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THE PRIEST, THE WOMAN
AND
THE CONFESSIONAL.
By FATHER CHINIQUY.
Montreal:
F. E. GRAFTON, BOOKSELLER.
CORNER CRAIG ST. AND VICTORIA SQUARE.
1875.
* * * * *
ENTERED according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year
One
thousand eight hundred and seventy-five, by F. E. GRAFTON of
Montreal, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
THE STRUGGLE BEFORE THE SURRENDER OF WOMANLY SELF-RESPECT IN THE
CONFESSIONAL
CHAPTER II.
AURICULAR CONFESSION A DEEP PIT OF PERDITION FOR THE PRIEST
CHAPTER III.
THE CONFESSIONAL IS THE MODERN SODOM
CHAPTER IV.
HOW THE VOW OF CELIBACY OF THE PRIESTS IS MADE EASY BY AURICULAR CONFESSION
CHAPTER V.
THE HIGHLY EDUCATED AND REFINED WOMAN IN THE CONFESSIONAL.--WHAT BECOMES OF
HER AFTER HER UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER.--HER IRREPARABLE RUIN
CHAPTER VI.
AURICULAR CONFESSION DESTROYS ALL THE SACRED TIES OF MARRIAGE AND HUMAN
SOCIETY
CHAPTER VII.
SHOULD AURICULAR CONFESSION BE TOLERATED AMONG CIVILIZED NATIONS?
CHAPTER VIII.
DOES AURICULAR CONFESSION BRING PEACE TO THE SOUL?
CHAPTER IX.
THE DOGMA OF AURICULAR CONFESSION A SACRILEGIOUS IMPOSTURE
CHAPTER X.
GOD COMPELS THE CHURCH OF ROME TO CONFESS THE ABOMINATIONS OF AURICULAR
CONFESSION
CHAPTER XI.
SOME OF THE MATTERS ON WHICH THE PRIEST OF ROME MUST QUESTION HIS
PENITENTS.--A CHAPTER FOR THE CONSIDERATION OF LEGISLATORS, HUSBANDS,
FATHERS, &C.
* * * * *
PREFACE.
* * * * *
EZEKIEL.
CHAPTER VIII.
1 And it came to pass in the sixth year, in the sixth _month_, in the fifth
_day_ of the month, _as_ I sat in mine house, and the elders of Judah sat
before me, that the hand of the Lord GOD fell there upon me.
2 Then I beheld, and lo a likeness as the appearance of fire; from the
appearance of his loins even downward, fire; and from his loins even
upward, as the appearance of brightness, as the color of amber.
3 And he put forth the form of an hand, and took me by a lock of mine head;
and the spirit lifted me up between the earth and the heaven, and brought
me in the visions of God to Jerusalem, to the door of the inner gate that
looketh toward the north; where _was_ the seat of the image of jealousy,
which provoketh to jealousy.
4 And, behold, the glory of the God of Israel _was_ there, according to the
vision that I saw in the plain.
5 Then said he unto me, Son of man, lift up thine eyes now the way toward
the north. So I lifted up mine eyes the way toward the north, and behold
northward at the gate of the altar this image of jealousy in the entry.
6 He said furthermore unto me, Son of man, seest thou what they do? _even_
the great abominations that the house of Israel committeth here, that I
should go far off from my sanctuary? but turn thee yet again, _and_ thou
shalt see greater abominations.
7 And he brought me to the door of the court; and when I looked, behold a
hole in the wall.
8 Then said he unto me, Son of man, dig now in the wall; and when I had
digged in the wall, behold a door.
9 And he said unto me. Go in, and behold the wicked abominations that they
do here.
10 So I went in and saw; and behold every form of creeping things, and
abominable beasts, and all the idols of the house of Israel, pourtrayed
upon the wall round about.
11 And there stood before them seventy men of the ancients of the house of
Israel, and in the midst of them stood Jaazaniah the son of Shaphan, with
every man his censer in his hand; and a thick cloud of incense went up.
12 Then said he unto me. Son of man, hast thou seen what the ancients of
the house of Israel do in the dark, every man in the chambers of his
imagery? for they say, The LORD seeth us not; the LORD hath forsaken the
earth.
13 He said also unto me, Turn thee yet again, _and_ thou shalt see greater
abominations that they do.
14 Then he brought me to the door of the gate of the LORD'S house which
_was_ toward the north; and, behold, there sat women weeping for Tammuz.
15 Then said he unto me, Hast thou seen _this_, O Son of man? turn thee yet
again, _and_ thou shalt see greater abominations than these.
16 And he brought me into the inner court of the LORD'S house, and, behold,
at the door of the temple of the LORD, between the porch and the altar,
_were_ about five and twenty men, with their backs toward the temple of the
LORD, and their faces toward the east; and they worshipped the sun toward
the east.
17 Then he said unto me, Hast thou seen _this_, O Son of man? Is it a light
thing to the house of Judah that they commit the abominations which they
commit here? for they have filled the land with violence, and have returned
to provoke me to anger; and, lo, they put the branch to their nose.
18 Therefore will I also deal in fury: mine eye shall not spare, neither
will I have pity; and though they cry in mine ears with a loud voice, _yet_
will I not hear them.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
THE STRUGGLE BEFORE THE SURRENDER OF WOMANLY SELF-RESPECT IN THE
CONFESSIONAL.
