CHAPTER 42
On the first Sabbath of November, 1846, after a retreat of
eight days, I fell on my knees, and asked as a favour, to be received as a
novice of the religious order of the Oblates of Mary Immaculate of Longueuil,
whose object is to preach retreats (revivals) among the people. No child of the
Church of Rome ever enrolled himself with more earnestness and sincerity under
the mysterious banners of her monastic armies than I did, that day. It is
impossible to entertain more exalted views of the beauty and holiness of the
monastic life, than I had. To live among the holy men who had made the solemn
vows of poverty, obedience, and chastity, seemed to me the greatest and the most
blessed privilege which my God could grant on earth.
Within the walls of the peaceful monastery of Longueuil, among those holy men
who had, long since, put an impassable barrier between themselves and that
corrupted world, from the snares of which I was just escaping, my conviction was
that I should see nothing but actions of the most exalted piety; and that the
deadly weapons of the enemy could not pierce those walls protected by the
Immaculate Mother of God!
The frightful storms which had covered with wrecks the roaring sea, where I had
so often nearly perished, could not trouble the calm waters of the port where my
bark had just entered. Every one of the members of the community was to be like
an angel of charity, humility, modesty, whose example was to guide my steps in
the ways of God. My superior appeared to be less a superior than a father, whose
protecting care, by day and night, would be a shield over me. Noah, in the ark,
safe from the raging waves which were destroying the world, did not feel more
grateful to God than I was, when once in this holy solitude. The vow of perfect
poverty was to save me for ever from the cares of the world. Having, hereafter,
no right to possess a cent, the world would become to me a paradise, where food,
clothing, and lodging would come without anxiety or care. My father superior
would supply all these things, without any other condition on my part, than to
love and obey a man of God whose whole life was to be spent in guiding my steps
in the ways of the most exalted evangelical virtues. Had not that father himself
made a solemn vow to renounce not only all the honours and dignities of the
church, that his whole mind and heart might be devoted to my holiness on earth,
and my salvation in heaven?
How easy to secure that salvation now! I had only to look to that father on
earth, and obey him as my Father in Heaven. Yes! The will of that father was to
be, for me, the will of my God. Though I might err in obeying him, my errors
would not be laid to my charge. To save my soul, I should have only to be like a
corpse, or a stick in the hands of my father superior. Without any anxiety or
any responsibility whatever on my own, I was to be led to heaven as the new-born
child in the arms of his loving mother, without any fear, thoughts, or anxiety
of his own.
With the Christian poet I could have sung:
.
"Rocks and storms I fear no more,
When on that eternal shore,
Drop the anchor! Furl the sail!
I am safe within the vail."
But how short were to be these fine dream of my poor deluded
mind! When on my knees, Father Guigues handed me, with great solemnity, the
Latin books of the rules of that monastic order, which is their real gospel,
warning me that it was a secret book, that there were things in it I ought not
to reveal to anyone; and he made me solemnly promise that I would never show it
to any one outside the order.
When alone, the next morning, in my cell, I thanked God and the Virgin Mary for
the favours of the last day, and the thought came involuntarily to my mind:
"Have you not, a thousand times, heard and said that the Holy Church of
Rome absolutely condemns and anathematizes secret societies. And do you not
belong, today, to a secret society? How can you reconcile the solemn promise of
secrecy you made last night, with the anathemas hurled by all your popes against
secret societies?" After having, in vain, tried, in my mind, to reconcile
these two things, I happily remembered that I was a corpse, that I had for ever
given up my private judgment that my only business now was to obey. "Does a
corpse argue against those who turn it from side to side? Is it not in perfect
peace, whatever may be the usage to which it is exposed, or to whatever place it
is dragged. Shall I lose the rich crown which is before me, at my first step in
the ways of perfection?"
I bade my rebellious intelligence to be still, my private judgment to be mute,
and, to distract my mind from this first temptation, I read that book of rules
with the utmost attention. I had not gone through it all before I understood why
it was kept from the eyes of the curates and the other secular priests. To my
unspeakable amazement, I found that, from the beginning to the end, it speaks
with the most profound contempt for them all. I said to myself: "What would
be the indignation of the curates, if they should suspect that these strangers
from France have such a bad opinion of them all! Would the good curates receive
them as angels from heaven, and raise them so high in the esteem of the people,
if they knew that the first thing an Oblate has to learn, is that the secular
priest is, today, steeped in immorality, ignorance, wordiness, laziness,
gluttony, ect.; that he is the disgrace of the church, which would speedily be
destroyed, was she not providentially sustained, and kept in the ways of God, by
the holy monastic men whom she nurses as her only hope! Clear as the light of
the sun on a bright day, the whole fabric of the order of the Oblates presented
itself to my mind, as the most perfect system of Pharisaism the world had ever
seen."
The Oblate, who studies his book of rules, his only gospel, must have his mind
filled with the idea of his superior holiness, not only over the poor sinful,
secular priest, but over every one else. The Oblate alone is Christian, holy,
and sacred; the rest of the world is lost! The Oblate alone is the salt of the
earth, the light of the world! I said to myself: "Is it to attain to this
pharisaical perfection that I have left my beautiful and dear parish of
Kamouraska, and given up the honourable position which my God had given me in my
country!"
