THE LITTLE FLOWER ENTERS THE CARMEL
Monday, April 9, 1888, being the Feast of the Annunciation,
transferred from Passiontide, was the day chosen for me to enter
the Carmel. On the evening before, we were gathered around the
table where I was to take my place for the last time. These
farewells are in themselves heartrending, and just when I would
have liked to be forgotten I received the tenderest expressions of
affection, as if to increase the pain of parting.
The next morning, after a last look at the happy home of my
childhood, I set out for the Carmel, where we all heard Mass. At
the moment of Communion, when Jesus had entered our hearts, I
heard sobs on all sides. I did not shed a tear, but as I led the
way to the cloister door my heart beat so violently that I
wondered if I were going to die. Oh, the agony of that moment! One
must have experienced it in order to understand. I embraced all my
dear ones and knelt for my Father's blessing. He, too, knelt down
and blessed me through his tears. It was a sight to gladden the
Angels, this old man giving his child to God while she was yet in
the springtime of life. At length the doors of the Carmel closed
upon me. . . . I found a welcome in your arms, dear Mother, and
received the embraces of another family, whose devotedness and
love is not dreamt of by the outside world.
At last my desires were realised, and I cannot describe the deep
sweet peace which filled my soul. This peace has remained with me
during the eight and a half years of my life here, and has never
left me even amid the greatest trials.
Everything in the Convent delighted me, especially our little
cell.[1] I fancied myself transported to the desert. I repeat that
my happiness was calm and peaceful--not even the lightest breeze
ruffled the tranquil waters on which my little barque sailed; no
cloud darkened the blue sky. I felt fully recompensed for all I
had gone through, and I kept saying: "Now I am here for ever."
Mine was no passing joy, it did not fade like first illusions.
From illusions God in His Mercy has ever preserved me. I found the
religious life just what I expected, and sacrifice was never a
matter of surprise. Yet you know well that from the beginning my
ways was strewn with thorns rather than with roses.
In the first place, my soul had for its daily food the bread of
spiritual dryness. Then, too, dear Mother, Our Lord allowed you,
unconsciously, to treat me very severely. You found fault with me
whenever you met me. I remember once I had left a cobweb in the
cloister, and you said to me before the whole community: "It is
easy to see that our cloisters are swept by a child of fifteen. It
is disgraceful! Go and sweep away that cobweb, and be more careful
in future."
On the rare occasions when I spent an hour with you for spiritual
direction, you seemed to be scolding me nearly all the time, and
what pained me most of all was that I did not see how to correct
my faults: for instance, my slow ways and want of thoroughness in
my duties, faults which you were careful to point out.
One day it occurred to me that you would certainly prefer me to
spend my free time in work instead of in prayer, as was my custom;
so I plied my needle industriously without even raising my eyes.
No one ever knew of this, as I wished to be faithful to Our Lord
and do things solely for Him to see.
When I was a postulant our Mistress used to send me every
afternoon at half-past four to weed the garden. This was a real
penance, the more so, dear Mother, because I was almost sure to
meet you on the way, and once you remarked: "Really, this child
does absolutely nothing. What are we to think of a novice who must
have a walk every day?" And yet, dear Mother, how grateful I am to
you for giving me such a sound and valuable training. It was an
inestimable grace. What should I have become, if, as the world
outside believed, I had been but the pet of the Community?
Perhaps, instead of seeing Our Lord in the person of my superiors,
I should only have considered the creature, and my heart, which
had been so carefully guarded in the world, would have been
ensnared by human affection in the cloister. Happily, your
motherly prudence saved me from such a disaster.
And not only in this matter, but in other and more bitter trials,
I can truly say that Suffering opened her arms to me from the
first, and I took her to my heart. In the solemn examination
before my profession I declared--as was customary--the reason of
my entry into the Carmel: "I have come to save souls, and
especially to pray for Priests." One cannot attain the end without
adopting the means, and as Our Lord made me understand that it was
by the Cross He would give me souls, the more crosses I met with,
the stronger grew my attraction to suffering. For five years this
way was mine, but I alone knew it; this was precisely the flower I
wished to offer to Jesus, a hidden flower which keeps its perfume
only for Heaven.
Two months after my entry Father Pichon was surprised at the
workings of grace in my soul; he thought my piety childlike and my
path an easy one. My conversation with this good Father would have
brought me great comfort, had it not been for the extreme
difficulty I found in opening my heart. Nevertheless I made a
general confession, and after it he said to me: "Before God, the
Blessed Virgin, and Angels, and all the Saints, I declare that you
have never committed a mortal sin. Thank God for the favours He
has so freely bestowed on you without any merit on your part."
Without any merit on my part! That was not difficult to believe.
