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NUNNERY LIFE IN THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND
[Illustration: “Sister Mary Agnes. O.S.B.”
_Photogravure by Annan & Swan._]
NUNNERY LIFE
IN THE
CHURCH OF ENGLAND;
OR,
Seventeen Years with Father Ignatius.
BY
SISTER MARY AGNES, O.S.B.
EDITED, WITH PREFACE,
BY THE REV.
W. LANCELOT HOLLAND, M.A.,
_Vicar Of All Saints’, Hatcham_.
_FIFTH THOUSAND._
London:
HODDER AND STOUGHTON,
27, PATERNOSTER ROW.
MDCCCXCI.
BUTLER & TANNER,
THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS,
FROME, AND LONDON.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
PREFACE ix
INTRODUCTION xxv
CHAPTER I.
MY REASONS FOR BECOMING A SISTER 1
CHAPTER II.
CONVENT LIFE ENTERED UPON 17
CHAPTER III.
THE VOW OF POVERTY 28
CHAPTER IV.
THE VOW OF CHASTITY 34
CHAPTER V.
THE VOW OF OBEDIENCE 42
CHAPTER VI.
THE DAWN OF SPIRITUAL LIGHT 49
CHAPTER VII.
LIFE AT FELTHAM CONVENT 57
CHAPTER VIII.
CONVENT LIFE AT SLAPTON, IN DEVONSHIRE 64
CHAPTER IX.
CONVENT LIFE AT LLANTHONY 79
CHAPTER X.
DAILY ROUTINE AT LLANTHONY 108
CHAPTER XI.
ILL-TREATMENT OF CHILDREN 115
CHAPTER XII.
SOME OF THE LLANTHONY RULES, WITH ACCOMPANYING PENANCES 121
CHAPTER XIII.
OF WHAT RELIGION IS FATHER IGNATIUS? 128
CHAPTER XIV.
MY DEPARTURE FROM LLANTHONY 136
CHAPTER XV.
AT LLANTHONY AGAIN 146
CHAPTER XVI.
APPARITIONS AND MIRACLES 158
CHAPTER XVII.
LIBERTY 176
APPENDIX _A_ 193
” _B_ 197
” _C_ 199
PREFACE.
In the summer of last year (1889), I first heard of the authoress of this
autobiography: not accidentally, as some might put it, but rather by the
good providence of Jehovah, who “worketh all things after the counsel of
His own will.”
Ex-sister Mary Agnes, or Miss J. M. Povey, had been attending one of Mrs.
Edith O’Gorman Auffray’s (better known as “The Escaped Nun”) lectures
at the Town Hall, Kensington, and after the lecture she obtained an
interview with the lecturess, during which she gave her a short account
of her own experiences in convents nominally connected with the Church of
England. The following day I happened to meet Mrs. Auffray, who passed on
to me what Miss Povey had told her. I at once made up my mind to request
this lady, if possible, to publish her experiences, and I wrote a letter
to her offering any assistance in my power, if she entertained the idea
of making her experiences more widely known.
I should have mentioned that Mrs. Auffray had recommended Miss Povey to
communicate with me, and had urged upon her the importance of bearing
witness to the merciful deliverance God had vouchsafed to her.
I feel bound, therefore, to express to Mrs. Auffray my thanks for the
good advice she gave Miss Povey; and let me say here that though perhaps
no woman has been more vilified, and persecuted, by the Roman Catholics,
and I fear too by many Ritualists and weak, half-hearted Protestants,
than has Mrs. Auffray, yet no woman has been more blessed by God in
exposing the errors of Romanism. To my mind, it is as easy to prove the
perfect veracity of Mrs. Auffray’s story, told with such power, as it is
to prove that once Queen Elizabeth reigned in England, or that the Duke
of Wellington led his soldiers to victory when the battle of Waterloo was
fought. I had not long to wait before receiving from Miss Povey a small
portion of her manuscript; and, being struck with the unaffected style,
and genuine appearance of the story thus commenced, I consented at her
request to correct and revise, or, in one word, to edit, the whole of the
material she might feel disposed to place in my hands.
