niklaus Largier showed that the use of modern psychological concepts such as emotions, when used with care, could bring light to the study of earlier times without introducing anachronistic interpretations. Niklaus Largier, ‘Medieval Christian mysticism’, in John Corrigan (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Emotion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 364–79. 9 Thomas Dixon has theorised the shift from ‘passions’, as involuntary bodily feelings, towards the modern and secular category of ‘emotions’, in his From Passions to Emotions. The Creation of a Secular Psychological Category (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 10 Rosenwein, ‘Worrying about emotions’ and Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages (Ithaca and New York: Cornell University Press, 2006). 11 For a definition of the term ‘emotionology’, see Peter and Carol Stearns, ‘Emotionology: clarifying the history of emotions and emotional standards’, American Historical Review, 90 (1985), 813–36. 12 In his City of God (14:9) Augustine differentiated between the passions which were reconcilable with a godly state, and those which were not;

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he rejected the Stoic ideal of a complete lack of affect: ‘It may, indeed, reasonably be maintained that the perfect blessedness we hope for shall be free from all sting of fear or sadness; but who that is not quite lost to truth would say that neither love nor joy shall be experienced there?’ 13 Baker, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), Contemplative Prayer, pp. 138–40. 14 Downside Abbey, Ms 82144, Barbara Constable, ‘Considerations and Reflexions upon the Rule of the most glorious father St Benedict. By a most unworthy Religious of his order (finished 5 December 1655)’, fol.  8. 15 Colwich Abbey, Ms H71, Justina Gascoigne, ‘Instructions to Chapter’, fols 38–9. 16 Ibid., fol. 49. 17 Baker, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), Contemplative Prayer, p. 70. 18 Colwich Abbey, Ms H71, Justina Gascoigne, ‘Instructions to Chapter’, fols 18–22. 19 Ibid., fols 27–8. 20 Colwich Abbey, Ms H32, ‘Some Maximes & sayings of the Saints taken out of the lives of the founders & foundresses of Religious Orders’, fol.  62. 21 Ibid., fol. 75. 22 Statutes, ‘The First Parte’, chapter 2, ‘Of povertie’, pp. 11–14. See also Silvia Evangelisti’s study of Italian convents, ‘Monastic poverty and material culture in early modern Italian convents’, Historical Journal 47:1 (2004), 1–20. 23 ADN, Ms 20H-10. 24 Ibid., ‘Reflexions when she was novice’, fol. 815. Emphasis mine. 25 Benedict Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Inner Life and the Writings of Dame Gertrude More (London: R. & T. Washbourne, 1910), pp. 43 and 71. 26 Gertrude More, The Holy practices of a Devine Lover, or the Sainctly Ideot’s Devotions (Paris, 1657), p. 262. 27 Benedict Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More (London: R. & T. Washbourne, 1910), p. 12. 28 More, The Holy practices of a Devine Lover, p. 47. 29 Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, p. 13. 30 Colwich Abbey, Ms H69, ‘The spiritual exercises & devotions of the very vertuous and religious Sister Placida Quynes of al Saints; professed in the English monastery of the Benedictin nunns of Our Blessed Lady of Good Hope in Paris’ (unfoliated), 7 August 1690. Also CRS Misc. VII, p. 369. 31 ADN Ms 20H-43, ‘Just reproaches of our Lord to a soule who will not free herselfe from the love of a creature, nor herselfe. Considerations to love our Lord, & that a creature is unworthy to be loved by us for her owne sake, or in regard of herselfe’ (unfoliated). 32 I am grateful to Jaime Goodrich for her helpful suggestions on this point.

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33 AAM, Box 12/2, Margaret Persons, undated visitation document 14. 34 AAM, Box 12/2, Potentiana Deacon to Sylvester Verhaeghen, c. 1622. 35 AAM, Box 12/2, Ursula Hewick to the archbishop of Mechelen, 25 August 1621. 36 Some of the letters relating to these disorders are in the process of being edited and translated as part of a publication of primary sources documenting the troubles at the Brussels Benedictine convent. See Jaime Goodrich, Laurence Lux-Sterritt and Paul Arblaster (eds), The Babylon of Brussels: Spiritual Controversies among English Benedictines, 1609– 1642 (Toronto: PIMS, forthcoming). 37 ADN, Ms 20H-40 ‘God is to be loved above all things’, unfoliated. 38 Colwich Abbey, Ms H23, fols 209–10. 39 Tobie Matthew, The Relation of the Holy and Happy Life and Death of the Ladye Lucie Knatchbull, printed in Nicky Hallett (ed.), English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800, vol. 3, Life Writing (London: Pickering and Chatto, 2012), p. 169. 40 Ibid., p. 181. 41 Ibid., p. 199. 42 Corrigan (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Emotion, p. 8. 43 Fear played a central role in both religious discourse and experience in medieval and early modern Europe; see Jean Delumeau, La Peur en Occident, XIVe–XVIIIe siècles. Une cité assiégée (Paris: Fayard, 1978) and Le Péché et la peur. La culpabilisation en Occident (XIIIe–XVIIIe siècles) (Paris: Fayard, 1983). 44 Colwich Abbey, Ms H43, Barbara Constable’s ‘Speculum Superiorum’, fols 4–5. 45 AAM, Box 12/1, appellant nuns to the archbishop; box 12/3, Agatha Wiseman to the archbishop and box 12/3, Teresa Gage to the archbishop. 46 Matthew, The Relation ... Lucie Knatchbull, p. 165. 47 Augustine Baker, in ‘Sancta Sophia’, ed. by B. Weld-Blundell, pp.  168–9. 48 Colwich Abbey, Ms H22, ‘XXIVth Book of Collec:’, fol. 49. 49 1 John 4: 18. 50 Colwich Abbey, Ms H22, ‘XXIVth Book of Collec:’, fol. 48. 51 Ibid., fol. 50. 52 Ibid., fols 50–1. 53 John Clark (ed.), ‘The devotions of Dame Margaret Gascoigne’, Analecta Cartusiana 119: 28 (2007), 41. 54 Ibid., p. 43. 55 Ibid., pp. 50–1 and 62. 56 Colwich Abbey, Ms H23, ‘XLth Book of Collec:’, fol. 215 and Clark (ed.), ‘The devotions of Dame Margaret Gascoigne’, pp. 51–2. 57 See ADN, Ms 20H-10, fols 312–19, ‘Of unquietnesse’; also fols 320–4, ‘Of Dispaire’ and fols 309–11 about fear.

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58 ADN, Ms 20H-10, fol. 277. 59 Ibid., fol. 312. 60 Ibid., fols 309–10. 61 Ibid., fol. 314. 62 2 Corinthians 4:6. 63 Baker, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), Contemplative Prayer, p. 177. 64 Ibid., p. 98. 65 Gertrude More, The Spiritual Exercises of the Most Vertuous and Religious D. Gertrude More of the holy Order of S. Bennet and the English Congregation of our ladies of Comfort in Cambray, she called them Amor ordinem nescit, And Ideots Devotions (Paris, 1658), ‘To resigne my selfe to be content to serve my God accordinge to that manner which Hee preordained, and not accordinge to myne owne proper will, desires, or wayes’, pp. 174–5. 66 Ibid., p. 197. 67 Ibid., p. 202. 68 ADN, Ms 20H-10, fols 293–5. 69 Ibid., fol. 294 . 70 Julius Rubin, ‘Melancholy’, in John Corrigan (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Emotion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 290–309. 71 ADN, Ms 20H-31, unfoliated. 72 Clark (ed.), ‘The devotions of Dame Margaret Gascoigne’, p. 62. 73 Ibid., p. 63. 74 Colwich Abbey, Ms H71, Justina Gascoigne, ‘Instructions to Chapter’, fol. 28. Emphasis mine.

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6 • Divine love, an emotional panacea?

Seventeenth-century English Benedictines, like all their Sisters and Brothers in Catholic Orders, were exhorted to make every effort to tame their worldly emotions. Their entire focus should be on Christ. Any bond of worldly friendship, though it might feel precious (especially within the confines of the cloister), was a distraction from spiritual pursuits. Even when they focused upon their spiritual quest, religious men and women were prey to human emotions which they saw as negative. When they went through times of doubt or confusion, they feared they were not living up to their spiritual ideal, and felt unworthy of God’s grace. They felt guilty for their lack of abandonment to God’s design, and this, in turn, led to feelings of disaffection and despair. It was as though their spiritual zeal were chained down by their human limitations. Yet there was one emotion which could redeem all: that emotion was love. Love is an emotion of great complexity and may refer to many distinct responses, some akin to primitive appetites, others much more ethereal. It is a deeply human feeling which shapes a person’s world to transform it into ‘a world woven around a single relationship, with all else pushed to the periphery’.1 This is true of romantic love but also of spiritual love. Robert Salomon has argued against a view of emotions as mere ‘intrusions in our otherwise orderly, rational lives’; instead, he presents love, like all emotions, as ‘a way of personally relating to the world’.2 When relating to religious experience, other studies have argued that love could be seen as ‘the single definitive mode’ of relationship between God and humans.3 160

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This chapter explores how nuns experienced one of the core dyads of Christian mystical theology: the intrinsic unknowability of God and His immediate accessibility through love. In keeping with their forebears, and in agreement with the teachings of their spiritual guides, English Benedictines agreed that they could not know God through any rational or discursive means, but they hoped to achieve the contemplative state necessary to experience Him directly as ­spiritual lovers. In their pursuit of spiritual perfection, all nuns strove towards the same goal: they hoped to become strangers to their own flawed nature. Only then, once they were free of base affections, could they reach their one true aim and experience perfect union with their heavenly bridegroom. Human emotions were shunned, the better to allow divinely inspired feelings to take possession of the nun in prayer. This was typical of what John Corrigan has called ‘the Christian hypervaluation of love’.4 At Cambrai, Augustine Baker praised the ability to place all of one’s love in God as the mark of a true contemplative. He explained, in general terms: [T]he sensible love of others, though in a manner directed towards God, rather darkens the superior soul than enlightens it, because the spirit is, as it were, drowned in their sensible nature […] But the love of contemplatives, which I called true love, comprises all the passions rectified, as sorrow, fear, hope, and the rest. Love is noblest and the predominant passion, and is the true end of all the rest, for all of them intend love as their final end and exercise; so love comprises all.5

In this passage, his teachings resonated with those of Augustine, and both Bakerite and Augustinian influences were felt very deeply in some of the nuns’ papers at Cambrai. One manuscript, entitled ‘God is to be loved before all things’, collected thoughts and teachings on the subject. It presents the various facets of Christian love which it describes as straight, eternal, pure, humble and solicitous; it is a teacher, a reward, a treasure and a source of happiness. It makes religious life easy, and helps the lover to stay true to her chosen path, alleviating her burden and making all things sweet to her, ‘because sweetness is the sister of love, whereas bitterness is the sister of hatred’. It was a wonderful remedy against all the ills of the soul, against all sin and weakness. This love helped the virtuous to ‘keepe their passions in order’; it counterbalanced and redressed evil inclinations. It nourished and brought both life and light, like ‘the sun of the soul’, enabling the devout to see more clearly into the 161

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secrets of spiritual things. Like the sun, the love of Christ was said to enflame not only the soul upon which it shone, but everything around it. Thus, a good nun should love God but also her neighbours, upon whom the charity of divine love overflowed.6 This was, of course, one of the core tenets of Christianity. Love, as an essential Christian virtue, appeared in the Bible itself; in fact, everything else depended upon this holy emotion: Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like to this: Thou shalt love thy ­neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments dependeth the whole law and the prophets.7

The Benedictine Rule picked up on the complexity of the nature of love; echoing Mark 12: 30–31, it commanded nuns to ‘love god with all thy hart with all thy Soule, and with all thy Force’, then adding ‘And thy Neighbour as thy selfe’.8 In their rapport to Christ and to each other, religious women must therefore learn to differentiate between, on the one hand, the type of affection which could tempt them to sin and, on the other hand, Christian love, which was a holy virtue. They must be clear sighted and exercise much discernment never to err from their narrow path in a domain that was, by its very nature, both nebulous and ever shifting. They were expressly told to forsake human bonds of affection, yet at the same time to love their Sisters like themselves. The distinction was not always easy to make, and the papers of the English Benedictines testify to the variety of ways in which individuals apprehended their relations to others, and their spiritual love of God. Sensible love and divine charity Augustine Baker taught the Cambrai Sisters to discern between two types of love, which he called sensible and intellective. Love from the ‘sensible’ soul was a natural affection felt in the penitents’ bodies, in accordance to their human nature, whereas love from the intellective soul expressed itself in conformity with the will of God. Unless conjugated with intellective love, sensible love was no true love, and Baker explained: ‘There is no true love in sensible affection save in so far as it descends from a true love in the superior soul.’9 We have seen how, in keeping with such normative texts, nuns shared the view that a perfect religious should feel no bond for creatures, 162

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since natural affections would prevent them from giving themselves wholly to God. In one of the texts preserved for the spiritual guidance of the Cambrai nuns, the advice was uncompromising: ‘give thy whole heart to be possessed by God alone, rejecting all other creatures as unworthy to have a share in that gift with which thou presents thy God’.10 On the contrary, divine love was revered as the only way to know and to experience God. It was construed as a pure and redeeming emotion, which could be felt only once the nun had abandoned herself entirely to Christ, since it came from Him, not from her. As Baker put it, it ‘descended’ from a higher sphere upon the soul of the penitent. Untouched by carnality, it was entirely spiritual and it was the nun’s religious duty to ensure, as much as she could, that it remained unhindered by the baseness of worldly affects. This type of love was ‘a quiet, resolute determination of the superior will to seek God and perfect union with Him’; it was not an ‘unruly passion’ and did not derive from ‘sensible affections’ but, rather, it required that the penitent keep God in her sights at all times, even in the affection she felt towards her friends and relatives.11 Nuns always kept a degree of contact with others, be it outside the walls or inside the convent itself. Although they could be seen as breaching the rules of contemplative life, these friendships were not always construed as entirely negative. For instance, Mary Teresa Caryll, as abbess of the Dunkirk community, was engaged in a long-lasting correspondence with her brother John; her letters were concerned with convent business, but more personal touches can be found interspersed with these official topics.12 Always addressing him as ‘Deare Brother’, she signed every letter with ‘your most affectionat sister’, followed by her secular name, ‘Mary Caryll’, rather than her religious name, ‘Mary Teresa’. The fact that she chose to sign under her civil name and to reaffirm their fraternal bond in every single letter demonstrates the importance she gave to their blood kinship. In these documents, the voice of a caring Sister was as present as that of a business-like abbess; she sent her brother some tobacco, enquired about his health, worried about his ‘Rheume’ and urged him to take some drops she had sent him, and which she strongly recommended for his ailments. Conversely, she kept him informed of her own declining health. Her letter dated 22 May 1707 provides a moving insight into the close relationship which continued to unite the ageing siblings: Mary Cary’s 163

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­ andwriting is terribly altered, betraying her state of weakness after h ‘a very languishing condition’ left her so debilitated that she was unable to write for months. Her first letter – and the only one she expected to manage that day – was for her brother; despite her own afflictions, she wrote of her concerns for him. She confessed: ‘when att the worst, my thoughts were full of care for your self, and am still soe while this painfull Gravel continues upon you’.13 In what she expected to be her last letter to him before her death, Caryll’s care for her brother was palpable, and she ended her note by asking him to send fresh news of his condition. Besides her brother, Caryll also took a keen interest in the rest of her kin. Over the years, she had regularly kept herself informed of her nephews and nieces; in a letter dated 18 January 1700, she informed John Caryll that their niece, Barbara, who was expected to receive the habit in another convent, was deemed unsuited to religious life by her abbess. She wrote: my care is, how you will dispose of her, for I think unless you help her, she has not soe god a portion as her sister Anne, nor has she such quallitys to help her self. I doe not doubt threfore you will advise this child what cours to take, to make an honnest livelyhood, I suppose it will be for England, I besech you therefore prepare her frends for it; the child does not want witt, which make me hope she will follow your councell [...]14

Unwilling to interfere in matters concerning another house, Mary Teresa Caryll accepted the adverse decision concerning her niece, but showed great concern for the young woman who must now envisage a new course of life and return to the world. Such a passage shows how relatives formed networks outside the convent, providing support for their kin in both religious and secular life. Correspondence such as this reveals that many nuns continued to care for their loved ones. Despite the injunctions to annihilate natural affection (as we saw in the previous chapter), such feelings could rarely be fully replaced by the Christian love of one’s neighbour. Even revered figures such as Teresa of Àvila confessed to feeling sharp pain at the loss of loved ones, but dismissed such grief as human, and therefore carnal in nature. With time and dedication, this passion could become infused and purified by divine love, it could be transformed to become a spiritual affect. Bonds of care and affection also grew within the walls; the matriarchal structure of convents contributed to the development 164

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of feelings which were akin to familial love. Since their Sisters were God’s creatures, they should love them as they loved any part of His creation. Abbesses insisted on sisterly love as the only guarantee of a peaceful and harmonious conventual life. But those were - supposedly- holy families, where all love derived from the love of Christ, and did not compete with it. It existed in God and for God, and not for the gratification of human feelings. It was a spiritual affect which had very little in common with ‘the love of creatures’. The Benedictine Rule described ‘sisterly charitie’ as ‘a good Zeale that seperateth from Vice and leadeth unto God, and unto his everlasting life’. It encouraged the Sisters to ‘exercise one towards another this good Zeale with a most fervent love and affection’. This was a godly emotion described as ‘most pure and chast’; most importantly, it honoured God and His creation and was never in competition with the nuns’ entire dedication to Christ.15 As long as they remained within the boundaries of temperance and charity, worldly affections were not irreconcilable with the pursuit of divine love. Baker called such charitable links ‘divine charity’, which consisted in loving one another for God’s sake.16 Verses 20–21 of 1 John 4 clearly indicated that brotherly love partook of divine love: ‘If any man say, I love God, and hateth his brother; he is a liar. For he that loveth not his brother, whom he seeth, how can he love God, whom he seeth not? And this commandment we have from God, that he, who loveth God, love also his brother.’ This was part of the complexity of that particular emotion: a sure way to perdition in its base human form, it could also be holy and salvific if it was redeemed spiritually. After all, the Bible commanded Christians to love their neighbours as themselves. Such precepts, of course, applied to all Christians, lay and religious, but found a particular resonance within the walls of a cloister, where nuns lived at close quarters with each other and were truly ‘neighbours’ in more ways than one. Indeed, by imitating the structure of a family, the structure of the convent promoted affectionate bonds between nuns. Abbesses and prioress were entrusted with the good running of the house, and with the promoting of a healthy, godly concord between the Sisters. In her ‘Speculum Superiorum’, Barbara Constable reminded superiors that they must not tolerate gossip or sharpness of tongue from one Sister to another, but on the contrary promote good will, for the sake of the Sisters and the community, and, above all, for God’s 165

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sake. She must show ‘a maternall love to everie one in particular that they may be the more free with her & so she may come to see their inclinations, & know their corporall & spirituall necessities & infirmities’.17 In this matriarchal society, some Sisters developed a profound attachment to a particular friend, with whom they shared a special bond. Affinities did exist, often emanating from a shared outlook upon convent life and its management; some individuals got on particularly well because they shared the same way of tackling practical issues, or a similar approach to the spiritual. Some found that their personality meshed extremely well with that of another, and they therefore felt a special fondness for her. In Paris, Prioress Justina Gascoigne wrote of her ‘unspeakable loss’ at the death of her ‘dear Mother Clementia’ Cary in 1671. Cary had been one of the founding members of the Paris convent exactly twenty years earlier, and Justina Gascoigne, as Paris prioress, felt a particular bond with her. Justina’s aunt Catherine Gascoigne wrote back from Cambrai and empathised with her niece’s ‘desolate case’, comparing the depth of her grief to the one she herself had experienced when the significant spiritual figures of her community, Augustine Baker and Gertrude More, ‘were both taken from [her] at the same time’.18 Such emotional correspondence testifies to the existence of cordial, even tender friendships amongst the Sisters. Obituaries regularly depict the sorrow of the entire community when faced with the death of one of the Sisters, and particularly (although not always) in the case of abbesses. It illustrated mutual bonds of genuine affection between the nuns and their superior. Her successor, Mary Roper was also highly respected in her community and her death caused ‘general grief in the whole house, every one’s heart being brimful of sorrow’.19 Floods of tears could not mitigate their sadness, which was felt even beyond the cloister’s wall. Similar grief struck the community of Boulogne when its abbess Catherine Wigmore died, ‘leaving her Children in Tears & sorrow for the loss of so Good a mother’.20 Of course, the death notices of abbesses were often formulaic; they were meant to be inspiring and hagiographical in nature. Yet not all conveyed such a sense of affection as these. An abundance of tears was not habitual with the English Benedictines. The weeping which marked the passing of particular nuns was an exterior sign of the intensity of the grief felt by the community to which the 166

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deceased belonged. When they cried, nuns manifested their sorrow; those were purgative tears, which pushed their way through the body to express – quite literally – its sadness and balance out its humours. But emotions did not function in a purely ‘hydraulic’ manner – like liquids within the individual, which swelled in the body against the subject’s will and pushed to be let out – to manifest the disorders of the soul.21 Rather, they partook of a cognitive and constructive process.22 Weeping at the death of a beloved abbess also played a more communal role, linking the nuns’ private emotional experiences to a collective and public expression of pain, which served a social function.23 This communal crying was shaped by the nuns’ approach to their lives and yields information about the ways in which ­religious women appreciated their circumstances. Those tears were, in part, a measure of the virtues and holiness of the departed, and a way to begin a process of edification immediately after death, in a manner comparable to the eulogies contained in hagiographical obituaries. Beyond the expression of heartfelt sorrow, such tears also were performed as rituals celebrating the qualities of the dead. They were, at least partly, institutionalised by communities which were careful ‘to discipline and channel the explosiveness of love’, drawing a clear line between love of God and love of creatures, for instance, and defining what is proper and what is not.24 Moreover, communal weeping allowed the nuns, as a family, to bathe in the spiritual aura of the departed; as it publicly enhanced the reputation of the deceased, some of her holiness reflected upon the grieving community, whose public image benefited by association. When a group of nuns expressed their grief through public weeping, they constructed what Barbara Rosenwein called an ‘emotional community’.25 In keeping with the wisdom of the Sermon on the Mount, ‘Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted’, nuns expected both personal and communal comfort from their weeping.26 Opening up to divine love Human affection, when it was a charitable love of one’s neighbour and devoid of self-love, was therefore reconcilable with the Sisters’ pursuit of divine love. Yet, to soar higher towards their heavenly bridegroom, nuns should strive to elevate their feelings above their sensible nature, and leave off their old persona. Through prayer and 167

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devotion, accomplished nuns prepared themselves to become worthy. Clerical guidelines insisted upon the expurgation of carnality and of human emotions as a prerequisite in this preparation: [he] who pretends to advance in this cariere of divine love, must first purge his affections from all carnality, & terrene appetite, & weede out even the least rootes & fibres of sensuality & self love, which either from the corrupt origin of our first birth, or by our owne evill customes have got ground in us. [...] as soon as the world is cast forth & the heart is cleansed from all longation of sinn & affection to creatures, presently the entire satiating & ravishing Love of the eternal spouse Jesus Christ Crucified enters and takes full possession thereof.27

This short passage is representative of contemporaneous spiritual treatises. It declared that those who aspired to divine love must undergo rigorous purging, weeding out, cleansing and forsaking their worldly selves; then, and only then, could they become available to the divine spirit, which could fill them with love. Yet, when writing about zealous penitents, Augustine Baker warned not only against obvious sins but also against the excesses of ‘violent though chaste love’. Quoting Harphius, he referred to those who experienced its pangs too extremely as ‘martyrs of love’ who feel ‘such impatient ardour and thirst for Him that the body grows quite faint and, as it were, withers away’.28 To him, it was preferable to attain a state of quiet contemplation which would allow God’s love to descend upon the soul, rather than strive too hard to reach out to God through one’s own will. Gertrude More echoed his teachings when she wrote against over-zealous suffering. She described the desire to suffer as a false goal, and one which would surely cause the penitent to be dissatisfied as she failed to achieve her self-imposed martyrdom. Such zeal was mistaken, she argued, since it led the soul to seek its own way rather than follow God’s: ‘many times she falleth into sin and imperfection by her greediness to advance her soul by untimely suffering’.29 A penitent, despite her best endeavours, remained powerless to effect moments of divine love. This was also what Margaret Gascoigne expressed when she castigated herself for her continued efforts to achieve perfection through her own actions rather than through absolute trust in Christ’s agency. She seemed disappointed with herself when she wrote: ‘Is it possible, O my deare Lord, that I should be soe blinde & senseless as to thinke to secure my soule more by seeking (contrary to avise) 168

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to cleare my conscience by confession, or any other wayes by my own endeavours, then by leaving my-selfe wholly in thy hands.’30 When reaching for salvation and spiritual perfection, nuns must accept that God only could bestow such a gift. As Baker put it: ‘union in spirit with God by love – the end of the contemplative life – is entirely supernatural’.31 At Paris, Placida Coesneau understood this very well. In her book of collections, she demonstrated her ability to let go, to let herself be whatever God wished. In a very intimate text, she addressed Christ directly and told Him of her trust and confidence in Him, and her acceptance of His will: ‘My deare Lord, Saviour and Redeemer and my al, I find my hart full of your divine touches […] it pleases your immense goodness to purge me with aridity and darkness (which I am confident your Mercy wil never permit to be greater, then you wil give me strength to beare)’. Coesneau wrote an oblation in which she dedicated herself and all of her powers to God, drawing a very clear parallel between herself and Christ, whom she sought to imitate as closely as possible. She wrote: ‘I offer up to thy Divine Majesty […] my body, my soul, my life, with al my thoughts, words and actions in union with the body, soul, life, thoughts, words and actions of thy dearly beloved Son Christ Jesus, my Saviour and my Redeemer.’32 In order to effect this abandon, and to rise spiritually, nuns resorted to practices and exercises which differed according to their personal spiritual inclinations. The English Benedictines mirrored the more general context of English Catholicism. Some followed the techniques taught in the Ignatian spiritual exercises, whilst others preferred different methods. At Cambrai and Paris, the Dames used what Augustine Baker described as spiritual ‘acts’, in which they entered into a direct and private conversation with Christ and called upon Him for help. Baker’s way of prayer was designed for contemplative women whose personal inclinations did not benefit from ‘meditation’ or ‘the use of images’ (by which he meant the use of the Jesuit spiritual exercises). His advice was affective prayer, which, by opposition to Ignatian exercises, did not call upon the representation of images to the mind but, rather, allowed the penitent to feel a rapport with Jesus through ‘an abundance of affection’.33 He described this affection as ‘sensible’ because it called upon emotions and senses, and was therefore particularly well suited to women who experienced periods of spiritual aridity, darkness, fear or despair. Where deliberate exercises failed, a more direct 169

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affective - approach could be beneficial, especially if the penitent showed a propensity towards interior prayer. Baker argued that, although this type of prayer was still rooted in the sensible nature of the penitent, it derived from ‘the nobler part of it, and tending towards the spirit’.34 It did not require the use of mental images, which according to him were always bound to sensible nature. He believed that his affective prayer was particularly suited to women because, according to him, women ‘of their own nature’ were affectionate. He added: ‘Hence the passion of love, speaking of women generally, should be promoted, and the passion of fear mortified and restrained rather than increased.’35 At Cambrai and Paris, where the nuns followed Baker’s guidance, the influence of mystics such as Teresa of Àvila was therefore keenly felt. They practised the mental prayer she defended in her Camino de Perfección, and in their affective prayers, they declared their love and their utter dedication to the Lord, and prayed for His benevolence to grant them the degree of perfection necessary for divine union. Desire featured heavily in their writings, as did evocations of ardour, yearning, longing and pining. This longing was expressed poignantly in an anonymous document from Cambrai: O my dearest Lorde and my God, O my best beloved spouse and friend choosen above all others. O my love, my refuge, my joy, and whatsoever my heart can desire? […] O that my soule with all its powers myght perfectly be united unto thee, never more to be separated from thee, but allwaise to rest in thee, that so enjoying thy sweet embraces it may be drowned and melted into thy owne divine substance.36

