Lukewarmness. The Loss of Grace. Inconvenience of Laxity in
Religious Houses.
1. So, then, going on from pastime to pastime, from vanity to
vanity, from one occasion of sin to another, I began to expose
myself exceedingly to the very greatest dangers: my soul was so
distracted by many vanities, that I was ashamed to draw near unto
God in an act of such special friendship as that of prayer. [1]
As my sins multiplied, I began to lose the pleasure and comfort I
had in virtuous things: and that loss contributed to the
abandonment of prayer. I see now most clearly, O my Lord, that
this comfort departed from me because I had departed from Thee.
2. It was the most fearful delusion into which Satan could plunge
me--to give up prayer under the pretence of humility. I began to
be afraid of giving myself to prayer, because I saw myself so
lost. I thought it would be better for me, seeing that in my
wickedness I was one of the most wicked, to live like the
multitude--to say the prayers which I was bound to say, and that
vocally: not to practise mental prayer nor commune with God so
much; for I deserved to be with the devils, and was deceiving
those who were about me, because I made an outward show of
goodness; and therefore the community in which I dwelt is not to
be blamed; for with my cunning I so managed matters, that all had
a good opinion of me; and yet I did not seek this deliberately by
simulating devotion; for in all that relates to hypocrisy and
ostentation--glory be to God!--I do not remember that I ever
offended Him, [2] so far as I know. The very first movements
herein gave me such pain, that the devil would depart from me
with loss, and the gain remained with me; and thus, accordingly,
he never tempted me much in this way. Perhaps, however, if God
had permitted Satan to tempt me as sharply herein as he tempted
me in other things, I should have fallen also into this; but His
Majesty has preserved me until now. May He be blessed for
evermore! It was rather a heavy affliction to me that I should
be thought so well of; for I knew my own secret.
3. The reason why they thought I was not so wicked was this: they
saw that I, who was so young, and exposed to so many occasions of
sin, withdrew myself so often into solitude for prayer, read
much, spoke of God, that I liked to have His image painted in
many places, to have an oratory of my own, and furnish it with
objects of devotion, that I spoke ill of no one, and other things
of the same kind in me which have the appearance of virtue. Yet
all the while--I was so vain--I knew how to procure respect for
myself by doing those things which in the world are usually
regarded with respect.
4. In consequence of this, they gave me as much liberty as they
did to the oldest nuns, and even more, and had great confidence
in me; for as to taking any liberty for myself, or doing anything
without leave--such as conversing through the door, or in secret,
or by night--I do not think I could have brought myself to speak
with anybody in the monastery in that way, and I never did it;
for our Lord held me back. It seemed to me--for I considered
many things carefully and of set purpose--that it would be a very
evil deed on my part, wicked as I was, to risk the credit of so
many nuns, who were all good--as if everything else I did was
well done! In truth, the evil I did was not the result of
deliberation, as this would have been, if I had done it, although
it was too much so.
5. Therefore, I think that it did me much harm to be in a
monastery not enclosed. The liberty which those who were good
might have with advantage--they not being obliged to do more than
they do, because they had not bound themselves to
enclosure--would certainly have led me, who am wicked, straight
to hell, if our Lord, by so many remedies and means of His most
singular mercy, had not delivered me out of that danger--and it
is, I believe, the very greatest danger--namely, a monastery of
women unenclosed--yea, more, I think it is, for those who will be
wicked, a road to hell, rather than a help to their weakness.
This is not to be understood of my monastery; for there are so
many there who in the utmost sincerity, and in great perfection,
serve our Lord, so that His Majesty, according to His goodness,
cannot but be gracious unto them; neither is it one of those
which are most open for all religious observances are kept in it;
and I am speaking only of others which I have seen and known.
6. I am exceedingly sorry for these houses, because our Lord must
of necessity send His special inspirations not merely once, but
many times, if the nuns therein are to be saved, seeing that the
honours and amusements of the world are allowed among them, and
the obligations of their state are so ill-understood. God grant
they may not count that to be virtue which is sin, as I did so
often! It is very difficult to make people understand this; it
is necessary our Lord Himself should take the matter seriously
into His own hands.
