STRUGGLES
THE citations thus far made from Isaac Hecker's youthful diary,
although penned at Brook Farm, bear few traces of that fact. They
might have been written in a desert for all evidence they give of any
special influence produced upon him by personal contact with others.
It is not until the middle of May, 1843, that he begins to make any
reference to his actual surroundings.
Before following him into these more intimate self-confidences, and
especially before giving in his own words an account of that peculiar
occurrence which so permanently affected his future, some preliminary
remarks seem necessary.
It has been said already, in an earlier chapter of this biography,
that but for some special intervention of Divine Providence, it is
more than probable that Isaac Hecker would have led the ordinary life
of men in the world, continuing, indeed, to cherish a high ideal of
the duties of the citizen of a free country, but pursuing it along
well-beaten ways. There is no doubt that, unless some such event as
he has narrated, or some influence equivalent to it in effect, had
supernaturally drawn him away, he would of his own volition have
sought what he was repeatedly advised to seek by his most attached
friends, a congenial union in wedlock. He was naturally susceptible,
and his attachments were not only firm, but often seemed obstinate.
Of celibacy he had, up to this time, no other idea than such as the
common run of non-Catholics possess. At home, indeed, when afterwards
pressed to seek a wife, he had answered, truly enough, though holding
fast to his secret, that he "had no thought of marrying and felt an
aversion to company for such an end." And again he writes to his
mother, anxious and troubled for his future, that the circle which
surrounded him in New York oppressed and contracted him, and abridged
his liberty. There was no one in it who "increased his life."
But at Brook Farm he met some one, as is revealed by his diary and
correspondence, who deeply attracted him, and who might have
attracted him as far as marriage had he not already received the Holy
Spirit's prevenient grace of virginity. That is to say, he found "a
being," to use his impersonal term, whose name and identity he is
careful to veil, awkwardly enough at times with misleading pronouns,
whose charm was so great as to win from him what would have been, in
his normal state, a marital affection. But he was no longer normal.
Although still beyond the visible pale of that garden of elect souls,
God's holy Church, he was already transformed by the quickening grace
which "reaches from end to end mightily and orders all things
sweetly." Our next quotations afford explicit proof on this point:
"Tuesday, May 16.--Life appears to be a perpetual struggle between
the heavenly and the worldly.
"Here at Brook Farm I become acquainted with persons who have moved
in a higher rank in society than I--persons of good education and
fine talents; all of which has an improving influence on me. And I
meet with those to whom I can speak, and feel that, to a great
degree, I am understood and responded to. In New York I am alone in
the midst of people. I am not in any internal sense _en rapport_ with
them.
"I suppose the reason why I do not, in my present state, feel
disposed to connect myself with any being, and would rather avoid a
person whom I was conscious I might or could love, is that I feel my
life to be in a rapid progress, and that no step now would be a
permanent one. I am afraid the choice I would have made some time
since (_if there had not been something deeply secret in my being
which prevented me_) would now be very unsatisfactory. I feel
conscious there could not have been an equal and mutual advance,
because the natures of some are not capable of much growth. And I
mistrust whether there would not have been an inequality, hence
disharmony and unhappiness.
"To be required to accept your past is most unpleasant. Perhaps the
society with which I was surrounded did not afford a being that
unified with mine own. And I have faith that there are spiritual laws
beneath all this outward framework of sight and sense, which will, if
rightly believed in and trusted, lead to the goal of eternal life,
harmony of being, and union with God. So I accept my being led here.
Am I superstitious or egoistic in believing this? This is, no doubt,
disputed territory. Have we any objective rule to compare our faith
with which would give us the measure of our superstition? How much of
to-day would have seemed miraculous or superstitious to the past? I
confess I have no rule or measure to judge the faith of any man.
"The past is always the state of infancy. The present is an eternal
youth, aspiring after manhood; hoping wistfully, intensely desiring,
listfully listening, dimly seeing the bright star of hope in the
future, beckoning him to move rapidly on, while his strong heart
beats with enthusiasm and glowing joy. The past is dead. Wish me not
the dead from the grave, for that would be death re-enacted. . . .
