The Wild Tears Fall

There is a certain condition in human nature that is familiar to every experienced human being across the boundaries of nations or time. It is that of a relationship grown cold due to a rift--an argument or an act that causes two people once deeply engaged in one another to grow apart. This is never so evident as when it occurs in marriage, where the two are still obliged to remain together. One has no difficulty in conjuring the image of a man and woman moving laconically past one another, each in his and her own shadowy world. They do not speak; the situation has grown comfortable. Maybe they have some notion of doing something in the future to rekindle the joy they felt as they began their lives together, but that must wait for the appropriate time. They have their personal plans, and day in, day out, they move steadily and solitarily towards different goals, though to all appearances, they stay together.

In the Renaissance, thinkers posited the idea that motion itself may be dubbed 'inert' as aptly as stillness is. It logically followed that sluggishness is found in actuality as well as in potency. Not yet abandoning the link between pure reason and reality, these philosopher scientists realized that such an idea would nullify any difference between rest and motion, and so to uphold the truth that our sensory experience indeed reflects reality, many nodded as Newton posited the notions of 'absolute motion' and 'absolute place.' Those scientists, so wanting man to be the measure of all things, likely mopped their brows with relief at such a solution. Somewhere there was an eternal standard to measure individual phenomena against, thus vouchsafing˜­ the credibility of man's reason.


However, the realm of human relations differs entirely. As each man is an individual endowed with sentient thought of the highest order, his personal course of action need not arise from a relation with any eternal measure. Determinists may say otherwise, but personal experience tells us that man does what he does out of free choice, and that this freedom is only lessened by the sleepy influence of inertia (for even acting on the compulsion of another implies that we choose compliance over the alternative of not complying). Whether it is true for physical objects or not, man is indeed capable of resting even as he acts, mindlessly following the course of habit.


'Heaven gives us habit instead of happiness' is the proverb stoically intoned at the beginning of Tchaikovsky's luscious opera, Onegin. As it is shown that story's prelude, the strength of habit is enough to conquer individual impulses, and in this story's case, it is for the better. The security of a repeating cycle helps one to heal after the bruises of disappointed romance.


One may say the same to be the case with the Church and the Society of Saint Pius X. The initial sunderance with Rome must have shook the earth under the bishops' feet, even as they were convinced that Canon Law ultimately justified them, even as it appeared to condemn them. The stigma branded upon them by the mainstream currents in the Church may have at first spurred them on, but after all this time, this condition has very likely become mundane.


Just as with the married couple mentioned before, there was an argument. It was an ugly argument--the sort that shatters lives and even worlds. Yet, the presence of mind in both parties allows the marriage to remain in existence, and the two decide to go seperate ways under the same roof, trusting in some misty future date for a true reconciliation. Habit reigns in place of happiness, and husband and wife are content with their domestic routines, superficial conversation, and nights of regular sleep. This life does not feed their desires. It is not a fulfillment of their vocation. It is an insult against the potential grandeur of their souls. Yet, it is also the easier thing to do. Habit is easier than happiness; routine is easier than romance. Inertia always has that upperhand over the practice of virtue.

That is why it would come as a shock to the wife, if as she prepares supper in the kitchen, or as she returns home from work herself, to suddenly come face to face with her husband and see that he is looking at her. He does not give way for her to continue what she was doing. He does not even follow his own routine. He says decisively: 'Things cannot go on as they have.' She finds now she will have to make a choice. To live with him as his wife, or not to live with him at all, because he will no longer stand for only receiving a part of her or for merely giving a part of himself.

The SSPX expected the barque of St. Peter to take a century or so to right its course, at the which time, they would seek a more visible reunion. Much like a practical wife, the Fraternity was ready to bide its time and wait for the situation to evolve. Romance however kindles revolution; it does not wait for evolution. 

Yet, this sort of passion and deliberate way of thinking may end in either triumph or tragedy. The husband's confrontation with his wife could bring about a wider rift rather than a reconciliation. As Archbishop Fellay himself has said: 

One must not think that things will be easy afterwards. To use the words of the Pope that describe the situation quite well: 'I know,' he said, 'that it would be easier both for the Society and for myself to leave the situation as it currently is.' This describes very well the situation, and also that the Pope himself knows that he, when he does it, will be attacked. And also that the situation will not be easy for us. That which will arise out of this situation will be with Rome or against it. Both of which will be difficult. 

