The Priest, the Woman, and the
Confessional
CHAPTER
I.
The Struggle before the Surrender of Womanly
Self-Respect in the Confessional
THERE are two women who ought to be constant objects of the
compassion of the disciples of Christ, and for whom daily prayers
ought to be offered at the mercy-seat —the Brahmin woman, who,
deceived by her priests, burns herself on the corpse of her husband
to appease the wrath of her wooden gods; and the Roman Catholic
woman, who, not less deceived by her priests, suffers a torture far
more cruel and ignominious in the confessional-box, to appease the
wrath of her wafer-god.
For I do not exaggerate when I say, that for many noble-hearted,
well-educated, high-minded women, to be forced to unveil their
hearts before the eyes of a man, to open to him all the most secret
recesses of their souls, all the most sacred mysteries of their
single or married life, to allow him to put to them questions which
the most depraved woman would never consent to hear from her vilest
seducer, is often more horrible and intolerable than to be tied on
burning coals.
More than once, I have seen women fainting in the
confessional-box, who told me afterwards, that the necessity of
speaking to an unmarried man on certain things, on which the most
common laws of decency ought to have for ever sealed their lips, had
almost killed them! Not hundreds, but thousands of times, I have
heard from the lips of dying girls, as well as of married women, the
awful words; "I am forever lost! All my past confessions and
communions have been so many sacrileges! I have never dared to
answer correctly the questions of my confessors! Shame has sealed my
lips and damned my soul!"
How many times I remained as one petrified, by the side of a
corpse, when these last words having hardly escaped the lips of one
of my female penitents, who had been snatched out of my reach by the
merciless hand of death, before I could give her pardon through the
deceitful sacramental absolution? I then believed, as the dead
sinner herself had believed, that she could not be forgiven except
by that absolution.
For there are not only thousands but millions of Roman Catholic
girls and women whose keen sense of modesty and womanly dignity are
above all the sophisms and diabolical machinations of their priests.
They never can be persuaded to answer "Yes " to certain questions of
their confessors. They would prefer to be thrown into the flames,
and burnt to ashes with the Brahmin widows, rather than allow the
eyes of a man to pry into the sacred sanctuary of their souls.
Though sometimes guilty before God, and under the impression that
their sins will never be forgiven if not confessed, the laws of
decency are stronger in their hearts than the laws of their cruel
and perfidious Church. No consideration, not even the fear of
eternal damnation, can persuade them to declare to a sinful man,
sins which God alone has the right to know, for He alone can blot
them out with the blood of His Son, shed on the cross.
But what a wretched life must that be of those exceptional noble
souls, which Rome keeps in the dark dungeons of her superstition?
They read in all their books, and hear from all their pulpits, that
if they conceal a single sin from their confessors they are forever
lost! But, being absolutely unable to trample under their feet the
laws of self-respect and decency, which God Himself has impressed in
their souls, they live in constant dread of eternal damnation. No
human words can tell their desolation and distress, when at the feet
of their confessors, they find themselves under the horrible
necessity of speaking of things, on which they would prefer to
suffer the most cruel death rather than to open their lips, or to be
forever damned if they do not degrade themselves forever in their
own eyes, by speaking on matters which a respectable woman will
never reveal to her own mother, much less to a man!
I have known only too many of these noble-hearted women, who,
when alone with God, in a real agony of desolation and with burning
tears, had asked Him to grant them what they considered the greatest
favor, which was, to lose so much of their self-respect as to be
enabled to speak of those unmentionable things, just as their
confessors wanted them to speak; and, hoping that their petition had
been granted, they went again to the confessional-box, determined to
unveil their shame before the eyes of that inexorable man. But when
the moment had come for the self-immolation, their courage failed,
their knees trembled, their lips became pale as death, cold sweat
poured from all their pores! The voice of modesty and womanly
self-respect was speaking louder than the voice of their false
religion. They had to go out of the confessional-box unpardoned—nay,
with the burden of a new sacrilege on their conscience.
Oh! how heavy is the yoke of Rome—how bitter is human life—how
cheerless is the mystery of the cross to those deluded and perishing
souls! How gladly they would rush into the blazing piles with the
Brahmin women, if they could hope to see the end of their
unspeakable miseries through the momentary tortures which would open
to them the gates of a better life!
I do here publicly challenge the whole Roman Catholic priesthood
to deny that the greater part of their female penitents remain a
certain period of time—some longer, some shorter—under that most
distressing state of mind.
Yes, by far the greater majority of women, at first, find it
impossible to pull down the sacred barriers of self-respect which
God Himself has built around their hearts, intelligences, and souls,
as the best safeguard against the snares of this polluted world.
