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.

At that time I had not allowed myself to think of giving up convent life. Such a thought to me then would have been sacrilege, and the very greatest unfaithfulness to the Lord, to whom I believed myself espoused. These words which had been repeated in my ears, sounded loudly:

“Knowest thou not that the novitiate is a solemn espousal to our Lord Jesus Christ, and the consummation of the bridal tie with thy Lord will be expected of thee when thou shalt take the final vows?”

I could not forget that when I had been asked at the service of taking novice vows.

“What will become of you if you ever turn back, after taking up the golden plough?”

I had to make this reply: “I should then be unfit for the kingdom of God.”

Awful words were these, words which seemed like the announcement of our own eternal damnation. Father Ignatius now says, “Why did you do these penances? You were at liberty to refuse, and leave the convent.” But I would ask my readers to try and understand what _that_ implied, what terrible _mental torture_ (a form of torture more cruel and bitter than that imposed of old by the Inquisition) such a step involved. I am afraid no one _can_ realize it who has not herself passed through it. It is a maddening kind of torture, because one is strained up to such a pitch, and made to think of the awful sin against God and one’s own soul by going back; when for all eternity, by a little submission here, one would hereafter become the spotless bride of the Lamb, and gain a glorious crown to lay at His feet.

I am sure that never did any girl enter a convent, and remain in it for so many years, with a more sincere intention of serving and pleasing God through the will of her Superior than I did. I had been told many times that—

“God in His wisdom has appointed the reverend Mother, and declares that He will only accept your obedience through her, and through her alone.”

And yet she was the very one that made obedience impossible, by giving me rules that were beyond my power to fulfil; and often orders were given me, which I fulfilled, and yet would after all be reprimanded severely for daring to take upon myself to do them.

After suffering much at her hands for three years, I became convinced that she would never treat me better, and I made up my mind to leave the convent. When I asked her permission to leave, she always replied, “Yes, you can go. You may go at this moment if you like.” Yet she never did anything to further my departure. How could I go without clothes to put on? and I had nothing but my serge habit and cap, and was without money for my fare. Besides, it was many miles through a wild country to the nearest railway station, and I was ignorant of the way, and had been shut away from the world for sixteen years, from the early age of fifteen. The only journeys I had made were from convent to convent, and even then we had thick veils over our faces all the way, and were told not to put them up, though we were in close carriages. I wrote several times to my sister, asking her to send me some money to pay for my journey, and to tell me how to get to her, and to meet me. Over and over again I wrote to her, and received no reply. At last I discovered that my letters were not sent. Yet the world is told that nuns have _free_ intercourse with their friends outside. _Nothing of the kind!_

At last I wrote another letter, and forced myself into my Superior’s presence (for she had now forbidden me to go near her), and asked her to allow the letter to go by this post. I told her that it was to my sister, and that I had written for journey money, as I intended to leave. At this she quite raved, saying:

“Go out of my room this instant! I shall not allow your letter to go to your sister. You write so badly that it is a disgrace to the convent; and your other sister has written asking me not to let you write to her, as your letters worry her so.”

This was not true, as my sister has since told me that she wrote to the Superior requesting her kindly to give me a few details about my mother’s death. I had often written to my sister asking for a piece of my mother’s hair, and it worried her so, as my darling mother was burnt to death, and there was nothing left of her but a charred coal. I had been told only that she was dead, and, very naturally, I wanted to know all about it, and continually asked for the circumstances of her death, and a piece of her hair.

The reverend Mother knew all about it, my sister having written it in the first letter announcing my mother’s death, and yet she never told me what had taken place. My sister had now again written to the Superior asking her to tell me all about it, so that I should not be always asking the same question, which so worried my sister to have repeated unnecessarily as she thought.[13] My brothers, I learnt afterwards, had sent me their photographs, but they had been returned, after which they never wrote to me again, and I had meanwhile been wondering why I never heard from them.

I now felt utterly desolate to think I could not write to my sister, and I was in terror what would happen to me next: somehow I did not like to run away, as it then seemed to me dishonourable, so I said to a young sister, who I knew would report it:

“You know, I have asked over and over again to be allowed to go, and the reverend Mother will not let me. Now I am determined to watch my opportunity and run away; I shall stop at the first house I come to, and send some one up here to ask for money to pay my fare.”

