by Hubert Wolf
In the second paragraph of his summary, Kleutgen turned to the splendid reputation that Maria Luisa enjoyed throughout the convent. It was only when a few sisters who had “noticed something extraordinary” came to him with their observations, “that I must have shown I believed in it.” Of course, two “events that were held to be very extraordinary” had become general knowledge. First, Maria Luisa owned rings that she claimed were gifts from heaven, and second, her body started to give off a heavenly fragrance. Kleutgen denied actively encouraging the nuns to venerate the divine ring. But he couldn’t explain how, in that case, all the nuns ended up kissing the ring. “If I remember rightly, I said nothing about the ring, though I knew she was wearing it on this day. I thus tolerated this extraordinary fact, at least implicitly, through my conduct. I did not want to humiliate Maria Luisa, and did not give sufficient consideration to the rest.”
The third point of Kleutgen’s written statement related to the heavenly letters. In the last months of 1856, when he had only just begun serving as second confessor, Maria Luisa started to bring him pieces of writing, “which had been dictated to her, as she claimed, during visitations.” To begin with, these were just a few lines long, and gave answers to some of the questions that he had asked beforehand. But gradually they became “proper letters,” several pages in length. Maria Luisa told him that during the inspired writing of these letters, she had understood nothing of their content. At first, Maria Luisa wrote these letters during her visions: she was the inspired scribe, a mere tool with no will of her own, whose pen was guided by a divine being. Later, the divine beings supposedly began to write their own letters, giving them to Maria Luisa when she was transported to heaven. She brought the letters, “which were no longer in her handwriting, but in another, very beautiful hand,” back to earth with her, to the convent of Sant’Ambrogio.
The Jesuit’s belief in the authenticity and heavenly origin of the letters had been unshakable. As he wrote in his dossier: “I blame myself for my recklessness in taking these letters to be the writings of heavenly persons, and, in my replies, accepting what they demanded of me.”
So Kleutgen’s belief in the letters was not just theoretical. He put the Virgin Mary’s instructions into practice—even when she made unreasonable demands on him. His obedience to these supernatural instructions even made him reveal one of his life’s greatest secrets: the affair with Alessandra N. This was an open acknowledgment that he had broken his vow of celibacy, making him a fallen priest, and therefore extremely vulnerable. But he thought his secret was safe in heaven, with the Mother of God.
Kleutgen believed Maria Luisa to be a pure soul, fundamentally incapable of lies and deceit. Of course, he said, he had been mistrustful at the start, but his doubts had evaporated in light of “certain things that happened in regard to the heavenly letters.” He had always sealed his replies in such a way “that I thought it impossible they could be opened without damaging the paper and the seal. But they were returned to me intact, just as I had left them.” As the letters gave precise answers to questions he had asked in his sealed replies, somebody must have assimilated the contents without opening them. This could only have happened by supernatural means. There had thus been no doubt in his mind that the letters genuinely came from heaven.
Kleutgen had experienced a second phenomenon for which he could find no natural explanation. Once, he received a heavenly letter in which some of the text was struck through, which upset his aesthetic sensibilities a great deal. The beautiful letter had been defaced. He carried this letter around with him all day, and so had no idea how, when he looked at it again that evening, the line through the text could have disappeared. There was no correction of any kind to be seen. He had spoken to Maria Luisa about the ugly line, and she had simply advised him to take another look that evening. He could only comprehend the improvement as a supernatural phenomenon. He had also believed the “beautiful handwriting, which was new to me” to be divine. Naturally, he had inquired whether any of the nuns in Sant’Ambrogio was capable of creating an artwork of such heavenly beauty, and had been told that the novice Maria Francesca was a gifted calligrapher. Twice he had asked her whether she had anything to do with the letters, “but she denied everything. I thought her a good and simple soul, so I did not suspect she could be deceiving me.” For Kleutgen, this proved the heavenly origins of the letters. Once again, the supernatural was manifesting itself in the natural world.
The Jesuit gave a detailed statement on the content of the letters. Many were religious texts and meditations on Church feasts, with texts for blessings and prayers to be used, or commands from above regarding the regulation of the convent’s business and financial affairs. Other heavenly letters provided responses to his “doubts in respect of the sister’s spirit,” and “gradually explained the mercies that had been bestowed upon her in the course of her life.” But far more important for Kleutgen was the fact that the letters reflected his hope of a radical turning point in the course of history, which he saw as having been on a trajectory of decline since the start of the nineteenth century. His longings and the will of God were seemingly of one accord.
Due to the evil of our century and the regrettable state of all peoples of the world, ever since I was a young man I had cherished the thought and the hope that the Lord would renew the earth through a great reversal. One day I spoke with the sister about the lamentable state of the world, thinking she would understand, and this might motivate her to prayer. She took the opportunity to simulate a revelation, which, so to speak, gradually grew within her. In short, she said the Lord wanted to change the state of the world, by letting His kingdom blossom once more on the earth, and he therefore wanted to destroy and rebuild the earth with His mighty hands.