Those laws of self-respect, by which they cannot consent to speak an
impure word into the ears of a man, and which shut all the avenues
of the heart against his unchaste questions, even when speaking in
the name of God—those laws of self-respect are so clearly written in
their conscience, and they are so well understood by them, to be a
most Divine gift, that, as I have already said, many prefer to run
the risk of being forever lost by remaining silent.
It takes many years of the most ingenious (I do not hesitate to
call it diabolical) efforts on the part of the priests to persuade
the majority of their female penitents to speak on questions, which
even pagan savages would blush to mention among themselves. Some
persist in remaining silent on those matters during the greater part
of their lives, and many prefer to throw themselves into the hands
of their merciful God, and die without submitting to the defiling
ordeal, even after they have felt the poisonous stings of the enemy,
rather than receive their pardon from a man, who, as they feel,
would have surely been scandalized by the recital of their human
frailties. All the priests of Rome are aware of this natural
disposition of their female penitents. There is not a single one—no,
not a single one of their moral theologians, who does not warn the
confessors against that stern and general determination of the girls
and married women never to speak in the confessional on matters
which may, more or less, deal with sins against the seventh
commandment. Dens, Liguori, Debreyne, Bailly, &c.,—in a word,
all the theologians of Rome own that this is one of the greatest
difficulties which the confessors have to contend with in the
confessional-box.
Not a single Roman Catholic priest will dare to deny what I say
on this matter; for they know that it would be easy for me to
overwhelm them with such a crowd of testimonies that their grand
imposture would forever be unmasked.
I intend, at some future day, if God spares me and gives me time
for it, to make known some of the innumerable things which the Roman
Catholic theologians and moralists have written on this question. It
will form one of the most curious books ever written; and it will
give unanswerable evidence of the fact that, instinctively, without
consulting each other, and with an unanimity which is almost
marvellous, the Roman Catholic women, guided by the honest instincts
which God has given them, shrink from the snares put before them in
the confessional-box; and that everywhere they struggle to nerve
themselves with a superhuman courage, against the torturer who is
sent by the Pope, to finish their ruin and to make shipwreck of
their souls. Everywhere woman feels that there are things which
ought never to be told, as there are things which ought never to be
done, in the presence of the God of holiness. She understands that,
to recite the history of certain sins, even of thought, is not less
shameful and criminal than to do them; she hears the voice of God
whispering into her ears, "Is it not enough that thou hast been
guilty once, when alone in My presence, without adding to thine
iniquity by allowing that man to know what should never have been
revealed to him? Do you not feel that you make that man your
accomplice, the very moment that you throw into his heart and soul
the mire of your iniquities? He is as weak as you are, he is not
less a sinner than yourself; what has tempted you will tempt him;
what has made you weak will make him weak; what has polluted you
will pollute him; what has thrown you down into the dust, will throw
him into the dust. Is it not enough that My eyes had to look upon
your iniquities? must My ears, to-day, listen to your impure
conversation with that man? Were that man as holy as My prophet
David, may he not fall before the unchaste unveiling of the new
Bathsheba? Were he as strong as Samson, may he not find in you his
tempting Delilah? Were he as generous as Peter, may he not become a
traitor at the maid-servant's voice?"
Perhaps the world has never seen a more terrible, desperate,
solemn struggle than the one which is going on in the soul of a poor
trembling young woman, who, at the feet of that man, has to decide
whether or not she will open her lips on those things which the
infallible voice of God, united to the no less infallible voice of
her womanly honor and self-respect, tell her never to reveal to any
man!
The history of that secret, fierce, desperate, and deadly
struggle has never yet, so far as I know, been fully given. It would
draw the tears of admiration and compassion of the whole world, if
it could be written with its simple, sublime, and terrible
realities.
How many times have I wept as a child when some noble-hearted and
intelligent young girl, or some respectable married woman, yielding
to the sophisms with which I, or some other confessor, had persuaded
them to give up their self-respect, and their womanly dignity, to
speak with me on matters on which a decent woman should never say a
word with a man. They have told me of their invincible repugnance,
their horror of such questions and answers, and they have asked me
to have pity on them. Yes! I have often wept bitterly on my
degradation, when a priest of Rome! I
have realized all the strength, the grandeur, and the holiness of
their motives for being silent on these defiling matters, and I
could not but admire them. It seemed at times that they were
speaking the language of angels of light; that I ought to fall at
their feet, and ask their pardon for having spoken to them of
questions, on which a man of honor ought never to converse with a
woman whom he respects.
But alas! I had soon to reproach myself, and regret those short
instances of my wavering faith in the infallible voice of my Church;
I had soon to silence the voice of my conscience, which was telling
me, "Is it not a shame that you, an unmarried man, dare to speak on
these matters with a woman? Do you not blush to put such questions
to a young girl? Where is your self-respect? where is your fear of
God? Do you not promote the ruin of that girl by forcing her to
speak with a man on such matters?
