Chapter IX: Front Matter (9)

He began secretly to speak of me with scorn. I knew it, but said
nothing to him, and did not for that cease confessing to him. There
came to see him a certain monk who hated Father La Combe in
consequence of his regularity. They formed an alliance, and decided
that they must drive me out of the House, and make themselves
masters of it. They set in motion for this purpose all the means
they could find. The ecclesiastic, seeing himself supported, no
longer kept any bounds. They said that I was stupid, that I had a
silly air. They could judge of my mind only by my air, for I hardly
spoke to them. This went so far that they made a sermon out of my
confession, and it circulated through the whole diocese. They said
that some people were so frightfully proud that, in place of
confessing gross sins, they confessed only peccadillos; then they
gave a detail, word for word, of everything I had confessed.

I am willing to believe that this worthy priest was accustomed only
to the confessions of peasants, for the faults of a person in the
state which I was, astonished him; and made him regard what were
really faults in me, as fanciful; for otherwise assuredly he would
not have acted in such a manner. I still accused myself, however, of
a sin of my past life, but this did not content him, and I knew he
made a great commotion because I did not accuse myself of more
notable sins. I wrote to Father La Combe to know if I could confess
past sins as present, in order to satisfy this worthy man. He told
me, no, and that I should take great care not to confess them except
as passed, and that in confession the utmost sincerity was needed.

A few days after my arrival at Gex by night I saw in a dream (but a
mysterious dream, for I perfectly well distinguished it) Father La
Combe fixed on a cross of extraordinary height. He was naked in the
way our Lord is pictured. I saw an amazing crowd who covered me with
confusion and cast upon me the ignominy of his punishment. It seemed
he suffered more pain than I, but I more reproaches than he. This
surprised me the more, because, having seen him only once, I could
not imagine what it meant. But I have indeed seen it accomplished.
At the same time I saw him thus fixed to the cross, these words were
impressed on me: "I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep shall be
scattered"; and these others, "I have specially prayed for thee,
Peter, that thy faith shall fail not--Satan has desired to sift
thee."

Up to that time the Bishop of Geneva had shown me much esteem and
kindness, and therefore this man cleverly took him off his guard. He
urged upon the prelate that, in order to make certain of me for that
House, he ought to compel me to give up to it the little money I had
reserved for myself, and to bind me by making me Superior. He knew
well that I would never bind myself there, and that, my vocation
being elsewhere, I could never give my capital to that House, where
I had come only as a visitor; and that I would not be Superior, as I
had many times already declared; and that even should I bind myself,
it would only be on the condition that this should not be. I
believe, indeed, that this objection to be Superior was a remnant of
the selfhood, colored with humility. The Bishop of Geneva did not in
the least penetrate the intentions of that ecclesiastic, who was
called in the country the little Bishop, because of the ascendancy
he had acquired over the mind of the Bishop of Geneva. He thought it
was through affection for me, and zeal for this House, that this man
desired to bind me to it; consequently, he at once fell in with the
proposal, resolving to carry it through at whatever price.

The ecclesiastic, seeing he had so well succeeded, no longer kept
any bonds as regarded me. He commenced by stopping the letters I
wrote to Father La Combe.

Father La Combe none the less went to Annecy, where he found the
Bishop much prejudiced and embittered.

He said to him, "My Father, it is absolutely necessary to bind that
lady to give what she has to the House of Gex, and to become the
Superior."

"My Lord," answered Father La Combe, "you know what she has herself
told you of her vocation both at Paris and in this country, and
therefore I do not believe she will consent to bind herself. It is
not likely that, having given up everything in the hope of going to
Geneva, she should bind herself elsewhere, and thus render it
impossible for her to accomplish God's designs for her. She has
offered to remain with these good Sisters as a lodger. If they
desire to keep her in that capacity she will remain with them; if
not, she is resolved to withdraw into some convent until God shall
dispose of her otherwise." The Bishop answered, "My Father, I know
all that, but at the same time I know she is obedient, and if you so
order her, she will surely do it."