7. If parents would take my advice, now that they are at no pains
to place their daughters where they may walk in the way of
salvation without incurring a greater risk than they would do if
they were left in the world, let them look at least at that which
concerns their good name. Let them marry them to persons of a
much lower degree, rather than place them in monasteries of this
kind, unless they be of extremely good inclinations, and God
grant that these inclinations may come to good! or let them keep
them at home. If they will be wicked at home, their evil life
can be hidden only for a short time; but in monasteries it can be
hidden long, and, in the end, it is our Lord that discovers it.
They injure not only themselves, but all the nuns also. And all
the while the poor things are not in fault; for they walk in the
way that is shown them. Many of them are to be pitied; for they
wished to withdraw from the world, and, thinking to escape from
the dangers of it, and that they were going to serve our Lord,
have found themselves in ten worlds at once, without knowing what
to do, or how to help themselves. Youth and sensuality and the
devil invite them and incline them to follow certain ways which
are of the essence of worldliness. They see these ways, so to
speak, considered as safe there.
8. Now, these seem to me to be in some degree like those wretched
heretics who will make themselves blind, and who will consider
that which they do to be good, and so believe, but without really
believing; for they have within themselves something that tells
them it is wrong.
9. Oh, what utter ruin! utter ruin of religious persons--I am not
speaking now more of women than of men--where the rules of the
Order are not kept; where the same monastery offers two roads:
one of virtue and observance, the other of inobservance, and both
equally frequented! I have spoken incorrectly: they are not
equally frequented; for, on account of our sins, the way of the
greatest imperfection is the most frequented; and because it is
the broadest, it is also the most in favour. The way of
religious observance is so little used, that the friar and the
nun who would really begin to follow their vocation thoroughly
have reason to fear the members of their communities more than
all the devils together. They must be more cautious, and
dissemble more, when they would speak of that friendship with God
which they desire to have, than when they would speak of those
friendships and affections which the devil arranges in
monasteries. I know not why we are astonished that the Church is
in so much trouble, when we see those, who ought to be an example
of every virtue to others, so disfigure the work which the spirit
of the Saints departed wrought in their Orders. May it please
His Divine Majesty to apply a remedy to this, as He sees it to be
needful! Amen.
10. So, then, when I began to indulge in these conversations, I
did not think, seeing they were customary, that my soul must be
injured and dissipated, as I afterwards found it must be, by such
conversations. I thought that, as receiving visits was so common
in many monasteries, no more harm would befall me thereby than
befell others, whom I knew to be good. I did not observe that
they were much better than I was, and that an act which was
perilous for me was not so perilous for them; and yet I have no
doubt there was some danger in it, were it nothing else but a
waste of time.
11. I was once with a person--it was at the very beginning of my
acquaintance with her when our Lord was pleased to show me that
these friendships were not good for me: to warn me also, and in
my blindness, which was so great, to give me light. Christ stood
before me, stern and grave, giving me to understand what in my
conduct was offensive to Him. I saw Him with the eyes of the
soul more distinctly than I could have seen Him with the eyes of
the body. The vision made so deep an impression upon me, that,
though it is more than twenty-six years ago, [3] I seem to see
Him present even now. I was greatly astonished and disturbed,
and I resolved not to see that person again.
12. It did me much harm that I did not then know it was possible
to see anything otherwise than with the eyes of the body; [4] so
did Satan too, in that he helped me to think so: he made me
understand it to be impossible, and suggested that I had imagined
the vision--that it might be Satan himself--and other
suppositions of that kind. For all this, the impression remained
with me that the vision was from God, and not an imagination;
but, as it was not to my liking, I forced myself to lie to
myself; and as I did not dare to discuss the matter with any one,
and as great importunity was used, I went back to my former
conversation with the same person, and with others also, at
different times; for I was assured that there was no harm in
seeing such a person, and that I gained, instead of losing,
reputation by doing so. I spent many years in this pestilent
amusement; for it never appeared to me, when I was engaged in it,
to be so bad as it really was, though at times I saw clearly it
was not good. But no one caused me the same distraction which
that person did of whom I am speaking; and that was because I had
a great affection for her.