I was compelled by all the Popes, the moral theologians, and the
Councils, of Rome, to believe that this warning voice of my merciful
God was the voice of Satan; I had to believe in spite of my own
conscience and intelligence, that it was good, nay, necessary, to
put those polluting, damning questions. My infallible Church was
mercilessly forcing me to oblige those poor, trembling, weeping,
desolate girls and women, to swim with me and all her priests in
those waters of Sodom and Gomorrah, under the pretext that their
self-will would be broken down, their fear of sin and humility
increased, and that they would be purified by our absolutions.
With what supreme distress, disgust, and surprise, we see,
to-day, a great part of the noble Episcopal Church of England struck
by a plague which seems incurable, under the name of Puseyism, or
Ritualism, and bringing again—more or less openly—in many places the
diabolical and filthy auricular confession among the Protestants of
England, Australia and America. The Episcopal Church is doomed to
perish in that dark and stinking pool of Popery—auricular
confession, if she does not find a prompt remedy to stop the plague
brought by the disguised Jesuits, who are at work everywhere, to
poison and enslave her too unsuspecting daughters and sons.
In the beginning of my priesthood, I was not a little surprised
and embarrassed to see a very accomplished and beautiful young lady,
whom I used to meet almost every week at her father's house,
entering the box of my confessional. She had been used to confess to
another young priest of my acquaintance, and she was always looked
upon as one of the most pious girls of the city. Though she had
disguised herself as much as possible, in order that I might not
know her, I felt sure that I was not mistaken—she was the amiable
Mary * *
Not being absolutely certain of the correctness of my
impressions, I left her entirely under the hope that she was a
perfect stranger to me. At the beginning she could hardly speak; her
voice was suffocated by her sobs; and through the little apertures
of the thin partition between her and me, I saw two streams of big
tears trickling down her cheeks.
After much effort, she said: "Dear Father, I hope you do not know
me, and that you will never try to know me. I am a desperately great
sinner. Oh! I fear that I am lost! But if there is still a hope for
me to be saved, for God's sake, do not rebuke me! Before I begin my
confession, allow me to ask you not to pollute my ears by questions
which our confessors are in the habit of putting to their female
penitents; I have already been destroyed by those questions. Before
I was seventeen years old, God knows that His angels are not more
pure than I was; but the chaplain of the Nunnery where my parents
had sent me for my education, though approaching old age, put to me,
in the confessional, a question which at first I did not understand,
but, unfortunately, he had put the same questions to one of my young
class-mates, who made fun of them in my presence, and explained them
to me; for she understood them too well. This first unchaste
conversation of my life plunged my thoughts into a sea of iniquity,
till then absolutely unknown to me; temptations of the most
humiliating character assailed me for a week, day and night; after
which, sins which I would blot out with my blood, if it were
possible, overwhelmed my soul as with a deluge. But the joys of the
sinner are short. Struck with terror at the thought of the judgments
of God, after a few weeks of the most deplorable life, I determined
to give up my sins and reconcile myself to God. Covered with shame,
and trembling from head to foot, I went to confess to my old
confessor, whom I respected as a saint and cherished as a father. It
seems to me that, with sincere tears of repentance, I confessed to
him the greatest part of my sins, though I concealed one of them,
through shame, and respect for my spiritual guide. But I did not
conceal from him that the strange questions he had put to me at my
last confession, were, with the natural corruption of my heart, the
principal cause of my destruction.
He spoke to me very kindly, encouraged me to fight against my bad
inclinations, and, at first, gave me very kind and good advice. But
when I thought he had finished speaking, and as I was preparing to
leave the confessional-box, he put to me two new questions of such a
polluting character that, I fear neither the blood of Christ, nor
all the fires of hell will ever be able to blot them out from my
memory. Those questions have achieved my ruin; they have stuck to my
mind like two deadly arrows; they are day and night before my
imagination; they fill my very arteries and veins with a deadly
poison.
"It is true that, at first, they filled me with horror and
disgust; but alas! I soon got so accustomed to them that they seemed
to be incorporated with me, and as if becoming a second nature.
Those thoughts have become a new source of innumerable criminal
thoughts, desires and actions.
"A month later, we were obliged by the rules of our convent to go
and confess; but by this time, I was so completely lost, that I no
longer blushed at the idea of confessing my shameful sins to a man;
it was the very contrary. I had a real, diabolical pleasure in the
thought that I should have a long conversation with my confessor on
those matters, and that he would ask me more of his strange
questions.
