I pray God to bless your heart, my dear daughter, and I say to you these words according to my promise.
You should, every morning, before all things, pray God to give you the true sweetness of spirit he requires in souls which serve him, and resolve to exercise yourself well in that virtue, particularly towards the two persons to whom you are most bound.
You must undertake the task of conquering yourself in this matter, and remind yourself of it a hundred times a day, recommending to God this good design: for I do not see that you have much to do in order to subject your soul to the love of God, except to make it gentler from day to day, putting your confidence in his goodness. You will be blessed, my dearest daughter, if you do this; for God will dwell in the midst of your heart, and will reign there in all tranquillity.
But if you happen to commit some little failings, lose not courage: rather, put yourself straight again at once, neither more nor less than if you had not fallen.
This life is short, it is only given us to gain the other; and you will use it well if you are gentle towards those two persons, with whom God has placed you. Pray for my soul, that God may draw it to himself.
My dearest Daughter,—You will often be amongst the children of this world, who, according to their custom, will laugh at all they see or think they see in you contrary to their miserable inclinations. Do not busy yourself disputing with them, show no sort of sadness under their attacks; but joyously laugh at their laughter, despise their contempt, smile at their remonstrances, gracefully mock at their mockeries; and not giving attention to all this, walk always gaily in the service of God; and in time of prayer, commend these poor souls to the Divine mercy. They are worthy of compassion in having no desire for honourable company, except to laugh and mock at subjects worthy of respect and reverence.
I see that you abound in the goods of the present life; take care that your heart become not attached thereto. Solomon, the wisest of mortals, commenced his unspeakable misery by the pleasure he took in the grandeurs, ornaments and magnificent equipages he had, though all this was according to his quality. Let us consider that all we have makes us really nothing more than the rest of the world, and that all this is nothing before God and the Angels.
Remember, my dearest daughter, to fulfil well the will of God in the cases in which you may have the most difficulty. It is a little thing to please God in what pleases us: filial fidelity requires that we will to please him in what does not please us, putting before our eyes what the great well-beloved Son said of himself: I am not come to do my will, but the will of him that sent me.[1] For you also are not a Christian to do your own will, but to do the will of him who has adopted you for his daughter and eternal heiress.
For the rest, you are going away, and I—I also am going away, without any hope of seeing you again in this world. Let us pray God earnestly to give us grace so to live according to his pleasure in this pilgrimage, that arriving at our heavenly country, we may be able to rejoice at having seen one another here below, and to have spoken here of the mysteries of eternity. In this alone must we rejoice to have loved one another in this life, namely, that all has been for the glory of his Divine Majesty, and our eternal salvation.
Keep that holy gaiety of heart, which nourishes the strength of the soul, and edifies our neighbour. Go thus in peace, my dearest daughter, and God be ever your protector; may he ever hold you in his hand, and conduct you in the way of his holy will Amen, my dearest daughter. And I promise you that every day I will renew these sacred wishes for your soul, which mine will ever cherish unchangeably. And to God be ever praise, thanksgiving and benedictions. Amen.
I answer your last letter, my good daughter. The ardours of love in prayer are good if they leave good effects and occupy you not with yourself, but with God and his holy will. In a word, all interior and exterior movements which strengthen your fidelity towards this Divine will are always good. Love, then, celestial desires, and desire as strongly celestial love. We must desire to love and love to desire what can never be enough desired or loved.
May God give us the grace, my daughter, to absolutely despise the world, which is so hostile to us as to crucify us if we crucify it. But mental abnegations of worldly vanities and goods are made easily enough: real ones are far more hard. And here you are amidst the occasions of practising this virtue up to its extreme point, since to this abnegation is joined reproach, and since it comes on you, without you and through you, or rather in God, with God and for God.
You do not satisfy me about what I said to you the other day, on your first letter, touching those worldly repartees, and that vivacity of heart which urges you. My child, determine to mortify yourself in this: often make the cross on your mouth, that it may open only according to God.
Truly a lively wit often causes us much vanity; and we oftener show disdain by the expression of our mind than the expression of our face; we give arch looks by our words, as well as by the looks themselves. It is not good to walk on tiptoe, either in mind or body; for if we stumble the fall is all the worse. So then, my child, take good pains to cut off, little by little, this excrescence of your spiritual tree; keep your heart very low, very quiet there at the foot of the cross. Continue to tell me very frankly and often news of that heart, which mine cherishes with great love, on account of him, who died of love, that we might live by love in his holy death.
Vive Jésus.
My dear Child,—Indeed, very dear child, my cousin, you must get this poor soul away from risk, for the luxurious way of living in the place where it is, is so perilous that it is a wonder when a person escapes from the midst of it. Alas! my poor child, you have a right to be astonished that a creature should will to offend God, for that goes beyond all astonishment: still it is done, as we unhappily see every day. The unfortunate beauty and grace which these poor worthless girls make themselves believe they have, because those miserable people tell them so, is what ruins them: for they occupy themselves so much with the body that they lose care of the soul. So then, my child, we must do what we can, and remain in peace.
Mademoiselle,—I received by my brother one of your letters, which makes me praise God for having given some light to your mind: but if it is not yet altogether detached, you must not be astonished. Spiritual as well as corporal fevers are generally followed by some returns of the feeling of illness, which are useful to the person who is getting better for many reasons; but particularly because they consume the remains of peccant humours which had caused the malady, so that there may not remain a trace of them; and because they remind us of the evil past, to make us fear the relapse which we might bring on by too much liberty and license, if the old feelings, like threats, did not keep us on our guard with ourselves, until our health is perfectly restored.
