SENT TO SUCCEED REV. MR. VARIN, CURATE OF KAMOURASKA—STERN OPPOSITION OF
THAT CURATE AND THE SURROUNDING PRIEST AND PEOPLE—HOURS OF DESOLATION
IN KAMOURASKA—THE GOOD MASTER ALLAYS THE TEMPEST, AND BIDS THE WAVES
BE STILL.
On the morning of the 25th of August, 1842, we blessed and opened the
seventh school of Beauport. From that day all the children were to
receive as good an education as could be given in any country place of
Canada. Those schools had been raised on the ruins of the seven taverns
which had so long spread ruin, shame, desolation and death over that
splendid parish. My heart was filled with an unspeakable joy at the
sight of the marvellous things which, by the hand of God, had been
wrought in such a short time.
At about two P. M. of that never-to-be-forgotten day, after I had said
my vespers, and was alone, pacing the alleys of my garden, under the
shade of the old maple trees bordering the northern part of that
beautiful spot, I was reviewing the struggles and the victories of these
last four years. It seemed that everything around me—not only the giant
trees which were protecting me from the burning sun, but even the
humblest grasses and flowers of my garden—had a voice to tell me, “Bless
the Lord for His mercies.”
At my feet the majestic St. Lawrence was rolling its deep waters;
beyond, the old capital of Canada, Quebec, with its massive citadel, its
proud towers, its bristling cannons, its numerous houses and steeples,
with their tin roofs reflecting the light of the sun in myriads of rays,
formed such a spectacle of fairy beauty as no pen can describe. The
fresh breeze from the river, mingled with the perfume of the thousand
flowers of my parterre, bathed me in an atmosphere of fragrance. Never
yet had I enjoyed life as at that hour. All the sanguine desires of my
heart and the holy aspirations of my soul had been more than realized.
Peace, harmony, industry, abundance, happiness, religion and education
had come on the heels of temperance, to gladden and cheer the families
which God had entrusted to me. The former hard feelings of my
ecclesiastical superiors had been changed into sentiments and acts of
kindness, much above my merits. With the most sincere feelings of
gratitude to God, I said with the old prophet, “Bless the Lord, O my
soul.”
By the great mercy of God, that parish of Beauport, which at first had
appeared to me as a bottomless abyss, in which I was to perish, had been
changed for me into an earthly paradise. There was only one desire in my
heart. It was that I never should be removed from it. Like Peter on
Mount Tabor, I wanted to pitch my tent in Beauport to the end of my
life. But the rebuke which had shamed Peter came as quickly as lightning
to show me the folly and vanity of my dreams.
Suddenly the carrosse of the Bishop of Quebec came in sight, and rolled
down to the door of the parsonage. The sub-secretary, the Rev. Mr.
Belisle, alighting from it, directed his steps towards the garden, where
he had seen me, and handed me the following letter from the Right Rev.
Turgeon, Coadjutor of Quebec:
My dear Mons. Chiniquy.
His lordship Bishop Signaie and I wish to confer with you on a most
important matter. We have sent our carriage to bring you to Quebec.
Please come without the least delay.
Truly yours,
✠ FLAV. TURGEON.
One hour after, I was with the two bishops. My Lord Signaie said:
“Monseigneur Turgeon will tell you why we have sent for you in such
haste.”
“Mons. Chiniquy,” said Bishop Turgeon, “is not Kamouraska your
birthplace?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Do you like that place, and do you interest yourself much in its
welfare?”
“Of course, my lord, I like Kamouraska; not only because it is my
birthplace, and the most happy years of my youth were spent in it, but
also because, in my humble opinion, the beauties of its scenery, the
purity of its atmosphere, the fine manners and proverbial intelligence
of its people, make it the very gem of Canada.”
“You know,” rejoined the bishop, “that Rev. Mons. Varin has been too
infirm, these last years, to superintend the spiritual interest of that
important place, it is impossible to continue putting a young vicar at
the head of such a parish, where hundreds of the best families of the
aristocracy of Quebec and Montreal resort every summer. We have, too
long, tried that experiment of young priests in the midst of such a
people. It has been a failure. Drunkenness, luxury and immoralities of
the most degrading kind are eating up the very life of Kamouraska
to-day. Not less than thirty illegitimate births are known and
registered in different places from Kamouraska these last twelve months.
It is quite time to stop that state of affairs, and you are the only
one, Mons. Chiniquy, on whom we can rely for that great and difficult
work.”
