ST. FRANCOIS DE SALES AND MADAME DE
CHANTAL.--VISITATION.--QUIETISM.--RESULTS OF RELIGIOUS DIRECTION.
Saint Francois de Sales was very popular in France, and especially in
the provinces of Burgundy, where a fermentation of religious passions
had continued in full force ever since the days of the League. The
parliament of Dijon entreated him to come and preach there. He was
received by his friend Andre Fremiot, who from being a counsellor in
Parliament had become Archbishop of Bourges. He was the son of a
president much esteemed at Dijon, and the brother of Madame de Chantal,
consequently the great-uncle of Madame de Sevigne, who was the
grand-daughter of the latter.
The biographers of St. Francois and Madame de Chantal, in order to give
their first meeting an air of the romantic and marvellous, suppose, but
with little probability on their side, that they were unacquainted;
that one had scarcely heard the other spoken of; that they had seen
each other only in their dreams or visions. In Lent, when the Saint
preached at Dijon, he distinguished her among the crowd of ladies, and,
on descending from the pulpit, exclaimed, "Who is then this young
widow, who listened so attentively to the Word of God?" "My sister,"
replied the Archbishop, "the Baroness de Chantal."
She was then (1604) thirty-two years of age, and St. Francis
thirty-seven; consequently, she was born in 1572, the year of St.
Bartholomew. From her very infancy she was somewhat austere,
passionate, and violent. When only six years old, a Protestant
gentleman happening to give her some sugar-plums, she threw them into
the fire, saying, "Sir, see how the heretics will burn in hell, for not
believing what our Lord has said. If you gave the lie to the king, my
papa would have you hung; what must the punishment be then for having
so often contradicted our Lord!"
With all her devotion and passion, she had an eye to real advantages.
She had very ably conducted the household and fortune of her husband,
and those of her father and father-in-law were managed by her with the
same prudence. She took up her abode with the latter, who, otherwise,
had not left his wealth to her young children.
We read with a sort of enchantment the lively and charming letters by
which the correspondence begins between St. Francois de Sales, and her
whom he calls "his dear sister and daughter." Nothing can be more pure
and chaste, but at the same time, why should we not say so, nothing
more ardent. It is curious to observe the innocent art, the caresses,
the tender and ingenious flattery with which he envelopes these two
families, the Fremiots and the Chantals. First, the father, the good
old president Fremiot, who in his library begins to study religious
books and dreams of salvation; next, the brother, the ex-chancellor,
the Archbishop of Bourges; he writes expressly for him a little
treatise on the manner of preaching. He by no means neglects the
father-in-law, the rough old Baron de Chantal, an ancient relic of the
wars of the League, the object of the daughter-in-law's particular
adoration. But he succeeds especially in captivating the young
children; he shows his tenderness in a thousand ways, by a thousand
pious caresses, such as the heart of a woman, and that woman a mother,
had scarcely been able to suggest. He prays for them, and desires
these infants to remember him in their prayers.
Only one person in this household was difficult to be tamed, and this
was Madame de Chantal's confessor. It is here, in this struggle
between the Director and the Confessor, that we learn what address,
what skilful manoeuvres and stratagems, are to be found in the
resources of an ardent will. This confessor was a devout personage,
but of confined and shallow intellect, and small means. The Saint
desires to become his friend,--he submits to his superior wisdom the
advice he is about to give. He skilfully comforts Madame de Chantal,
who entertained some misgiving about her spiritual infidelity, and who,
finding herself moving on an agreeable sloping path, was fearful she
had left the rough road to salvation. He carefully entertains this
scruple in order the better to do away with it; to her inquiry whether
she ought to impart it to her confessor, he adroitly gives her to
understand that it may be dispensed with.
He declares then as a conqueror, who has nothing to fear, that far from
being, like the other, uneasy, jealous, and peevish, who required
implicit obedience, he on the contrary imposes no obligations, but
leaves her entirely free--no obligation, save that of Christian
friendship, whose tie is called by St. Paul "the bond of perfectness:"
all other ties are temporal, even that of obedience; but that of
charity increases with time: it is free from the scythe of
death,--"Love is strong as death," saith the Song of Solomon. He says
to her, on another occasion, with much ingenuousness and dignity: "I do
not add one grain to the truth; I speak before God, who knows my heart
and yours; every affection has a character that distinguishes it from
the others; that which I feel for you has a peculiar character, that
gives me infinite consolation, and to tell you all, is extremely
profitable to me. I did not wish to say so much, but one word produces
another, and then I know you will be careful." (Oct. 14, 1604.)
