ST. THERESE OF LISIEUX

THE STORY OF A SOUL

(L'HISTOIRE D'UNE AME)

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF
ST. THERESE OF LISIEUX

WITH ADDITIONAL WRITINGS
AND SAYINGS OF ST. THERESE

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Title: Story of a Soul (l'Histoire d'une Ame): The Autobiography of St.
Therese of Lisieux
Creator(s): Therese, of Lisieux, Saint (1873-1897)
Print Basis: London: Burns, Oates & Washbourne, 1912;
Rights: Public Domain
CCEL Subjects: All; Classic; Mysticism;

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NOTE TO THIS ELECTRONIC EDITION

This electronic edition of the autobiography of St. Therese of Lisieux
(The Story of a Soul) includes much, but not all, of the content of
Soeur Therese of Lisieux (London: Burns, Oates & Washbourne, 1912; 8th
ed., 1922), edited by Rev. T.N. Taylor. All the translated writings and
sayings of St. Therese contained in that book are in this electronic
edition, including the autobiography as well as "Counsels and
Reminiscences," letters, and selected poems. Also included are the
preface by Cardinal Bourne, the prologue relating Therese's parentage
and birth, and the epilogue describing her final illness, her death,
and related events. Not included are the illustrations, the list of
illustrations, accounts of favors attributed to the intercession of St.
Therese, documents related to her beatification, and some other
material not written by her.

Some footnotes have been slightly modified for ease of reference. A few
footnotes, referring to page numbers in the original, have been
modified or omitted. Citations to the Psalms, many of which were
numbered differently in Catholic Bibles of St. Therese's time than they
commonly are today, have the "new" number in brackets next to the "old"
number from the original--e.g., "Psalm 22[23]:1-4."

The original page headers, page numbering, disclaimer of any intention
to anticipate the judgment of the Church in calling St. Therese a
"saint" before her canonization, and other extraneous matter, which
were deemed suitable for a printed book in 1922 but not for an e-book
in 2005, are not here. The French "oe" ligature, in words such as
"soeur," is not available in the standard ISO-8859-1 character set, and
obviously is represented here by the two-letter combination "oe." The
first word of each chapter is not set in all caps as it was in the
printed book. A few obvious typographical errors have been corrected,
with the changes in brackets, e.g., "[s]he" for "the" in Chapter IX.
All else, including capitalization, punctuation, grammar, and British
spelling, is intended to reflect the content of the eighth edition of
Soeur Therese of Lisieux. If it does not, the fault is that of the
transcriber (me, David McClamrock).
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SOEUR THERESE OF LISIEUX, THE LITTLE FLOWER OF JESUS

A NEW AND COMPLETE TRANSLATION OF L'HISTOIRE D'UNE AME,
WITH AN ACCOUNT OF SOME FAVOURS ATTRIBUTED TO
THE INTERCESSION OF SOEUR THERESE

EDITED BY T. N. TAYLOR:
PRIEST OF THE ARCHDIOCESE OF GLASGOW:
WITNESS BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL OF THE BEATIFICATION

BURNS, OATES & WASHBOURNE LD.

TWENTY-EIGHT ORCHARD STREET,
LONDON, W.,
AND EIGHT TO TEN PATERNOSTER ROW,
LONDON, E.C.
__________________________________________________________________

NIHIL OBSTAT JOANNES N. STRASSMAIER, S.J. Censor Deputatus

IMPRIMATUR EDMUNDUS Canonicus SURMONT Vicarius Generalis

WESTMONASTERII, die nona Decembris, 1912.
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CONTENTS

* DEDICATION
* PREFACE BY H.E. CARDINAL BOURNE
* PROLOGUE: PARENTAGE AND BIRTH
* AUTOBIOGRAPHY

CHAPTERS
1. Earliest Memories
2. A Catholic Household
3. Pauline Enters the Carmel
4. First Communion and Confirmation
5. Vocation of Therese
6. A Pilgrimage to Rome
7. The Little Flower Enters the Carmel
8. Profession of Soeur Therese
9. The Night of the Soul
10. The New Commandment
11. A Canticle of Love

* EPILOGUE: A VICTIM OF DIVINE LOVE
* COUNSELS AND REMINISCENCES
* LETTERS OF SOEUR THERESE
+ To Celine
+ To Mother Agnes of Jesus
+ To Sister Mary of the Sacred Heart
+ To Sister Frances Teresa
+ To Marie Guerin
+ To Jeanne Guerin
+ To Missionaries
* PRAYERS OF SOEUR THERESE
+ Her Act of Oblation
+ A Morning Prayer
+ Act of Consecration to the Holy Face
+ Prayer in Honour of the Holy Child
+ Prayer to the Holy Child
+ Prayer to the Holy Face
+ Prayer in Honour of St. Joan of Arc
+ Prayer to Obtain Humility
* DAYS OF GRACE
* SELECTED POEMS
+ My Song of To-day
+ Memories
+ I Thirst for Love
+ To Scatter Flowers
+ Why I Love Thee, Mary
* SHOWER OF ROSES [omitted]
* PROCESS OF BEATIFICATION [omitted]
* LETTERS OF PIUS X AND OTHERS [omitted]
* INDULGENCED PRAYERS [omitted]
* SUPPLEMENT [omitted]
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DEDICATION

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE SERVANT OF GOD,
SOEUR THERESE,
IN THANKSGIVING FOR GRACES OBTAINED,
AND TO HER "PETITE MERE,"
MOTHER AGNES OF JESUS,
IN GRATEFUL MEMORY OF INNUMERABLE KINDNESSES
EXTENDING OVER MANY YEARS
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PREFACE

As we become acquainted with the histories of those in whom, in long
succession, God has been pleased to show forth examples of holiness of
life, it seems as if every phase of human existence had in the history
of the Church received its consecration as a power to bring men nearer
to their Maker. But there is no limit to the types of sanctity which
the Creator is pleased to unfold before His Creatures. To many, on
reading for the first time the story of Sister Teresa of the Child
Jesus and of the Holy Face, it came almost as a shock to find a very
youthful member of an austere Order, strictly retired from the world,
engaged in hidden prayer and mortification, appearing before us to
reveal to the whole world the wonders of the close intimacy of
friendship to which her Divine Spouse had been pleased to call her.
Certainly the way by which Soeur Therese was led is not the normal life
of Carmel, nor hers the manner whereby most Carmelites are called to
accomplish the wondrous apostolate of intercession to which their lives
are given. But no less certain is it that, in her particular case, her
work for God and her apostolate were not to be confined between the
walls of her religious home, or to be limited by her few years on
earth.

In the first place, we know that it was by obedience that the record of
God's dealings with her soul were set down in writing. And again, the
long tale of graces granted in such strange profusion through her
intercession is proof sufficient that it was not without Divine
permission and guidance that the history of her special and peculiar
vocation has become the property of all Catholics in every land. It is
for God to keep, and for Him to make known the secrets of His Love for
men. And in the case of Soeur Therese it has been His Will to divulge
His secrets in most generous consideration for our needs.

What are the hidden treasures which Our Divine Master thus reveals to
us through His chosen little servant?

It is the old story of simplicity in God's service, of the perfect
accomplishment of small recurring duties, of trustful confidence in Him
who made and has redeemed and sanctified us. Humility, self-effacement,
obedience, hiddenness, unfaltering charity, with all the self-control
and constant effort that they imply, are written on every page of the
history of this little Saint. And, as we turn its pages, the lesson is
borne in upon our souls that there is no surer nor safer way of
pleasing Our Father Who is in Heaven than by remaining ever as little
children in His sight. Doubtless for many of her clients whose hearts
are kindled as they read this book, Soeur Therese will obtain, as she
has done so often in the past, wonderful gifts for health of soul and
body. But may she win for all of us without exception a deep and
fruitful conviction of the unchanging truth, that unless we become as
little children in the doing of our Heavenly Father's Will, we cannot
enter into our Eternal Home.

FRANCIS CARDINAL BOURNE, Archbishop of Westminster.
Feast of the Presentation of Our Blessed Lady, 1912.
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PROLOGUE: THE PARENTAGE & BIRTH OF MARIE FRANC,OISE THERESE MARTIN

In the month of September, 1843, a young man of twenty climbed the
mountain of the Great St. Bernard. His eyes shone with a holy
enthusiasm as the splendour of the Alps stirred to the depths his
responsive nature. Presently, accustomed as they were to discern God's
beauty in the beauty of His handiwork, they glistened with tears. He
paused for a space, then, continuing his journey, soon reached the
celebrated monastery that like a beacon on those heights darts afar its
beams of faith and magnificent charity.

The Prior, struck by the frank and open countenance of his guest,
welcomed him with more than wonted hospitality. Louis Joseph Stanislaus
Martin was the pilgrim's name. He was born on August 22, 1823, at
Bordeaux, while his father, a brave and devout soldier, was captain in
the garrison there. "God has predestined this little one for Himself,"
said the saintly Bishop of Bordeaux on the occasion of his baptism, and
events have proved the truth of his words. From this town, by the banks
of the Garonne, his parents went to Alenc,on in lower Normandy, and
there in their new home, as in their old one, Louis was the cherished
Benjamin.

It was not the loveliness of Swiss lakes and mountains and skies that
had drawn the traveller from distant Alenc,on. He came to the
monastery--and his journey was chiefly on foot--to consecrate his days
to God. On learning his purpose the Prior questioned him upon his
knowledge of Latin, only to discover that the young aspirant had not
completed his course of studies in that language. "I am indeed sorry,
my child," said the venerable monk, "since this is an essential
condition, but you must not be disheartened. Go back to your own
country, apply yourself diligently, and when you have ended your
studies we shall receive you with open arms."

Louis was disappointed. He set out for home--for exile he would have
said--but ere long he saw clearly that his life was to be dedicated to
God in another and equally fruitful way, and that the Alpine monastery
was to be nothing more to him than a sweet memory.

* * * * * *

A few years after the vain quest of Louis Martin, a similar scene was
enacted in Alenc,on itself. Accompanied by her mother, Zelie Guerin--an
attractive and pious girl--presented herself at the Convent of the
Sisters of Charity in the hope of gaining admission. For years it had
been her desire to share the Sisters' work, but this was not to be. In
the interview that followed, the Superioress--guided by the Holy
Ghost--decided unhesitatingly that Zelie's vocation was not for the
religious life. God wanted her in the world, and so she returned to her
parents, and to the companionship of her elder sister and her younger
brother. Shortly afterwards the gates of the Visitation Convent at Le
Mans closed upon her beloved sister, and Zelie's thoughts turned to the
Sacrament of Holy Matrimony. "O my God"--she repeated constantly--
"since I am unworthy to be Thy Spouse, like my dear sister, I shall
enter the married state to fulfill Thy Holy Will, and I beseech Thee to
make me the mother of many children, and to grant that all of them may
be dedicated to Thee."

God gave ear to her prayer, and His Finger was visible in the
circumstances which led to her becoming the wife of Louis Martin, on
July 12, 1858, in Alenc,on's lovely Church of Notre Dame. Like the
chaste Tobias, they were joined together in matrimony--"solely for the
love of children, in whom God's Name might be blessed for ever and
ever." Nine white flowers bloomed in this sacred garden. Of the nine,
four were transplanted to Paradise ere their buds had quite unfolded,
while five were gathered in God's walled gardens upon earth, one
entering the Visitation Convent at Caen, the others the Carmel of
Lisieux.

From the cradle all were dedicated to Mary Immaculate, and all received
her name: Marie Louise, Marie Pauline, Marie Leonie, Marie Helene, who
died at the age of four and a half, Marie Joseph Louis, Marie Joseph
Jean Baptiste, Marie Celine, Marie Melanie Therese, who died when three
months old, and lastly, Marie Franc,oise Therese.

The two boys were the fruit of prayers and tears. After the birth of
the four elder girls, their parents entreated St. Joseph to obtain for
them the favour of a son who should become a priest and a missionary.
Marie Joseph soon was given them, and his pretty ways appealed to all
hearts, but only five months had run their course when Heaven demanded
what it had lent. Then followed more urgent novenas.

The grandeur of the Priesthood, glorious upon earth, ineffable in
eternity, was so well understood by those Christian parents, that their
hearts coveted it most dearly. At all costs the family must have a
Priest of the Lord, one who would be an apostle, peradventure a martyr.
But, "the thoughts of the Lord are not our thoughts, His ways are not
our ways." Another little Joseph was born, and with him hope once again
grew strong. Alas! Nine months had scarcely passed when he, too, fled
from this world and joined his angel brother.

They did not ask again. Yet, could the veil of the future have been
lifted, their heavy hearts would, of a surety, have been comforted. A
child was to be vouchsafed them who would be a herald of Divine love,
not to China alone, but to all the ends of the earth.

Nay, they themselves were destined to shine as apostles, and we read on
one of the first pages of the Portuguese edition of the Autobiography,
these significant words of an eminent Jesuit:

"To the Sacred Memory of Louis Joseph Stanislaus Martin and of Zelie
Guerin, the blessed parents of Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus, for an
example to all Christian parents."

They little dreamed of this future apostolate, nevertheless they made
ready their souls day by day to be God's own instruments in God's good
time. With most loving resignation they greeted the many crosses which
the Lord laid upon them--the Lord whose tender name of Father is truest
in the dark hour of trial.

Every morning saw them at Mass; together they knelt at the Holy Table.
They strictly observed the fasts and abstinences of the Church, kept
Sunday as a day of complete rest from work in spite of the remonstrance
of friends, and found in pious reading their most delightful
recreation. They prayed in common--after the touching example of
Captain Martin, whose devout way of repeating the Our Father brought
tears to all eyes. Thus the great Christian virtues flourished in their
home. Wealth did not bring luxury in its train, and a strict simplicity
was invariably observed.

"How mistaken are the great majority of men!" Madame Martin used often
to say. "If they are rich, they at once desire honours; and if these
are obtained, they are still unhappy; for never can that heart be
satisfied which seeks anything but God."

Her whole ambition as a mother was directed to Heaven. "Four of my
children are already well settled in life," she once wrote; "and the
others will go likewise to that Heavenly Kingdom--enriched with greater
merit because the combat will have been more prolonged."

Charity in all its forms was a natural outlet to the piety of these
simple hearts. Husband and wife set aside each year a considerable
portion of their earnings for the Propagation of the Faith; they
relieved poor persons in distress, and ministered to them with their
own hands. On one occasion Monsieur Martin, like a good Samaritan, was
seen to raise a drunken man from the ground in a busy thoroughfare,
take his bag of tools, support him on his arm, and lead him home.
Another time when he saw, in a railway station, a poor and starving
epileptic without the means to return to his distant home, he was so
touched with pity that he took off his hat and, placing in it an alms,
proceeded to beg from the passengers on behalf of the sufferer. Money
poured in, and it was with a heart brimming over with gratitude that
the sick man blessed his benefactor.

Never did he allow the meannesses of human respect to degrade his
Christian dignity. In whatever company he might be, he always saluted
the Blessed Sacrament when passing a Church; and he never met a priest
without paying him a mark of respect. A word from his lips sufficed to
silence whosoever dared blaspheme in his presence.

In reward for his virtues, God showered even temporal blessings on His
faithful servant. In 1871 he was able to give up his business as a
jeweller, and retire to a house in the Rue St. Blaise. The making of
point-lace, however, begun by Madame Martin, was still carried on.

In that house the "Little Flower of Jesus" first saw the sunshine.
Again and again, in the pages of her Autobiography, she calls herself
by this modest name of the Little Flower, emblematic of her humility,
her purity, her simplicity, and it may be added, of the poetry of her
soul. The reader will learn in the Epilogue how it was also used by one
of her favourite martyr-saints--the now Blessed Theophane Venard. On
the manuscript of her Autobiography she set the title: "The Story of
the Springtime of a little white Flower," and in truth such it was, for
long ere the rigours of life's winter came round, the Flower was
blossoming in Paradise.

It was, however, in mid-winter, January 2, 1873, that this ninth child
of Louis Martin and Zelie Guerin was born. Marie and Pauline were at
home for the Christmas holidays from the Visitation Convent at Le Mans,
and though there was, it is true, a slight disappointment that the
future priest was still denied them, it quickly passed, and the little
one was regarded as a special gift from Heaven. Later on, her beloved
Father delighted in calling her his "Little Queen," adding at times the
high-sounding titles--"Of France and Navarre."

The Little Queen was indeed well received that winter's morning, and in
the course of the day a poor waif rang timidly at the door of the happy
home, and presented a paper bearing the following simple stanza:

"Smile and swiftly grow; All beckons thee to joy, Sweet love, and
tenderest care. Smile gladly at the dawn, Bud of an hour!--for thou
Shalt be a stately rose."

It was a charming prophecy, for the bud unfolded its petals and became
a rose--a rose of love--but not for long, "for the space of a morn!"

* * * * * *

On January 4, she was carried to the Church of Notre Dame to receive
the Sacrament of Baptism; her eldest sister, Marie, was her godmother,
and she was given the name of Marie Franc,oise Therese. [1]

All was joy at first, but soon the tender bud drooped on its delicate
stem: little hope was held out--it must wither and die. "You must pray
to St. Francis de Sales," wrote her aunt from the convent at Le Mans,
"and you must promise, if the child recovers, to call her by her second
name, Frances." This was a sword-thrust for the Mother. Leaning over
the cradle of her Therese, she awaited the coming of the end, saying:
"Only when the last hope has gone, will I promise to call her Frances."

The gentle St. Francis waived his claim in favour of the great Reformer
of the Carmelite Order: the child recovered, and so retained her sweet
name of Therese. Sorrow, however, was mixed with the Mother's joy, when
it became necessary to send the babe to a foster-mother in the country.
There the "little rose-bud" grew in beauty, and after some months had
gained strength sufficient to allow of her being brought back to
Alenc,on. Her memory of this short but happy time spent with her
sainted Mother in the Rue St. Blaise was extraordinarily vivid. To-day
a tablet on the balcony of No. 42 informs the passers-by that here was
born a certain Carmelite, by name, Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and
the Holy Face. Fifteen years have gone since the meeting in Heaven of
Madame Martin and her Carmelite child, and if the pilgrimage to where
the Little Flower first saw the light of day, be not so large as that
to the grave where her remains await their glorious resurrection, it
may nevertheless be numbered in thousands. And to the English-speaking
pilgrim there is an added pleasure in the fact that her most notable
convert, the first minister of the United Free Church of Scotland to
enter the True Fold, performs, with his convert wife, the courteous
duties of host.

* * * * * *

It will not be amiss to say a brief word here on the brother and sister
of Madame Martin. Her sister--in religion, Sister Marie Dosithea--led a
life so holy at Le Mans that she was cited by Dom Gueranger, perhaps
the most distinguished Benedictine of the nineteenth century, as the
model of a perfect nun. By her own confession, she had never been
guilty from earliest childhood of the smallest deliberate fault. She
died on February 24, 1877. It was in the convent made fragrant by such
holiness that her niece Pauline Martin, elder sister and "little
mother" of Therese, and for five years her Prioress at the Carmel,
received her education. And if the Little Flower may have imbibed the
liturgical spirit from her teachers, the daughters of St. Benedict in
Lisieux, so that she could say before her death: "I do not think it is
possible for anyone to have desired more than I to assist properly at
choir and to recite perfectly the Divine Office"--may it not be to the
influences from Le Mans that may be traced something of the honey-sweet
spirit of St. Francis de Sales which pervades the pages of the
Autobiography?

With the brother of Zelie Guerin the reader will make acquaintance in
the narrative of Therese. He was a chemist in Lisieux, and it was there
his daughter Jeanne Guerin married Dr. La Neele and his younger child
Marie entered the Carmel. Our foreign missionaries had a warm friend in
the uncle of Therese--for his charities he was made godfather to an
African King; and to the Catholic Press--that home missionary--he was
ever most devoted. Founder, at Lisieux, of the Nocturnal Adoration of
the Blessed Sacrament, and a zealous member of the Society of St.
Vincent de Paul, he was called to his abundant reward on September 28,
1909. Verily the lamp of faith is not extinct in the land of the
Norman.

The Father of Therese, after the death of his wife, likewise made his
home in the delightful town which lies amid the beautiful apple
orchards of the valley of the Touques. Lisieux is deeply interesting by
reason of its fine old churches of St. Jacques and St. Pierre, and its
wonderful specimens of quaint houses, some of which date from the
twelfth century. In matters of faith it is neither fervent nor hostile,
and in 1877 its inhabitants little thought that through their new
citizen, Marie Franc,oise Therese Martin, their town would be rendered
immortal.

* * * * * *

"The cell at Lisieux reminds us of the cell of the Blessed Gabriel at
Isola. There is the same even tenor of way, the same magnificant
fidelity in little things, the same flames of divine charity, consuming
but concealed. Nazareth, with the simplicity of its Child, and the calm
abysmal love of Mary and Joseph--Nazareth, adorable but imitable, gives
the key to her spirit, and her Autobiography does but repeat the
lessons of the thirty hidden years." [2]

And it repeats them with an unrivalled charm. "This master of
asceticism," writes a biographer [3] of St. Ignatius Loyola, "loved the
garden and loved the flowers. In the balcony of his study he sat gazing
on the stars: it was then Lainez heard him say: 'Oh, how earth grows
base to me when I look on Heaven!' . . . The like imaginative strain,
so scorned of our petty day, inhered in all the lofty souls of that
age. Even the Saints of our day speak a less radiant language: and
sanctity shows 'shorn of its rays' through the black fog of universal
utilitarianism, the materiality which men have drawn into the very
lungs of their souls."

This is not true of the sainted authoress of the chapters that
follow--"less radiant," in the medium of a translation. In her own
inimitable pages, as in those of a Campion or an Ignatius, a Teresa of
Avila, or a John of the Cross--the Spirit of Poetry is the handmaiden
of Holiness. This new lover of flowers and student of the stars, this
"strewer of roses," has uplifted a million hearts from the "base earth"
and "black fog" to the very throne of God, and her mission is as yet
but begun.

The pen of Soeur Therese herself must now take up the narrative. It
will do so in words that do not merely tell of love but set the heart
on fire, and at the same time lay bare the workings of God in a soul
that "since the age of three never refused the Good God anything." The
writing of this Autobiography was an act of obedience, and the Prioress
who imposed the task sought, in all simplicity, her own personal
edification. But the fragrance of its pages was such that she was
advised to publish them to the world. She did so in 1899 under the
title of L'Histoire d'une Ame. An English version by M. H. Dziewicki
appeared in 1901.

This new translation relates more fully the story of the childhood,
girlhood, and brief convent days of Soeur Therese. It tells of her
"Roses," and sets forth again, in our world-wide tongue, her world-wide
embassy--the ever ancient message of God's Merciful Love, the ever new
way to Him of "confidence and self-surrender."

The Editor.
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[1] The baptismal entry, with its numerous signatures, is shown to
visitors, and a tablet in the baptistry of the beautiful Gothic church
tells the pilgrim that here the "Little Queen" was made a child of God.
[Ed.]

[2] "As Little Children": the abridged life of Soeur Therese. Published
at the Orphans' Press, Rochdale.

[3] Francis Thompson.
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SOEUR THERESE OF LISIEUX, ENTITLED BY HERSELF:
"THE STORY OF THE SPRINGTIME OF A LITTLE WHITE FLOWER"
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CHAPTER I - EARLIEST MEMORIES

It is to you, dear Mother, that I am about to confide the story of my
soul. When you asked me to write it, I feared the task might unsettle
me, but since then Our Lord has deigned to make me understand that by
simple obedience I shall please Him best. I begin therefore to sing
what must be my eternal song: "the Mercies of the Lord." [4]

Before setting about my task I knelt before the statue of Our Lady
which had given my family so many proofs of Our Heavenly Mother's
loving care. [5] As I knelt I begged of that dear Mother to guide my
hand, and thus ensure that only what was pleasing to her should find
place here.

Then opening the Gospels, my eyes fell on these words: "Jesus, going up
into a mountain, called unto Him whom He would Himself." [6]

They threw a clear light upon the mystery of my vocation and of my
entire life, and above all upon the favours which Our Lord has granted
to my soul. He does not call those who are worthy, but those whom He
will. As St. Paul says: "God will have mercy on whom He will have
mercy. [7] So then it is not of him that willeth, nor of him that
runneth, but of God that showeth mercy." [8]

I often asked myself why God had preferences, why all souls did not
receive an equal measure of grace. I was filled with wonder when I saw
extraordinary favours showered on great sinners like St. Paul, St.
Augustine, St. Mary Magdalen, and many others, whom He forced, so to
speak, to receive His grace. In reading the lives of the Saints I was
surprised to see that there were certain privileged souls, whom Our
Lord favoured from the cradle to the grave, allowing no obstacle in
their path which might keep them from mounting towards Him, permitting
no sin to soil the spotless brightness of their baptismal robe. And
again it puzzled me why so many poor savages should die without having
even heard the name of God.

Our Lord has deigned to explain this mystery to me. He showed me the
book of nature, and I understood that every flower created by Him is
beautiful, that the brilliance of the rose and the whiteness of the
lily do not lessen the perfume of the violet or the sweet simplicity of
the daisy. I understood that if all the lowly flowers wished to be
roses, nature would lose its springtide beauty, and the fields would no
longer be enamelled with lovely hues. And so it is in the world of
souls, Our Lord's living garden. He has been pleased to create great
Saints who may be compared to the lily and the rose, but He has also
created lesser ones, who must be content to be daisies or simple
violets flowering at His Feet, and whose mission it is to gladden His
Divine Eyes when He deigns to look down on them. And the more gladly
they do His Will the greater is their perfection.

I understood this also, that God's Love is made manifest as well in a
simple soul which does not resist His grace as in one more highly
endowed. In fact, the characteristic of love being self-abasement, if
all souls resembled the holy Doctors who have illuminated the Church,
it seems that God in coming to them would not stoop low enough. But He
has created the little child, who knows nothing and can but utter
feeble cries, and the poor savage who has only the natural law to guide
him, and it is to their hearts that He deigns to stoop. These are the
field flowers whose simplicity charms Him; and by His condescension to
them Our Saviour shows His infinite greatness. As the sun shines both
on the cedar and on the floweret, so the Divine Sun illumines every
soul, great and small, and all correspond to His care--just as in
nature the seasons are so disposed that on the appointed day the
humblest daisy shall unfold its petals.

You will wonder, dear Mother, to what all this is leading, for till now
I have said nothing that sounds like the story of my life; but did you
not tell me to write quite freely whatever came into my mind? So, it
will not be my life properly speaking, that you will find in these
pages, but my thoughts about the graces which it has pleased Our Lord
to bestow on me.

I am now at a time of life when I can look back on the past, for my
soul has been refined in the crucible of interior and exterior trials.
Now, like a flower after the storm, I can raise my head and see that
the words of the Psalm are realised in me: "The Lord is my Shepherd and
I shall want nothing. He hath set me in a place of pasture. He hath
brought me up on the water of refreshment. He hath converted my soul.
He hath led me on the paths of justice for His own Name's sake. For
though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I will fear
no evils for Thou are with me." [9]

Yes, to me Our Lord has always been "compassionate and merciful,
long-suffering and plenteous in mercy." [10]

And so it gives me great joy, dear Mother, to come to you and sing His
unspeakable mercies. It is for you alone that I write the story of the
little flower gathered by Jesus. This thought will help me to speak
freely, without troubling either about style or about the many
digressions that I shall make; for a Mother's heart always understands
her child, even when it can only lisp, and so I am sure of being
understood and my meaning appreciated.

If a little flower could speak, it seems to me that it would tell us
quite simply all that God has done for it, without hiding any of its
gifts. It would not, under the pretext of humility, say that it was not
pretty, or that it had not a sweet scent, that the sun had withered its
petals, or the storm bruised its stem, if it knew that such were not
the case.

The Little Flower, that now tells her tale, rejoiced in having to
publish the wholly undeserved favours bestowed upon her by Our Lord.
She knows that she had nothing in herself worthy of attracting Him: His
Mercy alone showered blessings on her. He allowed her to grow in holy
soil enriched with the odour of purity, and preceded by eight lilies of
shining whiteness. In His Love He willed to preserve her from the
poisoned breath of the world--hardly had her petals unfolded when this
good Master transplanted her to the mountain of Carmel, Our Lady's
chosen garden.

And now, dear Mother, having summed up in a few words all that God's
goodness has done for me, I will relate in detail the story of my
childhood. I know that, though to others it may seem wearisome, your
motherly heart will find pleasure in it. In the story of my soul, up to
the time of my entry into the Carmel, there are three clearly marked
periods: the first, in spite of its shortness, is by no means the least
rich in memories.

It extends from the dawn of reason to the death of my dearly loved
Mother; in other words, till I was four years and eight months old.
God, in His goodness, did me the favour of awakening my intelligence
very early, and He has imprinted the recollections of my childhood so
deeply in my memory that past events seem to have happened but
yesterday. Without doubt He wished to make me know and appreciate the
Mother He had given me. Alas! His Divine Hand soon took her from me to
crown her in Heaven.

All my life it has pleased Him to surround me with affection. My first
recollections are of loving smiles and tender caresses; but if He made
others love me so much, He made me love them too, for I was of an
affectionate nature.

You can hardly imagine how much I loved my Father and Mother, and,
being very demonstrative, I showed my love in a thousand little ways,
though the means I employed make me smile now when I think of them.

Dear Mother, you have given me the letters which my Mother wrote at
this time to Pauline, who was at school at the Visitation Convent at Le
Mans. I remember perfectly the events they refer to, but it will be
easier for me simply to quote some passages, though these charming
letters, inspired by a Mother's love, are too often full of my praises.

In proof of what I have said about my way of showing affection for my
parents, here is an example: "Baby is the dearest little rogue; she
comes to kiss me, and at the same time wishes me to die. 'Oh, how I
wish you would die, dear Mamma,' she said, and when she was scolded she
was quite astonished, and answered: 'But I want you to go to Heaven,
and you say we must die to go there'; and in her outburst of affection
for her Father she wishes him to die too. The dear little thing will
hardly leave me, she follows me everywhere, but likes going into the
garden best; when I am not there she refuses to stay, and cries so much
that they are obliged to bring her back. She will not even go upstairs
alone without calling me at each step, 'Mamma! Mamma!' and if I forget
to answer 'Yes, darling!' she waits where she is, and will not move."

I was nearly three years old when my Mother wrote: "Little Therese
asked me the other day if she would go to Heaven. 'Yes, if you are
good,' I told her. 'Oh, Mamma,' she answered, 'then if I am not good,
shall I go to Hell? Well, you know what I will do--I shall fly to you
in Heaven, and you will hold me tight in your arms, and how could God
take me away then?' I saw that she was convinced that God could do
nothing to her if she hid herself in my arms."

"Marie loves her little sister very much; indeed she is a child who
delights us all. She is extraordinarily outspoken, and it is charming
to see her run after me to confess her childish faults: 'Mamma, I have
pushed Celine; I slapped her once, but I'll not do it again.' The
moment she has done anything mischievous, everyone must know.
Yesterday, without meaning to do so, she tore off a small piece of wall
paper; you would have been sorry for her--she wanted to tell her father
immediately. When he came home four hours later, everyone else had
forgotten about it, but she ran at once to Marie saying: 'Tell Papa
that I tore the paper.' She waited there like a criminal for sentence;
but she thinks she is more easily forgiven if she accuses herself."

Papa's name fills me with many happy memories. Mamma laughingly said he
always did whatever I wanted, but he answered: "Well, why not? She is
the Queen!" Then he would lift me on to his shoulder, and caress me in
all sorts of ways. Yet I cannot say that he spoilt me. I remember one
day while I was swinging he called out as he passed: "Come and kiss me,
little Queen." Contrary to my usual custom, I would not stir, and
answered pertly: "You must come for it, Papa." He refused quite
rightly, and went away. Marie was there and scolded me, saying: "How
naughty to answer Papa like that!" Her reproof took effect; I got off
the swing at once, and the whole house resounded with my cries. I
hurried upstairs, not waiting this time to call Mamma at each step; my
one thought was to find Papa and make my peace with him. I need not
tell you that this was soon done.

I could not bear to think I had grieved my beloved parents, and I
acknowledged my faults instantly, as this little anecdote, related by
my Mother, will show: "One morning before going downstairs I wanted to
kiss Therese; she seemed to be fast asleep, and I did not like to wake
her, but Marie said: 'Mamma, I am sure she is only pretending.' So I
bent down to kiss her forehead, and immediately she hid herself under
the clothes, saying in the tone of a spoilt child: 'I don't want anyone
to look at me.' I was not pleased with her, and told her so. A minute
or two afterwards I heard her crying, and was surprised to see her by
my side. She had got out of her cot by herself, and had come downstairs
with bare feet, stumbling over her long nightdress. Her little face was
wet with tears: 'Mamma,' she said, throwing herself on my knee, 'I am
sorry for being naughty--forgive me!' Pardon was quickly granted; I
took the little angel in my arms and pressed her to my heart,
smothering her with kisses."

I remember also my great affection for my eldest sister Marie, who had
just left school. Without seeming to do so, I took in all that I saw
and heard, and I think that I reflected on things then as I do now. I
listened attentively while she taught Celine, and was very good and
obedient, so as to obtain the privilege of being allowed in the room
during lessons. She gave me many trifling presents which pleased me
greatly. I was proud of my two big sisters; but as Pauline seemed so
far away from us, I thought of her all day long. When I was only just
learning to talk, and Mamma asked: "What are you thinking about?" my
answer invariably was: "Pauline." Sometimes I heard people saying that
Pauline would be a nun, and, without quite knowing what it meant, I
thought: "I will be a nun too." This is one of my first recollections,
and I have never changed my mind; so it was the example of this beloved
sister which, from the age of two, drew me to the Divine Spouse of
Virgins. My dearest Mother, what tender memories of Pauline I could
confide to you here! But it would take me too long.

Leonie had also a very warm place in my heart; she loved me very much,
and her love was returned. In the evening when she came home from
school she used to take care of me while the others went out, and it
seems to me I can still hear the sweet songs she sang to put me to
sleep. I remember perfectly the day of her First Communion, and I
remember also her companion, the poor child whom my Mother dressed,
according to the touching custom of the well-to-do families in
Alenc,on. This child did not leave Leonie for an instant on that happy
day, and in the evening at the grand dinner she sat in the place of
honour. Alas! I was too small to stay up for this feast, but I shared
in it a little, thanks to Papa's goodness, for he came himself to bring
his little Queen a piece of the iced cake.

The only one now left to speak of is Celine, the companion of my
childhood. My memories of her are so many that I do not know which to
choose. We understood each other perfectly, but I was much more forward
and lively, and far less ingenuous. Here is a letter which will show
you, dear Mother, how sweet was Celine, and how naughty Therese. I was
then nearly three years old, and Celine six and a half. "Celine is
naturally inclined to be good; as to the little puss, Therese, one
cannot tell how she will turn out, she is so young and heedless. She is
a very intelligent child, but has not nearly so sweet a disposition as
her sister, and her stubbornness is almost unconquerable. When she has
said 'No,' nothing will make her change; one could leave her all day in
the cellar without getting her to say 'Yes.' She would sooner sleep
there."

I had another fault also, of which my Mother did not speak in her
letters: it was self-love. Here are two instances:--One day, no doubt
wishing to see how far my pride would go, she smiled and said to me,
"Therese, if you will kiss the ground I will give you a halfpenny." In
those days a halfpenny was a fortune, and in order to gain it I had not
far to stoop, for I was so tiny there was not much distance between me
and the ground; but my pride was up in arms, and holding myself very
erect, I said, "No, thank you, Mamma, I would rather go without it."

Another time we were going into the country to see some friends. Mamma
told Marie to put on my prettiest frock, but not to let me have bare
arms. I did not say a word, and appeared as indifferent as children of
that age should be, but I said to myself, "I should have looked much
prettier with bare arms."

With such a disposition I feel sure that had I been brought up by
careless parents I should have become very wicked, and perhaps have
lost my soul. But Jesus watched over His little Spouse, and turned even
her faults to advantage, for, being checked early in life, they became
a means of leading her towards perfection. For instance, as I had great
self-love and an innate love of good as well, it was enough to tell me
once: "You must not do that," and I never wanted to do it again. Having
only good example before my eyes, I naturally wished to follow it, and
I see with pleasure in my Mother's letters that as I grew older I began
to be a greater comfort. This is what she writes in 1876: "Even Therese
is anxious to make sacrifices. Marie has given her little sisters a
string of beads on purpose to count their acts of self-denial. They
have really spiritual, but very amusing, conversations together. Celine
said the other day: 'How can God be in such a tiny Host?' Therese
answered: 'That is not strange, because God is Almighty!' 'And what
does Almighty mean?' 'It means that He can do whatever He likes.'

"But it is more amusing still to see Therese put her hand in her
pocket, time after time, to pull a bead along the string, whenever she
makes a little sacrifice. The children are inseparable, and are quite
sufficient company for one another. Nurse has given Therese two
bantams, and every day after dinner she and Celine sit by the fire and
play with them.

"One morning Therese got out of her cot and climbed into Celine's. The
nurse went to fetch her to be dressed, and, when at last she found her,
the little thing said, hugging her sister very hard: 'Oh, Louise! leave
me here, don't you see that we are like the little white bantams, we
can't be separated from one another.'"

It is quite true that I could not be separated from Celine; I would
rather leave my dessert unfinished at table than let her go without me,
and I would get down from my high chair when she did, and off we went
to play together. On Sundays, as I was still too small to go to the
long services, Mamma stayed at home to take care of me. I was always
very good, walking about on tip-toe; but as soon as I heard the door
open there was a tremendous outburst of joy--I threw myself on my dear
little sister, exclaiming: "Oh, Celine! give me the blessed bread,
quick!" [11] One day she had not brought any--what was to be done? I
could not do without it, for I called this little feast my Mass. A
bright idea struck me: "You have no blessed bread!--make some." Celine
immediately opened the cupboard, took out the bread, cut a tiny bit
off, and after saying a Hail Mary quite solemnly over it, triumphantly
presented it to me; and I, making the sign of the Cross, ate it with
devotion, fancying it tasted exactly like the real blessed bread.

One day Leonie, thinking no doubt that she was too big to play with
dolls, brought us a basket filled with clothes, pretty pieces of stuff,
and other trifles on which her doll was laid: "Here, dears," she said,
"choose whatever you like." Celine looked at it, and took a woollen
ball. After thinking about it for a minute, I put out my hand saying:
"I choose everything," and I carried off both doll and basket without
more ado.

This childish incident was a forecast, so to speak, of my whole life.
Later on, when the way of perfection was opened out before me, I
realised that in order to become a Saint one must suffer much, always
seek the most perfect path, and forget oneself. I also understood that
there are many degrees of holiness, that each soul is free to respond
to the calls of Our Lord, to do much or little for His Love--in a word,
to choose amongst the sacrifices He asks. And then also, as in the days
of my childhood, I cried out: "My God, I choose everything, I will not
be a Saint by halves, I am not afraid of suffering for Thee, I only
fear one thing, and that is to do my own will. Accept the offering of
my will, for I choose all that Thou willest."

But, dear Mother, I am forgetting myself--I must not tell you yet of my
girlhood, I am still speaking of the baby of three and four years old.

I remember a dream I had at that age which impressed itself very deeply
on my memory. I thought I was walking alone in the garden when,
suddenly, I saw near the arbour two hideous little devils dancing with
surprising agility on a barrel of lime, in spite of the heavy irons
attached to their feet. At first they cast fiery glances at me; then,
as though suddenly terrified, I saw them, in the twinkling of an eye,
throw themselves down to the bottom of the barrel, from which they came
out somehow, only to run and hide themselves in the laundry which
opened into the garden. Finding them such cowards, I wanted to know
what they were going to do, and, overcoming my fears, I went to the
window. The wretched little creatures were there, running about on the
tables, not knowing how to hide themselves from my gaze. From time to
time they came nearer, peering through the windows with an uneasy air,
then, seeing that I was still there, they began to run about again
looking quite desperate. Of course this dream was nothing
extraordinary; yet I think Our Lord made use of it to show me that a
soul in the state of grace has nothing to fear from the devil, who is a
coward, and will even fly from the gaze of a little child.

Dear Mother, how happy I was at that age! I was beginning to enjoy
life, and goodness itself seemed full of charms. Probably my character
was the same as it is now, for even then I had great self-command, and
made a practice of never complaining when my things were taken; even if
I was unjustly accused, I preferred to keep silence. There was no merit
in this, for I did it naturally.

How quickly those sunny years of my childhood passed away, and what
tender memories they have imprinted on my mind! I remember the Sunday
walks when my dear Mother always accompanied us; and I can still feel
the impression made on my childish heart at the sight of the fields
bright with cornflowers, poppies, and marguerites. Even at that age I
loved far-stretching views, sunlit spaces and stately trees; in a word,
all nature charmed me and lifted up my soul to Heaven.

Often, during these walks, we met poor people. I was always chosen to
give them an alms, which made me feel very happy. Sometimes, my dear
Father, knowing the way was too long for his little Queen, took me
home. This was a cause of grief, and to console me Celine would fill
her basket with daisies, and give them to me on her return. Truly
everything on earth smiled on me; I found flowers strewn at every step,
and my naturally happy disposition helped to make life bright. But a
new era was about to dawn.

I was to be the Spouse of Our Lord at such an early age that it was
necessary I should suffer from my childhood. As the early spring
flowers begin to come up under the snow and open at the first rays of
the sun, so the Little Flower whose story I am writing had to pass
through the winter of trial and to have her tender cup filled with the
dew of tears.
__________________________________________________________________

[4] Ps. 88[89]:1.

[5] This statue twice appeared as if endowed with life, in order to
enlighten and console Mme. Martin, mother of Therese. A like favour was
granted to Therese herself, as will be seen in the course of the
narrative.

[6] Mark 3:13.

[7] Cf. Exodus 33:19.

[8] Cf. Rom. 9:16.

[9] Cf. Ps. 22[23]:1-4.

[10] Ps. 102[103]:8.

[11] The custom still prevails in some parts of France of blessing
bread at the Offertory of the Mass and then distributing it to the
faithful. It is known as pain benit. This blessing only takes place at
the Parochial Mass. [Ed.]
__________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER II - A CATHOLIC HOUSEHOLD

All the details of my Mother's illness are still fresh in my mind. I
remember especially her last weeks on earth, when Celine and I felt
like poor little exiles. Every morning a friend came to fetch us, and
we spent the day with her. Once, we had not had time to say our prayers
before starting, and on the way my little sister whispered: "Must we
tell her that we have not said our prayers?" "Yes," I answered. So,
very timidly, Celine confided our secret to her, and she exclaimed:
"Well, well, children, you shall say them." Then she took us to a large
room, and left us there. Celine looked at me in amazement. I was
equally astonished, and exclaimed: "This is not like Mamma, she always
said our prayers with us." During the day, in spite of all efforts to
amuse us, the thought of our dear Mother was constantly in our minds. I
remember once, when my sister had an apricot given to her, she leant
towards me and said: "We will not eat it, I will give it to Mamma."
Alas! our beloved Mother was now too ill to eat any earthly fruit; she
would never more be satisfied but by the glory of Heaven. There she
would drink of the mysterious wine which Jesus, at His Last Supper,
promised to share with us in the Kingdom of His Father.

The touching ceremony of Extreme Unction made a deep impression on me.
I can still see the place where I knelt, and hear my poor Father's
sobs.

My dear Mother died on August 28, 1877, in her forty-sixth year. The
day after her death my Father took me in his arms and said: "Come and
kiss your dear Mother for the last time." Without saying a word I put
my lips to her icy forehead. I do not remember having cried much, and I
did not talk to anyone of all that filled my heart; I looked and
listened in silence, and I saw many things they would have hidden from
me. Once I found myself close to the coffin in the passage. I stood
looking at it for a long time; I had never seen one before, but I knew
what it was. I was so small that I had to lift up my head to see its
whole length, and it seemed to me very big and very sad.

Fifteen years later I was again standing by another coffin, that of our
holy Mother Genevieve, [12] and I was carried back to the days of my
childhood. Memories crowded upon me; it was the same little Therese who
looked at it, but she had grown, and the coffin seemed small. She had
not to lift up her head to it, now she only raised her eyes to
contemplate Heaven which seemed to her very full of joy, for trials had
matured and strengthened her soul, so that nothing on earth could make
her grieve.

Our Lord did not leave me wholly an orphan; on the day of my Mother's
funeral He gave me another mother, and allowed me to choose her freely.
We were all five together, looking at one another sadly, when our
nurse, overcome with emotion, said, turning to Celine and to me: "Poor
little dears, you no longer have a Mother." Then Celine threw herself
into Marie's arms, crying: "Well, you will be my Mother now." I was so
accustomed to imitate Celine that I should undoubtedly have followed
her example, but I feared Pauline would be sad and feel herself left
out if she too had not a little daughter. So, with a loving look, I hid
my face on her breast saying in my turn: "And Pauline will be my
Mother."

That day, as I have said, began the second period of my life. It was
the most sorrowful of all, especially after Pauline, my second Mother,
entered the Carmel; and it lasted from the time I was four years old
until I was fourteen, when I recovered much of my childish gaiety, even
though I understood more fully the serious side of life.

I must tell you that after my Mother's death my naturally happy
disposition completely changed. Instead of being lively and
demonstrative as I had been, I became timid, shy, and extremely
sensitive; a look was enough to make me burst into tears. I could not
bear to be noticed or to meet strangers, and was only at ease in my own
family circle. There I was always cherished with the most loving care;
my Father's affectionate heart seemed endowed with a mother's love, and
my sisters were no less tender and devoted. If Our Lord had not
lavished so much love and sunshine on His Little Flower, she never
could have become acclimatised to this earth. Still too weak to bear
the storm, she needed warmth, refreshing dew, and soft breezes, and
these gifts were never wanting to her, even in the chilling seasons of
trials.

Soon after my Mother's death, Papa made up his mind to leave Alenc,on
and live at Lisieux, so that we might be near our uncle, my Mother's
brother. He made this sacrifice in order that my young sisters should
have the benefit of their aunt's guidance in their new life, and that
she might act as a mother towards them. I did not feel any grief at
leaving my native town: children love change and anything out of the
common, and so I was pleased to come to Lisieux. I remember the journey
quite well, and our arrival in the evening at my uncle's house, and I
can still see my little cousins, Jeanne and Marie, waiting on the
doorstep with my aunt. How touching was the affection all these dear
ones showed us!

The next day they took us to our new home, Les Buissonets, [13]
situated in a quiet part of the town. I was charmed with the house my
Father had taken. The large upper window from which there was an
extensive view, the flower garden in front, and the kitchen garden at
the back--all these seemed delightfully new to my childish mind; and
this happy home became the scene of many joys and of family gatherings
which I can never forget. Elsewhere, as I said before, I felt an exile,
I cried and fretted for my Mother; but here my little heart expanded,
and I smiled on life once more.

When I woke there were my sisters ready to caress me, and I said my
prayers kneeling between them. Then Pauline gave me my reading lesson,
and I remember that "Heaven" was the first word I could read alone.
When lessons were over I went upstairs, where Papa was generally to be
found, and how pleased I was when I had good marks to show. Every
afternoon I went out for a walk with him, and we paid a visit to the
Blessed Sacrament in one or other of the Churches. It was in this way
that I first saw the Chapel of the Carmel: "Look, little Queen," Papa
said to me, "behind that big grating there are holy nuns who are always
praying to Almighty God." Little did I think that nine years later I
should be amongst them, that in this blessed Carmel I should receive so
many graces.

On returning home I learnt my lessons, and then spent the rest of the
day playing in the garden near Papa. I never cared for dolls, but one
of my favourite amusements was making coloured mixtures with seeds and
the bark of trees. If the colours were pretty, I would promptly offer
them to Papa in a little cup and entice him to taste them; then my
dearest Father would leave his work and smilingly pretend to drink. I
was very fond of flowers, and amused myself by making little altars in
holes which I happened to find in the middle of my garden wall. When
finished I would run and call Papa, and he seemed delighted with them.
I should never stop if I told you of the thousand and one incidents of
this kind that I can remember. How shall I make you understand the love
that my Father lavished on his little Queen!

Those were specially happy days for me when I went fishing with my dear
"King," as I used to call him. Sometimes I tried my hand with a small
rod of my own, but generally I preferred to sit on the grass some
distance away. Then my reflections became really deep, and, without
knowing what meditation meant, my soul was absorbed in prayer. Far-off
sounds reached me, the murmuring of the wind, sometimes a few uncertain
notes of music from a military band in the town a long way off; all
this imparted a touch of melancholy to my thoughts. Earth seemed a
place of exile, and I dreamed of Heaven.

The afternoon passed quickly away, and it was soon time to go home, but
before packing up I would eat the provisions I had brought in a small
basket. Somehow the slices of bread and jam, prepared by my sisters,
looked different; they had seemed so tempting, and now they looked
stale and uninviting. Even such a trifle as this made the earth seem
sadder, and I realised that only in Heaven will there be unclouded joy.

Speaking of clouds, I remember how one day when we were out, the blue
sky became overcast and a storm came on, accompanied by vivid
lightning. I looked round on every side, so as to lose nothing of the
grand sight. A thunderbolt fell in a field close by, and, far from
feeling the least bit afraid, I was delighted--it seemed that God was
so near. Papa was not so pleased, and put an end to my reverie, for
already the tall grass and daisies, taller than I, were sparkling with
rain-drops, and we had to cross several fields to reach the road. In
spite of his fishing tackle, he carried me in his arms while I looked
down in the beautiful jewelled drops, almost sorry that I could not be
drenched by them.

I do not think I have told you that in our daily walks at Lisieux, as
in Alenc,on, I often used to give alms to the beggars. One day we came
upon a poor old man who dragged himself painfully along on crutches. I
went up to give him a penny. He looked sadly at me for a long time, and
then, shaking his head with a sorrowful smile, he refused my alms. I
cannot tell you what I felt; I had wished to help and comfort him, and
instead of that, I had, perhaps, hurt him and caused him pain. He must
have guessed my thought, for I saw him turn round and smile at me when
we were some way off.

Just then Papa bought me a cake. I wished very much to run after the
old man and give it to him, for I thought: "Well, he did not want
money, but I am sure he would like to have a cake." I do not know what
held me back, and I felt so sad I could hardly keep from crying; then I
remembered having heard that one obtains all the favours asked for on
one's First Communion Day. This thought consoled me immediately, and
though I was only six years old at the time, I said to myself: "I will
pray for my poor old man on the day of my First Communion." Five years
later I faithfully kept my resolution. I have always thought that my
childish prayer for this suffering member of Christ has been blessed
and rewarded.

As I grew older my love of God grew more and more. I often offered my
heart to Him, using the words my Mother had taught me, and I tried very
hard to please Him in all my actions, taking great care never to offend
Him. And yet one day I committed a fault which I must tell you here--it
gives me a good opportunity of humbling myself, though I believe I have
grieved over it with perfect contrition.

It was the month of May, 1878. My sisters decided that I was too small
to go to the May devotions every evening, so I stayed at home with the
nurse and said my prayers with her before the little altar which I had
arranged according to my own taste. Everything was small--candlesticks,
vases, and the rest; two wax vestas were quite sufficient to light it
up properly. Sometimes Victoire, the maid, gave me some little bits of
real candle, but not often.