* * * * *
There are two women who ought to be the constant objects of the compassion
of the disciples of Christ, and for whom daily prayers ought to be offered
at the mercy-seat--the Brahmin woman, who, deceived by her priests, burns
herself on the corpse of her husband to appease the wrath of her wooden
gods; and the Roman Catholic woman, who, not less deceived by her priests,
suffers a torture far more cruel and ignominious in the confessional-box to
appease the wrath of her wafer-god.
For I do not exaggerate when I say that for many noble-hearted,
well-educated, high-minded women to be forced to unveil their hearts before
the eyes of a man, to open to him all the most sacred recesses of their
souls, all the most sacred mysteries of their single or married life, to
allow him to put to them questions which the most depraved woman would
never consent to hear from her vilest seducer, is often more horrible and
intolerable than to be tied on burning coals.
More than once I have seen women fainting in the confessional-box, who told
me, afterwards, that the necessity of speaking to an unmarried man on
certain things, on which the most common laws of decency ought to have for
ever sealed their lips, had almost killed them! Not hundreds, but thousands
of times I have heard from the dying lips of single girls, as well as of
married women, the awful words: "I am for ever lost! All my past
confessions and communions have been as many sacrileges! I have never dared
to answer correctly the questions of my confessors! Shame has sealed my
lips and damned my soul!"
How many times I remained as one petrified by the side of a corpse when,
these last words having hardly escaped the lips of one of my female
penitents, she was snatched out of my reach by the merciless hand of death,
before I could give her pardon through the deceitful sacramental
absolution! I then believed, as the dead sinner herself believed, that she
could not be forgiven except by that absolution.
For there are not only thousands, but millions, of Roman Catholic girls and
women whose keen sense of modesty and womanly dignity are above all the
sophisms and diabolical machinations of their priests. They never can be
persuaded to answer "Yes" to certain questions of their confessors. They
would prefer to be thrown into the flames, and burnt to ashes with the
Brahmin widows, rather than to allow the eyes of a man to pry into the
sacred sanctuary of their souls. Though sometimes guilty before God, and
under the impression that their sins will never be forgiven if not
confessed, the laws of decency are stronger in their hearts than the laws
of their cruel and perfidious Church. No consideration, not even the fear
of eternal damnation, can persuade them to declare to a sinful man sins
which God alone has the right to know, for He alone can blot them out with
the blood of His Son shed on the cross.
But what a wretched life that of those exceptional noble souls, which Rome
keeps in the dark dungeons of her superstition! They read in all their
books, and hear from all their pulpits, that if they conceal a single sin
from their confessors they are for ever lost! But, being absolutely unable
to trample under their feet the laws of self-respect and decency which God
Himself has impressed in their souls, they live in constant dread of
eternal damnation. No human words can tell their desolation and distress
when, at the feet of their confessors, they find themselves between the
horrible necessity of speaking of things on which they would prefer to
suffer the most cruel death rather than to open their lips, or to be for
ever damned if they do not degrade themselves for ever in their own eyes by
speaking on matters which a respectable woman will never reveal to her own
mother, much less to a man!
I have known only too many of these noble-hearted women, who, when alone
with God, in a real agony of desolation and with burning tears, had asked
Him to grant them what they considered the greatest favour, which was to
lose so much of their self-respect as to be enabled to speak of those
unmentionable things just as their confessors wanted them to speak; and,
hoping that their petition had been granted, they went again to the
confessional-box, determined to unveil their shame before the eyes of that
inexorable man. But, when the moment had come for the self-immolation,
their courage failed, their knees trembled, their lips became pale as
death. Cold sweat flowed from all their pores! The voice of modesty and
womanly self-respect was speaking louder than the voice of their false
religion. They had to go out of the confessional-box unpardoned--nay, with
the burden of a new sacrilege on their conscience.
Oh, how heavy is the yoke of Rome--how bitter is human life--how cheerless
is the mystery of the cross to those deluded and perishing souls! How
gladly they would rush into the blazing piles with the Brahmin women, if
they could hope to see the end of their unspeakable miseries through the
momentary tortures which would open to them the gates of a better life!
I do here publicly challenge the whole Roman Catholic priesthood to deny
that the greater part of their female penitents remain a certain period of
time--some longer, some shorter--under that most distressing state of mind.
Yes, by far the greater majority of women, at first, find it next to
impossible to pull down the sacred barriers of self-respect which God
Himself has built around their hearts, intelligences, and souls, as the
best safeguard against the snares of this polluted world. Those laws of
self-respect, by which they cannot consent to speak an impure word into the
ears of a man, and which shut all the avenues of their hearts against his
unchaste questions, even, when speaking in the name of God--those laws of
self-respect are so clearly written in their conscience, and they are so
well understood by them to be a most Divine gift, that, as I have already
said, many prefer to run the risk of being for ever lost by remaining
silent.