But, my good daughter, as you have half got out of those terrible paths which you have had to travel, I think you should now take a little rest, and consider the vanity of the human spirit, how prone it is to entangle and embarrass itself in itself.
For I am sure you will remark that those interior troubles you have suffered have been caused by a great multitude of considerations and desires produced by a great eagerness to attain some imaginary perfection. I mean that your imagination had formed for you an ideal of absolute perfection, to which your will wished to lift itself; but frightened by this great difficulty or rather impossibility, it remained in dangerous travail unable to bring forth, to the great danger of the child. Then it multiplied useless desires which, like great buzzing drones, devoured the honey of the hive, and the true and good desires remained deprived of all consolation. So now take a little breath, rest a little; and by the consideration of dangers escaped, avert those which might come afterwards. Suspect all those desires which, according to the general opinion of good people, cannot come to effect: such as the desires of a certain Christian perfection which can be imagined but not practised, in which many take lessons, but which no one realizes in action.
Know that the virtue of patience is the one which most assures us of perfection; and if we must have patience with others, so we must with ourselves. Those who aspire to the pure love of God have not so much need of patience with others as with themselves. We must suffer our imperfection in order to have perfection; I say suffer, not love or pet: humility feeds on this suffering.
The truth must be told; we are poor creatures, and can only just get on: but God who is infinitely good is content with our little services, and pleased with the preparation of our heart.
I will tell you what is meant by this preparation of heart? According to the Holy Text, God is greater than our heart, and our heart is greater than all the world. Now, when our heart, by itself, in its meditation, prepares the service it will render to God—that is, when it makes its plans for serving God, honouring him, serving our neighbour, mortifying the interior and exterior senses, and similar good resolutions,—at such times it does wonders, it makes preparations and gets ready its actions for an eminent degree of admirable perfection. All this preparation is indeed nowise proportioned to the greatness of God, who is infinitely greater than our heart; but still this preparation is generally greater than the world, than our strength, than our exterior actions.
A soul which considers the greatness of God, his immense goodness and dignity, cannot satisfy herself in making great and marvellous preparations for him. She prepares him a flesh, mortified beyond rebellion, an attention at prayer without distraction, a sweetness in conversation with no bitterness, a humility with no outbreak of vanity.
All this is very good, here are good preparations. And still more would be required to serve God according to our duty: but at the end of this we must find some one to do it: for when it comes to practice we stop short, and perceive that these perfections can neither be so grand in us nor so absolute. We can mortify the flesh, but not so perfectly that there shall be no rebellion: our attention will often be broken by distractions, and so on. And must we, for this, trouble, worry, excite ourselves? Certainly not.
Are we to apply a world of desires to excite ourselves to arrive at this miracle of perfection? No. We may indeed make simple wishes that show our gratitude. I may say: Ah! why am I not as fervent as the Seraphim, in order better to serve and praise my God! but I should not occupy myself with forming desires, as if I must in this world attain that exquisite perfection. I must not say: I wish it; I will try to get it; and if I cannot reach it, I will be vexed.
I do not mean to say that we are not to put ourselves in that direction; but we are not to desire to get there in one day, that is, in one day of this mortality: for this desire would torment us, and for nothing. To advance well we must apply ourselves to make good way in the road nearest to us, and to do the first day’s journey. We must not busy ourselves with wanting to do the last, but remember that we are to do and work out the first.
I will give you this word, and keep it well: sometimes we so much occupy ourselves with being good angels that we neglect being good men and women. Our imperfection must accompany us to our coffin, we cannot move without touching earth. We are not to lie or wallow there, but still we are not to think of flying: for we are but little chicks, and have not our wings yet. We are dying little by little; so we are to make our imperfections die with us day by day: dear imperfections, which make us acknowledge our misery, exercise us in humility, contempt of self, patience, diligence; and in spite of which God regards the preparation of our hearts, which is perfect.
I know not if I am writing to the purpose, but it has come to my heart to say this to you, as I think that a part of your past trouble has come from this —that you have made great preparations, and then, seeing that the results were very small, and strength insufficient to put in practice these desires, these plans, these ideas, you have had certain heartbursts, impatiences, disquietudes and troubles; then have followed distrusts, languors, depressions, or failings of heart: well, if it is so, be very good for the future.
Let us go by land, since the high sea makes our head turn, and gives us retchings. Let us keep at our Lord’s feet, with St. Magdalen, whose feast we are celebrating: let us practise certain little virtues proper for our littleness. Little pedler, little pack. These are the virtues which are more exercised in going down, than in going up, and therefore they are suitable to our legs: patience, bearing with our neighbour, submission, humility, sweetness of temper, affability, toleration of our imperfection, and such little virtues as these. I do not say that we are not to mount by prayer, but step by step.
I recommend to you holy simplicity: look before you, and regard not those dangers which you see afar off. As you say, they seem to you armies, and they are only willow-branches, and while you are looking at them you may make some false step. Let us have a firm and general intention of serving God all our life, and with all our heart: beyond that let us have no solicitude for the morrow,[2] let us only think of doing well to-day; when to-morrow arrives it will be called in its turn to-day, and then we will think of it. We must here again have a great confidence and acquiescence in the providence of God; we must make provision of manna for each day and no more, and we must not doubt that God will rain more to-morrow, and after to-morrow, and all the days of our pilgrimage.