I need hardly say, considering the many other engagements devolving upon
the vicar of a parish of 20,000 people, that I have been obliged to make
a somewhat slow progress with the work, short though it may appear, and
when I had come to the close of it, I could not but feel that the book
was worthy of an editor who could have devoted more time, attention and
talent to it, than it was within my reach to do.
I would acknowledge here, with a feeling of deep gratitude, the
assistance given me towards the close of my editorial duties, in
connection with the book, by a gentleman whose name I am not at liberty
to divulge. This gentleman introduced the manuscript to the publishers,
and he has most kindly cast his eye carefully over the whole work,
correcting or rescinding where he thought it advisable. Perhaps there are
few men in England who know more than he does on the subject of English
sisterhoods. He has lectured with ability on the subject, and is likely
to become ere long a well-known writer. Since I made him acquainted with
the work I was editing, and had had some conversation with him upon these
matters, I only wished he had taken my place as editor.
I think that those who read through this book will readily acknowledge
that Miss Povey has done her work well, and I feel sure she will receive
the hearty congratulations of a great number of persons. She has been
obliged to write under some considerable disadvantages, arising from the
nature of her employment, which does not allow a very wide margin of time
for writing; consequently, as she reminded me, she has had no time to
look over and correct what force of circumstances compelled her to write
somewhat hurriedly.
“I shall be much obliged,” she has written to me, “for any improvement
you think fit to make, in correcting, revising, rescinding, in all the
manuscript.” Any excellence that may be found in the book must be wholly
due to the authoress; none could have written in the forcible and graphic
way she has done, who had not herself passed through so strange and
painful an experience.
I have only had one interview with Miss Povey, and _that_ when the book
was well nigh finished. But before then I took great pains to find out
the thorough trustworthiness of her antecedents and statements. God
forbid that I should ever venture to send before the public a work of
such deep import, were I not perfectly convinced that ex-sister Mary
Agnes was in a position to write, and actually was writing, the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
I have by me a letter written by the Mother Abbess of the Feltham
convent, to the lady in whose employment Miss Povey is now living,
giving her, as will be acknowledged by all, a very high character for
truthfulness and uprightness.
THE CONVENT, FELTHAM,
_Sept. 14th, 1887_.
DEAR MADAM,—
Miss J. M. Povey lived in my house for ten years, and I knew of
her before and since.
She bears, and has always borne, the highest moral character;
all her relations are highly respectable people. She is
thoroughly conscientious and trustworthy, clever and observant,
and speaks well. She is a good needlewoman, and I should think
quite capable of undertaking what you require of her, and is
one who would do her work quite as well in your absence as if
you were at home superintending her.
She is _quite above_ the ordinary station of domestic servants.
There is no mystery in her life.
I am, dear Madam, yours truly,
MARY HILDA.
Miss Povey has also received the two following letters from the same
lady:—
THE CONVENT, FELTHAM,
_Feb. 15th, 1886_.
POOR DEAR CHILD,—
I am not in the least surprised at your leaving, and I pity you
much for several reasons.
MARY HILDA.
THE CONVENT, FELTHAM,
_Feb. 20th, 1886_.
DEAREST CHILD,—
However good F. Ignatius may be (and he has much goodness), I
never thought he had much tact; but that he could be so utterly
devoid of it as to tell M. Wereburgh that you knew about
her history after leaving here first time, I could not have
imagined. Of course, knowing her as I did, I can but feel sure
that she was anxious for you to leave, lest you should hint it
to others. I am, as I have said, very sorry for you, and hope
you will not stay in the world.
Your always sincere friend, and affectionate Sp. Mother,
MARY HILDA, M. Sup.
I have ample testimony to the truth of her statement, “_Seventeen_ Years
with Father Ignatius,” since I am able to give the following extract from
a letter written by “Ignatius” himself to Sister Mary Agnes, soon after
she had left the convent:—
JESUS † ONLY.