'Difficult'? A very diplomatic term. The enemies of this reunion want to wreck it completely. They are ready to split the Church over it. The heretics that once accused the SSPX of schism, are now entering into formal schism (to add to their heresy): 

A schismatic pope loses his position according to that same teaching of the constitution of the Church. At least, he cannot expect obedience...Instead of reconciling with the ultra-conservative, anti-democratic, and anti-Semitic SSPX, the Pope should rather care about the majority of reform-minded Catholics and reconcile with the churches of the Reformation and the entire ecumenical movement. Thus he would unite, and not divide. _Hans Küng (http://rorate-caeli.blogspot.com/2012/05/freak-extremes-meet-hans-kung-becomes.html)

Ultimately, those engaged in a romance must be willing to ask themselves if the other is enough. If their relationship is a great enough good to place above all other goods and all other relations. The Pope has decided that justice to the Fraternity is above the politics of diplomacy and that open arms to those outside the Church is a lie if those already within Her are not also embraced in love. His Holiness has decided to put his own house in order first, whatever the cost.

And how shall it end? That depends on whether one's trust in the good God is well-founded. Those with faith already have their answer.

In June 1863 after more than two years of bloody conflict the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia, Robert E. Lee commanding, slips across the Potomac to begin the invasion of the North...Their objective is to draw the Union army out into the open where it can be destroyed...General Lee knows that a letter has been prepared by the Southern government; a letter which offers peace. It is to be placed on the desk of Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States the day after Lee has destroyed the Army of the Potomac somewhere north of Washington... (Opening Narration: Gettysburg, 1993 [emphasis mine]) 

Surely there are few literal pacifists living on this earth. The majority of us would acknowledge the necessity of violence in the case of self-defense or the defense of others. To feel one's self in danger invokes all the natural instincts necessary to commit physical evils in order to prevent moral evils. Love, which moves us to will the good of another, brings other persons into that realm of one's own being which we wish always to protect. It may even be more intense than the attachment one has to one's literal self. The more loving the husband and father, the more tender the wife and mother, and the more devoted the brother or sister, the more capable they are of turning viciously on a wicked aggressor in a way which they would never even wish their loved ones to witness. 


This is rather self-evident to anyone who has truly loved. What is not self-evident is when the ratiocinations of which man alone is capable projects beyond our emotive, animal instincts and thinks of defense in the light of attack. Here the avenging hand falters. Less than two centuries ago, at just such a juncture, i.e., the Mason-Dixon line, thousands of the grey army of the Confederacy, though bound to their General Robert E. Lee with the most intense filial affection, laid down their arms and refused to go further:

'They had volunteered willingly enough to defend their homes,' a regimental historian explained, 'but some did not think it right to invade Northern territory.' _(Landscape Turned Red, Stephen Sears) 


On such a subject as attacking in the name of defense, I am writing of something completely out of the reach of my personal sympathies, both as a woman and as one of melancholic temperament. When I hear of one nation bearing swords across the boundaries of another, I shudder with the same repugnance that I would feel on seeing an armed man entering another man's home. Yet, with my reason, I must acknowledge that my emotive reaction is not necessarily an intution of what is true. Reason must govern emotions. 'The heart can and should obey the head.'


An officer of the state must take in a dangerous criminal, even if he must do so before the man's wife and children. Her pleas and their tears must not alter the course of justice. However clemency may wish to provide for these unfortunates later, evil must not be tolerated to spare them pain. The sacredness of the threshold of hearth and home is not an absolute thing in the case of the individual. Nor is it the case with the State. A nation that has been bellicose against another is not often sufficiently rebuked by merely being defeated on the foreign soil where it had no right to go: 

Always mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy, if possible; and when you strike and overcome him, never let up in the pursuit so long as your men have strength to follow... _Stonewall Jackson


The enemy must be pursued and soundly chastened. It is not enough to make a thief return his booty. He must give expiation for the evil in his act--providing some recompense to the injured party. He must be punished enough himself so that he shall never wish to commit the crime again.


Lee therefore justly overruled his generals in taking his army North. What seemed a desecration of the cause to some, was the best chance of ending the war and securing victory. Considerations of feeding the Confederate army and the hopes of impressing--even galvanizing--European allies also played a great part in the decision. The ability to carry a hard or even severe idea into act is the reason choleric men exist. Once vindicated by their minds, they see--and rightly see--that the time has come to lock up their hearts. 


