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Niv The Jesus Bible Gospel Of Mark
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 Niv The Jesus Bible
Gospel Of Mark Paperback

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.
of the two evils I chose to clear away the faded flowers. Soon the
Lady Prioress of Llanthony came down, looked at me, and then
slammed the doors, which shut me out of the nun’s choir. I was
afterwards reproved by the Superior, who said to me:

“Sister Agnes, if you go on in this way very much

longer, you will find yourself at last where you are now,
outside the doors of heaven, with the gate shut.”

The truth is, a nun’s obedience must be blind in its character;

there must be no waiting to consider consequences, for by her vow
she has renounced all claim to herself, and should the Superior
command her to do what she believes to be even wrong and sinful,
it is her duty to simply obey without a question, since the
responsibility rests rather upon the Superior who gave the command
than upon the nun who obeys it. In obeying a Superior, a nun is
more sure of doing God’s will than if an angel came down from
heaven to give a command, seeing that Satan can transform himself
into an angel of light; but there can be no possibility of mistaking
the Superior’s voice! (so we were taught).
Obedience to God being the only sure road to heaven, such
obedience,[10] for a nun at least, can only be rendered pleasing and
acceptable to God through the channel of her Superior; so, without
strict obedience to the Superior, there can be no hope of heaven.
Thus a nun must act as one who is not responsible to God for her
actions! I pity the Superiors, who have not only upon them the
weight of their own sins, but also that of all the nuns under their
care! They have yet to learn that salvation is not the reward of
man’s obedience, but the free gift of God, by faith, without works.
 CHAPTER VI.
THE DAWN OF SPIRITUAL LIGHT.