13. At another time, when I was with that person, we saw, both of
us, and others who were present also saw, something like a great
toad crawling towards us, more rapidly than such a creature is in
the habit of crawling. I cannot understand how a reptile of that
kind could, in the middle of the day, have come forth from that
place; it never had done so before, [5] but the impression it
made on me was such, that I think it must have had a meaning;
neither have I ever forgotten it. Oh, the greatness of God! with
what care and tenderness didst Thou warn me in every way! and how
little I profited by those warnings!
14. There was in that house a nun, who was related to me, now
grown old, a great servant of God, and a strict observer of the
rule. She too warned me from time to time; but I not only did
not listen to her, but was even offended, thinking she was
scandalized without cause. I have mentioned this in order that
my wickedness and the great goodness of God might be understood,
and to show how much I deserved hell for ingratitude so great,
and, moreover, if it should be our Lord's will and pleasure that
any nun at any time should read this, that she might take warning
by me. I beseech them all, for the love of our Lord, to flee
from such recreations as these.
15. May His Majesty grant I may undeceive some one of the many I
led astray when I told them there was no harm in these things,
and assured them there was no such great danger therein. I did so
because I was blind myself; for I would not deliberately lead
them astray. By the bad example I set before them--I spoke of
this before [6]--I was the occasion of much evil, not thinking I
was doing so much harm.
16. In those early days, when I was ill, and before I knew how to
be of use to myself, I had a very strong desire to further the
progress of others: [7] a most common temptation of beginners.
With me, however, it had good results. Loving my father so much,
I longed to see him in the possession of that good which I seemed
to derive myself from prayer. I thought that in this life there
could not be a greater good than prayer; and by roundabout ways,
as well as I could, I contrived make him enter upon it; I gave
him books for that end. As he was so good--I said so
before [8]--this exercise took such a hold upon him, that in five
or six years, I think it was, he made so great a progress that I
used to praise our Lord for it. It was a very great consolation
to me. He had most grievous trials of diverse kinds; and he bore
them all with the greatest resignation. He came often to see me;
for it was a comfort to him to speak of the things of God.
17. And now that I had become so dissipated, and had ceased to
pray, and yet saw that he still thought I was what I used to be,
I could not endure it, and so undeceived him. I had been a year
and more without praying, thinking it an act of greater humility
to abstain. This--I shall speak of it again [9]--was the
greatest temptation I ever had, because it very nearly wrought my
utter ruin; [10] for, when I used to pray, if I offended God one
day, on the following days I would recollect myself, and withdraw
farther from the occasions of sin.
18. When that blessed man, having that good opinion of me, came
to visit me, it pained me to see him so deceived as to think that
I used to pray to God as before. So I told him that I did not
pray; but I did not tell him why. I put my infirmities forward
as an excuse; for though I had recovered from that which was so
troublesome, I have always been weak, even very much so; and
though my infirmities are somewhat less troublesome now than they
were, they still afflict me in many ways; specially, I have been
suffering for twenty years from sickness every morning, [11] so
that I could not take any food till past mid-day, and even
occasionally not till later; and now, since my Communions have
become more frequent, it is at night, before I lie down to rest,
that the sickness occurs, and with greater pain; for I have to
bring it on with a feather, or other means. If I do not bring it
on, I suffer more; and thus I am never, I believe, free from
great pain, which is sometimes very acute, especially about the
heart; though the fainting-fits are now but of rare occurrence.
I am also, these eight years past, free from the paralysis, and
from other infirmities of fever, which I had so often. These
afflictions I now regard so lightly, that I am even glad of them,
believing that our Lord in some degree takes His pleasure
in them.