Lucy Maud Montgomery observed this well through one of her finest works. In her narrative, it is revealed that it is possible for a woman's husband to have a surgery that may restore his senses after years of living life only half-aware. The trouble is that he was an unkind, selfish, immoral bore beforehand, and his wife's life has at least been easier after her husband became an idiot. Anne naturally wishes to spare the wife, who is also her friend, but the men in her life come down against her:

"Oh, Captain Jim, I didn't think you'd say that," she exclaimed reproachfully. "I thought you wouldn't want to make more trouble for her." 

Captain Jim shook his head. "I don't want to. I know how you feel about it, Mistress Blythe-- just as I feel meself. But it ain't our feelings we have to steer by through life--no, no, we'd make shipwreck mighty often if we did that. There's only the one safe compass and we've got to set our course by that--what it's right to do. I agree with the doctor. If there's a chance for Dick, Leslie should be told of it. There's no two sides to that, in my opinion." 

"Well," said Anne, giving up in despair, "wait until Miss Cornelia gets after you two men." 

"Cornelia'll rake us fore and aft, no doubt," assented Captain Jim. "You women are lovely critters, Mistress Blythe, but you're just a mite illogical. You're a highly eddicated lady and Cornelia isn't, but you're like as two peas when it comes to that. I dunno's you're any the worse for it. Logic is a sort of hard, merciless thing, I reckon." (Anne's House of Dreams, Chapter XXX: Leslie Decides) 

Leslie's decision was one for the truth. In the end, it set her free. Ergo:

Sister Elena Aiello speaks: “Oh, what a horrible vision I see! A great revolution is going on in Rome! They are entering the Vatican. The Pope is all alone; he s praying. They are holding the Pope. They take him by force. They knock him down to the floor. They are tying him. Oh, God! Oh God! They are kicking him. What a horrible scene! How dreadful!” 

“Our Blessed Mother is drawing near. Like corpses those evil men fall down to the floor. Our Lady helps the Pope to his feet and, taking him by the arm, she covers him with her mantle saying: ‘Fear not!’(http://www.mysticsofthechurch.com/2011/09/blessed-elena-aiello-mystic-stigmatic.html)


Today, as we celebrate the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, the Pope shall also beatify a nun that stood faithfully in the shadow of that monolith. Sweating blood, enduring dire pain, and beholding the most horrific visions, Blessed Elena Aiello lived the Passion all the days of her life. Many of her prophecies have already come to pass, but the worst has yet to come. It seems that our present Vicar of Christ is expecting their fulfillment; may he fear not.

Today he also meets with the Archbishop Fellay, and I doubt that it would be adherents to the Society of St. Pius X that would be so brutalizing the Pope in such a vision. May His Holiness's defenders increase this day! May their dialogue bear fruit!

May also, the nun's grievous suffering on this world bear fruit; may she take the great work of this day under the patronage of her mantle. She endured enough to ask this. Just before the outbreak of WWII, Christ appeared to Blessed Elena and said: 


So she did. Now we must follow suit.

Do we feast today? Let us fast more earnestly then on Friday. After having kissed the rod, let us not afterward defend ourselves from its blows. Pain dispels the cloud of cynicism most readily, and we may find ourselves ready to take up our banners again, when we see the world is not grey with stodgy incompetence and failed plans for good. It is blood red with active crimes and deliberate selfishness.

Mortification can help us to see this! Our sufferings are efficacious! How? This we shall not know until we are dead, but this Friday, let us all together take it upon ourselves to bear a bit of the cross. Or shall we let God's chosen mystics shoulder all our burdens for us? Will an unknown man or woman suffer wretchedly for the sinners beloved by you? For your family, friends, and nation?

As anyone who was spanked as a child knows, it is better to bend over and have it done with. It is certainly best not to put one's hands in the way of the paddle at the last moment. So it must be the most beneficial for us, if we willingly mortify ourselves now, than have it inflicted upon us later. Not today (for today is a feast of God) but at the proper times appointed by Him, let us live closer to the foot of the cross.

Five years before the scandal began to emerge in secular print, I had been prepared in my youth by a priest to whom my confidence is forever and irrevocably dedicated, for I do not trust him as a prince, but as himself. He may not be called ‘Venerable.’ The Church has certainly not yet named him ‘Saint’ or ‘Blessed.’ I may only call him ‘Beloved.’ Beloved Malachy—Father Malachi Martin.

As a child of the South-eastern corner of the American States, I grew up surrounded by souls, well-meaning as they were, who brutally assaulted the Church so dear to my heart with the wildest accusations about her practises and the continuous threat of my personal damnation. Their arguments being based on emotion and ill-informed prejudice, I often had occasion to take pride in the pristine philosophy of Roman Catholic theology and the immemorial structure of the Body of Christ.

