St. Peter of Alcantara Comforts the Saint. Great Temptations and
Interior Trials.
1. When I saw that I was able to do little or nothing towards
avoiding these great impetuosities, I began also to be afraid of
them, because I could not understand how this pain and joy could
subsist together. I knew it was possible enough for bodily pain
and spiritual joy to dwell together; but the coexistence of a
spiritual pain so excessive as this, and of joy so deep, troubled
my understanding. Still, I tried to continue my resistance; but
I was so little able, that I was now and then wearied. I used to
take up the cross for protection, and try to defend myself
against Him who, by the cross, is the Protector of us all. I saw
that no one understood me. I saw it very clearly myself, but I
did not dare to say so to any one except my confessor; for that
would have been a real admission that I had no humility.
2. Our Lord was pleased to succour me in a great measure,--and,
for the moment, altogether,--by bringing to the place where I was
that blessed friar, Peter of Alcantara. Of him I spoke before,
and said something of his penance. [1] Among other things, I
have been assured that he wore continually, for twenty years, a
girdle made of iron. [2] He is the author of certain little
books, in Spanish, on prayer, which are now in common use; for,
as he was much exercised therein, his writings are very
profitable to those who are given to prayer. He kept the first
rule of the blessed St. Francis in all its rigour, and did those
things besides of which I spoke before.
3. When that widow, the servant of God and my friend, of whom I
have already spoken, [3] knew that so great a man had come, she
took her measures. She knew the straits I was in, for she was an
eye-witness of my afflictions, and was a great comfort to me.
Her faith was so strong, that she could not help believing that
what others said was the work of the devil was really the work of
the Spirit of God; and as she is a person of great sense and
great caution, and one to whom our Lord is very bountiful in
prayer, it pleased His Majesty to let her see what learned men
failed to discern. My confessors gave me leave to accept relief
in some things from her, because in many ways she was able to
afford it. Some of those graces which our Lord bestowed on me
fell to her lot occasionally, together with instructions most
profitable for her soul. So, then, when she knew that the
blessed man was come, without saying a word to me, she obtained
leave from the Provincial for me to stay eight days in her house,
in order that I might the more easily confer with him. In that
house, and in one church or another, I had many conversations
with him the first time he came here; for, afterwards, I had many
communications with him at diverse times.
4. I gave him an account, as briefly as I could, of my life, and
of my way of prayer, with the utmost clearness in my power.
I have always held to this, to be perfectly frank and exact with
those to whom I make known the state of my soul. [4] Even my
first impulses I wish them to know; and as for doubtful and
suspicious matters, I used to make the most of them by arguing
against myself. Thus, then, without equivocation or concealment,
I laid before him the state of my soul. I saw almost at once
that he understood me, by reason of his own experience. That was
all I required; for at that time I did not know myself as I do
now,so as to give an account of my state. It was at a later time
that God enabled me to understand myself, and describe the graces
which His Majesty bestows upon me. It was necessary, then, that
he who would clearly understand and explain my state should have
had experience of it himself.
5. The light he threw on the matter was of the clearest; for as
to these visions, at least, which were not imaginary, I could not
understand how they could be. And it seemed that I could not
understand, too, how those could be which I saw with the eyes of
the soul; for, as I said before, [5] those visions only seemed to
me to be of consequence which were seen with the bodily eyes: and
of these I had none. The holy man enlightened me on the whole
question, explained it to me, and bade me not to be distressed,
but to praise God, and to abide in the full conviction that this
was the work of the Spirit of God; for, saving the faith, nothing
could be more true, and there was nothing on which I could more
firmly rely. He was greatly comforted in me, was most kind and
serviceable, and ever afterwards took great care of me, and told
me of his own affairs and labours; and when he saw that I had
those very desires which in himself were fulfilled already,--for
our Lord had given me very strong desires,--and also how great my
resolution was, he delighted in conversing with me.
6. To a person whom our Lord has raised to this state, there is
no pleasure or comfort equal to that of meeting with another whom
our Lord has begun to raise in the same way. At that time,
however, it must have been only a beginning with me, as I
believe; and God grant I may not have gone back now. He was
extremely sorry for me. He told me that one of the greatest
trials in this world was that which I had borne,--namely, the
contradiction of good people, [6]--and that more was in reserve
for me: I had need, therefore, of some one--and there was no one
in this city--who understood me; but he would speak to my
confessor, and to that married nobleman, already spoken of, [7]
who was one of those who tormented me most, and who, because of
his great affection for me, was the cause of all these attacks.
