IMPERFECTIONS, INTERIOR AND EXTERIOR, OF THIS FIRST DEGREE--MISTAKES
THAT ARE MADE IN IT--ITS PASSIVITY--SPIRITUAL DRYNESS, MINGLED WITH A
TENDER BUT SELF-INTERESTED LOVE, WHICH NEEDS THE EXPERIENCE AND
PURIFICATIONS OF THE FOLLOWING DEGREE.
The soul in the degree of which I have just spoken can and does make
great advances, going from love to love, and from cross to cross; but it
falls so frequently, and is so selfish, that it may be said to move only
at a snail's pace, although it appears to itself and to others to
progress infinitely. The torrent is now in a flat country, and has not
yet found the slope of the mountain down which it may precipitate
itself, and take a course which is never to be stopped.
The faults of those in this degree are a certain self-esteem, more
hidden and deeply rooted than it was before they had received these
graces and favours from God; a certain secret contempt for others whom
they see so far behind themselves, and a certain hardness for sin and
sinners; a zeal of St John before the descent of the Holy Ghost, when he
wanted to call down fire from heaven upon the Samaritans to consume
them; a certain confidence in their own safety and virtue; a secret
pride, which causes them to grieve specially over the faults which they
commit in public: they appropriate the gifts of God, and treat them as
though they were their own: they forget weakness and poverty in the
strength which they possess; so that they lose all self-distrust. Though
all this and much more is to be found in persons in this degree, they
are themselves unconscious of it; but these faults will make themselves
known in time. The grace which they feel so strongly in themselves being
an assurance to them that they have nothing to fear, they allow
themselves to speak without being divinely commissioned. They are
anxious to communicate what they feel to every one else. It is true that
they are of use to others, for their burning words take hold of the
hearts of those who hear them; but apart from the fact that they cannot
do the good they would do, if God would have them impart to others what
they have received, they are giving out of their necessity and not of
their abundance; so that they exhaust themselves; as you have seen
several pools of water under a fountain. The fountain alone gives out of
its abundance, and the pools only send into each other of the fulness
which is communicated to them; but if the fountain be closed or turned
aside, and the pools cease to overflow, then as they are cut off from
the source, they dry up. This is precisely what happens to those in this
degree. They want to be constantly sending out their waters, and it is
not till late that they perceive that the water which they had was only
for themselves, and that they are not in a state to communicate it,
because they are not connected with the source. They are like bottles of
scent which are left open: they find so much sweetness in the odour
which they emit that they do not perceive the loss they themselves
sustain. Yet they appear to practise virtue without any effort, since
they are occupied only with a general love, without reason or motive. If
you ask them what they do during the day, they will tell you that they
love; but if you ask why they love, they will tell you that they do not
know; they only know that they love, and that they burn with desire to
suffer for the object of their love. You may ask if it is not the sight
of the sufferings of their Beloved which inspires them with the longing
to suffer with Him, but they will reply that the thought of His
sufferings did not even enter their mind. Neither is it the desire to
imitate the virtues which they see in Him, for they do not think of
them, nor the sight of His beauty which enraptures them, for they do not
look at it. Only they feel in the depths of their heart a deep wound,
yet so delightful that they rest in their pain, and find their pleasure
in their grief.
They believe now that they have arrived at the consummation of all, for
though they are full of the faults I have mentioned, and many others yet
more dangerous, which are better perceived in the following degree than
in this, they rest in their fancied perfection, and stopping at the
means, which they mistake for the end, they would remain stationary, if
God did not bring the torrent, which is now like a peaceful lake on a
mountain-top, to the brow of the hill in order to precipitate it, and to
start it on a course which will be more or less rapid according to the
depth of its fall.
