THE NIGHT OF THE SOUL
Dear Mother, I thought I had written enough, and now you wish for
more details of my religious life. I will not argue, but I cannot
help smiling when I have to tell you things that you know quite as
well as I do. Nevertheless, I will obey. I do not ask what use
this manuscript can be to any one, I assure you that even were you
to burn it before my eyes, without having read it, I should not
mind in the least.
The opinion is not uncommon in the Community that you have always
indulged me, ever since I entered the Convent; however, "Man seeth
those things that appear, but the Lord beholdeth the heart."[1]
Dear Mother, once again I thank you for not having spared me.
Jesus knew well that His Little Flower needed the life-giving
water of humiliation--it was too weak to take root otherwise, and
to you it owes so great a blessing. But for some months, the
Divine Master has entirely changed His method of cultivating His
Little Flower. Finding no doubt that it has been sufficiently
watered, He now allows it to expand under the warm rays of a
brilliant sun. He smiles on it, and this favour also comes through
you, dear Mother, but far from doing it harm, those smiles make
the Little Flower grow in a wondrous way. Deep down in its heart
it treasures those precious drops of dew--the mortifications of
other days--and they remind it that it is small and frail. Even
were all creatures to draw near to admire and flatter it, that
would not add a shade of idle satisfaction to the true joy which
thrills it, on realising that in God's Eyes it is but a poor,
worthless thing, and nothing more.
When I say that I am indifferent to praise, I am not speaking,
dear Mother, of the love and confidence you show me; on the
contrary I am deeply touched thereby, but I feel that I have now
nothing to fear, and I can listen to those praises unperturbed,
attributing to God all that is good in me. If it please Him to
make me appear better than I am, it is nothing to me, He can act
as He will. My God, how many ways dost Thou lead souls! We read of
Saints who left absolutely nothing at their death, not the least
thing by which to remember them, not even a single line of
writing; and there are others like our holy Mother, St. Teresa,
who have enriched the Church with their sublime teaching, and have
not hesitated to reveal "the secrets of the King,"[2] that He may
be better known and better loved.
Which of these two ways is more pleasing to Our Lord? It seems to
me that they are equally so.
All those beloved by God have followed the inspiration of the Holy
Ghost, who commanded the prophets to write: "Tell the just man
that all is well."[3] Yes, all is well when one seeks only the
Master's Will, and so I, poor Little Flower, obey my Jesus when I
try to please you, who represent him here on earth.
You know it has ever been my desire to become a Saint, but I have
always felt, in comparing myself with the Saints, that I am as far
removed from them as the grain of sand, which the passer-by
tramples underfoot, is remote from the mountain whose summit is
lost in the clouds.
Instead of being discouraged, I concluded that God would not
inspire desires which could not be realised, and that I may aspire
to sanctity in spite of my littleness. For me to become great is
impossible. I must bear with myself and my many imperfections; but
I will seek out a means of getting to Heaven by a little way--very
short and very straight, a little way that is wholly new. We live
in an age of inventions; nowadays the rich need not trouble to
climb the stairs, they have lifts instead. Well, I mean to try and
find a lift by which I may be raised unto God, for I am too tiny
to climb the steep stairway of perfection. I have sought to find
in Holy Scripture some suggestion as to what this lift might be
which I so much desired, and I read these words uttered by the
Eternal Wisdom Itself: "Whosoever is a little one, let him come to
Me."[4] Then I drew near to God, feeling sure that I had
discovered what I sought; but wishing to know further what He
would do to the little one, I continued my search and this is what
I found: "You shall be carried at the breasts and upon the knees;
as one whom the mother caresseth, so will I comfort you."[5]
Never have I been consoled by words more tender and sweet. Thine
Arms, then, O Jesus, are the lift which must raise me up even unto
Heaven. To get there I need not grow; on the contrary, I must
remain little, I must become still less. O my God, thou hast gone
beyond my expectation, and I . . . "I will sing Thy mercies! Thou
hast taught me, O Lord, from my youth and till now I have declared
Thy wonderful works, and thus unto old age and grey hairs."[6]
What will this old age be for me? It seems to me that it could as
well be now as later: two thousand years are no more in the Eyes
of the Lord than twenty years . . . than a single day! But do not
think, dear Mother, that your child is anxious to leave you, and
deems it a greater grace to die in the morning rather than in the
evening of life; to please Jesus is what [s]he really values and
desires above all things. Now that He seems to come near and draw
her to His Heavenly Home, she is glad; she has understood that God
has need of no one to do good upon earth, still less of her than
of others. Meantime I know your will, dear Mother. You wish me to
carry out, at your side, a work which is both sweet and easy,[7]
and this work I shall complete in Heaven. You have said to me, as
Our Lord said to St. Peter: "Feed my lambs." I am amazed, for I
feel that I am so little. I have entreated you to feed your little
lambs yourself and to keep me among them. You have complied in
part with my reasonable wish, and have called me their companion,
rather than their mistress, telling me nevertheless to lead them
through fertile and shady pastures, to point out where the grass
is sweetest and best, and warn them against the brilliant but
poisonous flowers, which they must never touch except to crush
under foot.