These words passed through my soul as a two-edged sword. My lips
quivered, I felt as if I were choking, and my tongue, with difficulty
muttered: “My lord, I hope it is not your intention to remove me from my
dear parish of Beauport.”
“No, Mons. Chiniquy, we will not make use of our authority, to break the
sacred and sweet ties which unite you to the parish of Beauport. But we
will put before your conscience the reasons we have to wish you at the
head of the great and important parish of Kamouraska.”
For more than an hour, the two bishops made strong appeals to my charity
for the multitudes who were sunk into the abyss of drunkenness and every
vice, and had no one to save them.
“See how God and men are blessing you to-day,” added the Archbishop
Signaie, for what you have done in Beauport! Will they not bless you
still more, if you save that great and splendid parish of Kamouraska, as
you have saved Beauport? Will not a double crown be put upon your
forehead by your bishops, your country and your God, if you consent to
be the instrument of the mercies of God towards the people of your own
birthplace, and the surrounding country, as you have just been for
Beauport and its surrounding parishes? Can you rest and live in peace
now in Beauport, when you hear day and night the voice of the multitudes
who cry: ‘Come to our help, we are perishing?’ What will you answer to
God, at the last day, when He will show you the thousands of precious
souls lost at Kamouraska, because you refused to go to their rescue? As
Monseigneur Turgeon has said, we will not make use of our authority to
force you to leave your present position; we hope that the prayers of
your bishops will be enough for you. We know what a great sacrifice it
will be for you to leave Beauport to-day; but do not forget that the
greater the sacrifice, the more precious will the crown be.“
My bishops had spoken to me with such kindness! Their paternal and
friendly appeals had surely more power over me than orders. Not without
many tears; but with a true good will, I consented to give up the
prospects of peace and comfort which were in store for me in Beauport,
to plunge myself again into a future of endless trouble and warfare, by
going to Kamouraska.
There is no need of saying that the people of Beauport did all in their
power to induce the bishops to let me remain among them some time
longer. But the sacrifice had to be made. I gave my farewell address on
the second Sabbath of September; in the midst of indescribable cries,
sobs and tears, and on the 17th of the same month, I was on my way to
Kamouraska. I had left everything behind me at Beauport, even to my
books, in order to be freer in that formidable conflict which seemed to
be in store for me in my new parish.
When I took leave of the bishops of Quebec, they showed me a letter just
received by them from Mons. Varin, filled with the most bitter
expressions of indignation on account of the choice of such a fanatic
and fire-brand as Chiniquy, for a place so well known for its peaceful
habits and harmony among all classes.” The last words of the letter were
as follows:
“The clergy and people of Kamouraska and vicinity consider the
appointment of Mons. Chiniquy to this parish as an insult, and we hope
and pray that your lordship will change your mind on the subject.”
In showing me the letter, my lord Signaie and Turgeon said: “We fear
that you will have more trouble than we expected with the old curate and
his partisans, but we commend you to the grace of God and the protection
of the Virgin Mary, remembering that our Saviour has said: ‘Fear not, I
have overcome the world.’”
I arrived at Kamouraska the 21st of September, 1842, on one of the
finest days of the year. But my heart was filled with an unspeakable
desolation, for all along the way, the curates had told me that the
people, with their old pastor, were unanimous in their opposition to my
going there. It was even rumored that the doors of the church would be
shut against me, the next Sunday. To this bad news were added two very
strange facts. My brother Achilles, who was living at St. Michel, was to
drive me from that place to St. Roch des Aulnets, whence my other
brother Louis, would take me to Kamouraska. But we had not traveled more
than five or six miles, when the wheel of the newly finished and
beautifully painted buggy, having struck a stone, the seat was broken
into fragments, and we both fell to the ground.
By chance, as my brother was blessing the man who sold him that rig for
a new and first-class conveyance, a traveler going the same way passed
by. I asked him for a place in his caleche, bade adieu to my brother,
and consoled him by saying: “As you have lost your fine buggy in my
service, I will give you a better one.”
Two days after, my second brother was driving me to my destination, and
when about three or four miles from Kamouraska, his fine horse stepped
on a long nail which was on the road, fell down and died in the awful
convulsions of tetanus. I took leave of him, and consoled him also by
promising to give him another horse.