Though at thirteen, I had been taught more than most and had studied more than most Catholics, I was by no means wise. I certainly could not distinguish between the essence and the accidents of the Church’s rites. To see a divorce between the two would have been most injurious to any young soul, and this revelation was creeping on me day by day as I realized more and more the differences between the post-Vatican culture in which I partook of the Sacraments and the Traditional teachings instilled by my parents.

Scandals committed by clergy and religious against the Church first erupted in my world through the news I read and the pervading ugliness in Novus Ordo churches and Masses. These were revolutions against doctrine primarily. The declining beauty of the churches my family attended (we changed parishes several times) was a necessary evil in fleeing from the heretical dissidence preached by our former pastors. It was either ironic or deliberately unkind that the bishop gave the beautiful sanctuaries to the Leftist priests, but then that Ordinary himself was the object of more egregious scandal but a few years ago.

‘Well before the year 2,000 there will no longer be a religious institute recognisable as the Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church of today... There will be no centralised control, no uniformity in teaching, no universality in practice of worship, prayer, sacrifice, and priesthood.’ _Malachi Martin

Just so. Such statements and such facts had the power to wrench my peace into shambles, but Father Martin always had a way of putting me back together. Whenever the Pope bewildered me, or a primate scandalized me, there he was the—true Jesuit, full of Ignatian fire for the papacy and for the truth.

‘We’ve never sat in his chair. He is the man chosen by the Holy Spirit; stop trying to be Pope.’ Such words mean so much coming from a man who looks on the facts unflinchingly and quite willingly discusses them. The same line means very little from the Neo-Conservative Catholics practicing this ignominious rule: ‘never criticize a priest.’

The further addition of Father Malachy’s personal theories and opinions behind papal motives were stunning, humbling, and wholly convincing. Through his works of thinly veiled ‘faction’, I found myself moved not only to forgive, but even to understand the plight tearing Holy Mother Church apart. It is the same condition tearing mankind apart everyday, and it comes back to the grossly simple principle that man is fallen.

He is fickle, weak, self-centred, and choked with sloth. Man’s is the nature that may on one day hail the Great Rabbi as he rides into Jerusalem on a stately ass with palms and praise, and five days late foam at the mouth for his death. In an hour of precious intimacy, he vows to follow his beloved Friend even to death; not a day later he denies every knowing Him.

It is a daunting task, in the wake of these fresh scandals, to turn one’s eyes to the countenance of the Lord. His indignation would surely burn us to cinders, yet if we could look at Him, there would be no surprise in His face. He recoiled in horror already at Gethsemane, underwent the torment required for expiation on the cross, and pronounced the words of forgiveness even in the midst of His Passion.

Yet, one must learn to emulate Dismas and not Gesmas in order to be with Him in paradise. We must not expect God to prove Himself by rescuing us from torment, or that which we love. Malachi Martin made the inexorable point that in trying to play the World's game, even in the name of charity and prudence, leads to servitude of Mammon. It must be a crucified, perhaps marginalized, Church to which we belong, not one exalted in this world.

Accept this then: Judas has manifested himself again. The calumny, torture, and death at the hand of the World are to follow.

Does it follow then that feminine genius of the secular order is also traced back to this source, i.e. the drive of passion, rather than action? What of Diotima, Sappho, Scheherazade, Jane Austen, Elizabeth Gaskell, Marie Curie, Isabella of Castile, Maria Theresa of Austria, Maria Spartali Stillman, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and Annie Oakley? Are these women simply freaks of nature, and were their aspirations nearly crushed in the face of omnipresent, masculine chauvinism?

It may not establish a universal to analyze such a small field of particulars, but the pool of feminine genius does not afford many examples, and even less of the earth-shattering sort. There is no female equivalent to Beethoven in the musical order, nor to Dante in the poetic, nor to Plato in the philosophical. The ancient pedant may argue that Diotima, even though she instilled the heart of Socrates’s metaphysics in his soul, was still the inferior in reason to the Gadfly of Athens.

