 | CHAPTER XXV.
A CALL AT A NUNNERY. The new priest in Conception Bay |  |
25. CHAPTER XXV.
A CALL AT A NUNNERY.
ADJOINING the priest's house in Bay-Harbor
was a small building of later construction, entered
from the opposite direction. At the door
of this building, a pretty loud and continuous rapping
was heard early in the forenoon of Tuesday, the nineteenth
day of August; and again and again.
“Wall, s'pose I may's well go 'n' stir up the neighbors
a mite, 'n' see what's the matter here. 'Guess they've
got a little o' the spirit o' slumber in 'em, b' th' way they
act,” said the visitor.
As Mr. Bangs turned to go away from the door, a
noise was heard within the house, and the door was unlocked,
unbolted, and opened. Mr. Bangs had by this
time got himself at some distance from the scene of his
late exercise, and, in his business-like way of walking,
was lengthening the distance between it and himself. At
the opening of the door, he retraced his steps with alacrity.
“'Wanted to see the head o' this Inst'tootion a minute,
'f tain't too m'ch trouble. Wun't you jest ask her to step
this way?”
The janitress hesitated; but, saying she would speak
to Sister Theresa, shut the door gently between the holy
women and the man from the world without.
Another nun appeared, and meekly waited until the
visitor should declare his errand. Mr. Bangs, for his
part, had not his wonted fluency of speech.
“'Twas on business 'f some 'mportance t' the Catholic
Church,” he said.
“I must refer you to the reverend clergy, sir. You'll
find one of them at the other door—Father Terence or
Father Nicholas.” She was very definite, though very
gentle.
“Wall, ma'am,” said the American, “'f you think I'd
bes' go 'n' see holy Father Nichols first, wh' I'll go. 'M
sorry 'f I've disturbed ye; 's no harm meant, I'm sure.
If you'll make my compliments t' the rest, I'll say `Good
mornin', ma'am;'” and he held out his hand for a parting
courtesy. He might as well have held it out to the
moon.
“Hope the's no hos-tile feelin's;—wish ye `Good-day,
ma'am.'”
The sister bowed gravely, and gently shut the door.
“Wall, look a' here,” said Mr. Bangs, as he found himself
alone with himself, on the outside, turning round to
survey the building and neighborhood.
“Have you business with some one here?” asked a
voice that made him start a little; and he saw Father
Nicholas, such as we have described him.
“Wall! ol' Gen'l Isril Putnam's wolf was a fool to
this,” said Mr. Bangs, in a low voice, by way of reinstating
himself in his self-possession; then aloud, “Oh!
How d'ye do, Mr. —? Can't 'xacly call ye by name
— Holy Father guess 'll do. Wall, I did have a little
business with 'em, 'r some of 'em. Seems to be c'nsid'ble
rural retirement 'bout this—nunnery, s'pose 'tis,—. This
country don't seem t' have much natch'l gift 't raisin' trees
f'm th' States.”
“And may I ask, Mr. Bangs, what particular business
you had here?”
“Certin; 's no harm 'n askin', ye know. 'T's the
motto 'f the R'public, ye may say.”
“I should be glad to know, then,” said Father Nicholas,
drily.
“Shouldn't wonder 'f 'twould 'ford ye some pleasure;
though guess ye'll be ruther 'stonished, f'r a spell. Come
to look int' this r'ligion-business a mite. Don't mind
tellin' you.”
Father Nicholas smiled: “Oh! Mr. Bangs, from Peterport,
the American merchant!” said he. “Your nation
is becoming distinguished—,” (“they're 'bout it, I
b'lieve,” inserted Mr. Bangs, by way of commentary,)
“for intelligence and enterprise.” (“The' is such a thing's
bein' cute, certin,” said Mr. Bangs.) “So you wanted
to make some religious inquiries?”
“Wall, 'smuch that 's any thing, 'guess,” said Mr.
Bangs, who, as he concentrated his force upon his words,
knitted his brows, and looked a little to the left of the
person he was addressing, as we are taught to look at
bright bodies in the sky. “D'ye s'pose they'd gi' me a
chance to git conviction? 'T any rate, t' look into it and
join, 'f I felt like it?”
“Oh! yes,” answered the priest, “any body can have
a chance. There's a way wide enough.”
“Yes.—Bible says, `Wide is the way,'” said Mr. Bangs.
