{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_22269/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_22269","id":"gutenberg_22269","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22269","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Catholics -- France -- Biography","Guyon, Jeanne Marie Bouvier de La Motte, 1648-1717","United Kingdom"],"text":"Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAUTOBIOGRAPHY\n\nOF\n\nMADAME GUYON\n\n\n\nIN TWO PARTS\n\n\n\nMOODY PRESS\nCHICAGO\n\n\n_Printed in the United States of America_\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nIn the history of the world few persons have attained that high degree\nof spirituality reached by Madame Guyon.\n\nBorn in a corrupt age, in a nation marked for its degeneracy; nursed\nand reared in a church, as profligate as the world in which it was\nembedded; persecuted at every step of her career; groping as she did in\nspiritual desolation and ignorance, nevertheless, she arose to the\nhighest pinnacle of pre-eminence in spirituality and Christian\ndevotion.\n\nShe lived and died in the Catholic Church; yet was tormented and\nafflicted; was maltreated and abused; and was imprisoned for years by\nthe highest authorities of that church.\n\nHer sole crime was that of loving God. The ground of her offense was\nfound in her supreme devotion and unmeasured attachment to Christ. When\nthey demanded her money and estate, she gladly surrendered them, even\nto her impoverishment, but it availed nothing. The crime of loving Him\nin whom her whole being was absorbed, never could be mitigated, or\nforgiven.\n\nShe loved only to do good to her fellow-creatures, and to such an\nextent was she filled with the Holy Ghost, and with the power of God,\nthat she wrought wonders in her day, and has not ceased to influence\nthe ages that have followed.\n\nViewed from a human standpoint, it is a sublime spectacle, to see a\nsolitary woman subvert all the machinations of kings and courtiers;\nlaugh to scorn all the malignant enginery of the papal inquisition, and\nsilence, and confound the pretensions of the most learned divines. She\nnot only saw more clearly the sublimest truths of our most holy\nChristianity, but she basked in the clearest and most beautiful\nsunlight while they groped in darkness. She grasped with ease the\ndeepest and sublimest truths of holy Writ, while they were lost in the\nmazes of their own profound ignorance.\n\nOne distinguished divine was delighted to sit at her feet. At first he\nheard her with distrust; then with admiration. Finally he opened his\nheart to the truth, and stretched forth his hand to be led by this\nsaint of God into the Holy of Holies where she dwelt. We allude to the\ndistinguished Archbishop Fenelon, whose sweet spirit and charming\nwritings have been a blessing to every generation following him.\n\nWe offer no word of apology for publishing in the Autobiography of\nMadame Guyon, those expressions of devotion to her church, that found\nvent in her writings. She was a true Catholic when protestantism was in\nits infancy.\n\nThere can be no doubt that God, by a special interposition of His\nProvidence, caused her to commit her life so minutely to writing. The\nduty was enjoined upon her by her spiritual director, whom the rules of\nher church made it obligatory upon her to obey. It was written while\nshe was incarcerated in the cell of a lonely prison. The same all-wise\nProvidence preserved it from destruction. We have not a shadow of doubt\nthat it is destined to accomplish tenfold more in the future than it\nhas accomplished in the past. Indeed, the Christian world is only\nbeginning to understand and appreciate it, and the hope and prayer of\nthe publisher is, that thousands may, through its instrumentality, be\nbrought into the same intimate communion and fellowship with God, that\nwas so richly enjoyed by Madame Guyon.\n\nE. J.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nPART ONE\n\nChapter 1 13\nChapter 2 19\nChapter 3 25\nChapter 4 30\nChapter 5 38\nChapter 6 49\nChapter 7 60\nChapter 8 68\nChapter 9 76\nChapter 10 79\nChapter 11 84\nChapter 12 89\nChapter 13 100\nChapter 14 108\nChapter 15 113\nChapter 16 121\nChapter 17 128\nChapter 18 134\nChapter 19 140\nChapter 20 148\nChapter 21 156\nChapter 22 160\nChapter 23 167\nChapter 24 173\nChapter 25 178\nChapter 26 185\nChapter 27 191\nChapter 28 197\nChapter 29 205\n\n\nPART TWO\n\nChapter 1 219\nChapter 2 225\nChapter 3 231\nChapter 4 236\nChapter 5 242\nChapter 6 248\nChapter 7 255\nChapter 8 261\nChapter 9 266\nChapter 10 272\nChapter 11 277\nChapter 12 282\nChapter 13 293\nChapter 14 302\nChapter 15 309\nChapter 16 316\nChapter 17 326\nChapter 18 343\nChapter 19 353\nChapter 20 364\nChapter 21 374\n\n\n\n\nMADAME GUYON\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\n\nThere were omissions of importance in the former narration of my life.\nI willingly comply with your desire, in giving you a more\ncircumstantial relation; though the labor seems rather painful, as I\ncannot use much study or reflection. My earnest wish is to paint in\ntrue colors the goodness of God to me, and the depth of my own\ningratitude--but it is impossible, as numberless little circumstances\nhave escaped my memory. You are also unwilling I should give you a\nminute account of my sins. I shall, however, try to leave out as few\nfaults as possible. I depend on you to destroy it, when your soul hath\ndrawn those spiritual advantages which God intended, and for which\npurpose I am willing to sacrifice all things. I am fully persuaded of\nHis designs toward you, as well for the sanctification of others, as\nfor your own sanctification.\n\nLet me assure you, this is not attained, save through pain, weariness\nand labor; and it will be reached by a path that will wonderfully\ndisappoint your expectations. Nevertheless, if you are fully convinced\nthat it is on the nothing in man that God establishes his greatest\nworks,--you will be in part guarded against disappointment or surprise.\nHe destroys that he might build; for when He is about to rear His\nsacred temple in us, He first totally razes that vain and pompous\nedifice, which human art and power had erected, and from its horrible\nruins a new structure is formed, by His power only.\n\nOh, that you could comprehend the depth of this mystery, and learn the\nsecrets of the conduct of God, revealed to babes, but hid from the wise\nand great of this world, who think themselves the Lord's counselor's,\nand capable of investigating His procedures, and suppose they have\nattained that divine wisdom hidden from the eyes of all who live in\nself, and are enveloped in their own works. Who by a lively genius and\nelevated faculties mount up to Heaven, and think to comprehend the\nheight and depth and length and breadth of God.\n\nThis divine wisdom is unknown, even to those who pass in the world for\npersons of extraordinary illumination and knowledge. To whom then is\nshe known, and who can tell us any tidings concerning her? Destruction\nand death assure us, that they have heard with their ears of her fame\nand renown. It is, then, in dying to all things, and in being truly\nlost to them, passing forward into God, and existing only in Him, that\nwe attain to some knowledge of the true wisdom. Oh, how little are her\nways known, and her dealings with her most chosen servants. Scarce do\nwe discover anything thereof, but surprised at the dissimilitude\nbetwixt the truth we thus discover and our former ideas of it, we cry\nout with St. Paul, \"Oh, the depth of the knowledge and wisdom of God!\nhow unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out.\" The\nLord judgeth not of things as men do, who call good evil and evil good,\nand account that as righteousness which is abominable in His sight, and\nwhich according to the prophet He regards as filthy rags. He will enter\ninto strict judgment with these self-righteous, and they shall, like\nthe Pharisees, be rather subjects of His wrath, than objects of His\nlove, or inheritors of His rewards. Doth not Christ Himself assure us,\nthat \"except our righteousness exceed that of the scribes and pharisees\nwe shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven.\" And which of us\neven approaches them in righteousness; or, if we live in the practice\nof virtues, though much inferior to theirs, are we not tenfold more\nostentatious? Who is not pleased to behold himself righteous in his own\neyes, and in the eyes of others? or, who is it doubts that such\nrighteousness is sufficient to please God? Yet, we see the indignation\nof our Lord manifested against such. He who was the perfect pattern of\ntenderness and meekness, such as flowed from the depth of the heart,\nand not that affected meekness, which under the form of a dove, hides\nthe hawk's heart. He appears severe only to these self-righteous\npeople, and He publicly dishonored them. In what strange colors does He\nrepresent them, while He beholds the poor sinner with mercy, compassion\nand love, and declares that for them only He was come, that it was the\nsick who needed the physician; and that He came only to save the lost\nsheep of the house of Israel.\n\nO thou Source of Love! Thou dost indeed seem so jealous of the\nsalvation Thou hast purchased, that Thou dost prefer the sinner to the\nrighteous! The poor sinner beholds himself vile and wretched, is in a\nmanner constrained to detest himself; and finding his state so\nhorrible, casts himself in his desperation into the arms of his\nSaviour, and plunges into the healing fountain, and comes forth \"white\nas wool.\" Then confounded at the review of his disordered state, and\noverflowing with love for Him, who having alone the power, had also the\ncompassion to save him--the excess of his love is proportioned to the\nenormity of his crimes, and the fullness of his gratitude to the extent\nof the debt remitted. The self-righteous, relying on the many good\nworks he imagines he has performed, seems to hold salvation in his own\nhand, and considers Heaven as a just reward of his merits. In the\nbitterness of his zeal he exclaims against all sinners, and represents\nthe gates of mercy as barred against them, and Heaven as a place to\nwhich they have no claim. What need have such self-righteous persons of\na Saviour? they are already burdened with the load of their own merits.\nOh, how long they bear the flattering load, while sinners divested of\neverything, fly rapidly on the wings of faith and love into their\nSaviour's arms, who freely bestows on them that which he has so freely\npromised!\n\nHow full of self-love are the self-righteous, and how void of the love\nof God! They esteem and admire themselves in their works of\nrighteousness, which they suppose to be a fountain of happiness. These\nworks are no sooner exposed to the Sun of Righteousness, than they\ndiscover all to be so full of impurity and baseness, that it frets them\nto the heart. Meanwhile the poor sinner, Magdalene, is pardoned because\nshe loves much, and her faith and love are accepted as righteousness.\nThe inspired Paul, who so well understood these great truths and so\nfully investigated them, assures us that \"the faith of Abraham was\nimputed to him for righteousness.\" This is truly beautiful for it is\ncertain that all of that holy patriarch's actions were strictly\nrighteous; yet, not seeing them as such, and being devoid of the love\nof them, and divested of selfishness, his faith was founded on the\ncoming Christ. He hoped in Him even against hope itself, and this was\nimputed to him for righteousness, (Rom. 41: 18, 22,) a pure, simple and\ngenuine righteousness, wrought by Christ, and not a righteousness\nwrought by himself, and regarded as of himself.\n\nYou may imagine this a digression wide of the subject, but it leads\ninsensibly to it. It shows that God accomplishes His work either in\nconverted sinners, whose past iniquities serve as a counterpoise to\ntheir elevation, or in persons whose self-righteousness He destroys, by\ntotally overthrowing the proud building they had reared on a sandy\nfoundation, instead of the Rock--CHRIST.\n\nThe establishment of all these ends, which He proposed in coming into\nthe world, is effected by the apparent overthrow of that very structure\nwhich in reality He would erect. By means which seem to destroy His\nChurch, He establishes it. How strangely does He found the new\ndispensation and give it His sanction! The legislator Himself is\ncondemned by the learned and great, as a malefactor, and dies an\nignominious death. Oh, that we fully understood how very opposite our\nself-righteousness is to the designs of God--it would be a subject for\nendless humiliation, and we should have an utter distrust in that which\nat present constitutes the whole of our dependence.\n\nFrom a just love of His supreme power, and a righteous jealousy of\nmankind, who attribute to each other the gifts He Himself bestows upon\nthem, it pleased Him to take one of the most unworthy of the creation,\nto make known the fact that His graces are the effects of His will, not\nthe fruits of our merits. It is the property of His wisdom to destroy\nwhat is proudly built, and to build what is destroyed; to make use of\nweak things to confound the mighty and to employ in His service such as\nappear vile and contemptible.\n\nThis He does in a manner so astonishing, as to render them the objects\nof the scorn and contempt of the world. It is not to draw public\napprobation upon them, that He makes them instrumental in the salvation\nof others; but to render them the objects of their dislike and the\nsubjects of their insults; as you will see in this life you have\nenjoined upon me to write.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\n\nI was born on April 18, 1648. My parents, particularly my father, was\nextremely pious; but to him it was a manner hereditary. Many of his\nforefathers were saints.\n\nMy mother, in the eighth month, was accidentally frightened, which\ncaused an abortion. It is generally imagined that a child born in that\nmonth cannot survive. Indeed, I was so excessively ill, immediately\nafter my birth, that all about me despaired of my life, and were\napprehensive I should die without baptism. Perceiving some signs of\nvitality, they ran to acquaint my father, who immediately brought a\npriest; but on entering the chamber they were told those symptoms which\nhad raised their hopes were only expiring struggles, and all was over.\n\nI had no sooner shown signs of life again, than I again relapsed, and\nremained so long in an uncertain state, that it was some time before\nthey could find a proper opportunity to baptize me. I continued very\nunhealthy until I was two and a half years old, when they sent me to\nthe convent of the Ursulines, where I remained a few months.\n\nOn my return, my mother neglected to pay due attention to my education.\nShe was not fond of daughters and abandoned me wholly to the care of\nservants. Indeed, I should have suffered severely from their\ninattention to me had not an all-watchful Providence been my protector:\nfor through my liveliness, I met with various accidents. I frequently\nfell into a deep vault that held our firewood; however, I always\nescaped unhurt.\n\nThe Dutchess of Montbason came to the convent of the Benedictines, when\nI was about four years old. She had a great friendship for my father,\nand obtained his permission that I should go to the same convent. She\ntook peculiar delight in my sportiveness and certain sweetness in my\nexternal deportment. I became her constant companion.\n\nI was guilty of frequent and dangerous irregularities in this house,\nand committed serious faults. I had good examples before me, and being\nnaturally well inclined, I followed them, when there were none to turn\nme aside. I loved to hear God spoken of, to be at church, and to be\ndressed in a religious garb. I was told of terrors of Hell which I\nimagined was intended to intimidate me as I was exceedingly lively, and\nfull of a little petulant vivacity which they called wit. The\nsucceeding night I dreamed of Hell, and though I was so young, time has\nnever been able to efface the frightful ideas impressed upon my\nimagination. All appeared horrible darkness, where souls were punished,\nand my place among them was pointed out. At this I wept bitterly, and\ncried, \"Oh, my God, if Thou wilt have mercy upon me, and spare me yet a\nlittle longer, I will never more offend Thee.\" And thou didst, O Lord,\nin mercy hearken unto my cry, and pour upon me strength and courage to\nserve thee, in an uncommon manner for one of my age. I wanted to go\nprivately to confession, but being little, the mistress of the boarders\ncarried me to the priest, and stayed with me while I was heard. She was\nmuch astonished when I mentioned that I had suggestions against the\nfaith, and the confessor began to laugh, and inquire what they were. I\ntold him that till then I had doubted there was such a place as Hell,\nand supposed my mistress had spoken of it merely to make me good, but\nnow my doubts were all removed. After confession my heart glowed with a\nkind of fervor, and at one time I felt a desire to suffer martyrdom.\nThe good girls of the house, to amuse themselves, and to see how far\nthis growing fervor would carry me, desired me to prepare for\nmartyrdom. I found great fervency and delight in prayer, and was\npersuaded that this ardor, which was as new as it was pleasing, was a\nproof of God's love. This inspired me with such courage and resolution,\nthat I earnestly besought them to proceed, that I might thereby enter\ninto His sacred presence, but was there not latent hypocrisy here? Did\nI not imagine that it was possible they would not kill me, and that I\nwould have the merit of martyrdom without suffering it? Indeed, it\nappeared there was something of this nature in it. Being placed\nkneeling on a cloth spread for the purpose, and seeing behind me a\nlarge sword lifted up which they had prepared to try how far my ardor\nwould carry me I cried, \"Hold! it is not right I should die without\nfirst obtaining my father's permission.\" I was quickly upbraided with\nhaving said this that I might escape, and that I was no longer a\nmartyr. I continued long disconsolate, and would receive no comfort;\nsomething inwardly reproved me, for not having embraced that\nopportunity of going to Heaven, when it rested altogether on my own\nchoice.\n\nAt my solicitation, and on account of my falling so frequently sick, I\nwas at length taken home. On my return, my mother having a maid in whom\nshe placed confidence, left me again to the care of servants. It is a\ngreat fault, of which mothers are guilty, when under pretext of\nexternal devotions, or other engagements, they suffer their daughters\nto be absent from them. I forbear not condemning that unjust partiality\nwith which parents treat some of their children. It is frequently\nproductive of divisions in families, and even the ruin of some.\nImpartiality, by uniting children's hearts together, lays the\nfoundation of lasting harmony and unanimity.\n\nI would I were able to convince parents, and all who have the care of\nyouth, of the great attention they require, and how dangerous it is to\nlet them be for any length of time from under their eye, or to suffer\nthem to be without some kind of employment. This negligence is the ruin\nof multitudes of girls.\n\nHow greatly it is to be lamented, that mothers who are inclined to\npiety, should pervert even the means of salvation to their\ndestruction--commit the greatest irregularities while apparently\npursuing that which should produce the most regular and circumspect\nconduct.\n\nThus, because they experience certain gains in prayer, they would be\nall day long at church; meanwhile their children are running to\ndestruction. We glorify God most when we prevent what may offend Him.\nWhat must be the nature of that sacrifice which is the occasion of sin!\nGod should be served in His own way. Let the devotion of mothers be\nregulated so as to prevent their daughters from straying. Treat them as\nsisters, not as slaves. Appear pleased with their little amusements.\nThe children will delight then in the presence of their mothers,\ninstead of avoiding it. If they find so much happiness with them, they\nwill not dream of seeking it elsewhere. Mothers frequently deny their\nchildren any liberties. Like birds constantly confined to a cage, they\nno sooner find means of escape than off they go, never to return. In\norder to render them tame and docile when young, they should be\npermitted sometimes to take wing, but as their flight is weak, and\nclosely watched, it is easy to retake them when they escape. Little\nflight gives them the habit of naturally returning to their cage which\nbecomes an agreeable confinement. I believe young girls should be\ntreated in a manner something similar to this. Mothers should indulge\nthem in an innocent liberty, but should never lose sight of them.\n\nTo guard the tender minds of children from what is wrong, much care\nshould be taken to employ them in agreeable and useful matters. They\nshould not be loaded with food they cannot relish. Milk suited to\nbabies should be administered to them not strong meat which may so\ndisgust them, that when they arrive at an age when it would be proper\nnourishment, they will not so much as taste it. Every day they should\nbe obliged to read a little in some good book, spend some time in\nprayer, which must be suited rather to stir the affections, than for\nmeditation. Oh, were this method of education pursued, how speedily\nwould many irregularities cease! These daughters becoming mothers,\nwould educate their children as they themselves had been educated.\n\nParents should also avoid showing the smallest partiality in the\ntreatment of their children. It begets a secret jealousy and hatred\namong them, which frequently augments with time, and even continues\nuntil death. How often do we see some children the idols of the house,\nbehaving like absolute tyrants, treating their brothers and sisters as\nso many slaves according to the example of father and mother. And it\nhappens many times, that the favorite proves a scourge to the parents\nwhile the poor despised and hated one becomes their consolation and\nsupport.\n\nMy mother was very defective in the education of her children. She\nsuffered me whole days from her presence in company with the servants,\nwhose conversation and example were particularly hurtful to one of my\ndisposition. My mother's heart seemed wholly centered in my brother. I\nwas scarcely ever favored with the smallest instance of her tenderness\nor affection. I therefore voluntarily absented myself from her. It is\ntrue, my brother was more amiable than I but the excess of her fondness\nfor him, made her blind even to my outward good qualities. It served\nonly to discover my faults, which would have been trifling had proper\ncare been taken of me.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\n\nMy father who loved me tenderly and seeing how little my education was\nattended to sent me to a convent of the Ursulines. I was near seven\nyears old. In this house were two half sisters of mine, the one by my\nfather, the other by my mother. My father placed me under his\ndaughter's care, a person of the great capacity and most exalted piety,\nexcellently qualified for the instruction of youth. This was a singular\ndispensation of God's providence and love toward me, and proved the\nfirst means of my salvation. She loved me tenderly, and her affection\nmade her discover in me many amiable qualities, which the Lord had\nimplanted in me. She endeavored to improve these good qualities, and I\nbelieve that had I continued in such careful hands, I should have\nacquired as many virtuous habits as I afterward contracted evil ones.\n\nThis good sister employed her time in instructing me in piety and in\nsuch branches of learning as were suitable to my age and capacity. She\nhad good talents and improved them well. She was frequent in prayer and\nher faith was as great as that of most persons. She denied herself\nevery other pleasure to be with me and to instruct me. Such was her\naffection for me that it made her find more pleasure with me than\nanywhere else.\n\nIf I made her agreeable answers, though more from chance than from\njudgment, she thought herself well paid for all her labor. Under her\ncare I soon became mistress of most studies suitable for me. Many grown\npersons of rank could not have answered the questions.\n\nAs my father often sent for me, desiring to see me at home, I found at\none time the Queen of England there. I was near eight years of age. My\nfather told the Queen's confessor that if he wanted a little amusement\nhe might entertain himself with me. He tried me with several very\ndifficult questions, to which I returned such pertinent answers that he\ncarried me to the Queen, and said, \"Your majesty must have some\ndiversion with this child.\" She also tried me and was so well pleased\nwith my lively answers, and my manners, that she demanded me of my\nfather with no small importunity. She assured him that she would take\nparticular care of me, designing me for maid of honor to the princess.\nMy father resisted. Doubtless it was God who caused this refusal, and\nthereby turned off the stroke which might have probably intercepted my\nsalvation. Being so weak, how could I have withstood the temptations\nand distractions of a court?\n\nI went back to the Ursulines where my good sister continued her\naffection. But as she was not the mistress of the boarders, and I was\nobliged sometimes to go along with them, I contracted bad habits. I\nbecame addicted to lying, peevishness and indevotion, passing whole\ndays without thinking on God; though He watched continually over me, as\nthe sequel will manifest. I did not remain long under the power of such\nhabits because my sister's care recovered me. I loved much to hear of\nGod, was not weary of church, loved to pray, had tenderness for the\npoor, and a natural dislike for persons whose doctrine was judged\nunsound. God has always continued to me this grace, in my greatest\ninfidelities.\n\nThere was at the end of the garden connected with this convent, a\nlittle chapel dedicated to the child Jesus. To this I betook myself for\ndevotion and, for some time, carrying my breakfast thither every\nmorning, I hid it all behind this image. I was so much a child, that I\nthought I made a considerable sacrifice in depriving myself of it.\nDelicate in my choice of food, I wished to mortify myself, but found\nself-love still too prevalent, to submit to such mortification. When\nthey were cleaning out this chapel, they found behind the image what I\nhad left there and presently guessed that it was I. They had seen me\nevery day going thither. I believe that God, who lets nothing pass\nwithout a recompense, soon rewarded me with interest for this little\ninfantine devotion.\n\nI continued some time with my sister, where I retained the love and\nfear of God. My life was easy; I was educated agreeably with her. I\nimproved much while I had my health, but very often I was sick, and\nseized with maladies as sudden as they were uncommon. In the evening\nwell; in the morning swelled and full of bluish marks, symptoms of a\nfever which soon followed. At nine years, I was taken with so violent a\nhemorrhage that they thought I was going to die. I was rendered\nexceedingly weak.\n\nA little before this severe attack, my other sister became jealous,\nwanting to have me in turn. Though she led a good life, yet she had not\na talent for the education of children. At first she caressed me, but\nall her caresses made no impression upon my heart. My other sister did\nmore with a look, than she with either caresses or threatenings. As she\nsaw that I loved her not so well, she changed to rigorous treatment.\nShe would not allow me to speak to my other sister. When she knew I had\nspoken to her, she had me whipped, or beat me herself. I could no\nlonger hold out against severe usage, and therefore requited with\napparent ingratitude all the favors of my paternal sister, going no\nmore to see her. But this did not hinder her from giving me marks of\nher usual goodness, in the severe malady just mentioned. She kindly\nconstrued my ingratitude to be rather owing to my fear of chastisement,\nthan to a bad heart. Indeed, I believe this was the only instance in\nwhich fear of chastisement operated so powerfully upon me. From that\ntime I suffered more in occasioning pain to One I loved, than in\nsuffering myself at their hand.\n\nThou knowest, O my Beloved, that it was not the dread of Thy\nchastisements that sunk so deep, either into my understanding or my\nheart; it was the sorrow for offending Thee which ever constituted the\nwhole of my distress; which was so great. I imagine if there were\nneither Heaven nor Hell, I should always have retained the same fear of\ndispleasing Thee. Thou knowest that after my faults, when, in forgiving\nmercy, Thou wert pleased to visit my soul, Thy caresses were a\nthousand-fold more insupportable than Thy rod.\n\nMy father being informed of all that passed, took me home again. I was\nnearly ten years of age. I stayed only a little while at home. A nun of\nthe order of St. Dominie, of a great family, one of my father's\nintimate friends, solicited him to place me in her convent. She was the\nprioress and promised she would take care of me and make me lodge in\nher room. This lady had conceived a great affection for me. She was so\ntaken up with her community, in its many troublesome events that she\nwas not at liberty to take much care of me. I had the chickenpox, which\nmade me keep to my bed three weeks, in which I had very bad care,\nthough my father and mother thought I was under excellent care. The\nladies of the house had such a dread of the smallpox, as they imagined\nmine to be, that they would not come near me. I passed almost all the\ntime without seeing anybody. A lay-sister who only brought me my\nallowance of diet at the set hours immediately went off again. I\nprovidentially found a Bible and having both a fondness for reading and\na happy memory, I spent whole days in reading it from morning to night.\nI learned entirely the historical part. Yet I was really very unhappy\nin this house. The other boarders, being large girls, distressed me\nwith grievous persecutions. I was so much neglected, as to food, that I\nbecame quite emaciated.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\n\nAfter about eight months, my father took me home. My mother kept me\nmore with her, beginning to have a higher regard for me than before.\nShe still preferred my brother; every one spoke of it. Even when I was\nsick and there was anything I liked, he demanded it. It was taken from\nme, and given to him, and he was in perfectly good health. One day he\nmade me mount the top of the coach; then threw me down. By the fall I\nwas very much bruised. At other times he beat me. But whatever he did,\nhowever wrong, it was winked at, or the most favorable construction was\nput upon it. This soured my temper. I had little disposition to do\ngood, saying, \"I was never the better for it.\"\n\nIt was not then for Thee alone, O God, that I did good; since I ceased\nto do it, when it met not with such a reception from others as I\nwanted. Had I known how to make a right use of this thy crucifying\nconduct, I should have made a good progress. Far from turning me out of\nthe way, it would have made me turn more wholly to Thee.\n\nI looked with jealous eyes on my brother, seeing the difference between\nhim and me. Whatever he did was considered well; but if there were\nblame, it fell on me. My stepsisters by the mother, gained her goodwill\nby caressing him and persecuting me. True, I was bad. I relapsed into\nmy former faults of lying and peevishness. With all these faults I was\nvery tender and charitable to the poor. I prayed to God assiduously,\nloved to hear any one speak of Him and to read good books.\n\nI doubt not that you will be amazed at such a series of\ninconsistencies; but what succeeds will surprise you yet more, when you\nsee this manner of acting gain ground with my years. As my reason\nripened, it was so far from correcting this irrational conduct. Sin\ngrew more powerful in me.\n\nO my God, thy grace seemed to be redoubled in proportion to the\nincrease of my ingratitude! It was with me as with a city besieged,\nThou didst surround my heart, and I only studied how to defend myself\nagainst thy attacks. I raised fortifications about the wretched place,\nadding every day to the number of my iniquities to prevent Thee taking\nit. When there was an appearance of Thy becoming victorious over this\nungrateful heart, I raised a counter-battery, and threw up ramparts to\nkeep off thy goodness, and to hinder the course of thy grace. None\nother could have conquered than Thyself.\n\nI cannot bear to hear it said, \"We are not free to resist grace.\" I\nhave had too long and fatal an experience of my liberty. I closed up\nthe avenues of my heart, that I might not so much as hear that secret\nvoice of God, which was calling me to Himself. I have indeed, from\ntenderest youth, passed through a series of grievances, either by\nmaladies or by persecutions. The girl to whose care my mother left me,\nin arranging my hair used to beat me, and did not make me turn it\nexcept with rage and blows.\n\nEverything seemed to punish me, but this instead of making me turn unto\nThee, O my God, only served to afflict and embitter my mind.\n\nMy father knew nothing of all this; his love to me was such that he\nwould not have suffered it. I loved him very much, but at the same time\nI feared him, so that I told him nothing of it. My mother was often\nteasing him with complaints of me, to which he made no other reply\nthan, \"There are twelve hours in the day; she'll grow wiser.\" This\nrigorous proceeding was not the worst for my soul, though it soured my\ntemper, which was otherwise mild and easy. But what caused my greatest\nhurt was, that I chose to be among those who caressed me, in order to\ncorrupt and spoil me.\n\nMy father, seeing I was now grown tall, placed me in Lent among the\nUrsulines, to receive my first communion at Easter, at which time I was\nto complete my eleventh year. And here my most dear sister, under whose\ninspection my father placed me, redoubled her cares, to cause me to\nmake the best preparation possible for this act of devotion. I thought\nnow of giving myself to God in good earnest. I often felt a combat\nbetween my good inclinations and my bad habits. I even did some\npenances. As I was almost always with my sister, and as the boarders in\nher class, which was the first, were very reasonable and civil. I\nbecame such also, while among them. It had been cruel to educate me\nbadly; for my very nature was strongly disposed to goodness. Easily won\nwith mildness, I did with pleasure whatever my good sister desired. At\nlength Easter arrived; I received the communion with much joy and\ndevotion. In this house I staid until Whitsuntide. But as my other\nsister was mistress of the second class, she demanded that in her week\nI should be with her in that class. Her manners, so opposite to the\nother's, made me relax my former piety. I felt no more that new and\ndelightful ardor which had seized my heart at my first communion. Alas!\nit held but a short time. My faults and failings were soon reiterated\nand drew me from the care and duties of religion.\n\nAs I now grew very tall for my age, and more to my mother's liking than\nbefore, she took care to deck and dress me, to make me see company, and\nto take me abroad. She took an inordinate pride in that beauty with\nwhich God had formed me, to bless and praise Him. However it was\nperverted by me into a source of pride and vanity. Several suitors came\nto me; but as I was not yet twelve years my father would not listen to\nany proposals. I loved reading and shut myself up alone every day to\nread without interruption.\n\nWhat proved effectual to gain me entirely to God, at least for a time,\nwas that a nephew of my father's passed by our home on a mission to\nCochin China. I happened at that time to be taking a walk with my\ncompanions, which I seldom did. At my return he was gone. They gave me\nan account of his sanctity, and the things he had said, I was so\ntouched that I was overcome with sorrow. I cried all the rest of the\nday and night. Early in the morning I went in great distress to seek my\nconfessor. I said to him, \"What! my father, am I the only person in our\nfamily to be lost? Alas; help me in my salvation.\" He was greatly\nsurprised to see me so much afflicted, and comforted me in the best\nmanner he could, not thinking me so bad as I was. In my backslidings I\nwas docile, punctual in obedience, careful to confess often. Since I\nwent to him my life was more regular.\n\nOh, thou God of love, how often hast Thou knocked at the door of my\nheart! How often terrified me with appearances of sudden death! All\nthese only made a transient impression. I presently returned again to\nmy infidelities. This time thou didst take and quite carried off my\nheart. Alas, what grief I now sustained for having displeased Thee!\nwhat regrets, what exclamations, what sobbings! Who would have thought,\nto see me, but that my conversion would have lasted as long as my life?\nWhy didst thou not, O my God, utterly take this heart to thyself, when\nI gave it to Thee so fully. Or, if Thou didst take it then, oh, why\ndidst Thou let it revolt again? Thou wast surely strong enough to hold\nit, but Thou wouldst perhaps, in leaving me to myself, display thy\nmercy that the depth of my iniquity might serve as a trophy to thy\ngoodness.\n\nI immediately applied myself to every part of my duty. I made a general\nconfession with great compunction of heart. I frankly confessed all\nthat I knew with many tears. I became so changed that I was scarcely\nknown. I would not for ever so much made the least voluntary slip. They\nfound not any matter for absolution when I confessed. I discovered the\nvery smallest faults and God did me the favor to enable me to conquer\nmyself in many things. There were left only some remains of passion,\nwhich gave me some trouble to conquer. But as soon as I had by means\nthereof, given any displeasure, even to the domestics, I begged their\npardon, in order to subdue my wrath and pride; for wrath is the\ndaughter of pride. A person truly humbled permits not anything to put\nhim in a rage. As it is pride which dies the last in the soul, so it is\npassion which is last destroyed in the outward conduct. A soul\nthoroughly dead to itself, finds nothing of rage left.\n\nThere are persons who, being very much filled with grace and with\npeace, at their entrance of the resigned path of light and love, think\nthey are come thus far. But they are greatly mistaken, in this view of\ntheir state. This they will readily discover, if they are heartily\nwilling to examine two things. First, if their nature is lively, warm\nand violent, (I speak not of stupid tempers) they will find, from time\nto time, that they make slips, in which trouble and emotion have some\nshare. Even then they are useful to humble and annihilate them. (But\nwhen annihilation is perfected all passion is gone--it is incompatible\nwith this state.) They will find that there often arises in them\ncertain motions of anger, but the sweetness of grace holds them back.\nThey would easily transgress, if in any wise they gave way to these\nmotions. There are persons who think themselves very mild because\nnothing thwarts them. It is not of such that I am speaking. Mildness\nwhich has never been put to the proof, is often only counterfeit. Those\npersons who, when unmolested, appear to be saints are no sooner\nexercised by vexing occurrences than there starts up in them a strange\nnumber of faults. They had thought them dead which only lay dormant\nbecause nothing awakened them.\n\nI followed my religious exercises. I shut myself up all day to read and\npray. I gave all I had to the poor taking even linen to their houses. I\ntaught them the catechism and when my parents dined out I made them eat\nwith me and served them with great respect. I read the works of St.\nFrancis de Sales and the life of Madam de Chantal. There I first\nlearned what mental prayer was, and I besought my confessor to teach me\nthat kind of prayer. As he did not, I used my own endeavors to practice\nit, though without success, as I then thought, because I could not\nexercise the imagination, I persuaded myself, that that prayer could\nnot be made without forming to one's self certain ideas and reasoning\nmuch. This difficulty gave me no small trouble, for a long time. I was\nvery assiduous and prayed earnestly to God to give me the gift of\nprayer. All that I saw in the life of M. de Chantal charmed me. I was\nso much a child, that I thought I ought to do everything I saw in it.\nAll the vows she had made I made also. One day as I was reading that\nshe had put the name of Jesus on her heart, to follow the counsel, \"Set\nme as a seal upon thy heart.\" For this purpose she had taken a hot\niron, whereupon the holy name was engraven. I was very much afflicted\nthat I could not do the same. I decided to write that sacred and\nadorable name, in large characters, on paper, then with ribbons and a\nneedle I fastened it to my skin in four places. In that position it\ncontinued a long time.\n\nAfter this, I turned all my thoughts to become a nun. Because the love\nwhich I had for St. Francis de Sales did not permit me to think of any\nother community than the one of which he was the founder, I frequently\nwent to beg the nuns there to receive me into their convent. Often I\nstole out of my father's house to go and repeatedly solicit my\nadmission there. Though it was what they eagerly desired, even as a\ntemporal advantage, yet they never dared let me enter, as they very\nmuch feared my father, to whose fondness for me they were no strangers.\n\nThere was at that house a niece of my father's, to whom I am under\ngreat obligations. Fortune had not been very favorable to her father.\nIt had reduced her in some measure to depend on mine, to whom she made\nknown my desire. Although he would not for anything in the world have\nhindered a right vocation, yet he could not hear of my design without\nshedding tears. As he happened at this time to be abroad, my cousin\nwent to my confessor, to desire him to forbid my going to the\nvisitation. He dared not, however, do it plainly, for fear of drawing\non himself the resentment of that community. I still wanted to be a\nnun, and importuned my mother excessively to take me to that house. She\nwould not do it, for fear of grieving my father, who was absent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\n\nNo sooner was my father returned home, than he became violently ill. My\nmother was at the same time indisposed in another part of the house. I\nwas all alone with him, ready to render him every kind of service I was\ncapable of, and to give him all the dutiful marks of a most sincere\naffection. I do not doubt but my assiduity was very agreeable to him. I\nperformed the most menial offices unperceived by him taking the time\nfor it when the servants were not at hand; as well to mortify myself as\nto pay due honor to what Jesus Christ said, that He came not to be\nministered to, but to minister. When father made me read to him, I read\nwith such heartfelt devotion that he was surprised. I remembered the\ninstruction my sister had given me, and the ejaculatory prayers and\npraises I had learned.\n\nShe had taught me to praise Thee, O my God, in all Thy works. All that\nI saw called upon me to render Thee homage. If it rained, I wished\nevery drop to be changed into love and praises. My heart was nourished\ninsensibly with Thy love; and my spirit was incessantly engrossed with\nthe remembrance of Thee. I seemed to join and partake in all the good\nthat was done in the world, and could have wished to have the united\nhearts of all men to love Thee. This habit rooted itself so strongly in\nme, that I retained it throughout my greatest wanderings.\n\nMy cousin helped not a little, to support me in these good sentiments;\nI was often with her, and loved her, as she took great care of me, and\ntreated me with much gentleness. Her fortune being equal neither to her\nbirth nor her virtue, she did with charity and affection what her\ncondition obliged her to do. My mother grew jealous, fearing I should\nlove my cousin too well and herself too little. She who had left me in\nmy young years to the care of her maids, and since that to my own, only\nrequiring if I was in the house. Troubling herself no further, now\nrequired me always to stay with her, and never suffered me to be with\nmy cousin but with great reluctance. My cousin fell ill. My mother took\nthat occasion to send her home, which was a very severe stroke to my\nheart, as well as to that grace which began to dawn in me.\n\nMy mother was a very virtuous woman. She was one of the most charitable\nwomen of her age. She not only gave the surplus, but even the\nnecessities of the house. Never were the needy neglected. Never any\nwretched one came to her without succor. She furnished poor mechanics\nwherewith to carry on their work, and needy tradesmen wherewith to\nsupply their shops. From her, I think, I inherited my charity and love\nfor the poor. God favored me with the blessing of being her successor\nin that holy exercise. There was not one in the town, or its environs,\nwho did not praise her for this virtue. She sometimes gave to the last\npenny in the house, though she had a large family to maintain, and yet\nshe did not fail in her faith.\n\nMy mother's only care about me had been all along to have me in the\nhouse, which indeed is one material point for a girl. This habit of\nbeing so constantly kept within, proved of great service after my\nmarriage. It would have been better had she kept me more in her own\napartment, with an agreeable freedom and inquired oftener what part of\nthe house I was in.\n\nAfter my cousin left me, God granted me the grace to forgive injuries\nwith such readiness, that my confessor was surprised. He knew that some\nyoung ladies had, out of envy, traduced me and that I spoke well of\nthem as occasion offered. I was seized with an ague, which lasted four\nmonths, in which I suffered much. During that time, I was enabled to\nsuffer with much resignation and patience. In this frame of mind and\nmanner of life I persevered, so long as I continued the practice of\nmental prayer.\n\nLater we went to pass some days in the country. My father took along\nwith us one of his relations, a very accomplished young gentleman. He\nhad a great desire to marry me; but my father, resolved not to give me\nto any near kinsman on account of the difficulty obtaining\ndispensations, put him off, without alleging any false or frivolous\nreasons for it. As this young gentleman was very devout, and every day\nsaid the office of the Virgin, I said it with him. To have time for it,\nI left off prayer which was to me the first inlet of evils. Yet, I kept\nup for a long time some share of the spirit of piety; for I went to\nseek out the little shepherdesses, to instruct them in their religious\nduties. This spirit gradually decayed, not being nourished by prayer. I\nbecame cold toward God. All my old faults revived to which I added an\nexcessive vanity. The love I began to have for myself extinguished what\nremained in me of the love of God.\n\nI did not wholly leave off mental prayer, without asking my confessor's\nleave. I told him I thought it better to say the office of the Virgin\nevery day than to practice prayer; I had not time for both. I saw not\nthat this was a stratagem of the enemy to draw me from God, to entangle\nme in the snares he had laid for me. I had time sufficient for both, as\nI had no other occupation than what I prescribed to myself. My\nconfessor was easy in the matter. Not being a man of prayer he gave his\nconsent to my great hurt.\n\nOh, my God, if the value of prayer were but known, the great advantage\nwhich accrues to the soul from conversing with Thee, and what\nconsequence it is of to salvation, everyone would be assiduous in it.\nIt is a stronghold into which the enemy cannot enter. He may attack it,\nbesiege it, make a noise about its walls; but while we are faithful and\nhold our station, he cannot hurt us. It is alike requisite to dictate\nto children the necessity of prayer as of their salvation. Alas!\nunhappily, it is thought sufficient to tell them that there is a Heaven\nand a Hell; that they must endeavor to avoid the latter and attain the\nformer; yet they are not taught the shortest and easiest way of\narriving at it. The only way to Heaven is prayer; a prayer of the\nheart, which every one is capable of, and not of reasonings which are\nthe fruits of study, or exercise of the imagination, which, in filling\nthe mind with wandering objects, rarely settle it; instead of warming\nthe heart with love to God, they leave it cold and languishing. Let the\npoor come, let the ignorant and carnal come; let the children without\nreason or knowledge come, let the dull or hard hearts which can retain\nnothing come to the practice of prayer and they shall become wise.\n\nO ye great, wise and rich, have ye not a heart capable of loving what\nis proper for you and of hating what is destructive? Love the sovereign\ngood, hate all evil, and ye will be truly wise. When ye love anyone, is\nit because ye know the reasons of love and its definitions? No,\ncertainly. Ye love because your heart is formed to love what it finds\namiable. Surely you cannot but know that there is nought lovely in the\nuniverse but God. Know ye not that He has created you, that He has died\nfor you? But if these reasons are not sufficient, which of you has not\nsome necessity, some trouble, or some misfortune? Which of you does not\nknow how to tell his malady, and beg relief? Come, then, to this\nFountain of all good, without complaining to weak and impotent\ncreatures, who cannot help you; come to prayer; lay before God your\ntroubles, beg His grace--and above all, that you may love Him. None can\nexempt himself from loving; for none can live without a heart, nor the\nheart without love.\n\nWhy should any amuse themselves, in seeking reasons for loving Love\nitself? Let us love without reasoning about it, and we shall find\nourselves filled with love, before the others have learned the reasons\nwhich induced to it. Make trial of this love, and you will be wiser in\nit than the most skillful philosophers. In love, as in everything else,\nexperience instructs better than reasoning. Come then, drink at this\nfountain of living waters, instead of the broken cisterns of the\ncreature, which far from allaying your thirst, only tend continually to\naugment it. Did ye once drink at this fountain, ye would not seek\nelsewhere for anything to quench your thirst; for while ye still\ncontinue to draw from this source, ye would thirst no longer after the\nworld. But if ye quit it, alas! the enemy has the ascendant. He will\ngive you of his poisoned draughts, which may have an apparent\nsweetness, but will assuredly rob you of life.\n\nI forsook the fountain of living water when I left off prayer. I\nbecame as a vineyard exposed to pillage, hedges torn down with liberty\nto all the passengers to ravage it. I began to seek in the creature\nwhat I had found in God. He left me to myself, because I first left\nhim. It was His will by permitting me to sink into the horrible pit, to\nmake me feel the necessity I was in of approaching Him in prayer.\n\nThou hast said, that Thou wilt destroy those adulterous souls who\ndepart from Thee. Alas! it is their departure alone which causes their\ndestruction, since, in departing from Thee, O Sun of Righteousness,\nthey enter into the regions of darkness and the coldness of death, from\nwhich they would never rise, if Thou didst not revisit them. If Thou\ndidst not by thy divine light, illuminate their darkness, and by thy\nenlivening warmth, melt their icy hearts, and restore them to life,\nthey would never rise.\n\nI fell then into the greatest of all misfortunes. I wandered yet\nfarther and farther from Thee, O my God, and thou didst gradually\nretire from a heart which had quitted Thee. Yet such is thy goodness,\nthat it seemed as if Thou hadst left me with regret; and when this\nheart was desirous to return again unto Thee, with what speed didst\nThou come to meet it. This proof of Thy love and mercy, shall be to me\nan everlasting testimony of thy goodness and of my own ingratitude.\n\nI became still more passionate than I had ever been, as age gave more\nforce to nature. I was frequently guilty of lying. I felt my heart\ncorrupt and vain. The spark of divine grace was almost extinguished in\nme, and I fell into a state of indifference and indevotion, though I\nstill carefully kept up outside appearances. The habit I had acquired\nof behaving at church made me appear better than I was. Vanity, which\nhad been excluded to my heart now resumed its seat. I began to pass a\ngreat part of my time before a looking glass. I found so much pleasure\nin viewing myself, that I thought others were in the right who\npracticed the same. Instead of making use of this exterior, which God\nhad given me, that I might love Him the more, it became to me only the\nmeans of a vain complacency. All seemed to me to look beautiful in my\nperson, but I saw not that it covered a polluted soul. This rendered me\nso inwardly vain, that I doubt whether any ever exceeded me therein.\nThere was an affected modesty in my outward deportment that would have\ndeceived the world.\n\nThe high esteem I had for myself made me find faults in everyone else\nof my own sex. I had no eyes but to see my own good qualities, and to\ndiscover the defects of others. I hid my own faults from myself, or if\nI remarked any, yet to me they appeared little in comparison of others.\nI excused, and even figured them to myself as perfections. Every idea I\nhad of others and of myself was false. I loved reading to such excess,\nparticularly romances, that I spent whole days and nights at them.\nSometimes the day broke while I continued to read, insomuch, that for a\nlength of time I almost lost the habit of sleeping. I was ever eager to\nget to the end of the book, in hopes of finding something to satisfy a\ncertain craving which I found within me. My thirst for reading was only\nincreased the more I read. Books are strange inventions to destroy\nyouth. If they caused no other hurt than the loss of precious time, is\nnot that too much? I was not restrained, but rather encouraged to read\nthem under this fallacious pretext, that they taught one to speak well.\n\nMeanwhile, through thy abundant mercy, O my God, Thou camest to seek me\nfrom time to time, Thou didst indeed knock at the door of my heart. I\nwas often penetrated with the most lively sorrow and shed abundance of\ntears. I was afflicted to find my state so different from what it was\nwhen I enjoyed Thy sacred presence; but my tears were fruitless and my\ngrief in vain. I could not of myself get out of this wretched state. I\nwished some hand as charitable as powerful would extricate me; as for\nmyself I had no power. If I had had any friend, who would have examined\nthe cause of this evil, and made me have recourse again to prayer,\nwhich was the only means of relief, all would have been well. I was\n(like the prophet) in a deep abyss of mire, which I could not get out\noff. I met with reprimands for being in it, but none were kind enough\nto reach out to free me. And when I tried vain efforts to get out, I\nonly sunk the deeper, and each fruitless attempt only made me see my\nown impotence, and rendered me more afflicted.\n\nOh, how much compassion has this sad experience given me for sinners.\nIt has taught me why so few of them emerge from the miserable state\ninto which they have fallen. Such as see it only cry out against their\ndisorders, and frighten them with threats of future punishment! These\ncries and threats at first make some impression, and they use some weak\nefforts after liberty, but, after having experienced their\ninsufficiency, they gradually abate in their design, and lose their\ncourage for trying any more. All that man can say to them afterward is\nbut lost labor, though one preach to them incessantly. When any for\nrelief run to confess, the only true remedy for them is prayer; to\npresent themselves before God as criminals, beg strength of Him to rise\nout of this state. Then would they soon be changed, and brought out of\nthe mire and clay. But the devil has falsely persuaded the doctors and\nthe wise men of the age, that, in order to pray, it is necessary first\nto be perfectly converted. Hence people are dissuaded from it, and\nhence there is rarely any conversion that is durable. The devil is\noutrageous only against prayer, and those that exercise it; because he\nknows it is the true means of taking his prey from him. He lets us\nundergo all the austerities we will. He neither persecutes those that\nenjoy them nor those that practice them. But no sooner does one enter\ninto a spiritual life, a life of prayer, but they must prepare for\nstrange crosses. All manner of persecutions and contempts in this world\nare reserved for that life.\n\nMiserable as the condition was to which I was reduced by my\ninfidelities, and the little help I had from my confessor, I did not\nfail to say my vocal prayers every day, to confess pretty often, and to\npartake of the communion almost every fortnight. Sometimes I went to\nchurch to weep, and to pray to the Blessed Virgin to obtain my\nconversion. I loved to hear anyone speak of God, and would never tire\nof the conversation. When my father spoke of Him, I was transported\nwith joy; and when he and my mother went on any pilgrimage, and were to\nset off early in the morning, I either did not go to bed the night\nbefore, or hired the girls to awake me early. My father's conversation\nat such times was always of divine matters, which afforded me the\nhighest delight, and I preferred that subject to any other. I also\nloved the poor, and was charitable, even while I was so very faulty.\nHow strange may this seem to some, and how hard to reconcile things so\nvery opposite.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\n\nAfterward we came to Paris where my vanity increased. No course was\nspared to make me appear to advantage. I was forward enough to show\nmyself and expose my pride, in making a parade of this vain beauty. I\nwanted to be loved of everyone and to love none. Several apparently\nadvantageous offers of marriage were made for me; but God unwilling to\nhave me lost did not permit matters to succeed. My father still found\ndifficulties, which my all-wise Creator raised for my salvation. Had I\nmarried any of these persons, I should have been much exposed, and my\nvanity would have had means to extend itself.\n\nThere was one person who had asked for me in marriage for several\nyears. My father, for family reasons, had always refused him. His\nmanners were opposite to my vanity. A fear lest I should leave my\ncountry, together with the affluent circumstances of this gentleman,\ninduced my father, in spite of both his own and my mother's reluctance,\nto promise me to him. This was done without consulting me. They made me\nsign the marriage articles without letting me know what they were. I\nwas well pleased with the thoughts of marriage, flattering myself with\na hope of being thereby set at full liberty, and delivered from the\nill-treatment of my mother which I drew upon myself. God ordered it far\notherwise. The condition which I found myself in afterward, frustrated\nmy hopes.\n\nPleasing as marriage was to my thoughts, I was all the time, after my\nbeing promised, and even long after my marriage, in extreme confusion,\nwhich arose from two causes. First, my natural modesty, which I did not\nlose. I had much reserve toward men. The other, my vanity. Though the\nhusband provided was a more advantageous match than I merited, yet I\ndid not think him such. The figure which the others made, who had\noffered to me before, was vastly more engaging. Their rank would have\nplaced me in view. Whatever did not flatter my vanity, was to me\ninsupportable. Yet this very vanity was, I think, of some advantage; it\nhindered me from falling into such things as cause the ruin of\nfamilies. I would not do anything which in the eye of the world, might\nrender me culpable. As I was modest at church and had not been used to\ngo abroad without my mother, as the reputation of our house was great,\nI passed for virtuous.\n\nI did not see my spouse elect (at Paris) till two or three days before\nour marriage. I caused masses to be said all the time after my being\ncontracted, to know the will of God. I wished to do it in this affair\nat least.\n\nOh, my God, how great was thy goodness, to bear with me at this time,\nand to allow me to pray to Thee with as much boldness, as if I had been\none of thy friends, I who had rebelled against Thee as thy greatest\nenemy.\n\nThe joy of our nuptials was universal through our village. Amid this\ngeneral rejoicing, there appeared none sad but myself. I could neither\nlaugh as others did, nor even eat; so much was I depressed. I knew not\nthe cause. It was a foretaste which God gave me of what was to befall\nme. The remembrance of the desire I had of being a nun, came pouring\nin. All who came to compliment me, the day after, could not forbear\nrallying me. I wept bitterly. I answered, \"Alas! I had desired so much\nto be a nun; why then am I now married? By what fatality has such a\nrevolution befallen me?\" No sooner was I at the house of my new spouse,\nthan I perceived that it would be for me a house of mourning.\n\nI was obliged to change my conduct. Their manner of living was very\ndifferent from that in my father's house. My mother-in-law, who had\nlong been a widow, regarded nothing else but economy. At my father's\nhouse they lived in a noble manner and great elegance. What my husband\nand mother-in-law called pride, and I called politeness, was observed\nthere. I was very much surprised at this change, and so much the more,\nas my vanity wished to increase, rather than to be diminished.