He was a holy but timid man, and could not feel safe about me,
because he had seen how wicked I was, and that not long before.
The holy man did so; he spoke to them both, explained the matter,
and gave them reasons why they should reassure themselves, and
disturb me no more. My confessor was easily satisfied,--not so
the nobleman; for though they were not enough to keep him quiet,
yet they kept him in some measure from frightening me so much as
he used to do.
7. We made an agreement that I should write to him and tell him
how it fared with me, for the future, and that we should pray
much for each other. Such was his humility, that he held to the
prayers of a wretch like me. It made me very much ashamed of
myself. He left me in the greatest consolation and joy, bidding
me continue my prayer with confidence, and without any doubt that
it was the work of God. If I should have any doubts, for my
greater security, I was to make them known to my confessor, and,
having done so, be in peace. Nevertheless, I was not able at all
to feel that confidence, for our Lord was leading me by the way
of fear; and so, when they told me that the devil had power over
me, I believed them. Thus, then, not one of them was able to
inspire me with confidence on the one hand, or fear on the other,
in such a way as to make me believe either of them, otherwise
than as our Lord allowed me. Accordingly, though the holy friar
consoled and calmed me, I did not rely so much on him as to be
altogether without fear, particularly when our Lord forsook me in
the afflictions of my soul, of which I will now speak.
Nevertheless, as I have said, I was very much consoled.
8. I could not give thanks enough to God, and to my glorious
father St. Joseph, who seemed to me to have brought him here.
He was the commissary-general of the custody [8] of St. Joseph,
to whom, and to our Lady, I used to pray much.
9. I suffered at times--and even still, though not so often--the
most grievous trials, together with bodily pains and afflictions
arising from violent sicknesses; so much so, that I could
scarcely control myself. At other times, my bodily sickness was
more grievous; and as I had no spiritual pain, I bore it with
great joy: but, when both pains came upon me together, my
distress was so heavy, that I was reduced to sore straits.
10. I forgot all the mercies our Lord had shown me, and
remembered them only as a dream, to my great distress; for my
understanding was so dull, that I had a thousand doubts and
suspicions whether I had ever understood matters aright, thinking
that perhaps all was fancy, and that it was enough for me to have
deceived myself, without also deceiving good men. I looked upon
myself as so wicked as to have been the cause, by my sins, of all
the evils and all the heresies that had sprung up. This is but a
false humility, and Satan invented it for the purpose of
disquieting me, and trying whether he could thereby drive my soul
to despair. I have now had so much experience, that I know this
was his work; so he, seeing that I understand him, does not
torment me in the same way as much as he used to do. That it is
his work is clear from the restlessness and discomfort with which
it begins, and the trouble it causes in the soul while it lasts;
from the obscurity and distress, the aridity and indisposition
for prayer and for every good work, which it produces. It seems
to stifle the soul and trammel the body, so as to make them good
for nothing.
11. Now, though the soul acknowledges itself to be miserable, and
though it is painful to us to see ourselves as we are, and though
we have most deep convictions of our own wickedness,--deep as
those spoken of just now, [9] and really felt,--yet true humility
is not attended with trouble; it does not disturb the soul; it
causes neither obscurity nor aridity: on the contrary, it
consoles. It is altogether different, bringing with it calm,
sweetness, and light. It is no doubt painful; but, on the other
hand, it is consoling, because we see how great is the mercy of
our Lord in allowing the soul to have that pain, and how well the
soul is occupied. On the one hand, the soul grieves over its
offences against God; on the other, His compassion makes it glad.
It has light, which makes it ashamed of itself; and it gives
thanks to His Majesty, who has borne with it so long. That other
humility, which is the work of Satan, furnishes no light for any
good work; it pictures God as bringing upon everything fire and
sword; it dwells upon His justice; and the soul's faith in the
mercy of God--for the power of the devil does not reach so far as
to destroy faith--is of such a nature as to give me no
consolation: on the contrary, the consideration of mercies so
great helps to increase the pain, because I look upon myself as
bound to render greater service.
12. This invention of Satan is one of the most painful, subtle,
and crafty that I have known him to possess; I should therefore
like to warn you, my father, of it, in order that, if Satan
should tempt you herein, you may have some light, and be aware of
his devices, if your understanding should be left at liberty:
because you must not suppose that learning and knowledge are of
any use here; for though I have none of them myself, yet now that
I have escaped out of his hands I see clearly that this is folly.