One evening, when we went to our prayers, I said to her: "Will you
begin the Memorare? I am going to light the candles." She tried to
begin, and then looked at me and burst out laughing. Seeing my precious
vestas burning quickly away, I begged her once more to say the
Memorare. Again there was silence, broken only by bursts of laughter.
All my natural good temper deserted me. I got up feeling dreadfully
angry, and, stamping my foot furiously, I cried out: "Victoire, you
naughty girl!" She stopped laughing at once, and looked at me in utter
astonishment, then showed me--too late--the surprise she had in store
hidden under her apron--two pieces of candle. My tears of anger were
soon changed into tears of sorrow; I was very much ashamed and grieved,
and made a firm resolution never to act in such a way again.

Shortly after this I made my first confession. [14] It is a very sweet
memory. Pauline had warned me: "Therese, darling, it is not to a man
but to God Himself that you are going to tell your sins." I was so
persuaded of this that I asked her quite seriously if I should not tell
Father Ducellier that I loved him "with my whole heart," as it was
really God I was going to speak to in his person.

Well instructed as to what I was to do, I entered the confessional, and
turning round to the priest, so as to see him better, I made my
confession and received absolution in a spirit of lively faith--my
sister having assured me that at this solemn moment the tears of the
Holy Child Jesus would purify my soul. I remember well that he exhorted
me above all to a tender devotion towards Our Lady, and I promised to
redouble my love for her who already filled so large a place in my
heart. Then I passed him my Rosary to be blessed, and came out of the
Confessional more joyful and lighthearted than I had ever felt before.
It was evening, and as soon as I got to a street lamp I stopped and
took the newly blessed Rosary out of my pocket, turning it over and
over. "What are you looking at, Therese, dear?" asked Pauline. "I am
seeing what a blessed Rosary looks like." This childish answer amused
my sisters very much. I was deeply impressed by the graces I had
received, and wished to go to confession again for all the big feasts,
for these confessions filled me with joy. The feasts! What precious
memories these simple words bring to me. I loved them; and my sisters
knew so well how to explain the mysteries hidden in each one. Those
days of earth became days of Heaven. Above all I loved the procession
of the Blessed Sacrament: what a joy it was to strew flowers in God's
path! But before scattering them on the ground I threw them high in the
air, and was never so happy as when I saw my rose-leaves touch the
sacred Monstrance.

And if the great feasts came but seldom, each week brought one very
dear to my heart, and that was Sunday. What a glorious day! The Feast
of God! The day of rest! First of all the whole family went to High
Mass, and I remember that before the sermon we had to come down from
our places, which were some way from the pulpit, and find seats in the
nave. This was not always easy, but to little Therese and her Father
everyone offered a place. My uncle was delighted when he saw us come
down; he called me his "Sunbeam," and said that to see the venerable
old man leading his little daughter by the hand was a sight which
always filled him with joy. I never troubled myself if people looked at
me, I was only occupied in listening attentively to the preacher. A
sermon on the Passion of our Blessed Lord was the first I understood,
and it touched me deeply. I was then five and a half, and after that
time I was able to understand and appreciate all instructions. If St.
Teresa was mentioned, my Father would bend down and whisper to me:
"Listen attentively, little Queen, he is speaking of your holy
patroness." I really did listen attentively, but I must own I looked at
Papa more than at the preacher, for I read many things in his face.
Sometimes his eyes were filled with tears which he strove in vain to
keep back; and as he listened to the eternal truths he seemed no longer
of this earth, his soul was absorbed in the thought of another world.
Alas! Many long and sorrowful years had to pass before Heaven was to be
opened to him, and Our Lord with His Own Divine Hand was to wipe away
the bitter tears of His faithful servant.

To go back to the description of our Sundays. This happy day which
passed so quickly had also its touch of melancholy; my happiness was
full till Compline, but after that a feeling of sadness took possession
of me. I thought of the morrow when one had to begin again the daily
life of work and lessons, and my heart, feeling like an exile on this
earth, longed for the repose of Heaven--the never ending Sabbath of our
true Home. Every Sunday my aunt invited us in turns to spend the
evening with her. I was always glad when mine came, and it was a
pleasure to listen to my uncle's conversation. His talk was serious,
but it interested me, and he little knew that I paid such attention;
but my joy was not unmixed with fear when he took me on his knee and
sang "Bluebeard" in his deep voice.

About eight o'clock Papa would come to fetch me. I remember that I used
to look up at the stars with inexpressible delight. Orion's belt
fascinated me especially, for I saw in it a likeness to the letter "T."
"Look, Papa," I would cry, "my name is written in Heaven!" Then, not
wishing to see this dull earth any longer, I asked him to lead me, and
with my head thrown back, I gazed unweariedly at the starry skies.

I could tell you much about our winter evenings at home. After a game
of draughts my sisters read aloud Dom Gueranger's Liturgical Year, and
then a few pages of some other interesting and instructive book. While
this was going on I established myself on Papa's knee, and when the
reading was done he used to sing soothing snatches of melody in his
beautiful voice, as if to lull me to sleep, and I would lay my head on
his breast while he rocked me gently to and fro.

Later on we went upstairs for night prayers, and there again my place
was beside my beloved Father, and I had only to look at him to know how
the Saints pray. Pauline put me to bed, and I invariably asked her:
"Have I been good to-day? Is God pleased with me? Will the Angels watch
over me?" The answer was always "Yes," otherwise I should have spent
the whole night in tears. After these questions my sisters kissed me,
and little Therese was left alone in the dark.

I look on it as a real grace that from childhood I was taught to
overcome my fears. Sometimes in the evening Pauline would send me to
fetch something from a distant room; she would take no refusal, and she
was quite right, for otherwise I should have become very nervous,
whereas now it is difficult to frighten me. I wonder sometimes how my
little Mother was able to bring me up with so much tenderness, and yet
without spoiling me, for she did not pass over the least fault. It is
true she never scolded me without cause, and I knew well she would
never change her mind when once a thing was decided upon.

To this dearly loved sister I confided my most intimate thoughts; she
cleared up all my doubts. One day I expressed surprise that God does
not give an equal amount of glory to all the elect in Heaven--I was
afraid that they would not all be quite happy. She sent me to fetch
Papa's big tumbler, and put it beside my tiny thimble, then, filling
both with water, she asked me which seemed the fuller. I replied that
one was as full as the other--it was impossible to pour more water into
either of them, for they could not hold it. In this way Pauline made it
clear to me that in Heaven the least of the Blessed does not envy the
happiness of the greatest; and so, by bringing the highest mysteries
down to the level of my understanding, she gave my soul the food it
needed.

Joyfully each year I welcomed the prize day. Though I was the only
competitor, justice was none the less strictly observed, and I never
received rewards unless they were well merited. My heart used to beat
with excitement when I heard the decisions, and in presence of the
whole family received prizes from Papa's hands. It was to me like a
picture of the Judgment Day!

Seeing Papa so cheerful, no suspicion of the terrible trials which
awaited him crossed my mind; but one day God showed me, in an
extraordinary vision, a vivid picture of the trouble to come. My Father
was away on a journey, and could not return as early as usual. It was
about two or three o'clock in the afternoon; the sun was shining
brightly, and all the world seemed gay. I was alone at the window,
looking on to the kitchen garden, my mind full of cheerful thoughts,
when I saw before me, in front of the wash-house, a man dressed exactly
like Papa, of the same height and appearance, but more bent and aged. I
say aged, to describe his general appearance, for I did not see his
face as his head was covered with a thick veil. He advanced slowly,
with measured step, along my little garden; at that instant a feeling
of supernatural fear seized me, and I called out loudly in a trembling
voice: "Papa, Papa!" The mysterious person seemed not to hear, he
continued his walk without even turning, and went towards a clump of
firs which grew in the middle of the garden. I expected to see him
reappear at the other side of the big trees, but the prophetic vision
had vanished.

It was all over in a moment, but it was a moment which impressed itself
so deeply on my memory that even now, after so many years, the
remembrance of it is as vivid as the vision itself.

My sisters were all together in an adjoining room. Hearing me call
"Papa!" they were frightened themselves, but Marie, hiding her
feelings, ran to me and said: "Why are you calling Papa, when he is at
Alenc,on?" I told her what I had seen, and to reassure me they said
that Nurse must have covered her head with her apron on purpose to
frighten me. Victoire, however, when questioned, declared she had not
left the kitchen--besides, the truth was too deeply impressed on my
mind: I had seen a man, and that man was exactly like my Father. We all
went to look behind the clump of trees, and, finding nothing, my
sisters told me to think no more about it. Ah, that was not in my
power! Often and often my imagination brought before me this mysterious
vision, often and often I tried to raise the veil which hid its true
meaning, and deep down in my heart I had a conviction that some day it
would be fully revealed to me. And you know all, dear Mother. You know
that it was really my Father whom God showed me, bent by age, and
bearing on his venerable face and his white head the symbol of his
terrible trial. [15]

As the Adorable Face of Jesus was veiled during His Passion, so it was
fitting that the face of His humble servant should be veiled during the
days of his humiliation, in order that it might shine with greater
brilliancy in Heaven. How I admire God's ways! He showed us this
precious cross beforehand, as a father shows his children the glorious
future he is preparing for them--a future which will bring them an
inheritance of priceless treasures.

But a thought comes into my mind: "Why did God give this light to a
child who, if she had understood it, would have died of grief?" "Why?"
Here is one of those incomprehensible mysteries which we shall only
understand in Heaven, where they will be the subject of our eternal
admiration. My God, how good Thou art! How well dost Thou suit the
trial to our strength!

At that time I had not courage even to think that Papa could die,
without being terrified. One day he was standing on a high step-ladder,
and as I was close by he called out: "Move away, little Queen; if I
fall I shall crush you." Instantly I felt an inward shock, and, going
still nearer to the ladder, I thought: "At least if Papa falls I shall
not have the pain of seeing him die, for I shall die with him." I could
never say how much I loved him. I admired everything he did. When he
explained his ideas on serious matters, as if I were a big girl, I
answered him naively: "It is quite certain, Papa, that if you spoke
like that to the great men who govern the country they would take you
and make you King. Then France would be happier than it was ever been;
but you would be unhappy, because that is the lot of kings; besides you
would no longer be my King alone, so I am glad that they do not know
you."

When I was six or seven years old I saw the sea for the first time. The
sight made a deep impression on me, I could not take my eyes off it.
Its majesty, and the roar of the waves, all spoke to my soul of the
greatness and power of God. I remember, when we were on the beach, a
man and woman looked at me for a long time, then, asking Papa if I was
his child, they remarked that I was a very pretty little girl. Papa at
once made a sign to them not to flatter me; I was delighted to hear
what they said, for I did not think I was pretty. My sisters were most
careful never to talk before me in such a way as to spoil my simplicity
and childish innocence; and, because I believed so implicitly in them,
I attached little importance to the admiration of these people and
thought no more about it.

That evening at the hour when the sun seems to sink into the vast
ocean, leaving behind it a trail of glory, I sat with Pauline on a bare
rock, and gazed for long on this golden furrow which she told me was an
image of grace illumining the way of faithful souls here below. Then I
pictured my soul as a tiny barque, with a graceful white sail, in the
midst of the furrow, and I resolved never to let it withdraw from the
sight of Jesus, so that it might sail peacefully and quickly towards
the Heavenly Shore.
__________________________________________________________________

[12] This holy nun had been professed at the Carmel of Poitiers, and
was sent from there to make the foundation at Lisieux in 1838. Her
memory is held in benediction in both these convents; in the sight of
God she constantly practised the most heroic virtue, and on December 5,
1891, crowned a life of good works by a holy death. She was then
eighty-six years of age.

[13] This house, an object of deep interest to the clients of Soeur
Therese, is much frequented by pilgrims to Lisieux. [Ed.]

[14] This first confession was made in the beautiful church of St.
Pierre, formerly the cathedral of Lisieux. [Ed.]

[15] It seems advisable, on account of the vague allusions which occur
here and elsewhere, to state what happened to M. Louis Martin. At the
age of sixty-six, having already had several partial attacks, he was
struck with general paralysis, and his mind gave way altogether.
__________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER III - PAULINE ENTERS THE CARMEL

I was eight and a half when Leonie left school, and I took her place at
the Benedictine Abbey in Lisieux. The girls of my class were all older
than myself; one of them was fourteen, and, though not clever, she knew
how to impose on the little ones. Seeing me so young, nearly always
first in class, and a favourite with all the nuns, she was jealous, and
used to pay me out in a thousand ways. Naturally timid and sensitive, I
did not know how to defend myself, and could only cry in silence.
Celine and my elder sisters did not know of my grief, and, not being
advanced enough in virtue to rise above these troubles, I suffered
considerably.

Every evening I went home, and then my spirits rose. I would climb on
to Papa's knee, telling him what marks I had, and his caresses made me
forget all my troubles. With what delight I announced the result of my
first essay, for I won the maximum number of marks. In reward I
received a silver coin which I put in my money box for the poor, and
nearly every Thursday I was able to increase the fund.

Indeed, to be spoilt was a real necessity for me. The Little Flower had
need to strike its tender roots deeper and deeper into the dearly loved
garden of home, for nowhere else could it find the nourishment it
required. Thursday was a holiday, but it was not like the holidays I
had under Pauline, which I generally spent upstairs with Papa. Not
knowing how to play like other children, I felt myself a dull
companion. I tried my best to do as the others did, but without
success.

After Celine, who was, so to say, indispensable to me, I sought the
company of my little cousin Marie, because she left me free to choose
the games I liked best. We were already closely united in heart and
will, as if God were showing us in advance how one day in the Carmel we
should embrace the same religious life. [16]

Very often, at my uncle's house, we used to play at being two austere
hermits, with only a poor hut, a little patch of corn, and a garden in
which to grow a few vegetables. Our life was to be spent in continual
contemplation, one praying while the other engaged in active duties.
All was done with religious gravity and decorum. If we went out, the
make-believe continued even in the street; the two hermits would say
the Rosary, using their fingers to count on, so as not to display their
devotion before those who might scoff. One day, however, the hermit
Therese forgot herself--before eating a cake, given her for lunch, she
made a large Sign of the Cross, and some worldly folk did not repress a
smile.

We were so bent on always doing the same thing that sometimes we
carried it too far. Endeavouring one evening, on our way home from
school, to imitate the modest demeanour of the hermits, I said to
Marie: "Lead me, I am going to shut my eyes." "So am I," she answered.
Being on the pavement we were in no fear of vehicles, and for a short
while all went well, and we enjoyed walking with our eyes shut; but
presently we both fell over some boxes standing at a shop door and
knocked them down. The shopkeeper came out in a rage to replace them,
but the would-be blind pair picked themselves up and ran off as fast as
they could, with eyes wide open. Then the hermits had to listen to a
well-deserved scolding from Jeanne, the maid, who seemed as vexed as
the shopkeeper.

I have not yet told you how Celine and I altered when we came to
Lisieux. She had now become the little romp, full of mischief, while
Therese had turned into a very quiet little girl, far too much inclined
to tears. I needed a champion, and who can say how courageously my dear
little sister played that part. We used to enjoy making each other
little presents, for, at that age, the simplicity of our hearts was
unspoiled. Like the spring flowers they unfolded, glad to receive the
morning dew, while the same soft breezes swayed their petals. Yes, our
joys were mutual. I felt this especially on the happy day of Celine's
First Communion; I was only seven years old, and had not yet begun
school at the Abbey. How sweet is the remembrance of her preparation!
Every evening during its last weeks my sisters talked to her of the
great event. I listened, eager to prepare myself too, and my heart
swelled with grief when I was told to go away because I was still too
young. I thought that four years was not too long to spend in making
ready to receive Our dear Lord. One evening I heard someone say to my
happy little sister: "From the time of your First Communion you must
begin an entirely new life." At once I made a resolution not to wait
till the time of my First Communion, but to begin with Celine. During
her retreat she remained as a boarder at the Abbey, and it seemed to me
she was away a long time; but at last the happy day came. What a
delightful impression it has left on my mind--it was like a foretaste
of my own First Communion! How many graces I received that day! I look
on it as one of the most beautiful of my life.

I have gone back a little in order to recall these happy memories; but
now I must tell you of the mournful parting which crushed my heart when
Our Lord took from me my little Mother whom I loved so dearly. I told
her once that I would like to go away with her to a far-off desert; she
replied that it was her wish too, but that she was waiting till I was
big enough to set out. This impossible promise I took in earnest, and
what was my grief when I heard Pauline talking to Marie about soon
entering the Carmel! I did not know the Carmel; but I knew that she was
leaving me to enter a convent, and that she would not wait for me.

How can I describe the anguish I suffered! In a flash I saw life spread
out before me as it really is, full of sufferings and frequent
partings, and I shed bitter tears. At that time I did not know the joy
of sacrifice; I was weak--so weak that I look on it as a great grace
that I was able to bear such a trial, one seemingly so much beyond my
strength--and yet live. I shall never forget how tenderly my little
Mother consoled me, while explaining the religious life. Then one
evening, when I was thinking over the picture she had drawn, I felt
that the Carmel was the desert where God wished me also to hide. I felt
this so strongly that I had not the least doubt about it; nor was it a
childish dream, but the certainty of a Divine Call. This impression,
which I cannot properly describe, left me with a feeling of great
inward peace.

Next day I confided my desires to Pauline. They seemed to her as a
proof of God's Will, and she promised to take me soon to the Carmel, to
see the Mother Prioress and to tell her my secret. This solemn visit
was fixed for a certain Sunday, and great was my embarrassment on
hearing that my cousin Marie--who was still young enough to be allowed
to see the Carmelites--was to come with us. [17]

I had to contrive a means of being alone with the Reverend Mother, and
this is what I planned. I told Marie, that, as we were to have the
great privilege of seeing her, we must be very good and polite, and
tell her our little secrets, and in order to do that, we must go out of
the room in turns. Though she did not quite like it, because she had no
secrets to confide, Marie took me at my word, and so I was able to be
alone with you, dear Mother. You listened to my great disclosure, and
believed in my vocation, but you told me that postulants were not
received at the age of nine, and that I must wait till I was sixteen.
In spite of my ardent desire to enter with Pauline and make my First
Communion on her clothing day, I had to be resigned.

At last the 2nd of October came--a day of tears, but also of blessings,
when Our Lord gathered the first of His flowers, the chosen flower who,
later on, was to become the Mother of her sisters. [18] Whilst Papa,
with my uncle and Marie, climbed the mountain of Carmel to offer his
first sacrifice, my aunt took me to Mass, with my sisters and cousins.
We were bathed in tears, and people gazed at us in astonishment when we
entered the church, but that did not stop our crying. I even wondered
how the sun could go on shining. Perhaps, dear Mother, you think I
exaggerate my grief a little. I confess that this parting ought not to
have upset me so much, but my soul was yet far from mature, and I had
to pass through many trials before reaching the haven of peace, before
tasting the delicious fruits of perfect love and of complete
abandonment to God's Will.

In the afternoon of that October day, 1882, behind the grating of the
Carmel, I saw my beloved Pauline, now become Sister Agnes of Jesus. Oh,
how much I suffered in that parlour! As I am writing the story of my
soul, it seems to me that I ought to tell you everything. Well, I
acknowledge that I hardly counted the first pains of this parting, in
comparison with those which followed. I, who had been accustomed to
talk with my little Mother of all that was in my heart, could now
scarcely snatch two or three minutes with her at the end of the family
visits; even these short minutes were passed in tears, and I went away
with my heart torn with grief.

I did not realise that it was impossible to give us each half an hour,
and that of course Papa and Marie must have the largest share. I could
not understand all this, and I said from the depths of my heart:
"Pauline is lost to me."

This suffering so affected me that I soon became seriously ill. The
illness was undoubtedly the work of the devil, who, in his fury at this
first entry into the Carmel, tried to avenge himself on me for the
great harm my family was to do him in the future. However, he little
knew that the Queen of Heaven was watching faithfully over her Little
Flower, that she was smiling upon it from on high, ready to still the
tempest just when the delicate and fragile stalk was in danger of being
broken once and for all. At the close of the year 1882 I began to
suffer from constant headaches; they were bearable, however, and did
not prevent me from continuing my studies. This lasted till the Easter
of 1883. Just then Papa went to Paris with my elder sisters, and
confided Celine and me to the care of our uncle and aunt. One evening I
was alone with my uncle, and he talked so tenderly of my Mother and of
bygone days that I was deeply moved and began to cry. My sensitiveness
touched him too; he was surprised that one of my age should feel as I
did. So he determined to do all he could to divert my mind during the
holidays.

But God had decided otherwise. That very evening my headache became
acute, and I was seized with a strange shivering which lasted all
night. My aunt, like a real mother, never left me for a moment; all
through my illness she lavished on me the most tender and devoted care.
You may imagine my poor Father's grief when he returned from Paris to
find me in this hopeless state; he thought I was going to die, but Our
Lord might have said to him: "This sickness is not unto death, but for
the glory of God." [19]

Yes, God was glorified by means of this trial, by the wonderful
resignation of my Father and sisters. And to Marie especially what
suffering it brought, and how grateful I am to this dear sister! She
seemed to divine my wants by instinct, for a mother's heart is more
knowing than the science of the most skilful doctors.

And now Pauline's clothing day was drawing near; but, fearing to
distress me, no one dared mention it in my presence, since it was taken
for granted that I should not be well enough to be there. Deep down in
my heart, however, I firmly believed that God would give me the
consolation of seeing dear Pauline on that day. I was quite sure that
this feast would be unclouded; I knew that Our Lord would not try His
Spouse by depriving her of my presence, she had already suffered so
much on account of my illness. And so it turned out. I was there, able
to embrace my dear little Mother, to sit on her knee, and, hiding
myself under her veil, to receive her loving caresses. I was able to
feast my eyes upon her--she looked so lovely in her veil and mantle of
white. Truly it was a day of happiness in the midst of heavy trials;
but this day, or rather this hour, passed only too quickly, and soon we
were in the carriage which was to take us away from the Carmel. On
reaching home I was made to lie down, though I did not feel at all
tired; but next day I had a serious relapse, and became so ill that,
humanly speaking, there was no hope of any recovery.

I do not know how to describe this extraordinary illness. I said things
which I had never thought of; I acted as though I were forced to act in
spite of myself; I seemed nearly always to be delirious; and yet I feel
certain that I was never, for a minute, deprived of my reason.
Sometimes I remained in a state of extreme exhaustion for hours
together, unable to make the least movement, and yet, in spite of this
extraordinary torpor, hearing the least whisper. I remember it still.
And what fears the devil inspired! I was afraid of everything; my bed
seemed to be surrounded by frightful precipices; nails in the wall took
the terrifying appearance of long fingers, shrivelled and blackened
with fire, making me cry out in terror. One day, while Papa stood
looking at me in silence, the hat in his hand was suddenly transformed
into some horrible shape, and I was so frightened that he went away
sobbing.

But if God allowed the devil to approach me in this open way, Angels
too were sent to console and strengthen me. Marie never left me, and
never showed the least trace of weariness in spite of all the trouble I
gave her--for I could not rest when she was away. During meals, when
Victoire took care of me, I never ceased calling tearfully "Marie!
Marie!" When she wanted to go out, it was only if she were going to
Mass or to see Pauline that I kept quiet. As for Leonie and my little
Celine, they could not do enough for me. On Sundays they shut
themselves up for hours with a poor child who seemed almost to have
lost her reason. My own dear sisters, how much I made you suffer! My
uncle and aunt were also devoted to me. My aunt came to see me every
day, and brought me many little gifts. I could never tell you how my
love for these dear ones increased during this illness. I understood
better than ever what Papa had so often told us: "Always remember,
children, that your uncle and aunt have devoted themselves to you in a
way that is quite exceptional." In his old age he experienced this
himself, and now he must bless and protect those who lavished upon him
such affectionate care. [20]

When my sufferings grew less, my great delight was to weave garlands of
daisies and forget-me-nots for Our Lady's statue. We were in the
beautiful month of May, when all nature is clothed with the flowers of
spring; the Little Flower alone drooped, and seemed as though it had
withered for ever. Yet she too had a shining sun, the miraculous statue
of the Queen of Heaven. How often did not the Little Flower turn
towards this glorious Sun!

One day Papa came into my room in the deepest distress, and I watched
him go up to Marie and give her some money, bidding her write to Paris,
and have a novena of Masses said at the shrine of Our Lady of
Victories, [21] to obtain the cure of his poor little Queen. How
touching were his faith and love! How much I longed to get up and tell
him I was cured! Alas! my wishes could not work a miracle, and it
needed one to restore me to health. Yes, it needed a great miracle, and
this was wrought by Our Lady of Victories herself.

One Sunday, during the novena, Marie went into the garden, leaving me
with Leonie, who was reading by the window. After a short time I began
to call: "Marie! Marie!" very softly. Leonie, accustomed to hear me
fret like this, took no notice, so I called louder, until Marie came
back to me. I saw her come into the room quite well, but, for the first
time, I failed to recognise her. I looked all round and glanced
anxiously into the garden, still calling: "Marie! Marie!" Her anguish
was perhaps greater than mine, and that was unutterable. At last, after
many fruitless efforts to make me recognise her, she whispered a few
words to Leonie, and went away pale and trembling. Leonie presently
carried me to the window. There I saw the garden, and Marie walking up
and down, but still I did not recognise her; she came forward, smiling,
and held out her arms to me calling tenderly: "Therese, dear little
Therese!" This last effort failing, she came in again and knelt in
tears at the foot of my bed; turning towards the statue of Our Lady,
she entreated her with the fervour of a mother who begs the life of her
child and will not be refused. Leonie and Celine joined her, and that
cry of faith forced the gates of Heaven. I too, finding no help on
earth and nearly dead with pain, turned to my Heavenly Mother, begging
her from the bottom of my heart to have pity on me. Suddenly the statue
seemed to come to life and grow beautiful, with a divine beauty that I
shall never find words to describe. The expression of Our Lady's face
was ineffably sweet, tender, and compassionate; but what touched me to
the very depths of my soul was her gracious smile. Then, all my pain
vanished, two big tears started to my eyes and fell silently. . . .

They were indeed tears of unmixed heavenly joy. "Our Blessed Lady has
come to me, she has smiled at me. How happy I am, but I shall tell no
one, or my happiness will leave me!" Such were my thoughts. Looking
around, I recognised Marie; she seemed very much overcome, and looked
lovingly at me, as though she guessed that I had just received a great
grace.

Indeed her prayers had gained me this unspeakable favour--a smile from
the Blessed Virgin! When she saw me with my eyes fixed on the statue,
she said to herself: "Therese is cured!" And it was true. The Little
Flower had come to life again--a bright ray from its glorious Sun had
warmed and set it free for ever from its cruel enemy. "The dark winter
is past, the rain is over and gone," [22] and Our Lady's Little Flower
gathered such strength that five years later it opened wide its petals
on the fertile mountain of Carmel.

As I said before, Marie was convinced that Our Blessed Lady, while
restoring my bodily health, had granted me some hidden grace. So, when
I was alone with her, I could not resist her tender and pressing
inquiries. I was so astonished to find my secret already known, without
my having said a word, that I told her everything. Alas! as I had
foreseen, my joy was turned into bitterness. For four years the
remembrance of this grace was a cause of real pain to me, and it was
only in the blessed sanctuary of Our Lady of Victories, at my Mother's
feet, that I once again found peace. There it was restored to me in all
its fulness, as I will tell you later.

This is how my joy was changed into sadness. When Marie had heard the
childish, but perfectly sincere, account of the grace I had received,
she begged my leave to tell them at the Carmel, and I did not like to
refuse her. My first visit there after my illness was full of joy at
seeing Pauline clothed in the habit of Our Lady of Carmel. It was a
happy time for us both, we had so much to say, we had both suffered so
much. My heart was so full that I could hardly speak.

You were there, dear Mother, and plainly showed your affection for me;
I saw several other Sisters too, and you must remember how they
questioned me about my cure. Some asked if Our Lady was holding the
Infant Jesus in her arms, others if the Angels were with her, and so
on. All these questions distressed and grieved me, and I could only
make one answer: "Our Lady looked very beautiful; I saw her come
towards me and smile." But noticing that the nuns thought something
quite different had happened from what I had told them, I began to
persuade myself that I had been guilty of an untruth.

If only I had kept my secret I should have kept my happiness also. But
Our Lady allowed this trouble to befall me for the good of my soul;
perhaps without it vanity would have crept into my heart, whereas now I
was humbled, and I looked on myself with feelings of contempt. My God,
Thou alone knowest all that I suffered!
__________________________________________________________________

[16] Marie Guerin entered the Carmel at Lisieux on August 15, 1895, and
took the name of Sister Mary of the Eucharist. She died on April 14,
1905, aged thirty-four.

[17] With the Carmelites the grating is only opened for near relatives
and very young children. [Ed.]

[18] "Pauline" has several times been Prioress of the Carmel of
Lisieux, and in 1909 again succeeded to that office on the death of the
young and saintly Mother Mary of St. Angelus of the Child Jesus. [Ed.]

[19] John 11:4.

[20] Mme. Guerin died holily on February 13, 1900, aged fifty-two.
During her illness Therese assisted her in an extraordinary way,
several times making her presence felt. Monsieur Guerin, having for
many years used his pen in defence of the Church, and his fortune in
the support of good works, died a beautiful death on September 28,
1909, in his sixty-ninth year. [Ed.]

[21] It was in this small church--once deserted and to-day perhaps the
most frequented in Paris--that the saintly Abbe Desgenettes was
inspired by Our Lady, in 1836, to establish the Confraternity of the
Immaculate Heart of Mary for the conversion of sinners. [Ed.]

[22] Cant. 2:11.
__________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER IV - FIRST COMMUNION AND CONFIRMATION

While describing this visit to the Carmel, my thoughts are carried back
to the first one which I paid after Pauline entered. On the morning of
that happy day, I wondered what name would be given to me later on. I
knew that there was already a Sister Teresa of Jesus; nevertheless, my
beautiful name of Therese could not be taken from me. Suddenly I
thought of the Child Jesus whom I loved so dearly, and I felt how much
I should like to be called Teresa of the Child Jesus. I was careful not
to tell you of my wish, dear Mother, yet you said to me, in the middle
of our conversation: "When you come to us, little one, you will be
called 'Teresa of the Child Jesus.'" My joy was great indeed. This
happy coincidence of thought seemed a special favour from the Holy
Child.

So far I have not said anything about my love for pictures and books,
and yet I owe some of the happiest and strongest impressions which have
encouraged me in the practice of virtue to the beautiful pictures
Pauline used to show me. Everything was forgotten while looking at
them. For instance, "The Little Flower of the Divine Prisoner"
suggested so many thoughts that I would remain gazing at it in a kind
of ecstasy. I offered myself to Our Lord to be His Little Flower; I
longed to console Him, to draw as near as possible to the Tabernacle,
to be looked on, cared for, and gathered by Him.

As I was of no use at games, I should have preferred to spend all my
time in reading. Happily for me, I had visible guardian angels to guide
me in this matter; they chose books suitable to my age, which
interested me and at the same time provided food for my thoughts and
affections. I was only allowed a limited time for this favourite
recreation, and it became an occasion of much self-sacrifice, for as
soon as the time had elapsed I made it my duty to stop instantly, even
in the middle of a most interesting passage.

As to the impressions produced on me by these books, I must frankly own
that, in reading certain tales of chivalry, I did not always understand
the realities of life. And so, in my admiration of the patriotic deeds
of the heroines of France, especially of the Venerable Joan of Arc, I
longed to do what they had done. About this time I received what I have
looked on as one of the greatest graces of my life, for, at that age, I
was not favoured with lights from Heaven, as I am now.

Our Lord made me understand that the only true glory is that which
lasts for ever; and that to attain it there is no necessity to do
brilliant deeds, but rather to hide from the eyes of others, and even
from oneself, so that "the left hand knows not what the right hand
does." [23] Then, as I reflected that I was born for great things, and
sought the means to attain them, it was made known to me interiorly
that my personal glory would never reveal itself before the eyes of
men, but that it would consist in becoming a Saint.

This aspiration may very well appear rash, seeing how imperfect I was,
and am, even now, after so many years of religious life; yet I still
feel the same daring confidence that one day I shall become a great
Saint. I am not trusting in my own merits, for I have none; but I trust
in Him Who is Virtue and Holiness itself. It is He alone Who, pleased
with my feeble efforts, will raise me to Himself, and, by clothing me
with His merits, make me a Saint. At that time I did not realise that
to become one it is necessary to suffer a great deal; but God soon
disclosed this secret to me by means of the trials I have related.

I must now continue my story where I left off. Three months after my
cure Papa took me away for a change. It was a very pleasant time, and I
began to see something of the world. All around me was joy and
gladness; I was petted, made much of, admired--in fact, for a whole
fortnight my path was strewn with flowers. The Wise Man is right when
he says: "The bewitching of vanity overturneth the innocent mind." [24]
At ten years of age the heart is easily fascinated, and I confess that
in my case this kind of life had its charms. Alas! the world knows well
how to combine its pleasures with the service of God. How little it
thinks of death! And yet death has come to many people I knew then,
young, rich, and happy. I recall to mind the delightful places where
they lived, and ask myself where they are now, and what profit they
derive to-day from the beautiful houses and grounds where I saw them
enjoying all the good things of this life, and I reflect that "All is
vanity besides loving God and serving Him alone." [25]

Perhaps Our Lord wished me to know something of the world before He
paid His first visit to my soul, so that I might choose more
deliberately the way in which I was to follow Him.

I shall always remember my First Communion Day as one of unclouded
happiness. It seems to me that I could not have been better prepared.
Do you remember, dear Mother, the charming little book you gave me
three months before the great day? I found in it a helpful method which
prepared me gradually and thoroughly. It is true I had been thinking
about my First Communion for a long time, but, as your precious
manuscript told me, I must stir up in my heart fresh transports of love
and fill it anew with flowers. So, each day I made a number of little
sacrifices and acts of love, which were to be changed into so many
flowers: now violets, another time roses, then cornflowers, daisies, or
forget-me-nots--in a word, all nature's blossoms were to form in me a
cradle for the Holy Child.

I had Marie, too, who took Pauline's place. Every evening I spent a
long time with her, listening eagerly to all she said. How delightfully
she talked to me! I felt myself set on fire by her noble, generous
spirit. As the warriors of old trained their children in the profession
of arms, so she trained me for the battle of life, and roused my ardour
by pointing to the victor's glorious palm. She spoke, too, of the
imperishable riches which are so easy to amass each day, and of the
folly of trampling them under foot when one has but to stoop and gather
them. When she talked so eloquently, I was sorry that I was the only
one to listen to her teaching, for, in my simplicity, it seemed to me
that the greatest sinners would be converted if they but heard her, and
that, forsaking the perishable riches of this world, they would seek
none but the riches of Heaven.

I should have liked at this time to practise mental prayer, but Marie,
finding me sufficiently devout, only let me say my vocal prayers. A
mistress at the Abbey asked me once what I did on holidays, when I
stayed at home. I answered timidly: "I often hide myself in a corner of
my room where I can shut myself in with the bed curtains, and then I
think." "But what do you think about?" said the good nun, laughing. "I
think about the Good God, about the shortness of life, and about
eternity: in a word, I think." My mistress did not forget this, and
later on she used to remind me of the time when I thought, asking me if
I still thought. . . . Now, I know that I was really praying, while my
Divine Master gently instructed me.

The three months' preparation for First Communion passed quickly by; it
was soon time for me to begin my retreat, and, during it, I stayed at
the Abbey. Oh, what a blessed retreat it was! I do not think that one
can experience such joy except in a religious house; there, with only a
few children, it is easy for each one to receive special attention. I
write this in a spirit of filial gratitude; our mistresses at the Abbey
showed us a true motherly affection. I do not know why, but I saw
plainly that they watched over me more carefully than they did over the
others.

Every night the first mistress, carrying her little lamp, opened my bed
curtains softly, and kissed me tenderly on the forehead. She showed me
such affection that, touched by her kindness, I said one night:
"Mother, I love you so much that I am going to tell you a great
secret." Then I took from under my pillow the precious little book you
had given me, and showed it to her, my eyes sparkling with pleasure.
She opened it with care, and, looking through it attentively, told me
how privileged I was. In fact, several times during the retreat, the
truth came home to me that very few motherless children of my age are
as lovingly cared for as I was then.

I listened most attentively to the instructions given us by Father
Domin, and wrote careful notes on them, but I did not put down any of
my own thoughts, as I knew I should remember them quite well. And so it
proved.

How happy I was to attend Divine Office as the nuns did! I was easily
distinguished from my companions by a large crucifix, which Leonie had
given me, and which, like the missionaries, I carried in my belt. They
thought I was trying to imitate my Carmelite sister, and indeed my
thoughts did often turn lovingly to her. I knew she was in retreat too,
not that Jesus might give Himself to her, but that she might give
herself entirely to Jesus, and this on the same day as I made my First
Communion. The time of quiet waiting was therefore doubly dear to me.

At last there dawned the most beautiful day of all the days of my life.
How perfectly I remember even the smallest details of those sacred
hours! the joyful awakening, the reverent and tender embraces of my
mistresses and older companions, the room filled with snow-white
frocks, where each child was dressed in turn, and, above all, our
entrance into the chapel and the melody of the morning hymn: "O Altar
of God, where the Angels are hovering."

But I would not and I could not tell you all. Some things lose their
fragrance when exposed to the air, and so, too, one's inmost thoughts
cannot be translated into earthly words without instantly losing their
deep and heavenly meaning. How sweet was the first embrace of Jesus! It
was indeed an embrace of love. I felt that I was loved, and I said: "I
love Thee, and I give myself to Thee for ever." Jesus asked nothing of
me, and claimed no sacrifice; for a long time He and little Therese had
known and understood one another. That day our meeting was more than
simple recognition, it was perfect union. We were no longer two.
Therese had disappeared like a drop of water lost in the immensity of
the ocean; Jesus alone remained--He was the Master, the King! Had not
Therese asked Him to take away her liberty which frightened her? She
felt herself so weak and frail, that she wished to be for ever united
to the Divine Strength.

And then my joy became so intense, so deep, that it could not be
restrained; tears of happiness welled up and overflowed. My companions
were astonished, and asked each other afterwards: "Why did she cry? Had
she anything on her conscience? No, it is because neither her Mother
nor her dearly loved Carmelite sister is here." And no one understood
that all the joy of Heaven had come down into one heart, and that this
heart, exiled, weak, and mortal as it was, could not contain it without
tears.

How could my Mother's absence grieve me on my First Communion Day? As
Heaven itself dwelt in my soul, in receiving a visit from Our Divine
Lord I received one from my dear Mother too. Nor was I crying on
account of Pauline's absence, for we were even more closely united than
before. No, I repeat it--joy alone, a joy too deep for words,
overflowed within me.

During the afternoon I read the act of consecration to Our Lady, for
myself and my companions. I was chosen probably because I had been
deprived of my earthly Mother while still so young. With all my heart I
consecrated myself to the Blessed Virgin Mary, and asked her to watch
over me. She seemed to look lovingly on her Little Flower and to smile
at her again, and I thought of the visible smile which had once cured
me, and of all I owed her. Had she not herself, on the morning of that
8th of May, placed in the garden of my soul her Son Jesus--"the Flower
of the field and the Lily of the valleys"? [26]

On the evening of this happy day Papa and I went to the Carmel, and I
saw Pauline, now become the Spouse of Christ. She wore a white veil
like mine and a crown of roses. My joy was unclouded, for I hoped soon
to join her, and at her side to wait for Heaven.

I was pleased with the feast prepared for me at home, and was delighted
with the beautiful watch given to me by Papa. My happiness was perfect,
and nothing troubled the inward peace of my soul. Night came, and so
ended that beautiful day. Even the brightest days are followed by
darkness; one alone will know no setting, the day of the First and
Eternal Communion in our true Home. Somehow the next day seemed
sorrowful. The pretty clothes and the presents I had received could not
satisfy me. Henceforth Our Lord alone could fill my heart, and all I
longed for was the blissful moment when I should receive Him again.

I made my second Communion on Ascension Day, and had the happiness of
kneeling at the rails between Papa and Marie. My tears flowed with
inexpressible sweetness; I kept repeating those words of St. Paul: "I
live now, not I; but Christ liveth in me." [27] After this second visit
of Our Lord I longed for nothing else but to receive Him. Alas! the
feasts seemed so far apart. . . .

On the eve of these happy days Marie helped me to prepare, as she had
done for my First Communion. I remember once she spoke of suffering,
and said that in all probability, instead of making me walk by this
road, God, in His goodness, would carry me always like a little child.
Her words came into my mind next day after my Communion; my heart
became inflamed with an ardent desire for suffering, and I felt
convinced that many crosses were in store for me. Then my soul was
flooded with such consolation as I have never since experienced.
Suffering became attractive, and I found in it charms which held me
spellbound, though as yet I did not appreciate them to the full.

I had one other great wish; it was to love God only, and to find my joy
in Him alone. During my thanksgiving after Holy Communion I often
repeated this passage from the Imitation of Christ: "O my God, who art
unspeakable sweetness, turn for me into bitterness all the consolations
of earth." [28] These words rose to my lips quite naturally; I said
them like a child, who, without well understanding, repeats what a
friend may suggest. Later on I will tell you, dear Mother, how Our Lord
has been pleased to fulfill my desire, how He, and He alone, has always
been my joy; but if I were to speak of it now I should have to pass on
to my girlhood, and there is still much to tell you of my early days.

Soon after my First Communion I went into retreat again, before being
confirmed. I prepared myself with the greatest care for the coming of
the Holy Ghost; I could not understand anyone not doing so before
receiving this Sacrament of Love. As the ceremony could not take place
on the day fixed, I had the consolation of remaining somewhat longer in
retreat. How happy I felt! Like the Apostles, I looked with joy for the
promised Comforter, gladdened by the thought that I should soon be a
perfect Christan, and have the holy Cross, the symbol of this wondrous
Sacrament, traced upon my forehead for eternity. I did not feel the
mighty wind of the first Pentecost, but rather the gentle breeze which
the prophet Elias heard on Mount Horeb. On that day I received the gift
of fortitude in suffering--a gift I needed sorely, for the martyrdom of
my soul was soon to begin.

When these delightful feasts, which can never be forgotten, were over,
I had to resume my life as a day scholar, at the Abbey. I made good
progress with my lessons, and remembered easily the sense of what I
read, but I had the greatest difficulty in learning by heart; only at
catechism were my efforts crowned with success. The Chaplain called me
his little "Doctor of Theology," [29] no doubt because of my name,
Therese.

During recreation I often gave myself up to serious thoughts, while
from a distance I watched my companions at play. This was my favourite
occupation, but I had another which gave me real pleasure. I would
search carefully for any poor little birds that had fallen dead under
the big trees, and I then buried them with great ceremony, all in the
same cemetery, in a special grass plot. Sometimes I told stories to my
companions, and often even the big girls came to listen; but soon our
mistress, very rightly, brought my career as an orator to an end,
saying she wanted us to exercise our bodies and not our brains. At this
time I chose as friends two little girls of my own age; but how shallow
are the hearts of creatures! One of them had to stay at home for some
months; while she was away I thought about her very often, and on her
return I showed how pleased I was. However, all I got was a glance of
indifference--my friendship was not appreciated. I felt this very
keenly, and I no longer sought an affection which had proved so
inconstant. Nevertheless I still love my little school friend, and
continue to pray for her, for God has given me a faithful heart, and
when once I love, I love for ever.

Observing that some of the girls were very devoted to one or other of
the mistresses, I tried to imitate them, but I never succeeded in
winning special favour. O happy failure, from how many evils have you
saved me! I am most thankful to Our Lord that He let me find only
bitterness in earthly friendships. With a heart like mine, I should
have been taken captive and had my wings clipped, and how then should I
have been able to "fly away and be at rest"? [30]

How can a heart given up to human affections be closely united to God?
It seems to me that it is impossible. I have seen so many souls,
allured by this false light, fly right into it like poor moths, and
burn their wings, and then return, wounded, to Our Lord, the Divine
fire which burns and does not consume. I know well Our Lord saw that I
was too weak to be exposed to temptation, for, without doubt, had the
deceitful light of created love dazzled my eyes, I should have been
entirely consumed. Where strong souls find joy and practise detachment
faithfully, I only found bitterness. No merit, then, is due to me for
not having given up to these frail ties, since I was only preserved
from them by the Mercy of God. I fully realised that without Him I
should have fallen as low as St. Mary Magdalen, and the Divine Master's
words re-echoed sweetly in my soul. Yes, I know that "To whom less is
forgiven he loveth less," [31] but I know too that Our Lord has
forgiven me more than St. Mary Magdalen. Here is an example which will,
at any rate, show you some of my thoughts.

Let us suppose that the son of a very clever doctor, stumbling over a
stone on the road, falls and breaks his leg. His father hastens to him,
lifts him lovingly, and binds up the fractured limb, putting forth all
his skill. The son, when cured, displays the utmost gratitude, and he
has excellent reason for doing so. But let us take another supposition.

The father, aware that a dangerous stone lies in his son's path, is
beforehand with the danger and removes it, unseen by anyone. The son,
thus tenderly cared for, not knowing of the mishap from which his
father's hand has saved him, naturally will not show him any gratitude,
and will love him less than if he had cured him of a grievous wound.
But suppose he heard the whole truth, would he not in that case love
him still more? Well now, I am this child, the object of the foreseeing
love of a Father "Who did not send His son to call the just, but
sinners." [32] He wishes me to love Him, because He has forgiven me,
not much, but everything. Without waiting for me to love Him much, as
St. Mary Magdalen did, He has made me understand how He has loved me
with an ineffable love and forethought, so that now my love may know no
bounds.

I had often heard it said, both in retreats and elsewhere, that He is
more deeply loved by repentant souls than by those who have not lost
their baptismal innocence. Ah! If I could but give the lie to those
words. . . .

But I have wandered so far from my subject that I hardly know where to
begin again. It was during the retreat before my second Communion that
I was attacked by the terrible disease of scruples. One must have
passed through this martyrdom to understand it. It would be quite
impossible for me to tell you what I suffered for nearly two years. All
my thoughts and actions, even the simplest, were a source of trouble
and anguish to me; I had no peace till I had told Marie everything, and
this was most painful, since I imagined I was obliged to tell
absolutely all my thoughts, even the most extravagant. As soon as I had
unburdened myself I felt a momentary peace, but it passed like a flash,
and my martyrdom began again. Many an occasion for patience did I
provide for my dear sister.

That year we spent a fortnight of our holidays at the sea-side. My
aunt, who always showed us such motherly care, treated us to all
possible pleasures--donkey rides, shrimping, and the rest. She even
spoiled us in the matter of clothes. I remember one day she gave me
some pale blue ribbon; although I was twelve and a half, I was still
such a child that I quite enjoyed tying it in my hair. But this
childish pleasure seemed sinful to me, and I had so many scruples that
I had to go to Confession, even at Trouville.

While I was there I had an experience which did me good. My cousin
Marie often suffered from sick headaches. On these occasions my aunt
used to fondle her and coax her with the most endearing names, but the
only response was continual tears and the unceasing cry: "My head
aches!" I had a headache nearly every day, though I did not say so; but
one evening I thought I would imitate Marie. So I sat down in an
armchair in a corner of the room, and set to work to cry. My aunt, as
well as my cousin Jeanne, to whom I was very devoted, hastened to me to
know what was the matter. I answered like Marie: "My head aches." It
would seem that complaining was not in my line; no one would believe
that a headache was the reason of my tears. Instead of petting me as
usual, my aunt spoke to me seriously. Even Jeanne reproached me, very
kindly it is true, and was grieved at my want of simplicity and trust
in my aunt. She thought I had a big scruple, and was not giving the
real reason of my tears. At last, getting nothing for my pains, I made
up my mind not to imitate other people any more. I thought of the fable
of the ass and the little dog; I was the ass, who, seeing that the
little dog got all the petting, put his clumsy hoof on the table to try
and secure his share. If I did not have a beating like the poor beast,
at any rate I got what I deserved--a severe lesson, which cured me once
for all of the desire to attract attention.

I must go back now to the subject of my scruples. They made me so ill
that I was obliged to leave school when I was thirteen. In order to
continue my education, Papa took me several times a week to a lady who
was an excellent teacher. Her lessons served the double purpose of
instructing me and making me associate with other people.

Visitors were often shown into the old-fashioned room where I sat with
my books and exercises. As far as possible my teacher's mother carried
on the conversation, but still I did not learn much while it lasted.
Seemingly absorbed in my book, I could hear many things it would have
been better for me not to hear. One lady said I had beautiful hair;
another asked, as she left, who was that pretty little girl. Such
remarks, the more flattering because I was not meant to hear them, gave
me a feeling of pleasure which showed plainly that I was full of
self-love.

I am very sorry for souls who lose themselves in this way. It is so
easy to go astray in the seductive paths of the world. Without doubt,
for a soul somewhat advanced in virtue, the sweetness offered by the
world is mingled with bitterness, and the immense void of its desires
cannot be filled by the flattery of a moment; but I repeat, if my heart
had not been lifted up towards God from the first moment of
consciousness, if the world had smiled on me from the beginning of my
life, what should I have become? Dearest Mother, with what a grateful
heart do I sing "the Mercies of the Lord!" Has He not, according to the
words of Holy Wisdom, "taken me away from the world lest wickedness
should alter my understanding, or deceit beguile my soul?" [33]

Meanwhile I resolved to consecrate myself in a special way to Our
Blessed Lady, and I begged to be enrolled among the Children of Mary.
[34] To gain this favour I had to go twice a week to the Convent, and I
must confess this cost me something, I was so shy. There was no
question of the affection I felt towards my mistresses, but, as I said
before, I had no special friend among them, with whom I could have
spent many hours like other old pupils. So I worked in silence till the
end of the lesson, and then, as no one took any notice of me, I went to
the tribune in the Chapel till Papa came to fetch me home. Here, during
this silent visit, I found my one consolation--for was not Jesus my
only Friend? To Him alone could I open my heart; all conversation with
creatures, even on holy subjects, wearied me. It is true that in these
periods of loneliness I sometimes felt sad, and I used often to console
myself by repeating this line of a beautiful poem Papa had taught me:
"Time is thy barque, and not thy dwelling-place."

Young as I was, these words restored my courage, and even now, in spite
of having outgrown many pious impressions of childhood, the symbol of a
ship always delights me and helps me to bear the exile of this life.
Does not the Wise Man tell us--"Life is like a ship that passeth
through the waves: when it is gone by, the trace thereof cannot be
found"? [35]

When my thoughts run on in this way, my soul loses itself as it were in
the infinite; I seem already to touch the Heavenly Shore and to receive
Our Lord's embrace. I fancy I can see Our Blessed Lady coming to meet
me, with my Father and Mother, my little brothers and sisters; and I
picture myself enjoying true family joys for all eternity.

But before reaching Our Father's Home in Heaven, I had to go through
many partings on this earth. The year in which I was made a Child of
Mary, Our Lady took from me my sister Marie, the only support of my
soul, [36] my oracle and inseparable companion since the departure of
Pauline. As soon as I knew of her decision, I made up my mind to take
no further pleasure in anything here below. I could not tell you how
many tears I shed. But at this time I was much given to crying, not
only over big things, but over trifling ones too. For instance: I was
very anxious to advance in virtue, but I went about it in a strange
way. I was not accustomed to wait on myself; Celine always arranged our
room, and I never did any household work. Sometimes, in order to please
Our Lord, I used to make my bed, or, if she were out in the evening, to
bring in her plants and seedlings. As I said before, it was simply to
please Our Lord that I did these things, and so I ought not to have
expected any thanks from creatures. But, alas! I did expect them, and,
if unfortunately Celine did not seem surprised and grateful for my
little services, I was not pleased, and tears rose to my eyes.