It takes many years of the most ingenious (I do not hesitate to call it
diabolical) efforts on the part of the priests to persuade the majority of
their female penitents to speak on questions which even pagan savages would
blush to mention among themselves. Some persist in remaining silent on
those matters during the greatest part of their lives, and many prefer to
throw themselves into the hands of their merciful God and die without
submitting to the defiling ordeal, even after they have felt the poisonous
stings of the enemy, rather than receive their pardon from a man who, as
they feel, would have surely been scandalized by the recital of their human
frailties. All the priests of Rome are aware of this natural disposition of
their female penitents. There is not a single one--no, not a single one of
their moral theologians, who does not warn the confessors against that
stern and general determination of the girls and married women never to
speak in the confessional on matters which may, more or less, deal with
sins against the seventh commandment. Dens, Liguori, Debreyne, Bailly,
&c.--in a word, all the theologians of Rome--own that this is one of the
greatest difficulties which the confessors have to contend with in the
confessional-box.
Not a single Roman Catholic priest will dare to deny what I say on this
matter; for they know that it would be easy for me to overwhelm them with
such crowd of testimonies that their grand imposture would for ever be
unmasked.
I intend, some future day, if God spares me and gives me time for it, to
make known some of the innumerable things which the Roman Catholic
theologians and moralists have written on this question. It will form one
of the most curious books ever written; and it will give an unanswerable
evidence of the fact that, instinctively, without consulting each other,
with an unanimity which is almost marvellous, the Roman Catholic women,
guided by the honest instincts which God has given them, shrink from the
snares put before them in the confessional-box; and that everywhere they
struggle to nerve themselves with a superhuman courage against the torturer
who is sent by the Pope to finish their ruin and to make shipwreck of their
souls. Everywhere woman feels that there are things which ought never to be
told, as there are things which ought never to be done, in the presence of
the God of holiness. She understands that, to recite the history of certain
sins, even of thoughts, is not less shameful and criminal than to do them;
she hears the voice of God whispering into her ears, "Is it not enough that
thou hast been guilty once, when alone, in My presence, without adding to
thine iniquity, by allowing that man to know what should never have been
revealed to him? Do you not feel that you make that man your own accomplice
the very moment that you throw into his heart and soul the mire of your
iniquities? He is as weak as you are; he is not less a sinner than
yourself; what has tempted you will tempt him; what has made you weak will
make him weak? what has polluted you will pollute him; what has thrown you
down into the dust will throw him down into the dust. Is it not enough that
My eyes had to look upon your iniquities? must my ears to-day listen to
your impure conversation with that man? Were that man as holy as My prophet
David, may he not fall before the unchaste unveiling of the new Bathsheba?
Were he as strong as Sampson, may he not find in you his tempting Delilah?
Were he as generous as Peter, may he not become a traitor at the
maid-servant's voice?"
Perhaps the world has never seen a more terrible, desperate, solemn
struggle than the one which is going on in the soul of the poor trembling
young woman, who, at the feet of that man, has to decide whether or not she
will open her lips on those things which the infallible voice of God,
united to the no less infallible voice of her womanly honour and
self-respect, tell her never to reveal to any man!
The history of that secret, fierce, desperate, and deadly struggle has
never yet, so far as I know, been fully given. It would draw the tears of
admiration and compassion of the whole world, if it could be written with
its simple, sublime, and terrible realities.
How many times I have wept as a child when some noble-hearted and
intelligent young girl, or some respectable married woman, yielding to the
sophisms with which I, or some other confessor, had persuaded them to give
up their self-respect, their womanly dignity, to speak with me on matters
on which a decent woman would never say a word with a man! They told me of
their invincible repugnance, their horror of such questions and answers,
and they asked me to have pity on them. Yes! I often wept bitterly on my
degradation when a priest of Rome! I felt all the strength, the grandeur,
the holiness of their motives for being silent on those defiling matters. I
could not but admire them. It seemed, at times, that they were speaking the
language of angels of light; that I ought to fall at their feet, and ask
their pardon for having spoken to them of questions on which a man of
honour ought never to converse with a woman whom he respects.
But, alas! I had soon to reproach myself and regret these short instances
of my wavering faith in the infallible voice of my Church; I had soon to
silence the voice of my conscience, which was telling me, "Is it not a
shame that you, an unmarried man, dare to speak on those matters with a
woman? Do you not blush to put such questions to a young girl? Where is
your self-respect? where is your fear of God? Do you not promote the ruin
of that girl by forcing her to speak with a man on such questions?"
I was compelled by all the Popes, the moral theologians, and the Councils
of Rome, to believe that this warning voice of my merciful God was the
voice of Satan; I had to believe, in spite of my own conscience and
intelligence, that it was good, nay, necessary, to put those polluting,
damning questions. My infallible Church was mercilessly forcing me to
oblige those poor, trembling, weeping, desolated girls and women to swim
with me and all her priests in those waters of Sodom and Gomorrha, under
the pretext that their self-will would be broken down, their fear of sin
and humility increased, and that they would be purified by our absolutions.
In the beginning of my priesthood, I was not a little surprised and
embarrassed to see a very accomplished and beautiful young lady, whom I
used to meet almost every week in her father's house, entering the box of
my confessional. She used to go to confess to another young priest of my
acquaintance, and she was looked upon as one of the most pious girls of the
city. Though she had disguised herself as much as possible, that I might
not know her, I thought that I was not mistaken--she was the amiable Mary
* * * *
Not being absolutely sure of the correctness of my impressions, I left her
entirely under the hope that she was a perfect stranger to me. At the
beginning she could hardly speak; her voice was suffocated by her sobs;
and, through the little apertures of the thin partition between her and me,
I saw two streams of big tears trickling down her cheeks.