I had been in the convent now for some eight years, striving after
perfection; but a wearisome task it was, ever striving to observe all
the minutiæ of convent rules, ever confessing every little deviation
from the three vows aforementioned. I had been taught that
baptism had made me a child of God; that original sin had, by virtue
of that rite, been taken away; but that, subsequently, if I wished to
retain God’s favour, I must confess every sin of omission and
commission, in thought, word and deed; and that should I conceal
wilfully any matter, however trivial, my eternal salvation would be
endangered by any such concealment. It is perhaps difficult for
those who have never been under such a hard yoke to imagine the
mental torture such a system creates. I was often filled with fear lest
I had not remembered everything, and it is no easy matter to look
back through a whole life and lay everything bare before God, in the
presence of a man, whom we are told to forget entirely, and think
we are but repeating everything to God, who knows all beforehand,
but who wills that we should come to Him in this way; and whatever
shame is felt in thus opening our hearts and all its windings, must be
accepted willingly as a small suffering for our sins. Sometimes a
matter seems so silly or trivial that one thinks it not necessary to
confess it. But the very fact of not wishing to confess it proves it to
be wrong, and therefore it must be confessed. For years I went thus
to confession, conscientiously and scrupulously declaring the whole
of my inner and outer life. Thus did I strive to find the peace I so
longed for, and I must say I did enjoy a certain satisfaction of mind
until I inadvertently broke some convent rule. A sin of anger would
be mortal; and had I died without confession of this sin to a priest
and obtaining absolution, there would have been very little, if any,
hope of my soul’s salvation. I would often confess, and weep tears
of real pain and bitter sorrow at my ingratitude to God, after His
wonderful condescension in calling me into the “Religious Life,” while
so many who possibly would have grown far holier than myself were
left in the world, never even having the opportunity of gaining so
bright a crown, or of being so near to Jesus hereafter. I would
resolve and pray that I might never do anything wrong against rule
(the rule is the nun’s guide to perfection, it being the only way that
God intends her to reach perfection) or anything else; and to attain
this perfect state, I would often spend my recreation and sleep time
in making novenas to the blessed Virgin, reciting the Rosary and
Litany of the blessed Virgin, or in invoking the saints; but they never
seemed to answer me, and even when I redoubled my efforts, I
sought their help in vain.
It was very difficult for me not to break rule sometimes, and often
it would be impossible to perform obedience, as we had sometimes
half a dozen obediences to fulfil at the same time, or we had some
order given, and when it was accomplished, we would be severely
reproved for taking upon us to dare to do such or such things; and
should we try and explain our conduct, by that very explanation at
least half a dozen rules were broken straightway, namely, silence
broken, self-justification, answering the Superior, unwillingness to
take unjust rebuke with great gratitude, etc., for all of which we had
hard penances imposed. The result was that at times I was in a
state of continual penance, and consequently in prolonged disgrace,
whilst some sisters who were not so conscientious in confessing
faults, and doing penances prescribed by rule, were deemed far
holier and much higher up the ladder than myself. At last I thought
myself so bad that I literally despaired of ever reaching perfection,
or of going to heaven at all. But my Father Confessor did not think
me so bad, and, in fact, he flattered me, and declared that he
thought very highly of me; but this only tended to alarm me, as I
thought I must be deceiving myself and him too, and I told him this,
but he assured me that I must not think so, and that he felt sure I
could not have such a bad opinion of myself. However, for months
and months I was afraid to go to sleep lest I should awake in hell;
and I was equally afraid to get up lest some accident should come
upon me, and then I should be cast into perdition. So I was always
asking to go to confession at every little fault or breach of rule.
At last the climax came, when one day the following passage from