Again, if by accident I offended anyone, instead of taking it in the
right way, I fretted till I made myself ill, thus making my fault
worse, instead of mending it; and when I began to realise my
foolishness, I would cry for having cried.

In fact, I made troubles out of everything. Now, things are quite
different. God in His goodness has given me grace not to be cast down
by any passing difficulty. When I think of what I used to be, my heart
overflows with gratitude. The graces I have received have changed me so
completely, that I am scarcely the same person.

After Marie entered the Carmel, and I no longer had her to listen to my
scruples, I turned towards Heaven and confided them to the four little
angels who had already gone before me, for I thought that these
innocent souls, who had never known sorrow or fear, ought to have pity
on their poor little suffering sister. I talked to them with childish
simplicity, telling them that, as I was the youngest of the family, I
had always been the most petted and loved by my parents and sisters;
that if they had remained on earth they would no doubt have given me
the same proofs of their affection. The fact that they had gone to
Heaven seemed no reason why they should forget me--on the contrary, as
they were able to draw form the treasury of Heaven, they ought to
obtain for me the grace of peace, and prove that they still knew how to
love me.

The answer was not long in coming; soon my soul was flooded with the
sweetest peace. I knew that I was loved, not only on earth but also in
Heaven. From that time my devotion for these little brothers and
sisters increased; I loved to talk to them and tell them of all the
sorrows of this exile, and of my wish to join them soon in our Eternal
Home.
__________________________________________________________________

[23] Cf. Matt. 6:3.

[24] Wisdom 4:12.

[25] Imit., I, ch. i. 3.

[26] Cant. 2:1.

[27] Gal. 2:20.

[28] Imit., III, ch. xxvi. 3.

[29] St. Teresa, who reformed the Carmelite Order, and died in 1582, is
sometimes called the Doctor of Mystical Theology, because of her
luminous writings on the relations of the soul with God in prayer.
[Ed.]

[30] Ps. 54[55]:7.

[31] Luke 7:47.

[32] Luke 5:32.

[33] Cf. Wisdom 4:11.

[34] It was on May 31, 1886, that she became a Sodalist of Our Lady.
[Ed.]

[35] Wisdom 5:10.

[36] Marie entered the Carmel of Lisieux on October 15, 1886, taking
the name of Sister Mary of the Sacred Heart.
__________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER V - VOCATION OF THERESE

I was far from meriting all the graces which Our Lord showered on me. I
had a constant and ardent desire to advance in virtue, but often my
actions were spoilt by imperfections. My extreme sensitiveness made me
almost unbearable. All arguments were useless. I simply could not
correct myself of this miserable fault. How, then, could I hope soon to
be admitted to the Carmel? A miracle on a small scale was needed to
give me strength of character all at once, and God worked this
long-desired miracle on Christmas Day, 1886.

On that blessed night the sweet Infant Jesus, scarce an hour old,
filled the darkness of my soul with floods of light. By becoming weak
and little, for love of me, He made me strong and brave; He put His own
weapons into my hands, so that I went from victory to victory,
beginning, if I may say so, "to run as a giant." [37] The fountain of
my tears was dried up, and from that time they flowed neither easily
nor often.

Now I will tell you, dear Mother, how I received this inestimable grace
of complete conversion. I knew that when we reached home after Midnight
Mass I should find my shoes in the chimney-corner, filled with
presents, just as when I was a little child, which proves that my
sisters still treated me as a baby. Papa, too, liked to watch my
enjoyment and hear my cries of delight at each fresh surprise that came
from the magic shoes, and his pleasure added to mine. But the time had
come when Our Lord wished to free me from childhood's failings, and
even withdraw me from its innocent pleasures. On this occasion, instead
of indulging me as he generally did, Papa seemed vexed, and on my way
upstairs I heard him say: "Really all this is too babyish for a big
girl like Therese, and I hope it is the last year it will happen." His
words cut me to the quick. Celine, knowing how sensitive I was,
whispered: "Don't go downstairs just yet--wait a little, you would cry
too much if you looked at your presents before Papa." But Therese was
no longer the same--Jesus had changed her heart.

Choking back my tears, I ran down to the dining-room, and, though my
heart beat fast, I picked up my shoes, and gaily pulled out all the
things, looking as happy as a queen. Papa laughed, and did not show any
trace of displeasure, and Celine thought she must be dreaming. But
happily it was a reality; little Therese had regained, once for all,
the strength of mind which she had lost at the age of four and a half.

On this night of grace, the third period of my life began--the most
beautiful of all, the one most filled with heavenly favours. In an
instant Our Lord, satisfied with my good will, accomplished the work I
had not been able to do during all these years. Like the Apostle I
could say: "Master, we have laboured all night, and have taken
nothing." [38]

More merciful to me even than to His beloved disciples, Our Lord
Himself took the net, cast it, and drew it out full of fishes. He made
me a fisher of men. Love and a spirit of self-forgetfulness took
possession of me, and from that time I was perfectly happy.

One Sunday, closing my book at the end of Mass, a picture of Our Lord
on the Cross half slipped out, showing only one of His Divine Hands,
pierced and bleeding. I felt an indescribable thrill such as I had
never felt before. My heart was torn with grief to see that Precious
Blood falling to the ground, and no one caring to treasure It as It
fell, and I resolved to remain continually in spirit at the foot of the
Cross, that I might receive the Divine Dew of Salvation and pour it
forth upon souls. From that day the cry of my dying Saviour--"I
thirst!"--sounded incessantly in my heart, and kindled therein a
burning zeal hitherto unknown to me. My one desire was to give my
Beloved to drink; I felt myself consumed with thirst for souls, and I
longed at any cost to snatch sinners from the everlasting flames of
hell.

In order still further to enkindle my ardour, Our Divine Master soon
proved to me how pleasing to him was my desire. Just then I heard much
talk of a notorious criminal, Pranzini, who was sentenced to death for
several shocking murders, and, as he was quite impenitent, everyone
feared he would be eternally lost. How I longed to avert this
irreparable calamity! In order to do so I employed all the spiritual
means I could think of, and, knowing that my own efforts were
unavailing, I offered for his pardon the infinite merits of Our Saviour
and the treasures of Holy Church.

Need I say that in the depths of my heart I felt certain my request
would be granted? But, that I might gain courage to persevere in the
quest for souls, I said in all simplicity: "My God, I am quite sure
that Thou wilt pardon this unhappy Pranzini. I should still think so if
he did not confess his sins or give any sign of sorrow, because I have
such confidence in Thy unbounded Mercy; but this is my first sinner,
and therefore I beg for just one sign of repentance to reassure me." My
prayer was granted to the letter. My Father never allowed us to read
the papers, but I did not think there was any disobedience in looking
at the part about Pranzini. The day after his execution I hastily
opened the paper, La Croix, and what did I see? Tears betrayed my
emotion; I was obliged to run out of the room. Pranzini had mounted the
scaffold without confessing or receiving absolution, and the
executioners were already dragging him towards the fatal block, when
all at once, apparently in answer to a sudden inspiration, he turned
round, seized the crucifix which the Priest was offering to him, and
kissed Our Lord's Sacred Wounds three times. . . . I had obtained the
sign I asked for, and to me it was especially sweet. Was it not when I
saw the Precious Blood flowing from the Wounds of Jesus that the thirst
for souls first took possession of me? I wished to give them to drink
of the Blood of the Immaculate Lamb that It might wash away their
stains, and the lips of "my first born" had been pressed to these
Divine Wounds. What a wonderful answer!

After receiving this grace my desire for the salvation of souls
increased day by day. I seemed to hear Our Lord whispering to me, as He
did to the Samaritan woman: "Give me to drink!" [39] It was indeed an
exchange of love: upon souls I poured forth the Precious Blood of
Jesus, and to Jesus I offered these souls refreshed with the Dew of
Calvary. In this way I thought to quench His Thirst; but the more I
gave Him to drink, so much the more did the thirst of my own poor soul
increase, and I accepted it as the most delightful recompense.

In a short time God, in His goodness, had lifted me out of the narrow
sphere in which I lived. The great step was taken; but, alas! I had
still a long road to travel. Now that I was free from scruples and
morbid sensitiveness, my mind developed. I had always loved what was
noble and beautiful, and about this time I was seized with a passionate
desire for learning. Not content with lessons from my teachers, I took
up certain subjects by myself, and learnt more in a few months than I
had in my whole school life. Was not this ardour--"vanity and vexation
of spirit"? [40] For me, with my impetuous nature, this was one of the
most dangerous times of my life, but Our Lord fulfilled in me those
words of Ezechiel's prophecy: "Behold thy time was the time of lovers:
and I spread my garment over thee. And I swore to thee, and I entered
into a covenant with thee, saith the Lord God, and thou becamest Mine.
And I washed thee with water, and I anointed thee with oil. I clothed
thee with fine garments, and put a chain about thy neck. Thou didst eat
fine flour and honey and oil, and wast made exceedingly beautiful, and
wast advanced to be a queen." [41]

Yes, Our Lord has done all this for me. I might take each word of that
striking passage and show how it has been completely realised in me,
but the graces of which I have already told you are sufficient proof.
So I will only speak now of the food with which my Divine Master
abundantly provided me. For a long time I had nourished my spiritual
life with the "fine flour" contained in the Imitation of Christ. It was
the only book which did me good, for I had not yet found the treasures
hidden in the Holy Gospels. I always had it with me, to the amusement
of my people at home. My aunt used often to open it, and make me repeat
by heart the first chapter she chanced to light upon.

Seeing my great thirst for knowledge, God was pleased, when I was
fourteen, to add to the "fine flour," "honey" and "oil" in abundance.

This "honey" and "oil" I found in the conferences of Father Arminjon on
The End of this World and the Mysteries of the World to Come. While
reading this book my soul was flooded with a happiness quite
supernatural. I experienced a foretaste of what God has prepared for
those who love Him; and, seeing that eternal rewards are so much in
excess of the petty sacrifices of this life, I yearned to love Our
Lord, to love Him passionately, and to give Him countless proofs of
affection while this was still in my power.

Celine had become the most intimate sharer of my thoughts, especially
since Christmas. Our Lord, Who wished to make us advance in virtue
together, drew us to one another by ties stronger than blood. He made
us sisters in spirit as well as in the flesh. The words of our Holy
Father, St. John of the Cross, were realised in us:


Treading within Thy Footsteps

Young maidens lightly run upon the way.

From the spark's contact,

And the spiced wine,

They give forth aspirations of a balm divine.

It was lightly indeed that we followed in the footsteps of Our Saviour.
The burning sparks which He cast into our souls, the strong wine which
He gave us to drink, made us lose sight of all earthly things, and we
breathed forth sighs of love.

Very sweet is the memory of our intercourse. Every evening we went up
to our attic window together and gazed at the starry depths of the sky,
and I think very precious graces were bestowed on us then. As the
Imitation says: "God communicates Himself sometimes amid great light,
at other times sweetly in signs and figures." [42]

In this way He deigned to manifest Himself to our hearts; but how
slight and transparent was the veil! Doubt was no longer possible;
already Faith and Hope had given place to Love, which made us find Him
whom we sought, even on this earth. When He found us alone--"He gave us
His kiss, and now no one may despise us." [43]

These divine impressions could not but bear fruit. The practice of
virtue gradually became sweet and natural to me. At first my looks
betrayed the effort, but, little by little, self-sacrifice seemed to
come more easily and without hesitation. Our Lord has said: "To
everyone that hath shall be given, and he shall abound." [44]

Each grace faithfully received brought many others. He gave Himself to
me in Holy Communion oftener than I should have dared to hope. I had
made it my practice to go to Communion as often as my confessor allowed
me, but never to ask for leave to go more frequently. Now, however, I
should act differently, for I am convinced that a soul ought to
disclose to her director the longing she has to receive her God. He
does not come down from Heaven each day in order to remain in a golden
ciborium, but to find another Heaven--the Heaven of our souls in which
He takes such delight.

Our Lord, Who knew my desire, inspired my confessor to allow me to go
to Communion several times a week, and this permission, coming as it
did straight from Him, filled me with joy.

In those days I did not dare to speak of my inner feelings; the road
which I trod was so direct, so clear, that I did not feel the need of
any guide but Jesus. I compared directors to mirrors who faithfully
reflect Our Saviour to the souls under their care, and I thought that
in my case He did not use an intermediary but acted directly.

When a gardener gives special attention to a fruit which he wishes to
ripen early, he does so, not with a view to leaving it on the tree, but
in order to place it on a well-spread table. Our Lord lavished His
favours on His Little Flower in the same way. He wishes His Mercies to
shine forth in me--He Who, while on earth, cried out in a transport of
joy: "I bless Thee, O Father, because Thou hast hidden these things
from the wise and prudent and hast revealed them to little ones." [45]

And because I was small and frail, He bent down to me and instructed me
sweetly in the secrets of His love. As St. John of the Cross says in
his "Canticle of the Soul":


On that happy night

In secret I went forth, beheld by none,

And seeing naught;

Having no light nor guide

Excepting that which burned within my heart,


Which lit my way

More safely than the glare of noon-day sun

To where, expectant,

He waited for me Who doth know me well,

Where none appeared but He.

This place was Carmel, but before I could "sit down under His Shadow
Whom I desired," [46] I had to pass through many trials. And yet the
Divine Call was becoming so insistent that, had it been necessary for
me to go through fire, I would have thrown myself into it to follow my
Divine Master.

Pauline [47] was the only one who encouraged me in my vocation; Marie
thought I was too young, and you, dear Mother, no doubt to prove me,
tried to restrain my ardour. From the start I encountered nothing but
difficulties. Then, too, I dared not speak of it to Celine, and this
silence pained me deeply; it was so hard to have a secret she did not
share.

However, this dear sister soon found out my intention, and, far from
wishing to keep me back, she accepted the sacrifice with wonderful
courage. As she also wished to be a nun, she ought to have been given
the first opportunity; but, imitating the martyrs of old, who used
joyfully to embrace those chosen to go before them into the arena, she
allowed me to leave her, and took my troubles as much to heart as if it
were a question of her own vocation. From Celine, then, I had nothing
to fear, but I did not know how to set about telling Papa. How could
his little Queen talk of leaving him when he had already parted with
his two eldest daughters? Moreover, this year he had been stricken with
a serious attack of paralysis, and though he recovered quickly we were
full of anxiety for the future.

What struggles I went through before I could make up my mind to speak!
But I had to act decisively; I was now fourteen and a half, and in six
months' time the blessed feast of Christmas would be here. I had
resolved to enter the Carmel at the same hour at which a year before I
had received the grace of conversion.

I chose the feast of Pentecost on which to make my great disclosure.
All day I was praying for light from the Holy Ghost, and begging the
Apostles to pray for me, to inspire me with the words I ought to use.
Were they not the very ones to help a timid child whom God destines to
become an apostle of apostles by prayer and sacrifice?

In the afternoon, when Vespers were over, I found the opportunity I
wanted. My Father was sitting in the garden, his hands clasped,
admiring the wonders of nature. The rays of the setting sun gilded the
tops of the tall trees, and the birds chanted their evening prayer.

His beautiful face wore a heavenly expression--I could feel that his
soul was full of peace. Without a word, I sat down by his side, my eyes
already wet with tears. He looked at me with indescribable tenderness,
and, pressing me to his heart, said: "What is it, little Queen? Tell me
everything." Then, in order to hide his own emotion, he rose and walked
slowly up and down, still holding me close to him.

Through my tears I spoke of the Carmel and of my great wish to enter
soon. He, too, wept, but did not say a word to turn me from my
vocation; he only told me that I was very young to make such a grave
decision, and as I insisted, and fully explained my reasons, my noble
and generous Father was soon convinced. We walked about for a long
time; my heart was lightened, and Papa no longer shed tears. He spoke
to me as Saints speak, and showed me some flowers growing in the low
stone wall. Picking one of them, he gave it to me, and explained the
loving care with which God had made it spring up and grow till now.

I fancied myself listening to my own story, so close was the
resemblance between the little flower and little Therese. I received
this floweret as a relic, and noticed that in gathering it my Father
had pulled it up by the roots without breaking them; it seemed destined
to live on, but in other and more fertile soil. Papa had just done the
same for me. He allowed me to leave the sweet valley, where I had
passed the first years of my life, for the mountain of Carmel. I
fastened my little white flower to a picture of Our Lady of
Victories--the Blessed Virgin smiles on it, and the Infant Jesus seems
to hold it in His Hand. It is there still, but the stalk is broken
close to the root. God doubtless wishes me to understand that He will
soon break all the earthly ties of His Little Flower and will not leave
her to wither on this earth.

Having obtained my Father's consent, I thought I could now fly to the
Carmel without hindrance. Far from it! When I told my uncle of my
project, he declared that to enter such a severe Order at the age of
fifteen seemed to him against all common sense, and that it would be
doing a wrong to religion to let a child embrace such a life. He added
that he should oppose it in every way possible, and that nothing short
of a miracle would make him change his mind.

I could see that all arguments were useless, so I left him, my heart
weighed down by profound sadness. My only consolation was prayer. I
entreated Our Lord to work this miracle for me because thus only could
I respond to His appeal. Some time went by, and my uncle did not seem
even to remember our conversation, though I learnt later that it had
been constantly in his thoughts.

Before allowing a ray of hope to shine on my soul, Our Lord deigned to
send me another most painful trial which lasted for three days. Never
had I understood so well the bitter grief of Our Lady and St. Joseph
when they were searching the streets of Jerusalem for the Divine Child.
I seemed to be in a frightful desert, or rather, my soul was like a
frail skiff, without a pilot, at the mercy of the stormy waves. I knew
that Jesus was there asleep in my little boat, but how could I see Him
while the night was so dark? If the storm had really broken, a flash of
lightning would perhaps have pierced the clouds that hung over me: even
though it were but a passing ray, it would have enabled me to catch a
momentary glimpse of the Beloved of my heart--but this was denied me.
Instead, it was night, dark night, utter desolation, death! Like my
Divine Master in the Agony in the Garden, I felt that I was alone, and
found no comfort on earth or in Heaven.

Nature itself seemed to share my bitter sadness, for during these three
days there was not a ray of sunshine and the rain fell in torrents. I
have noticed again and again that in all the important events of my
life nature has reflected my feelings. When I wept, the skies wept with
me; when I rejoiced, no cloud darkened the blue of the heavens. On the
fourth day, a Saturday, I went to see my uncle. What was my surprise
when I found his attitude towards me entirely changed! He invited me
into his study, a privilege I had not asked for; then, after gently
reproaching me for being a little constrained with him, he told me that
the miracle of which he had spoken was no longer needed. He had prayed
God to guide his heart aright, and his prayer had been heard. I felt as
if I hardly knew him, he seemed so different. He embraced me with
fatherly affection, saying with much feeling: "Go in peace, my dear
child, you are a privileged little flower which Our Lord wishes to
gather. I will put no obstacle in the way."

Joyfully I went home. . . . The clouds had quite disappeared from the
sky, and in my soul also dark night was over. Jesus had awakened to
gladden my heart. I no longer heard the roar of the waves. Instead of
the bitter wind of trial, a light breeze swelled my sail, and I fancied
myself safe in port. Alas! more than one storm was yet to rise,
sometimes even making me fear that I should be driven, without hope of
return, from the shore which I longed to reach.

I had obtained my uncle's consent, only to be told by you, dear Mother,
that the Superior of the Carmelites would not allow me to enter till I
was twenty-one. No one had dreamt of this serious opposition, the
hardest of all to overcome. And yet, without losing courage, I went
with Papa to lay my request before him. He received me very coldly, and
could not be induced to change his mind. We left him at last with a
very decided "No." "Of course," he added, "I am only the Bishop's
delegate; if he allows you to enter, I shall have nothing more to say."

When we came out of the Presbytery again, it was raining in torrents,
and my soul, too, was overcast with heavy clouds. Papa did not know how
to console me, but he promised, if I wished, to take me to Bayeux to
see the Bishop, and to this I eagerly consented.

Many things happened, however, before we were able to go. To all
appearances my life seemed to continue as formerly. I went on studying,
and, what is more important, I went on growing in the love of God. Now
and then I experienced what were indeed raptures of love.

One evening, not knowing in what words to tell Our Lord how much I
loved him, and how much I wished that He was served and honoured
everywhere, I thought sorrowfully that from the depths of hell there
does not go up to Him one single act of love. Then, from my inmost
heart, I cried out that I would gladly be cast into that place of
torment and blasphemy so that He might be eternally loved even there.
This could not be for His Glory, since He only wishes our happiness,
but love feels the need of saying foolish things. If I spoke in this
way, it was not that I did not long to go to Heaven, but for me Heaven
was nothing else than Love, and in my ardour I felt that nothing could
separate me from the Divine Being Who held me captive.

About this time Our Lord gave me the consolation of an intimate
knowledge of the souls of children. I gained it in this way. During the
illness of a poor woman, I interested myself in her two little girls,
the elder of whom was not yet six. It was a real pleasure to see how
simply they believed all that I told them. Baptism does indeed plant
deeply in our souls the theological virtues, since from early childhood
the hope of heavenly reward is strong enough to make us practise
self-denial. When I wanted my two little girls to be specially kind to
one another, instead of promising them toys and sweets, I talked to
them about the eternal recompense the Holy Child Jesus would give to
good children. The elder one, who was coming to the use of reason, used
to look quite pleased and asked me charming questions about the little
Jesus and His beautiful Heaven. She promised me faithfully always to
give in to her little sister, adding that all through her life she
would never forget what I had taught her. I used to compare these
innocent souls to soft wax, ready to receive any impression--evil,
alas! as well as good, and I understood the words of Our Lord: "It were
better to be thrown into the sea than to scandalise one of these little
ones." [48]

How many souls might attain to great sanctity if only they were
directed aright from the first! I know God has not need of anyone to
help Him in His work of sanctification, but as He allows a clever
gardener to cultivate rare and delicate plants, giving him the skill to
accomplish it, while reserving to Himself the right of making them
grow, so does He wish to be helped in the cultivation of souls. What
would happen if an ignorant gardener did not graft his trees in the
right way? if he did not understand the nature of each, and wished, for
instance, to make roses grow on peach trees?

This reminds me that I used to have among my birds a canary which sang
beautifully, and also a little linnet taken from the nest, of which I
was very fond. This poor little prisoner, deprived of the teaching it
should have received from its parents, and hearing the joyous trills of
the canary from morning to night, tried hard to imitate them. A
difficult task indeed for a linnet! It was delightful to follow the
efforts of the poor little thing; his sweet voice found great
difficulty in accommodating itself to the vibrant notes of his master,
but he succeeded in time, and, to my great surprise, his song became
exactly like the song of the canary.

Oh, dear Mother, you know who taught me to sing from the days of my
earliest childhood! You know the voices which drew me on. And now I
trust that one day, in spite of my weakness, I may sing for ever the
Canticle of Love, the harmonious notes of which I have often heard
sweetly sounding here below.

But where am I? These thoughts have carried me too far, and I must
resume the history of my vocation.

On October 31, 1887, alone with Papa, I started for Bayeux, my heart
full of hope, but also excited at the idea of presenting myself at the
Bishop's house. For the first time in my life, I was going to pay a
visit without any of my sisters, and this to a Bishop. I, who had never
yet had to speak except to answer questions addressed to me, would have
to explain and enlarge on my reasons for begging to enter the Carmel,
and so give proofs of the genuineness of my vocation.

It cost me a great effort to overcome my shyness sufficiently to do
this. But it is true that Love knows no such word as "impossible," for
it deems "all things possible, all things allowed." Nothing whatsoever
but the love of Jesus could have made me face these difficulties and
others which followed, for I had to purchase my happiness by heavy
trials. Now, it is true, I think I bought it very cheaply, and I would
willingly bear a thousand times more bitter suffering to gain it, if it
were not already mine.

When we reached the Bishop's house, the floodgates of Heaven seemed
open once more. The Vicar-General, Father Reverony, who had settled the
date of our coming, received us very kindly, though he looked a little
surprised, and seeing tears in my eyes said: "Those diamonds must not
be shown to His Lordship!" We were led through large reception-rooms
which made me feel how small I was, and I wondered what I should dare
say. The Bishop was walking in a corridor with two Priests. I saw the
Vicar-General speak a few words to him, then they came into the room
where we were waiting. There were three large armchairs in front of the
fireplace, where a bright fire blazed.

As his Lordship entered, my Father and I knelt for his blessing; then
he made us sit down. Father Reverony offered me the armchair in the
middle. I excused myself politely, but he insisted, telling me to show
if I knew how to obey. I did so without any more hesitation, and was
mortified to see him take an ordinary chair while I was buried in an
enormous seat that would comfortably have held four children like
me--more comfortably in fact, for I was far from being at ease. I hoped
that Papa was going to do all the talking, but he told me to explain
the reason of our visit. I did so as eloquently as I could, though I
knew well that one word from the Superior would have carried more
weight than all my reasons, while his opposition told strongly against
me. The Bishop asked how long I had wanted to enter the Carmel. "A very
long time, my Lord!" "Come!" said the Vicar-General, laughing, "it
cannot be as long as fifteen years." "That is true," I answered, "but
it is not much less, for I have wished to give myself to God from the
time I was three." The Bishop, no doubt to please Papa, tried to
explain that I ought to remain some time longer with him; but, to his
great surprise and edification, my Father took my part, adding
respectfully that we were going to Rome with the diocesan pilgrimage,
and that I should not hesitate to speak to the Holy Father if I could
not obtain permission before then. However, it was decided that,
previous to giving an answer, an interview with the Superior was
absolutely necessary. This was particularly unpleasant hearing, for I
knew his declared and determined opposition; and, in spite of the
advice not to allow the Bishop to see any diamonds, I not only showed
them but let them fall. He seemed touched, and caressed me fondly. I
was afterwards told he had never treated any child so kindly.

"All is not lost, little one," he said, "but I am very glad that you
are going to Rome with your good Father; you will thus strengthen your
vocation. Instead of weeping, you ought to rejoice. I am going to
Lisieux next week, and I will talk to the Superior about you. You shall
certainly have my answer when you are in Italy." His Lordship then took
us to the garden, and was much interested when Papa told him that, to
make myself look older, I had put up my hair for the first time that
very morning. This was not forgotten, for I know that even now,
whenever the Bishop tells anyone about his "little daughter," he always
repeats the story about her hair. I must say I should prefer my little
secret to have been kept. As he took us to the door, the Vicar-General
remarked that such a thing had never been seen--a father as anxious to
give his child to God as the child was to offer herself.

We had to return to Lisieux without a favourable answer. It seemed to
me as though my future were shattered for ever; the nearer I drew to
the goal, the greater my difficulties became. But all the time I felt
deep down in my heart a wondrous peace, because I knew that I was only
seeking the Will of my Lord.
__________________________________________________________________

[37] Cf. Psalm 18[19]:5.

[38] Luke 5:5.

[39] John 4:7.

[40] Eccl. 1:14.

[41] Ezechiel 16:8, 9, 13.

[42] Cf. Imit., III, ch. xliii. 4.

[43] Cf. Cant. 8:1.

[44] Luke 19:26.

[45] Cf. Luke 10:21.

[46] Cant. 2:3.

[47] Sister Agnes of Jesus.

[48] Cf. Matt. 18:6.
__________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER VI - A PILGRIMAGE TO ROME

Three days after the journey to Bayeux, I started on a much longer
one--to the Eternal City. This journey taught me the vanity of all that
passes away. Nevertheless I saw splendid monuments; I studied the
countless wonders of art and religion; and better than all, I trod the
very ground the Holy Apostles had trodden--the ground watered by the
blood of martyrs--and my soul grew by contact with these holy things.

I was delighted to go to Rome; but I could quite understand people
crediting Papa with the hope that in this way I should be brought to
change my mind about the religious life. It might certainly have upset
a vocation that was not very strong.

To begin with, Celine and I found ourselves in the company of many
distinguished people. In fact, there were scarcely any others in the
pilgrimage; but, far from being dazzled thereby, titles seemed to us
but a "vapour of smoke," [49] and I understood the words of the
Imitation: "Be not solicitous for the shadow of a great name." [50] I
understood that true greatness is not found in a name but in the soul.
The Prophet Isaias tells us: "The Lord shall call His servants by
another name," [51] and we read in St. John: "To him that overcometh I
will give a white counter, and on the counter a new name written which
no man knoweth but he that receiveth it." [52] In Heaven, therefore, we
shall know our titles of nobility, and "then shall every man have
praise from God," [53] and he who on earth chose to be poorest and
least known for love of his Saviour, he will be the first, the noblest,
and the richest.

The second thing I learnt had to do with Priests. Up to this time I had
not understood the chief aim of the Carmelite Reform. To pray for
sinners delighted me; to pray for Priests, whose souls seemed pure as
crystal, that indeed astonished me. But in Italy I realised my
vocation, and even so long a journey was a small price to pay for such
valuable knowledge. During that month I met with many holy Priests, and
yet I saw that even though the sublime dignity of Priesthood raises
them higher than the Angels, they are still but weak and imperfect men.
And so if holy Priests, whom Our Lord in the Gospel calls the salt of
the earth, have need of our prayers, what must we think of the
lukewarm? Has not Our Lord said: "If the salt lose its savour wherewith
shall it be salted?" [54] Oh, dear Mother, how beautiful is our
vocation! We Carmelites are called to preserve "the salt of the earth."
We offer our prayers and sacrifices for the apostles of the Lord; we
ourselves ought to be their apostles, while they, by word and example,
are preaching the Gospel to our brethren. Have we not a glorious
mission to fulfill? But I must say no more, for I feel that on this
subject my pen would run on for ever.

Now let me describe my journey in some detail. At three o'clock in the
morning of November 4, we passed through the silent streets. Lisieux
still lay shrouded in the darkness of night. I felt that I was going
out into the unknown, and that great things were awaiting me in Rome.
When we reached Paris, Papa took us to see all the sights. For me there
was but one--Our Lady of Victories. I can never tell you what I felt at
her shrine; the graces Our Lady granted me were like those of my First
Communion Day. I was filled with peace and happiness. In this holy spot
the Blessed Virgin, my Mother, told me plainly that it was really she
who had smiled on me and cured me. With intense fervour I entreated her
to keep me always, and to realise my heart's desire by hiding me under
her spotless mantle, and I also asked her to remove from me every
occasion of sin.

I was well aware that during this journey I should come across things
that might disturb me; knowing nothing of evil, I feared I might
discover it. As yet I had not experienced that "to the pure all things
are pure," [55] that a simple and upright soul does not see evil in
anything, because evil only exists in impure hearts and not in
inanimate objects. I prayed specially to St. Joseph to watch over me;
from my childhood, devotion to him has been interwoven with my love for
our Blessed Lady. Every day I said the prayer beginning: "St. Joseph,
Father and Protector of Virgins" . . . so I felt I was well protected
and quite safe from danger.

We left Paris on November 7, after our solemn Consecration to the
Sacred Heart in the Basilica of Montmartre. [56] Each compartment of
the train was named after a Saint, and the selection was made in honour
of some Priest occupying it--his own patron or that of his parish being
chosen. But in the presence of all the pilgrims our compartment was
named after St. Martin! My Father, deeply touched by this compliment,
went at once to thank Mgr. Legoux, Vicar-General of Coutances and
director of the pilgrimage. From this onwards he was often called
"Monsieur Saint Martin."

Father Reverony watched my behaviour closely. I could tell that he was
doing so; at table, if I were not opposite to him, he would lean
forward to look at me and listen to what I was saying. I think he must
have been satisfied with his investigations, for, towards the end of
the journey, he seemed more favourably disposed. I say towards the end,
for in Rome he was far from being my advocate, as I will tell you
presently. Still I would not have it thought he deceived me in any way
by falling short of the good will he had shown at Bayeux. On the
contrary, I am sure that he always felt kindly towards me, and that if
he opposed my wishes it was only to put me to the test.

On our way into Italy we passed through Switzerland, with its high
mountains, their snowy peaks lost in the clouds, its rushing torrents,
and its deep valleys filled with giant ferns and purple heather. Great
good was wrought in my soul by these beauties of nature so abundantly
scattered abroad. They lifted it to Him Who had been pleased to lavish
such masterpieces upon this transient earth.

Sometimes we were high up the mountain side, while at our feet an
unfathomable abyss seemed ready to engulf us. A little later we were
passing through a charming village with its cottages and graceful
belfry, above which light fleecy clouds floated lazily. Farther on a
great lake with its blue waters, so calm and clear, would blend with
the glowing splendour of the setting sun. I cannot tell you how deeply
I was impressed with this scenery so full of poetry and grandeur. It
was a foretaste of the wonders of Heaven. Then the thought of religious
life would come before me, as it really is, with its constraints and
its little daily sacrifices made in secret. I understood how easily one
might become wrapped in self and forget the sublime end of one's
vocation, and I thought: "Later on, when the time of trial comes, when
I am enclosed in the Carmel and shall only be able to see a little bit
of sky, I will remember this day and it will encourage me. I will make
light of my own small interests by thinking of the greatness and
majesty of God; I will love Him alone, and will not be so foolish as to
attach myself to the fleeting trifles of this world, now that my heart
has had a glimpse of what is reserved for those who love Him."

After having contemplated the works of God, I turned next to admire
those of His creatures. Milan was the first Italian town we visited,
and we carefully studied its Cathedral of white marble, adorned with
countless statues. Celine and I left the timid ones, who hid their
faces in fear after climbing to the first stage, and, following the
bolder pilgrims, we reached the top, from whence we viewed the city
below. When we came down we started on the first of our expeditions;
these lasted the whole month of the pilgrimage, and quite cured me of a
desire to be always lazily riding in a carriage.

The "Campo Santo" [57] charmed us. The whole vast enclosure is covered
with marble statues, so exquisitely carved as to be life-like, and
placed with an apparent negligence that only enhances their charm. You
feel almost tempted to console the imaginary personages that surround
you, their expression so exactly portrays a calm and Christian sorrow.
And what works of art! Here is a child putting flowers on its father's
grave--one forgets how solid is marble--the delicate petals appear to
slip through its fingers. Sometimes the light veils of the widows, and
the ribbons of the young girls, seem floating on the breeze.

We could not find words to express our admiration, but an old gentleman
who followed us everywhere--regretting no doubt his inability to share
our sentiments--said in a tone of ill-temper: "Oh, what enthusiasts
these French people are!" and yet he also was French. I think the poor
man would have done better to stay at home. Instead of enjoying the
journey he was always grumbling: nothing pleased him, neither cities,
hotels, people, nor anything else. My Father, whose disposition was the
exact opposite, was quite content, no matter what happened, and tried
to cheer our friend, offering him his place in the carriage or
elsewhere, and with his wonted goodness encouraging him to look on the
bright side of things. But nothing could cheer him. How many different
kinds of people we saw and how interesting it is to study the world
when one is just about to leave it!

In Venice the scene changed completely. Instead of the bustle of a
large city, silence reigned, broken only by the lapping of the waters
and the cries of the gondoliers as they plied their oars; it is a city
full of charm but full of sadness. Even the Palace of the Doges,
splendid though it be, is sad; we walked through halls whose vaulted
roofs have long since ceased to re-echo the voices of the governors in
their sentences of life and death. Its dark dungeons are no longer a
living tomb for unfortunate prisoners to pine within.

While visiting these dreadful prisons I fancied myself in the times of
the martyrs, and gladly would I have chosen this sombre abode for my
dwelling if there had been any question of confessing my faith.
Presently the guide's voice roused me from my reverie, and I crossed
the "Bridge of Sighs," so called because of the sighs uttered by the
wretched prisoners as they passed from their dungeons to sentence and
to death. After leaving Venice we visited Padua and there venerated the
relic of St. Anthony's tongue; then Bologna, where St. Catherine's body
rests. Her face still bears the impress of the kiss bestowed on her by
the Infant Jesus.

I was indeed happy when on the way to Loreto. Our Lady had chosen an
ideal spot in which to place her Holy House. Everything is poor,
simple, and primitive; the women still wear the graceful dress of the
country and have not, as in the large towns, adopted the modern Paris
fashions. I found Loreto enchanting. And what shall I say of the Holy
House? I was overwhelmed with emotion when I realised that I was under
the very roof that had sheltered the Holy Family. I gazed on the same
walls Our Lord had looked on. I trod the ground once moistened with the
sweat of St. Joseph's toil, and saw the little chamber of the
Annunciation, where the Blessed Virgin Mary held Jesus in her arms
after she had borne Him there in her virginal womb. I even put my
Rosary into the little porringer used by the Divine Child. How sweet
those memories!

But our greatest joy was to receive Jesus in His own House, and thus
become His living temple in the very place which He had honoured by His
Divine Presence. According to Roman custom the Blessed Sacrament is
reserved at one Altar in each Church, and there only is it given to the
faithful. At Loreto this Altar was in the Basilica--which is built
round the Holy House, enclosing it as a precious stone might be
enclosed in a casket of white marble. The exterior mattered little to
us, it was in the diamond itself that we wished to receive the Bread of
Angels. My Father, with his habitual gentleness, followed the other
pilgrims, but his daughters, less easily satisfied, went towards the
Holy House.

God favoured us, for a Priest was on the point of celebrating Mass; we
told him of our great wish, and he immediately asked for two hosts,
which he placed on the paten. You may picture, dear Mother, the
ecstatic happiness of that Communion; no words can describe it. What
will be our joy when we communicate eternally in the dwelling of the
King of Heaven? It will be undimmed by the grief of parting, and will
know no end. His House will be ours for all eternity, and there will be
no need to covet fragments from the walls hallowed by the Divine
Presence. He will not give us His earthly Home--He only shows it to us
to make us love poverty and the hidden life. What He has in store for
us is the Palace of His Glory, where we shall no longer see Him veiled
under the form of a child or the appearance of bread, but as He is, in
the brightness of His Infinite Beauty.

Now I am going to tell you about Rome--Rome, where I thought to find
comfort and where I found the cross. It was night when we arrived. I
was asleep, and was awakened by the porters calling: "Roma!" The
pilgrims caught up the cry and repeated: "Roma, Roma!" Then I knew that
it was not a dream, I was really in Rome!

Our first day, and perhaps the most enjoyable, was spent outside the
walls. There, everything retains its stamp of antiquity, whilst in
Rome, with its hotels and shops, one might fancy oneself in Paris. This
drive in the Roman Campagna has left a specially delightful impression
on my mind.

How shall I describe the feelings which thrilled me when I gazed on the
Coliseum? At last I saw the arena where so many Martyrs had shed their
blood for Christ. My first impulse was to kiss the ground sanctified by
their glorious combats. But what a disappointment! The soil has been
raised, and the real arena is now buried at the depth of about
twenty-six feet.

As the result of excavations the centre is nothing but a mass of
rubbish, and an insurmountable barrier guards the entrance; in any case
no one dare penetrate into the midst of these dangerous ruins. But was
it possible to be in Rome and not go down to the real Coliseum? No,
indeed! And I no longer listened to the guide's explanations: one
thought only filled my mind--I must reach the arena.

We are told in the Gospel that St. Mary Magdalen remained close to the
Sepulchre and stooped down constantly to look in; she was rewarded by
seeing two Angels. So, like her, I kept stooping down and I saw, not
two Angels, but what I was in search of. I uttered a cry of joy and
called out to my sister: "Come, follow me, we shall be able to get
through." We hurried on at once, scrambling over the ruins which
crumbled under our feet. Papa, aghast at our boldness, called out to
us, but we did not hear.

As the warriors of old felt their courage grow in face of peril, so our
joy increased in proportion to the fatigue and danger we had to face to
attain the object of our desires. Celine, more foreseeing than I, had
listened to the guide. She remembered that he had pointed out a
particular stone marked with a cross, and had told us it was the place
where the Martyrs had fought the good fight. She set to work to find
it, and having done so we threw ourselves on our knees on this sacred
ground. Our souls united in one and the same prayer. My heart beat
violently when I pressed my lips to the dust reddened with the blood of
the early Christians. I begged for the grace to be a martyr for Jesus,
and I felt in the depths of my heart that my prayer was heard. All this
took but a short time. After collecting some stones we approached the
walls once more to face the danger. We were so happy that Papa had not
the heart to scold us, and I could see that he was proud of our
courage.

From the Coliseum we went to the Catacombs, and there Celine and I laid
ourselves down in what had once been the tomb of St. Cecilia, and took
some of the earth sanctified by her holy remains. Before our journey to
Rome I had not felt any special devotion to St. Cecilia, but on
visiting the house where she was martyred, and hearing her proclaimed
"Queen of harmony"--because of the sweet song she sang in her heart to
her Divine Spouse--I felt more than devotion towards her, it was real
love as for a friend. She became my chosen patroness, and the keeper of
all my secrets; her abandonment to God and her boundless confidence
delighted me beyond measure. They were so great that they enabled her
to make souls pure which had never till then desired aught but earthly
pleasures.

St. Cecilia is like the Spouse in the Canticles. I find in her the
Scriptural "choir in an armed camp." [58] Her life was one melodious
song in the midst of the greatest trials; and this is not strange,
because we read that "the Book of the Holy Gospels lay ever on her
heart," [59] while in her heart reposed the Spouse of Virgins.

Our visit to the Church of St. Agnes was also very delightful. I tried,
but without success, to obtain a relic to take back to my little
Mother, Sister Agnes of Jesus. Men refused me, but God Himself came to
my aid: a little bit of red marble, from an ancient mosaic dating back
to the time of the sweet martyr, fell as my feet. Was this not
touching? St. Agnes herself gave me a keepsake from her house.

We spent six days in visiting the great wonders in Rome, and on the
seventh saw the greatest of all--Leo XIII. I longed for, yet dreaded,
that day, for on it depended my vocation. I had received no answer from
the Bishop of Bayeux, and so the Holy Father's permission was my one
and only hope. But in order to obtain this permission I had first to
ask it. The mere thought made me tremble, for I must dare speak to the
Pope, and that, in presence of many Cardinals, Archbishops, and
Bishops!

On Sunday morning, November 20, we went to the Vatican, and were taken
to the Pope's private chapel. At eight o'clock we assisted at his Mass,
during which his fervent piety, worthy of the Vicar of Christ, gave
evidence that he was in truth the "Holy Father."

The Gospel for that day contained these touching words: "Fear not,
little flock, for it hath pleased your Father to give you a Kingdom."
[60] My heart was filled with perfect confidence. No, I would not fear,
I would trust that the Kingdom of the Carmel would soon be mine. I did
not think of those other words of Our Lord: "I dispose to you, as my
Father hath disposed to Me, a Kingdom." [61] That is to say, I will
give you crosses and trials, and thus will you become worthy to possess
My Kingdom. If you desire to sit on His right hand you must drink the
chalice which He has drunk Himself. [62] "Ought not Christ to have
suffered these things, and so to enter into His glory?" [63]

A Mass of thanksgiving followed, and then the audience began. Leo XIII,
whose cassock and cape were of white, was seated on a raised chair, and
round him were grouped various dignitaries of the church. According to
custom each visitor knelt in turn and kissed, first the foot and next
the hand of the venerable Pontiff, and finally received his blessing;
then two of the Noble Guard signed to the pilgrim that he must rise and
pass on to the adjoining room to make way for those who followed.

No one uttered a word, but I was firmly determined to speak, when
suddenly the Vicar-General of Bayeux, Father Reverony, who was standing
at the Pope's right hand, told us in a loud voice that he absolutely
forbade anyone to address the Holy Father. My heart beat fast. I turned
to Celine, mutely inquiring what I should do. "Speak!" she said.

The next moment I found myself on my knees before the Holy Father. I
kissed his foot and he held out his hand; then raising my eyes, which
were filled with tears, I said entreatingly: "Holy Father, I have a
great favour to ask you." At once he bent towards me till his face
almost touched mine, and his piercing black eyes seemed to read my very
soul. "Holy Father," I repeated, "in honour of your jubilee, will you
allow me to enter the Carmel when I am fifteen?"

The Vicar-General, surprised and displeased, said quickly: "Holy
Father, this is a child who desires to become a Carmelite, but the
Superiors of the Carmel are looking into the matter." "Well, my child,"
said His Holiness, "do whatever the Superiors decide." Clasping my
hands and resting them on his knee, I made a final effort: "Holy
Father, if only you say 'yes,' everyone else would agree."

He looked at me fixedly and said clearly and emphatically: "Well, well!
You will enter if it is God's Will." I was going to speak again, when
the Noble Guards motioned to me. As I paid little attention they came
forward, the Vicar-General with them, for I was still kneeling before
the Pope with my hands resting on his knee. Just as I was forced to
rise, the dear Holy Father gently placed his hand on my lips, then
lifted it to bless me, letting his eyes follow me for quite a long
time.

My Father was much distressed to find me coming from the audience in
tears; he had passed out before me, and so did not know anything about
my request. The Vicar-General had shown him unusual kindness,
presenting him to Leo XIII as the father of two Carmelites. The
Sovereign Pontiff, as a special sign of benevolence, had placed his
hand on his head, thus appearing in the name of Christ Himself to mark
him with a mysterious seal. But now that this father of four Carmelites
is in Heaven, it is no longer the hand of Christ's Vicar which rests on
his brow, prophesying his martyrdom: it is the hand of the Spouse of
Virgins, of the King of Heaven; and this Divine Hand will never be
taken away from the head which it has blessed.

This trial was indeed a heavy one, but I must admit that in spite of my
tears I felt a deep inward peace, for I had made every effort in my
power to respond to the appeal of my Divine Master. This peace,
however, dwelt in the depths of my soul--on the surface all was
bitterness; and Jesus was silent--absent it would seem, for nothing
revealed that He was there.

On that day, too, the sun dared not shine, and the beautiful blue sky
of Italy, hidden by dark clouds, mingled its tears with mine. All was
at an end. My journey had no further charm for me since it had failed
in its object. It is true the Holy Father's words: "You will enter if
it is God's Will," should have consoled me, they were indeed a
prophecy. In spite of all these obstacles, what God in His goodness
willed, has come to pass. He has not allowed His creatures to do what
they will but only what He wills. Sometime before this took place I had
offered myself to the Child Jesus to be His little plaything. I told
Him not to treat me like one of those precious toys which children only
look at and dare not touch, but to treat me like a little ball of no
value, that could be thrown on the ground, kicked about, pierced, left
in a corner, or pressed to His Heart just as it might please Him. In a
word I wished to amuse the Holy child and to let Him play with me as He
fancied. Here indeed He was answering my prayer. In Rome Jesus pierced
His little plaything. He wanted to see what was inside . . . and when
satisfied, He let it drop and went to sleep. What was He doing during
His sweet slumber, and what became of the ball thus cast on one side?
He dreamed that He was still at play, that He took it up or threw it
down, that He rolled it far away, but at last He pressed it to His
Heart, nor did He allow it again to slip from His tiny Hand. Dear
Mother, you can imagine the sadness of the little ball lying neglected
on the ground! And yet it continued to hope against hope.

After our audience my Father went to call on Brother Simeon--the
founder and director of St. Joseph's College--and there he met Father
Reverony. He reproached him gently for not having helped me in my
difficult task, and told the whole story to Brother Simeon. The good
old man listened with much interest and even made notes, saying with
evident feeling: "This kind of thing is not seen in Italy."

The next day we started for Naples and Pompeii. Vesuvius did us the
honour of emitting from its crater a thick volume of smoke, accompanied
by numerous loud reports. The traces of the devastation of Pompeii are
terrifying. They show forth the power of God: "He looketh upon the
earth, and maketh it tremble; He toucheth the mountains and they
smoke."

I should like to have wandered alone among its ruins, meditating on the
instability of human things, but such solitude was not to be thought
of.

At Naples we made an expedition to the monastery of San Martino; it
crowns a high hill overlooking the whole city. On the way back the
horses took the bit in their teeth, and it is solely to our Guardian
Angels that I attribute our safe return to the splendid hotel. This
word "splendid" is not too strong to describe it; in fact during the
whole journey we stayed only at the most expansive hotels. I had never
been surrounded by such luxury, but it is indeed a true saying that
riches do not make happiness. I should have been a thousand times more
contented under a thatched room, with the hope of entering the Carmel,
than I was amid marble staircases, gilded ceilings, and silken
hangings, with my heart full of sorrow.

I realised thoroughly that joy is not found in the things which
surround us, but lives only in the soul. One could possess it as well
in an obscure prison as in the palace of a king. And so now I am
happier at the Carmel, in the midst of trials within and without, than
I was in the world where I had everything I wanted, and, above all, the
joys of a happy home.

Although I felt heavy of heart, outwardly I was as usual, for I thought
no one had any knowledge of my petition to the Pope. I was mistaken.
One day, when the other pilgrims had gone to the refreshment-room and
Celine and I were alone, Mgr. Legoux came to the door of the carriage.
He looked at me attentively and smiling said: "Well, and how is our
little Carmelite?" This showed me that my secret was known to all the
pilgrims, and I gathered it, too, from their kindly looks; but happily
no one spoke to me on the subject.

At Assisi I had a little adventure. While visiting the places
sanctified by the virtues of St. Francis and St. Clare I lost the
buckle of my belt in the monastery. It took me some time to find and
put it back in place, and when I reached the door all the carriages had
started except one; that belonged to the Vicar-General of Bayeux!
Should I run after those which were no longer in sight and so perhaps
miss the train, or should I beg for a seat in the carriage of Father
Reverony? I decided that this was the wiser plan.

I tried to hide my extreme embarrassment and explained things. He was
placed in a difficulty himself, for all the seats were occupied, but
one of the party promptly gave me his place and sat by the driver. I
felt like a squirrel caught in a snare. I was ill at ease in the midst
of these great people, and I had to sit face to face with the most
formidable of all. He was exceedingly kind, however, and now and then
interrupted his conversation to talk to me about the Carmel and promise
that he would do all in his power to realise my desire of entering at
fifteen. This meeting was like balm to my wounds, though it did not
prevent me from suffering. I had now lost all trust in creatures and
could only lean on God Himself.

And yet my distress did not hinder me from taking a deep interest in
the holy places we visited. In Florence we saw the shrine of St. Mary
Magdalen of Pazzi, in the choir of the Carmelite Church. All the
pilgrims wanted to touch the Saint's tomb with their Rosaries, but my
hand was the only one small enough to pass through the grating. So I
was deputed for this important and lengthy task, and I did it with
pride.

It was not the first time I had obtained special favours. One day, at
Santa Croce, in Rome, we venerated the relics of the True Cross,
together with two of the Thorns, and one of the Sacred Nails. I wanted
to examine them closely, so I remained behind, and when the monk in
charge was going to replace them on the Altar, I asked if I might touch
the precious treasures. He said I might do so, but was doubtful if I
should succeed; however, I put my little finger into one of the
openings of the reliquary and was able to touch the Sacred Nail once
hallowed by the Blood of Our Saviour. You see I behaved towards Him
like a child who thinks it may do as it pleases and looks on its
Father's treasures as its own.