PAX.
LLANTHONY ABBEY,
_Dec. 30th, 1884_.
MY DEAREST CHILD,—
… You have profited nothing from all my teaching and patience
of nearly seventeen years: you cannot imagine the grief you
have given me.
I have no time for more. I shall always pray for you, and love
you, and you must think of me as always
Your affectionate, but disappointed Father,
IGNATIUS, O.S.B.
Most of the readers of this book will probably know the meaning of the
letters “O.S.B.” They mean the “Order of St. Benedict.” Now, although
Sister Mary Agnes never became what is called in conventual phraseology
a “_professed_” nun in that Order, that is to say, she never “took the
black veil,” yet for all these years she was a _novice nun_, and was
always looked upon and called a _nun_.
In a letter Father Ignatius wrote to her in the year 1879, whilst she was
in the convent, this sentence occurs: “You are really a little _nun_”;
and again: “If I find you really grown in a nun-like spirit, I really
hope we may fix (D.V.) your profession, say, this year.”
I might very easily add more to prove that this simple story of seventeen
years of convent life is not a fabricated one, but the evidence I have
produced, out of a mass which I have at my disposal, will surely be
enough.
Miss Povey has decided to make known her life as a nun, in order that
others may take warning, and profit by her experiences. No young lady who
may become acquainted with this book can ever say, should she be deluded
into taking the veil, that she took that terrible leap, as I fear many do
take it, in the dark.
Convents, or sisterhoods, in connection with the Church of England, are
by no means few and far between, and it is to be hoped that this book
will bring conviction to many of the transparent fact, that the teaching
and practices within their walls are not so widely different from the
same within the walls of Roman Catholic convents.
I hope that Miss Povey’s work may do good in making known the danger of
being misled by the _apparently_ pure evangelical teaching which Father
Ignatius is said to give. Now, it seems to me, that here in this book
we have the means of subjecting this specious-looking metal to a severe
test. His so-called Gospel sermons and orations contain some good metal
with which the counterfeit coin is covered and made to pass as genuine.
It is an incumbent duty to let her revelations be known far and wide, so
that souls be not led astray.
Is there not a cause? Consider it, I beg of you, who may read this book.
Remember that with scarcely an exception (I don’t think the infallibility
of the Pope is acknowledged in these convents) every Roman Catholic
tenet is unblushingly held and taught in the three convents which this
book refers to. Roman Catholic literature of the most advanced type is
constantly used in them.
Another advantage that I hope and feel sure will arise from studying
this little book, will be found in the remarkably clear definition Miss
Povey has been enabled to give of the three celebrated and essentially
Romish _vows_ of poverty, chastity, and obedience. These self-same vows
are just now being spoken of a good deal, and many are telling us that
they are to be an essential element in the new brotherhoods which the
Bishop of Rochester has so lately, in the Upper House of Convocation
and in his Triennial Charge, advocated. I cannot but hope that God has
raised up, at a most opportune moment, a witness against the imposition
of such vows, whether on men or women. I hope it may lead those who
are favourable to the scheme to favour it no more. Is it not palpable
to all that just as sisterhoods are made the secret repositories of
extreme Romish education, practices, and literature, so likewise will
brotherhoods be made to serve a similar purpose?
We are certainly living in “perilous times,” and it is amazing to behold
the spirit of indifference in quarters where we might least expect it,
not only with regard to the great strides Ritualism is making, so that
Protestant Evangelicalism is well nigh eclipsed, but this indifference
is as great with regard to the advance of Romanism and Jesuitism,[1] and
(saddest result of all) to the building of so many hundreds of Roman
Catholic convents and monasteries in the United Kingdom.