"It is for this reason, my lord, because she is obedient, that one
should be extremely cautious in the commands one gives her,"
answered the Father.

This ecclesiastic and his friend went through all the places where
Father La Combe had held his mission, to decry him and to speak
against him so violently that a woman was afraid to say her "Pater"
because, she said, she had learned it from him. They made a fearful
scandal through the whole country; for the day after my arrival at
the Ursulines of Thonon, he set out in the morning to preach lenten
sermons at the Valley of Aosta. He came to say adieu to me, and at
the same time told me he would go to Rome, and probably would not
return, that his superiors might keep him there, that he was sorry
to leave me in a strange country without help, and persecuted by
every one. Did not that trouble me? I said to him; "My Father, I am
not troubled at it. I use the creatures for God, and by His order;
through His mercy I get on very well without them.

"I am quite content never to see you again, if such be His will, and
to remain under persecution."

For me, there was hardly a day passed that they did not put upon me
new insults, and make attacks quite unexpected. The New Catholics,
on the report of the Bishop, the ecclesiastic, and the Sisters of
Gex, stirred up against me all people of piety. I was not much
affected by that. If I had been at all, it would have been because
everything was thrown upon Father La Combe, although he was absent;
and they made use even of his absence, to destroy all the good he
had done in the country by his missions and sermons, which was very
great. The Devil gained much in this business. I could not, however,
pity this good Father, remarking herein the conducting of God, who
desired to annihilate him.

At the commencement I committed faults by a too great anxiety and
eagerness to justify him, conceiving it simple justice. I did not
the same for myself, for I did not justify myself; but our Lord made
me understand I should do for the Father what I did for myself, and
allow him to be destroyed and annihilated; for thereby he would
derive a far greater glory than he had done from all his reputation.

After Father La Combe arrived, he came to see me, and wrote to the
Bishop to know if he approved of my making use of him, and
confessing to him as I had done before. The Bishop sent me word to
do so, and thus I did it in all possible submissiveness.

In his absence I always confessed to the confessor of the House. The
first thing he said to me was that all his lights were deceptions,
and that I might return. I did not know why he said this. He added
that he could not see an opening to anything, and therefore it was
not probable God had anything for me to do in that country. These
words were the first greeting he gave me.

When Father La Combe proposed me to return, I felt some slight
repugnance in the senses, which did not last long. The soul can not
but allow herself to be led by obedience, not that she regards
obedience as a virtue, but it is that she can not be otherwise, nor
wish to do otherwise; she allows herself to be drawn along without
knowing why or how, as a person who should allow himself to be
carried along by the current of a rapid river. She can not apprehend
deception, nor even make a reflection thereon. Formerly it was by
self-surrender; but in her present state it is without even knowing
or understanding what she does, like a child whom its mother might
hold over the waves of a disturbed sea, and who fears nothing,
because it neither sees nor knows the danger; or like a madman who
casts himself into the sea without fear of destroying himself. It is
not that exactly, for to cast one's self is an "own" action, which
here the soul is without. She finds herself there, and she sleeps in
the vessel without dreading the danger. It was a long time since any
means of support had been sent me. Untroubled and without any
anxiety for the future, unable to fear poverty and famine, I saw
myself stripped of everything, unprovided for and without papers.

My daughter recovered her health. I must tell how this happened. She
had smallpox and the purples. They brought a doctor from Geneva, who
gave her up in despair. They made Father La Combe come in to take
her confession; he gave her his blessing, and at the same instant
the smallpox and the purples disappeared, and the fever left her.
The doctor, though a Protestant, offered to give a certificate of
miracle.

But although my daughter was restored, my crosses were not lessened,
owing to her bad education. The persecutions on the part of the New
Catholics continued, and became even more violent, without my
ceasing on that account to do them all the good I could. What
caused me some pain was that the mistress of my daughter came often
to converse with me. I saw so much imperfection in these
conversations, although spiritual, that I could not avoid making it
known to her; and as this hurt her, I was weak enough to be pained
at paining her, and to continue out of mere complacency things which
I saw to be very imperfect.

