KATERI ILL.--THERESE CONSULTS THE BLACKGOWN.--FEAST OF THE
PURIFICATION.--THE BED OF THORNS.
Kateri's health was fast failing; and those with whom she lived,
perceiving this, watched her more closely and sought to check her in her
fasts and penances. They saw that on Wednesdays and Saturdays she ate
nothing. At these times she would spend the whole day in the woods
gathering fuel. They were careful after this to have the soup ready
before she started out in the morning; but even then she would
occasionally find an excuse to slip away without her breakfast. When it
was the turn of one of the other women of the same lodge-fire to go for
wood, Kateri sometimes interfered, saying that the woman in question had
a baby to nurse and ought to stay in the cabin; as for herself, there
was nothing to keep her, she could just as well go as not. Before they
noticed that she had not yet taken a mouthful, she would be off to the
woods and at work. When she could no longer fast without attracting
notice, she still kept up the practice of mingling ashes with her food,
or denying herself in some other way.
About this time a child of her adopted sister died. As Kateri was
assisting the other women to make a grave for her little nephew, one of
them said to her, laughing, "Where is yours, Kateri?" "It is there,"
she answered, pointing to a certain spot.[67] The incident was soon
forgotten; but Kateri was not mistaken, as was proved later. The place
she indicated was near the tall cross by the river, where she was
accustomed to pray, and where she had her first long talk with Therese
Tegaiaguenta.
Her only pleasure now was in prayer or in spiritual conversations with
her friend Therese or with Anastasia; for both of them spoke often of
God. All other companionship had become distasteful to her. Her natural
gift of ready and witty conversation, as well as her helpful
disposition, won her many friends without effort. She was beloved as
well as reverenced by the whole population, while careful to shun more
and more all intercourse that did not help her heavenward. In her
humility it did not occur to her that she on her part could perhaps do
something towards lifting others to the high plane of her own thoughts.
Chauchetiere relates the following incident of how she was once called
on for advice, much to her own surprise. Two young married
people--Francois, the Seneca, and his wife Marguerite--had watched
Kateri's way of life with much interest and admiration. They knew she
had made a vow of virginity, and one day they called her into their
cabin with the idea of learning from her how a good Christian ought to
live in this world. In order that she might be less embarrassed and
speak freely, they sent at the same time for her companion, Therese.
When both were seated, the door was closed as a token that what they
were about to ask Kateri was a great secret, and that they were ready to
keep it sacred. Francois the Seneca (called by the French La Grosse
Buche) began the conversation. He addressed himself both to Kateri and
to Therese, saying first that he knew what they had done and the state
of life they had embraced. This he said, that they might speak out. As
for himself he wished to be a good Christian and to give himself
entirely to God. His wife was of the same mind. He spoke for both.
Kateri was much surprised at this discourse. She was silent for some
time, and then asked her companion to speak. It would take too long to
tell all that was said on both sides concerning the state of life that
was most pleasing to God. It is enough to say that they gave no advice
to the young married couple other than that they should go to the
blackgown and propose their plan to him. The woman was not more than
twenty, and the man scarcely older. This good Francois, it seems, wished
to live with his wife as with his sister. He did so for some years, and
would have continued to do so had he not been advised to the contrary.
His wish was to repair as far as possible the evil he had done before
his baptism. He was an excellent hunter and a good warrior. He was
afflicted later in life with a painful disease, from which he suffered
severely for fourteen years. Kateri was at all times his model. He
endeavored to imitate her patience and resignation, as well as her other
virtues. After death he wore about his neck a little chaplet, which he
called Kateri's beads. Strung next to the cross on which the _Credo_
was to be said were two beads, one for a _Pater_ and one for an _Ave_;
then there were three other little beads on which he was accustomed to
say the _Gloria Patri_ three times, to thank the Blessed Trinity for the
graces bestowed upon Kateri. Always cheerful and contented himself, he
consoled and encouraged his wife, who, although a great devotee, was apt
to complain of her poverty. When his health no longer permitted him to
go to the chase, he mended kettles, made pipes, and did what work he
could about the village. He brought up his children strictly, taught
them the catechism with care, and was always on hand to sing in the
church. He had a book or scroll of pictures in which all the chief
events recorded in the Old and New Testaments were depicted. Copies of
this ingenious form of Indian Bible are still to be seen at Caughnawaga
and elsewhere. Francois, the Seneca, by these means won many converts to
Christianity. He was accustomed, however, to give Kateri the credit for
his success. He besought her intercession with God in all his
undertakings, and endeavored to imitate her as far as possible in his
life and in his death, which occurred in 1695.