There are in existence societies for the prevention of cruelty to
children, and for the prevention of cruelty to animals; but although the
cruelties and tortures, called penances, which are inflicted on many
a poor helpless nun are greater than those inflicted on animals, the
man who raises up his voice against this worst form of inhumanity is
counted unloving and bigoted. Believe me, the unloving ones are those
who lend any countenance whatever to, or who do not make a righteous
protest against, the conventual and monastic _system_, according to which
disciplines, hair-shirts, scourgings, and various other forms of cruelty
and degradation are employed.
Do we not see that, if this system is allowed to advance in the Church
of England, these very penances (many of which _do_ exist, all of which
_may_ exist, in the Church of England convents), which, without any
doubt, exist in Romish convents, will be inflicted with equal severity in
English Church convents.
Sister Mary Agnes does not speak of prison-like underground cells in
Father Ignatius’s convents, and we believe, therefore, that anyhow at
present they do not exist in them. But she does speak of penances, and
she has felt them.
In bringing my Preface to a close, I will give a statement with regard
to the Church of England convent in Woodstock Road, in the City of
Oxford, founded by the late Dr. Pusey. This statement has been made by a
clergyman of the Established Church, who is perfectly prepared, if need
be, to give his name.
In the summer of 1866, I was travelling from Oxford to London,
and there happened to be in the same railway carriage one of
the leading tradesmen in the city of Oxford.
Our conversation turned upon the advances which Romanism was
apparently making in the United Kingdom, and conspicuously by
the influence of a certain section now well known as Ritualists
in our own Church.
He asked me if I had noticed a building which was being erected
in “The Parks” (Oxford), and whether I was aware that owing to
a clause in the lease of the ground, and some complications
arising therefrom, the owners of the edifice had determined
even, if necessary, to surrender the lease, and transfer the
materials to a freehold site in another part of the city? I
remarked that such a course looked suspicious, made my own
comments on it, and, when opportunity offered, acted.
During a stay in Oxford a few days subsequently, I went one
afternoon to see for myself, and on coming to the building,
asked the clerk of the works, or foreman, if I might look round
it. Having done so, I found the fabric almost completed, but
was struck by an apparent loss of space owing to the height of
the walls from the ground, without any ostensible object. I
observed a small door, directly underneath the main entrance,
and on examination found it padlocked, but seeing that the
staple was not clenched, I removed it with the point of my
umbrella, and thus gained entrance to what proved to be a long
corridor, right and left of which _cells_ were erected, but not
completed.
As rapidly as I could I took a general survey of the whole
arrangements, replaced the staple and padlock, and before
leaving expressed my best thanks to the foreman, who was
engaged with some workmen in a shed at the entrance to the
premises, erected quite apart from the building.
I then talked with him about the peculiar construction of the
building, and asked him why the walls were built so as to
leave a great space between the foundations and first floor.
He stated that this was for _the purpose of ventilation_
only. I then remarked that it was unusual to see buildings so
constructed, and then I said, “Was that all?” He volunteered
the statement that there was nothing in this space underneath
the fabric but the external walls. Happening to know
differently, I drew my own conclusions, and left.—(Signed) ⸺.
Finally, let us hope that God’s people throughout England will make it
a matter of daily intercession to the throne of Grace that convents,
whether Anglican or Roman Catholic, may be utterly abolished. I
sincerely trust that this book will be read as a witness of what God’s
good providence and sovereign grace have done for the writer of this
interesting narrative, and therefore can do for others. May the Spirit
of the living God that opened the eyes of Sister Mary Agnes, be poured
out abundantly to open the eyes of many in this land, who are sitting
in darkness and the shadow of death. And may they be led, by the same
Spirit, through the one only Mediator between God and man, even Jesus
Christ, to obtain fellowship with the Father, together with all other
spiritual blessings in Christ Jesus, “according as God hath chosen us
in Him before the foundation of the world.” And, finally, may He also
enable them to “stand fast in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made them
free.”
W. LANCELOT HOLLAND.
ALL SAINTS’ VICARAGE,
HATCHAM PARK, S.E.,
_February, 1890_.
INTRODUCTION.
