While the nuns are thus severely treated, the priests, and the Holy Mother live a very easy life, and have all the privileges they wish. So far as the things of this world are concerned, they seem to enjoy themselves very well. But I have sometimes wondered if conscience did not give them occasionally, an unpleasant twinge; and from some things I have seen, I believe, that with many of them, this is the fact. They may try to put far from them all thoughts of a judgment to come, yet I do believe that their slumbers are sometimes disturbed by fearful forebodings of a just retribution which may, after all, be in store for them. But whatever trouble of mind they may have, they do not allow it to interfere with their worldly pleasures, and expensive luxuries. They have money enough, go when, and where they please, eat the richest food and drink the choicest wines. In short, if sensual enjoyment was the chief end of their existence, I do not know how they could act otherwise. The Abbesses are sometimes allowed to go out, but not unless they have a pass from one of the priests, and if, at any time, they have reason to suspect that some one is discontented, they will not allow any one to go out of the building without a careful attendant.
My Superior here, as in the White Nunnery, was very kind to me. I sometimes feared she would share the fate of Father Darity, for she had a kind heart, and was guilty of many benevolent acts, which, if known, would have subjected her to very serious consequences. I became so much attached to her, that my fears for her were always alarmed when she called me her good little girl, or used any such endearing expression. The sequel of my story will show that my fears were not unfounded; but let me not anticipate. Sorrows will thicken fast enough, if we do not hasten them.
I lived with this Superior one year before I was consecrated, and it was, comparatively, a happy season. I was never punished unless it was to save me from less merciful hands; and then I would be shut up in a closet, or some such simple thing. The other four girls who occupied the room with me, were consecrated at the same time.
The Bishop came to our room early one morning, and took us to the chapel. At the door we were made to kneel, and then crawl on our hands and knees to the altar, where sat a man, who we were told, was the Archbishop. Two little boys came up from under the altar, with the vesper lamp to burn incense. I suppose they were young Apostles, for they looked very much like those we had seen at the White Nunnery, and were dressed in the same manner. The Bishop turned his back, and they threw incense on his head and shoulders, until he was surrounded by a cloud of smoke. He bowed his head, smote upon his breast, and repeated something in latin, or some other language, that we did not understand. We were told to follow his example, and did so, as nearly as possible. This ceremony over, the Bishop told us to go up on to the altar on our knees, and when this feat was performed to his satisfaction, he placed a crown of thorns upon each of our heads. These crowns were made of bands of some firm material, which passed over the head and around the forehead. On the inside thorns were fastened, with the points downward, so that a very slight pressure would cause them to pierce the skin. This I suppose is intended to imitate the crown of thorns which our Saviour wore upon the cross. But what will it avail them to imitate the crucifixion and the crown of thorns, while justice and mercy are so entirely neglected? What will it avail to place a crown of thorns upon a child's head, or to bid her kneel before the image of the Saviour, or travel up stairs on her knees, while the way of salvation by Christ is never explained to her; while of real religion, holiness of heart, and purity of life she is as ignorant as the most benighted, degraded heathen? Is it rational to suppose that the mere act of repeating a prayer can heal the wounded spirit, or give peace to a troubled conscience? Can the most cruel penance remove the sense of guilt, or whisper hope to the desponding soul? Ah, no! I have tried it long enough to speak with absolute certainty. For years I practiced these senseless mummeries, and if there were any virtue, in them, I should, most certainly have discovered it. But I know full well, and my reader knows that they cannot satisfy the restless yearnings of the immortal mind. They may delude the vulgar, but they cannot dispel the darkness of the tomb, they cannot lead a soul to Christ.
On leaving the chapel after the ceremony, I found a new Superior, waiting for us at the door to conduct us to our rooms. We were all very much surprised at this, but she informed us that our old Superior died that morning, that she was already buried, and she had come to take her place. I could not believe this story, for she came to us as usual that morning, appeared in usual health, though always very pale, and made no complaint, or exhibited any signs of illness. She told us in her kind and pleasant way that we were to be consecrated, gave us a few words of advice, but said nothing about leaving us, and I do not believe she even thought of such a thing. Little did I think, when she left us, that I was never to see her again. But so it was. In just two hours and a half from that time, we were told that she was dead and buried, and another filled her place! A probable story, truly! I wonder if they thought we believed it! But whether we did or not, that was all we could ever know about it. No allusion was ever made to the subject, and nuns are not allowed to ask questions. However excited we might feel, no information could we seek as to the manner of her death. Whether she died by disease, or by the hand of violence; whether her gentle spirit peacefully winged its way to the bosom of its God, or was hastily driven forth upon the dagger's point, whether some kind friend closed her eyes in death, and decently robed her cold limbs for the grave, or whether torn upon the agonizing rack, whether she is left to moulder away in some dungeon's gloom, or thrown into the quickly consuming fire, we could never know. These, and many other questions that might have been asked, will never be answered until the last great day, when the grave shall give up its dead, and, the prison disclose its secrets.
After the consecration we were separated, and only one of the girls remained with me. The others I never saw again. We were put into a large room, where were three beds, one large and two small ones. In the large bed the Superior slept, while I occupied one of the small beds and the other little nun the other. Our new Superior was very strict, and we were severely punished for the least trifle—such, for instance, as making a noise, either in our own room or in the kitchen. We might not even smile, or make motions to each other, or look in each other's face. We must keep our eyes on our work or on the floor, in token of humility. To look a person full in the face was considered an unpardonable act of boldness. On retiring for the night we were required to lie perfectly motionless. We might not move a hand or foot, or even a finger. At twelve the bell rang for prayers, when we must rise, kneel by our beds, and repeat prayers until the second bell, when we again retired to rest. On cold winter nights these midnight prayers were a most cruel penance. It did seem as though I should freeze to death. But live or die, the prayers must be said, and the Superior was always there to see that we were not remiss in duty. If she slept at all I am sure it must have been with one eye open, for she saw everything. But if I obeyed in this thing, I found it impossible to lie as still as they required; I would move when I was asleep without knowing it. This of course could not be allowed, and for many weeks I was strapped down to my bed every night, until I could sleep without the movement of a muscle. I was very anxious to do as nearly right as possible, for I thought if they saw that I strove with all my might to obey, they would perhaps excuse me if I did fail to conquer impossibilities. In this, however, I was disappointed; and I at length became weary of trying to do right, for they would inflict severe punishments for the most trifling accident. In fact, if I give anything like a correct account of my convent life, it will be little else than a history of punishments. Pains, trials, prayers, and mortifications filled up the time. Penance was the rule, to escape it the exception.
I neglected at the proper time to state what name was given me when I took the veil; I may therefore as well say in this place that my convent name was Sister Agnes.