GRAND DINNER OF THE PRIESTS—THE MANIAC SISTER OF REV. MR. PERRAS.
It was the custom in those days, in the Church of Rome, to give the
title of arch-priest to one of the most respectable and able priests,
among twelve or fifteen others, by whom he was surrounded. That title
was the token of some superior power, which was granted him over his
confreres, who, in consequence, should consult him in certain difficult
matters.
As a general thing, those priests lived in the most cordial and
fraternal unity, and to make the bond of that union stronger and more
pleasant, they were, in turn, in the habit of giving a grand dinner
every Thursday.
In 1834 these dinners were really _state affairs_. Several days in
advance, preparations were made on a grand scale, to collect everything
that could please the tastes of the guests. The best wines were
purchased. The fattest turkeys, chickens, lambs, or sucking pigs were
hunted up. The most delicate pastries were brought from the city, or
made at home, at any cost. The rarest and most costly fruits and
desserts were ordered. There was a strange emulation among those
curates, who would surpass his neighbors. Several extra hands were
engaged some days before, to help the ordinary servants to prepare the
“GRAND DINNER.”
The second Thursday of May, 1834, was Mr. Perras’ turn, and at twelve
o’clock, noon, we were fifteen priests seated around the table.
[Illustration: GRAND DINNER OF THE PRIESTS.]
I must here render homage to the sobriety and perfect moral habits of
the Rev. Mr. Perras. Though he took his social glass of wine, as was the
universal usage at that time, I never saw him drink more than a couple
of glasses at the same meal. I wish I could say the same thing of all
those who were at this table that day.
Never did I see, before nor after, a table covered with so many tempting
and delicate viands. The good curate had surpassed himself, and I would
hardly be believed, were I to give the number of dishes and covers,
_plates et entreplates_, which loaded the table. I will only mention a
splendid salmon, which was the first brought to Quebec that year, for
which Mr. Amiot, the purveyor of the priests around the capital, had
paid twelve dollars.
There was only one lady at that dinner, Miss Perras, sister of the
curate. However, she was not at all embarrassed by finding herself alone
among those jolly celebataires, and she looked like a queen at the head
of the table. Her sweet and watchful eyes were everywhere to see the
wants of her guests. She had an amiable word for every one of them. With
the utmost grace she pressed the Rev. Mr. A. to try that wing of
turkey—she was so gently remonstrating with the Rev. Mr. B. for his not
eating more, and she was so eloquent in requesting them all to taste of
this dish, or of that; which was quite a new thing in Canada. And her
young chickens! who could refuse to accept one of them, after she had
told their story: how, three months before, in view of this happy day,
she had so cajoled the big black hen to watch over sixteen eggs in the
kitchen; what a world of trouble she had, when the little dog was coming
in, and she (the hen) was rushing at him! how, many times, she had to
stop the combatants and force them to live in peace! and what desolation
swept over her mind, when, in a dark night, the rats had dragged into
their holes three of her newly-hatched chickens! how she had got a cat
to destroy the rats; and how in escaping Scylla, she was thrown upon
Charybdis, when three days after, the cat made his dinner of two of her
dear little chickens; for which crime, committed in open day, before
several witnesses, the sentence of death was passed and executed,
without benefit of clergy.
Now, where would they find young chickens in the month of May, in the
neighborhood of Quebec, when the snow had scarcely disappeared?
These stories, given with an art which no pen can reproduce, were not
finished before the delicate chickens had disappeared in the hungry
mouths of the cheerful guests.
One of the most remarkable features of these dinners was the levity, the
absolute want of seriousness and gravity. Not a word was said in my
presence, there, which could indicate that these men had anything else
to do in this world but to eat and drink, tell and hear merry stories,
laugh and lead a jolly life.
I was the youngest of those priests. Only a few months before, I was in
the Seminary of Nicolet, learning from my grave old superior, lessons of
priestly life, very different from what I had there under my eyes. I had
not yet forgotten the austere preaching of self-denial, mortification,
austerity and crucifixion of the flesh, which were to fill up the days
of a priest!