How is it, dear Mother, that my youth and inexperience have not
frightened you? Are you not afraid that I shall let your lambs
stray afar? In acting as you have done, perhaps you remembered
that Our Lord is often pleased to give wisdom to little ones.
On this earth it is rare indeed to find souls who do not measure
God's Omnipotence by their own narrow thoughts. The world is
always ready to admit exceptions everywhere here below. God alone
is denied this liberty. It has long been the custom among men to
reckon experience by age, for in his youth the holy King David
sang to His Lord: "I am young and despised,"[8] but in the same
Psalm he does not fear to say: "I have had understanding above old
men, because I have sought Thy commandments, Thy word is a lamp to
my feet, and a light to my paths; I have sworn, and I am
determined, to keep the judgments of Thy Justice."[9]
And you did not even consider it imprudent to assure me one day,
that the Divine Master had enlightened my soul and given me the
experience of years. I am too little now to be guilty of vanity; I
am likewise too little to endeavour to prove my humility by
fine-sounding words. I prefer to own in all simplicity that "He
that is mighty hath done great things to me"--[10] and the
greatest is that He has shown me my littleness and how incapable I
am of anything good.
My soul has known trials of many kinds. I have suffered much on
this earth. In my childhood I suffered with sadness, but now I
find sweetness in all things. Anyone but you, dear Mother, who
know me thoroughly, would smile at reading these pages, for has
ever a soul seemed less tried than mine? But if the martyrdom
which I have endured for the past year were made known, how
astonished everyone would be! Since it is your wish I will try to
describe it, but there are no words really to explain these
things. The words will always fall short of the reality.
During Lent last year I felt much better than ever and continued
so until Holy Week, in spite of the fast which I observed in all
its rigour. But in the early hours of Good Friday, Jesus gave me
to hope that I should soon join Him in His beautiful Home. How
sweet is this memory!
I could not obtain permission to remain watching at the Altar of
Repose throughout the Thursday night, and I returned to our cell
at midnight. Scarcely was my head laid on the pillow when I felt a
hot stream rise to my lips. I thought I was going to die, and my
heart nearly broke with joy. But as I had already put out our
lamp, I mortified my curiosity until the morning and slept in
peace. At five o'clock, when it was time to get up, I remembered
at once that I had some good news to learn, and going to the
window I found, as I had expected, that our handkerchief was
soaked with blood. Dearest Mother, what hope was mine! I was
firmly convinced that on this anniversary of His Death, my Beloved
had allowed me to hear His first call, like a sweet, distant
murmur, heralding His joyful approach.
I assisted at Prime and Chapter most fervently, and then I
hastened to cast myself at my Mother's knees and confide to her my
happiness. I did not feel the least pain, so I easily obtained
permission to finish Lent as I had begun, and on this Good Friday
I shared in all the austerities of the Carmel without any
relaxation. Never had these austerities seemed sweeter to me; the
hope of soon entering Heaven transported me with joy.
