B-VII/1. Monsieur de Boisy, Count de Sales, to his Son St. Francis de Sales
1595.
I cannot but praise your zeal,[1] my son; but I do not see that it can end in any good. You have already done more than was needed. The most sensible and the most prudent people say loudly that your perseverance is turning into a foolish obstinacy, and that it is tempting God to make a longer trial of your strength, and, in fine, that it is necessary to force these people to receive thefaith simply by the cannon’s mouth. For which reason I conjure you to allay, as soon as you possibly can, our disquiets and alarms, and to return to your family which ardently desires you, and above all to your mother, who is dying of grief at not seeing you, and of fear to lose you altogether. But if my prayers are of no avail, I order you, in my quality of father, to return hither immediately.
B-VII/2. St. Francis de Sales to his Father: He excuses himself for being unable to return.
My Honoured Father,—Whatever respect I have for your orders, I cannot help telling you that it is impossible for me to obey them. You are not ignorant from whom, under God, and on God’s part, I have received my mission. Am I able to withdraw myself from it without his leave? Apply then, if you please, to his Most Reverend Lordship: I am ready to quit, as soon as he speaks. In any case, I beseech you to consider those words of our Saviour: He who shall persevere to the end shall be saved;[2] and these others of St. Paul: He is not crowned that striveth, except he strive lawfully.[3] Our tribulation, which is momentary and light, worketh an eternal weight of glory.[4]
B-VII/3. To Madame the Countess of Sales, his Mother: He consoles her for his absence by the hope of seeing him again soon.
May, 1599.
I write you this, my dear and good mother, as I mount my horse for Chambéry. This note is not sealed, and I have no anxiety about it; for, by the grace of God, we are no longer in that trying time during which we had to hide ourselves in order to write to one another, and to say some words of friendship and consolation. Vive Dieu, my good mother; truly the remembrance of that time always produces in my soul some holy and sweet thought. Always preserve joy in our Lord, my good mother, and be assured that your poor son is well, by the Divine mercy, and is getting ready to go and see you the soonest, and stay with you the longest possible, for I am all yours, and you know that I am your son.
B-VII/4. To Madame de Chantal: He speaks to her of the fruit of his Lent-preaching at Annecy, in 1607.
Annecy, about the 8th April, 1607.
Look you, my dear child, you know well that Lent is the harvest-time of souls. I had not preached a Lent in this dear town up to this, since I had been made bishop, except the first, in which I was looked at to see what I should do; and I had enough to do to take up my position, and see after the general affairs of the diocese which had just freshly fallen on my shoulders. Now, know that I make my harvest, with tears partly of joy and partly of love. O my God! to whom should I say these things, if not to my dear child?
I have just found in our sacred nets a fish which I had so longed for these four years. I must confess the truth, I have been very glad, I say extremely glad over it. I recommend her to your prayers, that our Lord may establish in her heart the resolutions he has put therein. It is a lady, quite a golden lady, and magnificently fitted to serve her Saviour; and if she persevere she will do so with fruit.
It is seven or eight days since I have thought of myself, or seen myself except on the surface; for so many souls have addressed themselves to me that I might see and serve them, that I have had no leisure to think of my own. It is true that, to console you, I am bound to say that I still feel my spirit whole within my heart, for which I praise God; for in truth this sort of occupation is extremely profitable to me. How do I wish that it may be very useful to those for whom I labour!
Live, my dear child, with our sweet Saviour, in his arms, during this holy Passion-tide; may he for ever repose between your breasts, as a sacred bundle of myrrh; it will be to you a sovereign epithem for all your palpitations of heart. Oh! this morning (for I must further say this), presenting the Son to the Father, I said to him in my soul: I offer you your heart, O Eternal Father! deign in its favour to receive also ours. I named yours, and that of the young servant of God of whom I spoke, and some others. I did not know which to push the more forward, whether the new for its need, or yours for my affection. Think what a struggle!
So, then, remain always in peace in the arms of our Saviour, who loves you so dearly, and whose sole love ought to serve us as a general rendezvous for all our consolations. This holy love, my child, in which ours is founded, enrooted, increased, and nourished, will be eternally perfect and enduring. I am he whom God has given you irrevocably.
B-VII/5. To the Same: He encourages her, by his example, patiently to suffer, that her gentleness, in domestic contradictions, should be put down to dissimulation.
Holy Saturday, 14th April, 1607.
O, my dearest Child, here we are at the end of the holy Lent and at the glorious resurrection! Ah! how I desire that we should be raised up again with our Lord! I am now going to beg this of him, as I do daily; for I never applied my communions so earnestly to your soul as I have done this Lent, and with a particular sentiment of trust in this immense goodness, that it will be favourable to us.
Yes; my dear child, we must have good courage. It is no harm for your patience in bearing domestic contradiction to be attributed to dissimulation. And do you think that I am exempt from such attacks? But it is the truth, I only laugh about them when I remember them, which is but rarely. O God! indeed am I not insensible to other accidents and evil insinuations; how sensitive am I to the injurious and bad opinions which may be held about me! It is true that they are neither stinging nor in great number; but still I believe that if there were many more of them, I should not fail to bear them, by the assistance of the Holy Spirit. Oh! courage, my very dear and well-beloved child. What is needful for us is, that our little portion of ointment should offend the nostrils of the world.
To God, my dearest child; to God let us belong, in time and in eternity! Let us ever unite our little crosses to his great one!
Yesterday (for I must say one more word to you) after the sermon in the town at which I assisted, I preached a sermon on the Passion before our religious of Sainte-Claire. They had begged this very hard of me. When it came to the part in which I was contemplating how the cross was laid on the shoulders of our Lord, and how he embraced it, and when I said that in his cross and with it he acknowledged and took to himself all our little crosses, and kissed them all to sanctify them:—and when I came to say in particular that he kissed our drynesses, our contradictions, our bitternesses, I assure you, my dear child, that I was much consoled, and had difficulty to contain my tears.
For what reason do I say this? I know not, except that I could not help saying it to you. I had much consolation in this little sermon, at which twenty-five or thirty devout souls of the town assisted, besides those of the monastery: so that I had every opportunity to give the rein to my poor little affections on a worthy subject. May the good and gentle Jesus be for ever the king of our hearts! Amen.