"In fact, when I had told him everything without a blush, he
began to interrogate me, and God knows what corrupting things fell
from his lips into my poor criminal heart! Every one of his
questions was thrilling my nerves, and filling me with the most
shameful sensations. After an hour of this criminal
tete-a-tete with my old confessor (for it was nothing else
but a criminal tete-a-tete), I perceived that he was as
depraved as I was myself. With some half-covered words, he made a
criminal proposition, which I accepted with covered words also; and
during more than a year, we have lived together on the most sinful
intimacy. Though he was much older than I, I loved him in the most
foolish way. When the course of my convent instruction was finished,
my parents called me back to their home. I was really glad of that
change of residence, for I was beginning to be tired of my criminal
life. My hope was that, under the direction of a better confessor, I
should reconcile myself to God and begin a Christian life.
"Unfortunately for me, my new confessor, who was very young,
began also his interrogations. He soon fell in love with me, and I
loved him in a most criminal way. I have done with him things which
I hope you will never request me to reveal to you, for they are too
monstrous to be repeated, even in the confessional, by a woman to a
man.
"I do not say these things to take away the responsibility of my
iniquities with this young confessor, from my shoulders, for I think
I have been more criminal than he was. It is my firm conviction that
he was a good and holy priest before he knew me; but the questions
he put to me, and the answers I had to give him, melted his heart—I
know it—just as boiling lead would melt the ice on which it
flows.
"I know this is not such a detailed confession as our holy Church
requires me to make, but I have thought it necessary for me to give
you this short history of the life of the greatest and most
miserable sinner who ever asked you to help her to come out from the
tomb of her iniquities. This is the way I have lived these last few
years. But last Sabbath, God, in His infinite mercy, looked down
upon me. He inspired you to give us the Prodigal Son as a model of
true conversion, and as the most marvellous proof of the infinite
compassion of the dear Saviour for the sinner. I have wept day and
night since that happy day, when I threw myself into the arms of my
loving merciful Father. Even now, I can hardly speak, because my
regret for my past iniquities, and my joy that I am allowed to bathe
the feet of the Saviour with tears, are so great that my voice is as
choked.
"You understand that I have forever given up my last confessor. I
come to ask you to do me the favor to receive me among your
penitents. Oh! do not reject nor rebuke me, for the dear Saviour's
sake! Be not afraid to have at your side such a monster of iniquity!
But before going further, I have two favors to ask from you. The
first is, that you will never do anything to ascertain my name; the
second is, that you will never put to me any of those questions by
which so many penitents are lost and so many priests forever
destroyed. Twice I have been lost by those questions. We come to our
confessors that they may throw upon our guilty souls the pure waters
which flow from heaven to purify us; but instead of that, with their
unmentionable questions, they pour oil on the burning fires which
are already raging in our poor sinful hearts. Oh! dear father, let
me become your penitent, that you may help me to go and weep with
Magdalene at the Saviour's feet! Do respect me, as He respected that
true model of all the sinful, but repenting women! Did our Saviour
put to her any question? did He extort from her the history of
things which a sinful woman cannot say without forgetting the
respect she owes to herself and to God! No! you told us not long
ago, that the only thing our Saviour did, was to look at her tears
and her love. Well, please do that, and you will save me!"
I was then a very young priest, and never had any words so
sublime come to my ears in the confessional-box. Her tears and her
sobs, mingled with the frank declaration of the most humiliating
actions, had made such a profound impression upon me that I was, for
some time, unable to speak. It had come to my mind also that I might
be mistaken about her identify, and that perhaps she was not the
young lady that I had imagined. I could, then, easily grant her
first request, which was to do nothing by which I could know her.
The second part of her prayer was more embarrassing; for the
theologians are very positive in ordering the confessors to question
their penitents, particularly those of the female sex, in many
circumstances.
I encouraged her in the best way I could, to persevere in her
good resolutions, by invoking the blessed Virgin Mary and St.
Philomene, who was, then, the Sainte a la mode, just as Marie
Alacoque is to-day, among the blind slaves of Rome. I told her that
I would pray and think over the subject of her second request; and I
asked her to come back in a week for my answer.
The very same day, I went to my own confessor, the Rev. Mr.
Baillargeon, then curate of Quebec, and afterwards Archbishop of
Canada. I told him the singular and unusual request she had made,
that I should never put to her any of those questions suggested by
the theologians, to insure the integrity of the confession. I did
not conceal from him that I was much inclined to grant her that
favor; for I repeated what I had already several times told him,
that I was supremely disgusted with the infamous and polluting
questions which the theologians forced us to put to our female
penitents. I told him frankly that several old and young priests had
already come to confess to me; and that, with the exception of two,
they had told me that they could not put those questions and hear
the answers they elicited, without falling into the most damnable
sins.
