CHAPTER XI A CANTICLE OF LOVE

It is not only when He is about to send me some trial that Our

Lord gives me warning and awakens my desire for it. For years I

had cherished a longing which seemed impossible of realisation--to

have a brother a Priest. I often used to think that if my little

brothers had not gone to Heaven, I should have had the happiness

of seeing them at the Altar. I greatly regretted being deprived of

this joy. Yet God went beyond my dream; I only asked for one

brother who would remember me each day at the Holy Altar, and He

has united me in the bonds of spiritual friendship with two of His

apostles. I should like to tell you, dear Mother, how Our Divine

Master fulfilled my desire.

In 1895 our holy Mother, St. Teresa, sent my first brother as a

gift for my feast. It was washing day, and I was busy at my work,

when Mother Agnes of Jesus, then Prioress, called me aside and

read me a letter from a young Seminarist, in which he said he had

been inspired by St. Teresa to ask for a sister who would devote

herself specially to his salvation, and to the salvation of his

future flock. He promised always to remember this spiritual sister

when saying Mass, and the choice fell upon me. Dear Mother, I

cannot tell you how happy this made me. Such unlooked-for

fulfillment of my desire awoke in my heart the joy of a child; it

carried me back to those early days, when pleasures were so keen,

that my heart seemed too small to contain them. Years had passed

since I had tasted a like happiness, so fresh, so unfamiliar, as

if forgotten chords had been stirred within me.

Fully aware of my obligations, I set to work, and strove to

redouble my fervour. Now and again I wrote to my new brother.

Undoubtedly, it is by prayer and sacrifice that we can help our

missionaries, but sometimes, when it pleases Our Lord to unite two

souls for His Glory, He permits them to communicate their

thoughts, and thus inspire each other to love God more. Of course

an express command from those in authority is needed for this,

otherwise, it seems to me, that such a correspondence would do

more harm than good, if not to the missionary, at least to the

Carmelite, whose manner of life tends to continual introversion.

This exchange of letters, though rare, would occupy her mind

uselessly; instead of uniting her to God, she would perhaps fancy

she was doing wonders, when in reality, under cover of zeal, she

was doing nothing but producing needless distraction.--And here

am I, launched, not upon a distraction, but upon a dissertation

equally superfluous. I shall never be able to correct myself of

these lengthy digressions which must be so wearisome to you, dear

Mother. Forgive me, should I offend again.

Last year, at the end of May, it was your turn to give me my

second brother, and when I represented that, having given all my

merits to one future apostle, I feared they could not be given to

another, you told me that obedience would double their value. In

the depths of my heart I thought the same thing, and, since the

zeal of a Carmelite ought to embrace the whole world, I hope, with

God's help, to be of use to even more than two missionaries. I

pray for all, not forgetting our Priests at home, whose ministry

is quite as difficult as that of the missionary preaching to the

heathen. . . . In a word, I wish to be a true daughter of the

Church, like our holy Mother St. Teresa, and pray for all the

intentions of Christ's Vicar. That is the one great aim of my

life. But just as I should have had a special interest in my

little brothers had they lived, and that, without neglecting the

general interests of the Church, so now, I unite myself in a

special way to the new brothers whom Jesus has given me. All that

I possess is theirs also. God is too good to give by halves; He is

so rich that He gives me all I ask for, even though I do not lose

myself in lengthy enumerations. As I have two brothers and my

little sisters, the novices, the days would be too short were I to

ask in detail for the needs of each soul, and I fear I might

forget something important. Simple souls cannot understand

complicated methods, and, as I am one of their number, Our Lord

has inspired me with a very simple way of fulfilling my

obligations. One day, after Holy Communion, He made me understand

these words of the Canticles: "Draw me: we will run after Thee to

the odour of Thy ointments."[1] O my Jesus, there is no need to

say: "In drawing me, draw also the souls that I love": these

words, "Draw me," suffice. When a soul has let herself be taken

captive by the inebriating odour of Thy perfumes, she cannot run

alone; as a natural consequence of her attraction towards Thee,

the souls of all those she loves are drawn in her train.

Just as a torrent carries into the depths of the sea all that it

meets on its way, so, my Jesus, does the soul who plunges into the

shoreless ocean of Thy Love bring with it all its treasures. My

treasures are the souls it has pleased thee to unite with mine;

Thou hast confided them to me, and therefore I do not fear to use

Thy own words, uttered by Thee on the last night that saw Thee

still a traveller on this earth. Jesus, my Beloved! I know not

when my exile will have an end. Many a night I may yet sing Thy

Mercies here below, but for me also will come the last night, and

then I shall be able to say:

"I have glorified Thee upon earth: I have finished the work which

Thou gavest me to do. I have manifested Thy name to the men whom

Thou hast given me out of the world. Thine they were, and to me

Thou gavest them; and they have kept Thy word. Now they have known

that all things which Thou hast given me are from Thee: because

the words which Thou gavest me I have given to them; and they

have received them, and have known for certain that I came forth

from Thee, and they have believed that Thou didst send me. I pray

for them: I pray not for the world, but for them whom Thou hast

given me, because they are Thine. And all mine are Thine, and

Thine are mine; and I am glorified in them. And now I am no more

in the world, and these are in the world, and I come to Thee. Holy

Father, keep them in Thy name, whom Thou hast given me, that they

may be one, as we also are one. And now I come to Thee, and these

things I speak in the world, that they may have my joy filled in

themselves. I do not ask that Thou take them away out of the

world, but that Thou preserve them from evil. They are not of the

world, as I also am not of the world. And not for them only do I

pray, but for those also who through their word shall believe in

me. Father, I will that where I am they also whom Thou hast given

me may be with me, that they may see my glory which Thou hast

given me, because Thou hast loved me before the foundation of the

world. And I have made known Thy name unto them, and will make it

known, that the love wherewith Thou hast loved me may be in them

and I in them."[2]

Yea, Lord, thus would I repeat Thy words, before losing myself in

Thy loving embrace. Perhaps it is daring, but, for a long time,

hast thou not allowed me to be daring with Thee? Thou hast said to

me, as the Prodigal's father to his elder son: "All I have is

thine."[3] And therefore I may use thy very own words to draw down

favours from Our Heavenly Father on all who are dear to me.

My God, Thou knowest that I have ever desired to love Thee alone.

It has been my only ambition. Thy love has gone before me, even

from the days of my childhood. It has grown with my growth, and

now it is an abyss whose depths I cannot fathom.

Love attracts love; mine darts towards Thee, and would fain make

the abyss brim over, but alas! it is not even as a dewdrop in the

ocean. To love Thee as Thou lovest me, I must make Thy Love mine

own. Thus alone can I find rest. O my Jesus, it seems to me that

Thou couldst not have overwhelmed a soul with more love than Thou

hast poured out on mine, and that is why I dare ask Thee to love

those Thou hast given me, even as Thou lovest me.

If, in Heaven, I find that thou lovest them more than Thou lovest

me, I shall rejoice, for I acknowledge that their deserts are

greater than mine, but now, I can conceive no love more vast than

that with which Thou hast favoured me, without any merit on my

part.

. . . . . . .

Dear Mother, what I have just written amazes me. I had no

intention of writing it. When I said: "The words which Thou gavest

me I have given unto them," I was thinking only of my little

sisters in the noviciate. I am not able to teach missionaries, and

the words I wrote for them were from the prayer of Our Lord: "I do

not ask that Thou shouldst take them out of the world; I pray also

for them who through their word shall believe in Thee."

How could I forget those souls they are to win by their sufferings

and exhortations?

But I have not told you all my thoughts on this passage of the

Sacred Canticles: "Draw me--we will run!" Our Lord has said: "No

man can come to Me except the Father Who hath sent Me, draw

him,"[4] and later He tells us that _whosoever seeks shall find,

whosoever asks shall receive, that unto him that knocks it shall

be opened,_ and He adds that whatever we ask the Father in His

Name shall be given us. It was no doubt for this reason that, long

before the birth of Our Lord, the Holy Spirit dictated these

prophetic words: "Draw me--we will run!" By asking to be drawn, we

desire an intimate union with the object of our love. If iron and

fire were endowed with reason, and the iron could say: "Draw me!"

would not that prove its desire to be identified with the fire to

the point of sharing its substance? Well, this is precisely my

prayer. I asked Jesus to draw me into the Fire of His love, and to

unite me so closely to Himself that He may live and act in me. I

feel that the more the fire of love consumes my heart, so much the

more shall I say: "Draw me!" and the more also will souls who draw

near me _run swiftly in the sweet odour of the Beloved._

Yes, they will run--we shall all run together, for souls that are

on fire can never be at rest. They may indeed, like St. Mary

Magdalen, sit at the feet of Jesus, listening to His sweet and

burning words, but, though they seem to give Him nothing, they

give much more than Martha, who busied herself about many things.

It is not Martha's work that Our Lord blames, but her

over-solicitude; His Blessed Mother humbly occupied herself in the

same kind of work when she prepared the meals for the Holy Family.

All the Saints have understood this, especially those who have

illumined the earth with the light of Christ's teaching. Was it

not from prayer that St. Paul, St. Augustine, St. Thomas Aquinas,

St. John of the Cross, St. Teresa, and so many other friends of

God drew that wonderful science which has enthralled the loftiest

minds? "Give me a lever and a fulcrum on which to lean it," said

Archimedes, "and I will lift the world."

What he could not obtain because his request had only a material

end, without reference to God, the Saints have obtained in all its

fulness. They lean on God Almighty's power itself and their lever

is the prayer that inflames with love's fire. With this lever they

have raised the world--with this lever the Saints of the Church

Militant still raise it, and will raise it to the end of time.

Dear Mother, I have still to tell you what I understand by the

_sweet odour of the Beloved._ As Our Lord is now in Heaven, I can

only follow Him by the footprints He has left--footprints full of

life, full of fragrance. I have only to open the Holy Gospels and

at once I breathe the perfume of Jesus, and then I know which way

to run; and it is not to the first place, but to the last, that I

hasten. I leave the Pharisee to go up, and full of confidence I

repeat the humble prayer of the Publican. Above all I follow

Magdalen, for the amazing, rather I should say, the loving

audacity, that delights the Heart of Jesus, has cast its spell

upon mine. It is not because I have been preserved from mortal sin

that I lift up my heart to God in trust and love. I feel that even

had I on my conscience every crime one could commit, I should lose

nothing of my confidence: my heart broken with sorrow, I would

throw myself into the Arms of my Saviour. I know that He loves the

Prodigal Son, I have heard His words to St. Mary Magdalen, to the

woman taken in adultery, and to the woman of Samaria. No one could

frighten me, for I know what to believe concerning His Mercy and

His Love. And I know that all that multitude of sins would

disappear in an instant, even as a drop of water cast into a

flaming furnace.