I love our Celse-Bénigne and the little Françon.[5] May God be for ever their God; and the angel who has guarded their mother bless them for ever! Yes, my child, for it has been a great angel who has given you your good desires. So may he give you the execution of them and perseverance. Vive Jésus, who has made me and keeps me for ever all yours. Amen.
B-VII/6. To the Same: He informs her that he is going to visit his diocese; he congratulates her on her love for sicknesses; he promises to write often.
My dearest Child,—I have your letter of the 6th June, and I am just now getting on horseback for the Visitation, which will last five months; judge for yourself whether I am ready to go into Burgundy, for, my dear child, this act of visitation is a necessary one for me, and one of the chief of my charge. I start with great courage, and from this morning I have felt a particular consolation in undertaking it, though before, during several days, I had had a thousand vain apprehensions and sadnesses about it. These, however, only affected the skin of my heart, and not the interior; it was like those little shiverings which come at the first feeling of cold. But, as I have said to you many times, our good God treats me as a very delicate child, for he exposes me to no rude shock. He knows my weakness, and that I am not one to stand such great trials. I tell you in this way my little affairs, because it does me much good. Oh! how I congratulate you for truly loving your tertian fever; for my part I figure to myself that if we had our sense of smell but a little refined, we should smell our afflictions all bemusked, and perfumed with a thousand sweet odours; for although of themselves they are of unpleasant smell, still, coming out of the hand,— nay, rather out of the bosom and heart of the Spouse, who is but perfume and balm itself,— they reach us the same, full of all sweetness. Keep, my dear child, keep your heart very large before God; walk ever joyously in his presence, he loves us, he cherishes us, he is all ours, this sweet Jesus. Let us be all his, let us only love him, only cherish him, and then, let darkness, let tempests surround us, let us have the waters of bitterness up to our chin, so long as he holds our garments there is nought to fear. I will often write to you, my dear child, and a thousand times I will bless you with the benedictions which God has given to me. Live joyous, whether in health or sickness, and clasp tightly your Spouse on your heart. My dear child, my dearest child, to whom I am what his divine majesty wills me to be, and which cannot be said. Vive Jésus, for ever! Amen.
B-VII/7. To the Same: Sentiments which he felt in the procession of the Blessed Sacrament.
O God! how full is my heart of things to tell you, my child, for to-day is the day of the Church’s great feast, in which, bearing our Saviour in the procession, he has by his grace given me a thousand sweet thoughts, amidst which I have had difficulty to keep back my tears.
O God! I put in comparison the High Priest of the old law with myself, and considered how this High Priest carried a rich pectoral on his breast, adorned with twelve precious stones, and on it appeared the names of the twelve tribes of Israel; but I found my pectoral far more rich, though it was composed of only one stone, that Oriental pearl, which the strong mother conceived in her chaste womb, by the blessed dew of heaven; for, you see, I was holding this Divine Sacrament clasped tightly on my breast, and I considered how the names of the children of Israel were all marked on it, yes, the names of the daughters especially, and the name of one still more.
The falcon and the sparrow of St. Joseph came to my memory, and it seemed to me that I was a knight of the Order of God, bearing on my breast the same Son who lives eternally on his. Ah! how would I have wished that my heart should be opened to receive this precious Saviour, as was that of the gentleman whose history I told you.[6] But alas! I had not the knife which was needed to cut it open, for it is only to be opened by love; I have indeed had great desires of this love, and I speak for our indivisible heart. This is what I can say to you. Live all in God and for God. I am with him absolutely yours.
B-VII/8. To the Same. (Madame de Chantal): Why he was strong before great attacks. His relish for prayer.
The first Thursday, 6th September, 1607.
How many things, my child, should I have to say to you, if I had the leisure! for I have received your letter of St. Anne’s day, written in a particular style, and one which appeals to the heart, and requires an ample response.
You are going on well, my child; only continue: have patience with your interior cross. Ah! our Saviour allows it you, that one day you may know better what you are by yourself. Do you not see, my child, that the trouble of the day is made clear by the repose of the night? An evident sign that our soul has need only to resign itself entirely to its God, and to make herself indifferent in serving him, whether among thorns, or among roses. Would you really believe, my best child, that this very night I have had a little disquietude about something which certainly did not deserve that I should even think of it! However, it has made me lose two good hours of my sleep, a thing which rarely happens to me. But, further, I was laughing myself at my weakness; and my mind saw as clearly as the day that it was all the disquietude of a mere little child; yet was there no means to find the way out of it: and I knew well that God wanted to make me understand that if assaults and great attacks do not trouble me, as in truth they do not, it is not by my own strength, but by the grace of my Saviour; and I lie not when I say that I feel myself consoled by the experimental knowledge which God gives me of myself.
I assure you that I am very firm in our resolutions, and that they please me much. I cannot say many things to you, for this good father starts in an hour, and I have Mass to say; I will leave then all the rest. You gave me great pleasure in one of your letters by asking me straight out, whether I was making my prayer. O my child! act so; ask me always the state of my soul; for I know well that your curiosity in this comes from the ardour of the charity which you bear me. Yes, my child, by the grace of God I can say now better than before, that I make mental prayer, because I do not fail a single day in this; except sometimes on a Sunday, on account of confessions; and God gives me the strength to get up sometimes before daybreak for this purpose, when I foresee the multitude of the embarrassments of the day, and I do it all gaily; and meseems I have affection for it, and would greatly wish to be able to make it twice in the day; but it is not possible for me.
Vive Jésus! Vive Marie! Adieu, my dear child. God has made me, without end, without reserve, and beyond comparison, yours, &c.
B-VII/9. To the Same: On the death of his young sister, Jane de Sales, who died in the arms of Madame de Chantal.
2nd November, 1607.
Ah, well! my dear daughter; and is it not reasonable that the most holy will of God should be done, as much in the things we cherish as in others? But I must hasten to tell you that my good mother has drunk this chalice with an entirely Christian constancy, and her virtue, of which I had always a high opinion, has by much exceeded my estimation.