After much effort, she said: "Dear Father, I hope you do not know me, and
that you will never try to know me. I am a desperately great sinner. Oh! I
fear that I am lost! But if there is still any hope for me to be saved, for
God's sake, do not rebuke me! Before I begin my confession, allow me to ask
you not to pollute my ears by the questions which our confessors are in the
habit of putting to their female penitents. I have already been destroyed
by those questions. Before I was seventeen years old, God knows that His
angels are not more pure than I was; but the chaplain of the Nunnery where
my parents had sent me for my education, though approaching old age, put to
me in the confessional a question which, at first, I did not understand;
but, unfortunately, he had put the same questions to one of my young
class-mates, who made fun of them in my presence, and explained them to me;
for she understood them too well. This first unchaste conversation of my
life plunged my thoughts into a sea of iniquity, till then absolutely
unknown to me; temptations of the most humiliating character assailed me
for a week, day and night; after which, sins which I would blot out with my
blood, if it were possible, overwhelmed my soul as with a deluge. But the
joys of the sinner are short. Struck with terror at the thought of the
judgments of God, after a few weeks of the most deplorable life, I
determined to give up my sins and reconcile myself to God. Covered with
shame, and trembling from head to foot, I went to confess to my old
confessor, whom I respected as a saint and cherished as a father. It seems
to me that with sincere tears of repentance I confessed to him the greatest
part of my sins, though I concealed one of them through shame, and respect
for my spiritual guide. But I did not conceal from him that the strange
questions he had put to me at my last confession were, with the natural
corruption of my heart, the principal cause of my destruction.
"He spoke to me very kindly, encouraged me to fight against my bad
inclinations, and, at first, gave me very kind and good advice. But when I
thought he had finished speaking, and as I was preparing to leave the
confessional-box, he put to me two new questions of such a polluting
character that I fear neither the blood of Christ nor all the fires of hell
will ever be able to blot them out from my memory. Those questions have
achieved my ruin; they have stuck to my mind as two deadly arrows; they are
day and night before my imagination; they fill my very arteries and veins
with a deadly poison.
"It is true that, at first, they filled me with horror and disgust; but,
alas! I soon got so accustomed to them that they seemed to be incorporated
with me, and as though becoming a second nature. Those thoughts have become
a new source of innumerable criminal thoughts, desires, and actions.
"A month later, we were obliged, by the rules of our convent, to go to
confess; but this time, I was so completely lost that I no longer blushed
at the idea of confessing my shameful sins to a man; it was the very
contrary. I had a real, diabolical pleasure in the thought that I should
have a long conversation with my confessor on those matters, and that he
would ask me more of his strange questions.
"In fact, when I had told him everything, without a blush, he began to
interrogate me, and God knows what corrupting things fell from his lips
into my poor criminal heart! Every one of his questions was thrilling my
nerves, and filling me with the most shameful sensations. After an hour of
this criminal _tête-á-tête_ with my old confessor (for it was nothing else
but a criminal _tête-á-tête_), I perceived that he was as depraved as I was
myself. With some half-covered words, he made me a criminal proposition,
which I accepted with covered words also; and during more than a year, we
have lived together in the most sinful intimacy. Though he was much older
than I, I loved him in the most foolish way. When the course of my convent
instruction was finished, my parents called me back to their home. I was
really glad of that change of residence, for I was beginning to be tired of
my criminal life. My hope was that, under the direction of a better
confessor, I should reconcile myself to God and begin a Christian life.
"Unfortunately for me, my new confessor, who was very young, began also his
interrogations. He soon fell in love with me, and I loved him in a most
criminal way. I have done with him things which I hope you will never
request me to reveal to you, for they are too monstrous to be repeated,
even in the confessional, by a woman to a man.
"I do not say these things to take away the responsibility of my iniquities
with this young confessor from my shoulders, for I think I have been more
criminal than he was. It is my firm conviction that he was a good and holy
priest before he knew me; but the questions he put to me, and the answers I
had to give him, melted his heart--I know it--just as boiling lead would
melt the ice on which it flows.
"I know this is not such a detailed confession as our holy Church requires
me to make, but I have thought it necessary for me to give you this short
history of the life of the greatest and the most miserable sinner who ever
asked you to help her to come out from the tomb of her iniquities. This is
the way I have lived these last few years. But last Sabbath, God, in His
infinite mercy, looked down upon me. He inspired you to give us the
Prodigal Son as a model of true conversion, and as the most marvelous proof
of the infinite compassion of the dear Saviour for the sinner. I have wept
day and night since that happy day, when I threw myself into the arms of my
loving, merciful Father. Even now I can hardly speak, because my regret for
my past iniquities, and my joy that I am allowed to bathe the feet of my
Saviour with my tears, are so great that my voice is as choked.