Father La Combe introduced order in many things regarding my
daughter; but the mistress was so hurt that the friendship she had
for me changed into coolness and distance. However, she had grace,
she readily got over it; but her natural character carried her
away.

* * * * *

Father La Combe was a very great preacher. His style was peculiarly his own.

Various accounts come to us of his power in swaying his audience. The man was tall, thin, ascetic and of remarkably handsome presence. His speech was slow, deliberate, kindly, courteous, and most effective. He disarmed criticism, from his first word. His voice was not loud nor deep, and he had that peculiar oratorical power which by pause and poise compels the audience to come to him. Madame Guyon relates that when he began to speak it was in a tone scarcely audible, and the audience leaned forward and listened with breathless interest. Occasionally, during his sermon, he would pause and kneel in silent prayer, and often by his pauses--his very silences--he would reach a degree of eloquence that would sway his hearers to tears.

The man had intellect, great spirituality, and moreover was a great actor, which latter fact need not be stated to his discredit--he used his personality to press home the truth he wished to impart.

The powers at Rome, realizing Father La Combe's ability as a preacher, refused to allow him a regular parish, but employed him in moving about from place to place conducting retreats. We would now call him a traveling evangelist. Monasteries and nunneries are very human institutions, and quibble, strife, jealousy, bickering, faction and feud play an important part in their daily routine.

To keep down the cliques and prevent disintegration, the close inspection of visiting prelates is necessary. Father La Combe, by his gentle, saintly manner, his golden speech, was everywhere a power for good.

Madame Guyon came under the sway of Father La Combe's eloquence. She felt the deep, abiding strength of his character. He was the first genuine man she had ever met, and in degree he filled her ideal. She sought him in confession, and the quality of her confession must surely have made an impression on him. Spirituality and sex are closely akin. Oratory and a well-sexed nature go together.

Father La Combe was a man. Madame Guyon was a woman.

Both were persons of high intellect, great purity of purpose, and sincerity of intent. But neither knew that piety is a by-product of sex.

They met to discuss religious themes: she wished to advise with him as to her spiritual estate. He treated her as a daughter--kissed her forehead when they parted, blessed her with laying on of hands.

Their relationship became mystic, symbolic, solemn, and filled with a deep religious awe; she had dreams where Father La Combe appeared to her--afterward she could not tell whether the dream was a vision or a reality. When they met in reality, she construed it into a dream. God was leading them, they said. They lived in God--and in each other.

Father La Combe went his way, bidding her a tender farewell--parting forever. In a few weeks Madame would appear at one of his retreats with a written consent from the Bishop.

She followed him to his home in Gex, and then to Geneva. She entered a convent and worked as a menial so as to be near him. The Bishop made Father La Combe her official adviser, so as to lend authority to their relationship.

All would have been well, had not the ardor and intensity of Madame Guyon's nature attracted the attention and then the jealousy of various monks and nuns. A woman of Madame Guyon's nature is content with nothing less than ownership and complete possession. She even went so far as to announce herself as mother-by-grace to Father La Combe.

This meant that God had sanctified their relationship, so she was his actual mother, all brought about by a miracle no less peculiar and wonderful than the story of the bread and wine. Through this miracle of motherhood she thought she must be near him always, care for him, "mother" him, drudge for him, slave for him, share his poverty and pain.

Such abject devotion is both beautiful and pathetic. That it bordered on insanity, there is no doubt. Father La Combe accepted the "motherhood" as sent by God, but later distrusted it and tried to send Madame Guyon away.

She accepted this new cross as a part of her purification. She suffered intensely, and so did he. It was a relationship divinely human, and they were trying to prove to themselves and to others that it was something else, for at that time people did not believe in the divinity of human love.

