FATHER FRANCIS’S INTERVIEW WITH THE ABBESS OF ST. MARY MAGDALEN.—THE
OBJECTS AND WISHES OF THE HOLY FATHER.
After passing through a few passages, they entered into a room which
had the appearance of a waiting-room, in which were placed chairs and
seats; but they did not stop here, for the sister approached a door, at
which she knocked, and paused a moment; but a voice from within desired
her to enter; and, beckoning the monk to follow her, which he did, they
both entered a comfortable room in which the abbess was seated.
“Here is the holy father,” said the sister, “who demands lodging and
refreshment; but he will take nothing until he has done all that may be
required of him.”
“Holy brother,” said the abbess, “the traveller needs rest, and he that
is hungered requires food. Will you partake of our hospitality?”
“I was told you desired to converse with me, and I could not let my
ministry wait while I, like a glutton, ate and drank.”
“No, brother, it was not for such a purpose I sent for thee, but to
hear what news thou hadst from Rome, whence I heard you have come.”
“I have come thence.”
“But will you not take some refreshment here—it shall be brought thee,
if thou wilt have it, or in the buttery, which you please.”
“Whichsoever you please, sister,” said the member of St. Francis.
“Then let some of the best be brought, sister, for the good man; and
stay, I ate none at the last meal, which I may amend now; let me have a
small moiety of a pasty, and a small trifle of cold venison.”
The sister departed, and the abbess opened a small cupboard, from which
she took a bottle and two glasses, of goodly dimensions, considering
the fact that the place was inhabited only by females.
“Pronounce a blessing upon us, holy father,” said the abbess. “This has
been tasted by no unhallowed lips; it was a present from a holy lady to
me, to take myself, and to offer to such as I deemed worthy of it—and
you, holy father, I believe are worthy.”
The worthy monk pronounced the required benediction, and drank as fine
a glass of real Burgundy as ever went down consecrated lips.
“Thanks, worthy sister, thanks.”
“Brother, I am glad to be able to give it thee; it gives me more
pleasure to do so than thee to drink. I’ll warrant me, that never has
such wine passed through the merchants’ hands, because he would never
have parted with it at a price that would have made it procurable in a
place like this, for we are, holy brother, poor, very poor.”
“The people who live in these parts are, I fear, not so godly as they
should be, to let a house like this want.”
“There are many nobles.”
“And they ought to pay handsomely.”
“They do, I am thankful; but I should like to be able to offer the
poor, diseased, and helpless men, better sort of diet than I do.”
“It ought to be in your power when the rich and great are so close
around you here. You ought to have rich penitents.”
“But few of the rich are penitent, brother.”
“Naples I was told was a sink of iniquity. I did not expect to find it
in reality such as I have heard it described. But, sister, we must
be thankful that we have what the times will afford; but, at the same
time, when the enemy is thus about, we must be up and doing, and preach
salvation to them.”
“But they only answer by sending invitations for Sabbath balls,” said
the unfortunate abbess, in great dolour.
“That must be looked to. They must be chidden.”
“And then they withhold their hands from works of charity—from doing
any good deed to us—and we have no gifts and offerings.”
“But that ought not to be any motive. When they see you in earnest,
they will not resist any longer; they will, as they must, give in.”
“Ah, holy father! you don’t know the Neapolitans; they are the most
sinful set of men that you ever met with.”
“The holy father must know of this; he must be informed of the
character of these bad people—of these facts. It is a melancholy state
of things, which is a disgrace to a Christian country, and must be
amended.”
At that moment the nun returned with the refection for the monk and the
abbess, who cast a longing glance towards it.
When this was laid on the table, the abbess gave a signal that there
was no need of the further attendance of the servitor, who quitted the
room, leaving the abbess and the monk to enjoy each others society at
leisure.
Some minutes elapsed before either spoke, which time was spent in
mastication of no ordinary morsels, being some of the most delicious
meats that could be obtained for a religious house of this character,
and they were usually supplied with the best of everything that could
be had.
“Holy father,” said the abbess, “the fare is poor; but I hope it will
relieve those calls which imperious nature demands you to satisfy.”
“Yes,” said the monk; “I am well satisfied.”
“Permit me to press upon your notice those venison pasties; they are
made by Sister Bridget, who never made an indifferent one in all her
life.”
“I decidedly approve of Sister Bridget’s skill,” said the monk. “She is
no doubt a worthy woman, and a woman fit for her station.”
“I would not have another to do her duties for a trifle, save as a
penance,” said the abbess. “I will, at all events, retain her while the
convent will give her a place of shelter.”
“Very right, sister—very right.”
“But what news from Rome, brother?”
“Little, save the holy pontiff has been very ill.”
“I heard as much; and by many it is presumed that his holiness will be
translated, if he should not be better soon.”
“No; his holiness is safe, as far as it is possible for any human being
to be. God preserve him long!”
“Amen!” said the abbess, devoutly.
“But have you no penitents, holy sister?”