From this moment, having her constantly before his eyes, he associates
her not only with his religious thoughts, but, what astonishes us more,
with his very acts as a priest. It is generally before or after mass
that he writes to her; it is of her, of her children, that he is
thinking, says he, "_at the moment of the communion_." They do penance
the same days, take the communion at the same moment, though separate.
"_He offers her to God, when he offers Him His Son!_" (Nov. 1, 1605.)
This singular man, whose serenity was never for a moment affected by
such a union, was able very soon to perceive that the mind of Madame de
Chantal was far from being as tranquil as his own. Her character was
strong, and she felt deeply. The middle class of people, the citizens
and lawyers, from whom she was descended, were endowed from their birth
with a keener mind, and a greater spirit of sincerity and truth, than
the elegant, noble, but enfeebled families of the sixteenth century.
The last comers were fresh; you find them everywhere ardent and serious
in literature, warfare, and religion; they impart to the seventeenth
century the gravity and holiness of its character. Thus this woman,
though a saint, had nevertheless depths of unknown passion.
They had hardly been separated two months when she wrote to him that
she wanted to see him again. And indeed they met half-way in
Franche-Comte, in the celebrated pilgrimage of St. Claude. There she
was happy; there she poured out all her heart, and confessed to him for
the first time; making him the sweet engagement of entrusting to his
beloved hand the vow of obedience.
Six weeks had not passed away before she wrote to him that she wanted
to see him again. Now she is bewildered by passions and temptations;
all around her is darkness and doubts; she doubts even of her faith;
she has no longer the strength of exercising her will; she would wish
to fly--alas! she has no wings; and in the midst of these great but sad
feelings, this serious person seems rather childish; she would like him
to call her no longer "madam," but his sister, his daughter, as he did
before.
She uses in another place this sad expression,--"There is something
within me that has never been satisfied."--(Nov. 21, 1604.)
The conduct of St. Francois deserves our attention. This man, so
shrewd at other times, will now understand but half. Far from inducing
Madame de Chantal to adopt a religious life, which would have put her
into his power, he tries to strengthen her in her duties of mother and
daughter towards her children and the two old men who required also her
maternal care. He discourses with her of her duties, business, and
obligations. As to her doubts, she must neither reflect nor reason
about them. She must occasionally read good books; and he points out
to her, as such, some paltry mystic treatises. If the _she-ass_ should
kick (it is thus he designates the flesh and sensuality), he must quiet
her by some blows of discipline.
He appears at this time to have been very sensible that an intimacy
between two persons so united by affection was not without
inconvenience. He answers with prudence to the entreaties of Madame de
Chantal: "I am bound here hand and foot; and as for you, my dear
sister, does not the inconvenience of the last journey alarm you?"
This was written in October on the eve of a season rude enough among
the Alps and at Jura: "We shall see between this and Easter."
She went at this period to see him at the house of his mother; then,
finding herself all alone at Dijon, she fell very ill. Occupied with
the controversy of this time, he seemed to be neglecting her. He wrote
to her less and less; feeling, doubtless, the necessity of making all
haste in this rapid journey. All this year (1605) was passed, on her
part, in a violent struggle between temptations and doubts; at last she
scarcely knew how to make up her mind, whether to bury herself with the
Carmelites, or marry again.
A great religious movement was then taking place in France: this
movement, far from being spontaneous, was well devised, very
artificial, but, nevertheless, immense in its results. The rich and
powerful families of the Bar had, by their zeal and vanity, impelled it
forward. At the side of the oratory founded by Cardinal de Berulle,
Madame Acarie, a woman singularly active and zealous, a saint engaged
in all the devout intrigues (known also as the blessed Mary of the
incarnation), established the Carmelites in France, and the Ursulines
in Paris. The impassioned austerity of Madame de Chantal urged her
towards the Carmelites; she consulted occasionally one of their
superiors, a doctor of the Sorbonne.[1] St. Francois de Sales
perceived the danger, and he no longer endeavoured to contend against
her. He accepted Madame de Chantal from that very moment. In a
charming letter he gives her, in the name of his mother, his young
sister to educate.
It seems that as long as she had this tender pledge she was in some
degree calmer; but it was soon taken from her. This child, so
cherished and so well taken care of, died in her arms at her own house.
She cannot disguise from the Saint, in the excess of her grief, that
she had asked God to let her rather die herself; she went so far as to
pray that she might rather lose one of her own children!
This took place in November (1607). It is three months after that we
find in the letters of the Saint the first idea of getting nearer to
him a person so well tried, and who seemed to him, moreover, to be an
instrument of the designs of God.
