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This is an incredible autobiography of a man devoted to forming children both in schools and in literature. His legacy lives on in his books, especially the Tom Playfair series.
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CHAPTER V
My Second Entrance
MY RETURN to the novitiate was something quite different from my first entrance. There was no sense of novelty, no wide-eyed wonder at the things that were to come, no first fervor. It was, if I may use the expression, a strictly business proposition. I realized that God called me to the Society; I realized that I ought to enter it.
Of course something of the human element attracted me. It was delightful to rejoin my brother novices, young men whom I had known and loved. If there is anything in the world more edifying than a body of Jesuit novices, I have not seen it. They are all so eager, so devoted, so wholehearted, so sincere, so gay. While it is true that they have not, for the most part, attained solid virtue, it is also true that they are literally scrambling up the road to perfection. It is not a question of sauntering along or walking briskly-the novice scrambles.
A novice in what is called his first fervor is a wonderful creature. He has enthusiasm, one hundred per cent., energy in the same high ratio, and judgment hardly above ten per cent. That is why he needs a novice master; that is why he should open his heart to that spiritual guide. He needs direction, failing which, all his fervor will go for nothing, or possibly spell disaster.
In my first noviceship I had been in the state of first fervor most of the time. While not prepared to state that my zeal was one hundred per cent., I am certain that my judgment was hardly ten per cent. I was a goose. Luckily, I was in close touch with the novice master.
I remember that one time I was assailed, not by a temptation, but by a desire to smoke. I awoke in the morning with that desire. It accompanied me in my meditation, saw me through my breakfast, was with me during the exercises of manualia, took my mind off the spiritual reading I made. Literally I was haunted by it. This thing went on for three days. Then I went to good Father Boudreaux and exposed to him my obsession.
“Carissime,” he said, using the official novice title, “when the devil sees it is to no purpose to assail a man with the greater temptations, he frequently tries to catch him by means of some weakness. And frequently, as soon as the devil sees that his snare is detected, he gives up.”
I bowed myself out; the devil gave up. The novice master was right.
During my period of first fervor I could not for the life of me see why everybody didn’t measure things from my point of view. I was like a man who when he takes a pinch of snuff thinks that everybody in the vicinity should sneeze. Hence, while severe with myself, I was severe with everybody else. In very truth I cannot but think that I must have been a very disagreeable young novice. On my return I was in many respects changed.
No doubt I had my visitations of fervor; but it was no longer first fervor. I looked with a kindlier eye on those around me. I began to understand that the best of us look at certain matters from different viewpoints and see the same thing in a somewhat different light. In fact the master himself felicitated me on the change. He told me that in my first period of noviceship I was by way of making virtue repulsive, but that since my return I had become more human and had exercised a much greater power for good.
The months of April, May, June and July passed quickly and happily. On July 31, the feast of St. Ignatius, founder of the Society, my brother novices who had entered with me took their first vows; and as they pronounced them, I felt like a peri at the gates of Eden, looking in but not permitted to enter.
On August 15, the feast of the Assumption, another group of novices, my dear companions, made their first vows, and I was more than ever a disconsolate peri. These brethren of mine, when they had taken their vows, went at once from the novitiate to the juniorate. They were called juniors, and their business for the next two years would be to devote themselves to an intensive study of Latin, Greek, and English, with a view to preparing themselves to be teachers of classes.
As for myself, on August 15 I felt like the last rose of summer left blooming alone. However, on August 25 Father Boudreaux called me and told me to rejoin my companions and become what was then known as a skullcap junior,--that is to say, a novice wearing, as was the custom in those days, a skull cap instead of the biretta which the juniors, from the time they had made their vows, were entitled to wear.
The first year of the juniorate was quite agree able. My studies were not unpleasant. In fact I took a delight in cultivating my English. It is but just to remark that I did not shine. Although I had some sort of reputation as a writer, my written exercises did little to sustain me. In fact I seldom took the themes assigned seriously. During the whole time which I spent in the juniorate, one year and a half, I wrote my one bit of verse that was worth keeping, and the subject of that verse was suggested to me by my professor.
