Sr Eugenie f

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The mouth smileswhile the heart sheds tears:

A Grey Nuns care of the sick at a

boarding school on the Mackenzie River:1916-18

Walter Vanast

McGill University

Draft 4

Corrections and Suggestions invited.

[email protected]

What was it like to be a religious sister at a native boarding school early the last century? How did

high student mortality affect the women that ran these institutions? To glimpse an answer, this story looks

at three years (1916-8) in the life of Sister Sainte Eugnie, the superior at Fort Providence on the Mackenzie

River. Her words come from the convent diary (the Chroniques) it was her duty to keep.

When making diary entries, the sister could show no distress. As in her outward conduct, she was

obliged to be serene, acknowledge Gods will, and focus on the good. Yet her pain was often such it had to

have outing, and metaphor the means.

Work left the sister no time. She oversaw the raising of orphans, boarding of students, feeding of

clerics, and conduct of classes. Trained as a nurse, she functioned as physician to the region: she made

housecalls in the village, saw outpatients at the convent, and admitted serious cases. When Indians gathered

at the fort, she served their needs. In spring (when boats arrived) and early winter (when the mail sled came

through), colds and the flu raised her load.

In January 1916, she could hardly keep up. Tuberculous students needed extra watching. The

chaplain fell ill. A wounded trapper needed help. Providence families suffered with a virus. For weeks on

end she made visits.

She found a friend in Father Duchaussois, who had come from afar to write about nuns, but in

March felt his leaving acutely. Parting, a poet had said, is a little death.

When, days later Marie-Adle, one of thepetites (the youngest children at the convent) passed

away, she remembered Chateaubriands description of suffering as a form of prayer. One feels the need to

fall on one's knees when one is unhappy, said her paraphrase in the Chroniques. At times like this one

should ask for grace and forgiveness.

In April priests and brothers caught another flu. Indian demand for pills was constant. An elderly
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woman, deaf, blind, and ill, needed inpatient care. House-calls continued, as did the watch over ailing

students.

Just then mission bells ceased ringinga reminder of Christ's death on the cross. "We find

ourselves," the sister noted, "in the silent week. The absent peals matched the lack of joy in her heart.

When the weather warmed, two tuberculous girls were put in a tent, but sunlight made them no

better. Marie-Anne was soon brought back inside, as was Thrse, who bled from the lungs. In the boys'

quarters, David received the last rites. As clouds darkened the sky, Sister Eugnie wrote that "Life is full of

sadness, yet no one wants to leave it." The comment referred as much to her own somber thoughts as to the

ailing youngsters.

On June 18, the sister tried to sleep while rain pelted windows. The gale made her think of the

onslaught of illness inside. As Saint Thrse had said, "Life is but a night of storms spent in a bad inn." She

strained to put the situation at Providence in a favorable light. When one finds in that lodging not only

friends but obedient, pious, and loving children, it just isn't possible to complain of streaks of lightning, bolts

of thunder, and blackened skies."

Fine weather brought the sister no cheer, for like other pleasant things, it would "pass too soon." On

June 20 Thrse and David passed away. "My God!" she cried as she sought a bright lining, "Since we must

witness such deaths, how good it ishow necessary it isto believe that one day we will see them again in

another life." The next day dogs killed the cat that had long given her affection.

On June 26, consumption showed in anotherpetite, Marie-Cline. Little Augustin, too, received the

last rites. The sister could not hide her pain. "When the mouth smiles," she recalled a saying, "the soul is

shedding tears." Still, there were more and more crises.

Grasshoppers destroyed the vegetables. Ailing Oblates required care. Boats brought a nasty virus.

Ailing Indians clamored for help. Students were so sick "as to evoke pity." The superior, herself affected,

felt sick at heart.

An outdoor religious procession brought no relief from God. Little Jean, scheduled to go home,

came down with tuberculous peritonitis. "Again, my Lord!" was the sister's cry when he passed away.

Catching herself, she added "Thy will be done." That very evening Augustin declined. Then Sister Yves, a

convent mainstay, developed abdominal cramps.

Sister Eugnie could take no more. Defiance (though presented in muted terms) marked words she

addressed to her Maker: My God, we are almost tempted to say It is too much all at once. She longed to

tell the mother superior of the Mackenzie District of the endless "tests of illness and death." It would be

like pouring the overflow into another vessel. But although theNorthland Traderarrived as expected, the

mother was not on board. Augustin died days later.

Beset by grief, the sister tried to think of rewards. To dry a tear, to trigger a smile, she reminded


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herself, those are pleasures one can readily procure. But she felt increasing isolation. How grateful we

are to God, she wrote in September, the Great Consoler of our exile.

Not only was she far from her home in Qubec, she had also wandered from trust in God. When a

priest spoke of Christ healing lepers, she thought of her ailing faith. "We too, O Jesus," said her prayer, "we

want to be healed. We want to return to the resolutions of our days of fervor."

Her gloom deepened, in part because of an encounter with a favorite former student (the young

woman was mentally ill). Alas, she confided to the diary, nothing offers peace, nor is there anything of

which one can be certain on this earth.