My confessor seemed to be much perplexed about what he should
answer. "He asked me to come the next day, that he might review some
of his theological books, in the interval. The next day, I took down
in writing his answer, which I find in my old manuscripts, and I
give it here in all its sad crudity:— "Such cases of the destruction
of female virtue by the questions of the confessors is an
unavoidable evil. It cannot be helped; for such questions are
absolutely necessary in the greater part of the cases with which we
have to deal. Men generally confess their sins with so much
sincerity that there is seldom any need for questioning them, except
when they are very ignorant. But St. Liguori, as well as our
personal observation, tells us that the greatest part of girls and
women, through a false and criminal shame, very seldom confess the
sins they commit against purity. It requires the utmost charity in
the confessors to prevent those unfortunate slaves of their secret
passions from making sacrilegious confessions and communions. With
the greatest prudence and zeal he must question them on those
matters, beginning with the smallest sins, and going, little by
little, as much as possible by imperceptible degrees, to the most
criminal actions. As it seems evident that the penitent referred to
in your questions of yesterday, is unwilling to make a full and
detailed confession of all her iniquities, you cannot promise to
absolve her without assuring yourself by wise and prudent questions,
that she has confessed everything.
"You must not be discouraged when, through the confessional or
any other way, you learn the fall of priests into the common
frailties of human nature with their penitents. Our Saviour knew
very well that the occasions and the temptations we have to
encounter, in the confessions of girls and women, are so numerous,
and sometimes so irresistible, that many would fall. But He has
given them the Holy Virgin Mary, who constantly asks and obtains
their pardon; He has given them the sacrament of penance, where they
can receive their pardon as often as they ask for it. The vow of
perfect chastity is a great honor and privilege; but we cannot
conceal from ourselves that it puts on our shoulders a burden which
many cannot carry forever. St. Liguori says that we must not rebuke
the penitent priest who falls only once a month; and some other
trustworthy theologians are still more charitable."
This answer was far from satisfying me. It seemed to me composed
of soft soap principles. I went back with a heavy heart and an
anxious mind; and God knows that I made many fervent prayers that
this girl should never come again to give me her sad history. I was
hardly twenty-six years old, full of youth and life. It seemed to me
that the stings of a thousand wasps to my ears would not do me so
much harm as the words of that dear, beautiful, accomplished, but
lost girl.
I do not mean to say that the revelations which she made, had, in
any way, diminished my esteem and my respect for her. It was just
the contrary. Her tears and her sobs, at my feet her agonizing
expressions of shame and regret her noble words of protest against
the disgusting and polluting interrogations of the confessors, had
raised her very high in my mind. My sincere hope was that she would
have a place in the kingdom of Christ with the Samaritan women, Mary
Magdalene, and all the sinners who have washed their robes in the
blood of the Lamb.
At the appointed day, I was in my confessional, listening to the
confession of a young man, when I saw Miss Mary entering the vestry,
and coming directly to my confessional-box, where she knelt by me.
Though she had, still more than at the first time, disguised herself
behind a long, thick, black veil, I could not be mistaken; she was
the very same amiable young lady in whose father's house I used to
pass such pleasant and happy hours. I had often listened, with
breathless attention, to her melodious voice, when she was giving
us, accompanied by her piano, some of our beautiful Church hymns.
Who could then see and hear her without almost worshipping her? The
dignity of her steps, and her whole mien, when she advanced towards
my confessional, entirely betrayed her and destroyed her
incognito.
Oh! I would have given every drop of my blood in that solemn
hour, that I might have been free to deal with her just as she had
so eloquently requested me to do—to let her weep and cry at the feet
of Jesus to her heart's content; Oh! if I had been free to take her
by the hand, and silently show her the dying Saviour, that she might
have bathed His feet with her tears, and spread the oil of her love
on His head, without my saying anything else but "Go in peace: thy
sins are forgiven. "
But, there, in that confessional-box, I was not the servant of
Christ, to follow His divine, saving words, and obey the dictates of
my honest conscience. I was the slave of the Pope! I had to stifle
the cry of my conscience, to ignore the inspirations of my God!
There, my conscience had no right to speak; my intelligence was a
dead thing! The theologians of the Pope, alone, had a right to be
heard and obeyed! I was not there to save, but to destroy; for,
under the pretext of purifying, the real mission of the confessor,
often, if not always, in spite of himself, is to scandalise and damn
the souls.
As soon as the young man who was making his confession at my left
hand, had finished, I, without noise, turned myself towards her, and
said, through the little aperture, "Are you ready to begin your
confession?"
But she did not answer me. All that I could hear was: "Oh, my
Jesus, have mercy upon me! I come to wash my soul in Thy blood; wilt
thou rebuke me?"