Rumors became rife, charges were brought and proved. The Church is now, and always has been, very lenient in its treatment of erring priests. In fact, those in authority take the lofty ground that a priest, like a king, can do no wrong, and that sins of the flesh are impossible to one divinely anointed. And as for the woman, she is merely guilty of indiscretion at the worst.

Madame Guyon's indiscretion took the form of religious ecstasy, and she claimed that the innermost living God was guiding her footsteps into a life of "Pure Love," or constant, divine adoration. Charges of "false doctrine" were brought against her, and Father La Combe was duly cautioned to have nothing to do with Madame Guyon in any way. For a time he assumed a harshness he did not feel, and ordered her back to her home to remain with her kinsmen: that he had a communication from God saying this was His will.

Madame started to obey, but fell ill to the point of death, and Father La Combe was sent for to come and take her last confession and bestow the rite of extreme unction. He came, a miracle was performed and Madame got well.

The relationship was too apparent to waive or overlook--scandal filled the air. Nuns and monks were quitting their religious devotions to talk about it.

Common, little, plain preachers might have their favorites, but Father La Combe and Madame Guyon were in the world's eye. The churchly authorities became alarmed at the influence exerted by Father La Combe and Madame Guyon. Their doctrine of "Quietism," or constant, pure love, was liable to create a schism. What the Church wants is fixity, security and obedience. At that time in France the civil authorities and the Church worked together. The "lettre de cachet" was utilized, and Father La Combe was landed suddenly and safely in the Bastile. We have gotten so used to liberty that we can hardly realize that only a hundred years ago, men were arrested without warrant, no charge having been made against them, tried in secret and disposed of as if they were already dead.

Father La Combe never regained his liberty. His mind reeled under his misfortunes and he died insane.

Madame Guyon was banished to a nunnery, which was a bastile arranged for ladies. For two years she was kept under lock and key. The authorities, however, relaxed their severities, not realizing that she was really more dangerous than Father La Combe.

Priests are apt to deal gently with beautiful women. From her prison Madame Guyon managed to get a letter to Fenelon, Bishop of Cambray. She asked for a hearing and that her case be passed upon by a tribunal. Fenelon referred the letter to Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux, recommending that the woman be given a hearing and judgment rendered as to the extent of her heresy. By a singular fatality Bossuet appointed Fenelon as chairman or chief inquisitor of the committee to investigate the vagaries and conduct of the Madame.

Bossuet, himself, became interested in the woman. He went to see her in prison, and her beauty, her intellect, her devotion, appealed to him.

Bossuet was an orator, the greatest in France at that time. His only rival was Fenelon, but the style and manner of the men were so different that they really played off against each other as foils.

Bossuet was vehement, powerful--what we would call "Western." Fenelon was suave, gentle, and won by an appeal to the highest and best in the hearts of his hearers. Father La Combe and Fenelon were very much alike, only Father La Combe had occupied a local position, while that of Fenelon was national. Fenelon was a diplomat, an author, an orator.

Madame Guyon's autobiography reveals the fact that Bossuet was enough interested in her case to have her removed to a nunnery near where he lived, and there he often called upon her. He read to her from his own writings, instead of analyzing hers, which proves priests to be simply men at the last. Bossuet needed the feminine mind to bolster his own, but Madame and he did not mix. In her autobiography she hesitates about actually condemning Bossuet, but describes him as short and fat, so it looks as if she were human, too, since what repelled her were his physical characteristics.

When a woman describes a man she always begins by telling how he looks.

Madame Guyon says: "The Bishop of Meaux wished me to change my name, so that, as he said, it should not be known I was in his diocese, and that people should not torment him on my account. The project was the finest in the world, if he could have kept a secret; but he told everybody he saw that I was in such a convent, under such a name. Immediately, from all sides, anonymous libels against me were sent to the Mother Superior and the nuns."

With Fenelon, it was very different. Her heart went out to him: he was the greatest man she had ever seen--greater even than Father La Combe.