What I understood by it is this: that it is our Lord's pleasure
to give him leave and license, as He gave him of old to tempt
Job; [10] though in my case, because of my wretchedness, the
temptation is not so sharp.
13. It happened to me to be tempted once in this way; and I
remember it was on the day before the vigil of Corpus Christi,--a
feast to which I have great devotion, though not so great as I
ought to have. The trial then lasted only till the day of the
feast itself. But, on other occasions, it continued one, two,
and even three weeks and--I know not--perhaps longer. But I was
specially liable to it during the Holy Weeks, when it was my
habit to make prayer my joy. Then the devil seizes on my
understanding in a moment; and occasionally, by means of things
so trivial that I should laugh at them at any other time, he
makes it stumble over anything he likes. The soul, laid in
fetters, loses all control over itself, and all power of thinking
of anything but the absurdities he puts before it, which, being
more or less unsubstantial, inconsistent, and disconnected, serve
only to stifle the soul, so that it has no power over itself; and
accordingly--so it seems to me--the devils make a football of it,
and the soul is unable to escape out of their hands. It is
impossible to describe the sufferings of the soul in this state.
It goes about in quest of relief, and God suffers it to find
none. The light of reason, in the freedom of its will, remains,
but it is not clear; it seems to me as if its eyes were covered
with a veil. As a person who, having travelled often by a
particular road, knows, though it be night and dark, by his past
experience of it, where he may stumble, and where he ought to be
on his guard against that risk, because he has seen the place by
day, so the soul avoids offending God: it seems to go on by
habit--that is, if we put out of sight the fact that our Lord
holds it by the hand, which is the true explanation of
the matter.
14. Faith is then as dead, and asleep, like all the other
virtues; not lost, however,--for the soul truly believes all that
the church holds; but its profession of the faith is hardly more
than an outward profession of the mouth. And, on the other hand,
temptations seem to press it down, and make it dull, so that its
knowledge of God becomes to it as that of something which it
hears of far away. So tepid is its love that, when it hears God
spoken of, it listens and believes that He is what He is, because
the Church so teaches; but it recollects nothing of its own
former experience. Vocal prayer or solitude is only a greater
affliction, because the interior suffering--whence it comes, it
knows not--is unendurable, and, as it seems to me, in some
measure a counterpart of hell. So it is, as our Lord showed me
in a vision; [11] for the soul itself is then burning in the
fire, knowing not who has kindled it, nor whence it comes, nor
how to escape it, nor how to put it out: if it seeks relief from
the fire by spiritual reading, it cannot find any, just as if it
could not read at all. On one occasion, it occurred to me to
read a life of a Saint, that I might forget myself, and be
refreshed with the recital of what he had suffered. Four or five
times, I read as many lines; and, though they were written in
Spanish, I understood them less at the end than I did when I
began: so I gave it up. It so happened to me on more occasions
than one, but I have a more distinct recollection of this.
15. To converse with any one is worse, for the devil then sends
so offensive a spirit of bad temper, that I think I could eat
people up; nor can I help myself. I feel that I do something
when I keep myself under control; or rather our Lord does so,
when He holds back with His hand any one in this state from
saying or doing something that may be hurtful to his neighbours
and offensive to God. Then, as to going to our confessor, that
is of no use; for the certain result is--and very often has it
happened to me--what I shall now describe. Though my confessors,
with whom I had to do then, and have to do still, are so holy,
they spoke to me and reproved me with such harshness, that they
were astonished at it afterwards when I told them of it.
They said that they could not help themselves; for, though they
had resolved not to use such language, and though they pitied me
also very much,--yea, even had scruples on the subject, because
of my grievous trials of soul and body,--and were, moreover,
determined to console me, they could not refrain. They did not
use unbecoming words--I mean, words offensive to God; yet their
words were the most offensive that could be borne with in
confession. They must have aimed at mortifying me. At other
times, I used to delight in this, and was prepared to bear it;
but it was then a torment altogether. I used to think, too, that
I deceived them; so I went to them, and cautioned them very
earnestly to be on their guard against me, for it might be that I
deceived them. I saw well enough that I would not do so
advisedly, nor tell them an untruth; [12] but everything made me
afraid. One of them, on one occasion, when he had heard me speak
of this temptation, told me not to distress myself; for, even if
I wished to deceive him, he had sense enough not to be deceived.
This gave me great comfort.
16. Sometimes, almost always,--at least, very frequently,--I used
to find rest after Communion; now and then, even, as I drew near
to the most Holy Sacrament, all at once my soul and body would be
so well, that I was amazed. [13] It seemed to be nothing else but
an instantaneous dispersion of the darkness that covered my soul:
when the sun rose, I saw how silly I had been.