\n\nAt the time of my marriage I was a little past fifteen years of age. My\nsurprise increased greatly, when I saw I must lose what I had acquired\nwith so much application. At my father's house we were obliged to\nbehave in a genteel way, and to speak with propriety. All that I said\nwas applauded. Here they never hearkened to me, but to contradict and\nfind fault. If I spoke well, they said it was to give them a lesson. If\nany questions were started at my father's, he encouraged me to speak\nfreely. Here, if I spoke my sentiments, they said it was to enter into\na dispute. They put me to silence in an abrupt and shameful manner, and\nscolded me from morning till night.\n\nI should have some difficulty to give you an account, which cannot be\ndone without wounding charity, if you had not forbidden me to omit any\none. I request you not to look at things on the side of the creature,\nwhich would make these persons appear worse than they were. My\nmother-in-law had virtue, my husband had religion, and not any vice. It\nis requisite to look at everything on the side of God. He permitted\nthese things only for my salvation, and because He would not have me\nlost. I had beside so much pride, that had I received any other\ntreatment, I should have continued therein, and should not, perhaps,\nhave turned to God as I was induced to do, by the oppression of a\nmultitude of crosses.\n\nMy mother-in-law conceived such a desire to oppose me in everything,\nthat, in order to vex me, she made me perform the most humiliating\noffices. Her disposition was so extraordinary, having never surmounted\nit in her youth, that she could hardly live with anybody. Saying none\nthan vocal prayers, she did not see this fault; or seeing it, and not\ndrawing from the forces of prayer, she could not get the better of it.\nIt was a pity, for she had both sense and merit. I was made the victim\nof her humors. All her occupation was to thwart me and she inspired the\nlike sentiments in her son. They would make persons my inferiors take\nplace above me. My mother, who had a high sense of honor, could not\nendure that. When she heard it from others (for I told her nothing) she\nchided me thinking I did it because I did not know how to keep my rank\nand had no spirit. I dared not tell her how it was; but I was almost\nready to die with the agonies of grief and continual vexation. What\naggravated all was the remembrance of the persons who had proposed for\nme, the difference of their dispositions and manners, the love they had\nfor me, with their agreeableness and politeness. All this made my\nburden intolerable. My mother-in-law upbraided me in regard to my\nfamily, and spoke to me incessantly to the disadvantage of my father\nand mother. I never went to see them, but I had some bitter speeches to\nbear on my return.\n\nMy mother complained that I did not come often enough to see her. She\nsaid I did not love her, that I was alienated from my family by being\ntoo much attached to my husband.\n\nWhat augmented my crosses was that my mother related to my\nmother-in-law the pains I had cost her from infancy. They then\nreproached me, saying, I was a changeling, and an evil spirit. My\nhusband obliged me to stay all day long in my mother-in-law's room,\nwithout any liberty of retiring into my own apartment. She spoke\ndisadvantageously of me, to lessen the affection and esteem which some\nhad entertained for me. She galled me with the grossest affronts before\nthe finest company. This did not have the effect she wanted; the more\npatiently they saw me bear it, the higher esteem they had for me.\n\nShe found the secret of extinguishing my vivacity, and rendering me\nstupid. Some of my former acquaintances hardly knew me. Those who had\nnot seen me before said, \"Is this the person famed for such abundance\nof wit? She can't say two words. She is a fine picture.\" I was not yet\nsixteen years old. I was so much intimidated, that I dared not go out\nwithout my mother-in-law, and in her presence I could not speak. I knew\nnot what I said; so much fear had I.\n\nTo complete my affliction, they presented me with a waiting-maid who\nwas everything with them. She kept me in sight like a governess. For\nthe most part I bore with patience these evils which I had no way to\navoid. But sometimes I let some hasty answer escape me, a source of\ngrievous crosses to me. When I went out, the footmen had orders to give\nan account of everything I did. It was then I began to eat the bread of\nsorrows, and to mingle tears with my drink. At the table they always\ndid something which covered me with confusion. I could not forbear\ntears. I had no one to confide in who might share my affliction, and\nassist me to bear it. When I would impart some hint of it to my mother,\nI drew upon myself new crosses. I resolved to have no confidant. It was\nnot from any natural cruelty that my husband treated me thus; he loved\nme passionately, but he was warm and hasty, and my mother-in-law\ncontinually irritated him about me.\n\nIt was in a condition so deplorable, O my God, that I began to perceive\nthe need I had of Thy assistance. For this situation was perilous for\nme. I met with none but admirers abroad, those that flattered me to my\nhurt. It were to be feared lest at such a tender age, amid all the\nstrange domestic crosses I had to bear, I might be drawn away. But\nThou, by Thy goodness and love, gave it quite another turn. By these\nredoubled strokes Thou didst draw me to Thyself, and by Thy crosses\neffected what Thy caresses could not effect. Nay, Thou madest use of my\nnatural pride, to keep me within the limits of my duty. I knew that a\nwoman of honor ought never to give suspicion to her husband. I was so\nvery circumspect that I often carried it to excess, so far as to refuse\nmy hand to such as in politeness offered me theirs. There happened to\nme an adventure which, by carrying my prudence too far, might have\nruined me, for things were taken contrary to their intent. My husband\nwas sensible both of my innocence and of the falsehood of the\ninsinuations of my mother-in-law.\n\nSuch weighty crosses made me return to God. I began to deplore the sins\nof my youth. Since my marriage I had not committed any voluntarily. Yet\nI still had some sentiments of vanity remaining, which I did not wish.\nHowever, my troubles now counter-balanced them. Moreover, many of them\nappeared my just dessert according to the little light I then had. I\nwas not illuminated to penetrate the essence of my vanity; I fixed my\nthoughts only on its appearance. I tried to amend my life by penance,\nand by a general confession, the most exact that I ever yet had made. I\nlaid aside the reading of romances, for which I lately had such a\nfondness. Though some time before my marriage that had been dampened by\nreading the Gospel, I was so much affected therewith, and discovered\ntruth therein, that put me out of patience with all the other books.\nNovels appeared then to me only full of lies and deceit. I now put away\neven indifferent books, to have none but such as were profitable. I\nresumed the practice of prayer, and endeavored to offend God no more. I\nfelt His love gradually recovering the ascendant in my heart, and\nbanishing every other. Yet I had still an intolerable vanity and\nself-complacency, which has been my most grievous and obstinate sin.\n\nMy crosses redoubled. What rendered them more painful was, that my\nmother-in-law, not content with the bitterest speeches which she\nuttered against me, both in public and private, would break out in\nanger about the smallest trifles, and scarcely be pacified for a\nfortnight. I used a part of my time in bewailing myself when I could be\nalone; and my grief became every day more bitter. Sometimes I could not\ncontain myself, when the girls, my domestics, who owed me submission,\ntreated me ill. I did what I could to subdue my temper which has cost\nme not a little.\n\nSuch stunning blows so impaired the vivacity of my nature, that I\nbecame like a lamb that is shorn. I prayed to our Lord to assist me,\nand He was my refuge. As my age differed from theirs (for my husband\nwas twenty-two years older than I) I saw well that there was no\nprobability of changing their dispositions, which were fortified with\nyears. I found that whatever I said was offensive, not excepting those\nthings which others would have been pleased with.\n\nOne day, weighed down with grief and in despair, about six months after\nI was married, being alone, I was tempted even to cut out my tongue so\nI might no longer irritate those who seized every word I uttered with\nrage and resentment.\n\nBut Thou, O God, didst stop me short and showed me my folly. I prayed\ncontinually, and wished even to become dumb, so simple and ignorant was\nI. Though I have had my share of crosses, I never found any so\ndifficult to support as that of perpetual contrariety without\nrelaxation of doing all one can to please, without succeeding, but\nstill offending by the very means designed to oblige. Being kept with\nsuch persons, in a most severe confinement, from morning till night,\nwithout ever daring to quit them is most difficult. I have found that\ngreat crosses overwhelm, and stifle all anger. Such a continual\ncontrariety irritates and stirs up sourness in the heart. It has such\nstrange effect, that it requires the utmost efforts of self-restraint,\nnot to break out into vexation and rage.\n\nMy condition in marriage was rather that of a slave than of a free\nperson. I perceived, four months after my marriage, that my husband was\ngouty. This malady caused many crosses within and without. He had the\ngout twice the first year, six weeks each time. He was so much plagued\nwith it, that he came no more out of his room, nor out of his bed. He\nwas in bed usually for several months. I carefully attended him\nalthough so very young. I did not fail to exert myself to the utmost in\nthe performance of my duty. Alas! all this did not gain me friendship.\nI had not the consolation to know whether what I did was agreeable. I\ndenied myself all the most innocent diversions to continue with my\nhusband. I did whatever I thought would please him. Sometimes he\nquietly suffered me, and then I esteemed myself very happy. At other\ntimes I seemed insupportable to him. My particular friends said, \"I was\nof a fine age indeed to be a nurse to an invalid, and that it was a\nshameful thing that I did not set more value on my talents.\" I\nanswered, \"Since I have a husband, I ought to share his painful as well\nas his pleasing circumstances.\" Besides this, my mother, instead of\npitying me, reprimanded me sharply for my assiduity to my husband.\n\nBut, O my God, how different were Thy thoughts from theirs,--how\ndifferent that which was without, from what passed within! My husband\nhad that foible, that when anyone said anything to him against me, he\nflew into a rage at once. It was the conduct of providence over me; for\nhe was a man of reason and loved me much. When I was sick, he was\ninconsolable. I believe, had it not been for my mother-in-law, and the\ngirl I have spoken of, I should have been very happy with him. Most men\nhave their moods and emotions, and it is the duty of a reasonable woman\nto bear them peaceably, without irritating them more by cross replies.\n\nThese things Thou hast ordered, O my God, in such a manner, by Thy\ngoodness, that I have since seen it was necessary, to make me die to my\nvain and haughty nature. I should not have had power to destroy it\nmyself, if thou hadst not accomplished it by an all-wise economy of thy\nprovidence. I prayed for patience with great earnestness; nevertheless,\nsome sallies of my natural liveliness escaped me, and vanquished the\nresolutions I had taken of being silent. This was doubtless permitted,\nthat my self-love might not be nourished by my patience. Even a\nmoment's slip caused me months of humiliation, reproach and sorrow, and\nproved the occasion of new crosses.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\n\nDuring the first year I was still vain. I sometimes lied to excuse\nmyself to my husband and mother-in-law. I stood strangely in awe of\nthem. Sometimes I fell into a temper, their conduct appeared so very\nunreasonable, and especially their countenancing the most provoking\ntreatment of the girl who served me. As to my mother-in-law, her age\nand rank rendered her conduct more tolerable.\n\nBut Thou, O my God, opened my eyes to see things in a very different\nlight. I found in Thee reasons for suffering, which I had never found\nin the creature. I afterward saw clearly and reflected with joy, that\nthis conduct, as unreasonable as it seemed, and as mortifying as it\nwas, was quite necessary for me. Had I been applauded here as I was at\nmy father's, I should have grown intolerably proud. I had a fault\ncommon to most of our sex--I could not hear a beautiful woman praised,\nwithout finding fault, to lessen the good which was said of her. This\nfault continued long, and was the fruit of gross and malignant pride.\nExtravagantly extolling anyone proceeds from a like source.\n\nJust before the birth of my first child, they were induced to take\ngreat care of me. My crosses were somewhat mitigated. Indeed, I was so\nill that it was enough to excite the compassion of the most\nindifferent. They had so great a desire of having children to inherit\ntheir fortunes, that they were continually afraid lest I should any way\nhurt myself. Yet, when the time of my delivery drew near, this care and\ntenderness of me abated. Once, as my mother-in-law had treated me in a\nvery grating manner, I had the malice to feign a cholic, to give them\nsome alarm; but as I saw this little artifice gave them too much pain,\nI told them I was better. No creature could be more heavily laden with\nsickness than I was. Beside continual heavings, I had so strange a\ndistaste, except for some fruit, that I could not bear the sight of\nfood. I had continual swoonings and violent pains. After my delivery I\ncontinued weak a long time. There was indeed sufficient to exercise\npatience, and I was enabled to offer up my sufferings to our Lord. I\ntook a fever, which rendered me so weak, that after several weeks I\ncould scarcely bear to be moved or to have my bed made. When I began to\nrecover, an abscess fell upon my breast, which was forced to be laid\nopen in two places, which gave me great pain. Yet all the maladies\nseemed to me only a shadow of troubles, in comparison with those I\nsuffered in the family which daily increased. Indeed, life was so\nwearisome to me, that those maladies which were thought mortal did not\nfrighten me.\n\nThe event improved my appearance, and consequently served to increase\nmy vanity. I was glad to call forth expressions of regard. I went to\nthe public promenades (though but seldom) and when in the streets, I\npulled off my mask out of vanity. I drew off my gloves to show my\nhands. Could there be greater folly? After falling into these\nweaknesses, I used to weep bitterly at home. Yet, when occasion\noffered, I fell into them again.\n\nMy husband lost considerably. This cost me strange crosses, not that I\ncared for the losses, but I seemed to be the butt of all the ill-humors\nof the family. With what pleasure did I sacrifice temporal blessings.\nHow often I felt willing to have begged my bread, if God had so ordered\nit. But my mother-in-law was inconsolable. She bid me pray to God for\nthese things. To me that was wholly impossible.\n\nO my dearest Lord, never could I pray to Thee about the world, or the\nthings thereof; nor sully my sacred addresses to Thy majesty with the\ndirt of the earth. No; I rather wish to renounce it all, and everything\nbeside whatsoever, for the sake of Thy love, and the enjoyment of Thy\npresence in that kingdom which is not of this world. I wholly\nsacrificed myself to Thee, even earnestly begging Thee rather to reduce\nour family to beggary, than suffer it to offend thee.\n\nIn my own mind I excused my mother-in-law, saying to myself, \"If I had\ntaken the pains to scrape and save, I would not be so indifferent at\nseeing so much lost. I enjoy what cost me nothing, and reap what I have\nnot sowed.\" Yet all these thoughts could not make me sensible to our\nlosses. I even formed agreeable ideas of our going to the hospital. No\nstate appeared to me so poor and miserable, which I should not have\nthought easy, in comparison with the continual domestic persecutions I\nunderwent. My father, who loved me tenderly, and whom I honored beyond\nexpression, knew nothing of it. God so permitted it, that I should have\nhim also displeased with me for some time. My mother was continually\ntelling him that I was an ungrateful creature, showing no regard for\nthem, but all for my husband's family. Appearances were against me. I\ndid not go to see them as often as I should. They knew not the\ncaptivity I was in; what I was obliged to bear in defending them. These\ncomplaints of my mother, and a trivial affair that fell out, lessened a\nlittle my father's fond regard for me; but it did not last long. My\nmother-in-law reproached me, saying, \"No afflictions befell them till I\ncame into the house. All misfortunes came with me.\" On the other hand\nmy mother wanted me to exclaim against my husband which I could never\nsubmit to do.\n\nWe continued to meet with loss after loss, the king retrenching a\nconsiderable share of our revenues, besides great sums of money, which\nwe lost by L'Hotel de Ville. I could have no rest or peace, in such\ngreat afflictions. I had no mortal to console me, or to advise me. My\nsister, who had educated me, had departed this life. She died two\nmonths before my marriage. I had no other for a confidant.\n\nI declare, that I find much repugnance in saying so many things of my\nmother-in-law. I have no doubt that my own indiscretion, my caprice,\nand the occasional sallies of a warm temper, drew many of the crosses\nupon me. Although I had what the world calls patience, yet I had\nneither a relish nor love for the cross. Their conduct toward me, which\nappeared so unreasonable, should not be looked upon with worldly eyes.\nWe should look higher and then we shall see that it was directed by\nProvidence for my eternal advantage.\n\nI now dressed my hair in the most modest manner, never painted, and to\nsubdue the vanity which still had possession of me, I rarely looked in\nthe glass. My reading was confined to books of devotion, such as Thomas\na'Kempis, and the works of St. Francis de Sales. I read these aloud for\nthe improvement of the servants, while the maid was dressing my hair. I\nsuffered myself to be dressed just as she pleased, which freed me from\na great deal of trouble. It took away the occasions wherein my vanity\nused to be exercised. I knew not how things were; but they always liked\nme, and thought all well in point of dress. If on some particular days\nI wanted to appear better, it proved worse. The more indifferent I was\nabout dress the better I appeared. How often have I gone to church, not\nso much to worship God as to be seen. Other women, jealous of me,\naffirmed that I painted; they told my confessor, who chided me for it,\nthough I assured him I was innocent. I often spoke in my own praise,\nand sought to raise myself by depreciating others. Yet these faults\ngradually deceased; for I was very sorry afterward for having committed\nthem. I often examined myself very strictly, writing down my faults\nfrom week to week, and from month to month, to see how much I was\nimproved or reformed. Alas! this labor, though fatiguing, was of but\nlittle service, because I trusted in my own efforts. I wished indeed to\nbe reformed, but my good desires were weak and languid.\n\nAt one time my husband's absence was so long, and in the meantime my\ncrosses and vexations at home so great, that I determined to go to him.\nMy mother-in-law strongly opposed it. This once my father interfering,\nand insisting on it, she let me go. On my arrival I found he had almost\ndied. Through vexation and fretting he was very much changed. He could\nnot finish his affairs, having no liberty in attending to them, keeping\nhimself concealed at the Hotel de Longueville, where Madame de\nLongueville was extremely kind to me. I came publicly, and he was in\ngreat fear lest I should make him known. In a rage he bid me return\nhome. Love and my long absence from him surmounting every other reason,\nhe soon relented and suffered me to stay with him. He kept me eight\ndays without letting me stir out of his sight. Fearing the effects of\nsuch a close confinement on my constitution, he desired me to go and\ntake a walk in the garden. There I met Madame de Longueville, who\ntestified great joy on seeing me.\n\nI cannot express all the kindness I met with in this house. All the\ndomestics served me with emulation, and applauded me on account of my\nappearance, and exterior deportment. Yet I was much on my guard against\ntoo much attention. I never entered into discourse with any man when\nalone. I admitted none into my coach, not even my relations, unless my\nhusband were in it. There was not any rule of discretion which I did\nnot duly observe, to avoid giving suspicion to my husband, or subject\nof calumny to others. Everyone studied there how to contribute to\ndivert or oblige me. Outwardly everything appeared agreeable. Chagrin\nhad so overcome and ruffled my husband that I had continually something\nto bear. Sometimes he threatened to throw the supper out of the\nwindows. I said, he would then do me an injury, as I had a keen\nappetite. I made him laugh and I laughed with him. Before that,\nmelancholy prevailed over all my endeavors, and over the love he had\nfor me. God both armed me with patience and gave me the grace to return\nhim no answer. The devil, who attempted to draw me into some offence,\nwas forced to retire in confusion, through the signal assistance of\nthat grace.\n\nI loved my God and was unwilling to displease Him, and I was inwardly\ngrieved on account of that vanity, which still I found myself unable to\neradicate. Inward distresses, together with oppressive crosses, which I\nhad daily to encounter, at length threw me into sickness. As I was\nunwilling to incommode the Hotel de Longueville I had myself moved to\nanother house. The disease proved violent and tedious, insomuch that\nthe physicians despaired of my life. The priest, a pious man, seemed\nfully satisfied with the state of my mind. He said, \"I should die like\na saint.\" But my sins were too present and too painful to my heart to\nhave such presumption. At midnight they administered the sacrament to\nme as they hourly expected my departure. It was a scene of general\ndistress in the family and among all who knew me. There were none\nindifferent to my death but myself. I beheld it without fear, and was\ninsensible to its approach. It was far otherwise with my husband. He\nwas inconsolable when he saw there was no hope. I no sooner began to\nrecover, than notwithstanding all his love, his usual fretfulness\nreturned. I recovered almost miraculously and to me this disorder\nproved a great blessing. Beside a very great patience under violent\npains, it served to instruct me much in my view of the emptiness of all\nworldly things. It detached me from myself and gave me new courage to\nsuffer better than I had done. The love of God gathered strength in my\nheart, with a desire to please and be faithful to Him in my condition.\nI reaped several other advantages from it which I need not relate, I\nhad yet six months to drag along with a slow fever. It was thought that\nit would terminate in death.\n\nThy time, O my God, had not yet arrived for taking me to Thyself. Thy\ndesigns over me were widely different from the expectations of those\nabout me; it being Thy determination to make me both the object of Thy\nmercy and the victim of Thy justice.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\n\nAfter long languishing, at length I regained my former health. About\nthis time my dear mother departed this life in great tranquility of\nmind. Beside her other good qualities, she had been particularly\ncharitable to the poor. This virtue, so acceptable to God, He was\ngraciously pleased to commence rewarding even in this life. Though she\nwas but twenty-four hours sick, she was made perfectly easy about\neverything that was near and dear to her in this world.\n\nI now applied myself to my duties, never failing to practice that of\nprayer twice a day. I watched over myself, to subdue my spirit\ncontinually. I went to visit the poor in their houses, assisting them\nin their distresses. I did (according to my understanding) all the good\nI knew.\n\nThou, O my God, increased both my love and my patience, in proportion\nto my sufferings. I regretted not the temporal advantages with which my\nmother distinguished my brother above me. Yet they fell on me about\nthat, as about everything else. I also had for some time a severe ague.\nI did not indeed serve Thee yet with that fervor which Thou didst give\nme soon after. For I would still have been glad to reconcile Thy love\nwith the love of myself and of the creature. Unhappily I always found\nsome who loved me, and whom I could not forbear wishing to please. It\nwas not that I loved them, but it was for the love that I bore to\nmyself.\n\nA lady, an exile, came to my father's house. He offered her an\napartment which she accepted, and she stayed a long time. She was one\nof true piety and inward devotion. She had a great esteem for me,\nbecause I desired to love God. She remarked that I had the virtues of\nan active and bustling life; but I had not yet attained the simplicity\nof prayer which she experienced. Sometimes she dropped a word to me on\nthat subject. As my time had not yet come, I did not understand her.\nHer example instructed me more than her words. I observed on her\ncountenance something which marked a great enjoyment of the presence of\nGod. By the exertion of studied reflection and thoughts I tried to\nattain it but to little purpose. I wanted to have, by my own efforts,\nwhat I could not acquire except by ceasing from all efforts.\n\nMy father's nephew, of whom I have made mention before, was returned\nfrom Cochin China, to take over some priests from Europe. I was\nexceedingly glad to see him, and remembered what good he had done me.\nThe lady mentioned was no less rejoiced than I. They understood each\nother immediately and conversed in a spiritual language. The virtue of\nthis excellent relation charmed me. I admired his continual prayer\nwithout being able to comprehend it. I endeavored to meditate, and to\nthink on God without intermission, to utter prayers and ejaculations. I\ncould not acquire, by all my toil, what God at length gave me Himself,\nand which is experienced only in simplicity. My cousin did all he could\nto attach me more strongly to God. He conceived great affection for me.\nThe purity he observed in me from the corruptions of the age, the\nabhorrence of sin at a time of life when others are beginning to relish\nthe pleasures of it, (I was not yet eighteen), gave him a great\ntenderness for me. I complained to him of my faults ingenuously. These\nI saw clearly. He cheered and exhorted me to support myself, and to\npersevere in my good endeavors. He would fain have introduced me into a\nmore simple manner of prayer, but I was not yet ready for it. I believe\nhis prayers were more effectual than his words.\n\nNo sooner was he gone out of my father's house, than thou, O Divine\nLove, manifested thy favor. The desire I had to please Thee, the tears\nI shed, the manifold pains I underwent, the labors I sustained, and the\nlittle fruit I reaped from them, moved Thee with compassion. This was\nthe state of my soul when Thy goodness, surpassing all my vileness and\ninfidelities, and abounding in proportion to my wretchedness, granted\nme in a moment, what all my own efforts could never procure. Beholding\nme rowing with laborious toil, the breath of Thy divine operations\nturned in my favor, and carried me full sail over this sea of\naffliction.\n\nI had often spoken to my confessor about the great anxiety it gave me\nto find I could not meditate, nor exert my imagination in order to\npray. Subjects of prayer which were too extensive were useless to me.\nThose which were short and pithy suited me better.\n\nAt length, God permitted a very religious person, of the order of St.\nFrancis, to pass by my father's dwelling. He had intended going another\nway that was shorter, but a secret power changed his design. He saw\nthere was something for him to do, and imagined that God had called him\nfor the conversion of a man of some distinction in that country. His\nlabors there proved fruitless. It was the conquest of my soul which was\ndesigned. As soon as he arrived he came to see my father who rejoiced\nat his coming. At this time I was about to be delivered of my second\nson, and my father was dangerously ill, expected to die. For some time\nthey concealed his sickness from me. An indiscreet person abruptly told\nme. Instantly I arose, weak as I was, and went to see him. A dangerous\nillness came upon me. My father was recovered, but not entirely, enough\nto give me new marks of his affection. I told him of the strong desire\nI had to love God, and my great sorrow at not being able to do it\nfully. He thought he could not give me a more solid indication of his\nlove than in procuring me an acquaintance with this worthy man. He told\nme what he knew of him, and urged me to go and see him.\n\nAt first I made a difficulty of doing it, being intent on observing the\nrules of the strictest prudence. However, my father's repeated requests\nhad with me the weight of a positive command. I thought I could not do\nthat amiss, which I only did in obedience to him. I took a kinswoman\nwith me. At first he seemed a little confused; for he was reserved\ntoward women. Being newly come out of a five years' solitude, he was\nsurprised that I was the first to address him. He spoke not a word for\nsome time. I knew not to what attribute his silence. I did not hesitate\nto speak to him, and to tell him a few words, my difficulties about\nprayer. Presently he replied, \"It is, madame, because you seek without\nwhat you have within. Accustom yourself to seek God in your heart, and\nyou will there find Him.\"\n\nHaving said these words, he left me. They were to me like the stroke of\na dart, which penetrated through my heart. I felt a very deep wound, a\nwound so delightful that I desired not to be cured. These words brought\ninto my heart what I had been seeking so many years. Rather they\ndiscovered to me what was there, and which I had not enjoyed for want\nof knowing it.\n\nO my Lord, Thou wast in my heart, and demanded only a simple turning of\nmy mind inward, to make me perceive Thy presence. Oh, Infinite\nGoodness! how was I running hither and thither to seek Thee, my life\nwas a burden to me, although my happiness was within myself. I was poor\nin riches, and ready to perish with hunger, near a table plentifully\nspread, and a continual feast. O Beauty, ancient and new; why have I\nknown Thee so late? Alas! I sought Thee where Thou wert not, and did\nnot seek Thee where thou wert. It was for want of understanding these\nwords of Thy Gospel, \"The kingdom of God cometh not with observation...\nThe kingdom of God is within you.\" This I now experienced. Thou\nbecamest my King, and my heart Thy kingdom, wherein Thou didst reign\nsupreme, and performed all Thy sacred will.\n\nI told this man, that I did not know what he had done to me, that my\nheart was quite changed, that God was there. He had given me an\nexperience of His presence in my soul; not by thought or any\napplication of mind, but as a thing really possessed after the sweetest\nmanner. I experienced these words in the Canticles (Song of Solomon):\n\"Thy name is as precious ointment poured forth; therefore do the\nvirgins love thee.\" I felt in my soul an unction which, as a salutary\nbalsam, healed in a moment all my wounds.\n\nI slept not that whole night, because Thy love, O my God, flowed in me\nlike a delicious oil, and burned as a fire which was going to devour\nall that was left of self. I was suddenly so altered that I was hardly\nto be known either by myself or others. I found no longer those\ntroublesome faults or reluctances. They disappeared, being consumed\nlike chaff in a great fire.\n\nI now became desirous that the instrument hereof might become my\ndirector, preferable to any other. This good father could not readily\nresolve to charge himself with my conduct although he saw so surprising\na change effected by the hand of God. Several reasons induced him to\nexcuse himself. First, my person, then my youth, for I was only\nnineteen years. Lastly, a promise he had made to God, from a distrust\nof himself, never to take upon himself the direction of any of our sex,\nunless God, by some particular providence, should charge him therewith.\nHowever, upon my earnest and repeated request to him to become my\ndirector, he said he would pray to God and desired that I should do so.\nAs he was at prayer, it was said to him, \"Fear not that charge; she is\nmy spouse.\" When I heard this, it affected me greatly. \"What (said I to\nmyself) a frightful monster of iniquity, who has done so much to offend\nmy God, in abusing His favors, and requiting them with ingratitude, now\nto be declared his spouse!\" After this he consented to my request.\n\nNothing was more easy to me than prayer. Hours passed away like\nmoments, while I could hardly do anything else but pray. The fervency\nof my love allowed me no intermission. It was a prayer of rejoicing and\npossessing, devoid of all busy imaginations and forced reflections; it\nwas a prayer of the will, and not of the head. The taste of God was so\ngreat, so pure, unblended and uninterrupted, that it drew and absorbed\nthe power of my soul into a profound recollection without act or\ndiscourse. I had now no sight but of Jesus Christ alone. All else was\nexcluded, in order to love with the greater extent, without any selfish\nmotives or reasons for loving.\n\nThe will, absorbed the two others, the memory and understanding into\nitself, and concentrated them in LOVE;--not but that they still\nsubsisted, but their operations were in a manner imperceptible and\npassive. They were no longer stopped or retarded by the multiplicity,\nbut collected and united in one. So the rising of the sun does not\nextinguish the stars, but overpowers and absorbs them in the luster of\nhis incomparable glory.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\n\nSuch was the prayer that was given me at once, far above ecstacies,\ntransports or visions. All these gifts are less pure, and more subject\nto illusion or deceits from the enemy.\n\nVisions are in the inferior powers of the soul, and cannot produce true\nunion. The soul must not dwell or rely upon them, or be retarded by\nthem; they are but favors and gifts. The Giver alone must be our\nobject, and aim.\n\nIt is of such that Paul speaks, \"Satan transforms himself into an angel\nof light,\" II Cor. 11:18; which is generally the case with such as are\nfond of visions, and lay a stress on them; because they are apt to\nconvey a vanity to the soul, or at least hinder it from humbly\nattending to God only.\n\nEcstacies arise from a sensible relish. They may be termed a kind of\nspiritual sensuality, wherein the soul letting itself go too far, by\nreason of the sweetness it finds in them, falls imperceptibly into\ndecay. The crafty enemy presents such sort of interior elevations and\nraptures for baits to entrap the soul, to fill it with vanity and\nself-love, to fix its esteem and attention on the gifts of God, and to\nhinder it from following Jesus Christ in the way of renunciation and of\ndeath to all things.\n\nAnd as to distinct interior words, they too are subject to illusion;\nthe enemy can form and counterfeit them. Or if they come from a good\nangel (for God Himself never speaks thus) we may mistake and\nmisapprehend them. They are spoken in a divine manner, but we construe\nthem in a human and carnal manner.\n\nBut the immediate word of God has neither tone nor articulation. It is\nmute, silent, and unutterable. It is Jesus Christ Himself, the real and\nessential Word who in the center of the soul that is disposed for\nreceiving Him, never one moment ceases from His living, fruitful, and\ndivine operation.\n\nOh, thou Word made flesh, whose silence is inexpressible eloquence,\nThou canst never be misapprehended or mistaken. Thou becomest the life\nof our life, and the soul of our soul. How infinitely is thy language\nelevated above all the utterances of human and finite articulation. Thy\nadorable power, all efficacious in the soul that has received it,\ncommunicates itself through them to others. As a divine seed it becomes\nfruitful to eternal life.\n\nThe revelations of things to come are also very dangerous. The Devil\ncan counterfeit them, as he did formerly in the heathen temples, where\nhe uttered oracles. Frequently they raise false ideas, vain hopes, and\nfrivolous expectations. They take up the mind with future events,\nhinder it from dying to self, and prevent it following Jesus Christ in\nHis poverty, abnegation, and death.\n\nWidely different is the revelation of Jesus Christ, made to the soul\nwhen the eternal Word is communicated. (Gal. 1:16.) It makes us new\ncreatures, created anew in Him. This revelation is what the Devil\ncannot counterfeit. From hence proceeds the only safe transport of\necstasy, which is operated by naked faith alone, and dying even to the\ngifts of God. As long as the soul continues resting in gifts, it does\nnot fully renounce itself. Never passing into God the soul loses the\nreal enjoyment of the Giver, by attachments to the gifts. This is truly\nan unutterable loss.\n\nLest I should let my mind go after these gifts, and steal myself from\nthy love, O my God, Thou wast pleased to fix me in a continual\nadherence to Thyself alone. Souls thus directed get the shortest way.\nThey are to expect great sufferings, especially if they are mighty in\nfaith, in mortification and deadness to all but God. A pure and\ndisinterested love, and intenseness of mind for the advancement of thy\ninterest alone. These are the dispositions Thou didst implant in me,\nand even a fervent desire of suffering for Thee. The cross, which I had\nhitherto borne only with resignation, was become my delight, and the\nspecial object of my rejoicing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\n\nI wrote an account of my wonderful change, in point of happiness, to\nthat good father who had been made the instrument of it. It filled him\nboth with joy and astonishment.\n\nO my God, what penances did the love of suffering induce me to undergo!\nI was impelled to deprive myself of the most innocent indulgences. All\nthat could gratify my taste was denied and I took everything that could\nmortify and disgust it. My appetite, which had been extremely delicate,\nwas so far conquered that I could scarcely prefer one thing to another.\n\nI dressed loathsome sores and wounds, and gave remedies to the sick.\nWhen I first engaged in this sort of employment, it was with the\ngreatest difficulty I was able to bear it. As soon as my aversion\nceased, and I could stand the most offensive things, other channels of\nemployment were opened to me. For I did nothing of myself, but left\nmyself to be wholly governed by my Sovereign.\n\nWhen that good father asked me how I loved God, I answered, \"Far more\nthan the most passionate lover his beloved; and that even this\ncomparison was inadequate, since the love of the creature never can\nattain to this, either in strength or in depth.\" This love of God\noccupied my heart so constantly and so strongly, that I could think of\nnothing else. Indeed, I judged nothing else worthy of my thoughts.\n\nThe good father mentioned was an excellent preacher. He was desired to\npreach in the parish to which I belonged. When I came, I was so\nstrongly absorbed in God, that I could neither open my eyes, nor hear\nanything he said.\n\nI found that Thy Word, O my God, made its own impression on my heart,\nand there had its effect, without the mediation of words or any\nattention to them. And I have found it so ever since, but after a\ndifferent manner, according to the different degrees and states I have\npassed through. So deeply was I settled in the inward spirit of prayer,\nthat I could scarce any more pronounce the vocal prayers.\n\nThis immersion in God absorbed all things therein. Although I tenderly\nloved certain saints, as St. Peter, St. Paul, St. Mary Magdalene, St.\nTeresa, yet I could not form to myself images of them, nor invoke any\nof them out of God.\n\nA few weeks after I had received that interior wound of the heart,\nwhich had begun my change, the feast of the Blessed Virgin was held, in\nthe convent in which was that good father my director. I went in the\nmorning to get the indulgences and was much surprised when I came there\nand found that I could not attempt it; though I stayed above five hours\nin the church. I was penetrated with so lively a dart of pure love,\nthat I could not resolve to abridge by indulgences, the pain due to my\nsins. \"O my Love,\" I cried, \"I am willing to suffer for Thee. I find no\nother pleasure but in suffering for Thee. Indulgences may be good for\nthose who know not the value of sufferings, who choose not that thy\ndivine justice should be satisfied; who, having mercenary souls, are\nnot so much afraid of displeasing Thee, as of the pains annexed to\nsin.\" Yet, fearing I might be mistaken, and commit a fault in not\ngetting the indulgences, for I had never heard of anyone being in such\na way before, I returned again to try to get them, but in vain. Not\nknowing what to do, I resigned myself to our Lord. When I returned\nhome, I wrote to the good father that he had made what I had written a\npart of his sermon, reciting it verbatim as I had written it.\n\nI now quitted all company, bade farewell forever to all plays and\ndiversions, dancing, unprofitable walks and parties of pleasure. For\ntwo years I had left off dressing my hair. It became me, and my husband\napproved it.\n\nMy only pleasure now was to steal some moments to be alone with Thee, O\nthou who art my only Love! All other pleasure was a pain to me. I lost\nnot Thy presence, which was given me by a continual infusion, not as I\nhad imagined, by the efforts of the head, or by force of thought in\nmeditating on God, but in the will, where I tasted with unutterable\nsweetness the enjoyment of the beloved object. In a happy experience I\nknew that the soul was created to enjoy its God.\n\nThe union of the will subjects the soul to God, conforms it to all His\npleasure, causes self-will gradually to die. Lastly in drawing with it\nthe other powers, by means of the charity with which it is filled. It\ncauses them gradually to be reunited in the Center, and lost there as\nto their own nature and operations.\n\nThis loss is called the annihilation of the powers. Although in\nthemselves they still subsist, yet they seem annihilated to us, in\nproportion as charity fills and inflames; it becomes so strong, as by\ndegrees to surmount all the activities of the will of man, subjecting\nit to that of God. When the soul is docile, and leaves itself to be\npurified, and emptied of all that which it has of its own, opposite to\nthe will of God, it finds itself by little and little, detached from\nevery emotion of its own, and placed in a holy indifference, wishing\nnothing but what God does and wills. This never can be effected by the\nactivity of our own will, even though it were employed in continual\nacts or resignation. These though very virtuous, are so far one's own\nactions, and cause the will to subsist in a multiplicity, in a kind of\nseparate distinction or dissimilitude from God.\n\nWhen the will of the creature entirely submits to that of the Creator,\nsuffering freely and voluntarily and yielding only a concurrence to the\ndivine will (which is its absolute submission) suffering itself to be\ntotally surmounted and destroyed, by the operations of love; this\nabsorbs the will into self, consummates it in that of God, and purifies\nit from all narrowness, dissimilitude, and selfishness.\n\nThe case is the same with the other two powers. By means of charity,\nthe two other theological virtues, faith and hope, are introduced.\nFaith so strongly seizes on the understanding, as to make it decline\nall reasonings, all particular illuminations and illustrations, however\nsublime. This sufficiently demonstrates how far visions, revelations\nand ecstasies, differ from this, and hinder the soul from being lost in\nGod. Although by them it appears lost in Him for some transient\nmoments, yet it is not a true loss, since the soul which is entirely\nlost in God no more finds itself again. Faith then makes the soul lose\nevery distinct light, in order to place it in its own pure light.\n\nThe memory, too, finds all its little activities surmounted by degrees,\nand absorbed in hope. Finally the powers are all concentrated and lost\nin pure love. It engulfs them into itself by means of their sovereign,\nthe WILL. The will is the sovereign of the powers and charity is the\nqueen of the virtues, and unites them all in herself.\n\nThis reunion thus made, is called the central union or unity. By means\nof the will and love, all are reunited in the center of the soul in God\nwho is our ultimate end. According to St. John, \"He who dwelleth in\nlove, dwelleth in God, for God is love.\"\n\nThis union of my will to Thine, O my God, and this ineffable presence\nwas so sweet and powerful, that I was compelled to yield to its\ndelightful power, power which was strict and severe to my minutest\nfaults.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\n\nMy senses (as I have described) were continually mortified, and under\nperpetual restraint. To conquer them totally, it is necessary to deny\nthem the smallest relaxation, until the victory is completed. We see\nthose who content themselves practicing great outward austerities, yet\nby indulging their senses in what is called innocent and necessary,\nthey remain forever unsubdued. Austerities, however severe, will not\nconquer the senses. To destroy their power, the most effectual means\nis, in general, to deny them firmly what will please, and to persevere\nin this, until they are reduced to be without desire or repugnance. If\nwe attempt, during the warfare, to grant them any relaxation, we act\nlike those, who, under pretext of strengthening a man, who was\ncondemned to be starved to death, should give him from time to time a\nlittle nourishment. It indeed would prolong his torments, and postpone\nhis death.\n\nIt is just the same with the death of the senses, the powers, the\nunderstanding, and self-will. If we do not eradicate every remains of\nself subsisting in these, we support them in a dying life to the end.\nThis state and its termination are clearly set forth by Paul. He speaks\nof bearing about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus. (II Cor.\n4:10.). But, lest we should rest here, he fully distinguishes this from\nthe state of being dead and having our life hid with Christ in God. It\nis only by a total death to self we can be lost in God.\n\nHe who is thus dead has no further need of mortification. The very end\nof mortification is accomplished in him, and all is become new. It is\nan unhappy error in those good souls, who have arrived at a conquest of\nthe bodily senses, through this unremitted and continual mortification,\nthat they should still continue attached to the exercise of it. They\nshould rather drop their attention thereto, and remain in indifference,\naccepting with equality the good as the bad, the sweet as the bitter,\nand bend their whole attention to a labor of greater importance;\nnamely, the mortification of the mind and self-will. They should begin\nby dropping all the activity of self, which can never be done without\nthe most profound prayer; no more than the death of the senses can be\nperfected without profound recollection joined to mortification.\nIndeed, recollection is the chief means whereby we attain to a conquest\nof the senses. It detaches and separates us from them, and sweetly saps\nthe very cause from whence they derive their influence over us.\n\nThe more Thou didst augment my love, and my patience, O my Lord, the\nless respite had I from the most oppressive crosses; but love rendered\nthem easy to bear.\n\nO ye poor souls, who exhaust yourselves with needless vexation, if you\nwould but seek God in your hearts, there would be a speedy end to all\nyour troubles. The increase of crosses would proportionately increase\nyour delight.\n\nLove, at the beginning, athirst for mortification impelled me to seek\nand invent various kinds. It is surprising, that as soon as the\nbitterness of any new mode of mortification was exhausted, another kind\nwas pointed to me, and I was inwardly led to pursue it. Divine love so\nenlightened my heart, and so scrutinized into its secret springs, that\nthe smallest defects became exposed. If I was about to speak, something\nwrong was instantly pointed to me, and I was compelled to silence. If I\nkept silence, faults were presently discovered--in every action there\nwas something defective--in my mortifications, my penances, my\nalms-giving, my retirement, I was faulty. When I walked, I observed\nthere was something wrong; if I spoke any way in my own favor, I saw\npride. If I said within myself, alas, I will speak no more, here was\nself. If I was cheerful and open, I was condemned. Pure love always\nfound matter for reproof in me, and was jealous that nothing should\nescape unnoticed. It was not that I was particularly attentive over\nmyself, for it was even with constraint that I could look at all at\nmyself. My attention toward God, by an attachment of my will to His,\nwas without intermission. I waited continually upon Him, and He watched\nincessantly over me, and He so led me by His providence, that I forgot\nall things. I knew not how to communicate what I felt to anyone. I was\nso lost to myself, that I could scarcely go about self-examination.\nWhen I attempted it all ideas of myself immediately disappeared. I\nfound myself occupied with my ONE OBJECT, without distinction of ideas.\nI was absorbed in peace inexpressible; I saw by the eye of faith that\nit was God that thus wholly possessed me; but I did not reason at all\nabout it. It must not, however, be supposed that divine love suffered\nmy faults to go unpunished.\n\nO Lord! with what rigor, dost Thou punish the most faithful, the most\nloving and beloved of Thy children. I mean not externally, for this\nwould be inadequate to the smallest fault, in a soul that God is about\nto purify radically. The punishments it can inflict on itself, are\nrather gratifications and refreshments than otherwise. Indeed, the\nmanner in which He corrects His chosen, must be felt, or it is\nimpossible to conceive how dreadful it is. In my attempt to explain it,\nI shall be unintelligible, except to experienced souls. It is an\ninternal burning, a secret fire sent from God to purge away the fault,\ngiving extreme pain, until this purification is complete. It is like a\ndislocated joint, which is in incessant torment, until the bone is\nreplaced. This pain is so severe, that the soul would do anything to\nsatisfy God for the fault, and would rather be torn in pieces than\nendure the torment. Sometimes the soul flies to others, and opens her\nstate that she may find consolation. Thereby she frustrates God's\ndesigns toward her. It is of the utmost consequence to know what use to\nmake of the distress. The whole of one's spiritual advancement depends\non it. We should at these seasons of internal anguish, obscurity and\nmourning, co-operate with God, endure this consuming torture in its\nutmost extent (while it continues) without attempting to lessen or\nincrease it. Bear it passively, nor seek to satisfy God by anything we\ncan do of ourselves. To continue passive at such a time is extremely\ndifficult, and requires great firmness and courage. I knew some who\nnever advanced farther in the spiritual process because they grew\nimpatient, and sought means of consolation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\n\nThe treatment of my husband and mother-in-law, however rigorous and\ninsulting, I now bore silently. I made no replies and this was not so\ndifficult for me, because the greatness of my interior occupation, and\nwhat passed within, rendered me insensible to all the rest. There were\ntimes when I was left to myself. Then I could not refrain from tears. I\ndid the lowest offices for them to humble myself. All this did not win\ntheir favor. When they were in a rage, although I could not find that I\nhad given them any occasion, yet I did not fail to beg their pardon,\neven from the girl of whom I have spoken. I had a good deal of pain to\nsurmount myself, as to the last. She became the more insolent for it;\nreproaching me with things which ought to have made her blush and have\ncovered her with shame. As she saw that I contradicted and resisted her\nno more in anything, she proceeded to treat me worse. And when I asked\nher pardon she triumphed, saying, \"I knew very well I was in the\nright.\" Her arrogance rose to the height that I would not have treated\nthe meanest slave.\n\nOne day, as she was dressing me, she pulled me roughly, and spoke to me\ninsolently. I said, \"It is not my account that I am willing to answer\nyou, for you give me no pain, but lest you should act thus before\npersons to whom it would give offence. Moreover, as I am your mistress,\nGod is assuredly offended with you.\" She left me that moment, and ran\nlike a mad woman to meet my husband telling him she would stay no\nlonger, I treated her so ill, that I hated her for the care she took of\nhim in his continual indispositions, wanting her not to do any service\nfor him. My husband was very hasty, so he took fire at these words. I\nfinished dressing alone. Since she had left me I dared not call another\ngirl; she would not suffer another girl to come near me. I saw my\nhusband coming like a lion, he was never in such a rage as this. I\nthought he was going to strike me; I awaited the blow with\ntranquillity; he threatened with his up-lifted crutch; I thought he was\ngoing to knock me down. Holding myself closely united to God, I beheld\nit without pain. He did not strike me for he had presence of mind\nenough to see what indignity it would be. In his rage he threw it at\nme. It fell near me, but it did not touch me. He then discharged\nhimself in language as if I had been a street beggar, or the most\ninfamous of creatures. I kept profound silence, being recollected in\nthe Lord.\n\nThe girl in the meantime came in. At the sight of her his rage\nredoubled. I kept near to God, as a victim disposed to suffer whatever\nHe would permit. My husband ordered me to beg her pardon, which I\nreadily did, and thereby appeased him. I went into my closet, where I\nno sooner was, than my divine Director impelled me to make this girl a\npresent, to recompense her for the cross which she had caused me. She\nwas a little astonished, but her heart was too hard to be gained.\n\nI often acted thus because she frequently gave me opportunities. She\nhad a singular dexterity in attending the sick. My husband, ailing\nalmost continually, would suffer no other person to administer to him.\nHe had a very great regard for her. She was artful; in his presence she\naffected an extraordinary respect for me. When he was not present, if I\nsaid a word to her, though with the greatest mildness and if she heard\nhim coming, she cried out with all her might that she was unhappy. She\nacted like one distressed so that, without informing himself of the\ntruth, he was irritated against me, as was also my mother-in-law.\n\nThe violence I did to my proud and hasty nature was so great, that I\ncould hold out no longer. I was quite spent with it. It seemed\nsometimes as if I was inwardly rent, and I have often fallen sick with\nthe struggle. She did not forbear exclaiming against me, even before\npersons of distinction, who came to see me. If I was silent, she took\noffence at that yet more, and said that I despised her. She cried me\ndown, and made complaints to everybody. All this redounded to my honor\nand her own disgrace. My reputation was so well established, on account\nof my exterior modesty, my devotion, and the great acts of charity\nwhich I did, that nothing could shake it.\n\nSometimes she ran out into the street, crying out against me. At one\ntime she exclaimed, \"Am not I very unhappy to have such a mistress?\"\nPeople gathered about her to know what I had done to her; and not\nknowing what to say, she answered that I had not spoken to her all the\nday. They returned, laughing, and said, \"She has done you no great harm\nthen.\"\n\nI am surprised at the blindness of confessors, and at their permitting\ntheir penitents to conceal so much of the truth from them. The\nconfessor of this girl made her pass for a saint. This he said in my\nhearing. I answered nothing; for love would not permit me to speak of\nmy troubles. I should consecrate them all to God by a profound silence.\n\nMy husband was out of humor with my devotion. \"What,\" said he, \"you\nlove God so much, that you love me no longer.\" So little did he\ncomprehend that the true conjugal love is that which the Lord Himself\nforms in the heart that loves Him.\n\nOh, Thou who art pure and holy, Thou didst imprint in me from the first\nsuch a love of chastity, that there was nothing in the world which I\nwould not have undergone to possess and preserve it.\n\nI endeavored to be agreeable to my husband in anything, and to please\nhim in everything he could require of me. God gave me such a purity of\nsoul at that time, that I had not so much as a bad thought. Sometimes\nmy husband said to me, \"One sees plainly that you never lose the\npresence of God.\"\n\nThe world, seeing I quit it, persecuted and turned me into ridicule. I\nwas its entertainment, and the subject of its fables. It could not bear\nthat a woman, scarce twenty years of age, should thus make war against\nit, and overcome. My mother-in-law took part with the world, and blamed\nme for not doing many things that in her heart she would have been\nhighly offended had I done them. I was as one lost, and alone; so\nlittle communion had I with the creature, farther than necessity\nrequired. I seemed to experience literally those words of Paul, \"I live\nyet, no more I, but Christ liveth in me.\" His operations were so\npowerful, so sweet, and so secret, all together, that I could not\nexpress them. We went into the country on some business. Oh! what\nunutterable communications did I there experience in retirement!\n\nI was insatiable for prayer. I arose at four o'clock in the morning to\npray. I went very far to the church, which was so situated, that the\ncoach could not come to it. There was a steep hill to go down and\nanother to ascend. All that cost me nothing; I had such a longing\ndesire to meet with my God, as my only good, who on His part was\ngraciously forward to give Himself to His poor creature, and for it to\ndo even visible miracles. Such as saw me lead a life so very different\nfrom the women of the world said I was a fool. They attributed it to\nstupidity. Sometimes they said, \"What can all this mean? Some people\nthink this lady has parts, but nothing of them appears.\" If I went into\ncompany, often I could not speak; so much was I engaged within, so\ninward with the Lord, as not to attend to anything else. If any near me\nspoke, I heard nothing. I generally took one with me, that this might\nnot appear. I took some work, to hide under that appearance the real\nemploy of my heart. When I was alone, the work dropped out of my hand.\nI wanted to persuade a relation of my husband's to practice prayer. She\nthought me a fool, for depriving myself of all the amusements of the\nage. But the Lord opened her eyes, to make her despise them. I could\nhave wished to teach all the world to love God; and thought it depended\nonly on them to feel what I felt. The Lord made use of my thinking to\ngain many souls to Himself.\n\nThe good father I have spoken of, who was the instrument of my\nconversion, made me acquainted with Genevieve Granger, prioress of the\nBenedictines, one of the greatest servants of God of her time. She\nproved of very great service to me. My confessor, who had told everyone\nthat I was a saint before, when so full of miseries, and so far from\nthe condition to which the Lord in His mercy had now brought me, seeing\nI placed a confidence in the father of whom I have spoken, and that I\nsteered in a road which was unknown to him, declared openly against me.\nThe monks of his order persecuted me much. They even preached publicly\nagainst me, as a person under a delusion.\n\nMy husband and mother-in-law, who till now had been indifferent about\nthis confessor, then joined him and ordered me to leave off prayer, and\nthe exercise of piety; that I could not do. There was carried on a\nconversation within me, very different from that which passed without.\nI did what I could to hinder it from appearing, but could not. The\npresence of so great a Master manifested itself, even on my\ncountenance. That pained my husband, he sometimes told me. I did what I\ncould to hinder it from being noticed, but was not able completely to\nhide it. I was so much inwardly occupied that I knew not what I ate. I\nmade as if I ate some kinds of meat, though I did not take any. This\ndeep inward attention suffered me scarcely to hear or see anything. I\nstill continued to use many severe mortifications and austerities. They\ndid not in the least diminish the freshness of my countenance.\n\nI had often grievous fits of sickness and no consolation in life,\nexcept in the practice of prayer, and in seeing Mother Granger. How\ndear did these cost me, especially the former! Is this esteeming the\ncross as I ought?