Having passed through Pisa and Genoa we came back to France by one of
the loveliest routes. At times we were close to the sea, and one day
during a storm it seemed as though the waves would reach the train.
Farther on we travelled through plains covered with orange trees,
olives, and feathery palms, while at night the numerous seaports
twinkled with lights, and stars came out in the deep blue sky. But I
watched the fairy picture fade away from my eyes without any regret--my
heart was set elsewhere.

My Father proposed to take me to Jerusalem, but in spite of the natural
wish I had to visit the places sanctified by Our Lord's Footsteps, I
was weary of earthly pilgrimages and only longed for the beauties of
Heaven. In order to win these beauties for souls I wanted to become a
prisoner as quickly as possible. I felt that I must suffer and struggle
still more before the gates of my blessed prison would open; yet my
trust in God did not grow less, and I still hoped to enter at
Christmas.

We had hardly reached home when I paid a visit to the Carmel. You must
remember well that interview, dear Mother. I left myself entirely in
your hands, for I had exhausted all my resources. You told me to write
to the Bishop and remind him of his promise. I obeyed at once, and as
soon as my letter was posted I felt I should obtain the coveted
permission without any delay. Alas! each day brought fresh
disappointments. The beautiful feast of Christmas dawned; still Jesus
slept. He left His little ball on the ground without even glancing that
way.

This was indeed a sore trial, but Our Lord, Whose Heart is always
watching, taught me that He granted miracles to those whose faith is
small as a grain of mustard seed, in the hope of strengthening this
slender faith; whilst for His intimate friends, for His Mother, He did
not work miracles till He had proved their faith. Did He not permit
Lazarus to die even though Mary and Martha had sent word that he was
sick? And at the marriage feast of Cana, when Our Lady asked her Divine
Son to aid the master of the house, did He not answer that His hour had
not yet come? But after the trial what a reward! Water is changed into
wine, and Lazarus rises from the dead. In this way did my Beloved act
with His little Therese; after He had tried her for a long time He
granted all her desires.

For my New Year's gift of 1888, Jesus again gave me His Cross. You told
me, dear Mother, that you had had the Bishop's answer since December
28, the feast of Holy Innocents; that he authorised my immediate entry
into the Carmel, but that nevertheless you had decided not to open its
doors till after Lent. I could not restrain my tears at the thought of
such a long delay. This trial affected me in a special manner, for I
felt my earthly ties were severed, and yet the Ark in its turn refused
to admit the poor little dove.

How did these three months pass? They were fruitful in sufferings and
still more so in other graces. At first the thought came into my mind
that I would not put any extra restraint on myself, I would lead a life
somewhat less strictly ordered than was my custom. But Our Lord made me
understand the benefit I might derive from this time He had granted me,
and I then resolved to give myself up to a more serious and mortified
life. When I say mortified, I do not mean that I imitated the penances
of the Saints; far from resembling those beautiful souls who have
practised all sorts of mortifications from their infancy, I made mine
consist in simply checking my inclinations, keeping back an impatient
answer, doing little services to those around me without setting store
thereby, and a hundred other things of the kind. By practising these
trifles I prepared myself to become the Spouse of Jesus, and I can
never tell you, Mother, how much the added delay helped me to grow in
abandonment, in humility, and in other virtues.
__________________________________________________________________

[49] Joel 2:19.

[50] Imitation of Christ, III, xxiv. 2.

[51] Isa. 65:15.

[52] Apoc. 2:17.

[53] 1 Cor. 4:5.

[54] Matt. 5:13.

[55] Tit. 1:15.

[56] Montmartre--the "Mount of Martyrs"--is the hill whereon St. Denis,
apostle and bishop of Paris, was martyred with his two companions in
the third century. It was a famous place of pilgrimage in medieval
times, and here St. Ignatius and the first Jesuits took their vows.
Under the presidency of Marshal MacMahon, the erection of the
well-known Basilica was voted in 1873 by the French Chamber of Deputies
as a national act of reparation to the Sacred Heart. [Ed.]

[57] Cemetery.

[58] Cf. Cant. 7:1.

[59] Office of St. Cecilia.

[60] Luke 12:32.

[61] Luke 22:29.

[62] Cf. Matt. 20:22.

[63] Luke 24:26.
__________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER VII - THE LITTLE FLOWER ENTERS THE CARMEL

Monday, April 9, 1888, being the Feast of the Annunciation, transferred
from Passiontide, was the day chosen for me to enter the Carmel. On the
evening before, we were gathered around the table where I was to take
my place for the last time. These farewells are in themselves
heartrending, and just when I would have liked to be forgotten I
received the tenderest expressions of affection, as if to increase the
pain of parting.

The next morning, after a last look at the happy home of my childhood,
I set out for the Carmel, where we all heard Mass. At the moment of
Communion, when Jesus had entered our hearts, I heard sobs on all
sides. I did not shed a tear, but as I led the way to the cloister door
my heart beat so violently that I wondered if I were going to die. Oh,
the agony of that moment! One must have experienced it in order to
understand. I embraced all my dear ones and knelt for my Father's
blessing. He, too, knelt down and blessed me through his tears. It was
a sight to gladden the Angels, this old man giving his child to God
while she was yet in the springtime of life. At length the doors of the
Carmel closed upon me. . . . I found a welcome in your arms, dear
Mother, and received the embraces of another family, whose devotedness
and love is not dreamt of by the outside world.

At last my desires were realised, and I cannot describe the deep sweet
peace which filled my soul. This peace has remained with me during the
eight and a half years of my life here, and has never left me even amid
the greatest trials.

Everything in the Convent delighted me, especially our little cell.
[64] I fancied myself transported to the desert. I repeat that my
happiness was calm and peaceful--not even the lightest breeze ruffled
the tranquil waters on which my little barque sailed; no cloud darkened
the blue sky. I felt fully recompensed for all I had gone through, and
I kept saying: "Now I am here for ever." Mine was no passing joy, it
did not fade like first illusions. From illusions God in His Mercy has
ever preserved me. I found the religious life just what I expected, and
sacrifice was never a matter of surprise. Yet you know well that from
the beginning my ways was strewn with thorns rather than with roses.

In the first place, my soul had for its daily food the bread of
spiritual dryness. Then, too, dear Mother, Our Lord allowed you,
unconsciously, to treat me very severely. You found fault with me
whenever you met me. I remember once I had left a cobweb in the
cloister, and you said to me before the whole community: "It is easy to
see that our cloisters are swept by a child of fifteen. It is
disgraceful! Go and sweep away that cobweb, and be more careful in
future."

On the rare occasions when I spent an hour with you for spiritual
direction, you seemed to be scolding me nearly all the time, and what
pained me most of all was that I did not see how to correct my faults:
for instance, my slow ways and want of throughness in my duties, faults
which you were careful to point out.

One day it occurred to me that you would certainly prefer me to spend
my free time in work instead of in prayer, as was my custom; so I plied
my needle industriously without even raising my eyes. No one ever knew
of this, as I wished to be faithful to Our Lord and do things solely
for Him to see.

When I was a postulant our Mistress used to send me every afternoon at
half-past four to weed the garden. This was a real penance, the more
so, dear Mother, because I was almost sure to meet you on the way, and
once you remarked: "Really, this child does absolutely nothing. What
are we to think of a novice who must have a walk every day?" And yet,
dear Mother, how grateful I am to you for giving me such a sound and
valuable training. It was an inestimable grace. What should I have
become, if, as the world outside believed, I had been but the pet of
the Community? Perhaps, instead of seeing Our Lord in the person of my
superiors, I should only have considered the creature, and my heart,
which had been so carefully guarded in the world, would have been
ensnared by human affection in the cloister. Happily, your motherly
prudence saved me from such a disaster.

And not only in this matter, but in other and more bitter trials, I can
truly say that Suffering opened her arms to me from the first, and I
took her to my heart. In the solemn examination before my profession I
declared--as was customary--the reason of my entry into the Carmel: "I
have come to save souls, and especially to pray for Priests." One
cannot attain the end without adopting the means, and as Our Lord made
me understand that it was by the Cross He would give me souls, the more
crosses I met with, the stronger grew my attraction to suffering. For
five years this way was mine, but I alone knew it; this was precisely
the flower I wished to offer to Jesus, a hidden flower which keeps its
perfume only for Heaven.

Two months after my entry Father Pichon was surprised at the workings
of grace in my soul; he thought my piety childlike and my path an easy
one. My conversation with this good Father would have brought me great
comfort, had it not been for the extreme difficulty I found in opening
my heart. Nevertheless I made a general confession, and after it he
said to me: "Before God, the Blessed Virgin, and Angels, and all the
Saints, I declare that you have never committed a mortal sin. Thank God
for the favours He has so freely bestowed on you without any merit on
your part."

Without any merit on my part! That was not difficult to believe. Fully
conscious of my weakness and imperfection, my heart overflowed with
gratitude. I had distressed myself, fearing I might have stained my
baptismal robe, and this assurance, coming as it did from the lips of a
director, a man of wisdom and holiness, such as our Mother St. Teresa
desired, seemed to come from God Himself. Father Pichon added: "May Our
Lord always be your Superior and your Novice Master!" And indeed He
ever was, and likewise my Director. In saying this I do not mean to
imply that I was not communicative with my superiors; far from being
reserved, I always tried to be as an open book.

Our Mistress was a true saint, the perfect type of the first
Carmelites, and I seldom left her side, for she had to teach me how to
work. Her kindness was beyond words, I loved and appreciated her, and
yet my soul did not expand. I could not explain myself, words failed
me, and so the time of spiritual direction became a veritable
martyrdom.

One of the older nuns seemed to understand what I felt, for she once
said to me during recreation: "I should think, child, you have not much
to tell your superiors." "Why do you think that, dear Mother?" I asked.
"Because your soul is very simple; but when you are perfect you will
become more simple still. The nearer one approaches God, the simpler
one becomes."

This good Mother was right. Nevertheless the great difficulty I found
in opening my heart, though it came from simplicity, was a genuine
trial. Now, however, without having lost my simplicity, I am able to
express my thoughts with the greatest ease.

I have already said that Our Lord Himself had acted as my Spiritual
Guide. Hardly had Father Pichon become my director when his Superiors
sent him to Canada. I was only able to hear from him once in the year,
so now the Little Flower which had been transplanted to the mountain of
Carmel quickly turned to the Director of Directors, and unfolded itself
under the shadow of His Cross, having for refreshing dew His Tears, His
Precious Blood, and for radiant sun His Adorable Face.

Until then I had not appreciated the beauties of the Holy Face; it was
my dear Mother, Agnes of Jesus, who unveiled them to me. As she had
been the first of her sisters to enter the Carmel, so she was the first
to penetrate the mysteries of love hidden in the Face of Our Divine
Spouse. Then she showed them to me and I understood better than ever,
in what true glory consists. He whose "Kingdom is not of this world"
[65] taught me that the only royalty to be coveted lies in being
"unknown and esteemed as naught," [66] and in the joy of
self-abasement. And I wished that my face, like the Face of Jesus,
"should be, as it were, hidden and despised," [67] so that no one on
earth should esteem me. I thirsted to suffer and to be forgotten.

Most merciful has been the way by which the Divine Master has ever led
me. He has never inspired me with any desire and left it unsatisfied,
and that is why I have always found His bitter chalice full of
sweetness.

At the end of May, Marie, our eldest, was professed, and Therese, the
Benjamin, had the privilege of crowning her with roses on the day of
her mystical espousals. After this happy feast trials again came upon
us. Ever since his first attack of paralysis we realised that my Father
was very easily tired. During our journey to Rome I often noticed that
he seemed exhausted and in pain. But, above all, I remarked his
progress in the path of holiness; he had succeeded in obtaining a
complete mastery over the impetuosity of his natural disposition, and
earthly things were unable to ruffle his calm. Let me give you an
instance.

During our pilgrimage we were in the train for days and nights
together, and to wile away the time our companions played cards, and
occasionally grew very noisy. One day they asked us to join them, but
we refused, saying we knew little about the game; we did not find the
time long--only too short, indeed, to enjoy the beautiful views which
opened before us. Presently their annoyance became evident, and then
dear Papa began quietly to defend us, pointing out that as we were on
pilgrimage, more of our time might be given to prayer.

One of the players, forgetting the respect due to age, called out
thoughtlessly: "Thank God, Pharisees are rare!" My Father did not
answer a word, he even seemed pleased; and later on he found an
opportunity of shaking hands with this man, and of speaking so
pleasantly that the latter must have thought his rude words had either
not been heard, or at least were forgotten.

His habit of forgiveness did not date from this day; my Mother and all
who knew him bore witness that no uncharitable word ever passed his
lips.

His faith and generosity were likewise equal to any trial. This is how
he announced my departure to one of his friends: "Therese, my little
Queen, entered the Carmel yesterday. God alone could ask such a
sacrifice; but He helps me so mightily that even in the midst of tears
my heart is overflowing with joy."

This faithful servant must needs receive a reward worthy of his
virtues, and he himself claimed that reward. You remember the interview
when he said to us: "Children, I have just come back from Alenc,on, and
there, in the Church of Notre Dame, I received such graces and
consolations that I made this prayer: 'My God, it is too much, yes, I
am too happy; I shall not get to Heaven like this, I wish to suffer
something for Thee--and I offered myself as a'"--the word victim died
on his lips. He dared not pronounce it before us, but we understood.
You know, dear Mother, the story of our trial; I need not recall its
sorrowful details.

And now my clothing day drew near. Contrary to all expectations, my
Father had recovered from a second attack, and the Bishop fixed the
ceremony for January 10. The time of waiting had been long indeed, but
now what a beautiful feast! Nothing was wanting, not even snow.

Do you remember my telling you, dear Mother, how fond I am of snow?
While I was still quite small, its whiteness entranced me. Why had I
such a fancy for snow? Perhaps it was because, being a little winter
flower, my eyes first saw the earth clad in its beautiful white mantle.
So, on my clothing day, I wished to see it decked, like myself, in
spotless white. The weather was so mild that it might have been spring,
and I no longer dared hope for snow. The morning of the feast brought
no change and I gave up my childish desire, as impossible to be
realised. My Father came to meet me at the enclosure door, his eyes
full of tears, and pressing me to his heart exclaimed: "Ah! Here is my
little Queen!" Then, giving me his arm, we made our solemn entry into
the public Chapel. This was his day of triumph, his last feast on
earth; now his sacrifice was complete, and his children belonged to
God. [68] Celine had already confided to him that later on she also
wished to leave the world for the Carmel. On hearing this he was beside
himself with joy: "Let us go before the Blessed Sacrament," he said,
"and thank God for all the graces He has granted us and the honour He
has paid me in choosing His Spouses from my household. God has indeed
done me great honour in asking for my children. If I possessed anything
better I would hasten to offer it to Him." That something better was
himself, "and God received him as a victim of holocaust; He tried him
as gold in the furnace, and found him worthy of Himself." [69]

After the ceremony in the Chapel I re-entered the Convent and the
Bishop intoned the Te Deum. One of the Priests observed to him that
this hymn of thanksgiving was only sung at professions, but, once
begun, it was continued to the end. Was it not right that this feast
should be complete, since in it all other joyful days were reunited?

The instant I set foot in the enclosure again my eyes fell on the
statue of the Child Jesus smiling on me amid the flowers and lights;
then, turning towards the quadrangle, I saw that, in spite of the
mildness of the weather, it was covered with snow. What a delicate
attention on the part of Jesus! Gratifying the least wish of His little
Spouse, He even sent her this. Where is the creature so mighty that he
can make one flake of it fall to please his beloved?

Everyone was amazed, and since then many people, hearing of my desire,
have described this event as "the little miracle" of my clothing day,
and thought it strange I should be so fond of snow. So much the better,
it shows still more the wonderful condescension of the Spouse of
Virgins--of Him Who loves lilies white as the snow. After the ceremony
the Bishop entered. He gave me many proofs of his fatherly tenderness,
and, in presence of all the Priests, spoke of my visit to Bayeux and
the journey to Rome; nor did he forget to tell them how I had put up my
hair before visiting him. Then, laying his hand on my head, he blessed
me affectionately. My mind dwelt with ineffable sweetness on the
caresses Our Lord will soon lavish upon me before all the Saints, and
this consoling thought was a foretaste of Heaven. I have just said that
January 10 was a day of triumph for my dear Father. I liken it to the
feast of the entry of Christ into Jerusalem, on Palm Sunday. As in the
case of Our Divine Master, his day of triumph was followed by long days
of sorrow; and, even as the agony of Jesus pierced the heart of His
divine Mother, so our hearts were deeply wounded by the humiliations
and sufferings of him, whom we loved best on earth. . . . I remember
that in the month of June 1888, when we were fearing another stroke of
paralysis, I surprised our Novice Mistress by saying: "I am suffering a
great deal, Mother, yet I feel I can suffer still more." I did not then
foresee the trial awaiting us. I did not know that on February 12, one
month after my clothing day, our beloved Father would drink so deeply
of such a bitter chalice. I no longer said I could suffer more, words
cannot express our grief; nor shall I attempt to describe it here.

In Heaven, we shall enjoy dwelling on these dark days of exile. Yet the
three years of my Father's martyrdom seem to me the sweetest and most
fruitful of our lives. I would not exchange them for the most sublime
ecstasies, and my heart cries out in gratitude for such a priceless
treasure: "We have rejoiced for the days wherein Thou hast afflicted
us." [70] Precious and sweet was this bitter cross, and our hearts only
breathed out sighs of grateful love. We no longer walked--we ran, we
flew along the path of perfection.

Leonie and Celine, though living in the world, were no longer of the
world. The letters they wrote were full of the most edifying
resignation. And what talks I had with Celine! Far from separating us,
the grating of the Carmel united us more closely: the same thoughts,
the same desires, the same love for Our Lord and for souls, made our
very life. Not a word concerning things of earth entered into our
conversation; but, just as in former days we lifted longing eyes to
Heaven, so now our hearts strained after the joys beyond time and
space, and, for the sake of an eternal happiness, we chose to suffer
and be despised here below.

Though my suffering seemed to have reached its height, yet my
attraction thereto did not grow less, and soon my soul shared in the
trials my heart had to bear. My spiritual aridity increased, and I
found no comfort either in Heaven or on earth; yet, amid these waters
of tribulation that I had so thirsted for, I was the happiest of
mortals.

Thus passed the time of my betrothal, too long a time for me. At the
end of the year you told me, dear Mother, that I must not yet think of
my profession, as our Ecclesiastical Superior expressly forbade it. I
had therefore to wait for eight months more. At first I found it very
difficult to be resigned to such a sacrifice, but divine light
penetrated my soul before long.

At this time I was using for my meditations Surin's Foundations of the
Spiritual life. One day during prayer, it was brought home to me that
my too eager desire to take my vows was mingled with much self-love; as
I belonged to Our Lord and was His little plaything to console and
please Him, it was for me to do His Will, not for Him to do mine. I
also understood that a bride would not be pleasing to the bridegroom on
her wedding day were she not magnificently attired. But, what had I
made ready? So I said to Our Lord: "I do not ask Thee to hasten the day
of my profession, I will wait as long as Thou pleasest, only I cannot
bear that through any fault of mine my union with Thee should be
delayed; I will set to work and carefully prepare a wedding-dress
enriched with diamonds and precious stones, and, when Thou findest it
sufficiently rich, I am sure that nothing will keep Thee from accepting
me as Thy Spouse."

I took up the task with renewed zest. Since my clothing day I had
received abundant lights on religious perfection, chiefly concerning
the vow of poverty. Whilst I was a postulant I liked to have nice
things to use and to find everything needful ready to hand. Jesus bore
with me patiently, for He gives His light little by little. At the
beginning of my spiritual life, about the age of fourteen, I used to
ask myself how, in days to come, I should more clearly understand the
true meaning of perfection. I imagined I then understood it completely,
but I soon came to realise that the more one advances along this path
the farther one seems from the goal, and now I am resigned to be always
imperfect, and I even find joy therein.

To return to the lessons which Our Lord taught me. One evening after
Compline I searched in vain for our lamp on the shelves where they are
kept, and, as it was the time of the "Great Silence," I could not
recover it. I guessed rightly that a Sister, believing it to be her
own, had taken it; but just on that evening I had counted much on doing
some work, and was I to spend a whole hour in the dark on account of
this mistake? Without the interior light of grace I should undoubtedly
have pitied myself, but, with that light, I felt happy instead of
aggrieved, and reflected that poverty consists in being deprived not
only of what is convenient, but of what is necessary. And, in this
exterior darkness, I found my soul illumined by a brightness that was
divine.

At this time I was seized with a craving for whatever was ugly and
inconvenient; and was thus quite pleased when a pretty little jug was
taken from our cell and a large chipped one put in its place. I also
tried hard not to make excuses, but I found this very difficult,
especially with our Mistress; from her I did not like to hide anything.

My first victory was not a great one, but it cost me a good deal. A
small jar, left behind a window, was found broken. No one knew who had
put it there, but our Mistress was displeased, and, thinking I was to
blame in leaving it about, told me I was very untidy and must be more
careful in future. Without answering, I kissed the ground and promised
to be more observant. I was so little advanced in virtue that these
small sacrifices cost me dear, and I had to console myself with the
thought that at the day of Judgment all would be known.

Above all I endeavoured to practise little hidden acts of virtue; thus
I took pleasure in folding the mantles forgotten by the Sisters, and I
sought for every possible occasion of helping them. One of God's gifts
was a great attraction towards penance, but I was not permitted to
satisfy it; the only mortification allowed me consisted in mortifying
my self-love, and this did me far more good than bodily penance would
have done.

However, Our Lady helped me with my wedding-dress, and, as soon as it
was finished, every obstacle vanished and my profession was fixed for
September 8, 1890.

All that I have set down in these few words would take many pages to
relate; but those pages will never be read on earth. . . .
__________________________________________________________________

[64] Nuns, in the spirit of poverty, avoid using the word my, as
denoting private possessions; so, later on, "our lamp," "our
handkerchief," will occur. [Ed.]

[65] John 18:36.

[66] Imit., I, ii. 3.

[67] Is. 53:3.

[68] Leonie, having entered an order too severe for her delicate
health, had been obliged to return home to her Father. Later she became
a Visitation nun at Caen, and took the name of Sister Frances Teresa.

[69] Cf. Wisdom 3:5,6.

[70] Ps. 89[90]:15.
__________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER VIII - PROFESSION OF SOEUR THERESE

Need I tell you, dear Mother, about the retreat before my profession?
Far from receiving consolation, I went through it in a state of utter
dryness and as if abandoned by God. Jesus, as was His wont, slept in my
little barque. How rarely do souls suffer Him to sleep in peace! This
Good Master is so wearied with continually making fresh advances that
He eagerly avails Himself of the repose I offer Him, and, no doubt, He
will sleep on until my great and everlasting retreat; but, instead of
being grieved at this, I am glad.

In truth I am no Saint, as this frame of mind well shows. I ought not
to rejoice in my dryness of soul, but rather attribute it to my want of
fervour and fidelity. That I fall asleep so often during meditation,
and thanksgiving after Communion, should distress me. Well, I am not
distressed. I reflect that little children are equally dear to their
parents whether they are asleep or awake; that, in order to perform
operations, doctors put their patients to sleep; and finally that "The
Lord knoweth our frame, He remembereth that we are but dust." [71] Yet,
apparently barren as was my retreat--and those which followed have been
no less so--I unconsciously received many interior lights on the best
means of pleasing God, and practising virtue. I have often observed
that Our Lord will not give me any store of provisions, but nourishes
me each moment with food that is ever new; I find it within me without
knowing how it has come there. I simply believe that it is Jesus
Himself hidden in my poor heart, who is secretly at work, inspiring me
with what He wishes me to do as each occasion arises.

Shortly before my profession I received the Holy Father's blessing,
through the hands of Brother Simeon; and this precious Blessing
undoubtedly helped me through the most terrible storm of my whole life.

On the eve of the great day, instead of being filled with the customary
sweetness, my vocation suddenly seemed to me as unreal as a dream. The
devil--for it was he--made me feel sure that I was wholly unsuited for
life in the Carmel, and that I was deceiving my superiors by entering
on a way to which I was not called. The darkness was so bewildering
that I understood but one thing--I had no religious vocation, and must
return to the world. I cannot describe the agony I endured. What was I
to do in such a difficulty? I chose the right course, deciding to tell
my Novice Mistress of the temptation without delay. I sent for her to
come out of choir, and though full of confusion, I confessed the state
of my soul. Fortunately she saw more clearly than I did, and reassured
me completely by laughing frankly at my story. The devil was put to
instant flight by my humble avowal; what he wanted was to keep me from
speaking, and thus draw me into his snares. But it was my turn now to
ensnare him, for, to make my humiliation more complete, I also told you
everything, dear Mother, and your consoling words dispelled my last
fears.

On the morning of September 8, a wave of peace flooded my soul, and, in
"that peace which surpasseth all understanding," [72] I pronounced my
holy vows.

Many were the graces I asked. I felt myself truly a queen and took
advantage of my title to obtain every favour from the King for His
ungrateful subjects. No one was forgotten. I wished that every sinner
on earth might be converted; that on that day Purgatory should set its
captives free; and I bore upon my heart this letter containing what I
desired for myself:

"O Jesus, my Divine Spouse, grant that my baptismal robe may never be
sullied. Take me from this world rather than let me stain my soul by
committing the least wilful fault. May I never seek or find aught but
Thee alone! May all creatures be nothing to me and I nothing to them!
May no earthly thing disturb my peace!

"O Jesus, I ask but Peace. . . . Peace, and above all, Love. . . .
Love--without limit. Jesus, I ask that for Thy sake I may die a Martyr;
give me martyrdom of soul or body. Or rather give me both the one and
the other.

"Grant that I may fulfill my engagements in all their perfection; that
no one may think of me; that I may be trodden under foot, forgotten, as
a little grain of sand. I offer myself to Thee, O my Beloved, that Thou
mayest ever perfectly accomplish in me Thy Holy Will, without let or
hindrance from creatures."

When at the close of this glorious day I laid my crown of roses,
according to custom, at Our Lady's feet, it was without regret. I felt
that time would never lessen my happiness.

It was the Nativity of Mary. What a beautiful feast on which to become
the Spouse of Jesus! It was the little new-born Holy Virgin who
presented her little Flower to the little Jesus. That day everything
was little except the graces I received--except my peace and joy in
gazing upon the beautiful star-lit sky at night, and in thinking that
soon I should fly away to Heaven and be united to my Divine Spouse amid
eternal bliss.

On September 24 took place the ceremony of my receiving the veil. This
feast was indeed veiled in tears. Papa was too ill to come and bless
his little Queen; at the last minute Mgr. Hugonin, who should have
presided, was unable to do so, and, for other reasons also, the day was
a painful one. And yet amid it all, my soul was profoundly at peace.
That day it pleased Our Lord that I should not be able to restrain my
tears, and those tears were not understood. It is true I had borne far
harder trials without shedding a tear; but then I had been helped by
special graces, whilst on this day Jesus left me to myself, and I soon
showed my weakness.

Eight days after I had taken the veil my cousin, Jeanne Guerin, was
married to Dr. La Neele. When she came to see us afterwards and I heard
of all the little attentions she lavished on her husband, my heart
thrilled and I thought: "It shall never be said that a woman in the
world does more for her husband than I do for Jesus, my Beloved." And,
filled with fresh ardour, I set myself more earnestly than ever to
please my Heavenly Spouse, the King of Kings, Who had deigned to honour
me by a divine alliance.

Having seen the letter announcing the marriage, I amused myself by
composing the following invitation, which I read to the novices in
order to bring home to them what had struck me so forcibly--that the
glory of all earthly unions is as nothing compared to the titles of a
Spouse of Our Divine Lord.

"God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, Sovereign Ruler of the
Universe, and the Glorious Virgin Mary, Queen of the Heavenly Court,
announce to you the Spiritual Espousals of their August Son, Jesus,
King of Kings and Lord of Lords, with little Therese Martin, now
Princess and Lady of His Kingdoms of the Holy Childhood and the
Passion, assigned to her as a dowry, by her Divine Spouse, from which
Kingdoms she holds her titles of nobility--of the Child Jesus and of
the Holy Face. It was not possible to invite you to the Wedding Feast
which took place on the Mountain of Carmel, September 8, 1890--the
Heavenly Court was alone admitted--but you are requested to be present
at the Wedding Feast which will take place to-morrow, the day of
Eternity, when Jesus, the Son of God, will come in the clouds of
Heaven, in the splendour of His Majesty, to judge the living and the
dead.

"The hour being still uncertain, you are asked to hold yourselves in
readiness and watch." [73]

And now, Mother, what more shall I say? It was through your hands that
I gave myself to Our Lord, and you have known me from childhood--need I
write my secrets? Forgive me if I cut short the story of my religious
life.

During the general retreat following my profession I received great
graces. As a rule I find preached retreats most trying, but this one
was quite an exception. I anticipated so much suffering that I prepared
myself by a fervent novena. It was said that the good Priest understood
better how to convert sinners than to direct the souls of nuns. Well
then, I must be a great sinner, for God made use of this holy religious
to bring me much consolation. At that time I had all kinds of interior
trials which I found it impossible to explain to anyone; suddenly, I
was able to lay open my whole soul. The Father understood me in a
marvellous way; he seemed to divine my state, and launched me full sail
upon that ocean of confidence and love in which I had longed to
advance, but so far had not dared. He told me that my faults did not
pain the Good God, and added: "At this moment I hold His place, and I
assure you from Him that He is well pleased with your soul." How happy
these consoling words made me! I had never been told before that it was
possible for faults not to pain the Sacred Heart; this assurance filled
me with joy and helped me to bear with patience the exile of this life.
It was also the echo of my inmost thoughts. In truth I had long known
that the Lord is more tender than a mother, and I have sounded the
depths of more than one mother's heart. I know that a mother is ever
ready to forgive her child's small thoughtless faults. How often have I
not had this sweet experience! No reproach could have touched me more
than one single kiss from my Mother. My nature is such that fear makes
me shrink, while, under love's sweet rule, I not only advance--I fly.

Two months after this happy retreat our Venerable Foundress, Mother
Genevieve of St. Teresa, quitted our little convent to enter the
Heavenly Carmel. Before speaking of my impressions at the time of her
death, I should like to tell you what a joy it was to have lived for
some years with a soul whose holiness was not inimitable, but lay in
the practice of simple and hidden virtues. More than once she was to me
a source of great consolation.

One Sunday I went to the infirmary to pay her a visit, but, as two of
the older nuns were there, I was retiring quietly, when she called me
and said, with something of inspiration in her manner: "Wait, my child,
I have just a word for you; you are always asking me for a spiritual
bouquet, well, to-day I give you this one: Serve the Lord in peace and
in joy. Remember that Our God is the God of peace."

I thanked her quite simply and went out of the room. I was moved almost
to tears, and was convinced that God had revealed to her the state of
my soul. That day I had been sorely tried, almost to sadness. Such was
the darkness that I no longer knew if I were beloved of God, and so,
dear Mother, you can understand what light and consolation succeeded
this gloom.

The following Sunday I asked her whether she had received any
revelation about me, but she assured me that she had not, and this only
made me admire her the more, for it showed how intimately Jesus lived
in her soul and directed her words and actions. Such holiness seems to
me the most true, the most holy; it is the holiness I desire, for it is
free from all illusion.

On the day when this revered Mother ended her exile, I received a very
special grace. It was the first time I had assisted at a death-bed, yet
though the sight enchanted me by its beauty, my two hours of watching
had made me very drowsy. I was grieved at this, but, at the moment her
soul took its flight to Heaven, my feelings were completely changed. In
an instant I was filled with an indescribable joy and fervour, as if
the soul of our blessed Foundress made me share in the happiness she
already enjoyed--for I am quite convinced she went straight to Heaven.
I had said to her some time previously: "You will not go to Purgatory,
dear Mother." "I hope not," she answered sweetly. Certainly God would
not disappoint a hope so full of humility; and the proof that He did
not, lies in the many favours we have received.

The Sisters hastened to claim something belonging to our beloved
Mother, and you know what a precious relic is mine. During her agony I
had noticed a tear glistening like a beautiful diamond. That tear, the
last she shed on this earth, did not fall, I still saw it shining when
her body was exposed in the choir. When evening came, I made bold to
approach unseen, with a little piece of linen, and I now have the
happiness of possessing the last tear of a Saint.

I attach no importance to my dreams, and indeed, they seldom have any
special meaning, though I do often wonder how it is that, as I think of
God all the day, my mind does not dwell on Him more in my sleep.
Generally I dream of the woods and the flowers, the brooks and the sea,
and nearly always of pretty children; or I chase birds and butterflies
such as I have never seen. But, if my dreams are sometimes poetical,
they are never mystical.

However, one night after Mother Genevieve's death, I had a more
consoling one. I thought I saw her giving to each of us something that
had belonged to herself. When my turn came, her hands were empty, and I
was afraid I was not to receive anything; but she looked at me
lovingly, and said three times: "To you I leave my heart."

About a month after that seraphic death, towards the close of the year
1891, an epidemic of influenza raged in the Community; I only had it
slightly and was able to be about with two other Sisters. It is
impossible to imagine the heartrending state of our Carmel throughout
those days of sorrow. The worst sufferers were nursed by those who
could hardly drag themselves about; death was all around us, and, when
a Sister had breathed her last, we had to leave her instantly.

My nineteenth birthday was saddened by the death of Mother
Sub-Prioress; I assisted with the infirmarian during her agony, and two
more deaths quickly followed. I now had to do the Sacristy work
single-handed, and I wonder sometimes how I was equal to it all.

One morning, when it was time to rise, I had a presentiment that Sister
Magdalen was no more. The dormitory was quite in darkness, no one was
leaving her cell. I decided, however, to go in to Sister Magdalen, and
I found her dressed, but lying dead on her bed. I was not in the least
afraid, and running to the Sacristy I quickly brought a blessed candle,
and placed on her head a wreath of roses. Amid all this desolation I
felt the Hand of God and knew that His Heart was watching over us. Our
dear Sisters left this life for a happier one without any struggle; an
expression of heavenly joy shone on their faces, and they seemed only
to be enjoying a pleasant sleep. During all these long and trying weeks
I had the unspeakable consolation of receiving Holy Communion every
day. How sweet it was! For a long time Jesus treated me as a spoilt
child, for a longer time than His more faithful Spouses. He came to me
daily for several months after the influenza had ceased, a privilege
not granted to the Community. I had not asked this favour, but I was
unspeakably happy to be united day after day to my Beloved.

Great was my joy in being allowed to touch the Sacred Vessels and
prepare the Altar linen on which Our Lord was to be laid. I felt that I
must increase in fervour, and I often recalled those words addressed to
deacons at their ordination: "Be you holy, you who carry the Vessels of
the Lord."

What can I tell you, dear Mother, about my thanksgivings after
Communion? There is no time when I taste less consolation. But this is
what I should expect. I desire to receive Our Lord, not for my own
satisfaction, but simply to give Him pleasure.

I picture my soul as a piece of waste ground and beg Our Blessed Lady
to take away my imperfections--which are as heaps of rubbish--and to
build upon it a splendid tabernacle worthy of Heaven, and adorn it with
her own adornments. Then I invite all the Angels and Saints to come and
sing canticles of love, and it seems to me that Jesus is well pleased
to see Himself received so grandly, and I share in His joy. But all
this does not prevent distractions and drowsiness from troubling me,
and not unfrequently I resolve to continue my thanksgiving throughout
the day, since I made it so badly in choir.

You see, dear Mother, that my way is not the way of fear; I can always
make myself happy, and profit by my imperfections, and Our Lord Himself
encourages me in this path. Once, contrary to my usual custom, I felt
troubled when I approached the Holy Table. For several days there had
not been a sufficient number of Hosts, and I had only received a small
part of one; this morning I foolishly thought: "If the same thing
happens to-day, I shall imagine that Jesus does not care to come into
my heart." I approached the rails. What a joy awaited me! The Priest
hesitated a moment, then gave me two entire Hosts. Was this not a sweet
response?

I have much to be thankful for. I will tell you quite openly what the
Lord has done for me. He has shown unto me the same mercy as unto King
Solomon. All my desires have been satisfied; not only my desires of
perfection, but even those of which I understood the vanity, in theory,
if not in practice. I had always looked on Sister Agnes of Jesus as my
model, and I wished to be like her in everything. She used to paint
exquisite miniatures and write beautiful poems, and this inspired me
with a desire to learn to paint, [74] and express my thoughts in verse,
that I might do some good to those around me. But I would not ask for
these natural gifts, and my desire remained hidden in my heart.

Jesus, too, had hidden Himself in this poor little heart, and He was
pleased to show me once more the vanity of all that passes. To the
great astonishment of the Community, I succeeded in painting several
pictures and in writing poems which have been a help to certain souls.
And just as Solomon, "turning to all the works which his hand had
wrought, and to the labours wherein he had laboured in vain, saw in all
things vanity and vexation of mind," [75] so experience showed me that
the sole happiness of earth consists in lying hidden, and remaining in
total ignorance of created things. I understood that without love even
the most brilliant deeds count for nothing. These gifts, which Our Lord
lavished upon me, far from doing me any harm, drew me towards Him; I
saw that He alone is unchangeable, He alone can fill the vast abyss of
my desires.

Talking of my desires, I must tell you about others of quite a
different kind, which the Divine Master has also been pleased to grant:
childish desires, like the wish for snow on my clothing day. You know,
dear Mother, how fond I am of flowers. When I made myself a prisoner at
the age of fifteen, I gave up for ever the delights of rambling through
meadows bright with the treasures of spring. Well, I never possessed so
many flowers as I have had since entering the Carmel. In the world
young men present their betrothed with beautiful bouquets, and Jesus
did not forget me. For His Altar I received, in abundance, all the
flowers I loved best: cornflowers, poppies, marguerites--one little
friend only was missing, the purple vetch. I longed to see it again,
and at last it came to gladden me and show that, in the least as in the
greatest, God gives a hundred-fold, even in this life, to those who
have left all for His Love.

But one desire, the dearest of all, and for many reasons the most
difficult, remained unfulfilled. It was to see Celine enter the Carmel
of Lisieux. However, I had made a sacrifice of my longing, and
committed to God alone the future of my loved sister. I was willing she
should be sent to far distant lands if it must be so; but I wanted
above all things to see her like myself, the Spouse of Jesus. I
suffered deeply, aware that she was exposed in the world to dangers I
had never even known. My affection for her was maternal rather than
sisterly, and I was filled with solicitude for the welfare of her soul.

She was to go one evening with my aunt and cousins to a dance. I know
not why, but I felt more anxious than usual, and I shed many tears,
imploring Our Lord to hinder her dancing. And this was just what
happened; for He did not suffer His little Spouse to dance that
evening, although as a rule she did so most gracefully. And, to the
astonishment of everyone, her partner, too, found that he was only able
to walk gravely up and down with Mademoiselle. The poor young man
slipped away in confusion, and did not dare appear again that evening.
This unique occurrence increased my confidence in Our Lord, and showed
me clearly that He had already set His seal on my sister's brow.

On July 29, 1894, God called my saintly and much-tried Father to
Himself. For the last two years of his life he was completely
paralysed; so my uncle took him into his house and surrounded him with
the tenderest care. He became quite helpless and was only able to visit
us once during the whole course of his illness. It was a sad interview.
At the moment of parting, as we said good-bye, he raised his eyes, and
pointing upwards said in a voice full of tears: "In Heaven!"

Now that he was with God, the last ties which kept his consoling Angel
in the world were broken. Angels do not remain on this earth; when they
have accomplished their mission, they return instantly to Heaven. That
is why they have wings. Celine tried therefore to fly to the Carmel;
but the obstacles seemed insurmountable. One day, when matters were
going from bad to worse, I said to Our Lord after Holy Communion: "Thou
knowest, dear Jesus, how earnestly I have desired that the trials my
Father endured should serve as his purgatory. I long to know if my wish
is granted. I do not ask Thee to speak to me, I only want a sign. Thou
knowest how much opposed is Sister N. to Celine's entering; if she
withdraw her opposition, I shall regard it as an answer from Thee, and
in this way I shall know that my Father went straight to Heaven."

God, Who holds in His Hand the hearts of His creatures, and inclines
them as He will, deigned in His infinite mercy and ineffable
condescension to change that Sister's mind. She was the first person I
met after my thanksgiving, and, with tears in her eyes, she spoke of
Celine's entrance, which she now ardently desired. Shortly afterwards
the Bishop set every obstacle aside, and then you were able, dear
Mother, without any hesitation, to open our doors to the poor little
exile. [76]

Now I have no desire left, unless it be to love Jesus even unto folly!
It is Love alone that draws me. I no longer wish either for suffering
or death, yet both are precious to me. Long did I call upon them as the
messengers of joy. I have suffered much, and I have thought my barque
near indeed to the Everlasting Shore. From earliest childhood I have
imagined that the Little Flower would be gathered in its springtime;
now, the spirit of self-abandonment alone is my guide. I have no other
compass, and know not how to ask anything with eagerness, save the
perfect accomplishment of God's designs upon my soul. I can say these
words of the Canticle of our Father, St. John of the Cross:

"I drank deep in the cellar of my Friend, And, coming forth again, Knew
naught of all this plain, And lost the flock I erst was wont to tend.
My soul and all its wealth I gave to be His Own; No more I tend my
flock, all other work is done, And all my exercise is Love alone." [77]

Or rather:

"Love hath so wrought in me Since I have known its sway, That all
within me, whether good or ill, It makes subservient to the end it
seeks, And soon transforms my soul into itself." [78]

Full sweet is the way of Love. It is true one may fall and be
unfaithful to grace; but Love, knowing how to profit by everything,
quickly consumes whatever is displeasing to Jesus, leaving in the heart
only a deep and humble peace. I have obtained many spiritual lights
through the works of St. John of the Cross. When I was seventeen and
eighteen they were my only food; but, later on, and even now, all
spiritual authors leave me cold and dry. However beautiful and touching
a book may be, my heart does not respond, and I read without
understanding, or, if I understand, I cannot meditate. In my
helplessness the Holy Scriptures and the Imitation are of the greatest
assistance; in them I find a hidden manna, genuine and pure. But it is
from the Gospels that I find most help in the time of prayer; from them
I draw all that I need for my poor soul. I am always discovering in
them new lights and hidden mysterious meanings. I know and I have
experienced that "the Kingdom of God is within us." [79] Our Lord has
no need of books or teachers to instruct our souls. He, the Teacher of
Teachers, instructs us without any noise of words. I have never heard
Him speak, yet I know He is within me. He is there, always guiding and
inspiring me; and just when I need them, lights, hitherto unseen, break
in. This is not as a rule during my prayers, but in the midst of my
daily duties. Sometimes, however, as this evening, at the close of a
meditation spent in utter dryness, a word of comfort is given to me:
"Here is the Master I give thee, He will teach thee all that thou
shouldst do. I wish thee to read in the Book of Life in which is
contained the science of love. . . ." [80]

The Science of Love! How sweetly do these words echo in my soul! That
science alone do I desire. Having given all my substance for it, like
the Spouse in the Canticles, "I think that I have given nothing." [81]
After so many graces, may I not sing with the Psalmist that "the Lord
is good, that His Mercy endureth for ever"? [82]

It seems to me that if everyone were to receive such favours God would
be feared by none, but loved to excess; that no one would ever commit
the least wilful fault--and this through love, not fear.

Yet all souls cannot be alike. It is necessary that they should differ
from one another in order that each Divine Perfection may receive its
special honour. To me, He has given His Infinite Mercy, and it is in
this ineffable mirror that I contemplate his other attributes. Therein
all appear to me radiant with Love. His Justice, even more perhaps than
the rest, seems to me to be clothed with Love. What joy to think that
Our Lord is just, that is to say, that He takes our weakness into
account, that He knows perfectly the frailty of our nature! Of what,
then, need I be afraid?

Will not the God of Infinite Justice, Who deigns so lovingly to pardon
the sins of the Prodigal Son, be also just to me "who am always with
Him"? [83]

In the year 1895 I received the grace to understand, more than ever,
how much Jesus desires to be loved. Thinking one day of those who offer
themselves as victims to the Justice of God, in order to turn aside the
punishment reserved for sinners by taking it upon themselves, I felt
this offering to be noble and generous, but was very far from feeling
myself drawn to make it. "O my Divine Master," I cried from the bottom
of my heart, "shall Thy Justice alone receive victims of holocaust? Has
not Thy Merciful Love also need thereof? On all sides it is ignored,
rejected . . . the hearts on which Thou wouldst lavish it turn to
creatures, there to seek their happiness in the miserable satisfaction
of a moment, instead of casting themselves into Thine Arms, into the
unfathomable furnace of Thine Infinite Love.

"O my God! must Thy Love which is disdained lie hidden in Thy Heart?
Methinks, if Thou shouldst find souls offering themselves as victims of
holocaust to Thy Love, Thou wouldst consume them rapidly; Thou wouldst
be well pleased to suffer the flames of infinite tenderness to escape
that are imprisoned in Thy Heart.

"If Thy Justice--which is of earth--must needs be satisfied, how much
more must Thy Merciful Love desire to inflame souls, since "Thy mercy
reacheth even to the Heavens"? [84] O Jesus! Let me be that happy
victim--consume Thy holocaust with the Fire of Divine Love!"

Dear Mother, you know the love, or rather the oceans of grace which
flooded my soul immediately after I made that Act of Oblation on June
9, 1895. From that day I have been penetrated and surrounded with love.
Every moment this Merciful Love renews me and purifies me, leaving in
my soul no trace of sin. I cannot fear Purgatory; I know I do not merit
to enter, even, into that place of expiation with the Holy Souls, but I
also know that the fire of Love is more sanctifying than the fire of
Purgatory. I know that Jesus could not wish useless suffering for us,
and He would not inspire me with the desires I feel, were He not
willing to fulfill them.
__________________________________________________________________

[71] Psalm 102[103]:14.

[72] Phil. 4:7.

[73] This letter, the style of which may seem strange to English ears,
is modelled closely on the formal and quaint letters whereby French
parents of the better class announce to their friends the marriage of
their children. Such letters of "faire-part" are issued in the name of
relatives to the third or fourth degree. [Ed.]

[74] Therese had kept this wish hidden in her heart from the days of
her childhood, and later in life she made the following confidence: "I
was ten the day Papa told Celine that she was to begin painting
lessons. I felt quite envious. Then he turned to me and said: 'Well,
little Queen, would you like to learn painting too?' I was going to
say: 'Yes, indeed I should,' when Marie remarked that I had not the
same taste for it as Celine. She carried her point, and I said nothing,
thinking it was a splendid opportunity to make a big sacrifice for Our
Lord; I was so anxious to learn, that even now I wonder how I was able
to keep silence."

[75] Eccl. 2:11.

[76] Celine entered the Convent on September 14, 1894, and took the
name of Sister Genevieve of St. Teresa.

[77] Spiritual Canticle: Stanzas 18 and 20.

[78] Hymn to the Deity.

[79] Luke 17:21.

[80] Revelation of Our Lord to Bd. Margaret Mary.

[81] Cant. 8:7.

[82] Psalm 103[104]:1.

[83] Luke 15:31.

[84] Cf. Psalm 35[36]:6.
__________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER IX - THE NIGHT OF THE SOUL

Dear Mother, I thought I had written enough, and now you wish for more
details of my religious life. I will not argue, but I cannot help
smiling when I have to tell you things that you know quite as well as I
do. Nevertheless, I will obey. I do not ask what use this manuscript
can be to any one, I assure you that even were you to burn it before my
eyes, without having read it, I should not mind in the least.

The opinion is not uncommon in the Community that you have always
indulged me, ever since I entered the Convent; however, "Man seeth
those things that appear, but the Lord beholdeth the heart." [85] Dear
Mother, once again I thank you for not having spared me. Jesus knew
well that His Little Flower needed the life-giving water of
humiliation--it was too weak to take root otherwise, and to you it owes
so great a blessing. But for some months, the Divine Master has
entirely changed His method of cultivating His Little Flower. Finding
no doubt that it has been sufficiently watered, He now allows it to
expand under the warm rays of a brilliant sun. He smiles on it, and
this favour also comes through you, dear Mother, but far from doing it
harm, those smiles make the Little Flower grow in a wondrous way. Deep
down in its heart it treasures those precious drops of dew--the
mortifications of other days--and they remind it that it is small and
frail. Even were all creatures to draw near to admire and flatter it,
that would not add a shade of idle satisfaction to the true joy which
thrills it, on realising that in God's Eyes it is but a poor, worthless
thing, and nothing more.

When I say that I am indifferent to praise, I am not speaking, dear
Mother, of the love and confidence you show me; on the contrary I am
deeply touched thereby, but I feel that I have now nothing to fear, and
I can listen to those praises unperturbed, attributing to God all that
is good in me. If it please Him to make me appear better than I am, it
is nothing to me, He can act as He will. My God, how many ways dost
Thou lead souls! We read of Saints who left absolutely nothing at their
death, not the least thing by which to remember them, not even a single
line of writing; and there are others like our holy Mother, St. Teresa,
who have enriched the Church with their sublime teaching, and have not
hesitated to reveal "the secrets of the King," [86] that He may be
better known and better loved.

Which of these two ways is more pleasing to Our Lord? It seems to me
that they are equally so.

All those beloved by God have followed the inspiration of the Holy
Ghost, who commanded the prophets to write: "Tell the just man that all
is well." [87] Yes, all is well when one seeks only the Master's Will,
and so I, poor Little Flower, obey my Jesus when I try to please you,
who represent him here on earth.

You know it has ever been my desire to become a Saint, but I have
always felt, in comparing myself with the Saints, that I am as far
removed from them as the grain of sand, which the passer-by tramples
underfoot, is remote from the mountain whose summit is lost in the
clouds.

Instead of being discouraged, I concluded that God would not inspire
desires which could not be realised, and that I may aspire to sanctity
in spite of my littleness. For me to become great is impossible. I must
bear with myself and my many imperfections; but I will seek out a means
of getting to Heaven by a little way--very short and very straight, a
little way that is wholly new. We live in an age of inventions;
nowadays the rich need not trouble to climb the stairs, they have lifts
instead. Well, I mean to try and find a lift by which I may be raised
unto God, for I am too tiny to climb the steep stairway of perfection.
I have sought to find in Holy Scripture some suggestion as to what this
lift might be which I so much desired, and I read these words uttered
by the Eternal Wisdom Itself: "Whosoever is a little one, let him come
to Me." [88] Then I drew near to God, feeling sure that I had
discovered what I sought; but wishing to know further what He would do
to the little one, I continued my search and this is what I found: "You
shall be carried at the breasts and upon the knees; as one whom the
mother caresseth, so will I comfort you." [89]

Never have I been consoled by words more tender and sweet. Thine Arms,
then, O Jesus, are the lift which must raise me up even unto Heaven. To
get there I need not grow; on the contrary, I must remain little, I
must become still less. O my God, thou hast gone beyond my expectation,
and I . . . "I will sing Thy mercies! Thou hast taught me, O Lord, from
my youth and till now I have declared Thy wonderful works, and thus
unto old age and grey hairs." [90]

What will this old age be for me? It seems to me that it could as well
be now as later: two thousand years are no more in the Eyes of the Lord
than twenty years . . . than a single day! But do not think, dear
Mother, that your child is anxious to leave you, and deems it a greater
grace to die in the morning rather than in the evening of life; to
please Jesus is what [s]he really values and desires above all things.
Now that He seems to come near and draw her to His Heavenly Home, she
is glad; she has understood that God has need of no one to do good upon
earth, still less of her than of others. Meantime I know your will,
dear Mother. You wish me to carry out, at your side, a work which is
both sweet and easy, [91] and this work I shall complete in Heaven. You
have said to me, as Our Lord said to St. Peter: "Feed my lambs." I am
amazed, for I feel that I am so little. I have entreated you to feed
your little lambs yourself and to keep me among them. You have complied
in part with my reasonable wish, and have called me their companion,
rather than their mistress, telling me nevertheless to lead them
through fertile and shady pastures, to point out where the grass is
sweetest and best, and warn them against the brilliant but poisonous
flowers, which they must never touch except to crush under foot.