The extreme vivacity, I was almost saying the violence, with which
Madame de Chantal broke every tie in order to follow an impulse given
with so much reserve, proves too plainly all the passion of her ardent
nature. It was not an easy thing to leave there those two old men, her
father, her father-in-law, and her own son, who, they say, stretched
himself out on the threshold to prevent her passing. Good old Fremiot
was gained over less by his daughter than by the letters of the Saint,
which she used as auxiliaries. We have still the letter of
resignation, all blotted over with his tears, in which he gives his
consent: this resignation, moreover, seems not to have lasted long. He
died the following year.
She has now passed over the body of her son and that of her father; she
arrives at Annecy. What would have happened if the Saint had not found
fuel for this powerful flame that he had raised too high--higher than
he desired himself?
The day after the Pentecost, he calls her to him after mass: "Well, my
daughter," says he, "I have determined what I shall do with you." "And
I am resolved to obey," cried she, falling on her knees before him.
"You must enter St. Clair's." "I am quite ready," replied she. "No,
you are not strong enough; you must be a sister in the Hospital of
Beaune." "Whatever you please." "This is not quite what I
want--become a Carmelite." He tried her thus in several ways, and
found her ever obedient. "Well," said he, "nothing of the sort--God
calls you to the Visitation."
The Visitation had nothing of the austerity of the ancient orders. The
founder himself said it was "almost no religion at all." No
troublesome customs, no watchings, no fastings, but little duty, short
prayers, no seclusions (in the beginning); the sisters, while they
waited for the coming of the divine Bridegroom, went to visit Him in
the person of His poor and His sick, who are His living members.
Nothing was better calculated to calm the stormy passions within, than
this variety of active charity. Madame de Chantal, who had formerly
been a good mother, a prudent housekeeper, was happy in finding even in
mystic life employment for her economical and positive faculties in
devoting herself to the laborious detail of the establishment of a
great order, in travelling, according to the orders of her beloved
director, from one establishment to another. It was a twofold proof of
wisdom in the Saint: he made her useful, and kept her away.
With all this prudence, we must say that the happiness of working
together for the same end, of founding, and creating together,
strengthened still more the tie that was already so strong. It is
curious to see how they tighten the band in wishing to untie it. This
contradiction is affecting. At the very time he is prescribing to her
to detach herself from him who had been her nurse, he protests that
this nurse shall never fail her. The very day he lost his mother he
writes in these strong terms: "To you I speak, to you, I say, to whom I
have allotted my mother's place in my memorial of the mass, without
depriving you of the one you had, for I have not been able to do it, so
fast do you retain what you have in my heart; and so it is, _you
possess it first and last_."
I do not think a stronger expression ever escaped the heart on a more
solemn day. How burning must it have entered her heart, already
lacerated with passion! How can he be surprised after that, that she
should write to him, "Pray to God, that I survive you not!" Does he
not see, that at every instant he wounds, and heals only to renew the
pain?
The nuns of the Visitation, who published some of the letters of their
foundress, have prudently suppressed several, which, as they say
themselves, "are only fit to be kept under the lock and key of
charity." Those which are extant are, however, quite sufficient to
show the deep wound she bore with her to the grave.
The Visitation being supported neither by active charity, which was
soon prohibited, nor by the cultivation of the intellect, which had
given life to the Paraclet and other convents of the middle ages, had
no other choice, it would seem, than to adopt mystic asceticism. But
the moderation of the founder, in conformity with the lukewarmness of
the times, had excluded from his new institution the austerity of the
ancient orders--those cruel practices that annihilated the senses in
destroying the body itself; consequently, there was no activity, nor
study, nor austerity. In this vacuum two things were evident from the
very outset: on one side, narrow-mindedness, a taste for trivial
observances, and a fantastical system of devotion (Madame de Chantal
tatooed her bosom with the name of Jesus); on the other side, an
unreasonable and boundless attachment to the _Director_.
In everything relating to St. Francois de Sales the saint shows herself
very weak. After his death she raves, and allows herself to be guided
by dreams and visions. She fancies that she perceives his dear
presence, in the churches, amid celestial perfumes, perceptible to her
alone. She lays upon his tomb a little book composed of all he had
written or said upon the Visitation, praying "that if there was
anything in it contrary to his intentions, he would have the goodness
to efface it."
In 1631, ten years after the death of St. Francois de Sales, his tomb
was solemnly opened, and his body was found entire. "It was placed in
the sacristy of the monastery, where, about nine o'clock at night,
after the crowd had withdrawn, she led her community, and began praying
by the side of the body, 'in an ecstasy of love and humility.' As they
were forbidden to touch it, she did a signal act of obedience in
abstaining from kissing his hand. The following morning, having
obtained permission, she stooped down in order to place the saint's
hand upon her head; when, as if he had been alive, he drew her towards
him, and held her in a paternal and tender caress: she felt very
plainly this supernatural movement.... They still keep, as a double
relic, the veil she then wore."