“Ye see the's all my folks are Protestants, 'n' al'a's were,
fur's I know, f'm th' beginning of the Bangses, and stood
p'tty high, too,—that is, some of 'em did. Why, my great
uncle was Deacon Parsimmon Tarbox—lived at Braintree,
him; but I dono what 'd come over 'em to hear 't one o'
the family 'd turned Catholic.”
“But let me ask, If you wanted to see me, how come
you to call here?”
“Wall, sir. I didn't exactly come to see you. I come
t' see some o' the folks that keep this 'stablishment.”
“What sort of establishment do you take this to be,
then?”
“Why, a nunnery, 'r a convent, or somethin' o' that
sort.”
“But you don't expect to take the veil, do you?” inquired
the priest, with an unqualified smile.
“No. 'T's on'y women-folks 't wear veils; but you
see, it's these nunneries, and mummeries, 'n' what not,”
(Mr. Bangs looked very innocent,) “are gen'lly counted
about the hardest thing in the Catholic religion; and my
way is, al'a's to go chock up to head quarters, when I
want to know about a thing, and so, thinks I, I'll jes' go
and see for myself.”
“Did you expect to walk right in and look about for
yourself?”
“Wall, I thought, you know, 'taint like one o' those
Eastern hairims, where they wun't let a fellah go in, any
way, 'cause the women all belong to 'em, and they're
afraid to have 'em ketched or snapped up. Says I, This
is a Christian institootion, all open and above board.”
“Yes, you're right, to a proper extent. There is no
concealment but what is necessary for the object; which
is, retirement from the world in peace and safety. Men,
of course, are excluded, because this is a house of holy
women.”
“Cer-tin. 'Stablishment l'k' this 'd make a church of
themselves, and a priest o' their own. Why, 't the Lunatic
'Sylum up to Worcester, they have a preacher, and
keep the men and women—wall, keep 'em separate, any
way. Say here's where the females sit, all 'long here,”
(waving his hand,) “then here's what ye may call a broad
aisle—.”
“May I inquire what particular object you had in view
in seeing the head of the family here?” asked the Priest.
“Wh' ye know th' Protestants 'r' pleggy hard upon
convents;—clappin' gals up, an' keepin' 'em 'n prison, 'n'
dungeon, 'n' what not. When the's so much 'f it, ye
want t' hear t'other side. Over here to Peterport, th'
wanted me to go 'n' testify 't I saw the nuns acarr'in' off
that gal, (down the rocks, there;) but I come away 'n'
left 'em, s'pose ye heard;—'s such a thing 's goin' too far.
Sometimes they want to be carried off; 'n' sometimes the'
aint 'ny carr'in' off 'bout it. Thinks I, 's nothin' 'gainst
my goin' 'n' callin' 'n a fash'nable way, 'n' takin' a look.
The's ben some pleggy smart men 'n the Catholic church;
(there's Cardinal Wolsey;) and these Protestants, s'pose
you'll admit, are a little the slowest race!—kith, kin, kit,
—the whole boodle of 'em. Their wits ain't cute 'nough
to find the holes in their heads, I b'lieve. Why, there's
their Magistrate can't stand it: shouldn't wonder 'f he
turned.”
At this point Mr. Bangs waited for his companion, who
had been apparently rather entertained by the American's
matter and manner.
“You saw Sister Theresa, I suppose?” he asked.
“Yes, sir; 'n' found her quite the lady. Don't seem
t' come out, 'xactly, l'k' some—owin' to bringin' up, likely
—but what ye'd call a fine woman. Now, 'n th' States,
in, and show ye the whole concern, 'n' ask ye to write
your name 'n a big book t' show 't you ben there.”
“Well, Mr. Bangs, it's unusual, but your case is peculiar,
being a citizen of the Great Republic, and disposed to be
impartial. Perhaps we might make an exception in your
favor. I suppose the sooner the better, in your opinion.
For instruction I shall introduce you to the Very Reverend
Father O'Toole, by-and-by.”
“Wall, sir, the's a hymn (dono's y' ever heard it)
goes—
See the front o' Babel tower:
See approach proud Satan's power:
Sin an' Slavery.'”
“I's all'a's brought up t' know the value 'f time, 'n' do
a thing while ye're about it. I's brought up there by
Boston, ye know,—close by, out to Needham, that is,
where they had the Gen'l Trainin', (used to, 'n I's a
shaver, 't any rate.) Never had t' tell me, `Go to yer
aunt, ye sluggard.' Wall, folks al'a's hed the credit o'
bringin' up p'ty fair specimens, about Boston, you know.