Still full of joy, I returned to our cell on the evening of that
happy day, and was quietly falling asleep, when my sweet Jesus
gave me the same sign as on the previous night, of my speedy
entrance to Eternal Life. I felt such a clear and lively Faith
that the thought of Heaven was my sole delight. I could not
believe it possible for men to be utterly devoid of Faith, and I
was convinced that those who deny the existence of another world
really lie in their hearts.
But during the Paschal days, so full of light, our Lord made me
understand that there really are in truth souls bereft of Faith
and Hope, who, through abuse of grace, lose these precious
treasures, the only source of pure and lasting joy. He allowed my
soul to be overwhelmed with darkness, and the thought of Heaven,
which had consoled me from my earliest childhood, now became a
subject of conflict and torture. This trial did not last merely
for days or weeks; I have been suffering for months, and I still
await deliverance. I wish I could express what I feel, but it is
beyond me. One must have passed through this dark tunnel to
understand its blackness. However, I will try to explain it by
means of a comparison.
Let me suppose that I had been born in a land of thick fogs, and
had never seen the beauties of nature, or a single ray of
sunshine, although I had heard of these wonders from my early
youth, and knew that the country wherein I dwelt was not my real
home--there was another land, unto which I should always look
forward. Now this is not a fable, invented by an inhabitant of the
land of fogs, it is the solemn truth, for the King of that sunlit
country dwelt for three and thirty years in the land of darkness,
and alas!--the darkness did not understand that He was the Light
of the World._[11]
But, dear Lord, Thy child has understood Thou art the Light
Divine; she asks Thy pardon for her unbelieving brethren, and is
willing to eat the bread of sorrow as long as Thou mayest wish.
For love of Thee she will sit at that table of bitterness where
these poor sinners take their food, and she will not stir from it
until Thou givest the sign. But may she not say in her own name,
and the name of her guilty brethren: "O God, be merciful to us
sinners!"[12] Send us away justified. May all those on whom Faith
does not shine see the light at last! O my God, if that table
which they profane can be purified by one that loves Thee, I am
willing to remain there alone to eat the bread of tears, until it
shall please Thee to bring me to Thy Kingdom of Light: the only
favour I ask is, that I may never give Thee cause for offence.
From the time of my childhood I felt that one day I should be set
free from this land of darkness. I believed it, not only because I
had been told so by others, but my heart's most secret and deepest
longings assured me that there was in store for me another and
more beautiful country--an abiding dwelling-place. I was like
Christopher Columbus, whose genius anticipated the discovery of
the New World. And suddenly the mists about me have penetrated my
very soul and have enveloped me so completely that I cannot even
picture to myself this promised country . . . all has faded away.
When my heart, weary of the surrounding darkness, tries to find
some rest in the thought of a life to come, my anguish increases.
It seems to me that out of the darkness I hear the mocking voice
of the unbeliever: "You dream of a land of light and fragrance,
you dream that the Creator of these wonders will be yours for
ever, you think one day to escape from these mists where you now
languish. Nay, rejoice in death, which will give you, not what you
hope for, but a night darker still, the night of utter
nothingness!" . . .
Dear Mother, this description of what I suffer is as far removed
from reality as the first rough outline is from the model, but I
fear that to write more were to blaspheme . . . even now I may
have said too much. May God forgive me! He knows that I try to
live by Faith, though it does not afford me the least consolation.
I have made more acts of Faith in this last year than during all
the rest of my life.
Each time that my enemy would provoke me to combat, I behave as a
gallant soldier. I know that a duel is an act of cowardice, and
so, without once looking him in the face, I turn my back on the
foe, then I hasten to my Saviour, and vow that I am ready to shed
my blood in witness of my belief in Heaven. I tell him, if only He
will deign to open it to poor unbelievers, I am content to
sacrifice all pleasure in the thought of it as long as I live. And
in spite of this trial, which robs me of all comfort, I still can
say: "Thou hast given me, O Lord, delight in all Thou dost."[13]
For what joy can be greater than to suffer for Thy Love? The more
the suffering is and the less it appears before men, the more is
it to Thy Honour and Glory. Even if--but I know it to be
impossible--Thou shouldst not deign to heed my sufferings, I
should still be happy to bear them, in the hope that by my tears I
might perhaps prevent or atone for one sin against Faith.