An hour after this, the Novice-mistress came with a sun-bonnet, a black and white shawl, and a sovereign, saying:

“The reverend Mother says you have asked to go so many times. Now George is going to the station, and can drive you down there to-morrow. These are all the clothes she has to give you, and that money” (putting the sovereign down on the table) “_belongs to the altar_. If you choose to do so, take it, and you are to take _nothing_ away with you, not even a change of clothes.”

To this I replied: “Tell the reverend Mother I cannot go out a beggar; all I want is a change of clothes.”

She sent an answer back by a new sister.

“You came to her a beggar, and you will go away a beggar.”

It may be asked how it was that I felt so determined to leave. Before going on to relate how at last I did leave, I will mention that which _provoked_ me to my determination. I am sure that my readers will not think it a trifling provocation. It was as follows. One day the Mother Superior summoned us all to chapter, and commenced speaking to us thus:

“My dear children, I have come to the conclusion, which has now for some time been growing upon me (but I am now convinced of it), that poor Sister Agnes is _mad_.”

Every one seemed to start at this absurdity. I could only smile. She went on to say:

“Yes, I am quite convinced of it! and, poor child, this madness will grow upon her unless you are all very kind to her, and you all know how mad people are treated. You must never contradict them, and, therefore, you must never contradict Sister Agnes. If you do, the madness will increase; you must just say ‘yes’ to everything, unless you know she wants you to say ‘no’; you need not take the trouble to talk to her, or put yourselves out for her, unless she asks you a question; then simply smile at her and say ‘yes.’”

She then turned to me and said:

“I forbid you to go into church at all, or to speak to any one, unless it is absolutely necessary; but of course you will do as you like about it.”

My first thought was, “What a blessing! for I shall get a little peace now!” I was in peace for two days, and, if I asked questions about my work or anything, the sisters all smiled graciously, and nodded their heads, or replied, “yes.” After two days had passed, I began to wonder whether I really was mad or not. This thought took such hold upon me that I would sit for hours with my head in my hands, wondering if I had really lost my reason. The thought drove sleep from me, and, in fact, was slowly driving me really mad. I asked that new sister (L⸺ W⸺, from Devonshire) if she thought I was mad. She told me she did _not_ think me so; but I supposed that perhaps she only said this to please and humour me, according to the instructions given by the Mother Superior. She assured me, however, that she really knew I was not mad. In spite of this assurance, my mind was in as much doubt as before, and I arrived at the conclusion that if I was not already mad, I soon should be, with this awful doubt on my mind.

I again asked leave to go, and the reverend Mother replied before them all:

“I have nowhere to send you; directly I have, you shall go.”

“But,” I replied, “I want to go to _my sister_.”

Turning to the chapter again, she said:

“I assure you I only keep her here out of love. She is a poor child, without a friend in the world, entirely dependent on my charity, and that of the reverend Father.”

A strange suspicion was now borne into my mind, from what the Mother Superior had said about sending me away when she had a place to send me, that she was actually trying to drive me mad, and would then send me to a lunatic asylum. Hence arose my final decision to leave the convent at any cost.

To show my readers the kind of treatment I received from this lady, I will mention that one evening I was sitting alone, when suddenly I felt a great pain go through my head—so great that it almost stupified me. Then I felt a sudden box on my left ear, another on my right. I cried out, “Oh! oh!” not quite making out what it was, for the first blow had nearly stunned me.

Then a voice sounded, “I don’t care if I kill you,” and I saw close to me the Lady Prioress, or the reverend Mother Mary Wereburgh of the Blessed Sacrament!

O God, Thou knowest what I write is true, without adding to it or taking aught from it; and yet I had been induced to leave my own precious mother, and had been told that the love of a _spiritual_ father and mother and sister was so great, that the love of one’s own parents and sisters was not to be compared to it. I always craved to be loved. I had left all my earthly relations only to gain what I was told was a higher, purer, holier, and more noble love.

Behold my reward! And such shall be yours, my reader, if you should unhappily follow in my footsteps. Yes, disappointment will follow you, bitterness of heart beyond all description, a longing to go back to those dear ones whom you have left, and yet not daring to go lest the curse of God should fall upon you. I have spent seventeen years in the cloister, and let me tell you that nearly all, or, at least, a full half of that period was one of bitter sorrow and disappointment.

It was quite a common thing to have our ears boxed by the Lady Superior. In consequence, I became quite deaf in one ear, and, consequently, was often unable to hear the orders given me. I was reported to the reverend Father for disobedience, and I told him that it was through no fault of mine that I had failed in obeying orders, but that I had had my ears boxed to such an extent that I had become quite deaf in one ear.