In this passage, as in so many others, the nun declared her infinite love for God in a lyrical mode punctuated by apostrophes and hyperboles. She envisaged her happiness at the time of her ­intimate union with the divine lover through highly sensual prose, in which she called upon all of her senses to represent the perfection of her bliss. In an echo of the Song of Songs, she could feel her ­bridegroom’s ‘sweet embraces’, and through the common metaphors of drowning or melting, she merged entirely with God and became lost in His immensity. One of the most prolific Benedictine writers of such allocutions was Gertrude More, who left abundant evidence of her affective dedication to Jesus. She used the same images as those quoted above, all echoing the Song of Songs and its lyrical poetics of love, 170

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sighing, pining and thirsting for divine union.37 She expressed her longing through images in which her soul appeared to die without the nourishment it required, but was immediately restored when God’s precious, life-giving love quenched her thirst. Divine love was in turn a spring or a ‘Fountain of Living Water’, without which the soul withered.38 She wrote: No stag in chase so thirsty is, Or greedy of sweet spring, As is my soul of Thee, my God, While sighing here I sing [...].39

She yearned to be penetrated and filled by the divine emotion and she called, breathless: ‘O love! love! flow into my soul that I may sigh and pant after God alone and praise this my Beloved for all eternity!’40 Yet, although she wrote an abundance of prayers and spiritual material, she was aware that her affective acts, her direct interjections to Christ and all of her devotions could never, of themselves, achieve any real experience of her ultimate goal. In one of her poems, she wrote: And while I live I’ll never cease To languish for His love Breathing and sighing after Him Till He my life remove. For since I am not where I love, How can I comfort find, But only in the song of love By love to me assign’d?41

It appears clearly from her poem that, in keeping with the teachings of Augustine Baker, she believed that God was the source of the love she felt for Him, and which was ‘assign’d’ to her by Him. Gertrude More wrote of her desire to cease existing in and of herself, to be possessed by Christ: she longed for this transformation when she wrote: ‘Oh, let this Thy love wholly transform me into itself, that I may become insensible to all created things whatsoever; let me be wholly possessed by Thee.’42 Such tropes of belonging and possession were commonly used to define a nun’s relationship to Christ. She was to abandon herself to Him, to annihilate herself so completely as to become hollow, devoid of any human feelings. Through this vacuum, she became an expression of the medieval ‘empty vessel’, a holy receptacle to be filled with the divine.43 One 171

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nun urged her Sisters to make themselves available to God, and they used this same image: ‘Thou art to be fild with good. Poure out the evell. Imagin that God would fill thee with hony: if thou art filld with vinegar, where wilt thou put the hony.’44 In this lovely metaphor, the pure soul or virgin spirit became ‘as a cleare glasse without spot’.45 From this stage onwards, divine love would fill the soul entirely and make it ever purer, in a self-perpetuating process. As Nancy Martin and Joseph Runzo have pointed out, love can be considered as ‘the most transformative’ of all emotions. It alone can overcome fear, hatred, anger as well as misdirected loves such as narcissism and self-love.46 In the documents written by English Benedictine nuns, moments of divine union appeared as both intensely intimate and deeply transformative. The penitent, as a person, ceased to exist; the boundaries of her self were altered as she became one with God. Many expressed their wish to be absorbed into the divine, as Gertrude More in her breathless, amorous prose: ‘O Love, Love, even by naming Thee my soul loseth itself in Thee. Nothing can satiate my soul, my Lord, as is well known to Thee, but to be swallowed up in Thee for all eternity.’47 When she evoked her insatiability and her desire to be swallowed up, More played upon a highly emotive register which would be familiar to most lovers, divine or romantic. She wished to absorb Christ and to be absorbed by Him, to merge through a reciprocal devouring. This was both a uniquely personal experience and a generic one. The writings of religious women converge to describe an experience common to all mystics. English Benedictine mystics partook of a long-standing heritage and recounted similar sensations, using images comparable to those of the mystics whose works they read. As indicated by Augustine Baker’s and Gertrude More’s lists of recommended books, Benedictines – at Cambrai at least – were familiar with Gregory of Nyssa, Blosius, Bernard of Clairvaux, Hugh and Rich of St Victor, St Bonaventure, Tauler, Ruysbroeck, Eckart, Suso, the author of the Cloud of Unknowing, Walter Hilton, Julian of Norwich, St John of the Cross, St Teresa of Àvila and many others besides.48 All of these authors expressed their annihilation in God’s love, their sense of being lost in love, penetrated by Christ and merging with Him. The communal nature of these episodes of divine union was highly relevant in convents, where they played an essential part in the construction of the community’s collective consciousness and in its spiritual reputation. But, ultimately, each 172

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divine lover remained an individual bound to her own embodied experience of this trope. Although sharing common characteristics with the universal Catholic ideal, each experience of divine union was personal and unique. The uniqueness of each mystical encounter combined with the protean nature of love itself to complicate the definition of divine love. Was it purely agape, or did eros also have a part to play? When nuns expressed their experience of oneness with Christ, they used images evoking fusion, merging, melting or drowning. Their language was akin to that of romantic love. Gertrude More provided abundant evidence of this highly charged, sensual register. Repeatedly, she wrote about being ‘drowned and swallowed up in that ocean of Divine Love’49 or of melting away through the excess of her passion: Oh, let this Thy love wholly possess my soul, that all that is within me may bless Thy Holy Name! […] Let it wholly consume me, that I may be wholly turned into love, and that nothing else may be desired by me. Let me be drowned and swallowed up in that ocean of Divine Love, in which my soul may swim for all eternity.50

Despite using the generic tropes familiar to mystics since the Middle Ages, early modern nuns lived their progress towards the divine in an individual and intimate manner. They phrased their accounts in a much more personal fashion than they did the rest of their writings. Since they belonged to a tradition which encouraged religious women to be humble to the point of being voiceless, they generally wrote with protestations of humility and under the veil of anonymity. In their prose they avoided references to their own person and especially shunned the use of the first person singular ‘I’ or ‘my’. This is verifiable in most types of writings, with the notable exception of personal devotional literature in which they invoked Jesus directly and prayed to Him intimately. But in these highly private conversations with their bridegroom, religious women spoke in their own names about their relationship with their divine lover, creating a sense of intimacy which was intensely emotional. Margaret Gascoigne proclaimed her longing for holy union in a deeply personal way: Yet art thou my most true Lord & lover, & I will yet farther presume to say, & againe & againe to say, that thou art hee whom my soule desireth, longeth, & coveteth to love [...] Come, O come, my most sweet Lord, into

173

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the garden of my soule, & gather the fruites of my labour; Come I beseech thee, on whom I desire to bestow the fruites of all mine actions.51

Such emotive prose can be found particularly in the communi­­ ties of Cambrai and Paris; it echoes the writings of many early modern mystical nuns, but also those of their medieval forebears such as Mechthild of Magdeburg (1217–77) or Julian of Norwich (1342–1416). In this type of religious literature, human feelings were ­transcended as Christ operated in the individual a metamorphosis of her passions, allowing her to experience a highly affective mystical encounter. At Cambrai, Margaret Gascoigne wrote of her ‘desire’, her ‘growning’, her ‘languishing’ for her absent lover: ‘thou the importable heate of my love, Thou woundest me with sacred arrowes, Thou inflamest me, & dost consume all my powers’. ‘O my Lord, I desire to be disolved, & to be with thee.’52 In another piece, inspired by Blosius, she went beyond the common ‘sighs & groans’ to express the contradictory nature of the mystical experience, in which an emotion – a bodily and earthly manifestation – was the channel of spiritual bliss. The author expressed herself in oxymorons or apparently contradictory images; she called out to her lover: ‘inebriate me with the sober love of thee, that while I am detained here in body, I may fly with a free mind to thee my only delight & pleasure’. Here, love appeared all at once as powerful, intoxicating passion and as solemn Christian caritas. It was the former, yet was felt as the latter, as made clear when the author continued to long for ‘the sweet violence of [God’s] love’. This love was sweet yet painful, tender yet violent; it freed and bound all at once: ‘O Love sweetly binding! O Love sweetly wounding & penetrating the interior parts of the Soul!’ With these passionate interjections, the repetition of ‘O’, the panting conveyed by the exclamation marks, the author expressed a paroxysm of desire which she felt most intimately within the innermost parts of her soul and of her body also. Indeed, she hoped God would ‘dilate [her] hart’ and ‘excite in [her] bowel most ardent desires’ and ‘kindle in [her] chaste desires’. 53 This echoed the rich heritage of the European mystics who described divine love, in turn, as a burning furnace, as a dart piercing the heart through and through, as an ocean in which to swim or drown, or as a vivifying fountain at which to quench one’s spiritual thirst. These images were reminiscent of those used by mystical exemplars such as Blosius, John of the Cross or Teresa of 174

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Àvila. Through the ages, mystical union with God was ever translated in the language of the senses and of emotions, expressing the feelings of the lovers on their intensely personal experiences. The physical and affective nature of the mystical experience was one of the reasons why the clerical authorities of Teresa’s Spain held the alumbrados in the highest suspicion, and why Teresa herself had to prove the godly origin of her ecstasies.54 The expression of the experience of divine love was as mysterious to contemporaneous witnesses as it is now. Modern studies of mysticism have duly noted the vibrant sensuality, even the eroticism of the accounts documenting mystical encounters.55 Caroline Walker Bynum has shown that from the twelfth century onwards, female mystical experience expressed itself in increasingly sensual, erotic images, evocative of a sexual encounter.56 Yet, the nuns’ amorous longings and their experiences of divine penetration may not be best interpreted as sexual arousal or indeed orgasmic pleasure.57 Such modern and secular readings fail to take into account the fact that the religious women who felt such physical expressions of their union with God experienced them as different from animal appetites. They were consumed by a desire which far transcended any human love: these were the spiritual affects of spiritual creatures.58 I would argue that nuns’ desire for Christ may be better interpreted through the paradigm of love than that of gender. Tom Webster has shown that godly ministers in England, though not ‘brides’ of Christ, also referred to Him as their spouse and viewed their relationship with Him as a marriage.59 And within the Catholic Church, monks too thirsted for Jesus, pined for Him and described their longing in sensuous and erotic terms.60 In the Benedictine manuscripts studied for this project, the nuns did not use specifically female images which would compare to the those of the medieval mystics studied by Caroline Walker Bynum, such as mothering or suckling Christ.61 In their writings, the mystical expression of love for God was not so much gendered as it was absolute: seeing it as the abandonment of a female to her male lover loses something of the holistic experience of the abandonment of one lover to another, regardless of sex or gender. If any confusion between divine love and its base human counterpart remained possible, the fault lay with the very limits of human language, since divine lovers had no other words but those of earthly love to express their spiritual transports. Gertrude More bemoaned 175

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the inefficacy of human language when she remarked that ‘there is no comparison able to express the love which is between a faithful soul and Thee’.62 She remarked: ‘Who can express what passeth between such a soul and Thee? verily neither man nor Angel is able to do it sufficiently.’63 At Paris, an anonymous nun dwelt upon the ‘unspeakable’ and ‘ineffable’ nature of her divine lover.64 Many times did nuns lament the inadequacy of their words to convey divine emotions. Like John of the Cross or Teresa of Àvila, they made a clear distinction between the intangible and ineffable nature of the union they experienced, and the images they had to resort to in order to evoke them, and which by necessity fell short. In their efforts to give a sense of what the mystical encounter was, symbols, metaphors and evocations summoned by human words could help to stimulate the imagination of the readers and create a construct in their mind’s eye; yet they could never achieve a true translation of divine union, which remained transcendent and, therefore, beyond words. In her study on mysticism, Evelyn Underhill aptly described symbols as ‘the clothing which the spiritual borrows from the material plane’, and ‘a form of artistic expression’.65 Worse still, words were not only inadequate, they could also be dangerous. Language was by nature corrupt, and could debase even the best-intentioned discourse. This was one of the reasons why silence held such a privileged place in contemplative life.66 It was when contemplating this blissful prospect of disembodied divine union that nuns resorted to the most affective language to be found in their manuscripts. The anxiety and fear they felt when they focused on the scrutiny of their own souls vanished when they forgot about themselves to contemplate Christ only. Negative emotions were replaced by spiritual affects which all but transfigured the penitent who was then liberated from the shackles of human limitations and free to enjoy divine happiness. Gertrude More explained that she felt moved ‘to sing in my heart songs of love to Thee Who art only desired and sought after by me. In Thy praise only I am happy, in this my joy I will exult with all that love Thee.’67 In evocation of their bridegroom, in expectation of his love, these censors of worldly passions wrote with nothing less than intense emotion. ‘O my Happynesse! O my only delight! O joye of my hart! O my Hope, my sollace, my beginninge, and end!’68 The breathless rhythm of Gertrude More’s short interjections combined vividly with the repetition of exclamation marks to 176

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communicate the ardour of her emotions and the fire of her desire for her divine lover. With the reiteration of the pronoun ‘my’, More expressed her affective bond with her God, her sense of belonging to Him and of being nothing but Him. In the happy state she dreamed of, after her liberation from human weakness and debilitating passions, her ‘Happynesse’, ‘delight’, ‘joye’, ‘hope’ or ‘solace’ all sprang from union with Jesus Christ and were therefore divine in nature, to be differentiated from the baser kinds of natural emotions. Such writings inscribed Gertrude More firmly within a long mystical tradition, which her spiritual director Augustine Baker introduced and emphasised in his teaching at Cambrai. 69 More herself compared her love for God to the bond of lovers, ‘as one desiring the presence of her Beloved, and expecting when it shall be’, or ‘as one sick with love / [who] Engraves on every tree / The name and praise of him she loves’.70 She used the image of the lover, ‘sick with love of her absent beloved’, and recognised that such ccomparisons were constraints which could not be overcome.71 In the Paris collections, words attributed to Clementia Cary echoed those of Gertrude More. Cary entered the Cambrai community in 1639, six years after Augustine Baker’s departure and More’s death; she was nurtured by the heritage left by these two looming spiritual figures. When she came to Paris in 1651 as a founding member, she in turn made a deep impact upon the piety of her Sisters, who consigned her words to their collections. In passages reminiscent of the Song of Songs, she pined after Christ in a manner which was highly evocative of romantic love: ‘O my flourishing & beautiful Spouse, I thirst after thy love, my Jesus, I hunger after thee alone, I languish with thy love, I cry unto thee with a great desire of heart & covet much to enjoy thee.’72 Such exclamations, combined with the repeated possessive ‘my’, evoked a sensual longing felt in the mouth and stomach, a desire to ingest Christ and take Him into her body.73 Her desire was so intense that it expressed itself in cries and burning sensations, much like the passion of romantic lovers. Reflecting upon this seeming contradiction, French philosopher Simone Weil once wrote that ‘To reproach mystics with loving God by means of the faculty of sexual love is as though one were to reproach a painter with making pictures by means of colors composed of material substances. We haven’t anything else with which to love.’74 What was expressed in the language of emotions was in fact experienced on a different level altogether. Yet, by ­necessity, this spiritual 177

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encounter was experienced through the channel of emotion and, therefore, through physical means. An emotion such as love therefore played a crucial cognitive part in the spiritual lives of religious women. In the initial stages of her quest, it helped the vigilant nun to shun all other affects as impediments to her ultimate goal. It acted as a supreme guide, generating a ‘knowledge in the soul’ which kept her focused upon her task, and allowed her to discern clearly the dangers or impediments she must avoid. It was much more efficacious than any clerical guidance. Where the advice of divines provided a sound basis to practise the principles of one’s faith, divine love bestowed direct knowledge, through experience, and from the inside. Although they were looked upon with great defiance, emotions constituted a key element of nuns’ religious experience. Today, the cognitive function of emotions in religion has fed the debate across the disciplines of history, social sciences and neurosciences since the 1990s, and it is revealing to see that such questionings were already at the core of the religious experience of early modern nuns, albeit not in any conceptualised manner.75 To Gertrude More, love was a pathway to divine knowledge and, consequently, the source of all godly feelings: ‘only by loving, knowing, and enjoying Thee, can my soul become truly happy’.76 In this particular context, ecstatic nuns experienced what Gregory of Nyssa (c. 335–c. 395) explained in his interpretation of the eroticism of the Song of Songs: the devout soul must long for God and love Him as much as humanly possible. For humans to love to their utmost capacity, the channels of physicality – including erotic dispositions – must be fully exploited. The soul must then transform ‘passion into passionlessness so that when every corporeal affection has been quenched, our mind may seethe with passion for the spirit alone’.77 This approach of passions differs from Stoic apathea, since, despite advocating detachment from earthly feelings, it does not negate all passions; instead, it exhorts to the metamorphosis of passions into spiritual affects. Spiritual desire is therefore invested with a transformative power which allows the soul to experience affective mysticism. In keeping with the theology of Gregory of Nyssa – whose works they knew and read – English Benedictines considered divine union through contemplation as both an intellectual and an emotional process where love, in itself, was knowledge.78 Augustine Baker, influenced by authors such as that of The Cloud of Unknowing, taught that God could be known through love and 178

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not through any type of human knowledge. His penitent Gertrude More wrote: ‘By faith we are certain of Thee, and by love we in some sort experience in our souls Thy greatness and goodness, Thy beauty and sweetness.’79 Here, More established a distinction between an intellectual knowledge, a conviction in faith and indisputable knowledge verified by experience through divine love. One such experience of divine love was able to dispense complete knowledge of God in an instant, when the nun and Christ merged to form but one single soul. More repeatedly remarked upon the cognitive value of love – and, by default, upon the relative powerlessness of human teaching. She explained: ‘one learneth more in prayer of Thee in one hour than all creatures in the world could teach one in fifty years’,80 and ‘Sometimes Thou teachest a soul to understand more in it of the knowledge of Thee and of herself than ever could have been by all the teaching in the world showed to a soul in five hundred years.’ The perfection of divine teaching was achieved through immediate experience, when God ‘pierced’ and ‘wounded’ the soul and made it all His.81 Agnes More was as keenly interested in the emotion of love as was her cousin Gertrude. Although she did not preserve the documents she had written in her own name, she left to posterity her translation into English of The Ruin of Proper Love and Building of Divine Love, by the Augustinian Jeanne de Chambry. In keeping with the customs of her time, Agnes More edited the work as she translated it, selecting the passages she found most enlightening. To her, like to her cousin, divine love appeared as the only efficacious way of knowing God: ‘the soul in Love knoweth Him in herself’.82 Such valuation of affective prayer as a way towards divine union closely resembled the writings of Teresa of Àvila in her Camino de prefección; Teresa wrote that mental prayer was the privileged channel of spiritual union since it allowed God to act as the teacher of the soul; in perfect contemplation, she argued, He worked in the passive soul and gradually revealed Himself. The soul, she insisted, remained inactive, it was acted upon rather than acting, it knew God without understanding how, through an experience of divine love which was beyond its rational capacities to grasp.83 In early modern convents, the love of God was an end in itself, a holy goal sought by every zealous nun. Communities therefore developed means of encouraging and cultivating it, making the 179

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emotion of love a fascinating paradox, at once a communal and institutionalised affect and a deeply intimate and powerful emotion. Divine love and union with God were experienced in highly affective ways. In that particular aspect of their religious experience, the English Benedictine nuns owed much to the mystical heritage of earlier times and, although most of them did not report divine visions, raptures or ecstasies, they partook of the same movement which valued an immediate (unmediated) experience of divine love. What they felt during moments of perfect prayer, in contemplation of their heavenly bridegroom, was construed as spiritual but remained, by necessity, experienced through the body and its emotions. Although these affects were understood as entirely distinct from animal passions, they did find their source in the body and expressed themselves in transports of love and joy or sensory images such as burning, melting, thirsting, hungering, swimming, drowning or even being pierced or penetrated. Despite being rejected both in clerical prescriptive literature and in the writings of individual nuns, emotions did play an important part in the lives of contemplatives. The divine was apprehended at least in part through emotional knowledge; thus, feelings were imbued with a cognitive value which, although difficult to perceive in a literature which was highly critical of affects, can be teased out of the personal writings documenting nuns’ lived experience of their spirituality. Notes 1 Robert C. Salomon, Love: Emotion, Myth, and Metaphor (New York: Doubleday, 1981), p. 126. 2 Ibid., p. 34. 3 See Nancy Martin and Joseph Runzo, ‘Love’, in John Corrigan (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Emotion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 310–32. Elliott Matthew, ‘The emotional core of love: the centrality of emotions in Christian psychology and ethics’, Journal of Psychology & Christianity 31:2 (2012), 105–17; Bernard McGinn, ‘Love, knowledge, and mystical union in Western Christianity: twelfth to sixteenth centuries’, Church History, 56:1 (1987), 7–24. 4 John Corrigan (ed.), Religion and Emotions. Approaches and Interpretations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), p. 19. 5 Augustine Baker, in Benedict Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Inner Life and the Writings of Dame Gertrude More (London: Washbourne, 1910), p.  184.

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6 ADN, Ms 20H-40, ‘God is to be loved before all things’, unfoliated. 7 Matt. 22: 37–40. 8 Rule, p. 23. 9 Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Inner Life of Dame Gertrude More, p. 183. 10 ADN, Ms 20H-37, ‘Of the love of God’, fol. 144. 11 Augustine Baker, in Benedict Weld-Blundell (ed.), Contemplative Prayer: Ven. Father Augustine Baker’s Teachings Thereon: From ‘Sancta Sophia’ (London: Washbourne, 1907), p. 144. 12 BL, Add Ms 28226, Letters and papers of John Caryll, fols 113–30. 13 Ibid., fol. 130. 14 Ibid., fol. 119. 15 Rule, p. 102. 16 Baker, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), Contemplative Prayer, p. 145. 17 Colwich Abbey, Ms H43, Barbara Constable, ‘Speculum Superiorum’, fols 408–9 and 419. 18 CRS Misc. VII, pp. 345–6. 19 CRS Misc. XI, p. 46. 20 Ibid., p. 62. 21 Robert C. Salomon, The Passions. Emotions and the Meaning of Life (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1993). 22 Robert C. Salomon, ‘Emotions, thoughts and feelings. Emotions as engagements with the world’, in R. C. Salomon (ed.), Thinking about Feeling. Contemporary Philosophers on Emotions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 76–90. 23 On the function of tears, see William A. Christian, ‘Provoked religious weeping in early modern Spain’ and Gary L. Ebersole, ‘The function of ritual weeping revisited: affective expression and moral discourse’, in John Corrigan (ed.), Religion and Emotions. Approaches and Interpretations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 33–50 and pp. 185–222, respectively. On penitential tears, see Piroska Nagy, Le don des larmes au Moyen Âge (Paris: Albin Michel, 2000). 24 Martin and Runzo, ‘Love’, pp. 310–32. 25 Barbara H. Rosenwein, Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages (New York: Cornell University Press, 2006). 26 Matt. 5:4. 27 ADN, Ms 20H-17, ‘A short treatise on the three principall vertues and vows of religious persons’, fols 122–3. 28 Baker, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), Contemplative Prayer, p. 355. 29 More, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, pp. 39–40. 30 Downside Abbey, Ms 68870, fol. 66. Printed in John Clark (ed.), ‘The devotions of Margaret Gascoigne’, Analecta Cartusiana 119: 28 (2007), p. 32. 31 Baker, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), Contemplative Prayer, p. 97.

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32 Colwich Abbey, ‘The spiritual Exercisses & Devotions of the very vertuous and Religious Sister Palcida Quynes of al Saints ; Professed in the English Monastery of Benedictin Nunns of our Blesed Lady of good Hope in Paris’, 7 August 1690. 33 Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Inner Life of Dame Gertrude More, p. 65. 34 Ibid., p. 69. 35 Ibid., p. 179. 36 ADN, Ms 20H-37, ‘On the love of God’, fol. 185. 37 More, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, p.  19. 38 Ibid., p. 109. 39 Ibid., p. 31. 40 Ibid., p. 108. 41 Ibid., p. 30. Italics mine. 42 More, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, p.  12. 43 See Caroline Walker Bynum, Holy Feast and Holy Fast. The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987). 44 ADN, Ms 20H-40, ‘God is to be loved before all things’ (item 2). 45 Ibid., item 10. 46 Martin and Runzo, ‘Love’, in Corrigan, Oxford Handbook, p. 310. 47 More, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, p.  18. 48 On the mystics who influenced Gertrude More, see Dorothy Latz, ‘“Glow- worm light”: writings of 17th century English recusant women from original manuscripts, Salzburg Studies in English Literature’, ­Elizabethan Renaissance Studies 92:21 (1989), pp. 25–40. 49 More, ‘Confessiones Amantis’, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, p. 77. 50 Ibid. 51 Ibid., p. 58. 52 Colwich Abbey, Ms H 22: XXIVth Book of Collections, fol. 31, ‘Of the burning desire of the soule when she is visited by the word her only beloved spouse’. 53 Colwich Abbey, Ms H 23: XLth Book of Collections, fols 269–75. 54 See Gillian T. W. Ahlgren, Teresa of Àvila and the Politics of Sanctity (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996), p. 15, and Stephen Haliczer, Between Exaltation and Infamy: Female Mystics in the Golden Age of Spain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). 55 Amongst others, see Amy Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy: Mysticism, Sexual Difference and the Demands of History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002); Elizabeth Petroff, Body and Soul: Essays on Medieval Women and Mysticism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994).

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56 Caroline Walker Bynum, Jesus as Mother: Studies in the Spirituality of the High Middle Ages (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982). 57 Caroline Walker Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption. Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion (New York: Zone Books, 1992), p. 86. 58 Thomas Dubay, S.M., Fire Within. St. Teresa of Àvila, St. John of the Cross, and the Gospel – On Prayer (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1989), p. 41. 59 Tom Webster, ‘“Kiss me with the kisses of his mouth”: gendered inversion and Canticles in godly spirituality’, in Tom Betteridge (ed.), Sodomy in Early Modern Europe (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2002), pp. 148–63. 60 Derek Krueger, ‘Homoerotic spectacle and the monastic body in Symeon the New Theologian’, in Virgina Burrus and Catherine Keller (eds), Toward a Theology of Eros. Transfiguring Passion at the Limits of Discipline (New York: Fordham University Press, 2006), pp. 99–118. 61 Walker Bynum, Holy Feast and Holy Fast; Walker Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption. 62 More, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, p.  14. 63 Ibid., p. 8. 64 Colwich Abbey, Ms H 23: XLth Book of Collec, fol. 274. 65 Evelyn Underhill, Mysticism: A Study of the Nature and Development of Man’s Spiritual Consciousness (London: Methuen, 1911), p. 78. 66 Rick McDonald, ‘The perils of language in the mysticism of late medieval England’, Mystics Quarterly 34:3/4 (2008), 45–75. 67 More, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, p.  12. 68 More, in Augustine Baker (ed.), The Spiritual Exercises of the Most Vertuous and Religious D. Gertrude More of the holy Order of S. Bennet and the English Congregation of our ladies of Comfort in Cambray, she called them Amor ordinem nescit, And Ideots Devotions, Paris, 1658, p. 152. 69 See Dorothy Latz, ‘The mystical poetry of Dame Gertrude More’, Mystics Quarterly 16:2 (1990), 66–82; Marion Norman, ‘Dame Gertrude More and the English mystical tradition’, Recusant History 15:1 (1979), 196–211; and Victoria Van Hyning, ‘Augustine Baker: discerning the “call” and fashioning dead disciples’, in Clare Copeland and Jan Machielsen (eds), Angels of Light? Sanctity and the Discernment of Spirits in the Early Modern Period (Leiden: Brill, 2013), pp. 143–68. 70 More, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, pp. 14 177, respectively. 71 Ibid., p. 63.