Let others be at a loss to find out the real name of this worthy
sentiment, or let a false reserve prevent them; let them term it filial
piety, or fraternal affection; we, for our part, call it simply by a
name that we believe holy--we shall call it love. We are bound to
believe the saint himself, when he assures us that this sentiment
contributed powerfully to his spiritual progress. However, this is not
sufficient; we must see what effect it had upon Madame de Chantal.
All the doctrine to be found in the writings of St. Francois, among
much excellent practical advice, might be summed up in these words--to
_love_ and to _wait_.
_To wait_ for the visitation of the divine Bridegroom. Far from
advising action, or the desire of acting, he is so afraid of motion,
that he proscribes the word _union_ with God, which might imply a
tendency to unite; and desires that the word _unity_ may be used
instead, for it is necessary to remain in a loving indifference. "I
wish for very little," said he, "and that little I desire very little;
I have almost no desires; but if I were to be born again, I would have
none at all. If God came to me, I would go to Him also; but _if He
would not come to me, I would remain there, and not go to Him_."
This absence of every desire excluded even that of virtue. It is the
highest point which the saint seems to have reached a short time before
his death. He writes on the 10th of August, 1619, "Say you renounce
every virtue, desiring them only as you receive them gradually from
God, nor wishing to take any care for acquiring them, excepting in
proportion as His bounty shall employ you to do so, for His own good
pleasure." If self-will disappear at this point, what will take its
place? The will of God apparently.... Only, let us not forget that if
this miracle take place, it will have for its result a state of
unalterable peace and immutable strength. By this token, and by no
other, are we bound to recognise it.
Madame de Chantal herself tells us that it had just the contrary
effect. Though they have skilfully arranged her life, and mutilated
her letters, there are still enough of them to show in what a tempest
of passion she passed her days. Her whole life, which was long, and
taken up with real cares, in founding and managing religious
establishments, contributes in no way to calm her; time wears her out
and destroys her, without effecting any change in her inward martyrdom.
She finishes by this confession in her latter days: "All that I have
suffered during the whole course of my life are not to be compared to
the torments I now feel; I am reduced to such a degree that nothing can
satisfy me, nor give me any relief, except one word--Death!"
I did not need this sad testimony; I could have found it out without
her assistance. This exclusive cultivation of sensibility, whatever be
the virtues that ennoble it, ends infallibly in tormenting the soul,
and reducing it to a state of excruciating suffering. We cannot, with
impunity, allow our will, the very essence of our strength and reason,
the guardian of our tranquillity, to be absorbed by an all-devouring
love.
I have spoken elsewhere of the few but splendid examples exhibited
throughout the middle ages in the persons of learned nuns, who combined
science with piety. Their instructors seem to have entertained no
apprehension in developing both their reason and their will. But
science, it is said, fills the soul with uneasiness and curiosity, and
removes us from God. As if there were any science without Him; as if
the divine effulgence, reflected in science, had not a serene virtue, a
power diffusing tranquillity in the human heart, and imparting that
peace of eternal truths and imperishable laws, which will exist in all
their purity when worlds will be no more.
Whom do I blame in all this? Man? God forbid! I only censure the
method.
This method, which was termed Quietism when once it was reduced to a
system, and which, as we shall see presently, is, generally speaking,
that of the _devout direction_, is nothing else than the development of
our passiveness, our instinct of indolence; the result of which, in
course of time, is the paralysis of our will, the annihilation of the
essence of man's constitution.
St. Francois de Sales, was, it would seem, one of the most likely
persons to impart animation to this lifeless system. Nevertheless it
was he, the loyal and the pure, who introduced the system at this
period; it was he who in the seventeenth century pointed out the road
to _passiveness_.
We are, as yet, in the earliest dawn of the century, in all its morning
freshness, and invigorated by the breeze from the Alps. Yet see,
Madame de Chantal sickens and breathes with difficulty.... How will it
be towards evening?
The worthy saint, in a delightful letter, describes himself as being
one day on the lake of Geneva, "on a small raft," guided by Providence,
and perfectly obedient "to the pilot, who forbids him to stir, and very
glad at having only a board three fingers thick to support him." The
century is embarked with him, and, with this amiable guide, he sails
among breakers. These deep waters, as you will find out afterwards,
are the depths of Quietism; and if your sight is keen enough, you may
already perceive Molinos through this transparent abyss.
[1] See St. Francois, OEuvres, viii. 336, April, 1606; and Tabaraud,
Life of Berulle, pp., 57, 58, 95, 141.