--should I not rather say that prayer to me was\nrecompensed with the cross, and the cross with prayer. Inseparable\ngifts united in my heart and life! When your eternal light arose in my\nsoul, how perfectly it reconciled me and made you the object of my\nlove! From the moment I received Thee I have never been free from the\ncross, nor it seems without prayer--though for a long time I thought\nmyself deprived thereof, which exceedingly augmented my afflictions.\n\nMy confessor at first exerted his efforts to hinder me from practicing\nprayer, and from seeing Mother Granger. He violently stirred up my\nhusband and mother-in-law to hinder me from praying. The method they\ntook was to watch me from morning until night. I dared not go out from\nmy mother-in-law's room, or from my husband's bedside. Sometimes I\ncarried my work to the window, under a pretense of seeing better, in\norder to relieve myself with some moment's repose. They came to watch\nme very closely, to see if I did not pray instead of working. When my\nhusband and mother-in-law played cards, if I did turn toward the fire,\nthey watched to see if I continued my work or shut my eyes. If they\nobserved I closed them, they would be in a fury against me for several\nhours. What is most strange, when my husband went out, having some days\nof health, he would not allow me to pray in his absence. He marked my\nwork, and sometimes, after he was just gone out, returning immediately,\nif he found me in prayer he would be in a rage. In vain I said,\n\"Surely, sir, what matters it what I do when you are absent, if I be\nassiduous in attending you when you are present?\" That would not\nsatisfy him; he insisted that I should no more pray in his absence than\nin his presence.\n\nI believe there is hardly a torment equal to that of being ardently\ndrawn to retirement, and not having it in one's power to be retired.\n\nO my God, the war they raised to hinder me from loving Thee did but\naugment my love. While they were striving to prevent my addresses to\nThee, thou drewest me into an inexpressible silence. The more they\nlabored to separate me from Thee, the more closely didst Thou unite me\nto Thyself. The flame of Thy love was kindled, and kept up by\neverything that was done to extinguish it.\n\nOften through compliance I played at piquet with my husband. At such\ntimes I was even more interiorly attracted than if I had been at\nchurch. I was scarce able to contain the fire which burned in my soul,\nwhich had all the fervor of what men call love, but nothing of its\nimpetuosity. The more ardent, the more peaceable it was. This fire\ngained strength from everything that was done to suppress it. And the\nspirit of prayer was nourished and increased from their contrivances\nand endeavors to disallow me any time for practicing it. I loved\nwithout considering a motive or reason for loving. Nothing passed in my\nhead, but much in the innermost recesses of my soul. I thought not\nabout any recompense, gift, or favor, which He could bestow or I\nreceive. The Well-beloved was Himself the only object which attracted\nmy heart. I could not contemplate His attributes. I knew nothing else,\nbut to love and to suffer. Ignorance more truly learned than any\nscience of the doctors, since it taught me so well Jesus Christ\ncrucified and brought me to be in love with His holy cross. I could\nthen have wished to die, in order to be inseparably united to Him who\nso powerfully attracted my heart. As all this passed in the will, the\nimagination and the understanding being absorbed in it, I knew not what\nto say, having never read or heard of such a state as I experienced. I\ndreaded delusion and feared that all was not right, for before this I\nhad known nothing of the operations of God in souls. I had only read\nSt. Francis de Sales, Thomas a'Kempis, _The Spiritual Combat_, and\nthe Holy Scriptures. I was quite a stranger to those spiritual books\nwherein such states are described.\n\nThen all those amusements and pleasures that are prized and esteemed\nappeared to me dull and insipid. I wondered how it could be that I had\never enjoyed them. And indeed since that time, I could never find any\nsatisfaction or enjoyment out of God. I have sometimes been unfaithful\nenough to find it. I was not astonished that martyrs gave their lives\nfor Jesus Christ. I thought them happy, and sighed after their\nprivilege of suffering for Him, I so esteemed the cross that my\ngreatest trouble was the want of suffering as much as my heart thirsted\nfor.\n\nThis respect and esteem for the cross continually increased. Afterward\nI lost the sensible relish and enjoyment, yet the love and esteem no\nmore left me than the cross itself. Indeed, it has ever been my\nfaithful companion, changing and augmenting, in proportion to the\nchanges and dispositions of my inward state. O blessed cross, thou hast\nnever quitted me, since I surrendered myself to my divine, crucified\nMaster. I still hope that thou wilt never abandon me. So eager was I\nfor the cross, that I endeavored to make myself feel the utmost rigor\nof every mortification. This only served to awaken my desire for\nsuffering, and to show me that it is God alone that can prepare and\nsend crosses suitable to a soul that thirsts for a following of His\nsufferings, and a conformity to His death. The more my state of prayer\naugmented, my desire of suffering grew stronger, as the full weight of\nheavy crosses from every side came thundering upon me.\n\nThe peculiar property of this prayer of the heart is to give a strong\nfaith. Mine was without limits, as was also my resignation to God, and\nmy confidence in Him--my love of His will, and of the order of His\nprovidence over me. I was very timorous before, but now feared nothing.\nIt is in such a case that one feels the efficacy of these words, \"My\nyoke is easy, and my burden is light\" (Matt. 11:30).\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\n\nI had a secret desire given me from that time to be wholly devoted to\nthe disposal of my God, let that be what it would. I said, \"What\ncouldst Thou demand of me, that I would not willingly offer Thee? Oh,\nspare me not.\" The cross and humiliations were represented to my mind\nin the most frightful colors, but this deterred me not. I yielded\nmyself up as willing and indeed our Lord seemed to accept of my\nsacrifice, for His divine providence furnished me incessantly with\noccasions and opportunities for putting it to the test.\n\nI had difficulty to say vocal prayers I had been used to repeat. As\nsoon as I opened my lips to pronounce them, the love of God seized me\nstrongly. I was swallowed up in a profound silence and an inexpressible\npeace. I made fresh attempts but still in vain. I began again and\nagain, but could not go on. I had never before heard of such a state, I\nknew not what to do. My inability increased because my love to the Lord\nwas growing more strong, more violent and more overpowering. There was\nmade in me, without the sound of words, a continual prayer. It seemed\nto me to be the prayer of our Lord Jesus Christ Himself; a prayer of\nthe Word, which is made by the Spirit. According to St. Paul it \"asketh\nfor us that which is good, perfect, and conformable to the will of God\"\n(Rom. 8:26-27).\n\nMy domestic crosses continued. I was prevented from seeing or even\nwriting to Mrs. Granger. My very going to divine service or the\nsacrament, were a source of woeful offences. The only amusement I had\nleft me, was the visiting and attending the sick poor, and performing\nthe lowest offices for them.\n\nMy prayer-time began to be exceedingly distressing. I compelled myself\nto continue at it, though deprived of all comfort and consolation. When\nI was not employed therein, I felt an ardent desire and longing for it.\nI suffered inexpressible anguish in my mind, and endeavored with the\nseverest inflictions of corporeal austerities to mitigate and divert\nit--but in vain. I found no more that enlivening vigor which had\nhitherto carried me on with great swiftness. I seemed to myself to be\nlike those young brides, who find a great deal of difficulty to lay\naside their self-love, and to follow their husbands to the war. I\nrelapsed into a vain complacency and fondness for myself. My propensity\nto pride and vanity, which seemed quite dead, while I was so filled\nwith love of God, now showed itself again, and gave me severe exercise.\nThis made me lament the exterior beauty of my person, and pray to God\nincessantly, that he would remove from me that obstacle, and make me\nugly. I could even have wished to be deaf, blind and dumb, that nothing\nmight divert me from my love of God.\n\nI set out on a journey, which we had then to make, and I appeared more\nthan ever like those lamps which emit a glimmering flash, when they are\njust on the point of extinguishing. Alas! how many snares were laid in\nmy way! I met them at every step. I even committed infidelities through\nunwatchfulness.\n\nO my Lord, with what rigor didst Thou punish them! A useless glance was\nchecked as a sin. How many tears did those inadvertent faults cost me,\nthrough a weak compliance, and even against my will! Thou knowest that\nThy rigor, exercised after my slips, was not the motive of those tears\nwhich I shed. With what pleasure would I have suffered the most\nrigorous severity to have been cured of my infidelity. To what severe\nchastisement did I not condemn myself! Sometimes Thou didst treat me\nlike a father who pities the child, and caresses it after its\ninvoluntary faults. How often didst Thou make me sensible of Thy love\ntoward me, notwithstanding my blemishes! It was the sweetness of this\nlove after my falls which caused my greatest pain; for the more the\namiableness of Thy love was extended to me, the more inconsolable I was\nfor having departed ever so little from Thee. When I had let some\ninadvertence escape me, I found Thee ready to receive me. I have often\ncried out, \"O my Lord! is it possible thou canst be so gracious to such\nan offender, and so indulgent to my faults; so propitious to one who\nhas wandered astray from Thee, by vain complaisances, and an unworthy\nfondness for frivolous objects? Yet no sooner do I return, than I find\nThee waiting, with open arms ready to receive me.\"\n\nO sinner, sinner! hast thou any reason to complain of God? If there yet\nremains in thee any justice, confess the truth, and admit that it is\nowing to thyself if thou goest wrong; that in departing from Him thou\ndisobeyest His call. When thou returnest, He is ready to receive thee;\nand if thou returnest not, He makes use of the most engaging motives to\nwin thee. Yet thou turnest a deaf ear to His voice; thou wilt not hear\nHim. Thou sayest He speaks not to thee, though He calls loudly. It is\ntherefore only because thou daily rebellest, and art growing daily more\nand more deaf to the voice.\n\nWhen I was in Paris, and the clergy saw me so young, they appeared\nastonished. Those to whom I opened my state told me, that I could never\nenough thank God for the graces conferred on me; that if I knew them I\nshould be amazed at them; and that if I were not faithful, I should be\nthe most ungrateful of all creatures. Some declared that they never\nknew any woman whom God held so closely, and in so great a purity of\nconscience.\n\nI believe what rendered it so was the continual care Thou hadst over\nme, O my God, making me feel Thy presence, even as Thou hast promised\nit to us in Thy Gospel,--\"if a man love me, my Father will love him,\nand we will come unto him, and make our abode with him\" (John 14:23).\nThe continual experience of Thy presence in me was what preserved me. I\nbecame deeply assured of what the prophet had said, \"Except the Lord\nkeep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain\" (Ps. 127:1). Thou, O my\nLove, wert my faithful keeper, who didst defend my heart against all\nsorts of enemies, preventing the least faults, or correcting them when\nvivacity had occasioned their being committed. But alas! when Thou\ndidst cease to watch for me, or left me to myself, how weak was I, and\nhow easily did my enemies prevail over me! Let others ascribe their\nvictory to their own fidelity. As for me, I shall never attribute them\nto anything else than thy paternal care. I have too often experienced,\nto my cost, what I should be without Thee, to presume in the least on\nany cares of my own. It is to Thee, and to Thee only, that I owe\neverything. O my Deliverer; and my being indebted to Thee for it gives\nme infinite joy.\n\nWhile in Paris, I relaxed and did many things which I should not. I\nknew the extreme fondness which some had for me, and suffered them to\nexpress it without checking it as I ought. I fell into other faults\ntoo, as having my neck a little too bare, though not near so much as\nothers had. I plainly saw I was too remiss; and that was my torment. I\nsought all about for Him who had secretly inflamed my heart. But, alas!\nhardly anybody knew Him. I cried, \"Oh, Thou best beloved of my soul,\nhadst Thou been near me these disasters had not befallen me.\" When I\nsay that I spoke thus to Him, it is but to explain myself. In reality,\nit all passed almost in silence, for I could not speak. My heart had a\nlanguage which was carried on without the sound of words, understood of\nHim, as He understands the language of the Word, which speaks\nincessantly in the innermost recesses of the soul. Oh, sacred language!\nExperience only gives the comprehension of it! Let not any think it a\nbarren language, and effect of the mere imagination. Far different--it\nis the silent expression of the Word in the soul. As He never ceases to\nspeak, so He never ceases to operate. If people once came to know the\noperations of the Lord, in souls wholly resigned to His guiding, it\nwould fill them with reverential admiration and awe.\n\nI saw that the purity of my state was like to be sullied by too great a\ncommerce with the creatures, so I made haste to finish what detained me\nin Paris, in order to return to the country. \"Tis true, O my Lord, I\nfelt that Thou hadst given me strength enough to avoid the occasions of\nevil--but when I had so far yielded as to get into them, I found I\ncould not resist the vain complaisances, and a number of other foibles\nwhich they ensnared me into.\" The pain which I felt after my faults was\ninexpressible. It was not an anguish that arose from any distinct idea\nor conception, from any particular motive or affection--but a kind of\ndevouring fire which ceased not, till the fault was consumed and the\nsoul purified. It was a banishment of my soul from the presence of its\nBeloved. I could have no access to Him, neither could I have any rest\nout of Him. I knew not what to do. I was like the dove out of the ark,\nwhich finding no rest for the soul of her foot, was constrained to\nreturn to the ark; but, finding the window shut, could only fly about.\nIn the meantime, through an infidelity which will ever render me\nculpable, I strove to find some satisfaction without, but could not.\nThis served to convince me of my folly and of the vanity of those\npleasures which are called innocent. When I was prevailed on to taste\nthem, I felt a strong repulse which, joined with my remorse for the\ntransgression, changed the diversion into torment. \"Oh, my Father,\"\nsaid I, \"this is not Thee; and nothing else, beside Thee, can give\nsolid pleasure.\"\n\nOne day, as much through unfaithfulness as complaisance, I went to take\na walk at some of the public parks, rather from excess of vanity to\nshow myself than to take the pleasure of the place. Oh, my Lord! how\ndidst Thou make me sensible of this fault? But far from punishing me in\nletting me partake of the amusement, Thou didst it in holding me so\nclose to Thyself, that I could give no attention to anything but my\nfault and Thy displeasure. After this I was invited with some other\nladies to an entertainment at St. Cloud. Through vanity and weak\ncompliance, I yielded and went. The affair was magnificent; they,\nthough wise in the eye of the world, could relish it. I was filled with\nbitterness. I could eat nothing, I could enjoy nothing. Oh, what tears!\nFor beyond three months my Beloved withdrew His favoring presence, and\nI could see nothing but an angry God.\n\nI was on this occasion, and in another journey which I took with my\nhusband into Touraine, like those animals destined for slaughter. On\ncertain days people adorn them with greens and flowers, and bring in\npomp into the city before they kill them. This weak beauty, on the eve\nof decline, shone forth with new brightness, in order to become the\nsooner extinct. I was shortly after afflicted with the smallpox.\n\nOne day as I walked to church, followed by a footman I was met by a\npoor man. I went to give him alms; he thanked me but refused them and\nthen spoke to me in a wonderful manner of God and of divine things. He\ndisplayed to me my whole heart, my love to God, my charity, my too\ngreat fondness for my beauty and all my faults; he told me it was not\nenough to avoid Hell, but that the Lord required of me the utmost\npurity and height of perfection. My heart assented to his reproofs. I\nheard him with silence and respect, his words penetrated my very soul.\nWhen I arrived at the church I fainted away. I have never seen the man\nsince.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\n\nMy husband enjoying some intermission of his almost continual ailments,\nhad a mind to go to Orleans, and then into Touraine. In this journey my\nvanity made its last blaze. I received abundance of visits and\napplauses. But how clearly did I see the folly of men who are so taken\nwith vain beauty! I disliked the disposition, yet not that which caused\nit, though I sometimes ardently desired to be delivered from it. The\ncontinual combat of nature and grace cost me no small affliction.\nNature was pleased with public applause; grace made me dread it. What\naugmented the temptation was that they esteemed in me virtue, joined\nwith youth and beauty. They did not know that all the virtue is only in\nGod, and His protection, and all the weakness in myself.\n\nI went in search of confessors, to accuse myself of my failing, and to\nbewail my backslidings. They were utterly insensible of my pain. They\nesteemed what God condemned. They treated as a virtue what to me\nappeared detestable in His sight. Far from measuring my faults by His\ngraces, they only considered what I was, in comparison of what I might\nhave been. Hence, instead of blaming me, they only flattered my pride.\nThey justified me in what incurred His rebuke, or only treated as a\nslight fault what in me was highly displeasing to Him, from whom I had\nreceived such signal mercies.\n\nThe heinousness of sins is not to be measured singly by their nature,\nbut also by the state of the person who commits them. The least\nunfaithfulness in a spouse is more injurious to her husband, than far\ngreater ones in his domestics. I told them all the trouble I had been\nunder for not having entirely covered my neck. It was covered much more\nthan was covered by other women of my age. They assured me that I was\nvery modestly dressed. As my husband liked my dress there could be\nnothing amiss in it. My inward Director taught me quite the contrary. I\nhad not courage enough to follow Him, and to dress myself differently\nfrom others, at my age. My vanity furnished me with pretences seemingly\njust for following fashions. If pastors knew what hurt they do in\nhumoring female vanity, they would be more severe against it! Had I\nfound but one person honest enough to deal plainly with me, I should\nnot have gone on. But my vanity, siding with the declared opinion of\nall others, induced me to think them right, and my own scruples mere\nfancy.\n\nWe met with accidents in this journey, sufficient to have terrified\nanyone. Though corrupt nature prevailed so far as I have just\nmentioned, yet my resignation to God was so strong, that I passed\nfearless, even where there was apparently no possibility of escape. At\none time we got into a narrow pass, and did not perceive, until we were\ntoo far advanced to draw back, that the road was undermined by the\nriver Loire, which ran beneath, and the banks had fallen in; so that in\nsome places the footmen were obliged to support one side of the\ncarriage. All those around me were terrified to the highest degree, yet\nGod kept me perfectly tranquil. I secretly rejoiced at the prospect of\nlosing my life by a singular stroke of His providence.\n\nOn my return, I went to see Mrs. Granger, to whom I related how it had\nbeen with me while abroad. She strengthened and encouraged me to pursue\nmy first design. She advised me to cover my neck, which I have done\never since notwithstanding the singularity of it.\n\nThe Lord, who had so long deferred the chastisement merited by such a\nseries of infidelities, now began to punish me for the abuse of his\ngrace. Sometimes I wished to retire to a convent, and thought it\nlawful. I found wherein I was weak, and that my faults were always of\nthe same nature. I wished to hide myself in some cave, or to be\nconfined in a dreary prison, rather than enjoy a liberty by which I\nsuffered so much. Divine love gently drew me inward, and vanity dragged\nme outward. My heart was rent asunder by the contest, as I neither gave\nmyself wholly up to the one nor the other.\n\nI besought my God to deprive me of power to displease Him, and cried,\n\"Art thou not strong enough wholly to eradicate this unjust duplicity\nout of my heart?\" For my vanity broke forth when occasions offered; yet\nI quickly returned to God. He, instead of repulsing or upbraiding me,\noften received me with open arms, and gave me fresh testimonials of His\nlove. They filled me with the most painful reflections on my offense.\nThough this wretched vanity was still so prevalent, yet my love to God\nwas such, that after my wanderings, I would rather have chosen His rod\nthan His caresses. His interests were more dear to me than my own, and\nI wished He would have done Himself justice upon me. My heart was full\nof grief and of love. I was stung to the quick for offending Him, who\nshowered His grace so profusely upon me. That those who know not God\nshould offend Him by sin is not to be wondered at, but that a heart\nwhich loved Him more than itself, and so fully experienced His love,\nshould be seduced by propensities which it detests, is a cruel\nmartyrdom.\n\nWhen I felt most strongly Thy presence, and Thy love, O Lord, said I,\nhow wonderfully Thou bestowest Thy favors on such a wretched creature,\nwho requites Thee only with ingratitude. For if anyone reads this life\nwith attention, he will see on God's part, nothing but goodness, mercy,\nand love; on my part, nothing but weakness, sin and infidelity. I have\nnothing to glory in but my infirmities and my unworthiness, since, in\nthat everlasting marriage-union thou hast made with me, I brought with\nme nothing but weakness, sin and misery. How I rejoice to owe all to\nThee, and that Thou favorest my heart with a sight of the treasures and\nboundless riches of Thy grace and love! Thou hast dealt by me, as if a\nmagnificent king should marry a poor slave, forget her slavery, give\nher all the ornaments which may render her pleasing in his eyes, and\nfreely pardon her all the faults and ill qualities which her ignorance\nand bad education had given her. This Thou hast made my case. My\npoverty is become my riches, and in the extremity of my weakness I have\nfound my strength. Oh, if any knew, with what confusion the indulgent\nfavors of God cover the soul after its faults! Such a soul would wish\nwith all its power to satisfy the divine justice. I made verses and\nlittle songs to bewail myself. I exercised austerities, but they did\nnot satisfy my heart. They were like those drops of water which only\nserve to make the fire hotter. When I take a view of God, and myself, I\nam obliged to cry out, \"Oh, admirable conduct of Love toward an\nungrateful wretch! Oh, horrible ingratitude toward such unparalleled\ngoodness.\" A great part of my life is only a mixture of such things as\nmight be enough to sink me to the grave between grief and love.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\n\nOn my arrival at home, I found my husband taken with the gout, and his\nother complaints. My little daughter ill, and like to die of the\nsmallpox; my eldest son, too, took it; and it was of so malignant a\ntype, that it rendered him as disfigured, as before he was beautiful.\nAs soon as I perceived the smallpox was in the house, I had no doubt\nbut I should take it. Mrs. Granger advised me to leave if I could. My\nfather offered to take me home, with my second son, whom I tenderly\nloved. My mother-in-law would not suffer it. She persuaded my husband\nit was useless, and sent for a physician, who seconded her in it,\nsaying, \"I should as readily take it at a distance as here, if I were\ndisposed to take it.\" I may say, she proved at that time a second\nJephtha, and that she sacrificed us both, though innocently. Had she\nknown what followed, I doubt not but she would have acted otherwise.\nAll the town stirred in this affair. Everyone begged her to send me out\nof the house, and cried out that it was cruel to expose me thus. They\nset upon me, too, imagining I was unwilling to go. I had not told that\nshe was so averse to it. I had at that time no other disposition than\nto sacrifice myself to divine Providence. Though I might have removed,\nnotwithstanding my mother-in-law's resistance, yet I would not without\nher consent; because it looked to me as if her resistance was an order\nof Heaven.\n\nI continued in this spirit of sacrifice to God, waiting from moment to\nmoment in an entire resignation, for whatever He should be pleased to\nordain. I cannot express what nature suffered. I was like one who sees\nboth certain death and an easy remedy, without being able to avoid the\nformer, or try the latter. I had no less apprehension for my younger\nson than for myself. My mother-in-law so excessively doted on the\neldest, that the rest of us were indifferent to her. Yet I am assured,\nif she had known the younger would have died of the smallpox, she would\nnot have acted as she did. God makes use of creatures, and their\nnatural inclinations to accomplish His designs. When I see in the\ncreatures a conduct which appears unreasonable and mortifying, I mount\nhigher, and look upon them as instruments both of the mercy and justice\nof God. His justice is full of mercy.\n\nI told my husband that my stomach was sick, and that I was taking the\nsmallpox. He said it was only imagination. I let Mrs. Granger know the\nsituation I was in. As she had a tender heart, she was affected by the\ntreatment I met with, and encouraged me to offer myself up to the Lord.\nAt length, nature finding there was no resource, consented to the\nsacrifice which my spirit had already made. The disorder gained ground\napace. I was seized with a great shivering, and pain both in my head\nand stomach. They would not yet believe that I was sick. In a few hours\nit went so far, that they thought my life in danger. I was also taken\nwith an inflammation on my lungs, and the remedies for the one disorder\nwere contrary to the other. My mother-in-law's favorite physician was\nnot in town, nor the resident surgeon. Another surgeon said that I must\nbe bled; but my mother-in-law would not suffer it at that time. I was\non the point of death for the want of proper assistance. My husband,\nnot being able to see me, left me entirely to his mother. She would not\nallow any physician but her own to prescribe for me, and yet did not\nsend for him, though he was within a day's journey. In this extremity I\nopened not my mouth. I looked for life or death from the hand of God,\nwithout testifying the least uneasiness. The peace I enjoyed within, on\naccount of that perfect resignation, in which God kept me by His grace,\nwas so great, that it made me forget myself, in the midst of oppressive\ndisorders.\n\nThe Lord's protection was indeed wonderful. How oft have I been reduced\nto extremity, yet He never failed to succor, when things appeared most\ndesperate. It pleased Him so to order it, that the skillful surgeon,\nwho had attended me before, passing by our house, inquired after me.\nThey told him I was extremely ill. He alighted immediately, and came in\nto see me. Never was a man more surprised, when he saw the condition I\nwas in. The smallpox, which could not come out, had fallen on my nose\nwith such force, that it was quite black. He thought there had been\ngangrene and that it was going to fall off. My eyes were like two\ncoals; but I was not alarmed. At that time I could have made a\nsacrifice of all things, and was pleased that God should avenge Himself\non that face, which had betrayed me into so many infidelities. He also\nwas so affrighted that he went into my mother-in-law's room and told\nher, that it was most shameful to let me die in that manner, for want\nof bleeding. She still opposed it violently so that in short she told\nhim flatly that she would not suffer it, until the physician returned.\nHe flew into such a rage at seeing me thus left without sending for the\nphysician that he reproved my mother-in-law in the severest manner. But\nit was all in vain. He came up again presently and said, \"If you\nchoose, I will bleed you, and save your life.\" I held out my arm to\nhim; and though it was extremely swelled, he bled me in an instant. My\nmother-in-law was in a violent passion. The smallpox came out\nimmediately. He ordered that they should have me bled again in the\nevening, but she would not suffer it. Fear of displeasing my\nmother-in-law, and a total resignation of myself into the hands of God,\nI did not retain him.\n\nI am more particular to show how advantageous it is to resign one's\nself to God without reserve. Though in appearance He leaves us for a\ntime to prove and exercise our faith, yet He never fails us, when our\nneed of Him is the more pressing. One may say with the Scripture, \"It\nis God who bringeth down to the gates of death, and raiseth up again.\"\nThe blackness and swelling of my nose went away and I believe, had they\ncontinued to bleed me, I had been pretty easy. For want of that I grew\nworse again. The malady fell into my eyes, and inflamed them with such\nsevere pain, that I thought I should lose them both.\n\nI had violent pains for three weeks during which time I got little\nsleep. I could not shut my eyes, they were so full of the smallpox, nor\nopen them by reason of the pain. My throat, palate, and gums were\nlikewise so filled with the pock, that I could not swallow broth, or\ntake nourishment without suffering extremely. My whole body looked\nleprous. All that saw me said that they had never seen such a shocking\nspectacle. But as to my soul, it was kept in a contentment not to be\nexpressed. The hopes of its liberty, by the loss of that beauty, which\nhad so frequently brought me under bondage, rendered me so satisfied,\nand so united to God, that I would not have changed my condition for\nthat of the most happy prince in the world.\n\nEveryone thought I would be inconsolable. Several expressed their\nsympathy in my sad condition, as they judged it. I lay still in the\nsecret fruition of a joy unspeakable, in this total deprivation of what\nhad been a snare to my pride, and to the passions of men. I praised God\nin profound silence. None ever heard any complaints from me, either of\nmy pains or the loss I sustained. The only thing that I said was, that\nI rejoiced at, and was exceedingly thankful for the interior liberty I\ngained thereby; and they construed this as a great crime. My confessor,\nwho had been dissatisfied with me before, came to see me. He asked me\nif I was not sorry for having the smallpox; and he now taxed me with\npride for my answer.\n\nMy youngest little boy took the distemper the same day with myself, and\ndied for want of care. This blow indeed struck me to the heart, but\nyet, drawing strength from my weakness, I offered him up, and said to\nGod as Job did, \"Thou gavest him to me, and thou takest him from me;\nblessed be thy holy name.\" The spirit of sacrifice possessed me so\nstrongly, that, though I loved this child tenderly, I never shed a tear\nat hearing of his death. The day he was buried, the doctor sent to tell\nme he had not placed a tombstone upon his grave, because my little girl\ncould not survive him two days. My eldest son was not yet out of\ndanger, so that I saw myself stripped of all my children at once, my\nhusband indisposed, and myself extremely so. The Lord did not take my\nlittle girl then. He prolonged her life some years.\n\nAt last my mother-in-law's physician arrived, at a time wherein he\ncould be of but little service to me. When he saw the strange\ninflammation in my eyes, he bled me several times; but it was too late.\nAnd those bleedings which would have been so proper at first, did\nnothing but weaken me now. They could not even bleed me in the\ncondition I was in but with the greatest difficulty. My arms were so\nswelled that the surgeon was obliged to push in the lance to a great\ndepth. Moreover, the bleeding being out of season had liked to have\ncaused my death. This, I confess, would have been very agreeable to me.\nI looked upon death as the greatest blessing for me. Yet I saw well I\nhad nothing to hope in that side; and that, instead of meeting with so\ndesirable an event, I must prepare myself to support the trials of\nlife.\n\nAfter my eldest son was better, he got up and came into my room. I was\nsurprised at the extraordinary change I saw in him. His face, lately so\nfair and beautiful, was become like a coarse spot of earth, all full of\nfurrows. That gave me the curiosity to view myself. I felt shocked, for\nI saw that God had ordered the sacrifice in all its reality.\n\nSome things fell out by the contrariety of my mother-in-law that caused\nme severe crosses. They put the finishing stroke to my son's face.\nHowever, my heart was firm in God, and strengthened itself by the\nnumber and greatness of my sufferings. I was as a victim incessantly\noffered upon the altar, to HIM who first sacrificed Himself for love.\n\"What shall I render to the Lord, for all his benefits toward me? I\nwill take the cup of salvation, and call upon the name of the Lord.\"\nThese words, I can truly say, O my God, have been the delight of my\nheart, and have had their effect on me, through my whole life; for I\nhave been continually heaped with thy blessings and thy cross. My\nprincipal attraction, besides that of suffering for Thee, has been to\nyield myself up without resistance, interiorly and exteriorly, to all\nThy divine disposals. These gifts which I was favored with from the\nbeginning, have continued and increased until now Thou hast Thyself\nguided my continual crosses, and led me through paths impenetrable to\nall but thee.\n\nThey sent me pomatums to recover my complexion, and to fill up the\nhollows of the smallpox. I had seen wonderful effects from it upon\nothers, and therefore at first had a mind to try them. But, jealous of\nGod's work, I would not suffer it. There was a voice in my heart which\nsaid, \"If I would have had thee fair, I would have left thee as thou\nwert.\" I was therefore obliged to lay aside every remedy, and to go\ninto the air, which made the pitting worse; to expose myself in the\nstreet when the redness of the smallpox was at the worst, in order to\nmake my humiliation triumph, where I had exalted my pride.\n\nMy husband kept to his bed almost all that time, and made good use of\nhis indisposition. Only as he now lost that, which before gave him so\nmuch pleasure in viewing me, he grew much more susceptible to\nimpressions which any gave him against me. In consequence of this, the\npersons who spoke to him to my disadvantage, finding themselves now\nbetter hearkened to, spoke more boldly and more frequently.\n\nThere was only Thou, O my God, who changed not for me. Thou didst\nredouble my interior graces, in proportion as Thou didst augment my\nexterior crosses.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\n\nMy maid became every day more haughty. Seeing that her scoldings and\noutcries did not now torment me, she thought, if she could hinder me\nfrom going to the communion, she would give me the greatest of all\nvexations.\n\nShe was not mistaken, O divine Spouse of pure souls, since the only\nsatisfaction of my life was to receive and to honor Thee. I gave\neverything, of the finest I had, to furnish the churches with\nornaments, and contributed to the utmost extent of my abilities, to\nmake them have silver plates and chalices.\n\n\"Oh, my Love,\" I cried, \"let me be thy victim! Spare nothing to\nannihilate me.\" I felt an inexpressible longing to be more reduced, and\nto become, as it were, nothing.\n\nThis girl then knew my affection for the holy sacrament, where, when I\ncould have liberty for it, I passed several hours on my knees. She took\nit in her head to watch me daily. When she discovered me going, she ran\nto tell my mother-in-law and my husband. There needed no more to\nchagrin them. Their invectives lasted the whole day. If a word escaped\nme in my own justification, it was enough to make them say that I was\nguilty of sacrilege, and to raise an outcry against all devotion. If I\nmade them no answer at all, they still heightened their indignation,\nand said the most grating things they could devise. If I fell sick,\nwhich often happened, they took occasion to come to quarrel with me at\nmy bed, saying, my communion and prayers were what made me sick. They\nspoke as if there had been nothing else could make me ill, but my\ndevotion to Thee, O my Beloved!\n\nShe told me one day that she was going to write to my director to get\nhim to stop me from going to the communion. When I made no answer, she\ncried out as loud as she could, that I treated her ill and despised\nher. When I went to prayers, (though I had taken care to arrange\neverything about the house) she ran to tell my husband that I was going\nand had left nothing in order. When I returned home his rage fell on me\nin all its violence. They would hear none of my reasons, but said,\n\"they were all a pack of lies.\" My mother-in-law persuaded my husband\nthat I let everything go to wreck. If she did not take the care of\nthings he would be ruined. He believed it, and I bore all with\npatience, endeavoring, as well as I could, to do my duty. What gave\nmost trouble was the not knowing what course to take; for when I\nordered anything without her, she complained that I showed her no\nrespect, that I did things of my own head and that they were done\nalways the worse for it. Then she would order them contrary. If I\nconsulted her to know what, or how she would have anything to be done,\nshe said that I compelled her to have the care and trouble of\neverything.\n\nI had scarcely any rest but what I found in the love of Thy will, O my\nGod, and submission to Thy orders, however rigorous they might be. They\nincessantly watched my words and actions, to find occasion against me.\nThey chided me all the day long, continually repeating, and harping\nover and over the same things, even before the servants. How often have\nI made my meals on my tears, which were interpreted as the most\ncriminal in the world! They said, I would be damned; as if the tears\nwould open Hell for me, which surely they were more likely to\nextinguish. If I recited anything I had heard, they would render me\naccountable for the truth of it. If I kept silence, they taxed me with\ncontempt and perverseness; if I knew anything without telling it, that\nwas a crime; if I told it, then they said I had forged it. Sometimes\nthey tormented me for several days successively, without giving me any\nrelaxation. The girls said, \"I ought to feign sickness, to get a little\nrest.\" I made no reply. The love of God so closely possessed me, that\nit would not allow me to seek relief by a single word, or even by a\nlook. Sometimes I said in myself, \"Oh, that I had but any one who could\ntake notice of me, or to whom I might unburden myself,--what a relief\nit would be to me!\" But it was not granted me.\n\nYet, if I happened to be for some days freed from the exterior cross,\nit was a most sensible distress to me, and indeed a punishment more\ndifficult to bear than the severest trials. I then comprehended what\nSt. Teresa says, \"Let me suffer or die.\" For this absence of the cross\nwas so grievous to me, that I languished with desire for its return.\nBut no sooner was this earnest longing granted, and the blessed cross\nreturned again, than strange as it may seem, it appeared so weighty and\nburdensome, as to be almost insupportable.\n\nThough I loved my father extremely, and he loved me tenderly, yet I\nnever spoke to him of my sufferings. One of my relations, who loved me\nvery much, perceived the little moderation they used toward me. They\nspoke very roughly to me before him. He was highly displeased, and told\nmy father of it, adding, that I would pass for a fool. Soon after I\nwent to see my father, who, contrary to his custom, sharply reprimanded\nme, \"for suffering them to treat me in such a manner, without saying\nanything in my own defence.\" I answered, \"If they knew what my husband\nsaid to me, that was confusion enough for me, without my bringing any\nmore of it on myself by replies; that if they did not notice it, I\nought not to cause it to be observed, nor expose my husband's weakness;\nthat remaining silent stopped all disputes, whereas I might cause them\nto be continued and increased by my replies.\" My father answered that I\ndid well, and that I should continue to act as God should inspire me.\nAnd after that, he never spoke to me of it any more.\n\nThey were ever talking to me against my father, against my relations,\nand all such as I esteemed most. I felt this more keenly than all they\ncould say against myself. I could not forbear defending them, and\ntherein I did wrong; as whatever I said served only to provoke them. If\nany complained of my father or relations, they were always in the\nright. If any, whom they had disliked before, spoke against them, they\nwere presently approved of. If any showed friendship to me, such were\nnot welcome. A relation whom I greatly loved for her piety, coming to\nsee me, they openly bid her begone. They treated her in such a manner\nas obliged her to go, which gave me no small uneasiness. When any\nperson of distinction came, they would speak against me; even to those\nwho knew me not, which surprised them. But when they saw me they pitied\nme.\n\nIt mattered not what they said against me, love would not allow me to\njustify myself. I spoke not to my husband of what either my\nmother-in-law or the girl did to me, except the first year, when I was\nnot sufficiently touched with the power of God to suffer. My\nmother-in-law and my husband often quarrelled. Then I was in favor, and\nto me they made their mutual complaints. I never told the one what the\nother had said. And though it might have been of service to me, humanly\nspeaking, to take advantage of such opportunities, I never made use of\nthem to complain of either. Nay, on the contrary, I did not rest till I\nhad reconciled them. I spoke many obliging things of the one to the\nother, which made them friends again. I knew by frequent experience\nthat I should pay dear for their reunion. Scarcely were they reconciled\nwhen they joined together against me.\n\nI was so deeply engaged within, as often to forget things without, yet\nnot anything which was of consequence. My husband was hasty, and\ninattention frequently irritated him. I walked into the garden, without\nobserving anything. When my husband, who could not go thither, asked me\nabout it, I knew not what to say, at which he was angry. I went thither\non purpose to notice everything, in order to tell him and yet when\nthere did not think of looking. I went ten times one day, to see and\nbring him an account and yet forgot it. But when I did remember to\nlook, I was much pleased. Yet it happened I was then asked nothing\nabout them.\n\nAll my crosses to me would have seemed little, if I might have had\nliberty to pray and to be alone, to indulge the interior attraction\nwhich I felt. But I was obliged to continue in their presence, with\nsuch a subjection as is scarcely conceivable. My husband looked at his\nwatch, if at any time I had liberty allowed me for prayer, to see if I\nstayed more than half an hour. If I exceeded, he grew very uneasy.\nSometimes I said, \"Grant me one hour to divert and employ myself as I\nhave a mind.\" Though he would have granted it to me for other\ndiversions, yet for prayer he would not. I confess that inexperience\ncaused me much trouble. I have often thereby given occasion for what\nthey made me suffer. For ought I not to have looked on my captivity as\nan effect of the will of my God, to content myself and to make it my\nonly desire and prayer? But I often fell back again into the anxiety of\nwishing to get time for prayer, which was not agreeable to my husband.\nThose faults were more frequent in the beginning. Afterward I prayed to\nGod in His own retreat, in the temple of my heart, and I went out no\nmore.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\n\nWe went into the country, where I committed many faults. I thought I\nmight do it then because my husband diverted himself with building. If\nI stayed from him he was dissatisfied. That sometimes happened as he\nwas continually talking with the workmen. I set myself in a corner, and\nthere had my work with me, but could scarcely do anything by reason of\nthe force of the attraction which made the work fall out of my hands. I\npassed whole hours this way, without being able either to open my eyes\nor know what passed; but I had nothing to wish for, nor yet to be\nafraid of. Everywhere I found my proper center, because everywhere I\nfound God.\n\nMy heart could then desire nothing but what it had. This disposition\nextinguished all its desires; and I sometimes said to myself, \"What\nwantest thou? What fearest thou?\" I was surprised to find upon trial\nthat I had nothing to fear. Every place I was in was my proper place.\n\nAs I had generally no time allowed me for prayer but with difficulty,\nand would not be suffered to rise till seven o'clock, I stole up at\nfour, and kneeling in my bed, I wished not to offend my husband and\nstrove to be punctual and assiduous in everything. But this soon\naffected my health and injured my eyes, which were still weak. It was\nbut eight months since I had the smallpox. This loss of rest brought a\nheavy trial upon me. Even my sleeping hours were much broken, by the\nfear of not waking in time, I insensibly dropped asleep at my prayers.\nIn the half hour that I got after dinner, though I felt quite wakeful,\nthe drowsiness overpowered me. I endeavored to remedy this by the\nseverest bodily inflictions, but in vain.\n\nAs we had not yet built the chapel, and were far from any church, I\ncould not go to prayers or sacrament without the permission of my\nhusband. He was very reluctant to permit me, except on Sundays and\nholidays. I could not go out in the coach, so that I was obliged to\nmake use of some stratagems, and to get service performed very early in\nthe morning, to which, feeble as I was, I made an effort to creep on\nfoot. It was a quarter of a league distant. Really God wrought wonders\nfor me. Generally, in the mornings when I went to prayers, my husband\ndid not awake until after I was returned. Often, as I was going out,\nthe weather was so cloudy, that the girl I took with me told me that I\ncould not go; or if I did, I should be soaked with the rain. I answered\nher with my usual confidence, \"God will assist us.\" I generally reached\nthe chapel without being wet. While there the rain fell excessively.\nWhen I returned it ceased. When I got home it began again with fresh\nviolence. During several years that I have acted this way, I have never\nbeen deceived in my confidence. When I was in town, and could find\nnobody, I was surprised that there came to me priests to ask me if I\nwas willing to receive the communion, and that if I was they would give\nit to me. I had no mind to refuse the opportunity which Thou thyself\noffered me; for I had no doubt of its being Thee who inspired them to\npropose it. Before I had contrived to get divine service at the chapel\nI have mentioned, I have often suddenly awoke with a strong impulse to\ngo to prayers. My maid would say, \"But, madam, you are going to tire\nyourself in vain. There will be no service.\" For that chapel was not\nyet regularly served. I went full of faith and at my arrival have found\nthem just ready to begin. If I could particularly enumerate the\nremarkable providences which were hereupon given in my favor there\nwould be enough to fill whole volumes.\n\nWhen I wanted to hear from, or write to Mother Granger, I often felt a\nstrong propensity to go to the door. There to find a messenger with a\nletter from her. This is only a small instance of these kind of\ncontinual providences. She was the only person I could be free to open\nmy heart to, when I could get to see her, which was with the greatest\ndifficulty. It was through providential assistance; because prohibited\nby my confessor and husband. I placed an extreme confidence in Mother\nGranger. I concealed nothing from her either of sins or pains. I did\nnot now practice any austerities but those she was willing to allow me.\nMy interior dispositions I was scarcely able to tell because I knew not\nhow to explain myself, being very ignorant of those matters, having\nnever read or heard of them.\n\nOne day when they thought I was going to see my father, I ran off to\nMother Granger. It was discovered, and cost me crosses. Their rage\nagainst me was so excessive, that it would seem incredible. Even my\nwriting to her was extremely difficult. I had the utmost abhorrence of\na lie, so I forbade the footman to tell any. When they were met they\nwere asked whither they were going, and if they had any letters. My\nmother-in-law set herself in a little passage, through which those who\nwent out must necessarily pass. She asked them whither they were going\nand what they carried. Sometimes going on foot to the Benedictines, I\ncaused shoes to be carried, that they might not perceive by the dirty\nones that I had been far. I dared not go alone; those who attended me\nhad orders to tell of every place I went. If they were discovered to\nfail, they were either corrected or discharged.\n\nMy husband and mother-in-law were always inveighing against that good\nwoman, though in reality they esteemed her. I sometimes made my own\ncomplaint and she replied, \"How should you content them, when I have\nbeen doing all in my power for twenty years to satisfy them without\nsuccess?\" For as my mother-in-law had two daughters under her care, she\nwas always finding something to say against everything she did in\nregard to them.\n\nBut the most sensible cross to me now was the revolting of my own son\nagainst me. They inspired him with so great a contempt for me, that I\ncould not bear to see him without extreme affliction. When I was in my\nroom with some of my friends, they sent him to listen to what we said.\nAs he saw this pleased them, he invented a hundred things to tell them.\nIf I caught him in a lie, as I frequently did, he would upbraid me,\nsaying, \"My grandmother says you have been a greater liar than I.\" I\nanswered, \"Therefore I know the deformity of that vice, and how hard a\nthing it is to get the better of it; and for this reason, I would not\nhave you suffer the like.\" He spoke to me things very offensive.\nBecause he saw the awe I stood in of his grandmother and his father, if\nin their absence I found fault with him for anything, he insultingly\nupbraided me. He said that now I wanted to be set up over him because\nthey were not there. All this they approved of. One day he went to see\nmy father and rashly began talking against me to him, as he was used to\ndoing to his grandmother. But there it did not meet with the same\nrecompense. It affected my father to tears. Father came to our house to\ndesire he might be corrected for it. They promised it should be done,\nand yet they never did it. I was grievously afraid of the consequences\nof so bad an education. I told Mother Granger of it, who said that\nsince I could not remedy it, I must suffer and leave everything to God.\nThis child would be my cross.\n\nAnother great cross was the difficulty I had in attending my husband. I\nknew he was displeased when I was not with him; yet when I was with\nhim, he never expressed any pleasure. On the contrary, he only rejected\nwith scorn whatever office I performed. He was so difficult with me\nabout everything, that I sometimes trembled when I approached him. I\ncould do nothing to his liking; and when I did not attend him he was\nangry. He had taken such a dislike to soups, that he could not bear the\nsight of them. Those that offered them had a rough reception. Neither\nhis mother nor any of the domestics would carry them to him. There was\nnone but I who did not refuse that office. I brought them and let his\nanger pass; then I tried in some agreeable manner to prevail on him to\ntake them. I said to him, \"I had rather be reprimanded several times a\nday, than let you suffer by not bringing you what is proper.\" Sometimes\nhe took; at other times he pushed them back.\n\nWhen he was in a good humor and I was carrying something agreeable to\nhim, then my mother-in-law would snatch it out of my hands. She would\ncarry it herself. As he thought I was not so careful and studious to\nplease him he would fly in a rage against me and express great\nthankfulness to his mother. I used all my skill and endeavors to gain\nmy mother-in-law's favor by my presents, my services; but could not\nsucceed.\n\n\"How bitter and grievous, O my God, would such a life be were it not\nfor Thee! Thou hast sweetened and reconciled it to me.\" I had a few\nshort intervals from this severe and mortifying life. These served only\nto make the reverses more keen and bitter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\n\nAbout eight or nine months after my recovery from the smallpox, Father\nLa Combe, passing by our house, brought me a letter from Father de la\nMotte, recommending him to my esteem, and expressing the highest\nfriendship for him. I hesitated because I was very loath to make new\nacquaintances. The fear of offending my brother prevailed. After a\nshort conversation we both desired a farther opportunity. I thought\nthat he either loved God, or was disposed to love Him, and I wished\neverybody to love Him. God had already made use of me for the\nconversion of three of his order. The strong desire he had of seeing me\nagain induced him to come to our country house about half a league from\nthe town. A little incident which happened opened a way for me to speak\nto him. As he was in discourse with my husband, who relished his\ncompany, he was taken ill and retired into the garden. My husband bade\nme go and see what was the matter. He told me he had noticed in my\ncountenance a deep inwardness and presence of God, which had given him\na strong desire of seeing me again. God then assisted me to open to him\nthe interior path of the soul, and conveyed so much grace to him\nthrough this poor channel, that he went away changed into quite another\nman. I preserved an esteem for him; for it appeared to me that he would\nbe devoted to God; but little did I then foresee, that I should ever be\nled to the place where he was to reside.\n\nMy disposition at this time was a continual prayer, without knowing it\nto be such. The presence of God was so plentifully given that it seemed\nto be more in me than my very self. The sensibility thereof was so\npowerful, so penetrating, it seemed to me irresistible. Love took from\nme all liberty of my own. At other times I was so dry, I felt nothing\nbut the pain of absence, which was the keener to me, as the divine\npresence had before been so sensible. In these alternatives I forgot\nall my troubles and pains. It appeared to me as if I had never\nexperienced any. In its absence, it seemed as if it would never return\nagain. I still thought it was through some fault of mine it was\nwithdrawn, and that rendered me inconsolable. Had I known it had been a\nstate through which it was necessary to pass, I should not have been\ntroubled. My strong love to the will of God would have rendered\neverything easy to me. The property of this prayer was to give a great\nlove to the order of God, with so sublime and perfect a reliance on\nHim, as to fear nothing, whether danger, thunders, spirits, or death.\nIt gives a great abstraction from one's self, our own interests and\nreputation, with an utter disregard to everything of the kind--all\nbeing swallowed up in the esteem of the will of God.\n\nAt home, I was accused of everything that was ill done, spoiled or\nbroken. At first I told the truth, and said it was not I. They\npersisted, and accused me of lying. I then made no reply. Besides, they\ntold all their tales to such as came to the house. But when I was\nafterward alone with the same persons, I never undeceived them. I often\nheard such things said of me, before my friends, as were enough to make\nthem entertain a bad opinion. My heart kept its habitation in the tacit\nconsciousness of my own innocence, not concerning myself whether they\nthought well or ill of me; excluding all the world, all opinions or\ncensures, out of my view, I minded nothing else but the friendship of\nGod.\n\nIf through infidelity I happened at any time to justify myself, I\nalways failed, and drew upon myself new crosses, both within and\nwithout. But notwithstanding all this, I was so enamored with it, that\nthe greatest cross of all would have been to be without any. When the\ncross was taken from me for any short space, it seemed to me that it\nwas because of the bad use I made of it; that my unfaithfulness\ndeprived me of so great an advantage. I never knew its value better\nthan its loss.\n\nI cried punish me any way, but take not the cross from me. This amiable\ncross returned to me with so much the more weight, as my desire was\nmore vehement. I could not reconcile two things, they appeared to me so\nvery opposite. 1) To desire the cross with so much ardor. 2) To support\nit with so much difficulty and pain.\n\nGod knows well, in the admirable economy he observes, how to render the\ncrosses more weighty, conformable to the ability of the creature to\nbear them. Hereby my soul began to be more resigned, to comprehend that\nthe state of absence, and of wanting what I longed for, was in its turn\nmore profitable than that of always abounding. This latter nourished\nself-love. If God did not act thus, the soul would never die to itself.\nThat principle of self-love is so crafty and dangerous, that it cleaves\nto everything.\n\nWhat gave me most uneasiness, in this time of darkness and crucifixion,\nboth within and without, was an inconceivable readiness to be quick and\nhasty. When any answer a little too lively escaped me, (which served\nnot a little to humble me,) they said \"I was fallen into a mortal sin.\"\nA conduct no less rigorous than this was quite necessary for me. I was\nso proud, passionate, and of a humor naturally thwarting, wanting\nalways to carry matters my own way, thinking my own reasons better than\nthose of others. Hadst thou, O my God, spared the strokes of thy\nhammer, I should never have been formed to Thy will, to be an\ninstrument for Thy use; for I was ridiculously vain. Applause rendered\nme intolerable. I praised my friends to excess, and blamed others\nwithout reason. But, the more criminal I have been, the more I am\nindebted to Thee, and the less of any good can I attribute to myself.\nHow blind are men who attribute to others the holiness that God gives\nthem! I believe, my God, that thou hast had children, who under thy\ngrace, owed much to their own fidelity. As for me, I owe all to Thee; I\nglory to confess it; I cannot acknowledge it too much.\n\nIn acts of charity I was very assiduous. So great was my tenderness for\nthe poor, that I wished to have supplied all their wants. I could not\nsee their necessity without reproaching myself for the plenty I\nenjoyed. I deprived myself of all I could to help them. The very best\nat my table was distributed. There were few of the poor where I lived,\nwho did not partake of my liberality. It seemed as if Thou hadst made\nme thy only almoner there, for being refused by others, they came to\nme. I cried, \"it is Thy substance; I am only the steward. I ought to\ndistribute it according to Thy will.\" I found means to relieve them\nwithout letting myself be known, because I had one who dispensed my\nalms privately. When there were families who were ashamed to take it in\nthis way, I sent it to them as if I owed them a debt. I clothed such as\nwere naked, and caused young girls to be taught how to earn their\nlivelihood, especially those who were handsome; to the end that being\nemployed, and having whereon to live, they might not be under a\ntemptation to throw themselves away. God made use of me to reclaim\nseveral from their disorderly lives. I went to visit the sick, to\ncomfort them, to make their beds. I made ointments, dressed their\nwounds, buried their dead. I privately furnished tradesmen and\nmechanics wherewith to keep up their shops. My heart was much opened\ntoward my fellow creatures in distress. Few indeed could carry charity\nmuch farther than our Lord enabled me to do, according to my state,\nboth while married and since.\n\nTo purify me the more from the mixture I might make of His gifts with\nmy own self-love, He gave me interior probations, which were very\nheavy. I began to experience an insupportable weight, in that very\npiety which had formerly been so easy and delightful to me; not that I\ndid not love it extremely, but I found myself defective in that noble\npractice of it. The more I loved it, the more I labored to acquire what\nI saw failed in. But, alas! I seemed continually to be overcome by that\nwhich was the contrary to it. My heart, indeed, was detached from all\nsensual pleasures. For these several years past, it has seemed to me\nthat my mind is so detached and absent from the body, that I do things\nas if I did them not. If I eat, or refresh myself, it is done with such\nan absence, or separation, as I wonder at, with an entire mortification\nof the keenness of sensation in all the natural functions.