It is told in the Lives of the Fathers of the Desert how one of

them converted a public sinner, whose evil deeds were the scandal

of the whole country. This wicked woman, touched by grace,

followed the Saint into the desert, there to perform rigorous

penance. But on the first night of the journey, before even

reaching the place of her retirement, the bonds that bound her to

earth were broken by the vehemence of her loving sorrow. The holy

man, at the same instant, saw her soul borne by Angels to the

Bosom of God.

This is a striking example of what I want to say, but these things

cannot be expressed. Dearest Mother, if weak and imperfect souls

like mine felt what I feel, none would despair of reaching the

summit of the Mountain of Love, since Jesus does not ask for great

deeds, but only for gratitude and self-surrender.

He says: "I will not take the he-goats from out of the flocks, for

all the beasts of the forests are mine, the cattle on the hills

and the oxen. I know all the fowls of the air. If I were hungry, I

would not tell thee, for the world is Mine, and the fulness

thereof. Shall I eat the flesh of bullocks, or shall I drink the

blood of goats? Offer to God the sacrifice of praise and

thanksgiving."[5]

This is all Our Lord claims from us. He has need of our love--He

has no need of our works. The same God, Who declares that He has

no need to tell us if He be hungry, did not disdain to beg a

little water from the Samaritan woman. He was athirst, but when He

said: "Give me to drink,"[6] He, the Creator of the Universe,

asked for the love of His creature. He thirsted for love.

And this thirst of Our Divine Lord was ever on the increase.

Amongst the disciples of the world, He meets with nothing but

indifference and ingratitude, and alas! among His own, how few

hearts surrender themselves without reserve to the infinite

tenderness of His Love. Happy are we who are privileged to

understand the inmost secrets of Our Divine Spouse. If you, dear

Mother, would but set down in writing all you know, what wonders

could you not unfold!

But, like Our Blessed Lady, you prefer to _keep all these things

in your heart._[7] To me you say that "It is honourable to reveal

and confess the world of God."[8] Yet you are right to keep

silence, for no earthly words can convey the secrets of Heaven.

As for me, in spite of all I have written, I have not as yet

begun. I see so many beautiful horizons, such infinitely varied

tints, that the palette of the Divine Painter will alone, after

the darkness of this life, be able to supply me with the colours

wherewith I may portray the wonders that my soul descries. Since,

however, you have expressed a desire to penetrate into the hidden

sanctuary of my heart, and to have in writing what was the most

consoling dream of my life, I will end this story of my soul, by

an act of obedience. If you will allow me, it is to Jesus I will

address myself, for in this way I shall speak more easily. You may

find my expressions somewhat exaggerated, but I assure you there

is no exaggeration in my heart--there all is calm and peace.

O my Jesus, who can say how tenderly and gently Thou dost lead my

soul! The storm had raged there ever since Easter, the glorious

feast of Thy triumph, until, in the month of May, there shone

through the darkness of my night one bright ray of grace. . . . My

mind dwelt on mysterious dreams sent sometimes to Thy favoured

ones, and I thought how such a consolation was not to be

mine--that for me, it was night, always the dark night. And in the

midst of the storm I fell asleep. The following day, May 10, just

at dawn, I dreamt that I was walking in a gallery alone with Our

Mother. Suddenly, without knowing how they had entered, I

perceived three Carmelites, in mantles and long veils, and I knew

that they came from Heaven. "Ah!" I thought, "how glad I should be

if I could but look on the face of one of these Carmelites!" And,

as if my wish had been heard, I saw the tallest of the three

Saints advance towards me. An inexpressible joy took possession of

me as she raised her veil, and then covered me with it.

At once I recognised our Venerable Mother, Anne of Jesus,

foundress of the Carmel in France.[9] Her face was beautiful with

an unearthly beauty; no rays came from it, and yet, in spite of

the thick veil which enveloped us, I could see it suffused by a

soft light, which seemed to emanate from her heavenly countenance.

She caressed me tenderly, and seeing myself the object of such

affection, I made bold to say: "Dear Mother, I entreat you, tell

me, will Our Lord leave me much longer in this world? Will He not

soon come to fetch me?" She smiled sweetly, and answered, "Yes,

soon . . . very soon . . . I promise you." "Dear Mother," I asked

again, "tell me if He does not want more from me than these poor

little acts and desires that I offer Him. Is He pleased with me?"

Then our Venerable Mother's face shone with a new splendour, and

her expression became still more gracious: "The Good God asks no

more of you," she said, "He is pleased, quite pleased," and,

taking my head between her hands, she kissed me so tenderly that

it would be impossible to describe the joy I felt. My heart was

overflowing with gladness, and, remembering my Sisters, I was

about to beseech some favour for them, when, alas! I awoke. My

happiness was too great for words. Many months have passed since I

had this wonderful dream, and yet its memory is as fresh and

delightful as ever. I can still picture the loving smiles of this

holy Carmelite and feel her fond caresses. O Jesus! "Thou didst

command the winds and the storm, and there came a great calm."[10]

On waking, I realised that Heaven does indeed exist, and that this

Heaven is peopled with souls who cherish me as their child, and

this impression still remains with me--all the sweeter, because,

up to that time, I had but little devotion to the Venerable Mother

Anne of Jesus. I had never sought her help, and but rarely heard

her name. And now I know and understand how constantly I was in

her thoughts, and the knowledge adds to my love for her and for

all the dear ones in my Father's Home.

O my Beloved! this was but the prelude of graces yet greater which

Thou didst desire to heap upon me. Let me remind Thee of them

to-day, and forgive my folly if I venture to tell Thee once more

of my hopes, and my heart's well nigh infinite longings--forgive

me and grant my desire, that it may be well with my soul. To be

Thy Spouse, O my Jesus, to be a daughter of Carmel, and by my

union with Thee to be the mother of souls, should not all this

content me? And yet other vocations make themselves felt--I feel

called to the Priesthood and to the Apostolate--I would be a

Martyr, a Doctor of the Church. I should like to accomplish the

most heroic deeds--the spirit of the Crusader burns within me, and

I long to die on the field of battle in defence of Holy Church.

The vocation of a Priest! With what love, my Jesus, would I bear

Thee in my hand, when my words brought Thee down from Heaven! With

what love would I give Thee to souls! And yet, while longing to be

a Priest, I admire and envy the humility of St. Francis of Assisi,

and am drawn to imitate him by refusing the sublime dignity of the

Priesthood. How reconcile these opposite tendencies?[11]

Like the Prophets and Doctors, I would be a light unto souls, I

would travel to every land to preach Thy name, O my Beloved, and

raise on heathen soil the glorious standard of Thy Cross. One

mission alone would not satisfy my longings. I would spread the

Gospel to the ends of the earth, even to the most distant isles. I

would be a Missionary, not for a few years only, but, were it

possible, from the beginning of the world till the consummation of

time. Above all, I thirst for the Martyr's crown. It was the

desire of my earliest days, and the desire has deepened with the

years passed in the Carmel's narrow cell. But this too is folly,

since I do not sigh for one torment; I need them all to slake my

thirst. Like Thee, O Adorable Spouse, I would be scourged, I would

be crucified! I would be flayed like St. Bartholomew, plunged into

boiling oil like St. John, or, like St. Ignatius of Antioch,

ground by the teeth of wild beasts into a bread worthy of God.[12]

With St. Agnes and St. Cecilia I would offer my neck to the sword

of the executioner, and like Joan of Arc I would murmur the name

of Jesus at the stake.

My heart thrills at the thought of the frightful tortures

Christians are to suffer at the time of Anti-Christ, and I long to

undergo them all. Open, O Jesus, the Book of Life, in which are

written the deeds of Thy Saints: all the deeds told in that book I

long to have accomplished for Thee. To such folly as this what

answer wilt Thou make? Is there on the face of this earth a soul

more feeble than mine? And yet, precisely because I am feeble, it

has delighted Thee to accede to my least and most child-like

desires, and to-day it is Thy good pleasure to realise those other

desires, more vast than the Universe. These aspirations becoming a

true martyrdom, I opened, one day, the Epistles of St. Paul to

seek relief in my sufferings. My eyes fell on the 12th and 13th

chapters of the First Epistle to the Corinthians. I read that all

cannot become Apostles, Prophets, and Doctors; that the Church is

composed of different members; that the eye cannot also be the

hand. The answer was clear, but it did not fulfill my desires, or

give to me the peace I sought. "Then descending into the depths of

my nothingness, I was so lifted up that I reached my aim."[13]

Without being discouraged I read on, and found comfort in this

counsel: "Be zealous for the better gifts. And I show unto you a

yet more excellent way."[14] The Apostle then explains how all

perfect gifts are nothing without Love, that Charity is the most

excellent way of going surely to God. At last I had found rest.

Meditating on the mystical Body of Holy Church, I could not

recognise myself among any of its members as described by St.

Paul, or was it not rather that I wished to recognise myself in

all? Charity provided me with the key to my vocation. I understood

that since the Church is a body composed of different members, the

noblest and most important of all the organs would not be wanting.

I knew that the Church has a heart, that this heart burns with

love, and that it is love alone which gives life to its members. I

knew that if this love were extinguished, the Apostles would no

longer preach the Gospel, and the Martyrs would refuse to shed

their blood. I understood that love embraces all vocations, that

it is all things, and that it reaches out through all the ages,

and to the uttermost limits of the earth, because it is eternal.

Then, beside myself with joy, I cried out: "O Jesus, my Love, at

last I have found my vocation. My vocation is love! Yes, I have

found my place in the bosom of the Church, and this place, O my

God, Thou hast Thyself given to me: in the heart of the Church, my

Mother, I will be LOVE! . . . Thus I shall be all things: thus

will my dream be realised. . . ."

Why do I say I am beside myself with joy? This does not convey my

thought. Rather is it peace which has become my portion--the calm

peace of the sailor when he catches sight of the beacon which

lights him to port. O luminous Beacon of Love! I know how to come

even unto Thee, I have found the means of borrowing Thy Fires.

I am but a weak and helpless child, yet it is my very weakness

which makes me dare to offer myself, O Jesus, as victim to Thy

Love.

In olden days pure and spotless holocausts alone were acceptable

to the Omnipotent God. Nor could His Justice be appeased, save by

the most perfect sacrifices. But the law of fear has given place

to the law of love, and Love has chosen me, a weak and imperfect

creature, as its victim. Is not such a choice worthy of God's

Love? Yea, for in order that Love may be fully satisfied, it must

stoop even unto nothingness, and must transform that nothingness

into fire. O my God, I know it--"Love is repaid by love

alone."[15] Therefore I have sought, I have found, how to ease my

heart, by rendering Thee love for love.