There arose, also, another difficulty. My health began once more to fail. It failed perceptibly more when, in the month of June, I was once more taken over to the novice side to make the long retreat, the thirty days’ retreat I had made before. Although I had been released from most of the trials and training proper to the novitiate, it was held by superiors that the long retreat had to be made once more. When at its conclusion I returned to the juniorate, I was a better man, no doubt, but rather worn out for the work of study.
With the December vacation came an improvement in health, so that when I entered into the second year of the juniorate under Father Calmer I was able to renew my studies with ardor.
Father Calmer was an inspiring teacher. He had a gift of arousing enthusiasm. Strangely enough, I did not at that time like him. I make this statement not as an indictment of him but of myself. I fancy myself as being at that time a difficult and disagreeable, dyspeptic young man. The fact of the matter is that after the first few weeks under Father Calmer I went into dyspepsia, the most disagreeable manifestation of it being an almost constant headache. As a consequence I had to give up the study of Greek, and I did just enough in the other branches to avoid failure.
As the weeks went on, my health grew worse. Early in January I had a severe fall which brought about further complications. Finally I was sent to St. Louis to see my doctor. He found out what was the matter with me and then wrote a letter to my provincial, Father Higgins, stating that it was imperatively necessary, in order to safeguard my health, that I should be taken from the juniorate and put into more active work.
Now, as I write, there comes back a memory which makes me smile. During the days of our noviceship we novices each had a copy of a special text book called the “Diarium,” and written especially for novices. In one special part it called upon each one of us to ask himself what place, of all the places to which he might possibly be sent, he dreaded most; and secondly, what special work that might be assigned him was in his eyes the most disagreeable. Many a time in my noviceship I had examined myself on those two points, and the answer had always been the same. I dreaded St. Mary’s, Kansas, most of all; and the most repugnant position I could imagine was being prefect in a boarding school.
But the “Diarium” did not stop with these two probing questions. It went on to say that, having answered them, we should then pray earnestly to God that we be sent to the place we most dreaded and assigned the task most abhorrent to our nature. My prayer was heard. I was sent to St. Mary’s, Kansas, and subsequently acted as prefect there for two years.
When I reached St. Mary’s I was in very poor condition. Dyspepsia and other ailments had interfered seriously with my studies during the preceding six months. Possibly that is the reason why I was given a room to myself at the college. There were seven other scholastics there at the time, but none of them had a room to himself. They were in the dormitories at night with the boys, and during the day they had at their disposition one big room which they shared in common. I considered it a great privilege to have a room to myself, as indeed, in the old days at St. Mary’s, it certainly was. Also, I considered myself very rich in my equipment. I had brought with me a fine copy of Bryant’s Household Book of Poetry, a present from my mother when I left St. Louis. In those days poetry meant much to me. I remember that during recreation in the juniorate I almost invariably lost my temper in standing up for my literary opinions. Of course my dyspepsia had something to do with that. I struggled manfully to keep cool. In fact, before recreation I always prayed earnestly that I might keep my temper. In fact I must sadly consider that at that time of my life, a junior, in poor health and dyspepsia-ridden, I must have been a very disagreeable young man.
During my year and a half in the juniorate it had been one of my pleasant duties to get up plays to be given on certain important feast days for the entertainment of the community. I was quite successful, writing the plays myself and directing the whole affair. Also, I had some talent for verse, and as we were all one little family, any clever re mark concerning one or the other member of the community was sure to make a hit. The plays I wrote were not strikingly original. For instance, one of them was a crude rendition of “Oliver Twist.” Another was an Indian play which, as a small boy, I had seen troupers, directed by John D. Owens, produce at St. Louis. A third play was, I believe, original.
In any event, the production of these plays gave me the reputation of being a literary fellow. One day a group of novices had discussed with the enthusiasm of youth what we should like to do when we had finished our Jesuit training. I have no recollection of the details, but I recall that I shocked everybody present by stating it was my ambition to be a writer of books. They thought, and with perfect justice, that I was a very conceited young man.