One day I was coming from nones at 2.45 p.m. This “Mother” commanded me to stay where I was, and not to return to work, and then said:

“You have got the DEVIL in you, and I am going to beat him out.”

All left the sacristy but myself, the Mother Superior, and one nun, who was ordered to be present at the casting out of the devil. I was commanded first to strip. I saw “the Discipline,” with its seven lashes of knotted whipcord in her hand, and I knew that one lash given (or taken by oneself) was in reality seven. I should mention that at certain times it was the rule to discipline oneself.[14]

Now my first thought when commanded to strip was, “I can’t;” it would not be right or modest to strip (it meant to the waist). Then it came into my mind that Jesus did not thus think, when the soldiers ordered Him to strip to be scourged. He simply obeyed, and I felt sure that what He did I might imitate. So I said inwardly, “Yes, dear Lord, for love of Thee I can.” Then I began to undress; but when I came to my vest, shame again overcame me.

“Take that thing off,” said the Mother Superior. I replied, “I cannot, reverend Mother; it’s too tight.” The nun who was present was told to help me to get it off. A deep feeling of shame came over me at being half nude!

The Mother then ordered the nun to say the “_Miserere_,” and while it was recited she lashed me several times with all her strength. I was determined not to utter a sound, but at last I could not restrain a smothered groan, whereat she gave me one last and cruel lash, and then ceased.

Even three weeks after she had “Disciplined” me, I had a very sore back, and it hurt me greatly to lie on it (our beds were straw put into sacks).

There was a looking-glass in the room I now occupied (nuns do not usually have them), and I looked to see if my back was marked, as it was so sore. Never shall I forget the shock it gave me. I turned quickly away, for my back was black, blue, and green all over.

I will explain to my readers what “devil” in me it was that the Lady Prioress had been attempting to drive out. You have seen how very unkind she had been to me, and, not daring to speak to her, I made a cake, which I knew her to be very fond of, and sent a note with it, begging her to be kind to me; and I told her I was willing to do anything if only she would be kind. I asked what she would have done if kindness had not been shown to her, when she asked for readmission to the Feltham convent; and I implored her, by the remembrance of that kindness which had been shown her, to be kind to me, and I signed myself, “Your loving child, M. A.,” or words as near to this as I can now remember. This was the “devil” I had at this and at all other times. The fact is, that I knew too much about her, which no other sister did, and yet I never even breathed it to a soul!

Owing to the hard life we had to lead at the convent, I was not at all strong; in fact, I frequently felt ill and tired. I was often so weary that I could have laid down and willingly died. I often found it difficult to walk downstairs and up again in the middle of the night. The novice-mistress would then sometimes roughly push me, to make me go faster. I would often faint whilst reciting the Psalms aloud, and drop down on the floor, thus always hurting my head. If Father Ignatius happened to be near, they would show me some degree of kindness; but if he was away, they would drag me out of chapel and try to make me walk upstairs, or I was roughly pushed or dragged up when I had not the strength to walk. Once I remember they put me out into the sacristy, and laid me on the step of the folding door which led to the garden, and, opening the door wide, they left me there whilst they went back to prayers. I had fainted, and on recovering I would have given anything for some water, but not a drop did they give me. After a while I got so cold, and could not move myself, but, notwithstanding my pitiable condition, I had to wait till they came out of chapel. I was only partly dressed, and it was in the depth of winter. The next day I could not speak, and had a severe attack of bronchitis.[15]

It certainly was no temptation to faint, and they must have known I was not shamming, because Father Ignatius, who was always very kind in any illness, once brought Dr. Hanson to see me whilst in a faint, who said, “It comes from weakness. This young nun is very weak.”

Once the Mother Superior actually pinned a large paper in front of me, and another on my back. On the latter was written in large letters: “Jesus”—“Mercy”—“Pray for me”—“Beware of me.” All through that day I had to wear this, and saw the partly hidden smiles, and heard the loud laugh of those about me. I did not criticize or make any objection, and tried to bear with equanimity this humiliation.

At another time she wrote a confession for me to copy, sign, and send to Father Ignatius. In this confession were these words: “I felt great repugnance to obey, when reverend Mother desired me to give up all the letters and books which reverend Father had given me.” This was untrue, but holy obedience compelled me to write the untruth, and I copied the confession out, and sent it over to the monastery. In a few hours the reverend Father came over, called a chapter, and quoted what I had written as a proof that I would not submit to the reverend Mother.