Fully conscious of my weakness and imperfection, my heart
overflowed with gratitude. I had distressed myself, fearing I
might have stained my baptismal robe, and this assurance, coming
as it did from the lips of a director, a man of wisdom and
holiness, such as our Mother St. Teresa desired, seemed to come
from God Himself. Father Pichon added: "May Our Lord always be
your Superior and your Novice Master!" And indeed He ever was, and
likewise my Director. In saying this I do not mean to imply that I
was not communicative with my superiors; far from being reserved,
I always tried to be as an open book.
Our Mistress was a true saint, the perfect type of the first
Carmelites, and I seldom left her side, for she had to teach me
how to work. Her kindness was beyond words, I loved and
appreciated her, and yet my soul did not expand. I could not
explain myself, words failed me, and so the time of spiritual
direction became a veritable martyrdom.
One of the older nuns seemed to understand what I felt, for she
once said to me during recreation: "I should think, child, you
have not much to tell your superiors." "Why do you think that,
dear Mother?" I asked. "Because your soul is very simple; but when
you are perfect you will become more simple still. The nearer one
approaches God, the simpler one becomes."
This good Mother was right. Nevertheless the great difficulty I
found in opening my heart, though it came from simplicity, was a
genuine trial. Now, however, without having lost my simplicity, I
am able to express my thoughts with the greatest ease.
I have already said that Our Lord Himself had acted as my
Spiritual Guide. Hardly had Father Pichon become my director when
his Superiors sent him to Canada. I was only able to hear from him
once in the year, so now the Little Flower which had been
transplanted to the mountain of Carmel quickly turned to the
Director of Directors, and unfolded itself under the shadow of His
Cross, having for refreshing dew His Tears, His Precious Blood,
and for radiant sun His Adorable Face.
Until then I had not appreciated the beauties of the Holy Face; it
was my dear Mother, Agnes of Jesus, who unveiled them to me. As
she had been the first of her sisters to enter the Carmel, so she
was the first to penetrate the mysteries of love hidden in the
Face of Our Divine Spouse. Then she showed them to me and I
understood better than ever, in what true glory consists. He whose
"Kingdom is not of this world"[2] taught me that the only royalty
to be coveted lies in being "unknown and esteemed as naught,"[3]
and in the joy of self-abasement. And I wished that my face, like
the Face of Jesus, "should be, as it were, hidden and
despised,"[4] so that no one on earth should esteem me. I thirsted
to suffer and to be forgotten.
Most merciful has been the way by which the Divine Master has ever
led me. He has never inspired me with any desire and left it
unsatisfied, and that is why I have always found His bitter
chalice full of sweetness.
At the end of May, Marie, our eldest, was professed, and Thérèse,
the Benjamin, had the privilege of crowning her with roses on the
day of her mystical espousals. After this happy feast trials again
came upon us. Ever since his first attack of paralysis we realised
that my Father was very easily tired. During our journey to Rome I
often noticed that he seemed exhausted and in pain. But, above
all, I remarked his progress in the path of holiness; he had
succeeded in obtaining a complete mastery over the impetuosity of
his natural disposition, and earthly things were unable to ruffle
his calm. Let me give you an instance.
During our pilgrimage we were in the train for days and nights
together, and to wile away the time our companions played cards,
and occasionally grew very noisy. One day they asked us to join
them, but we refused, saying we knew little about the game; we did
not find the time long--only too short, indeed, to enjoy the
beautiful views which opened before us. Presently their annoyance
became evident, and then dear Papa began quietly to defend us,
pointing out that as we were on pilgrimage, more of our time might
be given to prayer.
One of the players, forgetting the respect due to age, called out
thoughtlessly: "Thank God, Pharisees are rare!" My Father did not
answer a word, he even seemed pleased; and later on he found an
opportunity of shaking hands with this man, and of speaking so
pleasantly that the latter must have thought his rude words had
either not been heard, or at least were forgotten.
His habit of forgiveness did not date from this day; my Mother and
all who knew him bore witness that no uncharitable word ever
passed his lips.
His faith and generosity were likewise equal to any trial. This is
how he announced my departure to one of his friends: "Thérèse, my
little Queen, entered the Carmel yesterday. God alone could ask
such a sacrifice; but He helps me so mightily that even in the
midst of tears my heart is overflowing with joy."
This faithful servant must needs receive a reward worthy of his
virtues, and he himself claimed that reward. You remember the
interview when he said to us: "Children, I have just come back
from Alençon, and there, in the Church of Notre Dame, I received
such graces and consolations that I made this prayer: 'My God, it
is too much, yes, I am too happy; I shall not get to Heaven like
this, I wish to suffer something for Thee--and I offered myself as
a'"--the word _victim_ died on his lips. He dared not pronounce it
before us, but we understood. You know, dear Mother, the story of
our trial; I need not recall its sorrowful details.
