Produced by Christopher Hapka





A FAIR PENITENT

By Wilkie Collins




About "A Fair Penitent"

This story first appeared in Charles Dickens' magazine, "Household
Words," volume 16, number 382, July 18, 1857. Published anonymously, as
all contributions to the magazine were, it was attributed definitely
to Wilkie Collins by Anne Lohrli in her analysis of the magazine's
financial accounts.




A FAIR PENITENT


Charles Pineau Duclos was a French writer of biographies and novels,
who lived and worked during the first half of the eighteenth century. He
prospered sufficiently well, as a literary man, to be made secretary to
the French Academy, and to be allowed to succeed Voltaire in the
office of historiographer of France. He has left behind him, in his
own country, the reputation of a lively writer of the second class, who
addressed the public of his day with fair success, and who, since his
death, has not troubled posterity to take any particular notice of him.

Among the papers left by Duclos, two manuscripts were found, which he
probably intended to turn to some literary account. The first was a
brief Memoir, written by himself, of a Frenchwoman, named Mademoiselle
Gautier, who began life as an actress and who ended it as a Carmelite
nun. The second manuscript was the lady's own account of the process
of her conversion, and of the circumstances which attended her moral
passage from the state of a sinner to the state of a saint. There are
certain national peculiarities in the character of Mademoiselle Gautier
and in the narrative of her conversion, which are perhaps interesting
enough to be reproduced with some chance of pleasing the present day.

It appears, from the account given of her by Duclos, that Mademoiselle
Gautier made her appearance on the stage of the Théâtre François in
the year seventeen hundred and sixteen. She is described as a handsome
woman, with a fine figure, a fresh complexion, a lively disposition, and
a violent temper. Besides possessing capacity as an actress, she could
write very good verses, she was clever at painting in miniature, and,
most remarkable quality of all, she was possessed of prodigious muscular
strength. It is recorded of Mademoiselle, that she could roll up
a silver plate with her hands, and that she covered herself with
distinction in a trial of strength with no less a person than the famous
soldier, Marshal Saxe.

Nobody who is at all acquainted with the social history of the
eighteenth century in France, need be told that Mademoiselle Gautier had
a long list of lovers,--for the most part, persons of quality, marshals,
counts, and so forth. The only man, however, who really attached her to
him, was an actor at the Théâtre François, a famous player in his day,
named Quinault Dufresne. Mademoiselle Gautier seems to have loved him
with all the ardour of her naturally passionate disposition. At first,
he returned her affection; but, as soon as she ventured to test the
sincerity of his attachment by speaking of marriage, he cooled towards
her immediately, and the connection between them was broken off. In all
her former love-affairs, she had been noted for the high tone which she
adopted towards her admirers, and for the despotic authority which she
exercised over them even in her gayest moments. But the severance of
her connection with Quinault Dufresne wounded her to her heart. She
had loved the man so dearly, had made so many sacrifices for him, had
counted so fondly on the devotion of her whole future life to him, that
the first discovery of his coldness towards her broke her spirit at once
and for ever. She fell into a condition of hopeless melancholy, looked
back with remorse and horror at her past life, and abandoned the stage
and the society in which she had lived, to end her days repentantly in
the character of a Carmelite nun.

So far, her history is the history of hundreds of other women before her
time and after it. The prominent interest of her life, for the student
of human nature, lies in the story of her conversion, as told by
herself. The greater part of the narrative--every page of which is more
or less characteristic of the Frenchwoman of the eighteenth century--may
be given, with certain suppressions and abridgments, in her own words.
The reader will observe, at the outset, one curious fact. Mademoiselle
Gautier does not so much as hint at the influence which the loss of
her lover had in disposing her mind to reflect on serious subjects.
She describes her conversion as if it had taken its rise in a sudden
inspiration from Heaven. Even the name of Quinault Dufresne is not once
mentioned from one end of her narrative to the other.