No doubt, dear Mother, you will think I exaggerate somewhat _the
night of my soul._ If you judge by the poems I have composed this
year, it must seem as though I have been flooded with
consolations, like a child for whom the veil of Faith is almost
rent asunder. And yet it is not a veil--it is a wall which rises
to the very heavens and shuts out the starry sky.
When I sing of the happiness of Heaven and the eternal possession
of God, I do not feel any joy therein, for I sing only of what I
wish to believe. Sometimes, I confess, a little ray of sunshine
illumines my dark night, and I enjoy peace for an instant, but
later, the remembrance of this ray of light, instead of consoling
me, makes the blackness thicker still.
And yet never have I felt so deeply how sweet and merciful is the
Lord. He did not send me this heavy cross when it might have
discouraged me, but at a time when I was able to bear it. Now it
simply takes from me all natural satisfaction I might feel in my
longing for Heaven.
Dear Mother, it seems to me that at present there is nothing to
impede my upward flight, for I have no longer any desire save to
love Him till I die. I am free; I fear nothing now, not even what
I dreaded more than anything else, a long illness which would make
me a burden to the Community. Should it please the Good God, I am
quite content to have my bodily and mental sufferings prolonged
for years. I do not fear a long life; I do not shrink from the
struggle. The Lord is the rock upon which I stand--"Who teacheth
my hands to fight, and my fingers to war. He is my Protector and I
have hoped in Him."[14] I have never asked God to let me die
young, It is true I have always thought I should do so, but it is
a favour I have not tried to obtain.
Our Lord is often content with the wish to do something for His
Glory, and you know the immensity of my desires. You know also
that Jesus has offered me more than one bitter chalice through my
dearly loved sisters. The holy King David was right when he sang:
"Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell
together in unity."[15] But such unity can only exist upon earth
in the midst of sacrifice. It was not in order to be with my
sisters that I came to this holy Carmel; on the contrary, I knew
well that in curbing my natural affection I should have much to
suffer.
How can it be said that it is more perfect to separate oneself
from home and friends? Has anyone ever reproached brothers who
fight side by side, or together win the martyr's palm? It is true,
no doubt, they encourage each other; but it is also true that the
martyrdom of each is a martyrdom to them all.
And so it is in the religious life; theologians call it a
martyrdom. A heart given to God loses nothing of its natural
affection--on the contrary, this affection grows stronger by
becoming purer and more spiritual. It is with this love, dear
Mother, that I love you and my sisters. I am glad to fight beside
you for the glory of the King of Heaven, but I am ready to go to
another battlefield, did the Divine Commander but express a wish.
An order would not be necessary: a simple look, a sign, would
suffice.
Ever since I came to the Carmel I have thought that if Our Lord
did not take me quickly to Heaven, my lot would be that of Noe's
dove, and that one day he would open the window of the Ark and bid
me fly to heathen lands, bearing the olive branch. This thought
has helped me to soar above all created things.
Knowing that even in the Carmel there must be partings, I tried to
make my abode in Heaven; and I accepted not only exile in the
midst of an unknown people, but what was far more bitter, I
accepted exile for my sisters. And indeed, two of them were asked
for by the Carmel of Saïgon, our own foundation. For a time there
was serious question of their being sent, and I would not say a
word to hold them back, though my heart ached at the thought of
the trials awaiting them. Now all that is at an end; the superiors
were absolutely opposed to their departure, and I only touched the
cup with my lips long enough to taste of its bitterness.
Let me tell you, dear Mother, why, if Our Lady cures me, I wish to
respond to the call from our Mothers of Hanoï. It appears that to
live in foreign Carmels, a very special vocation is needed, and
many souls think they are called without being so in reality. You
have told me that I have this vocation, and that my health alone
stands in the way. But if I am destined one day to leave this
Carmel, it will not be without a pang. My heart is naturally
sensitive, and because this is a cause of much suffering, I wish
to offer Jesus whatsoever it can bear. Here, I am loved by you and
all the Sisters, and this love is very sweet to me, and I dream of
a convent where I should be unknown, where I should taste the
bitterness of exile. I know only too well how useless I am, and so
it is not for the sake of the services I might render to the
Carmel of Hanoï that I would leave all that is dearest to me--my
sole reason would be to do God's Will, and sacrifice myself for
Him.
