He made at once the best explanation he could of Liguori’s meaning, reconciling the words with his own apparently contradictory statement: both were right then. Be that as it may, I think that from that day I lost faith in the value and efficacy of confession, though I was obliged still to go to it.
It was just at this phase of my experience that I began to think about certain teaching that I had heard vague and indistinct rumours of; namely, that salvation was wholly the work finished for sinners by the Saviour’s atoning blood. I had fancied that there was no truth in this, and had imagined it was some new doctrine introduced by Methodists. Finding myself in such a dilemma, I began to think a good deal about this doctrine, and at last I heartily wished it was true. But I had been so long taught that sacraments were the only sure way to heaven, that I had much to do, and after doing my utmost, I must look to Christ’s work, so to speak, to supply my deficiencies, and that only when I appeared in the presence of God after this mortal life could the great question of my salvation be settled. I had so long been living under the influence of such teaching that it may be easily seen I was not very ready to accept any other form of doctrine. Yet I could not get the new idea out of my head. I somehow felt convinced of the truth of it, but I was as yet too fast bound in the old chains, and in this state of hovering between two opinions I remained for some time, until at length one night I made up my mind I would not sleep till I had settled the question between my own soul and God. The result of this decision was that I determined to lay down at the feet of Jesus all my sins, sorrows, and failings, and even my best intentions, and just to trust in His finished work. I thought I had actually done this, and soon fell asleep; but on awaking I felt greatly disappointed, and, kneeling down before the crucifix in my cell, I confessed to Christ how bitterly I had been disappointed in finding that in trusting in His finished work, I had not been able to find anything beyond a very momentary peace. It was whilst thus kneeling I felt—as truly I thought as it is represented in “Pilgrim’s Progress”—the whole burden of everything roll off, and a new life seemed then to thrill through me.
I had now been, as I have already said, a nun for about eight years, but my new experience did not force me out of the old routine of convent life. I quite well remember that Father Ignatius sometimes taught a doctrine very closely allied to that which I seemed lately so attracted by, but he muddled it up with a lot of teaching that seemed to contradict it. He certainly taught that all the sacramental superstructure, saint-worship, confession, etc., were only acceptable to God after we had received Christ, and thus it was that I was somehow led to believe that my new experience was right, but yet that my old life need not be set aside. I remember I was rather strengthened to continue with new vigour my self-imposed religiousness. Thus I continued, and it was only after an experience of some seventeen years that I saw that convent life—and any other life but that of the faith of the Son of God, who loved me and gave His life for me—was nothing else but a delusion.
CHAPTER VII.
LIFE AT FELTHAM CONVENT.
Ten years were passed by me at Feltham. Father Ignatius did not have very much to do with us there. The Mother, I think, used to let him know that she did not consider it a man’s place to govern a number of women so entirely as he wished to do. Besides, he sometimes gave orders which she thought very indiscreet, from which great scandal might arise; and, being somewhat older than Father Ignatius, she took the liberty of representing to him, rather strongly, her views about his orders and doings. At times he would suddenly give orders from the so-called “altar,” where of course no one could well remonstrate, and which would put the household arrangements out for the whole day, though he seemed to be in a great state of consternation when matters did not go forward smoothly in consequence of his orders. Sometimes, before breakfast, he would order that no one, not even the reverend Mother, should speak for a whole day, thus causing the utmost confusion, especially amongst the servants in the kitchen, who were included in the eccentric command. And yet if his own dinner was not properly cooked and served in time, he would show great displeasure. Another time I recollect how he ordered a young and delicate sister, who was very ill and consumptive, to walk bare-footed in the snow up and down the garden. On another occasion he ordered her to carry a number of stones till she had made a great heap, and then, when she had done this, he ordered her to carry them all back again! I remember also that once he ordered a young monk, who had come to Feltham with him, to put on a high hat, and then to hop up and down the centre path in the convent garden, so that all the nuns might see him. He did this to test the young monk’s humility and obedience, and to see if he was willing to become a fool for Christ’s sake. The nuns did see this extraordinary sight, and exclaimed:
“Dear Mother, do look at Brother ⸺. Is he not a perfect fool?”
Nothing was too idiotic to impose in the name of holy obedience. I have seen, for instance, a brother, instead of kneeling to receive Holy Communion, standing afar off, holding up a black kettle, and at grace, in the refectory, with the muddy street door mat on his head. I have seen a sister with a handkerchief tied over her eyes, as if she was just ready for a game of blind man’s buff. Remember, these follies were ordered to be done as penances, and penances were said to be special gifts of love from the Lord Jesus Christ! What profanity!