The Life of the Venerable Mother Mary of the Incarnation

by Anonymous

CHAPTER XI

LAST ILLNESS AND HAPPY DEATH OF THE VENERABLE MOTHER MARY OF THE INCARNATION.

In the middle of the January following the death of the venerated Foundress, the Mother of the Incarnation relapsed into violent illness. Her previous symptoms re-appeared, with the addition of indescribably painful tumors in both sides. Unable to rest in any position, consumed with fever, tortured in every nerve, not a sigh, or moan, or movement betrayed her agonies, and yet, at that moment, the hand of God pressed heavily on her soul as well as on her body. That she might resemble Him to the end, her crucified Lord presented her once more with the bitter cup of interior dereliction which she had so often before shared with Him, again despoiling the inferior part of the soul of those heavenly consolations which would so greatly have lightened the pressure of physical suffering. "It is hard," the "Imitation of Christ" says, "to want all comfort, human and Divine," but the Venerable Mother was well familiarized with the privation, of both. In the purity of her love, she sought only the accomplishment of the will of her God. "With Christ I am nailed to the cross," she said in a holy transport, and none understood better than she, that it is good to be with Christ even on the cross. The physicians having declared the malady hopeless on the fifth day; she received the last sacraments, made her profession of faith, and then asked pardon, first of the Father Superior and of her director, then of the Mother Superior and community, thanking them for their charity and expressing her regret at the trouble which her long illness had occasioned them. Hearing shortly after, that the grand-daughter of an Algonquin Chief had just joined the seminary, she expressed a wish to see the child, and after affectionately caressing her, she once more impressively exhorted her dear Sisters ever cordially to cherish her "joys," as she called the Indians. All the pupils, both French and savage, were repeatedly brought to receive her blessing.

Overwhelmed with the deepest grief, the religious redoubled their prayers and mortifications, beseeching that their precious Mother might be left to them even a little longer. She could not understand their desire to prolong a life which she deemed useless, but her director, Father Lalemant, comprehending her value to the community far better than she did herself, and compassionating the affliction of her children, commanded her to join in their prayers for her restoration. The order startled her, but at once raising her eyes and hands to heaven, she said, "I think I shall die of this illness, however if God wills that I should live longer, I am resigned." "That is all well, Mother," replied the inexorable Father, "but it is not enough; you must take our side of the question, and do your best to preserve yourself to the community, which still has need of you." The direction was too explicit to admit of appeal; preferring obedience to sacrifice, as had even been her practice, she said, almost in the words of her own St. Martin of Tours, "My Lord and my God! if Thou seest that I am still necessary to this little community, I refuse not pain or labour: may Thy will be done!" A change for the better was at once apparent, and so wonderfully rapid was the improvement, that at his next visit, the physician who had pronounced her recovery hopeless, declared her out of danger. She assisted at the solemn Te Deum which was offered in the choir in thanksgiving for her restoration, and with her usual sweet affability received the congratulations of her now happy daughters, as well as of her numerous friends Presents of the most delicate food were sent from every quarter to tempt her appetite; she tried to partake of it through condescension, but since the commencement of her illness eight years before, her palate had retained a bitterness which imparted the flavour of gall to every species of nourishment, and necessarily created a loathing for it.

Her convalescence continued during the Lent; she was able to join in the ceremonies of Palm Sunday, and on Good Friday, to assist at the Passion and the Adoration of the Cross, but that evening, she felt compelled to tell the Mother Superior that she was suffering excessively from the tumors in both sides. They proved to be abscesses, which on the next day had to be laid open to the bone. She bore this, and subsequent torturing operations as if she had been deprived of all sense of feeling. Once she slightly shuddered, and then she accused herself of impatience, and asked forgiveness. The humility, meekness, and charity always so striking in her seemed to have gained an increase under this new test, but it was because she had laid up an abundant store of them in the days of her strength, that they did not fail in the hour of nature's weakness, when, above all, is proved the truth of the maxim, that it is the moment of trial which shows what we really are. When, long years before, she had offered herself to God as His Victim, it was with the full comprehension that the title implied a life of suffering and sacrifice; now that the hour of immolation had come, she renewed the oblation, content to bear her excruciating pains to the day of judgment, if only God could be thus honoured, and the salvation of souls promoted. Some of the Sisters having asked her to share her merits with them, she replied with a smile, "All belongs to the savages; I have no longer anything of my own." The holy Communion, which she received every alternate day, continued to be her support in death, as it had been in life. By the end of the week, it was apparent that her strength was declining, and her life fast passing away. When informed that all chance of recovery was at an end, her countenance beamed with celestial joy, and from that moment until her last, her existence was one almost uninterrupted ecstasy. Although constantly absorbed in God, she replied sweetly and amiably to all who spoke to her, but at the same time in as few words as possible. The Mother St. Athanasius, who never left her, asked if she had any commission for her son. She seemed affected at the question, and begged the Mother to let him know that she would bear him to heaven in her heart and pray for his perfect sanctification. On the morning of the 30th of April, feeling that the last hour was near, she wished to bid a final adieu to her dear little Indians. She blessed them with all the love of her great heart, and then spoke a few impressive words to them in their own language on the beauty of our holy mysteries and the happiness of serving God. At mid-day, she entered into her agony, if that could be called an agony, where there was no struggle. Although she lost her speech and hearing, it was easy to see that her soul was intimately united to God. Her trembling hand still tried to lift the crucifix to her lips, and when her confessor would have rendered her this service, he found it so impossible to disengage the beloved image from her grasp, that he had to substitute another. A few minutes before six in the evening, she opened her eyes and looked at her dear Sisters, as if to take a last farewell of them, then closed them for ever to earth. At six o'clock, two faint sighs were heard,—so faint, that but for the breathless stillness of the room they must have been inaudible, but the hearing of affection is acute, and every heart present caught the feeble echo, and interpreted it correctly. Death had come at last, but death in a form so fair, that even angels might have envied it, if angels could die. In its flight to God, her pure soul seemed to have left a lingering ray of glory flitting round the calm, still features, which shone as if illumined with heaven's own light, and almost dazzled the beholders by their seraphic beauty. All the Sisters witnessed and attested the prodigy; tradition has faithfully handed it down even to our own day, and still, as each revolving year brings round the 30th of April, a solemn Te Deum resounds through the Ursuline Church at Quebec, as a thanksgiving to God for the exceptional privileges attending the blessed death of the Mother Mary of the Incarnation.