I extremely approve the advice of Father N., that you take a director into whose arms you may be able sweetly to lay your spirit. It will be your happiness to have no other than the sweet Jesus, who, as he wishes us not to despise the service of his ministers when we can have it, so when that is wanting supplies for all:—but only in that extremity, so that if you are reduced to that you will find it out.
What I wrote to you was not to keep you from communicating to me by letters, or speaking with me about your soul, which is tenderly dear and well-beloved to me. It was to extinguish the ardour of the confidence you had in me, who, through my inefficiency and your distance from me, can be to you but very little use, though very affectionate and very devoted in Jesus Christ. Write to me then with confidence, and doubt not at all that I will answer faithfully.
I have put at the bottom of the letter what you want, that it may be for you alone. Pray hard for me, I beg you. It is incredible how pressed down and oppressed I am by this great and difficult charge. This charity you owe me by the laws of our alliance, and 1 pay you back by the continual memory which I keep of you at the altar in my feeble prayers. Blessed be our Lord. I beg him to be your heart, your soul, your life; and I am your servant, &c.
O God! how far more constant and firm are the friendships founded in charity than those whose foundation is in flesh and blood, or in worldly motives.
Do not trouble yourself about your drynesses and barrennesses; rather comfort yourself in your superior soul, and remember what our God has said: Blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are they who hunger and thirst after justice.[3]
What a happiness to serve God in the desert without manna, without water, and without other consolation than that of being under his guidance, and suffering for him! May the most Blessed Virgin be truly born in our hearts to bring her blessings to them. I am in her and in her Son entirely yours.
13th June, 1620.
Will that amiable spirit which I saw in you during some months, while you were in this town, my dearest daughter, never come back into your heart? Truly, when I see how it has gone out, I am in great perplexity, not about your salvation, for I hope that you will still effect that; but about your perfection, to which God calls you, and has never ceased to call you since your youth.
For, I pray, my dearest daughter, how could I advise you to stay in the world? I know the excellent disposition which is at the bottom of your heart; but it is accompanied with so strong an inclination to the grandeur and dignity of life, and to natural, human prudence and wisdom, and with such great activity, subtlety and delicacy of mind, that I should fear infinitely to see you in the world; there being no condition more dangerous in that state than a good disposition accompanied by such qualities. If we add to this your incomparable aversion to obedience, there is nothing more to say except that on no consideration whatever must you remain in the world.
And yet how could I advise you to enter into religion, while not only do you not desire it, but your heart is entirely opposed to that kind of life?
A sort of life then must be sought neither of the world nor of religion, without the miseries of the world and the constraints of religion. We may just manage, I think, that you should have the entrée to some house of the Visitation, to recollect yourself often in the religious life, and still that you should not be bound to it. You may even have a lodging near, for your retreat, with only the tie of some exercises of devotion useful for a good life. Thus you will have convenience for satisfying your spirit which so strangely dislikes submission and the tie of obedience, which finds it so hard to meet with souls made to its desire, and which is so clear-sighted in finding defects, and so sensitive in feeling them.
Oh! when I call to memory the happy time when I saw you, according to my wish, so entirely stripped of self, so desirous of mortifications, so attached to self-abnegation, I cannot but hope to see it again.
As to your dwelling, I leave you the choice of it: as for mine I think it will be in your country after my return from Rome, which will be about Easter, if I go. But make a good choice of place, where you can be well helped.
As you wish it I will treat with Monsieur N. O God, how ardently and unchangeably I desire that your affairs may be settled without lawsuits. For, you see, the money which your suits will cost, will be enough to live upon, and what certainty is there of the result? How do you know what the judges will say and decide about your cause? And then you pass your best days in this most wretched occupation, and will have few left to be usefully employed in your principal object; and God knows if, after a long quarrel, you will be able to recall your dissipated spirit to unite it to his divine goodness.
My child, those who live on the sea die on the sea; I have scarcely ever seen people embark in lawsuits who did not die in that entanglement. Now, think whether your soul is made for that; whether your time is rightly devoted to that; get M. Vincent,[4] examine well with him all this affair, and cut it short.
Do not wish to be rich, my dearest daughter; or at least if you can only be so by these miserable ways of lawsuits, be rather poor, my dearest child, than rich at the cost of your peace.
You should make a general confession since you cannot otherwise soothe your conscience, and since a learned and virtuous ecclesiastic advised it. But I have no time to write more to you, carried off by businesses, and hurried by the departure of this bearer. God be in the midst of your heart. Amen.
Mademoiselle, I answer your letter of the second of this month, later than I wished, considering the quality of the advice and counsel you ask me; but the great rains have hindered travellers from starting, at least I have had no safe opportunity till this.
The advice your good cousin so constantly gave you to remain your own mistress, in the care of your father, and able afterwards to consecrate heart and body to our Lord, was founded on a great number of considerations drawn from many circumstances of your condition. For which reason, if your spirit had been in a full and entire indifference, I should doubtless have told you that you should follow that advice as the noblest and most proper that could be offered, for it would have been such beyond all question.