"You understand that I have for ever given up my last confessor. I come to
ask you the favour to receive me among your penitents. Oh! do not reject
nor rebuke me, for the dear Saviour's sake! Be not afraid to have at your
side such a monster of iniquity! But before going farther, I have two
favours to ask from you. The first is, that you will never do anything to
know my name; the second is, that you will never put me any of those
questions by which so many penitents are lost and so many priests for ever
destroyed. Twice I have been lost by those questions. We come to our
confessors that they may throw upon our guilty souls the pure waters which
flow from heaven to purify us; and, instead of that, with their
unmentionable questions, they pour oil on the burning fires which arc
already raging in our poor sinful hearts. Oh! dear father, let me become
your penitent, that you may help me to go and weep with Magdalene at the
Saviours feet! Do respect me, as He respected that true model of all the
sinful but repenting women! Did Our Saviour put to her any question? did He
extort from her the history of things which a sinful woman cannot say
without forgetting the respect she owes to herself and to God? No! You told
us, not long ago, that the only thing our Saviour did was to look at her
tears and her love. Well, please do that, and you will save me!"
I was a very young priest, and never had any words so sublime come to my
ears in the confessional-box. Her tears and her sobs, mingled with the so
frank declaration of the most humiliating actions, had made upon me such a
profound impression that I was, for some time, unable to speak. It had come
to my mind also that I might be mistaken about her identity, and that
perhaps she was not the young lady that I had imagined. I could, then,
easily grant her first request, which was to do nothing by which I could
know her. The second part of her prayer was more embarrassing; for the
theologians are very positive in ordering the confessors to question their
penitents, particularly those of the female sex, in many circumstances.
I encouraged her, in the best way I could, to persevere in her good
resolutions by invoking the blessed Virgin Mary and St. Philomène, who was
then the _Sainte à la mode_, just as Marie Alacoque is to-day, among the
blind slaves of Rome. I told her that I would pray and think over the
subject of her second request; and I asked her to come back, in a week, for
my answer.
The very same day, I went to my own confessor, the Rev. Mr. Baillargeon,
then curate of Quebec, and afterwards Archbishop of Canada. I told him the
singular and unusual request she had made that I should never put to her
any of those questions suggested by the theologians, to insure the
integrity of the confession. I did not conceal from him that I was much
inclined to grant her that favour; for I repeated what I had already
several times told him, that I was supremely disgusted with the infamous
and polluting questions which the theologians forced us to put to our
female penitents. I told him, frankly, that several young and old priests
had already come to confess to me; and that, with the exception of two,
they had all told me that they could not put those questions and hear the
answers they elicited without falling into the most damnable sins.
My confessor seemed to be much perplexed about what he could answer. He
asked me to come the next day, that he might review his theological books
in the interval. The next day, I took down in writing his answer, which I
find in my old manuscripts; and I give it here in all its sad crudity:--
"Such cases of the destruction of female virtue by the questions of the
confessors is an unavoidable evil. It can not be helped; for such questions
are absolutely necessary in the greatest part of the cases with which we
have to deal. Men generally confess their sins with so much sincerity that
there is seldom any need for questioning them, except when they are very
ignorant. But St Liguori, as well as our personal observation, tells us
that the greatest part of girls and women, through a false and criminal
shame, very seldom confess the sins they commit against purity. It requires
the utmost charity in the confessors to prevent those unfortunate slaves of
their secret passions from making sacrilegious confessions and communions.
With the greatest prudence and zeal, he must question them on those
matters; beginning with the smallest sins, and going, little by little, as
much as possible, by imperceptible degrees, to the most criminal actions.
As it seems evident that the penitent referred to in your questions of
yesterday is unwilling to make a full and detailed confession of all her
iniquities, you cannot promise to absolve her without assuring yourself, by
wise and prudent questions, that she has confessed everything.
"You must not be discouraged when, through the confessional or any other
way, you learn the fall of priests into the common frailties of human
nature with their penitents. Our Saviour knew very well that the occasions
and the temptations we have to encounter, in the confessions of girls and
women, are so numerous, and sometimes so irrepressible, that many would
fall. But He has given them the Holy Virgin Mary, who constantly asks and
obtains their pardon; He has given them the sacrament of penance, where
they can receive their pardon as often as they ask for it. The vow of
perfect chastity is a great honour and privilege; but we cannot conceal
from ourselves that it puts on our shoulders a burden which many cannot
carry for ever. St Liguori says that we must not rebuke the penitent priest
who falls only once a month; and some other trustworthy theologians are
still more charitable."
This answer was far from satisfying me. It seemed to me composed of
soft-soap principles. I went back with a heavy heart and an anxious mind;
and God knows that I made many fervent prayers that this girl should never
come again to give me her sad history. I was hardly twenty-six years old,
full of youth and life. It seemed to me that the stings of a thousand wasps
to my ears would not do me so much harm as the words of that dear,
beautiful, accomplished, but lost girl.
I do not mean to say that the revelations which she made had, in any way,
diminished my esteem and my respect for her. It was just the contrary. Her
tears and her sobs, at my feet; her agonizing expressions of shame and
regret; her noble words of protest against the disgusting and polluting
interrogations of the confessors, had raised her very high in my mind. My
sincere hope was that she would have a place in the kingdom of Christ with
the Samaritan woman, Mary Magdalene, and all those who have washed their
robes in the blood of the Lamb.
At the appointed day, I was in my confessional, listening to the confession
of a young man, when, I saw Miss Mary entering the vestry, and coming
directly to my confessional-box, where she knelt by me. Though she had,
still more than at the first time, disguised herself behind a long, thick,
black veil, I could not be mistaken; she was the very same amiable young
lady in whose father's house I used to pass such pleasant and happy hours.