And now my clothing day drew near. Contrary to all expectations,
my Father had recovered from a second attack, and the Bishop fixed
the ceremony for January 10. The time of waiting had been long
indeed, but now what a beautiful feast! Nothing was wanting, not
even snow.
Do you remember my telling you, dear Mother, how fond I am of
snow? While I was still quite small, its whiteness entranced me.
Why had I such a fancy for snow? Perhaps it was because, being a
little winter flower, my eyes first saw the earth clad in its
beautiful white mantle. So, on my clothing day, I wished to see it
decked, like myself, in spotless white. The weather was so mild
that it might have been spring, and I no longer dared hope for
snow. The morning of the feast brought no change and I gave up my
childish desire, as impossible to be realised. My Father came to
meet me at the enclosure door, his eyes full of tears, and
pressing me to his heart exclaimed: "Ah! Here is my little Queen!"
Then, giving me his arm, we made our solemn entry into the public
Chapel. This was his day of triumph, his last feast on earth; now
his sacrifice was complete, and his children belonged to God.[5]
Céline had already confided to him that later on she also wished
to leave the world for the Carmel. On hearing this he was beside
himself with joy: "Let us go before the Blessed Sacrament," he
said, "and thank God for all the graces He has granted us and the
honour He has paid me in choosing His Spouses from my household.
God has indeed done me great honour in asking for my children. If
I possessed anything better I would hasten to offer it to Him."
That something better was himself, "and God received him as a
victim of holocaust; He tried him as gold in the furnace, and
found him worthy of Himself."[6]
After the ceremony in the Chapel I re-entered the Convent and the
Bishop intoned the _Te Deum._ One of the Priests observed to him
that this hymn of thanksgiving was only sung at professions, but,
once begun, it was continued to the end. Was it not right that
this feast should be complete, since in it all other joyful days
were reunited?
The instant I set foot in the enclosure again my eyes fell on the
statue of the Child Jesus smiling on me amid the flowers and
lights; then, turning towards the quadrangle, I saw that, in spite
of the mildness of the weather, it was covered with snow. What a
delicate attention on the part of Jesus! Gratifying the least wish
of His little Spouse, He even sent her this. Where is the creature
so mighty that he can make one flake of it fall to please his
beloved?
Everyone was amazed, and since then many people, hearing of my
desire, have described this event as "the little miracle" of my
clothing day, and thought it strange I should be so fond of snow.
So much the better, it shows still more the wonderful
condescension of the Spouse of Virgins--of Him Who loves lilies
white as the snow. After the ceremony the Bishop entered. He gave
me many proofs of his fatherly tenderness, and, in presence of all
the Priests, spoke of my visit to Bayeux and the journey to Rome;
nor did he forget to tell them how I had put up my hair before
visiting him. Then, laying his hand on my head, he blessed me
affectionately. My mind dwelt with ineffable sweetness on the
caresses Our Lord will soon lavish upon me before all the Saints,
and this consoling thought was a foretaste of Heaven. I have just
said that January 10 was a day of triumph for my dear Father. I
liken it to the feast of the entry of Christ into Jerusalem, on
Palm Sunday. As in the case of Our Divine Master, his day of
triumph was followed by long days of sorrow; and, even as the
agony of Jesus pierced the heart of His divine Mother, so our
hearts were deeply wounded by the humiliations and sufferings of
him, whom we loved best on earth. . . . I remember that in the
month of June 1888, when we were fearing another stroke of
paralysis, I surprised our Novice Mistress by saying: "I am
suffering a great deal, Mother, yet I feel I can suffer still
more." I did not then foresee the trial awaiting us. I did not
know that on February 12, one month after my clothing day, our
beloved Father would drink so deeply of such a bitter chalice. I
no longer said I could suffer more, words cannot express our
grief; nor shall I attempt to describe it here.
In Heaven, we shall enjoy dwelling on these dark days of exile.
Yet the three years of my Father's martyrdom seem to me the
sweetest and most fruitful of our lives. I would not exchange them
for the most sublime ecstasies, and my heart cries out in
gratitude for such a priceless treasure: "We have rejoiced for the
days wherein Thou hast afflicted us."[7] Precious and sweet was
this bitter cross, and our hearts only breathed out sighs of
grateful love. We no longer walked--we ran, we flew along the path
of perfection.
Léonie and Céline, though living in the world, were no longer of
the world. The letters they wrote were full of the most edifying
resignation. And what talks I had with Céline! Far from separating
us, the grating of the Carmel united us more closely: the same
thoughts, the same desires, the same love for Our Lord and for
souls, made our very life. Not a word concerning things of earth
entered into our conversation; but, just as in former days we
lifted longing eyes to Heaven, so now our hearts strained after
the joys beyond time and space, and, for the sake of an eternal
happiness, we chose to suffer and be despised here below.