19. My father believed me when I gave him that for a reason, as
he never told a lie himself; neither should I have done so,
considering the relation we were in. I told him, in order to be
the more easily believed, that it was much for me to be able to
attend in choir, though I saw clearly that this was no excuse
whatever; neither, however, was it a sufficient reason for giving
up a practice which does not require, of necessity, bodily
strength, but only love and a habit thereof; yet our Lord always
furnishes an opportunity for it, if we but seek it. I say
always; for though there may be times, as in illness, and from
other causes, when we cannot be much alone, yet it never can be
but there must be opportunities when our strength is sufficient
for the purpose; and in sickness itself, and amidst other
hindrances, true prayer consists, when the soul loves, in
offering up its burden, and in thinking of Him for Whom it
suffers, and in the resignation of the will, and in a thousand
ways which then present themselves. It is under these
circumstances that love exerts itself for it is not necessarily
prayer when we are alone; and neither is it not prayer when we
are not.
20. With a little care, we may find great blessings on those
occasions when our Lord, by means of afflictions, deprives us of
time for prayer; and so I found it when I had a good conscience.
But my father, having that opinion of me which he had, and
because of the love he bore me, believed all I told him;
moreover, he was sorry for me; and as he had now risen to great
heights of prayer himself, he never remained with me long; for
when he had seen me, he went his way, saying that he was wasting
his time. As I was wasting it in other vanities, I cared little
about this.
21. My father was not the only person whom I prevailed upon to
practise prayer, though I was walking in vanity myself. When I
saw persons fond of reciting their prayers, I showed them how to
make a meditation, and helped them and gave them books; for from
the time I began myself to pray, as I said before, [12] I always
had a desire that others should serve God. I thought, now that I
did not myself serve our Lord according to the light I had, that
the knowledge His Majesty had given me ought not to be lost, and
that others should serve Him for me. [13] I say this in order to
explain the great blindness I was in: going to ruin myself, and
labouring to save others.
22. At this time, that illness befell my father of which he
died; [14] it lasted some days. I went to nurse him, being more
sick in spirit than he was in body, owing to my many
vanities--though not, so far as I know, to the extent of being in
mortal sin--through the whole of that wretched time of which I am
speaking; for, if I knew myself to be in mortal sin, I would not
have continued in it on any account. I suffered much myself
during his illness. I believe I rendered him some service in
return for what he had suffered in mine. Though I was very ill,
I did violence to myself; and though in losing him I was to lose
all the comfort and good of my life--he was all this to me--I was
so courageous, that I never betrayed my sorrows, concealing them
till he was dead, as if I felt none at all. It seemed as if my
very soul were wrenched when I saw him at the point of death--my
love for him was so deep.
23. It was a matter for which we ought to praise our Lord--the
death that he died, and the desire he had to die; so also was the
advice he gave us after the last anointing, how he charged us to
recommend him to God, and to pray for mercy for him, how he bade
us serve God always, and consider how all things come to an end.
He told us with tears how sorry he was that he had not served Him
himself; for he wished he was a friar--I mean, that he had been
one in the Strictest Order that is. I have a most assured
conviction that our Lord, some fifteen days before, had revealed
to him he was not to live; for up to that time, though very ill,
he did not think so; but now, though he was somewhat better, and
the physicians said so, he gave no heed to them, but employed
himself in the ordering of his soul.
24. His chief suffering consisted in a most acute pain of the
shoulders, which never left him: it was so sharp at times, that
it put him into great torture. I said to him, that as he had so
great a devotion to our Lord carrying His cross on His shoulders,
he should now think that His Majesty wished him to feel somewhat
of that pain which He then suffered Himself. This so comforted
him, that I do not think I heard him complain afterwards.
25. He remained three days without consciousness; but on the day
he died, our Lord restored him so completely, that we were
astonished: he preserved his understanding to the last; for in
the middle of the creed, which he repeated himself, he died.
He lay there like an angel--such he seemed to me, if I may say
so, both in soul and disposition: he was very good.
26. I know not why I have said this, unless it be for the purpose
of showing how much the more I am to be blamed for my wickedness;
for after seeing such a death, and knowing what his life had
been, I, in order to be in any wise like unto such a father,
ought to have grown better. His confessor, a most learned
Dominican, [15] used to say that he had no doubt he went straight
to heaven. [16] He had heard his confession for some years, and
spoke with praise of the purity of his conscience.