In sending forth this book to the world, I would have it clearly
understood that it is not my desire to injure any one. I only wish that
_the mistakes of my life_ may prove a warning to others and prevent them
from taking the step I did. I feel it to be a solemn duty, which I owe to
God, to put before the public convent life in the Church of England, as I
found it.
Naturally I shrink from the task, for the Mother of the Feltham convent
has always acted, as far as my experience goes, conscientiously, and it
was in no way on her account that I felt bound to withdraw from convent
life. Besides Father Ignatius himself _once_ seemed to love me as his
“little daughter,” and was exceedingly kind to me. Let it be remembered
that I was _then_ but a child and a very simple and inexperienced one.
In one sense, it is not against him personally that I am writing, yet,
in another, it is, because he was head over all, added to which, he
made a personal application to my mother to give me up to him for God’s
service, and thus he was responsible for seeing that my life was made at
least endurable; instead of which, he gave me up entirely into the hands
of a certain Mother Superior, who (I would speak the truth in love) was a
zealous and tyrannical woman.
Believing it, then, to be my duty, I now take up my pen, and may
God guide it, so that, in His hands, it may be the means of saving
young girls and women, and young men and boys, from inflicting on
their relatives the bitter pain and sorrow which I caused my own dear
mother and friends. May many by this warning be saved from the bitter
disappointment which was my lot, when I found convent life _so_ different
in practice and reality from what in theory and fancy it seemed to be.
Instead of it being the “Gate of Heaven,” as it is sometimes said to be,
my experience was that it is much nearer another gate.
I feel convinced too that, if the truth could only be got at, it would
be discovered that my experience was not an exceptional one. I have heard
that it was St. Chrysostom who said, “A monk, by the very nature of the
life he leads, is either an angel or a devil,” and I seldom, if ever,
knew a monk or boy, a girl or woman, who, sooner or later, did not turn
into something which was far removed from that which is angelic, though
at their entrance into that name of “Pax,” they were, to all appearances,
“perfect saints.”
Instead of being ennobled by the monastic and conventual life, my
experience has been (and I have had an experience of some seventeen
years, and have come in contact with a goodly number of persons living
under vows) that the life is far from having an ennobling influence.
Life of this kind generally causes those who lead it to become mean,
petty, and selfish, and no selfishness can equal a nun’s, particularly
when nature inclines her to be so.[2] Nuns are either crushed slaves
_or tyrants_, and often so puffed up with pride that they look upon
“seculars” as a race of beings far below themselves, and who, as the Lady
Prioress Wereburgh used to say to us, “should think themselves highly
honoured to have the privilege of a nun condescending to speak to them.”
I would ask all who read this story to overlook the lack of style and
order which may be apparent, but I am now very much occupied in earning
my bread, and can only give a few night-hours occasionally to the task,
and I have never been accustomed to work of this kind.
CHAPTER I.
_MY REASONS FOR BECOMING A SISTER._
From the earliest time that my memory goes back, I loved Jesus, though I
knew very little about Him—only what my dear mother taught me, and she
was what is termed a “shy Christian.” But I often wished that people
would talk more about Him, at least to me; and as a little girl I used to
look at people, and wish they would speak to me of Jesus, though I was
too timid to put my thoughts into words.
When I was about fourteen years of age, in the year 1868, there was a
great stir about a new preacher who preached at several city churches,
including St Edmund’s, Lombard Street, and St. Ethelburga’s, Bishopsgate.
His name was Father Ignatius; he was a Church of England clergyman, and
called himself a monk. At that period I happened to be on a visit to my
aunt, and my sister wrote and told me that Father Ignatius preached
monasticism, that he had a monastery and would soon open a convent. I
remember how I thought everybody was turning to Roman Catholicism; and I
made up my mind not to go near this strange man. So at first I would not
go to hear him, though somehow I was very anxious to see him. At last
my mother persuaded me to go, and I heard him preach the love of Jesus
as I had never before heard it. I recollect how my mother presented me
to him, and how he took my hand, and said, “God bless you, dear child!”