"Use the riches that make men unjust, to find you friends who may

receive you into everlasting dwellings."[16] This, O Lord, is the

advice Thou gavest to Thy disciples after complaining that "the

children of this world are wiser in their generation than the

children of light."[17]

Child of light, as I am, I understood that my desires to be all

things, and to embrace all vocations, were riches that might well

make me unjust; so I set to work to use them for the making of

friends. Mindful of the prayer of Eliseus when he asked the

Prophet Elias for his double spirit, I presented myself before the

company of the Angels and Saints and addressed them thus: "I am

the least of all creatures. I know my mean estate, but I know that

noble and generous hearts love to do good. Therefore, O Blessed

Inhabitants of the Celestial City, I entreat you to adopt me as

your child. All the glory that you help me to acquire, will be

yours; only deign to hear my prayer, and obtain for me a double

portion of the love of God."

O my God! I cannot measure the extent of my request, I should fear

to be crushed by the very weight of its audacity. My only excuse

is my claim to childhood, and that children do not grasp the full

meaning of their words. Yet if a father or mother were on the

throne and possessed vast treasures, they would not hesitate to

grant the desires of those little ones, more dear to them than

life itself. To give them pleasure they will stoop even unto folly.

Well, I am a child of Holy Church, and the Church is a Queen,

because she is now espoused to the Divine King of Kings. I ask not

for riches or glory, not even the glory of Heaven--that belongs by

right to my brothers the Angels and Saints, and my own glory shall

be the radiance that streams from the queenly brow of my Mother,

the Church. Nay, I ask for Love. To love Thee, Jesus, is now my

only desire. Great deeds are not for me; I cannot preach the

Gospel or shed my blood. No matter! My brothers work in my stead,

and I, a little child, stay close to the throne, and love Thee for

all who are in the strife.

But how shall I show my love, since love proves itself by deeds?

Well! The little child will strew flowers . . . she will embrace

the Divine Throne with their fragrance, she will sing Love's

Canticle in silvery tones. Yes, my Beloved, it is thus my short

life shall be spent in Thy sight. The only way I have of proving

my love is to strew flowers before Thee--that is to say, I will

let no tiny sacrifice pass, no look, no word. I wish to profit by

the smallest actions, and to do them for Love. I wish to suffer

for Love's sake, and for Love's sake even to rejoice: thus shall I

strew flowers. Not one shall I find without scattering its petals

before Thee . . . and I will sing . . . I will sing always, even

if my roses must be gathered from amidst thorns; and the longer

and sharper the thorns, the sweeter shall be my song.

But of what avail to thee, my Jesus, are my flowers and my songs?

I know it well: this fragrant shower, these delicate petals of

little price, these songs of love from a poor little heart like

mine, will nevertheless be pleasing unto Thee. Trifles they are,

but Thou wilt smile on them. The Church Triumphant, stooping

towards her child, will gather up these scattered rose leaves,

and, placing them in Thy Divine Hands, there to acquire an

infinite value, will shower them on the Church Suffering to

extinguish its flames, and on the Church Militant to obtain its

victory.

O my Jesus, I love Thee! I love my Mother, the Church; I bear in

mind that "the least act of pure love is of more value to her than

all other works together."[18]

But is this pure love really in my heart? Are not my boundless

desires but dreams--but foolishness? If this be so, I beseech Thee

to enlighten me; Thou knowest I seek but the truth. If my desires

be rash, then deliver me from them, and from this most grievous of

all martyrdoms. And yet I confess, if I reach not those heights to

which my soul aspires, this very martyrdom, this foolishness, will

have been sweeter to me than eternal bliss will be, unless by a

miracle Thou shouldst take from me all memory of the hopes I

entertained upon earth. Jesus, Jesus! If the mere desire of Thy

Love awakens such delight, what will it be to possess it, to enjoy

it for ever?

How can a soul so imperfect as mine aspire to the plenitude of

Love? What is the key of this mystery? O my only Friend, why dost

Thou not reserve these infinite longings to lofty souls, to the

eagles that soar in the heights? Alas! I am but a poor little

unfledged bird. I am not an eagle, I have but the eagle's eyes and

heart! Yet, notwithstanding my exceeding littleless, I dare to

gaze upon the Divine Sun of Love, and I burn to dart upwards unto

Him! I would fly, I would imitate the eagles; but all that I can

do is to lift up my little wings--it is beyond my feeble power to

soar. What is to become of me? Must I die of sorrow because of my

helplessness? Oh, no! I will not even grieve. With daring

self-abandonment there will I remain until death, my gaze fixed

upon that Divine Sun. Nothing shall affright me, nor wind nor

rain. And should impenetrable clouds conceal the Orb of Love, and

should I seem to believe that beyond this life there is darkness

only, that would be the hour of perfect joy, the hour in which to

push my confidence to its uttermost bounds. I should not dare to

detach my gaze, well knowing that beyond the dark clouds the sweet

Sun still shines.

So far, O my God, I understand Thy Love for me. But Thou knowest

how often I forget this, my only care. I stray from Thy side, and

my scarcely fledged wings become draggled in the muddy pools of

earth; then I lament "like a young swallow,"[19] and my lament

tells Thee all, and I remember, O Infinite Mercy! that "Thou didst

not come to call the just, but sinners."[20]

Yet shouldst Thou still be deaf to the plaintive cries of Thy

feeble creature, shouldst Thou still be veiled, then I am content

to remain benumbed with cold, my wings bedraggled, and once more I

rejoice in this well-deserved suffering.

O Sun, my only Love, I am happy to feel myself so small, so frail

in Thy sunshine, and I am in peace . . . I know that all the

eagles of Thy Celestial Court have pity on me, they guard and

defend me, they put to flight the vultures--the demons that fain

would devour me. I fear them not, these demons, I am not destined

to be their prey, but the prey of the Divine Eagle.

O Eternal Word! O my Saviour! Thou art the Divine Eagle Whom I

love--Who lurest me. Thou Who, descending to this land of exile,

didst will to suffer and to die, in order to bear away the souls

of men and plunge them into the very heart of the Blessed

Trinity--Love's Eternal Home! Thou Who, reascending into

inaccessible light, dost still remain concealed here in our vale

of tears under the snow-white semblance of the Host, and this, to

nourish me with Thine own substance! O Jesus! forgive me if I tell

Thee that Thy Love reacheth even unto folly. And in face of this

folly, what wilt Thou, but that my heart leap up to Thee? How

could my trust have any limits?

I know that the Saints have made themselves as fools for Thy sake;

being 'eagles,' they have done great things. I am too little for

great things, and my folly it is to hope that Thy Love accepts me

as victim; my folly it is to count on the aid of Angels and

Saints, in order that I may fly unto Thee with thine own wings, O

my Divine Eagle! For as long a time as Thou willest I shall

remain--my eyes fixed upon Thee. I long to be allured by Thy

Divine Eyes; I would become Love's prey. I have the hope that Thou

wilt one day swoop down upon me, and, bearing me away to the

Source of all Love, Thou wilt plunge me at last into that glowing

abyss, that I may become for ever its happy Victim.

O Jesus! would that I could tell all _little souls_ of Thine

ineffable condescension! I feel that if by any possibility Thou

couldst find one weaker than my own, Thou wouldst take delight in

loading her with still greater favours, provided that she

abandoned herself with entire confidence to Thine Infinite Mercy.

But, O my Spouse, why these desires of mine to make known the

secrets of Thy Love? Is it not Thyself alone Who hast taught them

to me, and canst Thou not unveil them to others? Yea! I know it,

and this I implore Thee! . . .

I ENTREAT THEE TO LET THY DIVINE EYES REST UPON A VAST NUMBER OF

LITTLE SOULS, I ENTREAT THEE TO CHOOSE, IN THIS WORLD, A LEGION OF

LITTLE VICTIMS OF THY LOVE.

_____________________________

[1] Cant. 1:3.

[2] Cf. John 17.

[3] Luke 15:31.

[4] John 6:44.

[5] Ps. 49[50]:9-14.

[6] John 4:7.

[7] Cf. Luke 2:19.

[8] Tob. 12:7.

[9] The Venerable Mother Anne of Jesus--in the world, Anne of

Lobera--was born in Spain in 1545. She entered the Carmelite

Order in 1570, in the first convent of St. Joseph of Avila, and

shortly afterwards became the counsellor and coadjutor of St.

Teresa, who called her, "her daughter and her crown." St. John of

the Cross, who was her spiritual director for fourteen years,

described her as "a seraph incarnate," and her prudence and

sanctity were held in such esteem that the most learned men

consulted her in their doubts, and accepted her answers as

oracles. She was always faithful to the spirit of St. Teresa, and

had received from Heaven the mission to restore the Carmel to its

primitive perfection. Having founded three convents of the Reform

in Spain, she established one in France, and another in Belgium.

She died in the odor of sanctity in the Carmel of Brussels on

March 4, 1621. On May 3, 1878, His Holiness Pope Leo XIII signed

the Decree introducing the Cause of her Beatification.

[10] Matt. 8:10.

[11] St. Francis of Assisi, out of humility, refused to accept the

sublime dignity of the Priesthood, and remained a Deacon until his

death. [Ed.]

[12] An allusion to the beautiful words of the martyr St. Ignatius

of Antioch, uttered when he heard the roar of the lions in the

Roman arena. "I am the wheat of Christ; let me be ground by the

teeth of the wild beasts, that I may become clean bread." [Ed.]

[13] St. John of the Cross.

[14] 1 Cor. 12:31.

[15] St. John of the Cross.

[16] Cf. Luke 16:9.

[17] Luke 16:8.

[18] St. John of the Cross.

[19] Isa. 38:14.

[20] Matt. 9:15.

_____________________________

END OF THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY

_____________________________

EPILOGUE: A VICTIM OF DIVINE LOVE

"Many pages of this story"--said its writer--"will never be read

upon earth." It is necessary to repeat and emphasize her words.

There are sufferings which are not to be disclosed here below; Our

Lord has jealously reserved to Himself the right to reveal their

merit and glory, in the clear vision where all veils shall be

removed. "My God," she cried on the day of her religious

profession, "give me martyrdom of soul or body . . . or rather

give me both the one and the other!" And Our Lord Who, as she

herself avowed, fulfilled all her desires, granted this one also,

and in more abundant measure than the rest. He caused "the floods

of infinite tenderness pent up in His Divine Heart to overflow

into the soul of His little Spouse." This was the "Martyrdom of

Love," so well described in her melodious song. But it was her own

doctrine that, "to dedicate oneself as a Victim of Love is not to

be dedicated to sweetness and consolations; it is to offer oneself

to all that is painful and bitter, because Love lives only by

sacrifice . . . and the more we would surrender ourselves to Love,

the more we must surrender ourselves to suffering."