27. This Dominican father, who was a very good man, fearing God,
did me a very great service; for I confessed to him. He took
upon himself the task of helping my soul in earnest, and of
making me see the perilous state I was in. [17] He sent me to
Communion once a fortnight; [18] and I, by degrees beginning to
speak to him, told him about my prayer. He charged me never to
omit it: that, anyhow, it could not do me anything but good.
I began to return to it--though I did not cut off the occasions
of sin--and never afterwards gave it up. My life became most
wretched, because I learned in prayer more and more of my faults.
On one side, God was calling me; on the other, I was following
the world. All the things of God gave me great pleasure; and I
was a prisoner to the things of the world. It seemed as if I
wished to reconcile two contradictions, so much at variance one
with another as are the life of the spirit and the joys and
pleasures and amusements of sense. [19]
28. I suffered much in prayer; for the spirit was slave, and not
master; and so I was not able to shut myself up within
myself--that was my whole method of prayer--without shutting up
with me a thousand vanities at the same time. I spent many years
in this way; and I am now astonished that any one could have
borne it without abandoning either the one or the other. I know
well that it was not in my power then to give up prayer, because
He held me in His hand Who sought me that He might show me
greater mercies.
29. O my God! if I might, I would speak of the occasions from
which God delivered me, and how I threw myself into them again;
and of the risks I ran of losing utterly my good name, from which
He delivered me. I did things to show what I was; and our Lord
hid the evil, and revealed some little virtue--if so be I had
any--and made it great in the eyes of all, so that they always
held me in much honour. For although my follies came
occasionally into light, people would not believe it when they
saw other things, which they thought good. The reason is, that
He Who knoweth all things saw it was necessary it should be so,
in order that I might have some credit given me by those to whom
in after years I was to speak of His service. His supreme
munificence regarded not my great sins, but rather the desires I
frequently had to please Him, and the pain I felt because I had
not the strength to bring those desires to good effect.
30. O Lord of my soul! how shall I be able to magnify the graces
which Thou, in those years, didst bestow upon me? Oh, how, at
the very time that I offended Thee most, Thou didst prepare me in
a moment, by a most profound compunction, to taste of the
sweetness of Thy consolations and mercies! In truth, O my King,
Thou didst administer to me the most delicate and painful
chastisement it was possible for me to bear; for Thou knewest
well what would have given me the most pain. Thou didst chastise
my sins with great consolations. I do not believe I am saying
foolish things, though it may well be that I am beside myself
whenever I call to mind my ingratitude and my wickedness.
31. It was more painful for me, in the state I was in, to receive
graces, when I had fallen into grievous faults, than it would
have been to receive chastisement; for one of those faults, I am
sure, used to bring me low, shame and distress me, more than many
diseases, together with many heavy trials, could have done.
For, as to the latter, I saw that I deserved them; and it seemed
to me that by them I was making some reparation for my sins,
though it was but slight, for my sins are so many. But when I
see myself receive graces anew, after being so ungrateful for
those already received, that is to me--and, I believe, to all who
have any knowledge or love of God--a fearful kind of torment. We
may see how true this is by considering what a virtuous mind must
be. Hence my tears and vexation when I reflected on what I felt,
seeing myself in a condition to fall at every moment, though my
resolutions and desires then--I am speaking of that
time--were strong.
32. It is a great evil for a soul to be alone in the midst of
such great dangers; it seems to me that if I had had any one with
whom I could have spoken of all this, it might have helped me not
to fall. I might, at least, have been ashamed before him--and
yet I was not ashamed before God.
33. For this reason, I would advise those who give themselves to
prayer, particularly at first, to form friendships; and converse
familiarly, with others who are doing the same thing. It is a
matter of the last importance, even if it lead only to helping
one another by prayer: how much more, seeing that it has led to
much greater gain! Now, if in their intercourse one with
another, and in the indulgence of human affections even not of
the best kind, men seek friends with whom they may refresh
themselves, and for the purpose of having greater satisfaction in
speaking of their empty joys, I know no reason why it should not
be lawful for him who is beginning to love and serve God in
earnest to confide to another his joys and sorrows; for they who
are given to prayer are thoroughly accustomed to both.
