p. 89The Curé of Ars in His Conversation

One of the great errors of our day is to imagine that piety prevents the development of the natural qualities of man; that it confines the thoughts, and is incompatible with enlightened elevation of character and warmth of feeling. Every one has heard this paradox repeated; weak Christians have believed it, and it has afflicted those of stronger faith.

It is difficult to imagine how displeasing to the ears of most worldly people are the words “devout” and “devotion.” As if the finest and most noble faculties of man lost by submitting to Christian discipline, and gained by disorder! The reverse of this is the truth.

Habitual union with God by prayer and love, the continual victory of the spiritual over the material, the permanent triumph of good over evil, which we call the state of grace, is admirably reflected in the intelligent part of our being, as well and better than in the inferior part. It is the health of the soul; and putting it in possession of its object, which is God, the Infinite, restores its beauty, its grandeur, strength, and dignity.

But is not sacrifice, it may be said, the foundation of Christian morals, and the great lesson of the Gospel? Sacrifice is precisely the law of the intellectual and moral progress of man when he is holy; it is the development of the most noble attributes of the soul that aspires to the glorious liberty of the children of God, and passes over all the obstacles which visible things would place in its way. It is the passage from death to life, from darkness to light, from slavery to liberty.

Till we have freely renounced every created object, by an earnest application of the doctrine of sacrifice, liberty of the soul is but a name; we are free only like a bird held by a string, which may think itself free while it does not attempt to fly, but the moment it tries to get away, perceives that it is a prisoner. Such is the liberty that attachment to creatures leaves us. “If, therefore, the Son shall make you free, you shall be free indeed.”¹1St. John viii. 36.

This love does not devastate the heart as passions do; nor does it suppress any thing which ought to remain in it. The love of Jesus Christ in the heart of man is like a ray of sun shining through the painted windows of a cathedral, colouring and embellishing it, but destroying and displacing nothing. In a soul filled with this love, strong and sweet beyond conception, the sacred fire burns the more brightly and purely for being hidden.

It is supposed that persons consecrated to God cannot possess enlightened minds or noble and generous hearts. As if human feelings were not beautified by the struggles of duty; and as if holiness did not raise the soul to a higher destiny, by releasing it from the bonds of time, and enabling it to unite itself to the Eternal Object of its love! The breaking of all bonds and the removal of all obstacles does not mean the destruction of all love and the suppression of all liberty. Fountains are not dried up by being sanctified; and holiness, far from disfiguring, elevates and purifies whatever it touches. It gives to the good dispositions which we have by nature, an increase of strength and wisdom, which is the work of the Holy Ghost.

This intellectual and moral perfection of the human faculties, refined by grace, was very striking in M. Vianney.

We are ready to allow that he had no variety or extent of human sciences. Where, when, or how could he have acquired them? But he had what supplies the place of knowledge, and even of experience—the faith which knows and foresees all things. He had great practical wisdom, a profound knowledge of the ways of God and of the miseries of man, an admirable sagacity, a prompt and accurate judgment, an acute, judicious, and penetrating mind. He was endowed, besides, with a supernatural memory, an exquisite tact, and a power of observation which would have made him formidable to those who approached him, if his great and indulgent charity had not softened all his judgments.

Out of the little unknown corner of the earth where Providence had placed him, rather under a bushel than on a candlestick, he shone before the world with incomparable brilliancy; he was a triple representation of our Lord, setting before men the light of truth, with an example of captivating goodness, and edifying virtue.

“The Curé of Ars is a holy man,” some one said to a learned professor of philosophy, “but he is nothing else.”

“He is enlightened,” answered he, “very enlightened. He shows it in his conversations on every sort of subject, on God and on the world, on men and on things, on the present and the future. … Oh, how clearly and how well we see, when we see by the light of the Holy Ghost! To what heights does faith raise our intellect and our reason!”

After an interview with M. Vianney, a very distinguished man wrote as follows: “We are in admiration of the progressive spirit of your saint. Nothing elevates the ideas of the most humble of men like holiness!”

Although absorbed in the duties of his ministry of prayer, teaching, and direction, the Curé of Ars was indifferent to no question which, directly or indirectly, affected the interests of religion or of society. He had very clear opinions on a multitude of questions, which the cleverest people often cannot decide, but which he always solved by looking at them as they regarded the glory of God and the good of souls.

The world will perhaps say again: “But this man, who always denied himself all human pleasures, who had never known the sweetness or the benefits of social and civilised life, who so constantly and completely practised renouncement, and whose whole life was passed in the obscure enclosure of a confessional, must have taken a narrow and severe view of every thing, and his austerity could leave no room for kindness or indulgence.” This is another mistake.