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72 Colwich Abbey, Ms H 32, ‘Some maximes & sayings of the saints taken out of the lives of the founders & foundresses of religious Orders’, anonymous but believed to be written by Mary Benedict Dalley; quotation from fols 58–9, from notes by Dame Clementia Cary. 73 On the significance of food to religious women in the Middle Ages, see the seminal work by Bynum Walker, Holy Feast and Holy Fast. 74 Simone Weil, The Notebooks of Simone Weil, trans. Arthur Wills, 2 vols (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1956), vol. 2, p. 472. 75 John Corrigan, ‘Cognitions, universals and constructedness: recent emotions research and the study of religion’, in Willem Lemmens and Walter Van Herck (eds), Religious Emotions: Some Philosophical Exploration (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2008), pp. 34–47; Michael P. Morrissey, ‘Reason and emotions: modern and classical views on religious knowing’, Horizons: The Journal of the College Theology Society 16 (1989), 275–91; Ilkka Pyysiäinen, How Religion Works. Towards a New Cognitive Science of Religion (Leiden: Brill, 2001); Robert C. Roberts, ‘Emotions as access to religious truths’, Faith and Philosophy 9 (1992), 83–94; Robert Wuthnow, ‘Cognition and religion’, Sociology of Religion 68:4 (2007), 341–60; and Iris M. Yob, ‘Cognitive emotions and emotional cognitions in religious studies’, Religion and Education 28:1 (2001), 95–104. 76 More, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, p.  22. 77 In Canticum Canticorum 26: 5–15, as quoted in Niklaus Largier, ‘Medieval Christian mysticism’, in John Corrigan (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Emotion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 364–79, p. 365. 78 See Carole Straw, Gregory the Great. Perfection in Imperfection (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), p. 226. 79 More, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, p. 18. Emphasis mine. 80 Ibid., p. 9. 81 Ibid., p. 27. 82 ADN, Ms 20H-18, The Building of Divine Love, unpaginated (quotation from chapter II). See Dorothy Latz, The Building of Divine Love, as translated by Dame Agnes More, Salzburg Studies in English Literature, Elizabethan Renaissance Studies, 1992. Also Latz, ‘“Glow–Worm Light”’. 83 See Ahlgren, Teresa of Avilà and the Politics of Sanctity, pp. 90–3.

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7 • What place for the senses in contemplative life?

The study of emotions in conventual writings reveals that religious women’s relationship to the body and to physically mediated experiences was complex, and at times paradoxical. The contemplative ideal rejected the physical in favour of the spiritual, it treated the flesh as a burden, a hindrance to religious perfection. Yet nuns remained women of flesh and blood; their religious experience was, by necessity, mediated through the senses. In their daily o ­ ccupations for the pragmatic running of the convent, during communal services, or alone at prayer in their cells, nuns saw, heard, smelled, tasted and touched, and these senses informed their lived experience of contemplative life. From a long tradition traced back to Origen of Alexandria (c.  185–252), writers have debated upon the place of the senses in the life of a person seeking religious perfection. Origen argued that the sensory and sensual language of the Bible, particularly in the Song of Songs, did not refer to bodily sensations but, rather, to spiritual senses. He posited that individuals possessed two sets of senses: the carnal senses of the body and a separate set of spiritual or inner senses, through which one could know the divine. Augustine (354–430), Gregory the Great (590–604), or their medieval followers Bernard de Clairvaux (1090–1153), Bonaventure (1217– 74), Albert the Great (1200–80) or John Ruysbroeck (1293–1381) – to name but a few – later wrote on the subject and had a strong influence upon the cultural approach to the senses in the early modern era.1 185

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The sensate approach to the sacred was at the heart of the debate fuelled by Protestant critics of Catholic tradition. During the Catholic Reformation, the Church reasserted the importance of vision in spirituality, and made devotional art a response to Protestant criticism. The Council of Trent endorsed the mediation of sights and smells in its twenty-second session, when it decreed: such is the nature of man, that, without external helps, he cannot easily be raised to the meditation of divine things; therefore has holy Mother Church instituted certain rites, to wit that certain things be pronounced in the mass in a low, and others in a louder, tone. She has likewise employed ceremonies, such as mystic benedictions, lights, incense, vestments, and many other things of this kind, derived from an apostolical discipline and tradition, whereby both the majesty of so great a sacrifice might be recommended, and the minds of the faithful be excited, by those visible signs of religion and piety, to the contemplation of those most sublime things which are hidden in this sacrifice.2

Later, in its twenty-fifth session, the Council also vindicated ‘the legitimate use of images’, hereby strongly positioning Catholic practice within the realm of the sensate, with performative rituals and tangible, material elements to help the faithful to become more perceptive of the sacred. Voice modulations, the music of the choir and the ringing of the bells stimulated the ears; lights, the monstrance and a variety of images interacted with the eyes; the sense of taste was awakened by the host on the tongue of the communicant who ingested the body of Christ; incense and the wax of candles evoked the sacred through smells; the use of rosary beads or holy water and other objects stimulated devotion through touch. But, despite the sensory stimuli of Catholic practice, the Council operated a discreet shift towards more interior or private experiences of spirituality, through inner sensing. The Benedictine Rule hinged on that same ambiguity, enjoining nuns to behold the divine ‘with open eyes and attentive eares’ and expressing their ultimate goal as ‘to see him in his kingdome’, whilst at the same time to chastise and mistrust the body.3 We have seen that human emotions were considered with great defiance, but that everything revolved around a subtle understanding of the nature of spiritual love. The same delicate balance can be applied to the early modern relationship to the senses: although natural, physical sensations were considered as gateways to sin, heightened – spiritual – senses could play an important role in the Catholic experience of the divine. The 186

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documents of English Benedictine nuns testify to this long-standing paradox. It is surprising that the importance of the senses should, until recently, have remained neglected by scholars of religious history. The relationship of the sacred to the senses occupied a fairly prominent place in many of the conduct books and prescriptive texts aimed at nuns, yet, when writing about religious life, modern authors have preferred to focus upon more heightened spiritual matters. Perhaps this is due to the very nature of the subject: when writing about spirituality, one would naturally tend to concentrate upon the spirit. But sensory history per se has been the object of recent focus, witnessed by rich international conferences and publications which have thrown light upon the multifaceted aspects of sensory experience and shown how it can reveal much about societies, communities and institutions, as well as individuals.4 The role of the senses in religious experience at large has benefited from this new spectrum of study.5 Nicky Hallett has applied this prism of interpretation to the history of early modern English nuns; focusing upon Carmelite documents, her study looks at the English conventual experience through the prism of the senses and, in doing so, breaks new ground in the scholarship of this field.6 The women who took the veil swapped one sensory world for an entirely different one, whose sights, smells and sounds were meant to evoke the sacred. Although little used until now, the prism of sensory study can offer insights into the lived experience of women in early modern convents. This chapter will complement some of Hallett’s findings on the senses in early modern English convents. It adopts a different approach to the material and illustrates the lived experience of Benedictines, whose way of life was quite different from that of their Carmelite compatriots. The study of the Benedictine manuscripts shows that clerical conduct books taught nuns to master their senses and overcome their pleasures, to elevate themselves towards different sensing experiences and, ultimately, towards an entirely a-sensory state of pure contemplation. Yet the nuns’ own writings are filled with references to the senses which yield precious detail about how it felt to live a cloistered life. Even as they wrote about their efforts to become creatures of spirit, nuns indicated that the senses remained the only channel through which they could apprehend their creator; but perhaps more interestingly still, it appears that not all Benedictines related the sacred to the senses 187

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in the same manner, and that communal patterns developed along slightly different lines in this regard. The bodily senses in a spiritual life There appears to have been a general consensus on the subject of the physical senses, when considered in their animal nature. Matters became blurred only when dealing with a more abstruse conception of the senses, one which referred to spiritual or ‘inner senses’. Before moving on to the more complex issue of inner senses, this study will deal with the more obvious aspect, looking at how English Benedictine nuns construed the physical senses they felt through their bodies on a daily basis. The centrality of sense experiences in Catholic worship had caused Stephen Gardiner, the bishop of Winchester, to voice his concerns in 1544; in the midst of the Henrician Reformation, he envisaged the changes advocated by Protestants as the wholesale destruction of an entire mode of apprehending the divine. Christians were robbed of their sensible experiences, and left to feel nothing at all. He wrote: Thes men speak mich of prechyng, but note well thys’, […] they wold we shuld se nothyng in remembrance of Christ, and therfore can they not abyde image. They wold we shuld smel nothyng in memori of Christe, and therfor speak they against anoyntyng and hallywather. They wold we shuld taste nothyng in memory of Christe, and therfore they cannot away with salt and holy brede. A supper they speak of, wich they wold handle lyke a dryngkyng. Finally they wold have all in talkyng, they speak so myche of prechynge, so as all the gates of our sences an wayes to mannis under standynge shuld be shut up, savyng the eare alone.7

His position remained entirely relevant in the seventeenth century. It was shared all the more keenly by the Catholics of England, whose attachment to the traditional practices of the Roman Church was in sharp contrast with the rites of the established Church of England. The five senses, although they were often described as distractions from the pursuit of the knowledge of God, could also be construed as pathways towards at least a crude apprehension of the sacred, a first step on a spiritual journey. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes and textures were vindicated by the Council of Trent as means of creating an atmosphere conducive to spiritual awareness.8 They mediated manifestations of the sacred and had an impact on the person experiencing them. They acted as 188

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physical triggers of a spiritual response and sometimes played an important part in the conversion and edification of souls. Catholic practice was rich with intense sensory experiences. The most central element of this sensory experience was arguably the Eucharist, through which the communicant could achieve temporary union with Christ in a tangible manner, here on earth, through the ingestion of the body of Christ. This was a union which did not necessitate the special gifts of a mystic in ecstasy and was achievable by those who prepared earnestly. As the medieval German Beguine Mechthild of Magdeburg had marvelled, this was a miracle which any Catholic could enjoy: ‘Yet I, least of all souls / Take Him in my hand, / Eat Him and drink Him, / And do with Him what I will!’9 To eat the body of Christ was, in itself, a means of achieving union. But other sensory stimuli also contributed to the Catholic experience of the sacred. The smells of incense and wax mingled with those of cold stone to create the unique scent of a Catholic place of worship; the sanctity of deceased saints was often confirmed by the sweet smells which emanated from their uncorrupted bodies. Touch, though believed the least noble of all the senses, played a role when these bodies were displayed to be seen but also felt. During extreme unction, the officiant anointed the sense organs of the dying, to cleanse the sensory gates through which they had sinned during their lives; the oil was understood to convey God’s benediction upon the sick, who, through its taste, smell and touch, would feel serene both in mind and body and be comforted.10 Sight was constantly called upon to evoke the sacred, through architecture, holy pictures and objects, sacerdotal vestments, and through the Elevation of the Host, which was at the heart of the Mass. Hearing also contributed to creating the atmosphere of piety, not only through the words spoken by the officiant but also through the ringing of bells and the evocative music and the singing of the choir. Nuns, in particular, were heard but never seen and therefore appeared, to the audience, as disembodied voices producing the sounds of the heavenly spheres. Music played an important part in the liturgy, and particularly for the Benedictines.11 The Brussels convent employed renowned organists John Bolt and Richard Dering, both recent converts to Catholicism after a life at the English court. At Ghent, Mary Roper was a renowned singer whose proficiency at plainsong attracted many visitors. Her death notice recalled her ability to ‘attract and move the ears and hearts of 189

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auditors’, which she strengthened with conversations at the convent grill. Her deportment was such that ‘many Hereticks by the hearing and seeing her were Converted to the orthodoxall faith’.12 Yet the senses were also feared as the gateways to sin. The Bene­­­ dictine Rule ordered nuns ‘Never to fullfill [their] sensuall and carnall desires’; it regulated their eating and drinking, their sleeping, and insisted upon silence, thereby limiting sensory stimuli to a minimum.13 The statutes of each specific house echoed these rules scrupulously. At Brussels, injunctions regarding silence were lengthy, ordering the Sisters to keep down all noise - not only conversations but also the loud closing of doors and such distracting sounds. The statutes also contained prescriptions ‘on the Fasts and the Common diett’ and on the austerity of conventual life.14 It was important to control one’s appetite and to accept simple, bland foods without seeking the gratification of one’s taste buds through more delicate dishes; gluttony was one of the seven deadly sins, and was believed to lead to sloth. To take pleasure in the associations of favourite tastes was also construed as an inclination to a kind of lust, a delight of the senses. Eating should not be sensual but, rather, a pragmatic duty meant to keep the body healthy and able to serve God and the community. Augustine Baker recognised the temptation of sin in food; he wrote that ‘the pleasure felt in meat and drink play a considerable part in the spiritual life’. Indeed, food was a necessary part of everyday life, yet religious men and women must not give in to sensual appetites but remain in control, to feed their bodies adequately for sustenance rather than pleasurably for delight. Baker bemoaned the body as a burden, weighing down the soul by keeping it slavishly attached to physical necessities such as eating. He declared that ‘to cherish [the body] and to satisfy its inordinate cravings is to make provision for sin’.15 Continuing his reflections upon the subject, he condemned the bodily senses as enemies of the soul: the higher the soul is Elevated from the Bodily Senses, & abstracted from them & from the body [...] the lesse subject is She to be Caryed away with the inordinate passions & Affections of the body and of Sensuality, out of which springeth the chief or only perill & Damage of our Soules.16

His opinion was echoed, after his death, by Cambrai Abbess Christina Brent, who wrote to her Sisters: ‘Our enemies [are] the world, the divill and our owne sensuality.’ According to her, freedom 190

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from ‘sensualling’ was a prerequisite for any nun who hoped to live a fulfilling spiritual life.17 She even compared those who followed their sensate natures to horses or mules, ‘beasts following their sensuall Appetites, or rather being inthralled unto them’.18 The treatises nuns read reinforced such conceptions of the senses as sinful. In Pensez-y Bien, dedicated to Lucy Knatchbull when abbess of the Ghent community, a shocking engraving showed a woman with snakes, lizards and toads (all evil and lowly animals) suckling on her sensory organs. The author later explained that the senses would be punished, each in the appropriate manner, in hell.19 One of the most efficacious means of keeping the disorders of sensuality in check was to be vigilant in the exact keeping of the religious vows. With respect to the senses, the vow of chastity was particularly relevant, since it humbled not only sexual urges but also all sensual delight. At Cambrai, a treatise upon the virtues of religious persons reminded the community that the vow of chastity ‘disengages & purifies the heart from sensuall & carnall affections’.20 The concept of religious chastity translated into a general sobriety of life, a restraint towards sensuality which spanned far beyond sexual urges. For instance, the pleasures of food were to be shunned, and food control was an area in which religious women participated more actively and prominently than their male counterparts. Enlightening studies have shown that fasting played an important and complex role in their lives.21 Ideally, food abstinence was not to be undertaken for its own sake but, rather, as a means to feel the pangs Christ might have felt. It provided nuns with a way to identify with His suffering, and to prepare for union with Him. The same logic applied to penance in general. Nuns were required to exercise restraint in the satisfaction of all physical sensations. Mortification included all of the senses. In some Continental Orders, particularly zealous individuals took abstinence to extraordinary lengths and acted against their bodies and their senses with troubling violence. Some ate only the leftovers of their Sisters’ meals. Some poured ashes on their portions to spoil the taste or even ate filth; some quenched their thirst with vinegar. Others stood in icy baths or lay supine on cold stone floors. Some used the discipline until their habits and the walls of their cells were stained in their blood.22 Such striking acts of penance were rarely mentioned in Benedictine documents, although a few can be found in the obituaries of the Ghent community. There, Catherine Wigmore, who was 191

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naturally choleric, was said to have ‘totally overcome her passions’ and become a model of patience through the daily chastising of her body with rods, the discipline, bracelets, chains, wearing haircloth or wearing woollens even in the heat of summer.23 The mortuary bill of Abbess Lucy Knatchbull recounted her ‘exceeding austerities’, such as ‘thrice a week wearing iron chains, Hair Girdles, Desciplin and the like, Standing in a tub of cold water, &c’.24 Cecelie Price was said to mortify her body ‘by the rigour of austeritys, fasting, chain bracelets, hair cloath and the like’.25 Mary Mounson, mistress of novices at Ghent, ‘dyed alive, being nothing but skin and bone’; she suffered ‘strong agonys’ through the use of ‘hair Cloaths, braceletts, Iron Chains and sharp disciplins’. Catherine Wigmore also used those instruments of penance regularly.26 Mary Ignatia Coningsby was more inventive, and although she frequently wore iron chains and bracelets, ‘she had the hidden art to mortify her poor old body 3 or 4 ways at once’. She thrust pointed iron nails against the palms of her hand in imitation of the suffering Christ. She knelt on her bare knees and spread out her arms as one crucified, remaining thus for long periods of time, or sometimes held ‘one leg up unperceavably as she knelt’.27 It is interesting to note that these five nuns lived at Ghent together at the same time. Lucy Knatchbull and Cecelie Price were mem­­ bers of the Brussels convent and were part of the faction which actively petitioned in favour of Jesuit direction and more frequent communion. They both arrived at Ghent in 1624 as founding mem­­ bers of that house, whose distinctive characteristic was, from the start, its zealous support of Ignatian spirituality. They died in 1629 and 1630, as if bound in death as they had been in life. Catherine Wigmore and Mary Mounson arrived in 1626 and 1630, respectively, when the young convent was still in its initial fervour. Mary Ignatia Coningsby joined them some years later, and all three grew frail and died in a short period of time in 1656, 1658 and 1657, respectively. During their lives at Ghent, they heard the same sermons, used the same spiritual directors and confessors, and were all nurtured by the Jesuit exercises and devotional treatises. Their conception of asceticism and their relation to the senses appears to have been shaped by their belonging to that community, at that particular time. Yet such cases of extreme asceticism were otherwise not the norm amongst English Benedictine nuns; the Ghent convent was excep192

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tional, and the obituaries of other houses do not show instances of such behaviour. Elsewhere, the English Dames were more frequently remembered for their acceptance of God’s will rather than acts of self-imposed suffering; many seemed wary of excesses which could cause overzealous nuns to think themselves more deserving or holier than their Sisters. Augustine Baker reminded his followers that discipline should be rightly understood not as a means of mortification of the senses in themselves but, rather, as a tempering of any excessive pleasure derived from these senses.28 Moreover, far from mortifying the self, heroic asceticism could, on the contrary, provoke feelings of vanity.29 The only significant example to be found in the obituaries of English Benedictine nuns outside Ghent was at Brussels, where Etheldred Smith wrote to the archbishop that she feared for her sister Renata, who, of her own will, had entered upon a course of extreme penitence. She abstained from all food other than bread; then she secluded herself into her cell, where she remained for nine whole days without eating or drinking. The nuns became alarmed at seeing her food left untouched; when they finally broke down the door on the ninth day, they found Renata extremely weakened. Etheldred believed that this was a form of pride in her sister, an ill-advised desire to appear more saintly than the rest of the community. She referred to her ‘sense of her own holiness’ and the fact that Renata believed herself ‘highly favoured by God’.30 Others shared her caution towards penance undertaken as a feat of spiritual courage. At Cambrai, Gertrude More disapproved of those spiritual martyrs; she denounced the sinfulness of their ‘greediness to advance [their] soul by untimely suffering’.31 During her time as prioress of the Paris convent, Justina Gascoigne wrote instructions encouraging her Sisters to dedicate themselves to God’s will and to permanent prayer in order to mortify their nature and make their bodies ‘subject & obedient to the Spirit’. She urged her community to consider their lives ‘as a continuall Crosse & martirdome to nature’, but in so saying, she did not value physical suffering per se.32 Rather, she encouraged abnegation as a form of spiritual obedience, a gesture of abandon to God. The benefits of suffering depended entirely upon prayer, without which penance was not of God but, rather, a mere demonstration of human will. In Pontoise, Clare Vaughan was remembered for her successful overcoming of her early difficulties in contemplation. As a young 193

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nun, she had struggled to subdue her natural temperament which was ‘hott and fyery’. But she attained this state of quietness through perseverance in prayer rather than the castigation of her flesh. Through steady spiritual discipline, she hoped to maintain the inner peace which was necessary to communion with God. She described daily sensations as ‘the distractions of the world’, which she compared with the background noises and conversations which prevent a person from truly concentrating upon the task at hand. She vowed to remain ‘blind, deaf and dumb, endeavouring to know nothing but Christ crucified’. She therefore stayed away from all sensory stimulation in order to turn all her attention inwards, keeping silent and being attentive to God’s presence within her.33 At Paris, Jane of St Saviour expressed this point of view and rejoiced in her physical blindness as in a God-given favour: ‘God (saith she) hath taken away from me the sight of my body, that I may see nothing more but him.’34 She welcomed this as a chance to turn away from the pleasures of worldly sight and towards inner, spiritual sight. Lack of regard for the sensory was also key to Gertrude More’s spiritual endeavours at Cambrai. She wrote acts of resignation where she envisaged the castigation of her five senses in some particularly horrible ways. She accepted ‘the losse of eyes’ and ‘hideous, horrible sights’, ‘deafenesse’ and ‘noises displeasinge to the ear’, ‘ungratefull smells’, ‘dumbenesse’ and ‘bitter, or unsavorie Tasts’ as well as the loss of ‘all pleasure, delight, and Gust in the sense of Tast’.35 She wrote at length, and in somewhat unsettling detail, about bodily illnesses, the long list of which need not be transcribed here. She insisted especially on digestive problems – which may have been her personal weakness – and welcomed the pangs of hunger or sleep deprivation, as well as the discomforts of extreme cold or heat. Such discourse was ambivalent: even as she renounced her external senses the better to focus upon the divine, she also acknowledged the role of those senses on the way to the intimate knowledge of God. In this, she expressed the ambiguity of her feelings towards the sensory. Her physical senses were a distraction which she tuned out in order to be attentive to the evanescent presence of God, but at the same time, they were a means, through suffering, of knowing in her flesh some of the torments Christ endured, and of uniting with Him by imitation. Suffering with patience was a form of penance and homage to Christ’s own suffering. Thus, if the body was considered 194

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a hindrance, it was also the vector of imitatio Christi and mediated the penitent’s search for the divine. Towards the end of her short life, Gertrude More became detached, ‘separated from her senses’. Baker even wrote that ‘her senses grew to be almost stupefied and greatly mortified [...], so that they were well content to rest and do nothing’. She attained what he called ‘a certain rest of body and sense’, which would eventually enable her soul to achieve contemplation. But until God called her to Him directly, without the need for the affective exercises she practised over the years, sensible devotions had been necessary. These began in her sensory nature, and were seen as stepping-stones towards true, unmediated contemplation. ‘For how could she think of love, or of God, or of anything else but by means of sensible images?’36 The bodily senses were therefore useful to take the first step on a long and arduous quest towards the spiritual. Teresa of Àvila had recognised this by dedicating the first of the seven mansions of her Interior Castle to the senses.37 Gertrude More achieved the gradual dulling of her senses through the constant practice of introversion, rather than the extreme asceticism of her Ghent contemporaries. Inspired by her director Augustine Baker, she followed a brand of spirituality which echoed that of pre-Reformation mystics. The inner senses of the soul The preface to the Benedictine Rule enjoined the nuns to be ever vigilant to the presence of God, ‘with open eyes and attentive eares’: ‘harken daughter to the commeundment of God the Master: and inclyne the eare of thy hart, and willingly receave the admonition of thy pittifull Father, and put it in execution’.38 In this context, however, sensing was to be understood as inward; it all happened within the soul, in abstraction from the senses of the flesh. When Justina Gascoigne exhorted her Paris community to deny their senses in order to feel God, she highlighted the difficulty of such an endeavour: although they declared outwardly that they belonged to Him, she and her Sisters would not be able to know what this truly meant until they came ‘by Experience to find it’.39 Here, she expressed the crux of the conundrum about the senses, which was that one must not feel in order to really feel. Her use of the term ‘experience’ was particularly interesting. It implied that the body occupied a central, albeit ambiguous, place in the spiritual e­ xperience of nuns. As the 195

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channel of senses, it was the site of temptations and the tomb of the soul. Yet it was also the locus of a nun’s spiritual experience; it was, by necessity, through the body that the religious was felt. Zealous nuns such as Gertrude More longed for a different type of sensing; in her writings, she called for a transformation, a new sensory prism which He only could grant her: ‘When shall the eyes of my body be so closed from beholding all vanity that the eyes of my soul may be cleared by Thee, to the discernment of truth?’40 This was echoed in the papers of an anonymous Sister at Paris, who wrote: ‘Lord, the clear vision of thee infinitely surpasses al beauty & delectation, which in the world the eye hath seen, the eare hath heard, or hath ascended into the hart of man.’41 Such writings were directly inspired by Bakerite teachings and owed much to Augustine’s philosophy upon the relationship between the senses and the sacred. Augustine taught that human happiness consisted in the perpetual sensing of God. He implied that individuals possessed two distinct sets of senses, the first being our physical sense receptors, and the other being inward. To him, both sets were an integral part of human nature, and both participated in the apprehension of God. Whereas the bodily senses mediated the sacred on the physical plane, Augustine taught that the spiritual senses allowed human beings to know the presence of God in an immediate way.42 In his writings, he opposed the inadequacy of the sensate flesh to the cognitive efficacy of God-given perception. He described his conversion as a moment of epiphany of all five senses; to him, it was like shedding the old, blunt and unperceiving senses of his carnal nature, to be suddenly endowed with new, revealing perception, through the grace of God. This implied that carnal sensing was synonymous with ignorance, whereas inner sensing, which came from God, brought to light His will and nature. Divine knowledge could therefore be linked to sensory understanding, but only in this very particular understanding of the term ‘sensory’. Penitents were not agents, but, rather, recipients in this experience. They did not see God through their own efforts, but, rather, God gave them light; they did not actively hear God, but, rather, God spoke to them, put an end to their blindness and their deafness. In this perception of the senses, the human sensory apparatus was unable to perceive the divine unless God enabled it to do so. According to Augustine’s scala coeli, the senses played a role in the spiritual progress of the religious. On the first rung of this 196

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ladder towards God, he placed corporeal sensations or religious experience through tangible objects, smells, sounds, tastes and sights which prepared the Christian for the next rung. This second rung gave access to a more spiritualised, internal type of meditation. Finally, on the third rung, contemplation was internal and devoid of anything sensory; it was direct and immediate. The senses therefore provided mediation for the first two rungs, they acted as necessary steps towards the last stage, which was immediate contemplation. Augustine’s writings inspired the author of Cloud of Unknowing and Walter Hilton (c. 1340–96), who both presented a long process towards the upper rung, through a life of asceticism and prayer. Augustine Baker worked on these authors and provided copies of their works to the nuns of Cambrai, who did the same for their Sisters at Paris, thereby nourishing their particular understanding of the role the senses played in contemplative life. Augustine Baker insisted that each nun should be allowed to progress in her spiritual journey at her own speed, and according to her own capacity, without the mediation of pre-set images, exercises or prescriptive clerical guidance. She was to become an ‘empty vessel’, a holy receptacle to be filled with the divine. The practice at Cambrai and Paris therefore minimised the role of imaginative representations to emphasise inner prayer. Baker’s teachings were based upon the writings of late medieval mystics whose works he copied and translated for his nuns, including, as we have just seen, the author of the Cloud of Unknowing and Walter Hilton, but also Blosius, Harphius, John Ruysbroeck, Henry Suso or John Tauler.43 The nuns copied Julian of Norwich’s Showings of Love and had knowledge of Julian’s unique brand of immediate female spirituality.44 Baker’s cultural and religious heritage did not endorse the method of the Ignatian exercises, and, rather, sought a prayer of silence which was more akin to groups who encouraged an immediate (without sensory mediation) contact with God. He highly recommended the writings of John of the Cross and the Life of Teresa of Àvila. He defended the case of the heterodox Jesuit Balthasar Àlvarez (1533–80), accused of illuminism because of his inwardlooking practice. Àlvarez had served as Teresa of Àvila’s confessor between 1559 and 1566, at a time when the Inquisition accused her of being an alumbrada; she claimed that clerical guidance was not helpful for her, whereas her raptures allowed her unmediated contact with God.45 For their stance on silent prayer and immediate 197