On Sunday morning, she sent for my brother the Canon; and because she had seen him very sad, and all the other brothers as well, the night before, she began by saying to him: “I have dreamt all the night that my daughter Jane is dead. Tell me, I beseech you, is it not true?” My brother, who was awaiting my arrival to break it to her (for I was on my Visitation), seeing this good opening for presenting the chalice to her, and as she was lying in bed: “It is true, mother,” he said, and no more, for he had not strength to add anything. “God’s will be done,” said my good mother, and wept abundantly for some space; and then, calling her Nicole, she said: “I want to get up and go pray God in the chapel for my poor daughter,” and immediately did what she said. Not a single word of impatience, not a look of disquiet; but blessings of God, and a thousand resignations in her will. Never did I see a calmer grief; such tears that it was a marvel; but all from simple tenderness of heart, without any sort of passion, yet it was her dear child. Ah! then, this mother, should I not love her well?
Yesterday, All Saints’ Day, I was the grand confessor of the family, and with the Most Holy Sacrament I sealed the heart of this mother against all sadness. For the rest, she thanks you infinitely for the care and maternal love which you have shown towards this deceased little one, with as much obligation to you as if God had preserved her by your means. The brothers (la fraternité) say as much, who in truth have testified extremely good dispositions in this affliction, especially our Boisy, whom I love the more for it.
I well know that you would gladly ask me: And you, how did you bear yourself? Yes, for you want to know what I am doing. Ah! my child, I am as human as I can be; my heart was grieved more than I should ever have thought. But the truth is, that the pain to my mother and your pain have much swollen mine; for I have feared for your heart, and my mother’s. But as for the rest, I will always take the side of Divine Providence: it does all well, and disposes of all things for the best. What a happiness for this child to have been taken away, lest wickedness should alter her understanding,[7] and to have left this miry place before she had got soiled therein! We gather strawberries and cherries before bergamots and pippins (capendus), but it is because their season requires it. Let God gather what he has planted in his orchard: he takes everything in its season.
You may think, my dear daughter, how tenderly I loved this little child. I had brought her forth to her Saviour, for I had baptized her with my own hand, some fourteen years ago. She was the first creature on whom I exercised my order of priesthood. I was her spiritual father, and fully promised myself one day to make out of her something good. And what made her very dear to me (and I speak the truth) was that she was yours. But still, my dear child, in the midst of my heart of flesh, which has had such keen feelings about this death, I perceive very sensibly a certain sweetness, tranquillity, and a certain gentle repose of my spirit in the Divine Providence, which spreads abroad in my heart a great contentment in its pains.
Here, then, are my movements represented as far as I can. But you, what do you mean, when you tell me that you found yourself on this occasion such as you were? Tell me, I beseech you: was not our needle always turning to its bright pole, to its holy star, to its God? Your heart, what has it been doing? Have you scandalized those who saw you in this matter and in this event? Now this, my dear child, tell me clearly; for, do you see, it was not right to offer either your own life or that of one of your other children, in exchange for that of the departed one.
No, my dear child, we must not only consent for God to strike us, but we must let it be in the place which he pleases. We must leave the choice to God, for it belongs to him. David offered his life for that of his Absalom, but it was because he died reprobate (perdu); in such case we must beseech God; but in temporal loss, O my daughter! let God touch and strike whatever string of our lute he chooses, he will never make but a good harmony. Lord Jesus! without reserve, without if, without but, without exception, without limitation, your will be done; in father, in mother, in daughter, in all and everywhere! Ah! I do not say that we must not wish and pray for their preservation; but we must not say to God, leave this and take that; my dear child, we must not say so. And we will not. No, no; no, my child, by help of the grace of his Divine goodness.
I seem to see you, my dear child, with your vigorous heart, which loves and wills powerfully. I congratulate it thereon: for what are these half-dead hearts good for? But it behoves that we make a particular exercise, once every week, of willing and loving the will of God more vigorously, (I go further) more tenderly, more amorously, than anything in the world; and this not only in bearable occurrences, but in the most unbearable. You will find more than I can describe in the little book of the Spiritual Combat, which I have so often recommended to you.
Ah! my child, to speak truth, this lesson is high; but also God, for whom we learn it, is the Most High. You have, my child, four children; you have a father-in-law, a dear brother, and then again a spiritual father: all this is very dear to you, and rightly; for God wills it. Well, now, if God took all this from you, would you not still have enough in having God? Is that not all, in your estimation? If we had nought but God, would it not be enough?
Alas! the Son of God, my dear Jesus, had scarce so much on the cross, when, having given up and left all for love and obedience to his Father, he was as if left and given up by him; and, as the torrent of his passion swept off his bark to desolation, hardly did he perceive the needle, which was not only turned towards, but inseparably joined with, his Father. Yes, he was one with his Father, but the inferior part knew and perceived nothing of it whatever: a trial which the divine goodness has made and will make in no other soul, for it could not bear it.
Well then, my child, if God takes everything from us, he will never take himself from us, so long as we do not will it. But more; all our losses and our separations are but for this little moment. Oh! truly, for so little a time as this, we ought to have patience.
I pour myself out, meseems, a little too much. But why? I follow my heart, which never feels it says too much with this dear daughter. I send you an escutcheon to satisfy you; and since it pleases you to have the funeral services where this child rests in the body, I am willing; but without great pomp, beyond what Christian custom requires: what good is the rest? You will afterwards draw out a list of all these expenses, and those of her illness, and send it to me, for I wish it so; and meantime we shall beseech God here for this soul, and will properly do its little honours. We shall not send for its quarantal:[8] no, my child, so much ceremony (mystère) is not becoming for a child who has had no rank in this world; it would get one laughed at. You know me: I love simplicity both in life and in death. I shall be very glad to know the name and the title of the church where she is. This is all on this subject. Yours, &c.
B-VII/10. To the Same: He sends copies of the Introduction to the Devout Life for several persons.
End of February, 1609.
My God! how welcome will you be, my dear child; and how dearly do I feel my soul embrace yours. Start then on the first fine day you see, after your horse has rested, which, doubtless, cannot well have been sent back to you till three days ago, on account of the rains which have fallen in this country. I wish that you may have a good and happy journey, and that my little daughter may not suffer from the fatigue of the road, but arriving in good time in the evening, and sleeping well, I hope she will be all right.
M. de Ballon so greatly desires that you should make your stay with him, that I am forced to desire it also, for the good friendship he bears us.