Though he said neither more nor less I was won, and from that moment I
felt compelled to dwell on all his doings, and to drink in his words.
What extraordinary power, or _mesmerism_, is it that this man possesses,
enabling him to exert such an influence, not only over a simple child,
but also over young and old, man and woman, noble and peasant? How often
have I asked myself this question, yet in the course of twenty years I
have not solved the mystery! But does he retain the friendship of those
he wins? For a short time he does, but as a rule they eventually turn
away from him, and sometimes even become his greatest enemies; for he
possesses a strange power not only of winning love, but also of casting
it away from him when won.
But I have somewhat departed from my story, which I will now resume. I
remember being in church one evening, and we sang the words:
The love of Jesus, what it is
None but His loved ones know.
I thought to myself, “Who are His loved ones?” Day after day I went about
wondering who they were. I would look into every face I met, but the love
of Jesus did not seem to me stamped there; yet I was determined to find
out, for, I said to myself, “I _must_ be His loved one!” At last I saw a
gentle, pale-faced sister; and she looked so good and pure (my favourite
text was, “Blessed are the pure in heart”) that a sudden thought flashed
into my mind that it was these sisters, or nuns, who were the “loved
ones,” and that therefore I must be a sister. But I was not bold enough
to tell any one my thoughts, besides which I thought I was very much too
young to be a nun. I recollect that just at this time I went to some
private meetings,[3] held by certain sisters, and one of them asked me,
on one of these occasions, “Should you like to be a sister?” My heart
jumped on hearing the question, and I replied, “Yes.” No more was said
then; but when I again went, Father Ignatius asked me the same question,
and I made the same reply as before. He then told me to ask my mother to
allow me to be “_given to God_” as a nun. Of course my mother would not
hear of it, and only laughed at me, and called me “a goose to want to
shut myself away from mother and everybody.” The idea, however, had so
taken possession of me, that I begged over and over again to be allowed
to go; but my mother would not give her consent. Every time Father
Ignatius saw me he asked if I had obtained my mother’s consent, and I was
obliged to say “No.” One day, I remember, he said to me, “Well, ask your
mother to let you _go for a month on a visit_!” I dared not ask her for a
month, knowing she would not grant me so long a time, so I asked her to
let me go for a week, and after considering my request for two days, she
told me I might go for a week. I therefore went for that period. I was
fifteen years of age then; and the convent was at Feltham, where I stayed
for ten years. But before the week had expired, I asked for another week,
saying I was so happy in this new life. To my request she made answer,
“Another week, but not a day over.” During this week the Father called
upon my mother, and persuaded her to “give me to God.” Very reluctantly
she gave her consent, as she told me, “for one year, to sicken you of
it, and you will soon be glad to come back home to your mother.” No one
but God ever knew for years after how I longed to get back to my mother,
though I dared not allow it even to myself. When my mother gave me up,
she had Father Ignatius’s promise not to let me take life-vows until I
was twenty-one or twenty-five years of age.
The first year passed away very happily. I was young; and being small in
stature, I was made a pet of, until another young sister came. Then the
Mother changed, and she who had so petted me suddenly took a dislike to
me; not that she was so very unkind. But how I yearned to be loved! No
one seemed to love me, and I loved her, oh, so much! When I went up to
her and said, “Mother, dear,” instead of opening her arms, and folding
me in them as she used to do, she would turn away with a shudder. Why
she did this, I never knew. I could not fail to feel surprise at it,
as she had often taught me that “a spiritual father’s, and mother’s,
and sister’s love is far greater than that of any earthly parents.” I
was sure my mother would never thus turn away from me. Oh, how keenly
I felt this coldness! and when I went to bed, I would cry and sob for
hours, knowing that no one in that house loved me, and my heart seemed
fit to break at such a loveless life. My mother’s smile, her words, and
her every look and action, would rise up before me. I remembered my
sister and dear little brother, both of whom I so fondly loved, and I
would think, “Oh! if it was not wicked of me, I wish I was home”; but
I would then blame myself for thinking thus, for I considered it showed
unfaithfulness to God to allow such thoughts even for a moment, and I was
afraid lest God should take my “holy vocation” from me, and I would also
remember how God would have His spouse forsake all other love that she
may love Him, and be His alone.