However, after some time spent in these sad and despondent reflections, I again
felt angry with myself. I quickly directed my mind to the frightful,
unsuspected, and numberless scandals I had known in almost every parish I had
visited. I remembered the drunkenness of the curate, the impurities of this, the
ignorance of another, the worldliness and absolute want of faith of others, and
concluded that, after all, the Oblates were not far from the truth in their bad
opinion of the secular clergy. I ended my sad afflictions by saying to myself:
"After all, if the Oblates live a life of holiness, as I expect to find
here, is it a crime that they should see, feel, and express among themselves,
the difference which exists between a regular and a secular clergy? Am I come
here to judge and condemn these holy men? No! I came here to save myself by the
practice of the most heroic Christian virtues, the first of which, is that I
should absolutely and for ever, give up my private judgment consider myself as a
corpse in the hand of my superior."
With all the fervour of my soul, I prayed to God and to the Virgin Mary, day and
night, that week, that I might attain that supreme state of perfection, when I
would have no will, no judgment of my own. The days of that first week passed
very quickly, spent in prayer, reading and meditation of the Scriptures, study
of ecclesiastical history and ascetical books, from half-past five in the
morning till half-past nine at night. The meals were taken at the regular hours
of seven, twelve, and six o'clock, during which, with rare exceptions, silence
was kept, and pious books were read. The quality of the food was good; but, at
first, before they got a female cook to preside over the kitchen,everything was
so unclean, that I had to shut my eyes at meals, not to see what I was eating. I
should have complained, had not my lips been sealed by that strange monastic
view of perfection that every religious man is a corpse! What does a corpse care
about the cleanliness or uncleanliness of what is put into its mouth? The third
day, having drank at breakfast a glass of milk which was literally mixed with
the dung of a cow, my stomach rebelled; a circumstance which I regretted
exceedingly, attributing it to my want of monastic perfection. I envied the high
state of holiness of the other fathers who had so perfectly attained to the
sublime perfection of submission that they could drink that impure milk just as
if it had been clean.
Everything went on well the first week, with the exception of a dreadful scare I
had at the dinner of the first Friday. Just after eating soup, when listening
with the greatest attention to the reading of the life of a saint, I suddenly
felt as if the devil had taken hold of my feet; I threw down my knife and fork,
and I cried at the top of my voice, "My God! my God! what is there?"
and as quick as lightning I jumped on my chair to save myself from Satan's
grasp. My cries were soon followed by an inexpressible burst of convulsive
laughter from everyone.
"But what does that mean? Who has taken hold of my feet?" I asked.
Father Guigues tried to explain the matter to me, but it took him a considerable
time. When he began to speak, an irrepressible burst of laughter prevented his
saying a word. The fits of laughter became still more uncontrollable, on account
of the seriousness with which I was repeatedly asking them who could have taken
hold of my feet! At last some one said, "It is Father Lagier who wanted to
kiss your feet!" At the same time, Lagier walking on his hands and knees,
his face covered with sweat, dust, and dirt, was crawling out from under the
table; literally rolling on the floor, in such an uncontrollable fit of laughter
that he was unable to stand on his feet. Of course, when I understood that no
devil had tried to drag me by the feet, but that it was simply one of the father
Oblates, who, to go through one of the common practices of humility in that
monastery, had crawled under the table, to take hold of the feet of every one
and kiss them, I joined with the rest of the community, and laughed to my
heart's content.
Not many days after this, we were going, after tea, from the dining-room to the
chapel, to pass five or ten minutes in adoration of the wafer god; we had two
doors to cross, and it was pretty dark. Being the last who had entered the
monastery, I had to walk first, the other monks following me. We were reciting,
with a loud voice, the Latin Psalm: "Miserere mei Deus." We were all
marching pretty fast, when, suddenly, my feet met a large, though unseen object,
and down I fell, and rolled on the floor; my next companion did the same, and
rolled over me, and so did five or six others, who, in the dark, had also struck
their feet on that object. In a moment, we were five or six "Holy
Fathers" rolling on each other on the floor, unable to rise up, splitting
our sides with convulsive laughter. Father Brunette, in one of his fits of
humility, had left the table a little before the rest, with the permission of
the Superior, to lay himself flat on the floor, across the door. Not suspecting
it, and unable to see anything, from the want of sufficient light, I had
entangled my feet on that living corpse, as also the rest of those who were
walking too close behind me, to stop before tumbling over one another.
No words can describe my feelings of shame when I saw, almost every day, some
performance of this kind going on, under the name of Christian humility. In vain
I tried to silence the voice of my intelligence, which was crying to me, day and
night, that this was a mere diabolical caricature of the humility of Christ.
Striving to silence my untamed reason, by telling it that it had no right to
speak, and argue, and criticize, within the holy walls of a monastery, it,
nevertheless, spoke louder, day after day, telling me that such acts of humility
were a mockery. In vain, I said to myself, "Chiniquy, thou art not come
here to philosophize on this and that, but to sanctify thyself by becoming like
a corpse, which has no preconceived ideas, no acquired store of knowledge, no
rule of common sense to guide it! Poor, wretched, sinful Chiniquy, thou art here
to save thyself by admiring every iota of the holy rules of your superiors, and
to obey every word of their lips!"
I felt angry against myself, and unspeakably sad when, after whole weeks and
months of efforts, not only to silence the voice of my reason, but to kill it,
it had more life than ever, and was more and more loudly protesting against the
unmanly, unchristian, and ridiculous daily usages and rules of the monastery. I
envied the humble piety of the other good Fathers, who were apparently so happy,
having conquered themselves so completely, as to destroy that haughty reason,
which was constantly rebelling in me.