How is it, dear Mother, that my youth and inexperience have not
frightened you? Are you not afraid that I shall let your lambs stray
afar? In acting as you have done, perhaps you remembered that Our Lord
is often pleased to give wisdom to little ones.

On this earth it is rare indeed to find souls who do not measure God's
Omnipotence by their own narrow thoughts. The world is always ready to
admit exceptions everywhere here below. God alone is denied this
liberty. It has long been the custom among men to reckon experience by
age, for in his youth the holy King David sang to His Lord: "I am young
and despised," [92] but in the same Psalm he does not fear to say: "I
have had understanding above old men, because I have sought Thy
commandments, Thy word is a lamp to my feet, and a light to my paths; I
have sworn, and I am determined, to keep the judgments of Thy Justice."
[93]

And you did not even consider it imprudent to assure me one day, that
the Divine Master had enlightened my soul and given me the experience
of years. I am too little now to be guilty of vanity; I am likewise too
little to endeavour to prove my humility by fine-sounding words. I
prefer to own in all simplicity that "He that is mighty hath done great
things to me"-- [94] and the greatest is that He has shown me my
littleness and how incapable I am of anything good.

My soul has known trials of many kinds. I have suffered much on this
earth. In my childhood I suffered with sadness, but now I find
sweetness in all things. Anyone but you, dear Mother, who know me
thoroughly, would smile at reading these pages, for has ever a soul
seemed less tried than mine? But if the martyrdom which I have endured
for the past year were made known, how astonished everyone would be!
Since it is your wish I will try to describe it, but there are no words
really to explain these things. The words will always fall short of the
reality.

During Lent last year I felt much better than ever and continued so
until Holy Week, in spite of the fast which I observed in all its
rigour. But in the early hours of Good Friday, Jesus gave me to hope
that I should soon join Him in His beautiful Home. How sweet is this
memory!

I could not obtain permission to remain watching at the Altar of Repose
throughout the Thursday night, and I returned to our cell at midnight.
Scarcely was my head laid on the pillow when I felt a hot stream rise
to my lips. I thought I was going to die, and my heart nearly broke
with joy. But as I had already put out our lamp, I mortified my
curiosity until the morning and slept in peace. At five o'clock, when
it was time to get up, I remembered at once that I had some good news
to learn, and going to the window I found, as I had expected, that our
handkerchief was soaked with blood. Dearest Mother, what hope was mine!
I was firmly convinced that on this anniversary of His Death, my
Beloved had allowed me to hear His first call, like a sweet, distant
murmur, heralding His joyful approach.

I assisted at Prime and Chapter most fervently, and then I hastened to
cast myself at my Mother's knees and confide to her my happiness. I did
not feel the least pain, so I easily obtained permission to finish Lent
as I had begun, and on this Good Friday I shared in all the austerities
of the Carmel without any relaxation. Never had these austerities
seemed sweeter to me; the hope of soon entering Heaven transported me
with joy.

Still full of joy, I returned to our cell on the evening of that happy
day, and was quietly falling asleep, when my sweet Jesus gave me the
same sign as on the previous night, of my speedy entrance to Eternal
Life. I felt such a clear and lively Faith that the thought of Heaven
was my sole delight. I could not believe it possible for men to be
utterly devoid of Faith, and I was convinced that those who deny the
existence of another world really lie in their hearts.

But during the Paschal days, so full of light, our Lord made me
understand that there really are in truth souls bereft of Faith and
Hope, who, through abuse of grace, lose these precious treasures, the
only source of pure and lasting joy. He allowed my soul to be
overwhelmed with darkness, and the thought of Heaven, which had
consoled me from my earliest childhood, now became a subject of
conflict and torture. This trial did not last merely for days or weeks;
I have been suffering for months, and I still await deliverance. I wish
I could express what I feel, but it is beyond me. One must have passed
through this dark tunnel to understand its blackness. However, I will
try to explain it by means of a comparison.

Let me suppose that I had been born in a land of thick fogs, and had
never seen the beauties of nature, or a single ray of sunshine,
although I had heard of these wonders from my early youth, and knew
that the country wherein I dwelt was not my real home--there was
another land, unto which I should always look forward. Now this is not
a fable, invented by an inhabitant of the land of fogs, it is the
solemn truth, for the King of that sunlit country dwelt for three and
thirty years in the land of darkness, and alas!--the darkness did not
understand that He was the Light of the World. [95]

But, dear Lord, Thy child has understood Thou art the Light Divine; she
asks Thy pardon for her unbelieving brethren, and is willing to eat the
bread of sorrow as long as Thou mayest wish. For love of Thee she will
sit at that table of bitterness where these poor sinners take their
food, and she will not stir from it until Thou givest the sign. But may
she not say in her own name, and the name of her guilty brethren: "O
God, be merciful to us sinners!" [96] Send us away justified. May all
those on whom Faith does not shine see the light at last! O my God, if
that table which they profane can be purified by one that loves Thee, I
am willing to remain there alone to eat the bread of tears, until it
shall please Thee to bring me to Thy Kingdom of Light: the only favour
I ask is, that I may never give Thee cause for offence.

From the time of my childhood I felt that one day I should be set free
from this land of darkness. I believed it, not only because I had been
told so by others, but my heart's most secret and deepest longings
assured me that there was in store for me another and more beautiful
country--an abiding dwelling-place. I was like Christopher Columbus,
whose genius anticipated the discovery of the New World. And suddenly
the mists about me have penetrated my very soul and have enveloped me
so completely that I cannot even picture to myself this promised
country . . . all has faded away. When my heart, weary of the
surrounding darkness, tries to find some rest in the thought of a life
to come, my anguish increases. It seems to me that out of the darkness
I hear the mocking voice of the unbeliever: "You dream of a land of
light and fragrance, you dream that the Creator of these wonders will
be yours for ever, you think one day to escape from these mists where
you now languish. Nay, rejoice in death, which will give you, not what
you hope for, but a night darker still, the night of utter
nothingness!" . . .

Dear Mother, this description of what I suffer is as far removed from
reality as the first rough outline is from the model, but I fear that
to write more were to blaspheme . . . even now I may have said too
much. May God forgive me! He knows that I try to live by Faith, though
it does not afford me the least consolation. I have made more acts of
Faith in this last year than during all the rest of my life.

Each time that my enemy would provoke me to combat, I behave as a
gallant soldier. I know that a duel is an act of cowardice, and so,
without once looking him in the face, I turn my back on the foe, then I
hasten to my Saviour, and vow that I am ready to shed my blood in
witness of my belief in Heaven. I tell him, if only He will deign to
open it to poor unbelievers, I am content to sacrifice all pleasure in
the thought of it as long as I live. And in spite of this trial, which
robs me of all comfort, I still can say: "Thou hast given me, O Lord,
delight in all Thou dost." [97] For what joy can be greater than to
suffer for Thy Love? The more the suffering is and the less it appears
before men, the more is it to Thy Honour and Glory. Even if--but I know
it to be impossible--Thou shouldst not deign to heed my sufferings, I
should still be happy to bear them, in the hope that by my tears I
might perhaps prevent or atone for one sin against Faith.

No doubt, dear Mother, you will think I exaggerate somewhat the night
of my soul. If you judge by the poems I have composed this year, it
must seem as though I have been flooded with consolations, like a child
for whom the veil of Faith is almost rent asunder. And yet it is not a
veil--it is a wall which rises to the very heavens and shuts out the
starry sky.

When I sing of the happiness of Heaven and the eternal possession of
God, I do not feel any joy therein, for I sing only of what I wish to
believe. Sometimes, I confess, a little ray of sunshine illumines my
dark night, and I enjoy peace for an instant, but later, the
remembrance of this ray of light, instead of consoling me, makes the
blackness thicker still.

And yet never have I felt so deeply how sweet and merciful is the Lord.
He did not send me this heavy cross when it might have discouraged me,
but at a time when I was able to bear it. Now it simply takes from me
all natural satisfaction I might feel in my longing for Heaven.

Dear Mother, it seems to me that at present there is nothing to impede
my upward flight, for I have no longer any desire save to love Him till
I die. I am free; I fear nothing now, not even what I dreaded more than
anything else, a long illness which would make me a burden to the
Community. Should it please the Good God, I am quite content to have my
bodily and mental sufferings prolonged for years. I do not fear a long
life; I do not shrink from the struggle. The Lord is the rock upon
which I stand--"Who teacheth my hands to fight, and my fingers to war.
He is my Protector and I have hoped in Him." [98] I have never asked
God to let me die young, It is true I have always thought I should do
so, but it is a favour I have not tried to obtain.

Our Lord is often content with the wish to do something for His Glory,
and you know the immensity of my desires. You know also that Jesus has
offered me more than one bitter chalice through my dearly loved
sisters. The holy King David was right when he sang: "Behold how good
and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity." [99]
But such unity can only exist upon earth in the midst of sacrifice. It
was not in order to be with my sisters that I came to this holy Carmel;
on the contrary, I knew well that in curbing my natural affection I
should have much to suffer.

How can it be said that it is more perfect to separate oneself from
home and friends? Has anyone ever reproached brothers who fight side by
side, or together win the martyr's palm? It is true, no doubt, they
encourage each other; but it is also true that the martyrdom of each is
a martyrdom to them all.

And so it is in the religious life; theologians call it a martyrdom. A
heart given to God loses nothing of its natural affection--on the
contrary, this affection grows stronger by becoming purer and more
spiritual. It is with this love, dear Mother, that I love you and my
sisters. I am glad to fight beside you for the glory of the King of
Heaven, but I am ready to go to another battlefield, did the Divine
Commander but express a wish. An order would not be necessary: a simple
look, a sign, would suffice.

Ever since I came to the Carmel I have thought that if Our Lord did not
take me quickly to Heaven, my lot would be that of Noe's dove, and that
one day he would open the window of the Ark and bid me fly to heathen
lands, bearing the olive branch. This thought has helped me to soar
above all created things.

Knowing that even in the Carmel there must be partings, I tried to make
my abode in Heaven; and I accepted not only exile in the midst of an
unknown people, but what was far more bitter, I accepted exile for my
sisters. And indeed, two of them were asked for by the Carmel of
Saigon, our own foundation. For a time there was serious question of
their being sent, and I would not say a word to hold them back, though
my heart ached at the thought of the trials awaiting them. Now all that
is at an end; the superiors were absolutely opposed to their departure,
and I only touched the cup with my lips long enough to taste of its
bitterness.

Let me tell you, dear Mother, why, if Our Lady cures me, I wish to
respond to the call from our Mothers of Hanoi. It appears that to live
in foreign Carmels, a very special vocation is needed, and many souls
think they are called without being so in reality. You have told me
that I have this vocation, and that my health alone stands in the way.
But if I am destined one day to leave this Carmel, it will not be
without a pang. My heart is naturally sensitive, and because this is a
cause of much suffering, I wish to offer Jesus whatsoever it can bear.
Here, I am loved by you and all the Sisters, and this love is very
sweet to me, and I dream of a convent where I should be unknown, where
I should taste the bitterness of exile. I know only too well how
useless I am, and so it is not for the sake of the services I might
render to the Carmel of Hanoi that I would leave all that is dearest to
me--my sole reason would be to do God's Will, and sacrifice myself for
Him.

And I should not suffer any disappointment, for when we expect nothing
but suffering, then the least joy is a surprise; and later on suffering
itself becomes the greatest of all joys, when we seek it as a precious
treasure.

But I know I shall never recover from this sickness, and yet I am at
peace. For years I have not belonged to myself, I have surrendered
myself wholly to Jesus, and He is free to do with me whatsoever He
pleases. He has spoken to me of exile, and has asked me if I would
consent to drink of that chalice. At once I essayed to grasp it, but
He, withdrawing His Hand, showed me that my consent was all He desired.

O my God! from how much disquiet do we free ourselves by the vow of
obedience! Happy is the simple religious. Her one guide being the will
of her superiors, she is ever sure of following the right path, and has
no fear of being mistaken, even when it seems that her superiors are
making a mistake. But if she ceases to consult the unerring compass,
then at once her soul goes astray in barren wastes, where the waters of
grace quickly fail. Dear Mother, you are the compass Jesus has given me
to direct me safely to the Eternal Shore. I find it most sweet to fix
my eyes upon you, and then do the Will of my Lord. By allowing me to
suffer these temptations against Faith, He has greatly increased the
spirit of Faith, which makes me see Him living in your soul, and
through you communicating His holy commands.

I am well aware that you lighten the burden of obedience for me, but
deep in my heart I feel that my attitude would not change, nor would my
filial affection grow less, were you to treat me with severity: and
this because I should still see the Will of God manifesting itself in
another way for the greater good of my soul.

Among the numberless graces that I have received this year, not the
least is an understanding of how far-reaching is the precept of
charity. I had never before fathomed these words of Our Lord: "The
second commandment is like to the first: Thou shalt love thy neighbour
as thyself." [100] I had set myself above all to love God, and it was
in loving Him that I discovered the hidden meaning of these other
words: "It is not those who say, Lord, Lord! who enter into the Kingdom
of Heaven, but he who does the Will of My Father." [101]

Jesus revealed me this Will when at the Last Supper He gave His New
Commandment in telling His Apostles to love one another as He had loved
them. [102] I set myself to find out how He had loved His Apostles; and
I saw that it was not for their natural qualities, for they were
ignorant men, full of earthly ideas. And yet He calls them His Friends,
His Brethren; He desires to see them near Him in the Kingdom of His
Father, and in order to admit them to this Kingdom He wills to die on
the Cross, saying: "Greater love than this no man hath, that a man lay
down his life for his friends." [103]

As I meditated on these Divine words, I saw how imperfect was the love
I bore my Sisters in religion. I understood that I did not love tem as
Our Lord loves them. I know now that true charity consists in bearing
all our neighbours' defects--not being surprised at their weakness, but
edified at their smallest virtues. Above all I know that charity must
not remain shut up in the heart, for "No man lighteth a candle, and
putteth it in a hidden place, nor under a bushel; but upon a
candlestick, that they who come in may see the light." [104]

It seems to me, dear Mother, this candle represents that charity which
enlightens and gladdens, not only those who are dear to us, but all
those who are of the household.

In the Old Law, when God told His people to love their neighbour as
themselves, He had not yet come down upon earth; and knowing full well
how man loves himself, He could not ask anything greater. But when Our
Lord gave His Apostles a New Commandment--"His own commandment" [105]
--He was not content with saying: "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as
thyself," but would have them love even as He had loved, and as He will
love till the end of time.

O my Jesus! Thou does never ask what is impossible; Thou knowest better
than I, how frail and imperfect I am, and Thou knowest that I shall
never love my Sisters as Thou hast loved them, unless within me Thou
lovest them, dear Lord! It is because Thou dost desire to grant me this
grace that Thou hast given a New Commandment. Oh how I love it, since I
am assured thereby that it is Thy Will to love in me all those Thou
dost bid me love!

Yes, I know when I show charity to others, it is simply Jesus acting in
me, and the more closely I am united to Him, the more dearly I love my
Sisters. If I wish to increase this love in my heart, and the devil
tries to bring before me the defects of a Sister, I hasten to look for
her virtues, her good motives; I call to mind that though I may have
seen her fall once, no doubt she has gained many victories over
herself, which in her humility she conceals. It is even possible that
what seems to me a fault, may very likely, on account of her good
intention, be an act of virtue. I have no difficulty in persuading
myself of this, because I have had the same experience. One day, during
recreation, the portress came to ask for a Sister to help her. I had a
childish longing to do this work, and it happened the choice fell upon
me. I therefore began to fold up our needlework, but so slowly that my
neighbour, who I knew would like to take my place, was ready before me.
The Sister who had asked for help, seeing how deliberate I was, said
laughingly: "I thought you would not add this pearl to your crown, you
are so extremely slow," and all the Community thought I had yielded to
natural reluctance. I cannot tell you what profit I derived from this
incident, and it made me indulgent towards others. It still checks any
feelings of vanity, when I am praised, for I reflect that since my
small acts of virtue can be mistaken for imperfections, why should not
my imperfections be mistaken for virtue? And I say with St. Paul: "To
me it is a very small thing to be judged by you, or by man's day. But
neither do I judge myself. He that judgeth me is the Lord." [106]

And it is the Lord, it is Jesus, Who is my judge. Therefore I will try
always to think leniently of others, that He may judge me leniently, or
rather not at all, since He says: "Judge not, and ye shall not be
judged." [107]

But returning to the Holy Gospel where Our Lord explains to me clearly
in what His New Commandment consists, I read in St. Matthew: "You have
heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate
thy enemy: but I say unto you, Love your enemies, and pray for them
that persecute you." [108]

There are, of course, no enemies in the Carmel; but, after all, we have
our natural likes and dislikes. We may feel drawn towards one Sister,
and may be tempted to go a long way round to avoid meeting another.
Well, Our Lord tells me that this is the Sister to love and pray for,
even though her behaviour may make me imagine she does not care for me.
"If you love them that love you, what thanks are to you? For sinners
also love those that love them." [109] And it is not enough to love, we
must prove our love; naturally one likes to please a friend, but that
is not charity, for sinners do the same.

Our Lord also taught me: "Give to everyone that asketh thee; and of him
that taketh away thy goods, ask them not again." [110] To give to
everyone who asks is not so pleasant as to give of one's own accord. If
we are asked pleasantly, it is easy to give; but if we are asked
discourteously, then, unless we are perfect in charity, there is an
inward rebellion, and we find no end of excuses for refusing. Perhaps,
after first pointing out the rudeness of the request, we make such a
favour of consenting thereto, that the slight service takes far less
time to perform than was lost in arguing the point. And if it is
difficult to give to whosoever asks, it is far more difficult to let
what belongs to us be taken without asking it again. Dear Mother, I say
this is hard, but I should rather say that it seems hard, for "The yoke
of the Lord is sweet and His burden light." [111] And when we submit to
that yoke, we at once feel its sweetness.

I have said Jesus does not wish me to ask again for what is my own.
This ought to seem quite easy, for, in reality, nothing is mine. I
ought, then, to be glad when an occasion arises which brings home to me
the poverty to which I am vowed. I used to think myself completely
detached, but since Our Lord's words have become clear, I see that I am
indeed very imperfect.

For instance: when starting to paint, if I find the brushes in
disorder, and a ruler or penknife gone, I feel inclined to lose
patience, and have to keep a firm hold over myself not to betray my
feelings. Of course I may ask for these needful things, and if I do so
humbly I am not disobeying Our Lord's command. I am then like the poor
who hold out their hands for the necessaries of life, and, if refused,
are not surprised, since no one owes them anything. Deep peace
inundates the soul when it soars above mere natural sentiments. There
is no joy equal to that which is shared by the truly poor in spirit. If
they ask with detachment for something necessary, and not only is it
refused, but an attempt is made to take away what they already possess,
they are following the Master's advice: "If any man will take away thy
coat, let him have thy cloak also." [112] To give up one's cloak is, it
seems to me, to renounce every right, and to regard oneself as the
servant, the slave, of all. Without a cloak it is easier to walk or
run, and so the Master adds: "And whosoever shall force thee to go one
mile, go with him other two." [113]

It is therefore not enough for me to give to whoever asks--I ought to
anticipate the wish, and show myself glad to be of service; but if
anything of mine be taken away, I should show myself glad to be rid of
it. I cannot always carry out to the letter the words of the Gospel,
for there are occasions when I am compelled to refuse some request. Yet
when charity is deeply rooted in the soul it lets itself be outwardly
seen, and there is a way of refusing so graciously what one is unable
to give, that the refusal affords as much pleasure as the gift would
have done. It is true that people do not hesitate to ask from those who
readily oblige, nevertheless I ought not to avoid importunate Sisters
on the pretext that I shall be forced to refuse. The Divine Master has
said: "From him that would borrow of thee turn not away." [114] Nor
should I be kind in order to appear so, or in the hope that the Sister
will return the service, for once more it is written: "If you lend to
them of whom you hope to receive, what thanks are to you? For sinners
also lend to sinners for to receive as much. But you do good and lend,
hoping for nothing thereby, and your reward shall be great." [115]

Verily, the reward is great even on earth. In this path it is only the
first step which costs. To lend without hope of being repaid seems
hard; one would rather give outright, for what you give is no longer
yours. When a Sister says confidently: "I want your help for some
hours--I have our Mother's leave, and be assured I will do as much for
you later," one may know well that these hours lent will not be repaid,
and be sorely tempted to say: "I prefer to give them." But that would
gratify self-love, besides letting the Sister feel that you do not rely
much on her promise. The Divine precepts run contrary to our natural
inclinations, and without the help of grace it would be impossible to
understand them, far less to put them in practice.

Dear Mother, I feel that I have expressed myself with more than usual
confusion, and I do not know what you can find to interest you in these
rambling pages, but I am not aiming at a literary masterpiece, and if I
weary you by this discourse on charity, it will at least prove your
child's good will. I must confess I am far from living up to my ideal,
and yet the very desire to do so gives me a feeling of peace. If I fall
into some fault, I arise again at once--and for some months now I have
not even had to struggle. I have been able to say with our holy Father,
St. John of the Cross: "My house is entirely at peace," and I attribute
this interior peace to a victory I gained over myself. Since that
victory, the hosts of Heaven have hastened to my aid, for they will not
allow me to be wounded, now that I have fought so valiantly.

A holy nun of our community annoyed me in all that she did; the devil
must have had something to do with it, and he it was undoubtedly who
made me see in her so many disagreeable points. I did not want to yield
to my natural antipathy, for I remembered that charity ought to betray
itself in deeds, and not exist merely in the feelings, so I set myself
to do for this sister all I should do for the one I loved most. Every
time I met her I prayed for her, and offered to God her virtues and
merits. I felt that this was very pleasing to Our Lord, for there is no
artist who is not gratified when his works are praised, and the Divine
Artist of souls is pleased when we do not stop at the exterior, but,
penetrating to the inner sanctuary He has chosen, admire its beauty.

I did not rest satisfied with praying for this Sister, who gave me such
occasions for self-mastery, I tried to render her as many services as I
could, and when tempted to answer her sharply, I made haste to smile
and change the subject, for the Imitation says: "It is more profitable
to leave everyone to his way of thinking than to give way to
contentious discourses." And sometimes when the temptation was very
severe, I would run like a deserter from the battlefield if I could do
so without letting the Sister guess my inward struggle.

One day she said to me with a beaming face: "My dear Soeur Therese,
tell me what attraction you find in me, for whenever we meet, you greet
me with such a sweet smile." Ah! What attracted me was Jesus hidden in
the depths of her soul--Jesus who maketh sweet even that which is most
bitter.

I spoke just now, dear Mother, of the flight that is my last resource
to escape defeat. It is not honourable, I confess, but during my
noviciate, whenever I had recourse to this means, it invariably
succeeded. I will give you a striking example, which will, I am sure,
amuse you. You had been ill with bronchitis for several days, and we
were all uneasy about you. One morning, in my duty as sacristan, I came
to put back the keys of the Communion-grating. This was my work, and I
was very pleased to have an opportunity of seeing you, though I took
good care not to show it. One of the Sisters, full of solicitude,
feared I should awake you, and tried to take the keys from me. I told
her as politely as I could, that I was quite as anxious as she was
there should be no noise, and added that it was my right to return
them. I see now that it would have been more perfect simply to yield,
but I did not see it then, and so I followed her into the room. Very
soon what she feared came to pass: the noise did awaken you. All the
blame fell upon me; the Sister I had argued with began a long
discourse, of which the point was: Soeur Therese made all the noise. I
was burning to defend myself, but a happy inspiration of grace came to
me. I thought that if I began to justify myself I should certainly lose
my peace of mind, and as I had too little virtue to let myself be
unjustly accused without answering, my last chance of safety lay in
flight. No sooner thought than done. I hurried away, but my heart beat
so violently, I could not go far, and I was obliged to sit down on the
stairs to enjoy in quiet the fruit of my victory. This is an odd kind
of courage, undoubtedly, but I think it is best not to expose oneself
in the face of certain defeat.

When I recall these days of my noviciate I understand how far I was
from perfection, and the memory of certain things makes me laugh. How
good God has been, to have trained my soul and given it wings All the
snares of the hunter can no longer frighten me, for "A net is spread in
vain before the eyes of them that have wings." [116]

It may be that some day my present state will appear to me full of
defects, but nothing now surprises me, and I do not even distress
myself because I am so weak. On the contrary I glory therein, and
expect each day to find fresh imperfections. Nay, I must confess, these
lights on my own nothingness are of more good to my soul than lights on
matters of Faith. Remembering that "Charity covereth a multitude of
sins," [117] I draw from this rich mine, which Our Saviour has opened
to us in the Gospels. I search the depths of His adorable words, and
cry out with david: "I have run in the way of Thy commandments since
Thou hast enlarged my heart." [118] And charity alone can make wide the
heart. O Jesus! Since its sweet flame consumes my heart, I run with
delight in the way of Thy New Commandment, and I desire to run therein
until that blessed day when, with Thy company of Virgins, I shall
follow Thee through Thy boundless Realm, singing Thy New Canticle--The
Canticle of Love.
__________________________________________________________________

[85] 1 Kings 16:7.

[86] Tobias 12:7.

[87] Cf. Isaias 3:10.

[88] Prov. 9:4.

[89] Isa. 66:12, 13.

[90] Cf. Ps. 70[71]:17, 18.

[91] Soeur Therese had charge of the novices without being given the
title of Novice Mistress.

[92] Ps. 118[119]:141.

[93] Ps. 118[119]:100, 105, 106.

[94] Luke 1:49.

[95] Cf. John 1:5.

[96] Cf. Luke 18:13.

[97] Ps. 91[92]:5.

[98] Ps. 143[144]:1, 2.

[99] Ps. 132[133]:1.

[100] Matt. 22:39.

[101] Cf. Matt. 7:21.

[102] Cf. John 13:34.

[103] John 15:12.

[104] Luke 11:33.

[105] John 15:12.

[106] 1 Cor. 4:3,4.

[107] Luke 6:37.

[108] Matt. 5:43, 44.

[109] Luke 6:32.

[110] Luke 6:30.

[111] Matt. 11:30.

[112] Matt. 5:40.

[113] Matt. 5:41.

[114] Matt. 5:42.

[115] Luke 6:34, 35.

[116] Prov. 1:27.

[117] Prov. 10:12.

[118] Ps. 118[119]:32.
__________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER X - THE NEW COMMANDMENT

Dear Mother, God in His infinite goodness has given me a clear insight
into the deep mysteries of Charity. If I could but express what I know,
you would hear a heavenly music; but alas! I can only stammer like a
child, and if God's own words were not my support, I should be tempted
to beg leave to hold my peace. When the Divine Master tells me to give
to whosoever asks of me, and to let what is mine be taken without
asking it again, it seems to me that He speaks not only of the goods of
earth, but also of the goods of Heaven. Besides, neither one nor the
other are really mine; I renounced the former by the vow of poverty,
and the latter gifts are simply lent. If God withdraw them, I have no
right to complain.

But our very own ideas, the fruit of our mind and heart, form a
treasury on which none dare lay hands. For instance, if I reveal to a
Sister some light given me in prayer, and she repeats it later on as
though it were her own, it seems as though she appropriates what is
mine. Or, if during recreation someone makes an apt and witty remark,
which her neighbour repeats to the Community, without acknowledging
whence it came, it is a sort of theft; and the person who originated
the remark is naturally inclined to seize the first opportunity of
delicately insinuating that her thoughts have been borrowed.

I could not so well explain all these weaknesses of human nature had I
not experienced them. I should have preferred to indulge in the
illusion that I was the only one who suffered thus, had you not bidden
me advise the novices in their difficulties. I have learnt much in the
discharge of this duty, and especially I feel bound to put in practice
what I teach.

I can say with truth that by God's grace I am no more attached to the
gifts of the intellect than to material things. If it happens that a
thought of mine should please my Sisters, I find it quite easy to let
them regard it as their own. My thoughts belong to the Holy Ghost. They
are not mine. St. Paul assures us that without the Spirit of Love, we
cannot call God our Father. [119]

And besides, though far from depreciating those beautiful thoughts
which bring us nearer to God, I have long been of opinion that we must
be careful not to over-estimate their worth. The highest inspirations
are of no value without good works. It is true that others may derive
much profit therefrom, if they are duly grateful to our Lord for
allowing them to share in the abundance of one of His privileged souls;
but should this privileged soul take pride in spiritual wealth, and
imitate the Pharisee, she becomes like to a hostess dying of starvation
at a well-spread table, while her guests enjoy the richest fare, and
perhaps case envious glances at the possessor of so many treasures.

Verily it is true that God alone can sound the heart. How short-sighted
are His creatures! When they see a soul whose lights surpass their own,
they conclude that the Divine Master loves them less. Since when has He
lost the right to make use of one of His children, in order to supply
the others with the nourishment they need? That right was not lost in
the days of Pharaoh, for God said unto him: "And therefore have I
raised thee, that I may show My power in thee, and My name may be
spoken of throughout all the earth." [120]

Generations have passed away since the Most High spoke these words, and
His ways have not changed. He has ever chosen human instruments for the
accomplishment of His work.

If an artist's canvas could but think and speak, surely it would never
complain of being touched and re-touched by the brush, nor would it
feel envious thereof, knowing that all its beauty is due to the artist
alone. So, too, the brush itself could not boast of the masterpiece it
had helped to produce, for it must know that an artist is never at a
loss; that difficulties do but stimulate him; and that at times it
pleases him to make use of instruments the most unlikely and defective.

Dear Mother, I am the little brush that Jesus has chosen to paint His
likeness in the souls you have confided to my care. Now an artist has
several brushes--two at the least: the first, which is more useful,
gives the ground tints and rapidly covers the whole canvas; the other,
and smaller one, puts in the lesser touches. Mother, you represent the
big brush which our Lord holds lovingly in His Hand when He wishes to
do some great work in the souls of your children; and I am the little
one He deigns to use afterwards, to fill in the minor details.

The first time the Divine Master took up His little brush was about
December 8, 1892. I shall always remember that time as one of special
grace.

When I entered the Carmel, I found in the noviciate a companion about
eight years older than I was. In spite of this difference of age, we
became the closest friends, and to encourage an affection which gave
promise of fostering virtue we were allowed to converse together on
spiritual subjects. My companion charmed me by her innocence and by her
open and frank disposition, though I was surprised to find how her love
for you differed from mine; and besides, I regretted many things in her
behaviour. But God had already given me to understand that there are
souls for whom in His Mercy He waits unweariedly, and to whom He gives
His light by degrees; so I was very careful not to forestall Him.

One day when I was thinking over the permission we had to talk
together, so that we might--as our holy constitutions tells us--incite
ourselves more ardently to the love of our Divine Spouse, it came home
to me sadly that our conversations did not attain the desired end; and
I understood that either I must no longer fear to speak out, or else I
must put an end to what was degenerating into mere worldly talk. I
begged our Lord to inspire me with words, kind and convincing; or
better still, to speak Himself for me. He heard my prayer, for those
who look upon Him shall be enlightened, [121] and "to the upright a
light is risen in the darkness." [122] The first of these texts I apply
to myself, the other to my companion, who was truly upright in heart.

The next time we met, the poor little Sister saw at once that my manner
had changed, and, blushing deeply, she sat down beside me. I pressed
her to my heart, and told her gently what was in my mind; then I
pointed out to her in what true love consists, and proved that in
loving her Prioress with such natural affection she was in reality
loving herself. I confided to her the sacrifices of this kind which I
had been obliged to make at the beginning of my religious life, and
before long her tears were mingled with mine. She admitted very humbly
that she was in the wrong and that I was right, and, begging me as a
favour always to point out her faults, she promised to begin a new
life. From this time our love for one another became truly spiritual;
in us were fulfilled these words of the Holy Ghost: "A brother that is
helped by his brother is like a strong city." [123]

Dear Mother, you know very well that it was not my wish to turn my
companion away from you, I only wanted her to grasp that true love
feeds on sacrifice, and that in proportion as our souls renounce
natural enjoyments our affections become stronger and more detached.

I remember that when I was a postulant I was sometimes so violently
tempted to seek my own satisfaction by having a word with you, that I
was obliged to hurry past your cell and hold on to the banisters to
keep myself from turning back. Numerous permissions I wanted to ask,
and a hundred pretexts for yielding to my desires suggested themselves,
but now I am truly glad that I did not listen. I already enjoy the
reward promised to those who fight bravely. I no longer feel the need
of refusing myself these consolations, for my heart is fixed on God.
Because it has loved Him only, it has grown, little by little, and now
it can give to those who are dear to Him a far deeper and truer love
than if it were centred in a barren and selfish affection.

I have told you of the first piece of work which you accomplished
together with Our Lord by means of the little brush, but that was only
the prelude to the masterpiece which was afterwards to be painted. From
the moment I entered the sanctuary of souls, I saw at a glance that the
task was beyond my strength. Throwing myself without delay into Our
Lord's Arms, I imitated those tiny children, who, when they are
frightened, hide their faces on their father's shoulder, and I said:

"Dear Lord, Thou seest that I am too small to feed these little ones,
but if through me Thou wilt give to each what is suitable, then fill my
hands, and without leaving the shelter of Thine Arms, or even turning
away, I will distribute Thy treasures to the souls who come to me
asking for food. Should they find it to their taste, I shall know that
this is due not to me, but to Thee; and if, on the contrary, they find
fault with its bitterness, I shall not be cast down, but try to
persuade them that it cometh from Thee, while taking good care to make
no change in it."

The knowledge that it was impossible to do anything of myself rendered
my task easier. My one interior occupation was to unite myself more and
more closely to God, knowing that the rest would be given to me over
and above. And indeed my hope has never been deceived; I have always
found my hands filled when sustenance was needed for the souls of my
Sisters. But had I done otherwise, and relied on my own strength, I
should very soon have been forced to abandon my task.

From afar it seems so easy to do good to souls, to teach them to love
God more, and to model them according to one's own ideas. But, when we
draw nearer, we quickly feel that without God's help this is quite as
impossible as to bring back the sun when once it has set. We must
forget ourselves, and put aside our tastes and ideas, and guide souls
not by our own way, but along the path which Our Lord points out. Even
this is not the most difficult part; what costs me more than all is
having to observe their faults, their slightest imperfections, and wage
war against them.

Unhappily for me--I was going to say, but that would be cowardly, so I
will say--happily for my Sisters, ever since I placed myself in the
Arms of Jesus I have been like a watchman on the look-out for the enemy
from the highest turret of a fortified castle. Nothing escapes my
vigilance; indeed, I am sometimes surprised at my own
clear-sightedness, and I think it was quite excusable in the prophet
Jonas to fly before the face of the Lord, that he might not have to
announce the ruin of Ninive. Rather than make one single reproach, I
would prefer to receive a thousand, yet I feel it is necessary that the
task should cause me pain, for if I spoke only through natural impulse,
then the soul in fault would not understand its defects and would
simply think: "This Sister is displeased, and her displeasure falls on
me although I am full of the best intentions."

But in this, as in all else, I must practise sacrifice and self-denial.
Even in the matter of writing a letter, I feel that it will produce no
fruit, unless I am disinclined to write, and only do so from obedience.

When conversing with a novice I am on the watch to mortify myself, and
I avoid asking questions which would satisfy my curiosity. If she
begins to speak on an interesting subject, and, leaving it unfinished,
passes on to another that wearies me, I take care not to remind her of
the interruption, for it seems to me that no good can come of
self-seeking.

I know, dear Mother, that your little lambs find me severe; if they
were to read these lines, they would say that, so far as they can see,
it does not distress me to run after them, and show them how they have
soiled their beautiful white fleece, or torn it in the brambles. Well,
the little lambs may say what they like--in their hearts they know I
love them dearly; there is no fear of my imitating "the hireling . . .
who seeth the wolf coming and leaveth the sheep, and flieth." [124]

I am ready to lay down my life for them, and my affection is so
disinterested that I would not have my novices know this. By God's
help, I have never tried to draw their hearts to myself, for I have
always understood that my mission was to lead them to Him and to you,
dear Mother, who on this earth hold His place in their regard, and
whom, therefore, they must love and respect.

I said before, that I have learnt much by guiding others. In the first
place I see that all souls have more or less the same battles to fight,
and on the other hand, that one soul differs widely from another, so
each must be dealt with differently. With some I must humble myself,
and not shrink from acknowledging my own struggles and defeats; then
they confess more readily the faults into which they fall, and are
pleased that I know by experience what they suffer. With others, my
only means of success is to be firm, and never go back on what I have
once said; self-abasement would be taken for weakness.

Our Lord has granted me the grace never to fear the conflict; at all
costs I must do my duty. I have more than once been told: "If you want
me to obey, you must be gentle and not severe, otherwise you will gain
nothing." But no one is a good judge in his own case. During a painful
operation a child will be sure to cry out and say that the remedy is
worse than the disease; but if after a few days he is cured, then he is
greatly delighted that he can run about and play. And it is the same
with souls: they soon recognise that a little bitter is better than too
much sweet, and they are not afraid to make the acknowledgment.
Sometimes the change which takes place from one day to another seems
almost magical.

A novice will say to me: "You did well to be severe yesterday; at first
I was indignant, but when I thought it all over, I saw that you were
quite right. I left your cell thinking: 'This ends it. I will tell Our
Mother that I shall never go to Soeur Therese again'; but I knew this
was the devil's suggestion, and then I felt you were praying for me,
and I grew calm. I began to see things more clearly, and now I come to
you for further guidance."

I am only too happy to follow the dictates of my heart and hasten to
console with a little sweetness, but I see that one must not press
forward too quickly--a word might undo the work that cost so many
tears. If I say the least thing which seems to tone down the hard
truths of the previous day, I see my little Sister trying to take
advantage of the opening thus given her. At once I have recourse to
prayer, I turn to Our Blessed Lady, and Jesus always triumphs. Verily
in prayer and sacrifice lies all my strength, they are my invincible
arms; experience has taught me that they touch hearts far more easily
than words.

Two years ago, during Lent, a novice came to me smiling, and said: "You
would never imagine what I dreamt last night--I thought I was with my
sister, who is so worldly, and I wanted to withdraw her from all vain
things; to this end I explained the words of your hymn:

'They richly lose who love Thee, dearest Lord; Thine are my perfumes,
Thine for evermore.'

I felt that my words sank deep into her soul, and I was overjoyed. This
morning it seems to me that perhaps Our Lord would like me to gain Him
this soul. How would it do if I wrote at Easter and described my dream,
telling her that Jesus desires to have her for His Spouse?" I answered
that she might certainly ask permission.

As Lent was not nearly over, you were surprised, dear Mother, at such a
premature request, and, evidently guided by God, you replied that
Carmelites should save souls by prayer rather than by letters. When I
heard your decision I said to the little Sister: "We must set to work
and pray hard; if our prayers are answered at the end of Lent, what a
joy it will be!" O Infinite Mercy of our Lord! At the close of Lent,
one soul more had given herself to God. It was a real miracle of
grace--a miracle obtained through the fervour of a humble novice.

How wonderful is the power of prayer! It is like unto a queen, who,
having free access to the king, obtains whatsoever she asks. In order
to secure a hearing there is no need to recite set prayers composed for
the occasion--were it so, I ought indeed to be pitied!

Apart from the Divine Office, which in spite of my unworthiness is a
daily joy, I have not the courage to look through books for beautiful
prayers. I only get a headache because of their number, and besides,
one is more lovely than another. Unable therefore to say them all, and
lost in choice, I do as children who have not learnt to read--I simply
tell Our Lord all that I want, and He always understands.

With me prayer is an uplifting of the heart; a glance towards heaven; a
cry of gratitude and love, uttered equally in sorrow and in joy. In a
word, it is something noble, supernatural, which expands my soul and
unites it to God. Sometimes when I am in such a state of spiritual
dryness that not a single good thought occurs to me, I say very slowly
the "Our Father" or the "Hail Mary," and these prayers suffice to take
me out of myself, and wonderfully refresh me.

But what was I speaking of? Again I am lost in a maze of reflections.
Forgive me, dear Mother, for wandering thus. My story is like a tangled
skein, but I fear I can do no better. I write my thoughts as they come;
I fish at random in the stream of my heart, and offer you all that I
catch.

I was telling you about the novices. They often say: "You have an
answer for everything. This time I thought I should puzzle you. Where
do you find all that you teach us?" Some are even simple enough to
think I can read their souls, because at times it happens I discover to
them--without revelation--the subject of their thoughts. The senior
novice had determined to hide from me a great sorrow. She spent the
night in anguish, keeping back her tears lest her eyes might betray
her. Yet she came to me with a smile next day, seeming even more
cheerful than usual, and when I said: "You are in trouble, I am sure,"
she looked at me in inexpressible amazement. Her surprise was so great
that it reacted on me, and imparted a sense of the supernatural. I felt
that God was close to us. Unwittingly--for I have not the gift of
reading souls--I had spoken as one inspired, and was able to console
her completely.

And now, dear Mother, I will tell you wherein I gain most with the
novices. You know they are allowed without restriction to say anything
to me, agreeable or the reverse; this is all the easier since they do
not owe me the respect due to a Novice-Mistress. I cannot say that Our
Lord makes me walk in the way of exterior humiliation; He is satisfied
with humbling me in my inmost soul. In the eyes of creatures all is
success, and I walk in the dangerous path of honour--if a religious may
so speak. I understand God's way and that of my superiors in this
respect; for if the Community thought me incapable, unintelligent, and
wanting in judgment, I could be of no possible use to you, dear Mother.
This is why the Divine Master has thrown a veil over all my
shortcomings, both interior and exterior. Because of this veil I
receive many compliments from the novices--compliments without
flattery, for they really mean what they say; and they do not inspire
me with vanity, for the remembrance of my weakness is ever before me.
At times my soul tires of this over-sweet food, and I long to hear
something other than praise; then Our Lord serves me with a nice little
salad, well spiced, with plenty of vinegar--oil alone is wanting, and
this it is which makes it more to my taste. And the salad is offered to
me by the novices at the moment I least expect. God lifts the veil that
hides my faults, and my dear little Sisters, beholding me as I really
am, do not find me altogether agreeable. With charming simplicity, they
tell me how I try them and what they dislike in me; in fact, they are
as frank as though they were speaking of someone else, for they are
aware that I am pleased when they act in this way.

I am more than pleased--I am transported with delight by this splendid
banquet set before me. How can anything so contrary to our natural
inclinations afford such extraordinary pleasure? Had I not experienced
it, I could not have believed it possible.

One day, when I was ardently longing for some humiliation, a young
postulant came to me and sated my desire so completely, that I was
reminded of the occasion when Semei cursed David, and I repeated to
myself the words of the holy King: "Yea, it is the Lord who hath bidden
him say all these things." [125] In this way God takes care of me. He
cannot always provide that strength-giving bread, exterior humiliation,
but from time to time He allows me to eat of "the crumbs from the table
of the children." [126] How magnificent are His Mercies!

Dear Mother, since that Infinite Mercy is the subject of this my
earthly song, I ought also to discover to you one real advantage,
reaped with many others in the discharge of my task. Formerly, if I saw
a Sister acting in a way that displeased me, and was seemingly contrary
to rule, I would think: "Ah, how glad I should be if only I could warn
her and point out where she is wrong." Since, however, this burden has
been laid upon me my ideas have changed, and when I happen to see
something not quite right, I say with a sigh of relief: "Thank God! It
is not a novice, and I am not obliged to correct"; and at once I try to
find excuses, and credit the doer with the good intentions she no doubt
possesses.

Your devotedness, dear Mother, now that I am ill, has also taught me
many a lesson of charity. No remedy is too costly, and if one does not
succeed, you unhesitatingly try something new. When I am present at
recreation, how careful you are to shield me from draughts. I feel that
I ought to be as compassionate for the spiritual infirmities of my
Sisters as you are for my bodily ills.

I have noticed that it is the holiest nuns who are most deeply loved;
everyone is anxious to seek their company, and do them service, without
even being asked. These very souls who are well able to bear with want
of affection and little attentions are always surrounded by an
atmosphere of love. Our Father, St. John of the Cross, says with great
truth: "All good things have come unto me, since I no longer sought
them for myself."

Imperfect souls, on the contrary, are left alone. They are treated, it
is true, with the measure of politeness which religious life demands;
yet their company is avoided, lest a word might be said which would
hurt their feelings. When I say imperfect souls, I am not referring to
souls with spiritual imperfections only, for the holiest souls will not
be perfect till they are in heaven. I mean those who are also afflicted
with want of tact and refinement, as well as ultra-sensitive souls. I
know such defects are incurable, but I also know how patient you would
be, in nursing and striving to relieve me, were my illness to last for
many years.

From all this I draw the conclusion:--I ought to seek the companionship
of those Sisters towards whom I feel a natural aversion, and try to be
their good Samaritan. A word or a smile is often enough to put fresh
life in a despondent soul. And yet it is not merely in the hope of
giving consolation that I try to be kind. If it were, I know that I
should soon be discouraged, for well-intentioned words are often
totally misunderstood. Consequently, not to lose my time or labour, I
try to act solely to please Our Lord, and follow this precept of the
Gospel: "When thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not thy friends or
thy brethren, lest perhaps they also invite thee again and a recompense
be made to thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the
maimed, the blind, and the lame, and thou shalt be blessed, because
they have naught wherewith to make thee recompense, and thy Father Who
seeth in secret will repay thee." [127]

What feast can I offer my Sisters but a spiritual one of sweet and
joyful charity! I know none other, and I wish to imitate St. Paul, who
rejoiced with those who rejoiced. It is true that he wept with those
who wept, and at my feast, too, the tears must sometimes fall, still I
shall always try to change them into smiles, for "God loveth a cheerful
giver." [128]

I remember an act of charity with which God inspired me while I was
still a novice, and this act, though seemingly small, has been rewarded
even in this life by Our Heavenly Father, "Who seeth in secret."

Shortly before Sister St. Peter became quite bedridden, it was
necessary every evening, at ten minutes to six, for someone to leave
meditation and take her to the refectory. It cost me a good deal to
offer my services, for I knew the difficulty, or I should say the
impossibility, of pleasing the poor invalid. But I did not want to lose
such a good opportunity, for I recalled Our Lord's words: "As long as
you did it to one of these my least brethren, you did it to Me." [129]
I therefore humbly offered my aid. It was not without difficulty I
induced her to accept it, but after considerable persuasion I
succeeded. Every evening, when I saw her shake her sand-glass, I
understood that she meant: "Let us go!" Summoning up all my courage I
rose, and the ceremony began. First of all, her stool had to be moved
and carried in a particular way, and on no account must there be any
hurry. The solemn procession ensued. I had to follow the good Sister,
supporting her by her girdle; I did it as gently as possible, but if by
some mischance she stumbled, she imagined I had not a firm hold, and
that she was going to fall. "You are going too fast," she would say, "I
shall fall and hurt myself!" Then when I tried to lead her more
quietly: "Come quicker . . . I cannot feel you . . . you are letting me
go! I was right when I said you were too young to take care of me."

When we reached the refectory without further mishap, more troubles
were in store. I had to settle my poor invalid in her place, taking
great pains not to hurt her. Then I had to turn back her sleeves,
always according to her own special rubric, and after that I was
allowed to go.

But I soon noticed that she found it very difficult to cut her bread,
so I did not leave her till I had performed this last service. She was
much touched by this attention on my part, for she had not expressed
any wish on the subject; it was by this unsought-for kindness that I
gained her entire confidence, and chiefly because--as I learnt
later--at the end of my humble task I bestowed upon her my sweetest
smile.

Dear Mother, it is long since all this happened, but Our Lord allows
the memory of it to linger with me like a perfume from Heaven. One cold
winter evening, I was occupied in the lowly work of which I have just
spoken, when suddenly I heard in the distance the harmonious strains of
music outside the convent walls. I pictured a drawing-room, brilliantly
lighted and decorated, and richly furnished. Young ladies, elegantly
dressed, exchanged a thousand compliments, as is the way of the world.
Then I looked on the poor invalid I was tending. Instead of sweet music
I heard her complaints, instead of rich gilding I saw the brick walls
of our bare cloister, scarcely visible in the dim light. The contrast
was very moving. Our Lord so illuminated my soul with the rays of
truth, before which the pleasures of the world are but as darkness,
that for a thousand years of such worldly delights, I would not have
bartered even the ten minutes spent in my act of charity.

If even now, in days of pain and amid the smoke of battle, the thought
that God has withdrawn us from the world is so entrancing, what will it
be when, in eternal glory and everlasting repose, we realise the favour
beyond compare He has done us here, by singling us out to dwell in His
Carmel, the very portal of Heaven?

I have not always felt these transports of joy in performing acts of
charity, but at the beginning of my religious life Jesus wished to make
me feel how sweet to Him is charity, when found in the hearts of his
Spouses. Thus when I led Sister St. Peter, it was with so much love
that I could not have shown more were I guiding Our Divine Lord
Himself.

The practice of charity has not always been so pleasant as I have just
pointed out, dear Mother, and to prove it I will recount some of my
many struggles.

For a long time my place at meditation was near a Sister who fidgeted
continually, either with her Rosary, or something else; possibly, as I
am very quick of hearing, I alone heard her, but I cannot tell you how
much it tried me. I should have liked to turn round, and by looking at
the offender, make her stop the noise; but in my heart I knew that I
ought to bear it tranquilly, both for the love of God and to avoid
giving pain. So I kept quiet, but the effort cost me so much that
sometimes I was bathed in perspiration, and my meditation consisted
merely in suffering with patience. After a time I tried to endure it in
peace and joy, at least deep down in my soul, and I strove to take
actual pleasure in the disagreeable little noise. Instead of trying not
to hear it, which was impossible, I set myself to listen, as though it
had been some delightful music, and my meditation--which was not the
"prayer of quiet"--was passed in offering this music to Our Lord.

Another time I was working in the laundry, and the Sister opposite,
while washing handkerchiefs, repeatedly splashed me with dirty water.
My first impulse was to draw back and wipe my face, to show the
offender I should be glad if she would behave more quietly; but the
next minute I thought how foolish it was to refuse the treasures God
offered me so generously, and I refrained from betraying my annoyance.
On the contrary, I made such efforts to welcome the shower of dirty
water, that at the end of half an hour I had taken quite a fancy to
this novel kind of aspersion, and I resolved to come as often as I
could to the happy spot where such treasures were freely bestowed.

Dear Mother, you see that I am a very little soul, who can only offer
very little things to Our Lord. It still happens that I frequently let
slip the occasion of these slender sacrifices, which bring so much
peace, but this does not discourage me; I bear the loss of a little
peace, and I try to be more watchful for the future.