the writings of St. Alphonsus Liguori was read aloud: “A soul may yet
be damned for sins which have already been confessed.” How to
keep silence I knew not, for I felt how terribly I had been deceived
in being told that sin confessed is sin forgiven. The next day I asked
leave to go to my Father Confessor, and when I was in his presence
he asked me:
“Sister Agnes, have you come to confession?”
I replied, “No, I have not, for I don’t believe in confession, or in
anything, or anybody, or even in myself, and I scarcely believe there
is a God at all.”
“Dear sister, what is the matter with you? I have never seen you
like this before. I always thought you very good.”
Then I quoted the words of Liguori which had so upset me, and
added:
“You told me that everything I confessed was forgiven, and I
believed you; but now I find it is not true.”
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!
I am sure the reverend Mother had the greatest trial in Father
Ignatius’ freaks, or whatever they may be called; and she soon
began to get sick of them, and would dread the ten days he would
sometimes spend at Feltham; for she never knew what he was going
to do or order next. Once he intended to bring a young monk, ill
from his monastery, to be nursed by a young novice nun, and she
was to devote the whole of her time to looking after him. This might
have been well enough if we had been sisters of charity; but we
were enclosed nuns, and were not allowed to see the face of a man,
except, of course, our Superior. The Mother would not hear of such a
thing, or allow the sick monk to come to the house, as she was sure
it would prove an occasion of scandal. She thus set up her will and
judgment to oppose Father Ignatius, and she did this on more than
one occasion. But at last Father Ignatius boldly asserted that he was
quite determined to have nothing but unconditional obedience. The
Mother, and the majority of nuns in the Feltham convent, refused to
accept such an unconditional obedience, and the result was that a
split took place. The Mother would not sign a paper of unconditional
and personal obedience, and so Father Ignatius said to those who
refused: “You no longer belong to the order of the Monk Ignatius of
Llanthony in the nineteenth century.” However, he took with him
three nuns who were ready to render the obedience he required. I
was one of the three. Another of the number was the nun who took
novice vows when I did. She had, however, meanwhile broken her
vows, and had gone into the world for some six years, and had been
a wife and mother. Her husband and child having died, she had
returned to Feltham a few months before this split had taken place.
It is astonishing to contemplate how absolutely Father Ignatius
required us to yield our wills to his will. Whatsoever he demanded
was, he said, distinctly God’s will for us, and whatsoever we did for
him was God’s will. To use his own oft-repeated words:
“It must be so sweet for you to wait upon your Superior, because
in so doing you are really waiting upon God; in fact, in waiting upon
your Superior, like Martha of old, you are waiting upon the Lord
Himself.”
I can assure my readers that we poor deluded nuns believed in all
this; and, so far as obedience would permit, we literally vied with
each other in waiting upon our Superior and preparing for him the
very best we could, for we felt that nothing could be too well
prepared in waiting, as we thought, upon the Lord. There was no
greater penance to us than to be debarred from waiting upon his
will. If any one was in disgrace for breaking rule, he would neither
speak nor even look at her, nor even allow her to kiss the hem of his
sacred dress!
After we had left Feltham a few weeks, Father Ignatius, and the
widowed nun who had accompanied him, wrote several letters, in
which the rebel nuns of Feltham were exhorted to return to their
Father, by submitting to unconditional obedience. He allowed them, I
think, three weeks to consider the matter; and if, at the close of that
time, they remained obstinate, he would, he declared,
excommunicate them, and then the awful curse of broken vows
would rest upon them. The threatened curse was at length
pronounced. The altar was draped in black, and an excommunication
service was read through. I was greatly terrified at this most strange
yet solemn act. I remember well the words that were uttered at this
service:
 Unless they repent of this their sin, may they be
blotted out of the book of life. Amen, Amen.