Twice, every week, I went to reveal to my guide and confessor, Father Allard,
the master of novices, my interior struggles; my constant, though vain efforts,
to subdue my rebellious reason. He always gladdened me with the promise that,
sooner or later, I should have that interior perfect peace which is promised to
the humble monk when he has attained the supreme monastic perfection of
considering himself as a corpse, as regards the rules and will of his superiors.
My sincere and constant efforts to reconcile myself to the rules of the
monastery were, however, soon to receive a new and rude check. I had read in the
book of rules, that a true monk must closely watch those who live with him, and
secretly report to his superior the defects and sins which he detects in them.
The first time I read that strange rule, my mind was so taken up by other
things, that I did not pay much attention to it. But the second time I studied
that clause, the blush came to my face, and in spite of myself, I said: "Is
it possible that we are a band of spies?" I was not long in seeing the
disastrous effects of this most degrading and immoral rule. One of the fathers,
for whom I had a particular affection for his many good qualities, and who had
many times given me the sincere proof of his friendship, said to me one day:
"For God's sake, my dear Father Chiniquy, tell me if it is you who
denounced me to the Superior for having said that the conduct of Father Guigues
towards me was uncharitable?"
"No! my dear friend," I answered, "I never said such a thing
against you, for two reasons: The first is, that you have never said a word in
my presence which could give me the idea that you had such an opinion of our
good Father Superior; the second reason is, that though you might have told me
anything of that kind, I would prefer to have my tongue cut, and eaten by dogs,
than to be a spy, and denounce you!"
"I am glad t know that," he rejoined, "for I was told by some of
the fathers that you were the one who had reported me to the Superior as guilty,
though I am innocent of that offense, but I could not believe it." He added
with tears, "I regret having left my parish to be an Oblate, on account of
that abominable law which we are sworn to fulfill. That law makes a real hell of
this monastery, and, I suppose, of all the monastic orders, for I think it is a
general law with all the religious houses. When you have passed more time here,
you will see that that law of detection puts an insurmountable wall between us
all; it destroys every spring of Christian and social happiness."
"I understand, perfectly well, what you say," I answered him;
"the last time I was alone with Father Superior, he asked me why I had said
that the present Pope was an old fool; he persisted in telling me that I must
have said it, 'for,' he added, 'one of our most reliable fathers has assured me
you said it.' 'Well, my dear Father Superior,' I answered him, 'that reliable
father has told you a big lie; I never said such a thing, for the good reason
that I sincerely think that our present Pope is one of the wisest that ever
ruled the church.' I added, 'Now I understand why there is so much
unpleasantness in our mutual intercourse, during the hours we are allowed to
talk. I see that nobody dares to speak his mind on any grave subject. The
conversations are colourless and without life.'" "That is just the
reason," answered my friend. When some of the fathers, like you and me,
would prefer to be hung rather than become spies, the great majority of them,
particularly among the French priests recently imported from France, will not
hear ten words from your lips on any subject, without finding an opportunity of
reporting eight of them as unbecoming and unchristian, to the superiors. I do
not say that it is always through malice that they give such false reports; it
is more through want of judgment. They are very narrow minded; they do not
understand the half of what they hear in its true sense; and they give their
false impressions to the superiors, who, unfortunately, encourage that system of
spying, as the best way of transforming every one of us into corpses. As we are
never confronted with our false accusers, we can never know them, and we lose
confidence in each other; thus it is that the sweetest and holiest springs of
true Christian love are for ever dried up. It is on this spying system which is
the curse and the hell of our monastic houses, that a celebrated French writer,
who had been a monk himself, wrote of all the monks:
"Ils rentrent dans leurs monasteres sans so connaaitre; ils y vivent, sans
s'aimr: et ils se separent sans se regretter" (Monks enter a monastery
without knowing each other; they live there, without loving each other; and they
depart from each other without any regret.)
However, though I sincerely deplored that there was such a law of espionage
among us, I tried to persuade myself that it was like the dark spots of the sun,
which do not diminish its beauty, its grandeur and its innumerable blessings.
The Society of the Oblates was still to me the blessed ark where I should find a
sure shelter against the storms which were desolating the rest of the world.
Not long after my reception as a novice, the providence of God put before our
eyes one of those terrible wrecks which would make the strongest of us tremble.
Suddenly, at the hour of breakfast, the superior of the Seminary of St. Sulpice,
and grand vicar of the Diocese of Montreal, the Rev. Mr. Quiblier, knocked at
our door, to rest an hour, and breakfast with us, when on his way to France.
This unfortunate priest, who was among the best orators and the best looking men
Montreal had ever seen, had lived such a profligate life with his penitent nuns
and ladies of Montreal, that a cry of indignation from the whole people had
forced Bishop Bourget to send him back to France. Our father superior took the
opportunity of the fall of that talented priest, to make us bless God for having
gathered us behind the walls of our monastery, where the efforts of the enemy
were powerless. But, alas! we were soon to know, at our own expense, that the
heart of man is weak and deceitful everywhere.