17. On other occasions, if our Lord spoke to me but one word,
saying only, "Be not distressed, have no fear,"--as I said
before, [14]--I was made whole at once; or, if I saw a vision, I
was as if I had never been amiss. I rejoiced in God, and made my
complaint to Him, because He permitted me to undergo such
afflictions; yet the recompense was great; for almost always,
afterwards, His mercies descended upon me in great abundance.
The soul seemed to come forth as gold out of the crucible, most
refined, and made glorious to behold, our Lord dwelling within
it. These trials afterwards are light, though they once seemed
to be unendurable; and the soul longs to undergo them again, if
that be more pleasing to our Lord. And though trials and
persecutions increase, yet, if we bear them without offending our
Lord, rejoicing in suffering for His sake, it will be all the
greater gain: I, however, do not bear them as they ought to be
borne, but rather in a most imperfect way. At other times, my
trials came upon me--they come still--in another form; and then
it seems to me as if the very possibility of thinking a good
thought, or desiring the accomplishment of it, were utterly taken
from me: both soul and body are altogether useless and a heavy
burden. However, when I am in this state, I do not suffer from
the other temptations and disquietudes, but only from a certain
loathing of I know not what, and my soul finds pleasure
in nothing.
18. I used to try exterior good works, in order to occupy myself
partly by violence; and I know well how weak a soul is when grace
is hiding itself. It did not distress me much, because the sight
of my own meanness gave me some satisfaction. On other occasions,
I find myself unable to pray or to fix my thoughts with any
distinctness upon God, or anything that is good, though I may be
alone; but I have a sense that I know Him. It is the
understanding and the imagination, I believe, which hurt me here;
for it seems to me that I have a good will, disposed for all
good; but the understanding is so lost, that it seems to be
nothing else but a raving lunatic, which nobody can restrain, and
of which I am not mistress enough to keep it quiet for
a minute. [15]
19. Sometimes I laugh at myself, and recognise my wretchedness: I
watch my understanding, and leave it alone to see what it will
do. Glory be to God, for a wonder, it never runs on what is
wrong, but only on indifferent things, considering what is going
on here, or there, or elsewhere. I see then, more and more, the
exceeding great mercy of our Lord to me, when He keeps this
lunatic bound in the chains of perfect contemplation. I wonder
what would happen if those people who think I am good knew of my
extravagance. I am very sorry when I see my soul in such bad
company; I long to see it delivered therefrom, and so I say to
our Lord: When, O my God, shall I see my whole soul praising
Thee, that it may have the fruition of Thee in all its faculties?
Let me be no longer, O Lord, thus torn to pieces, and every one
of them, as it were, running in a different direction. This has
been often the case with me, but I think that my scanty bodily
health was now and then enough to bring it about.
20. I dwell much on the harm which original sin has done us; that
is, I believe, what has rendered us incapable of the fruition of
so great a good. My sins, too, must be in fault; for, if I had
not committed so many, I should have been more perfect in
goodness. Another great affliction which I suffered was this:
all the books which I read on the subject of prayer, I thought I
understood thoroughly, and that I required them no longer,
because our Lord had given me the gift of prayer. I therefore
ceased to read those books, and applied myself to lives of
Saints, thinking that this would improve me and give me courage;
for I found myself very defective in every kind of service which
the Saints rendered unto God. Then it struck me that I had very
little humility, when I could think that I had attained to this
degree of prayer; and so, when I could not come to any other
conclusion, I was greatly distressed, until certain learned
persons, and the blessed friar, Peter of Alcantara, told me not
to trouble myself about the matter.
21. I see clearly enough that I have not yet begun to serve God,
though He showers down upon me those very graces which He gives
to many good people. I am a mass of imperfection, except in
desire and in love; for herein I see well that our Lord has been
gracious to me, in order that I may please Him in some measure.
I really think that I love Him; but my conduct, and the many
imperfections I discern in myself, make me sad.
22. My soul, also, is subject occasionally to a certain
foolishness,--that is the right name to give it,--when I seem to
be doing neither good nor evil, but following in the wake of
others, as they say, without pain or pleasure, indifferent to
life and death, pleasure and pain. I seem to have no feeling.
The soul seems to me like a little ass, which feeds and thrives,
because it accepts the food which is given it, and eats it
without reflection. The soul in this state must be feeding on
some great mercies of God, seeing that its miserable life is no
burden to it, and that it bears it patiently but it is conscious
of no sensible movements or results, whereby it may ascertain the
state it is in.