But since your spirit is not at all in indifference, and quite bent to the election of marriage, and since in spite of your recourse to God you feel yourself still attached to it, it is not expedient to do violence to so confirmed a feeling for any reason whatever. All the circumstances which otherwise would be more than enough to make me agree with the dear cousin, have no weight against this strong inclination and propensity; which, indeed, if it were weak and slight, would be of little account, but being powerful and firm, must be the foundation of your resolution.
If then the husband proposed to you is otherwise suitable—a good man, and of sympathetic humour, you may profitably accept him. I say sympathetic because this bodily defect of yours[5] requires sympathy, as it requires you to compensate it by a great sweetness, a sincere love, and a very resigned humility—in short, true virtue and perfection of soul must cover all over the blemish of body.
I am much pressed for time, my dear daughter, and cannot say many things to you. I will end, then, by assuring you that I will ever recommend you to our Lord, that he may direct your life to his glory.
The state of marriage is one which requires more virtue and constancy than any other; it is a perpetual exercise of mortification; it will perhaps be so to you more than usual. You must then dispose yourself to it with a particular care, that from this thyme-plant, in spite of the bitter nature of its juice, you may be able to draw and make the honey of a holy life. May the sweet Jesus be ever your sugar and your honey to sweeten your vocation; ever may he live and reign in our hearts. I am in him, &c.
8th April, 1609.
Mademoiselle,—Wishing to honour, cherish, and serve you all my life, I have inquired of Madam, your dear cousin, my sister, about the state of your heart, of which she has said what consoles me. How happy will you be, my dear child, if you persevere in despising the promises which the world will want to make you, for in real truth it is only a real deceiver. Let us never look at what it offers, without considering what it hides. It is true, doubtless, that a good husband is a great help, but there are very few, and good as he may be, he becomes more of a tie than a help. You have a great anxiety for the family which is on your hands, but it would not lessen if you undertook the charge of another, perhaps as large. Stay as you are, and believe me, make a resolution to this effect so strong and so evident that no one may doubt it. The circumstances in which you are now will serve you as a little martyrdom, if you continue to join your labours therein to those of our Saviour, of our Lady and the Saints; who, amid the variety and multiplicity of the importunities which their charge gave them, have inviolably kept the love and the devotion for the holy unity of God, in whom, by whom, and for whom they have conducted their lives to a most happy end.
O that you may, like them, keep and consecrate to God your heart, your body, your love, and all your life! I am, in all sincerity, your &c.
I do not tell you the truly more than paternal love my heart has for you, my dearest daughter, for I think that God himself, who has created it, will tell it you; and if he does not make it known it is not in my power to do so. But why do I say this to you? Because, my dearest daughter, I have not written to you as often as you might have wished, and people sometimes judge of the affection more by the sheets of paper than by the fruit of the true interior sentiments, which only appear on rare and signal occasions, and which are more useful.
Well, you ask me for a paper which hitherto I have not been able to find, and which M. has not either. You wish that if it is not in our hands we should send instantly to Rome for a similar one. But, my child, I think there has been a change of bishop at Troyes; and if so, then we must know his name.
And, without further preface, I am going to say to you, without art or disguise, what my soul wishes to say to you. How long will you aim at other victories over the world or other love for the things you can see there than our Lord had, to which he exhorts you in so many ways? How acted he, this Saviour of the world? It is true, my child, he was the lawful sovereign of the world, and did he ever go to law to have so much as where to lay his head? A thousand wrongs were done him; what suit did he ever make? Before what tribunal did he ever cite anyone?
None, indeed; yea, he did not will even to cite the traitors who crucified him before the tribunal of God! on the contrary, he invoked on them the power of mercy. And it is this which he has so fully inculcated. To him who would go to law with thee and take away thy coat, give thy tunic also.[6]
I am not at all extravagant (superstitieux) and blame not those who go to law, provided they do so in truth, judgment, and justice: but I say, I exclaim, I cry out, and, if need were, would write with my own blood, that those who want to be perfect, and entirely children of Jesus Christ crucified, must practise this doctrine of our Lord. Let the world rage, let the prudence of the flesh tear out its hair with spite if it likes, and let all the wise men of the age invent as many divisions, pretexts, excuses, as they like; but this word ought to be preferred to all prudence: And if any man would go to law with thee and take away thy coat, (en jugement) give him thy cloak also.
But this, you will tell me, applies to certain cases. True, my dearest daughter; but, thank God, we are in such case, for we aspire to perfection, and wish to follow as near as we can him who said with an affection truly apostolic: Having food, and wherewith to be clothed, with these we are content.[7] And who cried out to the Corinthians: Indeed, there is already plainly fault and sin in you, for that you go to law with one another.[8] Hearken, my child, to the sentiments and advice of this man, who no longer lived in himself, but Christ lived in him.[9] Why, says he, do you not rather suffer yourselves to be defrauded?|[10] Notice, my child, that he speaks, not to a daughter who aspires after a particular manner and after so many inspirations, to the perfect life, but to all the Corinthians. Notice that he wishes them to suffer the wrong, that there is fault in them to go to law with those who cheat and defraud them. But what sin? In that they thus scandalize the heathen children of the world, who said: “See how Christian these Christians are. Their master says: To him who would take thy coat, give also thy cloak: see, how for temporal goods they risk the eternal, and the tender brotherly love they should have for one another.” On this S. Augustine says: “Note the lesson of our Lord; he says not to him who would take away a ring, give also thy necklace,—both of which are superfluous: but he speaks of the tunic and mantle, which are necessary things.”