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\n\nTo resume my history, the smallpox had so much hurt one of my eyes,\nthat it was feared I would lose it. The gland at the corner of my eye\nwas injured. An imposthume arose from time to time between the nose and\nthe eye, which gave me great pain till it was lanced. It swelled all my\nhead to that degree that I could not bear even a pillow. The least\nnoise was agony to me, though sometimes they made a great commotion in\nmy chamber. Yet this was a precious time to me, for two reasons. First,\nbecause I was left in bed alone, where I had a sweet retreat without\ninterruption; the other, because it answered the desire I had for\nsuffering,--which desire was so great, that all the austerities of the\nbody would have been but as a drop of water to quench so great a fire.\nIndeed the severities and rigors which I then exercised were extreme,\nbut they did not appease this appetite for the cross. It is Thou alone,\nO Crucified Saviour, who canst make the cross truly effectual for the\ndeath of self. Let others bless themselves in their ease or gaiety,\ngrandeur or pleasures, poor temporary heavens; for me, my desires were\nall turned another way, even to the silent path of suffering for\nChrist, and to be united to Him, through the mortification of all that\nwas of nature in me, that my senses, appetites and will, being dead to\nthese, might wholly live in Him.\n\nI obtained leave to go to Paris for the cure of my eye; and yet it was\nmuch more through the desire I had to see Monsieur Bertot, a man of\nprofound experience, whom Mother Granger had lately assigned to me for\nmy director. I went to take leave of my father, who embraced me with\npeculiar tenderness, little thinking then that it would be our last\nadieu.\n\nParis was a place now no longer to be dreaded as in times past. The\nthrongs only served to draw me into a deep recollection, and the noise\nof the streets augmented my inward prayer. I saw Monsieur Bertot, who\ndid not prove of that service to me, which he would have been if I had\nthen the power to explain myself. Though I wished earnestly to hide\nnothing from him, yet God held me so closely to Him, that I could\nscarcely tell anything at all. As soon as I spoke to him, everything\nvanished from my mind, so that I could remember nothing but some few\nfaults. As I saw him very seldom, and nothing stayed in my\nrecollection, and as I read of nothing any way resembling my case, I\nknew not how to explain myself. Besides, I desired to make nothing\nknown, but the evil which was in me. Therefore Monsieur Bertot knew me\nnot, even till his death. This was of great utility to me, by taking\naway every support, and making me truly die to myself.\n\nI went to pass the ten days, from the Ascension to Whitsuntide, at an\nabbey four leagues from Paris, the abbess of which had a particular\nfriendship for me. Here my union with God seemed to be deeper and more\ncontinued, becoming always simple, at the same time more close and\nintimate.\n\nOne day I awoke suddenly at four o'clock in the morning, with a strong\nimpression on my mind that my father was dead. At the same time my soul\nwas in a very great contentment, yet my love for him affected it with\nsorrow, and my body with weakness. Under the strokes and daily troubles\nwhich befell me, my will was so subservient to Thine, O my God, that it\nappeared absolutely united to it. There seemed, indeed, to be no will\nleft in me but Thine only. My own disappeared, and no desires,\ntendencies or inclinations were left, but to the one sole object of\nwhatever was most pleasing to Thee, be it what it would. If I had a\nwill, it was in union with thine, as two well tuned lutes in concert.\nThat which is not touched renders the same sound as that which is\ntouched; it is but one and the same sound, one pure harmony. It is this\nunion of the will which establishes in perfect peace. Yet, though my\nown will was lost I have found since, in the strange states I have been\nobliged to pass through, how much it had yet to cost me to have it\ntotally lost. How many souls are there which think their own wills\nquite lost, while they are yet very far from it! They would find they\nstill subsist, if they met with severe trials. Who is there who does\nnot wish something for himself, either of interest, wealth, honor,\npleasure, conveniency and liberty. He who thinks his mind loose from\nall these objects, because he possesses them, would soon perceive his\nattachment to them, were he stripped of those he possessed. If there\nare found in a whole age three persons so dead to everything, as to be\nutterly resigned to providence without any exception, they may well\npass for prodigies of grace.\n\nIn the afternoon as I was with the abbess, I told her I had strong\npresentiments of my father's death. Indeed I could hardly speak, I was\nso affected within. Presently one came to tell her that she was wanted\nin the parlor. It was a messenger come in haste, with an account from\nmy husband that my father was ill. And as I afterward found, he\nsuffered only twelve hours. He was therefore by this time dead. The\nabbess returning, said, \"Here is a letter from your husband, who writes\nthat your father is taken violently ill.\" I said to her, \"He is dead, I\ncannot have a doubt about it.\"\n\nI sent away to Paris immediately, to hire a coach, to go the sooner;\nmine waited for me at the midway. I went off at nine o'clock at night.\nThey said. I \"was going to destroy myself.\" I had no acquaintance with\nme as I had sent away my maid to Paris, to put everything in order\nthere. Being in a religious house, I had no mind to keep a footman with\nme. The abbess told me, that \"since I thought my father was dead, it\nwould be rashness in me to expose myself, and run the risk of my life\nin that manner. Coaches could hardly pass the way I was going, it being\nno beaten road.\" I answered, \"It was my indispensable duty to go to\nassist my father, and that I ought not, on a bare apprehension, to\nexempt myself from it.\" I then went alone, abandoned to Providence,\nwith people unknown. My weakness was so great, that I could hardly keep\nmy seat in the coach. I was often forced to alight, on account of\ndangerous places in the road.\n\nIn this way I was obliged, about midnight, to cross a forest, notorious\nfor murders and robberies. The most intrepid dreaded it; but my\nresignation left me scarce any room to think at all about it. What\nfears and uneasiness does a resigned soul spare itself! All alone I\narrived within five leagues of my own habitation, where I found my\nconfessor who had opposed me, with one of my relations, waiting for me.\nThe sweet consolation I had enjoyed, when alone, was now interrupted.\nMy confessor, ignorant of my state, restrained me entirely. My grief\nwas of such a nature that I could not shed a tear. And I was ashamed to\nhear a thing which I knew but too well, without giving any exterior\nmark of grief. The inward and profound peace I enjoyed dawned on my\ncountenance. The state I was in did not permit me to speak, or to do\nsuch things as are usually expected from persons of piety. I could do\nnothing but love and be silent.\n\nI found on my arrival at home, that my father was already buried\nbecause of the excessive heat. It was ten o'clock at night. All wore\nthe habit of mourning. I had traveled thirty leagues in a day and a\nnight. As I was very weak, not having taken any nourishment, I was\ninstantly put to bed.\n\nAbout two o'clock in the morning my husband got up, and having gone out\nof my chamber, he returned presently, crying out with all his might,\n\"My daughter is dead!\" She was my only daughter, as dearly beloved as\ntruly lovely. She had so many graces both of body and mind conferred on\nher, that one must have been insensible not to have loved her. She had\nan extraordinary share of love to God. Often was she found in corners\nat prayer. As soon as she perceived me at prayer, she came and joined.\nIf she discovered that I had been without her, she would weep bitterly\nand cry, \"Ah, mamma, you pray but I don't.\" When we were alone and she\nsaw my eyes closed she would whisper, \"Are you asleep?\" Then she would\ncry out, \"Ah no, you are praying to our dear Jesus.\" Dropping on her\nknees before me she would begin to pray too. She was several times\nwhipped by her grandmother, because she said, she would never have any\nother husband but our Lord. She could never make her say otherwise. She\nwas innocent and modest as a little angel; very dutiful and endearing,\nand withal very beautiful. Her father doted on her, to me she was very\ndear, much more for the qualities of her mind than those of her\nbeautiful person. I looked upon her as my only consolation on earth.\nShe had as much affection for me, as her brother had aversion and\ncontempt. She died of an unseasonable bleeding. But what shall I say?\nShe died by the hands of Him who was pleased, for wise reasons of His\nown, to strip me of all.\n\nThere now remained to me only the son of my sorrow. He fell ill to the\npoint of death, but was restored at the prayer of Mother Granger who\nwas now my only consolation after God. I no more wept for my child than\nfor my father. I could only say, \"Thou, O Lord, gave her to me; it\npleases Thee to take her back again, for she was Thine.\" As for my\nfather, his virtue was so generally known, that I must rather be\nsilent, than enter upon the subject. His reliance on God, his faith and\npatience were wonderful. Both died in July, 1672. Henceforth crosses\nwere not spared me, and though I had abundance of them hitherto, yet\nthey were only the shadows of those which I have been since obliged to\npass through. In this spiritual marriage I claimed for my dowry only\ncrosses, scourges, persecutions, ignominies, lowliness, and nothingness\nof self, which in God's great goodness, and for wise ends, as I have\nseen, has been pleased to grant and confer upon me.\n\nOne day, being in great distress on account of the redoubling of\noutward and inward crosses, I went into my closet to give vent to my\ngrief. M. Bertot was brought into my mind, with this wish, \"Oh, that he\nwas sensible of what I suffer!\" Though he wrote but very seldom, and\nwith great difficulty, yet he wrote me a letter dated the same day\nabout the cross. It was the finest and most consolatory he ever wrote\nme on that subject. Sometimes my spirit was so oppressed with continual\ncrosses, which scarcely gave me any relaxation, that when alone my eyes\nturned every way, to see if they could find anything to give relief. A\nword, a sigh, a trifle, or to know that anyone took part in my grief,\nwould have been some comfort. That was not granted me, not even to look\ntoward Heaven, or to make any complaint. Love held me then so closely,\nthat it would have this miserable nature to perish, without giving it\nany support or nourishment.\n\nOh, my dearest Lord! Thou yet gavest my soul a victorious support,\nwhich made it triumph over all the weaknesses of nature, and seized Thy\nknife to sacrifice it without sparing. And yet this nature so perverse,\nand full of artifices to save its life, at last took the course of\nnourishing itself on its own despair, on its fidelity under such heavy\nand continual oppression. It sought to conceal the value it attributed\nthereto. But thy eyes were too penetrating not to detect the subtilty.\nWherefore, thou, O my Shepherd, changed Thy conduct toward it. Thou\nsometimes comforted it with thy crook and Thy staff; that is to say, by\nThy conduct as loving as crucifying; but it was only to reduce it to\nthe last extremity, as I shall show hereafter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\n\nA lady of rank, whom I sometimes visited, took a particular liking to\nme, because (as she was pleased to say) my person and manners were\nagreeable. She said that she observed in me something extraordinary and\nuncommon. I believe it was the inward attraction of my soul that\nappeared on my very countenance. One day a gentleman of fashion said to\nmy husband's aunt, \"I saw the lady your niece; and it is very evident\nthat she lives in the presence of God.\" I was surprised at this, as I\nlittle thought such an one as he could know what it was to have God\nthus present. This lady of rank began to be touched with the sense of\nGod. Wanting once to take me to the play, I refused to go; (I never\nwent to plays) making use of the pretext of my husband's continual\nindispositions. She pressed me exceedingly, and said, \"I should not be\nprevented by his sickness from taking some amusement and I was not of\nan age to be confined with the sick like a nurse.\" I told her my\nreasons. She then perceived that it was more from a principle of piety,\nthan the indispositions of my husband. Insisting to know my sentiment\nof plays, I told her, I entirely disapproved of them, and especially\nfor a Christian woman. And as she was far more advanced in years than I\nwas, what I then said made such an impression on her mind, she never\nwent again.\n\nOnce with her and another lady, who was fond of talking and who had\nread \"the fathers,\" they spoke much of God. This lady spoke learnedly\nof Him. I said scarcely anything, being inwardly drawn to silence, and\ntroubled at this conversation about God. My acquaintance came next day\nto see me. The Lord had so touched her heart, she could hold out no\nlonger. I attributed this to something the other lady had said, but she\nsaid to me, \"Your silence had something in it which penetrated to the\nbottom of my soul. I could not relish what the other said.\" We spoke to\none another with open hearts.\n\nIt was then that God left indelible impressions of His grace on her\nsoul, and she continued so athirst for Him, that she could scarcely\nendure to converse on any other subject. That she might become wholly\nHis, He deprived her of a most affectionate husband. He visited her\nwith such severe crosses, and at the same time poured His grace so\nabundantly into her heart, that He soon became the sole master thereof.\nAfter the death of her husband, and the loss of most of her fortune,\nshe went to reside four leagues from our house, on a small estate,\nwhich was left. She obtained my husband's consent to my going to spend\na week with her, to console her. God gave her by my means all she\nwanted. She had a great share of understanding, but was surprised at my\nexpressing things to her so far above my natural capacity. I should\nhave been surprised at it myself. It was God who gave me the gift for\nher sake, diffusing a flood of grace into her soul, without regarding\nthe unworthiness of the channel of which He was pleased to make use.\nSince that time her soul has been the temple of the Holy Ghost, and our\nhearts have been indissolubly united.\n\nMy husband and I took a little journey together, in which both my\nresignation and humility were exercised, yet without difficulty or\nconstraint, so powerful was the influence of divine grace. We had all\nliked to have perished in a river. The rest of the company in desperate\nfright threw themselves out of the coach, which sunk in the moving\nsand. I continued so much inwardly occupied, that I did not once think\nof the danger. God delivered me from it without my thought of avoiding\nit. I was quite content to be drowned, had He permitted it. It may be\nsaid, \"I was rash.\" I believe I was so; yet I rather chose to perish,\ntrusting in God, than make my escape in a dependence on myself. What\nsay I? We do not perish, but for want of trusting Him. My pleasure is\nto be indebted to Him for everything. This renders me content in my\nmiseries, which I would rather endure all my life long, in a state of\nresignation to Him, than put an end to them, in a dependence on myself.\nHowever, I would not advise others to act thus, unless they were in the\nsame disposition which I was in.\n\nAs my husband's maladies daily increased, he resolved to go to St.\nReine. He appeared very desirous of having none but me with him, and\ntold me one day, \"If they never spoke to me against you, I should be\nmore easy, and you more happy.\" In this journey I committed many faults\nof self-love and self-seeking. I was become like a poor traveler that\nhad lost his way in the night and could find no way, path, or track. My\nhusband, in his return from St. Reine, passed by St. Edm. Having now no\nchildren but my first-born son, who was often at the gates of death, he\nwished exceedingly for heirs, and prayed for them earnestly. God\ngranted his desire, and gave me a second son. As I was several weeks\nwithout any one daring to speak to me, on account of my great weakness,\nit was a time of retreat and of silence. I tried to indemnify myself\nfor the loss of time I had sustained in the others, to pray to Thee, O\nmy God, and to continue alone with Thee. I may say that God took a new\npossession of me, and left me not. It was a time of continual joy\nwithout interruption. As I had experienced many inward difficulties and\nweaknesses it was a new life. It seemed as if I was already in the\nfruition of beatitude. How dear did this happy time cost me, since it\nwas only a preparative to a total privation of comfort for several\nyears, without any support, or hope of return! It began with the death\nof Mrs. Granger, who had been my only consolation under God. Before my\nreturn from St. Reine I heard she was dead.\n\nWhen I received this news, I confess it was the most afflicting stroke\nI had ever felt. I thought that had I been with her at her death I\nmight have spoken to her and received her last instructions. God has so\nordered it that I was deprived of her assistance in almost all my\nlosses, in order to render the strokes more painful. Some months indeed\nbefore her death, it was shown to me, that though I could not see her\nbut with difficulty, and suffering for it, yet she was still some\nsupport to me. The Lord let me know that it would be profitable for me\nto be deprived of her. But at the time she died I did not think so. It\nwas in that trying season when my paths were all blocked up, she was\ntaken from me. She who might have guided me in my lonesome and\ndifficult road, bounded as it were with precipices, and entangled with\nbriars and thorns.\n\nAdorable conduct of my God! there must be no guide for the person whom\nThou art leading into the regions of darkness and death, no conductor\nfor the man whom thou art determined to destroy, (that is, to cause to\ndie totally to himself). After having saved me with much mercy, after\nhaving led me by the hand in rugged paths, it seems Thou wast bent on\nmy destruction. May it not be said that Thou dost not save but to\ndestroy, nor go to seek the lost sheep, but to cause it to be yet more\nlost; that Thou art pleased in building what is demolished, and in\ndemolishing what is built. Thou wouldst overturn the temple built by\nhuman endeavors, with so much care and industry, in order as it were\nmiraculously to erect a divine structure, a house not built with hands,\neternal in the Heavens. Secrets of the incomprehensible wisdom of God,\nunknown to any besides Himself! Man, sprung up only of a few days,\nwants to penetrate, and to set bounds to it. Who is it that hath known\nthe mind of the Lord, or who hath been His counselor? Is it a wisdom\nonly to be known through death to everything, and through the entire\nloss of all self?\n\nMy brother now openly showed his hatred for me. He married at Orleans\nand my husband had the complaisance to go to his marriage. He was in a\npoor state of health, the roads bad, and so covered over with snow,\nthat we had like to have been overturned twelve or fifteen times. Yet\nfar from appearing obliged by his politeness, my brother quarreled with\nhim more than ever, and without reason. I was the butt of both their\nresentments. While I was at Orleans, meeting with one whom at that time\nI thought highly of, I was too forward and free in speaking to him of\nspiritual things, thinking I was doing well, but had a remorse for it\nafterwards. How often we mistake nature for grace! One must be dead to\nself, when such fowardness comes from God only.\n\nMy brother treated me with the utmost contempt. Yet, my mind was so\nfully drawn inward, that although we had much more danger on the road\nthan when going, I had no thought about myself, but all about my\nhusband. Seeing the coach overturning, I said, \"Fear not, it is on my\nside that it falls; it will not hurt you.\" I believe, had all perished,\nI should not have been moved. My peace was so profound that nothing\ncould shake it. If these times continued, we should be too strong. They\nnow began to come but seldom and were followed with long and wearisome\nprivations. Since that time my brother has changed for the better, and\nhas turned on the side of God, but he has never turned to me. It has\nbeen by particular permission of God, and the conduct of His providence\nover my soul, that has caused him and other religious persons, who have\npersecuted me, to think they were rendering glory to God, and doing\nacts of justice therein. Indeed, it is just that all creatures should\nbe treacherous to me, and declare against me, who have too many times\nbeen treacherous to God, and sided with His enemy.\n\nAfter this there was a very perplexing affair. To me it caused great\ncrosses, and seemed designed for nothing else. A certain person\nconceived so much malice against my husband, that he was determined to\nruin him if possible. He found no other way to attempt it, but by\nentering into a private engagement with my brother. He obtained a power\nto demand, in the name of the king's brother, two hundred thousand\nlivres, which he pretended that my brother and I owed him. My brother\nsigned the processes, upon an assurance given him that he should not\npay anything. I think his youth engaged him in what he did not\nunderstand. This affair so chagrined my husband, that I have reason to\nbelieve it shortened his days. He was so angry with me (although I was\ninnocent), that he could not speak to me except in a fury. He would\ngive me no light into the affair, and I did not know in what it\nconsisted. In the height of his rage, he said he would not meddle with\nit, but give me my portion, and let me live as I could. On the other\nside, my brother would not move in it, nor suffer anything to be done.\nThe day of the trial, after prayer, I felt myself strongly pressed to\ngo to the judges. I was wonderfully assisted even so as to discover and\nunravel all the turns and artifices of this affair, without knowing how\nI could have been able to do it. The first judge was so surprised to\nsee the affair so different from what he had thought it before, that he\nhimself exhorted me to go to the other judges, and especially to the\nintendant, who was just then going to court. He was quite misinformed\nabout the matter. God enabled me to manifest the truth in so clear a\nlight, and gave such power to my words, that the intendant thanked me\nfor having so seasonably come to undeceive, and set him right. Had I\nnot done this, he assured me the cause had been lost. As they saw the\nfalsehood of every point, they would have condemned the plaintiff to\npay the costs, if he had not been so great a prince, who lent his name\nto the scheme. To save the honor of the prince they ordered us to pay\nhim fifty crowns. Hereby the two hundred thousand livres were reduced\nto only one hundred and fifty. My husband was exceedingly pleased at\nwhat I had done. My brother appeared as outrageous against me, as if I\nhad caused him some great loss. Thus moderately and at once ended an\naffair, which had at first appeared so very weighty and alarming.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\n\nAbout this time I fell into a state of total privation which lasted\nnearly seven years. I seemed to myself cast down like Nebuchadnezzar,\nto live among beasts; a deplorable state, yet of the greatest advantage\nto me, by the use which divine wisdom made of it. This state of\nemptiness, darkness, and impotency, went far beyond any trials I had\never yet met. I have since experienced, that the prayer of the heart\nwhen it appears most dry and barren, nevertheless is not ineffectual\nnor offered in vain. God gives what is best for us, though not what we\nmost relish or wish for. Were people but convinced of this truth, they\nwould be far from complaining all their lives. By causing us death He\nwould procure us life; for all our happiness, spiritual, temporal and\neternal, consists in resigning ourselves to God, leaving it to Him to\ndo in us and with us as He pleases, and with so much the more\nsubmission; as things please us less. By this pure dependence on His\nSpirit, everything is given us admirably. Our very weaknesses, in His\nhand, prove a source of humilition. If the soul were faithful to leave\nitself in the hand of God, sustaining all His operations whether\ngratifying or mortifying, suffering itself to be conducted, from moment\nto moment, by His hand, and annihilated by the strokes of His\nProvidence, without complaining, or desiring anything but what it has;\nit would soon arrive at the experience of the eternal truth, though it\nmight not at once know the ways and methods by which God conducted it\nthere.\n\nPeople want to direct God instead of resigning themselves to be\ndirected by Him. They want to show Him a way, instead of passively\nfollowing that wherein He leads them. Hence many souls, called to enjoy\nGod Himself, and not barely His gifts, spend all their lives in running\nafter little consolations, and feeding on them--resting there only,\nmaking all their happiness to consist therein.\n\nIf my chains and my imprisonment in any way afflict you, I pray that\nthey may serve to engage you to seek nothing but God for Himself alone,\nand never to desire to possess Him but by the death of your whole\nselves, never to seek to be something in the ways of the Spirit, but\nchoose to enter into the most profound nothingness.\n\nI had an internal strife, which continually racked me--two powers which\nappeared equally strong seemed equally to struggle for the mastery\nwithin me. On the one hand, a desire of pleasing Thee, O my God, a fear\nof offending, and a continual tendency of all my powers to Thee--on the\nother side, the view of all my inward corruptions, the depravity of my\nheart, and the continual stirring and rising of self. What torrents of\ntears, what desolations have these cost me? \"Is it possible,\" I cried,\n\"that I have received so many graces and favors from God only to lose\nthem;--that I have loved Him with so much ardor, but to be eternally\ndeprived of Him; that His benefits have only produced ingratitude; His\nfidelity been repaid with infidelity; that my heart has been emptied of\nall creatures, and created objects, and filled with His blessed\npresence and love, in order now to be wholly void of divine power, and\nonly filled with wanderings and created objects!\"\n\nI could now no longer pray as formerly. Heaven seemed shut to me, and I\nthought justly. I could get no consolation or make any complaint; nor\nhad I any creature on earth to apply to. I found myself banished from\nall beings without finding a support of refuge in anything. I could no\nmore practice any virtue with facility. \"Alas!\" said I, \"is it possible\nthat this heart, formerly all on fire, should now become like ice!\" I\noften thought all creatures combined against me. Laden with a weight of\npast sins, and a multitude of new ones, I could not think God would\never pardon me, but looked on myself as a victim designed for Hell. I\nwould have been glad to do penances, to make use of prayers,\npilgrimages, and vows. But still, whatever I tried for a remedy seemed\nonly to increase the malady. I may say that tears were my drink, and\nsorrow my food. I felt in myself such a pain as I never could bring any\nto comprehend, but such as have experienced it. I had within myself an\nexecutioner who tortured me without respite. Even when I went to\nchurch, I was not easy there. To sermons I could give no attention;\nthey were now of no service or refreshment to me. I scarcely conceived\nor understood anything in them, or about them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 22\n\n\nAs my husband drew near his end, his distempers had no intermission. No\nsooner was he recovered from one when he fell into another. He bore\ngreat pains with much patience offering them to God and making a good\nuse of them. Yet his anger toward me increased, because reports and\nstories of me were multiplied to him, and those about him did nothing\nbut vex him. He was the more susceptible of such impressions, as his\npains gave him a stronger bent to vexation. At this time, the maid, who\nused to torment me sometimes took pity on me. She came to see me as\nsoon as I was gone into my closet, and said, \"Come to my master that\nyour mother-in-law may not speak any more to him against you.\" I\npretended to be ignorant of it all but he could not conceal his\ndispleasure, nor even suffer me near him. My mother-in-law at the same\ntime kept no bounds. All that came to the house were witnesses of the\ncontinual scoldings, which I was forced to bear, and which I bore with\nmuch patience, notwithstanding my being in the condition I have\nmentioned.\n\nMy husband having, sometime before his death, finished the building of\nthe chapel in the country, where we spent a part of the summer, I had\nthe conveniency of hearing prayers every day, and of the communion. Not\ndaring to do it openly every day, the priest privately admitted me to\nthe communion. They solemnized the dedication of this little chapel. I\nfelt myself all on a sudden inwardly seized, which continued more than\nfive hours, all the time of the ceremony, when our Lord made a new\nconsecration of me to Himself. I then seemed to myself a temple\nconsecrated to Him, both for time and for eternity. I said within\nmyself, (speaking both of the one and the other) \"May this temple never\nbe profaned; may the praises of God be sung therein forever!\" It seemed\nto me at that time as if my prayer was granted. But soon all this was\ntaken from me, and not so much as any remembrance left to console me.\n\nWhen I was at this country house, which was only a little place of\nretreat before the chapel was built, I retired for prayer to woods and\ncaverns. How many times, here, has God preserved me from dangerous and\nvenomous beasts! Sometimes, unawares, I kneeled upon serpents, which\nwere there in great plenty; they fled away without doing me any harm.\nOnce I happened to be alone in a little wood wherein was a mad bull;\nbut he betook himself to flight. If I could recount all the providences\nof God in my favor, it would appear wonderful. They were indeed so\nfrequent and continual, that I could not but be astonished at them. God\neverlastingly gives to such as have nothing to repay Him. If there\nappears in the creature any fidelity or patience, it is He alone who\ngives it. If He ceases for an instant to support, if He seems to leave\nme to myself, I cease to be strong, and find myself weaker than any\nother creature. If my miseries show what I am, His favors show what He\nis, and the extreme necessity I am under of ever depending on Him.\n\nAfter twelve years and four months of marriage, crosses as great as\npossible, except poverty which I never knew, though I had much desired\nit, God drew me out of that state to give me still stronger crosses of\nsuch a nature as I had never met with before. For if you give\nattention, sir, to the life which you have ordered me to write, you\nwill remark that my crosses have been increasing till the present time,\none removed to give place to another to succeed it, still heavier than\nthe former. Amid the troubles imposed upon me, when they said, I \"was\nin a mortal sin,\" I had nobody in the world to speak to. I could have\nwished to have had somebody for a witness of my conduct; but I had\nnone. I had no support, no confessor, no director, no friend, no\ncouncillor. I had lost all. And after God had taken from me one after\nanother, He withdrew also Himself. I remained without any creature; and\nto complete my distress, I seemed to be left without God, who alone\ncould support me in such a deeply distressing state.\n\nMy husband's illness grew every day more obstinate. He apprehended the\napproach of death, and even wished for it, so oppressive was\nlanguishing life. To his other ills was great dislike to every sort of\nnourishment; he did not take anything necessary to sustain life. I\nalone had the courage to get him to take what little he did. The doctor\nadvised him to go to the country. There for a few days at first he\nseemed to be better, when he was suddenly taken with a complication of\ndiseases. His patience increased his pain. I saw plainly he could not\nlive long. It was a great trouble to me, that my mother-in-law kept me\nfrom him as much as she could. She infused into his mind such a\ndispleasure against me, that I was afraid lest he should die in it. I\ntook a little interval of time when she happened not to be with him,\nand drawing near his bed, I kneeled down and said to him, \"That if I\nhad ever done any thing that displeased him I begged his pardon,\nassuring him it had not been voluntary.\" He appeared very much\naffected. As he had just come out of a sound sleep, he said to me, \"It\nis I who beg your pardon, I did not deserve you.\" After that time he\nwas not only pleased to see me, but gave me advice what I should do\nafter his death; not to depend on the people on whom now I depended. He\nwas for eight days very resigned and patient. I sent to Paris for the\nmost skillful surgeon; but when he arrived my husband was dead.\n\nNo mortal could die in a more Christian disposition, or with more\ncourage than he did, after having received the sacrament in a manner\ntruly edifying. I was not present when he expired, for out of\ntenderness he made me retire. He was above twenty hours unconscious and\nin the agonies of his death. It was in the morning of July 21, 1676,\nthat he died. Next day I entered into my closet, in which was the image\nof my divine spouse, the Lord Jesus Christ. I renewed my\nmarriage-contract, and added thereto a vow of chastity, with a promise\nto make it perpetual, if M. Bertot my director, would permit me. After\nthat I was filled with great joy, which was new to me, as for a long\ntime past I had been plunged in the deepest bitterness.\n\nAs soon as I heard that my husband had expired, \"Oh, my God,\" I cried,\n\"thou hast broken my bonds, and I will offer thee a sacrifice of\npraise.\" After that I remained in a deep silence, both exterior and\ninterior, quite dry and without any support. I could neither weep nor\nspeak. My mother-in-law said very fine things, and was very much\ncommended for it by everyone. They were offended at my silence, which\nthey attributed to want of resignation. A friar told me, that everyone\nadmired the fine acts which my mother-in-law did; but as for me, they\nheard me say nothing; that I must sacrifice my loss to God. But I could\nnot say one single word, let me strive as I would.\n\nI was indeed very much exhausted. Although I was but recently delivered\nof my daughter, yet I attended and sat up with my husband four and\ntwenty nights before his death. I was more than a year after in\nrecovering from fatigue, joined to my great weakness and pain both of\nbody and of mind. The great depression, or dryness and stupidity which\nI was in, was such that I could not say a word about God. It bore me\ndown in such a manner that I could hardly speak. However, I entered for\nsome moments into the admiration of thy goodness, O my God. I saw well\nthat my crosses would not fail, since my mother-in-law had survived my\nhusband. Also I was still tied, in having two children given me in so\nshort a time before my husband's death, which evidently appeared the\neffect of divine wisdom; for had I only my eldest son, I would have put\nhim in a college; and have gone myself into the convent of the\nBenedictines, and so frustrated all the designs of God upon me.\n\nI was willing to show the esteem I had for my husband, in causing the\nmost magnificent funeral to be made for him at my own expense. I paid\noff the legacies he had left. My mother-in-law violently opposed\neverything I could do for securing my own interests. I had nobody to\napply to for advice or help; for my brother would not give me the least\nassistance. I was ignorant of business affairs; but God, independent of\nmy natural understandings, always made me fit for everything that\npleased Him, and supplied me with such a perfect intelligence that I\nsucceeded. I omitted not the least minutia, and was surprised that in\nthese matters I should know without ever having learned. I digested all\nmy papers, and regulated all my affairs, without assistance from any\none. My husband had abundance of writings deposited in his hands. I\ntook an exact inventory of them, and sent them severally to their\nowners, which, without divine assistance, would have been very\ndifficult for me; because, my husband having been a long time sick,\neverything was in the greatest confusion. This gained me the reputation\nof being a skillful woman.\n\nThere was one matter of great importance. A number of persons, who had\nbeen contending at law for several years, applied to my husband to\nsettle their affairs. Though it was not properly the business of a\ngentleman, yet they applied to him, because he had both understanding\nand prudence; and as he had a love for several of them, he consented.\nThere were twenty actions one upon another, and in all twenty-two\npersons concerned, who could not get any end put to their differences,\nby reason of new incidents continually falling out. My husband charged\nhimself with getting lawyers to examine their papers, but died before\nhe could make any procedure therein. After his death I sent for them to\ngive them their papers; but they would not receive them, begging of me\nthat I would accommodate them, and prevent their ruin. It appeared to\nme as ridiculous, as impossible, to undertake an affair of so great\nconsequence, and which would require so long a discussion.\nNevertheless, relying on the strength and wisdom of God, I consented. I\nshut myself up about thirty days for all these affairs, without ever\ngoing out, but to mass and to my meals. The arbitration being at length\nprepared, they all signed it without seeing it. They were all so well\nsatisfied therewith, that they could not forbear publishing it\neverywhere. It was God alone who did those things; for after they were\nsettled I knew nothing about them; and if I now hear any talk of such\nthings, to me it sounds like Arabic.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 23\n\n\nBeing now a widow, my crosses, which one would have thought should have\nabated, only increased. That turbulent domestic I have often mentioned,\ninstead of growing milder, now that she depended on me became more\nfurious than ever. In our house she had amassed a good fortune, and I\nsettled on her, besides, an annuity for the remainder of her life, for\nthe services she had done my husband. She swelled with vanity and\nhaughtiness. Having been used to sit up so much with an invalid, she\nhad taken to drink wine, to keep up her spirits. This had now passed\ninto a habit. As she grew aged and weak, a very little of it affected\nher. I tried to hide this fault, but it grew so that it could not be\nconcealed. I spoke of it to her confessor, in order that he might try,\nsoftly and artfully to reclaim her from it; but instead of profiting by\nher director's advice, she was outrageous against me. My mother-in-law,\nwho could hardly bear the fault of intemperance, and had often spoken\nto me about it, now joined in reproaching me and vindicating her. This\nstrange creature, when any company came, would cry out with all her\nmight, that I had dishonored her, thrown her into despair, and would be\nthe cause of her damnation, as I was taking the ready course to my own.\nYet God gave me an unbounded patience. I answered only with mildness\nand charity all her passionate invectives, giving her besides every\npossible mark of my affection. If any other maid came to wait on me,\nshe would drive her back in a rage, crying out, that I hated her on\naccount of the affection with which she had served my husband. When she\nhad not a mind to come, I was obliged to serve myself; and when she did\ncome, it was to chide me and make a noise. When I was very unwell, as\nwas often the case, this girl would appear to be in despair. From hence\nI thought it was from Thee, O Lord, that all this came upon me. Without\nthy permission, she was scarcely capable of such unaccountable conduct.\nShe seemed not sensible of any faults, but always to think herself in\nthe right. All those whom Thou hast made use of to cause me to suffer,\nthought they were rendering service to Thee in so doing.\n\nBefore my husband's death, I went to Paris on purpose to see Monsieur\nBertot, who had been of very little service to me as a director. Not\nknowing my state, and I being incapable of telling him of it, he grew\nweary of the charge. At length he gave it up, and wrote to me to take\nanother director. I made no doubt but God had revealed to him my wicked\nstate; and this desertion of me seemed a most certain mark of my\nreprobation. This was during the life of my husband. But now my renewed\nsolicitations, and his sympathy with me on my husband's death,\nprevailed on him to resume my direction, which to me still proved of\nvery little service. I went again to Paris to see him. While there, I\nvisited him twelve or fifteen times, without being able to tell him\nanything of my condition. I told him, indeed, that I wanted some\necclesiastic to educate my son, to rid him of his bad habits, and of\nthe wrong impressions he had conceived against me. He found one for me,\nof whom he had received very good recommendations.\n\nI went to make a retreat with M. Bertot and Madame de C. All that time\nhe spoke to me not a quarter of an hour at most. As he saw that I said\nnothing to him, for indeed I knew not what to say, as I had not spoken\nto him of the favors which God had conferred on me (not from a desire\nto conceal them, but because the Lord did not permit me to do it, as He\nhad over me only the designs of death) he therefore spoke to such as he\nlooked upon to be more advanced in grace. He let me alone as one for\nwhom there was nothing to be done. So well did God hide from him the\nsituation of my soul, in order to make me suffer, that he wanted to\nrefer me, thinking that I had not the spirit of prayer, and that Mrs.\nGranger was mistaken when she told him I had. I did what I could to\nobey him, but it was entirely impossible. On this account I was\ndispleased with myself, because I believed M. Bertot rather than my\nexperience. Through this whole retreat my inclination, which I\ndiscerned only by my resistance to it, was to rest in silence and\nnakedness of thought. In the settling of my mind therein I feared I was\ndisobeying the orders of my director. This made me think that I had\nfallen from grace. I kept myself in a state of nothingness, content\nwith my poor low degree of prayer, without envying the higher degree of\nothers, of which I judged myself unworthy. I would have, however,\ndesired much to do the will of God, and to please Him, but despaired\naltogether of ever attaining that desirable end.\n\nThere was in the place where I lived, and had been for some years, one\nwhose doctrine was suspected. He possessed a dignity in the church,\nwhich always obliged me to have a deference for him. As he understood\nhow averse I was to all who were suspected of unsoundness in the faith,\nand knowing that I had some credit in the place, he used his utmost\nefforts to engage me in his sentiments. I answered him with so much\nclearness and energy, that he had not a word to reply. This increased\nhis desire to win me in order to do it, to contract a friendship for\nme. He continued to importune me for two years and a half. As he was\nvery polite, and of an obliging temper, and had a good share of\nlearning, I did not mistrust him. I even conceived a hope of his\nconversion, in which I found myself mistaken. I then ceased going near\nhim. He came to inquire why he could see me no more. At that time he\nwas so agreeable to my sick husband, in his assiduities about him, that\nI could not avoid him though I thought the shortest and best way for me\nwould be break off all acquaintance with him, which I did after the\ndeath of my husband. M. Bertot would not permit me to do it before.\nWhen he now saw that he could not renew it, he and his party raised up\nstrong persecutions against me.\n\nThese gentlemen had at that time a method among them, by which they\nsoon knew who were of their party, and who were opposite. They sent to\none another circular letters, by means of which, in a very little time,\nthey cried me down on every side, after a very strange manner. Yet this\ngave me little trouble. I was glad of my new liberty, intending never\nagain to enter into an intimacy with anyone, which would give me so\nmuch difficulty to break.\n\nThis inability I was now in, of doing those exterior acts of charity I\nhad done before, served this person with a pretext to publish that it\nwas owing to him I had formerly done them. Willing to ascribe to\nhimself the merit of what God alone, by His grace, had made me do, he\nwent so far as to preach against me publicly, as one who had been a\nbright pattern to the town, but was now become a scandal to it. Several\ntimes he preached very offensive things. Though I was present at those\nsermons, and they were enough to weigh me down with confusion, for they\noffended all that heard them, I could not be troubled. I carried in\nmyself my own condemnation beyond utterance. I thought I merited\nabundantly worse than all he could say of me, and that, if all men knew\nme, they would trample me under their feet. My reputation then was\nblasted by the industry of this ecclesiastic. He caused all such as\npassed for persons of piety to declare against me. I thought he and\nthey were in the right and therefore quietly bore it all. Confused like\na criminal that dares not lift up his eyes, I looked upon the virtue of\nothers with respect. I saw no fault in others and no virtue in myself.\nWhen any happened to praise me, it was like a heavy blow struck at me,\nand I said in myself, \"They little know my miseries, and from what\nstate I have fallen.\" When any blamed me, I agreed to it, as right and\njust. Nature wanted sometimes to get out of such an abject condition,\nbut could not find any way. If I tried to make an outward appearance of\nrighteousness, by the practice of some good thing, my heart in secret\nrebuked me as guilty of hypocrisy, in wanting to appear what I was not;\nand God did not permit that to succeed. Oh, how excellent are the\ncrosses of Providence! All other crosses are of no value.\n\nI was often very ill and in danger of death, and knew not how to\nprepare myself for it. Several persons of piety, who had been\nacquainted with me, wrote to me about those things which the gentleman\nspread about me. I did not offer to justify myself, although I knew\nmyself innocent of the things whereof they accused me. One day being in\nthe greatest desolation and distress, I opened the New Testament on\nthese words, \"My grace is sufficient for thee, for my strength is made\nperfect in weakness.\" That for a little time gave me some relief.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 24\n\n\nThe Lord took from me all the sensibility which I had for the\ncreatures, or things created, even in an instant, as one takes off a\nrobe. After that time I had none for any whatsoever. Though He had done\nme that favor, for which I can never be sufficiently grateful, I was,\nhowever, neither more contented nor less confused by it. My God seemed\nto be so estranged and displeased with me, that there remained nothing\nbut the grief of having lost His blessed presence through my fault. The\nloss of my reputation every day increasing, became sensible to my\nheart, though I was not allowed to justify or bewail myself.\n\nAs I became always more impotent for every kind of exterior works, as I\ncould not go to see the poor, nor stay at church, nor practice prayer;\nas I became colder toward God, in proportion as I was more sensible of\nmy wrong steps, all this destroyed me the more both in my own eyes and\nin those of others. There were some very considerable gentlemen who\nmade proposals for me, and even such persons as according to the rules\nof fashion ought not to think of me. They presented themselves during\nthe very depth of my outward and inward desolation. At first it\nappeared to me a means of drawing me out of the distress I was in. But\nit seemed to me then notwithstanding my pains of body and mind, that if\na king had presented himself to me, I would have refused him with\npleasure, to show thee, O my God, that with all my miseries I was\nresolved to be thine alone.\n\nIf Thou wouldst not accept of me, I should at least have the\nconsolation of having been faithful to Thee to the utmost of my power.\nFor as to my inward state, I never mentioned it to anybody. I never\nspoke thereof, nor of the suitors, though my mother-in-law would say\nthat if I did not marry, it was because none would have me. It was\nsufficient for me that Thou, O my God, knewest that I sacrificed them\nto Thee, (without saying a word to anybody) especially one whose high\nbirth and amiable exterior qualities might have tempted both my vanity\nand inclination. Oh, could I but have hoped, to become agreeable to\nThee, such a hope would have been like a change from Hell to Heaven. So\nfar was I from presuming to hope for it, that I feared this sea of\naffliction might also be followed by everlasting misery, in the loss of\nThee. I dared not even desire to enjoy Thee--I only desired not to\noffend Thee.\n\nI was for five or six weeks at the last extremity. I could not take any\nnourishment. A spoonful of broth made me faint. My voice was so gone,\nthat when they put their ears close to my mouth, they could scarcely\ndistinguish my words. I could not see any hope of salvation, yet was\nnot unwilling to die. I bore a strong impression that the longer I\nlived the more I would sin. Of the two, I thought I would rather choose\nHell than sin. All the good, which God made me do, now seemed to me\nevil or full of faults. All my prayers, penances, alms and charities,\nseemed to rise up against me, and heighten my condemnation. I thought\nthere appeared on the side of God, on my own, and from all creatures,\none general condemnation, my conscience was a witness against me, which\nI could not appease. What may appear strange, the sins of my youth did\nnot then give me any pain at all. They did not rise up in judgment\nagainst me, but there appeared one universal testimony against all the\ngood I had done, and all the sentiments of evil I had entertained. If I\nwent to confessors, I could tell them nothing of my condition. If I\ncould have told them, they would have not understood me. They would\nhave regarded as eminent virtues, what, O my God, thy eyes all pure and\nchaste rejected as infidelity. It was then that I felt the truth of\nwhat Thou hast said, that Thou judgest our righteousness. Oh, how pure\nart thou! Who can comprehend it? It was then that I turned my eyes on\nevery side, to see what way succor might come to me; but my succor\ncould come no way but from Him who made Heaven and earth. As I saw\nthere was no safety for me, or spiritual health in myself, I entered\ninto a secret complacency in seeing no good in myself whereon to rest,\nor presume for salvation. The nearer my destruction appeared, the more\nI found in God Himself, wherewith to augment my trust and confidence,\nnotwithstanding He seemed so justly irritated against me. It seemed to\nme that I had in Jesus Christ all that was wanting in myself. Oh, ye\nstout and righteous men! Observe as much as ye please of excellence in\nwhat ye have done to the glory of God. As for me, I only glory in my\ninfirmities, since they have merited for me such a Saviour!\n\nAll my troubles, joined to the loss of my reputation, which yet was not\nso great as I apprehended, (it being only among a party) rendered me so\nunable to eat, that it seemed wonderful how I lived. In four days I did\nnot eat as much as would make one very moderate repast. I was obliged\nto keep my bed through mere weakness, my body being no longer able to\nsupport the burden laid upon it. If I had thought, known, or heard\ntell, that there had ever been such a state as mine, it would have\nexceedingly relieved me. My very pain appeared to me to be sin.\nSpiritual books, when I tried to read them, all contributed only to\naugment it. I saw in myself none of those states which they set down. I\ndid not so much as comprehend them. And when they treated the pains of\ncertain states, I was very far from attributing any of them to myself.\nI said to myself, \"These persons feel the pains of divine operations;\nbut as to me, I sin, and feel nothing but my own wicked state.\" I could\nhave wished to separate the sin from the confusion of sin, and provided\nI had not offended God, all would have been easy to me.\n\nA slight sketch of my last miseries, which I am glad to let you know,\nbecause in their beginning I omitted many infidelities, having had too\nmuch of an earnest attachment, vain complaisance, unprofitable and\ntedious conversations, though self-love and nature made a sort of\nnecessity for them; but toward the latter part I could not have borne a\nspeech too human, nor the least thing of the kind.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 25\n\n\nThe first religious person that God made use of to draw me to Himself,\nto whom (according to his desire) I had written from time to time,\nwrote to me in the depth of my distress, desiring me to write to him no\nmore, signifying his disapprobation of what came from me, and that I\ndispleased God greatly. A father, a Jesuit, who had esteemed me much,\nwrote to me in like manner. No doubt, it was by Thy permission, they\nthus contributed to complete my desolation. I thanked them for their\ncharity, and commended myself to their prayers. It was then so\nindifferent to me to be decried of everybody, even of the greatest\nsaints, that it added but little to my pain. The pain of displeasing\nGod, and the strong propensity I felt in myself to all sorts of faults,\ncaused me most lively and sensible pain.\n\nI had been accustomed from the beginning to dryness and privation. I\neven preferred it to the state of abounding, because I knew that I must\nseek God above all. I had even at the first beginnings, an instinct of\nmy inmost soul to pass over every manner of thing whatsoever, and to\nleave the gifts to run after the Giver. But at this time my spirit and\nsenses were in such a manner struck, by Thy permission, O my Lord, who\nwert pleased to destroy me without mercy, that the farther I went, the\nmore everything appeared to me a sin; even crosses appeared to me no\nmore crosses but real faults. I thought I drew them all on myself by my\nimprudent words and actions, I was like those, who, looking through a\ncolored glass, behold everything of the same color with which it is\nstained. Had I been able to perform any exterior acts as formerly, or\npenances for my evil, it would have relieved me. I was forbidden to do\nthe latter, besides I grew so timorous, and felt in myself such a\nweakness, as made it appear impossible for me to do them. I looked on\nthem with horror, I found myself now so weak and incapable of anything\nof the kind.\n\nI omit many things, both of providences of the Lord in my favor, and of\nrugged paths through which I was obliged to pass. But as I have only\none general view, I leave them in the knowledge of the Lord only.\nAfterward, being forsaken of my director, the coldness toward me which\nI remarked in the persons conducted by him, gave me no more trouble,\nnor indeed the estrangement of all the creatures, on account of my\ninward humiliation. My brother also joined with those who exclaimed\nagainst me, even though he had never seen them before. I believe it was\nthe Lord who conducted things in this way, for my brother has worth,\nand undoubtedly thought he did well in acting thus.\n\nI was obliged to go about some business to a town where some near\nrelations of my mother-in-law lived. How did I find things changed\nthere! When I was there before, they entertained me in a most elegant\nand obliging manner, regaling me from house to house with emulation.\nNow they treated me with the utmost contempt, saying, they did it to\nrevenge what I made their relation suffer. As I saw the thing went so\nfar, and that notwithstanding all my care and endeavors to please her,\nI had not been able to succeed, I resolved to come to an explanation\nwith her. I told her that there was a current report that I treated her\nill, though I made it my study to give her every mark of my esteem. If\nthe report were true, I desired her to allow me to remove from her; for\nthat I would not choose to stay to give her pain, but only with a quite\ncontrary view. She answered very coldly, \"I might do what I would; for\nshe had not spoken about it, but was resolved to live apart from me.\"\nThis was fairly giving me my discharge, and I thought of taking my\nmeasures privately to retire. As I had not, since my widowhood, made\nany visits but such as were of pure necessity, or charity, there were\nfound too many discontented spirits, who made a party with her against\nme. The Lord required of me an inviolable secrecy of all my pains, both\nexterior and interior. There is nothing which makes nature die so much,\nas to find neither support nor consolation. In short I saw myself\nobliged to go out, in the middle of winter, with my children and my\ndaughters' nurse. At that time there was no house empty in the town, so\nthe Benedictines offered me an apartment in theirs.\n\nI was now in a great strait; on one side fearing lest I was shunning\nthe cross, on the other side thinking it unreasonable to impose my stay\non one to whom it was only painful. Besides what I have related of her\nbehavior, which still continued, when I went into the country to take a\nlittle repose she complained that I left her alone. If I desired her to\ncome thither she would not. If I said, \"I dare not ask her to come, for\nfear of incommoding her by changing her bed,\" she replied, \"It was only\nan excuse, because I would not have her go; and that I only went to be\naway from her.\" When I heard that she was displeased at my being in the\ncountry, I returned to the town. Then she could not bear to speak to\nme, or to see me. I accosted her without appearing to notice how she\nreceived it. Instead of making me any answer, she turned her head\nanother way. I often sent her my coach, desiring her to come and spend\na day in the country. She sent it back empty, without any answer. If I\npassed some days there without sending it, she complained aloud. In\nshort, all I did to please her soured her, God so permitting it. She\nhad in the main a good heart, but was troubled with an uneasy temper:\nand I do not fail to think myself under much obligation to her.\n\nBeing with her on Christmas day, I said to her with much affection: \"My\nmother, on this day was the King of peace born, to bring it to us; I\nbeg peace of you in His name.\" I think that touched her, though she\nwould not let it appear. The ecclesiastic, whom I had met with at home,\nfar from strengthening and comforting me, did nothing but weaken and\nafflict me, telling me that I ought not to suffer certain things. I had\nnot credit enough to discharge any domestic, however defective or\nculpable. As soon as any of them were warned to go away, she sided with\nthem, and all her friends interfered. As I was ready to go off, one of\nmy mother-in-law's friends, a man of worth, who had always an esteem\nfor me, without daring to show it, having heard it, was much afraid\nlest I should leave the town; for the removal of my alms, he thought,\nwould be a loss to the country. He resolved to speak to my\nmother-in-law in the softest manner he could for he knew her. After he\nhad spoken to her, she said, that she would not put me away, but if I\nwent, she would not hinder me. After this he came to see me, and\ndesired me to go and make an excuse to her, in order to content her. I\ntold him, I should be willing to make a hundred, although \"I did not\nknow about what; that I did it continually about everything, which made\nher uneasy. But that was not now the matter, for I make no complaint of\nher, but thought it not proper for me to continue with her, to give her\npain; that it was but just that I should contribute to her ease.\"\nHowever, he went with me into her room. Then I told her, that I begged\nher pardon, if ever I had displeased her in anything, that it had never\nbeen my intention to do it; that I desired her, before this gentleman,\nwho was her friend, to tell me wherein I had given her any offense.\nHere God permitted; she made a declaration of the truth in his\npresence. She said, \"She was not a person to suffer herself to be\noffended; that she had no other complaint against me but that I did not\nlove her, and that I wished her dead.