I had so often heard, with breathless attention, her melodious voice when
she was giving us, accompanied by her piano, some of our beautiful Church
hymns. Who could see her without almost worshipping her? The dignity of her
steps, and her whole mien, when she advanced towards my confessional,
entirely betrayed her and destroyed her incognito.
Oh! I would have given every drop of my blood, in that solemn hour, that I
might have been free to deal with her just as she had so eloquently
requested me to do--to let her weep and cry at the feet of Jesus to her
heart's content! Oh! if I had been free to take her by the hand, and
silently show her her dying Saviour, that she might have bathed His feet
with her tears, and spread the oil of her love on His head, without my
saying anything else but "Go in peace: thy sins are forgiven!"
But there, in that confessional-box, I was not the servant of Christ, to
follow His divine, saving words, and obey the dictates of my honest
conscience. I was the slave of the Pope! I had to stifle the cry of my
conscience, to ignore the inspirations of my God! There, my conscience had
no right to speak; my intelligence was a dead thing! The theologians of the
Pope, alone, had a right to be heard and obeyed! I was not there to save,
but to destroy; for, under the pretext of purifying, the real mission of
the confessor, often in spite of himself, is to scandalize and damn the
souls.
As soon as the young man, who was making his confession at my left hand,
had finished, I, without noise, turned myself towards her, and said,
through the little aperture, "Are you ready to begin your confession?"
But she did not answer me. All that I could hear was, "Oh, my Jesus, have
mercy upon me! Dear Saviour, here I am with all my sins; do not reject me!
I come to wash my soul in Thy blood; wilt Thou rebuke me?"
During several minutes, she raised her hands and her eyes to heaven, and
wept and prayed. It was evident that she had not the least idea that I was
observing her; she thought the door of the little partition between her and
me was shut. But my eyes were fixed upon her; my tears were flowing with
her tears, and my ardent prayers were going to the feet of Jesus with her
prayers. I would not have interrupted her, for any consideration, in this
her sublime communion with her merciful Saviour.
But, after a pretty long time, I made a little noise with my hand, and,
putting my lips near the opening of the partition which was between us, I
said, in a low voice, "Dear sister, are you ready to begin your
confession?"
She turned her face a little towards me, and said, with a trembling voice,
"Yes, dear Father, I am ready."
But she then stopped again to weep and pray, though I could not hear what
she said.
After some time of silent prayer, I said, "My dear sister, if you are
ready, please begin your confession."
She then said, "My dear Father, do you remember the prayers which I made to
you, the other day? Can you allow me to confess my sins without forcing me
to forget the respect I owe to myself, to you, and to God, who hears us?
And can you promise that you will not put to me any of those questions
which have already done me such irreparable injury? I frankly declare to
you that there are sins in me that I cannot reveal to any man, except to
Christ, because He is my God, and that He already knows them all. Let me
weep and cry at His feet, and do forgive me without adding to my iniquities
by forcing me to say things that the tongue of a Christian woman cannot
reveal to a man!"
"My dear sister," I answered, "were I free to follow the voice of my own
feelings I would be too happy to grant you your request; but I am here only
as the minister of our holy Church, and bound to obey her laws. Through her
most holy popes and theologians, she tells me that I cannot forgive you
your sins, if you do not confess them all just as you have committed them.
The Church tells me also that you must give the details which may add to
the malice or change the nature of your sins. I am also sorry to tell you
that our most holy theologians make it a duty of the confessor to question
his penitent on the sins which he has good reason to suspect have been
voluntarily or involuntarily omitted."
With a piercing, cry she exclaimed, "Then, O my God, I am lost--for ever
lost!"
This cry fell upon me as a thunderbolt; but I was still more
terror-stricken when, looking through the aperture, I saw she was fainting;
and I heard the noise of her body falling upon the floor, and of her head
striking against the sides of the confessional-box.
Quick as lightning, I ran to help her, took her in my arms, and called a
couple of men, who were at a little distance, to assist me in laying her on
a bench. I washed her face with some cold water and vinegar. She was as
pale as death, but her lips were moving, and she was saying something which
nobody but I could understand,--
"I am lost--lost for ever!"
We took her to her disconsolate family, where, during a month, she lingered
between life and death.
Her two first confessors came to visit her: but, having asked every one to
go out of the room, she politely but absolutely requested them to go away
and never come again. She asked me to visit her everyday, "for," she said,
"I have only a few more days to live. Help me to prepare myself for the
solemn hour which will open to me the gates of eternity!"
Every day I visited her, and I prayed and I wept with her.
Many times, with tears, I requested her, when alone, to finish her
confession; but, with a firmness which then seemed to me mysterious and
inexplicable, she politely rebuked me.
One day when, alone with her, I was kneeling by the side of her bed to
pray, I was unable to articulate a single word, because of the
inexpressible anguish of my soul on her account; she asked me, "Dear
Father, why do you weep?"
I answered, "How can you put such a question to your murderer? I weep
because I have killed you, dear friend."
This answer seemed to trouble her exceedingly. She was very weak that day.