Fenelon's first interview with Madame Guyon was simply in an official way, but her interest in him was very personal. This is evidenced from her brief, but very fervent, mention of the incident:

Having been visited by the Abbe de Fenelon, I was suddenly with
extreme force and sweetness interested for him. It seemed to me our
Lord united him to me very intimately, more so than any one else. It
appeared to me that, as it were, a spiritual filiation took place
between him and me. The next day, I had the opportunity of seeing
him again. I felt interiorly this first interview did not satisfy
him: that he did not relish me. I experienced a something which made
me long to pour my heart into his; but I found nothing to
correspond, and this made me suffer much. In the night I suffered
extremely about him.

In the morning I saw him. We remained for some time in silence, and
the cloud cleared off a little; but it was not yet as I wished it.

I suffered for eight whole days, after which I found myself united
to him without obstacle, and from that time I find the union
increasing in a pure and ineffable manner. It seems to me that my
soul has a perfect rapport with his, and those words of David
regarding Jonathan, that "his soul clave to that of David," appeared
to me suitable for this union. Our Lord has made me understand the
great designs He has for this person, and how dear he is to Him.

The justice of God causes suffering from time to time for certain
souls until their entire purification. As soon as they have arrived
where God wishes them, one suffers no longer for anything for them;
and the union which had been often covered with clouds is cleared up
in such a manner that it becomes like a very pure atmosphere,
penetrated everywhere, without distinction, by the light of the sun.
As Fenelon was given to me, in a more intimate manner than any
other, what I have suffered, what I am suffering, and what I shall
suffer for him, surpasses anything that can be told. The least
partition between him and me, between him and God, is like a little
dirt in the eye, which causes it an extreme pain, and which would
not inconvenience any other part of the body where it might be put.
What I suffer for him is very different from what I suffer for
others; but I am unable to discover the cause, unless it be God has
united me to him more intimately than to any other, and that God has
greater designs for him than for the others.

Fenelon the ascetic, he of the subtle intellect and high spiritual quality, had never met a woman on an absolute equality. Madame Guyon's religious fervor disarmed him. He saw her often, that he might comprehend the nature of her mission.

In the official investigation that followed, he naturally found himself the defender of her doctrines. She was condemned by the court, but Fenelon put in a minority report of explanation. The nature of the man was to defend the accused person; this was evidenced by his defense of the Huguenots, when he lifted up his voice for their liberty at a time when religious liberty was unknown. His words might have been the words of Thomas Jefferson, to whom Fenelon bore a strange resemblance in feature. Says Fenelon: "The right to be wrong in matters of religious belief must be accorded, otherwise we produce hypocrites instead of persons with an enlightened belief that is fully their own. If truth be mighty and God all-powerful, His children need not fear that disaster will follow freedom of thought."

After Madame Guyon was condemned she was allowed to go on suspended sentence, with a caution that silence was to be the price of her liberty, for before this she had attracted to herself, even in prison, congregations of several hundred to whom she preached, and among whom she distributed her writings.

The earnest, the sincere, the spiritual Fenelon never suspected where this friendship was to lead. Even when Madame Guyon slipped into his simple, little household as a servant under an assumed name, he was inwardly guileless. This proud woman with the domineering personality now wore wooden shoes and the garb of a scullion. She scrubbed the floors, did laundry-work, cooked, even worked in the garden looking after the vegetables and the flowers, that she might be near him.

Fenelon accepted this servile devotion, regarding it as a part of the woman's penance for sins done in the past. Most certainly love is blind, at least myopic, for Fenelon of the strong and subtle mind could not see that service for the beloved is the highest joy, and the more menial the service the better. Madame sought to deceive herself by making her person unsightly to her lord, and so she wore coarse and ragged dresses, calloused her hands, and allowed the sun to tan and freckle her face.

Of course then the inevitable happened: the intimacy slipped off into the most divine of human loves--or the most human of divine loves, if you prefer to express it so.

To prevent the scandal, the other servants were sent away. Nothing can be kept secret except for a day.