Madame du Puits-d’Orbe had written to say she wanted to come with you; but the season is not proper for her, nor could I wish to have her in so inconvenient a time as Lent. I wrote to her then to wait for the true Spring, and to come in a litter, so that if one of her sisters wishes to accompany her, she may be able to do so without the dread of having to come on horseback. I send the one book for her, the other for Mademoiselle de Traves, according to your desire. The Father de Mandi asked me for one: if you give him the one you have, I will give you a better one here; besides, we must console him. I should like to send some to several persons; but I assure you that only thirty altogether have come into this country, and I have not been able to supply a tenth part of those to whom I ought to give them. It is true that I am not in very great trouble about it, because I know that there are more yonder than here. Still I thought I ought to send one to M. de Chantal, and that, he would be offended if I did not; so here it is.
What more have I to say to you, my dear child? A thousand things, but I have not leisure for them, as I want Claude to start without any more waiting. Only be sure that I am quite full of joy and satisfaction because your Groisy[9] speaks not only with respect, but with quite an affectionate love of you and your two fathers, and, which pleases me most, of my dear little Aimée. I tell you the truth, he could not give me more pleasure than by this, and truly I hope that all will go on very well, and that there will remain no subject of discontent to anyone.
Do not be sorry for having written to me about the twelve-hundred francs; for you must not be sorry for anything which occurs with me.
Well then, I shall see plenty of miseries, and we will talk of them, I hope, as much as we like.
My mother wants you to make your little rest at Sales, where she will await you to accompany you here; but do not think that I will leave you there without me: no, certainly not, for either I will wait for you there, or I will be there as soon as I know you are. I do not write to your good old attendant (commère), for I shall have leisure to entertain her fully: and I confess that you have given me much pleasure by putting her in your train, although for her I shall perhaps have to put myself to expense, in order that on her return she may give a good account of my magnificence. You see I am already laughing in my heart at the expectation of your arrival.
B-VII/11. To Madame de Cornillon, his Sister: On the death of their mother.
4th March, 1610.
My dearest Sister, my Child,—Let us console ourselves as best we can in this departure of our good mother; for the graces which God has employed, in her regard, to prepare her for so happy an end, are very certain marks that her soul is sweetly received into the arms of his Divine mercy, and that it is blessed by being delivered and disentangled from the burdens of this world. And we also, dear sister, shall be blessed in our turn, if, like her, we live the rest of our days in the fear and love of our Lord, as we promised one another that day at Annecy.
His Divine Majesty attracts us thus to the desire of heaven, drawing thither, little by little, all that was dearest to us here below. Be then quite consoled, my dear child; and if your heart cannot help feeling pain at this separation, moderate it at least so far by the acquiescence we owe to the good pleasure of our Saviour, that his goodness may not be offended, nor the fruit which he has placed in your womb be badly affected.
And I must add this word for your contentment: this poor good mother, before quitting Annecy, revised all the state of her conscience, renewed all the good resolutions she had made of serving God, and became so contented with me that more could not be; for God did not will that she should be in a state of melancholy, when he took her to himself. So then, my dear sister, my child, always love me well; for I am more yours than ever; and may it please God that you may be able to come and spend the Holy Week with us! I should end it very much consoled. Good-day, my child, I am your brother, &c.
B-VII/12. To Madame de Chantal: On the death of his mother, and her last moments.
11th March, 1610.
But, O my God, must we not, my dearest child, in all and everywhere adore this supreme Providence, whose counsels are holy, good, and most loveable? And here has it pleased him to withdraw from this world our best and dearest mother, to hold her, as I believe most assuredly, in his own presence and in his right hand. Let us confess, my well-beloved daughter, let us confess that God is good, and his mercy endureth for ever;[10] all his wills are just, and his judgment is right,[11] his will is always good,[12] and his ordinances most amiable.
And as for me, I confess, my child, that I feel a great pain in this separation, for this is the confession I ought to make of my own weakness, after making that of the divine goodness. But still, my child, it has been a tranquil pain, though sharp; for I have said with David: I was dumb, and I opened not my mouth because thou hast done it.[13] Without doubt, if it had not been so, I should have cried “stop,” under this blow, but I do not feel that I should dare to cry out, or to express unwillingness under the strokes of this paternal hand, which, in truth, thanks to his goodness, I have learnt to love tenderly from my youth.
But you would perhaps like to know how this good woman ended her days. Here is a little account of it; for it is to you I speak; to you, I say, to whom I have given the place of this mother in my memento at Mass, without taking from you the place you had. I could not do it, so firmly do you hold what you hold in my heart, and thus you are there first and last.
This mother, then, came here this winter; and, during the month she stayed, she made a general review of her soul, and renewed her desires of living well with very much affection, and went away entirely contented with me, having got from me, as she said, more consolation than she had ever done. She continued in this state of joy till Ash Wednesday, when she went to the parish church of Thorens, where she confessed and communicated with great devotion, and heard three Masses and Vespers. In the evening, being in bed, and not being able to sleep, she had read to her by her maid three chapters of the Introduction, to entertain herself with good thoughts, and had the Protestation marked to make it next morning; but God was satisfied with her good will, and arranged in another way; for when morning came, and this good lady was getting up and having her hair done, she was taken suddenly with an effusion on the chest (catarrhe), and fell as if dead.
My poor brother, your son, who was still asleep, runs in as soon as he is told of it, in his nightdress, and lifts her up and walks her about and helps her with essences, imperial-waters, and other things which are judged proper in such accidents, so that she wakens up and begins to speak, but almost unintelligibly, as the throat and the tongue were affected.
They come here to call me; and I go instantly with the doctor and the apothecary, who find her in a lethargy, and paralysed in half her body; but lethargic in such sort that she was still easy to rouse up; and in these moments of entire consciousness, she showed perfect clearness of mind, either by the words she tried to say, or by the movement of her good hand, that is, the hand of which she still had the use: for she spoke very appositely of God and her soul, and took the cross herself, feeling for it (because she on a sudden became blind) and kissed it. She took nothing without making the sign of the cross over it, and so she received the Holy Oil.
On my arrival, all blind and drowsy as she was, she embraced me tenderly, and said: “It is my son and my father, this;” and kissed me, clasping me with her arm, and kissed my hand before anything else. She remained in the same state nearly two days and a half, after which we could not properly rouse her, and on the 1st of March she yielded her soul to our Lord, gently and peaceably, and with a dignity and beauty greater than perhaps she ever had, remaining one of the loveliest dead I have ever seen.
For the rest, I must also tell you that I had the courage to give her the Last Blessing, to close her eyes and her mouth, and to give her the last kiss of peace at the instant of her departure; after which my heart swelled greatly, and I wept over this good mother more than ever I have done since I have been in the Church; but it was without spiritual bitterness, thank God. This is all that happened.