In connection with these plays I recall with shame that I was very intolerant of criticism even from those who were my superiors in years, in training, and in culture. So, if the reader pictures me on my way to St. Mary’s, Kansas, as a somewhat ill tempered and conceited young man, I fancy that he has made no mistake.
I had gone to St. Mary’s for the benefit of my health. However, that did not mean a rest. Quite the contrary. I was almost at once ushered into a classroom of which I was in charge from eight o’clock in the morning until noon, and from one thirty o’clock in the afternoon until four. Also, at twelve o’clock I read in the refectory while the community were seated at dinner, and hurriedly took my own meal afterwards so as to be in time for the afternoon session of my class.
Now on the face of it that does not look like a particularly good health program. But it was. In a few weeks I had forgotten all about my dyspepsia. In a few weeks I became hale and hearty. In a word, I was cured. The work was hard, but there was no worry.
CHAPTER VI
First Experiences in the Classroom
I HAD arrived at St. Mary’s early in February. The first impressions were far from favorable. There was inadequate housing; the yards were in fearful condition, with the result that all the stair ways and corridors in our residence were plastered with mud. The playgrounds were filled with pools of water and nearly all the boys navigated in rubber boots.
Father Van der Eerden, rector of the college, Father Charles Coppens, prefect of studies, and Father Tehan, prefect of discipline, greeted me with open arms; they were glad to get me. They wanted a man to take the preparatory class in hand. That class of about forty-eight boys had been at a loose end from the beginning of the year to the time of my arrival.
In fact, though I did not know it, Brother George Bender, a very successful teacher who had conducted classes in the state of Kansas for over six years, had written the provincial to say that it would be impossible for him to continue teaching the preparatory class unless he had permission to use the strap. Three teachers had already essayed the task of handling the young gentlemen of this class; and three teachers had given up in despair. To this class I was assigned.
No man was more auspiciously inducted into the charge of a classroom than I. Father Coppens introduced me. The preparatory class was in a small building separate from the other edifices of the college. A part of this building was used for an infirmary and the rest of it, one large room, was roughly fitted out for class work. It was indeed little better than a stable.
Father Coppens and I entered together. It was an impressive moment for me. Not so, I dare say, for the boys. They were accustomed to the advent of new teachers, and as like as not, some were already figuring on how long I would last.
Father Coppens made a stirring speech. He spoke in no uncertain terms of the bad record of the class, and he made dire threats as to what would be done if there was further trouble. Father Coppens had hardly left the room when in came that genial and lovable soul Father Tehan. His speech was much stronger than that of his predecessor.
“And, Mr. Finn,” he concluded, addressing me, “if any boy in this class gives you the least trouble, send him to me.” His eyes were flashing. “Send him to me, and I’ll fix him.”
I began to feel as lordly as a plumber. But the end was not yet. Presently Father Van der Eerden, the rector, entered the room. He told the assembled boys, without mincing words, that up to that date they had given more trouble than the rest of the student body put together. He declared that the end had come; that they had to begin new lives or they would be packed out of the place and sent with their trunks to their homes.
All this impressed me very much; but I had no reason to think that it had much effect on the boys. They had heard these things before.
So, once the introductory speeches were over, there I stood before this anomalous class. Anomalous is the word. They were of all ages, from ten to eighteen. One of them, by the way, did not return to school the following year. He stayed home to marry. There were halfbreeds, Mexicans, and a good number of American boys whose early education had been sadly neglected; and I stood there before them without a strap. In the Jesuit schools corporal punishment was, very rightly, in the hands of the prefect of discipline. However, I was not worrying about corporal punishment; I had other plans.
While at the novitiate I had arranged a play for some home entertainment. The play was a dramatization of “Oliver Twist.” I knew the story well.
Here was my opening address. I told the boys that I would take it for granted that every one of them was all right, all that he should be. “Now,” I continued, “I shall tell you what I am going to do. This is our first day together. If you behave decently during our class hours today, I am going to tell you a story during the last half-hour of class.”