Was there ever a more cruel and bitter mistake? Cruel is the teaching
which requires a young girl to separate herself from the dear good
mother, whom God has given her, in order that she may, as is falsely
said, serve God without hindrance. What folly and delusion is it that
takes possession of us, to think that we can get nearer to God, be more
pure, more holy in this life, and be brought to greater glory in the next
life, by shutting oneself up in a particular house and never going out
except to the garden, I cannot fathom!
Listen to the text which brings us up to this unnatural life, or, as we
were told, this “supernatural life.” “A garden inclosed is My sister,
My spouse; a spring shut up,” etc. Year after year this text bears us
up, coupled with the thought that such a life is only a short time in
comparison with eternity, when we shall reap the great reward of our life
of self-sacrifice. Blinder than the very heathen was I!
Sometimes I would stand and look around that small enclosure and think,
“Shall I never in this life go farther than this garden surrounded with
trees?” Often my brain seemed to turn at the very thought. If only I
could have seen a great space, or a great sea, it would be better; but
there were those trees in a flat country, and nothing beyond (a true type
indeed). But then I would come back to my text, as above quoted, and
think that as God is pleased with me, nothing else is of consequence. So
I went on year after year, anything but happy, yet not _daring_ to let
myself think of turning back. Often did I LONG to speak of mother and of
the dear ones at home, but I could not without breaking the rule, “never
to speak of our earthly relations except to God in prayer.” If we broke
this rule, we had to confess it the same day, and perform the prescribed
penance of losing the hour’s recreation, do some menial work, and keep
silence during the only hour we had set apart for conversation.
At the end of my first year my mother wrote to Father Ignatius demanding
me back. She wrote to me at the same time, telling me she was coming
to fetch me; but the Father gave me no advice on the subject, and I
could have gone back as far as consent from my superiors went. At that
time they gave me my mother’s letter, which of course they had read
(all letters are read by the Mother first); but what about the teaching
and instruction that had gone before? What about the awful words I had
heard that, “should I ever even look back, I should then be unmeet for
the kingdom of God”? What about the example of Lot’s wife, so often set
before us? She only _looked_ back, and how terrible the _immediate_
result! What would happen (I thought) to one espoused to Christ, if she
not only looked back, but deliberately turned from the “path that leads
to life,” as we were instructed? Not even for one second did I _dare_ to
allow myself to think it. I would not go back, and did not.
My mother waited another year, and came this time to the convent without
writing, so that I might not be influenced beforehand. Oh! mothers,
little do you know the influence that is always at work: and yet your
children dare not even wish to tell you, for it would be a terrible sin
to tell even you anything about that influence,—it would be a grave
scandal to do so. But it is equally a great sin to hide anything from
our _Superior_; we are distinctly told never to conceal anything, not
even our most secret thoughts, from our Superior. Should we have a great
temptation to leave the life we had entered on, or any great temptation
to rebel against convent rules, we were expressly told to make it known
at once, that we might have the benefit of our Superior’s advice.
Remember, too, that self-examination comes three times a day!
One morning, at the Communion, the Father suddenly turned round, saying:
“If any sister in this chapel has one single unfaithful thought of going
back to the world, _I dare_ her to come to this altar, and touch with her
lips the sacred Body and Blood of her God. ‘Woe be to him through whom
the offence cometh!’”
We were all startled, and I said,“Lord, is it I?” But it was not me,
for I would rather have suffered torture than commit so great a sin. A
certain lay-sister stayed behind at that time, and I asked her, when the
next opportunity offered itself to me, if she had thoughts of looking
back? She replied:
“I told the reverend Father last night, I thought I ought to go home to
my father to keep house for him, as my mother was dead.”