But I cannot help declaring the excellently good disposition of your son,[14] who has so extremely obliged me by the care and pains he has taken for this mother: and with such heart that I say if he had been some stranger, I should be forced to hold him and swear him (le jurer) for my brother. I know not whether I am mistaken, but I find him very greatly changed for the better, both as to the world, and principally as to his soul.
Well then, my dear child, we must make our resolution about this, and ever praise God, even if it pleased him to visit us even more heavily. And now, if you find it suitable, you will come here for Palm Sunday; I say here, because it is not right that you should spend the good days in the country. Your little room will expect you; our little table, and our little and simple fare will be prepared and offered with good heart, I mean with my heart, which is entirely yours. . . .
Now I run over the chief points of your letter. Our poor little Charlotte is happy in leaving the earth before she has properly touched it. Alas! we must still weep a little over it; for have we not a human heart, and a sensitive nature? Why not weep a little over our departed, since the Spirit of God not only allows it, but invites us to it. I have regretted her, the poor little child, but with a less sensible grief, because the great feeling of the separation from my mother took away almost all the sting from the feeling of this second pain, the news of which arrived whilst we still had my mother’s body in the house. May God be praised also in this matter. God giveth, God taketh away, may his holy name be blessed.
B-VII/13. To Madame de Cornillon, his Sister: The Saint consoles her on the death of M. the Baron de Thorens, their brother.
After 27th May, 1617.
O God! my poor dearest sister, how troubled I am for the pain which your heart will suffer in the decease of this poor brother, who was so dear to all of us! But there is no cure: we must stay our wills in that of God, who, if we well consider everything, has greatly favoured this poor deceased, in having taken him away from an age and a vocation in which there is so much danger of damnation.
As for me, my dear child, I have wept more than once on this occasion; for I tenderly loved this brother, and could not help having the feelings of pain which nature caused me. But now I am quite firm and comforted, having learnt how devoutly he departed in the arms of our Barnabite Father, and of our Chevalier,[15] after having made his general Confession, been reconciled three times, received Communion and Extreme Unction very piously.
What better can we wish him according to the soul? And according to the body, he has been assisted so far that nothing has been wanting to him.
Monseigneur the Cardinal-Prince, and Madame, the Princess, sent to visit him, and the ladies of the Court sent him presents of things to eat, and in fine Monseigneur the Cardinal, after his departure, sent twelve torches, with the arms of His Highness, to honour his funeral.
May God then be for ever blessed, for the care he has taken to gather this soul in amongst his elect: for, after all, what else can we aim at.
It cannot be expressed what virtue the poor little widow has shown on this occasion! We shall keep her here (at the Visitation) some days longer, until she is entirely restored. Never was man more generally regretted than this one. So then, my dearest child, let us console our hearts the best way we can, and think good all it has pleased God to do: for, indeed, all he has done is very good.
I make this letter common to my dearest brother (in-law) and you, in the hope of seeing you soon. May God for ever bless your heart, my dearest sister, my child, and I am without end most perfectly all yours, and your, &c.
B-VII/14. To Madame de Chantal: Perfect resignation of the Saint.
My dearest Mother,—You will see in the letter of this good Father my pain. It has, indeed, a little touched me, but the news having come during the feeling which I had of a total resignation to the conduct of divine Providence, I said nothing in my heart, except: Yes, heavenly Father, for so it hath seemed good in thy sight.[16] And this morning, at my first awaking, I experienced such a strong impression of a desire to live altogether according to the spirit of faith, and the highest part of the soul, that, in spite of soul and heart, I willed whatever God willed, and I will that which is for his greater service, without reserve, and without sensible or spiritual consolation; and I pray God never to let me change my resolution.
I have had since Easter perpetual inconveniences, but I saw no remedy, and also no danger; they are altogether gone; thanks to God, whom I beseech to send them back to me, when he pleases.
A thousand most loving salutations to your dear soul, my dearest mother, to whom God has given me after an incomparable manner.
B-VII/15. To the Same: Profound peace of the Saint amidst his affairs. Mark of his humility. He permits ladies some innocent recreations, under the name of balls. He announces that he is going to work at the Treatise on the Love of God.
No, my dearest child, I have had no news of you these three whole months; and, indeed, I cannot believe that you have sent me any. The longer the news delays, the more I wish it good. I confess that my heart importunes me a little in this regard; but I pardon it these little ardours, for it is paternal, and more than paternal. Will you really believe what I am going to tell you? I received, some time ago, the little book, on The Presence of God; it is a little work, but I have not yet been able to read it through, to tell you what I think of it for your service. It is incredible how I am hustled hither and thither by affairs; but, my dear child, you will distress yourself if I do not add that still, thanks to my God, my poor and weakly heart never had more repose, nor will to love his Divine Majesty, whose special assistance I feel for this purpose.
O my dearest child! what great pleasure you gave me one day on recommending to me holy humility! Do you know that when the wind gets into our valleys, amidst our mountains, it takes the bloom off the little flowers, but roots up the trees; and I, who am placed somewhat high in this charge of bishop, suffer the greater attacks. O Lord, save us; command these winds of vanity and there will come a great calm.[17] Keep yourself quite firm, and clasp very closely this foot of the sacred cross of our Lord; the rain which falls from all parts of it, calms down the wind, great as it may be. When I am there sometimes, O God, how is my soul at peace, and what sweetness does this dew, rosy and ruddy, give to it! But I searcely move one step away from it, and the wind begins again.
I do not know where you will be this Lent according to the body; according to the spirit I think you will be in the cavern of the turtle, and the pierced side of our dear Saviour: I fully mean to try to be often there with you; may God by his sovereign goodness give us the grace! Yesterday I seemed to see you, looking at the open side of our Saviour, and wishing to take his heart to put it into your own, as a king in a little kingdom; and though his is greater than yours, still he could make it little to accommodate it. How good is this Lord, my dear child! how amiable is his heart! let us stay there in that holy dwelling; let this heart live always in our heart, this blood seethe ever in the veins of our souls.