Though, at first, I was pleased with all I saw, heard and tasted; though
I heartily laughed with the rest of the guests, at their _bon mots_,
their spicy stories about their fair penitents, or at the funny
caricatures they drew of each other, as well as of absent ones, I felt,
by turns, uneasy. Now and then the lessons of priestly life, received
from the lips of my venerable and dear Mr. Leprohon, were knocking hard
at the door of my conscience. Some words of the Holy Scriptures which,
more than others, had adhered to my memory, were also making a strange
noise in my soul. My own common sense was telling me that this was not
quite the way Christ taught his disciples to live.
I made a great effort to stifle those troublesome voices. Sometimes I
succeeded, and then I became cheerful; but a moment after I was
overpowered by them, and I felt chilled, as if I had perceived on the
walls of the festive room, the finger of my angry God, writing, “MENE,
MENE, TEKEL UPHARSIN.” Then all my cheerfulness vanished, and I felt so
miserable that, in spite of all my efforts to look happy, the Rev. Mr.
Paquette, curate of St. Gervais, observed it on my face. That priest was
probably the one who most enjoyed everything of that feast. Under the
snowy mantle of sixty-five years, he had kept the warm heart and the
joviality of youth. He was considered one of our most wealthy curates,
and he richly deserved the reputation of being the most epicurean of
them all. He was a perfect cook, and with his chaplet or his breviarium
in hand, he used to pass a great part of the day in his kitchen, giving
orders about broiling this beefstake, or preparing this fricassee, and
that gravy _a la Francais_. He was loved by all his confreres, but
particularly by the young priests, who were the objects of his constant
attentions. He had always been exceedingly kind to me, and when in his
neighborhood, I dare say that my most pleasant hours were those passed
in his parsonage.
Looking at me in the very moment when my whole intellectual being was,
in spite of myself, under the darkest cloud, he said: “My dear little
Father Chiniquy, are you falling into the hands of some blue devils,
when we are all so happy? You were so cheerful half an hour ago! What is
the matter with you now? Are you sick? You look as grave and anxious as
Jonah, when in the big whale’s stomach! What is the matter with you? Has
any of your fair penitents left you, to go to confess to another,
lately?”
At these funny questions, the dining-room was shaken with the convulsive
laughter of the priests. I wished I could join in with the rest of my
confreres; for it seemed to me very clear that I was making a fool of
myself by this singularity of demeanor. But there was no help for it;
for a moment before I had seen that the servant girls had blushed; they
had been scandalized by a very improper word from the lips of a young
priest, about one of his young female penitents; a word which he would,
surely, never have uttered, had he not drank too much wine. I answered:
“I am much obliged to you for your kind interest. I find myself much
honored to be here in your midst; but as the brightest days are not
without clouds, so it is with us all sometimes. I am young, and without
experience; I have not yet learned to look at certain things in their
proper light. When older, I hope I shall be wiser, and not make an ass
of myself as I do to-day.”
“Tah! Tah! Tah!” said old Mr. Paquette, “this is not the hour of dark
clouds and blue devils. Be cheerful, as it behooves your age. There will
be hours enough in the rest of your life for sadness and sombre
thoughts. This is the hour for laughing and being merry. Sad thoughts
for to-morrow.” And appealing to all, he asked, “Is not this correct,
gentlemen?”
“Yes, yes,” unanimously rejoined all the guests.
“Now,” said the old priest, “you see that the verdict of the jury is
unanimously in my favor and against you. Give up those airs of sadness,
which do not answer in the presence of those bottles of champagne. Your
gravity is an anachronism when we have such good wines before us. Tell
me the reason of your grief, and I pledge myself to console you, and
make you happy as you were at the beginning of the dinner.”
“I would have liked better that you should have continued to enjoy this
pleasant hour without noticing me,” I answered. “Please excuse me if I
do not trouble you with the causes of my personal folly.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Paquette, “I see it; the cause of your trouble is
that we have not yet drank together a single glass of sherry. Fill your
glass with that wine, and it will surely drown the blue devil, which I
see at its bottom.”