The poetess, Sappho, is not likely to be confessed the equal of Homer. The other authors—Miss Jane Austen, Mrs. Gaskell, and Maud (listed as they would have preferred to be addressed)—have been counted amongst the greatest prose writers in English history, yet it is often joked that a character from Dostoevsky’s novels, if placed in a work of Jane Austen, would cause the book to explode. Female critics have occasionally complained that many novels by Mrs. Gaskell tend to be sparse, as she wrote on a productive time table (though I still consider her threadbare works superior to many of Dickens’s fully worked tapestries), and Lucy Maud Montgomery herself said through her heroine Anne (to whom it had been suggested by the character’s husband to undertake the biography of a sea captain):

…I only wish I could. But it's not in the power of my gift. You know what my forte is, Gilbert--the fanciful, the fairylike, the pretty. To write Captain Jim's life-book as it should be written one should be a master of vigorous yet subtle style, a keen psychologist, a born humorist and a born tragedian. A rare combination of gifts is needed. Paul might do it if he were older…. (Anne’s House of Dreams, Chapter XVII- A Four Winds Winter)

Many might argue that the above quotation is far from a denunciation of what Maud saw as a woman’s ability to write. After all, she is talking about Anne, not herself. Everyone who knows L. M. Montgomery also knows that it is Emily of New Moon that serves as her twin in the fictional realm and chief representative. In the realm of the psychological, the sweet, impulsive Anne is a blossom of spring. Emily is the ripened pomegranate, and merits the most intense scrutiny to decipher the psychology behind Maud’s inspiration.

Emily was not called to write any particular story. She continued to write even after the devastating loss of her first great tale. There was no incident in history, no archetype in the back of her mind, and no hero or heroine whom she sought to memorialize in her works. Her sagely tutor, Mr. Carpenter, saw in her one who would give voice to the Canadian spirit. Emily herself saw her works as an attempt to describe her personal relationship with Beauty. I again, present, as I have in the past, this quotation penned directly from the author:

It has always seemed to me, ever since early childhood, that, amid all the commonplaces of life, I was very near to a kingdom of ideal beauty. Between it and me hung only a thin veil. I could never draw it quite aside, but sometimes a wind fluttered it, and I caught a glimpse of the enchanting realm beyond—only a glimpse, but those glimpses have always made life worthwhile. (The Alpine Path)

Just as Diotima spoke to Socrates of love, so have the female champions of literature focused on the desires of the heart. Whether romantic, filial, religious, political, or even philosophical, has there yet been a female writer whose strength was not in the intimate interchanges between the characters? One thrills in Austen’s novels at the news of a coming ball; this scene of intense social intercourse is bound to ignite something incredible! When calling hours have commenced in the works of Gaskell, the anticipated arrival of a visitor lends ineffable romance to the chiming of the clock. The wild elfin Montgomery refuses to be pinned down; her exciting collisions with kindred spirits can happen anywhere at anytime, provided that the surroundings are beautiful. An enchanting, broken down graveyard, a pristine beach, a secretive grove, and one may very well encounter another member of the ‘race of Joseph.’

What these women did in words, so have female painters done with pictures. The lush portraits of Maria Spartali Stillman, and the other Pre-Raphaelite Sisters, were all keenly intimate, as were the illuminated manuscripts of medieval nuns and aristocratic women. The works that stand out from the Renaissance and the Baroque are those of enclosed portraits and still lifes. Even Elizabeth Butler’s dynamic paintings of war do not extend beyond the width of fifteen men abreast. And in Scotland Forever, I think one remembers more than anything the expressions of the charging horses, the turned of the head in the lead rider, calling or singing out to his men to follow, and the two cavalrymen to his right—one with his mouth howling the war cry and the other with his teeth set to the task forthcoming.

As to Isabella of Castile, Maria Theresa of Austria, and others—well, why are they not praised as highly by women of the Left as Elizabeth I and others? Is it due to the moral accusations raised against them? Hardly. Those issues are hardly resolved, and if Maria Theresa was a conqueror of Poland, then Elizabeth was the murderess of Ireland.

It is more likely that the ‘progressive’ minded thinkers resent the way these women came into power. Not grasping, conniving, or scheming, but by accepting. As G. K. Chesterton observed, there is a world of difference between the ‘public’ woman and the ‘political’ woman. Isabella would not have chained herself to a fence post for the sake of a vote. She refused the Archbishop Carillo’s urges to revolt against her imbecile half-brother, but said that she must respect the position of her brother’s crown, if her own monarchical rights were to be honoured.