“But,” I said, “dear Father, I did not feel a repugnance, or let myself think anything; I obeyed at once.”

“Then why did you write this note to me?”

I replied, “The reverend Mother told me to write it.”

“Did you, dear Mother?” he asked.

“No!” was her answer.

I then said, “Well, she did not exactly tell me. She wrote the confession, and sent a note telling me to copy and sign it.”

The reverend Father then said, “Give me her note.”

I said, “I cannot, for she told me to send it back to her directly I had read it, and I did so.”

He then turned to her, and she put on the most innocent face, looking at the same time aghast at me, and groaned:

“Oh!” she cried, shaking her head, as if it was too awful to listen to me. After a great deal of talking on their part, I was finally dismissed with:

“Poor child! She is not accountable for anything she says. She is quite possessed.”

These words from Father Ignatius, who I thought would at last see how unjust she was to me, caused me deep grief.

This was by no means the first time I had a false confession to copy, and send as my own. Mother Cecilia (the Novice-mistress) once gave me a confession, in her writing, to copy and send to the reverend Father. I read it, and then knelt down, and kissed the hem of her dress, and said:

“I am very sorry, but I cannot write this, as it is untrue.”

Her reply was, “You can do anything you are told.”

I then knew that I _must_ obey, and therefore I wrote at the end of the confession:

“Dear Father, this is not true, I have only copied it.”

I sealed the letter, and was going to send it, but Mother Cecilia took it, read it, and severely lectured me, saying:

“You have not a spark of the spirit of obedience in you.”

She often told me to do or say what was not true, and I could not, and often I used to cry and say:

“Mother mistress, I really do want to be obedient; but that is not true, and I cannot write it.”

“No,” she would tauntingly reply, “I know you cannot. You have plenty of sense, you are quick and clever, etc.; but there is one thing you cannot do. You cannot give up your will, you cannot do as you are told. Therefore you cannot be a nun.”

The truth was, that they did not want me to become a fully professed nun, because, as such, I should have had a voice in the community; and having been with Father Ignatius so long, I was not afraid of him, and used to speak about everything to him, and let him know what otherwise he would not have known. In order, then, to gain their own ends, they must first lower me in his eyes, and prove by all manner of intriguing that I had “no vocation.” After four years they succeeded in convincing him of it, and he finally told me I had no vocation for the “religious life.” He must have been very slow of discernment not to have found that out before, considering that I had been a sister for seventeen years.

I trust all this will not appear wearisome to my readers. I hope that this book will be read by many who may possibly have very little idea of what convent life is. On the surface convent life has a great attraction for some minds. When we were in Devonshire, a girl of the name of Lily W., who lived just opposite the convent, was desperately in love with it, having seen all the glitter and outside show, and heard the sweet music and singing, and having seen the bridal ceremony of Sister Ermenild taking the white veil, and observed the peaceful looks of the nuns whom she watched walking in the garden. I would observe here, that what _appears_ a peaceful look is simply an attitude that rule drills us into. Now, Lily W. thought that convent life must be heaven upon earth. This girl came to us at Llanthony, but she received a very cold welcome. She was given plenty of hard work, was taken no notice of, and had to keep silence all day, like the professed novices and nuns, except during recreation hour. When she had been there three days, she said to me:

“Oh, dear! it is all so different from what I thought.”

She spent her days and nights in sighing and crying, and seemed so miserable that I remarked to the Prioress:

“Poor Lily seems so miserable, and she is always crying and sighing, more or less, day and night.”

The Prioress replied, “Serve her right; she should not have pushed herself into a hornet’s nest. If people will push themselves into a hornet’s nest, they must expect to be stung.”

Nuns have said to me more than once: “If it were not for my vows, I would not stay in the convent another day.” Another has said to me:

“Alas! I often look round and think can _this_ be what I gave up my beautiful home for? If ever a woman came into a convent with a sincere desire to serve God, I did.”

And I am sure she spoke the truth. Afterwards she became a hard and tyrannical woman; but it was not her fault; for convent life does one of two things—it either crushes, or hardens its victims.

I assure my readers that convent life must crush every bit of self out of its victims. I was crushed by the life, and not seldom felt inclined to drown myself.