“With pleasure,” I said, “I feel much honored to drink with you,” and I
put some drops of wine into my glass. “Oh! oh! what do I see you doing
there? Only a few drops in your glass! This will not even wet the cloven
feet of the blue devil which is tormenting you. It requires a full
glass, an overflowing glass, to drown and finish him. Fill, then, your
glass with that precious wine—the best I ever tasted in my whole life.”
“But I cannot drink more than those few drops,” I said.
“Why not?” he replied.
“Because, eight days before her death, my mother wrote me a letter,
requesting me to promise her that I would never drink more than two
glasses of wine at the same meal. I gave her that promise in my answer,
and the very day she got my pledge, she left this world to convey it,
written on her heart, into heaven, to the feet of her God!”
“Keep that sacred pledge,” answered the old curate; “but tell me why you
are so sad when we are so happy?”
“You already know part of my reasons—if I had drank as much wine as my
neighbor, the vicar of St. Gervais, I would probably have filled the
room with my shouts of joy, as he does; but you see now that the hands
of my deceased, though always dear mother, are on my glass to prevent me
from filling it any more, for I have already drank two glasses of wine.”
“But your sadness in such a circumstance is so strange, that we would
all like to know its cause.”
“Yes, yes,” said all the priests. “You know that we like you, and we
deeply feel for you. Please tell us the reason of this sadness.”
I then answered, “It would be better for me to keep my own secret, for I
know I will make a fool of myself here; but as you are unanimous in
requesting me to give you the reasons of the mental agony through which
I am just passing, you will have them.
“You well know that, through very singular circumstances, I have been
prevented, till this day, from attending any of your grand dinners.
Twice I had to go to Quebec on these occasions, sometimes I was not well
enough to be present—several times I was called to visit some dying
person, and at other times the weather, or the roads were too bad to
travel; this, then, is the first grand dinner, attended by you all, that
I have the honor of attending.
“But before going any further, I must tell you that during the eight
months it has been my privilege to sit at Rev. Mr. Perras’ table, I have
never seen anything which could make me suspect that my eyes would see,
and my ears would hear such things in this parsonage as have just taken
place. Sobriety, moderation, truly evangelical temperance in drink and
food were the invariable rule. Never a word was said which could make
our poor servant girls, or the angels of God blush. Would to God that I
had not been here to-day! For I tell you, honestly, that I am
scandalized by the epicurean table which is before us; by the enormous
quantity of delicate viands and the incredible number of bottles of most
costly wines, emptied at this dinner.
“However, I hope I am mistaken in my appreciation of what I have seen
and heard—I hope you are all right and that I am wrong. I am the
youngest of you all. It is not my business to teach you, but it is my
duty to be taught by you.
“Now, I have given you my mind, because you so pressingly requested me
to do it, as honestly as human language will allow me to do. I have the
right, I hope, to request you to tell me, as honestly, if I am, and in
what I am, wrong or right!”
“Oh! ho! my dear Chiniquy,” replied the old curate, “you hold the stick
by the wrong end. Are we not the children of God?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, “we are the children of God.”
“Now, does not a loving father give what he considers the best part of
his goods to his beloved children?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Is not that loving father pleased when he sees his beloved children eat
and drink the good things he has prepared for them?”
“Yes, sir,” was my answer.
“Then,” rejoined the logical priest, “the more we, the beloved children
of God, eat of these delicate viands, and drink of those precious wines,
which our Heavenly Father puts into our hands, the more he is pleased
with us. The more we, the most beloved ones of God, are merry and
cheerful, the more he is himself pleased and rejoiced in his heavenly
kingdom.
“But if God, our Father, is so pleased with what we have eaten and drunk
to-day, why are you so sad?”
This masterpiece of argumentation was received by all (except Mr.
Perras), with convulsive cries of approbation, and repeated “bravo!
bravo!”
“I was too mean and cowardly to say what I felt. I tried to conceal my
increased sadness under the forced smiles of my lips, and I followed the
whole party, who left the table, and went to the parlor to drink a cup
of coffee. It was then half-past one p. m. At two o’clock the whole
party went to the church, where, after kneeling for a quarter of an hour
before their wafer God, they fell on their knees at the feet of each
other, to confess their sins, and get their pardon, in the absolution of
their confessors!
