Little Journeys to the Homes of Famous Women — Madame Guyon, Part 1
MADAME GUYON
To me remains nor place nor time;
My country is in every clime;
I can be calm and free from care, On any shore, since God is there.
While place we seek or place we shun, The soul finds happiness in none;
But with a God to guide our way, 'Tis equal joy to go or stay.
Could I be cast where Thou art not, That were indeed a dreadful lot;
But regions none remote I call, Secure of finding God in all.
_God Is Everywhere_ [Illustration: MADAME GUYON] Jeanne Marie Bouvier sat one day writing at her little oaken desk, when her father approached and, kissing her very gently on the forehead, told her that he had arranged for her marriage, and that her future husband was soon to arrive.
Jeanne's fingers lost their cunning, the pen dropped; she arose to her feet, but her tongue was dumb.
Jeanne Marie was only sixteen, but you would have thought her twenty, for she was tall and dignified--she was as tall as her father: she was five feet nine.
She had a splendid length of limb, hips that gave only a suggestion of curve line, a slender waist, a shapely, well-poised neck, and a head that might have made a Juno envious.
The face and brow were not those of Venus--rather they belonged to Minerva; for the nose was large, the chin full, and the mouth no pea's blossom.
The hair was light brown, but when the sun shone on it people said it was red.
It was as generous in quantity and unruly in habits as the westerly wind.
Her eyes were all colors, changing according to her mood.
Withal, she had freckles, and no one was ever so rash as to call her pretty.
Now, Jeanne's father had not kissed her for two years, for he was a very busy man: he had not time for soft demonstration.
He was rich, he was religious, and he was looked upon as a model citizen in every way.
The daughter had grown like a sunflower, and her intellect had unfolded as a moss-rose turns from bud to blossom.
This splendid girl had thought and studied and dreamed dreams.
She had imagined she heard a voice speaking to her: "Arise, maiden, and prepare thee, for I have a work for thee to do!"
Her wish and prayer was to enter a convent, and after consecrating herself to God in a way that would allow of no turning back, to go forth and give to men and women the messages that had come to her.
And these things filled the heart of the worthy bourgeois with alarm; so he said to his wife one day: "That girl will be a foot taller than I am in a year, and even now when I give her advice, she opens her big eyes and looks at me in a way that thins my words to whey.
She will get us into trouble yet!
She may disgrace us!
I think--I think I'll find her a husband."
Yet that would not have been a difficult task.
She was loved by a score of youths, but had never spoken to any of them.
They stood at corners and sighed as she walked by; and others, with religious bent, timed her hours for mass and took positions in church from whence they could see her kneel.
Still others patroled the narrow street that led to her home, with hopes that she might pass that way, so that they might touch the hem of her garment.
These things were as naught to Jeanne Marie.
She had never yet seen a man for whose intellect she did not have both a pity and a contempt.
But Claude Bouvier did not pick a husband for his daughter from among the simple youths of the town.
He wrote to a bachelor friend, Jacques Guyon by name, and told him he could have the girl if he wanted her--that is, after certain little preliminaries had been arranged.
Now, Jacques Guyon had been at the Bouvier residence on a visit three months before, and had looked the lass over stealthily with peculiar interest, and had intimated that if Monsieur Bouvier wished to get rid of her it could be brought about.
So, after some weeks had passed, Monsieur bethought him of the offer of Jacques Guyon, and he concluded that inasmuch as Guyon was rich and respectable it would be a good match.
So he wrote to Guyon, and Guyon replied that he would come, probably within a fortnight--just as soon as his rheumatism got better.
Monsieur Claude Bouvier read the letter, and walking into the next room, surprised Jeanne Marie by kissing her tenderly on her forehead--all as herein truthfully recorded.
* * * * * So Jacques Guyon came, came in his carriage, with two servants riding on horseback in front and another riding on horseback behind.
Jeanne Marie sat on the floor, tailor fashion, up in her little room of the old stone house, and peeked out of the diamond-paned gable-window very cautiously;
and she was sorely disappointed.
In some of her dreams (and these dreams she thought were very bad), she had pictured a lover coming alone on a foam-flecked charger; and as the steed paused, the rider leaped lightly from saddle to ground, kissing his hand to her as she peeked through the curtains.
For he discovered her when she hoped he would not, but she did not care much if he did.
But Monsieur Guyon's eyes did not search the windows.
He got out of the carriage with difficulty, and his breath came wheezy and short as he mounted the steps.
His complexion was dusty blue, his nose tinged with carmine, his eyes watery, and his girth aldermanic.
He was growing old, and, saddest of all, he was growing old rebelliously and therefore ungracefully--dyeing his whiskers purple.
That evening when Jeanne Marie was introduced to Monsieur Guyon at dinner she found him very polite and very gracious.
His breeches were real black velvet and his stockings were silk, and the buckles on his shoes were polished silver and the frill of his shirt was finest lace.
His conversation was directed mostly to Jeanne's father, so Jeanne did not feel nearly so uncomfortable as she had expected.