34. For if that friendship with God which he desires be real, let
him not be afraid of vain-glory; and if the first movements
thereof assail him, he will escape from it with merit; and I
believe that he who will discuss the matter with this intention
will profit both himself and those who hear him, and thus will
derive more light for his own understanding, as well as for the
instruction of his friends. He who in discussing his method of
prayer falls into vain-glory will do so also when he hears Mass
devoutly, if he is seen of men, and in doing other good works,
which must be done under pain of being no Christian; and yet
these things must not be omitted through fear of vain-glory.
35. Moreover, it is a most important matter for those souls who
are not strong in virtue; for they have so many people, enemies
as well as friends, to urge them the wrong way, that I do not see
how this point is capable of exaggeration. It seems to me that
Satan has employed this artifice--and it is of the greatest
service to him--namely, that men who really wish to love and
please God should hide the fact, while others, at his suggestion,
make open show of their malicious dispositions; and this is so
common, that it seems a matter of boasting now, and the offences
committed against God are thus published abroad.
36. I do not know whether the things I am saying are foolish or
not. If they be so, your reverence will strike them out.
I entreat you to help my simplicity by adding a good deal to
this, because the things that relate to the service of God are so
feebly managed, that it is necessary for those who would serve
Him to join shoulder to shoulder, if they are to advance at all;
for it is considered safe to live amidst the vanities and
pleasures of the world, and few there be who regard them with
unfavourable eyes. But if any one begins to give himself up to
the service of God, there are so many to find fault with him,
that it becomes necessary for him to seek companions, in order
that he may find protection among them till he grows strong
enough not to feel what he may be made to suffer. If he does
not, he will find himself in great straits.
37. This, I believe, must have been the reason why some of the
Saints withdrew into the desert. And it is a kind of humility in
man not to trust to himself, but to believe that God will help
him in his relations with those with whom he converses; and
charity grows by being diffused; and there are a thousand
blessings herein which I would not dare to speak of, if I had not
known by experience the great importance of it. It is very true
that I am the most wicked and the basest of all who are born of
women; but I believe that he who, humbling himself, though
strong, yet trusteth not in himself, and believeth another who in
this matter has had experience, will lose nothing. Of myself I
may say that, if our Lord had not revealed to me this truth, and
given me the opportunity of speaking very frequently to persons
given to prayer, I should have gone on falling and rising till I
tumbled into hell. I had many friends to help me to fall; but as
to rising again, I was so much left to myself, that I wonder now
I was not always on the ground. I praise God for His mercy; for
it was He only Who stretched out His hand to me. May He be
blessed for ever! Amen.
1. See Way of Perfection, ch. xl.; but ch. xxvii. of the
former editions.
2. See Relation, i. § 18.
3. A.D. 1537, when the Saint was twenty-two years old (Bouix).
This passage, therefore, must be one of the additions to the
second Life; for the first was written in 1562, twenty-five years
only after the vision.
4. See ch. xxvii. § 3.
5. In the parlour of the monastery of the Incarnation, Avila, a
painting of this is preserved to this day (De la Fuente).
6. Ch. vi. § 4.
7. See Inner Fortress, v. iii. § 1.
8. Ch. i. § i.
9. Ch. xix. §§ 9, 17.
10. See § 2, above.
11. See ch. xi. § 23: Inner Fortress, vi. i. § 8.
12. § 16.
13. See Inner Fortress, v. iii. § 1.
14. In 1541, when the Saint was twenty-five years of age (Bouix).
15. F. Vicente Barron (Reforma, lib. i. ch. xv.).
16. See ch. xxxviii. § 1.
17. See ch. xix. § 19.
18. The Spanish editor calls attention to this as a proof of
great laxity in those days--that a nun like St. Teresa should be
urged to communicate as often as once in a fortnight.
19. See ch. xiii. §§ 7, 8.