This man, so severe to himself, and who bore in his whole person the marks of the most terrible penance, was amiable and gentle; his conversation was sweet and refined, full of truth and consolation, and had a singular power of attraction.

In the company of priests or of Christians, whom he knew and loved, he willingly expanded; and this intimate intercourse was full of gaiety and simplicity, of tender charity, of ingenious and appropriate remarks, which went to the heart of all. These would make a delightful and admirable book; but, unfortunately, we have not sufficient details, and if we had them, the task would be beyond our power. A smile cannot be written down, and the conversations of the Curé of Ars were as the smile of his soul. He never laughed; but that smile seldom left his lips, encouraging cheerfulness, and inspiring confidence. The Spirit of God which was in him gave an incomparable fitness and simplicity to all his words, which were animated by the extreme tenderness of his heart. We might gather up his least words.

Thus, the good Curé long lamented Mademoiselle d’Ars, and always retained a tender veneration for her memory. When he paid his first visit to the new inhabitants of the Castle, he expressed his regret before them, saying, “Poor lady! how sad it is to see her no more on her poor bench in church!” … Then, fearing he might have been wanting in delicacy to the heir of his benefactress, he suddenly reproached himself for his sorrow and his tears, adding, “And yet … we are wrong to complain. The good God treats us as He treated His people. When he took away Moses, he left them Caleb and Josue.”

A little while after, in returning their good wishes for the new year, he said to the family which was soon to take its place in his heart next to Mademoiselle d’Ars, “I should like to be St. Peter, and I would give you the keys of paradise for a new-year’s gift.” Once when they had presented to him some of their numerous relations, and asked for a special blessing upon them, the holy Curé gave it, saying, “Oh! the cousins of M. des Garets are already blessed!”

When Mgr. de Langalerie in one of his frequent visits, said to him, “My good Curé, will you permit me to celebrate Holy Mass in your church?” he answered, “Monseigneur, I am sorry it is not Christmas, that you might say three.”

The first time Père Hermann came to Ars, they wanted him to preach, and the good Curé asked him to catechise the crowd instead of him. The Rev. Father took good care not to accept the offer; he only consented to say a few words after the servant of God had spoken—and even that was a great deal for his humility. M. Vianney gave his instruction as usual, and ended it thus: “My children, there was once a good saint who wished very much to hear the Blessed Virgin sing. Our Lord, who takes pleasure in doing the will of those who love Him, deigned to grant him this favour. He saw a beautiful lady, who began to sing before him. He had never heard so sweet a voice. He was ravished with delight, and cried out, ‘It is enough! it is enough! if you go on, I shall die!’ The beautiful lady said to him, ‘Be not in a hurry to admire my singing, for what thou hast heard is nothing. I am only the virgin Catherine, and thou art going to hear the Mother of God;’ and the Blessed Virgin sang in her turn. And that song was so beautiful, so beautiful, that the saint fainted and fell dead with delight … drowned in the balm of love! … Well, my children, it will be the same thing to-day, … you have just heard St. Catherine; you are going to hear the Blessed Virgin.”

One day a missionary recently admitted into the Society was presented to M. Vianney, and it was observed that he was the youngest of all. “You are very fortunate, my friend,” said he, embracing him; “you will have more time to serve the Divine Master. In the College of the Apostles, our Lord had a tender predilection for St. James the Less, because he was the youngest.”

The same missionary having gone to assist at the processions of Corpus Christi at Lyons, the Curé said to him on his return, “There was once a saint who used to disappear on the eve of all the great feasts. He was seen no more till the day after. He went to celebrate the feast in paradise. I think, my dear companion, you do like him.” …

Wishing to show his companions in labour his esteem for their services, he said, “The good God gives me white bread to eat at the end of my days. He knows that poor old people require soft food. … He treats me as our Lord treated the bridegroom at the marriage-feast of Cana; he gives me the good wine at the last.”

M. Vianney wished to pay for the crosses which the missionaries receive when they pronounce their vows: “Let me alone,” he said; “I have so many crosses, I can share them with my friends.”

After a sermon which had pleased him, he took both the hands of the preacher in his own, saying, “Ah! our vessels were too small to hold such beautiful things!”

A Lazarist of Valfleury asked the Curé of Ars if one of their Fathers, lately seized with paralysis, would be able to preach again. “Yes, my friend,” he answered, “he will always preach. The sermons of saints are their examples.”