It was not long after the public fall of the grand vicar of Montreal, when a
fine-looking widow was engaged to preside over our kitchen. She was more than
forty years old, and had very good manners. Unfortunately, she had not been four
months in the monastery, when she fell in love with her father confessor, one of
the most pious of the French father Oblates. The modern Adam was not stronger
than the old one against the charms of the new Eve. Both were found, in an evil
hour, forgetting one of the holy laws of God. The guilty priest was punished and
the weak woman dismissed. But an unspeakable shame remained upon us all! I would
have preferred to have my sentence of death, than the news of such a fall inside
the walls of that house where I had so foolishly believed that Satan could not
lay his snares. From that day, it was the will of God that the strange and
beautiful illusions which had brought me to that monastery, should fade away one
after the other, like the white mist which conceals the bright rays of the
morning sun. The Oblates began to appear to me pretty much like other men. Till
then, I had looked at them with my eyes shut, and I had seen nothing but the
glittering colours with which my imagination was painting them. From that day, I
studied them with my eyes opened, and I saw them just as they were.
In the spring of 1847, having a severe indisposition, the doctor ordered me to
go to the Hotel Dieu of Montreal, which was, then, near the splendid St. Mary's
Church. I made there, for the first time, the acquaintance of a venerable old
nun, who was very talkative. She was one of the superiors of the house; her
family name was Urtubise. Her mind was still full of indignation at the bad
conduct of two father Oblates, who, under the pretext of sickness, had lately
come to her monastery to seduce the young nuns who were serving them. She told
me how she had turned them out ignominiously, forbidding them ever to come
again, under any pretext, into the hospital. She was young, when Bishop Lartigue,
being driven away from the Sulpician Seminary of Montreal, in 1823, had taken
refuge, with his secretary, the Rev. Ignace Bourget, into the modest walls of
that nunnery. She told me how the nuns had soon to repent having received the
bishop with his secretary and other priests.
"It was nearly the ruin of our community. The intercourse of the priests
with a certain number of nuns" she said, "was the cause of so much
disorder and scandal, that I was deputed with some other nuns, to the bishop to
respectfully request him not to prolong his stay in our nunnery. I told him, in
my name, and in the name of many others, that if he would not comply with our
legitimate request, we should instantly leave the house, go back to our families
and get married, that it was better to be honestly married than to continue to
live as the priests, even our father confessors, wanted us to do."
After she had given me several other spicy stories of those interesting distant
days, I asked her if she had known Maria Monk, when she was in their house, and
what she thought of her book, "Awful Disclosures?" "I have known
her well," she said. "She spent six months with us. I have read her
book, which was given me, that I might refute it. But after reading it, I
refused to have anything to do with that deplorable exposure. There are surely
some inventions and suppositions in that book. But there is sufficient amount of
truth to cause all our nunneries to be pulled down by the people, if only the
half of them were known to the public!"
She then said to me: "For God's sake, do not reveal these things to the
world, till the last one of us is dead, if God spares you." She then
covered her face with her hands, burst into tears, and left the room.
I remained horrified. Her words fell upon me as a thunderbolt. I regretted
having heard them, though I was determined to respect her request not to reveal
the terrible secret she had entrusted to me. My God knows that I never repeated
a word of it till now. But I think it is my duty to reveal to my country and the
whole world the truth on that grave subject, as it was given me by a most
respectable and unimpeachable eyewitness.
The terrible secrets which Sister Urtubise had revealed to me rendered my stay
in the Hotel Dieu as unpleasant as it had been agreeable at first. Though not
quiet recovered I left, the same day, for Longueuil, where I entered the
monastery with a heavy heart. The day before, two of the fathers had come back
from a two or three months' evangelical excursion among the lumber men, who were
cutting wood in the forests along the Ottawa River and its tributaries, from one
to two hundred miles north-west of Montreal. I was glad to hear of their
arrival. I hoped that the interesting history of their evangelical excursions,
narrow escapes from the bears and the wolves of the forests; their hearty
receptions by the honest and sturdy lumber men, which the superior had requested
me, some weeks before, to write, would cause a happy diversion from the
deplorable things I had recently learned. But only one of those fathers could be
seen, and his conversation was anything but interesting and pleasant. There was
evidently a dark cloud around him. And the other Oblate, his companion, where
was he? The very day of his arrival, he had been ordered to keep his room, and
make a retreat of ten days, during which time he was forbidden to speak to
anyone.
I inquired from a devoted friend among the old Oblates the reason of such a
strange thing. After promising never to reveal to the superiors the sad secret
he trusted me with, he said: "Poor Father Dhas seduced one of his fair
penitents, on the way. She was a married woman, the lady of the house where our
missionaries used to receive the most cordial hospitality. The husband having
discovered the infidelity of his wife, came very near killing her; he
ignominiously turned out the two fathers, and wrote a terrible letter to the
superior. The companion of the guilty father denounced him, an confessed
everything to the superior, who has seen that the letter of the enraged husband
was only giving too true and correct a version of the whole unfortunate and
shameful occurrence. Now, the poor, weak father for his penance, is condemned to
ten days of seclusion from the rest of the community. He must pass that whole
time in prayer, fasting, and acts of humiliation, dictated by the
superior."
"Do these deplorable facts occur very often among the father Oblates?"
I asked.
My friend raised his eyes, filled with tears, to heaven, and with a deep sigh,
he answered: "Dear Father Chiniquy, would to God that I might be able to
tell you that it is the first crime of that nature committed by an Oblate. But
alas! you know, by what has occurred with our female cook not long ago, that it
is not the first time that some of our fathers have brought disgrace upon us
all. And you know also the abominable life of Father Telmont with the two nuns
at Ottawa!"
"If it be so," I replied, "where is the spiritual advantage of
the regular clergy over the secular?"