Though my suffering seemed to have reached its height, yet my
attraction thereto did not grow less, and soon my soul shared in
the trials my heart had to bear. My spiritual aridity increased,
and I found no comfort either in Heaven or on earth; yet, amid
these waters of tribulation that I had so thirsted for, I was the
happiest of mortals.
Thus passed the time of my betrothal, too long a time for me. At
the end of the year you told me, dear Mother, that I must not yet
think of my profession, as our Ecclesiastical Superior expressly
forbade it. I had therefore to wait for eight months more. At
first I found it very difficult to be resigned to such a
sacrifice, but divine light penetrated my soul before long.
At this time I was using for my meditations Surin's _Foundations
of the Spiritual life._ One day during prayer, it was brought home
to me that my too eager desire to take my vows was mingled with
much self-love; as I belonged to Our Lord and was His little
plaything to console and please Him, it was for me to do His Will,
not for Him to do mine. I also understood that a bride would not
be pleasing to the bridegroom on her wedding day were she not
magnificently attired. But, what had I made ready? So I said to
Our Lord: "I do not ask Thee to hasten the day of my profession, I
will wait as long as Thou pleasest, only I cannot bear that
through any fault of mine my union with Thee should be delayed; I
will set to work and carefully prepare a wedding-dress enriched
with diamonds and precious stones, and, when Thou findest it
sufficiently rich, I am sure that nothing will keep Thee from
accepting me as Thy Spouse."
I took up the task with renewed zest. Since my clothing day I had
received abundant lights on religious perfection, chiefly
concerning the vow of poverty. Whilst I was a postulant I liked to
have nice things to use and to find everything needful ready to
hand. Jesus bore with me patiently, for He gives His light little
by little. At the beginning of my spiritual life, about the age of
fourteen, I used to ask myself how, in days to come, I should more
clearly understand the true meaning of perfection. I imagined I
then understood it completely, but I soon came to realise that the
more one advances along this path the farther one seems from the
goal, and now I am resigned to be always imperfect, and I even
find joy therein.
To return to the lessons which Our Lord taught me. One evening
after Compline I searched in vain for our lamp on the shelves
where they are kept, and, as it was the time of the "Great
Silence," I could not recover it. I guessed rightly that a Sister,
believing it to be her own, had taken it; but just on that evening
I had counted much on doing some work, and was I to spend a whole
hour in the dark on account of this mistake? Without the interior
light of grace I should undoubtedly have pitied myself, but, with
that light, I felt happy instead of aggrieved, and reflected that
poverty consists in being deprived not only of what is convenient,
but of what is necessary. And, in this exterior darkness, I found
my soul illumined by a brightness that was divine.
At this time I was seized with a craving for whatever was ugly and
inconvenient; and was thus quite pleased when a pretty little jug
was taken from our cell and a large chipped one put in its place.
I also tried hard not to make excuses, but I found this very
difficult, especially with our Mistress; from her I did not like
to hide anything.
My first victory was not a great one, but it cost me a good deal.
A small jar, left behind a window, was found broken. No one knew
who had put it there, but our Mistress was displeased, and,
thinking I was to blame in leaving it about, told me I was very
untidy and must be more careful in future. Without answering, I
kissed the ground and promised to be more observant. I was so
little advanced in virtue that these small sacrifices cost me
dear, and I had to console myself with the thought that at the day
of Judgment all would be known.
Above all I endeavoured to practise little hidden acts of virtue;
thus I took pleasure in folding the mantles forgotten by the
Sisters, and I sought for every possible occasion of helping them.
One of God's gifts was a great attraction towards penance, but I
was not permitted to satisfy it; the only mortification allowed me
consisted in mortifying my self-love, and this did me far more
good than bodily penance would have done.
However, Our Lady helped me with my wedding-dress, and, as soon as
it was finished, every obstacle vanished and my profession was
fixed for September 8, 1890.
All that I have set down in these few words would take many pages
to relate; but those pages will never be read on earth. . . .
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[1] Nuns, in the spirit of poverty, avoid using the word _my,_ as
denoting private possessions; so, later on, "our lamp," "our
handkerchief," will occur. [Ed.]
[2] John 18:36.
[3] _Imit.,_ I, ii. 3.
[4] Is. 53:3.
[5] Léonie, having entered an order too severe for her delicate
health, had been obliged to return home to her Father. Later she
became a Visitation nun at Caen, and took the name of Sister
Frances Teresa.
[6] Cf. Wisdom 3:5,6.
[7] Ps. 89[90]:15.
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