\" I answered her that these\nthoughts were far from my heart, so far from it, that I should be glad,\nby my best care and attendance on her, to prolong her days; that my\naffection was real, but that she never would be persuaded to believe\nit, whatever testimonies I could give, so long as she hearkened to\npeople who spoke to her against me; that she had with her a maid, who,\nfar from showing me any respect, treated me ill, so far as to push me\nwhen she wanted to pass by. She had done it at church, making me give\nway to her with as much violence as contempt, several times, also, in\nmy room grating me with her words: that I had never complained of it,\nbecause such a temper might one day give her trouble. She took the\ngirl's part. Nevertheless we embraced and it was left so. Soon after,\nwhen I was in the country, this maid, having me no more to vent her\nchagrins on behaved in such a manner to my mother-in-law that she could\nnot bear it. She immediately put her out of doors. I must say here on\nmy mother-in-law's behalf, that she had both sense and virtue, and\nexcept certain faults, which persons who do not practice prayer are\nliable to, she had good qualities. Perhaps I caused crosses to her\nwithout intending it, and she to me without knowing it. I hope what I\nwrite will not be seen by any who may be offended with it, or who may\nnot be in a condition to see these matters in God.\n\nThat gentleman who had used me so ill, for breaking off my acquaintance\nwith him, among his penitents had one who, for affairs which befell her\nhusband, was obliged to quit the country. He himself was accused of the\nsame things which he had so liberally and unjustly accused me, and even\nthings much worse, and with more noise and outcry. Though I well knew\nall this, God granted me the favor never to make his downfall the\nsubject of my discourse. On the contrary, when any spoke to me of it, I\npitied him, and said what I could in mitigation of his case. And God\ngoverned my heart so well, that it never offered to go into any vain\njoy at seeing him overtaken, and oppressed, with those kind of evils\nwhich he had been so assiduous in endeavoring to bring upon me. Though\nI knew that my mother-in-law was informed of it all, I never spoke to\nher about it, or about the sad confusions he had caused in a certain\nfamily.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 26\n\n\nOne day during my husband's lifetime, laden with sorrow, not knowing\nwhat to do, I wished to speak to a person of distinction, and merit,\nwho came often into the country. I wrote to request an opportunity with\nhim, for that I wanted his instruction and advice. But soon after I\nfelt remorse for it; this voice spoke in my heart, \"What,--dost thou\nseek for ease, and to shake off my yoke?\" Hereupon I instantly sent a\nnote again to desire him to excuse me, adding that what I had written\nwas only from self-love, not necessity; that as he knew what it was to\nbe faithful to God, I hoped he would not disapprove my acting with this\nChristian simplicity. Yet he resented it, which surprised me much, as I\nhad conceived a high idea of his virtue. Virtues he had, but such as\nare full of the life and activities of nature, and unacquainted with\nthe paths of mortification and death.\n\nThou, O my God, hast been my conductor even in these paths, as with\nadmiration I have discovered since they are past. Blessed be Thy name\nforever. I am obliged to bear this testimony to Thy goodness.\n\nBefore I continue my narration, I must add one remark, which the Lord\ngave me to make upon the way by which He, in His goodness, was pleased\nto conduct me; which is, that this obscure path is the surest to\nmortify the soul, as it leaves it not any prop to lean upon for\nsupport. Though it has no application to any particular state of Jesus\nChrist; yet, at its coming out, it finds itself clothed with all His\ndispositions. The impure and selfish soul, is hereby purified, as gold\nin the furnace. Full of its own judgment and its own will before, but\nnow obeys like a child and finds no other will in itself. Before, it\nwould have contested for a trifle; now it yields at once, not with\nreluctance and pain by way of practicing virtue, but as it were\nnaturally. Its own vices are vanished. This creature so vain before now\nloves nothing but poverty, littleness and humiliation. Before, it\npreferred itself above everybody; now everybody above itself, having a\nboundless charity for its neighbor, to bear with his faults and\nweaknesses, in order to win him by love, which before it could not do\nbut with very great constraint. The rage of the wolf is changed to the\nmeekness of the lamb.\n\nDuring all the time of my experiencing my miseries and my deep trials,\nI went after no fine sights or recreations. I wanted to see and know\nnothing but Jesus Christ. My closet was my only diversion. Even when\nthe queen was near me, whom I had never seen, and whom I had desire\nenough to see; I had only to open my eyes, and look out to see her; yet\ndid not do it. I had been fond of hearing others sing; yet I was once\nfour days with one who passed for the finest voice in the world,\nwithout ever desiring her to sing; which surprised her, because she was\nnot ignorant that, knowing her name, I must know the charming\nexcellence of her voice. However, I committed some infidelities, in\ninquiring what others said of me by way of blame. I met with one who\ntold me everything. Though I showed nothing of it, it served only to\nmortify me. I saw I was yet too much alive to self.\n\nI shall never be able to express the number of my miseries. They are so\nvastly surmounted by the favours of God, and so swallowed up in these\nthat I can see them no more. One of the things which gave me most pain\nin the seven years I have spoken of, especially the last five, was so\nstrange a folly of my imagination that it gave me no rest. My senses\nbore it company. I could no more shut my eyes at church. Thus having\nall the gates and avenues open, I was like a vineyard exposed, because\nthe hedges which the father of the family had planted were torn away. I\nsaw every one that came and went, and everything that passed in the\nchurch. For the same force, which had drawn me inward to recollection,\nseemed to push me outward to dissipation.\n\nLaden with miseries, weighed down with oppressions, and crushed under\ncontinual crosses, I thought of nothing but ending my days thus. There\nremained in me not the least hope of ever emerging. Notwithstanding, I\nthought I had lost grace forever, and the salvation which it merits for\nus, I longed at least to do what I could for God, though I feared I\nshould never love Him. Seeing the happy state from whence I had fallen,\nI wished in gratitude to serve Him, though I looked on myself as a\nvictim doomed to destruction. Sometimes the view of that happy period\ncaused secret desires to spring up in my heart, of recovering it again.\nI was instantly rejected and thrown back into the depth of the abyss; I\njudged myself to be in a state which was due to unfaithful souls. I\nseemed, my God, as if I was forever cast off from Thy regard, and from\nthat of all creatures. By degrees my state ceased to be painful. I\nbecame even insensible to it, and my insensibility seemed like the\nfinal hardening of my reprobation. My coldness appeared to me a mortal\ncoldness. It was truly so, O my God, since I thus died to self, in\norder to live wholly in Thee, and in thy precious love.\n\nTo resume my history, a servant of mine wanted to become a Barnabite. I\nwrote about it to Father de la Mothe. He answered me, that I must\naddress Father La Combe, who was then the superior of the Barnabites of\nTonon. That obliged me to write to him. I had always preserved secret\nrespect and esteem for him, as one under grace. I was glad of this\nopportunity of recommending myself to his prayers. I wrote to him about\nmy fall from the grace of God, that I had requited His favors with the\nblackest ingratitude; that I was miserable, and a subject worthy of\ncompassion; and far from having advanced toward God, I was become\nentirely alienated from Him. He answered in such a manner, as if he had\nknown, by a supernatural light, the frightful description I had given\nof myself.\n\nIn the midst of my miseries, Geneva came into my mind, a singular\nmanner, which caused me many fears. \"What,\" said I, \"to complete my\nreprobation, shall I go to such an excess of impiety, as to quit the\nfaith through apostacy? (The inhabitants of Geneva being generally\nProtestant Calvinists.) Am I then about quitting that church, for which\nI would give a thousand lives? Or, shall I ever depart from that faith\nwhich I would even wish to seal with my blood?\" I had such a distrust\nof myself, that I dared hope for nothing, but had a thousand reasons\nfor fear. Nevertheless the letter which I had received from Father La\nCombe, in which he wrote me an account of his present disposition,\nsomewhat similar to mine, had such an effect, as to restore peace and\ncalmness to my mind. I felt myself inwardly united to him, as to a\nperson of great fidelity to the grace of God. Afterward a woman\nappeared to me in a dream to be come down from Heaven, to tell me that\nGod demanded me at Geneva.\n\nAbout eight or ten days before Magdalene's day, 1680, it came into my\nmind to write to Father La Combe, and to request him, if he received my\nletter before that day, to pray particularly for me. It was so ordered,\ncontrary even to my expectations, that he received my letter on St.\nMagdalene's eve, and when praying for me the next day, it was said to\nhim, thrice over, with much power, \"Ye shall both dwell in one and the\nsame place.\" He was very much surprised, as he never had received\ninterior words before. I believe, O my God, that that has been much\nmore verified, both in our inward sense and experience, and in the same\ncrucifying events which have befallen us, pretty much alike; and in\nThyself, who art our dwelling, than in any temporal abode.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 27\n\n\nOn that happy Magdalene's Day my soul was perfectly delivered from all\nits pains. It had already begun since the receipt of the first letter\nfrom Father La Combe, to recover a new life. It was then only like that\nof a dead person raised, though not yet unbound from grave clothes. On\nthis day I was, as it were, in perfect life, and set wholly at liberty.\nI found myself as much raised above nature, as before I had been\ndepressed under its burden. I was inexpressibly overjoyed to find Him,\nwhom I thought I had lost forever, returned to me again with\nunspeakable magnificence and purity. It was then, O God, that I found\nagain in Thee with new advantages, in an ineffable manner, all I had\nbeen deprived of; the peace I now possessed was all holy, heavenly and\ninexpressible. All I had enjoyed before was only a peace, a gift of\nGod, but now I received and possessed the God of peace. Yet the\nremembrance of my past miseries still brought a fear upon me, lest\nnature should find means to take to itself any part therein. As soon as\nit wanted to see or taste anything, the Spirit ever watchful crossed\nand repelled it. I was far from elevating myself, or attributing to\nmyself anything of this new state. My experience made me sensible of\nwhat I was.\n\nI hoped I should enjoy this happy state for some time, but little did I\nthink my happiness so great and immutable as it was. If one may judge\nof a good by the trouble which precedes it, I leave mine to be judged\nof by the sorrows I had undergone before my attaining it. The apostle\nPaul tells us, that \"the sufferings of this life are not to be compared\nwith the glory that is prepared for us.\" How true is that of this life!\nOne day of this happiness was worth more than years of suffering. It\nwas indeed, at that time well worth all I had undergone, though it was\nthen only dawning. An alacrity for doing good was restored to me,\ngreater than ever. It seemed to me all quite free and natural to me. At\nthe beginning, this liberty was less extensive; but as I advanced it\ngrew greater. I had occasion to see Mon. Bertot for a few moments, and\ntold him, I thought my state much changed. He, seemingly attentive to\nsomething else, answered, \"No.\" I believed him; because grace taught me\nto prefer the judgment of others, and rather believe them than my own\nopinions or experience. This did not give me any kind of trouble. Every\nstate seemed equally indifferent if I only had the favor of God. I felt\na kind of beatitude every day increasing in me. I did all sorts of\ngood, without selfishness or premeditation. Whenever a self-reflective\nthought was presented to my mind, it was instantly rejected, and as it\nwere a curtain in the soul drawn before it. My imagination was kept so\nfixed, that I had now very little trouble on that. I wondered at the\nclearness of my mind and the purity of my whole heart.\n\nI received a letter from Father La Combe, wherein he wrote that God had\ndiscovered to him that he had great designs in regard to me. \"Let them\nbe,\" then said I to myself, \"either of justice or mercy, all is equal\nto me.\" I still had Geneva deeply at heart; but said nothing of it to\nanybody, waiting for God to make known to me His all powerful will and\nfearing lest any stratagem of the Devil should be concealed therein,\nthat might tend to draw me out of my proper place, or steal me out of\nmy condition. The more I saw my own misery, incapacity and nothingness,\nthe plainer it appeared that they rendered me fitter for the designs of\nGod, whatever they might be. \"Oh, my Lord,\" said I, \"take the weak and\nthe wretched to do thy works, that Thou mayest have all the glory and\nthat man may attribute nothing of them to himself. If Thou shouldst\ntake a person of eminence and great talents, one might attribute to him\nsomething; but if Thou takest me, it will be manifest that thou alone\nart the Author of whatever good shall be done.\" I continued quiet in my\nspirit, leaving the whole affair to God, being satisfied, if He should\nrequire anything of me, that He would furnish me with the means of\nperforming it. I held myself in readiness with a full resolution to\nexecute His orders, whenever he should make them known, though it were\nto the laying down of my life. I was released from all crosses. I\nresumed my care of the sick, and dressing of wounds, and God gave me to\ncure the most desperate. When surgeons could do no more, it was then\nthat God made me cure them.\n\nOh, the joy that accompanied me everywhere, finding still Him who had\nunited me to Himself, in His own immensity and boundless vastitude! Oh,\nhow truly did I experience what He said in the Gospel, by the four\nevangelists, and by one of them twice over, \"Whosoever will lose his\nlife for my sake shall find it; and whosoever will save his life shall\nlose it.\"\n\nWhen I had lost all created supports, and even divine ones, I then\nfound myself happily compelled to fall into the pure divine, and to\nfall into it through all those very things which seemed to remove me\nfurther from it. In losing all the gifts, with all their supports, I\nfound the Giver. In losing the sense and perception of Thee in\nmyself--I found Thee, O my God, to lose Thee no more in Thyself, in Thy\nown immutability. Oh, poor creatures, who pass all your time in feeding\nupon the gifts of God, and think therein to be the most favored and\nhappy. How I pity you if you stop here, short of the true rest, and\ncease to go forward to God Himself, through the loss of those cherished\ngifts which you now delight in! How many pass all their lives in this\nway, and think highly of themselves! There are others who, being called\nof God to die to themselves, yet pass all their time in a dying life,\nin inward agonies, without ever entering into God through death and a\ntotal loss of self, because they are always willing to retain something\nunder plausible pretexts, and so never lose themselves to the whole\nextent of the designs of God. They never enjoy God in all His fullness;\nwhich is a loss that cannot be perfectly known in this life.\n\nOh, my Lord, what happiness did I not largely taste in my solitude, and\nwith my little family, where nothing interrupted my tranquillity! As I\nwas in the country, the slender age of my children did not require my\napplication too much, they being in good hands, I retired a great part\nof the day into a wood. I passed as many days of happiness as I had had\nmonths of sorrow. Thou, O my God, dealt by me as by thy servant Job,\nrendering me double for all thou hadst taken, and delivering me from\nall my crosses. Thou gavest me a marvelous facility to satisfy\neveryone. What was surprising now was that my mother-in-law, who had\never been complaining of me, without my doing anything more than usual\nto please her, declared that none could be better satisfied with me\nthan she was. Such as before had cried me down the most, now testified\ntheir sorrow for it and became full of my praises. My reputation was\nestablished with much more advantage, in proportion as it had appeared\nto be lost. I remained in an entire peace, as well without as within.\nIt seemed to me that my soul was become like New Jerusalem, spoken of\nin the Apocalypse, prepared as a bride for her husband and where there\nis no more sorrow, or sighing. I had a perfect indifference to\neverything that is here, a union so great with the will of God, that my\nown will seemed entirely lost. My soul could not incline itself on one\nside or the other, since another will had taken the place of its own,\nbut only nourished itself with the daily providences of God. It now\nfound a will all divine, yet was so natural and easy that it found\nitself infinitely more free than ever it had been in its own.\n\nThese dispositions have still subsisted, and still grown stronger, and\nmore perfect even to this hour. I could neither desire one thing nor\nanother, but was content with whatever fell. If any in the house asked\nme, \"Will you have this, or that?\" then I was surprised to find that\nthere was nothing left in me which could desire or choose. I was as if\neverything, of smaller matters, quite disappeared, a higher power\nhaving taken up and filled all their place. I even perceived no more\nthat soul which He had formerly conducted by His crook and His staff,\nbecause now He alone appeared to me, my soul having given up its place\nto Him. It seemed to me, as if it was wholly and altogether passed into\nits God, to make but one and the same thing with Him; even as a little\ndrop of water, cast into the sea, receives the qualities of the sea.\nOh, union of unity, demanded of God by Jesus Chirst for men and merited\nby him! How strong is this in a soul that is become lost in its God!\nAfter the consummation of this divine unity, the soul remains hid with\nChrist in God. This happy loss is not like those transient ones which\necstacy operates, which are rather an absorption than union because the\nsoul afterwards finds itself again with all its own dispositions. Here\nshe feels that prayer fulfilled--John 17:21: \"That they all may be one\nas thou Father art in me, and I in thee; that they also may be one in\nus.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 28\n\n\nI was obliged to go to Paris about some business. Having entered into a\nchurch, that was very dark, I went up to the first confessor I found,\nwhom I did not know, nor have ever seen since. I made a simple and\nshort confession; but to the confessor himself I said not a word. He\nsurprised me saying, \"I know not who you are whether maid, wife or\nwidow; but I feel a strong inward motion to exhort you to do what the\nLord has made known to you, that he requires of you. I have nothing\nelse to say.\" I answered him, \"Father, I am a widow who have little\nchildren. What else could God require of me, but to take due care of\nthem in their education?\" He replied, \"I know nothing about this. You\nknow if God manifests to you that He requires something of you; there\nis nothing in the world which ought to hinder you from doing His will.\nOne may have to leave one's children to do that.\" This surprised me\nmuch. However, I told him nothing of what I felt about Geneva. I\ndisposed myself submissively to quit everything, if the Lord required\nit of me. I did not look upon it as a good I aspired to, or a virtue I\nhoped to acquire, or as anything extraordinary, or as an act that would\nmerit some return on God's part; but only gave myself up to be led in\nthe way of my duty, whatever it might be, feeling no distinction\nbetween my own will and the will of God in me.\n\nIn this disposition, I lived with my family in the greatest\ntranquility, until one of my friends had a great desire to go on a\nmission to Siam. He lived twenty leagues from my house. As he was ready\nto make a vow to this purpose, he found himself stopped, with an\nimpulse to come and speak to me. He came immediately, and as he had\nsome reluctance to declare his mind to me, he went to read prayers in\nmy chapel, hoping God would be satisfied with his making the vow. As he\nwas performing divine service in my hearing, he was stopped again. He\nleft the chapel to come and speak to me. He then told me his intention.\n\nThough I had no thought of saying anything positive to him, I felt an\nimpression in my soul to relate to him my case, and the idea I had for\na long time past for Geneva. I told him a dream I had, which appeared\nto me supernatural. When I had done, I felt a strong impulse to say to\nhim, \"You must go to Siam, and you must also serve me in this affair.\nIt is for that end God has sent you hither; I desire you to give me\nyour advice.\" After three days, having considered the matter, and\nconsulted the Lord in it, he told me that he believed I was to go\nthither; but to be the better assured of it, it would be needful to see\nthe Bishop of Geneva. If he approved of my design, it would be a sign\nthat it was from the Lord; if not, I must drop it. I agreed with his\nsentiment. He then offered to go to Annecy, to speak to the Bishop, and\nto bring me a faithful account. As he was advanced in years, we were\ndeliberating in what way he could take so long a journey, when there\ncame two travelers, who told us the Bishop was at Paris. This I looked\non as an extraordinary providence. He advised me to write to Father La\nCombe, and recommend the affair to his prayers, as he was in that\ncountry. He then spoke to the Bishop at Paris. I, having occasion to go\nthither, spoke to him also.\n\nI told him, that \"my design was to go into the country, to employ there\nmy substance, to erect an establishment for all such as should be\nwilling truly to serve God, and to give themselves unto him without\nreserve; and that many of the servants of the Lord had encouraged me\nthereto.\" The bishop approved of the design. He said, \"there were New\nCatholics going to establish themselves at Gex, near Geneva, and that\nit was a providential thing.\" I answered him, \"that I had no vocation\nfor Gex, but for Geneva.\" He said, \"I might go from hence to that\ncity.\"\n\nI thought this was a way which divine Providence had opened, for my\ntaking this journey with the less difficulty. As I yet knew nothing\npositive of what the Lord would acquire at my hand, I was not willing\nto oppose anything. \"Who knows,\" said I, \"but the will of the Lord is\nonly that I should contribute to this establishment?\"\n\nI went to see the prioress of the New Catholics at Paris. She seemed\nmuch rejoiced, and assured me she would gladly join me. As she is a\ngreat servant of God, this confirmed me. When I could reflect a little,\nwhich was but seldom, I thought God would make choice of her for her\nvirtue, and me for my worldly substance. When I inadvertently looked at\nmyself, I could not think God would make use of me; but when I saw the\nthings in God, then I perceived that the more I was nothing, the fitter\nI was for His designs. As I saw nothing in myself extraordinary, and\nlooked on myself as being in the lowest stage of perfection, and\nimagined that an extraordinary degree of inspiration was necessary for\nextraordinary designs, this made me hesitate, and fear deception. It\nwas not that I was in fear of anything, as to my perfection and\nsalvation which I had referred to God; but I was afraid of not doing\nHis will by being too ardent and hasty in doing it. I went to consult\nFather Claude Martin. At that time he gave me no decisive answer,\ndemanding time to pray about it; saying he would write to me what\nshould appear to him to be the will of God concerning me.\n\nI found it hard to get to speak to M. Bertot, both on account of his\nbeing difficult of access, and of my knowing how he condemned things\nextraordinary, or out of the common road. Being my director, I\nsubmitted, against my own views or judgment, to what he said, laying\ndown all my own experiences when duty required me to believe and obey.\nI thought, however, than in an affair of this importance, I ought to\naddress myself to him, and prefer his sense of the matter to that of\nevery one beside. Persuaded, he would infallibly tell me the will of\nGod. I went to him then, and he told me that my design was of God, and\nthat he had had a sense given him of God for some time past, that he\nrequired something of me. I therefore returned home to set everything\nin order. I loved my children much, having great satisfaction in being\nwith them, but resigned all to God to follow His will.\n\nOn my return from Paris, I left myself in the hands of God, resolved\nnot to take any step, either to make the thing succeed or to hinder it,\neither to advance or retard it, but singly to move as He should be\npleased to direct me. I had mysterious dreams, which portended nothing\nbut crosses, persecutions and afflictions. My heart submitted to\nwhatever it should please God to ordain. I had one which was very\nsignificant.\n\nBeing employed in some necessary work, I saw near me a little animal\nwhich appeared to be dead. This animal I took to be the envy of some\npersons, which seemed to have been dead for some time. I took it up,\nand as I saw it strove hard to bite me, and that it magnified to the\neye, I cast it away. I found thereupon that it filled my fingers with\nsharp-pointed prickles like needles. I came to one of my acquaintance\nto get him to take them out; but he pushed them deeper in, and left me\nso, till a charitable priest of great merit, (whose countenance is\nstill present with me, though I have not yet seen him, but believe I\nshall before I die) took this animal up with a pair of pincers. As soon\nas he held it fast, those sharp prickles fell off, of themselves. I\nfound that I easily entered into a place, which before had seemed\ninaccessible. And although the mire was up to my girdle, in my way to a\ndeserted church, I went over it without getting any dirt. It will be\neasy to see in the sequel what this signified.\n\nDoubtless you will wonder that I, who makes so little account of things\nextraordinary, relate dreams. I do it for two reasons; first out of\nfidelity, having promised to omit nothing of what should come to my\nmind; secondly, because it is the method God makes use of to\ncommunicate Himself to faithful souls, to give them foretokens of\nthings to come, which concern them. Thus mysterious dreams are found in\nmany places of the holy Scriptures. They have singular properties, as--\n\n1. To leave a certainty that they are mysterious, and will have their\neffect in their season.\n\n2. To be hardly ever effaced out of the memory, though one forgets all\nothers.\n\n3. To redouble the certainty of their truth every time one thinks of\nthem.\n\n4. They generally leave a certain unction, a divine sense or savor at\none's waking.\n\nI received letters from sundry religious persons, some of whom lived\nfar from me, and from one another, relating to my going forth in the\nservice of God, and some of them to Geneva in particular, in such a\nmanner as surprised me. One of them intimated that I must there bear\nthe cross and be persecuted; and another of them that I should be eyes\nto the blind, feet to the lame, and arms to the maimed.\n\nThe ecclesiastic, or chaplain, of our house was much afraid lest I was\nunder a delusion. What at that time greatly confirmed me was Father\nClaude Martin, whom I mentioned above, wrote to me that, after many\nprayers, the Lord had given him to know that He required me at Geneva,\nand to make a free sacrifice of everything to Him. I answered him,\n\"that perhaps the Lord required of me nothing more than a sum of money\nto assist in founding an institution which was going to be established\nthere.\" He replied, that the Lord had made him know that He wanted not\nmy worldly substance but myself. At the very same time with this letter\nI received one from Father La Combe, who wrote to me that the Lord had\ngiven him a certainty, as he had done to several of his good and\nfaithful servants and handmaids, that he wanted me at Geneva. The\nwriters of these two letters lived above a hundred and fifty leagues\nfrom each other; yet both wrote the same thing. I could not but be\nsomewhat surprised to receive at the same time two letters exactly\nalike, from two persons living so far distant from each other.\n\nAs soon as I became fully convinced of its being the will of the Lord,\nand saw nothing on earth capable of detaining me, my senses had some\npain about leaving my children. And upon reflecting thereon a doubt\nseized my mind. O my Lord! Had I rested on myself, or on the creatures,\nI would have revolted; \"leaned on a broken reed, which would have\npierced my hand.\" But relying on Thee alone, what needed I to fear? I\nresolved then to go, regardless of the censures of such as understand\nnot what it is to be a servant of the Lord, and to receive and obey His\norders. I firmly believe that He, by His Providence, would furnish the\nmeans necessary for the education of my children. I put everything by\ndegrees in order, the Lord alone being my guide.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 29\n\n\nWhile providence, on the one hand, appointed my forsaking all things,\nit seemed on the other to make my chains the stronger, and my\nseparation the more blameable. None could receive stronger marks of\naffection from one's own mother than those which I received at this\ntime from my mother-in-law. Even the least sickness which befell me\nmade her very uneasy. She said, \"she had veneration for my virtue.\" I\nbelieve what contributed not a little to this change was, that she had\nheard that three persons had offered suit to me, and that I had refused\nthem, although their fortune and quality were quite superior to mine.\nShe remembered how she had upbraided me on this head, and I answered\nher not a word, whereby she might understand that it depended on myself\nto marry to advantage. She began to fear lest such rigorous treatment,\nas hers had been toward me, might excite me to deliver myself by such\nmeans, with honor, from her tyranny, and was sensible what damage that\nmight be to my children. So she was now very tender to me on every\noccasion.\n\nI fell extremely ill. I thought that God had accepted of my willingness\nto sacrifice all to him, and required that of my life. During this\nillness, my mother-in-law went not from my bedside; her many tears\nproved the sincerity of her affection. I was very much affected at it,\nand thought I loved her as my true mother. How, then, should I leave\nher now, being so far advanced in age? The maid, who till then had been\nmy plague, took an inconceivable friendship for me. She praised me\neverywhere, extolling my virtue to the highest and served me with\nextraordinary respect. She begged pardon for all that she had made me\nsuffer, and died of grief after my departure.\n\nThere was a priest of merit, a spiritual man, who had fallen in with\ntemptation of taking upon him employment which I was sensible God did\nnot call him to do. Fearing it might be a snare to him, I advised him\nagainst it. He promised me he would not do it, and yet accepted it. He\nthen avoided me, joined in calumniating me, gradually fell away from\ngrace, and died soon after.\n\nThere was a nun in a monastery I often went to, who was entered into a\nstate of purification, which everyone in the house looked on as\ndistraction. They locked her up and all who went to see her called it\nphrenzy or melancholy. I knew her to be devout I requested to see her.\nAs soon as I approached, I felt an impression that she sought purity. I\ndesired of the Superior that she should not be locked up, nor should\npeople be admitted to see her, but that she would confide her to my\ncare. I hoped things would change. I discovered that her greatest pain\nwas at being counted a fool. I advised her to bear the state of\nfoolishness, since Jesus Christ had been willing to bear it before\nHerod. This sacrifice gave her a calmness at once. But as God was\nwilling to purify her soul, He separated her from all those things for\nwhich she had before the greatest attachment. At last, after she had\npatiently undergone her sufferings, her Superior wrote to me that \"I\nwas in the right, and that she had now come out of that state of\ndejection, in greater purity than ever.\" The Lord gave to me alone at\nthat time to know her state. This was the commencement of the gift of\ndiscerning spirits, which I afterward received more fully.\n\nThe winter before I left home was one of the longest and hardest that\nhad been for several years (1680). It was followed with extreme\nscarcity, which proved to me an occasion of exercising charity. My\nmother-in-law joined me heartily and appeared to me so much changed. I\ncould not but be both surprised and overjoyed at it. We distributed at\nthe house ninety-six dozen loaves of bread every week, but private\ncharities to the bashful poor were much greater. I kept poor boys and\ngirls employed. The Lord gave such blessings to my alms, that I did not\nfind that my family lost anything by it. Before the death of my\nhusband, my mother-in-law told him that I would ruin him with my\ncharities, though he himself was so charitable, that in a very dear\nyear, while he was young, he distributed a considerable sum. She\nrepeated this to him so often, that he commanded me to set down in\nwriting all the money I laid out, both what I gave for the expense of\nthe house, and all that I caused to be bought, that he might better\njudge of what I gave to the poor. This new obligation, which I was\nbrought under, appeared to me so much the harder, as for above eleven\nyears we had been married I never before had this required of me. What\ntroubled me most was the fear of having nothing to give to such as\nwanted. However, I submitted to it, without retrenching any part of my\ncharities. I did not indeed set down any of my alms, and yet my account\nof expenses was found to answer exactly. I was much surprised and\nastonished, and esteemed it one of the wonders of Providence. I saw\nplainly it was simply given out of Thy treasury, O my Lord, that made\nme more liberal of what I thought was the Lord's, and not mine. Oh, if\nwe but knew how far charity, instead of wasting or lessening the\nsubstance of the donor, blessed, increased and multiplied it profusely.\nHow much is there in the world of useless dissipation, which, if\nproperly applied, might amply serve for the subsistence of the poor,\nand would abundantly be restored, and amply rewarded to the families of\nthose who gave it.\n\nIn the time of my greatest trials, some years after my husband's death\n(for they began three years before my widowhood, and lasted four years\nafter) my footman came one day to tell me, (I was then in the country)\nthat there was in the road a poor soldier dying. I had him brought in,\nand ordering a separate place to be made ready for him, I kept above a\nfortnight. His malady was a flux, which he had taken in the army. It\nwas so nauseous, that though the domestics were charitably inclined,\nnobody could bear to come near him. I went myself to take away his\nvessels. But I never did anything of the kind which was so hard. I\nfrequently made efforts for a full quarter of an hour at a time. It\nseemed as if my very heart was going to come up; yet I never desisted.\nI sometimes kept the poor people at my house to dress their putrid\nsores; but never met with anything so terrible as this. The poor man,\nafter I had made him receive the sacrament, died.\n\nWhat gave me now no small concern was the tenderness I had for my\nchildren, especially my younger son, whom I had strong reasons for\nloving. I saw him inclined to be good; everything seemed to favor the\nhopes I had conceived of him. I thought it running a great risk to\nleave him to another's education. My daughter I designed to take with\nme, though she was at this time ill of a very tedious fever. Providence\nwas pleased, however, so to order it that she speedily recovered. The\nties, with which the Lord held me closely united to Himself, were\ninfinitely stronger than those of flesh and blood. The laws of my\nsacred marriage obliged me to give up all, to follow my spouse\nwhithersoever it was His pleasure to call me after Him. Though I often\nhesitated, and doubted much before I went, I never doubted after my\ngoing of its being His will; and though men, who judge of things only\naccording to the success they seem to have, have taken occasion from my\ndisgraces and sufferings, to judge of my calling, and to run it down as\nerror, illusion and imagination; it is that very persecution, and a\nmultitude of strange crosses it has drawn upon me, (of which this\nimprisonment I now suffer is one,) which have confirmed me in the\ncertainty of its truth and validity. I am more than ever convinced that\nthe resignation which I have made of everything is in pure obedience to\nthe divine will.\n\nThe gospel effectually in this point shows itself to be true, which has\npromised to those that shall leave all for the love of the Lord, \"an\nhundred fold in this life, and persecutions also.\" And have not I\ninfinitely more than an hundred fold, in so entire a possession as my\nLord hast taken of me; in that unshaken firmness which is given me in\nmy sufferings, in a perfect tranquillity in the midst of a furious\ntempest, which assaults me on every side; in an unspeakable joy,\nenlargedness and liberty which I enjoy in a most straight and rigorous\ncaptivity. I have no desire that my imprisonment should end before the\nright time. I love my chains. Everything is equal to me, as I have no\nwill of my own, but purely the love and will of Him who possesses me.\nMy senses indeed have not any relish for such things, but my heart is\nseparated from them. My perseverance is not of myself, but of Him who\nis my life; so that I can say with the apostle, \"It is no more I that\nlive, but Jesus Christ that liveth in me.\" It is He in whom I live,\nmove, and have my being.\n\nTo return to the subject, I say that I was not so reluctant to go with\nthe New Catholics, as I was to engage with them, not finding a\nsufficient attraction, though I sought for it. I longed indeed to\ncontribute to the conversion of wandering souls, and God made use of me\nto convert several families before my departure, one of which was\ncomposed of eleven or twelve persons. Besides, Father La Combe had\nwritten to me, to make use of this opportunity for setting off, but did\nnot tell me whether I ought to engage with them or not. Thus it was the\nProvidence of my God alone, which ordered everything, to which I was\nresigned without any reserve; and that hindered me from engaging with\nthem.\n\nOne day reflecting humanly on this undertaking of mine, I found my\nfaith staggering, weakened with a fear lest I were under a mistake,\nwhich slavish fear was increased by an ecclesiastic at our house, who\ntold me it was a rash and ill-advised design. Being a little\ndiscouraged, I opened the Bible, and met with this passage in Isaiah,\n\"Fear not thou worm Jacob, and ye men of Israel. I will help thee saith\nthe Lord, and thy Redeemer, the holy one of Israel.\" (Chap. 61:14) and\nnear it, \"Fear not; for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy\nname; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be\nwith thee.\"\n\nI had a very great courage given me for going, but could not persuade\nmyself that it would be best to settle with the New Catholics. It was,\nhowever, necessary to see Sister Garnier, their superior at Paris, in\norder to take our measures together. But I could not go to Paris,\nbecause that journey would have hindered me from taking another, which\nI had to take. She then, though much indisposed, resolved to come and\nsee me. In what a wonderful manner, O my God, didst Thou conduct things\nby Thy Providence, to make everything come to the point of Thy will!\nEvery day I saw new miracles, which both amazed and still more\nconfirmed me; for with a paternal goodness Thou tookest care of even\nthe smallest things. As she intended setting off, she fell sick. And\nThou permitted it to fall out so, to give room thereby for a person,\nwho would have discovered everything, in the meantime to take a journey\nto see me. As this person had given me notice of the day she intended\nto set off, seeing that day was excessively hot, and so sultry that I\nimagined that being taken so much tender care of as she was at home,\nthey would not suffer her to begin her journey, (which really proved to\nbe the case, as she afterward told me,) I prayed to the Lord to be\npleased to grant a wind to rise, to moderate the violent heat. Scarce\nhad I prayed, but there arose suddenly so refreshing a wind, that I was\nsurprised and the wind did not cease during her whole journey.\n\nI went to meet her, and brought her to my countryhouse, in such a way\nthat she was not seen or known of anybody. What embarrassed me a little\nwas, that two of my domestics knew her. But as I was then endeavoring\nthe conversion of a lady, they thought that it was on this account I\nhad sent for her, and that it was necessary to keep it secret, that the\nother lady might not be discouraged from coming. Though I knew nothing\nof controversial points, yet God so furnished me that I did not fail to\nanswer all her objections, and resolve all her doubts, to such a\ndegree, that she could not but give herself up entirely to God. Though\nSister Garnier had a good share of both of grace and natural\nunderstanding, yet her words had not such an effect on this soul as\nthose with which God furnished me, as she assured me herself. She even\ncould not forbear speaking of it. I felt a movement to beg her of God,\nas a testimony of His holy will concerning me. But He was pleased not\nto grant it then, being willing that I should go off alone without any\nother assurance than His divine Providence was conducting all things.\nSister Garnier did not declare her thoughts to me for four days. Then\nshe told me she would not go with me. At this I was the more surprised,\nas I had persuaded myself that God would grant to her virtue what He\nmight refuse to my demerits. Besides, the reason she gave appeared to\nme to be merely human, and void of supernatural grace. That made me\nhesitate a little; then, taking new courage, through the resignation of\nmy whole self, I said, \"As I go not thither for your sake, I will not\nfail to go even without you.\" This surprised her, as she acknowledged\nto me; for she thought that, on her refusal, I would decline my purpose\nof going.\n\nI regulated everything, wrote down the contract of association with\nthem as I thought proper. No sooner had I done it, but I felt great\nperturbation and trouble of mind. I told her my pain, and that I had no\ndoubt but the Lord demanded me at Geneva, yet did not let me see that\nHe would have me to be of their congregation. She desired to have some\ntime till after prayers and communion, and that then she would tell me\nwhat she thought the Lord required of me. Accordingly, He directed her\ncontrary both to her interests and inclination. She then told me that I\nought not to connect myself with her, that it was not the Lord's\ndesign; that I only ought to go with her sister's, and that when I\nshould be there, Father La Combe, (whose letter she had seen) would\nsignify to me the divine will. I entered at once into these sentiments,\nand my soul then regained the sweets of inward peace.\n\nMy first thought had been (before I heard of the New Catholics going to\nGex) to go directly to Geneva. At this time there were Catholics there\nin service, and otherwise; to take some little room without any noise,\nand without declaring myself at first; and as I knew how to make up all\nsorts of ointments to heal wounds and especially the king's evil, of\nwhich there is abundance in that place, and for which I had a most\ncertain cure. I hoped easily to insinuate myself by this way and with\nthe charities which I should have done to have won over many of the\npeople. I have no doubt but, if I had followed this impulse, things\nwould have succeeded better. But I thought I ought to follow the\nsentiments of the Bishop rather than my own. What am I saying? Has not\nThy eternal Word, O my Lord, had its effect and accomplishment in me?\nMan speaks as man; but when we behold things in the Lord, we see them\nin another light. Yes, my Lord, Thy design was to give Geneva not to my\ncares, words or works, but to my sufferings; for the more I see things\nappear hopeless, the more do I hope for the conversion of that city by\na way known to Thee only.\n\nFather La Combe has told me since, that he had a strong impulse to\nwrite to me, not to engage with the New Catholics. He believed it not\nto be the will of the Lord concerning me; but he omitted doing it. As\nto my director, M. Bertot, he died four months before my departure. I\nhad some intimations of his death, and it seemed as if he bequeathed me\na portion of his spirit to help his children.\n\nI was seized with a fear, that the check I had felt, at giving so\nlargely in favor of the New Catholics, what I had designed for Geneva,\nwas a stratagem of nature, which does not love to be stripped. I wrote\nto Sister Garnier to get a contract drawn up according to my first\nmemorial. God permitted me to commit this fault, to make me the more\nsensible of His protection over me.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\n\nI went off, in a strange renunciation, and in great simplicity,\nscarcely able to render the reason why I should in such a manner quit\nmy family, which I most tenderly love, being without any positive\nassurance, yet hoping even against hope itself. I went to the New\nCatholics at Paris, where Providence wrought wonders to conceal me.\nThey sent for the notary, who had drawn up the contract of engagement.\nWhen he read it to me, I felt such a repugnance to it, that I could not\nbear to hear it to the end, much less sign it. The notary wondered and\nmuch more so when Sister Garnier came in, and told him, that there\nneeded no contract of engagement. I was enabled through divine\nassistance, to put my affairs in very good order, and to write sundry\nletters by the inspiration of the Spirit of God, and not by my own.\nThis was what I had never experienced before. It was given me at that\ntime only as a beginning, and has since been granted me much more\nperfectly.\n\nI had two domestics, whom it was very difficult for me to discharge, as\nI did not think to take them with me. If I had left them, they would\nhave told of my departure; and I should have been sent after. I was\nwhen it became known. But God so ordered it that they were willing to\nfollow me. They were of no use to me, and soon after turned into\nFrance. I took with me only my daughter, and two maids to serve us\nboth. We set off in a boat upon the river, though I had taken places in\nthe stage-coach, in order that, if they searched for me in the coach,\nthey might not find me. I went to Melun to wait for it there.\n\nIt was surprising that in this boat the child could not forbear making\ncrosses, employing a person to cut rushes for her to use for that\npurpose. She then put around, and all over me, above three hundred of\nthem. I let her do it, and inwardly apprehended that it was not without\nits meaning. I felt an interior certainty that I was going to meet with\ncrosses in abundance and that this child was sowing the cross for me to\nreap it. Sister Garnier, who saw that they could not restrain her from\ncovering me with crosses, said to me, \"What that child does appears to\nbe significant.\" Turning to the little girl, she said, \"Give me some\ncrosses, too, my pretty pet.\" \"No,\" she replied, \"they are all for my\ndear mother.\" Soon she gave her one to stop her importunity, then\ncontinued putting more on me; after which she desired some\nriver-flowers, which floated on the water, to be given her. Braiding a\ngarland she put it on my head, and said to me, \"After the cross you\nshall be crowned.\" I admired all this in silence, and offered myself up\nto the pure love of God, as a victim, free and willing to be sacrificed\nto Him.\n\nSome time before my departure, a particular friend, a true servant of\nGod, related to me a vision she had respecting me. \"She saw my heart\nsurrounded with thorns; that our Lord appeared in it well pleased;\nthat, though the thorns seemed likely to tear it, yet, instead of doing\nthat, they only rendered it fairer, and our Lord's approbation the\nstronger.\"\n\nAt Corbeil, (a little town on the river Seine, sixteen miles south of\nParis,) I met with the priest whom God had first made use of so\npowerfully to draw me to His love. He approved of my design to leave\nall for the Lord; but he thought I should not be well suited with the\nNew Catholics. He told me some things about them, to show that our\nleadings were incompatible. He cautioned me not to let them know that I\nwalked in the inward path. If I did, I must expect nothing but\npersecution from them. But it is in vain to contrive to hide, when God\nsees it best for us to suffer, and when our wills are utterly resigned\nto Him, and totally passed into His.\n\nWhile at Paris I gave the New Catholics all the money I had. I reserved\nnot to myself a single penny, rejoicing to be poor after the example of\nJesus Christ. I brought from home nine thousand livres. As by my\ndonation I had reserved nothing to myself and by a contract lent them\nsix thousand; this six thousand has returned to my children but none of\nit to me. That gives me no trouble; poverty, thus procured, constitutes\nmy riches. The rest I gave entirely to the sisters that were with us,\nas well to supply their traveling expenses, for the purchase of\nfurniture. I did not reserve so much as my linen for my own use,\nputting it in the common fund. I had neither a locked coffer, nor\npurse. I had brought but little linen for fear of mistrust. In wanting\nto carry off clothes I should have been discovered. My persecutors did\nnot fail to report that I had brought great sums from home, which I had\nimprudently expended, and given to the friends of Father La Combe.\nFalse as I had not a penny. On my arrival at Annecy a poor man was\nasking alms. I, having nothing else, gave him the buttons from my\nsleeves. At another time I gave a poor man a little plain ring, in the\nname of Jesus Christ. I had worn it as a token of marriage with Him.\n\nWe joined the flying stage at Melun where I left Sister Garnier. I went\non with the other sisters with whom I had no acquaintance. The\ncarriages were very fatiguing; I got no sleep through so long a\njourney. My daughter, a very tender child, only five years of age, got\nscarcely any. We bore great fatigue without falling sick by the way. My\nchild had not an hour's uneasiness, although she was only three hours\nin bed every night. At another time half this fatigue, or even the want\nof rest, would have thrown me into a fit of sickness. God only knows\nboth the sacrifices which He induced me to make, and the joy of my\nheart in offering up everything to Him. Had I kingdoms and empires, I\nthink I would yield them up with still more joy, to give Him the higher\nmarks of my love.\n\nAs soon as we arrived at the inn, I went to church and stayed there\ntill dinner time. In the coach, my divine Lord communed with me, and in\nme, in a manner which the others could not comprehend, indeed not\nperceive. The cheerfulness I showed in the greatest dangers encouraged\nthem. I even sang hymns of joy at finding myself disengaged from the\nriches, honors and entanglements of the world. God in such a manner\nprotected us. He seemed to be to us \"a pillar of fire by night, and a\npillar of a cloud by day.\" We passed over a very dangerous spot between\nLyons and Chamberry. Our carriage broke as we were coming out of it.\nHad it happened a little sooner, we would have perished.\n\nWe arrived at Annecy on Magdalene's eve, 1681. On Magdalene's day the\nBishop of Geneva performed divine service for us, at the tomb of St.\nFrancis de Sales. There I renewed my spiritual marriage with my\nRedeemer, as I did every year on this day. There also I felt a sweet\nremembrance of that saint, with whom our Lord gives me a singular\nunion. I say union, for it appears to me that the soul in God is united\nwith saints, the more so in proportion as they are conformable to Him.\nIt is a union which it pleases God sometimes to revive after death, and\nawaken in the soul for His own glory. At such times departed saints are\nrendered more intimately present to that soul in God; and this revival\nis as it were an holy intercourse of friend with friend, in Him who\nunites them all in one immortal tie.\n\nThat day we left Annecy, and on the next went to prayers at Geneva. I\nhad much joy at the communion. It seemed to me as if God more\npowerfully united me to Himself. There I prayed to Him for the\nconversion of that great people. That evening we arrived late at Gex,\nwhere we found only bare walls. The Bishop of Geneva had assured me\nthat the house was furnished; undoubtedly he believed it to be. We\nlodged at the house of the sisters of charity, who were so kind as to\ngive us their beds.\n\nI was in great pain of mind for my daughter, who visibly lost weight. I\nhad a strong desire to place her with the Ursulines at Tonon. My heart\nwas so affected on her behalf, that I could not forbear weeping in\nsecret for her. Next day I said, \"I would take my daughter to Tonon,\nand leave her there, till I should see how we might be accommodated.\"\nThey opposed it strongly, after a manner which seemed very hard-hearted\nas well as ungrateful, seeing she was a skeleton. I looked upon the\nchild as a victim whom I had imprudently sacrificed. I wrote to Father\nLa Combe, entreating him to come and see me, to consult together about\nit. I thought I could not in conscience keep her in this place any\nlonger. Several days passed without my having any answer. In the\nmeantime I became resigned to the will of God, whether to have succor\nor not.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\n\nOur Lord took pity on the lamentable condition of my daughter, and so\nordered it, that the Bishop of Geneva wrote to Father La Combe, to come\nas speedily as possible to see us, and to console us. As soon as I saw\nthat father, I was surprised to feel an interior grace, which I may\ncall communication; such as I had never had before with any person. It\nseemed to me that an influence of grace came from him to me, through\nthe innermost of the soul; returned from me to him, in such a way that\nhe felt the same effect. Like a tide of grace it caused a flux and\nreflux, flowing on into the divine and invisible ocean. This is a pure\nand holy union, which God alone operates, and which has still\nsubsisted, and even increased. It is an union exempt from all weakness,\nand from all self-interest. It causes those who are blessed with it to\nrejoice in beholding themselves, as well as those beloved, laden with\ncrosses and afflictions--an union which has no need of the presence of\nthe body. At certain times absence makes not more absent, nor presence\nmore present; a union unknown to men, but such as are come to\nexperience it. It can never be experienced but between such souls as\nare united to God. As I never before felt a union of this sort with any\none, it then appeared to me quite new. I had no doubt of its being from\nGod; so far from turning the mind from Him, it tended to draw it more\ndeeply into Him. It dissipated all my pains, and established me in the\nmost profound peace.\n\nGod gave him at first much openness of mind toward me. He related to me\nthe mercies God had shown him, and several extraordinary things, which\ngave me at first some fear. I suspected some illusion, especially in\nsuch things as flatter in regard to the future; little imagining that\nGod would make use of me to draw him from this state and bring him into\nthat naked faith. But the grace, which flowed from Him into my soul,\nrecovered me from that fear. I saw that it was joined with\nextraordinary humility. Far from being elevated with the gifts which\nGod had liberally conferred upon him, or with his own profound\nlearning, no person could have a lower opinion of himself than he had.\nHe told me as to my daughter, it would be best for me to take her to\nTonon, where he thought she would be very well situated. As to myself,\nafter I had mentioned to him my dislike to the manner of life of the\nNew Catholics, he told me, that he did not think it would be my proper\nplace to be long with them. It would be best for me to stay there, free\nfrom all engagements, till God, by the guidance of His Providence,\nshould make known to me how he would dispose of me, and draw my mind to\nthe place whither he would have me remove. I had already begun to awake\nregularly at midnight, in order to pray. I awoke with these words\nsuddenly put in my mind, \"It is written of me, I will do thy will, O my\nGod.\" This was accompanied with the most pure, penetrating, and\npowerful communication of grace that I had ever experienced. Though the\nstate of my soul was already permanent in newness of life; yet this new\nlife was not in that immutability in which it has been since. It was a\nbeginning life and a rising day, which goes on increasing unto the full\nmeridian; a day never followed by night; a life which fears death no\nmore, not even in death itself; because he who has suffered the first\ndeath, shall no more be hurt of the second. From midnight I continued\non my knees, till four o'clock in the morning, in prayer, in a sweet\nintercourse with God, and did the same also the night following.\n\nThe next day, after prayers, Father La Combe told me, that he had a\nvery great certainty, that I was a stone which God designed for the\nfoundation of some great building. What that building was he knew no\nmore than I. After whatever manner then it is to be, whether His divine\nMajesty will make use of me in this life, for some design known to\nhimself only, or will make me one of the stones of the new and heavenly\nJerusalem, it seems to me that such stone cannot be polished, but by\nthe strokes of the hammer. Our Lord has given to this soul of mine the\nqualities of the stone, firmness, resignation, insensibility, and power\nto endure hardness under the operations of His hand.\n\nI carried my little daughter to the Ursulines at Tonon. That child took\na great fondness for Father La Combe, saying, \"He is a good father, one\nfrom God.\" Here I found a hermit, whom they called Anselm. He was a\nperson of the most extraordinary sanctity that had appeared for some\ntime. He was from Geneva; God had miraculously drawn him from thence,\nat twelve years of age. He had at nineteen years of age taken the habit\nof hermit of St. Augustine. He and another lived alone in a little\nhermitage, where they saw nobody but such as came to visit their\nchapel. He had lived twelve years in this hut, never eating anything\nbut pulse with salt, and sometimes oil. Three times a week he lived on\nbread and water. He never drank wine, and generally took but one meal\nin twenty-four hours. He wore for a shirt a coarse hair cloth, and\nlodged on the bare ground. He lived in a continual state of prayer, and\nin the greatest humility. God had done by him many signal miracles.\n\nThis good hermit had a great sense of the designs of God on Father La\nCombe and me. But God showed him at the same time that strange crosses\nwere preparing for us both; that we were both destined for the aid of\nsouls. I did not find, as I expected, any suitable place for my\ndaughter at Tonon. I thought myself like Abraham, when going to\nsacrifice his son. Father La Combe said, \"Welcome, daughter of\nAbraham!\" I found little encouragement to leave her and could not keep\nher with myself, because we had no room. The little girls, whom they\ntook to make Catholics, were all mixed and had contracted habits as\nwere pernicious. To leave her there I thought not right. The language\nof the country, where scarce anyone understood French, and the food,\nwhich she could not take, being far different from ours, were great\nhardships. All my tenderness for her was awakened, and I looked on\nmyself as her destroyer. I experienced what Hagar suffered when she put\naway her son Ishmael in the desert that she might not be forced to see\nhim perish. I thought that even if I had ventured to expose myself, I\nought at least to have spared my daughter. The loss of her education,\neven of her life, appeared to me inevitable. Everything looked dark in\nregard to her.\n\nWith her natural disposition and fine qualities, she might have\nattracted admiration, if educated in France, and been likely to have\nsuch offers of marriage, as she could never hope to meet with in this\npoor country; in which, if she should recover, she would never be\nlikely to be fit for anything. Here she could eat nothing of what was\noffered her. All her subsistence was a little unpleasant and\ndisagreeable broth, which I forced her to take against her will. I\nseemed like a second Abraham, holding the knife over her to destroy\nher. Our Lord would have me make a sacrifice to Him, without any\nconsolation, and plunged in sorrow, night was the time in which I gave\nvent to it. He made me see, on one side the grief of her grandmother,\nif she should hear of her death, which she would impute to my taking\nthe child away from her; the great reproach, it would be accounted\namong all the family. The gifts of nature she was endowed with were now\nlike pointed darts which pierced me. I believe that God so ordered it\nto purify me from too human an attachment still in me. After I returned\nfrom the Ursulines at Tonon, they changed her manner of diet, and gave\nher what was suitable; in a short time she recovered.