Here the bell tolled. I was well nigh petrified with fear, and
thought to myself, “Can all the Feltham nuns really be under this
awful curse?” At the first opportunity I asked Father Ignatius if the
bell was really tolled for the Feltham Mother and nuns? He said,
“Certainly it was.” I exclaimed, “How awful!” He replied, “True, my
child, but it had to be done.” I remember how he often prophesied
that the community at Feltham would only flourish like a green bay-
tree for a time, and that ere long it would pass out of existence; and
I must honestly confess that he did his very utmost to bring it to
nought, by efforts to draw away friends and support from it. It has
ever been a peculiarity of Father Ignatius to curse and
excommunicate people; but those who are thus cursed only flourish
all the more.
 CHAPTER VIII.
CONVENT LIFE AT SLAPTON, IN DEVONSHIRE.

I will now pass on to say a few words about my life at the Slapton
convent, in Devonshire, where we took up our abode after leaving
Feltham.
We commenced life in our new home, which was part of an old
chantry house, with glad, bold, and brave hearts, determined to
keep the rules which were imposed upon us. Our motto was “In
omnibus glorificetur Deus.” We were under stricter rule than we had
ever been before, but we were glad of this, as we believed we were
brought nearer to Jesus the stricter the rule we kept.
I cannot say much for the peace and happiness that fell to me
here after two years had passed away. During that period I was
housekeeper—Mother Wereburgh sacristan, and Mother Cecilia
scribe. I was greatly praised and flattered; but there was one fault
found with me, and this was my unwillingness to obey implicitly the
two sisters who were put above me as my Superiors. The fact is that
both these nuns were jealous of me, on account of the good opinion
Father Ignatius had of me. Besides, I am certain that Mother Cecilia
had no right to be made Novice-mistress, nor had Mother
Wereburgh right to be made Lady Prioress. The former had not been
properly professed, and the latter was what is termed a “desecrated
virgin,” and it was unlawful, according to the constitutions of St.
Benedict, for either of them to hold office. It was not right of Father
Ignatius to place these women over me in the place of God, and to
command me to see God in them. Although I tried hard, I could not
submit to them, and thus my life became by no means a smooth or
happy one.
 I may mention here that, whilst residing at Slapton, a poor old
woman was somehow induced to sell her little home in
Herefordshire, that she might come to our convent; but alas! she
“found everything,” as she told me, “so different from what I
expected. My life is a misery to me. I shall never believe in anything
again.” I must say she seemed at times somewhat peculiar; but
when a person of fifty years of age begins life over again, and is
expected to be as obedient as she was required to be when quite a
little child, is it to be wondered at that such a return to an artificial
childhood causes bewilderment? It was nothing else than devotion
to Father Ignatius that caused her to give up her home.
It was the rule in choir to hold books; when sitting, to have the
palm of each hand resting on each knee; and when kneeling, to do
so perfectly upright, with hands crossed on each breast. Now this
old woman had not taken any vow of obedience, and she either
forgot to keep her hands in a proper position, or did not choose to
do so; consequently the reverend Father, during the service, would
cross the choir to her seat, and put her hands in the proper position.
Five minutes afterwards she would have them clasped or folded,
whereon the Father had to come to her again repeatedly. At last the
poor old thing would cry and become quite hysterical. Mother
Wereburgh told her she had better go home, but she had none to go
to, for she had parted from her own home, believing that she was
coming to one. Once she ran away and scandalized the nuns to the
villagers. When she came back, the Mother sent for the village
policeman, as she made out that the poor old woman was violent;
and with the help of the policeman, she was conveyed away in the
carrier’s cart, and she gave the constable the money to pay her fare
to her own home again.
The unkindness of the two sisters was quite sufficient to make the
old woman strange and angry. I remember how she denounced
these nuns, assuring them that the Lord would take vengeance on
them, and it was such a speech that caused the Mother Superior to
draw the policeman’s attention to the alleged fact that she was mad.
The simple-minded man said he could “see it.” Now this policeman
was made favourably disposed to the nuns, when we first went to
Slapton, by the present of a leg of mutton going to his family for a
Sunday dinner, and other gifts of a similar kind. The old woman was
really no more mad than I am at present, but she was often made
frantic with anger by the conduct of the Mother. After her return