"Oh, were our wishes in harmony with heaven, how changed would be the
scenes of our life! . . . This accordance would be music which only
the angels now hear--too delicate for beings such as we are at
present. List! hast thou not heard in some bright moment a strain
from heaven's angelic choirs? Oh, yes! In our sleep the angels have
whispered such rich music, and the soul being then passive, we can
hear. And the pleasure does not leave us when passion and thought
take their accustomed course.
"O man! were thy soul more pure, what a world would open to thy inner
senses! There would be no moment of thy existence but would be filled
with the music of love. The prophet said: 'In that day my eyes were
opened.' And behold what he saw! He saw it. Could we but hear! The
word of the Lord is ever speaking--alas! where is one that can hear?
Where are our Isaiahs, our Ezekiels, our Jeremiahs? Oh! thou
shrunken-visaged, black, hollow-eyed doubt! hast thou passed like a
cloud over men's souls, making them blind, deaf and dumb? Ah, ha!
dost thou shudder? I chant thy requiem, and prophets, poets, and
seers shall rise again! I see them coming. Great heaven! Earth shall
be again a paradise, and God converse with men!"
The next entry is undated, but it was probably made on the last day
of May. It has served to fix the proximate time of the illness and
disquiet which led to his first withdrawal from business and home.
"Wednesday.--About ten months ago--perhaps only seven or eight--I
saw (I cannot say I dreamed; it was quite different from dreaming; I
was seated on the side of my bed) a beautiful, angelic being, and
myself standing alongside of her, feeling a most heavenly pure joy.
It was as if our bodies were luminous and gave forth a moon-like
light which sprung from the joy we experienced. I felt as if we had
always lived together, and that our motions, actions, feelings, and
thoughts came from one centre. When I looked towards her I saw no
bold outline of form, but an angelic something I cannot describe,
though in angelic shape and image. _It was this picture that has left
such an indelible impression on my mind._ For some time afterward I
continued to feel the same influence, and do now so often that the
actual around me has lost its hold. _In my state previous to my
vision I should have married ere this, for there are those I have
since seen who would have met the demands of my mind._ But now this
vision continually hovers over me and prevents me, by its beauty,
from accepting any one else; for I am charmed by its influence, and
conscious that, should I accept any other, I should lose the life
which would be the only one wherein I could say I live."
Those of our readers who are either versed in mystical theology or
who have any wide knowledge of the lives of the Church's more
interior saints, with neither of which Isaac Hecker had at this time
any acquaintance, will be apt to recall here St. Francis of Assisi
and his bride, the Lady Poverty, the similar occurrences related by
Henry Suso of himself, and the mystic espousals of St. Catharine. We
have in this relation not only the plainly avowed reason why he
accepted the celibate life, even before entering the Church or
arriving at any clear understanding of his duty to do so, but we have
something more. Not yet certain of his own vocation, the dream of a
virginal apostolate, including the two sexes, had already absorbed
his yearnings, never again to be forgotten. Neither priest nor
Catholic, save in the as yet unrevealed ordinance of God, he was no
longer free to invite any woman to marriage, no matter how deeply he
might be sensible of her feminine attraction. The union of souls?
Yes; for uses worthy of souls. The union of bodies? No; that would
only clip his wings and narrow his horizon. Thenceforward the test of
true kinship with him could only be a kindred aspiration after union
in liberty from merely natural trammels, in order to tend more surely
to a supernatural end.
This may seem to some a strange beginning to a life so simply and
entirely set apart from the active, or, at least, public union of the
sexes in apostolic labors. Strange or not, the reader will see it to
be more true as this biography proceeds, and its writer is not
conscious of any reluctance to make it known. Such an integral
supernatural mission to men was what he ever after desired and sought
to establish, though he only attained success on the male side. We
cannot deny that this diary, surprising to us in many ways, was most
so in this particular, although in this particular we found the
explanation of many words spoken by Father Hecker in his maturity and
old age, words the most sober and the most decided we ever heard from
him. He never for an hour left out of view the need of women for any
great work of religion, though he doubtless made very sure of his
auditor before unveiling his whole thought. He never made so much as
a serious attempt to incorporate women with his work, but he never
ceased to look around and to plan with a view to doing so. Among the
personal memoranda already mentioned are found evidences of this so
direct, and corroborated by such recent facts, that they cannot be
used until the lapse of time shall have made an extension of this
life as well possible as necessary.