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\n\nAs soon as it was known in France that I was gone there was a general\noutcry. Father de la Mothe wrote to me, that all persons of learning\nand of piety united in censuring me. To alarm me still more, he\ninformed me that my mother-in-law, with whom I had entrusted my younger\nson and my children's substance, was fallen into a state of childhood.\nThis, however, was false.\n\nI answered all these fearful letters as the Spirit dictated. My answers\nwere thought very just, and those violent exclamations were soon\nchanged into applauses. Father La Mothe appeared to change his censures\ninto esteem; but it did not last. Self interest threw him back again;\nbeing disappointed in his hopes of a pension, which he expected I would\nhave settled on him. Sister Garnier, whatever was her reason, changed\nand declared against me.\n\nI both ate and slept little. The food which was given us was putrid and\nfull of worms, by reason of the great heat of the weather, also being\nkept too long. What I should have formerly beheld with the greatest\nabhorrence, now became my only nourishment. Yet everything was rendered\neasy to me. In God I found, without increase, everything which I had\nlost for Him. That spirit, which I once thought I had lost in a strange\nstupidity, was restored to me with inconceivable advantages. I was\nastonished at myself. I found there was nothing which I was not fit for\nor in which I did not succeed. Those who observed said that I had a\nprodigious capacity. I well knew that I had but meager capabilities,\nbut that in God my spirit had received a quality which it had never had\nbefore. I thought I experienced something of the state which the\napostles were in, after they had received the Holy Ghost. I knew, I\ncomprehended, I understood, I was enabled to do everything necessary. I\nhad every sort of good thing and no want of anything. When Jesus\nChrist, the eternal wisdom, is formed in the soul, after the death of\nthe first Adam, it finds in Him all good things communicated to it.\n\nSometime after my arrival at Gex, the Bishop of Geneva came to see us.\nHe was so clearly convinced, and so much affected, that he could not\nforbear expressing it. He opened his heart to me on what God had\nrequired of him. He confessed to me his own deviations and\ninfidelities. Every time when I spoke to him he entered into what I\nsaid, and acknowledged it to be the truth. Indeed it was the Spirit of\ntruth which inspired me to speak to him, without which I should be only\na mere simpleton. Yet as soon as those persons spoke to him, who sought\nfor pre-eminence, and who could not suffer any good but what came from\nthemselves, he was so weak as to be imposed on with impressions against\nthe truth. This weakness has hindered him from doing all the good which\notherwise he might have done.\n\nAfter I had spoken to him, he said that he had it in his mind to give\nme Father La Combe for director; he was a man illuminated of God, who\nwell understood the inward path, and had a singular gift of pacifying\nsouls. Greatly was I rejoiced when the Bishop appointed him, seeing\nthereby his authority united with the grace which already seemed to\nhave given him to me, by a union and effusion of supernatural life and\nlove. The fatigues I had, and watchings with my daughter, threw me into\na violent sickness attended with exquisite pain. The physicians judged\nme in danger, yet the sisters of the house quite neglected me;\nespecially the stewardess. She was so penurious, that she did not give\nme what was necessary to sustain life. I had not a penny to help myself\nwith, as I had reserved nothing to myself. Besides, they received all\nthe money which was remitted to me from France, which was very\nconsiderable. I practiced poverty and was in necessity even among those\nto whom I had given all. They wrote to Father La Combe, desiring him to\ncome to me, as I was so extremely ill. Hearing of my condition he was\nso touched with compassion as to walk on foot all night. He traveled\nnot otherwise, endeavoring in that, as in everything else, to imitate\nour Lord Jesus Christ.\n\nAs soon as he entered the house my pains abated; when he had prayed and\nblessed me, laying his hand on my head, I was perfectly cured, to the\ngreat astonishment of my physicians; who were not willing to\nacknowledge the miracle.\n\nThese sisters advised me to return to my daughter. Father La Combe\nreturned with me. A violent storm arose on the Lake, which made me very\nsick, and seemed likely to upset the boat. But the hand of Providence\nremarkably appeared in our favor; so much so, that it was taken notice\nof by the mariners and passengers. They looked upon Father La Combe as\na saint. We arrived at Tonon, where I found myself so perfectly\nrecovered, that, instead of making and using the remedies I had\nproposed, I went into a retreat, and stayed twelve days. Here I made\nvows of perpetual chastity, poverty and obedience, covenanting to obey\nwhatever I should believe to be the will of God also to obey the\nchurch, and to honor Jesus Christ in such a manner as He pleased.\n\nAt this time I found that I had the perfect chastity of love to the\nLord, it being without any reserve, division, or view of interest.\nPerfect poverty, by the total privation of everything that was mine,\nboth inwardly and outwardly. Perfect obedience to the will of the Lord,\nsubmission to the church, and honor to Jesus Christ in loving Himself\nonly; the effect of which soon appeared. When by the loss of ourselves\nwe are passed into the Lord, our will is made one and the same with\nthat of the Lord, according to the prayer of Christ, \"As thou Father\nart in me, and I in thee, grant that they also may be one of us.\" John\n17:21. Oh, but it is then that the will is rendered marvelous, both\nbecause it is made the will of the Lord, which is the greatest of\nmiracles; also because it works wonders in Him. For as it is the Lord\nwho wills in the soul, that will has its effect. Scarcely has it willed\nbut the thing is done.\n\nBut some may say, Why then so many oppressions endured? Why do not\nthese souls, if they have such a power, set themselves free from them?\nWe answer that if they had any will to do anything of that sort,\nagainst divine providence, that would be the will of flesh, or the will\nof man, and not the will of God, John 1:13.\n\nI rose generally at midnight, waking at the proper time; but if I wound\nup my alarm-watch, then I used not to awake in time. I saw that the\nLord had the care of a father and a spouse over me. When I had any\nindisposition, and my body wanted rest, He did not awake me; but at\nsuch times I felt even in my sleep a singular possession of Him. Some\nyears have passed wherein I have had only a kind of half-sleep; but my\nsoul waked the more for the Lord, as sleep seemed to steal from it\nevery other attention. The Lord made it known also to many persons,\nthat He designed me for a mother of great people, but a people simple\nand childlike. They took these intelligences in a literal sense and\nthought it related to some institution or congregation. But it appeared\nto me that the persons whom it would please the Lord that I should win\nover to Him, and to whom I should be as a mother, through His goodness,\nshould have the same union of affection for me as children have for a\nparent, but a union much deeper and stronger; giving me all that was\nnecessary for them, to bring them to walk in the way by which He would\nlead them, as I shall show.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\n\nI would willingly suppress what I am now about to write if anything of\nit were my own, also on account of the difficulty of expressing myself\nas because few souls are capable of understanding divine leadings which\nare so little known, and so little comprehended. I have myself never\nread of anything like it. I shall say something of the interior\ndispositions I was then in, and I shall think my time well employed, if\nit serves you who are willing to be of the number of my children; it\nserves such as are already my children, to induce them to let God\nglorify Himself in them after His manner, and not after their own. If\nthere be anything which they do not comprehend, let them die to\nthemselves. They will find it much easier to learn by experience than\nfrom anything I could say; expression never equals experience.\n\nAfter I had come out of the trying condition I have spoken of I found\nit had purified my soul, instead of blackening it as I had feared. I\npossessed God after a manner so pure, and so immense, as nothing else\ncould equal. In regard to thoughts or desires, all was so clean, so\nnaked, so lost in the divinity, that the soul had no selfish movement,\nhowever plausible or delicate; both the powers of the mind and the very\nsenses being wonderfully purified. Sometimes I was surprised to find\nthat there appeared not one selfish thought. The imagination, formerly\nso restless, now no more troubled me. I had no more perplexity or\nuneasy reflections. The will, being perfectly dead to all its own\nappetites, was become void of every human inclination, both natural and\nspiritual, and only inclined to whatever God pleased, and to whatever\nmanner He pleased. This vastness or enlargedness, which is not bounded\nby anything, however plain or simple it may be, increases every day. My\nsoul in partaking of the qualities of her Spouse seems also to partake\nof His immensity. My prayer was in an openness and singleness\ninconceivable. I was, as it were, borne up on high, out of myself. I\nbelieve God was pleased to bless me with this experience. At the\nbeginning of the new life, He made me comprehend, for the good of other\nsouls, the simplicity and desirableness of this passage of the soul\ninto God.\n\nWhen I went to confess, I felt such an immersion of the soul into Him,\nthat I could scarcely speak. This ascension of the spirit, wherein God\ndraws the soul so powerfully, not into its own inmost recess, but into\nHimself, is not operated till after the death of self. The soul\nactually comes out of itself to pass into its divine object. I call it\ndeath, that is to say, a passage from one thing to another. It is truly\na happy passover for the soul, and its passage into the promised land.\nThe spirit which is created to be united to its divine Origin, has so\npowerful a tendency to Him, that if it were not stopped by a continual\nmiracle, its moving quality would cause the body to be drawn after it\nby reason of its impetuosity and noble assent. But God has given it a\nterrestrial body to serve for a counterpoise. This spirit then, created\nto be united to its Origin, without any medium or interstice, feeling\nitself drawn by its divine object, tends to it with an extreme\nviolence; in such sort that God, suspending for sometime the power\nwhich the body has to hold back the spirit, it follows with ardency.\nWhen it is not sufficiently purified to pass into God, it gradually\nreturns to itself; as the body resumes its own quality, it turns to the\nearth. The saints who have been the most perfect have advanced to that\ndegree, as to have nothing of all this. Some have lost it toward the\nend of their lives, becoming single and pure as the others, because\nthey then had in reality and permanence what they had at first only as\ntransient fruitions, in the time of the prevalence or dominion of the\nbody. It is certain then that the soul, by death to itself, passes into\nits divine Object. This is what I then experienced. I found, the\nfarther I went, the more my spirit was lost in its Sovereign, who\nattracted it more and more to Himself. He was pleased at first that I\nshould know this for the sake of others and not for myself. Indeed He\ndrew my soul more and more into Himself, till it lost itself entirely\nout of sight, and could perceive itself no more. It seemed at first to\npass into Him. As one sees a river pass into the ocean, lose itself in\nit, its water for a time distinguished from that of the sea, till it\ngradually becomes transformed into the same sea, and possesses all its\nqualities; so was my soul lost in God, who communicated to it His\nqualities, having drawn it out of all that it had of its own. Its life\nis an inconceivable innocence, not known or comprehended of those who\nare still shut up in themselves or only live for themselves.\n\nThe joy which such a soul possesses in its God is so great, that it\nexperiences the truth of those words of the royal prophet, \"All they\nwho are in thee, O Lord, are like persons ravished with joy.\" To such a\nsoul the words of our Lord seem to be addressed, \"Your joy no man shall\ntake from you.\" John 16:22. It is as it were plunged in a river of\npeace. Its prayer is continual. Nothing can hinder it from praying to\nGod, or from loving Him. It amply verifies these words in the\nCanticles, \"I sleep but my heart waketh;\" for it finds that even sleep\nitself does not hinder it from praying. Oh, unutterable happiness! Who\ncould ever have thought that a soul, which seemed to be in the utmost\nmisery, should ever find a happiness equal to this? Oh, happy poverty,\nhappy loss, happy nothingness, which gives no less than God Himself in\nHis own immensity, no more circumscribed to the limited manner of the\ncreature, but always drawing it out of that, to plunge it wholly into\nHis own divine essence.\n\nThen the soul knows that all the states of self-pleasing visions,\nopenings, ecstasies and raptures, are rather obstacles; that they do\nnot serve this state which is far above them; because the state which\nhas supports, has pain to lose them; yet cannot arrive at this without\nsuch loss. In this are verified the words of an experienced saint;\n\"When I would,\" says he, \"possess nothing through self-love, everything\nwas given me without going after it.\" Oh, happy dying of the grain of\nwheat, which makes it produce an hundredfold! The soul is then so\npassive, so equally disposed to receive from the hand of God either\ngood or evil, as is astonishing. It receives both the one and the other\nwithout any selfish emotions, letting them flow and be lost as they\ncome. They pass away as if they did not touch.\n\nAfter I finished my retreat with the Ursulines at Tonon, I returned\nthrough Geneva and, having found no other means of conveyance, the\nFrench resident lent me a horse. As I knew not how to ride I made some\ndifficulty of doing it; but as he assured me that it was a very quiet\nhorse, I ventured to mount. There was a sort of a smith, who looking at\nme with a wild haggard look, struck the horse a blow on the back, just\nas I had got upon him, which made him give a leap. He threw me on the\nground with such force that they thought I was killed. I fell on my\ntemple. My cheekbone and two of my teeth were broken. I was supported\nby an invisible hand and in a little time I mounted as well as I could\non another horse and had a man by my side to keep me up.\n\nMy relations left me in peace at Gex. They had heard at Paris of my\nmiraculous cure; it made a great noise there. Many persons in\nreputation for sanctity then wrote to me. I received letters from\nMademoiselle De Lamoignon, and another young lady, who was so moved\nwith my answer, that she sent me a hundred pistoles for our house, and\nlet me know besides that, when we wanted money, I had only to write to\nher; and that she would send me all I could desire. They talked in\nParis of printing an account of the sacrifice I had made, and inserting\nin it the miracle of my sudden recovery. I don't know what prevented\nit; but such is the inconstancy of the creature, that this journey,\nwhich drew upon me at that time so much applause, has served for a\npretext for the strange condemnation which has since passed upon me.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\n\nMy near relations did not signify any eager desire for my return. The\nfirst thing they proposed to me, a month after my arrival at Gex, was\nnot only to give up my guardianship, but to make over all my estate to\nmy children and to reserve an annuity to myself. This proposition,\ncoming from people who regarded nothing but their own interest, to some\nmight have appeared very unpleasing; but it was in no wise so to me. I\nhad not any friend to advise with. I knew not anyone whom I could\nconsult about the manner of executing the thing, as I was quite free\nand willing to do it. It appeared to me that I had now the means of\naccomplishing the extreme desire I had of being conformable to Jesus\nChrist, poor, naked, and stripped of all. They sent me an article to\nexecute, which had been drawn under their inspection, and I innocently\nsigned it, not perceiving some clauses which were inserted therein. It\nexpressed that, when my children should die, I should inherit nothing\nof my own estate, but that it should revolve to my kindred. There were\nmany other things, which appeared to be equally to my disadvantage.\nThough what I had reserved to myself was sufficient to support me in\nthis place; yet it was scarcely enough to do so in some other places. I\nthen gave up my estate with more joy, for being thereby conformed to\nJesus Christ, than they could have who asked it from me. It is what I\nhave never repented of, nor had any uneasiness about. What pleasure to\nlose all for the Lord! The love of poverty, thus contracted, is the\nkingdom of tranquillity.\n\nI forgot to mention that toward the end of my miserable state of\nprivation, when just ready to enter into newness of life, our Lord\nilluminated me so clearly to see that the exterior crosses came from\nHim, that I could not harbor any resentment against the persons who\nprocured me them. On the contrary, I felt the tenderness of compassion\nfor them, and had more pain for those afflictions which I innocently\ncaused to them, than for any which they had heaped upon me. I saw that\nthese persons feared the Lord too much to oppress me as they did, had\nthey known it. I saw His hand in it, and I felt the pain which they\nsuffered, through the contrariety of their humors. It is hard to\nconceive the tenderness which the Lord gave me for them, and the desire\nwhich I have had, with the utmost sincerity, to procure them every sort\nof advantage.\n\nAfter the accident which befell me (fall from the horse) from which I\nsoon wonderfully recovered, the Devil began to declare himself more\nopenly mine enemy, to break loose and become outrageous. One night,\nwhen I least thought of it, something very monstrous and frightful\npresented itself. It seemed a kind face, which was seen by a glimmering\nblueish light. I don't know whether the flame itself composed that\nhorrible face or appearance; for it was so mixed and passed by so\nrapidly, that I could not discern it. My soul rested in its calm\nsituation and assurance, and it appeared no more after that manner. As\nI arose at midnight to pray, I heard frightful noises in my chamber and\nafter I had lain down they were still worse. My bed often shook for a\nquarter of an hour at a time, and the sashes were all burst. Every\nmorning while this continued, they were found shattered and torn, yet I\nfelt no fear. I arose and lighted my wax candle at a lamp which I kept\nin my room, because I had taken the office of sacristan and the care of\nwaking the sisters at the hour they were to rise, without having once\nfailed in it for my indispositions, ever being the first in all the\nobservances. I made use of my little light to look all over the room\nand at the sashes, at the very time the noise was strongest. As he saw\nthat I was afraid of nothing, he left off all on a sudden, and attacked\nme no more in person. But he stirred up men against me, and that\nsucceeded far better with him; for he found them disposed to do what he\nprompted them to, zealously, inasmuch as they counted it a good thing\nto do me the worst of injuries.\n\nOne of the sisters whom I had brought with me, a very beautiful girl,\ncontracted an intimacy with an ecclesiastic, who had authority in this\nplace. At first he inspired her with an aversion for me, being well\nassured that if she placed confidence in me, I should advise her not to\nsuffer his visits so frequently. She was undertaking a religious\nretreat. That ecclesiastic was desirous to induce her to make it, in\norder to gain her entire confidence, which would have served as a cloak\nto his frequent visits. The Bishop of Geneva had given Father La Combe\nfor director to our house. As he was going to cause retreats to be\nmade, I desired her to wait for him. As I had gained some share in her\nesteem, she submitted even against her inclination, which was to have\nmade it under this ecclesiastic. I began to talk to her on the subject\nof inward prayer, and drew her into the practice of this duty. Our Lord\ngave such a blessing thereto, that this girl gave herself to God in\nright earnest, and with her whole heart and the retreat completely won\nher over. She then became more reserved, and on her guard, toward this\necclesiastic, which exceedingly vexed him. It enraged him both against\nFather La Combe and me. This proved the source of the persecutions\nwhich afterward befell me. The noise in my chamber, which may have been\ntraced to him, ended as these commenced.\n\nThis ecclesiastic began to talk privately of me with much contempt. I\nknew it, but took no notice. There came a certain friar to see him, who\nmortally hated Father La Combe, on account of his regularity. These\ncombined together to force me to quit the house, that they might become\nmasters of it. All the means they could devise they used for that\npurpose.\n\nMy manner of life was such, that in the house I did not meddle in\naffairs at all, leaving the sisters to dispose of the temporalities as\nthey pleased. Soon after my entrance into it I received eighteen\nhundred livres, which a lady, a friend of mine, lent me to complete our\nfurniture, which I had repaid her at my late giving up of my estate.\nThis sum they received, as well as what I had before given them. I\nsometimes spoke a little to those who retired thither to become\nCatholics. Our Lord favored with so much benediction what I said to\nthem, that some, whom they knew not before what to make of, became\nsensible, solid women, and exemplary in piety.\n\nI saw crosses in abundance likely to fall to my lot. At the same time\nthese words came, \"Who for the joy that was set before him endured the\ncross.\" Heb. 12:2. I prostrated myself for a long time with my face on\nthe ground, earnestly desiring to receive all thy strokes. Oh, Thou who\nspared not thine own son! Thou couldst find none but Him worthy of\nThee, and thou still findest in Him hearts proper for thee.\n\nA few days after my arrival at Gex, I saw in a sacred and mysterious\ndream (for as such I very well distinguished it) Father La Combe\nfastened up to an enormous cross, stripped in like manner as they paint\nour Saviour. I saw around it a frightful crowd, which covered me with\nconfusion, and threw back on me the ignominy of his punishment. He\nseemed to have most pain, but I more reproaches than he. I have since\nbeheld this fully accomplished.\n\nThe ecclesiastic won over to his party one of our sisters, who was the\nhouse-steward and soon after the prioress. I was very delicate, the\ngood inclination which I had did not give strength to my body. I had\ntwo maids to serve me; yet, as the community had need of one of them\nfor their cook, and the other to attend the door and other occasions, I\ngave them up, not thinking but they would allow them to serve me\nsometimes. Besides this, I let them still receive all my income, they\nhaving had my first half of this year's annuity. Yet they would not\npermit either of my maid-servants, to do anything for me. By my office\nof sacristan I was obliged to sweep the church, which was large, and\nthey would not let anyone help me. I have several times fainted over\nthe broom and have been forced to rest in corners. This obliged me to\nbeg them, that they would suffer it sometimes to be swept by some of\nthe strong country girls, New Catholics, to which at last they had the\ncharity to consent. What most embarrassed me was that I never had\nwashed. I was now obliged to wash all the vestry linen. I took one of\nmy maids to help me, because in attempting it I had done up the linen\nmost awkwardly. These sisters pulled her by the arms out of my chamber,\ntelling her she should do her own work. I let it quietly pass, without\nmaking any objection. The other good sister, the girl I just mentioned,\ngrew more and more fervent. By the practice of prayer in her dedication\nof herself to the Lord she became more and more tender in her sympathy\nwith me. It irritated this ecclesiastic. After all his impotent\nattempts here, he went off to Annecy, in order to sow discord, and to\neffect more mischief to Father La Combe.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\n\nHe went directly to the Bishop of Geneva, who till then had manifested\nmuch esteem and kindness for me. He persuaded him, that it would be\nproper to secure me to that house, to oblige me to give up to it the\nannual income I had reserved to myself; to engage me thereto, by making\nme prioress. He had gained such an ascendancy over the Bishop, that the\npeople in the country called him the Little Bishop. He drew him to\nenter heartily and with zeal into this proposition, and to resolve to\nbring it about whatever it should cost.\n\nThe ecclesiastic, having so far carried his point, and being swelled\nwith his success, no longer kept any measures in regard to me. He began\nwith causing all the letters which I sent, and those which were\ndirected to me, to be stopped. That was in order to have it in his\npower to make what impressions he pleased on the minds of others, and\nthat I should neither be able to know it, nor to defend myself, nor to\ngive or send to my friends any account of the manner in which I was\ntreated. One of the maids I had brought wanted to return. She could\nhave no rest in this place, the other that remained was infirm, too\nmuch taken up by others to help me in anything. As Father La Combe was\nsoon to come, I thought he would soften the violent spirit of this man,\nand that he would give me proper advice.\n\nIn the meantime they proposed to me the engagement, and the post of\nprioress. I answered, that as to the engagement it was impossible for\nme, since my vocation was elsewhere. And I could not regularly be the\nprioress, till after passing through the novitiate, in which they had\nall served two years before their being engaged. When I should have\ndone as much, I should see how God would inspire me. The prioress\nreplied quite tartly, that if I would ever leave them it were best for\nme to do it immediately. Yet I did not offer to retire, but continued\nstill to act as usual. I saw the sky gradually thickening and storms\ngathering on every side. The prioress then affected a milder air. She\nassured me, that she had a desire, as well as I, to go to Geneva; that\nI should not engage, but only promise her to take her with me, if I\nwent thither. She pretended to place a great confidence in me, and\nprofessed a high esteem for me. As I am very free, and have nothing but\nuprightness, I let her know that I had no attraction for the manner of\nlife of the New Catholics, by reason of the intrigues from without.\nSeveral things did not please me, because I wanted them to be upright\nin everything. She signified that she did not consent to such things,\nbut because that ecclesiastic told her they were necessary to give the\nhouse a credit in distant parts and to draw charities from Paris. I\nanswered that if we walked uprightly God would never fail us. He would\nsooner do miracles for us. I remarked to her that when, instead of\nsincerity, they had recourse to artifice, charity grew cold, and kept\nherself shut up. It is God alone who inspires charity; how, then, is it\nto be drawn by disguises?\n\nSoon after, Father La Combe came about the retreats. This was the third\nand last time that he came to Gex. This prioress, after she had been\ntampering a good deal with me, having written him a long letter before\nhis coming, and received his answer, which she showed me, now went to\nask him whether she would one day be united to me at Geneva. He\nanswered with his usual uprightness, \"Our Lord has made it known to me\nthat you shall never be established at Geneva.\" Soon after she died.\nWhen he had uttered this declaration, she appeared enraged against both\nhim and me. She went directly to that ecclesiastic, who was in a room\nwith the house-steward; and they took their measures together, to\noblige me either to engage or retire. They thought that I would sooner\nengage than retire, and they watched my letters.\n\nWith a design to lay snares for him, he requested Father La Combe to\npreach. He did on this text \"The King's daughter is beautiful within.\"\nThat ecclesiastic, who was present with his confidant, said that it was\npreached against him, and was full of errors. He drew up eight\npropositions, and inserted in them what the other had not preached,\nadjusting them as maliciously as ever he could, then sent them to one\nof his friends in Rome, to get them examined by the Sacred\nCongregation, and by the Inquisition. Though he had very illy digested\nthem, at Rome they were pronounced good. That greatly disappointed and\nvexed him. After having been treated in this manner, and opprobriously\nreviled by him in the most offensive terms, the Father, with much\nmildness and humility, told him that he was going to Annecy about some\naffairs of the convent. If he had anything to write to the Bishop of\nGeneva, he would take care of his letter. He then desired him to wait\nawhile, as he was going to write. The good Father had the patience to\nwait above three hours, without hearing from him; though he had treated\nhim exceedingly ill, so far as to snatch out of his hands a letter I\nhad given him for that worthy hermit I have mentioned. Hearing he was\nnot gone, but was still in the church, I went to him, and begged him to\nsend to see if the other's packet was ready. The day was so far gone\nthat he would be obliged to lodge by the way. When the messenger\narrived, he found a servant of the ecclesiastic on horseback, ordered\nto go at full speed, to be at Annecy before the Father. He then\nreturned an answer, that he had no letters to send by him. This was so\ncontrived, that he might gain time to prepossess the Bishop for his\npurposes. Father La Combe then set off for Annecy, and on his arrival\nfound the Bishop prepossessed, and in an ill humor. This was the\nsubstance of the discourse.\n\nBISHOP--You must absolutely engage this lady to give what she has to\nthe house at Gex, and make her the prioress of it.\n\nF. LA COMBE--My lord, you know what she has told you herself of her\nvocation, both at Paris and in this country. I therefore do not believe\nthat she will engage; nor is there any likelihood that, after quitting\nher all, in the hope of entering Geneva, she should engage elsewhere,\nand thereby put it out of her power to accomplish the designs of God in\nregard to her. She has offered to stay with those sisters as a boarder.\nIf they are willing to keep her as such, she will remain with them; if\nnot, she is resolved to retire into some convent, till God shall\ndispose of her otherwise.\n\nBISHOP--I know all that; but I likewise know that she is so very\nobedient, that, if you order her, she will assuredly do it.\n\nF. LA COMBE--It is for that reason, my lord, that one ought to be very\ncautious in the commands which they lay on her. Can I induce a foreign\nlady, who, for all her subsistence, has nothing but a small pittance\nshe has reserved to herself, to give that up in favor of a house which\nis not yet established, and perhaps never will be? If the house should\nhappen to fail, or be no longer of use, what shall that lady live on?\nShall she go to the hospital? And indeed this house will not long be of\nany use, since there are no Protestants in any part of France near it.\n\nBISHOP--These reasons are good for nothing. If you do not make her do\nwhat I have said, I will degrade and suspend you.\n\nThis manner of speaking somewhat surprised the Father. He well enough\nunderstands the rules of suspension, which is not executed on such\nthings. He replied:\n\n\"My lord, I am ready, not only to suffer the suspension, but even\ndeath, rather than do anything against my conscience.\" Having said\nthat, he retired.\n\nHe directly sent me this account by an express, to the end that I might\ntake proper measures. I had no other course to take but to retire into\na convent. I received a letter informing me that the nun to whom I had\nentrusted my daughter had fallen sick, and desiring me to go to her for\nsome time. I showed this letter to the sisters of our house, telling\nthem that I had a mind to go; but if they ceased to persecute me, and\nwould leave Father La Combe in peace, I would return as soon as the\nmistress of my daughter should be recovered. Instead of this, they\npersecuted me more violently, wrote to Paris against me, stopped all my\nletters, and sent libels against me around the country.\n\nThe day after my arrival at Tonon, Father La Combe set off for the\nvalley of Aoust, to preach there in Lent. He had come to take leave of\nme, and told me that he should go from thence to Rome, and perhaps not\nreturn, as his superiors might detain him there; that he was sorry to\nleave me in a strange country, without succor, and persecuted of\neveryone. I replied, \"My father, that gives me no pain; I use the\ncreatures for God, and by His order. Through His mercy, I do very well\nwithout them, when He withdraws them. I am very well contented never to\nsee you, and to abide under persecution, if such be His will.\" He said\nhe would go well satisfied to see me in such a disposition, and then\ndeparted.\n\nAs soon as I got to the Ursulines, a very aged and pious priest, who\nfor twenty years past had not come out of his solitude, came to find\nme. He told me that he had a vision relative to me; that he had seen a\nwoman in a boat on the lake; and that the Bishop of Geneva, with some\nof his priests, exerted all their efforts to sink the boat she was in,\nand to drown her; that he continued in this vision above two hours,\nwith pain of mind; that it seemed sometimes as if this woman were quite\ndrowned, as for some time she quite disappeared; but afterward she\nappeared again, and ready to escape the danger, while the Bishop never\nceased to pursue her. This woman was always equally calm; but he never\nsaw her entirely free from him. From whence I conclude, added he, that\nthe Bishop will persecute you without intermission.\n\nI had an intimate friend, wife of that governor of whom I have made\nsome mention. As she saw I had quitted everything for God, she had a\nwarm desire to follow me. With diligence did she dispose of all her\neffects and settle her affairs in order to come to me; but when she\nheard of the persecution, she was discouraged from coming to a place,\nfrom whence she thought I should be obliged to retire. Soon after she\ndied.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\n\nAfter Father La Combe was gone, the persecution raised against me\nbecame more violent. But the Bishop of Geneva still showed me some\ncivilities, as well to try whether he could prevail on me to do what he\ndesired, as to sound out how matters passed in France, and to prejudice\nthe minds of the people there against me, preventing me from receiving\nthe letters sent me. The ecclesiastic and his family had twenty-two\nintercepted letters, opened, on their table. There was one wherein was\nsent me a power of attorney to sign, of immediate consequence. They\nwere obliged to put it under another cover, and send it to me. The\nbishop wrote to Father La Mothe, and had no difficulty to draw him into\nhis party. He was displeased with me on two accounts. First, that I had\nnot settled on him a pension, as he expected, and as he told me very\nroughly several times. Second, I did not take his advice in everything.\nHe at once declared against me. The bishop made him his confidant. It\nwas he who uttered and spread abroad the news about me. They imagined,\nas was supposed, that I would annul the donation I had made, if I\nreturned; that, having the support of friends in France, I would find\nthe means of breaking it; but in that they were much mistaken. I had no\nthought of loving anything but the poverty of Jesus Christ. For some\ntime yet, the Father acted with caution toward me. He wrote me some\nletters, which he addressed to the Bishop of Geneva, and they agreed so\ntogether, that he was the only person from whom I received any letters,\nto which I returned very moving answers. He, instead of being touched\nwith them, became only more irritated against me.\n\nThe bishop continued to treat me with a show of respect; yet at the\nsame time he wrote to many persons in Paris, as did also the sisters of\nthe house, to all those persons of piety who had written letters to me,\nto bias them as much as possible against me. To avoid the blame which\nought naturally to fall upon them for having so unworthily treated a\nperson who have given up everything to devote herself to the service of\nthat diocese. After I had done this, and was not in a condition to\nreturn to France, they treated me extremely ill in every respect. There\nwas scarcely any kind of false or fabulous story, likely to gain any\ncredit, which they did not invent to cry me down. Beside my having no\nway to make the truth known in France, our Lord inspired me with a\nwillingness to suffer everything, without justifying myself; so that in\nmy case nothing was heard but condemnation, without any vindication.\n\nI was in this convent, and had seen Father La Combe no further than I\nhave mentioned; yet they did not cease to publish, both of him and me,\nthe most scandalous stories; as utterly false as anything could be, for\nhe was then a hundred and fifty leagues from me.\n\nFor some time I was ignorant of this. As I knew that all my letters\nwere kept from me, I ceased to wonder at receiving none. I lived in\nthis house with my little daughter in a sweet repose, which was a very\ngreat favor of Providence. My daughter had forgotten her French, and\namong the little girls from the mountains had contracted a wild look\nand disagreeable manners. Her wit, sense and judgment, were indeed\nsurprising, and her disposition exceedingly good. There were only some\nlittle fits of peevishness, which they had caused to arise in her,\nthrough certain contrarieties out of season, caresses ill applied, and\nfor want of knowing the proper manner of education. But the Lord\nprovided in regard to her. During this time my mind was preserved calm\nand resigned to God. Afterward that good sister almost continually\ninterrupted me; I answered everything she desired of me, both out of\ncondescension, and from a principle which I had to obey like a child.\n\nWhen I was in my apartment, without any other director than our Lord by\nHis Spirit, as soon as one of my little children came to knock at my\ndoor, he required me to admit the interruption. He showed me that it is\nnot the actions in themselves which please Him, but the constant ready\nobedience to every discovery of His will, even in the minutest things,\nwith such a suppleness, as not to stick to anything, but still to turn\nwith Him at every call. My soul was then, I thought, like a leaf, or a\nfeather, which the wind moves what way soever it pleases and the Lord\nnever suffers a soul so dependent upon, and dedicated to Him, to be\ndeceived.\n\nMost men appear to me very unjust, when they readily resign themselves\nto another man, and look upon that as prudence. They confide in men who\nare nothing, and boldly say, \"Such a person cannot be deceived.\" But if\none speaks of a soul wholly resigned to God, which follows him\nfaithfully, they cry aloud, \"That person is deceived with his\nresignation.\" Oh, divine Love! Dost thou want either strength,\nfidelity, love, or wisdom, to conduct those who trust in thee and who\nare thy dearest children? I have seen men bold enough to say, \"Follow\nme, and you shall not be misled.\" How sadly are those men misled\nthemselves by their presumption! How much sooner should I go to him who\nwould be afraid of misleading me; who trusting neither to his learning\nnor experience, would rely upon God only!\n\nOur Lord showed me, in a dream, two ways by which souls steer their\ncourse, under the figure of two drops of water. The one appeared to me\nof an unparalleled beauty, brightness and purity; the other to have\nalso a brightness, yet full of little streaks; both good to quench\nthirst; the former altogether pleasant, but the latter not so perfectly\nagreeable. By the former is represented the way of pure and naked\nfaith, which pleases the Spouse much, it is so pure, so clear from all\nself-love. The way of emotions or gifts is not so; yet it is that in\nwhich many enlightened souls walk, and into which they had drawn Father\nLa Combe. But God showed me, that He had given him to me, to draw him\ninto one more pure and perfect. I spoke before the sisters, he being\npresent, of the way of faith, how much more glorious it was to God, and\nadvantageous for the soul, than all those gifts, emotions and\nassurances, which ever cause us to live to self. This discouraged them\nat first and him also. I saw they were pained, as they have confessed\nto me since. I said no more of it at that time. But, as he is a person\nof great humility, he bid me unfold what I had wanted to say to him. I\ntold him a part of my dream of the two drops of water; yet, he did not\nthen enter into what I said, the time for it being not yet come. When\nhe came to Gex, it was to make the retreats. I told him the\ncircumstances of a certain time past; he recollected that it was the\ntime of so extraordinary a touch with which the Lord favored him, that\nhe was quite overwhelmed with contrition. This gave him such an\ninterior renovation, that having retired to pray, in a very ardent\nframe of mind, he was filled with joy, and seized with a powerful\nemotion, which made him enter into what I had told him of the way of\nfaith. I give these things, as they happen to come to my remembrance,\nwithout carrying them on in order.\n\nAfter Easter, in 1682, the bishop came to Tonon. I had occasion to\nspeak to him, which when I had done, our Lord so pointed my words that\nhe appeared thoroughly convinced. But the persons who had influenced\nhim before returned. He then pressed me very much to return to Gex and\nto take the place of Prioress. I gave him the reasons against it. I\nthen appealed to him, as a bishop, desiring him to take care to regard\nnothing but God in what he should say to me. He was struck into a kind\nof confusion; and then said to me, \"Since you speak to me in such a\nmanner, I cannot advise you to it. It is not for us to go contrary to\nour vocations; but do good, I pray you, to this house.\" I promised him\nto do it. Having received my pension, I sent them a hundred pistoles,\nwith a design of doing the same as long as I should be in the diocese.\nThe bishop said to me, \"I love Father La Combe. He is a true servant of\nGod and he has told me many things to which I was forced to assent for\nI felt them in myself. But,\" added he, \"when I say so, they tell me I\nam mistaken, and that before the end of six months he will run mad.\" He\ntold me, \"he approved of the nuns, which had been under the care and\ninstruction of Father La Combe, finding them to come up fully to what\nhe had heard of them.\" From thence I took occasion to tell him \"that in\neverything he ought to refer himself to his own breast, or to the\ninstructions there immediately received, and not to others.\" He agreed\nto what I said, and acknowledged it to be right; yet no sooner was he\nreturned, than, so great was his weakness that he re-entered into his\nformer dispositions. He sent the same ecclesiastic to tell me that I\nmust engage myself at Gex; that it was his sentiment. I answered, that\nI was determined to follow the counsel he had given me, when he had\nspoken to me as from God, since now they made him speak only as man.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\n\nMy soul was in a state of entire resignation and very great content, in\nthe midst of such violent tempests. Those persons came to tell me a\nhundred extravagant stories against Father La Combe. The more they said\nto me to his disadvantage, the more esteem I felt for him. I answered\nthem, \"Perhaps I may never see him again, but I shall ever be glad to\ndo him justice. It is not he who hinders me from engaging at Gex. It is\nonly because I know it to be none of my vocation.\" They asked me, \"Who\ncould know that better than the bishop?\" They further told me, \"I was\nunder a deception, and my state was good for nothing.\" This gave me no\nuneasiness, having referred to God the care of requiring, and of\nexacting what He requires, and in whatever manner He demands it.\n\nA soul in this state seeks nothing for itself, but all for God. Some\nmay say, \"What, then, does this soul?\" It leaves itself to be conducted\nby God's providences and creatures. Outwardly, its life seems quite\ncommon; inwardly, it is wholly resigned to the divine will. The more\neverything appears adverse, and even desperate, the more calm it is, in\nspite of the annoyance and pain of the senses and of the creatures,\nwhich, for some time after the new life, raise some clouds and\nobstructions, as I have already signified. But when the soul is\nentirely passed into its original Being, all these things no more cause\nany separation or partition. It finds no more of that impurity which\ncame from self-seeking, from a human manner of acting, from an\nunguarded word, from any warm emotion or eagerness, which caused such a\nmist, as it then could neither prevent nor remedy, having so often\nexperienced its own efforts, to be useless, and even hurtful, as they\ndid nothing else but sill more and more defile it. There is in such\ncase no other way or means of remedy, but in waiting till the Sun of\nRighteousness dissipate those fogs. The whole work of purification\ncomes from God only. Afterward this conduct becomes natural; then the\nsoul can say with the royal prophet, \"Though an host should encamp\nagainst me, my heart shall not fear. Though war should rise up against\nme, in him will I confide.\" For then, though assaulted on every side,\nit continues fixed as a rock. Having no will but for what God sees meet\nto order, be it what it may, high or low, great or small, sweet or\nbitter, honor, wealth, life, or any other object, what can shake its\npeace? It is true, our nature is so crafty that it worms itself through\neverything; a selfish sight is like the basilisk's, it destroys.\n\nTrial are suited to the state of the soul, whether conducted by lights,\ngifts, or ecstasies, or by the entire destruction of self in the way of\nnaked faith. Both these states are found in the apostle Paul. He tells\nus, \"And lest I should be exalted above measure, through the abundance\nof revelations, there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the\nmessenger of Satan to buffet me.\" He prayed thrice, and it was said to\nhim, \"My grace is sufficient for thee; for my strength is made perfect\nin weakness.\" He proved also another state when he thus expressed\nhimself, \"Oh, wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the\nbody of this death?\" To which he replies, \"I thank God, it is done\nthrough Jesus Christ our Lord.\" It is He who conquers death in us\nthrough His own life. Then there is no longer a sting in death, or\nthorn in the flesh, capable of paining or hurting any more.\n\nAt first indeed, and for a pretty long time after, the soul sees that\nnature wants to take some part with it in its trials; then its fidelity\nconsists in withholding it, without allowing it the least indulgence,\ntill it leaves everything to go on with God in purity as it comes from\nHim. Till the soul be in this state, it always sullies, by its own\nmixture, the operation of God; like those rivulets which contract the\ncorruption of the places they pass through, but, flowing in a pure\nplace, they then remain in the purity of their source. Unless God\nthrough experience, makes known His guidance to the soul, it can never\ncomprehend it.\n\nOh, if souls had courage enough to resign themselves to the work of\npurification, without having any weak and foolish pity on themselves,\nwhat a noble, rapid and happy progress would they make! But few are\nwilling to lose the earth. If they advance some steps, as soon as the\nsea is ruffled they are dejected; they cast anchor, and often desist\nfrom the prosecution of the voyage. Such disorders doth selfish\ninterest and self-love occasion. It is of consequence not to look too\nmuch at one's own state, not to lose courage, not to afford any\nnourishment to self-love, which is so deep-rooted, that its empire is\nnot easily demolished. Often the idea which a man falsely conceives of\nthe greatness of his advancement in divine experience, makes him want\nto be seen and known of men, and to wish to see the very same\nperfection in others. He conceives too low ideas of others, and too\nhigh of his own state. Then it becomes a pain to him to converse with\npeople too human; whereas, a soul truly mortified and resigned would\nrather converse with the worst, by the order of Providence, than with\nthe best, of its own choice; wanting only to see or to speak to any as\nProvidence directs, knowing well that all beside, far from helping,\nonly hurt it, or at least prove very unfruitful to it.\n\nWhat, then, renders this soul so perfectly content? It neither knows,\nnor wants to know, anything but what God calls it to. Herein it enjoys\ndivine content, after a manner vast, immense, and independent of\nexterior events; more satisfied in its humiliation, and in the\nopposition of all creatures, by the order of Providence, than on the\nthrone of its own choice.\n\nIt is here that the apostolic life begins. But do all reach that state?\nVery few, indeed, as far as I can comprehend. There is a way of lights,\ngifts and graces, a holy life in which the creature appears all\nadmirable. As this life is more apparent, so it is more esteemed of\nsuch, at least, as have not the purest light. The souls which walk in\nthe other path are often very little known, for a length of time, as it\nwas with Jesus Christ Himself, till the last years of His life. Oh, if\nI could but express what I conceive of this state! But I can only\nstammer about it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\n\nBeing, as I have said, with the Ursulines at Tonon, after having spoken\nto the Bishop of Geneva, and seeing how he changed, just as others\nturned him, I wrote to him and to Father La Mothe; but all my efforts\nwere useless. The more I endeavored to accommodate matters, the more\nthe ecclesiastic tried to confound them, hence I ceased to meddle.\n\nOne day I was told that the ecclesiastic had won over the good girl\nwhom I dearly loved. So strong a desire I had for her perfection that\nit had cost me much. I should not have felt the death of a child so\nmuch as her loss; at the same time I was told how to hinder it, but\nthat human way of acting was repugnant to my inward sense; these words\narose in my heart, \"Except the Lord build the house.\"\n\nAnd indeed He provided herein Himself, hindering her from yielding to\nthis deceitful man, after a manner to be admired, and very thwarting to\nthe designs of him and his associates. As long as I was with her she\nstill seemed wavering and fearful; but oh, the infinite goodness of\nGod, to preserve without our aid what without His we should inevitably\nlose! I was no sooner separated from her, but she became immovable.\n\nAs for me, there scarcely passed a day but they treated me with new\ninsults; their assaults came on me at unawares. The New Catholics, by\nthe instigation of the Bishop of Geneva, the ecclesiastic, and the\nsisters at Gex, stirred up all the persons of piety against me. I had\nbut little uneasiness on my own account. If I could have had it at all,\nit would have been on account of Father La Combe, whom they vilely\naspersed, though he was absent. They even made use of his absence, to\noverset all the good he had done in the country, by his missions and\npious labors, which were inconceivably great. At first I was too ready\nto vindicate him, thinking it justice to do it. I did not do it at all\nfor myself; and our Lord showed me that I must cease doing it for him,\nin order to leave him to be more thoroughly annihilated; because from\nthence he would draw a greater glory, than ever he had done from his\nown reputation.\n\nEvery day then invented some new slander. No kind of stratagem, or\nmalicious device in their power, did they omit. They came to surprise\nand ensnare me in my words; but God guarded me so well, that therein\nthey only discovered their own malevolence. I had no consolation from\nthe creatures. She who had the care of my daughter behaved roughly to\nme. Such are the persons who regulate themselves only by their gifts\nand emotions. When they do not see things succeed, and as they regard\nthem only by their success, and are not willing to have the affront of\ntheir pretensions being though uncertain, and liable to mistake, they\nseek without for supports. As for me who pretended to nothing, I\nthought all succeeded well, inasmuch as all tended to self-annihilation.\nOn another side, the maid I had brought, and who stayed with me, grew\ntired out. Wanting to go back again, she stunned me with her complaints,\nthwarting and chiding me from morning till night, upbraiding me with\nwhat I had left, and coming to a place where I was good for nothing.\nI was obliged to bear all her ill-humor and the clamor of her tongue.\n\nMy own brother, Father La Mothe, wrote to me that I was rebel to my\nbishop, staying in his diocese only to give him pain. Indeed, I saw\nthere was nothing for me to do here, so long as the bishop should be\nagainst me. I did what I could to gain his goodwill, but this was\nimpossible on any other terms than the engagement he demanded, and that\nI knew to be my duty not to do. This, joined to the poor education of\nmy daughter, affected my heart. When any glimmering of hope appeared,\nit soon vanished; and I gained strength from a sort of despair.\n\nDuring this time Father La Combe was at Rome, where he was received\nwith so much honor, and his doctrine was so highly esteemed, that the\nSacred Congregation was pleased to take his sentiments on some points\nof doctrine, which were found to be so just, and so clear, that it\nfollowed them. Meanwhile the sister would take no care of my daughter;\nwhen I took care of her she was displeased. I was not able, by any\nmeans, to prevail on her to promise me that she would try to prevent\nher contracting bad habits. However, I hoped that Father La Combe, at\nhis return, would bring everything into order, and renew my\nconsolation. Yet I left it all to God.\n\nAbout July, 1682, my sister, who was an Ursuline, got permission to\ncome. She brought a maid with her, which was very seasonable. My sister\nassisted in the education of my daughter, but she had frequent jarring\nwith her tutoress--I labored but in vain for peace. By some instances\nwhich I met with in this place, I saw clearly that it is not great\ngifts which sanctify, unless they be accompanied with a profound\nhumility; that death to everything is infinitely more beneficial; for\nthere was one who thought herself at the summit of perfection, but has\ndiscovered since, by the trials which have befallen her, that she was\nyet very far from it. O, my God, how true it is that we may have of Thy\ngifts, and yet be very imperfect, and full of ourselves!\n\nHow very straight is the gate which leads to a life in God! How little\none must be to pass through it, it being nothing else but death to\nself! But when we have passed through it, what enlargement do we find!\nDavid said, (Psalm 18:19) \"He brought me forth into a large place.\" And\nit was through humiliation and abasement that he was brought thither.\n\nFather La Combe, on his arrival, came to see me. The first thing he\nsaid was about his own weakness, and that I must return. He added,\n\"that all seemed dark, and there was no likelihood that God would make\nuse of me in this country.\" The Bishop of Geneva wrote to Father La\nMothe to get me to return; he wrote to me accordingly to do it. The\nfirst Lent which I passed with the Ursulines, I had a very great pain\nin my eyes; for that same imposthume which I formerly had between the\neye and the nose, returned upon me three times. The bad air, and the\nnoisome room which I was in, contributed hereto. My head was\nfrightfully swelled, but great was my inward joy. It was strange to see\nso many good creatures, who did not know me, love and pity me; all the\nrest enraged against me, and most of them on reports entirely false,\nneither knowing me, nor why they so hated me. To swell the stream of\naffliction yet more, my daughter fell sick and was likely to die; there\nwas but little hope of her recovery, when her mistress also fell ill.\nMy soul, leaving all to God, continued to rest in a quiet and peaceable\nhabitation. Oh, Principal and sole object of my love! Were there never\nany other reward of what little services we do, or of the marks of\nhomage we render Thee, than this fixed state above the vicissitudes in\nthe world, is it not enough? The senses indeed are sometimes ready to\nstart aside, and to run off like truants; but every trouble flies\nbefore the soul which is entirely subjected to God. By speaking of a\nfixed state, I do not mean one which can never decline or fall, that\nbeing only in Heaven. I call it fixed and permanent, compared with the\nstates which have preceded it, which were full of vicissitudes and\nvariations. I do not exclude a state of suffering in the senses, or\narising from superficial impurity, which remains to be done away, and\nwhich one may compare to refined but tarnished gold. It has no more\nneed to be purified in the fire, having undergone that operation; but\nneeds only to be burnished. So it seemed to be with me at that time.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\n\nMy daughter had the smallpox. They sent for a physician from Geneva,\nwho gave her over. Father La Combe then came in to visit, and pray with\nher. He gave her his blessing; soon after she wonderfully recovered.\nThe persecution of the New Catholics against me continued and\nincreased; yet, for all that, I did not fail to do them all the good in\nmy power. My daughter's mistress came often to converse with me, but\nmuch imperfection appeared in her discourses, though they were on\nreligious subjects. Father La Combe regulated many things in regard to\nmy daughter, which vexed her mistress so much, that her former\nfriendship was turned into coldness. She had grace, but suffered nature\ntoo frequently to prevail. I told her my thought on her faults, as I\nwas inwardly directed to do; but though, at that time, God enlightened\nher to see the truth of what I said, and she has been more enlightened\nsince, yet the return of her coldness toward me ensued upon it. The\ndebates between her and my sister grew more tart and violent. My\ndaughter, who was only six years and a half old, by her little\ndexterities found a way to please them both, choosing to do her\nexercises twice over, first with the one, then with the other, which\ncontinued not long; for as her mistress generally neglected her, doing\nthings at one time, and leaving them at another, she was reduced to\nlearn only what my sister and I taught her. Indeed the changeableness\nof my sister was so excessive, that, without great grace, it was hard\nto suit one's self to it; yet she appeared to me to surmount herself in\nmany things. Formerly, I could scarce bear her manners; but I have\nsince loved everything in God, who has given me a very great facility\nto bear the faults of my neighbor, with a readiness to please and\noblige everyone and such a compassion for their calamities or\ndistresses as I never had before.\n\nI have no difficulty to use condescension with imperfect persons; I\nshould be secretly smitten if I failed therein; but with souls of grace\nI cannot bear this human manner of acting, nor suffer long and frequent\nconversations. It is a thing of which few are capable. Some religious\npersons say that these conversations are of great service. I believe it\nmay be true for some, but not for all; for there is a period wherein it\nhurts, especially when it is of our own choice; the human inclination\ncorrupting everything. The same things which would be profitable, when\nGod, by His Spirit, draws to them, become quite otherwise, when we of\nourselves enter into them. This appears to me so clear, that I prefer\nbeing a whole day with the worst of persons, in obedience to God,\nbefore being one hour with the best, only from my own choice and\ninclination.\n\nThe order of divine providence makes the whole rule and conduct of a\nsoul entirely devoted to God. While it faithfully gives itself up\nthereto, it will do all things right and well, and will have everything\nit wants, without its own care; because God in whom it confides, makes\nit every moment do what He requires, and furnishes the occasions proper\nfor it. God loves what is of His own order, and of His own will, not\naccording to the idea of the merely rational or even enlightened man;\nfor He hides these persons from the eyes of others, in order to\npreserve them in that hidden purity for Himself.\n\nBut how comes it that such souls commit any faults; because they are\nnot faithful, in giving themselves up to the present moment. Often too\neagerly bent on something, or wanting to be over-faithful, they slide\ninto many faults, which they can neither foresee nor avoid. Does God\nthen leave souls which confide in Him? Surely not. Sooner would He work\na miracle to hinder them from falling, if they were resigned enough to\nHim. They may be resigned as to the general will, and yet fail as to\nthe present moment. Being out of the order of God, they fall. They\nrenew such falls as long as they continue out of that divine order.