On the twenty-fifth of April, seventeen hundred and twenty-two
(writes Mademoiselle Gautier), while I was still leading a life of
pleasure--according to the pernicious ideas of pleasure which pass
current in the world--I happen to awake, contrary to my usual custom,
between eight and nine o'clock in the morning. I remember that it is my
birthday; I ring for my people; and my maid answers the bell, alarmed by
the idea that I am ill. I tell her to dress me that I may go to mass. I
go to the Church of the Cordeliers, followed by my footman, and taking
with me a little orphan whom I had adopted. The first part of the mass
is celebrated without attracting my attention; but, at the second part
the accusing voice of my conscience suddenly begins to speak. "What
brings you here?" it says. "Do you come to reward God for making you the
attractive person that you are, by mortally transgressing His laws
every day of your life?" I hear that question, and I am unspeakably
overwhelmed by it. I quit the chair on which I have hitherto been
leaning carelessly, and I prostrate myself in an agony of remorse on the
pavement of the church.

The mass over, I send home the footman and the orphan, remaining behind
myself, plunged in inconceivable perplexity. At last I rouse myself on
a sudden; I go to the sacristy; I demand a mass for my own proper
advantage every day; I determine to attend it regularly; and, after
three hours of agitation, I return home, resolved to enter on the path
that leads to justification.

Six months passed. Every morning I went to my mass: every evening I
spent in my customary dissipations.

Some of my friends indulged in considerable merriment at my expense when
they found out my constant attendance at mass. Accordingly, I disguised
myself as a boy, when I went to church, to escape observation. My
disguise was found out, and the jokes against me were redoubled. Upon
this, I began to think of the words of the Gospel, which declare the
impossibility of serving two masters. I determined to abandon the
service of Mammon.

The first vanity I gave up was the vanity of keeping a maid. By way of
further accustoming myself to the retreat from the world which I now
began to meditate, I declined all invitations to parties under the
pretext of indisposition. But the nearer the Easter time approached at
which I had settled in my own mind definitely to turn my back on worldly
temptations and pleasures, the more violent became my internal struggles
with myself. My health suffered under them to such an extent that I
was troubled with perpetual attacks of retching and sickness, which,
however, did not prevent me from writing my general confession,
addressed to the vicar of Saint Sulpice, the parish in which I lived.

Just Heaven! what did I not suffer some days afterwards, when I united
around me at dinner, for the last time, all the friends who had been
dearest to me in the days of my worldly life! What words can describe
the tumult of my heart when one of my guests said to me, "You are giving
us too good a dinner for a Wednesday in Passion Week;" and when another
answered, jestingly, "You forget that this is her farewell dinner to her
friends!" I felt ready to faint while they were talking, and rose
from table pretexting as an excuse, that I had a payment to make that
evening, which I could not in honour defer any longer. The company rose
with me, and saw me to the door. I got into my carriage, and the company
returned to table. My nerves were in such a state that I shrieked at the
first crack of the coachman's whip; and the company came running down
again to know what was the matter. One of my servants cleverly stopped
them from all hurrying out to the carriage together, by declaring that
the scream proceeded from my adopted orphan. Upon this they returned
quietly enough to their wine, and I drove off with my general confession
to the vicar of Saint Sulpice.

My interview with the vicar lasted three hours. His joy at discovering
that I was in a state of grace was extreme. My own emotions were quite
indescribable. Late at night I returned to my own house, and found my
guests all gone. I employed myself in writing farewell letters to
the manager and company of the theatre, and in making the necessary
arrangements for sending back my adopted orphan to his friends, with
twenty pistoles. Finally, I directed the servants to say, if anybody
enquired after me the next day, that I had gone out of town for some
time; and after that, at five o'clock in the morning, I left my home in
Paris never to return to it again.

By this time I had thoroughly recovered my tranquillity. I was as easy
in my mind at leaving my house as I am now when I quit my cell to sing
in the choir. Such already was the happy result of my perpetual masses,
my general confession, and my three hours' interview with the vicar of
Saint Sulpice.

Before taking leave of the world, I went to Versailles to say good-bye
to my worthy patrons, Cardinal Fleury and the Duke de Gesvres. From
them, I went to mass in the King's Chapel; and after that, I called on
a lady of Versailles whom I had mortally offended, for the purpose of
making my peace with her. She received me angrily enough. I told her I
had not come to justify myself, but to ask her pardon. If she granted
it, she would send me away happy. If she declined to be reconciled,
Providence would probably be satisfied with my submission, but certainly
not with her refusal. She felt the force of this argument; and we made
it up on the spot.