Another carriage took me safely to the end of my journey. However,
having to pass by the church, which was about 200 yards from the
parsonage, I dismissed my driver at the door of the sacred edifice, and
took my satchel in hand, which was my only baggage, entered the church
and spent more than an hour in fervent prayers, or rather in cries and
tears. I felt so heart-sick that I needed that hour of rest and prayer.
The tears I shed there relieved my burdened spirit.
A few steps from me, in the cemetery, lay the sacred remains of my
beloved mother, whose angelic face and memory were constantly before me.
Facing me was the altar where I had made my first communion; at my left,
was the pulpit which was to be the battlefield where I had to fight the
enemies of my God and my people, who, I had been repeatedly told, were
cursing and grinding their teeth at me. But the vision of that old
curate I had soon to confront, and who had written such an impudent
letter against me to the bishops, and the public opposition of the
surrounding priests to my coming into their midst, were the most
discouraging aspects of my new position. I felt as if my soul had been
crushed. My very existence seemed an unbearable burden.
My new responsibilities came so vividly before my mind in that
distressing hour, that my courage, for a moment, failed me. I reproached
myself for the act of folly in yielding to the request of the bishops.
It seemed evident that I had accepted a burden too heavy for me to bear.
But I prayed with all the fervor of my soul to God and to the Virgin
Mary, and wept to my heart’s content.
There was a marvellous power in the prayers and tears which came from my
heart. I felt as a new man. I seemed to hear the trumpet of God calling
me to the battlefield. My only business then was to go and fight,
relying on Him alone for victory. I took my traveling bag, went out of
the church, and walked slowly towards the parsonage, which has been
burnt since. It was a splendid two-story building, eighty feet in
length, with capacious cellars. It had been built shortly after the
conquest of Canada, as a store for contraband goods; but after a few
years of failure, became the parsonage of the parish.
The Rev. Mons. Varin, though infirm and sick, had watched me from his
window, and felt bewildered at my entering the church and remaining so
long.
I knocked the first door, but as nobody answered, I opened it, and
crossed the first large room to knock at the second door; but, here
also, no answer came except from two furious little dogs. I entered the
room, fighting the dogs, which bit me several times. I knocked at the
third and fourth doors with the same result—no one to receive me.
I knew that the next was the old curate’s sleeping-room. At my knocking,
an angry voice cried out: “Walk in.”
I entered, made a step toward the old and infirm curate, who was sitting
in his large arm chair. As I was about to salute him, he angrily said:
“The people of Beauport have made great efforts to keep you in their
midst, but the people of Kamouraska will make as great an effort to turn
you out of this place.”
“Mons. le Cure,” I answered calmly, “God knoweth that I never desired to
leave Beauport for this place. But I think it is that great and merciful
God who has brought me here by the hand; and I hope He will help me to
overcome all opposition, from whatever quarter it may come.”
He replied angrily: “Is it to insult me that you call me ‘Mons. le
Cure?’ I am no more the curate of Kamouraska. You are the curate now,
Mr. Chiniquy.”
“I beg your pardon, my dear Mr. Varin; you are still, I hope you will
remain all your life, the honored and beloved curate of Kamouraska. The
respect and gratitude I owe you have caused me to refuse the titles and
honors which our bishop wanted to give me.”
“But, then, if I am the curate, what are you?” replied the old priest,
with more calmness.
“I am nothing but a simple soldier of Christ, and a sower of the good
seed of the gospel!” I answered. “When I fight the common enemy in the
plain, as Joshua did, you, like Moses, will stand on the top of the
mountain, lift up your hands to heaven, send your prayers to the
mercy-seat, and we will gain the day. Then both will bless the God of
our salvation for the victory.”
“Well! well! this is beautiful, grand and sublime,” said the old priest,
with a voice filled with friendly emotions. “But where is your household
furniture, your library?”
“My household furniture,” I answered, “is in this little bag which I
hold in my hand. I do not want any of my books, as long as I have the
pleasure and honor to be with the good Mons. Varin, who will allow me, I
am sure of it, to ransack his splendid library, and study his rare and
learned books.”
“But what rooms do you wish to occupy?” rejoined the good old curate.
