KATERI'S FRIEND,--THERESE TEGAIAGUENTA.
A joy was in store for Kateri Tekakwitha that would remain until the end
of her life. No greater blessing can Heaven send us than a friend whose
heart responds to our own in closest sympathy, and to whom we can unfold
the hidden places of our soul with no fear of betrayal.
Had Kateri failed to find such a heart-friend before she died, we should
never have learned what a wealth of strong human love and a craving for
human companionship had been growing up within her through the lonely
years she had lived until now.
Never before had she greater need of a friend to sustain her; never
before had she been so cruelly mistrusted as on her return from the
hunting-camp.
The gift of God was ready. The friend was close at hand; but the
knowledge of this was kept from Kateri, until her desolate heart, turned
in on itself, could find no refuge except in the bitterest
self-condemnation. Knowing the goodness of God and finding herself
unsatisfied at heart, she could find no reason for it except by
magnifying her slightest faults into a dreadful wickedness for which she
needed punishment. This tendency of her mind was encouraged constantly
by Anastasia's instructions and exhortations. They were
well-intentioned and suitable enough for lawless and passionate natures,
but too severe for the pure and sensitive soul of Kateri. The suffering
that comes not from evil doing or thinking, but rather from well-meaning
bluntness, can easily be utilized and undone in the far-reaching plans
of God. Kateri's cruel self-reproach cannot be looked upon as a useless
pain when we see how it pierced another heart, and bounded back to her
own richly freighted with new-found friendship and much-needed, noble
companionship.
What are Kateri Tekakwitha and Therese Tegaiaguenta doing there by the
new stone chapel? Why do they stand apart in the life-giving sunlight?
Why do they not speak to each other? Can it be that they have never
before met? Both belong to the Praying Castle; both are Christians, both
are Iroquois. Kateri came from the Mohawk country before the snow had
fallen. Now it has melted away; the grass is green. Mount Royal, La
Prairie, the village, the woods, the waters, are bathed in sunshine. The
river is roaring and rushing tumultuously with the added wealth of the
spring-time freshets. The mission chapel is nearly completed. The stones
are all in place, and the roof has been reared. Kateri compares it, no
doubt, with the Dutch church at Fort Orange, the most imposing structure
of the kind she has ever had a chance to see. We need not ask her
whether she prefers the bright little weather-cock there, or the cross
on the belfry here; for we know how she cut the cross in the bark of a
forest-tree, and how she carries it day by day buried deep in her heart.
Therese sees Kateri, and wonders what she is thinking about. Therese has
the dress and the look of an Oneida. Her glance is freer and bolder
than Kateri's. She is older and not so shy, and has seen the sunshine
and shadow of twenty-eight summers. Health and beauty and vigor attend
on the young Oneida; but all at once her face grows thoughtful and sad.
The chill of a terrible winter comes up from the past, and strikes on
her heart as she watches the face of Kateri, so quiet and so collected.
It was only an idle curiosity that brought her to look at the building;
but now she is led by a strange attraction, and follows the Mohawk girl
as she enters the chapel. The floor has recently been laid, and a man is
at work on the wainscoting round the wall. No benches or seats are yet
to be seen, nor any kind of divisions. Kateri turns to Therese, and
gives her an Iroquois greeting. She is about to ask a question. The
Oneida returns the salutation graciously, and a conversation begins in
two slightly different dialects. Though one is using the Mohawk language
and one the Oneida, they understand each other perfectly. Kateri asks
Therese if she knows which portion of the church will be set apart for
the women. Therese points out to her the place where she thinks they
will be, and the conversation continues. It is all about the new
building in which they are standing. Their thoughts chime well together;
but Kateri, whose mind, as she came from Anastasia's cabin and wandered
into the chapel, was dwelling less on what she actually saw before her
than on her own internal wretchedness and unworthiness, suddenly
exclaims, with a heavy sigh: "Alas! it is not in this building of wood
and stone that God most loves to dwell. Our hearts are the lodge that is
most pleasing to him. But, miserable creature that I am, how many times
have I forced him to leave this heart in which he should reign alone! Do
I not deserve that to punish me for my ingratitude, they should forever
exclude me from this church, which they are raising to his glory?"