How happy does Our Lord make me, and how sweet and easy is His service
on this earth! He has always given me what I desired, or rather He has
made me desire what He wishes to give. A short time before my terrible
temptation against Faith, I had reflected how few exterior trials,
worthy of mention, had fallen to my lot, and that if I were to have
interior trials, God must change my path; and this I did not think He
would do. Yet I could not always live at ease. Of what means, then,
wold He make use?

I had not long to wait for an answer, and it showed me that He whom I
love is never at a loss, for without changing my way, He sent me this
great trial; and thus mingled a healing bitterness with all the sweet.
__________________________________________________________________

[119] Cf. Rom. 8:15.

[120] Exod. 9:16.

[121] Cf. Ps. 33[34]:6.

[122] Ps. 111[112]:4.

[123] Prov. 18:19.

[124] John 10:12.

[125] Cf. 2 Kings 16:10.

[126] Mark 7:28.

[127] Cf. Luke 14:12, 13, 14.

[128] 2 Cor. 9:7.

[129] Matt. 25:40.
__________________________________________________________________

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." [130] 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." [131]

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." [132] 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," [133] 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." [134]

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,"
[135] 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. [136] To me you say that "It is honourable to reveal and confess
the world of God." [137] 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. [138] 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." [139]

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? [140]

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. [141]

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." [142]

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." [143] 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." [144] 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." [145] 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." [146]

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." [147]

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," [148] and my lament tells Thee
all, and I remember, O Infinite Mercy! that "Thou didst not come to
call the just, but sinners." [149]

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.

END OF THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
__________________________________________________________________

[130] Cant. 1:3.

[131] Cf. John 17.

[132] Luke 15:31.

[133] John 6:44.

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

[135] John 4:7.

[136] Cf. Luke 2:19.

[137] Tob. 12:7.

[138] 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.

[139] Matt. 8:10.

[140] St. Francis of Assisi, out of humility, refused to accept the
sublime dignity of the Priesthood, and remained a Deacon until his
death. [Ed.]

[141] 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.]

[142] St. John of the Cross.

[143] 1 Cor. 12:31.

[144] St. John of the Cross.

[145] Cf. Luke 16:9.

[146] Luke 16:8.

[147] St. John of the Cross.

[148] Isa. 38:14.

[149] Matt. 9:15.
__________________________________________________________________

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. Therese 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 Therese 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,'" Therese 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, Therese 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." [150]

And, if to-day Therese 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
Therese, 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 Therese, 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. Therese 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 Therese.

After the death of Therese 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 anaemia, 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 Therese 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 Therese 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." [151]

But it was always a principle with Therese 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 [152] 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."

Therese'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 Therese 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." Therese 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
haemorrhage 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 Therese 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
Hanoi, who much desired to have her, and began a novena to the
Venerable Theophane Venard [153] 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
Therese will not live long, and really sometimes I wonder what our
Mother Prioress will find to say about her when she dies. [154] 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 Therese 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 Therese, 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.' [155] 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.' [156] 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, Therese 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, Theophane Venard, 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 Therese 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 Therese 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 Therese 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 Therese of
Lisieux" [157] 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 Therese, 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
Therese, 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!"
Therese 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 Therese.
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," Therese 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," [158] 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. Therese 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.'" [159] "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 Theophane
Venard, 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: "Theophane Venard 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 Therese 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--Theophane Venard."

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. [160]
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'? [161] 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 Therese 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 Therese 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.'
[162] 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.'" [163]

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, Therese 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!" [164]

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.' [165] 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." [166] Once more the word
of the Divine Reaper has been magnificently fulfilled.

THE PRIORESS OF THE CARMEL.
__________________________________________________________________

[150] Dom Gueranger.

[151] 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
Therese "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.]

[152] As will be remembered, this was Marie, her eldest sister. [Ed.]

[153] The Blessed Theophane Venard 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 Therese 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.]

[154] 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 Therese, 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
Therese; Sister Mary of the Eucharist (Marie Guerin), the cousin of
Therese (Chapter III); and most interesting of all, the long sketch,
partly autobiographical, of Mother Mary of St. Angelus (Marie Ange),
the "trophy of Therese," 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.]

[155] Cf. Job 13:15.

[156] John 3:34.

[157] When asked before her death how they should pray to her in
Heaven, Soeur Therese, with her wonted simplicity, made answer: "You
will call me 'Little Therese'--petite Therese." 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 Therese of Lisieux." This, her own name of Soeur Therese, 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 Theophane Venard, and used so extensively in the pages of her
manuscript, is the one by which she is best known in English-speaking
lands. [Ed.]

[158] Cf. Prov. 19:11.

[159] Matt. 25:49.

[160] Wisdom 6:7.

[161] Cf. Ps. 75[76]:10.

[162] Cf. Ps. 17[18]:5.

[163] Cf. Ps. 22[23]:4.

[164] From the last poem written by Soeur Therese.

[165] Ps. 115[116]:15.

[166] John 12:24, 25.
__________________________________________________________________

COUNSELS AND REMINISCENCES OF SOEUR THERESE,
THE LITTLE FLOWER OF JESUS
__________________________________________________________________

Most of what follows has been gathered from the conversations of Soeur
Therese 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.' [167] 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 [168] 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!'" [169]

* * * * * *

"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 role 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?"

"Yes, from the age of three I have never refused our Good God anything.
Still I cannot glorify myself. See how this evening the tree-tops are
gilded by the setting sun. So likewise my soul appears to you all
shining and golden because it is exposed to the rays of Love. But
should the Divine Sun no longer shine thereon, it would instantly be
sunk in gloom."

"We too would like to become all golden--what must we do?"

"You must practise the little virtues. This is sometimes difficult, but
God never refuses the first grace--courage for self-conquest; and if
the soul correspond to that grace, she at once finds herself in God's
sunlight. The praise given to Judith has always struck me: 'Thou hast
done manfully, and thy heart has been strengthened.' [170] In the onset
we must act with courage. By this means the heart gains strength, and
victory follows victory."

* * * * * *

In conformity with the Rule, Soeur Therese never raised her eyes in the
refectory, and, as I found great difficulty in this observance, she
composed for me the following prayer. It reveals her exceeding
humility, because in it she asked a grace of which I alone stood in
need:

"O Jesus, in honour and in imitation of the example Thou gavest in the
house of Herod, Thy two little Spouses resolve to keep their eyes cast
down in the refectory. When that impious king scoffed at Thee, O
Infinite Beauty, no complaint came from Thy Lips. Thou didst not even
deign to fix on him Thy Adorable Eyes. He was not worthy of the favour,
but we who are Thy Spouses, we desire to draw Thy Divine Gaze upon
ourselves. As often as we refrain from raising our eyes, we beg Thee to
reward us by a glance of love, and we even dare ask Thee not to refuse
this sweet glance when we fail in our self-control, for we will humble
ourselves most sincerely before Thee."

* * * * * *

I confided to her that I made no progress, and that consequently I had
lost heart.

"Up to the age of fourteen," she said, "I practised virtue without
tasting its sweetness. I desired suffering, but I did not think of
making it my joy; that grace was vouchsafed me later. My soul was like
a beautiful tree the flowers of which had scarcely opened when they
fell.

"Offer to God the sacrifice of never gathering any fruit. If He will
that throughout your whole life you should feel a repugnance to
suffering and humiliation--if He permit that all the flowers of your
desires and of your good will should fall to the ground without any
fruit appearing, do not worry. At the hour of death, in the twinkling
of an eye, He will cause fair fruits to ripen on the tree of your soul.

"We read in the Book of Ecclesiasticus: 'There is an inactive man that
wanteth help, is very weak in ability, and full of poverty: yet the Eye
of God hath looked upon him for good, and hath lifted him up from his
low estate, and hath exalted his head: and many have wondered at him,
and have glorified God. . . . Trust in God, and stay in thy place. For
it is easy in the Eyes of God, on a sudden, to make the poor man rich.
The blessing of God maketh haste to reward the just, and in a swift
hour His blessing beareth fruit.'" [171]

"But if I fall, I shall always be found imperfect; whereas you are
looked upon as holy."

"That is, perhaps, because I have never desired to be considered so. .
. . But that you should be found imperfect is just what is best. Here
is your harvest. To believe oneself imperfect and others perfect--this
is true happiness. Should earthly creatures think you devoid of
holiness, they rob you of nothing, and you are none the poorer: it is
they who lose. For is there anything more sweet than the inward joy of
thinking well of our neighbour?

"As for myself I am glad and rejoice, not only when I am looked upon as
imperfect, but above all when I feel that it is true. Compliments, on
the contrary, do but displease me."

* * * * * *

"God has a special love for you since He entrusts souls to your care."

"That makes no difference, and I am really only what I am in His Eyes.
It is not because He wills me to be His interpreter among you, that He
loves me more; rather, He makes me your little handmaid. It is for you,
and not for myself, that He has bestowed upon me those charms and those
virtues which you see.

"I often compare myself to a little bowl filled by God with good
things. All the kittens come to eat from it, and they sometimes quarrel
as to which will have the largest share. But the Holy Child Jesus keeps
a sharp watch. 'I am willing you should feed from My little bowl,' He
says, 'but take heed lest you upset and break it.'

"In truth there is no great danger, because I am already on the ground.
Not so with Prioresses; set, as they are, on tables, they run far more
risks. Honours are always dangerous. What poisonous food is served
daily to those in high positions! What deadly fumes of incense! A soul
must be well detached from herself to pass unscathed through it all."

* * * * * *

"It is a consolation for you to do good and to procure the Glory of
God. I wish I were equally favoured."

"What if God does make use of me, rather than of another, to procure
His Glory! Provided His Kingdom be established among souls, the
instrument matters not. Besides, He has no need of anyone.

"Some time ago I was watching the flicker, almost invisible, of a tiny
night-light, when one of the Sisters drew near, and, lighting her
candle in the dying flame, passed it round to light all those of the
Community. 'Who dare glory in his own good works?' I reflected. 'From
one faint spark such as this, it would be possible to set the whole
earth on fire.' We often think we receive graces and are divinely
illumined by means of brilliant candles. But from whence comes their
light? From the prayers, perhaps, of some humble, hidden soul, whose
inward shining is not apparent to human eyes; a soul of unrecognised
virtue and, in her own sight, of little value--a dying flame.

"What mysteries will yet be unveiled to us! I have often thought that
perhaps I owe all the graces with which I am laden, to some little soul
whom I shall know only in Heaven.

"It is God's Will that in this world souls shall dispense to each
other, by prayer, the treasures of Heaven, in order that when they
reach their Everlasting Home they may love one another with grateful
hearts, and with an affection far in excess of that which reigns in the
most perfect family on earth.

"There no looks of indifference will meet us, because all the Saints
will be mutually indebted to each other. No envious glances will be
cast, for the happiness of each one of the Blessed will be the
happiness of all. With the Doctors of the Church we shall be like unto
Doctors; with the Martyrs, like unto Martyrs; with the Virgins, like
unto Virgins; and just as the members of one family are proud one of
the other, so without the least jealousy shall we take pride in our
brothers and sisters.

"When we see the glory of the great Saints, and know that through the
secret working of Providence we have contributed to it, who knows
whether the joy we shall feel will not be as intense, perhaps sweeter,
than the happiness they themselves possess?

"And do you not think that the great Saints, on their side, seeing what
they owe to all little souls, will love them with a love beyond
compare? The friendships of Paradise will be both sweet and full of
surprise, of this I am certain. The familiar friend of an Apostle, or
of a great Doctor of the Church, may be a shepherd boy, and a simple
little child may be united in closest intimacy with a Patriarch. . . .
I long to enter that Kingdom of Love!"

* * * * * *

"Believe me, the writing of pious books, the composing of the sublimest
poetry, all that does not equal the smallest act of self-denial. When,
however, our inability to do good gives us pain, our only resource is
to offer up the good works of others, and in this lies the benefit of
the Communion of Saints. Recall to mind that beautiful verse of the
canticle of our Father, St. John of the Cross:

'Return, my dove! See on the height The wounded Hart, To whom
refreshment brings The breeze, stirred by thy wings.'

"Thus the Spouse, the wounded Hart, is not attracted by the height, but
only by the breeze from the pinions of the dove--a breeze which one
single stroke of wing is sufficient to create."

* * * * * *

"The one thing which is not open to envy is the lowest place. Here
alone, therefore, there is neither vanity nor affliction of spirit.
Yet, 'the way of a man is not his own,' [172] and sometimes we find
ourselves wishing for what dazzles. In that hour let us in all humility
take our place among the imperfect, and look upon ourselves as little
souls who at every instant need to be upheld by the goodness of God.
From the moment He sees us fully convinced of our nothingness, and
hears us cry out: 'My foot stumbles, Lord, but Thy Mercy is my
strength,' [173] He reaches out His Hand to us. But, should we attempt
great things, even under pretext of zeal, He deserts us. It suffices,
therefore, to humble ourselves, to bear with meekness our
imperfections. Herein lies--for us--true holiness."

* * * * * *

One day I was complaining of being more tired than my Sisters, for,
besides the ordinary duties, I had other work unknown to the rest.
Soeur Therese replied:

"I should like always to see you a brave soldier, never grumblng at
hardships, but considering the wounds of your companions as most
serious, and your own as mere scratches. You feel this fatigue so much
because no one is aware of it.

"Now the Blessed Margaret Mary, at the time she had two whitlows,
confessed that she really suffered from the hidden one only. The other,
which she was unable to hide, excited her Sisters' pity and made her an
object of compassion. This is indeed a very natural feeling, the desire
that people should know of our aches and pains, but in giving way to it
we play the coward."

* * * * * *

"When we are guilty of a fault we must never attribute it to some
physical cause, such as illness or the weather. We must ascribe it to
our own imperfections, without being discouraged thereby. 'Occasions do
not make a man frail, but show what he is.'" [174]

* * * * * *

"God did not permit that our Mother should tell me to write my poems as
soon as I had composed them, and, fearful of committing a sin against
poverty, I would not ask leave. I had therefore to wait for some free
time, and at eight o'clock in the evening I often found it extremely
difficult to remember what I had composed in the morning.

"True, these trifles are a species of martyrdom; but we must be careful
not to alleviate the pain of the martyrdom by permitting ourselves, or
securing permission for, a thousand and one things which would tend to
make the religious life both comfortable and agreeable."

* * * * * *

One day, as I was in tears, Soeur Therese told me to avoid the habit of
allowing others to see the trifles that worried me, adding that nothing
made community life more trying than unevenness of temper.

"You are indeed right, I answered, "such was my own thought.
Henceforward my tears will be for God alone. I shall confide my worries
to One Who will understand and console me."

"Tears for God!" she promptly replied, "that must not be. Far less to
Him than to creatures ought you to show a mournful face. Our Divine
Master has only our monasteries where He may obtain some solace for His
Heart. He comes to us in search of rest--to forget the unceasing
complaints of His friends in the world, who, instead of appreciating
the value of the Cross, receive it far more often with moans and tears.
Would you then be as the mediocre souls? Frankly, this is not
disinterested love. . . . It is for us to console our Lord, and not for
Him to console us. His Heart is so tender that if you cry He will dry
your tears; but thereafter He will go away sad, since you did not
suffer Him to repose tranquilly within you. Our Lord loves the glad of
heart, the children that greet Him with a smile. When will you learn to
hide your troubles from Him, or to tell Him gaily that you are happy to
suffer for Him?"

"The face is the mirror of the soul," she said once, "and yours, like
that of a contented little child, should always be calm and serene.
Even when alone, be cheerful, remembering always that you are in the
sight of the Angels."

* * * * * *

I was anxious she should congratulate me on what, in my eyes, was an
heroic act of virtue; but she said to me:

"Compare this little act of virtue with what our Lord has the right to
expect of you! Rather should you humble yourself for having lost so
many opportunities of proving your love."

Little satisfied with this answer, I awaited an opportunity of finding
out how Soeur Therese herself would act under trial, and the occasion
was not long in coming. Reverend Mother asked us to do some extremely
tiring work which bristled with difficulties, and, on purpose, I made
it still more difficult for our Mistress.

Not for one second, however, could I detect her in fault, and, heedless
of the fatigue involved, she remained gracious and amiable, eager
throughout to help others at her own expense. At last I could resist no
longer, and I confessed to her what my thoughts had been.

"How comes it," I said, "that you can be so patient? You are ever the
same--calm and full of joy." "It was not always the case with me," she
replied, "but since I have abandoned all thought of self-seeking, I
live the happiest life possible."

* * * * * *

Our dear Mistress used to say that during recreation, more than at any
other time, we should find opportunities for practising virtue.

"If your desire be to draw great profit, do not go with the idea of
procuring relaxation, but rather with the intention of entertaining
others and practising complete detachment from self. Thus, for
instance, if you are telling one of the Sisters something you think
entertaining, and she should interrupt to tell you something else, show
yourself interested, even though in reality her story may not interest
you in the least. Be careful, also, not to try to resume what you were
saying. In this way you will leave recreation filled with a great
interior peace and endowed with fresh strength for the practice of
virtue, because you have not sought to please yourself, but others. If
only we could realise what we gain by self-denial in all things!"

"You realise it, certainly, for you have always practised self-denial."

"Yes, I have forgotten myself, and I have tried not to see myself in
anything."

* * * * * *

"When some one knocks at our door, or when we are rung for, we must
practise mortification and refrain from doing even another stitch
before answering. I have practised this myself, and I assure you that
it is a source of peace."

After this advice, and according as occasion offered, I promptly
answered every summons. One day, during her illness, she was witness of
this, and said:

"At the hour of death you will be very happy to find this to your
account. You have just done something more glorious than if, through
clever diplomacy, you had procured the good-will of the Government for
all religious communities and had been proclaimed throughout France as
a second Judith."

* * * * * *

Questioned as to her method of sanctifying meals, she answered:

"In the refectory we have but one thing to do: perform a lowly action
with lofty thoughts. I confess that the sweetest aspirations of love
often come to me in the refectory. Sometimes I am brought to a
standstill by the thought that were Our Lord in my place He would
certainly partake of those same dishes which are served to me. It is
quite probable that during His lifetime He tasted of similar food--He
must have eaten bread and fruit.

"Here are my little rubrics:

"I imagine myself at Nazareth, in the house of the Holy Family. If, for
instance, I am served with salad, cold fish, wine, or anything pungent
in taste, I offer it to St. Joseph. To our Blessed Lady I offer hot
foods and ripe fruit, and to the Infant Jesus our feast-day fare,
especially rice and preserves. Lastly, when I am served a wretched
dinner I say cheerfully: 'To-day, my little one, it is all for you!'"

Thus in many pretty ways she hid her mortifications. One fast-day,
however, when our Reverend Mother ordered her some special food, I
found her seasoning it with wormwood because it was too much to her
taste. On another occasion I saw her drinking very slowly a most
unpleasant medicine. "Make haste," I said, "drink it off at once!" "Oh,
no!" she answered; "must I not profit of these small opportunities for
penance since the greater ones are forbidden me?"

Toward the end of her life I learned that, during her noviciate, one of
our Sisters, when fastening the scapular for her, ran the large pin
through her shoulder, and for hours she bore the pain with joy. On
another occasion she gave me proof of her interior mortification. I had
received a most interesting letter which was read aloud at recreation,
during her absence. In the evening she expressed the wish to read it,
and I gave it to her. Later on, when she returned it, I begged her to
tell me what she thought of one of the points of the letter which I
knew ought to have charmed her. She seemed rather confused, and after a
pause she answered: "God asked of me the sacrifice of this letter
because of the eagerness I displayed the other day . . . so I have not
read it."

* * * * * *

When speaking to her of the mortifications of the Saints, she remarked:
"It was well that Our Lord warned us: 'In My Father's House there are
many mansions, otherwise I would have told you.' [175] For, if every
soul called to perfection were obliged to perform these austerities in
order to enter Heaven, He would have told us, and we should have
willingly undertaken them. But He has declared that, 'there are many
mansions in His House.' If there are some for great souls, for the
Fathers of the Desert and for Martyrs of penance, there must also be
one for little children. And in that one a place is kept for us, if we
but love Him dearly together with Our Father and the Spirit of Love."

* * * * * *

"While in the world, I used, on waking, to think of all the pleasant or
unpleasant things which might happen throughout the day, and if I
foresaw nothing but worries I got up with a heavy heart. Now it is
quite the reverse. I think of the pains and of the sufferings awaiting
me, and I rise, feeling all the more courageous and light of heart in
proportion to the opportunities I foresee of proving my love for Our
Lord, and of gaining--mother of souls as I am--my children's
livelihood. Then I kiss my crucifix, and, laying it gently on my
pillow, I leave it there while I dress, and I say: 'My Jesus, Thou hast
toiled and wept enough during Thy three-and-thirty years on this
miserable earth. Rest Thee, to-day! It is my turn to suffer and to
fight.'"

* * * * * *

One washing-day I was sauntering towards the laundry, and looking at
the flowers as I passed. Soeur Therese was following, and quickly
overtook me: "Is that," she said quietly, "how people hurry themselves
when they have children, and are obliged to work to procure them food?"

* * * * * *

"Do you know which are my Sundays and feast-days? They are the days on
which God tries me the most."

* * * * * *

I was distressed at my want of courage, and Soeur Therese said to me:
"You are complaining of what should be your greatest happiness. If you
fought only when you felt eagerness, where would be your merit? What
does it matter, even if you are devoid of courage, provided you act as
though you possessed it? If you feel too lazy to pick up a bit of
thread, and yet do so for love of Jesus, you acquire more merit than
for a much nobler action done in a moment of fervour. Instead of
grieving, be glad that, by allowing you to feel your own weakness, Our
Lord is furnishing you with an opportunity of saving a greater number
of souls."

* * * * * *

I asked her whether Our Lord were not displeased at the sight of my
many failings. This was her answer: "Be comforted, for He Whom you have
chosen as your Spouse has every imaginable perfection; but--dare I say
it?--He has one great infirmity too--He is blind! And there is a
science about which He knows nothing--addition! These two great
defects, much to be deplored in an earthly bridegroom, do but make ours
infinitely more lovable. Were it necessary that He should be
clear-sighted, and familiar with the science of figures, do you not
think that, confronted with our many sins, He would send us back to our
nothingness? But His Love for us makes him actually blind.

"If the greatest sinner on earth should repent at the moment of his
death, and draw His last breath in an act of love, neither the many
graces he had abused, nor the multiplied crimes he had committed, would
stand in his way. Our Lord would see nothing, count nothing, but the
sinner's last prayer, and without delay He would receive him into the
arms of His Mercy.

"But, to make Him thus blind and to prevent Him doing the smallest sum
of addition, we must approach Him through His Heart--on that side He is
vulnerable and defenceless."

* * * * * *

I had grieved her, and had gone to ask her pardon: "If you but knew
what I feel!" she exclaimed. "Never have I more clearly understood the
love with which Jesus receives us when we seek His forgiveness. If I,
His poor little creature, feel so tenderly towards you when you come
back to me, what must pass through Our Lord's Divine Heart when we
return to Him? Far more quickly than I have just done will He blot out
our sins from His memory. . . . Nay, He will even love us more tenderly
than before we fell."

* * * * * *

I had an immense dread of the judgments of God, and no argument of
Soeur Therese could remove it. One day I put to her the following
objection: "It is often said to us that in God's sight the angels
themselves are not pure. How, therefore, can you expect me to be
otherwise than filled with fear?"

She replied: "There is but one means of compelling God not to judge us,
and it is--to appear before Him empty-handed." "And how can that be
done?" "It is quite simple: lay nothing by, spend your treasures as you
gain them. Were I to live to be eighty, I should always be poor,
because I cannot economise. All my earnings are immediately spent on
the ransom of souls.

"Were I to await the hour of death to offer my trifling coins for
valuation, Our Lord would not fail to discover in them some base metal,
and they would certainly have to be refined in Purgatory. Is it not
recorded of certain great Saints that, on appearing before the Tribunal
of God, their hands laden with merit, they have yet been sent to that
place of expiation, because in God's Eyes all our justice is unclean?"

"But," I replied, "if God does not judge our good actions, He will
judge our bad ones." "Do not say that! Our Lord is Justice itself, and
if He does not judge our good actions, neither will He judge our bad
ones. It seems to me, that for Victims of Love there will be no
judgment. God will rather hasten to reward with eternal delights His
own Love which He will behold burning in their hearts."

"To enjoy such a privilege, would it suffice to repeat that Act of
Oblation which you have composed?" "Oh, no! words do not suffice. To be
a true Victim of Love we must surrender ourselves entirely. . . . Love
will consume us only in the measure of our self-surrender."

* * * * * *

I was grieving bitterly over a fault I had committed. "Take your
Crucifix," she said, "and kiss it." I kissed the Feet.

"Is that how a child kisses its father? Throw your arms at once round
His Neck and kiss His Face." When I had done so, she continued: "That
is not sufficient--He must return your caress." I had to press the
Crucifix to both my cheeks, whereupon she added: "Now, all is
forgiven."

* * * * * *

I told her one day that if I must be reproached I preferred deserving
it to being unjustly accused. "For my part," she replied, "I prefer to
be charged unjustly, because, having nothing to reproach myself with, I
offer gladly this little injustice to God. Then, humbling myself, I
think how easily I might have deserved the reproach. The more you
advance, the fewer the combats; or rather, the more easy the victory,
because the good side of things will be more visible. Then your soul
will soar above creatures. As for me, I feel utterly indifferent to all
accusations because I have learned the hollowness of human judgment."

She added further: "When misunderstood and judged unfavourably, what
benefit do we derive from defending ourselves? Leave things as they
are, and say nothing. It is so sweet to allow ourselves to be judged
anyhow, rightly or wrongly.

"It is not written in the Gospel that Saint Mary Magdalen put forth
excuses when charged by her sister with sitting idle at Our Lord's
Feet. She did not say: 'Martha, if you knew the happiness that is mine
and if you heard the words that I hear, you too would leave everything
to share my joy and my repose.' No, she preferred to keep silent. . . .
Blessed silence which giveth such peace to the soul!"

* * * * * *

At a moment of temptation and struggle I received this note: "'The just
man shall correct me in mercy and shall reprove me; but let not the oil
of the sinner perfume my head.' [176] It is only by the just that I can
be either reproved or corrected, because all my Sisters are pleasing to
God. It is less bitter to be rebuked by a sinner than by a just man;
but through compassion for sinners, to obtain their conversion, I
beseech Thee, O my God, to permit that I may be well rebuked by those
just souls who surround me. I ask also that the oil of praise, so sweet
to our nature, may not perfume my head, that is to say, my mind, by
making me believe that I possess virtues when I have merely performed a
few good actions.

"Jesus! 'Thy Name is as oil poured out,' [177] and it is into this
divine perfume that I desire wholly to plunge myself, far from the gaze
of mankind."

* * * * * *

"It is not playing the game to argue with a Sister that she is in the
wrong, even when it is true, because we are not answerable for her
conduct. We must not be Justices of the peace, but Angels of peace
only."

* * * * * *

"You give yourselves up too much to what you are doing," she used to
say to us; "you worry about the future as though it were in your hands.
Are you much concerned at this moment as to what is happening in other
Carmelite convents, and whether the nuns there are busy or otherwise?
Does their work prevent you praying or meditating? Well, just in the
same way, you ought to detach yourselves from your own personal
labours, conscientiously spending on them the time prescribed, but with
perfect freedom of heart. We read that the Israelites, while building
the walls of Jerusalem, worked with one hand and held a sword in the
other. [178] This is an image of what we should do: avoid being wholly
absorbed in our work."

* * * * * *

"One Sunday," Therese relates, "I was going toward the chestnut avenue,
full of rejoicing, for it was spring-time, and I wanted to enjoy
nature's beauties. What a bitter disappointment! My dear chestnuts had
been pruned, and the branches, already covered with buds, now lay on
the ground. On seeing this havoc, and thinking that three years must
elapse before it could be repaired, my heart felt very sore. But the
grief did not last long. 'If I were in another convent,' I reflected,
'what would it matter to me if the chestnut-trees of the Carmel at
Lisieux were entirely cut down?' I will not worry about things that
pass. God shall be my all. I will take my walks in the wooded groves of
His Love, whereon none dare lay hands."

* * * * * *

A novice asked her Sisters to help her shake some blankets. As they
were somewhat liable to tear because of their worn condition, she
insisted, rather sharply, on their being handled with care. "What would
you do," said Therese to the impatient one, "if it were not your duty
to mend these blankets? There would be no thought of self in the
matter, and if you did call attention to the fact that they are easily
torn, it would be done in quite an impersonal way. In all your actions,
you should avoid the least trace of self-seeking."

* * * * * *

Seeing one of our Sisters very much fatigued, I said to Soeur Therese:
"It grieves me to see people suffer, especially those who are holy."
She instantly replied: "I do not feel as you do. Saints who suffer
never excite my pity. I know they have strength to bear their
sufferings, and that through them they are giving great glory to God.
But I compassionate greatly those who are not Saints, and who do not
know how to profit by suffering. They indeed awake my pity. I would
strain every nerve to help and comfort them."

* * * * * *

"Were I to live longer, it is the office of Infirmarian that would most
please me. I would not ask for it, but were it imposed through
obedience, I should consider myself highly favoured. I think I should
fulfill its duties with much affection, always mindful of Our Lord's
words: 'I was sick, and you visited Me.' [179] The infirmary bell
should be for you as heavenly music, and you ought purposely to pass by
the windows of the sick that it might be easy for them to summon you.
Consider yourself as a little slave whom everyone has the right to
command. Could you but see the Angels who from the heights of Heaven
watch your combats in the arena! They are awaiting the end of the fight
to crown you and cover you with flowers. You know that we claim to rank
as little Martyrs . . . . but we must win our palms.

"God does not despise these hidden struggles with ourselves, so much
richer in merit because they are unseen: 'The patient man is better
than the valiant, and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh
cities.' [180] Through our little acts of charity, practised in the
dark, as it were, we obtain the conversion of the heathen, help the
missionaries, and gain for them plentiful alms, thus building both
spiritual and material dwellings for Our Eucharistic God."

* * * * * *

I had seen Mother Prioress showing, as I thought, more confidence and
affection to one of our Sisters than she extended to me. Expecting to
win sympathy, I told my trouble to Soeur Therese, and great was my
surprise when she put me the question: "Do you think you love our
Mother very much?" "Certainly! otherwise I should be indifferent if
others were preferred to me."

"Well, I shall prove that you are absolutely mistaken, and that it is
not our Mother that you love, but yourself. When we really love others,
we rejoice at their happiness, and we make every sacrifice to procure
it. Therefore if you had this true, disinterested affection, and loved
our Mother for her own sake, you would be glad to see her find pleasure
even at your expense; and since you think she has less satisfaction in
talking with you than with another Sister, you ought not to grieve at
being apparently neglected."

* * * * * *

I was distressed at my many distractions during prayers: "I also have
many," she said, "but as soon as I am aware of them, I pray for those
people the thought of whom is diverting my attention, and in this way
they reap benefit from my distractions. . . . I accept all for the love
of God, even the wildest fancies that cross my mind."

* * * * * *

I was regretting a pin which I had been asked for, and which I had
found most useful. "How rich you are," said Therese, "you will never be
happy!"

* * * * * *

The grotto of the Holy Child was in her charge, and, knowing that one
of our Mothers greatly disliked perfumes, she never put any
sweet-smelling flowers there, not even a tiny violet. This cost her
many a real sacrifice. One day, just as she had placed a beautiful
artificial rose at the foot of the statue, the Mother called her. Soeur
Therese, surmising that it was to bid her remove the rose, was anxious
to spare her any humiliation. She therefore took the flower to the good
Sister, and, forestalling all observations, said: "Look, Mother, how
well nature is imitated nowadays: would you not think this rose had
been freshly gathered from the garden?"

* * * * * *

"There are moments," she told us, "when we are so miserable within,
that there is nothing for it but to get away from ourselves. At those
times God does not oblige us to remain at home. He even permits our own
company to become distasteful to us in order that we may leave it. Now
I know no other means of exit save through the doorway of charitable
works, on a visit to Jesus and Mary."

* * * * * *

"When I picture the Holy Family, the thought that does me most good
is--the simplicity of their home-life. Our Lady and St. Joseph were
well aware that Jesus was God, while at the same time great wonders
were hidden from them, and--like us--they lived by faith. You have
heard those words of the Gospel: 'They understood not the word that He
spoke unto them'; [181] and those others no less mysterious: 'His
Father and Mother were wondering at those things which were spoken
concerning Him.' [182] They seemed to be learning something new, for
this word 'wondering' implies a certain amount of surprise."

* * * * * *

"There is a verse in the Divine Office which I recite each day with
reluctance: 'I have inclined my heart to do Thy justifications for
ever, because of the reward.' [183] I hasten to add in my heart: 'My
Jesus, Thou knowest I do not serve Thee for sake of reward, but solely
out of love, and a desire to win Thee souls."

* * * * * *

"In Heaven only shall we be in possession of the clear truth. On earth,
even in matters of Holy Scripture, our vision is dim. It distresses me
to see the differences in its translations, and had I been a Priest I
would have learned Hebrew, so as to read the Word of God as He deigned
to utter it in human speech."

* * * * * *

Soeur Therese often spoke to me of a well-known toy with which she had
amused herself when a child. This was the kaleidoscope, shaped like a
small telescope, through which, as it is made to revolve, one perceives
an endless variety of pretty-coloured figures.

"This toy," she said, "excited my admiration, and I wondered what could
provide so charming a phenomenon, when one day, after a lengthy
examination, I found that it consisted simply of tiny bits of paper and
cloth scattered inside. A further examination revealed that there were
three mirrors inside the tube, and the problem was solved. It became
for me the illustration of a great truth.

"So long as our actions, even the most trivial, remain within Love's
kaleidoscope, so long the Blessed Trinity, figured by the three
mirrors, imparts to them a wonderful brightness and beauty. The
eye-piece is Jesus Christ, and He, looking from outside through Himself
into the kaleidoscope, finds perfect all our works. But, should we
leave that ineffable abode of Love, He would see but the rags and chaff
of unclean and worthless deeds."

* * * * * *

I told Soeur Therese of the strange phenomena produced by magnetism on
persons who surrender their will to the hypnotiser. It seemed to
interest her greatly, and next day she said to me: "Your conversation
yesterday did me so much good! How I long to be hypnotised by Our Lord!
It was my waking thought, and verily it was sweet to surrender Him my
will. I want Him to take possession of my faculties in such wise that
my acts may no more be mine, or human, but Divine--inspired and guided
by the Spirit of Love."

* * * * * *

Before my profession I received through my saintly Novice-mistress a
very special grace. We had been washing all day. I was worn-out with
fatigue and harassed with spiritual worries. That night, before
meditation, I wanted to speak to her, but she dismissed me with the
remark: "That is the bell for meditation, and I have not time to
console you; besides, I see plainly that it would be useless trouble.
For the present, God wishes you to suffer alone." I followed her to
meditation so discouraged that, for the first time, I doubted of my
vocation. I should never be able to be a Carmelite. The life was too
hard.

I had been kneeling for some minutes, when all at once, in the midst of
this interior struggle--without having asked or even wished for
peace--I felt a sudden and extraordinary change of soul. I no longer
knew myself. My vocation appeared to me both lovely and lovable. I saw
the sweetness and priceless value of suffering. All the privations and
fatigues of the religious life appeared to me infinitely preferable to
worldly pleasures, and I came away from my meditation completely
transformed.

Next day I told my Mistress what had taken place, and, seeing she was
deeply touched, I begged to know the reason. "God is good," she
exclaimed. "Last evening you inspired me with such profound pity that I
prayed incessantly for you at the beginning of meditation. I besought
Our Lord to bring you comfort, to change your dispositions, and show
you the value of suffering. He has indeed heard my prayers."

* * * * * *

Being somewhat of a child in my ways, the Holy Child--to help me in the
practice of virtue--inspired me with the thought of amusing myself with
Him, and I chose the game of ninepins. I imagined them of all sizes and
colours, representing the souls I wished to reach. The ball was--love.

In December, 1896, the novices received, for the benefit of the Foreign
Missions, various trifles towards a Christmas tree, and at the bottom
of the box containing them was a top--a rare thing in a Carmelite
convent. My companions remarked: "What an ugly thing!--of what use will
it be?" But I, who knew the game, caught hold of it, exclaiming: "Nay,
what fun! it will spin a whole day without stopping if it be well
whipped"; and thereupon I spun it around to their great surprise.

Soeur Therese was quietly watching us, and on Christmas night, after
midnight Mass, I found in our cell the famous top, with a delightful
letter addressed as follows:

To My Beloved Little Spouse

Player of Ninepins on the Mountain of Carmel

Christmas Night, 1896.

MY BELOVED LITTLE SPOUSE,--I am well pleased with thee! All the year
round thou hast amused Me by playing at ninepins. I was so overjoyed
that the whole court of Angels was surprised and charmed. Several
little cherubs have asked me why I did not make them children. Others
wanted to know if the melody of their instruments were not more
pleasing to me than thy joyous laugh when a ninepin fell at the stroke
of thy love-ball. My answer to them was, that they must not regret they
are not children, since one day they would play with thee in the
meadows of Heaven. I told them also that thy smiles were certainly more
sweet to Me than their harmonies, because these smiles were purchased
by suffering and forgetfulness of self.

And now, my cherished Spouse, it is my turn to ask something of thee.
Thou wilt not refuse Me--thou lovest Me too much. Let us change the
game. Ninepins amuse me greatly, but at present I should like to play
at spinning a top, and, if thou dost consent, thou shalt be the top. I
give thee one as a model. Thou seest that it is ugly to look at, and
would be kicked aside by whosoever did not know the game. But at the
sight of it a child would leap for joy and shout: "What fun! it will
spin a whole day without stopping!"

Although thou too art not attractive, I--the little Jesus--love thee,
and beg of thee to keep always spinning to amuse Me. True, it needs a
whip to make a top spin. Then let thy Sisters supply the whip, and be
thou most grateful to those who shall make thee turn fastest. When I
shall have had plenty of fun, I will bring thee to join Me here, and
our games shall be full of unalloyed delight.--Thy little Brother,

JESUS.

* * * * * *

I had the habit of constantly crying about the merest trifles, and this
was a source of great pain to Soeur Therese. One day a bright idea
occurred to her: taking a mussel-shell from her painting table, and,
holding my hands lest I should prevent her, she gathered my tears in
the shell, and soon they were turned into merry laughter.

"There," she said, "from this onwards I permit you to cry as much as
you like on condition that it is into the shell!"

A week, however, before her death I spent a whole evening in tears at
the thought of her fast-approaching end. She knew it, and said: "You
have been crying. Was it into the shell?" I was unable to tell an
untruth, and my answer grieved her. "I am going to die," she continued,
"and I shall not be at rest about you unless you promise to follow
faithfully my advice. I consider it of the utmost importance for the
good of your soul."

I promised what she asked, begging leave, however, as a favour, to be
allowed to cry at her death. "But," she answered, "why cry at my death?
Those tears will certainly be useless. You will be bewailing my
happiness! Still I have pity on your weakness, and for the first few
days you have leave to cry, though afterwards you must again take up
the shell."

It has cost me some heroic efforts, but I have been faithful. I have
kept the shell at hand, and each time the wish to cry overcame me, I
laid hold of the pitiless thing. However urgent the tears, the trouble
of passing it from one eye to the other so distracted my thoughts, that
before very long this ingenious method entirely cured me of my
sensibility.

* * * * * *

Owing to a fault which had caused Soeur Therese much pain, but of which
I had deeply repented, I intended to deprive myself of Holy Communion.
I wrote to her of my resolution, and this was her reply: "Little
flower, most dear to Jesus, by this humiliation your roots are feeding
upon the earth. You must now open wide your petals, or rather lift high
your head, so that the Manna of the Angels may, like a divine dew, come
down to strengthen you and supply all your wants. Good-night, poor
little flower! Ask of Jesus that all the prayers offered for my cure
may serve to increase the fire which ought to consume me."

* * * * * *

"At the moment of Communion I sometimes liken my soul to that of a
little child of three or four, whose hair has been ruffled and clothes
soiled at play. This is a picture of what befalls me in my struggling
with souls. But Our Blessed Lady comes promptly to the rescue, takes
off my soiled pinafore, and arranges my hair, adorning it with a pretty
ribbon or a simple flower. . . . Then I am quite nice, and able,
without any shame, to seat myself at the Banquet of Angels."

* * * * * *

In the infirmary we scarcely waited for the end of her thanksgiving
before seeking her advice. At first, this somewhat distressed her, and
she would make gentle reproaches, but soon she yielded to us, saying:
"I must not wish for more rest than Our Lord. When He withdrew into the
desert after preaching, the crowds would come and intrude upon His
solitude. Come, then, to me as much as you like; I must die sword in
hand--'the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God.'" [184]

* * * * * *

"Advise us," we said to her, "how to profit by our spiritual
instructions." "Go for guidance with great simplicity, not counting too
much on help which may fail you at any moment. You would then have to
say with the Spouse in the Canticles: 'The keepers took away my cloak
and wounded me; when I had a little passed by them, I found Him whom my
soul loveth.' [185] If you ask with humility and with detachment after
your Beloved, the keepers will tell you. More often, you will find
Jesus only when you have passed by all creatures. Many times have I
repeated this verse of the Spiritual Canticle of St. John of the Cross:

'Messengers, I pray, no more Between us send, who know not how To tell
me what my spirit longs to know. For they Thy charms who read--For ever
telling of a thousand more--Make all my wounds to bleed, While deeper
then before Doth an--I know not what!--my spirit grieve With
stammerings vague, and of all life bereave.'"

* * * * * *

"If, supposing the impossible, God Himself could not see my good
actions, I would not be troubled. I love Him so much I would like to
give Him joy without His knowing who gave. When He sees the gift being
made, He is, as it were, obliged to make a return. . . . I should wish
to spare Him the trouble."

* * * * * *

"Had I been rich, I could never have seen a poor person hungry without
giving him to eat. This is my way also in the spiritual life. There are
many souls on the brink of hell, and as my earnings come to hand they
are scattered among these sinners. The time has never yet been when I
could say: 'Now I am going to work for myself.'"

* * * * * *

"There are people who make the worst of everything. As for me, I do
just the contrary. I always see the good side of things, and even if my
portion be suffering, without a glimmer of solace, well, I make it my
joy."

* * * * * *

"Whatever has come from God's Hands has always pleased me, even those
things which have seemed to me less good and less beautiful than the
gifts made to others."

* * * * * *

"When staying with my aunt, while I was still a little girl, I was
given a certain book to read. In one of the stories great praise was
bestowed on a schoolmistress who by her tact escaped from every
difficulty without hurting anyone's feelings. Her method of saying to
one person: 'You are right,' and to another: 'You are not wrong,'
struck me particularly, and as I read I reflected that I would not have
acted in that way because we should always tell the truth. And this I
always do, though I grant it is much more difficult. It would be far
less trouble for us, when told of a worry, to cast the blame on the
absent. Less trouble . . . nevertheless I do just the contrary, and if
I am disliked it cannot be helped. Let the novices not come to me if
they do not want to learn the truth."

* * * * * *

"Before a reproof [186] bear fruit it must cost something and be free
from the least trace of passion. Kindness must not degenerate into
weakness. When we have had good reason for finding fault, we must leave
it, and not allow ourselves to worry over having given pain. To seek
out the delinquent for the purpose of consoling her, is to do more harm
than good. Left alone, she is compelled to look beyond creatures, and
to turn to God; she is forced to see her faults and to humble herself.
Otherwise she would become accustomed to expect consolation after a
merited rebuke, and would act like a spoilt child who stamps and
screams, knowing well that by this means its mother will be forced to
return and dry its tears."

* * * * * *

"'Let the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God, be ever in
your mouth and in your hearts.' [187] If we find any one particular
person disagreeable we should never be disheartened, much less cease
our endeavour to reform that soul. We should wield the sword of the
Spirit, and so correct her faults. Things should never be allowed to
pass for the sake of our own ease. We must carry on the war even when
there is no hope of victory. Success matters nothing, and we must fight
on and never complain: 'I shall gain nothing from that soul, she does
not understand, there is nothing for it but to abandon her.' That would
be the act of a coward. We must do our duty to the very end."

* * * * * *

"Formerly, if any of my friends were in trouble, and I did not succeed
in consoling them when they came to see me, I left the parlour quite
heart-broken. Soon, however, Our Lord made me understand how incapable
I was of bringing comfort to a soul, and from that day I no longer
grieved when my visitors went away downcast. I confided to God the
sufferings of those so dear to me, and I felt sure that He heard my
prayer. At their next visit I learned that I was not mistaken. After
this experience, I no longer worry when I have involuntarily given
pain. . . . I simply ask Our Lord to make amends."

* * * * * *

"What do you think of all the graces that have been heaped upon
you?"--"I think 'the Spirit of God breatheth where He will.'" [188]

* * * * * *

"Mother," she one day said to the Prioress, "were I unfaithful, were I
to commit even the smallest infidelity, I feel that my soul would be
plunged into the most terrible anguish, and I should be unable to
welcome death."

Mother Prioress evinced surprise at hearing her speak in this strain,
and she continued: "I am speaking of infidelity in the matter of pride.
If, for example, I were to say: 'I have acquired such or such a virtue
and I can practise it'; or again: 'My God, Thou knowest I love Thee too
much to dwell on one single thought against faith,' straightway I
should be assailed by the most dangerous temptations and should
certainly yield. To prevent this misfortune I have but to say humbly
and from my heart: 'My God, I beseech Thee not to let me be
unfaithful.'

"I understand clearly how St. Peter fell. He placed too much reliance
on his own ardent nature, instead of leaning solely on the Divine
strength. Had he only said: 'Lord, give me strength to follow Thee unto
death!' the grace would not have been refused him.

"How is it, Mother, that Our Lord, knowing what was about to happen,
did not say to him: 'Ask of Me the strength to do what is in thy mind?'
I think His purpose was to give us a twofold lesson--first: that He
taught His Apostles nothing by His presence which He does not teach us
through the inspirations of grace; and secondly: that, having made
choice of St. Peter to govern the whole Church, wherein there are many
sinners, He wished him to test in himself what man can do without God's
help. This is why Jesus said to him before his fall: 'Thou being once
converted confirm thy brethren'; [189] that is, 'Tell them the story of
thy sin--show them by thy own experience, how necessary it is for
salvation to rely solely upon Me.'"

* * * * * *

I was much afflicted at seeing her ill, and I often exclaimed: "Life is
so dreary!" "Life is not dreary"--she would immediately say; "on the
contrary, it is most gay. Now if you said: 'Exile is dreary,' I could
understand. It is a mistake to call 'life' that which must have an end.
Such a word should be only used of the joys of Heaven--joys that are
unfading--and in this true meaning life is not sad but gay--most gay. .
. ."

Her own gaiety was a thing of delight. For several days she had been
much better, and we were saying to her: "We do not yet know of what
disease you will die. . . ." "But," she answered, "I shall die of
death! Did not God tell Adam of what he would die when He said to him:
'Thou shalt die of death'?" [190]

"Then death will come to fetch you?"--"No, not death, but the Good God.
Death is not, as pictures tell us, a phantom, a horrid spectre. The
Catechism says that it is the separation of soul and body--no more!
Well, I do not fear a separation which will unite me for ever to God."

"Will the Divine Thief," some one asked, "soon come to steal His little
bunch of grapes?" "I see Him in the distance, and I take good care not
to cry out: 'Stop thief!' Rather, I call to Him: 'This way, this way!'"

* * * * * *

Asked under what name we should pray to her in Heaven, she answered
humbly: "Call me Little Therese."

* * * * * *

I was telling her that the most beautiful angels, all robed in white,
would bear her soul to Heaven: "Fancies like those," she answered, "do
not help me, and my soul can only feed upon truth. God and His Angels
are pure spirits. No human eye can see them as they really are. That is
why I have never asked extraordinary favours. I prefer to await the
Eternal Vision."

"To console me at your death I have asked God to send me a beautiful
dream."--"That is a thing I would never do . . . ask for consolations.
Since you wish to resemble me, you know what are my ideas on this:

'Fear not, O Lord, that I shall waken Thee: I shall await in peace the
Heavenly Shore.'

"It is so sweet to serve God in the dark night and in the midst of
trial. After all, we have but this life in which to live by faith."

* * * * * *

"I am happy at the thought of going to Heaven, but when I reflect on
these words of Our Lord: 'I come quickly, and My reward is with Me, to
render to every man according to his works,' [191] I think that He will
find my case a puzzle: I have no works. . . . Well, He will render unto
me according to His own works!"

* * * * * *

"The chief plenary indulgence, which is within reach of everybody, and
can be gained without the ordinary conditions, is that of
charity--which 'covereth a multitude of sins.'" [192]

* * * * * *

"Surely you will not even pass through Purgatory. If such a thing
should happen, then certainly nobody goes straight to Heaven."--"That
gives me little thought. I shall be quite content with the Merciful
God's decision. Should I go to Purgatory, I shall--like the three
Hebrew children in the furnace--walk amid the flames singing the
Canticle of Love."

* * * * * *

"In Heaven you will be placed among the Seraphim." "If so, I shall not
imitate them. At the sight of God they cover themselves with their
wings [193] : I shall take good care not to hide myself with mine."

* * * * * *

I showed her a picture which represented Joan of Arc being comforted in
prison by her Voices, and she remarked: "I also am comforted by an
interior voice. From above, the Saints encourage me, saying: 'So long
as thou art a captive in chains, thou canst not fulfill thy mission,
but later on, after thy death, will come thy day of triumph.'"

* * * * * *

"In Heaven, God will do all I desire, because on earth I have never
done my own will."

* * * * * *

"You will look down upon us from Heaven, will you not?"--"No, I will
come down."

* * * * * *

Some months before the death of Soeur Therese, The Life of St. Aloysius
was being read in the refectory, and one of the Mothers was struck by
the mutual and tender affection which existed between the young Saint
and the aged Jesuit, Father Corbinelli.

"You are little Aloysius," she said to Therese, "and I am old Father
Corbinelli--be mindful of me when you enter Heaven." "Would you like me
to fetch you thither soon, dear Mother?" "No, I have not yet suffered
enough." "Nay, Mother, I tell you that you have suffered quite enough."
To which Mother Hermance replied: "I dare not say Yes. . . . In so
grave a matter I must have the sanction of authority." So the request
was made to Mother Prioress, who, without attaching much importance to
it, gave her sanction.

Now, on one of the last days of her life, Soeur Therese, scarcely able
to speak owing to her great weakness, received through the infirmarian
a bouquet of flowers. It had been gathered by Mother Hermance, and was
accompanied by an entreaty for one word of affection. The message:
"Tell Mother Hermance of the Heart of Jesus that during Mass this
morning I saw Father Corbinelli's grave close to that of little
Aloysius."

"That is well," replied the good Mother, greatly touched; "tell Soeur
Therese that I have understood. . . ." And from that moment she felt
convinced her death was near. It took place just one year later, and,
according to the prediction of the "Little Aloysius," the two graves
lie side by side.

* * * * * *

The last words penned by the hand of Soeur Therese were: "O Mary, were
I Queen of Heaven, and wert thou Therese, I should wish to be Therese,
that I might see thee Queen of Heaven!"
__________________________________________________________________

[167] Cf. Matt. 20:23.

[168] Cf. Ps. 67[68]:28.

[169] Cf. Prov. 1:4.

[170] Judith 15:11.