As Kateri had a great love for virginity,--a fact of which her whole
life is a proof,--she did not fail to cultivate a deep and tender
devotion to the Virgin Mother of Christ, whom she regarded in a special
manner as her queen and mistress. Each day in reciting the litany she
had occasion to call upon her as the "Queen of Virgins." To Kateri this
was one of the sweetest and dearest of her many beautiful titles. To
prove herself a devoted follower of this virgin of all virgins, she
would gladly have cut off her hair, as the nuns do; but the fear of
appearing singular and eccentric deterred her. Though she thus tried as
much as possible to hide from observation by accommodating herself to
the ways and dress of those with whom she lived, there grew to be a
something about her,--a "je ne scay quoy," says Chauchetiere,--an
atmosphere of purity and sanctity that almost amounted to a visible
halo. Even her directors sometimes wondered at the impression of
personal sanctity which she made upon the people. If we consider her
lonely, long, and frequent prayers, not only in the chapel but at the
foot of the tall cross by the river-bank, there is nothing to be
wondered at. Even the roughest and giddiest of the young people of
Caughnawaga were awed to a respectful demeanor as she passed near them.
Not only Indians, but occasionally the French from La Prairie hovered
about and watched for her as she came or went from her cabin or field,
in order to get a look at the young Mohawk girl who, as they said, lived
like "a religious." Of this reverential admiration, however, Kateri was
quite unconscious. Unquestioned and undisturbed she followed her own
course, the details of which were known only to her bosom friend,
Therese.
At last Kateri was seized with a dangerous illness. A violent fever came
on, and she lay at the point of death. Therese, pale and trembling with
alarm, now thought of their weekly scourgings in the deserted cabin; she
feared to have her friend die without letting the blackgown know what
they had been doing, and besought Kateri to allow her to go to Father
Cholenec and tell him all. To this Kateri willingly assented. The
blackgown concealed his astonishment at what he heard from Therese, and
blamed both her and her friend for their want of discretion. Kateri,
however, recovered from this attack. As soon as she was well she began
at once and did not cease to importune her confessor to have pity on her
and allow her at least some of her accustomed austerities, in order, as
she said, that her body might not have the victory over her. Whether
undergoing self-inflicted pains or those that come directly from the
hand of God, her fortitude was extraordinary, even for an Indian. Though
subject to many and frequent bodily infirmities, she never for a moment
lost her patience, or uttered the least complaint. On the contrary, she
seemed always desirous of increasing her sufferings rather than of
alleviating them, but only from this one motive,--that she might bear a
closer resemblance to the crucified Saviour. When she was ill, and her
confessor had forbidden her to fast, she would put herself in a painful
position. Anastasia, whom she called mother, perceiving this, reproached
her, saying that she would kill herself. Kateri only reminded her, with
a smile, that our Lord was much more ill at ease on the cross,--that she
was not suffering at all in comparison with him!
During the last winter of her life Kateri had frequent attacks of
illness severe enough to keep her in the cabin. No sooner was she on her
feet, however, than she was again at work. She did not spare herself or
shorten her devotions. When she was too weak to kneel, she could still
be seen at her prayers in the church, supporting herself against a
bench. On one occasion when her health was restored for a time, she
accompanied Therese to La Prairie, whither she was sent to carry certain
articles from the village at the Sault. On the way there or back,
Kateri, falling a little behind the others, took off her moccasins and
walked barefooted on the ice. She was noticed and hastily put on her
shoes again. She soon overtook the others, and would willingly have let
them suppose she had been delayed by a little accident of some sort.
Therese, who knew her best, thought otherwise.
On the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin most of the
villagers were away at the hunting-camp. Kateri chose to walk through
her field on that day with bare feet, as if in a sort of procession,
while she recited her beads several times over, the snow being more than
knee-deep.
As Lent approached, she increased her austerities till at last she
reached the climax of all. Thinking that she had not much longer to
live, and must hasten to do penance while on earth, she looked about for
some new instrument of pain. It was then the beginning of Lent, and she
had been meditating on the Passion of our Lord. She was gathering wood.
Near at hand, she saw a great thorny brier. In a transport of fervor she
seized it. The thorns were sharp and cutting. Had she looked far and
near, she could not have found anything better suited to her purpose.