Maria Theresa did not win over her noblemen with a rousing Crispin’s Day Speech or with the adamant logic of a Roman statesman. It must raise the blush and ire of many a third wave feminist to read how she secured her power:

Making her way to her old capital, she summoned the Hungarians to a great meeting in the castle. It was September 11, 1741, a day ever remembered in the annals of Hungary. The great hall was already full when the young queen entered. She was in deep mourning, for it was not yet a year since her father had died. Her dress was Hungarian, the iron crown was on her head, the sword of state in her hand. Though her step was firm, her tears were falling fast, and for some time after she had ascended the throne she was unable to speak…

…Maria Theresa had now recovered herself. On a cushion before her lay her baby son Joseph, afterwards Emperor of Austria. The queen now took him in her arms. She held him up to the assembly before her. Her face, still wet with tears, was "beautiful as the moon riding among wet, stormy clouds." She spoke in Latin, the official language of Hungary to this day.

"The kingdom of Hungary, our person, our children, our crowns, are at stake," she cried to them amidst her sobs.

"Forsaken by all, we seek shelter only in the tried fidelity, the arms, the well-known valour of the Hungarians."

The beauty and distress of their unhappy queen roused every Hungarian to the wildest enthusiasm. Each man drew his sword, and all cried as with one voice, which re-echoed through the lofty hall, "Our lives, our blood for your Majesty! We will die for our king, Maria Theresa!"
The young queen burst into tears.

"We wept too," said one of the nobles present; "but they were tears of pity, admiration, and fury." (M. B. Synge, The Awakening of Europe)

Yes, that is right. One of the most dynamic queens in history saved her realm by appearing before her nobles with a babe in arms and weeping profusely. Feminine genius turns its head, and another aspect is now introduced: the greatness a woman can elicit in a man.

 

Another one. Yet, another one. Jamie Paulin-Ramirez is the second woman-turned jihadist to disrupt the world wide web in the past week. A woman of the liberated West chose a religion advocating polygamy with a reputation for state sanctioned rape and honour killings. Whether or not these abominations apply to mainstream Islam, these abuses are linked to the particular forms of extremism to which these women allied themselves.

These incidents of Western female defection may be anomalies, but there remains a trend of normalized conversions to Islam—some Western women have claimed that this faith ‘makes sense’ to them and have happily donned the hijab. How ironic that they should do this so shortly after feminism 'liberated' us from the yoke of bonnets and kerchiefs.

Then there’s the other fad amongst modern women, from the willing subjugation to a patriarchal religion to becoming the willing pawn of anti-patriarchal hedonism. A young woman named Courtney A. (writing for a feminist website that advertises itself as ‘sweet, tasty, and tart’) unabashedly related a story about how she let a man use her in a way that would insult a prostitute’s dignity. At least a prostitute has a higher sense of worth than being appeased with twenty dollars for cab fare. The pop singer Rihanna’s masochistic musical album, Russian Roulette--released after the violent assault she suffered from her lover--do not even show signs of righteous indignation at male brutality, much less a testimony to empowerment—quite the contrary in fact.

I can only sit thoroughly agape. Nothing undermines an abstract argument like a concrete negation. For every occasion that a feminist loudly calls out for men to respect women, there are at least a hundred (very likely more) occasions where women do or would content themselves with less.

From the early years of my childhood on, I bristled at males when patronized, and I stubbornly refused to be put down. To my dismay, I did not notice the same tendency in the majority of females surrounding me. Little girls my age at school seemed happy to let boys tease them, many teenage girls my age did not distress themselves at being mocked or leeringly yelled at, but were happy to provide fodder for the sport. I wondered at their lack of self-respect, and at the absence of their drive to succeed in school. Of course, that drive was absent in many students of both sexes. I was abnormal compared with many, and it would be a long time before my all too literal mind began to understand the forces at work around me and to know that these powers were not a matter of the times or the product of history; they were inflamed and fuelled by Nature herself, who will not be gainsaid.

As I began to study philosophy in earnest from my eighteenth year on, I entered an unsettling world that pronounced a very serious sentence upon me. I was an unnatural woman. Not wholly of course, perhaps not even altogether negatively, but there were aspects of my being that I had to understand were not characteristic of women in general. The demigods I so admired I found to be dead against me. Aside from the credibility my personal laud afforded them, their arguments against female philosophers were so articulate and borne out by literature and experience, that I was hollowed on hearing them.

Still, my intuition that pursuing my passions was right comforted me. I had no rebuttal except to refer to St. Katherine of Alexandria, St. Teresa of Avila, and others, thereby settling the frenzy of my concern. After my hurt and shock had subsided, curiosity found its voice. Why were female philosophers so abnormal? In truth, they are not born very often, nor are they very exceptional when compared to some of their male counterparts.

The ancients said this was a natural phenomenon, while the moderns hold that it is artificial. As reassuring as the latter opinion would be, I do not and shall not accepted the Left’s revisionist view of history—that female genius was crushed under a brutally oppressive male yoke, which has only been lifted in the past few decades.