During several minutes she raised her hands and her eyes to
heaven, and wept and prayed. It was evident that she had not the
least idea that I was observing her; she thought the door of the
little partition between her and me was shut. But my eyes were fixed
upon her; my tears were flowing with her tears, and my ardent
prayers were going to the feet of Jesus with her prayers. I would
not have interrupted her for any consideration, in this, her sublime
communion with her merciful Saviour.
But after a pretty long time, I made a little noise with my hand,
and putting my lips near the opening of the partition which was
between us, I said in a low voice, "Dear sister, are you ready to
begin your confession?"
She turned her face a little towards me, and said with trembling
voice, "Yes, dear father, I am ready."
But she then stopped again to weep and pray, though I could not
hear what she said.
After some time of silent prayer, I said, "My dear sister, if you
are ready, please begin your confession." She then said, "My dear
father, do you remember the prayers which I made to you, the other
day? Can you allow me to confess my sins without forcing me to
forget the respect that I owe to myself, to you, and to God, who
hears us? And can you promise that you will not put to me any of
those questions which have already done me such irreparable injury?
I frankly declare to you that there are sins in me that I cannot
reveal to anyone, except to Christ, because He is my God, and that
He already knows them all. Let me weep and cry at His feet: can you
not forgive me without adding to my iniquities by forcing me to say
things that the tongue of a Christian woman cannot reveal to a
man?"
"My dear sister," I answered, were I free to follow the voice of
my own feelings I would be only too happy to grant your request; but
I am here only as the minister of our holy Church, and bound to obey
her laws. Through her most holy Popes and theologians she tells me
that I cannot forgive your sins if you do not confess them all, just
as you have committed them. The Church tells me also that you must
give the details which may add to the malice or change the nature of
your sins. I am also sorry to tell you that our most holy
theologians make it a duty of the confessor to question the penitent
on the sins which he has good reason to suspect have been
voluntarily or involuntarily omitted."
With a piercing cry, she exclaimed, Then, O my God, I am lost
—forever lost!"
This cry fell upon me like a thunderbolt; but I was still more
terror-stricken when, looking through the aperture, I saw she was
fainting; I heard the noise of her body falling upon the floor, and
of her head striking against the sides of the confessional-box.
Quick as lightning I ran to help her, took her in my arms, and
called a couple of men who were at a little distance, to assist me
in laying her on a bench. I washed her face with some cold water and
vinegar. She was, as pale as death, but her lips were moving, and
she was saying something which nobody but I could understand—
"I am lost—lost forever!"
We took her home to her disconsolate family, where, during a
month, she lingered between life and death. Her two first confessors
came to visit her; but having asked every one to go out of the room,
she politely, but absolutely, requested them to go away, and never
come again. She asked me to visit her every day., "for," she said,
"I have only a few more days to live. Help me to prepare myself for
the solemn hour which will open to me the gates of eternity!"
Every day I visited her, and I prayed and I wept with her.
Many times, when alone, with tears I requested her to finish her
confession; but, with a firmness which, then, seemed to be
mysterious and inexplicable, she politely rebuked me.
One day, when alone with her, I was kneeling by the side of her
bed to pray, I was unable to articulate a single word, because of
the inexpressible anguish of my soul on her account, she asked me,
"Dear father, why do you weep?"
I answered, "How can you put such a question to your murderer! I
weep because I have killed you, dear friend."
This answer seemed to trouble her exceedingly. She was very weak
that day. After she had wept and prayed in silence, she said, "do
not weep for me, but weep for so many priests who destroy their
penitents in the confessional. I believe in the holiness of the
sacrament of penance, since our holy Church has established it. But
there is, somewhere, something exceedingly wrong in the
confessional. Twice I have been destroyed, and I know many girls who
have also been destroyed by the confessional. This is a secret, but
will that secret be kept forever? I pity the poor priests the day
that our fathers will know what becomes of the purity of their
daughters in the hands of their confessors. Father would surely kill
my two last confessors, if he could know how they have destroyed his
poor child."
I could not answer except by weeping.
We remained silent for a long time; then she said, "It is true
that I was not prepared for the rebuke you have given me, the other
day, in the confessional; but you acted conscientiously as a good
and honest priest. I know you must be bound by certain laws."
She then pressed my hand with her cold hand and said, "Weep not,
dear father, because that sudden storm has wrecked my too fragile
bark. This storm was to take me out from the bottomless sea of my
iniquities to the shore where Jesus was waiting to receive and
pardon me. The night after you brought me, half dead, here, to
father's house, I had a dream. Oh, no! it was not a dream, it was a
reality. My Jesus came to me; He was bleeding; His crown of thorns
was on His head, the heavy cross was bruising his shoulders. He said
to me, with a voice so sweet that no human tongue can imitate it, "I
have seen thy tears, I have heard thy cries, and I know thy love for
Me: thy sins are forgiven; take courage; in a few days thou shalt be
with me!"