"The only advantage I see," answered my friend, "is that the
regular clergy gives himself with more impunity to every kind of debauch and
licentiousness than the secular. The monks being concealed from the eyes of the
public, inside the walls of their monastery, where nobody, or at least very few
people, have any access, are more easily conquered by the devil, and more firmly
kept in his chains, than the secular priests. The sharp eyes of the public, and
the daily intercourse the secular priests have with their relations and
parishioners, form a powerful and salutary restraint upon the bad inclinations
of our depraved nature. In the monastery, there is no restraint except the
childish and ridiculous punishments of retreats, kissing of the floor, or of the
feet, prostration upon the ground, as Father Burnette did, a few days after your
coming among us.
"There is surely more hypocrisy and selfishness among the regular than the
secular clergy. That great social organization which forms the human family is a
divine work. Yes! those great social organizations which are called the city,
the township, the country, the parish, and the household, where every one is
called to work in the light of day, is a divine organization, and makes society
as strong, pure, and holy as it can be.
"I confess that there are also terrible temptations, and deplorable falls
there, but the temptations are not so unconquerable, and the falls not so
irreparable, as in these dark recesses and unhealthy prisons raised by Satan
only for the birds of night, called monasteries or nunneries.
"The priest and the woman who falls in the midst of a well-organized
Christian society, break the hearts of the beloved mother, covers with shame a
venerable father, cause the tears of cherished sisters and brothers to flow,
pierce, with a barbed arrow, the hearts of thousands of friends; they for ever
lose their honour and good name. These considerations are so many providential,
I dare say Divine, shields, to protect the sons and daughters of Eve against
their own frailty. The secular priest and the women shrink before throwing
themselves into such a bottomless abyss of shame, misery, and regret. But behind
the thick and dark walls of the monastery, or the nunnery, what has the fallen
monk or nun to fear? Nobody will hear of it, no bad consequences worth
mentioning will follow, except a few days of retreat, some insignificant,
childish, ridiculous penances, which the most devoted in the monastery are
practicing almost every day.
"As you ask me in earnest what are the advantages of a monastic life over a
secular, in a moral and social point of view, I will answer you. In the
monastery, man, as the image of God, forgets his divine origin, loses his
dignity; and as a Christian, he loses the most holy weapons Christ has given to
His disciples to fight the battle of life. He, at once and for ever, loses that
law of self-respect, and respect for others, which is one of the most powerful
and legitimate barriers against vice. Yes! That great and divine law of
self-respect, which God Himself has implanted in the heart of every man and
woman who live in a Christian society, is completely destroyed in the monastery
and nunnery. The foundation of perfection in the monk and the nun is that they
must consider themselves as corpses. Do you not see that this principle strikes
at the root of all that God has made good, grand, and holy in man? Does it not
sweep away every idea of holiness, purity, greatness! every principle of life
which the Gospel of Christ had for its mission to reveal to the fallen children
of Adam?
"What self-respect can we expect from a corpse? and what respect can a
corpse feel for the other corpses which surround it? Thus it is that the very
idea of monastic perfection carries with it the destruction of all that is good,
pure, holy, and spiritual in the religion of the Gospel. It destroys the very
idea of life to put death into its place.
"It is for that reason that if you study the true history, not the lying
history, of monachism, you will find the details of a corruption impossible,
anywhere else, not even among the lowest houses of prostitution. Read the
Memoirs of Scipio de Ricci, one of the most pious and intelligent bishops our
Church has ever had, and you will see that the monks and the nuns of Italy live
the very life of the brutes in the fields. Yes! read the terrible revelations of
what is going on among those unfortunate men and women, whom in the iron hand of
monachism keeps tied in their dark dungeons, you will hear from the very lips of
the nuns that the monks are more free with them than the husbands are with their
legitimate wives; you will see that every one of those monastic institutions is
a new Sodom!
"The monastic axiom, that the highest point of perfection is attained only
when you consider yourself a corpse in the hand of your superior, is anti-social
and Antichristian: it is simply diabolical. It transforms into a vile machine
that man whom God had created in His likeness, and made for ever free. It
degrades below the brute that man whom Christ, by His death, has raised to the
dignity of a child of God, and an inheritor of an eternal kingdom in Heaven.
Everything is mechanical, material, false, in the life of a monk and a nun. Even
the best virtues are deceptions and lies. The monks and the nuns being perfect
only when they have renounced their own free-will and intelligence to become
corpses, can have neither virtues or vices.
"Their best actions are mechanical. Their acts of humility are to crawl
under the table and kiss the feet of each other, or to make a cross on a dirty
floor with the tongue, or lie down in the dust to let the rest of the monks or
the nuns pass over them! Have you not remarked how those so-called monks speak
with the utmost contempt of the rest of the world? One must have opportunities
as I have had of seeing the profound hatred which exists among all monastic
orders against each other. How the Dominicans have always hated the Franciscans,
and how they both hate the Jesuits, who pay them back in the same coin! What a
strong and nameless hatred divides the Oblates, to whom we belong, from the
Jesuits! The Jesuits never lose an opportunity of showing us their supreme
contempt! You are aware that, on account of those bad feelings, it is absolutely
forbidden to an Oblate to confess to a Jesuit, as we know it is forbidden to the
Jesuits to confess to an Oblate, or to any other priest.
"I need not tell you, for you know, that their vow of poverty is a mask to
help them to become rich with more rapidity than the rest of the world. Is it
not under the mask of that vow that the monks of England, Scotland, and France
became the masters of the richest lands of those countries, which the nations
were forced, by bloody revolutions, to wrench from their grasp?