A Parisian had said, “Sister Rosalie was my mother, and the Curé of Ars is my father.” “Alas! poor orphan!” said M. Vianney, with a sigh; “the father can never replace the mother.”

On the return of his missionary after a long absence, he received him with open arms, and cried out, “Ah! my friend, there you are! what happiness! I have often thought that the reprobate must be very wretched at being separated from the good God, since we suffer so much in the absence of those we love!”

An ecclesiastic was excusing himself for not having brought a surplice to assist at the High Mass on Sunday; M. Vianney reassured him, saying, “Oh, never mind. You wear it on your heart, by the whiteness of your soul.”

A little child gave him a nosegay on his birthday; “My little one,” he said, smiling graciously, “your nosegay is very beautiful, but your soul is still more beautiful.”

One day within the Octave of Corpus Christi, the holy Curé having gone to see the magnificent preparations for the procession which were made at the Castle, they were regretting that a high wind would prevent the illumination. Pointing to the young children round the steps of the throne prepared for our Lord, he said, “These are bright and burning torches, which cannot be extinguished by the wind.” And on going away, after rejoicing the hearts of all by his presence, he added, “The inhabitants of this house change, generations succeed each other; but it is ever the house of the good God.” After the procession, which was very long, they wanted him to take some refreshment; he refused, saying, “It is of no use; I want nothing. How could I be fatigued? I was bearing Him who bears me.”

During the inundations of May 1856, it happened one night that the pilgrims who were waiting in the church had bolted the door on the inside. At one o’clock in the morning, the Curé came up and knocked gently at the door; they did not hear him. He knocked again. The rain was falling in torrents; he stood in it for some minutes, and went into the confessional without thinking any more about it. When he came into the sacristy to vest for Mass, they perceived that his cassock was dripping wet: they pressed him to change it; they asked him a thousand questions. He only answered joyously, “Let it alone, let it alone! it is nothing; it proves that I am not made of sugar.”

M. Vianney was once making his round of visits to the sick under a burning July sun. The priest who accompanied him, seeing his head uncovered, offered him his hat. “You would do better, my friend,” said the holy Curé, “to offer me your science and your virtues.” This was what you exposed yourself to by offering him any civility. It was very different if you attempted to pay him a compliment.

“How happy you are to be young!” said he to some one. “Without reckoning any thing else, you have so much strength and so much zeal to spend in the service of the good God.”

“Monsieur le Curé,” replied the other, “you are younger than I.”

“Yes, my friend, in virtue.”

“Monsieur le Curé,” a person said to him another time, “since you love your missionaries, you will leave them the mantle of Elias when you depart?”

“My friend, you should not ask a mantle of him who has not even a shirt.”

Speaking of that mozetta, which was a touching kindness on the part of the Bishop, but a great humiliation to the good Curé, some one observed that he was the only Canon created by Mgr. Chalandon. M. Vianney perceived the trap laid for him, and replied quickly, “I can well believe it. The Bishop was unlucky … He has seen his mistake, and he dares not try again.”

One day he saw one of his portraits, at the foot of which were awkwardly represented his mozetta and his cross of honour. “To make it complete,” he said, “they should write under it, vanity, pride, and nothingness.”

Another time, allusion was made to these different dignities. “Yes,” answered he, “I am an honorary Canon by the kindness of the Bishop, a knight of the Legion of Honour by a mistake of the government, and … the shepherd of three sheep and an ass by the will of my father.”

One day, the Curé of Ars saw a person come into the sacristy whom it was easy to recognise by his appearance and language as a man of the world. The stranger approached him respectfully; and the servant of God, thinking he knew what he came for, pointed to the little stool on which his penitents were accustomed to kneel.

The fine gentleman, who perfectly understood the gesture, hastened to say, “M. le Curé, I am not come for confession; I am come to reason with you.”

“O my friend, you have come to the wrong person; I cannot reason; … but if you are in want of consolation, place yourself there” (and he again pointed inexorably to the stool), “and be assured that many others have done so before you, and have not repented of it.”

“But, M. le Curé, I have already had the honour of telling you that I did not come for confession, and that for a decisive reason—I have no faith. I believe no more in confession than in any thing else.”

“You have no faith, my friend? Oh, how I pity you! You live in a mist … A little child who knows its catechism knows more than you. I thought myself very ignorant; but you are still more so … You have no faith? Well, place yourself there, and I will hear your confession. When you have made your confession, you will believe just as I do.”

“But, M. le Curé, it is neither more nor less than a comedy that you are advising me to act with you.”