I left Versailles immediately afterwards, without taking anything to
eat; the act of humility which I had just performed being as good as a
meal to me.

Towards evening, I entered the house of the Community of Saint Perpetua
at Paris. I had ordered a little room to be furnished there for me,
until the inventory of my worldly effects was completed, and until
I could conclude my arrangements for entering a convent. On first
installing myself, I began to feel hungry at last, and begged the
Superior of the Community to give me for supper anything that remained
from the dinner of the house. They had nothing but a little stewed
carp, of which I eat with an excellent appetite. Marvellous to relate,
although I had been able to keep nothing on my stomach for the past
three months, although I had been dreadfully sick after a little rice
soup on the evening before, the stewed carp of the sisterhood of
Saint Perpetua, with some nuts afterwards for dessert, agreed with me
charmingly, and I slept all through the night afterwards as peacefully
as a child!

When the news of my retirement became public, it occasioned great talk
in Paris. Various people assigned various reasons for the strange course
that I had taken. Nobody, however, believed that I had quitted the world
in the prime of my life (I was then thirty-one years old), never to
return to it again. Meanwhile, my inventory was finished and my goods
were sold. One of my friends sent a letter, entreating me to reconsider
my determination. My mind was made up, and I wrote to say so. When my
goods had been all sold, I left Paris to go and live incognito as a
parlour-boarder in the Convent of the Ursuline nuns of Pondevaux. Here
I wished to try the mode of life for a little while before I assumed the
serious responsibility of taking the veil. I knew my own character--I
remembered my early horror of total seclusion, and my inveterate dislike
to the company of women only; and, moved by these considerations, I
resolved, now that I had taken the first important step, to proceed in
the future with caution.

The nuns of Pondevaux received me among them with great kindness. They
gave me a large room, which I partitioned off into three small ones.
I assisted at all the pious exercises of the place. Deceived by my
fashionable appearance and my plump figure, the good nuns treated me
as if I was a person of high distinction. This afflicted me, and I
undeceived them. When they knew who I really was, they only behaved
towards me with still greater kindness. I passed my time in reading and
praying, and led the quietest, sweetest life it is possible to conceive.

After ten months' sojourn at Pondevaux, I went to Lyons, and entered
(still as parlour-boarder only) the House of Anticaille, occupied by the
nuns of the Order of Saint Mary. Here, I enjoyed the advantage of having
for director of my conscience that holy man, Father Deveaux. He belonged
to the Order of the Jesuits; and he was good enough, when I first asked
him for advice, to suggest that I should get up at eleven o'clock at
night to say my prayers, and should remain absorbed in devotion until
midnight. In obedience to the directions of this saintly person, I kept
myself awake as well as I could till eleven o'clock. I then got on my
knees with great fervour, and I blush to confess it, immediately fell as
fast asleep as a dormouse. This went on for several nights, when Father
Deveaux finding that my midnight devotions were rather too much for me,
was so obliging as to prescribe another species of pious exercise, in
a letter which he wrote to me with his own hand. The holy father, after
deeply regretting my inability to keep awake, informed me that he had
a new act of penitence to suggest to me by the performance of which I
might still hope to expiate my sins. He then, in the plainest terms,
advised me to have recourse to the discipline of flagellation, every
Friday, using the cat-o'-nine-tails on my bare shoulders for the length
of time that it would take to repeat a Miserere. In conclusion, he
informed me that the nuns of Anticaille would probably lend me the
necessary instrument of flagellation; but, if they made any difficulty
about it, he was benevolently ready to furnish me with a new and special
cat-o'-nine-tails of his own making.

Never was woman more amazed or more angry than I, when I first read this
letter. "What!" cried I to myself, "does this man seriously recommend me
to lash my own shoulders? Just Heaven, what impertinence! And yet, is it
not my duty to put up with it? Does not this apparent insolence proceed
from the pen of a holy man? If he tells me to flog my wickedness out of
me, is it not my bounden duty to lay on the scourge with all my might
immediately? Sinner that I am! I am thinking remorsefully of my plump
shoulders and the dimples on my back, when I ought to be thinking of
nothing but the cat-o'-nine-tails and obedience to Father Deveaux?"