And I should not suffer any disappointment, for when we expect
nothing but suffering, then the least joy is a surprise; and later
on suffering itself becomes the greatest of all joys, when we seek
it as a precious treasure.
But I know I shall never recover from this sickness, and yet I am
at peace. For years I have not belonged to myself, I have
surrendered myself wholly to Jesus, and He is free to do with me
whatsoever He pleases. He has spoken to me of exile, and has asked
me if I would consent to drink of that chalice. At once I essayed
to grasp it, but He, withdrawing His Hand, showed me that my
consent was all He desired.
O my God! from how much disquiet do we free ourselves by the vow
of obedience! Happy is the simple religious. Her one guide being
the will of her superiors, she is ever sure of following the right
path, and has no fear of being mistaken, even when it seems that
her superiors are making a mistake. But if she ceases to consult
the unerring compass, then at once her soul goes astray in barren
wastes, where the waters of grace quickly fail. Dear Mother, you
are the compass Jesus has given me to direct me safely to the
Eternal Shore. I find it most sweet to fix my eyes upon you, and
then do the Will of my Lord. By allowing me to suffer these
temptations against Faith, He has greatly increased the spirit of
Faith, which makes me see Him living in your soul, and through you
communicating His holy commands.
I am well aware that you lighten the burden of obedience for me,
but deep in my heart I feel that my attitude would not change, nor
would my filial affection grow less, were you to treat me with
severity: and this because I should still see the Will of God
manifesting itself in another way for the greater good of my soul.
Among the numberless graces that I have received this year, not
the least is an understanding of how far-reaching is the precept
of charity. I had never before fathomed these words of Our Lord:
"The second commandment is like to the first: Thou shalt love thy
neighbour as thyself."[16] I had set myself above all to love God,
and it was in loving Him that I discovered the hidden meaning of
these other words: "It is not those who say, Lord, Lord! who enter
into the Kingdom of Heaven, but he who does the Will of My
Father."[17]
Jesus revealed me this Will when at the Last Supper He gave His
New Commandment in telling His Apostles to _love one another as He
had loved them._[18] I set myself to find out how He had loved His
Apostles; and I saw that it was not for their natural qualities,
for they were ignorant men, full of earthly ideas. And yet He
calls them His Friends, His Brethren; He desires to see them near
Him in the Kingdom of His Father, and in order to admit them to
this Kingdom He wills to die on the Cross, saying: "Greater love
than this no man hath, that a man lay down his life for his
friends."[19]
As I meditated on these Divine words, I saw how imperfect was the
love I bore my Sisters in religion. I understood that I did not
love them as Our Lord loves them. I know now that true charity
consists in bearing all our neighbours' defects--not being
surprised at their weakness, but edified at their smallest
virtues. Above all I know that charity must not remain shut up in
the heart, for "No man lighteth a candle, and putteth it in a
hidden place, nor under a bushel; but upon a candlestick, that
they who come in may see the light."[20]
It seems to me, dear Mother, this candle represents that charity
which enlightens and gladdens, not only those who are dear to us,
but all _those who are of the household._
In the Old Law, when God told His people to love their neighbour
as themselves, He had not yet come down upon earth; and knowing
full well how man loves himself, He could not ask anything
greater. But when Our Lord gave His Apostles a New
Commandment--"His own commandment"[21]--He was not content with
saying: "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself," but would have
them love even as He had loved, and as He will love till the end
of time.
O my Jesus! Thou does never ask what is impossible; Thou knowest
better than I, how frail and imperfect I am, and Thou knowest that
I shall never love my Sisters as Thou hast loved them, unless
within me Thou lovest them, dear Lord! It is because Thou dost
desire to grant me this grace that Thou hast given a New
Commandment. Oh how I love it, since I am assured thereby that it
is Thy Will to love in me all those Thou dost bid me love!