The next day a notary came, and long papers were written out, and red and green seals placed on them, and then everybody held up his right hand as the notary mumbled something, and then all signed their names.
The room seemed to be teetering up and down, and it looked quite like rain.
Monsieur Bouvier stood on his tiptoes and again kissed his daughter on the forehead, and Monsieur Guyon, taking her hand, lifted the long, slender fingers to his lips, and told her that she would soon be a great lady and the mistress of a splendid mansion, and have everything that one needed to make one happy.
And so they were married by a bishop, with two priests and three curates to assist.
The ceremony was held at the great stone church; and as the procession came out, the verger had a hard time to keep the crowd back, so that the little girls in white could go before and strew flowers in their pathway.
The organ pealed, and the chimes clanged and rang as if the tune and the times were out of joint; then other bells from other parts of the old town answered, and across the valley rang mellow and soft the chapel-bell of Montargis Castle.
Jeanne was seated in a carriage--how she got there she never knew; by her side sat Jacques Guyon.
The post-boys were lashing their horses into a savage run, like devils running away with the souls of innocents, and behind clattered the mounted, liveried servant.
People on the sidewalks waved good-bys and called God-bless-yous.
Soon the sleepy old town was left behind and the horses slowed down to a lazy trot.
Jeanne looked back, like Lot's wife: only a church-spire could be seen.
She hoped that she might be turned into a pillar of salt--but she wasn't. She crouched into the corner of the seat and cried a good honest cry.
And Monsieur Jacques Guyon smiled and muttered to himself, "Her father said she was a bit stubborn, but I'll see that she gets over it!"
And this was over three hundred years ago.
It doesn't seem like it, but it was.
* * * * * Read the lives of great men and you will come to the conclusion that it is harder to find a gentleman than a genius.
While the clock ticks off the seconds, count on your fingers--within five minutes, if you can--five such gentlemen as Sir Philip Sidney!
Of course, I know before you speak that Fenelon will be the first on your tongue.
Fenelon, the low-voiced, the mild, the sympathetic, the courtly, the gracious!
Fenelon, favored by the gods with beauty and far-reaching intellect!
Fenelon, who knew the gold of silence.
Fenelon, on whose lips dwelt grace, and who by the magic of his words had but to speak to be believed and to be beloved.
When Louis the Little made that most audacious blunder which cost France millions in treasure and untold loss in men and women, Fenelon wrote to the Prime Minister: "These Huguenots have many virtues that must be acknowledged and conserved.
We must hold them by mildness.
We can not produce conformity by force.
Converts made in this manner are hypocrites.
No power is great enough to bind the mind--thought forever escapes.
Give civil liberty to all, not by approving all religions, but by permitting in patience what God allows."
"You shall go as missionary to these renegades!"
was the answer--half-ironical, half-earnest.
"I will go only on one condition."
"And that is?"
"That from my province you withdraw all armed men--all sign of compulsion of every sort!"
Fenelon was of noble blood, but his sympathies were ever with the people.
The lowly, the weak, the oppressed, the persecuted--these were ever the objects of his solicitude--these were first in his mind.
It was in prison that Fenelon first met Madame Guyon.
Fenelon was thirty-seven, she was forty.
He occasionally preached at Montargis, and while there had heard of her goodness, her piety, her fervor, her resignation.
He had small sympathy for many of her peculiar views, but now she was sick and in prison and he went to her and admonished her to hold fast and to be of good-cheer.
Twelve years before this Madame Guyon had been left a widow.
She was the mother of five children--two were dead.
The others were placed under the care of kind kinsmen; and Madame Guyon went forth to give her days to study and to teaching.
This action of placing her children partly in the care of others has been harshly criticized.
But there is one phase of the subject that I have never seen commented upon--and that is that a mother's love for her offspring bears a certain ratio to the love she bore their father.
Had Madame Guyon ever carried in her arms a love-child, I can not conceive of her allowing this child to be cared for by others--no matter how competent.
The favor that had greeted Madame Guyon wherever she went was very great.
Her animation and devout enthusiasm won her entrance into the homes of the great and noble everywhere.
She organized societies of women that met for prayer and conversation on exalted themes.
The burden of her philosophy was "Quietism"--the absolute submission of the human soul to the will of God.
Give up all, lay aside all striving, all reaching out, all unrest, cease penance and lie low in the Lord's hand.
He doeth all things well.
Make life one continual prayer for holiness--wholeness--harmony; and thus all good will come to us--we attract the good; we attract God--He is our friend--His spirit dwells with us.
She taught of power through repose, and told that you can never gain peace by striving for it like fury.
This philosophy, stretching out in limitless ramifications, bearing on every phase and condition of life, touched everywhere with mysticism, afforded endless opportunity for thought.
It is the same philosophy that is being expressed by thousands of prominent men and women today.
It embraced all that is vital and best in our so-called "advanced thought"; for in good sooth none of our new "liberal sects" has anything that has not been taught before in olden time.
But Madame Guyon's success was too great.
The guardians of a dogmatic religion are ever on the scent for heresy.