After she had wept and prayed in silence, she said, "Do not weep for me,
but weep for so many priests who destroy their penitents in the
confessional. I believe in the holiness of the sacrament of penitence,
since our holy Church has established it. But there is, somewhere,
something exceedingly wrong in the confessional. Twice I have been
destroyed, and I know many girls who have also been destroyed by the
confessional. This is a secret, but will that secret be kept for ever? I
pity the poor priests the day that our fathers will know what becomes of
the purity of their daughters in the hands of their confessors. Father
would surely kill my two last confessors, if he could know how they have
destroyed his poor child."
I could not answer except by weeping.
We remained mute for a long time; then she said, "It is true that I was not
prepared for the rebuke you have given me, but you acted conscientiously as
a good and honest priest. I know you must be bound by certain laws."
She then pressed my hand with her cold hand and said, "Weep not, dear
Father, because that sudden storm has wrecked my too fragile back. This
storm was to take me out from the bottomless sea of my iniquities to the
shore where Jesus was waiting to receive and pardon me. The night after you
brought me, half dead, here to father's house, I had a dream. Oh, no, it
was not a dream, it was a reality. My Jesus came to me; He was bleeding.
His crown of thorns was on His head, the heavy cross was bruising His
shoulders. He said to me, with a voice so sweet that no human tongue can
imitate it, "I have seen thy tears, I have heard thy cries, and I know thy
love for Me: thy sins are forgiven. Take courage; in a few days thou shalt
be with Me!'"
She had hardly finished her last word when she fainted, and I feared lest
she should die just then when I was alone with her.
I called the family, who rushed into the room. The doctor was sent for. He
found her so weak that he thought proper to allow only one or two persons
to remain in the room. He requested us not to speak at all, "For," said he,
"the least emotion may kill her instantly; her disease is, in all
probability, an aneurism of the aorta, the big vein which brings the blood
to the heart; when it breaks she will go as quick as lightning."
It was nearly ten at night when I left the house, to go and take some rest.
But it is not necessary to say that I passed a sleepless night. My dear
Mary was there, pale, dying from the deadly blow which I had given her in
the confessional. She was there, on her bed of death, her heart pierced
with the dagger which my Church had put into my hands! And instead of
rebuking, cursing me for my savage, merciless fanaticism, she was blessing
me! She was dying from a broken heart, and I was not allowed by my Church
to give her a single word of consolation and hope, for she had not yet made
her confession! I had mercilessly bruised that tender plant, and there was
nothing in my hands to heal the wounds I had made!
It was very probable that she would die the next day, and I was forbidden
to show her the crown of glory which Jesus has prepared in His kingdom for
the repenting sinner!
My desolation was really unspeakable, and I think I would have been
suffocated, and have died that night, if the stream of tears which
constantly flowed from my eyes had not been as a balm to my distressed
heart.
How dark and long the hours of that night seemed to me!
Before the dawn of day I arose, to read my theologians again, and see if I
could not find some one who would allow me to forgive the sins of that dear
child without forcing her to tell me everything she had done. But they
seemed to me more than ever unanimously inexorable, and I put them back on
the shelves of my library with a broken heart.
At nine a.m. the next day I was by the bed of our dear sick Mary. I cannot
sufficiently tell the joy I felt when the doctor and the whole family said
to me, "She is much better; the rest of last night has wrought a marvelous
change indeed."
With a really angelic smile she extended her hand towards me, that I might
press it in mine; and she said, "I thought, last evening, that the dear
Saviour would take me to Him, but He wants me, dear Father, to give you a
little more trouble; but be patient, it cannot, be long before the solemn
hour of the appeal will ring. Will you please read me the history of the
sufferings and death of the beloved Saviour which you read me the other
day? It does me so much good to see how He has loved me, such a miserable
sinner."
There was a calm and a solemnity in her words which struck me singularly,
as well as all those who were there.
After I had finished reading, she exclaimed, "He has loved me so much that
He died for my sins!" And she shut her eyes as if to meditate in silence,
but there was a stream of big tears rolling down her cheeks.
I knelt down by her bed with her family to pray, but I could not utter a
single word. The idea that this dear child was there, dying from the cruel
fanaticism of my theologians and my own cowardice in obeying them, was as a
mill-stone to my neck. It was killing me.
Oh! if by dying a thousand times I could have added a single day to her
life, with what pleasure I would have accepted those thousand deaths!
After we had silently prayed and wept by her bed-side, she requested her
mother to leave her alone with me.
When I saw myself alone, under the irresistible impression that this was
her last day, I fell on my knees again, and with tears of the most sincere
compassion for her soul, I requested her to shake off her shame and to obey
our holy Church, which requires every one to confess their sins if they
want to be forgiven.
She calmly, but with an air of dignity which no human words can express,
said, "Is it true that, after the sin of Adam and Eve, God Himself made
coats of skins, and clothed them, that they might not see each other's
nakedness?"
"Yes," I said, "this is what the Holy Scriptures tell us."
"Well, then, how is it possible that our confessors dare to take away from
us that holy, divine coat of modesty and self-respect? Has not Almighty God
Himself made with His own hands that coat of womanly modesty and
self-respect that we might not be to you and to ourselves a cause of shame
and sin?"