'Course your province-people (that is, dono 'bout the
priest-part, but province-folks gen'lly) know all about
Boston 's well 's I can tell ye. Why, fact, up here in
Canady, ('ts all same thing, s'pose,) they used to call all
the people in the States `Bostonese,' or `Bostonase,' or
whatever the French word is. Wall, the bringin' up
'bout Boston 's p'tty well known. I's a mere runt to
some of 'em; but, 's I's sayin', about this Peterport, 's
they call it—might 's well call it Potter-port, 'n' be done
with it—for such a potterin' and pokin' about their business,
I never saw. Yankee Doodle 's our naytional toone,
Yankees set out with that, something's got to go, ship-shape
or shop-shape, 'r some way. A fellah must hev a
plaguy sight of stick in his shoes that don't go ahead to
that toone. 'Twa'n't so much the fault o' the British, 's
'twas becos nothin' can stand before our Yankees when
they're hitched on to it and that toone agoin'. Wh' 't
Bunker—that's 'bout wars and battles, though; don't
concern us, now; but I dono's ye ever noticed what a solemn
psalm-toone that 'll make, only put it slow enough.
Faw!” he sang, setting his head straight on his neck and
swelling out his throat, as if beginning an illustration of
the adaptedness of his favorite air.
The Priest smiled. “We'll try, then,” said he.
So saying, he turned to the door on which the knuckles
of the American had been playing so persistently, and
knocking three times, and ringing a bell, gave the sentence,
“Ave, Maria Sanctissima!” in a clear voice. An
answer was made by a woman, “Sine labe concepta,”
and then the entrance was made open to them.
Father Nicholas went forward into the nearest room,
Mr. Bangs following, and the sister being in the rear.
He then turned square about and said: “Sister Agnes,
this visitor from the United States of America is making
inquiries into the truths of our Most Holy Faith. He has
a desire to ascertain whether our religious houses are
prisons. Have the kindness to say to Sister Theresa,
that, with her leave, we are come to see this simple little
house.”
—“What's your will, Father Nicholas?” asked Sister
Theresa, meekly, as she entered.
“Mr. Bangs, Ma'am,—you recollect,” said the American,
recalling her memory to himself.
“I only wish to ask permission, in favor of Mr. Bangs,
here, to go through your little establishment in my company.
It is not for the gratification of idle curiosity, but
for important reasons, which I will explain hereafter,”
said Father Nicholas, looking significantly, less at Sister
Theresa than at the visitor, who answered, with an expression
of intelligence, “Jes' so.”
“Will you have the kindness to direct me?” asked
she, in return.
“We will follow you, if you please.”
“And where shall we begin?” asked she again, still in
uncertainty.
“Any where. Here, for example, at the beginning,
if you'll let me take the guide's office,” said the Priest.
“This room, Mr. Bangs, is the parlor. Not very splendid,
you see.”
“Certin. This paintin' ain't a common work, by consid'ble.
One o' the best things o' that sort, I 'most ever
saw.” In saying this, the American put himself at a
distance, inclined his head a little to one side, and applied
his hand, made into a tube, to his right eye, closing the
other. “Seems to freshen on the gaze! don't it!”
“This room, with this sort of hole in the door,” continued
his reverend guide, to the tasteful American, not
too abruptly, opening the door communicating with the
room in the rear, through which the nun had come to the
former interview with her curious visitor, “is a sort of
back-parlor, having this opening to allow the ladies to
communicate, if necessary, with persons here, without exposing
themselves to the observation of strangers or others.”
“Jes' so. Good 'l l'k' one o' the peek-holes at Bunkum's
Grand Universal Skepticon, down to Boston; greatest
thing o' the kind in the world, they say. I don't s'pose
but you're aware there are great,—wall,—”
“Here we are at the last room on this floor. This
little place is a private retiring room, for prayer,” interrupted
the Priest, gently and easily,—Mr. Bangs accepting
the interruption as quite regular.
“Don't seem to make much provision f' the wants o'
the flesh, any how,” said the latter. “First house, pretty
much, 's I may say, I ever see 'thout a kitchin. Wall, I
didn't s'pose 'twas a fact, but they used to say, you know,
that nuns lived p'tty much like Injuns, on parched corn,
and so on.”
“The Sisters' simple cooking is done in the adjoining
house, belonging to the Reverend Father O'Toole,” explained
his guide, “for the Mission, in this place.”