These words, with their spiritual thought and beautiful imagery, came
rolling from the tongue of the Mohawk girl with all the eloquence of
tone and gesture so natural to her race. They were spoken, too, with an
added force that belongs only to the utterance of those who live in
habitual silence concerning their inward life. Therese could not look
upon them as a mere language of the lips, for she saw, as she watched
the face of her companion, that the last words came like a sob from her
very heart. They echoed strangely in her own soul. Her past life, that
terrible winter in the woods, her vow to Heaven unfulfilled, conscience,
remorse, an impulse of love and sympathy for the one who thus wailed out
her sorrow in a direct appeal to her,--all this, and more disturbed the
soul of Therese. She looked at Kateri, and then at the new-laid planks
on the chapel floor. Her tongue was silent, but her eyes spoke out in a
single glance, and said to the Mohawk girl, "If you only knew--if you
only knew how it is with me!" And these were the words that she seemed
to be reading along the boards that lay close to her feet: "She is
better than I, or she would not speak like that. She can help me. God
has sent her here. I will tell her what I have promised and left undone.
She thinks she is wicked. I don't believe it; I want her to be my
friend." She lifted her eyes again, and in a few quick words opened her
heart to Kateri. "Insensibly the conversation led them," says Cholenec,
"to disclose to each other their most secret thoughts. To converse with
greater ease, they went and sat at the foot of a cross which was erected
on the banks of the river." There, where the cross still stands as of
old, near the great rapid, Therese told Kateri the story of her life;
and there their souls were knit together in a friendship that would
outlast death and time. Therese became a part of Kateri, and Kateri of
Therese. Henceforth they were two souls leading but one life. The
history of one is the history of the other, except that Kateri was
necessarily, though often unconsciously, the leading spirit.
But what was the life of Therese Tegaiaguenta before she met her guiding
spirit, and linked her soul to the soul of the Lily? What were the sins
for which she resolved to do penance together with Kateri? What was the
story she told, as they sat on the grassy bank at the foot of the tall
wooden cross? The gloom of the evening fell about them before they could
separate. When at last they turned their faces from the great river, and
bent their footsteps toward the cluster of Iroquois lodges near the
Portage, Kateri had learned much of what here follows concerning the
life of her friend, and many secrets of her heart which have never been
recorded.
Therese was baptized by Father Bruyas in the Oneida country. When that
missionary first arrived among her people, he converted Kateri
Ganneaktena, who served as interpreter while he was learning the
language, and who afterwards with her husband went to Canada and founded
the Praying Castle at La Prairie. Tegaiaguenta, like Ganneaktena, was a
young married woman when Bruyas converted and baptized her. She had been
united to an Oneida brave after the Iroquois fashion, but unlike
Ganneaktena, she did not succeed in converting her husband. On the
contrary, she herself was led away by the force of evil example about
her, and almost lost her Christian faith.
In the history of the Iroquois missions it is related that a certain
brave Christian woman literally fought with tooth and nail to keep some
of her infidel tribesmen from pouring fire-water down her throat. If
they succeeded in making any of the Christians drunk, they often managed
to win them away from the influence of the blackgowns.
Therese, less resolute than Ganneaktena and the woman just mentioned,
fell a victim to this persistent policy of the infidel Indians. After
her baptism they beguiled her into the prevailing sin of intoxication,
for which she afterwards shed bitter tears and suffered many
self-inflicted torments in company with Kateri.
Before she could be fitted, however, for the friendship of so pure a
soul as that of the Mohawk girl, she had to pass a terrible ordeal. When
she left the Oneida country and went to live at the Praying Castle with
her husband's family, only a partial change was brought about in her
lax, easy-going life; for Therese Tegaiaguenta, though capable of deep
religious convictions, had an impulsive, pleasure-loving nature, very
different from the reserved, self-sacrificing spirit of Kateri. The Lily
of the Mohawks, from the first moment of her life, had never ceased to
be attentive to the lightest whisper of divine grace. Tegaiaguenta could
not be brought to listen to this voice till it spoke to her through the
gaunt lips of bereavement and starvation. Then she forgot it again, till
suddenly she recognized its echo in the looks and words of Kateri, when
she met her at the chapel. The following is a brief account of the
strange winter adventure of Therese Tegaiaguenta in the woods of Canada,
as told by Cholenec:----
"She had gone with her husband and a young nephew to the chase,
near the river of the Outaouacks [Ottawas]. On their way some
other Indians joined them, and they made a company of eleven
persons,--that is, four men and four women, with three young
persons. Therese was the only Christian. The snow, which this
year fell very late, prevented them from having any success in
hunting; their provisions were in a short time consumed, and
they were reduced to eat some skins, which they had brought
with them to make moccasins. At length they ate the moccasins
themselves, and finally pressed by hunger, were obliged to
sustain their lives principally by herbs and the bark of trees.