I was really stunned by the beauty, simplicity, and sublimity of that
comparison. I remained absolutely mute and confounded. Though it was
demolishing all the traditions and doctrines of my Church, and pulverizing
all my holy doctors and theologians, that noble answer found such an echo
in my soul that it seemed to me a sacrilege to try to touch it with my
finger.
After a short time of silence, she continued, "Twice I have been destroyed
by priests in the confessional. They took away from me that divine coat of
modesty and self-respect which God gives to every human being who comes
into this world, and twice I have become for those very priests a deep pit
of perdition, into which they have fallen, and where, I fear, they are for
ever lost! My merciful Heavenly Father has given me back that coat of
skins, that nuptial robe of modesty, self-respect, and holiness, which had
been taken away from me. He cannot allow you, or any other man, to tear
again and spoil that vestment which is the work of His hands."
These words had exhausted her; it was evident to me that she wanted some
rest. I left her alone, but I was absolutely beside myself. Filled with
admiration for the sublime lessons which I had received from the lips of
that angel, who, it was evident, was soon to fly away from us, I felt a
supreme disgust for myself, my theologians, and--shall I say it? yes--I
felt, in that solemn hour, a supreme disgust for my Church, which was so
cruelly defiling me and all the priests, in the confessional-box. I felt in
that hour a supreme horror for that auricular confession, which is so often
such a pit of perdition and supreme misery for the confessor and the
penitent. I went out, walked two hours on the Plains of Abraham, to breathe
the pure and refreshing air of the mountain. There alone I sat on a stone,
on the very spot where Wolf and Montcalm had fought and died, and wept to
my heart's content on my irreparable degradation, and the degradation of
all the priests through the confessional.
At four o'clock in the afternoon I went back again to the house of my dear
dying Mary. The mother took me apart, and very politely said, "My dear Mr.
Chiniquy, do you not think that it is time that our dear child should
receive the last sacraments? She seemed to be much better this morning, and
we were full of hope; but she is now rapidly sinking. Please lose no time
in giving her the holy viaticum and the extreme unction."
I said, "Yes, Madam; let me pass a few minutes alone with our poor dear
child, that I may prepare her for the last sacraments."
When alone with her, I again fell on my knees, and, amidst torrents of
tears, I said, "Dear sister, it is my desire to give you the holy viaticum
and the extreme unction; but tell me, how can I dare to do a thing so
solemn against all the prohibitions of our holy Church? How can I give you
the holy communion without first giving you absolution? and how can I give
you absolution when you earnestly persist in telling me that you have
committed sins which you will never declare either to me or any other
confessor?
"You know that I cherish and respect you as if you were an angel sent to me
from heaven. You told me the other day that you blessed the day that you
first saw and knew me. I say the same thing. I bless the day that I have
known you; I bless every hour that I have passed by your bed of suffering;
I bless every tear which I have shed with you on your sins and on my own; I
bless every hour that we have passed together in looking to the wounds of
our beloved, dying Saviour; I bless you for having forgiven me your death!
for I know it, and I confess it a thousand times in the presence of God, I
have killed you, dear sister. But now I prefer a thousand times to die than
to say to you a word which would pain you in any way, or trouble the peace
of your soul. Please, my dear sister, tell me what I can and must do for
you in this solemn hour."
Calmly, and with a smile of joy, such as I had never seen before, nor have
seen since, she said, "I thank and bless you, dear father, for the parable
of the Prodigal Son, on which you preached a month ago. You have brought me
to the feet of the dear Saviour; there, I have found a peace and a joy
which surpass anything which human heart can feel; I have thrown myself
into the arms of my heavenly Father, and I know He has mercifully accepted
and forgiven His poor prodigal child! Oh, I see the angels with their
golden harps around the throne of the Lamb! Do you not hear the celestial
harmony of their songs? I go--I go to join them in my Father's house. I
shall not be lost!"
While she was thus speaking to me, my eyes were really turned into two
fountains of tears, and I was unable, as well as unwilling, to see
anything, so entirely overcome was I by the sublime words which were
flowing from the dying lips of that dear child, who was no more a sinner,
but a real angel of Heaven to me. I was listening to her words; there was a
celestial music in every one of them. But she had raised her voice in such
a strange way, when she had begun to say, "I go to my Father's house," and
she had made such a cry of joy when she had let the last words, "not be
lost," escape her lips, that I raised my head and opened my eyes to look at
her. I suspected that something strange had occurred.
I got upon my feet, passed my handkerchief over my face, to wipe away the
tears which were preventing me from seeing with accuracy, and looked at
her.
Her hands were crossed on her breast, and there was on her face the
expression of a really superhuman joy; her beautiful eyes were fixed as if
they were looking on some grand and sublime spectacle; it seemed to me at
first that she was praying.
In that very same instant the mother rushed into the room, crying, "My God!
my God! what does that cry 'lost' mean?"--for her last words, "not be
lost," particularly the last one, had been pronounced with such a powerful
voice that they had been heard almost everywhere in the house.
I made a sign with my hand to prevent the distressed mother from making any
noise, and troubling her dying child in her prayer, for I really thought
that she had stopped speaking, as she used so often to do, when alone with
me, in order to pray. But I was mistaken. That redeemed soul had gone, on
the golden wings of love, to join the multitudes of those who have washed
their robes in the blood of the Lamb, to sing the eternal Alleluia.
* * * * *