I HAD now entered upon my retreat or season of retirement, for the purpose of prayer and meditation. My father had taken great pains to accustom me to thoughtful, studious habits at an age when most boys are absorbed by their play. But never till I became a Postulant had I the slightest idea of what a weariness alike to mind and body meditation may become. Every mental power must be concentrated upon a given subject in such a way and for so long a time that complete nervous exhaustion is the unvarying result.
I had four meditations daily, the intervals of time between being occupied in verbal prayer, devotional reading, and examination of conscience before going to confession.
At the close of each meditation I received a visit from the venerable monk in whose care I had been placed and in whom I faithfully confided. The fervor and earnestness of this monk, who bore the title of Novice Father, often impressed me greatly. His influence over me was almost unbounded. But I often found myself trying, though in vain, to find some cause for the sad, almost troubled look his face always wore.
About the middle of the retreat I began my confession. This I had been directed to make as minute as possible, so that it was really a very detailed account of my whole past life, with all its sins, as far as I could remember them, of thought, word, and deed. I never felt any shame in confession, my early training having been such that I looked upon the priest as the vice-regent of God; to him I told all.
I received instruction also as to the nature of the monastic vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. What are these vows? Let us consider them singly for a few moments.
Holy poverty, as it is generally called, taught us that a monk can possess nothing, however small and valueless. Everything, even the clothes we wore, and the books we used, belonged to the order. If a postulant has money he cannot retain the smallest coin for his own use, but is expected to make it over to the order by deed of gift before his reception. I have seen a brother reproved and compelled to do penance for having broken his vow of poverty by some such offense as lending a shoe-string or a pin without having asked and received permission to do so, the string or pin being the property of the order.
We heard much, too, about the gift of chastity, passages from the lives of Romish saints, who were said to have attained to a high state with regard to this grace, being frequently read or repeated to us. One I remember, as having impressed me greatly. It occurs in the life of St. Aloysius, who, Cardinal Bellerman writes, "Never looked at any woman, kept his eyes strictly guarded, and generally cast down; would never stay alone with his mother, and if she sent him a message by one of her ladies, he received it and returned answer in a few words with his eyes shut.”
I have had many opportunities of observing the low state of public morals in Austria, Spain, and Italy, and believe much may be traced to the false and unscriptural teaching of Rome on this subject.
But it was of holy obedience that I heard most from the lips of the novice father. Obedience, he told me, was the highest virtue to which the monk could attain. It was to be complete, blind, and unquestioning. Every power of mind and body must be held at the entire disposal of another. Perhaps a story will best explain what is required.
A monk was told by his abbot to water a dry stick set upright in the convent garden. He obeyed without a question, or even the thought of one, when the stick put forth leaves and branches and grew into a stately tree. At least so says the story. The will of our superior, we were taught to believe, was the will of God, for he stood to us in the place of God, and could we doubt or dispute His authority?
Did any command received by us seem unreasonable or even impossible, we were taught to banish the thought that our abbot could be wrong or mistaken as a temptation of the evil one. For was not the voice of the Savior, the voice of God, to be heard and obeyed as such by every member of the community?