"Is it not still under the mask of extreme poverty that the monks of Italy
are among the richest proprietors in that unfortunate country?
"I have seen much more of the world than you. When a young priest, I was
the chaplain, confessor, and intimate friend of the Duchess de Berry, the mother
of Henry V, now the only legitimate king of France. When, in the midst of those
great and rich princes and nobles of France, I never saw such a love of money,
of honour, of vain glory, as I have seen among the monks since I have become one
of them. When the Duchess de Berry finished her providential work in France,
after making the false step which ruined her, I threw myself into the religious
order of the Chartreux. I have lived several years in their palatial monastery
of Rome; have cultivated and enjoyed their sweet fruits in their magnificent
gardens; but I was not there long without seeing the fatal error I had committed
in becoming a monk. During the many years I resided in that splendid mansion,
where laziness, stupidity, filthiness, gluttony, superstition, tediousness,
ignorance, pride, and unmentionable immoralities, with very few exceptional
cases, reigned supreme, I had every opportunity to know what was going on in
their midst. Life soon became an unbearable burden, but for the hope I had of
breaking my fetters. At last I found out that the best, if not the only way of
doing this, was to declare to the Pope that I wanted to go and preach the gospel
to the savages of America, which was, and is still true.
"I made my declaration, and by the Pope's permission the doors of my goal
were opened, with the condition that I should join the order of the Oblates
Immaculate, in connection with which I should evangelize the savages of the
Rocky Mountains.
"I have found among the monks of Canada the very same things I have seen
among those of France and Italy. With very few exceptions they are all corpses,
absolutely dead to every sentiment of true honesty and real Christianity; they
are putrid carcasses, which have lost the dignity of manhood.
"My dear Father Chiniquy," he added, "I trust you as I trust
myself, when I tell you for our own good a secret which is known to God alone.
When I am on the Rocky Mountains, I will raise myself up, as the eagles of those
vast countries, and I shall go up to the regions of liberty, light, and life; I
will cease being a corpse, to become what my God has made me a free and
intelligent man: I will cease to be a corpse, in order to become one of the
redeemed of Christ, who serve God in spirit and in truth.
"Christ is the light of the world; monachism is its night! Christ is the
strength, the glory, the life of man; monachism is its decay, shame, and death!
Christ died to make us free; the monastery is built up to make slaves of us!
Christ died that we might be raised to the dignity of children of God; monachism
is established to bring us down much below he living brutes, for it transforms
us into corpses! Christ is the highest conception of humanity; monachism is its
lowest!
"Yes, yes, I hope my God will soon give me the favour I have asked so long!
When I shall be on the top of the Rocky Mountains, I will, for ever, break my
fetters. I will rise from my tomb; I will come out from among the dead, to sit
at the table of the redeemed, and eat the bread of the living children of
God!"
I do regret that the remarkable monk, whose abridged views on monachism I have
here given, should have requested me never to give his name, when he allows me
to tell some of his adventures, which will make a most interesting romance.
Faithful to his promise, he went, as an Oblate, to preach to the savages of the
Rocky Mountains, and there, without noise, he slipped out of their hands; broke
his chains to live the life of a freedman of Christ, in the holy bonds of a
Christian marriage with a respectable American lady.
Weak and timid soldier that I was once; frightened by the ruins spread
everywhere on the battle-field, I looked around to find a shelter against the
impending danger; I thought that the monastery of the Oblates of Mary Immaculate
was one of those strong towers, built by my God, where the arrows of the enemy
could not reach me, and I threw myself into it.
But, hardly beginning to hope that I was out of danger, behind those dark and
high walls, when I saw them shaking like a drunken man; and the voice of God
passed like a hurricane over me.
Suddenly, the high towers and walls around me fell to the ground, and were
turned into dust. Not one stone remained on another.
And I heard a voice saying to me: "Soldier! come out and get in the light
of the sun; trust no more in the walls built by the hand of man; they are
nothing but dust. Come and fight in the open day, under the eyes of God,
protected only by the gospel banner of Christ! come out from behind those walls
they are a diabolical deception, a snare, a fraud!"
I listened to the voice, and I bade adieu to the inmates of the monastery of the
Oblates of Mary Immaculate.
When, on the 1st of November, 1847, I pressed them on my heart for the last
time, I felt the burning tears of many of them falling on my cheeks, and my
tears moistened their faces: for they loved me, and I loved them. I had met
there several noble hearts and precious souls worthy of a better fate. Oh! if I
could have, at the price of my life, given them the light and liberty which my
merciful God had given me! But they were in the dark; and there was no power in
me to change their darkness into light. The hand of God brought me back to my
dear Canada, that I might again offer it the sweat and the labours, the love and
life of the least of its sons.
.
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CHAPTER 43 Back
to Top
The eleven months spent in the monastery of the Oblates of
Mary Immaculate, were among the greatest favours God has granted me. What I had
read of the monastic orders, and what my honest, though deluded imagination, had
painted of the holiness, purity, and happiness of the monastic life, could not
be blotted out of my mind, except by a kind of miraculous interposition. No
testimony whatever could have convinced me that the monastic institutions were
not one of the most blessed of the Gospel. Their existence, in the bosom of the
Church of Rome, was, for me, an infallible token of her divine institution, and
miraculous preservation; and their absence among Protestants, one of the
strongest proofs that these heretics were entirely separated from Christ.
Without religious orders the Protestant denominations were to me, as dead and
decayed branches cut from the true vine, which are doomed to perish.