O, my dearest daughter, behold the wisdom of God, behold his prudence, consisting in the most holy and most adorable simplicity, childlikeness, and, to speak after an apostolic manner, in the most sacred folly of the cross.
But, thus will say to me human prudence,—to what will you reduce us? What! are they to tread us under foot, to twist our nose, to play with us as with a bauble? Are they to dress and undress us without our saying a word? Yes, indeed, I wish that; not I, indeed, but Christ wishes it in me; and the Apostle of the cross and of the crucified cries out: Until now we are hungry, we are thirsty, we are naked, we are buffetted; in fine, we are become the offscouring of the world (as an apple peeling, a sweeping up, a chestnut skin, or a nutshell).[11] The inhabitants of Babylon understand not this doctrine, but the dwellers on Mount Calvary practise it.
“O,” you will say, my child, “you are very severe, father, all at once.” Indeed it is not all at once, for since I have had grace to know a little the spirit of the cross, this sentiment entered into my mind, and has never left it. And if I have not lived according to it, this has been through weakness of heart and not through thinking it right; the howling of the world has made me do externally the evil I hated internally: and I will dare to say this word, to my confusion, into my daughter’s ear: I never rendered injury or evil except unwillingly (à contre coeur). I do not scrutinize my conscience, but so far as I see in the general, I believe I speak the truth; and so much the more inexcusable am I.
I quite agree, my child, Be prudent as the serpent,[12] who despoils himself entirely, not of his dress, but of his very skin, to renew his youth; who hides his head, says S. Gregory (which is, for us, fidelity to the Gospel teaching), and leaves all the rest to the mercy of his enemies to save the integrity of that.
But what am I saying? I write this letter with impetuosity, and I have been obliged to write it at two sittings, and love is not prudent and discreet, it goes violently and in advance of itself.
You have there so many people of honour, of wisdom, of loving temper, of piety: will it not be possible for them to bring Madame de C. and Madame de L. to some understanding which will give you a holy sufficiency? Are they tigers, who cannot be brought to reason? Have you not there M. N., in whose prudence all you have and all you claim would be very safe? Have you not M. N., who will certainly do you this favour of assisting you in this Christian way of peace? And the good Father N., will he not be pleased to serve God in your affair, which regards almost your very salvation, and quite, at least, your advancement in perfection? And then Madame N., should she not be believed, for she is certainly, I do not only say very, very good, but also prudent enough to advise you in this case.
What duplicities, artifices, worldly speeches, and perhaps lies, how many little injustices, and soft and well-covered, and imperceptible calumnies, are used in this confusion of suits and procedures! Will you not say that you wish to marry, scandalizing the whole world by an evident lie, unless you have a constant preceptor who will whisper in your ear the purity of sincerity? Will you not say that you wish to live in the world, and to be supported according to your birth? that you have need of this and that? And what about all this ant’s-nest of thoughts and fancies which these transactions will breed in your spirit? Leave, leave to the worldly their world: what need have you of what is required to live in it? Two thousand crowns and still less will abundantly suffice for a person who loves our Saviour crucified. A hundred and fifty crowns income, or two hundred, are riches for one who believes in the article of evangelical poverty.
But if I were not a cloistered religious, and only associated to some monastery, I should be too poor to have myself called my lady by more than one or two servants. How? Have you ever seen that our Lady had so much? What need for it to be known that you are of good family according to the world, if you are of the household of God? Oh! but I should like to found some house of piety, or at least give some assistance to such a house; for, being infirm in body, they would then more willingly keep me. Ah! now it comes out, my dearest daughter. I knew very well your piety was making a plank for self-love, so piteously human is it. In fact, we do not love crosses, unless they are in gold, with pearls and enamel. It is a rich, a most devout, and admirably spiritual abjection to be regarded in a congregation as foundress, or at least great benefactress! Lucifer would have been willing to remain in heaven on that condition. But to live on alms, like our Lord, to take the charity of others in our illnesses, being by birth and in spirit so and so, this certainly is very trying and hard. It is hard to man, but not to the Son of God, who will do it in you.
But is it not a good thing to have of one’s own to employ at one’s will in the service of God? The expression at one’s will (à son gré) makes our difference clear. But I say, at your will, my father; for I am always your child, God having willed it so. Well, then, my will is that you content yourself with what M. N. and Madame N. think proper, and that you leave the rest, for the love of God and the edification of your neighbour, and the peace of the ladies, your sisters, and that you consecrate it thus to the love of your neighbour and the glory of the Christian spirit. O God! what blessings, graces, spiritual riches for your soul, my dearest daughter. If you do this you will abound and superabound: God will bless your little, and it will satisfy you: no, no, it is not difficult to God to do as much with five barley loaves, as Solomon with all his cooks and purveyors. Remain in peace. I am quite unchangeably your true servant and father.
On the first part of the letter you have written to Madame N. and which you wished to be communicated to me, my dearest daughter, I will say that if M.N. made to you no other assertions than those you give, and if the matter were before us, we should condemn him to espouse you, under heavy penalties; for he has no right, on account of considerations which he could and should have made before his promise, to break his word. But I do not know how things go over there, where often the rules which we have in our ecclesiastical affairs are not known.