How pleased I am that we have cut the wings of Carnival (Carêmeprenant) in this town, and that it scarcely knows itself! How I congratulated upon it, last Sunday, my dear people, who had come in extraordinary numbers to hear the evening sermon, and who had given up all amusement to come to me! I was greatly pleased that this was so, and that all our ladies had communicated in the morning, and that they did not dare to have balls without asking leave: and I am not hard with them:[18] for I ought not to be, since they are so good, and so devout.
I am going to put my hand to the book of the Love of God, and will try to write as much on my heart as on the paper. Be all to God; I hope more every day in him, that we shall do much in our plan of life. My God, dearest child, how tenderly and ardently I feel the advantage and sacred tie of our holy unity! I preached a sermon this morning all of flames, for I felt it; I must say so to you. My God! what blessings I wish you, and you cannot think how I am urged at the altar to recommend you more than ever to our Lord. What more have I to say to you, except that we should live with a life all dead, and die with a death all living and vivifying in the life and death of our king, of our flower, and our Saviour, in whom I am, your, &c.
B-VII/16. To the Same: On his soul.—The will.
14th July. 1615.
This false esteem of ourselves, my dear child, is so favoured by self-love, that reason can do nothing against it. It is the fourth thing difficult to Solomon, and which he said was unknown to him—the way of a man in his youth.[19] God gives M. N. much grace in his having his grandfather to watch over him. May he long enjoy this blessing.
O my child! Be sure that my heart awaits the day of your consolation with as much ardour as yours. But wait, my dearest sister; wait with waiting,[20] to use the words of Scripture. Now, to wait with waiting is not to disquiet yourself in waiting; for there are many who in waiting do not wait, but trouble and excite themselves.
We shall make way, dear child, God helping: and a great mass of little crosses and secret contradictions which have come upon my peace, give me the most sweet and delightful hope possible, and foretell, meseems, the near establishment of my soul in its God. He is, certainly, not only the great, but, as I think, the unique ambition and passion of my soul, in which I include that soul which God has inseparably joined with mine.
And as I am on the subject of my soul, I want to give you this good news of it, that I do and will do what you have asked me for it,—doubt not; and I thank you for the zeal which you have for its good, which is not separate from the good of yours, if the words yours and mine can still be used between us on this point. I will say more to you: it is that I find my soul a little more to my satisfaction than usual, in having nothing which keeps it attached to this world, and being more sensible to eternal goods.
If I were as truly and strongly joined to God as I am absolutely detached from the world,—dear Saviour, how happy should I be! And you, my child, how satisfied would you be? But I speak of the interior and my opinion (sentiment): for my exterior, and, what is worse, my conduct (deportements) are full of a great variety of contrary imperfections; and the good that I will I do not;[21] but still I know well that in truth and without pretence I will it, and with an unalterable will.
But, my child, how can it be that with such a will, so many imperfections appear and spring up in me? Certainly, it is not of my will, nor by my will, though in my will and on my will. It is, I think, like the mistletoe, which grows and appears on a tree, and in a tree, though not of the tree, nor by the tree. O God! why do I tell you all this, save because my heart always opens forth and pours itself out without limits when it is with yours.
If you were staying where you are, I should be very glad to undertake the service which the Rev. Father N. desires of me for this lady: but as you are not, it seems to me that another, whom she will have a chance of seeing oftener, will make himself more useful for this good work; and meanwhile I will pray our Lord for her: for on the good news you give me of her, I begin to love her tenderly, poor woman. Ah! what a consolation to see this poor soul grow green again, after a winter so hard, so long, and so bitter. I am to you what God knows. Amen
B-VII/17. To a Lady: He blames one of his spiritual daughters, who, in speaking of him, said extravagant things in his praise.
22nd April, 1618.
My dearest Daughter of my Heart,—Know that I have a daughter, who tells me that my departure has caused her an agony of pain; that if she did not restrain her eyes they would shed as many tears as the sky rains drops of water, to lament my departure, and such fine words. But she goes very much farther; for she says that I am not a man, but some divinity sent to be loved and admired; and, she adds this notable speech that she would go to much greater extremes if she dared.
What are you saying, my dearest daughter: does it seem to you that she is not wrong to speak so? Are not these extravagant words? Nothing can excuse them except the love which she bears me, which is indeed quite holy, but expressed in worldly terms.
Now, tell her, my dearest child, that we must never attribute, in one fashion or another, Divinity to frail creatures; and that to think of even going further in praise is an improper thought; or at least to say it is to say improper words; that she must have more care to avoid vanity in words than in hair or dress; that for the future her language must be plain and not frizzled (frisé). But still, tell it her so gently, amiably and holily, that she may take this reprimand well: it proceeds from my heart, which is more than paternal. This you know, being truly daughter most dear of my heart, and daughter in whom I have put full confidence. May God be for ever our love, my dearest daughter, and live in him and for him eternally. Amen.
A few years earlier the Saint had spoken to Madame de Chantal on a similar occasion, as follows:
My daughter, I am but vanity, and yet I do not esteem myself as much as you esteem me. I greatly wish you knew me properly; you would not cease to have an absolute confidence in me, but you would scarcely esteem me. You would say: he is a reed on which God wants me to lean: I am perfectly safe, because God wills it so; the reed, however, is good for nothing.
Yesterday, after having read your letter, I walked two turns, with my eyes full of tears, at seeing what I am, and what I am thought to be. I see then that you esteem me, and methinks this esteem gives you much satisfaction: that, my child, is an idol. Still, be not troubled about this; for God is not offended by sins of the understanding, although we are bound to keep from them if possible. Your strong affections will grow calmer every day by frequent actions of indifference.
B-VII/18. To a Curé of the Diocese of Geneva: He recommends to him the conversion of an heretical doctor who was treating Madame de Chantal.
Monsieur, my dear Confrére, and my entire friend, I send this on the return of that poor doctor who has not been able to cure our mother, and whom I have not been able to cure. Ah! ought a son to kill the joy of his father’s soul? With what good heart would our dear patient give her life for her doctor! And I, poor miserable shepherd, what would not I give for the salvation of this unhappy sheep! Vive Dieu, before whom I live and speak, I would give my skin to clothe him, my blood to salve his wounds, and my temporal life to save him from eternal death.
Why do I say this to you, my dear friend, save to encourage you, for fear the neighbouring wolves should break in upon your sheep, or to speak more paternally, according to the feelings of my soul, and this poor Genevois. Take care that no infected sheep hurts the dear and well-beloved flock! Watch carefully all round about this fold; and often tell them: Let fraternal charity abide in you;[22] and above all pray to him who has said: I am the good shepherd,[23] that he may animate our care, our love, and our words.