“Place yourself there, I tell you!”

The persuasion, the sweetness, the tone of authority tempered by grace, with which these words were spoken, induced this man to fall on his knees, almost in spite of himself. He made the sign of the cross, which he had long disused, and began the humble acknowledgment of his faults. He arose not only consoled, but fully believing, having experienced that the shortest and surest road to faith is to do the works of faith, according to the eternal word of the Divine Master, “He that doth the truth cometh to the light.”

The founder of a celebrated orphanage consulted M. Vianney on the opportunity of obtaining the attention and the patronage of the public, through the medium of the press. “Instead of making a noise in the newspapers,” answered the servant of God, “make a noise at the door of the tabernacle.”

“M. le Curé,” replied this good man, “I should be very glad to make my novitiate with you.”

“Do not be uneasy; they will give you one,” replied M. Vianney, alluding to the trials which awaited the new foundation.

A postulant, who had just left the Congregation of the Sisters of St. Vincent of Paul, one day had an interview at Ars with a priest lately arrived from Jerusalem, who told M. Vianney that he had advised her to go to the East, to employ her strength and her zeal in those parts. The good Curé, who was aware of her fickleness, answered, “Send her to paradise. There at least she will not wish for change.”

We may see that M. Vianney was ready with quick answers, which were now and then gently malicious.

“M. le Curé,” said a person whose broad face and robust appearance contrasted singularly with the paleness and emaciation of the holy old man, “I reckon on you to take me up to heaven. I hope you do not forget your friends, and that you give me a good share of the merit of your fasts and penances. When you go to heaven, I shall try to take hold of your cassock.”

“O my friend, take good care not to do that,” replied the good Curé. “The gate of heaven is narrow,”—and he cast a little malicious glance at the broad shoulders of the other,—“we should both remain outside at the gate.”

He was afraid he might have hurt the feelings of his visitor by these words, though they were spoken in joke, and in the kindest manner; and he made the most humble and polite excuses for them.

A religious said to him with simplicity, “You are generally thought ignorant, Father.”

“They are right, my daughter; but it is no matter, for I will tell you more than you will do.”

He was asked for some relics for a person who was very desirous of having them. He replied, smiling, “Let her make some!”

One of his parishioners, an excellent girl, full of zeal and devotedness, but whose zeal was sometimes too eager and impetuous, like that of the Apostles before Pentecost, wanted to give him advice: “M. le Curé, you are wrong in doing this; you ought to do that.” …

“Come,” interrupted the holy man gently, “we are not yet in England,” alluding to the English constitution, which allows a woman to be at the head of the government.

M. Vianney was often mirthful.

Brother Athanasius, the director of the school of Ars, returning from a drive, was relating how his horse had started and thrown him into the ditch. The good Curé condoled with him on the accident, and then added: “My friend, St. Antony never fell out of a carriage; you should do like him.” “M. le Curé, how did St. Antony do?” “He went always on foot.”

M. Vianney could give answers that were irresistibly convincing. A freethinker one day declared to him that there were some things in religion which it was impossible for him to believe.

“For example—?” said the good Curé.

“For example, the eternity of punishment.”

“My friend, I advise you never to speak of religion.”

“And why not?”

“Because you should first learn your catechism. What does the catechism say? That we must believe the Gospel, because it is the word of our Lord. Do you believe the Gospel?”

“Yes, M. le Curé.”

“Well, the Gospel says, ‘Depart into everlasting fire!’ What more would you have? That appears to me sufficiently clear.”

The Curé of Ars had an interview one day with a rich Protestant. The servant of God did not know that he had the misfortune to belong to a sect, and spoke to him, as he was accustomed to do, of our Lord and the saints with the warmest effusion, ending by putting a medal into his hand. The other said, on receiving it:

“M. le Curé, you are giving a medal to a heretic—at least, I am a heretic only from your point of view. Notwithstanding the difference of our belief, I hope we shall both be one day in heaven.”

The good Curé took his hand, and fixing on him his eyes, which expressed his lively faith and his burning charity, he said, in a tone of deep compassion and tenderness: “Alas, my friend, we shall be united above only inasmuch as we have begun to be so upon earth; death will make no change. Where the tree falls, there it lies.”

“M. le Curé, I trust in Christ, who said, ‘He who believeth in Me shall have eternal life.’”