To say that grief for her loss was universal, would be more than superfluous. Throughout the country, she had for many a year been known, consulted, prized, revered, beloved: now that the Mother was taken from amidst her children, no wonder that the children were lonely and that they mourned their desolation. It would be impossible to describe the feelings of the savages; as soon as the news of her death reached Sillery and Loretto, they came crowding round the monastery to pray for her whom they had loved so well and with so much reason. "Our Mother is dead !" It was all they said, and all they had to say. Sorrow like theirs was too deep for words, and to show that they felt it so, they followed up the pathetic exclamation by a gesture indicating that they would speak no more. The Sisters, overcome by their child-like grief, tried to administer to them the comfort of which they were themselves so much in need, and then both went their respective ways to await in prayers and tears the sad, solemn hour which was to hide from them for ever, the object of their reverence and love.

From early dawn on the day of the interment, the convent church was filled to overflowing with a reverential crowd, all eager to pay the last honours to the venerated servant of God. Bishop Laval being then in France, the obsequies were performed by Monsieur de Bernières, Vicar- General of the diocese, Father Superior of the monastery, and nephew to the kind friend of the same name who had so efficiently promoted the success of the Ursuline foundation at Quebec. The funeral oration was preached by Father Lalemant, who better than any one else could do justice to his subject, and then the cherished and revered Mother of Canada was laid to her rest, in the vault destined as the place of sepulture of the community.

Unwilling to lose all trace of her dear familiar features, the authorities both civil and religious joined in requesting that while there was yet time, her likeness might be secured. Accordingly, the day after the interment the coffin was uncovered, and an artist sent by the Governor succeeded in taking a remarkably correct one. This portrait was unfortunately consumed in the second conflagration of the monastery in 1686. That which now hangs in the community room of the Ursuline convent, Quebec, was sent from France.

The Mother of the Incarnation was tall, and the dignity of her deportment was so striking, that while she was in the world, persons were often seen to stand and look at her as she proceeded unconsciously through the streets on her missions of devotion or charity. The gravity of her demeanour was tempered by the modesty of her address, and the courteous affability of her manner. Her features were regular, but their chief attraction lay in their expression, which seemed like a revelation of the invisible beauty of her soul. The irresistible sweetness of her glance appeared to leave a trace of heaven wherever it fell, and although her habitual interior union with God communicated something of an unearthly air to her exterior, no one ever felt restrained or ill at ease in her company. Her constitution was strong, and thereby fitted for the life of unceasing labour to which God called her. She possessed mental qualities of a high order, had great natural abilities, and was what the world would call a clever woman of business, but best of all, she was a saint. From the hour, when at seven years of age she consecrated her young soul to God, until that when at seventy-two, she surrendered it into His hands, her one sole aim had been to adorn it with every virtue, so that it might become ever more and more pleasing in the eyes of His Divine Majesty, and so well did she succeed in this her holy object, that the history of her life, is in fact the history of her virtues; in studying the one, we have at the same time been making acquaintance with the other. Much however as we have learned of those resplendent virtues, we fain would pause a moment longer on them before relinquishing her sweet company, just as we love to linger over a beautiful sunset, and even after the great orb has disappeared, still to watch the traces of his departing glory resting on the golden clouds.

As the virtues of the Mother of the Incarnation have passed in review before us in the course of her history, the same thought may perhaps have occurred to us, as to her son, Dom Claude Martin, that where all were so admirable, it would be difficult to say which was the most worthy of special notice. She was raised up, we know, to glorify God both in her own person and in that of her neighbour; in her own, by her individual sanctification,—in that of her neighbour by leading many souls to heaven. For the fulfilment of this two-fold destiny, it is evident that she had need of a deep ground-work of humility, with a vast fund of charity and self-abnegation; accordingly we find her possessed of these virtues in such perfection, that remarkable as she was for every other, we may perhaps consider her greatest of all in these. In the exalted degree of union with Himself by which the Almighty recompensed her generosity, we adore His own immense, gratuitous liberality;—in the heroism with which, aided by Divine grace, she died to every human feeling, we admire the grandeur of her own utter detachment from self, and the beauty of her thoroughly spiritualized nature.