Death and Afterlife of the North American Martyrs: Part II of Our Interview with Emma Anderson
Today is Part II of our interview with Emma Anderson about her remarkable new book The Death and Afterlife of the North American Martyrs, recently published by Harvard University Press. By the way, another very interesting discussion of the book may be found here.
What’s the most
important take-home message for readers?
Probably just that, that there is always more than
one way of looking at a historical event, no matter how familiar it may seem to
be. I wanted to challenge the reader to
think through the bloody events of the 1640s in a new way, one which does not
simply cast native people as the mindless or demonic deus ex machina of these Europeans’ deaths, but which takes into
consideration native beliefs and practices regarding torture, death, and
rebirth: beliefs which share striking similarities to Christian notions of
martyrdom, but also differ from them in important ways. I also wanted to show how the veneration of
saints in any given time and place tells more about the venerators than it does
the saintly figures being venerated. I
sought to demonstrate, in looking at the ups and downs of the martyrs’ cult
over the centuries, and charting the history of challenges to its basic
assumptions from native communities, how a given figure`s sanctity is
effectively made anew in each generation.
When saints can no longer speak in a fresh and relevant way to the
contemporary concerns of their venerators, their cult will fade, if not perish
altogether. This book, then, not only
re-examines the deaths of these figures from a fresh perspective, but also
details the history of a kind of spiritual relay race as the torch of their
veneration is passed from runner to runner down the centuries. I was very much struck, writing this book,
how much individuals made the critical difference between a cult surviving and
perishing.
Yes, perhaps a good case in point is Catherine de Saint-Augustin (1632-1688). Prior to reading your book, I was not
familiar with Catherine de Saint-Augustin and the critical role she played in
the early history of martyrology. Can you tell us a little more about her?
For my dime, Catherine de Saint-Augustin, a nursing
nun who came to colonial Canada at the tender age of 16 and who died twenty
years later, at only 36, is easily the most fascinating (and the most
under-studied) North American Catholic woman of the seventeenth century. Among anglophone scholars, she has largely
been eclipsed by her older, charismatic contemporary, Marie de l’Incarnation,
who is an astounding figure in her own right.
The difference in relative scholarly attention to the two figures probably
results from the fact that virtually all of Marie’s truly stupendous output
(she wrote thousands of letters, many to the son she had abandoned to come to
Canada) have been translated into English, whereas Catherine’s more modest
epistolary output, some of it preserved in her 1671 biography, La Vie de la Mère Catherine de
Saint-Augustin, Religieuse hospitalière de la misericorde de Quebec, penned
by the Jesuit Paul Ragueneau, has yet to appear in English.
Catherine is fascinating both in her own right and
by virtue of how she served as a midwife to the colonial martyrs’ cult. Preserved in the pages of Ragueneau’s adoring
account, Catherine is a vivid, deliciously individual figure. Even the stultifying genre of hagiography,
which often seems determined to squishes the unruly nuance and idiosyncrasy of
individual personality into the one-size-fits-all of sanctity cannot fully
sanitize Catherine’s headstrong determination or her larger-than-life
imagination. Catherine fought both her
biological family and her religious superiors to come to Canada as an
adolescent, and then endured her own depression and anxiety to remain here for
the rest of her life. She lived a kind
of spiritual double-life, filled with secrecy and intrigue. During the day, she was a much-admired
Hospitalière nun, devotedly serving the spiritual and physical needs of the
patients under her care. Nocturnally,
however, Catherine enjoyed a terrifying and exhilarating mystical life
featuring both the thrill of spiritual contact with Jesus and his saints –
including a particularly intense relationship with the recently deceased Jesuit
Jean de Brébeuf – and the agony of repeated bouts of demonic possession. Seen as the ultimate fulfillment of decorous
self-abnegation by her sisterly peers and even her female superiors, who
allegedly knew nothing of her vivid mystical life, Catherine’s visions and
ability to commune with the martyrs, already seen as the spiritual patrons of
the Canadian colony, made her one of the few early female power brokers in New
France. Indeed, by anointing herself the martyrs’ earthly heir, Catherine was
able to command the first bishop of New France, François de Laval, to
participate with her in novenas in the martyrs’ honour.
Catherine’s contribution to founding the cult of the
martyrs was distinctive and seminal.