Therefore, because she desired to attain "the loftiest height of

Love," the Divine Master led her thither by the rugged path of

sorrow, and it was only on its bleak summit that she died a

_Victim of Love._

. . . . . . .

We have seen how great was her sacrifice in leaving her happy home

and the Father who loved her so tenderly. It may be imagined that

this sacrifice was softened, because at the Carmel she found again

her two elder and dearly loved sisters. On the contrary, this

afforded the young postulant many an occasion for repressing her

strong natural affections. The rules of solitude and silence were

strictly observed, and she only saw her sisters at recreation. Had

she been less mortified, she might often have sat beside them, but

"by preference she sought out the company of those religious who

were least agreeable to her," and no one could tell whether or not

she bore a special affection towards her own sisters.

Some time after her entrance, she was appointed as "aid" to Sister

Agnes of Jesus, her dear "Pauline"; this was a fresh occasion for

sacrifice. Thérèse knew that all unnecessary conversation was

forbidden, and therefore she never allowed herself even the least

word. "O my little Mother," she said later, "how I suffered! I

could not open my heart to you, and I thought you no longer knew

me!"

After five years of this heroic silence, Sister Agnes of Jesus was

elected Prioress. On the evening of the election Thérèse might

well have rejoiced that henceforth she could speak freely to her

"little Mother," and, as of old, pour out her soul. But sacrifice

had become her daily food. If she sought one favour more than

another, it was that she might be looked on as the lowest and the

least; and, among all the religious, not one saw less of the

Mother Prioress.

She desired to live the life of Carmel with all the perfection

required by St. Teresa, and, although a martyr to habitual

dryness, her prayer was continuous. On one occasion a novice,

entering her cell, was struck by the heavenly expression of her

countenance. She was sewing industriously, and yet seemed lost in

deep contemplation. "What are you thinking of?" the young Sister

asked. "I am meditating on the 'Our Father,'" Thérèse answered.

"It is so sweet to call God, 'Our Father!'" . . . and tears

glistened in her eyes. Another time she said, "I cannot well see

what more I shall have in Heaven than I have now; I shall see God,

it is true, but, as to being with Him, I am that already even on

earth."

The flame of Divine Love consumed her, and this is what she

herself relates: "A few days after the oblation of myself to God's

Merciful Love, I was in the choir, beginning the Way of the Cross,

when I felt myself suddenly wounded by a dart of fire so ardent

that I thought I should die. I do not know how to explain this

transport; there is no comparison to describe the intensity of

that flame. It seemed as though an invisible force plunged me

wholly into fire. . . . But oh! what fire! what sweetness!"

When Mother Prioress asked her if this rapture was the first she

had experienced, she answered simply: "Dear Mother, I have had

several transports of love, and one in particular during my

Noviciate, when I remained for a whole week far removed from this

world. It seemed as though a veil were thrown over all earthly

things. But, I was not then consumed by a real fire. I was able to

bear those transports of love without expecting to see the ties

that bound me to earth give way; whilst, on the day of which I now

speak, one minute--one second--more and my soul must have been set

free. Alas! I found myself again on earth, and dryness at once

returned to my heart." True, the Divine Hand had withdrawn the

fiery dart--but the wound was unto death!

In that close union with God, Thérèse acquired a remarkable

mastery over self. All sweet virtues flourished in the garden of

her soul, but do not let us imagine that these wondrous flowers

grew without effort on her part.

"In this world there is no fruitfulness without suffering--either

physical pain, secret sorrow, or trials known sometimes only to

God. When good thoughts and generous resolutions have sprung up in

our souls through reading the lives of the Saints, we ought not to

content ourselves, as in the case of profane books, with paying a

certain tribute of admiration to the genius of their authors--we

should rather consider the price which, doubtless, they have paid

for that supernatural good they have produced."[1]

And, if to-day Thérèse transforms so many hearts, and the good she

does on earth is beyond reckoning, we may well believe she bought

it all at the price with which Jesus bought back our souls: by

suffering and the Cross!

Not the least of these sufferings was the unceasing war she waged

against herself, refusing every satisfaction to the demands of her

naturally proud and impetuous nature. While still a child she had

acquired the habit of never excusing herself or making a

complaint; at the Carmel she strove to be the little servant of

her Sisters in religion, and in that same spirit of humility she

endeavoured to obey all without distinction.

One evening, during her illness, the Community had assembled in

the garden to sing a hymn before an Altar of the Sacred Heart.

Soeur Thérèse, who was already wasted by fever, joined them with

difficulty, and, arriving quite exhausted, was obliged to sit down

at once. When the hymn began, one of the Sisters made her a sign

to stand up. Without hesitation, the humble child rose, and, in

spite of the fever and great oppression from which she was

suffering, remained standing to the end.

The Infirmarian had advised her to take a little walk in the

garden for a quarter of an hour each day. This recommendation was

for her a command. One afternoon a Sister, noticing what an effort

it cost her, said: "Soeur Thérèse, you would do much better to

rest; walking like this cannot do you any good. You only tire

yourself!" "That is true," she replied, "but, do you know what

gives me strength? I offer each step for some missionary. I think

that possibly, over there, far away, one of them is weary and

tired in his apostolic labours, and to lessen his fatigue I offer

mine to the Good God."

She gave her novices some beautiful examples of detachment. One

year the relations of the Sisters and the servants of the Convent

had sent bouquets of flowers for Mother Prioress's feast. Thérèse

was arranging them most tastefully, when a Lay-sister said

crossly: "It is easy to see that the large bouquets have been

given by your friends. I suppose those sent by the poor will again

be put in the background!" . . . A sweet smile was the only reply,

and notwithstanding the unpleasing effect, she immediately put the

flowers sent by the servants in the most conspicuous place.

Struck with admiration, the Lay-sister went at once to the

Prioress to accuse herself of her unkindness, and to praise the

patience and humility shown by Soeur Thérèse.

After the death of Thérèse that same Sister, full of confidence,

pressed her forehead against the feet of the saintly nun, once

more asking forgiveness for her fault. At the same instant she

felt herself cured of cerebral anæmia, from which she had suffered

for many years, and which had prevented her from applying herself

either to reading or mental prayer.

Far from avoiding humiliations, Soeur Thérèse sought them eagerly,

and for that reason she offered herself as "aid" to a Sister who,

she well knew, was difficult to please, and her generous proposal

was accepted. One day, when she had suffered much from this

Sister, a novice asked her why she looked so happy. Great was her

surprise on receiving the reply: "It is because Sister N. has just

been saying disagreeable things to me. What pleasure she has given

me! I wish I could meet her now, and give her a sweet smile." . .

. As she was still speaking, the Sister in question knocked at the

door, and the astonished novice could see for herself how the

Saints forgive. Soeur Thérèse acknowledged later on, she "soared

so high above earthly things that humiliations did but make her

stronger."

To all these virtues she joined a wonderful courage. From her

entrance into the Carmel, at the age of fifteen, she was allowed

to follow all the practices of its austere Rule, the fasts alone

excepted. Sometimes her companions in the noviciate, seeing how

pale she looked, tried to obtain a dispensation for her, either

from the Night Office, or from rising at the usual hour in the

morning, but the Mother Prioress would never yield to these

requests. "A soul of such mettle," she would say, "ought not to be

dealt with as a child; dispensations are not meant for her. Let

her be, for God sustains her. Besides, if she is really ill, she

should come and tell me herself."[2]

But it was always a principle with Thérèse that "We should go to

the end of our strength before we complain." How many times did

she assist at Matins suffering from vertigo or violent headaches!

"I am able to walk," she would say, "and so I ought to be at my

duty." And, thanks to this undaunted energy, she performed acts

that were heroic.

It was with difficulty that her delicate stomach accustomed itself

to the frugal fare of the Carmel. Certain things made her ill, but

she knew so well how to hide this, that no one ever suspected it.

Her neighbour at table said that she had tried in vain to discover

the dishes that she preferred, and the kitchen Sisters, finding

her so easy to please, invariably served her with what was left.

It was only during her last illness, when she was ordered to say

what disagreed with her, that her mortifications came to light.

"When Jesus wishes us to suffer," she said at that time, "there

can be no evading it. And so, when Sister Mary of the Sacred

Heart[3] was procuratrix, she endeavoured to look after me with a

mother's tenderness. To all appearances, I was well cared for, and

yet what mortifications did she not impose upon me! for she served

me according to her own taste, which was entirely opposed to mine."

Thérèse's spirit of sacrifice was far-reaching; she eagerly sought

what was painful and disagreeable, as her rightful share. All that

God asked she gave Him without hesitation or reserve.

"During my postulancy," she said, "it cost me a great deal to

perform certain exterior penances, customary in our convents, but

I never yielded to these repugnances; it seemed to me that the

image of my Crucified Lord looked at me with beseeching eyes, and

begged these sacrifices."

Her vigilance was so keen, that she never left unobserved any

little recommendations of the Mother Prioress, or any of the small

rules which render the religious life so meritorious. One of the

old nuns, having remarked her extraordinary fidelity on this

point, ever afterwards regarded her as a Saint. Soeur Thérèse was

accustomed to say that she never did any great penances. That was

because her fervour counted as nothing the few that were allowed

her. It happened, however, that she fell ill through wearing for

too long a time a small iron Cross, studded with sharp points,

that pressed into her flesh. "Such a trifle would not have caused

this," she said afterwards, "if God had not wished thus to make me

understand that the greater austerities of the Saints are not

meant for me--nor for the souls that walk in the path of

'spiritual childhood.'"

. . . . . . .

"The souls that are the most dear to My Father," Our Lord once

said to Saint Teresa, "are those He tries the most, and the

greatness of their trials is the measure of His Love." Thérèse was

a soul most dear to God, and He was about to fill up the measure

of His Love by making her pass through a veritable martyrdom. The

reader will remember the call on Good Friday, April 3, 1896, when,

to use her own expression, she heard the "distant murmur which

announced the approach of the Bridegroom"; but she had still to

endure long months of pain before the blessed hour of her

deliverance.

On the morning of that Good Friday, she made so little of the

hæmorrhage of the previous night, that Mother Prioress allowed her

to practise all the penances prescribed by the Rule for that day.

In the afternoon, a novice saw her cleaning windows. Her face was

livid, and, in spite of her great energy, it was evident that her

strength was almost spent. Seeing her fatigue, the novice, who

loved her dearly, burst into tears, and begged leave to obtain her

some little reprieve. But the young novice-mistress strictly

forbade her, saying that she was quite able to bear this slight

fatigue on the day on which Jesus had suffered and died.

Soon a persistent cough made the Mother Prioress feel anxious; she

ordered Soeur Thérèse a more strengthening diet, and the cough

ceased for some time. "Truly sickness is too slow a liberator,"

exclaimed our dear little Sister, "I can only rely upon Love."