home she wrote for some clothes she had left behind at the convent,
and asked the Mother to return everything that belonged to her,
upon which the Mother assured Father Ignatius that she had taken
all her belongings with her. Soon after this I happened to be at the
linen-press with the Mother, and there I saw some of the old
woman’s clothes, and exclaimed, “See, here are the things she asked
for!” The Mother replied, “Oh, they are only old rags.” They were
not. “But,” said I, “are they not what she wrote for?” Three times
afterwards she wrote for them, for she was badly off, having sold all
her little earthly possessions to enter the “holy, happy cloister.”
Father Ignatius again asked the Mother to send the things off; yet in
my presence she said: “I assure you, dear Father, there is nothing
here of hers, and to make certain of this, I looked all through the
linen cupboard the other day, and could not find a single garment
belonging to her.” I dared not open my lips, or even say a word to
help this poor old woman to regain her clothes. They were of no
value to the Mother; but once having denied that they were there,
she would not acknowledge she had made a mistake, and would
stick to it.
I remember too how, whilst at Slapton, an ignorant girl came to
be what is called a lay-sister. She knew nothing of any kind of
religion whatever, yet in a few months she made her first
communion, and took novice vows for one year. I am sure she had
no more idea than a new-born babe of what she had undertaken, or
what was expected of her; and the hundred and one rules we had to
conform to in each day were frightfully bewildering. This poor
creature consequently was frequently breaking rule, and was
therefore plunged in penance, disgrace and misery, and really for no
fault of hers. After about two months she was sent back to the
world, as she was always in trouble, especially as she was very fond
of talking to the gardener, and could not see the sin of an enclosed
novice talking to a man, or why she should cover her face with her
veil when she wanted to see him, or any one else. As she could not
make head or tail of the “glorious holy life,” and was thoroughly
miserable in it, she was dispensed from her vows, and sent away in
a kind spirit, which was from a prudent motive.
I will mention the case of another young lady who came to our
convent as a postulant. When she had been there a few days, she
felt she had done wrong in leaving her only brother, as she had so
much influence over him for good, and they were orphans. With the
Mother’s permission, she went back. The reverend Father was
absent at the time. On his return, he sent off a letter to her, telling
her that the curse of God would be upon her—that she had no faith
in God. She should leave her brother in His hands, and he actually
told her that she was a spiritual adulteress.
It is important that my readers should thoroughly grasp this
fearful moral compulsion, which is exercised on impressible and
easily influenced minds. And yet the world is told that postulants,
and novices, and professed nuns, are quite free to go back if they
choose. The letter of Ignatius brought this young lady back, and she
was duly put to penance for leaving. She had to cover her face with
a black mask, during the divine office, which is recited seven times a
day and once at night. She had to sit upon the ground during the
time allowed to sitting in those offices, and she was ordered to sit on
the floor to eat her food. After meekly going through all her
penances for the space of six weeks, she took novice vows, when
her beautiful long hair was cut off quite short, in token of her
renunciation of the world. She was a sweet girl of about nineteen at
the time, and I know full well that she was as thoroughly miserable
as she could be. When she had been a novice some time, the Lady
Prioress announced to her publicly:
“Sister Ermenild, you have been a novice now over two years.
Reverend Father and I both think it time you made your profession;
so please to get ready to take the black veil.”
 Although this profession was made after we had removed to
Wales, I may as well give a short account of it in this chapter.
A solemn service was performed, in which the nun was “married
to Jesus Christ, Son of the most high God.” A ring was placed on her
finger as a token and pledge thereof, after which she was laid out on
a mattress, over which was placed a black pall, ornamented with a
white cross. The Burial Service from the Book of Common Prayer
was then read over her, earth being solemnly dropped upon her. The
De Profundis was sung for the repose of her soul, after which the
altar was then divested of its black funeral hangings (which had
been put on for this part of the service), and soon afterwards Sister
Ermenild appeared in her bridal attire. She was a new creature now,
raised, so to speak, to a new life. She was then led to the altar,
bearing in her hands a massive lighted taper, and wearing a virgin’s
crown, during which proceeding a hymn was sung:

Dead with me, then death is over,

Dead and gone are death’s dark fears.

After which came “the cursing,” a ceremony which is always used

in the Roman Catholic Church in the consecration of a virgin, and is
to the effect that—
“Should any one attempt to draw aside this present virgin, let him
be cursed in his rising up and sitting down, in his standing or
walking, in sleeping or waking, in eating or drinking, etc., etc., and
may his flesh rot from his bones, and may he be blotted out of the
book of life. Amen, amen, so be it.”
After all this cursing was finished, the now reverend Dame Mary E.
was enthroned on a seat covered with rich crimson plush, which was
placed upon the altar steps, that from thence she might give all who
went up to her the blessing. Father Ignatius led the way, followed by
monks, boys, nuns, girls, and as many seculars as felt inclined to go.
The service was then finished.[11]
 In less than a month after, being in great trouble and disgrace
with her Superior (for what it would be a puzzle to find out), Sister
E. said to me:
“Oh! how I wish I had never taken the black veil!”
“But,” said I, “you wanted to?”
She said, “No, I never asked to. You yourself heard what the
reverend Mother said to me; and previous to that, she had not
uttered a word on the subject.”
“But,” said I, “you know what the reverend Father said before
every one, how eloquently he told them that the virgin about to be
professed was not yet bound, and even at that last minute she was
perfectly free to return to the world if she chose; but that only after
she had taken this awful step she could not go back?”
To which she replied: “Yes, he did, I know, say so in public, but
you do not know what he said to me in private.”
Oh, how easily the world is deceived by such high-sounding
phrases! “The doors are open—all are free to leave as soon as they
like, etc.” When people speak of inspecting convents, they should
remember that to do so thoroughly, something beyond what is
visible to the eye must be investigated, even the interior of each
nun’s heart, and the terrible moral force that has been brought to
bear upon it. And remember, too, that if a sister’s own mother or
sister came to see her, she could not discover the deep distress that
so often lies upon her daughter’s heart. No nun would dare to tell it,
even to her mother, though her heart might be breaking with misery.
She would have to appear before her mother with the look of one
who is perfectly happy, and even smiling, otherwise she would be
instrumental in bringing disgrace and scandal upon the convent, and
this, at all cost, must be avoided. I have had to appear thus, looking
happy and free before my own mother, when a few minutes before I
had been crying, wishing and praying that I might die.
After this digression, I will return to give an account of a novice at
Slapton, who took vows on the same day as Sister E. just
mentioned. They promised to let her take the black veil soon,
provided only that she showed herself a submissive child (this child
was over thirty), who had no wish or opinion but that of her
superiors. But unfortunately for her, she had a very natural habit of
forming an opinion for herself, and admitted that she thought it no
harm to do so, as long as she kept that opinion to herself. But there
was great harm in this (so the Superior said), inasmuch as a novice
should be in all things of one mind with her Superiors, in thought,
word, and deed. This novice brought with her a valuable gold watch,
which she was content to give up for the time being, and, according
to novice rules, she had given up her box and keys. The Mother had
looked into Sister F.’s box, and there saw some things she wanted for
use in the convent, and she told Sister F. so. The novice, however,
was not willing that they should be used, as she had not taken life
vows; in this way she first drew upon herself the Mother Superior’s
displeasure and censure. Shortly after this she was asked to give up
her money to help in building a new cloister at Llanthony. She said
she was willing to give up a part but not the whole, and would very
much like to put a stone in the building. Thus by exercising her own
opinion she was again brought into disgrace, and was told she could
keep her money, and would not be allowed the privilege of putting a
stone to the building. She must give up all her money or none. From
that time she was treated with the greatest severity, and looked
upon as the offscouring of all things. To make a long story short, she
was soon packed off from Slapton as having no vocation to the
“religious life.” How strange it was that her Superiors were unable to
detect this until they discovered that she was unwilling to give up
her money to build a holy cloister! Before this they had a very good
opinion of her.
 CHAPTER IX.
CONVENT LIFE AT LLANTHONY.