I recommend to your sacrifices this poor sick doctor. Say three Masses for this intention, that he may be able to heal our mother and we may be able to heal him. She is very ill, this good mother, and my spirit is a little in trouble about her illness; I say a little and I mean much. I know, however, that if the Sovereign Architect of this new congregation wishes to take away the first foundation stone that he has laid, to put it in the holy Jerusalem, he well knows what he means to do with the rest of the building; in this knowledge, I remain in peace, and remain your, &c.
B-VII/19. To a Friend: He complains of not being able to give himself to study.
12th September, 1613.
Sir,—I regret that you and Monsieur de N. are at Paris for so troublesome an occasion; but since there is no help, it behoves that you soften the pain by patience.
And as for me I am in a continual turmoil which the variety of the affairs of this diocese unceasingly produces, without a single day in which I can look at my poor books which I so loved once, and which I no longer dare to love now, for fear that the divorce from them into which I have fallen might become more cruel and afflicting.
We have a little country where, just lately, has been re-established the power of the church by the king’s authority, and according to the Edict of Nantes; but this restoration occupies me more in disputing with the ministers for the temporal goods of the church which they keep from us, than in persuading them or the people of the truth of the spiritual goods to which they should aspire; for it is a marvel how these serpents stop their ears not to hear the voice of the charmers,[24] how wisely and holily soever they charm.
There are there a sufficient number of very good pastors, and of good Capuchin Fathers, who not being heard by men are seen by God. He, without doubt, is quite contented with their present barrenness, which he will reward afterwards with a plentiful harvest, and if they sow in tears they shall reap in joy.[25] I have occupied you quite enough, sir, for the renewal of our intercourse, which I intend, God helping, to continue, and I intend not to cease recalling to your mind that I am invariably, sir, your, &c.
B-VII/20.To an Ecclesiastic: On friendship.
My very dear Brother,—The question you ask me is this: Will not your heart love mine truly, and always, and in all occurrences? and my answer is: O my dearest brother! It is a maxim of three great lovers, all three saints, all three doctors of the church, all three great friends, all three great masters of moral theology, St. Ambrose, St. Jerome, St. Augustine: Amicitia quoe desinere potuit nunquam vera fuit.[26] There, my dear brother, there is the sacred oracle which announces to you the invariable law of the eternity of our friendship, since it is holy and not feigned (sainte et non feinte), founded on verity and not on vanity, on the communication of spiritual goods and not on the interest or commerce of temporal goods. To love truly and to cease loving are two incompatible things.
The friendships of the children of the world are of the nature of the world; the world passes, and all its friendships pass; but ours is of God, in God, and for God: Thou art always the self-same, and thy years shall not fail.[27] The world passeth away, and the concupiscence thereof: Christ passeth not away, nor his dilection. Infallible conclusion.
Your dear sister writes ever to me with so much outpouring of her dear love that truly she deprives me of the power of thanking her properly. I say the same of you, begging you to thank one another for the satisfaction you give me.
For the rest, I send then the portrait of this terrestrial man, so entirely am I without the power to refuse anything to your desire.
I am told that I have never been well painted, and I think it matters little. Man passeth as an image; yea, and he is disquieted in vain.[28] I have borrowed it to give to you, for I have none of my own. Alas! if that of my Creator were in its lustre in my soul, with what good will would you look upon it! O Jesu! tuo lumine, tuo redemptos sanguine sana, refove, perfice, tibi conformes effice. Amen.
B-VII/21. To Madame de Chantal, at Paris: The Saint expresses his disgust for the court, and for the condition of a courtier.
29th December, 1618.
I assure you, my best and dearest mother, that the sight of the grandeur of the world makes the grandeur of Christian virtues appear grander to me, and makes me more highly esteem its contempt.
What a difference, my dearest mother, between the assemblage of various suitors (pretendants)—for the court is this and nothing but this—and the assemblage of religious souls, who have no pretensions save for heaven. Oh! if we knew in what consists true good!
Do not believe, my dearest mother, that any favour of the court can attach me. O God! how much more desirable a thing is it to be poor in the house of God, than to dwell in the palaces of kings. I am here making my novitiate for the court, but I will never make my profession in it, God helping. On Christmas Eve I preached before the Queen at the Capuchins, where she made her communion; but I assure you that I preached neither better nor more willingly before all the princes and princesses, than I do in our poor little Visitation at Annecy.
O God! my dearest mother, we must put our heart entirely in God, and never take it from him. He alone is our peace, our consolation, and our glory: what remains for us but to unite ourselves more and more to this Saviour, that we may bring forth good fruit? Are we not blessed, my dearest mother, in being able to graft our stock on that of the Saviour, who is grafted on the Divinity? For this sovereign essence is the root of that tree, whose branches we are, and whose fruit our love is: this was my subject this morning.
Courage, my uniquely dear mother, let us not cease to throw our hearts into God: they are the perfume-balls which he loves to compound; let us allow him to make them as he likes. Yes, Lord Jesus, do all at your will with our hearts; for we wish neither part nor portion therein, but give, consecrate, and sacrifice them to you for ever. So then, remain always in perfect peace in the arms of our Saviour who loves us dearly, and whose holy love ought alone to serve as our general rendezvous for all our conversations: this holy love, my mother, in which ours is founded, enrooted, grows and is fed, will be eternally perfect and lasting. I salute our sisters affectionately. I am grieved that our Sister N. has the fancy of changing houses. When shall we not wish anything, but entirely leave solicitude to those whose duty it is to will for us what is needed? But it cannot be helped: our own will is bridled by obedience, and still we cannot keep it from rearing up, and prancing. We must bear the infirmity. Much time elapses before we become entirely despoiled of ourselves, and of the pretended right of judging what is best for us and desiring it. I admire the little Infant of Bethlehem, who knew so much, who had such power, and who, without saying a word, let himself be handled, and bound, and fastened, and wrapt up as required. May God ever be in in the midst of your heart and mine, my dearest mother.
B-VII/22. To the Same: Disinterestedness of the Saint.
11th May, 1620.