It appears to me that even the most advanced in this degree have a habit
of concealing their faults, both from themselves and others, always
finding excuses and extenuations; not designedly, but from a certain
love of their own excellence, and a habitual dissimulation under which
they hide themselves. The faults which cause them the deepest solicitude
are those which are most apparent to others. They have a hidden love of
self, stronger than ever, an esteem for their own position, a secret
desire to attract attention, an affected modesty, a facility in judging
others, and a preference for private devotion rather than domestic
duties, which renders them the cause of many of the sins of those around
them. This is of great importance. The soul, feeling itself drawn so
strongly and sweetly, desires to be always alone and in prayer, which
gives rise to two evils--the first, that in its seasons of greatest
liberty it spends too much time in solitude; the second, that when its
vigour of love is exhausted, as it often is in this way, it has not the
same strength in times of dryness; it finds it difficult to remain so
long in prayer; it readily shortens the time; its thoughts wander to
exterior objects; then it is discouraged and cast down, thinking that
all is lost, and does everything in its power to restore itself to the
presence and favour of God.
But if such persons were strong enough to live an even life, and not to
seek to do more in seasons of abundance than in times of barrenness,
they would satisfy every one. As it is, they are troublesome to those
around them, to whom they cannot condescend, making it a favour to lay
themselves out for the satisfaction of others: they preserve an austere
silence when it is unnecessary, and at other times talk incessantly of
the things of God. A wife has scruples about pleasing her husband,
entertaining him, walking with him, or seeking to amuse him, but has
none about speaking uselessly for two hours with religious devotees.
This is a horrible abuse. We ought to be diligent in the discharge of
all duties, whatever their nature may be; and even if they do cause us
inconvenience, we shall yet find great profit in doing this, not perhaps
in the way we imagine, but in hastening the crucifixion of self. It even
seems as though our Lord shows that such sacrifice is pleasing to Him by
the grace which He sheds upon it. I knew a lady who, when playing at
cards with her husband in order to please him, experienced such deep and
intimate communion with God as she never felt in prayer, and it was the
same with everything she did at her husband's desire; but if she
neglected these things for others which she thought better, she was
conscious that she was not walking in the will of God. This did not
prevent her often committing faults, because the attractions of
meditation and the happiness of devotion, which are preferred to these
apparent losses of time, insensibly draw the soul away, and lead it to
change its course, and this by most people is looked upon as sanctity.
However, those who are to be taught the way of faith are not suffered
long to remain in these errors, because, as God designs to lead them on
to better things, He makes them conscious of their deficiency. It often
happens, too, that persons by means of this death to self, and acting
contrary to their natural inclinations, feel themselves more strongly
drawn to their inward rest; for it is natural to man to desire most
strongly what it is most difficult for him to obtain, and to desire most
intensely those things which he most earnestly resolves to avoid. This
difficulty of being able to enjoy only a partial rest increases the
rest, and causes them even in activity to feel themselves acted upon so
powerfully that they seem to have two souls within them, the inner one
being infinitely stronger than the outer. But if they leave their duties
in order to give the time to devotion, they will find it an empty form,
and all its joy will be lost. By devotion I do not mean compulsory
prayer, which is gone through as a duty that must not be avoided;
neither do I understand by activity the labours of their own choice, but
those which come within the range of positive duty. If they have spare
time at their disposal, by all means let them spend it in prayer; nor
must they lay upon themselves unnecessary burdens, and call them
obligations. When the taste for meditation is very great, the soul does
not usually fall into these last-named errors, but rather into the
former one, that of courting retirement. I knew a person who spent more
time in prayer when it was painful to her than when she felt it a
delight, struggling with the disinclination; but this is injurious to
the health, because of the violence which it does to the senses and the
understanding, which being unable to concentrate themselves upon any one
object, and being deprived of the sweet communion which formerly held
them in subjection to God, endure such torment, that the subject of it
would rather suffer the greatest trial than the violence which is
necessary to enable it to fix its thoughts on God. The person to whom I
alluded sometimes passed two or three hours successively in this painful
devotion, and she has assured me that the strangest austerities would
have been delightful to her in comparison with the time thus spent. But
as a violence so strong as this in subjects so weak is calculated to
ruin both body and mind, I think it is better not in any way to
regulate the time spent in prayer by our varying emotions. This painful
dryness of which I have spoken belongs only to the first degree of
faith, and is often the effect of exhaustion; and yet those who have
passed through it imagine themselves dead, and write and speak of it as
the most sorrowful part of the spiritual life. It is true they have not
known the contrary experience, and often they have not the courage to
pass through this, for in this sorrow the soul is deserted by God, who
withdraws from it His sensible helps, but it is nevertheless caused by
the senses, because, being accustomed to see and to feel, and never
having experienced a similar privation, they are in despair, which
however is not of long duration, for the forces of the soul are not then
in a state to bear for long such a pressure; it will either go back to
seek for spiritual food, or else it will give all up. This is why the
Lord does not fail to return: sometimes He does not even suffer the
prayer to cease before He reappears; and if He does not return during
the hour of prayer, He comes in a more manifest way during the day.