Yes, I know when I show charity to others, it is simply Jesus
acting in me, and the more closely I am united to Him, the more
dearly I love my Sisters. If I wish to increase this love in my
heart, and the devil tries to bring before me the defects of a
Sister, I hasten to look for her virtues, her good motives; I call
to mind that though I may have seen her fall once, no doubt she
has gained many victories over herself, which in her humility she
conceals. It is even possible that what seems to me a fault, may
very likely, on account of her good intention, be an act of
virtue. I have no difficulty in persuading myself of this, because
I have had the same experience. One day, during recreation, the
portress came to ask for a Sister to help her. I had a childish
longing to do this work, and it happened the choice fell upon me.
I therefore began to fold up our needlework, but so slowly that my
neighbour, who I knew would like to take my place, was ready
before me. The Sister who had asked for help, seeing how
deliberate I was, said laughingly: "I thought you would not add
this pearl to your crown, you are so extremely slow," and all the
Community thought I had yielded to natural reluctance. I cannot
tell you what profit I derived from this incident, and it made me
indulgent towards others. It still checks any feelings of vanity,
when I am praised, for I reflect that since my small acts of
virtue can be mistaken for imperfections, why should not my
imperfections be mistaken for virtue? And I say with St. Paul: "To
me it is a very small thing to be judged by you, or by man's day.
But neither do I judge myself. He that judgeth me is the Lord."[22]
And it is the Lord, it is Jesus, Who is my judge. Therefore I will
try always to think leniently of others, that He may judge me
leniently, or rather not at all, since He says: "Judge not, and ye
shall not be judged."[23]
But returning to the Holy Gospel where Our Lord explains to me
clearly in what His New Commandment consists, I read in St.
Matthew: "You have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love
thy neighbour, and hate thy enemy: but I say unto you, Love your
enemies, and pray for them that persecute you."[24]
There are, of course, no enemies in the Carmel; but, after all, we
have our natural likes and dislikes. We may feel drawn towards one
Sister, and may be tempted to go a long way round to avoid meeting
another. Well, Our Lord tells me that this is the Sister to love
and pray for, even though her behaviour may make me imagine she
does not care for me. "If you love them that love you, what thanks
are to you? For sinners also love those that love them."[25] And
it is not enough to love, we must prove our love; naturally one
likes to please a friend, but that is not charity, for sinners do
the same.
Our Lord also taught me: "Give to everyone that asketh thee; and
of him that taketh away thy goods, ask them not again."[26] To
give to everyone who asks is not so pleasant as to give of one's
own accord. If we are asked pleasantly, it is easy to give; but if
we are asked discourteously, then, unless we are perfect in
charity, there is an inward rebellion, and we find no end of
excuses for refusing. Perhaps, after first pointing out the
rudeness of the request, we make such a favour of consenting
thereto, that the slight service takes far less time to perform
than was lost in arguing the point. And if it is difficult to give
to whosoever asks, it is far more difficult to let what belongs to
us be taken without asking it again. Dear Mother, I say this is
hard, but I should rather say that it seems hard, for "The yoke of
the Lord is sweet and His burden light."[27] And when we submit to
that yoke, we at once feel its sweetness.
I have said Jesus does not wish me to ask again for what is my
own. This ought to seem quite easy, for, in reality, nothing is
mine. I ought, then, to be glad when an occasion arises which
brings home to me the poverty to which I am vowed. I used to think
myself completely detached, but since Our Lord's words have become
clear, I see that I am indeed very imperfect.