She had hardly finished her last word, when she fainted; and I
feared lest she should die just then, when I was alone with her.
I called the family, who rushed into the room. The doctor was
sent for. He found her so weak that he thought proper to allow only
one or two persons to remain in the room with me. He requested us
not to speak at all: "For," said he, the least emotion may kill her
instantly; her disease is, in all probability, an aneurism of the
aorta, the big vein which brings the blood to the heart: when it
breaks, she will go as quick as lightning."
It was nearly ten at night when I left the house, to go and take
some rest. But it is not necessary to say that I passed a sleepless
night. My dear Mary was there, pale, dying from the deadly blow
which I had given her in the confessional. She was there, on her bed
of death, her heart pierced with the dagger which my Church had put
into my hands! and instead of rebuking, and cursing me for my
savage, merciless fanaticism, she was blessing me! She was dying
from a broken heart, and I was not allowed by my Church to give her
a single word of consolation and hope, for she had not made her
confession! I had mercilessly bruised that tender plant, and there
was nothing in my hands to heal the wounds I had made!
It was very probable that she would die the next day, and I was
forbidden to show her the crown of glory which Jesus has prepared in
His kingdom for the repenting sinner!
My desolation was really unspeakable, and I think I would have
been suffocated and have died that night, if the stream of tears
which constantly flowed from my eyes had not been as a balm to my
distressed heart.
How dark and long the hours of that night seemed to me!
Before the dawn of day, I arose to read my theologians again, and
see if I could not find some one who would allow me to forgive the
sins of that dear child, without forcing her to tell me everything
she had done. But they seemed to me, more than ever, unanimously
inexorable, and I put them back on the shelves of my library with a
broken heart.
At nine A.M. the next day, I was by the bed of our dear sick
Mary. I cannot sufficiently tell the joy I felt, when the doctor and
the whole family said to me, "She is much better; the rest of last
night has wrought a marvellous change indeed."
With a really angelic smile she extended her hand towards me,
that I might press it in mine; and she said, "I thought, last
evening, that the dear Saviour would take me to Him, but He wants
me, dear father, to give you a little more trouble; however, be
patient, it cannot be long before the solemn hour of the appeal will
ring. Will you please read me the history of the suffering and death
of the beloved Saviour, which you read me the other day? It does me
so much good to see how He has loved me, such a miserable
sinner."
There was a calm and a solemnity in her words which struck me
singularly, as well as all those who were there.
After I had finished reading, she exclaimed, "He has loved me so
much that He died for my sins!" And she shut her eyes as if to
meditate in silence, but there was a stream of big tears rolling
down her checks.
I knelt down by her bed, with her family, to pray; but I could
not utter a single word. The idea that this dear child was there,
dying from the cruel fanaticism of my theologians and my own
cowardice in obeying them, was as a mill-stone to my neck. It was
killing me.
Oh! if by dying a thousand times, I could have added a single day
to her life, with what pleasure I would have accepted those thousand
deaths!
After we had silently prayed and wept by her bedside, she
requested her mother to leave her alone with me.
When I saw myself alone, under the irresistible impression that
this was her last day, I fell on my knees again, and with tears of
the most sincere compassion for her soul, I requested her to shake
off her shame and to obey our holy Church, which requires every one
to confess their sins if they want to be forgiven.
She calmly, but with an air of dignity which no human words can
express, said, "Is it true that, after the sin of Adam and Eve, God
Himself made coats and skins; and clothed them, that they might not
see each other's nakedness?"
"Yes," I said, this is what the Holy Scriptures tell us."
"Well, then, how is it possible that our confessors dare to take
away from as that holy, divine coat of modesty and self respect? Has
not Almighty God Himself made, with His own hands, that coat of
womanly modesty and self-respect, that we might not be to you and to
ourselves, a cause of shame and sin?"
I was really stunned by the beauty, simplicity, and sublimity of
that comparison. I remained absolutely mute and confounded. Though
it was demolishing all the traditions and doctrines of my Church,
and pulverizing all my holy doctors and theologians, that noble
answer found such an echo in my soul, that it seemed to me a
sacrilege to try to touch it with my finger.
After a short time of silence, she continued, "Twice I have been
destroyed by priests in the confessional. They took away from me
that divine coat of modesty and self-respect which God gives to
every human being who comes into this world, and twice, I have
become for those very priests a deep pit of perdition, into which
they have fallen, and where, I fear, they are forever lost! My
merciful heavenly Father has given me back that coat of skins, that
nuptial robe of modesty, self-respect, and holiness, which had been
taken away from me. He cannot allow you or any other man, to tear
again and spoil that vestment which is the work of His hands."