Meantime, my dearest daughter, my desire to dissuade you from prosecuting this wretched suit did not arise from distrust of your good right, but from the aversion and bad opinion I have of all processes and contentions. Truly the result of a process must be marvellously happy, to make up for the expense, the bitterness, the eager excitements, the dissipation of heart, the atmosphere of reproaches, and the multitude of inconveniences which prosecutions usually bring. Above all I consider worrying and useless, yea, injurious, the suits which arise from injurious words and breaches of promise when there is no real interest at stake; because suits, instead of putting down insults, publish them, increase and continue them; and instead of causing the fulfilment of promises drive to the other extreme.
Look, my dear daughter, I consider that in real truth the contempt of contempt is the testimony of generosity which we give by our disdain of the weakness and inconstancy of those who break the faith they have given us: it is the best remedy of all. Most injuries are more happily met by the contempt which is shown for them than by any other means; the blame lies rather with the injurer than with the injured. But now, withal, these are my general sentiments, which perhaps are not proper in the particular state in which your affairs are; and following good advice, taken on the consideration of the particular circumstances which present themselves, you cannot go wrong.
I will then pray our Lord to give you a good and holy issue to this affair, that you may arrive at the port of a solid and constant tranquillity of heart, which can only be obtained in God, in whose holy love I wish that you may more and more progress. God bless you with his great blessings, that is, my dear child, God make you perfectly his. I am in him your very affectionate, &c.
I salute with all my heart your father, whom I cherish with a quite special love and honour, and madam your dear sister.
How grieved am I, my dearest daughter, not to have received your last letter; but our dear Madame N. having told me the state of your affairs, I tell you from my heart, from a heart which is entirely devoted to yours, that you must not be obstinately set on going to law; you will spend your time in this uselessly, and your heart also, which is worse.
Faith given to you has been broken: he who has broken it has all the more sin. Do you wish, on that account, to engage yourself in so ill an occupation as that of a wretched lawsuit? You will be but poorly revenged, if after having suffered this wrong, you lose your tranquillity, your time, and the peace of your interior.
You could not show greater courage than in despising insults. Happy they who are left free at the cost of the less trying ones! Exclaim as S. Francis did when his father rejected him, “Ah! I will say then with more confidence, Our Father who art in heaven, as I have no longer one on earth.” And you; ah! I will say with more confidence: my spouse, my love, who is in heaven.
Preserve your peace, and be content with Divine Providence, which brings you back to the port from which you were departing. As you were intending to act, instead of a prosperous voyage you might have perhaps met with a great shipwreck. Receive this advice from a friend who cherishes you very purely and very sincerely; and I pray God to load you with blessings. In haste, I salute our dear sister.
Mademoiselle,—Some time ago I received one of your letters, which I much value, because it testifies to the confidence you have in my love, which indeed is really yours, doubt not. I only regret that I am very little capable of answering what you ask me concerning your troubles in prayer. I know that you are where you cannot lack anything in this kind; but charity, which loves to communicate itself, makes you ask mine in giving me yours. I will therefore say something to you.
The disquietude you have in prayer, which is joined with a very eager anxiety to find some object which may content your spirit, is enough, of itself, to hinder you from getting what you seek. We pass our hand and our eyes a hundred times over a thing, without noticing it at all, when we seek it with too much excitement.
From this vain and useless eagerness you can only incur lassitude of spirit; and hence this coldness and numbness of your soul. I know not the remedies you should use, but I feel sure that if you can prevent this eagerness you will gain much; for it is one of the greatest traitors which devotion and true virtue can meet with. It pretends to excite us to good, but it is only to make us tepid, and only makes us run in order to make us stumble. This is why we must always beware of it, and specially in prayer.
And to aid yourself in this, remember that the graces and goods of prayer are not waters of earth but of heaven, and that thus all our efforts cannot obtain them. Of course, we must dispose ourselves for them with a great care, but a humble and quiet care. We must keep our hearts open to heaven, and await the holy dew. And never forget to carry to prayer this consideration, that in it we approach God, and put ourselves in his presence for two principal reasons.
1. To give God the honour and homage we owe him; and this can be done without his speaking to us or we to him: for this duty is paid by remembering that he is our God, and we his vile creatures, and by remaining prostrate in spirit before him, awaiting his commands.
How many courtiers go a hundred times into the presence of the king, not to hear him or speak to him, but simply to be seen by him, and to testify by this assiduity that they are his servants? And this end in prostrating ourselves before God, only to testify and protest our will and gratitude is very excellent, holy, and pure, and therefore of the greatest perfection.
2. To speak with him, and hear him speak to us by his inspirations and interior movements, and generally this is with a very delicious pleasure, because it is a great good for us to speak to so great a Lord; and when he answers he spreads abroad a thousand precious balms and unguents, which give great sweetness to the soul.
Well, my daughter, as you wish me to speak thus, one of these two goods can never fail you in prayer. If we can speak to our Lord, let us speak, let us praise him, beseech him, listen to him; if we cannot use our voice, still let us stay in the room and do reverence to him; he will see us there, he will accept our patience, and will favour our silence; another time we shall be quite amazed to be taken by the hand and he will converse with us, and will make a hundred turns with us in the walks of his garden of prayer. And if he should never do this, let us be content with our duty of being in his suite, and with the great grace and too great honour he does us in suffering our presence.