The reader will perceive that though we were not shut in by literal bolts
and bars, we were bound by something very, very much more effectual—even
by the nameless and unexplainable fear of being guilty of the _terrible
sin_ of going back to the world. How fearfully real and effectual is this
feeling!
My mother and sister then came to fetch me, and I was sent alone into the
parlour, that they might see how little I was _apparently_ influenced by
any outside pressure, and that I might tell them that I had a wish of
my own free will to remain in the convent. At this interview, some one,
unknown to my mother, was, of course, within earshot, according to rule;
but I did not fear that, for I had no intention of going back, and thus
losing the virgin’s crown in heaven, which I so much coveted, and which
could only be obtained, as I then supposed, by remaining true to my holy
calling. My sister was evidently exercising great self-restraint at this
interview, and could scarcely refrain from weeping; my own mother sobbed,
and my heart was wrung, and yet I dared not think of going home. Almost
choking with emotion, and stretching out my arms and folding them around
my mother’s neck, I gasped:
“Mother, darling, I DO love you; but I belong to God, and I _dare_ not go
back.”
Tears blind me, even now while I write, as I think of that _awful_
struggle, which I had been taught was right and pleasing to God. At last
my mother was able to speak, and she said:
“This is the second time I have tried to get you away, and you refuse
to come. Now, mind, I shall never come to see you again, or write to
you, but you will live to repent the day you ever shut yourself up in a
convent, and remember that I will have nothing more to do with you while
you are here; but if ever you should want a home, while I have one, it is
yours also.”
She went on to say:
“Father Ignatius will get tired of you some day, then what will you do if
your mother is no more?”
My reply was (remembering what a great pet he made of me, and also how I
had read and been told that “the love of spiritual parents was so much
stronger than that of any earthly parent”):
“You are, dear mother, very kind; but I am sure the reverend Father will
never change.”
And so I truly thought.
This wrench from all home-ties well nigh broke my heart; yet I dared not
even think of leaving the convent, though in my heart of hearts I deeply
wished I had never taken up that “golden plough.” Ah! had I only not
taken it up, there would have been no sin in wishing for home again; but
now it was far different, for it seemed to me, at the time, that in God’s
great goodness the path had been shown to me down which I must walk, and
that I must with determination choose the good, and cast aside every
thought of returning to the world. And so I chose what I had been taught
was the good, and no one until now knows the bitter struggle I passed
through. How often did I recall this day, or rather I could not drive it
from my memory whilst sleeping or waking! It often drove sleep from my
eyes, and my constant thought was, “If only I could put my arms round my
mother’s neck, and kiss her just once more!”
At last all was arranged for me to take the black veil, and I even had
orders to write for my mother to come and see this imposing ceremony, as
it is really a novice’s entire _death_ to the world, and we are allowed
to see our nearest relative before we die. I was told I might go into the
visitor’s room to see my mother if she came; but though my Superior said
it was _lawful_ to see her, yet she _advised me not to go_, as it might
prove a cause of great distraction. When I was first told I might go into
the room where my mother was to come, my heart leaped for joy. “Now,” I
thought, “I shall be able to kiss her once again.” But then I remembered
all the advice I had been given, and I wanted to be “perfect”; so, for
the love of Jesus, as _I thought_, I gave up the privilege and joy of
kissing my own dear mother!
As a rule, we only saw friends behind the grille, with a third person,
who must be a professed nun, to listen and report us should we make a
slip in our conversation, or scandalize a secular by repeating anything
that should not be told.
However, after all, my taking the black veil and thus becoming a
professed nun was put off, as the superiors could not agree as to what
place I was to take in the community. The reverend Mother wished me to
keep where I was—the reverend Father wished me to be raised above six
or seven who were older, and had been professed some years back. Since
neither would waive their wishes, I had to wait, and consequently, I
never took the black veil, or _life_-vows, and _never_ saw my mother
again, as when I left convent life she was not alive.