These words had exhausted her; it was evident to me that she
wanted some rest. I left her alone, but I was absolutely beside
myself. Filled with admiration for the sublime lessons which I had
received from the lips of that regenerated daughter of Eve, who, it
was evident, was soon to fly away from us, I felt a supreme disgust
for myself, my theologians, and—shall I say it? yes, I felt in that
solemn hour a supreme disgust for my Church, which was so cruelly
defiling me, and all her priests in the confessional-box. I felt, in
that hour, a supreme horror for that auricular confession, which is
so often a pit of perdition and supreme misery for the confessor and
penitent. I went out and walked two hours on the Plains of Abraham,
to breathe the pure and refreshing air of the mountain. There,
alone, I sat on a stone, on the very spot where Wolfe and Montcalm
had fought and died; and I wept to my heart's content, on my
irreparable degradation, and the degradation of so many priests
through the confessional.
At four o'clock in the afternoon I went back again to the house
of my dear dying Mary. The mother took me apart, and very politely
said, "My dear Mr. Chiniquy, do you not think it is time that our
dear child should receive the last sacraments? She seemed to be much
better this morning, and we were full of hope; but she is now
rapidly sinking. Please lose no time in giving her the holy viaticum
and the extreme unction."
I said, "Yes, madam: let me pass a few minutes alone with our
poor dear child, that I may prepare her for the last
sacraments."
When alone with her, I again fell on my knees, and, amidst
torrents of tears, I said, ' Dear sister, it is my desire to give
you the holy viaticum and the extreme unction; but tell me, how can
I dare to do a thing so solemn against all the prohibitions of our
Holy Church? How can I give you the holy communion without first
giving you absolution? and how can I give you absolution when you
earnestly persist in telling me that you have many sins which you
will never declare either to me or any other confessor?
" You know that I cherish and respect you as if you were an angel
sent to me from heaven. You told me the other day, that you blessed
the day that you first saw and knew me. I say the same thing. I
bless the day that I have known you; I bless every hour that I have
spent by your bed of suffering; I bless every tear which I have shed
with you on your sins and on my own; I bless every hour we have
passed together in looking to the wounds of our beloved, dying
Saviour; I bless you for having forgiven me your death! for I know
it, and I confess it in the presence of God, I have killed you, dear
sister. But now I prefer a thousand times to die than to say to you
a word which would pain you in any way, or trouble the peace of your
soul. Please, my dear sister, tell me what I can and must do for you
in this solemn hour."
Calmly, and with a smile of joy such as I had never seen before,
nor seen since, she said, "I thank and bless you, dear father, for
the parable of the Prodigal Son, on which you preached a month ago.
You have brought me to the feet of the dear Saviour; there I have
found a peace and a joy surpassing anything the human heart can
feel; I have thrown myself into the arms of my Heavenly Father, and
I know He has mercifully accepted and forgiven His poor prodigal
child! Oh, I see the angels with their golden harps around the
throne of the Lamb! Do you not hear the celestial harmony of their
songs? I go—I go to join them in my Father's house. I SHALL NOT BE
LOST!"
While she was thus speaking to me, my eyes were really turned
into two fountains of tears; I was unable, as well as unwilling, to
see anything, so entirely overcome was I by the sublime words which
were flowing from the dying lips of that dear child, who was no more
a sinner, but a real angel of Heaven to me. I was listening to her
words; there was a celestial music in every one of them. But she had
raised her voice in such a strange way, when she had begun to say,
"I go to my Father's house," and she had made such a cry of joy when
she had let the last words, "not be lost," escape her lips, that I
raised my head and opened my eyes to look at her. I suspected that
something strange had occurred.
I got upon my feet, passed my handkerchief over my face to wipe
away the tears which were preventing me from seeing with accuracy,
and looked at her.
Her hands were crossed on her breast, and there was on her face
the expression of a really superhuman joy; her beautiful eyes were
fixed as if they were looking on some grand and sublime spectacle;
it seemed to me, at first, that she was praying.
In that very instant the mother rushed into the room, crying, My
God! my God! what does that cry 'lost' mean?"—For her last words,
"not to be lost," particularly the last one, had been pronounced
with such a powerful voice, that they had been heard almost
everywhere in the house.
I made a sign with my hand to prevent the distressed mother from
making any noise and troubling her dying child in her prayer, for I
really thought that she had stopped speaking, as she used so often
to do, when alone with me, in order to pray. But I was mistaken.
That redeemed soul had gone, on the golden wings of love, to join
the multitude of those who have washed their robes in the blood of
the Lamb, to sing the eternal Alleluia.