These reflections soon gave me the resolution which I had wanted at
first. I was ashamed to ask the nuns for an instrument of flagellation;
so I made one for myself of stout cord, pitilessly knotted at very short
intervals. This done, I shut myself up while the nuns were at prayer,
uncovered my shoulders, and rained such a shower of lashes on them,
in the first fervour of my newly-awakened zeal, that I fairly flogged
myself down on the ground, flat on my nose, before I had repeated more
of the Miserere than the first two or three lines.

I burst out crying, shedding tears of spite against myself when I ought
to have been shedding tears of devotional gratitude for the kindness of
Father Deveaux. All through the night I never closed my eyes, and in the
morning I found my poor shoulders (once so generally admired for their
whiteness) striped with all the colours of the rainbow. The sight threw
me into a passion, and I profanely said to myself while I was dressing,
"The next time I see Father Deveaux, I will give my tongue full swing,
and make the hair of that holy man stand on end with terror!" A few
hours afterwards, he came to the convent, and all my resolution melted
away at the sight of him. His imposing exterior had such an effect on
me that I could only humbly entreat him to excuse me from indicting a
second flagellation on myself. He smiled, benignantly, and granted my
request with a saintly amiability. "Give me the cat-o'-nine-tails," he
said, in conclusion, "and I will keep it for you till you ask me for it
again. You are sure to ask for it again, dear child--to ask for it on
your bended knees!"

Pious and prophetic man! Before many days had passed his words came
true. If he had persisted severely in ordering me to flog myself, I
might have opposed him for months together; but, as it was, who could
resist the amiable indulgence he showed towards my weakness? The
very next day after my interview, I began to feel ashamed of my own
cowardice; and the day after that I went down on my knees, exactly as
he had predicted, and said, "Father Deveaux, give me back my
cat-o'-nine-tails." From that time I cheerfully underwent the discipline
of flagellation, learning the regular method of practising it from the
sisterhood, and feeling, in a spiritual point of view, immensely the
better for it.

The nuns, finding that I cheerfully devoted myself to every act of
self-sacrifice prescribed by the rules of their convent, wondered very
much that I still hesitated about taking the veil. I begged them not to
mention the subject to me till my mind was quite made up about it. They
respected my wish, and said no more; but they lent me books to read
which assisted in strengthening my wavering resolution. Among these
books was the Life of Madame de Montmorenci, who, after the shocking
death of her husband, entered the Order of St. Mary. The great example
of this lady made me reflect seriously, and I communicated my thoughts,
as a matter of course, to Father Deveaux. He assured me that the one
last greatest sacrifice which remained for me to make was the sacrifice
of my liberty. I had long known that this was my duty, and I now felt,
for the first time, that I had courage and resolution enough boldly to
face the idea of taking the veil.

While I was in this happy frame of mind, I happened to meet with the
history of the famous Rancé, founder, or rather reformer, of the Order
of La Trappe. I found a strange similarity between my own worldly errors
and those of this illustrious penitent. The discovery had such an effect
on me, that I spurned all idea of entering a convent where the rules
were comparatively easy, as was the case at Anticaille, and determined,
when I did take the veil, to enter an Order whose discipline was as
severe as the discipline of La Trappe itself. Father Deveaux informed me
that I should find exactly what I wanted among the Carmelite nuns;
and, by his advice, I immediately put myself in communication with
the Archbishop of Villeroi. I opened my heart to this worthy prelate,
convinced him of my sincerity, and gained from him a promise that he
would get me admitted among the Carmelite nuns of Lyons. One thing I
begged of him at parting, which was, that he would tell the whole truth
about my former life and about the profession that I had exercised in
the world. I was resolved to deceive nobody, and to enter no convent
under false pretences of any sort.

My wishes were scrupulously fulfilled; and the nuns were dreadfully
frightened when they heard that I had been an actress at Paris. But the
Archbishop promising to answer for me, and to take all their scruples
on his own conscience, they consented to receive me. I could not trust
myself to take formal leave of the nuns of Anticaille, who had been
so kind to me, and towards whom I felt so gratefully. So I wrote my
farewell to them after privately leaving their house, telling them
frankly the motives which animated me, and asking their pardon for
separating myself from them in secret.