Paul Ragueneau (the same Jesuit who was later to immortalize Catherine
herself in his 1671 Vie) focused his
own work largely on recounting the historical lives and deaths of his deceased
comrades. Catherine, however, drew
colonists’ attention to what the martyrs could do for them now and in the
future. She encouraged the people of New
France to see these fallen Jesuits as thamaturges: living spiritual figures who
could intercede with the heavenly court on behalf of colonists. To this end, she finely grated the relics of
Jean de Brébeuf, which she kept as an amulet around her neck, into the soups
and stews she served the invalids under her care, thereby achieving cures,
conversions, and exorcisms.
But,
as I understand it, the cult of the Jesuit martyrs was at very low ebb during
the eighteenth century before coming back, almost miraculously, so to speak, in
the nineteenth century. How and why were the martyrs brought back to life when
they were?
Yes, that’s absolutely right. Though Paul Ragueneau and Catherine de Saint
Augustin had built up a healthy colonial cult of the martyrs immediately
following their deaths during the 1640s, the eighteenth century brought
unprecedented challenges to their veneration, both in colonial Canada and
overseas in the martyrs’ French homeland.
Initially, it seemed very counter-intuitive that these spiritual patrons
of New France could long survive the downfall of the very colony that they were
supposed to protect. The Conquest changed
everything for Quebec. Important new
restrictions on the power of the Catholic Church meant that, among other
things, the Society of Jesus in Canada seemed to have died off in 1800, with
the death of the last Canadian Jesuit, Jean-Joseph Casot. But, as traumatic as it was, the 1759 fall of
Quebec proved to be only the first blow to the martyrs’ infant cult. Back in France, during the Revolution, relics
of these Jesuits martyrs, such as the thigh bone of Gabriel Lalemant, were
actually used as instruments of iconoclasm during the sweeping popular revolt
against clerical power. We can see the
nadir of the martyrs’ cult in a little-known (and quite horrifying) work of the
famed Spanish artist Francisco Goya, who painted Jesuit martyrs less as
triumphant spiritual heroes than as meat in the process of being rendered by
their native captors. The spiritual
climate which had fostered the birth and development of the martyrs’ cult
seemed to have been snuffed out by conquest, revolution, and a changing
cultural climate which eyed askance many of the Catholic Church’s most
treasured concepts, including that of martyrdom.
But in the nineteenth century the martyrs’ cult came
roaring back again. Not only would it be
reasserted in Quebec, its ancient cradle, but the cult of the martyrs would
spread for the first time to the anglophone United States. In Quebec, an ingenious interpretation of
recent historical events was largely responsible for the martyrs’
resurrection. Historians of the
“clerico-nationalist” stripe linked together the Conquest and the French
Revolution in a uniquely creative way, arguing that, because God in his foreknowledge
had anticipated the Revolution, he had pre-emptively used the English to sever
Quebec from the insidious and atheistic influence of her Gallic homeland. The 1759 defeat of New France, from this
perspective, was not a defeat at all, but a spiritual victory, allowing the
martyrs to be re-embraced as a tangible symbol of this paradox. The Jesuit order was triumphantly re-established
in 1842 and almost immediately the Society’s historians, notably Père Felix
Martin, started piecing together the order’s dispersed textual treasures, many
of which praised the lives and deaths of these martyrs. The cult had been reborn and, through the
efforts of historian John Gilmary Shea, it would become important, for the
first time ever, to American Catholics.
In a sense, John Gilmary Shea was the Catherine de
Saint Augustine of the 19th century.
Though he didn’t do anything as dramatic as ritually grate relics into
soup, he resembled Catherine in that he was integral in spreading and
strengthening the cult of this small group of slain colonial Jesuits. Shea was the foremost American Catholic
historian of the nineteenth century, and his original writings and his
translation of original manuscripts related to the martyrs encouraged their
veneration by a whole new client base: American Catholics. Like their Quebecois
co-religionists, American Catholics were eager during this period to project a
powerful collective identity. They also
wanted to fight the anti-Catholic tenor of much of the historiography of the
time: historiography which deprecated Catholicism as anti-American and
anti-freedom and depicted American Catholics as Johnny-come-latelies without
any real roots in the continent.
American Catholics responded by highlighting the irreproachably Catholic
pedigrees of important American “founding fathers” like Columbus and,
increasingly, the martyrs themselves.
Deeply interwoven into the history of the continent, these “manly”
Catholics became a key means through which American Catholic identity was
expressed in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
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