At three p. m. they were all gone, and I remained alone with my
venerable old curate Perras. After a few moments of silence, I said to
him: “My dear Mr. Perras, I have no words to express to you my regret
for what I have said at your table. I beg your pardon for every word of
that unfortunate and unbecoming conversation, into which I was dragged
in spite of myself; you know it. It does not do for a young priest, as I
am, to criticise those whom God has put so much above him by their
science, their age and their virtues. But I was forced to give my mind,
and I have given it. When I requested Mr. Paquette to tell me in what I
might be wrong, I had not the least idea that we would hear, from the
lips of one of our veterans in the priesthood, the blasphemous jokes he
has uttered. Epicurus himself would have blushed, had he been among us,
in hearing the name of God connected with such deplorable and awful
impieties.”
Mr. Perras answered me: “Far from being displeased with what I have
heard from you at this dinner, I must tell you that you have gained much
in my esteem by it. I am, myself, ashamed of that dinner. We priests are
the victims, like the rest of the world, of the fashions, vanities,
pride and lust of that world against which we are sent to preach. The
expenditure we make at those dinners is surely a crime, in the face of
the misery of the people by whom we are surrounded. This is the last
dinner I give with such foolish extravagance. The next time my neighbors
will meet here, I will not expose them to stagger on their legs, as the
greater part of them did when they rose from the table. The brave words
you have uttered have done me good. They will do them good also; for
though they had all eaten and drunk too much, they were not so
intoxicated as not to remember what you have said.”
Then, pressing my hand in his, he said, “I thank you my good little
Father Chiniquy for the short but excellent sermon you have given us. It
will not be lost. You have drawn my tears when you have shown us your
saintly mother going to the feet of God in heaven, with your sacred
promise written in her heart. Oh! you must have had a good mother! I
knew her when she was very young. She was then, already, a very
remarkable girl, for her wisdom and the dignity of her manners.”
Then he left me alone in the parlor, and he went to visit a sick man in
one of the neighboring houses.
When alone I fell on my knees, to pray and weep. My soul was filled with
emotions which it is impossible to express. The remembrance of my
beloved mother whose blessed name had fallen from my lips when her
sacred memory filled my mind with the light and strength I needed in
that hour of trial—the gluttony and drunkenness of those priests, whom I
was accustomed to respect and esteem so much—their scandalous
conversation—their lewd expressions—and more than all, their confessions
to each other after two such hours of profanity and drinking, were more
than I could endure. I could not contain myself, I wept over myself, for
I felt also the burden of my sins, and I did not find myself much better
than the rest, though I had not eaten or drunk quite so much as several
of them—I wept over my friends, whom I had seen so weak; for they were
my friends. I loved them, and I know they loved me. I wept over my
church, which was served by such poor, sinful priests. Yes! I wept
there, when on my knees, to my heart’s content, and it did me good. But
my God had another trial in store for his poor unfaithful servant.
I had not been ten minutes alone, sitting in my study, when I heard
strange cries, and such a noise as if a murderer were at work to strike
his victim. A door had evidently been broken open, up stairs, and some
one was running down stairs as if one was wanting to break down
everything. The cries of “Murder, murder!” reached my ears, and the
cries of “Oh! my God! my God! where is Mr. Perras?” filled the air.
I quickly ran to the parlor to see what was the matter, and there I
found myself face to face with a woman absolutely naked! Her long black
hair was flowing on her shoulders; her face was pale as death—her dark
eyes fixed in their sockets. She stretched her hands toward me with a
horrible shriek, and before I could move a step, terrified, and almost
paralyzed as I was, she seized my two arms with her hands, with such a
terrible force as if my arms had been grasped in a vise. My bones were
cracking under her grasp, and my flesh was torn by her nails. I tried to
escape, but it was impossible. I soon found myself as if nailed to the
wall, unable to move any further. I cried then to the utmost compass of
my voice for help. But the living spectre cried still louder: “You have
nothing to fear. Be quiet. I am sent by God Almighty and the blessed
virgin Mary, to give you a message. The priests whom I have known,
without a single exception, are a band of vipers: they destroy their
female penitents through auricular confession. They have destroyed me,
and killed my female child! Do not follow their example!” Then she began
to sing, with a beautiful voice, to a most touching tune, a kind of poem
she had composed herself, which I secretly got afterward from one of her
servant maids, the translation of which is as follows:
“Satan’s priests have defiled my heart!