Thus we shall not be over-eager to speak to him, since it is not less useful for us to be with him; yea, it is more useful though not so much to our taste. When, then, you come to him, speak to him if you can; if you cannot, stay there; be seen, and care for nothing else. Such is my advice, I do not know if it is good, but I am not too much concerned about it, because, as I have said, you are where much better advice cannot fail you.
As to your fear that your father may make you lose your desire to be a Carmelite, by the long time he fixes, say to God: Lord, all my desire is before you,[13] and let him act; he will turn your father’s heart and arrange for his own glory and your good. Meanwhile nourish your good desire, and keep it alive under the ashes of humility and resignation to the will of God.
My prayers which you ask, are not wanting to you; for I could not forget you, especially at Holy Mass; I trust to your charity not to be forgotten in yours.
Annecy, 3rd July, 1612.
Mademoiselle,—You think that your desire to enter religion is not according to God’s will, because you do not find it agree with that of the persons who have the power to command and the duty to guide you. If this refers to those who have from God the power and duty to guide your soul and to command you in spiritual things, you are certainly right. In obeying them you cannot err, although they may err and advise you badly, if they look principally to any thing else than your salvation and spiritual progress. But if you mean those whom God has given you for directors in temporal and domestic things, you are wrong when you trust them in things in which they have no authority over you. If we had to hear the advice of our relatives, of flesh and blood, in such circumstances, there would be few who would embrace the perfection of the Christian life. This is the first point.
The second is, that as you have not only desired to leave the world, but would again desire it if allowed by those who have kept you back, it is a clear sign that God wishes your departure, since he continues his inspirations amid so many contradictions. Your heart, touched by the loadstone, always points towards the pole-star, though quickly turned aside by impediments of earth. For, what would your heart say, if unhindered? Would it not say: Let us go from amongst those of the world? This then is still its inspiration; but being hindered it cannot or dares not say thus.
Give it its liberty before it speaks, for it could not speak better things, and this secret it says, so quietly to itself: I should like, I should greatly wish to leave the world— this is the true will of God.
In this you are wrong (pardon my straightforward liberty of speech)—in this, I say, you are wrong, to call what hinders the execution of this desire the will of God, and the power of those who hinder you, the power of God.
The third point of my counsel is that you are not at all wrong with God, since the desire of retreat which he has given is always in your heart, though hindered from its effect. The balance of your mind inclines that way, though a finger is placed on the other side to hinder the proper weighing.
The fourth—that if your first desire has been in any way wrong, you must mend it, and not break it. I am given to understand that you have offered half your property, or the price of that house which is now dedicated to God. Perhaps this was too much, considering that you have a sister with a large family, for which, by the order of charity, you should rather employ your property. So then, you must reduce this excess, and come to this house with a part of your income, as much as is necessary for quiet living, leaving all the rest as you like, and even reserving the above-named part, after your death, for those to whom you may wish to do good. Thus you will guard against extremes and keep to your design, and all will go gaily, gently, and holily.
In fine, take courage, and make a good absolute resolution; though it is not a sin to remain thus in these weaknesses, still, you lose good chances of making progress and of gaining very desirable consolations.
I have informed you exactly of my opinion, thinking you will do me the favour not to think it wrong of me. God give you the holy benedictions I wish you, and the sweet correspondence he desires from your heart, and I am in him, with all sincerity, Mademoiselle, your, &c.
1619.
Mademoiselle,—You made me promise, and I faithfully keep my word. I beg God to give you his holy strength, generously to break all the ties which hinder your heart from following his heavenly attractions. My God! the truth must be told; it is sad to see a dear little bee, caught in the vile web of spiders. But, if a favourable wind break this frail net and cruel threads, why should not this dear little bee loosen itself and get out, and hasten to make its sweet honey?
You see, dearest daughter, my thoughts: make yours known to this Saviour who calls you. I cannot help loving your soul, which I know to be good, and cannot but wish it that most desirable gift—the love of generous perfection. I remember the tears you shed when, saying to you Adieu (ADieu, literally, to God), I wished you to be A-Dieu. And you, to be more ADieu, said Adieu to all that is not for God (pour Dieu). Meanwhile I assure you, my dearest daughter, that I am greatly your servant in God.
The Eve of our Lady’s, 8th September, 1619.
My Dearest Daughter,—I say to you with all my heart, Adieu; may you ever be “to God” in this mortal life, serving him faithfully in the pain of carrying the cross after him here, and in the heavenly life, blessing him eternally with all the heavenly court. It is the great good of our souls to be “to God,” and the greatest good to be only “to God.”
He who is only “to God” is never sorrowful, except for having offended God; and his sorrow for that dwells in a deep, but tranquil and peaceful humility and submission. Then he raises himself up in the Divine goodness, by a sweet and perfect confidence, without annoyance or bitterness.
He who is “to God” only, seeks him only; and because God is not less in adversity than prosperity, such a one remains at peace in adversity.
He who is “to God” only, often thinks of him amidst all the occupations of this life.
He who is “to God” only, wishes every one to know whom he serves, and tries to take the means proper for remaining united to him.
Be then all “to God,” my dearest daughter, and be only his, only wishing to please him, and his creatures in him, according to him, and for him. What greater blessing can I wish you? Thus, then, by this desire, which I will unceasingly make for your soul, my dearest daughter, I say to you “ADieu;” and praying you often to recommend me to his mercy, I remain your, &c.