A person of Madame Guyon's worth could not be lost or secreted. For Fenelon to defend her and then secrete her was unpardonable to the arrogant Bossuet.

Fenelon had now to defend himself. How much of political rivalry as well as ecclesiastic has been made by the favor of women, who shall say!

Of her intimate relationship with Fenelon, Madame Guyon says nothing. The bond was of too sacred a nature to discuss, and here her frankness falters, as it should. She does not even defend it.

Fenelon and Madame Guyon were plotting against the Church and State--how very natural! The Madame was fifty; Fenelon was forty-seven--they certainly were old enough to know better, but they did not.

They parted of their own accord, solemnly and in tearful prayer, for parting is such sweet sorrow. And then, in a few weeks, they met again to consult as to the future.

Soon Bossuet stepped in and induced the Vatican to do for them what they could not do alone. Fenelon was stripped of his official robes, reduced to the rank of a parish priest, and sent to minister to an obscure and stricken church in the south of France. The country was battle-scarred, and poverty, ignorance and want stalked through the streets of the little village. Here Fenelon lived, as did the exiled Copernicus, forbidden to travel more than six miles from his church, or to speak to any but his own flock. Here he gave his life as a teacher of children, a nurse, a doctor and a spiritual guide to a people almost devoid of spirituality.

Madame Guyon was sent to a nunnery, where she was actually a prisoner, working as a menial. Fenelon and Madame Guyon never met again, but once a month they sent each other a love-letter on spiritual themes in which love wrote between the lines. Time had tamed the passions of Madame Guyon, otherwise no convent-walls would have been high enough to keep her captive. Sweet, sad memories fed her declining days, and within a few weeks of her death she declared that her life had been a success, "for I have been loved by Fenelon, the greatest and most saintly man of his time."

And as for the Abbe Fenelon, the verdict of the world seems to be that he was ruined by Madame Guyon; but if he ever thought so, no sign of recrimination ever escaped his lips.

FERDINAND LASSALLE AND HELENE VON DONNIGES

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

FERDINAND LASSALLE
PRINCE YANKO RACOWITZA
HERR VON DONNIGES
KARL MARX
DOCTOR HAENLE
JACQUES
HELENE VON DONNIGES
FRAU VON DONNIGES
FRAU HOLTHOFF
HILDA VON DONNIGES
Servants, maids, butler, landlord, ladies and gentlemen.

A wise man has said that there is a difference between fact and truth. He has also told us that things may be true and still not be so. The truth as to the love-story of Ferdinand Lassalle and Helene von Donniges can only be told by adhering strictly to the facts. Facts are not only stubborn things, but often very inconvenient; yet in this instance the simple facts fall easily into dramatic form, and the only way to tell the story seems to be to let it tell itself. Dramas are made up of incidents that have happened to somebody sometime, but in no instance that I ever heard of have all the situations pictured in a play happened to the persons who played the parts. The business of the playwright is selection and rejection, and usually the dramatic situations revealed have been culled from very many lives over a long course of years. Here the author need but reveal the tangled skein woven by Fate, Meddling Parents, Pride, Prejudice, Caprice, Ambition, Passion. In other words it is human nature in a tornado, and human nature is a vagrant ship, with a spurious chart, an uncertain compass, a drunken pilot, a mutinous crew and a crazy captain.

The moral seems to be that the tragedy of existence lies in interposing that newly discovered thing called intellect into the delicate affairs of life, instead of having faith in God, and moving serenely with the eternal tide.

Moses struck the rock, and the waters gushed forth; but if Moses had found a spring in the desert and then toiled mightily to smother it with a mountain of arid sand, I doubt me much whether the name of Moses would now live as one of the saviors of the world.

Parties with an eczema for management would do well to butt their heads three times against the wall and take note that the wall falls not. Then and then only are they safe from Megalocephalia. There are temptations in life that require all of one's will to succumb to; and he who resists not the current of his being, nor attempts to dam the fountain of life for another, shall be crowned with bay and be fed on ambrosia in Elysium.

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