STUDENTS AT THE ACADEMY.
Through the winter I continued to work as usual, leading the same dull,
dreary, and monotonous life, varied only by pains, and privations. In
the spring a slight change was made in the household arrangements, and
for a short time I assisted some of the other nuns to do the chamber
work for the students at the academy. There was an under-ground passage
from the convent to the cellar of the academy through which we passed.
Before we entered, the doors and windows were securely fastened, and the
students ordered to leave their rooms, and not return again till we had
left. They were also forbidden to speak to us, but whenever the teachers
were away, they were sure to come back to their rooms, and ask us all
manner of questions. They wished to know, they said, how long we were
going to stay in the convent, if we really enjoyed the life we had
chosen, and were happy in our retirement; if we had not rather return
to the world, go into company, get married, etc. I suppose they really
thought that we could leave at any time if we chose. But we did not dare
to answer their questions, or let them know the truth.
One day, when we went to do the work, we found in one of the rooms, some
men who were engaged in painting. They asked us if we were contented.
We did not dare to reply, lest they should betray us. They then began to
make remarks about us, some of which I well remember. One of them said,
"I don't believe they are used very well; they look as though they were
half starved." Another replied, "I know they do; there is certainly
something wrong about these convents, or the nuns would not all look so
pale and thin." I suspect the man little thought how much truth there
was in his remarks.
Soon after the painters left we were all taken suddenly ill. Some were
worse than others, but all were unwell except one nun. As all exhibited
the same symptoms, we were supposed to have taken poison, and suspicion
fastened on that nun. She was put upon the rack, and when she saw that
her guilt could not be concealed, she confessed that she poisoned the
water in the well, but she would not tell what she put into it, nor
where she got it. She said she did not do it to injure the nuns, for she
thought they were allowed so little drink with their food, they would
not be affected by it, while those who drank more, she hoped to kill.
She disliked all the priests, and the Superior, and would gladly have
murdered them all. But for one priest in particular, she felt all the
hatred that a naturally malignant spirit, excited by repeated acts
of cruelty, is capable of. He had punished her repeatedly, and as she
thought, unjustly, and she resolved to avenge herself and destroy her
enemy, even though the innocent should suffer with the guilty. This was
all wrong, fearfully wrong we must admit. But while we look with
horror at the enormity of her crime let us remember that she had great
provocation. I hope there are few who could have sought revenge in the
way she did; yet I cannot believe that any one would endure from another
what she was compelled to suffer from that man, without some feelings of
resentment. Let us not judge too harshly this erring sister, for if
her crime was great, her wrongs were neither small nor few, and her
punishment was terrible.
They tortured her a long time to make her tell what kind of poison she
put in the well, and where she obtained it. They supposed she must have
got it from the painters, but she would never tell where she procured
it. This fact proves that she had some generous feelings left. Under any
other circumstances such magnanimity would have been highly applauded,
and in my secret soul I could not but admire the firmness with which
she bore her sufferings. She was kept upon the rack until all her joints
were dislocated, and the flesh around them mortified. They then carried
her to her room, removed the bed, and laid her upon the bedcord. The
nuns were all assembled to look at her, and take warning by her sad
fate. Such a picture of misery I never saw before. She seemed to have
suffered even more than the old lady I saw in the cellar. It was but a
moment, however, that we were allowed to gaze upon her shrunken ghastly
features, and then she was hid from our sight forever. The nuns,
except two or three, were sent from the room, and thus the murder was
consummated. What else can we call it?
There was one young student at the academy whose name was Smalley. He
was from New England, and his father lived at St. Albans, Vt., where he
had wealth and influence. This young man had a little sister who used to
visit at the convent, whom they called Sissy Smalley. She was young, but
handsome, witty and intelligent. For one of her age, she was very much
refined in her manners. They allowed her to go anywhere in the building
except the private apartments where those deeds of darkness were
performed which would not bear the pure light of heaven. I presume that
no argument could convince little Sissy Smalley that such rooms were
actually in the nunnery. She had been all over it, she would tell
you, and she never saw any torture rooms, never heard of any one being
punished, or anything of the kind. Such reports would appear to her as
mere slanders, yet God knows they are true. I well remember how I used
to shudder to hear that child praise the nunnery, tell what a nice,
quiet place it was, and how she would like it for a permanent home. I
hope her brother will find out the truth about it in season to prevent
his beautiful sister from ever becoming a nun.