“I have several, but they are all in the way of performing their
penances, save one, who is somewhat refractory, holy father, and I know
not what to do with her. She has no respect for those in authority.”
“Is she one of the order?”
“No, a neophyte.”
“How is it, then—what brings her here?”
“She is sent by relatives who are afraid of a disgrace, and will not
give her any chance of committing their family to such a disgraceful
marriage. She at one time pledged herself to take the vows, but now has
some objection to do so.”
“On what grounds does she refuse?”
“Because she thinks she shall not be happy.”
“Absurd! Where is she?”
“We must have been compelled to secure her, for she has made more than
one attempt to escape, and I have reasons to believe that these efforts
have been aided from without.”
“’Tis a serious offence—a very serious offence to those concerned, and
would inevitably lead to a terrible example, if they were detected.”
“No doubt; and we should feel it our duty to make every exertion to
punish any one who makes an attempt to violate the sanctity of our
house.”
“It must be so, sister.”
“Yes, certainly; and I have secured the maiden, who, if she be brought
to their mind, will largely endow the convent.”
“That ought to be seen to.”
“I am, as you may imagine, holy father, anxious that the young maiden
should become a member of our house. Who can tell,” muttered the
abbess, half aloud, “but she may become a chosen vessel by which much
good may be effected?”
“She may,” said the monk. “I am from Rome; you may examine these
credentials which I have with me. I will take the charge of this
refractory sister of yours, and will pursue such a course as will bring
her round to your way of thinking.”
“And the endowment?”
“Will still belong to your house, to which it will be given. I have no
object, sister, save the welfare of the church; reward I seek not, save
what may be given in the good words of the wise and good.”
“You are deserving of all praise, holy father. I was not thinking about
the endowment, holy father, because, you see, it will not belong to
me, but to the church, and this house in particular, for the use of
the poor lambs here, over whom I am appointed shepherdess; so I have
no feeling in the matter beyond what I ought to have in the spiritual
welfare of our fellow sinners.”
“I have no authority to interfere in aught else.”
“I see, holy father,” said the abbess, “you are a wonderful man, and
such a one as will do much good.”
“I will make an attempt to do good, sister.”
“And I will make bold, holy brother, to say you will be successful;
though, I venture to say, with humility, that I have tried everything
with the unfortunate young woman, which appears to aggravate the evil,
rather than give any promise of the future.”
“So I might expect.”
“You will pursue a different course?”
“I may; but it must depend upon circumstances. If I find it necessary,
I must have some place of security, where no one can have any
communication with her, save when I shall order it, or deem it proper
she should be so confined.”
“Certainly; very right.”
“Moreover, if I find she needs such severe measures, I shall not let
any food be given, save what is given by me, or in my presence, which,
of course, amounts to the same thing.”
“Exactly, holy father.”
“And,” continued the monk, “I will not permit this holy house to be
insulted by a recusant, for I am quite resolved that no heretic shall
baffle the ministers of religion.”
“Oh, very improper; it would be indeed, not only an aggravation, but a
decided loss to the church, which would damnify it to that extent.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied the holy man, “undoubtedly; and with your aid I
hope to be able to make one good effort, and I pray heaven it may be
attended with grace.”
“I trust so; and now, holy brother, what may I call you?”
“You will see by these presents I am called Father Francis, of the
order of St. Francis; and unworthy brother, who has, perhaps, beyond
his gifts, obtained the praise and good wishes of his holiness the
Pope, who has been pleased specially to send me forth on a travelling
commission, to report to him and to stay where I thought my services
might be required.”
“Holy father, we may have you stay here some time, I hope, and your
favourable report of our poor endeavours; they are in the right
direction, and carried on with the right spirit; but we are all weak
and erring mortals, we cannot always be as successful as we would wish,
and in this matter we have been unsuccessful.”
“You have done all that could be expected; there are some matters that
will not yield to the weaker vessel, but which would yield to the
stronger; therefore you have nothing to blame yourself with; but you
are to be commended for what you have done.”
“Thanks, holy father; I would not be willingly found wanting.”
“Nor are you, sister, according to my poor judgment.”
“And when will you see this neophyte?”
“I will see her on the morrow; and in the meantime I must be chargeable
to you for board and lodging, if you will so far grace me.”
“Name it not, holy father; I have nothing here but what is yours; and
when you choose to retire, there will be the best traveller’s bed ready
for you.”
“Straw and sackcloth are good enough for me,” said the monk,
ostentatiously.
“But it concerns our housekeeping, holy father, and our hospitality
too. We must not let you lodge thus. I pray you, for our sakes, permit
us to do what the credit of the place will permit us to do in the way
of entertainment.”
“Be it even as you will, sister; it does not beseem me that I should
contend for matters like these—be it so; I will retire.”
“It grows late. I will summon Sister Agatha to show you your dormitory.”
Accordingly, Sister Agatha was summoned, and the monk was, after
another delicate libation of rich Burgundy, led to his room.