I was looking forward to taking the black veil, but somehow the
Mother had made a firm resolve to keep me, if possible, from taking
this step. I may be permitted to write a few words about the present
Lady Prioress of Llanthony. This lady took novice vows with me in
1869. She gained a great reputation for sanctity by an assumed air
of humility, and by performing innumerable voluntary penances and
antics, which put her less saintly sisters to much discomfort and
disgust. I recollect her once sitting next to me in the refectory at
dinner, when I saw a roasted maggot on her plate, which made me
feel quite ill. I signed to her, fearing she would eat it unperceived,
whereupon she at once took it upon her fork, salted it, and put it
into her mouth, looking the very picture of goodness. She would of
her own free will throw herself down on the floor, and meekly kiss
everybody’s feet, beg their prayers, and thank them for bearing with
her, saying she was not worthy to be amongst us, etc. This
continued until we were all perfectly sick of her, as we knew quite
well by her other words and actions that she considered herself the
best in the house. Sometimes she would bang her head purposely
against the wall; in fact, she copied every saint, whose life she
happened to be reading at the time, in his or her foolish actions,
whilst if they did anything sensible, she left it out. St. Mary
Magdalene of Piazzi, was her special favourite. Sister Wereburgh
once planted a rotten cucumber, to see if our Lord would make it
grow into a plant, which, of course, He did not, though she quite
thought He would. This was in imitation of a St. Teresa, who, we
read, once gave a rotten cucumber to one of her novices in order to
test her obedience, desiring her to plant it in the garden. The novice
obeyed without a question, when, in reward for her perfect
obedience, a plant sprang from it, and bore fruit. This is one of the
miracles recorded in the life of Saint Teresa. Sister Wereburgh would
obtain leave to go without her dinner, and fast till tea-time, very
often, but was desired to have some lunch, which would consist of
dry bread. The Mother Superior at that time never asked her what
lunch she had, but at last some of us found out that she had a good
helping of bread and butter, and a good-sized cup of hot cocoa. She
was housekeeper then, and thus had no difficulty in taking what she
wanted. Thus she really had more than we did at dinner, which often
consisted of two small sardines, three or four small potatoes, and
half a slice of bread, thinly cut, and some water. As I do not wish to
appear in the least vindictive, I will not now add more about this
sister. She was the cause of distress to more persons than myself,
though she managed to keep herself in favour with Father Ignatius,
and became quite his model nun.
I will now tell my readers more of my experiences at Llanthony. I
cannot say Father Ignatius gave us a very warm welcome to our new
convent. In the first place, I remember well how dreadfully he
frightened me by telling us that the place was haunted by evil
spirits, as well as good. We were told by Ignatius that he had
watched a whole procession of devils cross the church, while they
were at matins. The brothers, we were assured, had often seen
them about the house. One brother at the monastery declared that
he had felt their hot breath on his cheek. This brother was a life-
vowed monk, though only about twenty-one years of age. He ran
away and came back so many times, that at last he said, “To prevent
myself from ever returning, I shall get married,” which he fulfilled by
marrying an opera girl. I was told that afterwards he became a
billiard-marker.
The Novice-mistress came into our room one day, saying:
“I have seen him.”
“Seen whom?” we asked.
“The devil,” she replied.
 I was really frightened by the tales of the devils who inhabited the
cloister; and to add to my terror, Father Ignatius and the Novice-
mistress told me:
“Sister Agnes is SURE to see him.”
I used to go about night and day, making the sign of the cross,
praying to our Lord, the blessed Virgin, and to our holy Father St.
Benedict, not to let me see anything, either good or evil. Sometimes
I did not hear the call for the night office, and would only awake at
the sound of the bell. This necessitated my going down a long dark
passage alone, and returning alone to and from the church; besides,
I had to stay in the church alone after matins and lauds, to recite
the whole of the Lamentations of Jeremiah, as a penance for not
rising when called. Not hearing was no excuse; and if we only
remained in bed thirty seconds after being called, and attempted to
leave the church with the others, the Novice-mistress would make
signs for the sister who failed to rise, to stop and perform her
penance. It used to take me a long time to do my penance, as I kept
leaving off to watch for a devil.
There is supposed to be a miraculous light over the “altar,” which
was pointed out to us on the first day of our arrival at Llanthony. I
looked for a long time, but failed to see anything but the sunshine.
At last the reverend Father said:
“Do you see it, Sister Agnes?”
I replied, “No, dear Father, I do not see anything but cobwebs and
sunshine.”
I must not omit to write on a very distressing subject, and that is
the ill-treatment I received from the Lady Prioress. After I had been
about a week at Llanthony, she sent for me. On coming into her
presence I knelt at her feet, and she gave me the hem of her dress
to kiss. It should be remembered that we were not usually allowed
to speak to the Superior without first prostrating our faces to the
ground, and kissing the hem of her “holy habit.”[12] But I had better
give the very words of the rule: “To receive the words of our
Superior, humbly kneeling, with eyes fixed on the ground.” Should
we break this rule, the order was “to receive any penance our
Superior liked to inflict.” My Superior on this occasion said, “Sister
Agnes, you often say you wish to submit to me.” I replied, “Yes, dear
Mother.” On which she said, “Hold your tongue, and listen to me, for
now I am going to prove you; and the first thing, before I say any
more, I must ask you to take off your scapular, for you are not fit to
wear it.” You, my readers, must please understand that to give up
the scapular was a terrible disgrace, and it quite cut any sister off
from many privileges which are highly prized, such as communion
and recreation. She now imposed a severe penance upon me. I had
to become a door-mat; that is, I had to lie prostrate in front of the
church door, so that nuns, girls, monks, and boys should walk over
me, and I was not allowed to get up until the last one had entered
the church. I did not mind the nuns and girls treading upon me, but
my nature did recoil from lying down for men to walk over me. They
themselves hesitated a moment, and then deliberately walked over
me. They were under obedience, and had they refused, would have
incurred punishment. This penance was to last seven times a day for
a week. The next penance she imposed was to make me lie
prostrate on my face in front of my stall for a week during the night
office, which lasts from 2 a.m. to 3.45 a.m. Then a third penance I
had to undergo was to be deprived of my breakfast, and thus to go
without food till 12.30 p.m.; and when I was permitted to eat, I
remember I had to take my plate and kneel before each sister, and
beg food from each in turn. Though they afforded me a generous
supply, I was often too ill to partake of it. After enduring two days’
fasting in this fashion, the Novice-mistress begged that I might have
a cup of tea, and a piece of bread at 9 a.m. She told me I must eat
this, or I should become seriously ill. Ah! I did feel ill, quite
wretched! but yet I longed to be quite good, pure, and holy, and this
made me submit so willingly to these dreadful penances. Often at
this and subsequent periods my life was such a burden to me, that I
have begged and prayed that God would let me die. “O God, if you
would only grant me death!” has been my prayer over and over
again.