Such a statement is a gross insult not only to our forefathers (to whom we owe in part the gratitude for our existence, dear sisters), but also to our ancestral mothers. Are we really to suppose that the only women fully functioning in history have lived in the twentieth or twenty-first centuries? Or are we still at the stage where women aren’t held equal to men? Or do we also refer to a hazy pre-history of a matriarchal society where everything was perfect until some misogynist became tired of Mother Earth and brought a ruthless aerial deity into the picture?

The last argument can hardly be credited by legitimate, scholarly history. As to the implications of anthropology, it is something I cannot recognise as a logician, except to say that it is sometimes very intriguing. Until anthropological evidence is linked with written testimony, it can prove nothing, and its propositions will not be addressed in this writing. The second argument ought to be laughable. If it is not, all one can do is shrug and say that if the battle is not already won, it must have been lost from the start. The first argument however is outrageous.

To say that the frequency of female genius is in truth proportionate to male genius amounts to an insult against feminine fortitude. Did society put obstacles before a woman who strove to exercise greatness? Undoubtedly! Did society do the same thing to men struggling for greatness? Yes! John Everett Millais’s parents may have adored their artistic son and played music for him as he painted, but William Holman Hunt’s parents were hardly so encouraging. The same was true for many male artists who received no support from their families and eviscerating criticism from the press. Elizabeth Siddal on the other hand was given a great deal of approbation from the leading Victorian art critic, John Ruskin, yet never attained to the greatness of her husband or that of other members of the Pre-Raphaelite Sisterhood.

Tolkien’s brainchild was never published. Gerard Manley Hopkins died in obscurity. Mozart was given a pauper’s funeral. Galileo wrote his greatest works under house arrest. St. Thomas Aquinas was imprisoned by his family for his monastic ambitions, dubbed the ‘Dumb Ox’ by his contemporaries, and raised Augustinian eyebrows due to his affiliation with Aristotle. Countless are the cases where fathers were angrily frustrated by their son’s drive to achieve dreams that were either above their stations or unprofitable in any monetary sense. Why is it that men were able to conquer these impediments and achieve their dreams? If women have been gifted as often as men, then they have possessed much less courage and resolve to realize their talents. That cowardice would be a far worse thing than not possessing genius in the first place.

But I am not convinced that my feminine forebears or those of others were of any lesser stuff than the women of today. What women have and have always had in abundance is courage, dedication, passion, and perseverance. This much is evidenced in the realm where the feminine demographic equals, if it does not exceed, that of the masculine: sainthood.

Maligned as oppressive, patriarchal, and misogynistic, the Roman Catholic Church’s Tradition is one realm where feminine genius excels and even dominates. Whether these ladies are putting illustrious male personages to shame with their common sense, enduring the most gruelling of physical torments, or breaking the mould of history and society, their stories are memorised, honoured, and held up for emulation.

Strangely, feminists do not seize upon these examples in their argument that women are as dynamic as men. St. Joan of Arc does not adorn feminist banners; few of these women mention her. St. Helen is not given much credit for reshaping the Western world by secular women, and the Virgin Mary is to be shunned entirely (except by them that attempt to twist her story). Why is it that the supposed proponents of womanly worth ignore the greatest arguments in their favour?

It may be that this is not the worth the women of the Left wish to emulate, just as it is not the worth women of the far Right admire. The genius of the women described above is not a will to power or an imposition of her own person. What constitutes the honour of the ladies listed above is that they were vessels housing duty, not arms proclaiming rights.





The Desires of a Woman's Heart: I by Rachel Rudd is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at foolishnessntears.blogspot.com.

From a time where the woman hid her deed in the wood, and wiped the babe’s blood upon her shoe, now is the age where her act is glorified, and ‘blessed are the breasts that never nourished.’ The choice to abort a pregnancy: the great right, the magnificent triumph of modern woman.

She has taken a life; why then should we praise her?

--Nay, nay, not a life. Only one who breathes hath life, and this body is dead before it breathes, while still growing in the sea of its mother’s blood.

But why still then must we praise her?

--For having secured her liberty at any cost!

And then, how can she accomplish this mutilation of her body and the extinction of another’s?

--An accomplice skilled in such ways.

Who must pay this accomplice’s wages?

--Why, thee, thyself!



And so it shall be if the Freedom of Choice Act is signed. And this by the man that held as senator that even one breathing may not yet be living, provided that the mother desired his death before he drew breath.