They are jealous, and fearful, and full of alarm lest their "institution" shall topple.
Quietism was making head, and throughout France the name of Madame Guyon was becoming known.
She went from town to town, and from city to city, and gave courses of lectures.
Women flocked to hear her, they organized clubs.
Preachers sometimes appeared and argued with her, but by the high fervor of her speech she quickly silenced them.
Then they took revenge by thundering sermons against her after she had gone.
As she traveled she left in her wake a pyrotechnic display of elocutionary denunciation.
They dared her to come back and fight it out.
The air was full of challenges.
One prelate was good enough to say, "This woman may teach primitive Christianity--but if people find God everywhere, what's to become of us!"
And although the theme is as great as Fate and as serious as Death, one can not suppress a smile to think how the fear of losing their jobs has ever caused men to run violently to and fro and up and down in the earth, crying peace, peace, when there is no peace.
Now, it was the denunciation and wild demonstration of her fearing foes that advertised the labors of Madame Guyon.
For strong people are not so much advertised by their loving friends as by their rabid enemies.
This happened quite a while ago; but as mankind moves in a circle (and not always a spiral, either) it might have happened yesterday.
Make the scene Ohio: slip Bossuet out and Doctor Buckley in; condense the virtues of Miss Frances E. Willard and Miss Susan B. Anthony into one, and let this one stand for Madame Guyon; call it New Transcendentalism, dub the Madame a New Woman, and there you have it!
But with this difference: petitions to the President of the United States to arrest this female offender and shut her up in the Chicago jail, indefinitely, after a mock trial, would avail not.
Yet persecution has its compensation, and the treatment that Madame Guyon received emphasized the truths she taught and sent them ringing through the schools and salons and wherever thinking people gathered themselves together.
Yes, persecution has its compensation.
In its state of persecution a religion is pure, if ever; its decline begins when its prosperity commences.
Prosperous men are never wise and seldom good.
Woe unto you when all men shall speak well of you!
Surely, persecution has its compensation!
When Madame Guyon was sick and in prison, was she not visited by Fenelon?
Ah, 'twas worth the cost.
Sympathy is the first attribute of love as well as its last.
And I am not sure but that sympathy is love's own self, vitalized mayhap by some divine actinic ray.
Only a thorn-crowned, bleeding Christ could win the adoration of the world.
Only the souls who have suffered are well loved.
Thus does Golgotha find its recompense.
Hark ye and take courage, ye who are in bonds!
Gracious spirits, seen or unseen, will minister to you now, where otherwise they would have passed without a sign!
But from the day Fenelon met Madame Guyon his fortune began to decline.
People looked at him askance.
By a grim chance he was made one of a committee of three to investigate the charges brought against the woman.
The court took a year for its task.
Fenelon read everything that Madame Guyon had published, conversed much with her, inquired into her history and when asked for his verdict said, "I find no fault in her."
He talked with Madame de Maintenon, and Madame de Maintenon talked with the King, and the offender was released.
Soon Fenelon began to utter in his sermons the truths he had learned from Madame Guyon.
And he gave her due credit.
He explained that she was a good Catholic--that she loved the Church--that she lived up to all the Church taught, and besides knowing all that Churchmen knew she knew many things beside.
Have a care, Archbishop of Cambrai!
Enemies are upon thy track.
Defend not defenseless womanhood: knowest thou not what they have said of her?
Speak what thou art taught and keep thy inmost thoughts for thyself alone.
Have a care, Fenelon!
thy bishopric hangs by a spider's thread.
The years kept slipping past as the years will.
Twelve summers had come, and twelve times had autumn leaves known their time to fall.
Madame Guyon was again in prison.
A stranger was Archbishop of Cambrai: Fenelon no longer a counselor of kings--a tutor of royalty.
His voice was silenced, his pen chained.
He was allowed to retire to a rural parish.
There he lived with the peasants--revered, beloved.
The country where he dwelt was battle-scarred and bleeding; the smoke of devastation still hung over it.
Not a family but had been robbed of its best.
Death had stalked rampant.
Fenelon shared the poverty of the people, their lowliness, their sorrows.
All the tragedy of their life was his; he said to them, "I know, I know!"
Twelve years of Madame Guyon's life were spent in prison.
Toward the last she was allowed to live in nominal freedom.
But despotism, with savage leer and stealthy step, saw that Fenelon was kept far away.
In those declining days, when the shadows were lengthening toward the east, her time and talents were given to teaching the simple rudiments of knowledge to the peasantry, to alleviating their material wants and to ministering to the sick.
It was a forced retirement, and yet it was a retirement that was in every way in accord with her desires.
But in spite of the persecution that followed her, and the obloquy heaped upon her name, and the bribe of pardon if she would but recant, she never retracted nor wavered in her inward or outward faith, even in the estimation of a hair.
The firm reticence as to the supreme secrets of her life, and her steadfast loyalty to that which she honestly believed was truth, must ever command the affectionate admiration of all those who prize integrity of mind and purity of purpose, who hold fast to the divinity of love, and who believe in the things unseen which are eternal.
