LANDLADY'S STORY CONTINUED.
The poor girl was overjoyed to meet her friends again, but how great was
our astonishment and indignation when she informed us that she had never
received a single line from home after she entered the school, nor did
she ever know that we had called to see her until we informed her of
the fact. Whenever she expressed surprise that she did not hear from us,
they told her that we had probably forgotten her, and strove to awaken
in her mind feelings of indignation, suspicion and animosity. Not
succeeding in this, however, they informed her that her father had
called, and expressed a wish that she should become a nun; that he did
not think it best for her to return home again, nor did he even ask for
a parting interview.
Confounded and utterly heart-broken, she would have given herself up to
uncontrollable grief had she been allowed to indulge her feelings. But
even the luxury of tears was forbidden, and she was compelled to assume
an appearance of cheerfulness, and to smile when her heart-strings were
breaking. We brought forward the letters we had received from time to
time which we believed she had written. She had never seen them, before,
"and this," said she, "is not my hand-writing." Of this fact she soon
convinced us, but she said she had written letter after letter hoping
for an answer, but no answer came. She said she knew that the Superior
examined all the letters written by the young ladies, but supposed they
were always sent, after being read. But it was now plain to be seen that
those letters were destroyed, and others substituted in their place.
[Footnote: Raffaele Ciocci, formerly a Benedictine Monk, in his
"Narrative," published by the American and Foreign Christian Union,
relates a similar experience of his own, when in the Papal College of
San Bernardo.
Being urged to sign "a deed of humility," in which he was to renounce
all his property and give it to the college, he says, "I knew not what
to think of this "deed of humility." A thousand misgivings filled my
mind, and hoping to receive from the notary an explanation that would
assist me in fully comprehending its intention, I anxiously said, "I
must request, sir, that you will inform me what is expected from me.
Tell me what is this deed--whether it be really a mere form, as has been
represented to me, or if"--Here the master arose, and in an imperious
tone interrupted me, saying,--"Do not be obstinate and rebellions, but
obey. I have already told you that when you assume the habit of the
Order, the chapter 'de humititate' shall be explained to you. In this
paper you have only to make a renunciation of all you possess on earth."
"Of all I possess! And if I renounce all, who, when I leave the college,
will provide for me?" The notary now interposed. "That," said he, "is
the point to which I wish to call your attention, in advising you to
make some reservation. If you neglect to do so, you may find yourself in
difficulties, losing, as you irrevocably will, every right of your own."
At these words, so palpable, so glaring, the bandage fell from my eyes,
and I saw the abyss these monsters were opening under my feet. "This is
a deception, a horrible deception," I exclaimed. "I now understand
the 'deed of humility,' but I protest I will not sign it, I will have
nothing more to do with it." * * * After spending two or three hours in
bitterness and woe, I resolved to have recourse to my family. For this
purpose I wrote a long letter to my mother, in which I exposed all the
miseries of my heart, related what had taken place with regard to the
"deed of humility," and begged of her consolation and advice. I gave
the letter into the hands of a servant, and on the following morning
received a reply, in which I was told, in gentle, terms, to
be tranquil,--not to resist the wishes of my directors,--sign
unhesitatingly any paper that might be required, for, when my studies
were completed, and I quitted the college, the validity of these forms
would cease. This letter set all my doubts at rest, and restored peace
to my mind. It was written by my mother, and she, I felt assured, would
never deceive me. How could I for one moment imagine that this epistle
was an invention of my enemies, who imitated the hand-writing and
affectionate style of my mother? Some persons will say, you might have
suspected it. * * * I reply, that in the uprightness of my heart,
I could not conceive such atrocious wickedness; it appeared utterly
irreconcilable with the sanctity of the place, and with the venerable
hoariness of persons dedicated to God.
After perusing the letter, I hastened to the master, declaring my
readiness to sign the "deed of humility." He smiled approvingly on
finding how well his plan had succeeded. The notary and witnesses were
again summoned, and my condemnation written. The good notary, however,
pitying my situation, inserted an exceptional clause to the total
relinquishment of my rights. * * * No sooner was this business
concluded, than the master commanded me to write to my parents, to
inform them that I had signed the deed of renunciation, and was willing,
for the benefit of my soul, to assume the monkish habit. He was present
when I wrote this letter; I was, therefore, obliged to adopt the
phrases suggested by him,--phrases, breathing zeal and devotion; full of
indifference to the world, and tranquil satisfaction at the choice I
had made. My parents, thought I, will be astonished when they read this
epistle, but they must perceive that the language is not mine, so little
is it in accordance with my former style of writing.
Reader, in the course of thirteen months, only one, of from fifty to
sixty letters which I addressed to my mother, was ever received by her,
and that one was this very letter. The monks, instead of forwarding
mine, had forged letters imitating the hand-writing, and adopting a
style suited to their purpose; and instead of consigning to me the
genuine replies, they artfully substituted answers of their own
fabrication. My family, therefore, were not surprised at the tenor of
this epistle, but rejoiced over it, and reputed me already a Saint. They
probably pictured me to themselves, on some future day, with a mitre on
my head--with the red cap--nay, perhaps, even wearing the triple crown.
Oh, what a delusion! Poor deceived parents! You knew not that your son,
in anguish and despair, was clashing his chains, and devouring his tears
in secret; that a triple bandage was placed before his eyes, and that
he was being dragged, an unwilling victim, to the sacrifice." Returning
home soon after, Ciocci rushed to his mother, and asked if she had
his letters. They, were produced; when he found that only one had been
written by him. The rest were forgeries of the masters.]