She was strongly tempted to respond to the appeal of the

Carmelites of Hanoï, who much desired to have her, and began a

novena to the Venerable Théophane Vénard[4] to obtain her cure,

but alas! that novena proved but the beginning of a more serious

phase of her malady.

Like her Divine Master, she passed through the world doing good;

like Him, she had been forgotten and unknown, and now, still

following in His Footsteps, she was to climb the hill of Calvary.

Accustomed to see her always suffering, yet always joyous and

brave, Mother Prioress, doubtless inspired by God, allowed her to

take part in the Community exercises, some of which tired her

extremely. At night, she would courageously mount the stairs

alone, pausing at each step to take breath. It was with difficulty

that she reached her cell, and then in so exhausted a state, that

sometimes, as she avowed later, it took her quite an hour to

undress. After all this exertion it was upon a hard pallet that

she took her rest. Her nights, too, were very bad, and when asked

if she would not like someone to be near her in her hours of pain,

she replied: "Oh, no! on the contrary, I am only too glad to be in

a cell away from my Sisters, that I may not be heard. I am content

to suffer alone--as soon as I am pitied and loaded with

attentions, my happiness leaves me."

What strength of soul these words betray! Where we find sorrow she

found joy. What to us is to hard to bear--being overlooked and

ignored by creatures--became to her a source of delight. And her

Divine Spouse knew well how to provide that bitter joy she found

so sweet. Painful remedies had often to be applied. One day, when

she had suffered from them more than usual, she was resting in her

cell during recreation, and overheard a Sister in the kitchen

speaking of her thus: "Soeur Thérèse will not live long, and

really sometimes I wonder what our Mother Prioress will find to

say about her when she dies.[5] She will be sorely puzzled, for

this little Sister, amiable as she is, has certainly never done

anything worth speaking about." The Infirmarian, who had also

overheard the remark, turned to Thérèse and said: "If you relied

upon the opinion of creatures you would indeed be disillusioned

today." "The opinion of creatures!" she replied; "happily God has

given me the grace to be absolutely indifferent to that. Let me

tell you something which showed me, once and for all, how much it

is worth. A few days after my Clothing, I went to our dear

Mother's room, and one of the Sisters who happened to be there,

said on seeing me: 'Dear Mother, this novice certainly does you

credit. How well she looks! I hope she may be able to observe the

Rule for many years to come.' I was feeling decidedly pleased at

this compliment when another Sister came in, and, looking at me,

said: 'Poor little Soeur Thérèse, how very tired you seem! You

quite alarm me. If you do not soon improve, I am afraid you will

not be able to keep the Rule very long.' I was then only sixteen,

but this little incident made such an impression on me, that I

never again set store on the varying opinion of creatures."

On another occasion someone remarked: "It is said that you have

never suffered much." Smiling, she pointed to a glass containing

medicine of a bright red colour. "You see this little glass?" she

said. "One would suppose that it contained a most delicious

draught, whereas, in reality, it is more bitter than anything else

I take. It is the image of my life. To others it has been all rose

colour; they have thought that I continually drank of a most

delicious wine; yet to me it has been full of bitterness. I say

bitterness, and yet my life has not been a bitter one, for I have

learned to find my joy and sweetness in all that is bitter."

"You are suffering very much just now, are you not?" "Yes, but

then I have so longed to suffer." "How it distresses us to see you

in such pain, and to think that it may increase!" said her novices.

"Oh! Do not grieve about me. I have reached a point where I can no

longer suffer, because all suffering is become so sweet. Besides,

it is quite a mistake to trouble yourselves as to what I may still

have to undergo. It is like meddling with God's work. We who run

in the way of Love must never allow ourselves to be disturbed by

anything. If I did not simply live from one moment to another, it

would be impossible for me to be patient; but I only look at the

present, I forget the past, and I take good care not to forestall

the future. When we yield to discouragement or despair, it is

usually because we think too much about the past and the future.

But pray much for me, for it is often just when I cry to Heaven

for help that I feel most abandoned."

"How do you manage not to give way to discouragement at such

times?" "I turn to God and all His Saints, and thank them

notwithstanding; I believe they want to see how far my trust may

extend. But the words of Job have not entered my heart in vain:

'Even if God should kill me, I would still trust in Him.'[6] I own

it has taken a long time to arrive at this degree of

self-abandonment; but I have reached it now, and it is the Lord

Himself Who has brought me there."

Another time she said: "Our Lord's Will fills my heart to the

brim, and hence, if aught else is added, it cannot penetrate to

any depth, but, like oil on the surface of limpid waters, glides

easily across. If my heart were not already brimming over, and

must needs be filled by the feelings of joy and sadness that

alternate so rapidly, then indeed would it be flooded by a wave of

bitter pain; but these quick-succeeding changes scarcely ruffle

the surface of my soul, and in its depths there reigns a peace

that nothing can disturb."

And yet her soul was enveloped in thick darkness, and her

temptations against Faith, ever conquered but ever returning, were

there to rob her of all feeling of happiness at the thought of her

approaching death. "Were it not for this trial, which is

impossible to understand," she would say, "I think I should die of

joy at the prospect of soon leaving this earth."

By this trial, the Divine Master wished to put the finishing

touches to her purification, and thus enable her not only to walk

with rapid steps, but to run in her little way of confidence and

abandonment. Her words repeatedly proved this. "I desire neither

death nor life. Were Our Lord to offer me my choice, I would not

choose. I only will what He wills; it is what He does that I love.

I do not fear the last struggle, nor any pains--however great--my

illness may bring. God has always been my help. He has led me by

the hand from my earliest childhood, and on Him I rely. My agony

may reach the furthest limits, but I am convinced He will never

forsake me."

Such confidence in God, of necessity stirred the fury of the

devil--of him who, at life's close, tries every ruse to sow the

seeds of despair in the hearts of the dying.

"Last night I was seized with a terrible feeling of anguish," she

confessed to Mother Agnes of Jesus on one occasion; "I was lost in

darkness, and from out of it came an accursed voice: 'Are you

certain God loves you? Has He Himself told you so? The opinion of

creatures will not justify you in His sight.' These thoughts had

long tortured me, when your little note, like a message from

Heaven, was brought to me. You recalled to me, dear Mother, the

special graces Jesus had lavished upon me, and, as though you had

had a revelation concerning my trial, you assured me I was deeply

loved by God, and was on the eve of receiving from His Hands my

eternal crown. Immediately peace and joy were restored to my

heart. Yet the thought came to me, 'It is my little Mother's

affection that makes her write these words.' Straightway I felt

inspired to take up the Gospels, and, opening the book at random,

I lighted on a passage which had hitherto escaped me: 'He whom God

hath sent speaketh the Words of God, for God doth not give the

Spirit by measure.'[7] Then I fell asleep fully consoled. It was

you, dear Mother, whom the Good God sent me, and I must believe

you, because you speak the Words of God."

For several days, during the month of August, Thérèse remained, so

to speak, beside herself, and implored that prayers might be

offered for her. She had never before been seen in this state, and

in her inexpressible anguish she kept repeating: "Oh! how

necessary it is to pray for the agonising! If one only knew!"

One night she entreated the Infirmarian to sprinkle her bed with

Holy Water, saying: "I am besieged by the devil. I do not see him,

but I feel him; he torments me and holds me with a grip of iron,

that I may not find one crumb of comfort; he augments my woes,

that I may be driven to despair. . . . And I cannot pray. I can

only look at Our Blessed Lady and say: 'Jesus!' How needful is

that prayer we use at Compline: 'Procul recedant somnia et noctium

phantasmata!' ('Free us from the phantoms of the night.')

Something mysterious is happening within me. I am not suffering

for myself, but for some other soul, and satan is angry." The

Infirmarian, startled, lighted a blessed candle, and the spirit of

darkness fled, never to return; but the sufferer remained to the

end in a state of extreme anguish.

One day, while she was contemplating the beautiful heavens, some

one said to her: "soon your home will be there, beyond the blue

sky. How lovingly you gaze at it!" She only smiled, but afterwards

she said to the Mother Prioress: "Dear Mother, the Sisters do not

realise my sufferings. Just now, when looking at the sky, I merely

admired the beauty of the material heaven--the true Heaven seems

more than ever closed against me. At first their words troubled

me, but an interior voice whispered: 'Yes, you were looking to

Heaven out of love. Since your soul is entirely delivered up to

love, all your actions, even the most indifferent, are marked with

this divine seal.' At once I was consoled."

In spite of the darkness which enveloped her, her Divine Saviour

sometimes left the door of her prison ajar. Those were moments in

which her soul lost itself in transports of confidence and love.

Thus it happened that on a certain day, when walking in the garden

supported by one of her own sisters, she stopped at the charming

spectacle of a hen sheltering its pretty little ones under its

wing. Her eyes filled with tears, and, turning to her companion,

she said: "I cannot remain here any longer, let us go in!" And

even when she reached her cell, her tears continued to fall, and

it was some time before she could speak. At last she looked at her

sister with a heavenly expression, and said: "I was thinking of

Our Lord, and the beautiful comparison He chose in order to make

us understand His ineffable tenderness. This is what He has done

for me all the days of my life. He has completely hidden me under

His Wing. I cannot express all that has just stirred my heart; it

is well for me that God conceals Himself, and lets me see the

effects of His Mercy but rarely, and as it were from 'behind the

lattices.' Were it not so I could never bear such sweetness."

. . . . . . .

Disconsolate at the prospect of losing their treasure, the

Community began a novena to Our Lady of Victories on June 5, 1897,

in the fervent hope that she would once again miraculously raise

the drooping Little Flower. But her answer was the same as that

given by the blessed Martyr, Théophane Vénard, and they were

forced to accept with generosity the bitterness of the coming

separation.

At the beginning of July, her state became very serious, and she

was at last removed to the Infirmary. Seeing her empty cell, and

knowing she would never return to it, Mother Agnes of Jesus said

to her: "When you are no longer with us, how sad I shall feel when

I look at this cell!"

"For consolation, little Mother, you can think how happy I am up

there, and remember that much of my happiness was acquired in that

little cell; for," she added, raising her beautiful eyes to

Heaven, "I have suffered so much there, and I should have been

happy to die there."

As she entered the Infirmary she looked towards the miraculous

statue of Our Lady, which had been brought thither. It would be

impossible to describe that look. "What is it you see?" said her

sister Marie, the witness of her miraculous cure as a child. And

Thérèse answered: "Never has she seemed to me so beautiful . . .

but to-day it is the statue, whereas that other day, as you well

know, it was not the statue!" And from that time she often

received similar consolations.

One evening she exclaimed: "Oh, how I love Our Blessed Lady! Had I

been a Priest, how I would have sung her praises! She is spoken of

as unapproachable, whereas she should be represented as easy of

imitation. . . . She is more Mother than Queen. I have heard it

said that her splendour eclipses that of all the Saints as the

rising sun makes all the stars disappear. It sounds so strange.