For weeks migrating birds cried to the nun to come with them. "I have lost my wings," she

lamented, "and cannot fly along." How fortunate the travelers were to have all that air and light while those

below faced "exile and isolation." She envied the ease with which they packed: they had "neither suitcases

nor baggage," and God paid their hotel. The fall's single mail in late November brought three letters, all for

another nun.

At the onset of the darkest month, twopetits, Alphonse and Lazare, rapidly declined. "Must we

really open still more graves?" was the sister's angry reaction. But she allowed that God had rules. "My

Lord," she intoned, "it is true that you measure each person for a cradle, a life, and a tomb." The boys, such

reasoning implied, had grown to the pre-ordained length of their coffins. Her prayers, she knew, would not

change the course of events.

When Alphonse left this world, the sister decided to be even closer to ailing youngsters. If she must

lose them, said her actions, she would give them the warmest, most constant of care. Like a mother hen

protecting her brood underwing, she placed the patients in a bed beside her own.

On January 8, Lazare was put in her room. For a while he continued the "gentle" voyage out of this

world. Then one morning he told the superior to stop fussing over him and to "run to breakfast" as it was

late. When she returned, the child was dying and soon gone. "We don't want to complain," the sister told her

Lord, "but we know you are a good father, so please listen to our sighs and give us the grace of resignation."

What the rebellious side of her really meant, one senses, was "Please stop the killing."

For a month she slept beside little Joseph until he passed away. This time, no lament escaped her

pen. She had got some rest, and was thus more able to keep anger in check. No other patient lay seriously

ill. Housecalls had dwindled. The Indians' visit to Fort Providence had passed without a rush.

Other factors, too, helped. That spring, the convent prepared for the golden anniversary of the nuns'

arrival at Fort Providence, and to mark the event, the head of the Grey Nuns paid a visit from Montreal.

Ceremonies, banquets, and entertainment by the children followed.

More than ever, Sister Eugnie felt ties to Margaret d'Youville, the Grey Nuns founder, on whose

birthday the nuns lit a candle by her statue in their parlour. The flame, wrote the superior, showed what was


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foremost in their minds: to work as hard as they could under her gaze till one day they could join her in

heaven.

That year, improved medical services in the North reduced demands on Sister Eugnie. A new Grey

Nun hospital at Fort Simpson served as a safety valve. Now, when nuns made their summer trip on the

Mackenzie to gather students, they examined each for signs of tuberculosis, and those openly infected were

left at Simpson. When children already at Providence needed care, the superior sent them to her colleagues.

Such transfers could not take place in winterthe distance to Simpson prohibited travel by dogsled.

Also, there seemed little benefit in sending hopeless cases to another site. Ailing youngsters, as a result,

remained a presence at the school. Thus, 1918 brought further losses..

Pierre Andrew passed away March 9; Emile, July 20, and Margurite appeared about to follow.

Throughout, the sister maintained her peace. She determined anew to live up to her duties. A sermon by

Father Leguen touched her in particular. It urged her to emulate the virtues (humility, purity, and obedience)

the Virgin Mary had shown during Archangel Gabriels visit:

A terrible event in Montreal put the convents problems in perspective. Fire at a Grey Nun building

had killed fifty infants. Compared to that toll, burials at the school that year were few. Yet the sisters

comment is open to many an interpretation: "Life escapes painfully, drop by drop."

She performed admirably through difficulties that followed. A virus once again swept the region.

The "dear little baby" of a former student passed away. Sister Yves had a recurrence of cramps. When

Elisabeth Etchi, apetite, showed signs of consumption, the superior put the girl at her bedside.

Elisabeth rarely responded to smiles. One day, however, that suddenly changed. Altered function

of her brain made her giggle at length. Insisting she was in charge, she donned the superior's headdress,

glasses, and cross. The nuns laughed along as the patient, black-rimmed spectacles low on her nose,

demanded someone bring her a sack of flour. In the midst of the gaiety, the little one had a pulmonary

hemorrhage that cut off her life.

No bitter note appeared in Sister Eugnie's journal. She had learned, it seems, to accept death even

as she brought it closer. Heart-rending losses brought neither depression nor objection to God's ways.

Despite tragedy she could smile. Repeatedly, her diary tells of laughter..

In June a nun caused mirth after a boat triphappy to get back, she kissed the convent floor. In

October, at the very time that Elisabeth lay sick, the sisters enjoyed an evening of banter. It was the king's

birthday, and a nuns impersonation of Edward VII had them roar. Four weeks later, at a party for the fully

recovered Sister Yves, that jovial nun made them laugh so hard they thought they would be ill.

As December drew to a close, Sister Eugnie learned that war in Europe had ended. But the news

was not all good. Spanish Flu had killed thousands and was sweeping to the west. Close acquaintances,

nuns in Montreal, had already succumbed. The virus would surely reach the Mackenzie.


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On New Year's eve the sister reflected on her station at Providence. She lived between the future

and the past, and realized how little she knew either. "What remains of the one? What do we possess of the

other? Nothing. Here, a few memories, there a few hopes carried off one by one, washed away in time. A

fading day, a closing nightlife is but a mixture of the two."

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