“As the parsonage is yours, and not mine,” I answered, “please tell me
where you want me to sleep and rest. I will accept, with gratitude, any
room you will offer me, even if it were in your cellar or granary. I do
not want to bother you in any way. When I was young, a poor orphan in
your parish, some twenty years ago, were you not a father to me? Please
continue to look upon me as your own child, for I have always loved you
and considered you as a father, and still do the same. Were you not my
guide and adviser, in my first steps in the ways of God? Please continue
to be my friend and adviser to the end of your life. My only ambition is
to be your right-hand man, and to learn from your old experience and
your sincere piety, how to live and work as a good priest of Jesus
Christ.”
I had not finished the last sentence, when the old man burst into tears,
threw himself into my arms, pressed me to his heart, bathed me with his
tears, and said, with a voice half-suffocated by his sobs: “Dear Mr.
Chiniquy, forgive me the evil things I have written and said about you.
You are welcome in my parsonage, and I bless God to have sent me such a
young friend, who will help me to carry the burden of my old age.”
I then handed him the bishop’s letter, which had confirmed all I had
said about my mission of peace towards him.
From that day to his death, which occurred six months after, I never had
a more sincere friend than Mr. Varin.
I thanked God, who had enabled me at once, not only to disarm the chief
of my opponents, but to transform him into my most sincere and devoted
friend. My hope was that the people would soon follow their chief, and
be reconciled to me, but I did not expect that this would be so soon,
and from such an unforeseen and unexpected cause.
The principal reason the people had to oppose my coming to Kamouraska,
was, that I was the nephew of the Hon. Amable Dionne, who had made a
colossal fortune at their expense. The Rev. Mr. Varin, who was always in
his debt, was also forced by the circumstances, to buy everything, both
for himself and the church, from him, and had to pay, without a murmur,
the most exorbitant prices for everything.
In that way, the church and the curate, though they had very large
revenues, had never enough to clear their accounts. When the people
heard that the nephew of Mons. Dionne was their curate, they said to
each other: “Now our poor church is forever ruined, for the nephew will,
still more than the curate, favor his uncle, and the uncle will be less
scrupulous than ever in asking most unreasonable prices for his
merchandise.”
They felt they had more than fallen from Charybdis into Scylla.
The very next day after my arrival, the beadle told me that the church
needed a few yards of cotton for some repairs, and asked me if he would
not go, as usual, to Mr. Dionne’s store. I told him to go there first,
ask the price of that article, and then go to the other stores, ordering
him to buy at the cheapest one. Thirty cents was asked at Mr. Dionne’s,
and only fifteen cents at Mr. St. Pierre’s; of course we bought at the
latter’s store.
The day was not over before this apparently insignificant fact was known
all over the parish, and was taking the most extraordinary and
unforeseen proportions.
Farmers would meet with their neighbors, and congratulate themselves
that, at last, the yoke imposed upon them by the old curate and Mr.
Dionne was broken; that the taxes they had to pay the store were at an
end, with the monopoly which had cost them so much money. Many came to
Mr. St. Pierre to hear from his own lips that their new curate had, at
once, freed them from what they considered the long and ignominious
bondage, against which they so often, but so vainly protested. For the
rest of the week, this was the only subject of conversation. They
congratulated themselves, that they had, at last, a priest, with such an
independent and honest mind, that he would not do them any injustice,
even to please a relative in whose house he had spent the years of his
childhood.
This simple act of fair play towards that people won over their
affection. Only one little dark spot remained in their minds against me.
They had been told that the only subject on which I could preach was:
Rum, whiskey and drunkenness. And it seemed to them exceedingly tedious
to hear nothing else from the curate, particularly when they were more
than ever determined to continue drinking their social glasses of
brandy, rum and wine.
There was an immense crowd at church the next Sunday. My text was: “As
the Father has loved me, so have I loved you.” Showing them how Jesus
had proved that He was their friend.
But their sentiments of piety and pleasure at what they had heard were
nothing compared to their surprise when they saw that I had preached
nearly an hour without saying a word on whiskey, rum or beer.
People are often compared to the waters of the sea in the Holy
Scriptures. When you see the roaring waves dashing on that rock to-day,
as if they wanted to demolish it, do not fear that this fury will last
long. The very next day, if the wind has changed, the same waters will
leave that rock alone, to spend their fury on the opposite rock. So it
was in Kamouraska. They were full of indignation and wrath when I set my
feet in their midst; but a few days later, those very men would have
given the last drop of their blood to protect me. The dear Saviour had
evidently seen the threatening storm which was to destroy His poor
unprofitable servant. He had heard the roaring waves which were dashing
against me. So he came down and bid the storm “be still,” and the waves
be calm.