But, just as the eyes of Thomas were opened, and his intelligence was convinced
of the divinity of Christ, only after he had seen the wounds in his hands and
side, so I could never have believed that the monastic institutions were of
heathen and diabolical origin, if my God had not forced me to see with my own
eyes, and to touch with my fingers, their unspeakable corruptions.
Though I remained, for some time longer, a sincere Catholic priest, I dare say
that God Himself had just broken the strongest tie of my affections and respect
for that Church.
It is true that several pillars remained, on which my robust faith in the
holiness and apostolicity of the Church rested for a few years longer, but I
must here confess to the glory of God, that the most solid of these pillars had
for ever crumbled to pieces, when in the monastery of Longueuil.
Long before my leaving the Oblates, many influential priests of the district of
Montreal had told me that my only chance of success, if I wanted to continue my
crusade against the demon of drunkenness, was to work alone. "Those monks
are pretty good speakers on temperance," they unanimously said, "but
they are nothing else than a band of comedians. After delivering their eloquent
tirades against the use of intoxicating drinks, to the people, the first thing
they do is to ask for a bottle of wine, which soon disappears! What fruit can we
expect from the preaching of men who do not believe a word of what they say, and
who are the first, among themselves, to turn their own arguments into ridicule?
It is very different with you; you believe what you say; you are consistent with
yourself; your hearers feel it; your profound, scientific, and Christian
convictions pass into them with an irresistible power. God visibly blesses your
work with a marvelous success! Come to us," said the curates, "not as
sent by the superior of the Oblates, but as sent, by God Himself, to regenerate
Canada. Present yourself as a French
Canadian priest; a child of the people. That people will hear you with more
pleasure, and follow your advice with more perseverance. Let them know and feel
that Canadian blood runs in your veins; that a Canadian heart beats in your
breast; continue to be, in the future, what you have been in the past. Let the
sentiments of the true patriot be united with those of a Catholic priest; and
when you address the people of Canada, the citadels of Satan will crumble
everywhere before you in the district of Montreal, as they have done in that of
Quebec."
At the head of the French Canadian curates, who thus spoke, was my venerable
personal friend and benefactor, the Rev. Mr. Brassard, curate of Longueuil. He
had not only been one of my most devoted friends and teachers, when I was
studying in the college at Nicolet, but had helped me, with his own money, to go
through the last four years of my studies, when I was too poor to meet my
collegiate expenses. No one had thought more highly than he of the Oblates of
Mary Immaculate, when they first settled in Canada. But their monastery was too
near his parsonage for their own benefit. His sharp eyes, high intelligence, and
integrity of character, soon detected that there was more false varnish than
pure gold, on their glittering escutcheon. Several love scrapes between some of
the Oblates and the pretty young ladies of his parish, and the long hours of
night spent by Father Allard with the nuns, established in his village, under
the pretext of teaching them grammar and arithmetic, had filled him with
disgust. But what had absolutely destroyed his confidence, was the discovery of
a long-suspected iniquity, which at first seemed incredible to him. Father
Guigues, the superior, after his nomination, but before his installation to the
Bishopric of Ottawa, had been closely watched, and at last discovered when
opening the letters of Mr. Brassard, which, many times, had passed from the post
office, through his hands. That criminal action had come very near to being
brought before the legal courts by Mr. Brassard; this was avoided only by Father
Guigues acknowledging his guilt, asking pardon in the most humiliating way,
before me and several other witnesses.
Long before I left the Oblates, Mr. Brassard had said to me: "The Oblates
are not the men you think them to be. I have been sorely disappointed in them,
and your disappointment will be no less than mine, when your eyes are opened. I
know that you will not remain long in their midst. I offer you, in advance, the
hospitality of my parsonage, when your conscience calls you out of their
monastery!"
I availed myself of this kind invitation on the evening of the 1st of November,
1847.
The next week was spent in preparing the memoir which I intended to present to
my Lord Bourget, Bishop of Montreal, as an explanation of my leaving the
Oblates. I knew that he was disappointed and displeased with the step I had
taken.
The curate of Chambly, Rev. Mr. Mignault, having gone to the bishop, to express
his joy that I had left the monks, in order to serve again in the church, in the
ranks of the secular clergy, had been very badly received. The bishop had
answered him: "Mr. Chiniquy may leave the Oblates if he likes; but he will
be disappointed if he expects to work in my diocese. I do not want his
services."
This did not surprise me. I knew that those monks had been imported by him, from
France, and that they were pets of his. When I entered their monastery, just
eleven months before, he was just starting for Rome, and expressed to me the
pleasure he felt that I was to join them. My reasons, however, were so good, and
the memoir I was preparing was so full of undoubted facts and unanswerable
arguments, that I was pretty sure, not only to appease the wrath of my bishop,
but to gain his esteem more firmly than before. I was not disappointed in my
expectation.
A few days later I called upon his lordship, and was received very coldly. He
said: "I cannot conceal from you my surprise and pain at the rasp step you
have taken. What a shame, for all your friends to see your want of consistency
and perseverance! Had you remained among those good monks, your moral strength,
could have been increased more than tenfold. But you have stultified yourself in
the eyes of the people, as well as in mine; you have lost the confidence of your
best friends, by leaving, without good reasons, the company of such holy men.
Some bad rumours are already afloat against you, which give us to understand
that you are an unmanageable man, a selfish priest, whom the superiors have been
forced to turn out as a black sheep, whose presence could not be any longer
tolerated inside the peaceful walls of that holy monastery."