That a Mother should take away the glory of her children! I think

quite the reverse. I believe that she will greatly increase the

splendour of the elect . . . Our Mother Mary! Oh! how simple her

life must have been!" and, continuing her discourse, she drew such

a sweet and delightful picture of the Holy Family that all present

were lost in admiration.

A very heavy cross awaited her before going to join her Spouse.

From August 16 to September 30, the happy day of her death, she

was unable to receive Holy Communion, because of her continual

sickness. Few have hungered for the Bread of Angels like this

seraph of earth. Again and again during that last winter of her

life, after nights of intolerable pain, she rose at early morn to

partake of the Manna of Heaven, and she thought no price too heavy

to pay for the bliss of feeding upon God. Before depriving her

altogether of this Heavenly Food, Our Lord often visited her on

her bed of pain. Her Communion on July 16, the feast of Our Lady

of Mount Carmel, was specially touching. During the previous night

she composed some verses which were to be sung before Communion.

Thou know'st the baseness of my soul, O Lord, Yet fearest not to

stoop and enter me. Come to my heart, O Sacrament adored! Come to

my heart . . . it craveth but for Thee! And when Thou comest,

straightway let me die Of very love for Thee; this boon impart!

Oh, hearken Jesus, to my suppliant cry: Come to my heart!

In the morning, when the Holy Viaticum was carried to the

Infirmary, the cloisters were thickly strewn with wild flowers and

rose-petals. A young Priest, who was about to say his first Mass

that day in the Chapel of the Carmel, bore the Blessed Sacrament

to the dying Sister; and at her desire, Sister Mary of the

Eucharist--whose voice was exceptionally sweet--sang the following

couplet:

Sweet martyrdom! to die of love's keen fire:

The martyrdom of which my heart is fain!

Hasten, ye Cherubim, to tune your lyre;

I shall not linger long in exile's pain!

. . . . . . .

Fulfill my dream, O Jesus, since I sigh

Of love to die!

A few days later Thérèse grew worse, and on July 30 she received

Extreme Unction. Radiant with delight the little Victim of Love

said to us: "The door of my dark prison is ajar. I am steeped in

joy, especially since our Father Superior has assured me that

to-day my soul is like unto that of a little child after Baptism."

No doubt she thought she was quickly to join the white-robed band

of the Holy Innocents. She little knew that two long months of

martyrdom had still to run their course. "Dear Mother," she said,

"I entreat you, give me leave to die. Let me offer my life for

such and such an intention"--naming it to the Prioress. And when

the permission was refused, she replied: "Well, I know that just

at this moment Our Lord has such a longing for a tiny bunch of

grapes--which no one will give Him--that He will perforce have to

come and steal it. . . . I do not ask anything; this would be to

stray from my path of self-surrender. I only beseech Our Lady to

remind her Jesus of the title of _Thief,_ which He takes to

Himself in the Gospels, so that He may not forget to come and

carry me away."

. . . . . . .

One day Soeur Thérèse took an ear of corn from a sheaf they had

brought her. It was so laden with grain that it bent on its stalk,

and after gazing upon it for some time she said to the Mother

Prioress: "Mother, that ear of corn is the image of my soul. God

has loaded it with graces for me and for many others. And it is my

dearest wish ever to bend beneath the weight of God's gifts,

acknowledging that all comes from Him."

She was right. Her soul was indeed laden with graces, and it was

easy to discern the Spirit of God speaking His praises out of the

mouth of that innocent child.

Had not this Spirit of Truth already dictated these words to the

great Teresa of Avila:

"Let those souls who have reached to perfect union with God hold

themselves in high esteem, with a humble and holy presumption. Let

them keep unceasingly before their eyes the remembrance of the

good things they have received, and beware of the thought that

they are practising humility in not recognising the gifts of God.

Is it not clear that the constant remembrance of gifts bestowed

serves to increase the love of the giver? How can he who ignores

the riches he possesses, spend them generously upon others?"

But the above was not the only occasion on which the "little

Thérèse of Lisieux"[8] gave utterance to words that proved

prophetic. In the month of April, 1895, while she was still in

excellent health, she said in confidence to one of the older nuns:

"I shall die soon. I do not say that it will be in a few months,

but in two or three years at most; I know it because of what is

taking place in my soul."

The novices betrayed surprise when she read their inmost thoughts.

"This is my secret," she said to them: "I never reprimand you

without first invoking Our Blessed Lady, and asking her to inspire

me as to what will be most for your good, and I am often

astonished myself at the things I teach you. At such times I feel

that I make no mistake, and that it is Jesus Who speak by my lips."

During her illness one of her sisters had experienced some moments

of acute distress, amounting almost to discouragement, at the

thought of the inevitable parting. Immediately afterwards she went

to the Infirmary, but was careful not to let any sign of grief be

seen. What was her surprise when Thérèse, in a sad and serious

tone, thus addressed her: "We ought not to weep like those who

have no hope."

One of the Mothers, having come to visit her, did her a trifling

service. "How happy I should be," thought the Mother, "if this

Angel would only say: 'I will repay you in Heaven!' At that

instant Soeur Thérèse, turning to her, said: "Mother, I will repay

you in Heaven!"

But more surprising than all, was her consciousness of the mission

for which Our Lord had destined her. The veil which hides the

future seemed lifted, and more than once she revealed to us its

secrets, in prophecies which have already been realised.

"I have never given the Good God aught but love; it is with Love

He will repay.

AFTER MY DEATH I WILL LET FALL A SHOWER OF ROSES."

At another time she interrupted a Sister, who was speaking to her

of the happiness of Heaven, by the sublime words: "It is not that

which attracts me."

"And what attracts you?" asked the other. "Oh! it is Love! To

love, to be beloved, and _to return to earth to win love for our

Love!"_

One evening, she welcomed Mother Agnes of Jesus with an

extraordinary expression of joy: "Mother!" she said, "some notes

from a concert far away have just reached my ears, and have made

me think that soon I shall be listening to the wondrous melodies

of Paradise. The thought, however, gave me but a moment's joy--one

hope alone makes my heart beat fast: the Love that I shall receive

and the Love I shall be able to give!

"I feel that my mission is soon to begin--my mission to make

others love God as I love Him . . . to each souls my _little way_

. . .

I WILL SPEND MY HEAVEN IN DOING GOOD UPON EARTH.

Nor is this impossible, since from the very heart of the Beatific

Vision, the Angels keep watch over us. No, there can be no rest

for me until the end of the world. But when the Angel shall have

said: 'Time is no more!' then I shall rest, then I shall be able

to rejoice, because the number of the elect will be complete."

"And what is this _little way_ that you would teach to souls?"

"IT IS THE WAY OF SPIRITUAL CHILDHOOD, THE WAY OF TRUST AND

ABSOLUTE SELF-SURRENDER.

I want to point out to them the means that I have always found so

perfectly successful, to tell them that there is but one thing to

do here below: we must offer Jesus _the flowers of little

sacrifices_ and win Him by a caress. That is how I have won Him,

and that is why I shall be made so welcome."

"Should I guide you wrongly by my _little way_ of love," she said

to a novice, "do not fear that I shall allow you to continue

therein; I should soon come back to the earth, and tell you to

take another road. If I do not return, then believe in the truth

of these my words: We can never have too much confidence in the

Good God, He is so mighty, so merciful. As we hope in Him so shall

we receive."

On the eve of the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, a novice said

to her: "I think that if you were to die to-morrow, after Holy

Communion, I should be quite consoled--it would be such a

beautiful death!" Thérèse answered quickly: "Die after Holy

Communion! Upon a great feast! Nay, not so. _In my 'little way'

everything is most ordinary; all that I do, little souls must be

able to do likewise."_

And to one of her missionary brothers she wrote: "What draws me to

my Heavenly Home is the summons of my Lord, together with the hope

that at length I shall love Him as my heart desires, and shall be

able to make Him loved by a multitude of souls who will bless Him

throughout eternity."

And in another letter to China: "I trust fully that I shall not

remain idle in Heaven; my desire is to continue my work for the

Church and for souls. I ask this of God, and I am convinced He

will hear my prayer. You see that if I quit the battle-field so

soon, it is not from a selfish desire of repose. For a long time

now, suffering has been my Heaven here upon earth, and I can

hardly conceive how I shall become acclimatised to a land where

joy is unmixed with sorrow. Jesus will certainly have to work a

complete change in my soul--else I could never support the

ecstasies of Paradise."

It was quite true, suffering had become her Heaven upon earth--she

welcomed it as we do happiness. "When I suffer much," she would

say, "when something painful or disagreeable happens to me,

instead of a melancholy look, I answer by a smile. At first I did

not always succeed, but now it has become a habit which I am glad

to have acquired."

A certain Sister entertained doubts concerning the patience of

Thérèse. One day, during a visit, she remarked that the invalid's

face wore an expression of unearthly joy, and she sought to know

the reason. "It is because the pain is so acute just now," Thérèse

replied; "I have always forced myself to love suffering and to

give it a glad welcome." "Why are you so bright this morning?"

asked Mother Agnes of Jesus. "Because of two little crosses.

Nothing gives me 'little joys' like 'little crosses.'" And another

time: "You have had many trials to-day?" "Yes, but I love them!

. . . I love all the Good God sends me!" "Your sufferings are

terrible!" "No--they are not terrible: can a little Victim of Love

find anything terrible that is sent by her Spouse? Each moment He

sends me what I am able to bear, and nothing more, and if He

increase the pain, my strength is increased as well. But I could

never ask for greater sufferings--I am too little a soul. They

would then be of my own choice. I should have to bear them all

without Him, and I have never been able to do anything when left

to myself."

Thus spoke that wise and prudent Virgin on her deathbed, and her

lamp, filled to the brim with the oil of virtue, burned brightly

to the end. If, as the Holy Spirit reminds us in the Book of

Proverbs: _"A man's doctrine is proved by his patience,"_[9] those

who have heard her may well believe in her doctrine, for she has

proved it by a patience no test could overcome.

At each visit the doctor expressed his admiration. "If only you

knew what she has to endure! I have never seen any one suffer so

intensely with such a look of supernatural joy. . . . I shall not

be able to cure her; she was not made for this earth." In view of

her extreme weakness, he ordered some strengthening remedies.

Thérèse was at first distressed because of their cost, but she

afterwards admitted: "I am no longer troubled at having to take

those expensive remedies, for I have read that when they were

given to St. Gertrude, she was gladdened by the thought that it

would redound to the good of our benefactors, since Our Lord

Himself has said: 'Whatever you do to the least of My little ones,

you do unto Me.'"[10] "I am convinced that medicines are powerless

to cure me," she added, "but I have made a covenant with God that

the poor missionaries who have neither time nor means to take care

of themselves may profit thereby."