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union, Baker’s followers at Cambrai and Paris were suspected of sympathy for the quietist movement initiated by Miguel de Molinos (1628–96), François de Salignac de la Mothe-Fénelon (1651–1715) and Jeanne-Marie Bouvier de la Motte Guyon (1648–1717).46 To Bakerite nuns, spiritual experience mediated through the senses was considered only as a step towards something entirely a-sensate. Gertrude More wrote of a hidden God, ‘but yet not so hidden from our souls but that in some sort we have therein, according to our poor capacities, not only a taste, but also a sight, of Thee’. ‘Oh sight to be wished, desired, and longed for, because once to have seen Thee is to have learnt all things!’ She believed that one brief moment of immediate conversation with God could teach a soul more about herself and about the divine than all the teaching in the world could do in five hundred years.47 Thus, the inner senses were a means of gaining some knowledge of God. They had a cognitive value in the lives of even the most austere and mortified contemplative nuns. In communities which were, on the contrary, deeply attached to Jesuit directors and Ignatian spirituality, the relationship to the senses was quite different from that at Cambrai or Paris. Authors such as Bernard de Clairvaux, Bonaventure, Albert the Great or Jan Ruysbroec had blurred the distinction between physical and ­spiritual senses.48 They distinguished less firmly than Augustine between the bodily and the spiritual senses and implied that Christ’s own incarnation had made the human body a legitimate channel for the knowledge of God, if rightly guarded by a constant attentiveness to His work through those infused senses. They valued the senses as pathways towards union, through tactile, gustatory, olfactory, aural and visual mediation. The teachings of Ignatius Loyola, which deeply influenced the spirituality of many English Benedictines outside of Cambrai and Paris, built upon this philosophy of the senses. In his fifth contemplation, Loyola described ‘the five senses of the imagination’. He encouraged his followers ‘to bring the five senses’ into their spiritual exercises. Thus, when they tried to summon into their minds a particular episode of the life of Jesus or any other holy personage, he advocated that they should ‘see the persons […] with the imaginative sense of sight’; sight was first and foremost, it was the initial stimulus and the most validating. But it was followed by a summoning of the other senses also, since retreatants should ‘hear 198

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with the sense of hearing what they are saying’. Loyola also advised his readers ‘to smell and to taste with the senses of smell and taste, the infinite gentleness of the divinity of the soul’; ‘to touch with the sense of touch, as for instance, to embrace and kiss the places where such persons tread and sit’. The application of the senses was an exercise of the imagination; it helped towards meditation or discursive prayer, which was itself required in order to hope to achieve contemplation. The application of the senses was supposed to be beneficial, and came as the climax of the Ignatian day to contribute towards discernment.49 As they engaged with the senses more directly, the Benedictines who followed the Ignatian exercises articulated their accounts of divine experience in the language of both spiritual and bodily senses. Historians of the medieval period have produced remarkable studies of the embodied nature of female spirituality which expressed itself, at times, through miracles or visionary episodes.50 Phenomena of both kinds were reported by the convent of Ghent. In 1660, Mary Minshall was suddenly cured of a terribly painful affliction in her leg by the application of holy oils to her body. Inexplicably, her thighbone had become dislocated from the hip joint, and her leg had swollen dramatically, causing agonising convulsions. She suffered for three years, subjecting herself to medical treatments using baths, plasters, traction devices and medicine, but all in vain. When her abbess, Mary Knatchbull, heard of the miraculous curative properties of the oil in the lamps which burned before the image of the Holy Virgin at the chapel of Our Blessed Lady of Succour, in Brussels, she procured a small quantity of that oil, which was applied to Minshall’s leg and to her entire body. To everyone’s surprise, Minshall was cured overnight, feeling as strong and nimble as she had ever been. The miraculous cure was verified by several eyewitnesses, and its narrative gave the community of Ghent a special charisma. By touch, the oils had brought about a miracle. Moreover, since the oil was used in the lamps burning before the image of Mary, its miraculous properties also defended the sacred nature of images. This episode vindicated the power of Catholic holy objects, and inscribed the Ghent convent within a militant movement which sought to demonstrate the holiness of Catholic sensory practices. The narrative of a miraculous cure is quite exceptional amongst English Benedictines, to be found only in one other example, in the 199

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eighteenth century, also at Ghent. Significantly, it was printed in French at Brussels: it was therefore intended for a wider readership than usual, outside the convent. Its missionary spirit was stated in its very title, which claimed it should serve ‘for the Information and Benefit of our Countrey’.51 This rare episode asserted the role of the senses in the sacred workings of the divine on earth: the body was a witness to God’s will and to his miracles, worked through holy objects. With regard to the role of the senses in a nun’s experience of the divine, raptures or ecstasies also play a complex and ambiguous part. Both words, etymologically, indicate an experience lived ‘out of’ oneself and of one’s own senses.52 Indeed, when the ecstatic nuns or their eye-witnesses testified, they often wrote of senselessness or abstraction from the body. At Ghent, Eugenia Poulton was renowned for her supernatural gifts in prayer, and her obituary related how she would be ‘alienated from her sences’ sometimes for over a quarter of an hour, as she appeared to leave the sphere of the sensible altogether. Such abstraction left her empty, free to be invested by the Holy Spirit and to receive apparitions through her inner sight.53 Her Sister in religion, Catherine Wigmore, who was particularly devoted to the holy sacrament, experienced raptures during the Eucharist: ‘she was seen in an extraordinary posture and manner (perhaps it was more than natural) alienated [...] so that some who observed her believed verily she neither heard saw, nor minded any thing that was done save only, interiourly how to enjoy and entertain her beloved’.54 In cases such as these, inner lights manifested themselves outwardly by an abstraction from the body, during which the percipient felt nothing through the five senses of her flesh, as if catatonic or in a trance. These manifestations were a paradox: they were rooted in the sensory and yet also a-sensory. The percipient could sense the presence of God mediated through vision, hearing, smell, taste or even touch. It was a form of union, which Augustine Baker described as sensible grace ‘which God communicates to the internal senses, especially to the imagination, infusing supernatural images into it’. This grace had remarkable effects upon the soul and caused raptures during which the mystic’s outward senses were suspended and her soul enlightened.55 The best-documented case amongst the English Benedictines was that of Lucy Knatchbull, who experienced visions from the very beginning of her calling until the hour of her 200

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death. The first of her visions occurred before she even took the habit, when she had been a scholar for only nine months. After communion, she saw, as she explained, with ‘the eye of my mind (for those of [her] body were shutt)’ a light in the form of a supernatural star which enlightened the whole world.56 She experienced her next vision when taking the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises before her profession; on that occasion, she saw Jesus in his incarnated person; she added: ‘I did not see him and yet the eyes of my mind did in some sort see him.’57 It was as though this sight was impressed upon her from out of nowhere. Throughout her life, she explained that she felt her visions by inner sensing: ‘My soule did see him [...] and my eyes were drawn within mee soe that I had then, as divers tymes since upon this occasion, I have had difficulty to looke up.’ Knatchbull’s ecstasies often were linked with the Eucharist. Once, on the feast of Corpus Christi, as she prayed before the Blessed Sacrament, she had a vision of Jesus as a twelve-year-old boy who gave her his benediction with his right hand outstretched.58 The mere sight of the Sacrament had been enough to cause her to commune with the suffering Christ, whose feast it was that day. But more of her mystical episodes happened during communion. The revelations occurred through her inner senses, at times of heightened awareness of God when she gave herself entirely to Him. She met Jesus when she ingested Him during the Eucharist. One of her moments of union in fact occurred upon the feast of St Teresa, after receiving Holy Communion. She recalled: ‘I found me Soule, as it were Casting her Self into the armes of our Lord, and he haveing regard to her seemed in the same instant to draw into himself, the affections of my whole heart.’59 Once again, the experience was so powerful that she felt faint, as in a trance. Whether she saw, heard, smelled, touched or tasted the divine, all of Knatchbull’s revelations happened inwards, through her spiritual senses, and her obituarist recalled that they ‘spent her corporal forces’, as though inner sensing depleted her physical strength.60 Some of her mystical episodes were also channelled through hearing with ‘the ears of [her] Soule’. She recalled hearing the divine command: ‘Be Intire to Me’ and receiving other Godly instructions through the years. Once, she ‘smell’d a sweet perfect odour of Violets upon her oratory’. Sweet smells were construed as revelatory of the truth and knowledge, but also associated with sanctity.61 She was also favoured to touch Jesus, ‘reposing her head upon her 201

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Dear Redeemers Left Side’, and even to taste Him, ‘sucking from our Saviour’s Right foot the most Excellent Vertue of humility’. Some visions combined these senses with sight, as for instance when she sucked on Christ’s bleeding foot, and recalled: ‘The eye of my Imagination did see the forme of a foote as perfectly as the eye of my body can doe any thing.’ Most of these events were triggered by receiving Holy Communion: having ingested the body of Christ, Knatchbull felt penetrated by God. And when she mystically sucked on His wounded foot after communion, it was as though she doubly expressed the importance of ingesting, eating, tasting Jesus in his embodied humanity, once through the host she took in her mouth, and again through the vision of suckling on his flesh for several minutes. She testified that after receiving the Sacrament, ‘it seem’d to me that our Lord Entred into my Soul, as in his temple’. She also recalled what she felt on a different occasion, after communion: ‘I desern’d a kind of heaven within me Receiving in the Sacred Host [...]. I had a sight as if it were of three Divine Persons, full of Majesty seated in my soul [...], who to my Seeming had made Choice of my heart as his habitation and rest.’ Another time, she wrote that after communion, God had shut himself up in her heart, ‘as it were bolting himself within so as not to be seen known or hear’d to be there’. Once, as she held the host in her mouth, Knatchbull eagerly anticipated being suffused with God’s presence. Upon ingestion, she felt she received Jesus incarnate within herself: ‘as soone as I had swallowed the Sacred host me thought our Lord (as if the full stature of a Man) full of Comlyness and grace was in my hart’.62 This sense of absorption was reciprocal. Knatchbull experienced union through consuming God, and she also felt absorbed by Him; as she swallowed the host, she felt that God ‘inclos’d her whole spirit within himself’.63 These images were reminiscent of those used by the nuns’ holy exemplars. Caroline Walker Bynum has revealed that devotion to the Eucharist acquired a particular significance for female mystics in the thirteenth century. Hadewijch, a Beguine from the Low Countries, wrote poetry in which spiritual love was expressed both through eating and being eaten. Such devotion to the Eucharist was prominently female, as were Eucharistic miracles in which the recipient became a vessel filled with light, or in which the ingestion of the host affected the senses, causing a sweet smell or taste, conjuring up sounds or visions.64 Indeed, frequency of communion 202

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was an eagerly debated topic during the troubles which divided the Brussels community, with a number of the nuns demanding more frequent communion. Through the ages, divine union was ever expressed in the language of the senses and of emotions. The physical and affective nature of the mystical experience was actually one of the reasons why clerical authorities held mystics in the highest suspicion, and why these visionary women had to prove the godly origin of their ecstasies.65 One of the most famous cases was that of Teresa of Àvila, whose mysticism came under severe scrutiny. It has been remarked that Knatchbull’s biography indeed had ‘not a little in common’ with that of Teresa of Àvila, and Tobie Matthew often compared the two women in his biography of the English Benedictine.66 Lucy Knatchbull was familiar with the biography of Teresa de Jesus and this may have influenced her account of her own spiritual experience. Moreover, the two Lives were linked by Matthew, who translated Teresa’s Vita in 1623 and wrote Knatchbull’s biography in a similar style. He insisted upon the incorporeal nature of Lucy Knatchbull’s ecstasies when he wrote: ‘I pretend not heere, to speeke of miracles, in any Corporall way [...]. Nay there can be no doubt at all, but that the admirable and miraculous things, which are spirituall, be as much more excellent than the Corporall, as bodyes be inferior to Soules.’67 Matthew tried to minimise the importance of the senses in these spiritual encounters and described the mystics’ recourse to sensory language as a default mode of expression to tell of something so sublime that it defied any other means of description. Since human beings knew empirically through sensory experience, it was impossible for them to explain anything which transcended these senses without resorting to the inadequate, yet necessary, words of the senses. To explain the bond between the senses and what he called ‘Supernaturall great favours’,68 he wrote: because we are so built in Nature, that as nothing gets into our Soules, but by the Ministry of our Sences, so nothing can well get out, but by that way whereby they got in. When therefore Almighty God […] is pleased to infuse certaine Verityes, and feelings, into the Soule by the only immediate way, of his owne unlimited power, and good pleasure, without any service at all from the Sences, What wonder can it be that such Soules can be no way exact, in the delivering of all such interior feelings of theirs by the way of Sence and Speech?69

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The nuns who experienced these phenomena were at the interface between the sensory and the spiritual, and a truthful and accurate account of such experiences proved all but impossible. For instance, although she was certain she had seen God, Lucy Knatchbull also explained she did not really see Him, or at least not clearly, not as one would see physically: ‘I am not able to describe any feature, for it was to the eye of my mind as if some thinne vayle had shadowed him.’70 Here, her inability to describe what she had seen came from the vision itself, which was blurred and out of focus; but there undoubtedly existed another level of difficulty, which was linked to the very nature of such supernatural events. When trying to describe what they had experienced, mystics, time and again, came to the same conclusion: they could not. Words did not do their experience any justice. What they had felt was the immediate and ineffable presence of God.71 In her Flaming Hart, Teresa of Àvila dwelt upon the paradox of immediate understanding, an experience in which she did not understand how she had understood, and yet knew for certain that she had, even if she could not express it. She wrote that mystical experiences ‘cannot be well understood, and much less expressed’.72 Lucy Knatchbull was fully aware of the inadequacy of words to express the ineffable. In a letter to a male correspondent, she bemoaned these shortcomings: ‘I have not well expressed my self […] I am not able to give those things which have passed between God and my Soule very well to be understood.’73 Later, she wrote again: ‘I have not words to expres.’74 Such phenomena were at once vested with an ambiguous status. As inspirational as they were potentially suspicious, they had to be verified to ascertain their divine origin; but once that divine origin was undoubted, they acquired special potency. Mystical sensing Although visions and sensory miracles were rare in Benedictine documents at large, they did play a prominent part in narratives issuing from the Ghent house. Indeed, some nuns were converted that way. Sight, the noblest of the senses, and the medium of verification and affirmation, had physical effects on the faithful. What Thomas would not believe when he simply heard of it became undeniable truth when he saw (and touched).75 The documents of the Ghent Benedictines give several examples of conversions obtained 204

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by revelations or visions. Cecelie Price, the daughter of Protestant parents, was converted by the vision of six ‘glorious and most beautiful virgins in the habit of Benedictines’ who called upon her and let her know that she would leave the world for the love of God.76 After many tribulations, she became a lay Sister and lived a life of zealous mortification against her physical senses, as we saw earlier. Inner sight was a factor of conversion and sometimes also a help to strengthen the nun’s vocation and steel her resolve to live according to the Rule. Mary Digby, after a long period of aridity, was rewarded by several visions which, as her death notice explained, were ‘credibly believ’d’. Digby’s problem was that she tended to fall asleep at matins. On one occasion, she was about to ask leave from her superior to go out when she looked up to the image of the blessed Virgin, and felt its physical effect on her. She saw a bright star appear on the image, then heard a voice coming from it, which said ‘As you see the Greatness and resplendant brightness of this star’s increase, so Did you increase and augment my Glory every time you resisted sleep in my honnour or for my sake.’ Digby felt suddenly refreshed and was able to pray with renewed zeal. This vignette demonstrated the power of both physical sight and inner sensing. It was by looking at the image of the Virgin Mary that Digby initially felt moved; this outer stimulus stirred something in her and acted as a trigger for a secondary, inward event. She saw and heard, inside herself, the presence of the Virgin, who urged her to reform her personal inclinations for her sake. Her bodily and spiritual senses combined to produce a unique and effective experience. Afterwards, it was reported, Digby was never tempted to sleep again during the office; a change had occurred in her constitution and she was physically altered by her mystical encounter.77 Along the same lines, Alexia Grey, a great lover of secular life and vanities, had a vision in which she saw herself brought before ‘the Tribunal of allmighty God in a Place of Judgement’, with many others waiting to be judged. She saw God as the judge, in majesty, attended by saints and angels, and by His mother Mary; she witnessed a great globe being turned, containing names with the list of all the sins committed by all those standing trial. She was able to see clearly their names and their faults, including the sins of one of her co-Sisters. Then she heard her name being called, the voice sentencing her to damnation. She was immensely frightened by what she heard and snapped out of her trance, decided to 205

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prepare for a general confession; she also went to talk to the other nun about her secret sin, which caused her to sink to her knees and turn as pale as ashes, ‘knowing that no mortall creature was ever wittness of it’. Through her inner sight and hearing, Alexia Grey had acquired revealed knowledge, about her fellow’s failings but also about the state of her own soul.78 These vignettes show that sensing was both spiritually and physically efficacious to know God and do His will. It provoked conversions, triggered vocations and also acted as a buttress for those whose resolve was wavering, for it mediated a certain form of discernment. Amongst the other communities of English Benedictines, however, examples of such phenomena appear to have been rare; it is of course possible that some occurred but were left unrecorded. Nonetheless, the Ghent Dames stood out in their decision to report several. This, in itself, is intriguing. Was it really the case that supernatural episodes happened nearly exclusively at Ghent? This is one possibility; Ghent distinguished itself through its zealously Ignatian spirituality and may have been more inclined to value mystical experiences than were, say, the houses of Cambrai or Paris, where Bakerite spirituality was more defiant towards the extraordinary. This could also be linked to group dynamics, with the example of one nun influencing others and creating an atmosphere which was favourable to the relating of such phenomena. Indeed, it has been pointed out that ‘An individual’s sensory perception is always social perception. The individual perceives what it is socially permitted to be expressed in language.’79 Or was the Ghent community the only one to decide that such occurrences should be recorded, when others preferred not to? If so, why? In a Continental context where female mystics continued to fall under suspicion, did they believe that such narratives were worth the risk? Did they trust that the benefits of recording these events outweighed the potential dangers? The stories of the most striking supernatural events which occurred at Ghent aimed at edifying readers; they operated as educational tools for the consolidation of orthodoxy and the vindication of the truthfulness of the Catholic faith. In the English context, Catholics were an oppressed minority whose faith was decried in the official articles of the Anglican Church and in the many antiCatholic pamphlets which flourished throughout the seventeenth century. Catholic writers entered the arena of polemics, publishing answers and counter-arguments, each aiming to demonstrate 206

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the truthfulness of the Roman creed and the holiness of its practices. Although women were excluded from the forum of printed polemics, they were not entirely without means to vindicate their faith and denounce Protestantism. Sometimes supernatural events served that very purpose. The example of Mary Trevillion’s obituary is a case in point. The young woman was on her way to the Continent to enter holy Orders when she had a terrifying vision. As she and a friend lay in their beds at night, about to take the journey overseas, ‘she saw the Enemy’ who tried to dissuade her from becoming a nun. She did not immediately understand it was the devil, because it had taken the shape of a doctor who worked for her family. She resisted his assaults, but her friend was persuaded, ‘not only loosing her vocation, but also her Religion, for she fell from the faith & went to protestant churches’.80 In this case, the vision served a double purpose. On the one hand, it established the veracity of the one true faith, since Satan himself was determined to harm it; it showed that taking the veil was a testimony of one’s determination to ­dedicate oneself to God. By remaining steadfast in her vocation, Trevillion appeared the victor, triumphant against evil, a true daughter of Christ. On the other hand, the episode indicated that the Protestant faith was the creed of those who lapsed and were lured by Satan’s deceits. Trevillion’s friend was weak; her faith was not solid enough to withstand the test. She was tempted by evil and became a ­Protestant – a heretic. Such narratives are not legion in the documents of the early modern English Benedictine nuns, and once again they all belong to the history of the Ghent convent. The death notice of Dame Teresia Gardiner recounted how, as a girl of twelve, she had been given in marriage by her parent to a ‘Debayst man’ much older than herself. As soon as her parents were dead, she decided to escape her unhappy marriage by fleeing to France. When she arrived there, she was attracted to the Catholic faith by her contacts with Bernardine nuns, but, as she joined the English court in exile, she became the object of a tug-of-war between the queen’s ghostly father and a Cambridge minister. Gardiner was only twenty-two or twenty-three years old, and had been raised a Protestant; she became ‘perplext on every side’, not knowing what to believe. The Protestant scholar contested Mary’s motherhood of God and declared she was only mother of the man Jesus; he also denied her virginity and her 207

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power over God. Gardiner pondered his words for three consecutive nights. Finally, she prayed to Mary to give her a sign as to whether or not she had ‘power with God’, to give her ‘a clear light to discern the true religion’. She then ‘cast up her eyes’, and ‘saw a most excellent and beautifull Lady in the midst of the rome’, which she understood to be the Mother of God. She had first closed her eyes in order to focus internally upon her prayer, but her vision was described as quite physical. She looked up and beheld Mary standing right there, in the room with her. The apparition’s body language was expressive: turning away from Gardiner, to show her displeasure at her lack of faith, Mary then disappeared from the room. The phenomenon caused the hesitant young woman to leap out of bed and fall to her knees, feeling ‘strongly Comforted and Confirm’d in the true belief of the Catholick Roman faith’. She returned to England, a Catholic, and lived her life as a recusant, estranged from her husband, until his death released her and she took the veil at Ghent. Teresia Gardiner’s death notice is quite lengthy, the obituarist deliberately dwelling upon the dangers of the Protestant faith. She was described as a ‘poor straid sheep’, a victim of ‘the Enemy’ who had ‘Cast new Clouds in her onderstanding’. Yet she finally escaped ‘the dark mist of Heresy’, through Cotton’s ‘unbeguiling her of the errours of Heresy’ and the revealed ‘Truth of Chatolick Doctrin’, which she instantly accepted, ‘as soon as She beheld’ the vision.81 The narrative of supernatural phenomena in which ghosts or visions appeared to act on this earthly plane and were manifest through the senses were one of the ways in which religious women could take part in theological controversies. Through these vignettes, they were able to confirm Catholic beliefs and positions. One last example will suffice to illustrate this point: the narration of the strange events which occurred in 1634 and 1635 around a new recruit, Dame Aloysia. Whilst a mere postulant at Ghent in October 1635, Aloysia German found her evening prayers disturbed repeatedly by three knocks against her oratory. In ‘great alarm’, she referred to her novice mistress, who tried to reassure her and advised her to calm her overactive imagination and nerves. On 3 March 1636, her perceptions were verified by another Sister, who also heard the three knocks: the noise was not in internal perception but a real, physical manifestation. Aloysia went to bed, drawing the curtains close around her, 208

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but they were flung open by an unseen force. She called the novice mistress but the event happened twice more, witnessed by Aloysia, the novice mistress and another Sister. Holy water was used, to no avail. The next night, Mary Knatchbull, Winefride Smythe and a novice, Ursula Butler, were appointed to watch with her, and all heard the knocking clearly. The Sisters called out to the spirit to make itself known, and it answered. It was the spirit of the recently deceased John Sherman, a man Aloysia had converted to Catholicism when she was still in England. The Virgin Mary – whom he had often defended against calumny in England - had enabled him to contact them to request five Masses, which would allow his soul to be at rest. Had the nuns not replied in the next two days, he would have been condemned to purgatory for an undetermined length of time. On that occasion, the spirit said he was in the room, by the oratory, but the Sisters could not see him. However, when eventually the five Masses were sung, Aloysia clearly saw John Sherman ‘in a white garment’, standing by the Epistle, although he was visible only to her. He knelt and bowed during the service, at the relevant moments, observing the perfect practice of Mass. In the narrative of this episode by Aloysia herself, the lexical field of seeing and hearing was abundant; it was used to present her story as real, buttressed by the tangible verification of physical sensing. ‘I heard three distinct knocks’, ‘I heard and saw [the curtains] thrown open’, ‘I heard & saw the curtains drawn again’, ‘they both heard and saw the curtains with great violence rush’d open, & looking they saw nothing but the curtains wide open’. This strange episode asserted the intercessory power of prayers for the dead: it vindicated the Catholic doctrine of purgatory, which had come so violently under attack during the Reformation. From beyond the grave, the spirit of the departed had come to testify not only to the efficacy of the Masses for the dead, but to their necessity to put the souls to rest. It was a glowing endorsement of Catholic orthodoxy. The same can be said about the Virgin Mary, whose agency was credited here as salvific. Moreover, this episode also highlighted the intercessory power of the nuns, who appeared ideally placed to play this important role. Sherman sought their intercession, and did not go to anyone else. Had they failed to answer, his soul would have been in torment, yet he insisted on delivering his message to them, and no one else. Through this, the Ghent Benedictines acquired a certain kudos and were credited with spiritual cachet.82 209

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The Ghent Benedictines decided to write about the supernatural events which peppered life in their convent; when they acknowledged events such as those described above, they trusted that it would achieve something. They did take a risk which their Sisters in other English Benedictine communities preferred to forego; they went against the grain of a post-Tridentine climate which advocated containment of the female body and of the female voice. They opted for a medieval model of charismatic spirituality which could benefit the individual nun and her community at large by granting them prestige and respect. A few individuals dared to adopt this model in the early modern European cloister, with varying results.83 If sanctity was their aim, the Ghent Benedictines were playing against the odds; indeed, amongst the fifty-five individuals who were canonised between 1588 and 1767, there were nearly four times more men than women, and most were Italian or Spanish, with no representatives of England at all.84 But, whatever their goal, their embracing of supernatural manifestations was likely to have a particular edge in an era when Protestants rejected such phenomena. At a time when Catholic beliefs were under attack, visions or revelations provided Catholic women with a means to verify and vindicate their faith. It was more delicate for them to enter the war of words which produced so many publications at the time. In the patriarchal societies of early modern Europe, it was unseemly – though not entirely unheard of – for women to publish their own works. According to the Pauline injunctions, their sex was not suffered to teach.85 They had no university schooling, no degree in theology, no institutional posts within the Church; their intellectual opinions were held as worthless. However, when a woman’s voice came not from herself but from the divine revelations that she received, it carried a different power altogether. Focusing on mysticism and gender, Alison Weber’s excellent studies of Teresa of Àvila illustrate the extent to which the Spanish mystic was aware of this, and used it to her advantage.86 As English Catholics, the Ghent Benedictines expressly defended the cult of the Virgin Mary, the doctrine of purgatory and many other of the most decried aspects of the Roman faith against the attacks of the Protestant majority of their homeland, through the prism of the supernatural and the sensate. If such stories are to be interpreted as signs of the nuns’ militancy, they inscribe the Ghent Benedictines within the wider context of the English mission 210