"June 1.--One cannot live a spiritual life in the world because it
requires so much labor to supply food and clothing that what is
inward and eternal has to be given up for the material and life in
time. If one has to sustain himself at Brook Farm without other means
to aid him, he must employ his strength to that degree that he has no
time for the culture of the spiritual. I cannot remain and support
myself without becoming subject to the same conditions as existed at
home. I cannot expect them to be willing to lessen their present
expenses much for the sake of gaining time for spiritual culture; nor
do I see how I can at home live with my relatives and have the time
which I require. I see no way but to give up the taste for fine
clothing and variety in food. I would prefer the life of the
monastery to that of the external world. The advantages for my being
are greater. The harmony of the two is the full and perfect
existence; but the spiritual should always be preserved at the
expense of the other, which is contrary to the tendency of the world,
and perhaps even to that of this place. I would prefer going hungry
in body than in soul. I am speaking against neither, for I believe in
the fulness of life, in amply supplying all its wants; but the
kingdom of God is more to me than this world. I would be Plato in
love, Zeno in self-strength, and Epicurus in æsthetics; but if I
have to sacrifice either, let Epicurus go."
"June 12.--At times I have an impulse to cry out, 'What wouldst Thou
have me to do?' I would shout up into the empty vault of heaven: 'Ah,
why plaguest Thou me so? What shall I do? Give me an answer unless
Thou wilt have me consumed by inward fre, drying up the living liquid
of life. Wouldst Thou have me to give up all? I have. I have no
dreams to realize. I want nothing, have nothing, and am willing to
die in any way. What ties I have are few, and can be cut with a
groan.'"
"Monday, June 26.--Solomon said, after he had tasted all the joys of
the world, 'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' I, my friend, who
have scarcely tasted any of the pleasures of the world, would say
with Solomon, 'all is vanity.' I see nothing in which I can work. All
are vanities, shadows; beneath all there is nothing. Great God! what
is all this for? Why torment and pain me so? Why is all this action a
profanity to me? And even holiness, what is it?
"Oh! I am dumb; my soul is inarticulate. There is that in me which I
would pour out. Oh! why is it that the noblest actions of humanity
speak not to my soul? All life is inadequate--but not in the sense of
the world. I would joyfully be silent, obscure, dead to all the
world, if this alone which is in me had life. I ask not for name,
riches, external conditions of delight or splendor. No; the meanest
of all would be heaven to me, if this inward impulse had action,
lived itself out. But no; I am imprisoned in spirit. What imprisons?
What is imprisoned? Who can tell?
"You say, good adviser, 'You must accept things as they are--be
content to be; have faith in God; do that work which your hands find
to do.' Good; but it is taken for granted we know what things
are--which is the question. 'Be content to be.' Be what? 'Have faith
in God.' Yes. 'Work?' Yes; but how? Like others. But this is not work
to me; it is death; nay, worse--it is sin; hence, damnation--and I am
not ready to go to hell yet. Your work gives me no activity; and to
starve, if I must, is better than to do the profane, the sacrilegious
labor you place before me. I want God's living work to do. My labor
must be a sermon, every motion of my body a word, every act a
sentence. My work must be devotional. I must feel that I am
worshipping. It must be music, love, prayer. My field must be the
kingdom of God. Christ must reign in all. It must be Christ doing in
me, and not me. My life must be poetical, divine. Head, heart, and
hands must be a trinity in unity; they must tone in one accord. My
work must be work of inspiration and aspiration. My heart cannot be
in heaven when my head and hands are in hell. I must feel that I am
building up Christ's kingdom in all that I do. To give Christ room
for action in my heart, soul, and body is my desire, my aim, purpose,
being. . . .
"It is not he who goes to church, says his prayers, sings psalms,
says 'Lord, Lord,' who is in God and establishing His kingdom. No; it
is he who is doing it. The earth is to be His kingdom, and your
prayers must be deeds, your actions music ascending to heaven. The
Church must be the kingdom of God in its fulness. . . .
"Are we Christians if we act not in the spirit in which Christ acted?