“Very solemn, cer-tin:—that fixin' there, I mean.”
Father Nicholas and the lady, standing silent, after having
crossed themselves at sight of the crucifix and one of
the usual representations of a woman with a child, before
which “fixin',” as it had just been called, stood, on a little
bracket-shelf, a metal candlestick and candle and a few
very artificial flowers, with one real moss rose and three
real rose leaves among them.
“I ain't quite used to doin' that, yet,” continued the
visitor, referring to the crossing, and gesticulating after
some fashion of his own. While he was making his
demonstration, however, there was some sound of a cough
or sneeze from more than one of the neighboring females,
whoever or wherever they were.
“Pupils, or servants,” said the priestly conductor, looking
with something like asperity towards the Sister; then,
turning the end of the sentence to Mr. Bangs, “We shall
soon run through our narrow limits; and you will get no
community,” continued Father Nicholas. “Our next steps
go up these narrow stairs.”
“Guess th'r' ain't much goin' down, f'r 't seems folks
gen'lly, here, think the land turns to water, 'little way
down. No need o' raisin' a cry o' dungeons, and lockups,
and what-nots, under ground. Why, here's a little door—
fact,—goin' down to some root-cellar, likely;—' should like
to see a cellar under ground, f' once, f' variety, in this
country.”
“You shall be gratified, certainly,” said his ecclesiastical
guide, “as far as may be; but I fancy that not much
is to be seen, unless the darkness is visible.”
The American putting his eyes and nose down towards
the opening, remarked upon it, very summarily, “why,
't is `'s dark 's a pitch-pipe,' 's the boy said, and smells
strong 'f old straw or hay; but 't's a comfort to see it, any
how. You see, comin' right f'm the States, where a man
'd jest 'bout 's soon think of hevin' no pockit in his pants,
as not hevin' a cellar to his house, it looks strange to me
not seein' one, all the time I've ben here: one o' your
real old-fashioned ones comes in well. What curis sort
o' partitions they have here, compared 'th real walls o'
lath and plaster,” he concluded, knocking, at the same
time, with the knuckle of one finger, on the thin deal that
separated one room from another.
“These are slight houses, certainly; but religious persons,
of all people, may be content to have what will last
their day: `Non, enim, habemus hic—for we have not
here a lasting city, but we seek one that is to come.'”
“Certin,” said Mr. Bangs. “We ought to, any how.”
The visiting procession passed now up the little creaking
stairs, the Priest leading; Mr. Bangs accompanying
himself for a moment, so as to keep the same relative distance
between himself and the rest of the party, before
and behind; the females bringing up the rear.
“This is `recreation-hour,' is it not, Sister Theresa?”
inquired the guide, and, receiving an answer in the
affirmative, added, “I shall have great pleasure, Mr.
Bangs, in giving you an opportunity of seeing every
member of the household, without any exception; the list
is not as long as the roll of Xerxes' army, or the immortal
Washington's. We number only five, all told, I think:
one sick. Sisters Theresa, Agnes, Frances, Catharine,
and Bridget; two professed, as we call them; one lay,
one novice, one postulant.”
“Yes: postulate means wanted, or as'd, I b'lieve; one
't you want to have join, I guess.”
“Reverse it, and you have the meaning of postulant,
exactly; one that asks to be admitted.”
“Oh, postulant! I's thinkin' of postulate. I got that
out of an old book o' my father's, time I was keepin' company
o' Casty—wall, a good while ago.”
“This room is what you'll understand, at once,” opening
one to the left, of some ten feet by twelve, with a
recess at the further end, about five feet deep and six feet
wide, railed across even with what was left of the wall;
which latter was occupied entirely by a closed door on
one side, and an open one on the other, showing a little
closet opening into the recess before spoken of, with a
screen or paling.
“That, you see, is an altar; these pictures around the
room are what we call stations, used for marking different
places to kneel and pray.”
“I see!” said the visitor; “solemn-lookin' place,
to Father Nicholas, “this house stows more, atop, 'n down
b'low, 's they used to tell o' the York Dutchman and his
hat.”
“You've an excellent eye, sir. This room is taken out
of the next house that I spoke of. If you'd fancy it, you
shall see the whole arrangement of that, also, by and by.
Ah! here is Sister Frances; and there is Sister Ursula.”