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and its use of the supernatural, as analysed in Alexandra Walsham’s enlightening article.87 Interestingly, The Downside Review published a very brief piece in 1890 recounting Aloysia’s haunting; the author called it ‘a beautiful story, and one which, as Catholics, we can readily credit, since it turns upon the possibility of a departed person being allowed to return to this world to obtain prayers for its release from purgatory’.88 Two hundred and fiftyfive years later, the narrative remained imbued with authority. It confirmed one of the core beliefs of the Roman Catholic faith and, as such, was a precious contribution. When applied to the scrutiny of early modern conventual life, the lens of sensory studies reveals fascinating detail about what it felt like to be an enclosed English nun. The choice of religion in exile meant that these women could experience daily the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and textures of a Catholic practice that had been legally repressed and publicly mocked in England. In the safety of their new local environments, they were free to enjoy the physical sensations which all tended to evoke the sacred and help the faithful to turn towards God, even in their most menial occupations. Of course, Catholic practice was not as monolithic as its Protestant opponents would have their readers believe. Each spiritual heritage was defined by its idiosyncrasies. The English Benedictine nuns, although bound by one single Rule, showed some degree of divergence about the place of the senses in spiritual experience (amongst other things). All shared the same defiance towards sensual pleasures, and agreed that the body presented dangerous occasions to sin. They believed in the superiority of the inner senses over the outer senses, of spiritual over physical perception. However, they varied in their valuing of these inner senses as vectors of the spiritual. To some, sensory mystical experiences were to be cherished, but also considered as a step towards something even more divine, when the nun would become God’s in an entirely immediate, a-sensate union. On the other hand, others appeared to value their sensate revelations very highly, in and of themselves; they used them militantly as testimonies of incontrovertible truth, since they were verified by the very senses of the body, as well as the inner senses; this highlighted their tangible efficacy and their transformative power. The body therefore played somewhat different roles not only in the individual but also in the communal experience of the divine, and in its public expression too. 211

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Notes 1 Gordon Rudy, The Mystical Language of Sensation in the Later Middle Ages (New York: Routledge, 2002). 2 The Canons and Decrees of the Sacred and Oecumenical Council of Trent, ed. and trans. by J. Waterworth (London: Dolman, 1848), p.  156. 3 Rule, preface, p. 3 and p. 5, respectively. 4 For publications on the senses in early modern era, see for instance Stuart Clark, Vanities of the Eye: Vision in Early Modern European Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); Katharine A. Craik, Reading Sensations in Early Modern England (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007); Holly Dugan, The Ephemeral History of Perfume: Scent and Sense in Early Modern England (Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 2011); Elizabeth D. Harvey (ed.), Sensible Flesh: On Touch in Early Modern Culture (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002); David Howes (ed.), Empire of the Senses: The Sensual Culture Reader (Oxford and New York: Berg, 2005); and Alice E. Sanger and Siv Tove Kulbrandstad Walker (eds), Sense and the Senses in Early Modern Art and Cultural Practice (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012). 5 To cite but a few examples, the Renaissance Society of America Conference of 2010 counted seven panels on religion and the senses. Yale University hosted a dedicated conference on the theme of Sensational Religion: Sense and Contention in Material Practice in 2011, whilst York University welcomed sixty-three speakers in 2013 with its Sensing the Sacred: Religion and the Senses, 1300–1800. In 2014, Lisbon University held a conference on Making Sense of Religion: Performance, Art and Experience. For publications, see Wietse de Boer and Christine Göttler (eds), Religion and the Senses in Early Modern Europe (Leiden: Brill, 2012); Marcia B. Hall and Tracy E. Cooper (eds), The Sensuous in the Counter-Reformation Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013); Matthew Milner, The Senses and the English Reformation (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011). 6 Nicky Hallett, Senses in Religious Communities, 1600–1800. Early Modern ‘Convents of Pleasure’ (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013). 7 Quoted in Milner, The Senses and the English Reformation, p. 1. Emphasis mine. 8 Decrees of the Council of Trent, Session 22, Chapter V, ‘On the solemn ceremonies of the Sacrifice of the Mass’. 9 Quoted in Caroline Walker Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption. Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion (New York: Zone Books, 1991), p. 126. 10 Wietse de Boer, ‘The Counter-Reformation of the senses’, in Mary Laven, A. Bamji and G. Jannsen (eds), The Ashgate Research Companion to the Counter Reformation (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012), pp. 243–60. 11 See Andrew Cichy, ‘Parlour, court and cloister: musical culture in English

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convents during the seventeenth century’, in Caroline Bowden and James Kelly (eds), The English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), pp. 175–90. More generally, Craig Monson, Disembodied Voices: Music and Culture in an Early Modern Italian Convent (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). Also, Colleen Baade, ‘Music and misgiving: attitudes towards nuns’ music in early modern Spain’, in Cordula Van Wyhe (ed.), Female Monasticism in Early Modern Europe: An Interdisciplinary View (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), pp. 81–96. 12 CRS Misc XI, Ghent, pp. 43–4. 13 Rule, p. 25, pp. 61–3 and pp. 29–30, respectively. 14 Statutes, pp. 22–30, and pp. 31–4. 15 Augustine Baker, in Benedict Weld-Blundell (ed.), Contemplative Prayer: Ven. Father Augustine Baker’s Teachings Thereon: From ‘Sancta Sophia’ (London: Washbourne, 1907), pp. 156 and 159. On Baker’s influence in discerning the divine call, see Victoria Van Hyning, ‘Augustine Baker: discerning the “call” and fashioning disciples’, in Clare Copeland and Jan Machielsen (eds), Angels of Light? Sanctity and the Discernment of Spirits in the Early Modern Period (Leiden: Brill, 2013), pp. 143–68. 16 Augustine Baker, Secretum, in John Clark (ed.), Analecta Cartusiana 119: 7 (1998), p. 36. 17 ADN, Ms 20H-10, fol. 771. 18 Ibid., fol. 781. 19 Paul de Barry, Pensez-y bien, or, Thinke well on it; Containing the Short, Facile, and Assured Meanes to Salvation, trans. by Francis Chamberlain (Ghent, 1665). The engraving is on pp. 46–7 and the description on pp.  113–14. 20 ADN, Ms 20H-17, ‘A short treatise on the three principall vertues and vows of religious persons’, fols 129–30. 21 See Caroline Walker Bynum, Holy Feast and Holy Fast. The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987) and Rudolph M. Bell, Holy Anorexia (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987). 22 See my Redefining Female Religious Life: French Ursulines and English Ladies in Seventeenth-Century Catholicism (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), pp. 168–74. 23 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, pp. 59–62. 24 Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, now at St Mary’s Abbey, Oulton (Oulton, 1894), mortuary bill of Lady Lucy Knatchbull, first abbess, p. 148. 25 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, p. 14. 26 Ibid., pp. 71 and 61, respectively. 27 Ibid., p. 65. 28 Baker, in Weld-Blundell (ed.), Contemplative Prayer, p. 138.

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29 ADN, Ms 20H-31, ‘Advice to Beginners’. 30 AAM, Box 12/3, 11 May 1639, Etheldred Smith to the archbishop of Mechelen. 31 Benedict Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More (London: Washbourne, 1910), p. 40. 32 Colwich Abbey, Ms H71, Justina Gascoigne, ‘Instructions to Chapter’, vol. I, fols 27–8. 33 CRS Misc. X, Pontoise, pp. 279–80. 34 Colwich Abbey, Ms H32, Book of Collections, Str Mary Benedicte … ‘Some maximes & sayings of the Saints taken out of the lives of the founders & foundresses of Religious Orders’, fol. 17. 35 Gertrude More, in Augustine Baker (ed.), The Holy Practises of a Devine Lover (Paris, 1657), pp. 158–63. 36 Ibid., p. 167. 37 Gillian Alghren, Entering Teresa of Àvila’s ‘Interior Castle’: A Reader’s Companion (New York: Paulist Press, 2005). See also her Teresa of Àvila and the Politics of Sanctity (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1996). 38 Rule, pp. 3 and 1 respectively. 39 Colwich Abbey, Ms H71, Justina Gascoigne, ‘Instructions to Chapter’, fol. 28. 40 Weld-Blundell (ed.), The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, p. 170. 41 Colwich Abbey, Ms H23, XLth Book of Collections, fol. 277 (copy signed R. .F. C. S., 1690). 42 P. S. Gavrilyuck and S. Coakley (eds), The Spiritual Senses. Perceiving God in Western Spirituality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). See chapter 3, ‘Augustine’, by Matthew R. Lootens, pp. 56–70. 43 Anselm Cramer, ‘“The librarie of this howse”: Augustine Baker’s community and their books’, Analecta Carthusiana 204 (2002), 103–22; David Lunn, ‘Augustine Baker (1575–1641) and the English mystical tradition’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 26:3 (1975), 267–77; Jan Rhodes, ‘Dom Augustine Baker’s reading lists’, The Downside Review 1993:384 (1993), 157–73; Claire Walker, ‘Spiritual property: the English Benedictine nuns of Cambrai and the dispute over the Baker manuscripts’, in Nancy E. Wright, Margaret Ferguson and A. R. Buck (eds), Women, Property and the Letter of the Law in Early Modern England (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004), pp. 237–55. 44 See the Julian of Norwich and the English Nuns in Exile Portal, at http://www.umilta.net/nunsinexile.html, accessed 1 November 2014. 45 On Teresa’s strategies to have her spirituality accepted, and on the suspicions of heresy in the Spanish context, see Alison Weber, ‘Little women: Counter-Reformation misogyny’, in David M. Luebke (ed.), The Counter-Reformation: The Essential Readings (Oxford: Blackwell, 1999), pp. 143–62.

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46 Van Hyning, ‘Discerning the “call”, pp. 159–65. 47 Weld-Blundell (ed.) The Writings of Dame Gertrude More, pp. 84 and 27, respectively. 48 See Niklaus Largier, ‘Medieval Christian mysticism’, in John Corrigan (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Emotion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), p. 370. 49 Philip Endean, ‘The Ignatian prayer of the senses’, The Heythorp Journal 31 (1990), 391–418. Quotations from p. 392. 50 Dyan Elliott, ‘The physiology of rapture and female spirituality’, in Peter Biller and Alastair J. Minnis (eds), Medieval Theology and the Natural Body (York: York Medieval Press, 1997), pp. 141–74. Quotation from p. 141. 51 Mary Minshall, ‘A True Relation of the Miraculous Cure of an English Nuns at Gant, the 26 Day of August 1660. Translated out of the French Copy Printed at Brussels, for the Information and Benefit of our Countrey’, in Caroline Bowden (ed.), English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800 (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2012), vol. 3, Life Writing, edited by Nicky Hallett, pp. 367–72. 52 Elliott, ‘The physiology of rapture p. 142: Elliott offers an etymological analysis of the terms ‘rapture’ (to seize, to ravish), and ‘ecstasy’ (outside one’s senses). 53 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, p. 39. 54 Ibid., pp. 59–60. 55 Weld-Blundell (ed.), Contemplative Prayer, p. 388. 56 Tobie Matthew, The Relation of the Holy and Happy Life and Death of the Ladye Lucie Knatchbull, printed in Nicky Hallett (ed.), English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800, vol. 3, Life Writing (London: Pickering and Chatto, 2012), p. 381. 57 Ibid., p. 383. 58 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, p. 10. 59 Matthew, The Relation, p. 385. 60 Ibid., p. 387. 61 See M. M. Smith, Sensing the Past. Seeing, Hearing, Smelling, Tasting and Touching in History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), p. 60. 62 Matthew, The Relation, p. 417. 63 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, p. 10. 64 Walker Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, Chapter IV, ‘Women Mystics and the Eucharistic Devotion in the Thirteenth Century’, pp. 119–150. 65 See Gillian T. W. Ahlgren, Teresa of Àvila and the Politics of Sanctity (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996), p. 15, and Stephen Haliczer, Between Exaltation and Infamy: Female Mystics in the Golden Age of Spain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002).

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66 Matthew, The Relation, p. 379. 67 Ibid., p. 389. 68 Ibid., p. 392. 69 Ibid., p. 391. 70 Ibid., p. 386. 71 Paul Henle, ‘Mysticism and semantics’, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 9:3 (1949), 416–22; J. Kellenberger, ‘The ineffabilities of mysticism’, American Philosophical Quarterly 16:4 (1979), 307–15. 72 Teresa of Àvila, Flaming Heart (1642), pp. 227–8, quoted in Nicky Hallett, The Senses in Religious Communities, 1600–1800. Early Modern ‘Convents of Pleasure’ (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), p. 5. 73 A letter to an unknown recipient, 7 January 1619, in Hallett, The Senses in Religious Communities, p. 407. 74 Matthew, The Relation, p. 416. 75 John 20:24–9. 76 CRS Misc XI, Ghent, p. 13. 77 Ibid., 31–2. 78 Ibid., pp. 25–6. 79 Hans Rindisbacher, The Smell of Books: A Cultural Historical Study of Olfactory Perception in Books (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1992), p. 5, quoted in Hallett, The Senses in Religious Communities, p. 24. 80 CRS Misc XI, Ghent, p. 16. 81 Ibid., pp. 47–8. 82 The Annals of the English Benedictines of Ghent, pp. 16–17, appendix 1:4, pp. 152–4. 83 See Ulrike Strasser, ‘Clara Hortulana of Embach of how to suffer martyrdom in the cloister’, in Cordula Van Whye (ed.), Female Monasticism in Early Modern Europe. An Interdisciplinary View (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), pp. 39–58 and contrast with Clare Copeland, ‘Participating in the divine: visions and ecstasies in a Florentine convent, in Copeland and Machielsen (eds), Angels of Light?, pp. 75–102. 84 Peter Burke, ‘How to become a Counter-Reformation saint’, in David M. Luebke (ed.), The Counter-Reformation (Oxford: Blackwell, 1999), pp. 129–142. 85 1 Timothy 2:11–12: ‘Let the woman learn in silence, with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to use authority over the man: but to be in silence.’ 86 Alison Weber, Teresa of Àvila and the Rhetoric of Femininity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990) and Weber, ‘Little women’. 87 Alexandra Walsham, ‘Miracles and the Counter Reformation mission to England’, Historical Journal, 46 (2003), 779–815. 88 F. A. Gasquet, ‘The passage of Dame Aloysia concerning John Sherman’, The Downside Review 9 (1890), 41–5.

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8 • Illness, death and beyond: the body as witness

The previous chapters have largely focused upon the personal writings of English Benedictine nuns, their correspondence, their collections, their meditations, their prayers; these documents are ideally suited to the study of the lived experience of contemplative life, since they tell readers of that experience in first-person narratives, with the vocabulary chosen by the nuns themselves. But when they were very ill, or in their final moments, when the goal of their contemplative lives appeared within their reach, they were no longer able to write what they felt in their own words. Their experiences were then relayed by their Sisters in the death notices which document their last illness and their dying hours. Obituaries have often been described – and quite rightly so – as formulaic, standardised and therefore tricky historical sources. Yet, if their objectivity and veracity must be subject to caution, these narratives yield precious information about what appeared important to both writers and convents, in the construction of their communal records. By telling of the illness and death of individuals in certain ways, obituaries partook of what Caroline Bowden has called ‘the development of collective memory and corporate identity’.1 The statutes of the Brussels Benedictines insisted upon the importance of record keeping, particularly concerning the death notices. They advocated: Let a Register bee made, where in […] are to be sett downe all the names of such Religious as in the monastery departed this life and in the same also is to be written of any thing of noate hapned to them, either in their life or

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at their death that it may serve for an Example to Posteritie, and let these things bee reade the day before their yeares yndes, or Annyversaryes, that peculiar care and memory may bee had of them.2

Death notices were not meant to be distributed outside the con­­ vent, but were given as exemplars to the nuns currently living in the community. Their aim was to move and edify, to stir to devotion and provoke emulation. To those ends, they compiled typical elements, such as the nuns’ virtues in life, their suffering during illness and their good deaths. Different communities went into more or less detail. For seventeenth-century English Benedictines, the obituaries of the Ghent and Paris houses tended to be more elaborate than others. Some even went on for several pages, highlighting the most significant virtues of the deceased nun; starting with her parentage, they told of her personal character, even before she entered the convent. In those lengthier texts, the compilers selected traits they deemed useful to edify readers. Such narratives leave room for variety, describing the nuns as three-dimensional individuals with their own temperaments, struggles and qualities. Their religious offices and any salient aspects of their lives were entered into the log. The grizzly details of their final illness and their attitude at the time of death were also important. The notices at Brussels offered a different kind of narrative, hardly telling anything at all about the deceased, apart from their dates of birth, their parentage, their dates of profession and death. The notices of the Cambrai house were mostly lost, but the fifteen which survive stand somewhere in the middle of these two trends, never giving much information about the deceased yet usually developing the notice beyond their mere vital statistics, to give an idea of their parentage and their dedication to the contemplative life. The notices of Pontoise have a similar aspect. Most obituaries followed a set pattern: after a brief exposé of the virtues of the nun in life, they dwelt first upon her disease and suffering, second on the moment of death and third on what happened in the aftermath of her passing. Those were the three focal points with which writers hoped to edify their readership. For nuns, death was never lonely. They died surrounded by those who loved them, and who never left their side, but held vigils day and night. Even after death, the departed continued to play a role in their communities, through the reading of the obituaries and the days of commemoration. Their Sisters learnt and benefited from the narratives which told of the exemplary virtues of nuns in illness, 218

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death and beyond; obits shaped convents’ identities, they told them of their past and showed them what to strive for. In a manner of speaking, the spiritual essence of the religious life of a community was - in part - extracted from the suffering, the dying and the dead bodies of their ancestors. The dying body and imitatio Christi Some death notices gave a gloss of the nuns’ inspiring virtues, or of the striking elements of their personalities and lives, whilst others did not. But all (with the exception of the Brussels records) gave an account of the Sisters’ last illnesses. If care for the soul took precedence over any other concern, the body was not left to suffer unrelieved. Convents provided good standards of care in their infirmaries, which were stocked with the ingredients used to make decoctions, syrups, unguents, poultices and a myriad other ­remedies. The statutes of the English Benedictines of Brussels stipulated that the infirmary must be equipped with an adequate number of beds, correct bed-linen and all the medical paraphernalia necessary for the care of the sick and the bed-ridden. Devotional images were placed in the infirmary and sometimes taken to the beds of patients to help them practise a particular devotion. A table was kept neat and freshly decorated, in order to receive the ‘most blessed Sacrament’ when the priest was called in to prepare the patients for impending death with confession, communion, extreme unction and the viaticum. Moreover, communities were prompt to call upon professional medical help when needed. Indeed, illness was one of the very rare occasions when cloistered nuns called upon outside help without hesitation. The Brussels statutes were clear on this: ‘If the disease soe require it, lett [the infirmarian] send for the Phisition, yet with the consent of the Abbesse, and lett her punctually observe his prescriptions or ordinations, concerning the diett and Phisicke of the Patient.’ The infirmarian was obliged to keep a book in which to record carefully all the physician’s prescriptions.3 When contemplative nuns reached the end of their lives, they benefited from both medical care and moral support. Anne Neville, in her Annals of the five communities of English Benedictines in Brussels, Ghent, Paris, Pontoise and Dunkirk, gave details of the prelature of Mary Roper at Ghent (1642–50). Her narrative mentioned that the ailing abbess was able to make a general confes219

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sion and to take communion, and that later, when her strength failed, she received the last sacraments ‘with much devotion’. Two Jesuit fathers watched over her day and night, providing her with spiritual comfort. The community’s infirmarian did her utmost to nurse her back to health. Several physicians were called in. Roper faced her imminent death with quiet resignation, and although she had feared it during her life, she finally appeared ‘unconcernd for all things but God, and how to love & pleas him’. On 21 April 1650, she died ‘most peasibly, and with all the evidences of a happy death’. When gravely ill, most nuns were seen by one or even several physicians. Their communities took care of them and mobilised every possible means to ensure that they were comfortable and to minimise their distress. When doctors were too busy to come to the convent, nuns sometimes left the enclosure to go to them. Concerned with the future of her community when she understood her illness to be serious, Abbess Christina Forster (1657–61) left her monastery of Pontoise to go to a doctor in Paris with several of her Sisters. She obtained a licence to leave her house. The preparations for the journey upset the ordinary routine of the convent, which in itself testified to Forster’s determination to get better and continue to serve her convent. She and her Sisters were willing to go to great lengths to find a cure. Yet she was so weak that she died in Paris soon after her arrival on 16 December 1661, before anything could be done.4 Forster wanted to live, but her determination to overcome illness did not preclude acceptance of God’s will. If she wished to recover, it was admittedly the better to serve Him and her community. In obituaries, nuns did not cling to life for life’s sake; rather, it was their communities that were shown to have nursed them, whilst they themselves accepted their fate humbly. Writers highlighted the patients’ meekness in suffering, their gentle resignation to the will of God and their fortitude. Death was often described as a happy moment for the dying. At Ghent, Aloysia Beaumont ‘most happily departed this life’ on 9 April 1635. Despite extreme stomach pains, which caused her to vomit most of the little food she managed to ingest, we are told that she remained pleasant, to the ‘Good Satisfaction and edification’ of her Sisters, ‘being ever of a pleasing Disposition to every one’.5 Her friend Tecla Bedingfield ‘happily departed from this to a better World’ on 14 December 1635, at the 220

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age of twenty-seven. She was also described as ‘Gratious, sweet and most meek’ in health, and possessing ‘a Great courage in suffering, and induring much with invincible patience’. She was praised for her ability to tolerate her last sickness ‘according to her wonted sweetness, peace and patience’.6 Verbs such as ‘endure’, ‘tolerate’, ‘bear’ were ever present in obituaries, and expressed the writers’ desire to show fortitude and resignation as eminent virtues in times of sickness. In an apparently contradictory formula, nuns must gather the courage to surrender, and muster the strength to give up the fight. Their ability to accept their fate patiently was the measure of their trust in God. They must not struggle or rebel against their pain, but, on the contrary, endure it without giving in to resentment, fear or anger. The statutes emphasised the importance of letting go; the ailing nun became, quite literally, a ‘patient’ in the etymological sense of enduring without complaint. She was also to be passive, ‘patient’ rather than agent: the statutes demanded that the sick nun should inform the abbess and the infirmarian of her problems: then ‘with due humilitie and quietnesses of mynde, let her suffer her selfe to bee disposed of by them, as they shall thinke goode’. As evidenced here by the use of the passive voice, the ailing Sister became the object of their care and must simply accept this graciously. The statutes condemned any ‘grievous’ or ‘importune’ reactions: the patient must take what was prescribed for her and never refuse, nor indeed ask for anything else.7 Tecla Bedingfield’s patience was said to be ‘invincible’: the obituarist chose her words with care, and with this unusual adjective she implied that the Sister’s patience was the result of her determination to follow God’s will. Bedingfield’s patience did not just happen easily: it was the consequence of her victory against natural human instincts, which she subdued thanks to her ‘Great confidence in Almighty God’. On her sick bed, she edified others when she construed her illness as a sign of God’s favour. She was overheard to say: ‘how comes my Good God to give me so much confidence of his feavour, I having Deserv’d so very little at his hands?’ From her complete trust in Christ, she derived acceptance and ‘a Great peace of mind’, which were portrayed as exemplary virtues in a suffering nun.8 Through the repetition of such exemplary vignettes, obituarists conveyed a clear message. A good nun must not see in her illness 221

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a justification to take her mind off God and the duties of contemplative life; she must not give licence to self-pity, bitterness or ill temper. On the contrary, an edifying attitude in such hard times required a total abandonment of herself to Christ, and a pious focus upon His will. The obituaries of some patients mention their remarkable determination not to allow their illness to weaken their acts of devotion and their participation in the spiritual life of the community. Margaret Knatchbull died at Ghent on 4 April 1637; having lived a life of punctuality in the observance of her religious duties, she refused to give up what, in health, had marked her out as a dedicated religious. She suffered from the widespread affliction then known as consumption. Typically, the obituarist saluted her ‘courageous heart’, underlining the fact that meekness in suffering required great courage. Knatchbull’s determination was dual. Like a lamb, she suffered meekly; but she also fought her illness fiercely in order to attend to her religious duties. She forced herself down from the infirmary to communicate every Sunday and Thursday, thereby expressing ‘her Zeal, love and respeck to the ever blessed Sacrament’. The notice described a woman wracked with pain, in extreme weakness, ‘ready to faint’, yet who persevered, taking the steep and ­ ucharist.9 narrow stairs slowly, one at a time, to receive the E Some obits mentioned that the deceased had in fact concealed her illness for some time before being forced to divulge her ailment. In such cases, the sickness had usually taken such a toll that the Sister was already close to death when she admitted she was unwell. Such was the case of Catherine Conyers, who died in Paris on 2 January 1703 of breast cancer. She ‘us’d a kind of violence upon herself to come (as she did) to the Quir & other Religious dutyes, as though she had ail’d nothing’. She even concealed her illness altogether, out of fear that, if she revealed it, the doctors would exempt her from her duties and prohibit fasting. When she finally acknowledged her ailment, ‘t’was too far gone for a cure’. The ‘most able & skilful Phisitians’ were called but pronounced her cancer to be incurable. Although secrecy was in contradiction of the statutes, the notice did not reprove Conyers’s choice, since it was motivated by a desire to ignore personal discomfort in order to continue her austerities and religious observance. The writer tiptoed around Conyers’s questionable silence by saying that she had misjudged the seriousness of her condition, which she thought benign, ‘knowing herself to be of a healthful strong constitution’. She therefore treated her s­ ymptoms 222

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as mere annoyances to be overcome, and she redoubled her efforts to serve God well. In this account, what was essentially an act of disobedience was presented as a sign of abnegation and religious zeal. Moreover, the notice showed that Conyers had reacted in exemplary fashion at receiving the diagnosis of her terminal cancer, ‘which sentence of theirs though harsh and bitter to nature, she nevertheless receiv’d with an undanted courage and peace of mind’.10 Thus, the ailing Sister became a model of heroic courage and meek acceptance, a perfect religious who forgot herself in her dedication to serve Christ and respect His will. As soon as she was made aware of her friend’s condition, the abbess tried to make up for lost time by calling ‘the most able & skilful Phisitians she could hear off’. And when doctors pronounced themselves of no use in the face of such an incurable condition, the nuns resorted to the services of ‘a Woman who pretended to have done wonderful cures of the kind’. Sadly, in the end, she did not have ‘the skil she pretended’. Later, an anonymous friend urged Conyers to have an operation, ‘to suffer her Breast to be cut off, as having been inform’d by Persons of much skil & experience that there was no other Remedy or cure for it’. But Conyers placed herself entirely into the hands of the Lord, replying ‘Gods will be done’.11 In order to underline her courage, the obituarist chose to relate some of her words in direct speech, to have maximum impact upon her readers. The narrative is revealing; Conyers had confided in one of her Sisters that: she had a strong dread lest she shou’d not be able to support and beare with that patience & conformity to God’s wil (as she ought) the long violent bitter sharp pains and tortures she expected she should suffer before they bereav’d her of life; for, said she, I am sensible that I being of a strong constitution & not having had any sickness to pul me down, I shal no doubt on’t hold out the longer.