She was much moved by the constant gifts of flowers made to her by

her friends outside the Convent, and again by the visits of a

sweet little redbreast that loved to play about her bed. She saw

in these things the Hand of God. "Mother, I feel deeply the many

touching proofs of God's Love for me. I am laden with them . . .

nevertheless, I continue in the deepest gloom! . . . I suffer much

. . . very much! and yet my state is one of profound peace. All my

longings have been realised . . . I am full of confidence."

Shortly afterwards she told me this touching little incident: "One

evening, during the 'Great Silence,' the Infirmarian brought me a

hot-water bottle for my feet, and put tincture of iodine on my

chest. I was in a burning fever, and parched with thirst, and,

whilst submitting to these remedies, I could not help saying to

Our Lord: 'My Jesus, Thou seest I am already burning, and they

have brought me more heat and fire. Oh! if they had brought me

even half a glass of water, what a comfort it would have been!

. . . My Jesus! Thy little child is so thirsty. But she is glad to

have this opportunity of resembling Thee more closely, and thus

helping Thee to save souls.' The Infirmarian soon left me, and I

did not expect to see her again until the following morning. What

was my surprise when she returned a few minutes later with a

refreshing drink! 'It has just struck me that you may be thirsty,'

she said, 'so I shall bring you something every evening.' I looked

at her astounded, and when I was once more alone, I melted into

tears. Oh! how good Jesus is! how tender and loving! How easy it

is to reach His Heart!"

. . . . . . .

On September 6, the little Spouse of Jesus received a touching

proof of the loving thought of His Sacred Heart. She had

frequently expressed a wish to possess a relic of her special

patron, the Venerable Théophane Vénard, but as her desire was not

realised, she said no more. She was quite overcome, therefore,

when Mother Prioress brought her the longed-for treasure--received

that very day. She kissed it repeatedly, and would not consent to

part with it.

It may be asked why she was so devoted to this young Martyr. She

herself explained the reason in an affectionate interview with her

own sisters: "Théophane Vénard is a _little_ saint; his life was

not marked by anything extraordinary. He had an ardent devotion to

Our Immaculate Mother and a tender love of his own family."

Dwelling on these words she added: "And I, too, love my family

with a tender love; I fail to understand those Saints who do not

share my feelings. As a parting gift I have copied for you some

passages from his last letters home. His soul and mine have many

points of resemblance, and his words do but re-echo my thoughts."

We give here a copy of that letter, which one might have believed

was composed by Thérèse herself:

"I can find nothing on earth that can make me truly happy; the

desires of my heart are too vast, and nothing of what the world

calls happiness can satisfy it. Time for me will soon be no more,

my thoughts are fixed on Eternity. My heart is full of peace, like

a tranquil lake or a cloudless sky. I do not regret this life on

earth. I thirst for the waters of Life Eternal.

"Yet a little while and my soul will have quitted this earth, will

have finished her exile, will have ended her combat. I go to

Heaven. I am about to enter the Abode of the Blessed--to see what

the eye hath never seen, to hear what the ear hath never heard, to

enjoy those things the heart of man hath not conceived . . . I

have reached the hour so coveted by us all. It is indeed true that

Our Lord chooses the little ones to confound the great ones of

this earth. I do not rely upon my own strength but upon Him Who,

on the Cross, vanquished the powers of hell.

"I am a spring flower which the Divine Master culls for His

pleasure. We are all flowers, planted on this earth, and God will

gather us in His own good time--some sooner, some later . . . I,

little flower of one day, am the first to be gathered! But we

shall meet again in Paradise, where lasting joy will be our

portion.

"Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus, using the words of the angelic

martyr--Théophane Vénard."

Toward the end of September, when something was repeated to her

that had been said at recreation, concerning the responsibility of

those who have care of souls, she seemed to revive a little and

gave utterance to these beautiful words: "To him that is little,

mercy is granted.[11] It is possible to remain _little_ even in

the most responsible position, and is it not written that, at the

last day, 'the Lord will arise to save the meek and lowly ones of

the earth'?[12] He does not say 'to judge,' but 'to save!'"

As time went on, the tide of suffering rose higher and higher, and

she became so weak, that she was unable to make the slightest

movement without assistance. Even to hear anyone whisper increased

her discomfort; and the fever and oppression were so extreme that

it was with the greatest difficulty she was able to articulate a

word. And yet a sweet smile was always on her lips. Her only fear

was lest she should give her Sisters any extra trouble, and until

two days before her death she would never allow any one to remain

with her during the night. However, in spite of her entreaties,

the Infirmarian would visit her from time to time. On one occasion

she found Thérèse with hands joined and eyes raised to Heaven.

"What are you doing?" she asked; "you ought to try and go to

sleep." "I cannot, Sister, I am suffering too much, so I am

praying. . . ." "And what do you say to Jesus?" "I say nothing--I

only love Him!"

"Oh! how good God is!" . . . she sometimes exclaimed. "Truly He

must be very good to give me strength to bear all I have to

suffer." One day she said to the Mother Prioress: "Mother, I would

like to make known to you the state of my soul; but I cannot, I

feel too much overcome just now." In the evening Thérèse sent her

these lines, written in pencil with a trembling hand:

"O my God! how good Thou art to the little Victim of Thy Merciful

Love! Now, even when Thou joinest these bodily pains to those of

my soul, I cannot bring myself to say: 'The anguish of death hath

encompassed me.'[13] I rather cry out in my gratitude: 'I have

gone down into the valley of the shadow of death, but I fear no

evil, because Thou, O Lord, art with me.'"[14]

Her little Mother said to her: "Some think that you are afraid of

death." "That may easily come to pass," she answered; "I do not

rely on my own feelings, for I know how frail I am. It will be

time enough to bear that cross if it comes, meantime I wish to

rejoice in my present happiness. When the Chaplain asked me if I

was resigned to die, I answered: 'Father, I need rather to be

resigned to live--I feel nothing but joy at the thought of death.'

Do not be troubled, dear Mother, if I suffer much and show no sign

of happiness at the end. Did not Our Lord Himself die 'a Victim of

Love,' and see how great was His Agony!"

. . . . . . .

At last dawned the eternal day. It was Thursday, September 30,

1897. In the morning, the sweet Victim, her eyes fixed on Our

Lady's statue, spoke thus of her last night on earth: "Oh! with

what fervour I have prayed to her! . . . And yet it has been pure

agony, without a ray of consolation. . . . Earth's air is failing

me: when shall I breathe the air of Heaven?"

For weeks she had been unable to raise herself in bed, but, at

half-past two in the afternoon, she sat up and exclaimed: "Dear

Mother, the chalice is full to overflowing! I could never have

believed that it was possible to suffer so intensely. . . . I can

only explain it by my extreme desire to save souls. . . ." And a

little while after: "Yes, all that I have written about my thirst

for suffering is really true! I do not regret having surrendered

myself to Love."

She repeated these last words several times. A little later she

added: "Mother, prepare me to die well." The good Mother Prioress

encouraged her with these words: "My child, you are quite ready to

appear before God, for you have always understood the virtue of

humility." Then, in striking words, Thérèse bore witness to

herself:

"Yes, I feel it; my soul has ever sought the truth. . . . I have

understood humility of heart!"

. . . . . . .

At half-past four, her agony began--the agony of this "Victim of

Divine Love." When the Community gathered round her, she thanked

them with the sweetest smile, and then, completely given over to

love and suffering, the Crucifix clasped in her failing hands, she

entered on the final combat. The sweat of death lay heavy on her

brow . . . she trembled . . . but, as a pilot, when close to

harbour, is not dismayed by the fury of the storm, so this soul,

strong in faith, saw close at hand the beacon-lights of Heaven,

and valiantly put forth every effort to reach the shore.

As the convent bells rang the evening Angelus, she fixed an

inexpressible look upon the statue of the Immaculate Virgin, the

Star of the Sea. Was it not the moment to repeat her beautiful

prayer:

"O thou who camest to smile on me in the morn of my life, come

once again and smile, Mother, for now it is eventide!"[15]

A few minutes after seven, turning to the Prioress, the poor

little Martyr asked: "Mother, is it not the agony? . . . am I not

going to die?" "Yes, my child, it is the agony, but Jesus perhaps

wills that it be prolonged for some hours." In a sweet and

plaintive voice she replied: "Ah, very well then . . . very well

. . . I do not wish to suffer less!"

Then, looking at her crucifix:

"Oh! . . . I love Him! . . . My God, I . . . love . . . Thee!"

These were her last words. She had scarcely uttered them when, to

our great surprise, she sank down quite suddenly, her head

inclined a little to the right, in the attitude of the Virgin

Martyrs offering themselves to the sword; or rather, as a Victim

of Love, awaiting from the Divine Archer the fiery shaft, by which

she longs to die.

Suddenly she raised herself, as though called by a mysterious

voice; and opening her eyes, which shone with unutterable

happiness and peace, fixed her gaze a little above the statue of

Our Lady. Thus she remained for about the space of a _Credo,_ when

her blessed soul, now become the prey of the "Divine Eagle," was

borne away to the heights of Heaven.

. . . . . . .

A few days before her death, this little Saint had said: "The

death of Love which I so much desire is that of Jesus upon the

Cross." Her prayer was fully granted. Darkness enveloped her, and

her soul was steeped in anguish. And yet, may we not apply to her

also that sublime prophecy of St. John of the Cross, referring to

souls consumed by the fire of Divine Love: "They die Victims of

the onslaughts of Love, in raptured ecstasies--like the swan,

whose song grows sweeter as death draws nigh. Wherefore the

Psalmist declared: 'Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death

of His Saints.'[16] For then it is that the rivers of love burst

forth from the soul and are whelmed in the Ocean of Divine Love."

No sooner had her spotless soul taken its flight than the joy of

that last rapture imprinted itself on her brow, and a radiant

smile illumined her face. We placed a palm-branch in her hand; and

the lilies and roses that adorned her in death were figures of her

white robe of baptism made red by her Martyrdom of Love.

On the Saturday and Sunday a large crowd passed before the grating

of the nuns' chapel, to gaze on the mortal remains of the "Little

Flower of Jesus." Hundreds of medals and rosaries were brought to

touch the "Little Queen" as she lay in the triumphant beauty of

her last sleep.

. . . . . . .

On October 4, the day of the funeral, there gathered in the Chapel

of the Carmel a goodly company of Priests. The honour was surely

due to one who had prayed so earnestly for those called to that

sacred office. After a last solemn blessing, this grain of

priceless wheat was cast into the furrow by the hands of Holy

Mother Church.