Mademoiselle,—I will gladly keep the copy of your vow, and God will keep the fulfilment of it. He was its author, and he will be its keeper. I will often make for this end St. Augustine’s prayer: Alas! Lord, here is a little chicken hidden under the wings of your grace: if it gets out of the shadow of its mother the kite will seize it. Let it then live by the help and protection of the grace which brought it forth. But look, my sister, you must not even think whether this resolution will be lasting; this must be held as so certain and settled that there can no longer be any doubt of it.
You do me a great favour in telling me a word about your inclinations. However slight these may be, they injure our soul, when they are ill regulated. Keep them in check, and do not think them of small account; for they are of much weight, in the scales of the sanctuary.
The desire to avoid occasions is not to be gratified in this matter; for it makes us give up real earnestness in fighting. This latter is a necessity, while the former is impossible; moreover, where there is no danger of mortal sin, we must not flee, but must conquer all our enemies, and keep on, not losing heart, even if sometimes beaten.
Yes, truly, my dear daughter, expect from me all that you can expect from a true father; for I have, indeed, just such affection for you; you will know it as we advance, God helping.
So then, my good daughter, here you are afflicted, in just the proper way to serve God.
Afflictions without abjection often puff the heart up instead of humbling it, but when we suffer evil without honour, or when dishonour itself, contempt and abjection are our evil, what occasions have we of exercising patience, humility, modesty, and sweetness of heart!
The glorious St. Paul rejoiced, and with a holy and glorious humility, in that he and his companions were esteemed as the sweepings and rakings of the world. You have still, you tell me, a very lively sense of injuries; but, my dear daughter, this “still,” what does it refer to? Have you already done much in conquering those enemies? I mean by this to remind you that we must have good courage and a good heart to do better in the future, since we are only beginning, though we have a good desire to do well.
In order to become fervent in prayer, desire very much to be so, willingly read the praises of prayer, which are given in many books, in Granada, the beginning of Bellintani, and elsewhere; because the appetite for food makes us very pleased to eat it.
You are very happy, my child, in having devoted yourself to God. Do you remember what St. Francis said when his father stripped him before the Bishop of Assisi? “Now, therefore, I can well say: ‘Our Father who art in heaven.’ ” David says: My father and mother have left me, but the Lord has taken me up.[14] Make no apology for writing to me, there is no need, since I am, so willingly, devoted to your soul. May God bless it with his great blessings and make it all his!
Amen.
Mademoiselle,—You should resign yourself entirely into the hands of the good God, who, when you have done your little duty about this inspiration and design which you have, will be pleased with whatever you do, even if it be much less. In a word, you must have courage to do everything to become a religious, since God gives you such a desire: but if after all your efforts you cannot succeed, you could not please our Lord more than by sacrificing to him your will, and remaining in tranquillity, humility, and devotion, entirely conformed and submissive to his divine will and good pleasure, which you will recognize clearly enough when, having done your best, you cannot fulfil your desires.
For our good God sometimes tries our courage and our love, depriving us of the things which seem to us, and which really are, very good for the soul; and if he sees us ardent in their pursuit, and yet humble, tranquil, and resigned to the doing without and to the privation of the thing sought, he gives us blessings greater in the privation than in the possession of the thing desired; for in all, and everywhere, God loves those who with good heart, and simply, on all occasions, and in all events, can say to him,
THY WILL BE DONE.
Annecy, 6th March, 1622.
I have never seen you, my dearest daughter, so far as I know, except upon the mountain of Calvary, where reside the hearts which the heavenly Spouse favours with his divine loves. O how happy are you, my dearest daughter, so faithfully and lovingly to have chosen this dwelling-place to adore the crucified Jesus in this life! For thus you are assured of adoring Jesus Christ glorified in the next.
But, look you, the inhabitants of this hill must be despoiled of all worldly habits and affections, as their king was of the garments which he wore when he got there. These, though they had been holy, had been profaned when the executioners stripped them off in the house of Pilate.
Beware, my dear child, of entering into the banquet of the cross, a thousand thousand times more delicious than secular marriage feasts, without the pure white robe, clear of all intention save to please the Lamb. O my dear child, how lovely is heaven’s eternity, and how miserable are the moments of earth! Aspire continually to this eternity, and boldly despise this failing scene, and the moments of this mortality.
Let not yourself be misled by fears of past errors, or of future hardships in this crucified life of religion. Say not: how can I forget the world and the things of the world? For your heavenly Father knows that you have need of this oblivion, and will give it to you if, as a daughter of confidence, you throw yourself into his arms entirely and faithfully.
Our mother, your superior, writes to me that you have very good natural inclinations. My child, they are goods, for the management of which you will have to give account; be careful to use them in the service of him who has given them to you. Plant on this wild stock the grafts of the eternal love which God is ready to give you, if by perfect abnegation of self you dispose yourself to receive them. All the rest I have said to our mother. To you I have no more to say, save that, as God wills it, I am with all my heart, your, &c.
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[1] John 6:38.
[2] Matt. 6:34.
[3] Matt. 5:3, 6.
[4] S.Vincent de Paul.
[5] Manquement de taille.
[6] Matt. 5:40.
[7] 1. Tim. 6:8.
[8] 1. Cor. 6:7.
[9] Gal. 2:20.
[10] Cor. 6:7.
[11] 1. Cor. 4:11,13.
[12] Mat. 10:16.
[13] Ps. 37:10.
[14] Ps. 26:10.
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