For instance: when starting to paint, if I find the brushes in
disorder, and a ruler or penknife gone, I feel inclined to lose
patience, and have to keep a firm hold over myself not to betray
my feelings. Of course I may ask for these needful things, and if
I do so humbly I am not disobeying Our Lord's command. I am then
like the poor who hold out their hands for the necessaries of
life, and, if refused, are not surprised, since no one owes them
anything. Deep peace inundates the soul when it soars above mere
natural sentiments. There is no joy equal to that which is shared
by the truly poor in spirit. If they ask with detachment for
something necessary, and not only is it refused, but an attempt is
made to take away what they already possess, they are following
the Master's advice: "If any man will take away thy coat, let him
have thy cloak also."[28] To give up one's cloak is, it seems to
me, to renounce every right, and to regard oneself as the servant,
the slave, of all. Without a cloak it is easier to walk or run,
and so the Master adds: "And whosoever shall force thee to go one
mile, go with him other two."[29]
It is therefore not enough for me to give to whoever asks--I ought
to anticipate the wish, and show myself glad to be of service; but
if anything of mine be taken away, I should show myself glad to be
rid of it. I cannot always carry out to the letter the words of
the Gospel, for there are occasions when I am compelled to refuse
some request. Yet when charity is deeply rooted in the soul it
lets itself be outwardly seen, and there is a way of refusing so
graciously what one is unable to give, that the refusal affords as
much pleasure as the gift would have done. It is true that people
do not hesitate to ask from those who readily oblige, nevertheless
I ought not to avoid importunate Sisters on the pretext that I
shall be forced to refuse. The Divine Master has said: "From him
that would borrow of thee turn not away."[30] Nor should I be kind
in order to appear so, or in the hope that the Sister will return
the service, for once more it is written: "If you lend to them of
whom you hope to receive, what thanks are to you? For sinners also
lend to sinners for to receive as much. But you do good and lend,
hoping for nothing thereby, and your reward shall be great."[31]
Verily, the reward is great even on earth. In this path it is only
the first step which costs. To lend without hope of being repaid
seems hard; one would rather give outright, for what you give is
no longer yours. When a Sister says confidently: "I want your help
for some hours--I have our Mother's leave, and be assured I will
do as much for you later," one may know well that these hours
_lent_ will not be repaid, and be sorely tempted to say: "I prefer
to _give_ them." But that would gratify self-love, besides letting
the Sister feel that you do not rely much on her promise. The
Divine precepts run contrary to our natural inclinations, and
without the help of grace it would be impossible to understand
them, far less to put them in practice.
Dear Mother, I feel that I have expressed myself with more than
usual confusion, and I do not know what you can find to interest
you in these rambling pages, but I am not aiming at a literary
masterpiece, and if I weary you by this discourse on charity, it
will at least prove your child's good will. I must confess I am
far from living up to my ideal, and yet the very desire to do so
gives me a feeling of peace. If I fall into some fault, I arise
again at once--and for some months now I have not even had to
struggle. I have been able to say with our holy Father, St. John
of the Cross: "My house is entirely at peace," and I attribute
this interior peace to a victory I gained over myself. Since that
victory, the hosts of Heaven have hastened to my aid, for they
will not allow me to be wounded, now that I have fought so
valiantly.
A holy nun of our community annoyed me in all that she did; the
devil must have had something to do with it, and he it was
undoubtedly who made me see in her so many disagreeable points. I
did not want to yield to my natural antipathy, for I remembered
that charity ought to betray itself in deeds, and not exist merely
in the feelings, so I set myself to do for this sister all I
should do for the one I loved most. Every time I met her I prayed
for her, and offered to God her virtues and merits. I felt that
this was very pleasing to Our Lord, for there is no artist who is
not gratified when his works are praised, and the Divine Artist of
souls is pleased when we do not stop at the exterior, but,
penetrating to the inner sanctuary He has chosen, admire its
beauty.
I did not rest satisfied with praying for this Sister, who gave me
such occasions for self-mastery, I tried to render her as many
services as I could, and when tempted to answer her sharply, I
made haste to smile and change the subject, for the _Imitation_
says: "It is more profitable to leave everyone to his way of
thinking than to give way to contentious discourses." And
sometimes when the temptation was very severe, I would run like a
deserter from the battlefield if I could do so without letting the
Sister guess my inward struggle.