(They all, except Sister Theresa, stood with their backs
turned toward the visitors.) “You see all of the family
but one. These rooms are dormitories,” opening one of
the doors which led into a plain room, (like those with
which the reader is familiar enough,) containing several
bare and hard-looking beds, and little furniture of any
kind beside.
Mr. Bangs cast a sharp side-glance into this room, and
then looked forward for further progress. Before the
next door were standing several of the Sisters; Sister
Theresa explaining that this was the chamber of the sick.
“Please to let our visitor see the inside of the sickroom,
in which the gentle hands of our religious smooth
the pillow of the afflicted, as a sister. `Universum stratum
ejus versasti—thou hast turned his whole couch in his
sickness.' Is the sufferer awake?” the Priest asked, in
a tender and sympathizing tone.
“No, Father Nicholas, she has been sleeping for some
time, quite heavily,” answered, in a whisper, the nun who
held the door, and who, as she spoke, threw it open and
drew herself aside, as did Sister Theresa, who had been
standing beside her in front of the entrance.
The American, not changing either his place or posture,
except to bend his head, with unwonted reverence, downward,
stood, demisso ore, with a subdued look, bent first
one could be seen, and then gradually turned to other
objects in the room. There was such perfect silence, that
the heavy, regular breathing was distinctly heard from
within. The change which had passed upon the visitor,
in presence of this scene of human need and helplessness,
was very striking, as he stood thus subdued, with his
hands before him, one holding his hat, and the other the
opposite wrist. He was as still as if his very breathing
were too loud.
But it would be too much to look for very long standing-still
or silence from him; and soon, indeed, abruptly
turning to his reverend guide, he spoke in an awkward
whisper, considerably above his breath, which he had kept
down so carefully, as follows:—
“Dono's ye ever noticed it, about sickness—” when,—
precipitated by an ungainly gesture accompanying his
words,—a shower of things out of his hat dispersed themselves
within the sickroom and about the floor on which
the company stood. The accident affected every member
of the party, even those whose backs were turned. These
last rustled a little; and a sound almost like a giggle
came from some one or more, the most impulsive. Sister
Theresa crossed herself, as soon as she recovered from
the first shock of this rude and most unnecessary indecorum.
The Priest at first came near to smiling, unintentionally;
but instantly visited the unsanctified misadventure
with a frown that gathered over the still lingering
smile, like a dark cloud above the streak of sunset-sky.
The short word “bah!” escaped his lips.
The author of all this commotion,—interrupted in his
well-meant speech, glancing round the company, brushing
up one side of his hair over the bald, and saying, “Do
before any one had had time to recover,—dove forward
after the most remote articles of his scattered property.
In doing this he made little more noise than a cat, and
was just about as expeditious in his motions, following a
lead-pencil to one side of the chamber and a penknife to
the other, not leaving behind the habit of his nation, even
in this unexpected visit; but drawing near and casting
a glance, in passing, at a colored engraving of a saint,
as very likely he would have looked in a glass, had there
been one in the place, which there was not.
The handkerchief and an outlandish-looking newspaper,
which had dropped down in the passage-way and
remained there, lay where they had fallen, when he came
out, and then resumed their former place. “Hope ye
wun't think hard o' my hat,” he whispered, loudly, by
way of reconciling matters, “'t don't gen'lly act like that.
However, b'lieve no harm's done. Don't let me keep
you, sir, awaiting, and the ladies.”
The remainder of the visit was soon dispatched. Father
Nicholas appearing not less kind, if less cordial than before,
and saying,—after a brief exhibition of the adjoining
room,—“You have now seen the whole, sir, and I hope
you'll remember your visit with pleasure. I told you at
the outset that you were treated with very rare consideration,
because I didn't believe that in your case it
would be thrown away. I shall be happy to give you
any further information which may be in my power.”
“Very much obleeged to you, 'm sure, sir. 'T's done
me good. Jest what I like. Come and see for m'self
and ben treated like a gentleman. 'F 't 'adn't ben for
that—wall, `accidents will occur, you know,' 's the fellah
said once. 'Wish all success to the ladies, adoin' good,
Rev. Mr. Terence's or O'Toole's,—and do a little business
'th him, 'f I find I can.”
As Father Nicholas and his guest withdrew, Sister
Theresa was heard saying, “We will now go to our
office, sisters, and we have something to make up.” The
machinery of the establishment (after the obstruction had
been removed) began to go as before. We go with the
retiring party as far as the outside.
| CHAPTER XXV.
A CALL AT A NUNNERY. The new priest in Conception Bay | |