[171] Ecclus. 11:12, 13, 22, 23, 24.

[172] Jer. 10:23.

[173] Cf. Psalm 93[94]:18.

[174] Imit., I, xvi. 4.

[175] John 14:2.

[176] Cf. Psalm 111[112]:5.

[177] Cant. 1:2.

[178] Cf. 2 Esdras 4:17.

[179] Matt. 25:36.

[180] Prov. 16:32.

[181] Luke 2:50.

[182] Luke 2:33.

[183] Ps. 118[119]:112.

[184] Ephes. 6:17.

[185] Cf. Cant. 5:7, 3:4.

[186] In this and the following "counsel" it should be remembered that
it is a Novice-Mistress who is speaking. [Ed.]

[187] Cf. Ephes. 6:17; Isaias 61:21.

[188] Cf. John 3:8.

[189] Luke 22:32.

[190] Cf. Gen. 2:17. A play on the French: Tu mourras de mort. [Ed.]

[191] Apoc. 22:12.

[192] Prov. 10:12.

[193] Cf. Isaias 6:2.
__________________________________________________________________

LETTERS OF SOEUR THERESE
THE LITTLE FLOWER OF JESUS

LETTERS OF SOEUR THERESE TO HER SISTER CELINE
__________________________________________________________________

I

J.M.J.T.

May 8, 1888.

DEAREST CELINE,--There are moments when I wonder whether I am really
and truly in the Carmel; sometimes I can scarcely believe it. What have
I done for God that He should shower so many graces upon me?

A whole month has passed since we parted; but why do I say parted? Even
were the wide ocean between us, our souls would remain as one. And yet
I know that not to have me is real suffering, and if I listened to
myself I should ask Jesus to let me bear the sadness in your stead! I
do not listen, as you see; I should be afraid of being selfish in
wishing for myself the better part--I mean the suffering. You are
right--life is often burdensome and bitter. It is painful to begin a
day of toil, especially when Jesus hides Himself from our love. What is
this sweet Friend about? Does He not see our anguish and the burden
that weighs us down? Why does He not come and comfort us?

Be not afraid. . . . He is here at hand. He is watching, and it is He
who begs from us this pain, these tears. . . . He needs them for souls,
for our souls, and He longs to give us a magnificent reward. I assure
you that it costs Him dear to fill us with bitterness, but He knows
that it is the only means of preparing us to know Him as He knows
Himself, and to become ourselves Divine! Our soul is indeed great and
our destiny glorious. Let us lift ourselves above all things that pass,
and hold ourselves far from the earth! Up above, the air is so pure. .
. . Jesus may hide Himself, but we know that He is there.
__________________________________________________________________

II

October 20, 1888.

MY DEAREST SISTER,--Do not let your weakness make you unhappy. When, in
the morning, we feel no courage or strength for the practice of virtue,
it is really a grace: it is the time to "lay the axe to the root of the
tree," [194] relying upon Jesus alone. If we fall, an act of love will
set all right, and Jesus smiles. He helps us without seeming to do so;
and the tears which sinners cause Him to shed are wiped away by our
poor weak love. Love can do all things. The most impossible tasks seem
to it easy and sweet. You know well that Our Lord does not look so much
at the greatness of our actions, nor even at their difficulty, as at
the love with which we do them. What, then, have we to fear?

You wish to become a Saint, and you ask me if this is not attempting
too much. Celine, I will not tell you to aim at the seraphic holiness
of the most privileged souls, but rather to be "perfect as your
Heavenly Father is perfect." [195] You see that your dream--that our
dreams and our desires--are not fancies, since Jesus Himself has laid
their realisation upon us as a commandment.
__________________________________________________________________

[194] Matt. 3:10.

[195] Matt. 5:48.
__________________________________________________________________

III

January, 1889.

MY DEAR LITTLE CELINE,--Jesus offers you the cross, a very heavy cross,
and you are afraid of not being able to carry it without giving way.
Why? Our Beloved Himself fell three times on the way to Calvary, and
why should we not imitate our Spouse? What a favour from Jesus, and how
He must love us to send us so great a sorrow! Eternity itself will not
be long enough to bless Him for it. He heaps his favours upon us as
upon the greatest Saints. What, then, are His loving designs for our
souls? That is a secret which will only be revealed to us in our
Heavenly Home, on the day when "the Lord shall wipe away all our
tears." [196]

Now we have nothing more to hope for on earth--"the cool evenings are
passed" [197] --for us suffering alone remains! Ours is an enviable
lot, and the Seraphim in Heaven are jealous of our happiness.

The other day I came across this striking passage: "To be resigned and
to be united to the will of God are not the same; there is the same
difference between them as that which exists between union and unity;
in union there are still two, in unity there is but one." [198] Yes,
let us be one with God even in this life; and for this we should be
more than resigned, we should embrace the Cross with joy.
__________________________________________________________________

[196] Apoc. 21:4.

[197] St. John of the Cross.

[198] Mme. Swetchine.
__________________________________________________________________

IV

February 28, 1889.

MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER,--Jesus is "a Spouse of blood." [199] He wishes
for Himself all the blood of our hearts. You are right--it costs us
dear to give Him what He asks. But what a joy that it does cost! It is
happiness to bear our crosses, and to feel our weakness in doing so.

Celine, far from complaining to Our Lord of this cross which He sends
us, I cannot fathom the Infinite Love which had led Him to treat us in
this way. Our dear Father must indeed be loved by God to have so much
suffering given to him. I know that by humiliation alone can Saints be
made, and I also know that our trial is a mine of gold for us to turn
to account. I, who am but a little grain of sand, wish to set to work,
though I have neither courage nor strength. Now this very want of power
will make my task easier, for I wish to work for love. Our martyrdom is
beginning . . . Let us go forth to suffer together, dear sister, and
let us offer our sufferings to Jesus for the salvation of souls.
__________________________________________________________________

[199] Exodus 4:25.
__________________________________________________________________

V

March 12, 1899.

. . . I must forget this world. Here everything wearies me--I find only
one joy, that of suffering, and this joy, which is not one of sense, is
above all joy. Life is passing, and eternity is drawing near. Soon we
shall live the very life of God. After we have been filled at the
source of all bitterness, our thirst will be quenched at the very
Fountain of all sweetness.

"The figure of this world passeth away" [200] --soon we shall see new
skies--a more radiant sun will light with its splendour crystal seas
and infinite horizons. We shall no longer be prisoners in a land of
exile, all will have passed away, and with our Heavenly Spouse we shall
sail upon boundless seas. Now, "our harps are hanging on the willows
which grow by the rivers of Babylon," [201] but in the day of our
deliverance what harmonies will they not give forth, how joyfully shall
we make all their strings vibrate! Now, "we shed tears as we remember
Sion, for how can we sing the songs of the Lord in a land of exile?"
[202] The burden of our song is suffering. Jesus offers us a chalice of
great bitterness. Let us not withdraw our lips from it, but suffer in
peace. He who says peace does not say joy, or at least sensible joy: to
suffer in peace it is enough to will heartily all that Our Lord wills.
Do not think we can find love without suffering, for our nature remains
and must be taken into account; but it puts great treasures within our
reach. Suffering is indeed our very livelihood, and is so precious that
Jesus came down upon earth on purpose to possess it. We should like to
suffer generously and nobly; we should like never to fall. What an
illusion! What does it matter to me if I fall at every moment! In that
way I realise my weakness, and I gain thereby. My God, Thou seest how
little I am good for, when Thou dost carry me in Thy Arms; and if Thou
leavest me alone, well, it is because it pleases Thee to see me lie on
the ground. Then why should I be troubled?

If you are willing to bear in peace the trial of not being pleased with
yourself, you will be offering the Divine Master a home in your heart.
It is true that you will suffer, because you will be like a stranger to
your own house; but do not be afraid--the poorer you are, the more
Jesus will love you. I know that He is better pleased to see you
stumbling in the night upon a stony road, than walking in the full
light of day upon a path carpeted with flowers, because these flowers
might hinder your advance.
__________________________________________________________________

[200] I Cor. 7:31.

[201] Cf. Ps. 136:2.

[202] Cf. Ps. 136:1, 4.
__________________________________________________________________

VI

July 14, 1889.

MY DARLING SISTER,--I am ever with you in spirit. Yes, it is very hard
to live upon this earth, but to-morrow, in a brief hour, we shall be at
rest. O my God, what shall we then see? What is this life which will
have no end? Our Lord will be the soul of our soul. O unsearchable
mystery! "Eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into
the heart of man what things God hath prepared for them that love Him."
[203] And all this will come soon--very soon--if we love Jesus
ardently. It seems to me that God has no need of years to perfect His
labour of love in a soul. One ray from His Heart can in an instant make
His flower blossom forth, never to fade. . . . Celine, during the
fleeting moments that remain to us, let us save souls! I feel that Our
Spouse asks us for souls--above all, for the souls of Priests. . . . It
is He Who bids me tell you this.

There is but one thing to be done here below: to love Jesus, and to
save souls for Him that He may be more loved. We must not let slip the
smallest opportunity of giving Him joy. We must refuse Him nothing. He
is in such need of love.

We are His chosen lilies. He dwells as a King in our midst--He lets us
share the honours of His Royalty--His Divine Blood bedews our
petals--and His Thorns as they wound us spread abroad the perfume of
our love.
__________________________________________________________________

[203] I Cor. 2:9.
__________________________________________________________________

VII

October 22, 1889.

MY DEAREST CELINE,--I send you a picture of the Holy Face. The
contemplation of this Divine subject seems to me to belong in a special
way to my little sister, truly the sister of my soul. May she be
another Veronica, and wipe away all the Blood and Tears of Jesus, her
only Love! May she give Him souls! May she force her way through the
soldiers--that is, the world--to come close to His side. . . . Happy
will she be when she sees in Heaven the value of that mysterious
draught with which she quenched the thirst of her Heavenly Spouse; when
she sees His Lips, once parched with burning thirst, speaking to her
the one eternal word--love, and the thanks which shall have no end. . .
.

Good-bye, dear little Veronica; [204] to-morrow, no doubt, your Beloved
will ask some new sacrifice, a fresh relief for His thirst . . . but
"let us go and die with Him!"
__________________________________________________________________

[204] It is remarkable that Soeur Therese applied this name to her
sister Celine, who, under her inspiration, was later to reproduce so
faithfully the true likeness of Our Lord, from the Holy Winding Sheet
of Turin. [Ed.] [Remainder of long footnote, discussing this likeness,
its reproduction, and related matters, omitted from this electronic
edition.]
__________________________________________________________________

VIII

July 18, 1890.

MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER,--I send you a passage from Isaias which will
comfort you. Long ago the Prophet's soul was filled with the thought of
the hidden beauties of the Divine Face, as our souls are now. Many a
century has passed since then. It makes me wonder what is Time. Time is
but a mirage, a dream. Already God sees us in glory, and rejoices in
our everlasting bliss. How much good I derive from this thought! I
understand now why He allows us to suffer.

Since Our Beloved has "trodden the wine-press alone," [205] the
wine-press from which He gives us to drink--on our side let us not
refuse to be clothed in blood-stained garments, or to tread out for
Jesus a new wine which may quench His thirst! When "He looks around
Him," He will not be able to say now that "He is alone" [206] --we
shall be there to help Him.

"His look as it were hidden." [207] Alas! it is so even to this day,
and no one understands His Tears. "Open to Me, My Sister, My Spouse,"
he says to us, "for My Head is full of dew and My Locks of the drops of
the night." [208] Thus Jesus complains to our souls when He is deserted
and forgotten . . . To be forgotten. It is this, I think, which gives
Him most pain.

And our dear Father!--it is heartrending, but how can we repine since
Our Lord Himself was looked upon "as one struck by God and afflicted"?
[209] In this great sorrow we should forget ourselves, and pray for
Priests--our lives must be entirely devoted to them. Our Divine Master
makes me feel more and more that this is what He asks of you and me.
__________________________________________________________________

[205] Isa. 63:3.

[206] Cf. Isa. 63:5.

[207] Isa. 53:3.

[208] Cant. 5:2.

[209] Is. 53:4.
__________________________________________________________________

IX

September 23, 1890.

O Celine, how can I tell you all that is happening within me? What a
wound I have received! And yet I feel it is inflicted by a loving Hand,
by a Hand divinely jealous.

All was ready for my espousals; [210] but do you not think that
something was still wanting to the feast? It is true, Jesus had already
enriched me with many jewels, but no doubt there was one of
incomparable beauty still missing; this priceless diamond He has given
me to-day . . . Papa will not be here to-morrow! Celine, I confess that
I have cried bitterly. . . . I am still crying so that I can scarcely
hold my pen.

You know how intensely I longed to see our dearest Father again; but
now I feel that it is God's Will that he should not be at my feast. God
has allowed it simply to try our love. Jesus wishes me to be an orphan
. . . to be alone, with Him alone, so that He may unite Himself more
closely to me. He wishes, too, to give me back in Heaven this joy so
lawfully desired, but which He has denied me here on earth.

To-day's trial is one of those sorrows that are difficult to
understand: a joy was set before us, one most natural and easy of
attainment. We stretched forth our hands . . . and the coveted joy was
withdrawn. But it is not the hand of man which has done this thing--it
is God's work. Celine, understand your Therese, and let us accept
cheerfully the thorn which is offered us. To-morrow's feast will be one
of tears, but I feel that Jesus will be greatly consoled. . . .
__________________________________________________________________

[210] Soeur Therese received the veil on September 24, 1890.
__________________________________________________________________

X

October 14, 1890.

MY DARLING SISTER,--I know quite well all you are suffering. I know
your anguish, and I share it. Oh! If I could but impart to you the
peace which Jesus has put into my soul amid my most bitter tears. Be
comforted--all passes away. Our life of yesterday is spent; death too
will come and go, and then we shall rejoice in life, true life, for
countless ages, for evermore. Meanwhile let us make of our heart a
garden of delights where Our sweet Saviour may come and take His rest.
Let us plant only lilies there, and sing with St. John of the Cross:

"There I remained in deep oblivion, My head reposing upon Him I love,
Lost to myself and all! I cast my cares away And let them, heedless,
mid the lilies lie." [211]
__________________________________________________________________

[211] St. John of the Cross: The Night of the Soul, 8th stanza.
__________________________________________________________________

XI

April 26, 1891.

MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER,--Three years ago our hearts had not yet been
bruised, and life was one glad smile. Then Jesus looked down upon us,
and all things were changed into an ocean of tears . . . but likewise
into an ocean of grace and of love. God has taken from us him whom we
loved so tenderly--was it not that we might be able to say more truly
than ever: "Our Father Who art in heaven"? How consoling is this divine
word, and what vast horizons it opens before us!

My darling Celine, you who asked me so many questions when we were
little, I wonder how it was you never asked: "Why has God not made me
an Angel?" Well, I am going to tell you. Our Lord wishes to have His
Court here on earth, as He has in Heaven; He wishes for angel-martyrs
and angel-apostles; and if He has not made you an Angel in Heaven, it
is because He wishes you to be an Angel of earth, so that you may be
able to suffer for His Love.

Dearest sister, the shadows will soon disappear, the rays of the
Eternal Sun will thaw the hoar frost of winter. . . . A little longer,
and we shall be in our true country, and our childhood's joys--those
Sunday evenings, those outpourings of the heart--will be given back to
us for ever!
__________________________________________________________________

XII

August 15, 1892.

MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER,--To write to you to-day I am obliged to steal a
little time from Our Lord. He will forgive, because it is of Him that
we are going to speak together. The vast solitudes and enchanting views
which unfold themselves before you ought to uplift your soul. I do not
see those things, and I content myself by saying with St. John of the
Cross in his Spiritual Canticle:

In Christ I have the mountains, The quiet, wooded valleys.

Lately I have been thinking what I could undertake for the salvation of
souls, and these simple words of the Gospel have given me light.
Pointing to the fields of ripe corn, Jesus once said to His disciples:
"Lift up your eyes and see the fields, for they are already white with
the harvest"; [212] and again: "The harvest indeed is great, but the
labourers are few; pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest that He
send forth labourers." [213]

Here is a mystery indeed! Is not Jesus all-powerful? Do not creatures
belong to Him who hade them? Why does He deign to say: "Pray ye the
Lord of the harvest that He send forth labourers"? It is because His
Love for us is so unsearchable, so tender, that He wishes us to share
in all He does. The Creator of the Universe awaits the prayer of a poor
little soul to save a multitude of other souls, ransomed, like her, at
the price of His Blood.

Our vocation is not to go forth and reap in Our Father's fields. Jesus
does not say to us: "Look down and reap the harvest." Our mission is
even more sublime. "Lift up your eyes and see," saith our Divine
Master, "see how in Heaven there are empty thrones. It is for you to
fill them. . . . You are as Moses praying on the mountain, so ask Me
for labourers and they shall be sent. I only await a prayer, a sigh! Is
not the apostolate of prayer--so to speak--higher than that of the
spoken word? It is for us by prayer to train workers who will spread
the glad tidings of the Gospel and who will save countless souls--the
souls to whom we shall be the spiritual Mothers. What, then, have we to
envy in the Priests of the Lord?
__________________________________________________________________

[212] John 4:35.

[213] Matt. 9:37, 38.
__________________________________________________________________

XIII

MY DARLING SISTER,--The affection of our childhood days has changed
into a closest union of mind and heart. Jesus has drawn us to Him
together, for are you not already His? He has put the world beneath our
feet. Like Zaccheus we have climbed into a tree to behold
Him--mysterious tree, raising us high above all things, from whence we
can say: "All is mine, all is for me: the Earth and the Heavens are
mine, God Himself is mine, and the Mother of my God is for me." [214]

Speaking of that Blessed Mother, I must tell you of one of my simple
ways. Sometimes I find myself saying to her: "Dearest Mother, it seems
to me that I am happier than you. I have you for my Mother, and you
have no Blessed Virgin to love. . . . It is true, you are the Mother of
Jesus, but you have given Him to me; and He, from the Cross, has given
you to be our Mother--thus we are richer than you! Long ago, in your
humility, you wished to become the little handmaid of the Mother of
God; and I--poor little creature--am not your handmaid but your child!
You are the Mother of Jesus, and you are also mine!"

Our greatness in Jesus is verily marvellous, my Celine. He has unveiled
for us many a mystery by making us climb the mystical tree of which I
spoke above. And now what science is He going to teach? Have we not
learned all things from Him?

"Make haste to come down, for this day I must abide in thy house."
[215] Jesus bids us come down. Where, then, must we go? The Jews asked
Him: "Master, where dwellest thou?" [216] And He answered, "The foxes
have holes and the birds of the air nests, but the Son of Man hath not
where to lay His Head." [217] If we are to be the dwelling-place of
Jesus, we must come down even to this--we must be so poor that we have
not where to lay our heads.

This grace of light has been given to me during my retreat. Our Lord
desires that we should receive Him into our hearts, and no doubt they
are empty of creatures. Alas! mine is not empty of self; that is why He
bids me come down. And I shall come down even to the very ground, that
Jesus may find within my heart a resting-place for His Divine Head, and
may feel that there at least He is loved and understood.
__________________________________________________________________

[214] St. John of the Cross.

[215] Luke 19:5.

[216] John 1:38.

[217] Luke 9:58.
__________________________________________________________________

XIV

April 25, 1893.

MY LITTLE CELINE,--I must come and disclose the desires of Jesus with
regard to your soul. Remember that He did not say: "I am the flower of
the gardens, a carefully-tended Rose"; but, "I am the Flower of the
fields and the Lily of the valleys." [218] Well, you must be always as
a drop of dew hidden in the heart of this beautiful Lily of the valley.

The dew-drop--what could be simpler, what more pure? It is not the
child of the clouds; it is born beneath the starry sky, and survives
but a night. When the sun darts forth its ardent rays, the delicate
pearls adorning each blade of grass quickly pass into the lightest of
vapour. . . . There is the portrait of my little Celine! She is a drop
of dew, an offspring of Heaven--her true Home. Through the night of
this life she must hide herself in the Field-flower's golden cup; no
eye must discover her abode.

Happy dewdrop, known to God alone, think not of the rushing torrents of
this world! Envy not even the crystal stream which winds among the
meadows. The ripple of its waters is sweet indeed, but it can be heard
by creatures. Besides, the Field-flower could never contain it in its
cup. One must be so little to draw near to Jesus, and few are the souls
that aspire to be little and unknown. "Are not the river and the
brook," they urge, "of more use than a dewdrop? Of what avail is it?
Its only purpose is to refresh for one moment some poor little
field-flower."

Ah! They little know the true Flower of the field. Did they know Him
they would understand better Our Lord's reproach to Martha. Our Beloved
needs neither our brilliant deeds nor our beautiful thoughts. Were He
in search of lofty ideas, has He not His Angels, whose knowledge
infinitely surpasses that of the greatest genius of earth? Neither
intellect nor other talents has He come to seek among us. . . . He has
become the Flower of the field to show how much He loves simplicity.

The Lily of the valley asks but a single dewdrop, which for one night
shall rest in its cup, hidden from all human eyes. But when the shadows
shall begin to fade, when the Flower of the field shall have become the
Sun of Justice, [219] then the dewdrop--the humble sharer of His
exile--will rise up to Him as love's vapour. He will shed on her a ray
of His light, and before the whole court of Heaven she will shine
eternally like a precious pearl, a dazzling mirror of the Divine Sun.
__________________________________________________________________

[218] Cant. 2:1.

[219] Malachias 4:2.
__________________________________________________________________

XV

August 2, 1893.

MY DEAR CELINE,--What you write fills me with joy; you are making your
way by a royal road. The Spouse in the Canticles, unable to find her
Beloved in the time of repose, went forth to seek Him in the city. But
in vain . . . it was only without the walls she found Him. It is not in
the sweetness of repose that Jesus would have us discover His Adorable
Presence. He hides Himself and shrouds Himself in darkness. True, this
was not His way with the multitude, for we read that all the people
were carried away as soon as He spoke to them.

The weaker souls He charmed by His divine eloquence with the aim of
strengthening them against the day of temptation and trial, but His
faithful friends were few that day when "He was silent" [220] in the
presence of His judges. Sweet melody to my heart is that silence of the
Divine Master!

He would have us give Him alms as to a poor man, and puts Himself--so
to speak--at our mercy. He will take nothing that is not cheerfully
given, and the veriest trifle is precious in His Divine Eyes. He
stretches forth His Hand to receive a little love, that in the radiant
day of the Judgment He may speak to us those ineffably sweet words:
"Come, ye blessed of My Father, for I was hungry and you gave Me to
drink, I was a stranger and you took Me in, I was sick and you visited
Me, I was in prison and you came to Me." [221]

Dearest Celine, let us rejoice in the lot that is ours! Let us give and
give again, and give royally, never forgetting that Our Beloved is a
hidden Treasure which few souls know how to find. Now to discover that
which is hidden we must needs hide ourselves in the hiding-place. Let
our life, then, be one of concealment. The author of the Imitation
tells us:

"If thou would'st know and learn something to the purpose, love to be
unknown, and to be esteemed as nothing . . . [222] Having forsaken all
things, a man should forsake himself. . . [223] Let this man glory in
this and another in that, but thou for thy part rejoice neither in this
nor in that, but in the contempt of thyself." [224]
__________________________________________________________________

[220] Matt. 26:23.

[221] Matt. 25:34-36.

[222] Imit., Bk. I, ch. ii. 3.

[223] Ib., Bk. II, ch. xi. 4.

[224] Ib., Bk. III, ch. xlix. 7.
__________________________________________________________________

XVI

MY DEAR CELINE,--You tell me that my letters do good to you. I am
indeed glad, but I assure you that I am under no misapprehension:
"Unless the Lord build the house, they labour in vain who build it."
[225] The greatest eloquence cannot call forth a single act of love
without that grace which touches the heart.

Think of a beautiful peach with its delicate tint of rose, with its
flavour so sweet that no human skill could invent such nectar. Tell me,
Celine, is it for the peach's own sake that God created that colour so
fair to the eye, that velvety covering so soft to the touch? Is it for
itself that He made it so sweet? Nay, it is for us; the only thing that
is all its own and is essential to its being, is the stone; it
possesses nothing beyond.

Thus also it pleases Jesus to lavish His gifts on certain souls in
order to draw yet others to Himself; in His Mercy He humbles them
inwardly and gently compels them to recognise their nothingness and His
Almighty Power. Now this sentiment of humility is like a kernel of
grace which God hastens to develop against that blessed day, when,
clothed with an imperishable beauty, they will be placed, without
danger, on the banqueting-table of Paradise. Dear little sister, sweet
echo of my soul, Therese is far from the heights of fervour at this
moment; but when I am in this state of spiritual dryness, unable to
pray, or to practise virtue, I look for little opportunities, for the
smallest trifles, to please my Jesus: a smile or a kind word, for
instance, when I would wish to be silent, or to show that I am bored.
If no such occasion offer, I try at least to say over and over again
that I love Him. This is not hard, and it keeps alive the fire in my
heart. Even should the fire of love seem dead, I would still throw my
tiny straws on the ashes, and I am confident it would light up again.

It is true I am not always faithful, but I never lose courage. I leave
myself in the Arms of Our Lord. He teaches me to draw profit from
everything, from the good and from the bad which He finds in me. [226]
He teaches me to speculate in the Bank of Love, or rather it is He Who
speculates for me, without telling me how He does it--that is His
affair, not mine. I have but to surrender myself wholly to Him, to do
so without reserve, without even the satisfaction of knowing what it is
all bringing to me. . . . After all, I am not the prodigal child, and
Jesus need not trouble about a feast for me, because I am always with
Him. [227]

I have read in the Gospel that the Good Shepherd leaves the faithful
ones of His flock in the desert to hasten after the lost sheep. This
confidence touches me deeply. You see He is sure of them. How could
they stray away? They are prisoners of Love. In like manner does the
Beloved Shepherd of our souls deprive us of the sweets of His Presence,
to give His consolations to sinners; or if He lead us to Mount Thabor
it is but for one brief moment . . . the pasture land is nearly always
in the valleys, "it is there that He takes His rest at mid-day." [228]
__________________________________________________________________

[225] Ps. 126[127]:1.

[226] St. John of the Cross.

[227] Cf. Luke 15:31.

[228] Cant. 1:6.
__________________________________________________________________

XVII

October 20, 1893.

MY DEAR SISTER,--I find in the Canticle of Canticles this passage which
may be fitly applied to you: "What dost thou see in thy beloved but a
band of musicians in an armed camp?" [229] Through suffering, your life
has in truth become a battle-field, and there must be a band of
musicians, so you shall be the little harp of Jesus. But no concert is
complete without singing, and if Jesus plays, must not Celine make
melody with her voice? When the music is plaintive, she will sing the
songs of exile; when the music is gay, she will lilt the airs of her
Heavenly Home. . . .

Whatever may happen, all earthly events, be they happy or sad, will be
but distant sounds, unable to awake a vibration from the harp of Jesus.
He reserves to Himself alone the right of lightly touching its strings.

I cannot think without delight of that sweet saint, Cecilia. What an
example she gives us! In the midst of a pagan world, in the very heart
of danger, at the moment when she was to be united to a man whose love
was so utterly of earth, it seems to me as if she should have wept and
trembled with fear. But instead, "during the music of the
marriage-feast Cecilia kept singing in her heart." [230] What perfect
resignation! No doubt she heard other melodies than those of this
world; her Divine Spouse too was singing, and the Angels repeated in
chorus the refrain of Bethlehem's blessed night: "Glory to God in the
highest, and on earth peace to men of goodwill." [231]

The Glory of God! St. Cecilia understood it well, and longed for it
with all her heart. She guessed that her Jesus was thirsting for souls
. . . and that is why her whole desire was to bring to Him quickly the
soul of the young Roman, whose only thought was of human glory. This
wise Virgin will make of him a Martyr, and multitudes will follow in
his footsteps. She knows no fear: the Angels in their song made promise
of peace. She knows that the Prince of Peace is bound to protect her,
to guard her virginity, and to make her recompense. . . . "Oh, how
beautiful is the chaste generation!" [232]

Dearest sister, I hardly know what I write; I let my pen follow the
dictates of my heart. You tell me that you feel your weakness, but that
is a grace. It is Our Lord Who sows the seeds of distrust of self in
your soul. Do not be afraid! If you do not fail to give Him pleasure in
small things, he will be obliged to help you in great ones.

The Apostles laboured long without Him, they toiled a whole night and
caught no fish. Their labours were not inacceptable to him, but He
wished to prove that He is the Giver of all things. So an act of
humility was asked of the Apostles, and Our loving Lord called to them:
"Children, have you anything to eat?" [233] St. Peter, avowing his
helplessness, cried out: "Lord, we have laboured all the night, and
have taken nothing." [234] It is enough, the Heart of Jesus is touched.
. . . Had the Apostle caught some small fish, perhaps our Divine Master
would not have worked a miracle; but he had caught nothing, and so
through the power and goodness of God his nets were soon filled with
great fishes. Such is Our Lord's way. He gives as God--with divine
largesse--but He insists on humility of heart.
__________________________________________________________________

[229] Cf. Cant. 7:1.

[230] Office of St. Cecilia.

[231] Luke 2:14.

[232] Wisdom 4:1.

[233] John 21:5.

[234] Luke 5:5. Soeur Therese joins in one the two miraculous draughts
of fishes. [Ed.]
__________________________________________________________________

XVIII

July 7, 1894.

MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER,--I do not know if you are still in the same
frame of mind as when you last wrote to me; I presume that you are, and
I answer with this passage of the Canticle of Canticles, which explains
so well the state of a soul in utter dryness, a soul which cannot find
joy or consolation in anything: "I went down into the garden of
nut-trees to see the fruits of the valleys, and to look if the vineyard
had flourished, and the pomegranates were in bud. I no longer knew
where I was: my soul was troubled because of the chariots of Aminadab."
[235]

There is the true picture of our souls. Often we go down in the fertile
valleys where our heart loves to find its nourishment; and the vast
fields of Holy Scripture, which have so often opened to yield us
richest treasures, now seem but an arid and waterless waste. We no
longer even know where we stand. In place of peace and light, all is
sorrow and darkness. But, like the Spouse in the Canticles, we know the
cause of this trial: "My soul was troubled because of the chariots of
Aminadab." We are not as yet in our true country, and as gold is tired
in the fire so must our souls be purified by temptation. We sometimes
think we are abandoned. Alas! the chariots--that is to say, the idle
clamours which beset and disturb us--are they within the soul or
without? We cannot tell, but Jesus knows; He sees all our grief, and in
the night, on a sudden, His Voice is heard: "Return, return, O
Sulamitess: return, return, that we may behold thee." [236]

O gracious call! We dared no longer even look upon ourselves, the sight
filled us with horror, and Jesus calls us that He may look upon us at
leisure. He wills to see us; He comes, and with Him come the other two
Persons of the Adorable Trinity to take possession of our soul.

Our Lord had promised this, when, with unspeakable tenderness, He had
said of old: "If anyone love Me he will keep My word, and My Father
will love him, and We will come to him, and will make Our abode with
him." [237] To keep the word of Jesus, then, is one condition of our
happiness, the proof of our love for Him; and this word seems to me to
be His very Self, for He calls Himself the Uncreated Word of the
Father.

In the same Gospel of St. John He makes the sublime prayer: "Sanctify
them by Thy word, Thy word is truth." [238] And in another passage
Jesus teaches us that He is "the Way and the Truth and the Life." [239]
We know, then, what is this word which must be kept; we cannot say,
like Pilate: "What is truth?" [240] We possess the Truth, for our
Beloved dwells in our hearts.

Often this Beloved is to us a bundle of myrrh. [241] We share the
chalice of His sufferings; but how sweet it will be to us one day to
hear these gentle words: "You are they who have continued with Me in My
temptations, and I dispose to you, as My Father hath disposed to Me, a
kingdom." [242]
__________________________________________________________________

[235] Cf. Cant. 6:10, 11.

[236] Cant. 6:12.

[237] John 14:23.

[238] Cf. John 17:17.

[239] John 14:6.

[240] John 18:38.

[241] Cf. Cant. 1:12.

[242] Luke 22:28, 29.
__________________________________________________________________

XIX

August 19, 1894.

This is perhaps the last time that I need have recourse to writing in
order to talk to you, my dear little sister. God in His goodness has
granted my dearest wish. Come, and we will suffer together . . . Then
Jesus will take one of us, and the others will remain in exile yet a
little longer. Now, listen well to what I am going to say: God will
never, never separate us; and if I die before you, do not think that I
shall be far away--never shall we have been more closely united. You
must not be grieved at my childish prophecy. I am not ill, I have an
iron constitution; but the Lord can break iron as if it were clay.

Our dear Father makes his presence felt in a way which touches me
deeply. After a death lasting for five long years, what joy to find him
as he used to be, nay, more a father than ever! How well he is going to
repay you for the care you so generously bestowed on him! You were his
Angel, now he will be yours. He has only been one month in heaven, and
already, through the power of his intercession, all your plans are
succeeding. It is easy for him now to arrange matters for us, and he
has had less to suffer on Celine's account than he had for his poor
little Queen.

For a long time you have been asking me for news about the noviciate,
especially about my work, and now I am going to satisfy you. In my
dealings with the novices I am like a setter on the scent of game. The
role gives me much anxiety because it so very exacting. You shall
decide for yourself if this be not the case. All day long, from morn
till night, I am in pursuit of game. Mother Prioress and the Novice
Mistress play the part of sportsmen--but sportsmen are too big to be
creeping through the cover, whereas a little dog can push its way in
anywhere . . . and then its scent is so keen! I keep a close watch upon
my little rabbits; I do not want to do them any harm, but I tell them
gently: "You must keep your fur glossy, and must not look foolishly
about as does a rabbit of the warren." In fact, I try to make them such
as the Hunter of Souls would have them, simple little creatures that go
on browsing heedless of everything else.

I laugh now, but seriously I am quite convinced that one of these
rabbits--you know which one I mean--is worth a hundred times more than
the setter; it has run through many a danger, and I own that, had I
been in its place, I should have long since been lost for ever in the
great forest of the world.
__________________________________________________________________

XX

I am so glad, dearest Celine, that you do not feel any particular
attraction at the thought of entering the Carmel. This is really a mark
of Our Lord's favour, and shows that He looks for a gift from your
hands. He knows that it is so much sweeter to give than to receive.
What happiness to suffer for Him Who loves us even unto folly, and to
pass for fools in the eyes of the world! We judge others by ourselves,
and, as the world will not hearken to reason, it calls us unreasonable
too.

We may console ourselves, we are not the first. Folly was the only
crime with which Herod could reproach Our Lord . . . and, after all,
Herod was right. Yes, indeed, it was folly to come and seek the poor
hearts of mortal men to make them thrones for Him, the King of Glory,
Who sitteth above the Cherubim! Was He not supremely happy in the
company of His Father and the Holy Spirit of Love? Why, then, come down
on earth to seek sinners and make of them His closest friends? Nay, our
folly could never exceed His, and our deeds are quite within the bounds
of reason. The world may leave us alone. I repeat, it is the world that
is insane, because it heeds not what Jesus has done and suffered to
save it from eternal damnation.

We are neither idlers nor spendthrifts. Our Divine Master has taken our
defence upon Himself. Remember the scene in the house of Lazarus:
Martha was serving, while Mary had no thought of food but only of how
she could please her Beloved. And "she broke her alabaster box, and
poured out upon her Saviour's Head the precious spikenard, [243] and
the house was filled with the odour of the ointment." [244]

The Apostles murmured against Magdalen. This still happens, for so do
men murmur against us. Even some fervent Catholics think our ways are
exaggerated, and that--with Martha--we ought to wait upon Jesus,
instead of pouring out on Him the odorous ointment of our lives. Yet
what does it matter if these ointment-jars--our lives--be broken, since
Our Lord is consoled, and the world in spite of itself is forced to
inhale the perfumes they give forth? It has much need of these perfumes
to purify the unwholesome air it breathes.

For a while only, good-bye, dearest sister. Your barque is near to
port. The breezes filling its sails are the zephyrs of Love--breezes
that speed more swiftly than the lightning-flash. Good-bye! in a few
days we shall be together within these Carmel walls . . . and in the
after days together in Paradise. Did not Jesus say during His Passion:
"Hereafter you shall see the Son of Man sitting on the right hand of
the power of God and coming in the clouds of heaven"? [245] . . . We
shall be there!

THERESE.
__________________________________________________________________

[243] Cf. Mark 14:3.

[244] John 12:3.

[245] Matt. 26:64.
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________

LETTERS TO MOTHER AGNES OF JESUS

Selections
__________________________________________________________________

I

(Written in 1887, shortly before Therese entered the Carmel.)

MY DARLING LITTLE MOTHER,--You are right when you tell me that every
cup must contain its drop of gall. I find that trials are a great help
towards detachment from the things of earth: they make one look higher
than this world. Nothing here can satisfy, and we can find rest only in
holding ourselves ready to do God's will.

My frail barque has great difficulty in reaching port. I sighted it
long since, and still I find myself afar off. Yet Jesus steers this
little barque, and I am sure that on His appointed day it will come
safely to the blessed haven of the Carmel. O Pauline! when Jesus shall
have vouchsafed me this grace, I wish to give myself entirely to Him,
to suffer always for Him, to live for Him alone. I do not fear His rod,
for even when the smart is keenest we feel that it is His sweet Hand
which strikes.

It is such joy to think that for each pain cheerfully borne we shall
love God more through eternity. Happy should I be if at the hour of my
death I could offer Jesus a single soul. There would be one soul less
in hell, and one more to bless God in Heaven.
__________________________________________________________________

II

(Written during her retreat before receiving the habit.)

January, 1889.

Dryness and drowsiness--such is the state of my soul in its intercourse
with Jesus! But since my Beloved wishes to sleep I shall not prevent
Him. I am only too happy that He does not treat me as a stranger, but
rather in a homely way. He riddles his "little ball" with pin-pricks
that hurt indeed, though when they come from the Hand of this loving
Friend, the pain is all sweetness, so gentle in His touch. How
different the hand of man!

Yet I am happy, most happy to suffer! If Jesus Himself does not pierce
me, He guides the hand which does. Mother! If you knew how utterly
indifferent to earthly things I desire to be, and of how little concern
to me are all the beauties of creation. I should be wretched were I to
possess them. My heart seems so vast when I think of the goods of
earth--all of them together unable to fill it. But by the side of Jesus
how small does it appear! He is full good to me--this God who soon will
be my Spouse. He is divinely lovable for not permitting me to be the
captive of any passing joy. He knows well that if He sent me but a
shadow of earthly happiness I should cling to it with all the intense
ardour of my heart, and He refuses even this shadow . . . He prefers to
leave me in darkness, rather than afford me a false glimmer which would
not be Himself.

I do not wish creatures to have one atom of my love. I wish to give all
to Jesus, since He makes me understand that He alone is perfect
happiness. All!--all shall be for Him! And even when I have nothing, as
is the case to-night, I will give Him this nothing . . .
__________________________________________________________________

III

1889.

. . . . . .

I have a longing for those heart-wounds, those pin-pricks which inflict
so much pain. I know of no ecstasy to which I do not prefer sacrifice.
There I find happiness, and there alone. The slender reed has no fear
of being broken, for it is planted beside the waters of Love. When,
therefore, it bends before the gale, it gathers strength in the
refreshing stream, and longs for yet another storm to pass and sway its
head. My very weakness makes me strong. No harm can come to me since,
in whatever happens, I see only the tender Hand of Jesus . . . Besides,
no suffering is too big a price to pay for the glorious palm.
__________________________________________________________________

IV

(Written during her retreat before profession.)

September, 1890.

MY DEAREST MOTHER,--Your little hermit must give you an account of her
journey. Before starting, my Beloved asked me in what land I wished to
travel, and what road I wished to take. I told him that I had only one
desire, that of reaching the summit of the Mountain of Love.

Thereupon roads innumerable spread before my gaze, but so many of these
were perfect that I felt incapable of choosing any of my own free will.
Then I said to my Divine Guide: "Thou knowest where lies the goal of my
desire, and for Whose sake I would climb the Mountain. Thou knowest Who
possesses the love of my heart. For Him only I set out on this journey;
lead me therefore by the paths of His choosing: my joy shall be full if
only He is pleased."

And Our Lord took me by the hand, and led me through an underground
passage where it is neither hot nor cold, where the sun shines not, and
where neither wind nor rain can enter--a place where I see nothing but
a half-veiled light, the light that gleams from the downcast Eyes of
the Face of Jesus.

My Spouse speaks not a word, and I say nothing save that I love Him
more than myself; and in the depths of my heart I know this is true,
for I am more His than mine. I cannot see that we are advancing toward
our journey's goal since we travel by a subterranean way; and yet,
without knowing how, it seems to me that we are nearing the summit of
the Mountain.

I give thanks to my Jesus for making me walk in darkness, and in this
darkness I enjoy profound peace. Willingly do I consent to remain
through all my religious life in this gloomy passage into which He has
led me. I desire only that my darkness may obtain light for sinners. I
am content, nay, full of joy, to be without all consolation. I should
be ashamed if my love were like that of those earthly brides who are
ever looking for gifts from their bridegrooms, or seeking to catch the
loving smile which fills them with delight.

Therese, the little Spouse of Jesus, loves Him for Himself; she only
looks on the Face of her Beloved to catch a glimpse of the Tears which
delight her with their secret charm. She longs to wipe away those
Tears, or to gather them up like priceless diamonds with which to adorn
her bridal dress. Jesus! . . . Oh! I would so love Him! Love Him as He
has never yet been loved! . . .

At all cost I must win the palm of St. Agnes; if it cannot be mine
through blood, I must win it by Love.
__________________________________________________________________

V

1891.

Love can take the place of a long life. Jesus does not consider time,
for He is Eternal. He only looks at the love. My little Mother, beg Him
to bestow it upon me in full measure. I do not desire that thrill of
love which I can feel; if Jesus feel its thrill, then that is enough
for me. It is so sweet to love Him, to make Him loved. Ask Him to take
me to Him on my profession-day, if by living on I should ever offend
Him, because I wish to bear unsullied to Heaven the white robe of my
second Baptism. [246] Now Jesus can grant me the grace never to offend
Him more, or rather never to commit any faults but those which do not
offend Him or give Him pain; faults which serve but to humble me and
strengthen my love. There is no one to lean on apart from Jesus. He
alone faileth not, and it is exceeding joy to think that He can never
change.
__________________________________________________________________

[246] Soeur Therese here alludes to the probable opinion of theologians
that--as in Baptism--all stain of sin is removed and all temporal
punishment for sin remitted, by the vows taken on the day of religious
profession. [Ed.]
__________________________________________________________________

VI

1891.

MY DEAREST LITTLE MOTHER,--Your letter has done me such good. The
sentence: "Let us refrain from saying a word which could raise us in
the eyes of others," has indeed enlightened my soul. Yes, we must keep
all for Jesus with jealous care. It is so good to work for Him alone.
How it fills the heart with joy, and lends wings to the soul! Ask of
Jesus that Therese--His grain of sand--may save Him a multitude of
souls in a short space of time, so that she may the sooner behold His
Adorable Face.
__________________________________________________________________

VII

1892.

Here is the dream of this "grain of sand": Love Jesus alone, and naught
else beside! The grain of sand is so small that if it wished to open
its heart to any other but Jesus, there would no longer be room for
this Beloved.

What happiness to be so entirely hidden that no one gives us a
thought--to be unknown even to those with whom we live! My little
Mother, I long to be unknown to everyone of God's creatures! I have
never desired glory amongst men, and if their contempt used to attract
my heart, I have realized that even this is too glorious for me, and I
thirst to be forgotten.

The Glory of Jesus--this is my sole ambition. I abandon my glory to
Him; and if He seem to forget me, well, He is free to do so since I am
no longer my own, but His. He will weary sooner of making me wait than
I shall of waiting.
__________________________________________________________________

VIII

[One day when Soeur Therese was suffering acutely from feverishness,
one of the Sisters urged her to help in a difficult piece of painting.
For a moment Therese's countenance betrayed an inward struggle, which
did not escape the notice of Mother Agnes of Jesus. That same evening
Therese wrote her the following letter.]

May 28, 1897.

MY DEAREST MOTHER,--I have just been shedding sweet tears--tears of
repentance, but still more of thankfulness and love. To-day I showed
you the treasure of my patience, and how virtuous I am--I who preach so
well to others! I am glad that you have seen my want of perfection. You
did not scold me, and yet I deserved it. But at all times your
gentleness speaks to me more forcibly than would severe words. To me
you are the image of God's Mercy.

Sister N., on the contrary, is more often the image of God's severity.
Well, I have just met her, and, instead of passing me coldly by, she
embraced me and said: "Poor little Sister, I am so sorry . . . I do not
want to tire you; it was wrong of me to ask your help; leave the work
alone." In my heart I felt perfect sorrow, and I was much surprised to
escape all blame. I know she must really deem me imperfect. She spoke
in this way because she thinks I am soon to die. However that may be, I
have heard nothing but kind and tender words from her; and so I
consider her most kind, and myself an unamiable creatures.

When I returned to our cell, I was wondering what Jesus thought, when
all at once I remembered His words to the woman taken in adultery:
"Hath no man condemned thee?" [247] With tears in my eyes, I answered
Him: "No one, Lord, . . . neither my little Mother--the image of Thy
Mercy--nor Sister N., the image of Thy Justice. I feel that I can go in
peace, because neither wilt Thou condemn me."

I confess I am much happier because of my weakness than if--sustained
by grace--I had been a model of patience. It does me so much good to
see that Jesus is always sweet and tender towards me. Truly it is
enough to make me die of grateful love.

My little Mother, you will understand how this evening the vessel of
God's Mercy has overflowed for your child. . . . Even now I know it!
Yea, all my hopes will be fulfilled . . .

VERILY THE LORD WILL WORK WONDERS FOR ME, AND THEY WILL INFINITELY
SURPASS MY BOUNDLESS DESIRES.
__________________________________________________________________

[247] John 8:10.
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________

LETTERS TO SISTER MARY OF THE SACRED HEART
__________________________________________________________________

I
February 21, 1888.

MY DEAR MARIE,--You cannot think what a lovely present Papa made me
last week; I believe if I gave you a hundred or even a thousand guesses
you would never find out what it was. Well, my dear Father bought me a
new-born lamb, all white and fleecy. He said that before I entered the
Carmel he wanted me to have this pleasure. We were all delighted,
especially Celine. What touched me more than anything was Papa's
thoughtfulness. Besides, a lamb is symbolic, and it made me think of
Pauline.

So far, so good, but now for the sequel. We were already building
castles in the air, and expected that in two or three days the lamb
would be frisking round us. But the pretty creature died that same
afternoon. Poor little thing, scarcely was it born when it suffered and
died. It looked so gentle and innocent that Celine made a sketch of it,
and then we laid it in a grave dug by Papa. It appeared to be asleep. I
did not want the earth to be its covering, so we put snow upon our pet,
and all was over.

You do not know, dearest Godmother, how this little creature's death
has made me reflect. Clearly we must not become attached to anything,
no matter how innocent, because it will slip from our grasp when least
expected; nothing but the eternal can content us.
__________________________________________________________________

II
(Written during her retreat before receiving the habit.)
January 8, 1889.

Your little Lamb--as you love to call me, dearest sister--would borrow
from you some strength and courage. I cannot speak to Our Lord, and He
is silent too. Pray that my retreat may be pleasing to the Heart of Him
Who alone reads the secrets of the soul.

Life is full of sacrifice, it is true, but why seek happiness here? For
life is but "a night to be spent in a wretched inn," as our holy Mother
St. Teresa says. I assure you my heart thirsts ardently for happiness,
but I see clearly that no creature can quench that thirst. On the
contrary, the oftener I would drink from these seductive waters the
more burning will my thirst become. I know a source where "they that
drink shall yet thirst," [248] but with a delicious thirst, a thirst
one can always allay. . . . That source is the suffering known to Jesus
only.
__________________________________________________________________

[248] Eccles. 24:29.
__________________________________________________________________

III
August 14, 1889.

You ask for a word from your little Lamb. But what shall I say? Is it
not you who have taught me? Remember those days when I sat upon your
knee, and you talked to me of Heaven.

I can still hear you say: "Look at those who want to become rich, and
see how they toil to obtain money. Now, my little Therese, through
every moment of the day and with far less trouble, we can lay up riches
in Heaven. Diamonds are so plentiful, we can gather them together as
with a rake, and we do this by performing all our actions for the love
of God." Then I would leave you, my heart overflowing with joy, and
fully bent on amassing great wealth.

Time has flown since those happy hours spent together in our dear nest.
Jesus has visited us, and has found us worthy to be tried in the
crucible of suffering. God has said that on the last day "He will wipe
away all tears from our eyes," [249] and no doubt the more tears there
are to dry, the greater will be the happiness.

Pray to-morrow for the little one who owes you her upbringing, and who,
without you, might never have come to the Carmel.
__________________________________________________________________

[249] Apoc. 21:4.
__________________________________________________________________

IV
(During her retreat before profession)
September 4, 1890.

The heavenly music falls but faintly on the ear of your child, and it
has been a dreary journey towards her Bridal Day. It is true her
Betrothed has led her through fertile lands and gorgeous scenery, but
the dark night has prevented her admiring, much less revelling in, the
beauty all around. Perhaps you think this grieved her. Oh, no! she is
happy to follow her Betrothed for His own sake, and not for the sake of
His gifts. He is so ravishingly beautiful, even when silent--even when
concealed. Weary of earthly consolation, your little child wishes for
her Beloved alone. I believe that the work of Jesus during this retreat
has been to detach me from everything but Himself. My only comfort is
the exceeding strength and peace that is mine. Besides, I hope to be
just what He wills I should be, and in this lies all my happiness.

Did you but know how great is my joy at giving pleasure to Jesus
through being utterly deprived of all joy! . . . . Truly this is the
very refinement of all joy--joy we do not feel.
__________________________________________________________________

V
September 7, 1890.

To-morrow I shall be the Spouse of Jesus, of Him Whose "look was as it
were hidden and despised." [250] What a future this alliance opens up!
How can I thank Him, how render myself less unworthy of so great a
favour?

I thirst after Heaven, that blessed abode where our love for Jesus will
be without bounds. True, we must pass through suffering and tears to
reach that home, but I wish to suffer all that my Beloved is pleased to
send me; I wish to let Him do as He wills with His "little ball." You
tell me, dearest Godmother, that my Holy Child is beautifully adorned
for my wedding-day; [251] perhaps, however, you wonder why I have not
put new rose-coloured candles. The old ones appeal to me more because
they were lighted for the first time on my clothing-day. They were then
fresh and of rosy hue. Papa had given them to me; he was there, and all
was joyful. But now their tint has faded. Are there yet any
rose-coloured joys on earth for your little Therese? No, for her there
are only heavenly joys; joys where the hollowness of all things gives
place to the Uncreated Reality.
__________________________________________________________________

[250] Isa. 53:3.