“Ah! my friend, our Lord also said other things. He said that whoever would not listen to the Church should be regarded as a heathen. He said that there was to be but one flock and one shepherd, and He appointed St. Peter to be the head of that flock.” Then, speaking in a more gentle and insinuating voice, “My friend, there are not two ways of serving our Lord—there is only one good way; and it is to serve Him as He wishes to be served.”

Thereupon the good Curé disappeared, leaving that man penetrated with a salutary uneasiness, the forerunner of divine grace, by which he was afterwards happily overcome.

Notwithstanding his decided love of solitude, M. Vianney’s disposition was open, and his conversation at once flowing and reserved. To avoid remarks painful to his humility, he never asked questions, nor allowed time for others to ask them; he kept the lead in conversation, and seemed afraid of having a reply. He had not the shadow of self-love, and if he spoke occasionally of himself, it was because his humility urged him to it, and the power of opening his heart seemed to be a support to his weakness. Not being able to speak freely to every one, he relieved himself by confiding his thoughts to a few hearts that he could trust; and the subject of these confidences was always what most frightened and humbled him. He never revealed his whole interior; he led you to the door of his soul, and no further.

“O my God! how happy we shall be in paradise, since even already on earth the company of the saints is so delightful, and their conversation so full of charms and sweetness!” This exclamation often escaped us on coming out from those evening conversations, when the missioners of Ars had the great privilege of being admitted in turns to enjoy the intimacy of the servant of God. We felt that it was one of the rarest favours of Providence, and we showed our appreciation of it by words and by tears, but most often by a religious silence.

The end of those long and fatiguing days was the time when he talked with most familiarity, warmth, and freedom. Standing at the corner of the fire-place, or before his little table, according as his benumbed limbs required the warmth of the fire, with a beaming, happy countenance, the joy and innocence of his soul showed itself in a thousand sparkling remarks, full of similes and of sweetness.

Following the counsel of St. Paul, he avoided vain and profane discourse, and idle questions which lead to controversy rather than to edification. If any little debate arose before him, he modestly kept silence, as if he were afraid of disobliging either party by giving an opinion. If he was asked, he put in a gracious and conciliatory word, or laid down one of those great principles which are beyond discussion, and which restore peace between adversaries, by bringing them into ground where dispute is no longer possible.

His soul was always soaring like an angelic being above the strife of vulgar interests and passions. He looked at every thing from that point of view, familiar to the saints, where dwells light without shadow. Conscience was his only horizon. The exterior world had no place in his mind.

Nothing was good or pleasant or interesting in his eyes but what related to the good God. The heart is where the treasure is. The Sovereign Good attracted him to such a degree that he could not turn his thoughts elsewhere. His conversation was more divine than human, and breathed the perfume of heaven. He spoke of the mysteries of the other world as if he had come back from it, and of the vanities of this world with a gentle irony that made you smile. As he went on speaking, he became more at his ease, and the warmth of his soul diffused itself more freely.

If any troublesome person,—for there was a great variety among the pilgrims who came to him,—if any troublesome and indiscreet person came to talk of worldly affairs, however important they might be, the holy Curé was too kind and too civil to interrupt him, but he was silent, and visibly annoyed. But these cases were rare, for he was surrounded by a sort of divine atmosphere, which kept people from introducing worldly topics, for fear of disturbing its purity.

In this age of activity, novelty, and progress, in these laborious and disturbed times, the Curé of Ars had no desire whatever to know any thing about this world, nor did he pay the least attention to passing events; so completely had he come to use things as not using them, to enjoy them as not enjoying them; his whole mind and heart being bent on another object.

“You speak sometimes of the railway, M. le Curé,” some one said to him; “do you know what it is?”

“No, and I do not wish to know; I speak of it because I hear others speak of it.”

This man, to whom the railways every day brought from two to three hundred strangers, died without having ever seen a railway, or having any idea what it was like.

But if he was a stranger to every thing belonging to the material world, he found infinite delight and consolation in every thing that belonged to the divine world,—that is, the Church of Jesus Christ, the kingdom of souls bought and redeemed by His Blood; in all that increased His glory, that tended to the diffusion of His doctrine, to the triumph of truth; that multiplied the number of the faithful destined to praise Him for ever.

However sublime might be the subject of the conversation, the good Curé always preserved that simplicity which is the true characteristic of the children of God. In speaking of the saints, of heaven, and of divine things, he kept his familiar language, and used popular comparisons. The charms of divine love, the delights of the Eucharist, the happiness of the good, the misery of the wicked, the expectation of eternal joys, were mingled with noble solicitude for the increase of the Kingdom of Jesus Christ, the exaltation of Holy Church, and the triumph of justice and truth.