Who shall tell how many ripened ears have sprung forth since, how

many the sheaves that are yet to come? "Amen, amen, I say to you,

unless the grain of wheat, falling into the ground, die, itself

remaineth alone. But if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit."[17]

Once more the word of the Divine Reaper has been magnificently

fulfilled.

THE PRIORESS OF THE CARMEL.

_____________________________

[1] Dom Guéranger.

[2] Mother Mary of Gonzaga died Dec. 17, 1904, at the age of 71.

Mother Agnes of Jesus (Pauline) was at that time Prioress. The

former--herself of the line of St. Antony of Padua--recognized in

Soeur Thérèse "an heroic soul, filled with holiness, and capable

of becoming one day an excellent Prioress." With this end in view,

she trained her with a strictness for which the young Saint was

most grateful. In the arms of Mother Mary of Gonzaga the "Little

Flower of Jesus" was welcomed to the Carmel, and in those arms she

died--"happy," she declared, "not to have in that hour as

Superioress her 'little Mother,' in order the better to exercise

her spirit of faith in authority." [Ed.]

[3] As will be remembered, this was Marie, her eldest sister. [Ed.]

[4] The Blessed Théophane Vénard was born at St. Loup, in the

diocese of Poitiers, on the Feast of the Presentation of Our Lady,

Nov. 21, 1829. He was martyred at Kecho, Tong-King, on the Feast

of the Presentation of Our Lord, Feb. 2, 1861, at the age of 32. A

long and delightful correspondence with his family, begun in his

college days and completed from his "cage" at Kecho, reveals a

kinship of poesy as well as of sanctity and of the love of home,

between the two "spring flowers." The beauty of his soul was so

visible in his boyish face that he was spared all torture during

his two months in the "cage." In 1909, the year in which Thérèse

became "Servant of God" by the commencement of the Episcopal

Process, her patron received the honours of Beatification. Another

child of France--Joan, its "Martyr-Maid"--whose praises have been

sung in affectionate verse by the Saints of St. Loup and Lisieux,

was beatified that same year. [Ed.]

[5] An allusion to the obituary notice sent to each of the French

Carmels when a Carmelite nun dies in that country. In the case of

those who die in the odour of sanctity these notices sometimes run

to considerable length. Four notices issued from the Carmel of

Lisieux are of great interest to the clients of Soeur Thérèse, and

are in course of publication at the Orphans' Press, Rochdale;

those of the Carmel's saintly Foundress, Mother Genevieve of St.

Teresa, whose death is referred to in Chapter VIII; Mother Mary of

Gonzaga, the Prioress of Thérèse; Sister Mary of the Eucharist

(Marie Guérin), the cousin of Thérèse (Chapter III); and most

interesting of all, the long sketch, partly autobiographical, of

Mother Mary of St. Angelus (Marie Ange), the "trophy of Thérèse,"

brought by her intercession to the Carmel in 1902--where the

writer made her acquaintance in the following spring; she became

Prioress in 1908, dying eighteen months later in the odour of

sanctity, aged only 28. [Ed.]

[6] Cf. Job 13:15.

[7] John 3:34.

[8] When asked before her death how they should pray to her in

Heaven, Soeur Thérèse, with her wonted simplicity, made answer:

"You will call me 'Little Thérèse'--_petite Thérèse."_ And at

Gallipoli, on the occasion of her celebrated apparition in the

Carmel there, when the Prioress, taking her to be St. Teresa of

Avila, addressed her as "our holy Mother," the visitor, adopting

her then official title, replied:--"Nay, I am not our holy

Mother, I am the Servant of God, _Soeur Thérèse of Lisieux_."

This, her own name of Soeur Thérèse, has been retained in the

present edition, unless where it was advisable to set down her

name in full--Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and of the Holy

Face. The name of the "Little Flower," borrowed by her from the

Blessed Théophane Vénard, and used so extensively in the pages of

her manuscript, is the one by which she is best known in

English-speaking lands. [Ed.]

[9] Cf. Prov. 19:11.

[10] Matt. 25:49.

[11] Wisdom 6:7.

[12] Cf. Ps. 75[76]:10.

[13] Cf. Ps. 17[18]:5.

[14] Cf. Ps. 22[23]:4.

[15] From the last poem written by Soeur Thérèse.

[16] Ps. 115[116]:15.

[17] John 12:24, 25.

_____________________________

COUNSELS AND REMINISCENCES OF SOEUR THÉRÈSE,

THE LITTLE FLOWER OF JESUS

_____________________________

Most of what follows has been gathered from the conversations of

Soeur Thérèse with her novices. Her advice cannot but prove

helpful to souls within the cloister, and likewise to many in the

world who may be attracted by her simple and easy _little way_ to

God.

* * * * * *

One of the novices, greatly discouraged at the thought of her

imperfections, tells us that her mistress spoke to her as follows:

"You make me think of a little child that is learning to stand but

does not yet know how to walk. In his desire to reach the top of

the stairs to find his mother, he lifts his little foot to climb

the first step. It is all in vain, and at each renewed effort he

falls. Well, be like that little child. Always keep lifting your

foot to climb the ladder of holiness, and do not imagine that you

can mount even the first step. All God asks of you is good will.

From the top of the ladder He looks lovingly upon you, and soon,

touched by your fruitless efforts, He will Himself come down, and,

taking you in His Arms, will carry you to His Kingdom never again

to leave Him. But should you cease to raise your foot, you will be

left for long on the earth."

* * * * * *

"The only way to advance rapidly in the path of love is to remain

always very little. That is what I did, and now I can sing with

our holy Father, St. John of the Cross:

'Then I abased myself so low, so very low, That I ascended to such

heights, such heights indeed, That I did overtake the prey I

chased!'"

* * * * * *

Under a temptation which seemed to me irresistible, I said to her:

"This time, I cannot surmount it." She replied: "Why seek to

surmount it? Rather pass beneath. It is all well for great souls

to soar above the clouds when the storm rages; we have simply to

suffer the showers. What does it matter if we get wet? We shall

dry ourselves in the sunshine of love.

"It recalls a little incident of my childhood. One day a horse was

standing in front of the garden gate, and preventing us from

getting through. My companions talked to him and tried to make him

move off, but while they were still talking I quietly slipped

between his legs . . . Such is the advantage of remaining small."

* * * * * *

Our Lord said to the mother of the sons of Zebedee: 'To sit on my

right or left hand is for them for whom it is prepared by my

Father.'[1] I imagine that these chosen places, which have been

refused alike to great Saints and Martyrs, will be reserved for

little children; and did not David foretell it when he said, that

'the little Benjamin will preside amidst the assemblies[2] of the

Saints.'"

* * * * * *

"You are wrong to find fault with this thing and with that, or to

try and make everyone see things as you see them. We desire to be

'as little children,' and little children do not know what is

best: to them all seems right. Let us imitate their ways. Besides,

there is no merit in doing what reason dictates."

* * * * * *

"My patrons and my special favourites in Heaven are those who, so

to speak, stole it, such as the Holy Innocents and the Good Thief.

The great Saints won it by their works; I wish to be like the

thieves and to win it by stratagem--a stratagem of love which will

open its gates both to me and to poor sinners. In the Book of

Proverbs the Holy Ghost encourages me, for He says: 'Come to me,

little one, to learn subtlety!'"[3]

* * * * * *

"What would you do if you could begin over again your religious

life?"

"I think I should do as I have already done."

"Then you do not share the feeling of the hermit who said: 'While

a quarter of an hour, or even a breath of life still remains to

me, I shall fear the fires of hell even though I should have spent

long years in penance'?"

"No, I do not share that fear; I am too small. Little children are

not damned."

"You are ever seeking to be as little children are, but tell us

what must be done to obtain that childlike spirit. 'Remaining

little'--what does it mean?"

"'Remaining little' means--to recognise one's nothingness, to

await everything from the Goodness of God, to avoid being too much

troubled at our faults; finally, not to worry over amassing

spiritual riches, not to be solicitous about anything. Even

amongst the poor, while a child is still small, he is given what

is necessary; but, once he is grown up, his father will no longer

feed him, and tells him to seek work and support himself. Well, it

was to avoid hearing this, that I have never wished to grow up,

for I feel incapable of earning my livelihood, which is Life

Eternal!"

* * * * * *

In imitation of our saintly Mistress I also wished never to grow

up; she called me therefore "the little one," and during a retreat

she wrote to me the following notes:

"Do not fear to tell Jesus that you love him, even though you may

not feel that love. In this way you will compel Him to come to

your aid, and to carry you like a little child who is too weak to

walk.

"It is indeed a great source of trial, when everything looks

black, but this does not depend entirely on yourself. Do all in

your power to detach your heart from earthly cares, especially

from creatures; then be assured Our Lord will do the rest. He

could not permit you to fall into the abyss. Be comforted, little

one! In Heaven everything will no longer look black, but dazzling

white. There all will be clothed in the Divine radiance of Our

Spouse--the Lily of the Valley. Together we will follow Him

whithersoever He goeth. Meantime we must make good use of this

life's brief day. Let us give Our Lord pleasure, let us by

self-sacrifice give Him souls! Above all, let us be little--so

little that everyone might tread us underfoot without our even

seeming to suffer pain.

"I am not surprised at the failures of the little one; she forgets

that in her rôle of missionary and warrior she ought to forgo all

childish consolations. It is wrong to pass one's time in fretting,

instead of sleeping on the Heart of Jesus.

"Should the little one fear the dark of the night, or complain at

not seeing Him who carries her, let her shut her eyes. It is the

one sacrifice God asks. By remaining thus, the dark will cease to

terrify, because she will not see it, and before long, peace--if

not joy--will re-enter her soul."

* * * * * *

To help me accept a humiliation she confided to me what follows:

"If I had not been received into the Carmel, I would have entered

a Refuge, and lived there unknown and despised among the poor

'penitents.' My joy would have been to pass for one, and I would

have become an apostle among my companions, telling them my

thoughts on the Infinite Mercy of God."

"But how could you have hidden your innocence from your Confessor?"

"I would have told him that while still in the world I made a

general confession, and that it was forbidden me to repeat it."

* * * * * *

"Oh! When I think of all I have to acquire!"

"Or rather to lose! It is Jesus Who takes upon Himself to fill

your soul according as you rid it of imperfections. I see clearly

that you are mistaking the road, and that you will never arrive at

the end of your journey. You want to climb the mountain, whereas

God wishes you to descend it. He is awaiting you in the fruitful

valley of humility."

* * * * * *

"To me it seems that humility is truth. I do not know whether I am

humble, but I do know that I see the truth in all things."

* * * * * *

"Indeed you are a Saint!"

"No, I am not a Saint. I have never wrought the works of a Saint.

_I am but a tiny soul whom Almighty God has loaded with His

favours._

"The truth of what I say will be made known to you in Heaven."

"But have you not always been faithful to those favours?"