Well, my Mother,—I am in your parlour, where I have had to come to write these four or five letters which I send you. I must then tell you that I cannot think anything should be done in the matter you know of,[29] if God does not wish it with his absolute will; for, firstly, there was what I said immediately to Monsieur the Cardinal, namely, that if I left my wife (his see) it would be to have no more. I manage to get on, though with great difficulty, and to bear the burdens of my present see, with which I have grown old; but with one quite new to me, what should I do? The will of God alone, manifested by my superior, the Pope, can draw me from this path.
2. My brother then is bishop:[30] that does not enrich me, it is true; but it relieves me, and gives me some hope of being able to get out of the crowd. That is worth more than a cardinal’s hat.
3. But your nephews will be poor? My mother, I consider that they are already less so than when they were born; for they were born naked: and besides, two or three thousand crowns, or even four, would not give me enough to help them without lowering the reputation of a prelacy, in which are required so many alms, pious works, just and necessary expenses.
4. Here is His Highness who tells me that he absolutely insists on my accompanying Monseigneur the Cardinal, his son, to Rome: and, in fact, it will be useful even for the service of the Church that I should make this journey: though in good truth, my mother, it is not according to my inclination. After all, it is ever going, and I like to rest, and it is going to court, and I like simplicity. But there is no help; as it must be, I will do it, and with good-will, and meantime the thoughts of that great prelate yonder will have leisure to melt away. Let us then speak no more of it except according to occurrences, my mother.
I am for ever, without reserve and without comparison, that is, beyond all comparison, yours, and certainly, as you know very well yourself, I am yours very perfectly.
B-VII/23. To the Same: Acquiescence of the Saint in the Divine Will.
My dearest Mother,—These few words go, by an unexpected opportunity, to salute your dear soul, which I cherish as mine own: and such it is, in him who is the principle of all unity and union.
I cannot deny that I am grieved about your fever; but do not pain yourself about my pain, for you know me. I am a man to suffer, without suffering, all it will please God to do with you as with me. Ah! we must make no reply nor reflection.
I confess before Heaven and the angels that you are precious to me as myself; but this takes not from me the most determined resolution to acquiesce fully in the Divine will. We wish to serve God in this world, anywhere, with all that we are: if He judge it better that we should be in this world, or in the other, or in both, His most holy will be done, since I am inseparable from your soul; and to speak with the Holy Spirit, we have henceforward but one heart and one soul: for what is said of all the Christians of the early Church, is found, thanks to God, in us.
I will say no more save that I am better, and my heart goes better than it has done for a long time; but I know not whether the consolation comes from natural causes or from grace.
May God ever be in the midst of your heart, to fill it with His holy love! Amen. Vive Jésus, my dearest Mother, I am as you know yourself, evermore entirely yours.
B-VII/24. To m. Favre: The thought of eternity.
My Brother,—I finish this year with the satisfaction of being able to present you the wish I make you for the following.
They pass then away, these temporal years, my brother; their months melt into weeks, weeks into days, days into hours, and hours into moments, which last are all we possess: and these we only possess as they perish and make up our perishable life. This life however must on this account be more dear to us, since being full of misery, we cannot have any more solid consolation therein than that of being assured that it gradually disappears to make room for that holy eternity which is prepared for us in the abundance of God’s mercy. To this eternity our soul aspires incessantly by the continual thoughts its very nature suggests to it, though it cannot have hope for eternity except by other and higher thoughts which the author of nature bestows upon it.
Truly, my brother, I never think of eternity without much sweetness; for, say I, how could my soul extend its thought to this infinity unless it has some kind of proportion with it? Certainly, a faculty which attains an object must have some sort of correspondence with it. But when I find that my desire runs after my thought upon this same eternity, my joy takes an unparalleled increase, for I know that we never desire, with a true desire, anything which is not possible. My desire then assures me that I can have eternity: what remains for me but to hope that I shall have it? And this is given to me by the knowledge of the infinite goodness of him who would not have created a soul capable of thinking of and tending towards eternity, unless he has intended to give the means of attaining it. Thus, my brother, we shall find ourselves at the foot of the crucifix, which is the ladder by which from these temporal years we pass to the eternal years.
I wish then about your dear soul that this next year may be followed by many others, and that all may be usefully employed for the conquest of eternity. Live long, holily, and happily amongst your own here below during these perishable moments, to live again eternally in that unchangeable felicity for which we pant. See how my heart pours itself out before yours, and expresses itself according to that confidence which is given it by the affection which makes me yours, &c.
B-VII/25. To a Lady: Contempt of the grandeurs of this world.—Desires of Eternity.
Lyons, 19th December, 1622.
A Thousand Thanks to your well-beloved heart, my dearest daughter, for the favours it does to my soul, in giving it such sweet proofs of its affection. My God! How blessed are they who, with hearts disengaged from courts and from the forms which reign there, live peacefully in holy solitude at the foot of the crucifix. Truly, I never had a good opinion of vanity, but I find it much more vain amid the feeble grandeurs of the court.
My dearest daughter, the more I advance in this mortality, the more contemptible I find it, and ever more loveable the holy eternity to which we aspire, and for which only we must love one another. Let us live only for this eternal life, which alone deserves the name of life, in comparison with which the life of the great of this world is a very miserable death.
I am with all my heart very truly all yours, my dearest daughter. Your, &c.
THE END.
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[1] In his missionary work for the Chablais.
[2] Mat. 10:22.
[3] 2 Tim. 2:5.
[4] 2. Cor. 4:17.
[5] Children of Madame de Chantal.
[6] See Love of God, Book VII. ch. 12.
[7] Wisdom, 4. :11.
[8] Forty days’ mind.
[9] A brother of St. Francis.
[10] Ps. 135.
[11] Ps. 118. :137.
[12] Rom. 12. :2.
[13] Ps. 38. :10.
[14] The Baron de Thorens, brother of St. Francis, and son-in-law of Madame da Chantal.
[15] Janus de Sales, Knight of Malta.
[16] Matt. 11. :26.
[17] Matt. 8.
[18] See note p. 97.
[19] Prov. 30. :19.
[20] Ps. 39. :1.
[21] Rom. 7. :15.
[22] Heb. 13. :1.
[23] John 10. :14.
[24] Ps. 57. :5.
[25] Ps. 125. :5.
[26] Friendship which could end was never true.
[27] Ps. 101. :28.
[28] Ps. 38. :7.
[29] The Coadjutorship of Paris.
[30] Coadjutor to the Saint.
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