23. It seems to me now like sailing with a very gentle wind, when
one makes much way without knowing how; for in the other states,
so great are the effects, that the soul sees almost at once an
improvement in itself, because the desires instantly are on fire,
and the soul is never satisfied. This comes from those great
impetuosities of love, spoken of before, [16] in those to whom
God grants them. It is like those little wells I have seen
flowing, wherein the upheaving of the sand never ceases.
This illustration and comparison seem to me to be a true
description of those souls who attain to this state; their love
is ever active, thinking what it may do; it cannot contain
itself, as the water remains not in the earth, but is continually
welling upwards. So is the soul, in general; it is not at rest,
nor can it contain itself, because of the love it has: it is so
saturated therewith, that it would have others drink of it,
because there is more than enough for itself, in order that they
might help it to praise God.
24. I call to remembrance--oh, how often!--that living water of
which our Lord spoke to the Samaritan woman. That Gospel [17]
has a great attraction for me; and, indeed, so it had even when I
was a little child, though I did not understand it then as I do
now. I used to pray much to our Lord for that living water; and I
had always a picture of it, representing our Lord at the well,
with this inscription, "Domine, da mihi aquam." [18]
25. This love is also like a great fire, which requires fuel
continually, in order that it may not burn out. So those souls I
am speaking of, however much it may cost them, will always bring
fuel, in order that the fire may not be quenched. As for me, I
should be glad, considering what I am, if I had but straw even to
throw upon it. And so it is with me occasionally--and, indeed,
very often. At one time, I laugh at myself; and at another, I am
very much distressed. The inward stirring of my love urges me to
do something for the service of God; and I am not able to do more
than adorn images with boughs and flowers, clean or arrange an
oratory, or some such trifling acts, so that I am ashamed of
myself. If I undertook any penitential practice, the whole was
so slight, and was done in such a way, that if our Lord did not
accept my good will, I saw it was all worthless, and so I laughed
at myself. The failure of bodily strength, sufficient to do
something for God, is no light affliction for those souls to whom
He, in His goodness, has communicated this fire of His love in
its fulness. It is a very good penance; for when souls are not
strong enough to heap fuel on this fire, and die of fear that the
fire may go out, it seems to me that they become fuel themselves,
are reduced to ashes, or dissolved in tears, and burn away: and
this is suffering enough, though it be sweet.
26. Let him, then, praise our Lord exceedingly, who has attained
to this state; who has received the bodily strength requisite for
penance; who has learning, ability, and power to preach, to hear
confessions, and to draw souls unto God. Such a one neither
knows nor comprehends the blessing he possesses, unless he knows
by experience what it is to be powerless to serve God in
anything, and at the same time to be receiving much from Him.
May He be blessed for ever, and may the angels glorify
Him! Amen.
27. I know not if I do well to write so much in detail. But as
you, my father, bade me again not to be troubled by the
minuteness of my account, nor to omit anything, I go on
recounting clearly and truly all I can call to mind. But I must
omit much; for if I did not, I should have to spend more
time--and, as I said before, [19] I have so little to spend, and
perhaps, after all, nothing will be gained.
1. Ch. xxvii. §§ 17, 18, 19.
2. Hoja de lata, "cierta hoja de hierro muy delgada"
(Cobarruvias, Tesoro, in voce).
3. Ch. xxiv. § 5. Doña Guiomar de Ulloa.
4. Ch. xxvi. § 5.
5. Ch. vii. § 12.
6. See ch. xxviii. § 24.
7. Ch. xxiii. § 7.
8. A "custody" is a division of the province, in the Order of
St. Francis, comprising a certain number of convents.
9. § 10.
10. Job i.
11. See ch. xxxii. § 1, &c.
12. See ch. xxviii. § 6.
13. See Way of Perfection, ch. lxi. § 2; but ch. xxxiv. § 8 of
the earlier editions.
14. Ch. xx. § 21, ch. xxv. § 22, ch. xxvi. § 3.
15. "Un Credo."
16. Ch. xxix. § 11.
17. St. John iv. 5-42: the Gospel of Friday after the Third
Sunday in Lent, where the words are, "hanc aquam."
18. "Lord, give me this water" (St. John iv. 15). See ch. i. §
6; and Way of Perfection, ch. xxix. § 5; ch. xix. § 5 of the
earlier editions.
19. Ch. xiv. § 12.