Her physical stamina and strength had become, in illness, a source of great anxiety, since she feared it would extend her capacity to resist the disease, and therefore prolong her suffering. But the obituarist carefully led readers to interpret these fears as the praiseworthy scrupulousness of a zealous nun when she justified Conyers’s timorous speech by the accumulation of adjectives and substantives describing what she indeed had to endure. Those ‘long violent bitter sharp pains and tortures’, she implied, were enough to 223

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test the meekness of the most devout and courageous patient. She deliberately described the agonies of a cancer which had ‘so infected her whol body that […] she was night and day upon a continual rack, and it seem’d to her that when she undrest herself to go to bed as tho her body was wholy disjoyntd and ready to drop in peeces’. The writer then gave an account of certain remedies which were so ‘very nauscious’ that they justified the removal of the patient to a little house in the corner of the convent’s low garden. There, separated from the community, she was subjected to painful ‘cures’ for a period of three weeks, during which ‘the violence of the pains’ greatly increased, no doubt helped by ‘want of repose’ and ‘the cold season’. Again, the writer insisted upon the courage displayed by Conyers in facing ‘such constant pain & torture’, and also in putting up with an even more degrading aspect of her cancer: the terrible smell which emanated from her body. She alluded to the ‘insupportable stench’ coming from the discharge of the tumour, and explained that ‘her ulcerated Breast caus’d as bad a sent to the ful, as that which before had been aply’d thereto’. To give more impact to her narrative, she added that ‘it’s certaine no carron could be worse’. The narrative of Conyers’s illness is as harrowing as it is graphic. Yet the mention of the terrible rotting stench was not gratuitous: it served a very precise function, moving readers to empathise with the sufferer and feel revulsion at the mention of the afflictions she endured. Her virtues were thus heightened, when the text moved on to praise her courage and patience. Despite the pain, Conyers continued to come daily to the infirmary to hear Mass, and took comfort in frequent communion. When told to rest, she would reply (and here the narrative used direct speech again): ‘Oh, pray let me alone to do something for my God.’ This showed the dedication of an exemplary nun towards her religious duties, and her desire to do God’s will. Conyers became so reconciled with her terrible condition that witnesses attested to her ‘extraordinary affability and cheerful countenance’, to ‘the joy and alacrity with which she accepted her own sufferance’. This patient, racked with pain and humiliated by the smells of her diseased body, became a witness to religious acceptance and a sort of living martyr. The obituarist reported a declaration she made when awaking from slumber at a time of particular anxiety: 224

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Wel (said she) I do now humbly trust & confide in the sweet Goodnes & Mercy of Almighty God that as He hath been pleas’d to enable me to undergo and endure what I have hitherto done, He wil also give me strength & courage patiently to suffer to the very last whatsoever his Divine majesty shal inflict upon me or permit to befall me; and I furthermore faithfully assure you, that I wou’d not chang this my present condition […] to enjoy again my former health.

This echoed all the prescriptions of clerical guidance, but was more potent than a conduct book, since it was the lived experience of a nun with whom the Sisters would identify, even over generations to come. The narrative compelled feelings of compassion, empathy, respect and admiration, and thus made the suffering Catherine Conyers a perfect example for all to imitate when their time came. Many obituaries appealed to the trope of Imitatio Christi. Examples are legion which, more or less directly, related the nuns’ suffering to that of Christ. Like Him, they endured pain without complaining, and they learnt to accept God’s will. Through such narratives, nuns shared in Christ’s fate, and became martyrs. Their writings lay great emphasis upon the physicality of Christ’s suffering and the pains endured by His broken body. At Cambrai, Gertrude More dwelt at length upon her consideration of His agony and wrote in graphic detail of the Passion of Christ. She conjured up the instruments used to torture Him, ‘the buffets, and whipps’ whose mere evocation was meant to provoke horror in herself and her readers’ minds. She lingered, as in slow motion, over each part of His body, ‘the greivous wounds’, ‘the side of thys Savviour wounded with a speare’, ‘the feete and hands […] fastned with nailes’, and finally ‘the blood of the Redeemer […] spilt on the ground’. She called herself to ‘behold’ these scenes, to see these very striking images, to recreate the scenes before the eyes of her soul and stimulate her imagination. Such vivid imagery would also have a deep impact upon readers, who would feel drawn by empathy to feel compassion, to share the pain of the Christ suffering before their very eyes. More recalled the stages of the traumatic process as he was ‘crucifyed’, ‘murthered’, ‘embalmed’ and at last ‘buried’. She insisted upon the gradual annihilation of His body, ‘bound, whipt, and slaine’, ‘bestratched out uppon the Crosse’, ‘soe cruellye rent in Pieces’.12 In the communal culture of early modern convents, evocations of the Passion were at the core of the nuns’ dedication to Jesus, whose 225

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suffering redeemed humanity. One of the documents of the English Poor Clares illustrated the central place of suffering in an engraving showing the flogging of Christ. The plate was part of a series on the twelve stations of the Cross, in a book for the use of the sick in the infirmary. On this particular image, a nun added by hand, in red ink, a profusion of blood dripping in large drops from Christ’s head along his body and pooling abundantly at his feet. Though we can but guess at the intentions of the person who added this blood in red ink, it is likely that she sought to emphasise the impression of pain caused in the viewer by the picture. The image conjured up a sense of horror and compassion all at once. This served, in an engraving, the same purpose as Gertrude More’s graphic depiction in words. It created a feeling of proximity with the Redeemer and inflamed the nuns’ zeal to imitate Him. The concept of imitatio Christi was nowhere more appropriate than during a time of physical suffering, and this book encouraged the sick in the infirmary to consider their pain in the light of Christ’s own, and feel the kinship between the two. At Ghent, Hieronyma Waldegrave died at the age of twenty-eight after a life of constant afflictions. The death notice mentioned that she had spent her days ‘upon the Daly Cross of a suffering life’, from the very beginning of her novitiate.13 Her suffering was compared to Christ’s passion and dedicated to Him. Also at Ghent, when Lucy Knatchbull passed away, ‘being worn to only skin and bone’ and suffering from open bedsores and a great fever, her obituarist wrote that ‘she was in a manner nail’d to her cross’. The comparison was increased by the fact that Knatchbull had become prey to dereliction, feeling abandoned by God. In this instance, that moment of doubt and despair was not portrayed as a sin, but, rather, as something the patient shared with Christ when He cried out ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’14 The doubt ‘she experienced with him on the bed of her cross’ made her ‘more conforme to her Dear Spouse and Saviour’, ‘uniting all in Union of his sacred passion’.15 Through suffering, the patient partook of the Christic experience of pain and redemption; she began to experience union with her beloved even before death, by living her illness in an exemplary fashion. A similar narrative told the death of Knatchbull’s contemporary at Ghent, Magdalen Digby, who died on 1 September 1659. She led a life of most exact observance, and this despite ‘her stone’; one day 226

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at choir, she vomited ‘black corrupt blood’. She developed breast cancer, which afflicted her for seven years. Digby was prey to a ‘most troublesome temptation’, which ‘as a heavy cross ­interiourly afflicted her’: she feared for her salvation. This doubt was ‘a perpetual sword of sorrow at her breast’. Like Christ, she wept, but she fought by redoubling her efforts in her religious duties. As she became ‘worn even to skin & bone’, she continued to display great zeal and piety, as well as courage, patience and fortitude in her illness. Four months before her death, she had to retire to the infirmary, but at first she insisted upon attending mass as ­regularly as before. Then, ‘by reason of the noysomness of the cancker in her breast’ and her increased weakness, her doctor first set her apart from the rest of the congregation, before finally prohibiting her attendance except on Sundays and holy days. In the end, this privilege was taken away also, since she was too weak to walk, and ‘ready to fall at very step’. When her breast broke out into five ‘holes’, she likened them to Christ’s five wounds. Two of them let out ‘Great fountains’ of blood, ‘as if a spear had been thrust into her side, under her breast’. From these exterior signs, Magdalen Digby edified her community, who believed she had received those wounds as an ‘exterior sign’, ‘by way of a feavour from God’. She dedicated her pain to God, and died ‘arm’d on all sides, with sacramental confession, with holy oyles, her viaticum, and severall pious acts’.16 Like many of her Sisters, Magdalen Digby was said to have kissed the crucifix fervently before she died, in the way a bride would kiss her long-promised bridegroom. The kissing of the crucifix is a prominent feature of death notices, as is the calling upon Jesus Christ and the physical display of joy at the moment of death. Sick nuns were meant to anticipate their union with Christ before the actual moment of their passing. On this earth, their illness provided them with an opportunity to share His pain and feel close to Him. In Paris, Clementia Cary would often answer, when asked how she was: ‘I am very ill I thanke God.’ The obituarist wrote: ‘it was her generall practise to offer up herself as a sacrifise & victim to God in her sufferings, & to dye to al things that concerned herself’. She wished for nothing but to do God’s will, and in her illness, she felt closer to Him. At the last moment of her agony, she called for a crucifix which she kissed before drawing her last breath, calling the name of Jesus.17 227

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Obituaries were to be read regularly to the entire community; it was therefore important that they should convey examples of perfect religious behaviour, exhorting others to strive to match such an ideal. The reward, it was implied, was to be wonderful; as well as enabling the patient to act like a good nun and do God’s will, ‘good’ suffering served as a kind of earthly purgatory. Several death notices likened fortitude through long-lasting illness to the bearing of a cross, an imitation of Christ through both suffering and acceptance of God’s will; it was proof of a piety so deep that it began the process of purgation right here, on earth. The enduring of painful physical afflictions cleansed the soul of the gracious sufferer. At Ghent, Mary Digby (Magdalen’s cousin) passed away on 8 July 1641 after months spent in the infirmary, where consumption made her ever weaker. One day she awoke ‘all in a fervent joy’. She explained ‘in a cheerful manner’ that she had been visited in her sleep by two souls from purgatory, who reassured her that they were appointed to accompany her to heaven whenever she died. The passage from this earthly plane to divine union with her bridegroom was to be immediate, it was implied, without need for a stay in purgatory. Belief in the necessity of fortitude, patience and resignation, as well as in the purgative virtues of suffering in illness, was shared across the various types of spiritualities practised by the English Benedictines in exile. On that subject, the Ignatian Sisters of Ghent and the Bakerites of Cambrai and Paris appear in agreement. At Paris, Prioress Justina Gascoigne died on 17 May 1690 after three years of struggle, described as a ‘spiritual Marterdom’ and a physical trial, ‘a continual dieing life’, in which she experienced frequent vomiting, coughs, blood spitting and fevers. Yet she never faltered in her cheerful countenance and in her efforts to edify others, and the notice expressed the communal belief that such humility would redeem her: ‘The last three years we have good reason to hope, & believe, served for the greatest part of her purgatory & ended with her life in this vaile of misery and the begininge of a Blessed one, in the cleere vision of her celestial spowse’. When she expired, the obituarist noted she was ‘leaving this exile to goe to Injoy God, whom we have just reason to believe she now possesseth, in the company of the Blessed having in this life passed through many tribulations’. The enduring of ‘many tribulations’ seemed to grant Justina Gascoigne quick access to heavenly bliss, as though she had passed through her purgatory on earth, and would be recompensed 228

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for her exemplary courage by ascending to God’s side.18 At Pontoise (a daughter house of Ghent), the obituary of Mary Teresa Swift also mentioned that her ‘violent & long’ pains gave the community ‘hope that they have purified what might retard her enjoyment of God’.19 Such death notices made the causal link between protracted suffering and prompt salvation quite evident. Death and the promise of heavenly nuptials The suffering body played a part in the spiritual lives of both individuals and communities; it gave nuns the opportunity to display good religious behaviour during trying times. Perhaps more surprisingly, however, the dead body also played a similar role. Death was a part of early modern life, particularly for women who risked their lives in childbirth. The average life expectancy for seventeenth-century English men and women hovered around the age of forty, although there were great differences according to social class and region.20 French social historians such as Philippe Ariès, Pierre Chaunu or Michel Vovelle spearheaded research into death in the early modern period, and they pointed out the impact of high mortality rates, exacerbated in periods of war, poor harvests or epidemics. Moreover, they sought to understand the ­interrelationships between the living and the dead of the time.21 More recently, scholars have nuanced those early findings in terms of individual affect, communal cultures, religious beliefs and rituals, medical developments or urban space management.22 A study of convents, however, is a little different; in many respects, cloisters echoed the societies from which they emerged, but they displayed some important differences. In convents, the hazards of motherhood were kept at bay, and if they did not become ill, religious women could live into their seventies or eighties. Some even made it into their n ­ ineties.23 As David Cressy put it so clearly, early modern men and women were taught that death had not been part of God’s original plan for his creation.24 Rather, it was the sad result of original sin, a divine punishment to be endured, and from which no one could escape. But for a nun, death put a stop to decades of slavery to the body, its distempers and its natural emotions. It heralded the beginning of a truly spiritual fulfilment in which she would finally unite with God. On her deathbed, the zealous contemplative was said ‘to dispose her soule for the sweet embraces of her heavenly spows’,25 before she 229

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‘passed to her reward’ or ‘rendered her pious soul into the hands of her creator’.26 Death was construed as freeing, since it allowed the long-awaited experience of divine union.27 Nuns, like their contemporaries, read guidebooks on the art of dying well or ars moriendi.28 English Benedictines, like their ­compatriots in other Orders, owned translations of Jean Mabillon’s La Mort chrétienne, sur le modèle de celle de N. S. Jésus-Christ29 and multiple copies of Bona mors, or the art of dying happily.30 At Cambrai and Paris, Augustine Baker wrote on sickness and gave advice on how to prepare for a good death; he also recommended the reading of the Ars Bene Moriendi, by the Discalced Carmelite Johannes a Jesu Maria, as well as the translation of the treatise by Robert Bellarmine SJ (1542–1621) the Art of Dieng Well.31 At Brussels, Abbess Joanna Berkeley was the dedicatee of Richard Verstegan’s translation of Peter of Lucca’s The Dialogue of Dying Wel.32 At Ghent, Abbess Mary Knatchbull’s kinsman Francis Chamberlain dedicated to her his translation of Pensez-y bien or Think Well on it containing the Short Facile and Assured Meanes to Salvation.33 In this book, the author exhorted readers to consider the reasons for Christ’s death and the duties they implied for the men and women He redeemed. Addressing readers in direct speech he wrote: ‘I read on your countenance what lyes hidd in your Heart: you thinke that your are in health young and strong, and therefore you can not imagine death to be so neere.’ Good Christian behaviour was to be pursued for its own sake, but in this particular book, the author insisted - none too subtly - upon the horror of a death which would conclude an unworthy life. He used fear as a rhetorical tool to tighten his hold upon his audience: ‘If thou wert sick in bed, and an expert and skilful Phisician should desire thee to put all things in good order for thou art in great danger of death, wouldst thou not exceedingly grive, to have ben so often impatient, to have cursed […] and to never have suffered any the least thing for God and for thy salvation?’34 Holding the threat of a bad death as a Damocles sword, the author conjured up several scenes in which readers were to represent to themselves the moment of their death and to feel the weight of their imperfection. The anticipation of death and, in turn, of judgement, served as a strong incentive to behave in a good Christian manner. As the author put it ‘the remembrance of Death destroyeth Sin’.35 Nuns were prepared for the moment of death; their lives had drilled 230

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into them the notion that the spiritual was far superior to the physical, and that bliss was not to be found in the body but in the soul. As religious women, they had striven to become as spiritually pure as was possible on this earthly plane. They had read books on how to prepare for death. They were taught to consider death as the gateway towards a blissful afterlife in the company of their heavenly bridegroom and His saints. Their personal papers show that some felt captive in their bodies, trapped in a snare of temptations which prevented their souls from reaching out to God. Even in health, as we have seen earlier, some of them looked forward to death as a happy moment, a passage to a better state where they would be free from the slavery of human emotions. One author argued that those who truly love God ‘court eternall life, they lament the delay’.36 Death, the subject of so much trepidation in most creatures, was to many nuns a desirable liberation, a liminal moment in which they would finally be born unto their spiritual selves. Gertrude More, in her exercises, envisaged her own death as a deliverance: ‘who shall deliver mee from the Bodye of this Death? […] I desire to be dissolved, and to be with Christ.’ To her, this life was a time of trial and spiritual death and, conversely, she expected her physical demise to usher her spiritual renaissance in union with God. It alone would allow her finally to know divine love: ‘When shall this earthly Tabernacle be dissolved, and my soule be made one with thee?’37 Such rhetoric was very common in the devotions of early modern religious women. It is therefore not so surprising that obituaries show frequent expressions of joy at the moment of a nun’s death. We saw how, at Ghent, Lucy Knatchbull had agonised for days. Yet her obituary portrayed her passing as a moment of joy; when she died, ‘She expir’d indeed Smiling, Looking pure and fair like a bride Going to her nuptial solemnity.’ Similar expressions were used also in the obituary of another Ghent Sister, Mary Pease, who was reportedly ‘so very joyful’, smiling, ‘rather like one ready to sett forth to a nuptiall solemnity’. Aware of her approaching end, she declared: ‘I shall Dye now within a few howers; behold in my eyes and nose, the welcome signs of Death.’38 At Ghent again, Justina Corham died at the age of nineteen; her obituary reported that when asked by the infirmarian if she truly desired to die, although she was so young, she replied that ‘she languish’d much to be with God and enjoy him’. She ‘thristed excessively to be Dissolved, so to 231

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enjoy her spouse and savior’. Her last reported words were a testament to this, when she uttered: ‘Break heart and Go to thy Jesus.’39 Deathbed scenes played a crucial role in the community. Surrounded by her Sisters, the dying nun was observed; her last moments served as a testimony of her character, they spoke of her virtues in life, and of her expected rewards in heaven. Those who could, and particularly those who had occupied important functions in the convent, often tried to deliver edifying speeches before saying their goodbyes to their community. We saw earlier how Christina Forster, when abbess at Pontoise, had sought medical help in Paris. Before she left for the capital, she made ‘an excellent exhortation’ to her spiritual daughters assembled in her chamber. The chronicler reported that ‘all the Community attending uppon her and praying by her were highly edifyed at her devotion & though she was not then able to say much beeing tyrde and spent’. The next day, just before being taken to her litter to leave for Paris, she gave another short speech. The few words spoken by their exhausted abbess had a great impact upon the onlookers, who felt them all the more keenly, precisely because those were the last words she would ever say to them. The Sisters were reduced to tears; Forster’s parting message ‘sensibly toucht theyr harts’ much more that it would have, had she been in full health.40 Death notices often remarked that nuns died as they had lived. This should not come as a surprise, since the virtues required of a good death - patience, fortitude and acceptance of God’s will - echoed those of a good religious life. Humble, obedient nuns became patient sufferers and role models. However, in the particular case of the Ghent abbess, Lucy Knatchbull, to say that she died as she had lived took on a much more colourful complexion. We saw in a previous chapter how the Ghent community was the only one to report supernatural occurrences, visions and miracles on a regular basis. A proportion of those phenomena were linked to Abbess Knatchbull herself, and supernatural events were also part of the narrative of her death. During her last illness, she was reportedly assailed by the devil in the shape of a monkey, sitting at the foot of her bed. Despite her extreme weakness, she had found the courage to fight him off, defying him, using holy water and wielding a crucifix for protection. In the narrative of this battle against the devil, Knatchbull became the embodiment of Christian courage, and the living proof of Catholic effectiveness. Her shield 232

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was her devotion to the Catholic Church and its creed, her weapons were the holy water and crucifix so decried by Protestants; in her combat for the salvation of her soul, Knatchbull offered a testimony of the efficacy of Catholic belief and practice. Being so tormented by the enemy, she was then construed as a sort of martyr, who died as a courageous witness to her faith. The obituary implied that, since the devil could not claim her soul, he poisoned her body, causing her great pain, and yet she did not yield: dyed downward, so that when her Eyes were dead she moved her lips in prayer, consumating her combat, with intire victory over her wicked enemy; Going Triumphantly, as we piously believe, like a Martir of love to heaven there to Receive a Laurell of honnour from the Great king of martirs.41

Knatchbull’s manner of dying meant that, as her senses failed, her soul remained defiant and militant, as testified by her lips moving in prayer. She drew her very last breath in a mortal combat for God, therefore becoming a martyr, a fearless defender of the faith. With this description, her death notice conveyed a militant brand of spirituality which fitted the strong Ignatian identity of the Ghent house. The dead body as witness The last sickness and dying moments of nuns defined the way in which they would be remembered, and also played a key role in shaping the identity of their community. Dying nuns edified their Sisters; their last words and actions inspired them to live their lives with renewed zeal of devotion. Nuns did not die alone but remained, through illness and in death, integral parts of their communities. When house constitutions described the various types of women in the convent, they mentioned the postulants, the novices and the professed, the choir Sisters and the converse, and sometimes also the scholars; it would not be going too far to add the deceased to those categories. Indeed, though they were no longer agents, the dead continued to belong to the community. They had their place in conventual life, and they remained part of the spiritual family. In this aspect of life as in many others, English Benedictine convents echoed the realities of their Catholic European context, in which it has been argued that the dead formed an age group in their own right.42 The bodies of the departed were to be treated according to a precise protocol, and with great respect. They were washed and 233

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dressed in their great habit and veil, before being taken to the choir. A manuscript for the Cambrai house explained ‘How the dead corps is to be brought into the Quire’ and how to proceed for the burial. The sacristan was to call the congregation to choir by ringing the bell for the space of a De Profundis. The nuns took their usual places, knelt and received a lighted candle. The sacristan, holding the crucifix, and her two acolytes bearing candlesticks with lighted candles, faced the altar and, upon a sign from the abbess, led the procession to fetch the body from its holding place. The sacristan and acolytes then placed themselves at the head of the body, and the superior at its feet, with the other religious around. All said Kyrie Eleison and the Pater Noster. The Superior was then handed the holy water and led the procession back to the choir, where the crossbearer and the acolytes placed themselves to the right-hand side, facing left; facing them, the community accompanied the body. With the sacristan and acolytes at the head of the body, the superior sprinkled holy water first at its feet, then all over. During the entire proceedings, the bell rang to accompany the Sisters’ prayers and the procession. The service before burial was described in equally minute detail, each nun playing a part in the final farewell to the departed and the commendation of her spirit. The regulation of time, place, actions and body postures was as precise for events surrounding death as it was for every other aspect of conventual life. Yet the application of such a regulated ritual did not imply that the nuns went through the motions in a cold and detached manner. Grief was performed in ritual form, but it was also felt privately and intimately.43 When nuns lost life-long friends, they felt the blow sharply. Their tears were therefore both cultural and emotional at once. Their love and admiration for their deceased Sister could sometimes be expressed in their last gestures towards her mortal remains. Christina Forster’s body was looked after by her bereft companions, Christina Thorold and Margaret Markham, ‘who passionatly lovd and honnored my lady Christina’, with the help of lay Sister Mary Joseph Bolney. Despite being ‘overwhelmde with greefe’, the Sisters ‘were forst to dry theyr tears and attend to theyr duty in what belonged to prepare the body for buriall’.44 In the care they took of her body, they were privileged to have a few more intimate moments with the physical presence of their beloved abbess. In dealing with mortal remains, the living considered that the body still belonged to this earthly plane, and they cared for it 234

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as one cared for a loved one, whilst transitioning towards the more spiritual concerns of the afterlife.45 After death, the corpse supposedly became a mere empty shell; yet, in practice, the personality of the departed lingered for a little while, during that liminal time of transition when the body retained some of its individuality before joining the communal group of ‘the dead’.46 The statutes of the Brussels community testified to the lasting presence of the deceased. First and foremost, the dead were duly remembered in the community’s prayers. Abbesses were celebrated on the Friday of the first week of Advent, by the singing of Evensong and the Nocturne with the Laudes and a solemn Mass. The memory of late professed nuns was honoured by solemn Mass, sung on the Friday after the first Sunday in Lent, with the Evensong of the dead, Nocturne and Matins the day before. Moreover, the duties carried out by the living towards the dead bore evident marks of the hierarchical place they had occupied in life. For instance, the Brussels statutes demanded that every nun say fifteen rosaries after the death of their abbess, and that the convent ensure thirty Masses were said for her in their church. All late abbesses were to be remembered individually on the third, seventh and thirtieth day after their death by a solemn Mass to be said after the Office of the dead. For professed nuns who had not been abbesses, however, every religious must say five rosaries - three times fewer than for an abbess. A solemn Mass was sung on the third, seventh and thirtieth day after death, but without the Office of the dead. Finally, for novices, postulants and scholars, a single solemn Mass and Office of the dead were to be said.47 When the living served the dead, they also perpetuated the hierarchy which had been theirs during their lives, and, with such a calendar, the dead remained part of the convent’s daily life. Although no longer physically present, they shaped the collective essence of their spiritual family. Those prescriptions testified to the continued presence of the dead amongst the living, and to the obligations of the communities towards their departed. These obligations took on a dual form. Prayers were meant to accompany the soul of the deceased and bring succour to her in her time of purgation. They facilitated the passing of the soul into heaven, a transition which, though it depended mainly upon the nun’s own virtues, was envisaged as a collective effort. Thus, the living helped the dead to reach their goal. But the interaction between the living and the dead also took on 235

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another form, since the dead could, in turn, help the living to reach their goals also. For instance, the Brussels statutes specified that, for thirty days after her death, the meal of the deceased should be served normally at the place she used to occupy at the table ‘as if shee ware yet living’. When all had left the refectory, her meal was then to be taken away and given in alms to the poor, ‘for the benefit of the Soule departed’. In this respect, the living actively helped the soul of the deceased by doing good works in her name. But there was reciprocity. The presence of the late nun was symbolised by a little cross and by the covering of the table and the wall with a black cloth where she used to sit. Nobody was allowed to occupy her place. That conspicuously empty space was to encourage the community to contemplate their own mortality and strive for purity. With such prescriptions, the Brussels statutes vindicated the role of the dead in the general edification of the community; the role of this custom was: ‘[so] that the rest [of the nuns] may bee moved to due Compunction by the memory of death, and bee the more excited to pray with greater fervour for her that is dead, and finally may there by bee stirred upp to lead their lives more carefully and perfectly for the tyme to come’.48 Hence, the departed played an active part in keeping the devotion of their community ever fresh and renewed. Death did not separate the living from those who had passed on; rather, it was an integral part of conventual life, with the dead forming a category of the community in their own right. If the memory of the dead was essential in the spiritual life of a convent, their physical presence was equally important. For instance, when Christina Forster died in 1661 after seeking treatment at Paris, her embalmed body was placed in a lead coffin, to be buried in the church of the local Feuillantines. But her community retrieved her heart; the physical symbol of her devotion and of her love for God was taken out of her body and placed in a leaden case. It was then taken to Pontoise, where it was kept in a niche in a wall of the choir, ‘for the comfort of her children’.49 In 1671, her coffin was exhumed from the cemetery of the Paris Feuillantines and brought down to join the rest of her community in Pontoise, where it was buried in the convent church.50 Her bones were not the only ones to be recovered. The Pontoise house was a later incarnation of the convent which had been forced to move from the initial foundation at Boulogne. Catherine Wigmore, who had been 236

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abbess at Boulogne, had died and been buried there in 1656. Like Forster, she was ‘translated’ into the Pontoise cemetery to be with their community. Her body was recovered a month before that of Christina Forster. On 10 July 1671, a solemn requiem Mass was sung and they were both buried in the convent church at Pontoise.51 Finally, after long years of separation, Wigmore and Forster had come home, to rest with their Sisters in the community to which they belonged in life and in death. Historians have shown that death was omnipresent in early modern Europe, and that people lived in close proximity with the bodies of their dead, with graveyards and ossuaries scattered across both urban and rural spaces.52 For convents, the proximity of the dead was not only a pragmatic issue, it was also of corporate significance. The spiritual family was composed of its departed as much as of its living members; the dead had their assigned space, in the convent’s cemetery, just in the same way as the living occupied defined spaces in the buildings according to their status. For the community to be complete, all its members, in life and in death, had to be united within the walls of the enclosure. This was where they belonged. But the opposite was true also. At Brussels, where bitter conflict divided the house in the 1620s and 1630s, the issue of belonging was raised in 1635 upon the death of Mary Evers, who had been one of the leaders of the faction against Mary Percy. Evers had even left the convent temporarily. As a result, Percy and her supporters considered her a traitor to her community; since she had opted out of that spiritual family by displaying such factious behaviour, they refused to allow her to be buried with the other nuns in the convent cemetery. Her actions had endangered the convent, and her physical presence would continue to be a threat. To bury her there, in the convent’s peaceful yard, would be to cause ‘as much harm as if one punished the innocent to honour the guilty’. Evers could not be readmitted, not even after her death, unless a formal revocation and declaration of her guilt and error was officially made. Another nun, Dorothy Manoc, died amongst the so-called ‘rebel’ nuns and was not buried in the monastery either.53 The sense of community clearly reached beyond death. It has been noted earlier that each one of the Benedictine convents in exile had its own particularities. For instance, Ghent reported supernatural events whilst other houses did not; Cambrai and Paris adopted more a mystical spirituality than others; Brussels was torn 237