Damned my soul! murdered my child!
O my child! my darling child!
From thy place in heaven, dost thou see
Thy guilty mother’s tears?
Canst thou come and press me in thine arms?
My child! my darling child!
Will never thy smiling face console me?”
When she was singing these words, big tears were rolling down her pale
cheeks, and the tone of her voice was so sad that she could have melted
a heart of stone. She had not finished her song when I cried to the
girl: “I am fainting, for God’s sake bring me some water!” The water was
only passed to my lips, I could not drink. I was choked, and petrified
in the presence of that living phantom! I could not dare to touch her in
any way with my hands. I felt horrified and paralyzed at the sight of
that livid, pale, cadaverous, naked spectre. The poor servant girl had
tried in vain, at my request, to drag her away from me. She had struck
her with terror, by crying, “If you touch me, I will instantly strangle
you!”
“Where is Mr. Perras? Where is Mr. Perras and the other servants? For
God’s sake call them,” I cried out to the servant girl, who was
trembling and beside herself.
“Miss Perras is running to the church after the curate,” she answered,
“and I do not know where the other girl is gone.”
In that instant Mr. Perras entered, rushed toward his sister, and said,
“Are you not ashamed to present yourself naked before such a gentleman?”
and with his strong arms he tried to force her to give me up.
Turning her face towards him, with tigress eyes, she cried out,
“Wretched brother! what have you done with my child? I see her blood on
your hands!”
When she was struggling with her brother, I made a sudden and extreme
effort to get out of her grasp; and this time I succeeded: but seeing
that she wanted to throw herself again upon me, I jumped through a
window which was opened.
Quick as lightning she passed out of the hands of her brother, and
jumped also through the window to run after me. She would, surely, have
overtaken me; for I had not run two rods, when I fell headlong, with my
feet entangled in my long, black, priestly robe. Providentially, two
strong men, attracted by my cries, came to my rescue. They wrapped her
in a blanket, taken there by her sister, and brought her back into the
upper chambers, where she remained safely locked, under the guard of two
strong servant maids.
The history of that woman is sad indeed. When in her priest-brother’s
house, when young and of great beauty, she was seduced by her father
confessor, and became mother of a female child, which she loved with a
real mother’s heart. She determined to keep it and bring it up. But this
did not meet the views of the curate. One night, while the mother was
sleeping, the child had been taken away from her. The awakening of the
unfortunate mother was terrible. When she understood that she could
never see her child any more, she filled the parsonage with her cries
and lamentations, and, at first, refused to take any food, in order that
she might die. But she soon became a maniac.
Mr. Perras, too much attached to his sister to send her to a lunatic
asylum, resolved to keep her in his own parsonage, which was very large.
A room in its upper part had been fixed in such a way that her cries
could not be heard, and where she would have all the comfort possible in
her sad circumstances. Two servant maids were engaged to take care of
her. All this was so well arranged, that I had been eight months in that
parsonage, without even suspecting that there was such an unfortunate
being under the same roof with me. It appears that occasionally, for
many days, her mind was perfectly lucid, when she passed her time in
praying, and singing a kind of poem which she had composed herself, and
which she sang while holding me in her grasp. In her best moments she
had fostered an invincible hatred for the priests whom she had known.
Hearing her attendants often speak of me, she had, several times,
expressed a desire to see me, which, of course, had been denied her.
Before she had broken her door, and escaped from the hands of her
keeper, she had passed several days in saying that she had received from
God a message for me which she would deliver, even if she had to pass on
the dead bodies of all in the house.
Unfortunate victim of auricular confession! How many others could sing
the sad words of thy song,
“Satan’s priest’s have defiled my heart,
Damned my soul! murdered my child!”