\nWhen they return into it, all goes right and well.\n\nMost assuredly if such souls were faithful enough, not to let any of\nthe moments of the order of God slip over, they would not thus fall.\nThis appears to me as clear as the day. As a dislocated bone out of the\nplace in which the economy of divine wisdom had fixed it, gives\ncontinual pain till restored to its proper order, so the many troubles\nin life come from the soul not abiding in its place, and not being\ncontent with the order of God, and what is afforded therein from moment\nto moment. If men rightly knew this secret, they would all be fully\ncontent and satisfied. But alas! instead of being content with what\nthey have, they are ever wishing for what they have not; while the\nsoul, which enters into divine light begins to be in paradise. What is\nit that makes paradise? It is the order of God, which renders all the\nsaints infinitely content, though very unequal in glory! From whence\ncomes it that so many poor indigent persons are so contented, and that\nprinces and potentates, who abound to profusion, are so wretched and\nunhappy? It is because the man who is not content with what he has,\nwill never be without craving desires; and he who is the prey of an\nunsatisfied desire, can never be content.\n\nAll souls have more or less of strong and ardent desires, except those\nwhose will is lost in the will of God. Some have good desires, so as to\nsuffer martyrdom for God; others thirst for the salvation of their\nneighbor, and some pant to see God in glory. All this is excellent. But\nhe who rests in the divine will, although he may be exempt from all\nthese desires, is infinitely more content, and glorifies God more. It\nis written concerning Jesus Christ, when he drove out of the temple\nthose who profaned it. \"The zeal of thine house hath eaten me up.\" John\n2:17. It was in that moment of the order of God, that these words had\ntheir effect. How many times had Jesus Christ been in the temple\nwithout such a conduct? Does not He occasionally say of Himself, that\nHis hour was not yet come?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\n\nAfter Father La Combe returned from Rome, well approved, and furnished\nwith testimonials of life and doctrine, he performed his functions of\npreaching and confessing as usual. I gave him an account of what I had\ndone and suffered in his absence, and what care God had taken of all my\nconcerns. I saw his providence incessantly extended to the very\nsmallest things. After having been several months without any news of\nmy papers, when some pressed me to write, and blamed my neglect, an\ninvisible hand held me back; my peace and confidence were great. I\nreceived a letter from the ecclesiastic at home, which informed me that\nhe had orders to come and see me, and bring my papers. I had sent to\nParis for a pretty considerable bundle of things for my daughter. I\nheard they were lost on the lake, and could learn no further tidings\nabout them.\n\nI gave myself no trouble; I always thought they would be found. The man\nwho had taken charge of them made a search after them a whole month, in\nall the environs, without hearing any news. At the end of three months\nthey were brought to me, having been found in the house of a poor man,\nwho had not opened them, nor knew who brought them there. Once I had\nsent for all the money which was to serve me a whole year; the person\nwho had been to receive cash for the bill of exchange, having put that\nmoney in two bags on horseback, forgot that it was there, and gave the\nhorse to a little boy to lead. The money fell from the horse in the\nmiddle of the market at Geneva. That instant I arrived, coming on the\nother side, and having alighted from my litter, the first thing I found\nwas my money. What was surprising, a great throng was in this place and\nnot one had perceived it. Many such things have attended me. These\naccounts may suffice to show the continual protection of God.\n\nThe Bishop of Geneva continued to persecute me. When he wrote, it was\nwith politeness and thanks for my charities at Gex; while at the same\ntime he said to others that I \"gave nothing to that house.\" He wrote\nagainst me to the Ursulines with whom I lived, charging them to hinder\nme from having any conferences with Father La Combe. The superior of\nthe house, a man of merit, and the prioress, as well as the community,\nwere so irritated at this, that they could not forbear testifying it to\nhim. He then excused himself with a pretended respect, saying, he did\nnot mean it that way. They wrote to him that \"I did not see the Father\nbut at the confessional, and not in conference; that they were so much\nedified by me, as to think themselves happy in having me, and to esteem\nit a greater favor from God.\" What they said out of pure charity was\nnot pleasing to the Bishop, who, seeing they loved me in this house,\nsaid, that I won over everybody to myself and that he wished I were out\nof the diocese. Though I knew all this, and these good sisters were\ntroubled at it, I could have no trouble by reason of the calm\nestablishment which I was in. The will of God rendering everything\nequal to me. The creatures, however unreasonable or passionate they\nappear, not being regarded in themselves but in God; an habitual faith\ncauses everything to be seen in God without distinction. Thus, when I\nsee poor souls so ruffled for discourses in the air, so uneasy for\nexplanations, I pity them. They have reasons, I know, which self-love\ncauses to appear very just.\n\nTo relieve myself a little from the fatigue of continual conversation,\nI desired Father La Combe to allow me a retreat. It was then that I let\nmyself be consumed by love all the day long. Also I perceived the\nquality of a spiritual mother; for the Lord gave me what I cannot\nexpress for the perfection of souls. This I could not hide from Father\nLa Combe. It seemed to me as if I entered into the inmost recesses of\nhis heart. Our Lord showed me he was His servant, chosen among a\nthousand, singularly to honor Him; but that He would lead him through\ntotal death, and the entire destruction of the old man. He would have\nme contribute thereto and be instrumental to cause him to walk in the\nway in which He had led me first; in order that I might be in a\ncondition to direct others, to tell them the way through which I have\npassed. The Lord would have us to be conformed, and to become both one\nin Him; though my soul was more advanced now, yet he should one day\npass beyond it, with a bold and rapid flight. God knows with what joy I\nwould see my spiritual children surpass their mother.\n\nIn this retreat I felt a strong propensity to write, but resisted it\ntill I fell sick. I had nothing to write about, not one idea to begin\nwith. It was a divine impulse, with such a fulness of grace as was hard\nto contain. I opened this disposition of mine to Father La Combe. He\nanswered that he had a strong impulse to command me to write, but had\nnot dared to do it yet, on account of my weakness. I told him, that\n\"weakness was the effect of my resistance,\" and I believed it would,\nthrough my writing, go off again. He asked, \"But what is it you will\nwrite?\"\n\nI replied, \"I know nothing of it, nor desire to know, leaving it\nentirely to God to direct me.\"\n\nHe ordered me to do so. At my taking the pen I knew not the first word\nI should write; when I began, suitable matter flowed copiously, nay,\nimpetuously. As I was writing I was relieved and grew better. I wrote\nan entire treatise on the interior path of faith, under the comparison\nof torrents, or of streams and rivers.\n\nAs the way, wherein God now conducted Father La Combe, was very\ndifferent from that in which he had formerly walked (all light,\nknowledge, ardor, assurance, sentiment) now the poor, low, despised\npath of faith, and of nakedness; he found it very hard to submit\nthereto. Who could express what it has cost my heart before he was\nformed according to the will of God?\n\nMeanwhile, the possession which the Lord had of my soul became every\nday stronger, insomuch that I passed whole days without being able to\npronounce one word. The Lord was pleased to make me pass wholly into\nHim by an entire internal transformation. He became more and more the\nabsolute master of my heart, to such a degree as not to leave me a\nmovement of my own. This state did not hinder me from condescending to\nmy sister, and the others in the house. Nevertheless, the useless\nthings with which they were taken up could not interest me. That was\nwhat induced me to ask leave to make a retreat, to let myself be\npossessed of Him who holds me so closely to Himself after an ineffable\nmanner.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\n\nI had at that time so ardent a desire for the perfection of Father La\nCombe, and to see him thoroughly die to himself, that I could have\nwished him all the crosses and afflictions imaginable, that might\nconduce to this great and blessed end. Whenever he was unfaithful, or\nlooked at things in any other light than the true one--to tend to this\ndeath of self--I felt myself on the rack, which, as I had till then\nbeen so indifferent, very much surprised me. To the Lord I made my\ncomplaint; He graciously encouraged me, both on this subject and on\nthat entire dependence on Himself which He gave me, which was such that\nI was like a new born infant.\n\nMy sister had brought me a maid, whom God was willing to give me to\nfashion according to His will, not without some crucifixion to myself.\nI believe it never is to fall out, that our Lord will give me any\npersons without giving them wherewith to make me suffer, whether it be\nfor the purpose of drawing them into a spiritual life, or never to\nleave me without the cross. She was one on whom the Lord had conferred\nvery singular graces. She was in high reputation in the country, where\nshe passed for a saint. Our Lord brought her to me, to let her see the\ndifference between the sanctity conceived and comprised in those gifts,\nwith which she was endowed, and that which is obtained by our entire\ndestruction, even by the loss of those very gifts, and of all that\nraised us in the esteem of men. Our Lord had given her the same\ndependence on me, as I had in regard to Father La Combe.\n\nThis girl fell grievously sick. I was willing to give her all the\nassistance in my power, but I found I had nothing to do but to command\nher bodily sickness, or the disposition of her mind; all that I said\nwas done. It was then that I learned what it was to command by the\nWord, and to obey by the Word. It was Jesus Christ in me equally\ncommanding and obeying.\n\nShe, however, continued sick for sometime. One day, after dinner, I was\nmoved to say to her, \"Rise and be no longer sick.\" She arose and was\ncured. The nuns were very much astonished. They knew nothing of what\nhad passed, but saw her walking, who in the morning had appeared to be\nin the last extremity. They attributed her disorder to a vivid\nimagination.\n\nI have at sundry times experienced, and felt in myself, how much God\nrespects the freedom of man, even demands his free concurrence; for\nwhen I said, \"Be healed,\" or, \"Be free from your troubles,\" if such\npersons acquiesced, the Word was efficacious, and they were healed. If\nthey doubted, or resisted, though under fair pretexts, saying, \"I shall\nbe healed when it pleases God, I will not be healed till He wills it;\"\nor, in the way of despair, \"I cannot be healed; I will not quit my\ncondition,\" then the Word had no effect. I felt in myself that the\ndivine virtue retired in me. I experienced what our Lord said, when the\nwoman afflicted with the issue of blood touched him. He instantly\nasked, \"Who touched me?\" The apostles said, \"Master, the multitude\nthrong thee, and press thee; and sayest thou, Who touched me?\" He\nreplied, \"It is because virtue hath gone out of me\" (Luke 8:45, 46).\nJesus Christ had caused that healing virtue to flow, through me, by\nmeans of His Word. When that virtue met not with a correspondence in\nthe subject, I felt it suspended in its source. That gave me some pain.\nI should be, as it were, displeased with those persons; but when there\nwas no resistance, but a full acquiescence, this divine virtue had its\nfull effect. Healing virtue has so much power over things inanimate,\nyet the least thing in man either restrains it, or stops it entirely.\n\nThere was a good nun much afflicted and under a violent temptation. She\nwent to declare her case to a sister whom she thought very spiritual,\nand in a condition capable of assisting her. But far from finding\nsuccor, she was very much discouraged and cast down. The other despised\nand repulsed her, and treating her with contempt and rigor, she said,\n\"Don't come near me, since you are that way.\" This poor girl, in a\nfrightful distress, came to me thinking herself undone on account of\nwhat the sister had said to her. I consoled her and our Lord relieved\nher immediately. But I could not forbear telling her that assuredly the\nother would be punished, and would fall into a state worse than hers.\nThe sister who had used her in such a manner came also to me, highly\npleased with herself in what she had done, saying, she abhorred such\ntempted creatures. As for herself, she was proof against such sorts of\ntemptations, and that she never had a bad thought. I said to her, \"My\nsister, from the friendship I have for you I wish you the pain of her\nwho spoke to you, and even one still more violent.\"\n\nShe answered haughtily, \"If you were to ask it from God for me, and I\nask of Him the contrary, I believe I shall be heard at least as soon as\nyou.\"\n\nI answered with great firmness, \"If it be only my own interests which I\nask, I shall not be heard; but if it be those of God only, and yours\ntoo, I shall be heard sooner than you are aware.\" That very night she\nfell into so violent a temptation that one equal to it has seldom been\nknown. It was then she had ample occasion to acknowledge her own\nweakness, and what she would be without grace. She conceived at first a\nviolent hatred for me, saying that I was the cause of her pain. But it\nserved her, as the clay did to enlighten him who had been born blind.\nShe soon saw very well what had brought on her so terrible a state.\n\nI fell sick even to extremity. This sickness proved a means to cover\nthe great mysteries which it pleased God to operate in me. Scarce ever\nwas a disorder more extraordinary, or of longer continuance in its\nexcess. Several times I saw in dreams Father La Mothe raising\npersecutions against me. Our Lord let me know that this would be and\nthat Father La Combe would forsake me in the time of persecution. I\nwrote to him, and it disquieted him greatly. He thought his heart was\nunited to the will of God and too desirous of serving me, to admit such\ndesertion; yet it has since been found quite true. He was now to preach\nduring Lent, and was so much followed, that people came five leagues,\nto pass several days for the benefit of his ministry. I heard he was so\nsick that he was thought to die. I prayed to the Lord to restore his\nhealth, and enable him to preach to the people, who were longing to\nhear him. My prayer was heard, and he soon recovered, and resumed his\npious labors.\n\nDuring this extraordinary sickness, which continued more than six\nmonths, the Lord gradually taught me that there was another manner of\nconversing among souls wholly His, than by speech. Thou madest me\nconceive, O divine Word, that as Thou art ever speaking and operating\nin a soul, though therein thou appearest in profound silence; so there\nwas also a way of communication in thy creatures, in an ineffable\nsilence. I heard then a language which before had been unknown to me. I\ngradually perceived, when Father La Combe entered, that I could speak\nno more. There was formed in my soul the same kind of silence toward\nhim, as was formed in it in regard to God. I comprehended that God was\nwilling to show me that men might in this life learn the language of\nangels. I was gradually reduced to speak to him only in silence. It was\nthen that we understood each other in God, after a manner unutterable\nand divine. Our hearts spoke to each other, communicating a grace which\nno words can express. It was like a new country, both for him and for\nme; but so divine, that I cannot describe it. At first this was done in\na manner so perceptible, that is to say, God penetrated us with Himself\nin a manner so pure and so sweet, that we passed hours in this profound\nsilence, always communicative, without being able to utter one word. It\nwas in this that we learned, by our own experience, the operations of\nthe heavenly Word to reduce souls into unity with itself, and what\npurity one may arrive at in this life. It was given me to communicate\nthis way to other good souls, but with this difference: I did nothing\nbut communicate to them the grace with which they were filled, while\nnear me, in this sacred silence, which infused into them an\nextraordinary strength and grace; but I received nothing from them;\nwhereas with Father La Combe there was a flow and return of\ncommunication of grace, which he received from me, and I from him, in\nthe greatest purity.\n\nIn this long malady the love of God, and of Him alone, made up my whole\noccupation, I seemed so entirely lost to Him, as to have no sight of\nmyself at all. It seemed as if my heart never came out of that divine\nocean, having been drawn into it through deep humiliations. Oh, happy\nloss, which is the consummation of bliss, though operated through\ncrosses and through deaths!\n\nJesus was then living in me and I lived no more. These words were\nimprinted in me, as a real state into which I must enter, (Matt. 8:20)\n\"The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son\nof Man hath not where to lay his head.\" This I have since experienced\nin all its extent, having no sure abode, no refuge among friends, who\nwere ashamed of me, and openly renounced me, when universally decried;\nnor among my relations, most of whom declared themselves my\nadversaries, and were my greatest persecutors; while others looked on\nme with contempt and indignation. I might as David say, \"For thy sake I\nhave borne reproach; shame hath covered my face; I am become a stranger\nto my brethren, and an alien unto my mother's children; a reproach to\nmen, and despised of the people.\"\n\nHe showed me all the world in a rage against me, without anyone daring\nto appear for me and assured me in the ineffable silence of His eternal\nWord, that He would give me vast numbers of children, which I should\nbring forth by the cross. I left it to Him to do with me whatever He\npleased, esteeming my whole and sole interest to be placed entirely in\nHis divine will. He gave me to see how the Devil was going to stir up\nan outrageous persecution against prayer, yet it should prove the\nsource of the same prayer, or rather the means which God would make use\nof to establish it. He gave me to see farther how He would guide me\ninto the wilderness, where He would cause me to be nourished for a\ntime. The wings, which were to bear me thither, were the resignation of\nmy whole self to His holy will. I think I am at present in that\nwilderness, separated from the whole world in my imprisonment. I see\nalready accomplished in part what was then shown me. Can I ever express\nthe mercies which my God has bestowed on me? No; they must ever remain\nin Himself, being of a nature not to be described, by reason of their\npurity and immensity.\n\nI was often to all appearance at the point of death. I fell into\nconvulsions from violent pains which lasted a long time with violence.\nFather La Combe administered the sacrament to me, the Prioress of the\nUrsulines having desired him to do it. I was well satisfied to die, as\nwas he also in the expectation of my departure. For, being united in\nGod after a manner so pure, and so spiritual, death could not separate\nus. On the contrary it would have more closely united us. Father La\nCombe, who was on his knees at my bedside, remarking the change of my\ncountenance, and how my eyes faded, seemed ready to give me up, when\nGod inspired him to lift up his hands, and with a strong voice, which\nwas heard by all who were in my room, at that time almost full, to\ncommand death to relinquish its hold. Instantly it seemed to be\nstopped. Thus God was pleased wonderfully to raise me up again; yet for\na long time I continued extremely weak, during all of which our Lord\ngave me new testimonies of His love. How many times was He pleased to\nmake use of His servant to restore me to life, when I was almost on the\nvery point of expiring! As they saw that my sickness and pain did not\nentirely end, they judged that the air of the lake on which the convent\nwas situated, was very prejudicial to my constitution. They concluded\nthat it would be necessary for me to remove.\n\nDuring my indisposition, our Lord put it into the heart of Father La\nCombe to establish a hospital in this place for the poor people seized\nwith maladies, to institute also a committee or congregation of ladies\nto furnish such as could not leave their families to go to the hospital\nwith the means of subsistence during their illness, after the manner of\nFrance, there having been yet no institution of this kind in that\ncountry. Willingly did I enter into it; and without any other fund than\nProvidence and some useless rooms which a gentleman of the town gave\nus, we began it. We dedicated it to the holy Child Jesus, and He was\npleased to give the first beds to it from my pension. He gave such a\nblessing that several other persons joined us in this charity. In a\nshort time there were nearly twelve beds in it and three persons of\ngreat piety gave themselves to this hospital to serve it, who, without\nany salary, consecrated themselves to the service of the poor patients.\nI supplied them with ointments and medicines, which were freely given\nto such of the poor people of the town as had need of them. These good\nladies were so hearty in the cause, that, through their charity, and\nthe care of the young women, this hospital was very well maintained and\nserved. These ladies joined together also in providing for the sick who\ncould not go to the hospital. I gave them some little regulations such\nas I had observed when in France, which they continued to keep up with\ntenderness and love.\n\nAll these little things, which cost but little, and which owed all\ntheir success to the blessing which God gave them, drew upon us new\npersecutions. The Bishop of Geneva was offended with me more than ever,\nespecially in seeing that these small matters rendered me beloved. He\nsaid that I won over everybody. He openly declared, \"he could not bear\nme in his diocese,\" though I had done nothing but good, or rather God\nby me. He extended the persecution to those good religious women who\nhad been my assistants. The prioress in particular had her own share to\nbear, though it did not last long. As I was obliged, on account of the\nair, to remove, after having been there about two years and a half,\nthey were then more in peace and quietness. On another side, my sister\nwas very weary of this house; and as the season for the waters\napproached, they took occasion from thence to send her away with the\nmaid which I brought with me, who had molested me exceedingly in my\nlate illness. I only kept her whom Providence had sent me by means of\nmy sister. I have ever thought that God had ordered my sister's journey\nonly to bring her to me, as one chosen of Him and proper for the state\nwhich it was His pleasure to cause me to bear.\n\nWhile I was yet indisposed, the Ursulines, with the Bishop of Verceil,\nearnestly requested the Father-general of the Barnabites, to seek among\nthe religious, a man of merit, piety and learning, in whom he might\nplace confidence, and who might serve him for a prebend and a\ncounselor. At first he cast his eyes on Father La Combe; yet before he\nabsolutely engaged him with the said bishop, he wrote to him, to know\nwhether he had any objection thereto. Father La Combe replied that he\nhad no other will but that of obeying him, and that he might command\nhim herein as he should think best in the case. He gave me an account\nof this, and that we were going to be entirely separated. I was glad to\nfind that our Lord would employ him, under a bishop who knew him, and\nwould be likely to do him justice. Yet it was some time before he went,\nmatters not being all arranged.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\n\nI then went off from the Ursulines and they sought for a house for me\nat a distance from the lake. There was but one to be found empty which\nhad the look of the greatest poverty. It had no chimney but in the\nkitchen, through which one was obliged to pass. I took my daughter with\nme and gave up the largest room for her and the maid who was to take\ncare of her. I was lodged in a little hole on straw, to which I went up\nby ladder. As we had no other furniture but our beds, quite plain and\nhomely, I brought some straw chairs and some Dutch earthen and wooden\nware. Never did I enjoy a greater content than in this little hole,\nwhich appeared so very conformable to the state of Jesus Christ. I\nfancied everything better on wood than on plate. I laid in all my\nprovisions, hoping to stay there a long time; but the Devil did not\nleave me long in such sweet peace. It would be difficult for me to tell\nthe persecutions which were stirred up against me. They threw stones in\nat my windows which fell at my feet. I had put my little garden in\norder. They came in the night, tore it all up, broke down the arbor,\nand overturned everything in it, as if it had been ravaged by soldiers.\nThey came to abuse me at the door all night long, making such a racket\nas if they were going to break it open. These persons have since told\nwho the person was that put them on such work.\n\nThough from time to time I continued my charities at Gex, I was not the\nless persecuted for it. They offered one person a warrant to compel\nFather La Combe to stay at Tonon, thinking he would otherwise be a\nsupport to me in the persecution, but we prevented it. I knew not then\nthe designs of God, and that He would soon draw me from that poor\nsolitary place, in which I enjoyed a sweet and solid satisfaction,\nnotwithstanding the abuse. I thought myself happier here than any\nsovereign on earth. It was for me like a nest and a place of repose and\nChrist was willing that I should be like Him. The Devil, as I have\nsaid, irritated my persecutors. They sent to desire me to go out of the\ndiocese. All the good which the Lord had caused me to do in it was\ncondemned, more than the greatest crimes. Crimes they tolerated, but me\nthey could not endure. All this while I never had any uneasiness or\nrepentance for my having left at all; not that I was assured of having\ndone the will of God therein. Such an assurance would have been too\nmuch for me. But I could neither see nor regard anything, receiving\neverything alike from the hand of God, who directed and disposed of\nthese crosses for me either in justice or in mercy.\n\nThe Marchioness of Prunai, sister of the chief Secretary of State to\nhis Royal Highness (the Duke of Savoy) and his prime minister, had sent\nan express from Turin, in the time of my illness, to invite me to come\nto reside with her; and to let me know that, \"being so persecuted as I\nwas in this diocese, I should find an asylum with her; that during that\ntime things might grow better; that when they should be well disposed\nshe would return with me and join me with a friend of mine from Paris,\nwho was willing also to come to labor there, according to the will of\nGod.\" I was not at that time in a condition to execute what she desired\nand expected to continue with the Ursulines till things should change.\nShe then wrote to me about it no more. This lady is one of\nextraordinary piety, who had quitted the splendor and noise of the\nCourt, for the more silent satisfaction of a retired life, and to give\nherself up to God. With an eminent share of natural advantages, she has\ncontinued a widow twenty-two years; has refused every offer of marriage\nto consecrate herself to our Lord entirely and without any reserve.\nWhen she knew that I had been obliged to leave the Ursulines, yet\nwithout knowing anything of the manner in which I had been treated, she\nprocured a letter to oblige Father La Combe to go to pass some weeks at\nTurin, for her own benefit, and to bring me with him thither, where I\nshould find a refuge. All this she did unknown to us. As she has told\nus since, a superior force moved her to do it, without knowing the\ncause. If she had deliberately reflected on it, being such a prudent\nlady, she probably would not have done it; because the persecutions,\nwhich the Bishop of Geneva procured us in that place, cost her more\nthan a little of humiliations. Our Lord permitted him to pursue me,\nafter a surprising manner, into all the places I have been in, without\ngiving me any relaxation. I never did him any harm, but on the\ncontrary, would have laid down my life for the good of his diocese.\n\nAs this fell out without any design on our part, we, without\nhesitation, believed it was the will of God; and thought it might be\nthe means of His appointment to draw us out of the reproach and\npersecution we labored under, seeing myself chased on the one side,\ndesired on the other. It was concluded that Father La Combe should\nconduct me to Turin, and that he should go from thence to Verceil.\n\nBeside him, I took with me a religious man of merit, who had taught\ntheology for fourteen years past, to take away from our enemies all\ncause for slander. I also took with me a boy whom I had brought out of\nFrance. They took horses, and I hired a carriage for my daughter, my\nchambermaid and myself. But all precautions are useless, when it\npleases God to permit them to be frustrated. Our adversaries\nimmediately wrote to Paris. A hundred ridiculous stories were\ncirculated about this journey; comedies were acted on it, things\ninvented at pleasure, and as false as anything in the world could be.\nIt was my brother, Father de la Mothe, who was so active in uttering\nall this stuff. Had he believed it to be true, he ought out of charity\nto have concealed it; much more, being so very false. They said that I\nwas gone all alone with Father La Combe, strolling about the country,\nfrom province to province, with many such fables, as weak and wicked as\nthey were incoherent and badly put together. We suffered all with\npatience, without vindicating ourselves, or making any complaint.\n\nScarcely were we arrived at Turin, but the Bishop of Geneva wrote\nagainst us. As he could pursue us no other way, he did it by letters.\nFather La Combe repaired to Verceil, and I staid at Turin, with the\nMarchioness of Prunai. But what crosses was I assaulted with in my own\nfamily, from the Bishop of Geneva, from the Barnabites, and from a vast\nnumber of persons besides! My eldest son came to find me on the death\nof my mother-in-law, which was an augmentation of my troubles. After we\nhad heard all his accounts of things and how they had made sales of all\nthe moveables, chosen guardians, and settled every article, without\nconsulting me. I seemed to be there entirely useless. It was judged not\nproper for me to return, considering the rigor of the season.\n\nThe Marchioness of Prunai, who had been so warmly desirous of my\ncompany, seeing my great crosses and reproaches, looked coldly upon me.\nMy childlike simplicity, which was the state wherein God at that time\nkept me, passed with her for stupidity. For when the question was to\nhelp anyone, or about anything which God required of me, He gave me,\nwith the weakness of a child, the evident tokens of divine strength.\nHer heart was quite shut up to me all the time I was there. Our Lord,\nhowever, made me foretell events which should happen, which since that\ntime have actually been fulfilled, as well to herself as to her\ndaughter, and to the virtuous ecclesiastic who lived at her house. She\ndid not fail, at last, to conceive more friendship for me, seeing then\nthat Christ was in me. It was the force of self-love, and fear of\nreproach, which had closed up her heart. Moreover, she thought her\nstate more advanced than in reality it was, by reason of her being\nwithout tests; but she soon saw by experience that I had told her the\ntruth. She was obliged for family reasons to leave Turin, and go to\nlive on her own estate. She solicited me to go with her; but the\neducation of my daughter did not permit. To stay at Turin without her\nseemed improper, because, having lived very retired in this place, I\nmade no acquaintance in it. I knew not which way to turn. The Bishop of\nVerceil, where Father La Combe was, most obligingly wrote to me,\nearnestly entreating me to come, promising me his protection, and\nassuring me of his esteem, adding, \"that he should look upon me as his\nown sister; that he wished extremely to have me there.\" It was his own\nsister, one of my particular friends, who had written to him about me,\nas had also a French gentleman, an acquaintance of his. But a point of\nhonor kept me from it. I would not have it said that I had gone after\nFather La Combe, and that I had come to Turin only for the purpose of\ngoing to Verceil. He had also his reputation to preserve, which was the\ncause that he could not agree to my going thither, however importunate\nthe Bishop was for it. Had we believed it to be the will of God, we\nwould both of us have passed over these considerations. God kept us\nboth in so great a dependence on His orders, that He did not let us\nforeknow them; but the divine moment of His providence determined\neverything. This proved of very great service to Father La Combe, who\nhad long walked in assurances, to die to them and to Himself. God by an\neffect of His goodness, that he might thus die without any reserve,\ntook them all from him.\n\nDuring the whole time of my residence at Turin, our Lord conferred on\nme very great favors. I found myself every day more transformed into\nHim, and had continually more knowledge of the state of souls, without\never being mistaken or deceived therein, though some were willing to\npersuade me to think the contrary. I had used my utmost endeavors to\ngive myself other thoughts, which had caused me not a little pain. When\nI told, or wrote to Father La Combe about the state of some souls,\nwhich appeared to him more perfect and advanced than the knowledge\ngiven to me of them, he attributed it to pride. He was angry with me,\nand prejudiced against my state. I had no uneasiness on account of his\nesteeming me the less, for I was not in a condition to reflect whether\nhe esteemed me or not. He could not reconcile my willing obedience in\nmost things, with so extraordinary a firmness, which in certain cases\nhe looked upon as criminal. He admitted a distrust of my grace; he was\nnot yet sufficiently confirmed in his way, nor did he duly comprehend,\nthat it did not in any wise depend on me to be one way or another. If I\nhad any such power I should have suited myself to what he said, to\nspare myself the crosses which my firmness caused me. Or, at least, I\nwould have artfully dissembled my real sentiments. I could do neither.\nWere all to perish by it, I was in such a manner constrained, that I\ncould not forbear telling him the things, just as our Lord directed me\nto tell them to him. In this he had given me an inviolable fidelity to\nthe very last. No crosses or pains have ever made me fail a moment\ntherein. These things then, which appeared to him to be the strong\nprejudice of a conceited opinion, set him at variance against me.\nThough he did not openly show it, on the contrary tried to conceal it\nfrom me; yet how far distant soever he were from me, I could not be\nignorant of it. My spirit felt it, and that more or less, as the\nopposition was stronger or weaker; as soon as it abated or ended, my\npain, occasioned thereby, ceased. He also, on his side, experienced the\nsame. He has told me and written to me many times over, \"When I stand\nwell with God, I find I am well with you. When I am otherwise with Him,\nI then find myself to be so with you also.\" Thus he saw clearly that\nwhen God received him, it was always in uniting him to me, as if He\nwould accept of nothing from him but in this union.\n\nWhile he was at Turin, a widow who was a good servant of God, all in\nthe brightness of sensibility, came to him to confess. She uttered\nwonderful things of her state. I was then at the other side of the\nconfessional. He told me, \"He had met with a soul given up to God; that\nit was she who was present; that he was very much edified by her; that\nhe was far from finding the like in me; that I operated nothing but\ndeath upon his soul.\" At first I rejoiced at his having met with such a\nholy soul. It ever gives me the highest joy to see my God glorified. As\nI was returning, the Lord showed me clearly the state of that soul, as\nonly a beginning of devotion mixed with affection and a little silence,\nfilled with a new sensation. This and more, as it was set before me, I\nwas obliged to write to him. On his first reading of my letter he\ndiscovered the stamp of truth in it; but soon after, letting in again\nhis old reflections, he viewed all I wrote in the light of pride. He\nstill had in his mind the ordinary rules of humility conceived and\ncomprised after our manner. As to me, I let myself be led as a child,\nwho says and does, without distinction, whatever it is made to say and\ndo. I left myself to be led wheresoever my heavenly Father pleased,\nhigh or low; all was alike good to me.\n\nHe wrote to me, that, at his first reading of my letter there appeared\nin it something of truth; but that on reading it over again, he found\nit to be full of pride, and of preference of my own discernments to\nthat of others. Some time after he was more enlightened in regard to\nthe state I was in. He then said, \"continue to believe as you have\ndone; I encourage and exhort you to do it.\" Some time after he\nsufficiently discovered, by that person's manner of acting, that she\nwas very far from what he had thought. I give this as only one\ninstance. I might give many others, but this may suffice.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\n\nOne night in a dream our Lord showed me, that He would also purify the\nmaid whom He had given me, make her truly enter into death to herself.\nI freely resolved to suffer for her, as I did for Father La Combe. As\nshe resisted God much more than he, and was much more under the power\nof self-love, she had more to be purified from. What I could not\ntolerate in her was her regard for herself. I saw clearly that the\ndevil cannot hurt us only so far as we retain some fondness for this\ncorrupt self. This sight was from God. He gave me the discerning of\nspirits, which would ever accept what was from Him, or reject what was\nnot; that not from any common methods of judging, not from any outward\ninformation, but by an inward principle which is His gift alone.\n\nIt is needful to mention here that souls which are yet in themselves,\nwhatever degree of light and ardor they have attained, are unqualified\nfor it. They often think they have this discernment, when it is nothing\nelse but sympathy or antipathy of nature. Our Lord destroyed in me\nevery sort of natural antipathy. The soul must be very pure, and\ndepending on God alone, that all these things may be experienced in\nHim. In proportion as this maid became inwardly purified, my pain\nabated, till the Lord let me know her state was going to be changed,\nwhich soon happily ensued. In comparison of inward pain for souls,\noutward persecutions, though ever so violent, scarce gave me any.\n\nThe Bishop of Geneva wrote to different persons. He wrote in my favor\nto such as he thought would show me his letters, and quite the contrary\nin the letters which he thought I would never see. It was so ordered\nthat these persons, having showed each other their letters received\nfrom him, were struck with indignation to see in him so shameful a\nduplicity. They sent me those letters that I might take proper\nprecautions. I kept them two years, and then burned them, not to hurt\nthe prelate. The strongest battery he raised against me was what he did\nwith the Secretary of State, who held that post in conjunction with the\nMarchioness of Prunai's brother. He used all imaginable endeavors to\nrender me odious. He employed certain abbots for that purpose, insomuch\nthat, though I appeared very little abroad, I was well known by the\ndescription this bishop had given of me. This did not make so much\nimpression as it would have done, if he had appeared in a better light\nat Court. Some letters of his, which her royal highness found after the\nprince's death, written to him against her, had effect on the princess,\nthat, instead of taking any notice of what he now wrote against me, she\nshowed me great respect. She sent her request to me to come to see her.\nAccordingly I waited on her. She assured me of her protection, and that\nshe was glad of my being in her dominions.\n\nIt pleased God here to make use of me to the conversion of two or three\necclesiastics. But I had much to suffer from their repugnances and many\ninfidelities--one of whom had vilified me greatly--and even after his\nconversion turned aside into his old ways. God at length graciously\nrestored him.\n\nAs I was undetermined whether I should place my daughter at the\nVisitation of Turin, or take some other course; I was exceedingly\nsurprised, at a time I least expected it, to see Father La Combe arrive\nfrom Verceil. He told me that I must return to Paris without any delay.\nIt was in the evening, and he said, \"set off the next morning.\" I\nconfess this sudden news startled me. It was for me a double sacrifice\nto return to a place where they had cried me down so much; also toward\na family which held me in contempt, and who had represented my journey,\ncaused by pure necessity, as a voluntary course, pursued through human\nattachments. Behold me then disposed to go off, without offering a\nsingle word in reply, with my daughter and my maid, without anybody to\nguide and attend us. Father La Combe was resolved not to accompany me,\nnot so much as passing the mountains. The Bishop of Geneva had written\non all sides that I was gone to Turin to run after him. But the Father\nProvincial, who was a man of quality, and well acquainted with the\nvirtue of Father La Combe, told him, that it was improper and unsafe to\nventure on these mountains, without some person of acquaintance; the\nmore as I had my little daughter with me. He therefore ordered him to\naccompany me. Father La Combe confessed to me that he had some\nreluctance to do it, and only obedience, and the danger to which I\nshould have been exposed, made him surmount it. He was only to\naccompany me to Grenoble, and from thence to return to Turin. I went\noff then, designing for Paris, there to suffer whatever crosses and\ntrials it should please God to inflict.\n\nWhat made me go by Grenoble was the desire I had to spend two or three\ndays with a lady, an eminent servant of God, and one of my friends.\nWhen I was there Father La Combe and that lady spoke to me not to go\nany farther. God would glorify Himself in me and by me in that place.\nHe returned to Verceil, and I left myself to be conducted as a child by\nProvidence. This lady took me to the house of a good widow, there not\nbeing accommodations at the inn. As I was ordered to stop at Grenoble,\nat her house I resided. I placed my daughter in a convent, and resolved\nto employ all this time in resigning myself to be possessed in solitude\nby Him who is the absolute Sovereign of my soul. I made not any visit\nin this place; no more had I in any of the others where I had\nsojourned. I was greatly surprised when, a few days after my arrival,\nthere came to see me several persons who made profession of a singular\ndevotion to God. I perceived immediately a gift which He had given me,\nof administering to each that which suited their states. I felt myself\ninvested, all of a sudden, with the apostolic state. I discerned the\nconditions of the souls of such persons as spoke to me, and that with\nso much facility, that they were surprised at it, and said one to\nanother, that I gave every one of them \"the very thing they had stood\nin need of.\" It was thou, O my God, who didst all these things; some of\nthem sent others to me. It came to such excess, that, generally from\nsix in the morning till eight in the evening, I was taken up in\nspeaking of the Lord. People flocked on all sides, far and near,\nfriars, priests, men of the world, maids, wives, widows, all came one\nafter another. The Lord supplied me with what was pertinent and\nsatisfactory to them all, after a wonderful manner, without any share\nof my study or meditation therein. Nothing was hid from me of their\ninterior state, and of what passed within them. Here, O my God, Thou\nmadest an infinite number of conquests known to Thyself only. They were\ninstantly furnished with a wonderful facility of prayer. God conferred\non them His grace plentifully, and wrought marvelous changes in them.\nThe most advanced of these souls found, when with me, in silence, a\ngrace communicated to them which they could neither comprehend, nor\ncease to admire. The others found an unction in my words, and that they\noperated in them what I said. Friars of different orders, and priests\nof merit, came to see me, to whom our Lord granted very great favors,\nas indeed He did to all, without exception, who came in sincerity.\n\nOne thing was surprising; I had not a syllable to say to such as came\nonly to watch my words, and to criticize them. Even when I thought to\ntry to speak to them, I felt that I could not, and that God would not\nhave me do it. Some of them in return said, \"The people are fools to go\nto see that lady. She cannot speak.\" Others of them treated me as if I\nwere only a stupid simpleton. After they left me there came one and\nsaid, \"I could not get hither soon enough to apprize you not to speak\nto those persons; they come from such and such, to try what they can\ncatch from you to your disadvantage.\" I answered them, \"Our Lord has\nprevented your charity; for I was not able to say one word to them.\"\n\nI felt that what I spoke flowed from the fountain, and that I was only\nthe instrument of Him who made me speak. Amid this general applause,\nour Lord made me comprehend what the apostolic state was, with which He\nhad honored me; that to give one's self up to the help of souls, in the\npurity of His Spirit, was to expose one's self to the most cruel\npersecutions. These very words were imprinted on my heart: \"To resign\nourselves to serve our neighbor is to sacrifice ourselves to a gibbet.\nSuch as now proclaim, 'Blessed is he who cometh in the name of the\nLord,' will soon cry out, 'Away with him, crucify him.'\" When one of my\nfriends speaking of the general esteem the people had for me, I said to\nher, \"Observe what I now tell you, that you will hear curses cut of the\nsame mouths which at present pronounce blessings.\" Our Lord made me\ncomprehend that I must be conformable to Him in all His states; and\nthat, if He had continued in a private life with His parents, He never\nhad been crucified; that, when He would resign any of His servants to\ncrucifixion, He employed such in the ministry and service of their\nneighbors. It is certain that all the souls employed herein by\napostolic destination from God, and who are truly in the apostolic\nstate, are to suffer extremely. I speak not of those who put themselves\ninto it, who, not being called of God in a singular manner, and having\nnothing of the grace of the apostleship, have none of its crosses; but\nof those only who surrender themselves to God without any reserve, and\nwho are willing with their whole hearts to be exposed, for His sake, to\nsufferings without any mitigation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\n\nAmong so great a number of good souls, on whom our Lord wrought much by\nme, some were given me only as plants to cultivate. I knew their state,\nbut had not that near connection with, or authority over them, which I\nhad over others. It was then that I comprehended the true maternity\nbeyond what I had done before; for those of the latter kind were given\nme as children, of whom some were faithful. I knew they would be so;\nthey were closely united to me in pure charity. Others were unfaithful;\nI knew that of these some would never return from their infidelity, and\nthey were taken from me. Some, after slipping aside, were recovered.\nBoth of them cost me much distress and inward pain, when, for want of\ncourage to die to themselves, they gave up the point; and revolted from\nthe good beginning they had been favored with.\n\nOur Lord, among such multitudes as followed Him on earth, had few true\nchildren. Wherefore He said to His Father, \"Those that thou gavest me I\nhave kept, and none of them is lost but the son of perdition,\" showing\nthat He lost not any beside of His apostles, or disciples, though they\nsometimes made false steps.\n\nAmong the friars who came to see me, there was one order which\ndiscovered the good effects of grace more than any other. Some of that\nvery order had before this, in a little town where Father La Combe was\nin the exercise of his mission, been actuated with a false zeal, and\nviolent in persecuting all the good souls which had sincerely dedicated\nthemselves to God, plaguing them after such a manner as can scarce be\nconceived. They burned all their books which treated of silence and\ninward prayer, refusing absolution to such as were in the practice of\nit, driving into consternation, and almost into despair, such as had\nformerly led wicked lives, but were now reformed, and preserved in\ngrace by means of prayer, becoming spotless and blameless in their\nconduct. These friars had proceeded to such an excess of wild zeal as\nto raise a sedition in that town, in which a father of the oratory, a\nperson of distinction and merit, received strokes with a stick in the\nopen street, because he prayed extempore in the evenings, and on\nSundays made a short fervent prayer, which insensibly habituated these\ngood souls to the use and practice of the like.\n\nI never had so much consolation as to see in this little town so many\npious souls who with a heavenly emulation gave up their whole hearts to\nGod. There were girls of twelve or thirteen years of age, who\nindustriously followed their work almost all the day long, in silence,\nand in their employments enjoyed a communion with God, having acquired\na fixed habit. As these girls were poor, they placed themselves two and\ntwo together, and such as could do it read to the others who could not.\nOne saw there the innocence of the primitive Christians revived. There\nwas in that town a poor laundress who had five children, and a husband\nparalytic, lame in the right arm, and yet worse distempered in mind\nthan in body. He had little strength left for anything else than to\nbeat her. This poor woman bore it with all the meekness and patience of\nan angel, while she by her labor supported him and his five children.\nShe had a wonderful gift of prayer, and amid her great suffering and\nextreme poverty, preserved the presence of God, and tranquility of\nmind. There was also a shopkeeper, and one who made locks, very much\naffected with God. These were close friends. Sometimes the one and\nsometimes the other read to this laundress; and they were surprised to\nfind that she was instructed by the Lord Himself in all they read to\nher, and spoke divinely of it.\n\nThose friars sent for this woman, and threatened her much if she did\nnot leave off prayer, telling her it was only for churchmen to pray,\nand that she was very bold to practice it. She replied, that \"Christ\nhad commanded all to pray,\" that He had said, \"What I say unto you I\nsay unto all\" (Mark 13:33, 37), without specifying either priests or\nfriars; that without prayer she could not support her crosses and\npoverty; that formerly she had lived without it, and then was very\nwicked; that since she had been in the exercise of it, she had loved\nGod with all her soul; so that to leave off prayer was to renounce her\nsalvation, which she could not do. She added that they might take\ntwenty persons who had never practiced prayer, and twenty of those who\nwere in the practice of it. Then, said she, \"Inform yourselves of the\nlives of both sorts, and ye will see if ye have any reason to cry out\nagainst prayer.\" Such words as these, from such a woman, one would\nthink might have fully convinced them; but instead of that, it only\nirritated them the more. They assured her that she should have no\nabsolution till she promised them to desist from prayer. She said that\ndepended not on her, and that Christ is master of what He communicates\nto His creatures, and of doing with it what He pleases. They refused\nher absolution; and after railing at a good tailor, who served God with\nhis whole heart, they ordered all the books without exception, which\ntreated on prayer to be brought to them. They burned them with their\nown hands in the public square. They were very much elated with their\nperformance; but all the town presently arose in an uproar. The\nprincipal men went to the Bishop of Geneva, and complained to him of\nthe scandals of these new missionaries, so different from the others.\nSpeaking of Father La Combe, who had been there before them on his\nmission, they said that these seemed as if they were sent to destroy\nall the good he had done. The bishop was forced to come himself to that\ntown, and there to mount the pulpit, protesting that he had no share in\nit, and that these fathers had pushed their zeal too far. The friars,\non the other side declared, they had done all they did, pursuant to the\norders given them.\n\nThere were also at Tonon young women who had retired together, being\npoor villagers, the better to earn their livelihood and to serve God.\nOne of them read from time to time, while the others were at work, and\nnot one went out without asking leave of the eldest. They wove\nribbands, or spun, the strong supporting the weak. They separated these\npoor girls, and others beside them, in several villages, and drove them\nout of the church.\n\nIt was the friars of the very order whom our Lord made use of to\nestablish prayer in (I know not how) many places. Into the places where\nthey went, they carried a hundred times more books of prayer than those\nwhich their brethren had burned. The hand of God appeared to me\nwonderfully in these things.\n\nOne day when I was sick, a brother who had skill in curing diseases,\ncame for a charitable collection, but hearing I was ill, came in to see\nme, and gave me medicines proper for my disorder. We entered into a\nconversation which revived in him the love he had for God, which he\nacknowledged had been too much stifled by his occupations. I made him\ncomprehend that there was no employment which should hinder him from\nloving God, and from being occupied within himself. He readily believed\nme, as he already had a good share of piety, and of an interior\ndisposition. Our Lord conferred on him many favors, and gave him to be\none of my true children.\n\nI saw at this time, or rather experienced the ground on which God\nrejects sinners from His bosom. All the cause of God's rejection is in\nthe will of the sinner. If that will submits, how horrible soever he\nbe, God purifies him in his love, and receives him into his grace; but\nwhile that will rebels, the rejection continues. For want of ability\nseconding his inclination, he should not commit the sin he is inclined\nto, yet he never can be admitted into grace till the cause ceases,\nwhich is this wrong will, rebellious to the divine law. If that once\nsubmits, God then totally removes the effects of sin, which stain the\nsoul, by washing away the defilements which he has contracted. If that\nsinner dies in the time that his will is rebellious and turned toward\nsin, as death fixes forever the disposition of the soul, and the cause\nof its impurity is ever subsisting, such soul can never be received\ninto God. Its rejection must be eternal, as there is such an absolute\nopposition between essential purity and essential impurity. And as this\nsoul, from its own nature necessarily tends to its own center, it is\ncontinually rejected of the Lord, by reason of its impurity, subsisting\nnot only in the effects, but in their cause. It is the same way in this\nlife. This cause, so long as it subsists, absolutely hinders the grace\nof God from operating in the soul. But if the sinner comes to die truly\npenitent, then the cause, which is the wrong will, being taken away,\nthere remains only the effect or impurity caused by it. He is then in a\ncondition to be purified. God of his infinite mercy has provided a\nlaver of love and of justice, a painful laver indeed, to purify this\nsoul. And as the defilement is greater or less, so is the pain; but\nwhen the cause is utterly taken away, the pain entirely ceases. Souls,\nare received into grace, as soon as the cause of sin ceases; but they\ndo not pass into the Lord Himself, till all its effects are washed\naway. If they have not courage to let Him, in His own way and will,\nthoroughly cleanse and purify them, they never enter into the pure\ndivinity in this life.\n\nThe Lord incessantly solicits this will to cease to be rebellious, and\nspares nothing on His side for this good end. The will is free, yet\ngrace follows it still. As soon as the will ceases to rebel, it finds\ngrace at the door, ready to introduce its unspeakable benefits. O, the\ngoodness of the Lord and baseness of the sinner, each of them amazing\nwhen clearly seen!\n\nBefore I arrived at Grenoble, the lady, my friend, saw in a dream that\nour Lord gave me an infinite number of children all uniformly clad,\nbearing on their habits the marks of candor and innocence. She thought\nI was coming to take care of the children of the hospital. But as soon\nas she told me, I discerned that it was not that which the dream meant;\nbut that our Lord would give me, by a spiritual fruitfulness, a great\nnumber of children; that they would not be my true children, but in\nsimplicity, candor and innocence. So great an aversion I have to\nartifice and disguise.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\n\nThe physician of whom I have spoken, was disposed to lay open his heart\nto me. Our Lord gave him through me all that was necessary for him; for\nthough disposed to the spiritual life, yet for want of courage and\nfidelity he had not duly advanced in it.\n\nHe had occasion to bring to me some of his companions who were friars;\nand the Lord took hold of them all. It was at the very same time, that\nthe others of the same order were making all the ravages I have\nmentioned, and opposing with all their might the Holy Spirit of the\nLord. I could not but admire to see how the Lord was pleased to make\namends for former damages, pouring out His Spirit in abundance on these\nmen, while the others were laboring vehemently against it, doing all\nthey could to destroy its dominion and efficacy in their\nfellow-mortals. But those good souls instead of being staggered by\npersecutions, grew the stronger by it. The Superior, and the master of\nthe novices of the house in which this doctor was declared against me,\nwithout knowing me. They were grievously chagrined that a woman, as\nthey said, should be so much flocked to, and so much sought after.\nLooking at things as they were in themselves, and not as they were in\nthe Lord, who does whatever pleases Him, they had contempt for the gift\nwhich was lodged in so mean an instrument, instead of esteeming the\nLord and His grace. Yet this good brother at length got the superior to\ncome to see me, and thank me for the good which he said I had done. Our\nLord so ordered, that he found something in my conversation which\nreached and took hold of him. At length he was completely brought over.\nHe it was, who some time after, being visitor, dispersed such a number\nof those books, bought at their own charge, which the others had tried\nutterly to destroy. Oh, how wonderful art Thou, my God! In all Thy ways\nhow wise, in all Thy conduct how full of love! How well Thou canst\nfrustrate all the false wisdom of men, and triumph over their vain\npretensions!\n\nThere were in this noviciate many novices. The eldest of them grew so\nvery uneasy under his vocation, that he knew not what to do. So great\nwas his trouble that he could neither read, study, pray, nor do\nscarcely any of his duties. His companion brought him to me. We spoke\nawhile together, and the Lord discovered to me both the cause of his\ndisorder and its remedy. I told it to him; and he began to practice\nprayer, even that of the heart. He was on a sudden wonderfully changed,\nand the Lord highly favored him. As I spoke to him grace wrought in his\nheart, and his soul drank it in, as the parched ground does the gentle\nrain. He felt himself relieved of his pain before he left the room. He\nthen readily, joyfully, and perfectly performed all his exercises,\nwhich before were done with reluctance and disgust. He now both studied\nand prayed easily, and discharged all his duties, in such a manner,\nthat he was scarce known to himself or to others. What astonished him\nmost was a remarkable gift of prayer. He saw that there was readily\ngiven him what he could never have before, whatever pains he took for\nit. This enlivening gift was the principle which made him act, gave him\ngrace for his employments, and an inward fruition of the grace of God,\nwhich brought all good with it. He gradually brought me all the\nnovices, all of whom partook of the effects of grace, though\ndifferently, according to their different temperaments. Never was there\na more flourishing noviciate.