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by internal disputes over governance. The Pontoise nuns also did have their own specificities, and particularly in their devotion to the dead and their relics. In 1668, Gertrude Turner took delivery of four ‘reliecks and authenticks’ procured from Rome. In that same year, the house acquired another box containing six relics. Once authorised by the competent religious authorities, the relics were exposed and served, on days appointed for that purpose. The nuns also obtained permission to serve specific English saints, as well as saints from the Benedictine Order, in particular ‘St Edward, King & Confessor’, ‘St Allbanes protomartyr of England’, and ‘great St Gertrude […] according to the office of the reformed munks of our holy Order’. In 1671, the community further received ‘the Arme of St Adrian which my Lord Abbott Montagu took out of Queene mothere of Englands Closset after her death’, and another box of six relics. The documents also gave a full list of deceased patrons for whom the Pontoise nuns sang Masses and said prayers, further underlining the community’s heightened awareness of the duties of the living towards the dead. 54 In paying their respects to the illustrious dead and praying for them, Benedictine nuns obeyed the decrees of the Council of Trent and vindicated a practice which had been violently decried by Protestants. At home, English pamphleteers had printed many books denouncing the commerce of false relics and ridiculing the credulity of those who believed in the intercessory powers of what they described as no more than bones and rags.55 But although the Roman Church tightened its control and verified the authenticity of relics more carefully than before, it nevertheless asserted the beliefs and practices around the remains of the saints. It declared: the holy bodies of holy martyrs, and of others now living with Christ […] are to be venerated by the faithful; through which many benefits are bestowed by God on men; so that they who affirm that veneration and honour are not due to the relics of saints; or, that these, and other sacred monuments, are uselessly honoured by the faithful; and that the places dedicated to the memories of the saints are in vain visited with the view of obtaining their aid; are wholly to be condemned, as the Church has already long since condemned, and now also condemns them.56

The relics of saints continued to be imbued with agency and potency. In fact, somewhat paradoxically, the bodies which had in life been scorned as hurdles on the path to the spiritual were, in death, respected as vectors of the divine. In certain cases, death 238

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empowered the body; where living flesh was an occasion to sin, mortal remains could become the witnesses of God’s amazing power. In some Benedictine convents, the extraordinary character of certain nuns was confirmed in their death. For instance, we saw earlier that Mary Roper died at Pontoise just before the renowned Dr Frazer, Charles II’s physician, could reach her; her body was laid out in the choir according to custom, and when the doctor saw it, he reportedly declared ‘ther appeard so much wisdom and majesty uppon her dead brow as sufficiently witnest what great treasurs lay hid in when she was alive’.57 In this obituary, Roper’s resting body became an eloquent witness to her qualities in life, a testimony which could reach beyond the walls of the convent in a manner that was denied living nuns, who could never be seen. The obituary of Alexia Grey presented a comparable narrative: once prepared and exposed in the choir, in her great habit and veil, Grey’s body received the visits of neighbours and friends who came to see her one last time through the open grate of the Ghent convent. The obit recounted one of the supernatural occurrences so typical of the Ghent community: after looking at her ‘attentively’, a young man in the habit of a priest had declared: ‘This Dear soul did not so much as pass trough the fire of purgatory, but went presently to injoy the fruition of God’. The author lent an aura of mystery to this vignette by adding that the man then vanished from sight, and that nothing could ever be learnt about his whereabouts or his identity. It was as though God had taken human form for a brief moment, and appeared as ‘a young but venerable man in the habit of a priest’ in order to declare Grey’s purity publicly. The careful reader will note that the obituarist did not write that the young man was indeed a priest, but, rather, that he wore the habit of a priest and appeared to be one, but could have been something else altogether.58 In death, bodies became visible, and they spoke their own language to those who visited them and saw upon them the marks of sanctity. Such moments of interaction with the outside allowed the spiritual aura of the exemplary deceased to seep out of the convent and disseminate beyond the walls, thereby contributing very efficaciously to the good reputation of the convent. A few individuals even acquired a charisma they did not have in life. We saw earlier how Catherine Conyers had developed a cancerous tumour which, breaking out of her breast, caused her much pain and inconvenienced the entire community with its terrible smell. Yet the 239

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obituarist reported the only miracle recorded at the Paris convent, which occurred at the moment of her passing in 1703: ‘No sooner was the Breath out of her Mouth but that the nauscious sent wholy vanishd, in so much that there was not the least offensive smel either in the Bed or Roome where she dy’d nor even so much as about her Corps.’ The community was especially edified, since their physicians had warned them to hold a coffin at the ready, and to shut the casket ‘as soon as the breath was out of her Body, assureing us that she wou’d smel to that degree that t’wou’d be enough to infect the whol hous’. Conyers herself had asked the prioress to take all possible dispositions to avoid inconveniencing her Sisters with the smell, including the removing of her breast post-mortem. Yet none of this was necessary, since she proved ‘as sweet a Corps as any to our thinking we had ever had’. As we have seen in earlier cases, the narrative suggested that Conyers’s terrible affliction had worked as her time of purgatory on earth and that she became pure the moment she died. But what was exceptional here was that the obituary implied that Conyers’s suffering interceded also in favour of the entire community. The writer remarked that during the time of her illness and after, the rest of the community was in better health than ever before. The lack of evil smell emanating from her mortal remains was, to them, sensible proof of God’s intervention in her favour. When the community saw how Conyers had been privileged by her Saviour, they granted her an aura of sanctity and, in their eyes, she became the vector of His benevolence, a holy intercessor.59 Such beliefs in the intercessory powers of the dead in favour of the living were common in Catholic Europe.60 Annals and obituaries were styled to inspire respect and admiration, to edify readers and incite them to imitate the virtues described. By choosing to emphasise certain virtues rather than others, a community placed the emphasis upon the facets of spiritual life which they deemed most important. The memory of the dead played an essential part in the construction of the community’s spiritual identity; the way in which they were remembered shaped the manner in which the living were perceived from the outside and saw themselves from the inside. Whilst some underlined obedience and humility, others dwelt upon more remarkable traits, feats of austerity or resilience. The epitaphs engraved upon tombstones were also revealing, since they conveyed a lasting sense of the salient traits of the deceased 240

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to future generations. Revealingly, the epitaphs of the Brussels abbesses highlighted the nobility of their bloodline, the respectability of their pedigree and their proficiency as managers of the financial and institutional health of the convent. Mary Percy was described as ‘Daughter to Thomas Percy, Earle of Northumberland and Knight of the Garter who for the Confession of the Catholicke faith suffered long time imprisonment.’ The link with the Catholic nobility of the English nation was asserted strongly. The agency of the Brussels foundation was attributed to Thomas Percy, and the house was ‘to receave the daughters of the gentry and Nobility of England’. Mary Percy, we were told, had enriched the monastery with the temporal goods she brought with her, and the wealth she was able to procure from her friends. The epitaph then mentioned her mandate as abbess, which she completed honourably. It did not choose to praise the perfection of the contemplative life or Mary Percy’s spiritual virtues. As the first English foundation in exile, it is possible that the Brussels convent felt it imperative to highlight its high social standing and abundant resources to attract both patrons and postulants who could then trust in its stability and good repute.61 At Pontoise, on the other hand, epitaphs tended to dwell more upon the character of the deceased herself. They highlighted her goodness as a human being and her exemplarity as a nun. They mentioned a bond with English Catholics, but that was not the principal element. Christina Forster’s tombstone referred to her noble English extraction, but, rather than admire it for its own sake, it used it to underline how Forster did ‘adde to this Glory of her ancestors / By surpassing them in virtue’. The text emphasised the high price she had paid in order to ‘Adhere to God Aloane’. In exile, separated from everything she knew and all she held dear, she opted out of a life amongst the English elite to enter the convent: ‘by vertu of that her holy profession / She relinquish both her friends and country; / And what by birth she might have challenged as her du’. The epitaph saluted her wisdom, humility and obedience, her selfdenial and her unwavering vocation. Those were the virtues which the stone presented as exemplary, and the text enjoined readers to take time to absorb this message, to ‘consider’ it and benefit from it: ‘Stay reade and make advantage.’62 Other epitaphs from Pontoise called directly upon the reader, making their self-awareness of their role as edifying texts all the more evident. Eugenia Thorold’s epitaph 241

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called to the passer-by: ‘O Reader […] / Bee wise therefore; / And live so as you may dy ritch in knowledge and wisdom; / And not in penury and want of vertu; and tru poverty of spirit; / I say ons more, / Stand upon your guard and remember the end.’63 The tombstone acted as a witness of Thorold’s past life, but also as a beacon for all who would read it in future years, guiding them towards sound virtues and helping them to uphold high spiritual standards. A sense of legacy emanated strongly from both obituaries and epitaphs. Both honoured a duty of memory whilst at the same time shaping the collective identity of a convent. At Ghent, Mary Roper’s nephew Christopher ordered the epitaph for his religious aunt. In the words he chose, he conveyed his gratitude for the example she had laid for him in life. Although he did not fail to mention that Roper ‘was Daughter, Sister and Aunt to 3 Noble Barrones of Tenham, Peeres of England’, he emphasised the triviality of worldly values. He wanted posterity to remember that his aunt had dedicated herself entirely to the service of God, including ‘her youth, birth, beauty, natural goodness & sweetness of conversation’. Roper was such an example that, in a slightly odd phrase, the epitaph mentioned that ‘Heaven and the Cloyster grew emulous to have her’. It was as though the convent on earth and the saints of heaven were competing to keep this wonderful example of Catholic virtue to themselves.64 In epitaphs such as these, the memory of the dead and the presence of their mortal remains clearly played an important role in the continuance of the faith, and in the fostering of a feeling of shared spiritual heritage. Ghent’s idiosyncratic brand of spirituality stood out even in the words the community chose to engrave upon the tombs of its late nuns. Lucy Knatchbull once more is a vivid example: as she was remembered for her mystical propensity in her obituary and Life, she was also hailed as a mystic in her epitaph. The Latin root of her name, ‘Lucy’, called up a play on words with ‘light’, and her epitaph presented her as a source of spiritual light, a sun casting her light on earth. In an unusual reversal of roles, the text claimed that ‘The heavens grew envious of our bliss, / And drew her to themselves in hast.’ It was as though Knatchbull was heavenly even as a human on earth, a sort of angel in the convent, of such precious virtues and spiritual perfection that God claimed her for Himself. In death, Knatchbull ascended to her true place and was then able to intercede in favour of the monastery, to protect it and to look upon 242

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it benevolently from above: ‘Ther like the moon in full, she shines in glory / And will on earth assist and ayd us in our story.’ The comparison with a celestial body lent Knatchbull a supernatural character, as she appeared more than human. The hagiographical elements of the epitaph are obvious and highly representative of the style Ghent used in its remembrance of the dead.65 Similar tropes were used in other epitaphs also. Eugenia Poulton, for instance, was compared to ‘a starr’ given by heaven ‘to preside and illustrate’; she was honoured as ‘A saint by her Religion and pyety, venerable by her dignity; / Amiable for her Candor, and sincerity of hart; / Admirable for her zeale in observing the Rule & customes of Religion.’ Her remarkable zeal for her contemplative vocation, and her exemplary virtues as a good nun enabled her to access the ultimate goal of all religious life: a place in paradise: ‘By thes [virtues] she triumpht over death, and by her vertu gaynd heaven.’ Poulton was therefore to serve as an example, one to imitate and remember individually but also communally, since her holiness shone, by proxy, upon her spiritual family: ‘Her chaest pure soule, leaving to us the spoyles of her innocent dust, inchaced in this Tombe.’66 As Bruce Gordon and Peter Marshall have argued, ‘“discourses about the dead” provide particularly poignant and revealing points of entry into how these societies understood themselves’.67 This was true of societies at large, but can also be applied to the microcosm of the convent. There existed a crucial relationship between the living and the dead, in which the living served the departed, but also exploited them in a variety of ways, by retelling their lives, their illnesses and their deaths, or by leaving carefully constructed narratives to future generations. Obituaries reflected the specific strategies of remembrance implemented by communities, which in turn informed the reader about the way in which each convent defined its own, idiosyncratic brand of spirituality. By imposing their own perception of the deceased upon the future generations, communities wielded an important type of power. They shaped the spiritual aspirations of later nuns in that particular house, but also contributed to its reputation and aura in other monasteries and beyond, wherever the ‘holy life and happy death’ narrative might be read. In that way, arguably, every corpse was potentially a sort of relic. In saintly relics, the physical remains were imbued with spiritual meaning and efficacy. But the cadavers of exemplary nuns, though 243

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they were not officially recognised as saintly, could also acquire spiritual power through hagiographical narratives and rituals which constructed them as vectors of the sacred essence of the convents they represented. In death, the body arguably ceased to be an obstacle and became an aid to spiritual elevation and edification. Notes 1 Caroline Bowden, ‘Collecting the lives of early modern women religious: obituary writing and the development of collective memory and corporate identity’, Women’s History Review 19:1 (2010), 7–20. 2 Statutes, ‘The First Parte’, p. 60. 3 Statutes, ‘The Second Parte’, p. 55. 4 CRS Misc. V, Abbess Neville’s Annals of the Five Communities, pp. 52–3. 5 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, pp. 19–20. 6 Ibid., pp. 21–2. 7 Statutes, ‘The First Parte’, p. 49. Italics mine. 8 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, pp. 21–2. 9 Ibid., pp. 22–3. 10 CRS Misc. VII, Paris, pp. 381–5. 11 Ibid., p. 384. 12 Gertrude More, The Holy Practises of a Devine Lover, or the Sainctly Ideots Devotions (Paris, 1657), pp. 86–9. 13 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, pp. 20–1. 14 Mark 15:34. 15 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, pp. 12–13. 16 Ibid., pp. 72–80. 17 CRS Misc. VII, Paris, pp. 339–49. 18 Ibid., pp. 361–63. 19 CRS Misc. X, Pontoise, p. 291. 20 Mary J. Dobson, Contours of Death and Disease in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 136–7. 21 Philippe Ariès, L’Homme devant la mort (Paris: Seuil, 1977); Pierre Chaunu, La Mort à Paris. XVIème, XVIIème et XVIIIème siècles (Paris: Fayard, 1978); François Lebrun, Les Hommes et la mort en Anjou aux XVIIème et XVIIIème siècles (Paris: Mouton, 1971); and Michel Vovelle, Mourir autrefois. Attitudes collectives devant la mort aux XVIIème et XVIIIème siècles (Paris: Gallimard-Archives, 1974) and La Mort et l’Occident de 1300 à nos jours (Paris: Gallimard, 1983). 22 Steven Bassett (ed.), Death in Towns: Urban Responses to the Dying and the Dead, 100–1600 (Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1992); Nancy Lee Beaty, The Craft of Dying: A Study in the Literary Tradition

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of the Ars Moriendi in England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1970); Patrick Geary, Living with the Dead in the Middle Ages (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1994); Clare Gittings, Death, Burial and the Individual in Early Modern England (London and New York: Routledge, 1984); Vanessa Harding, The Dead and the Living in Paris and London, 1500–1670 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); and Peter Marshall, Beliefs and the Dead in Reformation England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002) and ‘Angels around the death bed: variations on a theme in the English art of dying’, in Peter Marshall and Alexandra Walsham (eds), Angels in the Early Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), pp. 83–103. 23 Amongst many other examples are Bridgitt Gildrige who died at 73, Mary Ignatia who died at 80, and Benedicta Corby at 99; CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, pp. 42, 64 and 54, respectively. At Cambrai, Dame Alexander was 80, CRS Misc. VIII, Cambrai, p. 28. 24 David Cressy, Birth, Marriage and Death. Ritual, Religion and the LifeCycle in Tudor and Stuart England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), p. 380. 25 CRS Misc. V, Abbess Neville’s Annals, p. 31. 26 Obituaries of the Brussels Benedictines, Downside Abbey, f. 90–1. On the functions of obituary writing in the convent, see Caroline Bowden, ‘Collecting the lives of early modern women religious: obituary writing and the development of collective memory and corporate identity’, Women’s History Review 19:1 (2010), 7–20. 27 More, The Holy practices of a Devine Lover, p. 68. 28 See L. M. Beier, ‘The good death in seventeenth-century England’, in R. Houlbrooke (ed.) Death, Ritual and Bereavement (London: Routledge, 1989) and Nigel Llewelyn, The Art of Death. Visual Culture in the English Death Ritual, c. 1500–c. 1800 (London: Reaktion, 1991). 29 Jean Mabillon, La Mort chrétienne, sur le modèle de celle de N. S. JésusChrist et de plusieurs saints et grands personnages de l’antiquité, le tout extrait des originaux, par un religieux bénédictin de la Congrégation de Saint-Maur (Paris, 1702). 30 Bona mors, or the art of dying happily in the congregation of Jesus Christ crucified and of his consoling mother (London, 1706). 31 Augustine Baker, ‘Sickness, with collections from the book called Death’, in John Clark (ed.), Analecta Cartusiana 119: 32 (2009), pp. 75 and 100, respectively. Johannes de Jesu Maria, Ars Bene Moriendi (Cologne, 1621) and Robert Bellarmine, The Art of Dying Well (St Omer, 1621). 32 Pietro da Luca, A dialogue of dying wel. First written in the Italian tongue, by the reuerend father Don Peeter of Luca, a chanon regular, a Doctor of Divinitie and famous preacher. Wherin is also contayned sundry profitable resolutions, upon some doubtful questions in ­divinitie, trans. by Richard Verstegan (Antwerp, 1603).

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33 Paul de Barry, Pensez–-y bien, or, Thinke well on it containing the short, facile, and assured meanes to salvation, trans. By Francis Chamberlain (Ghent, 1665). 34 Ibid., pp. 26–7 and 54, respectively. 35 Ibid., p. 89. 36 ADN, Ms 20H-40, Writings on Love, item 4. 37 More, in Augustine Baker (ed.), The Spiritual Exercises of the Most Vertuous and Religious D. Gertrude More of the holy Order of S. Bennet and the English Congregation of our ladies of Comfort in Cambray, she called them Amor ordinem nescit, And Ideots Devotions, Paris, 1658, pp. 139 and 150, respectively. 38 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, pp. 33 and 35, respectively. 39 Ibid., p. 24. 40 CRS Misc. V, Neville, pp. 52–3. 41 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, p. 18. 42 See for instance Robert Muchembled, Culture populaire et culture des élites dans la France moderne, XVème-XVIIIème siècles (Paris: Flammarion, 1978) or Natalie Zemon Davies, ‘Some tasks and themes in the study of popular religion’, in Charles Trinkhaus and Heiko Oberman (eds), The Pursuit of Holiness in Late Medieval and Renaissance Religion (Leiden: Brill, 1974), pp. 307–36. 43 Cressy, Birth, Marriage and Death, pp. 393–4. 44 CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 52. 45 Vanessa Harding, ‘Whose body? A study of attitudes towards the dead body in early modern Paris’, in Bruce Gordon and Peter Marshall (eds), The Place of the Dead. Death and Remembrance in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 170–87. 46 Bruce Gordon and Peter Marshall (eds), The Place of the Dead. Death and Remembrance in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), p. 7; Cressy, Birth, Marriage and Death, pp. 384–6. 47 Statutes, ‘The First Parte’, pp. 56–8. 48 Ibid., p. 61. 49 CRS Misc. V, Neville, 53. 50 CRS Misc. X, Pontoise, pp. 269–70. 51 CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 47 and CRS Misc. X, Pontoise, p. 268. 52 Cressy, Birth, Marriage and Death, p. 380. 53 AAM, Box 12/2. 54 CRS Misc. X, Pontoise, p. 245. 55 See for instance Samuel Harsnett, A Declaration of Egregious Popish Impostures (London, 1603) or Thomas Robinson, The Anatomie of the English Nunnery in Lisbon (London, 1630), pp. 11–12. On the subject of relics, see Alexandra Walsham, ‘Skeletons in the cupboard: relics

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after the English Reformation’, in Alexandra Walsham (ed.), Relics and Remains, Past and Present supplement 5 (2010), 121–43. 56 Council of Trent, Twenty-Fifth Session, in The Council of Trent. The canons and decrees of the sacred and oecumenical Council of Trent, ed. and trans. J. Waterworth (London: Dolman, 1848), 232–89, http:// history.hanover.edu/texts/trent/ct25.html (accessed 11 August 2016). 57 CRS Misc. V, Neville, p. 34. 58 CRS Misc. XI, Ghent, p. 27. 59 CRS Misc. VII, Paris, pp. 386–7. 60 Gordon and Marshall (eds), The Place of the Dead, p. 4. 61 CRS Misc. V, Neville, pp. 14–15. 62 CRS Misc. X, Pontoise, p. 270. 63 Ibid., p. 272. 64 CRS Misc. V, Neville, pp. 34–5. 65 Ibid., pp. 22–3. 66 Ibid., pp. 32–3. 67 Gordon and Marshall (eds), The Place of the Dead, p. 3.

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Conclusion

Delving into the overwhelming mass of manuscripts documenting the lives of English Benedictine nuns in exile is, at once, a rewarding and a frustrating exercise which poses as many questions as it answers. This study, within its limited scope, has touched upon several points which inform and complement one another. The first part of this monograph showed how the contemplative ideal of dying to the world was pragmatically impossible to achieve; if nuns were not supposed to be creatures of the world, they had to exist in the world, and therefore make choices about how they interacted with the outside. All Orders did not strictly adhere to the letter of Tridentine decrees on enclosure to the same extent as the Benedictines. For instance, the Carmelites at Antwerp learnt Dutch in order to build solid relationships with their neighbourhoods; some of them were also proficient in French, Spanish and Latin, in they interacted with visitors at the monastery grates, in a bid both to secure patrons and to edify and minister to lay people.1 Even within the same Order, practice varied according to specific houses; the Benedictines of Ghent and Brussels, as we have seen, saw visitors at their gates more often than did those at Cambrai or Paris. The history of convents continues to question the concept of enclosure, and it shows that early modern female communities, despite their religious ideals of abstraction from the world, often existed in the liminal space between the inside and the outside. Early modern convents also stood at the intersection of national and international identities. English convents, like their Conti248

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nental counterparts, were obviously marked by the idiosyncrasies of their national contexts. Their very infrastructure was, in matters of authority, directly linked to the circumstances of English male Orders. We have seen that the Cambrai Benedictine house was founded after the revival of the English Benedictine Congregation in 1619. Its daughter house at Paris would have followed suit but was finally placed under the jurisdiction of the local archbishop after his vicar general pleaded against foreign jurisdiction in the archdiocese.2 Such issues of authority were not specific to the Benedictines: the Poor Clares at Gravelines, for instance, became embroiled in a bitter dispute when the Franciscan friars, after the revival of the English branch of the Order in 1619, tried to gain authority over the convent, leading to a much resented visitation by the Franciscan Commissary and to an acute crisis of governance in 1626.3 From such examples, it is clear that English convents in exile were the products of their national contexts and reflected, even abroad, the zeal of the English mission, and also its disputes and dysfunctions. Aside from governance, English convents were also dependent upon the circumstances of English Catholicism for their recruitment. Their social profile was only slightly lower than that of Spanish, Italian or French convents, since most nuns came from the gentry or lower echelons of the nobility; yet in terms of economic affluence and financial wealth, English houses lagged far behind Continental nunneries, because of the hardships imposed upon recusants by penal laws at home, which compounded with the heavy losses suffered by those who supported the royalist cause during the Civil Wars. Thus, English cloisters struggled more than did local monasteries, which benefited from long-established networks of support in their immediate neighbourhoods. They also felt a keen sense of exile, and were always strangers in a strange land, whose language they often did not speak. While she was prioress of the Bridgettines at Syon abbey (in Lisbon), Barbara Wiseman had written of ‘the aching loss of our native land, families and mother tongue’, describing an experience of Englishness, diaspora and loss in a manner that would be recognisable to all English nuns. As we have seen, religious communities continued to show a keen interest in the events which affected their homeland, to which they hoped to return. It must not be assumed that nuns were strangers to the complex and disputatious context of recusant communities and missionary networks with which their families were involved. Thus, convents 249

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were closely linked with local power play. For instance, James Kelly has demonstrated that the county of Essex sent most of its postulants to convents which were affiliated to the Society of Jesus, such as the Benedictines of Ghent, the Augustinians at Bruges and Louvain, or the Carmelites at Antwerp and Lierre. This particular recruitment pattern owes much to the great influence of the barons Petre of Writtle, who were greatly invested in the deployment of the Jesuit mission in England. In Essex, recruitment to pro-Jesuit convents waned with the loss of influence of the Petre family, and the collapse of its Jesuit network, in the wake of the Popish Plot. Convents were the creation of particular national and regional contexts, with their power struggles and their political stakes; the religious and the political could never be entirely dissociated. They mirrored, in microcosm, the patterns of the debates and tensions which agitated the English mission; as Kelly puts it: ‘It was not simply a case of spirituality in a wilderness, separate from all else.’4 The study of convents, once more, shows how they operated in a liminal space, between the inside and the outside, as we have seen, and also between national and international Catholicism. Indeed, English convents, like their Continental counterparts, belonged to the pan-national Roman Catholic Church. They read the same spiritual works as their French, Italian or Spanish co-religionists, and lived according to the same Tridentine decrees. In fact, a study of the documents of the English convents in exile shows that they mirror the general issues which affected the Catholic world at large in the seventeenth century. The English Benedictine texts which have survived the highs and lows of various moves – first as nuns struggled to find permanent buildings on the Continent, then as they hurriedly left their convents in the aftermath of the French Revolution and travelled across the Channel back into England – clearly reflect the constructed identities of each convent. They place them quite precisely within the context of a Catholic Church which advertised itself as both militant and united but was, in fact, divided in matters both of policies and of spiritual practice. They resonate with the variety of spiritual practice in the seventeenth-century Catholic Church and testify, for instance, to the great impact of the dispute between Jesuits and seculars, and to the climate of suspicion surrounding newer movements such as Jansenism. The example of the Brussels convent painfully illustrates the repercussions of contemporaneous debates about the Society of 250

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Jesus. The documents of the convent clearly reflect the difficulties of a house caught in the fray of a general debate which affected European Catholics at large. Interestingly, during the 1630s and 1640s, when recruitment dropped so sharply at Brussels, the proJesuit house at Ghent registered its best recruitment figures, indicating that the dwindling figures at Brussels did not represent a loss of interest for the Benedictine Order as such, but, rather, for that house in particular. The political choices of each convent can be read very clearly in their archives, even in documents which never mention disputes of any kind. To a reader who did not know how the Ghent convent came to be founded, the Jesuit bent of that house would become apparent through the perusing of its spiritual and historical documents. The house has preserved several rich texts of legacy, in the form of annals, chronicles, vitae – such as Tobie Matthew’s edition of Lucy Knatchbull’s Life – which were meant to give a clear picture of the convent’s Ignatian heritage. The death notices of the community were also quite unique in their frequent reference to Jesuit spirituality, and to elements such as visions, ecstasies or miracles which are not found in the papers of other Benedictine communities. These phenomena may have happened elsewhere also, but the Ghent chroniclers and obituarists deliberately chose to commit them to paper for the edification of posterity and the glorification of the house. This particular stance means that Ghent stands out as a supporter of the idiosyncratic use of the supernatural which was typical of Jesuits missionaries in England. On the other hand, the documents of the Cambrai convent are of a very different nature. Contrary to the Ghent manuscripts, which focused upon the physical apprehension of the sacred more than on inner prayer, the Cambrai (and Paris) papers offered an array of mystical writings, but were shy on the topic of sensate experience. The copies which nuns made of Augustine Baker’s teachings, the publications of Gertrude More’s devotions, the lengthy and detailed considerations on various aspects of authority in the management of the spiritual life which were penned by Barbara Constable are only the best-known examples of Cambrai’s rich collection. Other sources also yield much information about the house’s spiritual life, spiritual injunctions by the abbess, poems, and personal notes such as those written by Margaret Gascoigne, fragments of collections, and letters to confessors. Cambrai’s daughter house at Paris 251