In the mean time the husband of Therese fell dangerously ill,
and the hunters were obliged to halt. Two among them, an Agnie
[Mohawk] and a Tsonnontouan [Seneca], asked leave of the party
to make an excursion to some distance in search of game,
promising to return, at the farthest, in ten days. The Agnie,
indeed, returned at the time appointed; but he came alone, and
reported that the Tsonnontouan had perished by famine and
misery. They suspected him of having murdered his companion and
then fed upon his flesh; for although he declared that he had
not found any game, he was nevertheless in full strength and
health. A few days afterwards the husband of Therese died,
experiencing in his last moments deep regret that he had not
received baptism. The remainder of the company then resumed
their journey, to attempt to reach the bank of the river and
gain the French settlements. After two or three days' march,
they became so enfeebled by want of nourishment, that they were
not able to advance farther. Desperation then inspired them
with a strange resolution, which was to put some of their
number to death, that the lives of the rest might be
preserved."
When they were eating the flesh of the first victim, who was an old man,
they asked Therese if it was allowable to kill him, and what the
Christian law said upon that point, for she was the only one among them
who had been baptized. She dared not reply. They gave her their reasons,
which were that the old man had given them the right that he had to his
life, saying that he would cause them a great deal of suffering on the
journey.[61]
The little nephew of Therese had already died from hunger and fatigue.
When her husband lay at the point of death, she and the boy had remained
with him till he breathed his last, and then she had hastened on through
the woods, carrying her nephew on her shoulder, till she caught up with
the band, who had journeyed on in advance of her. The child died a
little later, in spite of her care; and when the man of the party was
devoured before her eyes, misery and starvation rendered her speechless.
She saw that they were determined to sustain life at the expense of
those among them who were unable to resist.
"They, therefore, selected the wife of the Tsonnontouan
[Seneca] and her two children, who were thus in succession
devoured. This spectacle terrified Therese, for she had good
reason to fear the same treatment. Then she reflected on the
deplorable state in which conscience told her she was; she
repented bitterly that she had ever entered the forest without
having first purified herself by a full confession; she asked
pardon of God for the disorders of her life, and promised to
confess as soon as possible and undergo penance. Her prayer was
heard, and after incredible fatigues she reached the village
with four others, who alone remained of the company. She did,
indeed, fulfil one part of the promise, for she confessed soon
after her return; but she was more backward to reform her life
and subject herself to the rigors of penance."
This she did not undertake in earnest until she met Kateri. From that
time they were inseparable. They went together to the church, to the
forest, and to their daily labor. They told each other their pains and
dislikes, they disclosed their faults, they encouraged each other in the
practice of austere virtues. They agreed that they would never marry. An
accident occurred in the early days of their friendship that gave their
thoughts at once a serious turn. One day when Kateri was cutting a tree
in the woods for fuel, it fell sooner than she expected. She had
sufficient time, by drawing back, to shun the body of the tree, which
would have crushed her by its fall; but she was not able to escape from
one of the branches, which struck her violently on the head, and threw
her senseless to the ground. They thought she was dead; but she shortly
afterward recovered from her swoon, and those around her heard her
softly ejaculating, "I thank thee, O good Jesus, for having saved me in
this danger." She rose as soon as she had said these words, and taking
her hatchet in her hand would have gone immediately to work again, if
they had not stopped her and bade her rest. She told Therese that the
idea in her mind at the time was that God had only loaned her what still
remained to her of life in order that she might do penance; and that
therefore it was necessary for her to begin at once to employ her time
diligently.
Such words from such a source could not fail to stir the zeal and
emulation of her warm-hearted, impetuous friend. Hand in hand, they now
hastened to climb the thorny path of penance, guessing eagerly where
certain information was denied them as to what might be the perfect
Christian life they were seeking so earnestly to lead.
FOOTNOTES:
[61] See Chauchetiere, livre ii. chapitre 2.