Kleutgen said he had burned the majority of the heavenly missives as soon as he had read them; the remainder he had kept in a little chest in the convent, to which he had the only key. Following the Apostolic Visitation, when the novice mistress’s “deceptions” became clear to him, he entreated Franceschetti to bring him this casket, and then destroyed all the letters. He had obviously never considered there might be another key.
Kleutgen’s fourth point was a detailed response to the accusation that he had been inside Sant’Ambrogio’s enclosure too often, and had spent time there alone with Maria Luisa. A man’s unauthorized entry into the enclosure of a women’s convent was a serious offense, and tended to arouse suspicions of sexual misconduct. Kleutgen therefore made attempt after attempt to explain that he had always had a good reason for entering the enclosure of Sant’Ambrogio. “I never went into the convent unless asked by the mother abbess, or at least by somebody acting on her behalf. I believe I never took it upon myself to ask if I might enter, but always waited to be sent for.” Whenever he had stayed overnight, or spent several hours there during the day, it had always been for the pastoral care of nuns who were mortally ill or dying.
In the three years from November 1856 to October 1859, seven of Sant’Ambrogio’s nuns had been seriously ill. Five of them had come close to death. Two who survived had been described as “dying” rather than sick by the doctors. “So it can come as no surprise that during this whole period I spent ten or 12 nights in the convent. Particularly as I encouraged the sisters to call upon me rather than Padre Leziroli at these times, out of consideration for his age and his frail state of health. I would like to point out that several times, the doctor told me I should stay, but I declined.”
Then Kleutgen came to the point that lay at the heart of his frequent visits to the enclosed part of the convent: his relationship with Maria Luisa. He had never sought the company of this young nun of his own accord, he said; the requests for special pastoral assistance had always come from the convent and those in charge. He had only helped Maria Luisa through her supernatural travails because the abbess had asked him to. And in fact, he had often succeeded in healing her with his blessings. He saw this as conclusive proof of the “reality of the
sickness.” Several times, Maria Luisa had had no pulse. She had been unconscious, and it seemed to him that she was being visited by heavenly beings. “There were a few occasions during these episodes when I remained in the convent not just overnight, but also the following morning; in 1859 I stayed for several days at a time. This was not only to keep watch over her, but also because the nuns had begged me to, saying that the sister was only able to rise from her bed again thanks to my blessings. Even so, after the malady had vanished, it would sometimes return.”
Still, it was possible—the Jesuit slyly conceded—that he had given in to Maria Luisa and the abbess on too many occasions, when they requested his pastoral care and extraordinary blessing. Perhaps he had entered the enclosure too often for that reason. He should have found out more about what “the experts” had written on this topic: another of the learned theologian’s typical arguments. He claimed that in all the time he was there providing pastoral support, he had never knowingly violated the convent’s enclosure—though because “extraordinary things” were happening there, he should have been more careful.
Then the Jesuit turned to his relationship with Maria Luisa:
I come now to the main point of my confession, a testimony I cannot give without great embarrassment and bitter pain. I admit, to my shame, that in summer 1857 I kissed Sister Maria Luisa’s hands, her feet, face, mouth and heart—from the outside, through her habit—thinking that she was out of her senses. And while she was in that state, which to me seemed ecstatic, I also embraced her. In saying this, I am repeating the confession of guilt I have already made at the feet of the Savior. Before Him, I confess: 1. that I did not do these things with the intent to commit further acts obscene in nature; 2. that it was not impure passion which induced me to do this; 3. that I felt no immoral love and no affection for this person that would tend to be any kind of greatr confidentiality; 4. that these things I performed were acts of veneration, always done on my knees and with great reluctance; 5. that I honestly and firmly believed the sister was out of her senses, and that she was aware of nothing; 6. as a result, I never spoke about this with her; 7. finally, during the year in which these events took place, and in the two years following, my behavior when in the presence of, or speaking to, this or any other sister was never too free or overly familiar. I always conducted myself with due religious dignity and modesty.
As Kleutgen mentioned in the fifth point of his dossier, he performed these actions several times in Maria Luisa’s cell, as she was lying in bed, seemingly oblivious to them. But she had certainly not been naked: not only was she “modestly dressed,” she was also covered. The letters from the Virgin gave a “very clear” description of the exact form of “pastoral” assistance Maria Luisa required, and of the special “blessings.” Kleutgen believed he was simply fulfilling the will of heaven. It had of course been clear to him that the actions prescribed by the heavenly letters should “not usually be carried out because of the great danger” attached to them. “God would never normally have willed these things; but this was not only a special case, it was a unique case. The matter could be concluded within a short space of time, when the sister would enter a state of deep peace. And when this happened, these things did in fact cease.”
According to Kleutgen, this was the whole of the “sad story.” What he’d done might look erotic and sexual, but it was actually a special, unique form of pastoral care expressly willed by God. He had never experienced any sort of desire or lust: what he felt was more like “reluctance.” And now, as he added by way of conclusion, it was no longer for him to judge whether his had been an excusable error.