"It follows then," said my father, "that these letters are forgeries,
and the excuses they have so often made are base falsehoods. A teacher
of the religion of Jesus Christ guilty of lying and forgery! 'O, my soul
come not thou into their secret; unto their assembly mine honor be thou
not united.'"
"But we have our darling home again," said I, "and now we shall keep her
with us." Never shall I forget the sweet, sad smile that came over her
pale face as I uttered these words. Perchance, even then she realized
that she was soon to leave us, never more to return. However this may
be, she gradually declined. Slowly, but surely she went down to the
grave. Every remedy was tried--every measure resorted to, that seemed
to promise relief, but all in vain. We had the best physicians, but they
frankly confessed that they did not understand her disease. In a very
few months after her return, we laid our lovely and beloved sister
beneath the clods of the valley. Our good old physician wept as he gazed
upon her cold remains. I believe he thought she was poisoned, but as he
could not prove it, he would only have injured himself by saying so. As
for myself, I always thought that she knew too many of their secrets to
be allowed to live after leaving them. "And now, dear," she continued,
"do you think it strange that I hate the Romanists? Do you wonder if I
feel like swearing when I think of priests and convents?"
Truly, I did not wonder that she hated them, though I could not
understand what benefit it could be to swear about it; but I did not
doubt the truth of her story. How often, in the convent from which I
fled, had I heard them exult over the success of some deep laid scheme
to entrap the ignorant, the innocent and the unwary! If a girl was rich
or handsome, as sure as she entered their school, so sure was she to
become a nun, unless she had influential friends to look after her and
resolutely prevent it. To effect this, no means were left untried. The
grossest hypocricy, and the meanest deception were practised to prevent
a girl from holding communication with any one out of the convent No
matter how lonely, or how homesick she might feel, she was not allowed
to see her friends, or even to be informed of their kind attentions. So
far from this, she was made to believe, if possible, that her relatives
had quite forsaken her, while these very relatives were boldly informed
that she did not wish to see them. If they wrote to their friends, as
they sometimes did, their letters were always destroyed, while those
received at home were invariably written by the priest or Superior.
These remarks, however, refer only to those who are rich, or beautiful
in person. Many a girl can say with truth that she has attended
the convent school, and no effort was ever made--no inducement ever
presented to persuade her to become a nun. Consequently, she says that
stories like the above are mere falsehoods, reported to injure the
school. This may be true so far as she is concerned, but you may be sure
she has neither riches nor beauty, or if possessed of these, there was
some other strong reason why she should be an exception to the general
rule. Could she know the private history of some of her school-mates,
she would tell a different story.
I remember that while in the convent, I was one day sent up stairs to
assist a Superior in a chamber remote from the kitchen, and in a part of
the house where I had never been before. Returning alone to the kitchen,
I passed a door that was partly open, and hearing a slight groan within,
I pushed open the door and looked in, before I thought what I was doing.
A young girl lay upon a bed, who looked more like a corpse than a living
person. She saw me, and motioned to have me come to her.
As I drew near the bed, she burst into tears, and whispered, "Can't you
get me a drink of cold water?" I told her I did not know, but I would
try. I hastened to the kitchen, and as no one was present but a nun whom
I did not fear, I procured a pitcher of water, and went back with it
without meeting any one on the way. I was well aware that if seen, I
should be punished, but I did not care. I was doing as I would wish
others to do to me, and truly, I had my reward. Never shall I forget how
grateful that poor sufferer was for a draught of cold water. She could
not tell how many days she had been fasting, for some of the time she
had been insensible; but it must have been several days, and she did not
know how long she was to remain in that condition.
"How came you here?" I asked, in a whisper; "and what have you done to
induce them to punish you so?" "O," said she, with a burst of tears, and
grasping my hand with her pale, cold fingers, "I was in the school, and
I thought it would be so nice to be a nun! Then my father died and left
me all his property, and they persuaded me to stay here, and give it all
to the church. I was so sad then I did not care for money, and I had no
idea what a place it is. I really thought that the nuns were pure and
holy--that their lives were devoted to heaven, their efforts consecrated
to the cause of truth and righteousness. I thought that this was indeed
the 'house of God,' the very 'gate of heaven.' But as soon as they were
sure of me, they let me know--but you understand me; you know what I
mean?" I nodded assent, and once more asked, "What did you do?" "O,
I was in the school," said she, "and I knew that a friend of mine was
coming here just as I did; and I could not bear to see her, in all her
loveliness and unsuspecting innocence, become a victim to these vile
priests. I found an opportunity to let her know what a hell she
was coming to. 'Twas an unpardonable sin, you see. I had robbed the
church--committed sacrilege, they said--and they have almost killed me
for it. I wish they would QUITE, for I am sure death has no terrors for
me now. God will never punish me for what I have done. But go; don't
stay any longer; they'll kill you if they catch you here." I knew that
she had spoken truly--they WOULD kill me, almost, if not quite, if
they found me there; but I must know a little more. "Did you save your
friend?" I asked, "or did you both have to suffer, to pay for your
generous act?" "Did I save her? Yes, thank God, I did. She did not come,
and she promised not to tell of me. I don't think she did; but they
managed to find it out, I don't know how; and now--O God, let me die!"
I was obliged to go, and I left her, with a promise to carry her some
bread if I could. But I could not, and I never saw her again. Yet what
a history her few words unfolded! It was so much like the landlady's
story, I could not forbear relating it to her. She seemed much
interested in all my convent adventures; and in this way we spent the
night.