[251] She alludes to the Statue of the Holy Child in the cloister,
which was under her own special care. [Ed.]
__________________________________________________________________

VI

MY DEAREST SISTER,--I do not find it difficult to answer you. . . . How
can you ask me if it be possible for you to love God as I love Him! My
desire for martyrdom is as nothing; it is not to that I owe the
boundless confidence that fills my heart. Such desires might be
described as spiritual riches, which are the unjust mammon, [252] when
one is complacent in them as in something great. . . . These
aspirations are a consolation Jesus sometimes grants to weak souls like
mine--and there are many such! But when He withholds this consolation,
it is a special grace. Remember these words of a holy monk: "The
martyrs suffered with joy, and the King of Martyrs in sorrow." Did not
Jesus cry out: "My father, remove this chalice from Me"? [253] Do not
think, then, that my desires are a proof of my love. Indeed I know well
that it is certainly not these desires which make God take pleasure in
my soul. What does please Him is to find me love my littleness, my
poverty: it is the blind trust which I have in His Mercy. . . . There
is my sole treasure, dearest Godmother, and why should it not be yours?

Are you not ready to suffer all that God wills? Assuredly; and so if
you wish to know joy and to love suffering, you are really seeking your
own consolation, because once we love, all suffering disappears.
Verily, if we were to go together to martyrdom, you would gain great
merit, and I should have none, unless it pleased Our Lord to change my
dispositions.

Dear sister, do you not understand that to love Jesus and to be His
Victim of Love, the more weak and wretched we are the better material
do we make for this consuming and transfiguring Love? . . . The simple
desire to be a Victim suffices, but we must also consent to ever remain
poor and helpless, and here lies the difficulty: "Where shall we find
one that is truly poor in spirit? We must seek him afar off," says the
author of the Imitation. [254] He does not say that we must search
among great souls, but "afar off"--that is to say, in abasement and in
nothingness. Let us remain far from all that dazzles, loving our
littleness, and content to have no joy. Then we shall be truly poor in
spirit, and Jesus will come to seek us however far off we may be, and
transform us into flames of Love. . . . I long to make you understand
what I feel. Confidence alone must lead us to Love. . . . Does not fear
lead to the thought of the strict justice that is threatened to
sinners? But that is not the justice Jesus will show to such as love
Him.

God would not vouchsafe you the desire to be the Victim of His Merciful
Love, were this not a favour in store--or rather already granted, since
you are wholly surrendered unto Him and long to be consumed by Him, and
God never inspires a longing which He cannot fulfill.

The road lies clear, and along it we must run together. I feel that
Jesus wishes to bestow on us the same graces; He wishes to grant us
both a free entrance into His Heavenly Kingdom. Dearest Godmother, you
would like to hear still more of the secrets which Jesus confides to
your child, but human speech cannot tell what the human heart itself
can scarcely conceive. Besides, Jesus confides His secrets to you
likewise. This I know, for you it was who taught me to listen to His
Divine teaching. On the day of my Baptism you promised in my name that
I would serve Him alone. You were the Angel who led me and guided me in
my days of exile and offered me to Our Lord. As a child loves its
mother, I love you; in Heaven only will you realise the gratitude with
which my heart is full to overflowing.

Your little daughter,

Teresa of the Child Jesus.
__________________________________________________________________

[252] Luke 16:2.

[253] Luke 22:42.

[254] Cf. Imit., II, xi. 4.
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________

LETTERS TO SISTER FRANCES TERESA [255]
__________________________________________________________________

I
August 13, 1893.

DEAR LITTLE SISTER,--At last your desires are satisfied. Like the dove
sent forth from the ark, you have been unable to find a spot on earth
whereon to rest, and have long been on the wing seeking to re-enter the
blessed abode where your heart had for ever fixed its home. Jesus has
kept you waiting, but at last, touched by the plaintive cry of His
dove, He has put forth His Divine Hand, and, taking hold of it, has set
it in His Heart--that sanctuary of His Love.

It is quite a spiritual joy, this joy of mine. For I shall never look
upon you again, never hear your voice as I outpour my heart into yours.
Yet I know that earth is but a halting-place to us who journey towards
a Heavenly Home. What matter if the routes we follow lie apart? Our
goal is the same--that Heaven where we shall meet, no more to be
separated. There we shall taste for ever the sweets of our earthly
home. We shall have much to tell one another when this exile is ended.
Speech here below is so inadequate, but a single glance will be enough
for perfect understanding in our home beyond; and I believe that our
happiness will be greater than if we had never been parted here.

Meanwhile we must live by sacrifice. Without it there would be no merit
in the religious life. As someone told us in a conference: "The reason
why the forest oak raises its head so high is because, hemmed in on all
sides, it wastes no sap in putting forth branches underneath, but
towers aloft. Thus in the religious life the soul, hedged in all around
by the rule and by the practice of community life, of necessity finds
there a means of lifting a high head towards Heaven."

Dearest sister, pray for your little Therese that she may draw profit
from her exile on earth and from the plentiful means granted her of
meriting Heaven.
__________________________________________________________________

II
January, 1895.

DEAR LITTLE SISTER,--How fruitful for Heaven has been the year that is
gone! . . . Our dear Father has seen that which the eye of man cannot
see, he has heard the minstrelsy of the angels . . . now his heart
understands, and his soul enjoys "the things which God hath prepared
for those who love Him." [256] . . . Our turn will come, and it is full
sweet to think our sails are set towards the Eternal Shore.

Do you not find, as I do, that our beloved Father's death has drawn us
nearer to Heaven? More than half of our loved ones already enjoy the
Vision of God, and the five who remain in exile will follow soon. This
thought of the shortness of life gives me courage, and helps me to put
up with the weariness of the journey. What matters a little toil upon
earth? We pass . . . "We have not here a lasting city." [257]

Think of your Therese during this month consecrated to the Infant
Jesus, and beg of Him that she may always remain a very little child. I
will offer the same prayer for you, because I know your desires, and
that humility is your favourite virtue.

Which Therese will be the more fervent? . . . She who will be the more
humble, the more closely united to Jesus, and the more faithful in
making love the mainspring of every action. We must not let slip one
single occasion of sacrifice, everything has such value in the
religious life . . . Pick up a pin from a motive of love, and you may
thereby convert a soul. Jesus alone can make our deeds of such worth,
so let us love Him with every fibre of our heart.
__________________________________________________________________

[256] Cf. I Cor. 2:9.

[257] Heb. 13:14.
__________________________________________________________________

III
July 12, 1896.

MY DEAR LITTLE LEONIE,--I should have answered your letter last Sunday
if it had been given to me, but you know that, being the youngest, I
run the risk of not seeing letters for some considerable time after my
sisters, and occasionally not at all. I only read yours on Friday, so
forgive my delay.

You are right--Jesus is content with a tender look or a sigh of love.
For my part, I find it quite easy to practise perfection, now that I
realise it only means making Jesus captive through His Heart. Look at a
little child who has just vexed its mother, either by giving way to
temper or by disobedience. If it hides in a corner and is sulky, or if
it cries for fear of being punished, its mother will certainly not
forgive the fault. But should it run to her with its little arms
outstreteched, and say; "Kiss me, Mother; I will not do it again!" what
mother would not straightway clasp her child lovingly to her heart, and
forget all it had done? . . . She knows quite well that her little one
will repeat the fault--no matter, her darling will escape all
punishment so long as it makes appeal to her heart.

Even when the law of fear was in force, before Our Lord's coming, the
prophet Isaias said--speaking in the name of the King of Heaven: "Can a
woman forget her babe? . . . And if she should forget, yet will I not
forget thee." [258] What a touching promise! We who live under the law
of Love, shall we not profit by the loving advances made by our Spouse?
How can anybody fear Him Who allows Himself to be made captive "with
one hair of our neck"? [259]

Let us learn to keep Him prisoner--this God, the Divine Beggar of love.
By telling us that a single hair can work this wonder, He shows us that
the smallest actions done for His Love are those which charm His Heart.
If it were necessary to do great things, we should be deserving of
pity, but we are happy beyond measure, because Jesus lets Himself be
led captive by the smallest action. . . . With you, dear Leonie, little
sacrifices are never lacking. Is not your life made up of them? I
rejoice to see you in presence of such wealth, especially when I
remember that you know how to make profit thereby, not only for
yourself but likewise for poor sinners. It is so sweet to help Jesus to
save the souls which He has ransomed at the price of His Precious
Blood, and which only await our help to keep them from the abyss.

It seems to me that if our sacrifices take Jesus captive, our joys make
Him prisoner too. All that is needful to attain this end is, that
instead of giving ourselves over to selfish happiness, we offer to our
Spouse the little joys He scatters in our path, to charm our hearts and
draw them towards Him.

You ask for news of my health. Well, my cough has quite disappeared.
Does that please you? It will not prevent Our Lord from taking me to
Himself whensoever He wishes. And I need not prepare for that journey,
since my whole endeavour is to remain as a little child. Jesus Himself
must pay all its expenses, as well as the price of my admission to
Heaven.

Good-bye, dearest one, pray to Him without fail for the last and least
of your sisters.
__________________________________________________________________

[258] Isa. 49:15.

[259] Cant. 4:9.
__________________________________________________________________

IV
July 17, 1897.

MY DEAR LEONIE,--I am so pleased to be able to write to you again. Some
days ago I thought I should never again have this consolation, but it
seems God wishes to prolong somewhat the time of my exile. This does
not trouble me--I would not enter Heaven one moment sooner through my
own will. The only real happiness on earth is to strive always to think
"how goodly is the chalice" [260] that Jesus give us. Yours is indeed a
goodly one, dear Leonie. If you wish to be a Saint--and it will not be
hard--keep only one end in view: give pleasure to Jesus, and bind
yourself more closely to Him.

Good-bye, my dear sister, I should wish the thought of my entering
Heaven to fill you with joy, because I shall then be better able to
give you proof of my tender love. In the Heart of our Heavenly Spouse
we shall live His very life, and through eternity I shall remain,

Your very little sister,

TERESA OF THE CHILD JESUS.
__________________________________________________________________

[260] Ps. 22[23]:5.
__________________________________________________________________

[255] Nearly all the letters written by Soeur Therese to her sister
Leonie are lost. These few have been recovered. It will be remembered
that Leonie entered the Convent of the Visitation at Caen. See note,
page 113.
__________________________________________________________________

LETTERS TO HER COUSIN MARIE GUERIN
__________________________________________________________________

I
1888.

Before you confided in me, [261] I felt you were suffering, and my
heart was one with yours. Since you have the humility to ask advice of
your little Therese, this is what she thinks: you have grieved me
greatly by abstaining from Holy Communion, because you have grieved Our
Lord. The devil must be very cunning to deceive a soul in this way. Do
you not know, dear Marie, that by acting thus you help him to
accomplish his end? The treacherous creature knows quite well that when
a soul is striving to belong wholly to God he cannot cause her to sin,
so he merely tries to persuade her that she has sinned. This is a
considerable gain, but not enough to satisfy his hatred, so he aims at
something more, and tries to shut out Jesus from a tabernacle which
Jesus covets. Unable to enter this sanctuary himself, he wishes that at
least it remain empty and without its God. Alas, what will become of
that poor little heart? When the devil has succeeded in keeping a soul
from Holy Communion he has gained all his ends . . . while Jesus weeps!
. . .

Remember, little Marie, that this sweet Jesus is there in the
Tabernacle expressly for you and you alone. Remember that He burns with
the desire to enter your heart. Do not listen to satan. Laugh him to
scorn, and go without fear to receive Jesus, the God of peace and of
love.

"Therese thinks all this"--you say--"because she does not know my
difficulties." She does know, and knows them well; she understands
everything, and she tells you confidently that you can go without fear
to receive your only true Friend. She, too, has passed through the
martyrdom of scruples, but Jesus gave her the grace to receive the
Blessed Sacrament always, even when she imagined she had committed
great sins. I assure you I have found that this is the only means of
ridding oneself of the devil. When he sees that he is losing his time
he leaves us in peace.

In truth it is impossible that a heart which can only find rest in
contemplation of the Tabernacle--and yours is such, you tell me--could
so far offend Our Lord as not to be able to receive Him . . . What does
offend Jesus, what wounds Him to the Heart, is want of confidence.

Pray much that the best portion of your life may not be overshadowed by
idle fears. We have only life's brief moments to spend for the Glory of
God, and well does satan know it. This is why he employs every ruse to
make us consume them in useless labour. Dear sister, go often to Holy
Communion, go very often--that is your one remedy.
__________________________________________________________________

[261] The allusion is to the scruples from which Marie suffered. Having
read this letter--which is a strong plea for Frequent Communion--Pope
Pius X declared it "most opportune." Therese was but fifteen when she
wrote it. [Ed.]
__________________________________________________________________

II
1894

You are like some little village maiden who, when sought in marriage by
a mighty king would not dare to accept him, on the plea that she is not
rich enough, and is strange to the ways of a court. But does not her
royal lover know better than she does, the extent of her poverty and
ignorance?

Marie, though you are nothing, do not forget that Jesus is All. You
have only to lose your own nothingness in that Infinite All, and
thenceforth to think only of that All who alone is worthy of your love.

You tell me you wish to see the fruit of your efforts. That is exactly
what Jesus would hide from you. He likes to contemplate by Himself
these little fruits of our virtue. They console Him.

You are quite wrong, Marie, if you think that Therese walks eagerly
along the way of Sacrifice: her weakness is still very great, and every
day some new and wholesome experience brings this home more clearly.
Yet Jesus delights to teach her how to glory in her infirmities. [262]
It is a great grace, and I pray Him to give it to you, for with it come
peace and tranquillity of heart. When we see our misery we do not like
to look at ourselves but only upon our Beloved.

You ask me for a method of obtaining perfection. I know of Love--and
Love only! Our hearts are made for this alone. Sometimes I endeavour to
find some other word for love; but in a land of exile "words which have
a beginning and an end" [263] are quite unable to render adequately the
emotions of the soul, and so we must keep to the one simple word--LOVE.

But on whom shall our poor hearts lavish this love, and who will be
worthy of this treasure? Is there anyone who will understand it
and--above all--is there anyone who will be able to repay? Marie, Jesus
alone understands love: He alone can give back all--yea, infinitely
more than the utmost we can give.
__________________________________________________________________

[262] 2 Cor. 11:5.

[263] St. Augustine.
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________

LETTER TO HER COUSIN, JEANNE GUERIN (MADAME LA NEELE)

August, 1895.

It is a very great sacrifice that God has asked of you, my dear Jeanne,
in calling your little Marie to the Carmel; but remember that He has
promised a hundredfold to anyone who for His Love hath left father or
mother or sister. [264] Now, for love of Jesus, you have not hesitated
to part with a sister dearer to you than words can say, and therefore
He is bound to keep His promise. I know that these words are generally
applied to those who enter the religious life, but my heart tells me
they were spoken, too, for those whose generosity is such that they
will sacrifice to God even the loved ones they hold dearer than life
itself.
__________________________________________________________________

[264] Mark 10:30.
__________________________________________________________________

LETTERS TO HER BROTHER MISSIONARIES
__________________________________________________________________

I
1895.

Our Divine Lord asks no sacrifice beyond our strength. At times, it is
true, He makes us taste to the full the bitterness of the chalice He
puts to our lips. And when He demands the sacrifice of all that is
dearest on earth, it is impossible without a very special grace not to
cry out as He did during His Agony in the Garden: "My Father, let this
chalice pass from me!" But we must hasten to add: "Yet not as I will,
but as Thou wilt." [265] It is so consoling to think that Jesus, "the
Strong God," [266] has felt all our weaknesses and shuddered at the
sight of the bitter chalice--that very chalice He had so ardently
desired.

Your lot is indeed a beautiful one, since Our Lord has chosen it for
you, and has first touched with His own Lips the cup which He holds out
to yours. A Saint has said: "The greatest honour God can bestow upon a
soul is not to give to it great things, but to ask of it great things."
Jesus treats you as a privileged child. It is His wish you should begin
your mission even now, [267] and save souls through the Cross. Was it
not by suffering and death that He ransomed the world? I know that you
aspire to the happiness of laying down your life for Him; but the
martyrdom of the heart is not less fruitful than the shedding of blood,
and this martyrdom is already yours. Have I not, then, good reason to
say that your lot is a beautiful one--worthy an apostle of Christ?
__________________________________________________________________

[265] Matt. 26:39.

[266] Isa. 9:6.

[267] This letter and the following are addressed to a Seminarist.
[Ed.]
__________________________________________________________________

II
1896.

Let us work together for the salvation of souls! We have but the one
day of this life to save them, and so give to Our Lord a proof of our
love. To-morrow will be Eternity, then Jesus will reward you a
hundredfold for the sweet joys you have given up for Him. He knows the
extent of your sacrifice. He knows that the sufferings of those you
hold dear increase your own; but He has suffered this same martyrdom
for our salvation. He, too, left His Mother; He beheld that sinless
Virgin standing at the foot of the Cross, her heart pierced through
with a sword of sorrow, and I hope he will console your own dear
mother. . . . I beg Him most earnestly to do so.

Ah! If the Divine Master would permit those you are about to leave for
His Love but one glimpse of the glory in store, and the vast retinue of
souls that will escort you to Heaven, already they would be repaid for
the great sacrifice that is at hand.
__________________________________________________________________

III
February 24, 1896.

Please say this little prayer for me each day; it sums up all my
desires:

"Merciful Father, in the name of Thy sweet Jesus, of the Blessed
Virgin, and all the Saints, I beg Thee to consume my sister with Thy
spirit of love, and to grant her the grace to make Thee greatly loved."

If Our Lord takes me soon to Himself, I ask you still to continue this
prayer, because my longing will be the same in Heaven as upon earth: to
love Jesus and to make Him loved.
__________________________________________________________________

IV

. . . . . .

All I desire is God's Holy Will, and if in Heaven I could no longer
work for His glory, I should prefer exile to Home.
__________________________________________________________________

V
June 21, 1897

You may well sing of the Mercies of God! They shine forth in you with
splendour. You love St. Augustine and St. Mary Magdalen, those souls to
whom many sins were forgiven because they loved much. I love them too;
I love their sorrow, and especially their audacious love. When I see
Mary Magdalen come forth before all Simon's guests to wash with her
tears her Master's Feet--those Feet that for the first time she
touches--I feel her heart has fathomed that abyss of love and mercy,
the Heart of Jesus; and I feel, too, that not only was He willing to
forgive, but even liberally to dispense the favours of a Divine and
intimate friendship, and to raise her to the loftiest heights of
prayer.

My Brother, since I also have been given to understand the Love of the
Heart of Jesus, I confess that all fear has been driven from mine. The
remembrance of my faults humbles me; and it helps me never to rely upon
my own strength--which is but weakness--but more than all, it speaks to
me of mercy and of love. When a soul with childlike trust casts her
faults into Love's all-devouring furnace, how shall they escape being
utterly consumed?

I know that many Saints have passed their lives in the practice of
amazing penance for the sake of expiating their sins. But what of that?
"In my Father's house there are many mansions." [268] These are the
words of Jesus, and therefore I follow the path He marks out for me; I
try to be nowise concerned about myself and what Jesus deigns to
accomplish in my soul.
__________________________________________________________________

[268] John 14:2.
__________________________________________________________________

VI
1897.

On this earth where everything changes, one thing alone does never
change--our Heavenly King's treatment of His friends. From the day He
raised the standard of the Cross, in its shadow all must fight and win.
"The life of every missionary abounds in crosses," said Theophane
Venard. And again: "True happiness consists in suffering, and in order
to live we must die."

Rejoice, my Brother, that the first efforts of your Apostolate are
stamped with the seal of the Cross. Far more by suffering and by
persecution than by eloquent discourses does Jesus wish to build up His
Kingdom.

You are still--you tell me--a little child who cannot speak. Neither
could Father Mazel, who was ordained with you, and yet he has already
won the palm . . . Far beyond our thoughts are the thoughts of God!
When I learnt that this young missionary had died before he had set
foot on the field of his labours, I felt myself drawn to invoke him. I
seemed to see him amidst the glorious Martyr choir. No doubt, in the
eyes of men he does not merit the title of Martyr, but in the eyes of
God this inglorious death is no less precious than the sacrifice of him
who lays down his life for the Faith.

Though one must be exceeding pure before appearing in the sight of the
All-Holy God, still I know that He is infinitely just, and this very
Justice which terrifies so many souls is the source of all my
confidence and joy. Justice is not only stern severity towards the
guilty; it takes account of the good intention, and gives to virtue its
reward. Indeed I hope as much from the Justice of God as from His
Mercy. It is because He is just, that "He is compassionate and
merciful, longsuffering, and plenteous in mercy. For He knoweth our
frame, He remembereth that we are dust. As a father hath compassion on
his children, so hath the Lord compassion on us." [269]

O my Brother, after these beautiful and consoling words of the Royal
Prophet, how can we doubt God's power to open the gates of His Kingdom
to His children who have loved Him unto perfect sacrifice, who have not
only left home and country so as to make Him known and loved, but even
long to lay down their lives for Him? . . . Jesus said truly there is
no greater love than this. Nor will He be outdone in generosity. How
could He cleanse in the flames of Purgatory souls consumed with the
fire of Divine Love?

I have used many words to express my thought, and yet I fear I have
failed. What I wish to convey is, that in my opinion all missionaries
are Martyrs by will and desire, and not even one should pass through
the purifying flames.

This, then, is what I think about the Justice of God; my own way is all
confidence and love, and I cannot understand those souls who are afraid
of so affectionate a Friend. Sometimes, when I read books in which
perfection is put before us with the goal obstructed by a thousand
obstacles, my poor little head is quickly fatigued. I close the learned
treatise, which tires my brain and dries up my heart, and I turn to the
Sacred Scriptures. Then all becomes clear and lightsome--a single word
opens out infinite vistas, perfection appears easy, and I see that it
is enough to acknowledge our nothingness, and like children surrender
ourselves into the Arms of the Good God. Leaving to great and lofty
minds the beautiful books which I cannot understand, still less put in
practice, I rejoice in my littleness because "only little children and
those who are like them shall be admitted to the Heavenly banquet."
[270] Fortunately--"there are many mansions in my Father's House":
[271] if there were only those--to me--incomprehensible mansions with
their baffling roads, I should certainly never enter there . . .
__________________________________________________________________

[269] Ps. 102[103]:8, 14, 13.

[270] Cf. Matt. 19:14.

[271] John 14:2.
__________________________________________________________________

VII
July 13, 1897.

Your soul is too great to cling to the consolations of earth, and even
now its abode should be in Heaven, for it is written: "Where your
treasure is, there will your heart be also." [272] Is not Jesus your
only treasure? Now that He is in Heaven, it is there your heart should
dwell. This sweet Saviour has long since forgotten your infidelities.
He sees only your longing after perfection, and the sight makes glad
His Heart.

Stay no longer at His Feet, I beseech you, but follow this first
impulse to throw yourself into His Arms. Your place is there, and I see
clearly--more clearly than in your former letters--that all other
heavenly route is barred to you save the way your little sister treads.

I hold with you when you say that the Heart of Jesus is more grieved by
the thousand little imperfections of His friends than by the faults,
even grave, which His enemies commit. Yet it seems to me, dear Brother,
it is only when those who are His own are habitually guilty of want of
thought, and neglect to seek His pardon, that He can say: "These Wounds
which you see in the midst of My Hands, I have received in the house of
those who love Me." [273] But His Heart thrills with you when He had to
deal with all those who truly love, and who after each little fault
come to fling themseleves into His Arms imploring forgiveness. He says
to His Angels what the prodigal's father said to his servants: "Put a
ring upon his finger, and let us rejoice." [274] O Brother! Verily the
Divine Heart's Goodness and Merciful Love are little known! It is true
that to enjoy these treasures we must humble ourselves, must confess
our nothingness . . . and here is where many a soul draws back.
__________________________________________________________________

[272] Luke 12:34.

[273] Cf. Zach. 13:6.

[274] Cf. Luke 15:22.
__________________________________________________________________

VIII
1897.

What attracts me towards our Heavenly Home is the Master's call--the
hope of loving Him at last to the fulfilling of all my desire--the
thought that I shall be able to win Him the love of a multitude of
souls, who will bless Him through all eternity.

I have never asked God that I might die young--that to me were a
cowardly prayer; but from my childhood He has deigned to inspire me
with a strong conviction that my life would be a short one.

I feel we must tread the same road to Heaven--the road of suffering and
love. When I myself have reached the port, I will teach you how best to
sail the world's tempestuous sea--with the self-abandonment of a child
well aware of a father's love, and of his vigilance in the hour of
danger.

I long so much to make you understand the expectant love of the Heart
of Jesus. Your last letter has made my own heart thrill sweetly. I
learnt how closely your soul is sister to mine, since God calls that
soul to mount to Himself by the lift of love, without climbing the
steep stairway of fear. I am not surprised you find it hard to be
familiar with Jesus--one cannot become so in a day; but this I do know,
I shall aid you much more to tread this beautiful path when I lay aside
the burden of this perishable body. Ere long you will exclaim with St.
Augustine: "Love is my lodestone!"
__________________________________________________________________

IX
July 26, 1897.

When you read these few lines I shall perhaps be no more. I know not
the future; yet I can confidently say that my Spouse is at the door. It
would need a miracle to keep me in exile, and I do not think that Jesus
will work that miracle--He does nothing that is of no avail.

Brother, I am so happy to die! Yes, happy . . . not because I shall be
free from suffering: on the contrary, suffering combined with love
seems the one thing worthy of desire in this vale of tears; but happy
to die because far more than on earth I shall help the souls I hold
dear.

Jesus has always treated me as a spoilt child. . . . It is true that
His Cross has been with me from the cradle, but for that Cross He has
given me a passionate love . . .
__________________________________________________________________

X
August 14, 1897.

I am about to go before God, and I understand now more than ever that
one thing only is needful--to work for Him alone, and do nothing for
self or creatures. Jesus wishes to own your heart completely. Before
this can be, you will have much to suffer . . . but oh! what joy when
comes the happy hour of going Home! I shall not die--I do but enter
into Life . . . and whatsoever I cannot tell you here upon earth I will
make you understand from the heights of Heaven. . . .
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________

PRAYERS OF SOEUR THERESE, THE LITTLE FLOWER OF JESUS
__________________________________________________________________

AN ACT OF OBLATION AS A VICTIM OF DIVINE LOVE

This Prayer was found after the death of Sister Teresa of the Child
Jesus and of the Holy Face in the copy of the Gospels which she carried
night and day close to her heart.

O my God, O Most Blessed Trinity, I desire to love Thee and to make
Thee loved--to labour for the glory of Holy Church by saving souls here
upon earth and by delivering those suffering in Purgatory. I desire to
fulfill perfectly Thy Holy Will, and to reach the degree of glory Thou
hast prepared for me in Thy Kingdom. In a word, I wish to be holy, but,
knowing how helpless I am, I beseech Thee, my God, to be Thyself my
holiness.

Since Thou hast loved me so much as to give me Thy Only-Begotten Son to
be my Saviour and my Spouse, the infinite treasures of His merits are
mine. Gladly do I offer them to Thee, and I beg of Thee to behold me
only through the Eyes of Jesus, and in His Heart aflame with love.
Moreover, I offer Thee all the merits of the Saints both of Heaven and
of earth, together with their acts of love, and those of the holy
Angels. Lastly, I offer Thee, O Blessed Trinity, the love and the
merits of the Blessed Virgin, my dearest Mother--to her I commit this
Oblation, praying her to present it to Thee.

During the days of His life on earth her Divine Son, my sweet Spouse,
spake these words: "If you ask the Father anything in My Name, He will
give it you." [275] Therefore I am certain Thou wilt fulfill my
longing. O my God, I know that the more Thou wishest to bestow, the
more Thou dost make us desire. In my heart I feel boundless desires,
and I confidently beseech Thee to take possession of my soul. I cannot
receive Thee in Holy Communion as often as I should wish; but, O Lord,
art Thou not all-powerful? Abide in me as Thou dost in the
Tabernacle--never abandon Thy Little Victim. I long to console Thee for
ungrateful sinners, and I implore Thee to take from me all liberty to
sin. If through weakness I should chance to fall, may a glance from
Thine Eyes straightway cleanse my soul, and consume all my
imperfections--as fire transforms all things into itself.

I thank Thee, O my God, for all the graces Thou hast granted me:
especially for having purified me in the crucible of suffering. At the
Day of Judgment I shall gaze on Thee with joy, as Thou bearest Thy
sceptre of the Cross. And since Thou hast deigned to give me this
precious Cross as my portion, I hope to be like unto Thee in Paradise
and to behold the Sacred Wounds of Thy Passion shine on my glorified
body.

After earth's exile I trust to possess Thee in the Home of our Father;
but I do not seek to lay up treasures in Heaven. I wish to labour for
Thy Love alone--with the sole aim of pleasing Thee, of consoling Thy
Sacred Heart, and of saving souls who will love Thee through eternity.

When comes the evening of life, I shall stand before Thee with empty
hands, because I do not ask Thee, my God, to take account of my works.
All our works of justice are blemished in Thine Eyes. I wish therefore
to be robed with Thine own Justice, and to receive from Thy Love the
everlasting gift of Thyself. I desire no other Throne, no other Crown
but Thee, O my Beloved!

In Thy sight time is naught--"one day is a thousand years." [276] Thou
canst in a single instant prepare me to appear before Thee.

* * * * * * *

In order that my life may be one Act of perfect Love, I offer myself as
a Victim of Holocaust to Thy Merciful Love, imploring Thee to consume
me unceasingly, and to allow the floods of infinite tenderness gathered
up in Thee to overflow into my soul, that so I may become a very martyr
of Thy Love, O my God! May this martyrdom, after having prepared me to
appear in Thy Presence, free me from this life at the last, and may my
soul take its flight--without delay--into the eternal embrace of Thy
Merciful Love!

* * * * * * *

O my Beloved, I desire at every beat of my heart to renew this Oblation
an infinite number of times, "till the shadows retire," [277] and
everlastingly I can tell Thee my love face to face.

MARY FRANCES TERESA OF THE CHILD JESUS AND OF THE HOLY FACE.

The ninth of June, Feast of the Most Blessed Trinity, In the year of
grace, 1895.
__________________________________________________________________

[275] John 16:23.

[276] Ps. 39[40]:4.

[277] Cant. 4:6.
__________________________________________________________________

A MORNING PRAYER

O my God! I offer Thee all my actions of this day for the intentions
and for the glory of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I desire to sanctify
every beat of my heart, my every thought, my simplest works, by uniting
them to Its infinite merits; and I wish to make reparation for my sins
by casting them into the furnace of Its Merciful Love.

O my God! I ask of Thee for myself and for those whom I hold dear, the
grace to fulfil perfectly Thy Holy Will, to accept for love of Thee the
joys and sorrows of this passing life, so that we may one day be united
together in Heaven for all Eternity. Amen.
__________________________________________________________________

AN ACT OF CONSECRATION TO THE HOLY FACE

Written for the Novices

O Adorable Face of Jesus, since Thou hast deigned to make special
choice of our souls, in order to give Thyself to them, we come to
consecrate these souls to Thee. We seem, O Jesus, to hear Thee say:
"Open to Me, My Sisters, My Spouses, for My Face is wet with the dew,
and My Locks with the drops of the night." [278] Our souls understand
Thy language of love; we desire to wipe Thy sweet Face, and to console
Thee for the contempt of the wicked. In their eyes Thou art still "as
it were hidden . . . they esteem Thee an object of reproach." [279]

O Blessed Face, more lovely than the lilies and the roses of the
spring, Thou art not hidden from us. The tears which dim Thine Eyes are
as precious pearls which we delight to gather, and, through their
infinite value, to purchase the souls of our brethren.

From Thy Adorable Lips we have heard Thy loving plaint: "I thirst."
Since we know that this thirst which consumes Thee is a thirst for
love, to quench it we would wish to possess an infinite love.

Dear Spouse of our souls, if we could love with the love of all hearts,
that love would be Thine. . . . Give us, O Lord, this love! Then come
to thy Spouses and satisfy Thy Thirst.

And give to us souls, dear Lord . . . We thirst for souls!--Above all
for the souls of Apostles and Martyrs . . . that through them we may
inflame all poor sinners with love of Thee.

O Adorable Face, we shall succeed in winning this grace from Thee!
Unmindful of our exile, "by the rivers of Babylon," we will sing in
Thine Ears the sweetest of melodies. Since Thou art the true and only
Home of our souls, our songs shall not be sung in a strange land. [280]
O Beloved Face of Jesus, while we await the Eternal Day when we shall
gaze upon Thine Infinite Glory, our only desire is to delight Thy
Divine Eyes by keeping our faces hidden too, so that no one on earth
may recognize us . . . Dear Jesus, Heaven for us is Thy Hidden Face!
__________________________________________________________________

[278] Cf. Cant. 5:2.

[279] Cf. Isa. 53:3.

[280] Cf. Ps. 136[137]:4.
__________________________________________________________________

VARIOUS PRAYERS

"If you ask the Father anything in My Name, He will give it you."--John
16:23.

O Eternal Father, Thy Only-Begotten Son, the dear Child Jesus, belongs
to me since Thou hast given Him. I offer Thee the infinite merits of
His Divine Childhood, and I beseech Thee in His Name to open the gates
of Heaven to a countless host of little ones who will for ever follow
this Divine Lamb.

"Just as the King's image is a talisman through which anything may be
purchased in his Kingdom, so through My Adorable Face--that priceless
coin of my Humanity--you will obtain all you desire." Our Lord to
Sister Mary of St. Peter. [281]

Eternal Father, since Thou hast given me for my inheritance the
Adorable Face of Thy Divine Son, I offer that Face to Thee, and I beg
Thee, in exchange for this coin of infinite value, to forget the
ingratitude of those souls who are consecrated to Thee, and to pardon
all poor sinners.
__________________________________________________________________

[281] Sister Mary of St. Peter entered the Carmel of Tours in 1840.
Three years later she had the first of a series of revelations
concerning devotion to the Holy Face as a means of reparation for
blasphemy. See Life of Leon Papin-Dupont, known as "The Holy Man of
Tours."
__________________________________________________________________

PRAYER TO THE HOLY CHILD

O Jesus, dear Holy Child, my only treasure, I abandon myself to Thy
every whim. I seek no other joy than that of calling forth Thy sweet
Smile. Vouchsafe to me the graces and the virtues of Thy Holy
Childhood, so that on the day of my birth into Heaven the Angels and
Saints may recognise in Thy Spouse: Teresa of the Child Jesus.
__________________________________________________________________

PRAYER TO THE HOLY FACE

O Adorable Face of Jesus, sole beauty which ravisheth my heart,
vouchsafe to impress on my soul Thy Divine Likeness, so that it may not
be possible for Thee to look at Thy Spouse without beholding Thyself. O
my Beloved, for love of Thee I am content not to see here on earth the
sweetness of Thy Glance, nor to feel the ineffable Kiss of Thy Sacred
Lips, but I beg of Thee to inflame me with Thy Love, so that it may
consume me quickly, and that soon Teresa of the Holy Face may behold
Thy glorious Countenance in Heaven.
__________________________________________________________________

PRAYER

Inspired by the sight of a statue of The Blessed Joan of Arc

O Lord God of Hosts, who hast said in Thy Gospel: "I am not come to
bring peace but a sword," [282] arm me for the combat. I burn to do
battle for Thy Glory, but I pray Thee to enliven my courage. . . . Then
with holy David I shall be able to exclaim: "Thou alone art my shield;
it is Thou, O Lord Who teachest my hands to fight." [283]

O my Beloved, I know the warfare in which I am to engage; it is not on
the open field I shall fight. . . . I am a prisoner held captive by Thy
Love; of my own free will I have riveted the fetters which bind me to
Thee, and cut me off for ever from the world. My sword is Love! with
it--like Joan of Arc--"I will drive the strangers from the land, and I
will have Thee proclaimed King"--over the Kingdom of souls.

Of a truth Thou hast no need of so weak an instrument as I, but Joan,
thy chaste and valiant Spouse, has said: "We must do battle before God
gives the victory." O my Jesus! I will do battle, then, for Thy love,
until the evening of my life. As Thou didst not will to enjoy rest upon
earth, I wish to follow Thy example; and then this promise which came
from thy Sacred Lips will be fulfilled in me: "If any man minister to
me, let him follow Me, and where I am there also shall My servant be,
and . . . him will My Father honour." [284] To be with Thee, to be in
Thee, that is my one desire; this promise of fulfilment, which Thou
dost give, helps me to bear with my exile as I wait the joyous Eternal
Day when I shall see Thee face to face.
__________________________________________________________________

[282] Matt. 10:34.

[283] Cf. Ps. 143[144]:1, 2.

[284] John 12:26.
__________________________________________________________________

PRAYER TO OBTAIN HUMILITY

Written for a Novice

O JESUS! When Thou wast a wayfarer upon earth, Thou didst say:--"Learn
of Me, for I am Meek and Humble of Heart, and you shall find rest to
your souls." [285] O Almighty King of Heaven! my soul indeed finds rest
in seeing Thee condescend to wash the feet of Thy Apostles--"having
taken the form of a slave." [286] I recall the words Thou didst utter
to teach me the practice of humility: "I have given you an example,
that as I have done to you, so you do also. The servant is not greater
than his Lord . . . If you know these things, you shall be blessed if
you do them." [287] I understand, dear Lord, these words which come
from Thy Meek and Humble Heart, and I wish to put them in practice with
the help of Thy grace.

I desire to humble myself in all sincerity, and to submit my will to
that of my Sisters, without ever contradicting them, and without
questioning whether they have the right to command. No one, O my
Beloved! had that right over Thee, and yet Thou didst obey not only the
Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph, but even Thy executioners. And now, in
the Holy Eucharist, I see Thee complete Thy self-abasement. O Divine
King of Glory, with wondrous humility, Thou dost submit Thyself to all
Thy Priests, without any distinction between those who love Thee and
those who, alas! are lukewarm or cold in Thy service. They may advance
or delay the hour of the Holy Sacrifice: Thou art always ready to come
down from Heaven at their call.

O my Beloved, under the white Eucharistic Veil Thou dost indeed appear
to me Meek and Humble of Heart! To teach me humility, Thou canst not
further abase Thyself, and so I wish to respond to Thy Love, by putting
myself in the lowest place, by sharing Thy humiliations, so that I may
"have part with Thee" [288] in the Kingdom of Heaven.

I implore Thee, dear Jesus, to send me a humiliation whensoever I try
to set myself above others.

And yet, dear Lord, Thou knowest my weakness. Each morning I resolve to
be humble, and in the evening I recognise that I have often been guilty
of pride. The sight of these faults tempts me to discouragement; yet I
know that discouragement is itself but a form of pride. I wish,
therefore, O my God, to build all my trust upon Thee. As Thou canst do
all things, deign to implant in my soul this virtue which I desire, and
to obtain it from Thy Infinite Mercy, I will often say to Thee: "Jesus,
Meek and Humble of Heart, make my heart like unto Thine."
__________________________________________________________________

[285] Matt. 11:29.

[286] Phil. 2:7.

[287] John 13:15-17.

[288] Cf. John 13:8.
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________

MOTTO OF THE LITTLE FLOWER

From St. John of the Cross

"LOVE IS REPAID BY LOVE ALONE"
__________________________________________________________________

"MY DAYS OF GRACE"

Birthday January 2, 1873
Baptism January 4, 1873
The Smile of Our Lady May 10, 1883
First Communion May 8, 1884
Confirmation June 14, 1884
Conversion December 25, 1886
Audience with Leo XIII November 20, 1887
Entry into the Carmel April 9, 1888
Clothing January 10, 1889
Profession September 8, 1890
Taking of the Veil September 24, 1890
Act of Oblation June 9, 1895
[ENTRY INTO HEAVEN--September 30, 1897]
__________________________________________________________________

SELECTED POEMS OF SOEUR THERESE, THE LITTLE FLOWER OF JESUS
__________________________________________________________________

MY SONG OF TO-DAY


Oh! how I love Thee, Jesus! my soul aspires to Thee--

And yet for one day only my simple prayer I pray!

Come reign within my heart, smile tenderly on me,

To-day, dear Lord, to-day!

But if I dare take thought of what the morrow brings,

It fills my fickle heart with dreary, dull dismay;

I crave, indeed, my God, the Cross and sufferings,

But only for to-day!

O sweetest Star of Heaven! O Virgin, spotless, blest,

Shining with Jesus' light, guiding to Him my way!

Mother! beneath thy veil let my tired spirit rest,

For this brief passing day!

Soon shall I fly afar among the holy choirs,

Then shall be mine the joy that knoweth no decay;

And then my lips shall sing, to Heaven's angelic lyres,

The eternal, glad To-day!

June, 1894.
__________________________________________________________________

MEMORIES

Selected Stanzas

"I find in my Beloved the mountains, the lonely and wooded vales,
the distant isles, the murmur of the waters, the soft whisper of the
zephyrs . . . the quiet night with its sister the dawn, the perfect
solitude--all that delights and all that fires our love."--St. John
of the Cross.


I hold full sweet your memory,

My childhood days, so glad, so free.

To keep my innocence, dear Lord, for Thee,

Thy Love came to me night and day,

Alway.

. . . . . .


I loved the swallows' graceful flight,

The turtle doves' low chant at night,

The pleasant sound of insects gay and bright,

The grassy vale where doth belong

Their song.

. . . . . .


I loved the glow-worm on the sod;

The countless stars, so near to God,

But most I loved, in all the sky abroad,

The shining moon of silver bright,

At night.

. . . . . .


The grass is withered in its bed;

The flowers within my hands are dead.

Would that my weary feet, Jesu! might tread

Thy Heavenly Fields, and I might be

With Thee!

. . . . . .


My rainbow in the rain-washed skies--

Horizon where my suns arise--

My isle in far-off seas--pearl I most prize--

Sweet spring and butterflies--I see

In Thee!

. . . . . .


In Thee I have the springs, the rills,

The mignonette, the daffodils,

The Eglantine, the harebell on the hills,

The trembling poplar, sighing low

And slow.

. . . . . .


The lovely lake, the valley fair

And lonely in the lambent air,

The ocean touched with silver everywhere--

In Thee their treasures, all combined,

I find.

. . . . . .


I go to chant, with Angel-throngs,

The homage that to Thee belongs.

Soon let me fly away, to join their songs!

Oh, let me die of love, I pray,

One day!

. . . . . .


I hear, e'en I, Thy last and least,

The music from Thy Heavenly Feast;

There, deign receive me as Thy loving guest

And, to my harp, let me but sing,

My King!

. . . . . .


Unto the Saints I shall be near,

To Mary, and those once treasured here.

Life is all past, and dried is every tear;

To me my home again is given--

In Heaven.

April 28, 1895.
__________________________________________________________________

I THIRST FOR LOVE


In wondrous Love, Thou didst come down from Heaven

To immolate Thyself, O Christ, for me;

So, in my turn, my love to Thee is given--

I wish to suffer and to die for Thee.

Thou, Lord, didst speak this truth benign:

"To die for one loved tenderly,

Of greatest love on earth is sign";

And now, such love is mine--

Such love for Thee!

Do Thou abide with me, O Pilgrim blest!

Behind the hill fast sinks the dying day.

Helped by Thy Cross, I mount the rocky crest;

Oh, come, to guide me on my Heavenward Way.

To be like Thee is my desire;

Thy Voice finds echo in my soul.

Suffering I crave! Thy words of fire

Lift me above earth's mire,

And sin's control.

Chanting Thy victories, gloriously sublime,

The Seraphim--all Heaven--cry to me,

That even Thou, to conquer sin and crime,

Upon this earth a sufferer needs must be.

For me upon life's dreary way

What scorn, what anguish, Thou didst bear!

Let me but hide me day by day,

Be least of all, alway,

Thy lot to share.

Ah, Christ! Thy great example teaches me

Myself to humble, honours to despise.

A little one--as Thou--I choose to be,

Forgetting self, so I may charm Thine Eyes.

My peace I find in solitude,

Nor ask I more, dear Lord, than this:

Be Thou my sole beatitude,

And ever--in Thee--renewed

My joy, my bliss!

Thou, the great God Whom earth and Heaven adore,

Thou dwell'st a prisoner for me night and day;

And every hour I hear Thy Voice implore:

"I thirst--I thirst--I thirst--for love alway!"

I, too, Thy prisoner am I;

I, too, cry ever unto Thee

Thine own divine and tender cry:

"I thirst!" Oh, let me die

Of love for Thee.

For love of Thee I thirst! fulfil my hope;

Augment in me Thine own celestial flame!

For love of Thee I thirst! too scant earth's scope:

The glorious Vision of Thy Face I claim!

My long, slow martyrdom of fire

Still more and more consumeth me.

Thou art my joy, my one desire,

Jesu! may I expire

Of love for Thee.

April 30, 1896.
__________________________________________________________________

TO SCATTER FLOWERS


O Jesus! O my Love! each eve I come to fling

My springtide roses sweet before Thy Cross divine;

By their plucked petals fair, my hands so gladly bring,

I long to dry Thine every tear!

To scatter flowers!--that means each sacrifice:

My lightest sighs and pains, my heaviest, saddest hours,

My hopes, my joys, my prayers--I will not count the price--

Behold my flowers!

With deep untold delight Thy beauty fills my soul,

Would I might light this love in hearts of all who live!

For this, my fairest flowers, all things in my control,

How fondly, gladly would I give!

To scatter flowers!--behold my chosen sword

For saving sinners' souls and filling Heaven's bowers:

The victory is mine--yea, I disarm Thee, Lord,

With these my flowers!

The petals in their flight caress Thy Holy Face;

They tell Thee that my heart is Thine, and Thine alone.

Thou knowest what these leaves are saying in my place:

On me Thou smilest from Thy Throne.

To scatter flowers!--that means, to speak of Thee--

My only pleasure here, where tears fill all the hours;

But soon, with Angel Hosts, my spirit shall be free

To scatter flowers.

June 28, 1896.
__________________________________________________________________

WHY I LOVE THEE, MARY!

Last Poem written by Soeur Therese

Concluding Stanzas


Henceforth thy shelter in thy woe was John's most humble dwelling;

The son of Zebedee replaced the Son Whom Heaven adored.

Naught else the Gospels tell us of thy life, in grace excelling;

It is the last they say of thee, sweet Mother of my Lord!

But oh! I think that silence means that, high in Heaven's Glory,

When time is past, and to their House thy children safe are come,

The Eternal Word, my Mother dear, Himself will tell thy story,

To charm our souls--thy children's souls--in our Eternal Home.

Soon I shall hear that harmony, that blissful, wondrous singing;

Soon, unto Heaven that waits for us, my soul shall swiftly fly.

O thou who cam'st to smile on me at dawn of life's beginning!

Come once again to smile on me . . . Mother! the night is nigh.

I fear no more thy majesty, so far removed above me,

For I have suffered sore with thee: now hear me, Mother mild!

Oh, let me tell thee face to face, dear Mary! how I love thee;

And say to thee for evermore: I am Thy little child.

May 1897.
__________________________________________________________________

NOTE.--The above poems are reprinted from the translation of the Little
Flower's poems made by Susan L. Emery, of Dorchester, Mass., U.S.A.,
and published by the Carmel of Boston. [Ed.]
__________________________________________________________________

Indexes
__________________________________________________________________

Index of Scripture References

Genesis

[1]2:17

Exodus

[2]4:25 [3]9:16 [4]33:19

1 Kings

[5]16:7

2 Kings

[6]16:10

Job

[7]13:15

Psalms

[8]18:5 [9]19:5 [10]23:1-4 [11]23:1-4 [12]23:4 [13]23:5
[14]34:6 [15]36:6 [16]40:4 [17]50:9-14 [18]55:7 [19]68:28
[20]71:17-18 [21]76:10 [22]89:1 [23]90:15 [24]92:5
[25]94:18 [26]103:8 [27]103:8 [28]103:13 [29]103:14
[30]103:14 [31]104:1 [32]112:4 [33]112:5 [34]116:15
[35]119:32 [36]119:100 [37]119:105 [38]119:106 [39]119:112
[40]119:141 [41]127:1 [42]133:1 [43]136:1 [44]136:2
[45]136:4 [46]137:4 [47]144:1-2 [48]144:1-2

Proverbs

[49]1:4 [50]1:27 [51]9:4 [52]10:12 [53]10:12 [54]16:32
[55]18:19 [56]19:11

Ecclesiastes

[57]1:14 [58]2:11 [59]24:29

Song of Solomon

[60]1:2 [61]1:3 [62]1:6 [63]1:12 [64]2:1 [65]2:1 [66]2:3
[67]2:11 [68]4:6 [69]4:9 [70]5:2 [71]5:2 [72]5:3 [73]5:7
[74]6:10 [75]6:11 [76]6:12 [77]7:1 [78]7:1 [79]8:1 [80]8:7

Isaiah

[81]9:6 [82]38:14 [83]49:15 [84]53:3 [85]53:3 [86]53:3
[87]53:3 [88]53:4 [89]63:3 [90]63:5 [91]65:15 [92]66:12
[93]66:13

Jeremiah

[94]10:23

Joel

[95]2:19

Matthew

[96]3:10 [97]5:13 [98]5:40 [99]5:41 [100]5:42 [101]5:43
[102]5:44 [103]5:48 [104]6:3 [105]7:21 [106]8:10 [107]9:15
[108]9:37 [109]9:38 [110]10:34 [111]11:29 [112]11:30
[113]18:6 [114]19:14 [115]20:22 [116]20:23 [117]22:39
[118]25:34-36 [119]25:36 [120]25:40 [121]25:49 [122]26:23
[123]26:39 [124]26:64

Mark

[125]3:13 [126]7:28 [127]10:30 [128]14:3

Luke

[129]1:49 [130]2:14 [131]2:19 [132]2:33 [133]2:50 [134]5:5
[135]5:5 [136]5:32 [137]6:30 [138]6:32 [139]6:34 [140]6:35
[141]6:37 [142]7:47 [143]9:58 [144]10:21 [145]11:33
[146]12:32 [147]12:34 [148]14:12 [149]14:13 [150]14:14
[151]15:22 [152]15:31 [153]15:31 [154]15:31 [155]16:2
[156]16:8 [157]16:9 [158]17:21 [159]18:13 [160]19:5
[161]19:26 [162]22:28 [163]22:29 [164]22:29 [165]22:32
[166]22:42 [167]24:26

John

[168]1:5 [169]1:38 [170]3:8 [171]3:34 [172]4:7 [173]4:7
[174]4:35 [175]6:44 [176]8:10 [177]10:12 [178]11:4
[179]12:3 [180]12:24 [181]12:25 [182]12:26 [183]13:8
[184]13:15-17 [185]13:34 [186]14:2 [187]14:2 [188]14:2
[189]14:6 [190]14:23 [191]15:12 [192]15:12 [193]16:23
[194]16:23 [195]17 [196]17:17 [197]18:36 [198]18:38 [199]21:5

Romans

[200]8:15 [201]9:16

1 Corinthians

[202]2:9 [203]2:9 [204]4:3 [205]4:4 [206]4:5 [207]7:31
[208]12:31

2 Corinthians

[209]9:7 [210]11:5

Galatians

[211]2:20

Ephesians

[212]6:17 [213]6:17

Philippians

[214]2:7 [215]4:7

Titus

[216]1:15

Hebrews

[217]13:14

Revelation

[218]2:17 [219]21:4 [220]21:4 [221]22:12

Tobit

[222]12:7

Judith

[223]15:11

Wisdom of Solomon

[224]3:5 [225]3:6 [226]4:1 [227]4:11 [228]4:12 [229]5:10
[230]6:7

2 Esdras

[231]4:17

Sirach

[232]11:12 [233]11:13 [234]11:22 [235]11:23 [236]11:24