THE INTERIOR LIFE OF THE BLESSED CURÉ.
IN the preceding chapters we have recounted many things both edifying and interesting in the external life of the pious curé. But for a better knowledge of his noble personality we must look into his inner life. Many readers of these lines have doubtless asked themselves how the curé, in his unremitting labors for others, could have bestowed the necessary care upon his own soul.
Let it be understood that the very moment when the curé seemed to have any leisure for himself, he was more actively engaged in the business of his own spiritual welfare. Then were displayed those beautiful virtues which showed him to be an example of charity and meekness, of voluntary sacrifice and humility. The very glow from his clear eyes revealed the genuine piety by which he was animated. To all who approached him, Father Vianney showed a befitting attention and respect. Indeed, with increasing years, he was even more affable than before.
And yet to what trials was not his patience subjected? Almost daily, as he passed through the village square, people would crowd about him, tug at his soutane and ask questions, which were oftimes trivial, if not foolish. Father Vianney never met importunate persons with so much as a harsh word or a frown. His unchanging kindness toward all earned for him in his life-time the title of the "Good Curé." He was ever considerate of his co-workers, striving to spare them every irksome duty. In order to show his affection he distributed among them his personal belongings, including crosses, medals and relics, which he dearly prized.
For many years before his death he possessed absolutely nothing. He had sold his furniture, books, etc., and had given the proceeds to the poor. The purchasers generally were glad to have him use the articles for which they had given him the money.
Lenient as Father Vianney was towards others, he was correspondingly severe with himself. He was extremely hard upon his own body, which he referred to as his "corpse." After his superiors had prohibited some of the rigorous mortifications to which he was accustomed, he devised other forms of self-denial in respect to his daily food.
During the last decade of his life he was required, by order of his superiors, to take, every morning, at least a cup of milk and a roll. Brother Jerome, who waited upon him, observed that the curé, with his usual desire to practice penance, first ate the dry bread and then drank the milk.
For many years Father Vianney suffered from violent pains which frequently compelled him to shorten his addresses in the pulpit and sometimes even caused him to collapse. If, on such occasions, he were questioned about his illness his only answer was: "Yes, I am suffering a little." Terrible indeed must have been his torture when we consider that his emaciated body, racked with pain, was confined for sixteen or seventeen hours a day, during so many years, in the narrow space of the confessional.
In the winter he suffered greatly from the cold. The north-west wind blowing over the bleak region of the Jura mountains, whistled through the door of the church, which could not be kept closed owing to the constant stream of penitents passing in and out. In summer, conditions were worse, if that were possible, for on account of the location of his confessional, only the air from the farther side could reach it and that was heated and stifling because of the many persons who were gathered there. Frequently, when Father Vianney left the confessional, he was unable to stand erect, being obliged to support himself by leaning against the seats or pillars of the church.
After a day of such work and suffering he was surely entitled to a full night's rest. But no, he often said that with one hour of sound sleep he found himself quite refreshed. Even this one hour, however, was hardly ever allowed him. Like one grievously sick he breathed painfully as he lay on his miserable couch of straw. A cough unceasingly racked his body. He arose every night four or five times, in the hope of getting some relief by walking up and down. When at last thoroughly exhausted he slept only for a short time. When the hour for rising had come, this poor, feeble septuagenarian with a heroic effort tore himself away from the rest which he had hardly enjoyed and began the work of another day as long and as trying as that which had gone before.
To these corporal sufferings was added spiritual anguish of the bitterest kind. In his own life the curé was a saint, chaste, magnanimous and faithful, and yet, day after day, he had to listen in the confessional to an endless recital of sins against those virtues. Loving God as he did, with his whole soul, he could not but suffer when listening to the recital of most grievous offences committed against the Divine Majesty. His heart was torn thereby and not infrequently his anguish manifested itself in a flood of tears.
One day while giving instructions in catechism, he cried out: "There is no one in the world more unhappy than the guardian of souls. How does he spend his time? In hearing how the good God has been offended and His love rejected! Like St. Peter the poor priest is ever to be found in the court of Pilate. The Divine Saviour is always before his gaze, derided, scorned and reviled. Some sinners are spitting upon His countenance, others rain blows upon His defenceless head; still others crown Him with thorns and scourge Him until the blood flows. He is buffeted about, thrown on the ground and trampled upon. He is crucified and His heart is transpierced. Alas! had I known what it meant to be a confessor, instead of going to a seminary I would rather have fled to a Trappist Monastery."
It would have been some consolation and encouragement if the poor curé's humility had allowed him to rejoice at the tremendous success of his spiritual labors. But no matter what wonderful effects his ministry produced, he always regarded himself as most incapable of discharging his priestly duties as they should be performed. With unaffected sympathy did he speak of his "poor soul," his "poor corpse" his "poor sins" and his "poor misery," praying that God in His goodness would bear with them. Without his humility, Father Vianney undoubtedly would not have become a saint. How otherwise could he have withstood for years the enthusiastic veneration of the thousands who were the witnesses of his holy life.
One day, when Bishop Devie, of Belley, in the ardor of conversation, gave him the title of the "holy curé," Father Vianney in despair ejaculated: "Oh, what a misfortune for me! Your reverence even is deceived in me." He was more than surprised when, in August, in the year 1855, he was nominated a "Knight of the Legion of Honor." Of course he never wore the badge nor availed himself in any way of the distinction. Against the onrush of a multitude of corporal and spiritual anxieties and cares he sought consolation in prayer.
It has remained almost completely a secret what supernatural consolations were vouchsafed to the blessed curé. On that subject he always preserved a strict silence. He prayed practically throughout the whole night, for his sufferings, as mentioned above, allowed him only a few minutes rest at a time. What he recommended to others in the catechism lessons, he himself constantly practiced. He was wont to say, for instance: "See now, dear children, should you wake up during the night, go quickly in spirit before the tabernacle and say to our Saviour: "Here am I, O Lord, I adore Thee, I praise Thee, I thank Thee, I love Thee and with the Angels let me keep Thee company.""
During the day all his spare time was devoted to prayer. In visiting the sick his thoughts were always with God. But his prayers were of the most simple kind. He favored simplicity in every action.
In the church, before the Blessed Sacrament, the pious curé's sense of the Real Presence was so vivid that a colleague, who noticed his radiant look, regarded him with astonishment, thinking Father Vianney with his corporal eyes, beheld some one there. This intuition of the Divine Presence the pious man referred to, one day, saying: "That is faith when we speak to God as a fellow man!"
Despite the ardor of his desire for God's blissful vision, he had to struggle for many decades in the exile of this life, persevering in work and prayer. Only when his venerable age and increasing infirmities disabled him from further laboring in the conversion of sinners, did our Divine Lord see fit to take this soul to Himself. The curé was then in his seventy-fourth year.