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also preserved the same type of material, testifying to its Bakerite heritage. The wonderful archive at Colwich Abbey offers a plentiful library of spiritual works comprising a good number of the Paris nuns’ personal collections, which they compiled for their own private use, as well as house histories and texts of legacy, constitutions, spiritual injunctions and printed devotional books. The archives of these two convents at Cambrai and Paris show their emphasis on introspection and prayer, they reveal much about the inner experience of individual nuns. The type of manuscripts and archives left by each convent is therefore a revealing indication of its type of spirituality and of its political positioning in the conflict which opposed Jesuits to their detractors. The pro-Jesuit nuns at Ghent lobbied kings in exile and spoke at their ­ arratives echoed their gates to convert passers-by; their constructed n militant outlook as clearly as the introspective texts from Cambrai mirror that of retired mystical contemplatives who were not seen at the gates and minimised contact with the outside. Convents echoed, in microcosm, the general debates and disputes of the Catholic Church. The choice of a particular type of spirituality (in the case of the Benedictines, Ignatian or Bakerite) was a spiritual, and also a political choice. This has long been accepted in the study of male subjects, whose support of secular or regular spirituality is commonly recognised as both spiritual and political. Why should it be any different for nuns? Their spiritual choices were neither abstracted from any political context nor without political consequences. On the contrary, by choosing Ignatian or Bakerite spirituality, they expressed ‘totally different vision[s] of the English Mission, of which the convents must be considered a part’.5 This last point is of particular importance, and has been recovered from historiographical short-sightedness only very recently. Their exile, their enclosure and their sex worked as a three-headed Cerberus, denying English nuns the entrance to the realm of serious literary and historical research and robbing them of their agency and significance. Things are currently changing, but the process will be slow. Nuns are new players in a field which is not yet used to taking them into account, as testified by Gabriel Glickman’s omission of English convents in his otherwise thorough study of English Catholic life and Jacobite support.6 Aside from considerations about institutions and communities, beyond prescribed codes of conduct and affiliations, the archives of 252

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the English Benedictines also yield a veritable treasure of information about the lives of individuals, real nuns of flesh and blood, with their inner lives, their daily troubles and their hopes and fears. If historiography has been short-sighted with respect to convents as institutions, it has been all but blind to nuns as individuals, and to their personal, embodied experience of the sacred. During their time in the cloister, religious women developed their own relationships to the body and to the spirit; this was informed by the reading of normative clerical texts and shaped by the practice of conventual regularity and piety. The search for contemplative perfection entailed a life of renunciation and asceticism of the mind as well as the body. Yet, although nuns strove to distinguish spiritual emotions from physical passions, they remained confronted with the fact that such feelings, holy though they might be, found their source in the body and expressed themselves in joy, tears or sensory images. Even the most accomplished Sisters, who came close to spiritual perfection and did feel God’s divine love, could not bypass the body entirely. It was the vector of perception, and, as such, the only cognitive tool at their disposal. Even when, in mystical union, they felt God’s presence through what they called their ‘inner’ senses, they could not describe the episode in any other way than through the language of physical experience. They wrote about what they saw or heard, the sweetness of a smell or taste, and the bliss of His amorous touch. The physical was therefore as necessary to spiritual experience as it was a hindrance to it, and towards the end of a nun’s life, it actually gained new worth. The suffering body acquired a value it never enjoyed in health, since it allowed those who were ill, or on their deathbeds, to experience imitatio Christi in its fullest form, abandoning themselves with joy to God’s will and offering their pain to Him. Though it was a hurdle in the path towards contemplative perfection, the corporal shell which nuns sought to subjugate – even to escape altogether – was also the locus of the experience of the divine. It was also a tangible witness of sanctity, or of miraculous events. The history of convents questions the dynamics between the individual and the communal, between the private and the public. In convents, the individual fed the collective and vice versa; it is often difficult to determine where the one stops and the other begins, particularly in sources such as chronicles, obituaries, biographies or autobiographies, which were meant both to document and to edify. 253

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The life (and death) narratives of exemplary nuns were appropriated by communities, thereby gaining a collective dimension; by advertising the holiness of their virtuous members, convents increased their reputations for sanctity, which in turn improved their chances at recruitment, gave them economic buoyancy and placed them firmly in the on-going movement of Catholic militancy. The manuscripts of individual nuns testify to their efforts to negotiate their way through such a complex world-view. Orders defined their own precepts, communities developed their own specific identities, but ultimately, each nun walked her own path. Although that path was intended to be straight and narrow, and lit with the wisdom of the Church, each step of the journey was different for everyone. That is what the nuns’ own writings reveal, in beautiful and nuanced detail. Notes 1 Katrien Daemen-de Gelder (ed.), Life Writing II, vol. 4, in Caroline Bowden (ed.), English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800 (London: Pickering and Chatto, 2013), pp. xiv-xv. 2 I would like to thank Sister Benedict, at St Mary’s Abbey, Colwich, for her insights on this subject. 3 James Kelly (ed.), Convent Management, vol. 5, in Caroline Bowden (ed.), English Convents in Exile, 1600–1800 (London: Pickering and Chatto, 2013), pp. 411–21. 4 James Kelly, ‘Essex girls abroad: family patronage and the politicization of convent recruitment in the seventeenth century’, in Caroline Bowden and James Kelly (eds), The English Convents in Exile, 1600– 1800. Communities, Culture and Identity (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), pp. 33–52. Quotation at p. 45. 5 Ibid. 6 Gabriel Glickman, The English Catholic Community, 1688–1745. Politics, Culture and Ideology (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2009).

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Appendix 1 Table of Benedictine nuns and their relatives in Holy Orders

Table A1.1 Benedictines related to other nuns (from all Orders), 1600–1800 Number No known of known relatives members in Holy Orders

One relative in Holy Orders

Two relatives in Holy Orders

Three or more relatives in Holy Orders

Brussels

208

56

14

12

46

Cambrai

198

32

 5

 6

57

Dunkirk

194

26

 5

 5

20

Ghent

269

55

17

 8

65

Paris

 68

29

 5

 1

 7

Pontoise

125

28

22

14

26

Ypres

 79

14

 3

 2

 8

255

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Table A1.2 Benedictine nuns related to other nuns within the Benedictine Order, 1600–1800 Number No known One Two Three of known Benedictine Benedictine Benedictine or more members relatives relative relatives Benedictine relatives Brussels

208

 4

19

12

11

Cambrai

198

 4

19

13

 9

Dunkirk

194

 3

 9

 2

 7

Ghent

269

10

14

 5

18

Paris

 68

 0

 2

 1

 6

Pontoise

125

 3

 5

 6

13

Ypres

 79

 1

 3

 2

 5

Table A1.3 Benedictine nuns related to other nuns in the same house, 1600–1800 Number No known One­ Two Three of known relatives in ­relative in ­relatives in or more members same house same house same house relatives in same house Brussels

208

16

38

 8

 2

Cambrai

198

 5

20

12

28

Dunkirk

194

 9

 9

 4

 4

Ghent

269

10

24

11

29

Paris

 68

 7

 3

 2

 0

Pontoise

125

10

36

 8

 2

Ypres

 79

10

 2

 0

 0

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Appendix 2 Table of accounts showing convents’ expenditure

Table A2.1 Examples of annual expenditure for the community of Brussels Spent on

Year 1619

Year ca. 1620

Meat

1,307

3,331

Wine

794

440

Oil

139

90

Milk, butter and cheese

996

1,144

Fish and eggs

1,516

1,574

Wheat, barley, hops

2,347

1,234

Sugar, spice, salt, vinegar, oatmeal and various groceries

500

303

Roots, vegetables and fruit

100

169

1,182

1,212

Coal and wood Cloth

795

Candles and lamps

500

Various wages Other TOTAL

810

786

450

2,479

1,053

13,441

11,810

Numbers quoted in Paul Arblaster, ‘The Monastery of our Lady of the Assumption in Brussels (1599–1794)’, EBC History Symposium 25 (1999), 47–77, appendix 1.

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ENGLISH BENEDICTINE NUNS IN EXILE

Table A2.2 Examples of annual expenditure for the community of Pontoise Spent on

Year 1657

Year 1668

Meat

642

2,071

Beer

400

375

Wine

89

366

Corn, wheat and bread

153

219

Milk, butter and cheese

1,211

630

Fish and eggs

173

349

Sugar and spice

213

354

50

298

Salt, vinegar and oil Roots and fruit

50

352

Coal and wood

unknown

1,231

2,155

1,485

Cloth Candles and lamps

149

191

Doctor, surgeon and medicine

153

680

Servants’ wages

180

184

1,163

3,969

Works on the building Books and paper

unknown

202

201

340

unknown

647

Other

1,714

5,212

TOTAL

8,696

19,155

Postage For the church

From ADVO, Ms 68H-5, book of accounts; for the purpose of this indicative table, the sums given more precisely in the account books have been rounded to the lowest livres tournois, not taking into account the deniers and sous.

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Bibliography

Manuscripts cited Archdiocesan Archives of Mechelen (Kloosters, Engelse Benedictinessen) Box 6: Ceremonial for clothings and professions Box 7: Examinations, professions and clothings Box 12/1: controversy and disputes 1620–23 Box 12/2: controversy and disputes 1620–23 and visitation (1623) Box 12/3: controversy continued Box 12/4: controversy continued

Archdiocesan Archives of Westminster

Box C.17 ‘BP Diconson’s Account of the English Mission’ ‘Collections out of English Historians’ ‘A Modell for a New Convert Or A Distribution off Time’ ‘A note about Holy Communion, or the union of a soule with God, by Love’ Box YYG Addenda/Miscell. Douai Abbey Anon 2. Douai Abbey Mss 1630–37 Anon 1. Douai Abbey Mss, 1630–39 Douai Abbey Mss from vol. 2 – ‘Papers concerning the Benedictin Nunns at Bruxells’ XXXVIII Douai Abbey Mss, from vol. K. 2

Archives Départementales du Nord, Lille

20H-1, ‘Constitutions compiled for the better observation of the holie Rule of our most glorious Fa: and Patriarch S. Bennet’ 20H-2, ‘A Rule of St Benedict’

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20H-3, ‘Of the election Authoritie & Office of the Abbesse’ 20H-4, Visitation reports 20H-10, Catherine Brent’s papers and correspondence 20H-14, ‘A Discourse on the Vanity and Dangers of the World’. 20H-17, ‘A Short Treatise on ye three Principall vertues and vows of Religious Persons’ 20H-18, Agnes More’s ‘The building of Divine Love …’, May 1691 20H-20, ‘Practices of Virtue and Devotion For Souls who live in the World’ 20H-28, ‘On Spiritual Retreat’ 20H-30, ‘The Prayers and Ceremonies of the Mass Explained’ 20H-31, ‘When these beginners …’ 20H-33, ‘The Affections of my Soule after judgment given against me in a Court of Justice upon the Evidence of false witnesses’ 20H-34, ‘Of Zeal’ 20H-35, ‘A Notable Practice of the Meanes to be observed by a Soule to come to the perfection of a spirituall life, either with or without a Director’ 20H-37, ‘Advice on how to resist sin and temptation’ 20H-40, ‘On love’ 20H-42, ‘The Spirit of St Bennet. Rule, or a Rule of a Benedictine Perfection, written by thee verie Rd Father Leander, Doctor of Divinity & Professour of the holy tongue, upon the 12 degrees of Humility.’ 20H-43, ‘Just reproaches of or Lord to a soule who will not free herselfe from the love of a creature…’ 20H-44, ‘Prayer to Begg The Grace of God for a True and perfect Conversion’ 20H-46, ‘Consideration on the vertue of patience’ 20H-47, ‘A book on the fruits of spiritual living’ 20H-49, Prayers 20H-54, ‘An Account on Chronological Occurrences’

Archives Départementales du Val d’Oise, Cergy-Pontoise

68H-2, Inventory of furniture, belongings, titles and papers, 31 May 1786 68H-3, register of professions 68H-4, obituary, ‘The liber of Prayers for the Religious’ 68H-5, account book 68H-7, ‘Installation des religieuses anglaises à Boulogne-sur-Mer – consentement de la commune et du maréchal d’Aumont, Gouverneur du Boulonais. Lettres patentes de Louis XIII, autorisation de l’Évêque Monsieur François Perrochel, 1652–53’ 68H-7/1, settlement of the English Benedictines at Boulogne and Pontoise 68H-8, bundle 3, ‘Papiers de Richard Forster, frère de la seconde abbesse et trésorier de la reine d’Angleterre, Henriette, femme de Charles Ier et sœur de Louis XIII, 1646–1655’

260

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

68H-9/1, diverse bills for food, cloth and wood 68H-9/2, diverse bills for services 68H-10, bundle 2, abbesses’ oaths, list of religious and clothing book, 1652–1779

Archives Nationales, Paris

S4619, Benedictine house of the Chant de l’Alouette H5 4078, account book

Bibliothèque Mazarine, Paris

Ms 1753, ‘Cérémonial des religieuses bénédictines angloises, approuvé de l’authorité de monseigneur l’archevêque de Paris’ Ms 3326, ‘Constitutions pour l’observance de la règle du glorieux père et patriarche sainct Benoist, dans le monastère des religieuses bénédictines angloises du titre de Nostre-Dame de Bonne-Espérance, sous la supériorité de Monseigneur l’éminentissime cardinal de Retz, archevesque de Paris, et ses successeurs’ Ms 4058, ‘A catalogue of the manuscript bookes belonging to the library of the English Benedictine nunnes of our blessed Lady of good hope, in Paris’

Bodleian Library, University of Oxford Thurloe papers, Ms Rawlinson A.36

British Library

Add Ms 28226, Letters and papers of John Caryll, Mary Caryll to her brother, fols 112 –30 Add Ms 28227, Vol. I, 1625–1718, fol. 9, 21 August 1694, from Mary Knatchbull to John Caryll Add. MS 28252, fols 140–8, anon., ‘Not guilty, or, The plea of the Roman Catholick in England’ Douai Abbey, Upper Woolhampton Box IV. 1 Lucy Knatchbull’s ‘The foundation of Bullogne, written by my Lady Lucy Knatchbull, Abesse of Ghant Monastery’ item 13: Ms book of A. Neville’s ‘Instructions to Superiors’, 1616 Bound ms book, ‘Seremonys and Customs Through out the year, for all feasts and occations, drawne from our seremoniall, in a Brife maner’ Box T. IV. 2 ‘La maniere et la ceremonie de recevoir une fille a l’ordre de Sainct Benoît, et de donner l’habit’ Ceremonial of the Pontoise community

261

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Downside Abbey, Stratton on the Fosse

Ms 82143, Barbara Constable, ‘Gemitus Peccatorum or the Complaints of Sinners composed by a vertuous and religious Dame of the holy order of Saint Benedict liveing in the Monasterie of our Ladies of Comfort in Cambray’ (finished 31 December 1649) Ms 82144/627, Barbara Constable, ‘Considerations and Reflexions vpon the Rule of the most glorious father St Benedict. By a most unworthy Religious of his order (finished 5 December 1655) Ms 82145/ 552, Barbara Constable, ‘Considerations for Preests: Composed of diuerse Collections gathered out of seueral authors by S.BC. unworthy Religious of the holy order of St Benet and of the English Congregation’ (finished 15 October 1653) Ms 82146/629, Barbara Constable, ‘Advices: for Confessors and Spiritual Directors’

St Mary’s Abbey, Colwich, Stafford

Ms H22, ‘xxivth book of Collections’ Ms H23, ‘xlth book of Collections’ Ms H32, ‘Colections of Sister Mary Benedicte’ Ms H35, ‘Collections of Sister Maura Wytham’ Ms H43, Barbara Constable, ‘Speculum Superiorum, Composed of diverse Collections taken out of the lives and workes of holie persons, by the most unworthy Religious Sister Barbara constable of Jesus’ (finished 2 December 1650) Ms H69, ‘the spiritual Exercisses & Devotions of the very Vertuous and Religious Sister Placida Quynes of al Saints’ (c. 1600) Ms H71, Justina Gascoigne, ‘Instructions to chapter’ Ms P2, Constitutions of Our lady of Good Hope Ms R1, House History Ms R3, Perticuler Remarkes

The National Archives, Kew SP 77/6/Part 1, fol. 73 SP 77/9, fol. 119

Printed primary sources Sources printed in Analecta Cartusiana Baker, Augustine, ‘Sickness, with collections from the book called Death’, in John Clark (ed.), Analecta Cartusiana 119:32 (2009). Bolton Holloway, Julia (ed.), ‘Colections by an English Nun in Exile: Bibliothèque Mazarine 1202’, Analecta Cartusiana 119:26 (2006).

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Clark, John (ed.), ‘Fr. Augustine Baker; The Life of Dame Margaret Gas­­ coigne; Five Treatises; and Confession’, Analecta Cartusiana 119:23 (2004). Clark, John (ed.), ‘Confessiones Amantis: The Spiritual Exercises of the most Vertuous and Religious Dame Gertrude More’, Analecta Cartusiana 119:27 (2007). Clark, John (ed.), ‘The Devotions of Dame Margaret Gascoigne’, Analecta Cartusiana 119:28 (2007). Clark, John (ed.), ‘Idiot’s Devotion’, Analecta Cartusiana 119:29 (2008). Wekking, Ben (ed.), ‘The Life and Death of Dame Gertrude More’, Analecta Cartusiana 119:19 (2001).

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Index

Albert the Great 117, 185, 198 anxiety 145, 148, 151, 153, 176, 223, 224 Appleby, Mary 38, 64, 69, 70 Appleton, Laurence 113 Appleton, Marina 113 Aquinas, Thomas 136, 137 Archdukes Albert and Isabella 6, 91, 92 asceticism 192, 193, 195 Atslow, Cecilia 110 Augustine of Hippo 136, 137, 161, 196, 197, 198 Augustinian canonesses 6, 9, 32, 63, 88, 91, 101, 102, 116, 250 Baker, Augustine xviii, xxiii, xxiv, 30, 120, 137, 142, 146, 148, 150, 151, 161, 162, 166, 168, 169, 171, 172, 177, 178, 190, 193, 195, 197, 200, 230, 251 Baldwin, William 92, 107 Barefoot, Dorothy 37 Barlow, Rudesind xviii, 10 Beaumont, Aloysia 220 Bedingfield, Tecla 220, 221

Berkeley, Joanna 9, 56, 91, 116, 117, 230 Blosius 120, 172, 174, 197 Bolney, Mary Joseph 234 Bonaventure 172, 185, 198 Bond, Thecla 86 Bradbery, Elizabeth 63, 93 Brent, Christina 36, 141, 142, 150, 190 Bridgettines 6, 94, 249 Butler, Ursula 209 Carmelites 6, 9, 32, 47, 90, 101, 102, 248, 250 Cary, Clementia xix, 91, 118, 166, 177, 127 Caryll, John xxvi, 112, 164 Caryll, Mary Teresa xxvi, 51, 84, 89, 112, 163, 164 Caryll, Peter, 89, 112 Chamberlain, Francis 118, 230 Charles I 5, 62, 123, 124 Charles II 7, 31, 62, 103, 112, 124, 126, 128 chronicles xxiv, xxv, 64, 251, 253 Civil Wars 11, 59, 68, 69, 80, 82, 84, 87, 102, 125, 249

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INDEX

Clairvaux, Bernard de 118, 172, 185, 198 clausura 1, 3, 82, 87, 107 Cloud of Unknowing 120, 172, 178, 197 Coesneau, Placida 113, 143, 169 Colford, Martha 25, 93 Coningsby, Mary Ingatia 192 Constable, Barbara xxiv, 52, 120, 140, 147, 165, 251 Conyers, Catherine 122, 123, 124, 125, 139 Conyers, Cecilia 111 Corham, Justina 231 Cotton, Margery 25, 26, 67 Council of Trent 1, 2, 28, 66, 77, 81, 101, 186, 188, 238

Eucharist 189, 200, 201, 202 Evers, Francis 29, 67

Deacon, Potentiana 118, 120, 129, 144 death physical 14, 53, 116, 124, 128, 147, 164, 166, 167, 192, 217, 218, 219, 220, 226, 227–38 social 23, 24, 26, 27, 30, 33, 35, 41, 42 debt xx, xxiii, 80, 81, 84, 85, 89, 93, 126 Digby, Diana 87 Digby, Magdalen 87, 105, 119, 144, 226, 227 Digby, Mary 205, 228 Dominicans 6, 102 dowry xxiii, 38, 58, 63, 68, 69, 70, 71, 83, 85, 95 Ducket, Barbara 144

Gage, Teresa 33, 92, 144, 147 Gardiner, Teresia 207, 208 Gascoigne, Catherine 51, 62,166 Gascoigne, Justina xxv, 23, 32, 54, 106, 113, 123, 140, 166, 193, 195, 228 Gascoigne, Margaret xxiv, 13, 62, 149, 150, 153, 154, 168, 173, 174, 251 Gascoigne, Placidus 113 Gascoigne, Thomas 106, 107 Gawen, Mary Francis 24, 87, 118 German, Aloysia 208 Glorious Revolution 11, 110, 123 Gravelines xix, 6, 101, 249 Gregory of Nyssa 152, 172, 178 Grey, Alexia 31, 119, 138, 205, 206, 239 Gunpowder Plot 5, 105, 108

eating 190, 193, 202 ecstasies 175, 180, 200, 201, 203, 251 Elizabeth I, 11, 105, 110, 111 English Benedictine Congregation xviii, xix, 91, 102, 113, 249

Harphius 168, 197 Hawkins, Barbara 110 Hawkins, Benet 144 Healey, Anne 39 Henrietta Maria xix, 91, 94,124 Hewick, Ursula 25, 145

fasting 191, 192 fear 136, 137, 139, 140, 146–54, 161, 169, 170, 176, 221, 230 Fielding, Bridgit 95 Fitzjames, Ignatia 62, 123 Forster, Anne Christina 49, Forster, Anne 85, 110 Forster, Christina xx, 81, 88, 94, 125, 220, 232, 234, 236, 237, 241 Forster, Placida 110 Franciscans 9, 101, 249 friendships 24, 33, 142, 143, 144, 145, 160, 163, 166

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INDEX

Hilton, Walter 120, 172, 197 Holt, William 91, 92, 107 hope 148, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 161,164 Hovius, Mathias xxi, 56, 62, 91 Hull, Francis xviii, 120 Hunlocke, Anne 86 Hunlocke, Teresa 86 Hyde, Anne 128 illness 14, 37, 82, 125, 217–28, 232 Imitatio Christi 27, 195, 219, 225, 226, 253 Ingleby, Anne 25, 35 James II xx, 11, 62, 94, 103, 109, 112, 123, 128 John of the Cross 152, 172, 174, 176, 197 Julian of Norwich 120, 172, 174, 197 Knatchbull, John 108 Knatchbull, Lucy xxiv, 34, 35, 36, 38, 56, 61, 108, 117, 119, 144, 146, 148, 150, 191, 200–4, 226, 231, 242, 251 Knatchbull, Margaret 222 Knatchbull, Mary xx, xxv, 7, 32, 51, 56, 80, 81, 89, 93, 117, 124–8, 199, 209, 230, 232, 233 Lenthall, Agnes 33, 56 Lisbon 6, 94, 114, 249 Louvain 5, 6, 63, 92, 101, 250 love divine 13, 14, 28, 30, 35, 137, 145, 148, 149, 154, 155, 160–80, 202, 231 natural 31, 50, 53, 54, 140, 141, 143 Lovell, Christina 34, 144

Manoc, Dorothy 237 Markham, Margaret 234 Mary of Modena 84, 128 Mary Stuart 104 Matlock, Teresia 82 Matthew, Tobie xxiv, 203, 251 meditation 169, 197, 199 Minshall, Mary 32, 199 More, Agnes 60, 179 More, Gertrude xviii, xxiv, 13, 33, 35, 41, 60, 142, 143, 146, 152, 166, 168, 170–9, 193–8, 225, 226, 231, 251 More, Joanna 60, 110 Morgan, Anastasia 144 mortification 138, 140, 191, 193 Mounson, Mary 192 mystics 28, 152, 170, 172–7, 189, 195, 197, 202–6 networks 4, 12, 42, 48, 50, 57, 58, 60, 67, 71, 77, 78,82, 91, 96, 108, 122, 124, 129, 164, 249 Neville, Anne xxiv, 52, 69, 89, 93, 96, 107, 108, 123, 219 Neville, Margaret 86 novitiate 47, 54, 58, 67, 83–6, 147 obituaries xxv, 14, 64, 166, 167, 193, 217, 218, 220, 221, 222, 225, 228, 231, 240, 242, 243, 253 obedience 39, 52, 152, 155 Parker, Francis 25, 63, 67 patronage 67, 90, 91, 92, 94, 96, 104, 108, 112, 116, 117, 118, 123, 128, 129 penance 191–4 Percy, Mary xix, xxi, 6, 29, 39, 51, 56, 62, 104, 116–19, 129, 147, 237, 241 Percy, Thomas 104, 241

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Spiritual Exercises 30, 169, 198, 201 Stanihurst, Cecilia 86 supernatural 169, 201–10, 232, 237, 239, 243, 281 Swift, Mary Teresa 229

Perrochel, François xx, 93, 95 Persons, Robert 19, 102 Petre, Catherine 109, 110 Petre, Justina 81 Philipps, Mary 35, 39, 144 Poor Clares xix, 6, 53, 58, 92, 101, 102, 226, 249 Poulton, Eugenia 51, 53, 56, 80, 81, 92, 109, 119, 144, 200, 243 Poulton, Mechildis 111 Price, Cecelie 192, 205

Tauler, John 120, 170, 197 Teresa of Àvila 41, 152, 164, 170, 172, 174, 175, 176, 179, 195, 197, 203, 204, 210 Thorold, Christina 234 Thorold, Eugenia 49, 69, 241 Tresham, Winefrid 105 Turner, Catherine 66

relics 238, 264 Rome 5, 91, 107, 110, 238 Roper Lovel, Mary 31, 34 Roper, Mary 56, 84, 122, 125, 166, 189, 219, 239, 242 Rouen, 5, 49, 53, 58, 102 Ruysbroeck, John 172, 185, 197

Ursulines 2, 90 Vaughan, Clare 122, 193 Vavasour, Mary 51, 56, 144 vocation 25–9, 31, 47, 61, 66–8, 70, 71, 83, 103, 121, 142, 144, 145, 207

Sales, François de 3, 120 senses 14, 138, 169, 170, 175, 185–205, 211, 253 Sepulchrines 6, 102 Shaftoe, Gertrude 113 Sheldon, Catherine 120 silence 39, 176, 190, 197 singing 127, 189, 235 Smith, Etheldred 193 Smith, Scholastica 34 Smythe, Winefride 209 Southcote, Elizabeth 39

Waldegrave, Hieronyma 226 Ward, Mary xix, 2, 5, 6, 115 Warner, Agnes 31, 112 Wigmore, Catherine 49, 53, 56, 111, 166, 191, 192, 200, 236, 237 Wintour, Mary 144 Wiseman, Agatha 35, 147 Wright, Frances 105

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