Shall we say: 'What shall we do?' Follow the spirit of Christ which
is in you. 'Unless ye are reprobates, ye have it in you.' 'Be ye
faithful, as I am,' said Jesus. 'Love one another as I have loved
you.' Take up your cross and follow Him. Leave all, if the Spirit
leads you to leave all. Do whatever it commands you. There will be no
lack of action. Care not for the world; give up wealth, friends,
those that you love, the opinions of all. Be willing to be despised,
spit upon, crucified. Be silent, and let your silence speak for you."
It is plain that what Isaac Hecker is here condemning is the life of
the world, wholly ordinary in its aims and motives. It is not to be
understood as a condemnation of the common lot of men, or of that
life in itself. It was only as he saw it over against his own
vocation to something higher that it became repulsive, nay guilty _to
him._ Nor was he even yet so settled in his view of the contrasted
worth of the two careers between which he had to choose, as to be
quite free from painful struggles. In the entry made on the day
preceding this outburst, he once more recurs to the subject of
marriage:
"Monday Evening, June 26.--This evening the same advice that has been
given me before, first by the doctor who attended me, next by my
dearest friend, was given me again by a man who now resides here."
"Tuesday Morning, June 27.--Rather than follow this advice, I would
die. I should be miserable all my life. Nay, death before this. These
men appear to me as natural men, but not in the same life as mine.
They are older, have more experience and more judgment than I,
perhaps; but considering the point of view from which their judgment
is formed, their advice does not appear to be the counsel for me. I
never can, nor will, save my health or life by such means. If that is
the only remedy, then unremedied must I remain.
"But the cause of my present state of mind is not what they suppose.
It is deeper, higher, and, O God! Thou knowest what it is! Wilt Thou
give me hope, strength, guidance?" . . .
"Friday, June 29.--Am I led by something higher to the life to which
I am tending? Sometimes I think it is most proper for me to return
home, accept things as they are, and live a life like others--as
good, and as much better as possible. If I can find one with whom I
think I can live happily, to accept such a one, and give up that
which now leads me.
"My friends would say this is the prudent and rational course--but it
appears this is not mine. That I am here is one evidence that it is
not mine. A second is that I struggled against what led me here as
much as lay in my power, until I became weak, sick, and confined to
my bed. Farther than that I could not go.
"They tell me that if I were married it would not be so with me. I
will not dispute this, although I do not believe it. But, my good
friends, that is the difficulty. To marry is to me impossible. You
tell me this is unnatural. Yes, my brethren, it may be unnatural, but
how shall I be natural? Must I commit that which in my sight is a
crime, which I feel would make me miserable and be death to my soul?
'But this is foolish and one-sided in you. You are wrong-minded. You
will lose your health, your youthful joy, and the pleasure which God
has, by human laws, designed you to enjoy. You should give up these
thoughts and feelings of yours and be like those around you.
"Yes, my friends, this advice I accept with love, knowing your
kindness to me. But, alas! I feel that it comes from such a source
that I cannot receive it."
"July 5.--My brother George has been here; he stayed three days. He
told me he had often talked with my brother John about living a life
higher, nobler, and more self-denying than he had done. It appears
from his conversation that since I left home they have been impressed
with a deeper and better spirit. To me it is of much interest to
decide what I shall do. I have determined to make a visit to
Fruitlands. To leave this place is to me a great sacrifice. I have
been much refined in being here.
"To stay here--to purchase a place for myself--or to go home. These
are questions about which I feel the want of some friend to consult
with. I have no one to whom I can go for advice. If I wish to be
self-denying, one would say at home is the best, the largest field
for my activity. This may be true in one sense. But is it wise to go
where there are the most difficulties to overcome? Would it not be
better to plant the tree in the soil where it can grow most in every
direction? At home, to be sure, if I have strength to succeed, I may,
perhaps, do the most good, and it may be the widest sphere for me.
But there are many difficulties which have such a direct influence on
one to injure, to blight all high and noble sentiments, that I fear
to encounter them, and I am not sure it is my place. Perhaps it would
be best for me not to speculate on the future, but look to Him who is
above for wise direction in all that concerns my life. Sacrifices
must be made. I must expect and accept them in a meek, humble, and
willing spirit."
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