Those words were uttered with an expression of bad feeling which told me that I
had not heard the tenth part of what he had in his heart. However, as I came
into his presence prepared to hear all kinds of bad reports, angry reproaches,
and humiliating insinuations, I remained perfectly calm. I had, in advance,
resolved to hear all his unfriendly, insulting remarks, just as if they were
addressed to another person, a perfect stranger to me. The last three days had
been spent in prayers to obtain that favour. My God had evidently head me; for
the storm passed over me without exciting the least unpleasant feelings in my
soul.
I answered: "My lord, allow me to tell you that, in taking the solemn step
of leaving the monastery of Longueuil, I was not afraid of what the world would
say, or think of me. My only desire is to save my soul, and give the rest of my
life to my country and my God, in a more efficacious way than I have yet done.
The rumours which seem to trouble your lordship about my supposed expulsion from
the Oblates do not affect me in the least, for they are without the least
foundation. From the first to the last day of my stay in that monastery, all the
inmates, from the superior to the last one, have overwhelmed me with the most
sincere marks of kindness, and even of respect. If you had seen the tears which
were shed by the brothers, when I bade them adieu, you would have understood
that I never had more devoted and sincere friends than the members of that
religious community. Please read this important document, and you will see that
I have kept my good name during my stay in that monastery." I handed him
the following testimonial letter which the superior had given me when I left:
.
"I, the undersigned, Superior of the Noviciate of
the Oblates of Mary Immaculate at Longueuil, do certify that the conduct of Mr.
Chiniquy, when in our monastery, has been worthy of the sacred character which
he possesses, and after this year of solitude, he does not less deserve the
confidence of his brethren in the holy ministry than before. We wish, moreover,
to give our testimony of his preserving zeal in the cause of temperance. We
think that nothing was more of a nature to give a character of stability to that
admirable reform, and to secure its perfect success, than the profound
reflections and studies of Mr. Chiniquy, when in the solitude of Longueuil, on
the importance of that work.
"T. F. Allard,
"Superior of the Noviciate O.M.I."
It was really most pleasant for me to see that every line of
that document read by the bishop was blotting out some of the stern and
unfriendly lines which were on his face, when speaking to me. Nothing was more
amiable than his manners, when he handed it back to me, saying: "I thank
God to see that you are still as worthy of my esteem and confidence, as when you
entered that monastery. But would you be kind enough to give me the real reasons
why you have so abruptly separated from the Oblates?"
"Yes, my lord, I will give them to you; but your lordship knows that there
are things of such a delicate nature, that the lips of man shiver and rebel when
required to utter them. Such are some of the deplorable things which I have to
mention to your lordship. I have put those reasons in these pages, which I
respectfully request your lordship to read," and I handed him the Memoir,
about thirty pages long, which I had prepared. The bishop read, very carefully
five or six pages, and said: "Are you positive as to the exactness of what
you write here?"
"Yes, my lord! They are as true and real as I am here."
The bishop turned pale and remained a few minutes silent, biting his lips, and
after a deep sigh, said: "Is it your intention to reveal those sad
mysteries to the world, or can we hope that you will keep that secret?"
"My lord," I answered, "if your lordship and the Oblates deal
with me, as I hope they will do, as with an honourable Catholic priest; if I am
kept in the position which an honest priest has a right to fill in the church, I
consider myself bound, in conscience and honour, to keep those things secret.
But, if from any abuse, persecutions emanating from the Oblates, or any other
party, I am obliged to give to the world the true reasons of my leaving that
monastic order, your lordship understands that, in self-defense, I will be
forced to make these revelations!"
"But the Oblates cannot say a word, or do anything wrong against you,"
promptly answered the bishop, "after the honourable testimony they have
given you."
"It is true, my lord, that I have no reason to fear anything from the
Oblates!" I answered; "but those religious men are not the only ones
who might force me to defend myself. You know another who has my future
destinies in his hands. You know that my future course will be shaped by h is
own toward me."
With an amiable smile the bishop answered:
"I understand you. But I pledge myself that you have nothing to fear from
that quarter. Though I frankly tell you that I would have preferred seeing you
work as a member of that monastic institution, it may be that it is more
according to the will of God, that you should go among the people, as sent by
God, rather than by a superior, who might be your inferior in the eyes of many,
in that glorious temperance, of which you are evidently the blessed apostle in
Canada. I am glad to tell you that I have spoken of you to his holiness, and he
requested me to give you a precious medal, which bears his most perfect
features, with a splendid crucifix. His holiness has graciously attached three
hundred days' for indulgences to every one who will take the pledge of
temperance in kissing the feet of that crucifix. Wait a moment," added the
bishop, "I will go and get them and present them to you."
When the bishop returned, holding in his hands those two infallible tokens of
the kind sentiments of the Pope towards me, I fell on my knees to receive them
and press them both to my lips with the utmost respect. My feelings of joy and
gratitude in that happy hour cannot be expressed. I remained mute, for some
time, with surprise and admiration, when holding those precious things which
were coming to me, as I then sincerely believed, from the very successor of
Peter, and the true Vicar of Christ Himself. When handing me those sacred gifts,
the bishop addressed me the kindest words which a bishop can utter to his
priest, or a father to his beloved son. He granted me the power to preach and
hear confessions all over his diocese, and he dismissed me only after having put
his hand on my head and asked God to pour upon me His most abundant benedictions
everywhere I should go to work in the holy cause of temperance in Canada.