One day she said to me with a beaming face: "My dear Soeur
Thérèse, tell me what attraction you find in me, for whenever we
meet, you greet me with such a sweet smile." Ah! What attracted me
was Jesus hidden in the depths of her soul--Jesus who maketh sweet
even that which is most bitter.
I spoke just now, dear Mother, of the flight that is my last
resource to escape defeat. It is not honourable, I confess, but
during my noviciate, whenever I had recourse to this means, it
invariably succeeded. I will give you a striking example, which
will, I am sure, amuse you. You had been ill with bronchitis for
several days, and we were all uneasy about you. One morning, in my
duty as sacristan, I came to put back the keys of the
Communion-grating. This was my work, and I was very pleased to
have an opportunity of seeing you, though I took good care not to
show it. One of the Sisters, full of solicitude, feared I should
awake you, and tried to take the keys from me. I told her as
politely as I could, that I was quite as anxious as she was there
should be no noise, and added that it was my right to return them.
I see now that it would have been more perfect simply to yield,
but I did not see it then, and so I followed her into the room.
Very soon what she feared came to pass: the noise did awaken you.
All the blame fell upon me; the Sister I had argued with began a
long discourse, of which the point was: Soeur Thérèse made all the
noise. I was burning to defend myself, but a happy inspiration of
grace came to me. I thought that if I began to justify myself I
should certainly lose my peace of mind, and as I had too little
virtue to let myself be unjustly accused without answering, my
last chance of safety lay in flight. No sooner thought than done.
I hurried away, but my heart beat so violently, I could not go
far, and I was obliged to sit down on the stairs to enjoy in quiet
the fruit of my victory. This is an odd kind of courage,
undoubtedly, but I think it is best not to expose oneself in the
face of certain defeat.
When I recall these days of my noviciate I understand how far I
was from perfection, and the memory of certain things makes me
laugh. How good God has been, to have trained my soul and given it
wings All the snares of the hunter can no longer frighten me, for
"A net is spread in vain before the eyes of them that have
wings."[32]
It may be that some day my present state will appear to me full of
defects, but nothing now surprises me, and I do not even distress
myself because I am so weak. On the contrary I glory therein, and
expect each day to find fresh imperfections. Nay, I must confess,
these lights on my own nothingness are of more good to my soul
than lights on matters of Faith. Remembering that "Charity
covereth a multitude of sins,"[33] I draw from this rich mine,
which Our Saviour has opened to us in the Gospels. I search the
depths of His adorable words, and cry out with David: "I have run
in the way of Thy commandments since Thou hast enlarged my
heart."[34] And charity alone can make wide the heart. O Jesus!
Since its sweet flame consumes my heart, I run with delight in the
way of Thy New Commandment, and I desire to run therein until that
blessed day when, with Thy company of Virgins, I shall follow Thee
through Thy boundless Realm, singing Thy New Canticle--The
Canticle of Love.
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[1] 1 Kings 16:7.
[2] Tobias 12:7.
[3] Cf. Isaias 3:10.
[4] Prov. 9:4.
[5] Isa. 66:12, 13.
[6] Cf. Ps. 70[71]:17, 18.
[7] Soeur Thérèse had charge of the novices without being given
the title of Novice Mistress.
[8] Ps. 118[119]:141.
[9] Ps. 118[119]:100, 105, 106.
[10] Luke 1:49.
[11] Cf. John 1:5.
[12] Cf. Luke 18:13.
[13] Ps. 91[92]:5.
[14] Ps. 143[144]:1, 2.
[15] Ps. 132[133]:1.
[16] Matt. 22:39.
[17] Cf. Matt. 7:21.
[18] Cf. John 13:34.
[19] John 15:12.
[20] Luke 11:33.
[21] John 15:12.
[22] 1 Cor. 4:3,4.
[23] Luke 6:37.
[24] Matt. 5:43, 44.
[25] Luke 6:32.
[26] Luke 6:30.
[27] Matt. 11:30.
[28] Matt. 5:40.
[29] Matt. 5:41.
[30] Matt. 5:42.
[31] Luke 6:34, 35.
[32] Prov. 1:27.
[33] Prov. 10:12.
[34] Ps. 118[119]:32.
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