Indignation swells within me every time I hear one call the Democratic Party of the
United States liberal. Not only is it bigoted in its rigorous set of ideals (those who differ with them are often dubbed ‘evil’ not ‘mistaken’), but it also demands the support of those who do not agree with the righteousness of their causes.

What is their grand cause? Why do they support a woman who wishes to end the life within her? Why do they wish to acknowledge the right of two in the same gender to mutually masturbate with one another? Why do they encourage sexual laxity in the young by forcing schools to teach them how to get away with it? Why do they make it hard economically for a couple to be generous and open to giving life?

Well, to know what they want (assuming that ‘liberals’ and neocons are foresighted enough to see their actions ends) one need only consider the result: a culture living for passion and cushioned with options after passion is spent. What stops someone from giving in to the moment? Is it later pain from the action itself?

It is a virtuous act when the future repercussions of a sin on one’s soul and conscience stop him from doing evil. But more often it is the immediate inconvenience and the censure of the culture that keeps him in check.

Contraceptives, abortion, and cultural approbation have made it possible for man to engage in any ritual stimulating his appetitive passions without restraint. What sort of man or woman does this produce? Very likely, as man is made for pleasure and happiness, such a one will pursue the most immediate goods in pleasures of sex, food, and diversion. But afterwards?

Then come the panic and frenzy. Is an unmarried pregnant girl to hang her head in shame? Certainly not; the worst censure her kind will give her is that of imprudence, not impurity. It is the weight, the weight of another forcing to look at him. Within her, he demands sacrifice from her body, abstinence from pleasure. He forces her to love him; she must now give as well as take.

However, giving is not done in this new age. It is heinous to part with more than a few coins to pauperize those about; to give one’s life to another is not to be borne. In this cold realization then, are the modern crimes committed. Perhaps whetted with fear of a new life, fear of love, but all the same they are crimes of passion spent.

There was a lady lived in York -
all the lee and loney
Fell in love with her father's clerk -
down by the greenwood sidey-o
She loved him up, she loved him down -
all the lee and loney
Loved him 'til he filled her arms -
down by the greenwood sidey-o

She leant her back against an oak -
all the lee and loney
First it bent and then it broke -
down by the greenwood sidey-o
She leant her back against a thorn -
all the lee and loney
There she had two fine babes born -
down by the greenwood sidey-o

She took out her reaping knife -
all the lee and loney
There she took those fine babes' lives -
down by the greenwood sidey-o
She wiped the blade against her shoe -
all the lee and loney
The more she rubbed, the redder it grew -
down by the greenwood sidey-o

She went back to her father's hall -
all the lee and loney
Saw two babes a-playing at ball -
down by the greenwood sidey-o
'Oh, babes oh babes if you were mine' -
all the lee and loney
'I'd dress you up in scarlet fine' -
down by the greenwood sidey-o

'Oh Mother Oh Mother if we were yours' -
all the lee and loney
'Scarlet was our own hearts' blood' -
down by the greenwood sidey-o
'Oh babes Oh babes it's Heaven for you' -
all the lee and loney
'Oh Mother, Oh Mother, it's Hell for you' -
down by the greenwood sidey-o

What acts sicken us in the chill serpent and the grotesque spider ought to nearly kill us when done by the hands of man or woman. That of the mother animal devouring her young is such, what then of the woman who kills her child? Her form is made to nourish the infant. The fluids coursing through her matter pull her toward the babe in affection. What passion enflames her to extinguish the innocent life sprung from her own? With the most painful groan we must conclude: no passion, but passion spent.

In whatever age or clime, a woman faces the most intense darkness after the moment of love. If the man should leave, yet his seed take root within her, she undergoes the building up of a new life alone. Yet, is this a curse? Is the swelling of another soul and body within her a punishment for sin? Nay, how many women have yearned throughout the ages of the world for such a thing as life to grow within them? This is but the natural—and naturally desirable—fruit of the love between man and woman.

If however she anticipates this cultivation too burdensome, why did she give in to her passions? Why lie with one whom the law and her kin could not hold to account to remain with her? How great must have been the fire that smoked out her reason. With shame curdling her heart and he fear clutching her mind, one may feel pity easily for her vice.

Yet, to what deeper darkness does she turn in her need? Her accomplice is gone and away. She doesn’t hold him to account; perhaps because the world itself no longer blames him. Who then is to suffer? Who will pay the ransom for her future freedom and happiness? A blade of ice must surely first enter her, when she turns her hand against the innocent evidence of her excess.