On the fourteenth of October, seventeen hundred and twenty-four, I
entered the Carmelite convent at Lyons, eighteen months after my flight
from the world, and my abandonment of my profession--to adopt which, I
may say, in my own defence, that I was first led through sheer poverty.
At the age of seventeen years, and possessing (if I may credit report)
remarkable personal charms, I was left perfectly destitute through the
spendthrift habits of my father. I was easily persuaded to go on the
stage, and soon tempted, with my youth and inexperience, to lead an
irregular life. I do not wish to assert that dissipation necessarily
follows the choice of the actress's profession, for I have known many
estimable women on the stage. I, unhappily, was not one of the number. I
confess it to my shame, and, as the chief of sinners, I am only the more
grateful to the mercy of Heaven which accomplished my conversion.

When I entered the convent, I entreated the prioress to let me live in
perfect obscurity, without corresponding with my friends, or even with
my relations. She declined to grant this last request, thinking that
my zeal was leading me too far. On the other hand, she complied with
my wish to be employed at once, without the slightest preparatory
indulgence or consideration, on any menial labour which the discipline
of the convent might require from me. On the first day of my admission a
broom was put into my hands. I was appointed also to wash up the dishes,
to scour the saucepans, to draw water from a deep well, to carry each
sister's pitcher to its proper place, and to scrub the tables in the
refectory. From these occupations I got on in time to making rope
shoes for the sisterhood, and to taking care of the great clock of the
convent; this last employment requiring me to pull up three immensely
heavy weights regularly every day. Seven years of my life passed in this
hard work, and I can honestly say that I never murmured over it.

To return, however, to the period of my admission into the convent.

After three months of probation, I took the veil on the twentieth of
January, seventeen hundred and twenty-five. The Archbishop did me the
honour to preside at the ceremony; and, in spite of the rigour of the
season, all Lyons poured into the church to see me take the vows. I was
deeply affected; but I never faltered in my resolution. I pronounced the
oaths with a firm voice, and with a tranquillity which astonished all
the spectators,--a tranquillity which has never once failed me since
that time.

Such is the story of my conversion. Providence sent me into the
world with an excellent nature, with a true heart, with a remarkable
susceptibility to the influence of estimable sentiments. My parents
neglected my education, and left me in the world, destitute of
everything but youth, beauty, and a lively temperament. I tried hard to
be virtuous; I vowed, before I was out of my teens, and when I happened
to be struck down by a serious illness, to leave the stage, and to keep
my reputation unblemished, if anybody would only give me two hundred
livres a year to live upon. Nobody came forward to help me, and I fell.

Heaven pardon the rich people of Paris who might have preserved my
virtue at so small a cost! Heaven grant me courage to follow the better
path into which its mercy has led me, and to persevere in a life of
penitence and devotion to the end of my days!


So this singular confession ends. Besides the little vanities and
levities which appear here and there on its surface, there is surely a
strong under-current of sincerity and frankness which fit it to appeal
in some degree to the sympathy as well as the curiosity of the reader.
It is impossible to read the narrative without feeling that there must
have been something really genuine and hearty in Mademoiselle Gautier's
nature; and it is a gratifying proof of the honest integrity of her
purpose to know that she persevered to the last in the life of humility
and seclusion which her conscience had convinced her was the best life
that she could lead. Persons who knew her in the Carmelite convent,
report that she lived and died in it, preserving to the last, all the
better part of the youthful liveliness of her character. She always
received visitors with pleasure, always talked to them with surprising
cheerfulness, always assisted the poor, and always willingly wrote
letters to her former patrons in Paris to help the interests of her
needy friends. Towards the end of her life, she was afflicted with
blindness; but she was a trouble to no one in consequence of this
affliction, for she continued, in spite of it, to clean her own cell,
to make her own bed, and to cook her own food just as usual. One little
characteristic vanity--harmless enough, surely?--remained with her to
the last. She never forgot her own handsome face, which all Paris had
admired in the by-gone time; and she contrived to get a dispensation
from the Pope which allowed her to receive visitors in the convent
parlour without a veil.