In the sixth point of his declaration, Kleutgen touched on Peter Kreuzburg.23 He admitted they had known each other for around twenty years. Kreuzburg had come to Rome in 1857 against Kleutgen’s will, even though he had written to the Americano saying he wasn’t able to care for him there. Before Kreuzburg even arrived on the Tiber, Kleutgen had asked Sister Maria Luisa to pray for him. And later, the Americano took it upon himself to go to Sant’Ambrogio and meet Maria Luisa there—which seemed to have a very good effect on his spiritual well-being.
Then the Jesuit brought up the letter that Kreuzburg had written in German, and which Katharina had translated for Maria Luisa. Kleutgen claimed he first learned of this letter’s existence from Cardinal Reisach in the fall of 1858. He denied that Katharina had informed him of its “indecent expressions, rudeness and deceit.” Maria Luisa had given him the letter, which he glanced over before burning it. This was Kleutgen’s attempt to stop the Inquisition accusing him of breaking the seal of the confessional. He was also denying the chronological—and therefore potentially causal—connection between the obscene letter, Katharina’s outrage, and the start of Maria Luisa’s attempts to poison her.
Kleutgen concluded with the seventh point in his dossier, which concerned the character of the plaintiff. He said Reisach had informed him of Katharina von Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen’s plans for a cloistered life shortly after her arrival in Rome. She was adamant that she wanted to enter a Roman convent but, in view of her poor health, Kleutgen had been extremely skeptical from the beginning. Reluctantly, however, he had eventually suggested various convents in Rome: Torre di Specchio,24 the Salesian Sisters of the Ordo Visitationis, the Teresians,25 and Sant’Ambrogio. Kleutgen painted himself as the voice of reason, having always had his doubts about Katharina’s vocation and her determination to enter a convent. He had been against the princess’s acceptance into Sant’Ambrogio to the very last, but she enjoyed the highest level of protection in Rome, and he had finally had to accept the wisdom of his superiors’ decision.
The princess complained because I alone spoke out against it, while Their Eminences Patrizi and Reisach, and even her friends and relatives supported her, against expectations. I was reluctant to agree, for I could imagine the difficulties a person of her standing, her age and nation might encounter in that convent. I was also mindful of what some people had told me, and what I had observed myself: namely that, perhaps not by nature, but because of the many illnesses she had suffered, she had a vivid imagination and was highly sensitive. She was also not given to perseverance. Although Sister Maria Luisa claimed the princess had a true and firm vocation, I was worried for the princess because of Maria Luisa. I had no specific reason for this, but I knew that for such a lady as the princess, extraordinary occurrences—no matter how she interpreted them—could easily be problematic.
Kleutgen’s words exposed his defense strategy: he was suggesting that the princess’s testimonies and complaints were not to be taken seriously. Katharina was sick and hysterical; her mind was playing tricks on her. The next stage of his argumentation followed on from this: the poisoning attempts, too, were nothing but a figment of the ailing princess’s imagination. The Jesuit rejected any connection between the administration of poisoned medicine and the start of Katharina’s serious illness on December 9, 1858. “Although the princess fell ill and suffered a congestion of the heart after she had taken some medicine, her illness should in no way be attributed to this medicine.” Her family had a history of weak hearts: the princess’s father had died of one, and many symptoms of the same illness had been diagnosed in her.
In his dossier, Kleutgen also named Maria Giuseppa, Giuseppa Maria, Maria Giacinta, and Maria Ignazia as witnesses who had raised accusations of poisoning.
And so, if everything seems to point to the fact that no poison was administered, there are also grounds for believing that the nuns I have mentioned were mistaken about this. The princess had expressed her suspicions before her illness, and those sisters knew it. In addition, these nuns have made various other claims which have proved to be untrue.… If I had not found that everything had been resolved two or three days later, I too would have been unsettled. But it seemed as though a storm had taken place, after which the community had returned to its usual state of perfect calm.
Eventually, he said, Katharina herself had also calmed
down. However, the skirmishes taking place in Italy in the spring and summer of 1859 had sent her over the edge again. When she finally expressed her wish to leave the convent, nobody stood in her way. And as for the discussions in the convent about whether the devil had had a hand in the whole affair: well, Kleutgen had never taken an active part in them.
Kleutgen’s spontaneous statement addressed seven of the charges brought against him at the end of the informative process, down to the last detail. Only two charges remained: breaking the seal of the confessional, and Sollicitatio. There is no way the Jesuit could have composed his text without precise knowledge of what had taken place in the trial up to that point, including the testimonies of individual witnesses, and the charges being brought against him.
Of course, there was the theoretical possibility that, as the former confessor of Sant’Ambrogio, Kleutgen could have spoken to the witnesses during the informative process, which had lasted for more than a year. There was evidence that he had done this in the case of the lawyer Franceschetti. It was, however, out of the question that he could have been in contact with any of the nuns. Since he had been stripped of his role as confessor, he was forbidden from ever entering Sant’Ambrogio again. But the fact that the Jesuit seems to have been familiar with every detail of the witness statements, and the charges the investigating tribunal were planning to bring against him, suggests he had read Sallua’s Relazione informativa of January 1861. This document contained a summary of the investigation’s findings—but it was top secret, meant only for the eyes of the Inquisition’s cardinals and consultors, and the pope. How had Kleutgen come by his information? Who had broken the secretum sancti Officii?