She eagerly and hurriedly conceals it in her bundle of fagots, then
lifts the scraggy mass to her back, adjusts the burden strap on her
forehead, and starts at once for the lodge of Anastasia. Finding her own
lodge-seat, she loosens the thorny brier from the fagots, covers it
quickly with a large mat, and then proceeds to stow the wood in its
proper place. The evening drags, but at length the inmates all come in
for the night, and soon the evening meal is over. The prayers have been
said. The lodge-fires flicker and die out. The Indians fall asleep,--all
but Kateri. She has no thought of rest. She prays far into the night.
Her bed is made, and a cruel bed it is. At last she looks towards it.
She lifts the rug that covers it, clasps tightly in her hand a little
crucifix she always wears about her neck, and with a fervent aspiration
of love to God, throws herself upon the thorns. As she rolls from side
to side, she grows faint, and her lips are parched with thirst, but
still she has no desire to leave her thorny couch. She murmurs prayer
after prayer, and waits for the daylight to come before rising from her
bed to hide the brambles, now flecked with blood. Kateri is as busy as
usual the next day, and her blithe smile comes and goes as freely as
ever. Still, when night settles down on the village, she does not sleep,
but tosses again on her bed of thorns. On the following day Therese
observes that Kateri is tired and weak. She draws her breath quickly, as
they walk over the rough ground together, and her head droops low at her
prayers. Her friend tries to coax her to take more rest, to leave this
or that task for another day. But all in vain. To Kateri every moment is
precious now, and not one daily duty is left undone when she retires for
the third time to her bed of thorns. When day dawns, she is up as usual,
and Therese comes early to see her. Gladly would she escape the
searching eye of her friend, but it is of no use. Kateri is ghastly
pale, and Therese, suspecting the truth, will not be put off. She espies
the thorns, and Kateri confesses all. A pang went to the heart of
Therese, when she thought of Kateri's innocence and of her own sins. How
could she have slept while this pure-hearted one whom she loved so well
was rolling upon thorns! The next thought of the impulsive, warm-hearted
Therese was one of concern for the life of her friend. She spoke quickly
and vehemently to Kateri, declaring that she would certainly offend God
if she inflicted such sufferings on herself without the permission of
her confessor. This aroused the scruples of Tekakwitha. "Catherine, who
trembled at the very appearance of sin," says Cholenec, "came
immediately to find me, to confess her fault and ask pardon of God. I
blamed her indiscretion, and directed her to throw the thorns into the
fire." This she did at once. When it was simply a question of obedience
to one who held rightful authority over her, Kateri did not hesitate.
Her confessor testifies that she never showed the least attachment to
her own will, but was always submissive to his direction. "She found
herself very ill," he continues, "towards the time that the men are
accustomed to go out to the hunting-grounds in the forest, and when the
females are occupied from morning until evening in the fields. Those who
are ill are therefore obliged to remain alone through the whole day in
their cabins, a plate of Indian corn and a little water having in the
morning been placed near the mat." It was thus that Kateri Tekakwitha
passed through her last illness, during the Lent of 1680. She lay
helpless in the lodge of Anastasia, while the corn was being planted in
the fields, and the birds were flying northward across the Mohawk River.
These little friends of hers brought back to her many a thought of her
native valley, as they stopped to dip their bills in the St. Lawrence,
and to sing awhile to Kateri in her pain.
The children, too, came in to see her now and then. The blackgown whose
task it was to teach them, gathered them close to her mat one day. She
was too ill to move; but when he unrolled the pictures of the Old and
New Testaments which he had with him, and began to explain them to the
eager, bright-eyed little ones, a glow of interest came into the weary
eyes that were dull with suffering a moment before. Forgetting all else
but her insatiable desire for true knowledge, Kateri with great effort
raised herself on her elbow, that she might see and understand better
what was going on. A question now and then from her drew out a fuller
explanation from the blackgown. The children themselves, with quick
sympathy, caught from her low, earnest tones, a keener relish for the
truth, and listened with rapt attention to the lesson drawn from the
sacred story. At the stroke of the Angelus the instruction was over, and
also the children's visit. How quickly the time had passed! Kateri
thanked the blackgown, and begged him to come again with his class to
the lodge, that he might teach both her and them. "Farewell, Kateri,"
the children cry, as they hasten out to their sports. Quickly they
forget her, and she too has forgotten them; she has clasped her crucifix
in her hands, and is still buried in prayer when the women begin to come
in from the field.
FOOTNOTES:
[67] This incident is given by Cholenec in his manuscript entitled "La
Vie de Catherine Tegakouita, Premiere Vierge Irokoise." He adds: "Pere
Chauchetiere wanted her put in the church; but I put her in the place
she had indicated, without knowing it till long afterwards."