It seems as though He repented of the suffering He has caused to the
soul of His beloved, or that He would pay back with usury what she has
suffered for His love. If this consolation last for many days, it
becomes painful. She calls Him sweet and cruel: she asks Him if He has
only wounded her that she may die. But this kind Lover laughs at her
pain, and applies to the wound a balm so sweet, that she could ask to be
continually receiving fresh wounds, that she might always find a new
delight in a healing which not only restores her former health, but
imparts one yet more abundant.
Hitherto it has only been a play of love, to which the soul would easily
become accustomed if her Beloved did not change His conduct. O poor
hearts who complain of the flights of love! You do not know that this is
only a farce, an attempt, a specimen of what is to follow. The hours of
absence mark the days, the weeks, the months, and the years. You must
learn to be generous at your own expense, to suffer your Beloved to
come and go at His pleasure. I seem to see these young brides. They are
at the height of grief when their Beloved leaves them: they mourn His
absence as if it were death, and endeavour, as far as they can, to
prevent His departure. This love appears deep and strong, but it is not
so by any means. It is the pleasure they derive from the sight of their
Beloved which they mourn after. It is their own satisfaction they seek,
for if it were the pleasure of their Beloved, they would rejoice in the
pleasure which He found apart from them, as much as in that which He
found with them. So it is self-interested love, though it does not
appear such to them; on the contrary, they believe that they only love
Him for what He is. It is true, poor souls, you do love Him for what He
is, but you love Him because of the pleasure you find in what He is. You
reply that you are willing to suffer for your Beloved. True, provided He
will be the witness and the companion of your suffering. You say you
desire no recompense. I agree; but you do desire that He should know of
your suffering, and approve of it. You want Him to take pleasure in it.
Is there anything more plausible than the desire that He for whom we
suffer should know it, and approve of it, and take delight in it? Oh,
how much you are out in your reckoning! Your jealous Lover will not
permit you to enjoy the pleasure which you take in seeing His
satisfaction with your sorrow. You must suffer without His appearing to
see it, or to approve of it, or to know it. That would be too great a
gratification. What pain would we not suffer on such conditions! What!
to know that our Beloved sees our woes, and takes an infinite pleasure
in them! This is too great a pleasure for a generous heart! Yet I am
sure the greatest generosity of those in this degree never goes beyond
this. But to suffer without our Beloved being aware of it, when He seems
to despise what we do to please Him, and to turn away from it; to have
only scorn for what formerly seemed to charm Him; to see Him repay with
a terrible coldness and distance what we do for His sake alone, and with
terrible flights all our pursuit of Him; to lose without complaint all
that He had formerly given as pledges of His love, and which we think
we have repaid by our love, our fidelity, and our suffering; not only
uncomplainingly to suffer ourselves to be thus despoiled, but to see
others enriched with our spoils, and nevertheless not to cease to do
what would please our absent Lover; not to cease following after Him;
and if by unfaithfulness or surprise we stop for a moment, to redouble
our speed, without fearing or contemplating the precipices, although we
fall a thousand times, till we are so weary that we lose our strength,
and die from continual fatigue; when, perhaps, if our Beloved turns and
looks upon us, His glance restores life by the exquisite pleasure it
gives; until at last He becomes so cruel that He lets us die for want of
help: all this, I say, belongs not to this state, but to that which
follows. I must remark here, that the degree of which I have been
speaking is of very long duration, at least unless God intends the soul
to make great advances; and many, as I have said, never pass it.