The Priest, The Woman And The Confessional
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Father Chiniquy >> The Priest, The Woman And The Confessional
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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. Philomene, who was
then the _Sainte a 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.
* * * * *
CHAPTER II.
AURICULAR CONFESSION A DEEP PIT OF PERDITION FOR THE PRIEST
* * * * *
It was some time after our Mary had been buried. The terrible and
mysterious cause of her death was known only to God and to me. Though her
loving mother was still weeping over her grave, she had soon been
forgotten, as usual, by the greatest part of those who had known her: but
she was constantly present to my mind. I never entered the confessional-box
without hearing her solemn, though so mild, voice telling me, "There must
be somewhere something wrong in the auricular confession. Twice I have been
destroyed by my confessors; and I have known several others who have been
destroyed in the same way."
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