\n\nThe master and superior could not forbear admiring so great a change in\ntheir novices, though they did not know the cause of it. One day, as\nthey were speaking of it to the collector, for they esteemed him highly\non account of his virtue, he said, \"My fathers, if you will permit me,\nI will tell you the reason of it. It is the lady against whom you have\nexclaimed so much without knowing her, whom God has made use of for all\nof this.\" They were very surprised; and both the master, though\nadvanced in age, and his superior then submitted humbly to practice\nprayer, after the manner taught by a little book, which the Lord\ninspired me to write, and of which I shall say more hereafter. They\nreaped such benefit from it, that the superior said to me, \"I am become\nquite a new man. I could not practice prayer before, because my\nreasoning faculty was grown dull and exhausted; but now I do it as\noften as I will, with ease, with much fruit, and a quite different\nsensation of the presence of God.\" And the master said, \"I have been a\nfriar these forty years, and can truly say that I never knew how to\npray; nor have I ever known or tasted of God, as I have done since I\nread that little book.\"\n\nMany others were gained to God, whom I looked on to be my children. He\ngave me three famous friars, of an order by which I have been, and\nstill am, very much persecuted. He made me also of service to a great\nnumber of nuns, of virtuous young women, and even men of the world;\namong the rest a young man of quality, who had quitted the order of the\nknights of Malta, to take that of the priesthood. He was the relation\nof a bishop near him, who had other designs of preferment for him. He\nhas been much favored of the Lord, and is constant in prayer. I could\nnot describe the great number of souls which were then given me, as\nwell maids, as wives, priests and friars. But there were three curates,\none canon, and one grand-vicar, who were more particularly given me.\nThere was one priest for whom I suffered much, through his not being\nwilling to die to himself, and loving himself too much. With a sad\nregret I saw him decaying, falling away. As for the others there are\nsome of them who have continued stedfast and immovable, and some whom\nthe tempest has shaken a little, but not torn away. Though these start\naside, yet they still return. But those who are snatched quite away\nreturn no more.\n\nThere was one true daughter given me, whom our Lord made use of to gain\nmany others to Him. She was in a strange state of death when I first\nsaw her, and by me He gave her life and peace. She afterward, fell\nextremely ill. The doctors said she would die; but I had an assurance\nof the contrary, and that God would make use of her to gain souls, as\nhe has done. There was in a monastery a young woman confined in a state\nof distraction. I saw her, knew her case, and that it was not what they\nthought it was. As soon as I had spoken to her she recovered. But the\nprioress did not like that I should tell her my thoughts of it, because\nthe person who had brought her thither was her friend. They plagued her\nmore than before, and threw her back again into her distraction.\n\nA sister of another monastery had been for eight years in a deep\nmelancholy unrelieved by anyone. Her director increased it, by\npracticing remedies contrary to her disorder. I had never been in that\nmonastery; for I did not go into such places, unless I was sent for, as\nI did not think it right to intrude, but left myself to be conducted of\nProvidence. I was very much surprised that at eight o'clock at night\none came for me from the prioress. It was in the long days of summer,\nand being near, I went. I met with a sister who told me her case. She\nhad gone to such excess, that seeing no remedy for it, she had taken a\nknife to kill herself. The knife fell out of her hand and a person\ncoming to see her had advised her to speak to me. Our Lord made me know\nat first what the matter was; and that He required her to resign\nherself to Him, instead of resisting Him as they had made her do for\neight years. I was instrumental to draw her into such a resignation,\nthat she entered at once into a peace of paradise; all her pains and\ntroubles were instantly banished; and never returned again. She has the\ngreatest capacity of any in the house. She was presently so changed as\nto be the admiration of the whole community. Our Lord gave her a very\ngreat gift of prayer and His continual presence, with a faculty and\nreadiness for everything. A domestic also, who had troubled her for\ntwenty-two years past, was delivered from her troubles. That produced a\nclose tie of friendship between the prioress and me, as the wonderful\nchange and the peace of this sister surprised her, she having so often\nseen her in her terrible sorrow. I also contracted other such ties in\nthis monastery, where there are souls under the Lord's special regard,\nwhom He drew to Himself by the means He had been pleased to make\nchoice.\n\nI was specially moved to read the Holy Scriptures. When I began I was\nimpelled to write the passage, and instantly its explication was given\nme, which I also wrote, going on with inconceivable expedition, light\nbeing poured in upon me in such a manner, that I found I had in myself\nlatent treasures of wisdom and knowledge which I had not yet known of.\nBefore I wrote I knew not what I was going to write. And after I had\nwritten, I remembered nothing of what I had penned; nor could I make\nuse of any part of it for the help of souls. The Lord gave me, at the\ntime I spoke to them (without any study or reflection of mine) all that\nwas necessary for them. Thus the Lord made me go on with an explanation\nof the holy internal sense of the Scriptures. I had no other book but\nthe Bible, nor ever made use of any but that, and without even seeking\nfor any. When, in writing on the Old Testament, I made use of passages\nof the New, to support what I had said, it was without seeking them,\nthey were given me along with the explication; and in writing on the\nNew Testament, therein making use of passages of the Old, they were\ngiven me in like manner without my seeking anything. I had scarce any\ntime for writing but in the night, allowing only one or two hours to\nsleep. The Lord made me write with so much purity, that I was obliged\nto leave off or begin again, as He was pleased to order. When I wrote\nby day, often suddenly interrupted, I left the word unfinished, and He\nafterward gave me what He pleased. If I gave way to reflection I was\npunished for it, and could not proceed. Yet sometimes I was not duly\nattentive to the divine Spirit, thinking I did well to continue when I\nhad time, even without feeling His immediate impulse or enlightning\ninfluence, from whence it is easy to see some places clear and\nconsistent, and others which have neither taste nor unction; such is\nthe difference of the Spirit of God from the human and natural spirit.\nAlthough they are left just as I wrote them, yet I am ready, if\nordered, to adjust them according to my present light.\n\nDidst thou not, O my God, turn me a hundred ways, to prove whether I\nwas without any reserve, through every kind of trial, or whether I had\nnot yet some little interest for myself? My soul became hereby readily\ntoo pliable to every discovery of the divine will, and whatever kind of\nhumiliations attended me to counterbalance my Lord's favors, till\neverything, high or low, was rendered alike to me.\n\nMethinks the Lord acts with His dearest friends as the sea with its\nwaves. Sometimes it pushes them against the rocks where they break in\npieces, sometimes it rolls them on the sand, or dashes them on the\nmire, then instantly it retakes them into the depths of its own bosom,\nwhere they are absorbed with the same rapidity that they were first\nejected. Even among the good the far greater part are souls only of\nmercy; surely that is well; but to appertain to divine justice, oh, how\nrare and yet how great! Mercy is all distributive in favor of the\ncreature, but justice destroys everything of the creature, without\nsparing anything.\n\nThe lady, who was my particular friend, began to conceive some jealousy\non the applause given me, God so permitting if for the farther\npurification of her soul, through this weakness, and the pain it caused\nher. Also some confessors began to be uneasy, saying that it was none\nof my business to invade their province, and to meddle in the helps of\nsouls; that there were some of the penitents which had a great\naffection for me. It was easy for me to observe the difference between\nthose confessors who, in their conducting of souls, seek nothing but\nGod, and those who seek themselves therein. The first came to see me,\nand rejoiced greatly at the grace of God bestowed on their penitents,\nwithout fixing their attention on the instrument. The others, on the\ncontrary, tried underhand to stir up the town against me. I saw that\nthey would be in the right to oppose me, if I had intruded of myself;\nbut I could do nothing but what the Lord made me do. At times there\ncame some to dispute and oppose me. Two friars came, one of them a man\nof profound learning and a great preacher. They came separately, after\nhaving studied a number of difficult things to propose to me. Though\nthey were matters far out of my reach, the Lord made me answer as\njustly as if I had studied them all my life; after which I spoke to\nthem as He inspired me. They went away not only convinced and\nsatisfied, but affected with the love of God.\n\nI still continued writing with a prodigious swiftness; for the hand\ncould scarcely follow fast enough the Spirit which dictated. Through\nthe whole progress of so long a work I never altered my manner nor made\nuse of any other book than the Bible itself. The transcriber, whatever\ndiligence he used, could not copy in five days what I wrote in one\nnight. Whatever is good in it comes from God only. Whatever is\notherwise from myself; I mean from the mixture which I have made,\nwithout duly attending to it, of my own impurity with his pure and\nchaste doctrine. In the day I had scarcely time to eat, by reason of\nthe vast numbers of people which came thronging to me. I wrote the\ncanticles in a day and a half, and received several visits besides.\n\nHere I may add to what I have said about my writings, that a\nconsiderable part of the book of Judges happened by some means to be\nlost. Being desired to render that book complete, I wrote again the\nplaces lost. Afterward when the people were about leaving the house,\nthey were found. My former and latter explications, on comparison, were\nfound to be perfectly conformable to each other, which greatly\nsurprised persons of knowledge and merit, who attested the truth of it.\n\nThere came to see me a counselor of the parliament, a servant of God,\nwho finding on my table a tract on prayer, which I had written long\nbefore, desired me to lend it. Having read it and liked it much, he\nlent it to some friends, to whom he thought it might be of service.\nEveryone wanted copies of it. He resolved therefore to have it printed.\nThe impression was begun, and proper approbations given to it. They\nrequested me to write a preface, which I did, and thus was that little\nbook printed. This counselor was one of my intimate friends, and a\npattern of piety. The book has already passed through five or six\neditions; and our Lord has given a very great benediction to it. Those\ngood friars took fifteen hundred of them. The devil became so enraged\nagainst me on account of the conquest which God made by me, that I was\nassured he was going to stir up against me a violent persecution. All\nthat gave me no trouble. Let him stir up against me ever so strange\npersecutions. I know they will all serve to the glory of my God.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\n\nA poor girl of very great simplicity, who earned her livelihood by her\nlabor, and was inwardly favored of the Lord, came all sorrowful to me,\nand said, \"Oh my mother, what strange things have I seen!\" I asked what\nthey were, \"Alas\" said she, \"I have seen you like a lamb in the midst\nof a vast troop of furious wolves. I have seen a frightful multitude of\npeople of all ranks and robes, of all ages, sexes and conditions,\npriests, friars, married men, maids and wives, with pikes, halberts and\ndrawn swords, all eager for your instant destruction. You let them\nalone without stirring, or being surprised and without offering any way\nto defend yourself. I looked on all sides to see whether anyone would\ncome to assist and defend you; but I saw not one.\"\n\nSome days after, those, who through envy were raising private batteries\nagainst me, broke forth. Libels began to spread. Envious people wrote\nagainst me, without knowing me. They said that I was a sorceress, that\nit was by a magic power I attracted souls, that everything in me was\ndiabolical; that if I did charities, it was because I coined, and put\noff false money, with many other gross accusations, equally false,\ngroundless and absurd.\n\nAs the tempest increased every day, some of my friends advised me to\nwithdraw, but before I mention my leaving Grenoble, I must say\nsomething farther of my state while here.\n\nIt seemed to me that all our Lord made me do for souls, would be in\nunion with Jesus Christ. In this divine union my words, had wonderful\neffect, even the formation of Jesus Christ in the souls of others. I\nwas in no wise able of myself to say the things I said. He who\nconducted me made me say what He pleased, and as long as He pleased. To\nsome I was not permitted to speak a word; and to others there flowed\nforth as it were a deluge of grace, and yet this pure love admitted not\nof any superfluity, or a means of empty amusement. When questions were\nasked, to which an answer were useless, it was not given me. It was the\nsame in regard to such as our Lord was pleased to conduct through death\nto themselves, and who came to seek for human consolation. I had\nnothing for them but what was purely necessary, and could proceed no\nfarther. I could at least only speak of indifferent things, in such\nliberty as God allows, in order to suit everyone, and not to be\nunsociable or disagreeable to any; but for His own word, He Himself is\nthe dispenser of it. Oh, if preachers were duly careful to speak only\nin that spirit what fruits would they bring forth in the lives of the\nhearers! With my true children I could communicate best in silence, in\nthe spiritual language of the divine Word. I had the consolation some\ntime before to hear one read in St. Augustine a conversation he had\nwith his mother. He complains of the necessity of returning from that\nheavenly language to words. I sometimes said, \"Oh, my Love, give me\nhearts large enough to receive and contain the fulness bestowed on me.\"\n\nAfter this manner, when the Holy Virgin approached Elizabeth, a\nwonderful commerce was maintained between Jesus Christ and St. John the\nBaptist, who after this manifested no eagerness to come to see Christ,\nbut was drawn to retire into the desert, to receive the like\ncommunications with the greatest plenitude. When he came forth to\npreach repentance, he said, not that he was the Word, but only a Voice\nwhich was sent to make way, or open a passage into the hearts of the\npeople for Christ the Word. He baptized only with water, for that was\nhis function; for, as the water in running off leaves nothing, so does\nthe Voice when it is past. But the Word baptized with the Holy Ghost,\nbecause He imprinted Himself on souls, and communicated with them by\nthat Holy Spirit. It is not observed that Jesus Christ said anything\nduring the whole obscure part of His life, though it is true that not\nany of His words shall be lost. Oh Love, if all thou hast said and\noperated in silence were to be written, I think the whole world could\nnot contain the books that should be written. John 21:25.\n\nAll that I experienced was shown me in the Holy Scripture. I saw with\nadmiration that there passed nothing within my soul which was not in\nJesus Christ and in the Holy Scriptures. I must pass over very many\nthings in silence, because they cannot be expressed. If they were\nexpressed they could not be understood or comprehended.\n\nI often felt much for Father La Combe, who was not yet fixed in his\nstate of interior death, but often rose and fell into alternatives. I\nwas made sensible that Father La Combe was a vessel of election, whom\nGod had chosen to carry His name among the Gentiles, and that He would\nshow him how much he must suffer for that name. A carnal world judges\ncarnally of them, and imputes to human attachment what is from the\npurest grace. If this union by any deviation be broken, the more pure\nand perfect it is, the more painfully will it be felt; the separation\nof the soul from God by sin being worse than that from the body of\ndeath. For myself I may say I had a continual dependence on God, in\nevery state; my soul was ever willing to obey every motion of His\nSpirit. I thought there could not be anything in the world which He\ncould require from me, to which I would not give myself up readily and\nwith pleasure. I had no interest at all for myself. When God requires\nanything from this wretched nothing, I find no resistance left in me to\ndo His will, how rigorous soever it may appear. If there is a heart in\nthe world of which Thou art the sole and absolute master, mine seems to\nbe one of that sort. Thy will, however rigorous, is its life and its\npleasure.\n\nTo resume the thread of my story, the Bishop of Grenoble's Almoner\npersuaded me to go for some time to Marseilles, to let the storm pass\nover. He told me that I would be well received there, it being his\nnative soil, and that many people of merit were there. I wrote to\nFather La Combe for his consent. He readily gave it. I might have gone\nto Verceil; for the Bishop of Verceil had written me very obliging\nletters, earnestly pressing me to come. But a human respect, and fear\nof affording a handle to my enemies, gave me an extreme aversion\nthereto.\n\nBeside the above, the Marchioness of Prunai, who, since my departure\nfrom her, had been more enlightened by her own experience, having met\nwith a part of the things which I thought would befall her, had\nconceived for me a very strong friendship and intimate union of spirit,\nin such a manner that no two sisters could be more united than we. She\nwas extremely desirous that I would return to her, as I had formerly\npromised her. But I could not resolve upon this, lest it should be\nthought that I was gone after Father La Combe. There had been no room\ngiven to anybody to accuse me of any indirect attachment to him; for\nwhen it depended on myself not to continue with him, I did not do it.\nThe Bishop of Geneva had not failed to write against me to Grenoble, as\nhe had done to other places. His nephew had gone from house to house to\ncry me down. All this was indifferent to me; and I did not cease to do\nto his diocese all the good in my power. I even wrote to him in a\nrespectful manner; but his heart was too much closed to yield to\nanything.\n\nBefore I left Grenoble, that good girl I have spoken of came to me\nweeping, and told me that I was going, and that I hid it from her,\nbecause I would have nobody know it; but that the Devil would be before\nme in all the places I should go to; that I was going to a town, where\nI would scarce be arrived, before he would stir up the whole town\nagainst me, and would do me all the harm he possibly could. What had\nobliged me to conceal my departure, was my fear of being loaded with\nvisits, and testimonies of friendship from a number of good persons,\nwho had a very great affection for me.\n\nI embarked then upon the Rhone, with my maid and a young woman of\nGrenoble, whom the Lord has highly favored through my means. The Bishop\nof Grenoble's Almoner also accompanied me, with another very worthy\necclesiastic. We met with many alarming accidents and wonderful\npreservations; but those instant dangers, which affrighted others, far\nfrom alarming me, augmented my peace. The Bishop of Grenoble's Almoner\nwas much astonished. He was in a desperate fright, when the boat struck\nagainst a rock, and opened at the stroke. In his emotion looking\nattentively at me, he observed that I did not change my countenance, or\nmove my eyebrows, retaining all my tranquillity. I did not so much as\nfeel the first emotions of surprise, which are natural to everybody on\nthose occasions, as they depend not on ourselves. What caused my peace\nin such dangers as terrify others, was my resignation to God, and\nbecause death is much more agreeable to me than life, if such were His\nwill, to which I desire to be ever patiently submissive.\n\nA man of quality, a servant of God, and one of my intimate friends had\ngiven me a letter for a knight of Malta, who was very devout, and whom\nI have esteemed since I have known him, as a man whom our Lord designed\nto serve the order of Malta greatly, and to be its ornament and support\nby his holy life. I had told him that I thought he should go thither,\nand that God would assuredly make use of him to diffuse a spirit of\npiety into many of the knights. He has actually gone to Malta, where\nthe first places were soon given him. This man of quality sent him my\nlittle book of prayer and printed at Grenoble. He had a chaplain very\naverse to the spiritual path. He took this book, and condemning it at\nonce, went to stir up a part of the town, and among the rest a set of\nmen who called themselves the seventy-two disciples of St. Cyran. I\narrived at Marseilles at ten o'clock in the morning, and that very\nafternoon all was in a noise against me. Some went to speak to the\nbishop, telling him that, on account of that book, it was necessary to\nbanish me from the city. They gave him the book which he examined with\none of his prebends. He liked it well. He sent for Monsieur Malaval and\na father Recollect, who he knew had come to see me a little after my\narrival, to inquire of them from whence that great tumult had its rise,\nwhich indeed had no other effect on me than to make me smile, seeing so\nsoon accomplished what that young woman had foretold me. Monsieur\nMalaval and that good father told the bishop what they thought of me;\nafter which he testified much uneasiness at the insult given me. I was\nobliged to go to see him. He received me with extraordinary respect,\nand begged my excuse for what had happened; desired me to stay at\nMarseilles, and assured me that he would protect me. He even asked\nwhere I lodged, that he might come to see me.\n\nNext day the Bishop of Grenoble's Almoner went to see him, with that\nother priest who had come with us. The Bishop of Marseilles again\ntestified to them his sorrow for the insults given me without any\ncause; and told them, that it was usual with those persons to insult\nall such as were not of their cabal, that they had even insulted\nhimself. They were not content with that. They wrote to me the most\noffensive letters possible, though at the same time they did not know\nme. I apprehended that our Lord was beginning in earnest to take from\nme every place of abode; and those words were renewed in my mind, \"The\nfoxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of\nman hath not where to lay his head.\"\n\nIn the short time of my stay at Marseilles, I was instrumental in\nsupporting some good souls, and among others an ecclesiastic, who till\nthen was unacquainted with me. After having finished his thanksgiving\nin the church, seeing me go out, he followed me into the house in which\nI lodged. Then he told me that the Lord had inspired him to address me,\nand to open his inward state to me. He did it with as much simplicity\nas humility, and the Lord gave him through me all that was necessary\nfor him, from whence he was filled with joy, and thankful\nacknowledgments to God. Although there were many spiritual persons\nthere, and even of his intimate friends, he never had been moved to\nopen his mind to any of them. He was a servant of God, and favored by\nHim with a singular gift of prayer. During the eight days I was at\nMarseilles, I saw many good souls there. Through all my persecutions,\nour Lord always struck some good stroke of His own right hand, and that\ngood ecclesiastic was delivered from an anxiety of mind, which had much\nafflicted him for some years.\n\nAfter I had left Grenoble, those who hated me, without knowing me,\nspread libels against me. A woman for whom I had great love, and whom I\nhad even extricated from an engagement which she had continued in for\nseveral years, and contributed to her discarding the person to whom she\nhad been attached, suffered her mind to resume its fondness for that\npernicious engagement. She became violently enraged against me for\nhaving broken it off. Although I had freely been at some expense to\nprocure her freedom, still she went to the Bishop of Grenoble, to tell\nhim that I had counseled her to do an act of injustice. She then went\nfrom confessor to confessor, repeating the same story, to animate them\nagainst me. As they were too susceptible of the prejudices infused, the\nfire was soon kindled in all quarters. There were none but those who\nknew me, and who loved God, that took my part. They became more closely\nunited to me in sympathy through my persecution. It would have been\nvery easy for me to destroy the calumny, as well with the Bishop of\nGrenoble. I needed only to tell who the person was, and show the fruits\nof her disorder. I could not declare the guilty person, without making\nknown at the same time the other who had been her accomplice, who now,\nbeing touched of God, was very penitent, I thought it best for me to\nsuffer and be silent. There was a very pious man who knew all her\nhistory, from the beginning to the end of it, who wrote to her, that if\nshe did not retract her lies, he would publish the account of her\nwicked life, to make known both her gross iniquity and my innocence.\nShe continued some time in her malice, writing that I was a sorceress,\nwith many other falsehoods. Some time after she had such a cruel\nremorse of conscience on this account, that she wrote both to the\nbishop and others to retract what she had said. She induced one to\nwrite to me, to inform me that she was in despair for what she had\ndone; that God had punished her. After these recantations the outcry\nabated, the bishop disabused, and since that time he has testified a\ngreat regard for me. This creature had, among other things, said that I\ncaused myself to be worshiped; also other unparalleled follies.\n\nFrom Marseilles I knew not how or whither I should turn next. I saw no\nlikelihood either of staying or of returning to Grenoble, where I had\nleft my daughter in a convent. Father La Combe had written to me that\nhe did not think I ought to go to Paris. I even felt a strong\nrepugnance to the idea of going, which made me think it was not yet the\ntime for it. One morning I felt myself inwardly pressed to go\nsomewhere. I took a conveyance to go to see the Marchioness of Prunai,\nwhich was, I thought, the most honorable refuge for me in my present\ncondition. I thought I might pass through Nice on my way to her\nhabitation, as some had assured me I might. But when I arrived at Nice,\nI was greatly surprised to learn that the conveyance could not pass the\nmountain. I knew not what to do, nor which way to turn, alone, forsaken\nof everybody, and not knowing what God required of me. My confusion and\ncrosses seemed to increase. I saw myself, without refuge or retreat,\nwandering as a vagabond. All the tradesmen, whom I saw in their shops,\nappeared to me happy, in having a dwelling of their own in which to\nretire. Nothing in the world seemed harder than this wandering life to\nme, who naturally loved propriety and decorum. As I was in this\nuncertainty, not knowing what course to take, one came to tell me that\nnext day a sloop would set off, which used to go in one day to Genoa;\nand that if I chose it, they would land me at Savona, from whence I\nmight get myself carried to the Marchioness of Prunai's house. To that\nI consented, as I could not be supplied with any other way.\n\nI had some joy at embarking on the sea. I said in myself, \"If I am the\ndregs of the earth, the scorn and offscouring of nature, I am now going\nto embark on the element which above all others is the most\ntreacherous; if it be the Lord's pleasure to plunge me in the waves, it\nshall be mine to perish in them.\" There came a tempest in a place\ndangerous for a small boat; and the mariners were some of the\nwickedest. The irritation of the waves gave a satisfaction to my mind.\nI pleased myself in thinking that those mutinous billows might probably\nsupply me with a grave. Perhaps I carried the point too far in the\npleasure I took, at seeing myself beaten and bandied by the waters.\nThose who were with me, took notice of my intrepidity, but knew not the\ncause of it. I asked some little hole of a rock to be placed in, there\nto live separate from all creatures. I figured to myself, that some\nuninhabited island would have terminated all my disgraces, and put me\nin a condition of infallibly doing Thy will. Thou designedst me a\nprison far different from that of the rock, and quite another\nbanishment than that of the uninhabited island. Thou reservest me to be\nbattered by billows, more irritated than those of the sea. Calumnies\nproved to be the unrelenting waves, to which I was to be exposed, in\norder to be lashed and tossed by them without mercy. By the tempest we\nwere kept back, and instead of a short day's passage to Genoa, we were\neleven days making it. How peaceable was my heart in so violent an\nagitation! We could not land at Savona. We were obliged to go on to\nGenoa. We arrived there in the beginning of the week before Easter.\n\nWhile I was there I was obliged to bear the insults of the inhabitants,\ncaused by the resentment they had against the French because of the\nhavoc of a late bombardment. The Doge was newly gone out of the city,\nand had carried off with him all the coaches. I could not get one, and\nwas obliged to stay several days at excessive expenses. The people\nthere demanded of us exorbitant sums, and as much for every single\nperson as they would have asked for a company at the best eating place\nin Paris. I had little money left, but my store in Providence could not\nbe exhausted. I begged with the greatest earnestness for a carriage at\nany price, to pass the feast of Easter at the Marchioness of Prunai's\nhouse. It was then within three days of Easter. I could scarce any way\nget myself to be understood. By the force of entreaty, they brought me\nat length a sorry coach with lame mules, and told me that they would\ntake me readily to Verceil, which was only two days journey, but\ndemanded an enormous sum. They would not engage to take me to the\nMarchioness of Prunai's house, as they knew not where her estate lay.\nThis was to me a strong mortification; for I was very willing to go to\nVerceil; nevertheless the proximity of Easter; and want of money, in a\ncountry where they used every kind of extortion and tyranny, left me no\nchoice. I was under an absolute necessity of submitting to be thus\nconveyed to Verceil.\n\nThus Providence led me whither I would not. Our muleteer was one of the\nmost brutal men; and for an increase of my affliction, I had sent away\nto Verceil the ecclesiastic who accompanied us, to prevent their\nsurprise at seeing me there, after I had protested against going. That\necclesiastic was very coarsely treated on the road, through the hatred\nthey bore to the French. They made him go part of the way on foot, so\nthat, though he set off the day before me, he arrived there only a few\nhours sooner than I did. As for the fellow who conducted us, seeing he\nhad only women under his care, he treated us in the most insolent and\nboorish manner.\n\nWe passed through a wood infested with robbers. The muleteer was\nafraid, and told us, that, if we met any of them on the road, we should\nbe murdered. They spared nobody. Scarcely had he uttered these words,\nwhen there appeared four men well armed. They immediately stopped us!\nThe man was exceedingly frightened. I made a light bow of my head, with\na smile, for I had no fear, and was so entirely resigned to Providence,\nthat it was all one to die this way or any other; in the sea, or by the\nhands of robbers. When the dangers were most manifest, then was my\nfaith the strongest, as well as my intrepidity, being unable to wish\nfor anything else than what should fall out, whether to be dashed\nagainst the rocks, drowned, or killed in any other way; everything in\nthe will of God being equal to me. The people who used to convey or\nattend me said that they had never seen a courage like mine; for the\nmost alarming dangers, and the time when death appeared the most\ncertain, were those which seemed to please me the most. Was it not thy\npleasure, O my God, which guarded me in every imminent danger, and held\nme back from rolling down the precipice, on the instant of sliding over\nits dizzy brow? The more easy I was about life, which I bore only\nbecause Thou wast pleased to bear it, the more care Thou tookest to\npreserve it. There seemed a mutual emulation between us, on my part to\nresign it, and on thine to maintain it. The robbers then advanced to\nthe coach; but I had no sooner saluted them, than God made them change\ntheir design. Having pushed off one another, as it were, to hinder each\nof them from doing any harm; they respectfully saluted me, and, with an\nair of compassion, unusual to such sorts of persons, retired. I was\nimmediately struck to the heart with a full and clear conviction that\nit was a stroke of Thy right hand, who had other designs over me than\nto suffer me to die by the hand of robbers. It is Thy sovereign power\nwhich takes away their all from Thy devoted lovers; and destroys their\nlives with all that is of self without pity or sparing anything.\n\nThe muleteer, seeing me attended only with two young women, thought he\nmight treat me as he would, perhaps expecting to draw money from me.\nInstead of taking me to the inn, he brought me to a mill, in which\nthere was a woman. There was but one single room with several beds in\nit, in which the millers and muleteers lay together. In that chamber\nthey forced me to stay. I told the muleteer I was not a person to lie\nin such a place and wanted to oblige him to take me to the inn. Nothing\nof it would he do. I was constrained to go out on foot, at ten o'clock\nat night, carrying a part of my clothes, and to go a good way more than\na quarter of a league in the dark, in a strange place, not knowing the\nway, crossing one end of the wood infested with robbers, to endeavor to\nget to the inn. That fellow, seeing us go off from the place, where he\nhad wanted to make me lodge, hooted after us in a very abusive manner.\nI bore my humiliation cheerfully, but not without feeling it. But the\nwill of God and my resignation to it rendered everything easy to me. We\nwere well received at the inn; and the good people there did the best\nin their power for our recovery from the fatigue we had undergone. They\nassured us the place we had left was very dangerous. Next morning we\nwere obliged to return on foot to the carriage for that man would not\nbring it to us. On the contrary, he gave us a shower of fresh insults.\nTo consummate his base behavior, he sold me to the post, whereby I was\nforced to go the rest of the way in a post-chaise instead of a\ncarriage.\n\nIn this equipage I arrived at Alexandria, a frontier town, subject to\nSpain, on the side of the Milanese. Our driver took us, according to\ntheir custom, to the posthouse. I was exceedingly astonished when I saw\nthe landlady coming out not to receive him, but to oppose his entrance.\nShe had heard there were women in the chaise, and taking us for a\ndifferent sort of women from what we were, she protested against our\ncoming in. On the other hand, the driver was determined to force his\nentrance in spite of her. Their dispute rose to such a height, that a\ngreat number of the officers of the garrison, with a mob, gathered at\nthe noise, who were surprised at the odd humor of the woman in refusing\nto lodge us. With earnestness I entreated the post to take us to some\nother house, but he would not; so obstinately was he bent on carrying\nhis point. He assured the landlady we were persons of honor and piety\ntoo; the marks whereof he had seen. At last, by force of pressing\nentreaties, he obliged her to come to see us. As soon as she had looked\nat us, she acted as the robbers had done; she relented at once and\nadmitted us.\n\nNo sooner had I alighted from the chaise, than she said, \"Go shut\nyourselves up in that chamber hard by, and do not stir, that my son may\nnot know you are here; as soon as he knows it he will kill you.\" She\nsaid it with so much force, as did also the servant maid, that, if\ndeath had not so many charms for me, I should have been ready to die\nwith fear. The two poor girls with me were under frightful\napprehensions. When any stirred, or came to open the door, they thought\nthey were coming to kill them. In short they continued in a dreadful\nsuspense, between life and death, till next day, when we learned that\nthe young man had sworn to kill any woman who lodged at the house. A\nfew days before, an event had fallen out, which had like to have ruined\nhim; a woman of a bad life having there privately murdered a man in\nsome esteem, that had cost the house a heavy fine; and he was afraid of\nany more such persons coming, not without reason.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\n\nAfter these adventures, and others which it would be tedious to recite,\nI arrived at Verceil. I went to the inn, where I was badly received. I\nsent for Father La Combe, who I thought had been already apprised of my\ncoming, by the ecclesiastic whom I had sent before, and who would be of\nso much service to me. This ecclesiastic was only a little while\narrived. How much better on the road should I have fared, if I had him\nwith me! For in that country they look upon ladies, accompanied with\necclesiastics, with veneration, as persons of honor and piety. Father\nLa Combe came in a strange fret at my arrival, God so permitting it. He\nsaid that every one would think I was come after him, and that would\ninjure his reputation, which in that country was very high. I had no\nless pain to go. It was necessity only which had obliged me to submit\nto such a disagreeable task. The father received me with coolness, and\nin such a manner as let me sufficiently see his sentiments, and indeed\nredoubled my pain. I asked him if he required me to return, adding, if\nhe did, \"I would go off that moment however oppressed and spent, both\nwith fatigues and fastings.\" He said that he did not know how the\nBishop of Verceil would take my arrival, after he had given over all\nhis expectations of it, and after I had so long, and so obstinately,\nrefused the obliging offers he had made me; since which he no longer\nexpressed any desire to see me.\n\nIt seemed to me then as if I were rejected from the face of the earth,\nwithout being able to find any refuge, and as if all creatures were\ncombined to crush me. I passed that night without sleep, not knowing\nwhat course I should be obliged to take, being persecuted by my\nenemies, and a subject of disgrace to my friends.\n\nWhen it was known at the inn, that I was one of Father La Combe's\nacquaintance, they treated me with greatest respect and kindness. They\nesteemed him as a saint. The father knew not how to tell the bishop of\nmy arrival, and I felt his pain more than my own. As soon as that\nPrelate knew that I was arrived, he sent his niece, who took me in her\ncoach, and carried me to her house. These things were only done out of\nceremony; and the bishop, not having seen me yet, knew not what to\nthink of a journey so very unexpected, after I had thrice refused,\nthough he sent expresses on purpose to bring me to him. He was out of\nhumor with me. Nevertheless, as he was informed that my design was not\nto stay at Verceil, but to go to the Marchioness of Prunai's house, he\ngave orders for me to be well treated. He could not see me till Easter\nSunday was over. He officiated all the eve and all that day. After it\nwas over, he came in a chaise to his niece's house to see me. Though he\nunderstood French hardly any better than I did Italian, he was very\nwell satisfied with the conversation he had with me. He appeared to\nhave as much favour for me as he had of indifference before.\n\nHe conceived as strong a friendship for me as if I had been his sister;\nand his only pleasure, amid his continual occupations, was to come and\npass half an hour with me in speaking of God. He wrote to the Bishop of\nMarseilles to thank him for having protected me in the persecutions\nthere. He wrote to the Bishop of Grenoble; and he omitted nothing to\nmanifest his regard for me. He now seemed to think alone of finding out\nmeans to detain me in his diocese. He would not hear of my going to see\nthe Marchioness of Prunai. On the contrary, he wrote to her to come and\nsettle with me in his diocese. He sent Father La Combe to her, on\npurpose to exhort her to come; assuring her that he would unite us all\nto make a congregation. The Marchioness entered into it readily, and so\ndid her daughter. They would have come with Father La Combe, but the\nMarchioness was sick. The bishop was active and earnest in collecting\nand establishing a society of us, and found several pious persons and\nsome very devout young ladies, who were all ready to come to join us.\nBut it was not the will of God for fix me thus, but to crucify me yet\nmore.\n\nThe fatigue of traveling made me sick. The girl also whom I brought\nfrom Grenoble fell sick. Her relations, who were covetous took it in\ntheir heads that, if she should die in my service, I would get her to\nmake a will in my favor. They were much mistaken. Far from desiring the\nproperty of others, I had given up my own. Her brother, full of this\napprehension, came with all speed; the first thing he spoke to her\nabout, although he found her recovered, was to make a will. That made a\ngreat noise in Verceil. He wanted her to return with him, but she\nrefused. I advised her to do what her brother desired. He contracted a\nfriendship with some of the officers of the garrison, to whom he told\nridiculous stories, as that I wanted to use his sister badly. He\npretended she was a person of quality. They gave out what I was still\nafraid of,--that I was come after Father La Combe. They even persecuted\nhim on my account. The bishop was much troubled, but could not remedy\nit. The friendship he had for me increased every day; because, as he\nloved God, so he did all those whom he thought desired to love God. As\nhe saw me so much indisposed, he came to see me with assiduity and\ncharity, when at leisure from his occupations. He made me little\npresents of fruits and other things. His relations were jealous. They\nsaid that I was come to ruin him, and to carry off his money into\nFrance, which was farthest from my thoughts. The bishop patiently bore\nthese affronts, hoping still to keep me in his diocese, when I should\nbe recovered.\n\nFather La Combe was the bishop's prebend and his confessor. He esteemed\nhim highly. God made use of him to convert several of the officers and\nsoldiers, who, from being men of scandalous lives, became patterns of\npiety. In that place everything was mixed with crosses, but souls were\ngained to God. There were some of his friars, who, after his example,\nwere advancing toward perfection. Though I neither understood their\nlanguage nor they mine, the Lord made us understand each other in what\nconcerned His service. The Rector of the Jesuits took his time, when\nFather La Combe was gone out of town, to prove me, as he said. He had\nstudied theological matters, which I did not understand. He propounded\nseveral questions. The Lord inspired me to answer him in such a manner,\nthat he went away both surprised and satisfied. He could not forbear\nspeaking of it.\n\nThe Barnabites of Paris, or rather Father de la Mothe took it in head\nto try to draw Father La Combe to go and preach at Paris. He wrote to\nthe Father-general about it, because they had no one at Paris to\nsupport their house, that their church was deserted; that it was a pity\nto leave such a man as Father La Combe in a place where he only\ncorrupted his language. It was necessary to make his fine talents\nappear at Paris, where he himself could not bear the burden of the\nhouse, if they did not give him an assistant of such qualifications and\nexperience. Who would not have thought all this to be sincere? The\nBishop of Verceil, who was very much a friend of Father-general, having\nadvice thereof, opposed it, and answered that it would be doing him the\ngreatest injury to take from him a man who was so exceedingly useful to\nhim, and at a time when he had the greatest need of him.\n\nThe Father-general of the Barnabites would not agree to the request of\nFather de la Mothe, for fear of offending the Bishop of Verceil. As to\nme, my indisposition increased. The air, which is there extremely bad,\ncaused me a continual cough, with frequent returns of fever. I grew so\nmuch worse that it was thought I could not get over it. The Bishop was\nafflicted to see it, but, having consulted the physicians, they assured\nhim that the air of the place was mortal to me, whereupon he said to\nme, \"I had rather have you live, though distant from me, than see you\ndie here.\" He gave up his design of establishing his congregation, for\nmy friend would not settle there without me. The Genoese lady could not\neasily leave her own city, where she was respected. The Genoese\nbesought her to set up there what the Bishop of Verceil had wanted her\nto set up. It was a congregation almost like that of Madame de\nMiramion. When the Bishop had first proposed this, however agreeable it\nappeared, I had a presentiment that it would not succeed, and that it\nwas not what our Lord required of me, though I submissively yielded to\nthe good proposal, were it only to acknowledge the many special favours\nof this prelate. I was assured that the Lord would know well how to\nprevent what He should now require of me. As this good prelate saw he\nmust resign himself to let me go, he said to me, \"You were willing to\nbe in the diocese of Geneva, and there they persecuted and rejected\nyou; I, who would gladly have you, cannot keep you.\" He wrote to Father\nLa Mothe that I should go in the spring, as soon as the weather would\npermit. He was sorry to be obliged to let me go. Yet he still hoped to\nhave kept Father La Combe, which probably might have been, had not the\ndeath of the Father-general given it another turn.\n\nHere it was that I wrote upon the Apocalypse, and that there was given\nme a greater certainty of all the persecutions of the most faithful\nservants of God. Here also I was strongly moved to write to Madame De\nCh----. I did it with great simplicity; and what I wrote was like the\nfirst foundation of what the Lord required of her, having been pleased\nto make use of me to help to bring her into His ways, being one to whom\nI am much united, and by her to others.\n\nThe Bishop of Verceil's friend, the Father-general of the Barnabites,\ndeparted this life. As soon as he was dead, Father La Mothe wrote to\nthe Vicar-general who now held his place till another should be elected\nrenewing his request to have Father La Combe as an assistant. The\nfather, hearing that I was obliged on account of my indisposition to\nreturn into France, sent an order to Father La Combe to return to\nParis, and to accompany me in my journey, as his doing that would\nexempt their house at Paris, already poor, from the expenses of so long\na journey. Father La Combe, who did not penetrate the poison under this\nfair outside, consented thereto; knowing it was my custom to have some\necclesiastic with me in traveling. Father La Combe went off twelve days\nbefore me, in order to transact some business, and to wait for me at\nthe passage over the mountains, as the place where I had most need of\nan escort. I set off in Lent, the weather then being fine. It was a\nsorrowful parting to the Bishop. I pitied him; he was so much affected\nat losing both Father La Combe and me. He caused me to be attended, at\nhis own expense, as far as Turin, giving me a gentleman and one of his\necclesiastics to accompany me.\n\nAs soon as the resolution was taken that Father La Combe should\naccompany me, Father La Mothe reported everywhere \"that he had been\nobliged to do it, to make him return into France.\" He expatiated on the\nattachment I had for Father La Combe, pretending to pity me. Upon this\neveryone said that I ought to put myself under the direction of Father\nLa Mothe. In the meantime he deceitfully palliated the malignity of his\nheart, writing letters full of esteem to Father La Combe, and some to\nme of tenderness, \"desiring him to bring his dear sister, and to serve\nher in her infirmities, and in the hardships of so long a journey; that\nhe should be sensibly obliged to him for his care;\" with many other\nthings of the like nature.\n\nI could not resolve to depart without going to see my good friend, the\nMarchioness of Prunai, notwithstanding the difficulty of the roads. I\ncaused myself to be carried, it being scarcely possible to go otherwise\non account of the mountains. She was extremely joyful at seeing me\narrive. Nothing could be more cordial than what passed between us. It\nwas then that she acknowledged that all I had told her had come to\npass. A good ecclesiastic, who lives with her, told me the same. We\nmade ointments and plasters together, and I gave her the secret of my\nremedies, I encouraged her, and so did Father La Combe, to establish an\nhospital in that place; which was done while we were there. I\ncontributed my mite to it which has ever been blest to all the\nhospitals, which have ever been established in reliance on Providence.\n\nI believe I had forgotten to tell, that the Lord had made use of me to\nestablish one near Grenoble, which subsists without any other fund than\nthe supplies of Providence. My enemies made use of that afterward to\nslander me, saying that I had wasted my children's substance in\nestablishing hospitals, though, far from spending any of their\nsubstance, I had even given them my own. All those hospitals have been\nestablished only on the fund of divine Providence, which is\ninexhaustible. But so it has been ordered for my good, that all our\nLord has made me to do His glory has ever been turned into crosses for\nme.\n\nAs soon as it was determined that I should come into France, the Lord\nmade known to me, that it was to have greater crosses than I ever had.\nFather La Combe had the like sense. He encouraged me to resign myself\nto the divine will, and to become a victim offered freely to new\nsacrifices. He also wrote to me, \"Will it not be a thing very glorious\nto God, if He should make us serve in that great city, for a spectacle\nto angels and to men?\" I set off then with a spirit of sacrifice, to\noffer myself up to new kinds of punishments, if pleasing to my dear\nLord. All along the road something within me repeated the very words of\nSt. Paul, \"I go bound in the Spirit unto Jerusalem, not knowing the\nthings should befall me there, save that the Holy Ghost witnesseth,\nsaying that bonds and afflictions abide me. But none of these things\nmove me; neither count I my life dear unto myself, so that I might\nfinish my course with joy.\" (Acts 20:22, 23, 24.) I could not forbear\nto testify it to my most intimate friends, who tried hard to prevail on\nme to stop, and not to proceed. They were all willing to contribute a\nshare of what they had, for my settlement there, and to prevent my\ncoming to Paris. But I found it my duty to hold on my way, and to\nsacrifice myself for Him who first sacrificed Himself for me.\n\nAt Chamberry we saw Father La Mothe, who was going to the election of a\nFather-general. Though he affected an appearance of friendship, it was\nnot difficult to discover that his thoughts were different from his\nwords, and that he conceived dark designs against us. I speak not of\nhis intentions, but to obey the command given me to omit nothing. I\nshall necessarily be obliged often to speak of him. I could wish with\nall my heart it were in my power to suppress what I have to say of him.\nIf what he has done respected only myself, I would willingly bury all;\nbut I think I owe it to the truth, and to the innocence of Father La\nCombe, so cruelly oppressed, and grievously crushed so long, by wicked\ncalumnies, by an imprisonment of several years, which in all\nprobability will last as long as life. Though Father La Mothe may\nappear heavily charged in what I say of him, I protest solemnly, and in\nthe presence of God, that I pass over in silence many of his bad\nactions.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\n\nScarcely had I arrived at Paris, when I readily discovered the black\ndesigns entertained against both Father La Combe and me. Father La\nMothe who conducted the whole tragedy, artfully dissembled, according\nto his custom; flattering me to my face, while he was aiming the\nkeenest wounds behind my back. He and his confederates wanted, for\ntheir own interest, to persuade me to go to Montargis (my native\nplace), hoping, thereby, to get the guardianship of my children, and to\ndispose of both my person and effects. All the persecutions from Father\nLa Mothe and my family have been attended on their part with views of\ninterest; those against Father La Combe have sprung from rage and\nrevenge, because he, as my director, did not oblige me to do what they\nwanted; as well as out of jealousy. I might enter into a long detail on\nthis, sufficient to convince all the world; but I suppress, to avoid\nprolixity. I shall only say, that they threatened to deprive me of what\nlittle I had reserved to myself. To this I only replied that I would\nnot go to law, that if they were resolved to take from me little I have\nleft (little indeed in comparison of what I had given up) I would\nsurrender it entirely to them; being quite free and willing not only to\nbe poor, but to be even in the very extremity of want in imitation of\nour Lord Jesus Christ.\n\nI arrived at Paris on Magdalene's eve, 1686, exactly five years after\nmy departure from that city. After Father La Combe arrived, he was soon\nfollowed and much applauded. I perceived some jealously in Father La\nMothe hereupon, but did not think that matters would be carried so far\nas they have been. The greater part of the Barnabites of Paris, and its\nneighborhood, joined against Father La Combe, induced from several\ncauses that particularly related to their order. But all their\ncalumnies and evil attempts were overthrown by the unaffected piety he\nmanifested, and the good which multitudes reaped from his labors.\n\nI had deposited a little sum of money in his hands (with the consent of\nhis superior) to serve for the entrance of a nun. I thought myself\nobliged in conscience to do it. She had, through my means, quitted the\nNew Catholics. It was that young woman whom I mentioned before, whom\nthe priest of Gex wanted to win over. As she is beautiful, though very\nprudent, there always continues a cause for fear, when such an one is\nexposed in the world. La Mothe wanted to have that money, and signified\nto La Combe that, if he did not make me give it to him for a wall,\nwhich he had to rebuild in his convent, he would make him suffer for\nit. But the latter, who is always upright, answered that he could not\nin conscience advise me to do anything else, but what I had already\nresolved, in favour of that young woman. Hence he and the provincial\nardently longed to satisfy their desire of revenge. They employed all\ntheir thoughts on the means of effecting it.\n\nA very wicked man who was employed for that purpose, wrote defamatory\nlibels, declaring that the propositions of Molinos, which had been\ncurrent for two year past in France, were the sentiments of Father La\nCombe. These libels were spread about in the community. Father La Mothe\nand the provincial, acting as persons well affected to the church,\ncarried them to the official, or judge of the ecclesiastical court, who\njoined in the dark design. They showed them to the Archbishop, saying,\nIt was out of their zeal, and that they were exceedingly sorry that\none of their fraternity was an heretic, and as such execrable. They\nalso brought me in, but more moderately, saying Father La Combe was\nalmost always at my house, which was false. I could scarcely see him at\nall except at the confessional, and then for a very short time. Several\nother things equally false they liberally gave out concerning both of\nus.\n\nThey bethought themselves of one thing further likely to favor their\nscheme. They knew I had been at Marseilles, and thought they had a good\nfoundation for a fresh calumny. They counterfeited a letter from a\nperson at Marseilles (I heard it was from the Bishop) addressed to the\nArchbishop of Paris, or to his official, in which they wrote the most\nabominable scandal. Father La Mothe came to try to draw me into his\nsnare, and to make me say, in the presence of the people whom he had\nbrought, that I had been at Marseilles with Father La Combe. \"There\nare,\" said he, \"shocking accounts against you, sent by the Bishop of\nMarseilles. You have there fallen into great scandal with Father La\nCombe. There are good witnesses of it.\" I replied with a smile, \"The\ncalumny is well devised; but it would have been proper to know first\nwhether Father La Combe had been at Marseilles, for I do not believe he\nwas ever there in his life. While I was there, Father La Combe was\nlaboring at Verceil.\" He was confounded and went off, saying, \"There\nare witnesses of its being true.\" He went immediately to ask Father La\nCombe if he had not been at Marseilles. He assured him he never had\nbeen there. They were struck with disappointment. They then gave out\nthat it was not Marseilles but Seisel. Now this Seisel is a place I\nhave never been at, and there is no bishop there.\n\nEvery imaginable device was used to terrify me by threats, forged\nletters, and by memorials drawn up against me, accusing me of teaching\nerroneous doctrines, and of living a bad life and urging me to flee the\ncountry to escape the consequences of exposure. Failing in all these,\nat length La Mothe took off the mask, and said to me in the church,\nbefore La Combe, \"It is now, my sister, that you must think of fleeing,\nyou are charged with crimes of a deep dye.\" I was not moved in the\nleast, but replied with my usual tranquillity, \"If I am guilty of such\ncrimes I cannot be too severely punished; wherefore I will not flee or\ngo out of the way. I have made an open profession of dedicating myself\nto God entirely. If I have done things offensive to Him, whom I would\nwish both to love, and to cause to be loved by the whole world, even at\nthe expense of my life, I ought by my punishment to be made an example\nto the world; but if I am innocent, for me to flee is not the way for\nmy innocence to be believed.\"\n\nSimilar attempts were made to ruin Father La Combe. He was grossly\nmisrepresented to the king, and an order procured for his arrest and\nimprisonment in the Bastile.\n\nAlthough on his trial he appeared quite innocent, and they could not\nfind anything whereupon to ground a condemnation, yet they made the\nking believe he was a dangerous man in the article of religion. He was\nthen shut up in a certain fortress of the Bastile for life; but as his\nenemies heard that the captain in that fortress esteemed him, and\ntreated him kindly, they had him removed into a much worse place. God,\nwho beholds everything, will reward every man according to his works. I\nknow by an interior communication that he is very well content, and\nfully resigned to God.\n\nLa Mothe now endeavored more than ever to induce me to flee, assuring\nme that, if I went to Montargis, I should be out of all trouble; but\nthat if I did not, I should pay for it. He insisted on my taking\nhimself for my director, to which I could not agree. He decried me\nwherever he went, and wrote to his brethren to do the same. They sent\nme very abusive letters, assuring me that, if I did not put myself\nunder his direction, I was undone. I have the letters by me still. One\nfather desired me in this case to make a virtue of necessity. Nay, some\nadvised me to pretend to put myself under his direction, and to deceive\nhim. I abhorred the thought of deceit. I bore everything with the\ngreatest tranquillity, without taking any care to justify or defend\nmyself, leaving it entirely to God to order as he should please about\nme. Herein he was graciously pleased to increase the peace of my soul,\nwhile every one seemed to cry against me, and to look on me as an\ninfamous creature, except those few who knew me well by a near union of\nspirit. At church I heard people behind me exclaim against me, and even\nsome priests say it was necessary to cast me out of the church. I left\nmyself to God without reserve, being quite ready to endure the most\nrigorous pains and tortures, if such were His will.\n\nI never made any solicitation either for Father La Combe or myself,\nthough charged with that among other things. Willing to owe everything\nto God, I have no dependence on any creature. I would not have it said\nthat any but God had made Abraham rich. Gen. 14:23. To lose all for Him\nis my best gain; and to gain all without Him would be my worst loss.\nAlthough at this time so general an outcry was raised against me, God\ndid not fail to make use of me to gain many souls to Himself. The more\npersecution raged against me the more children were given me, on whom\nthe Lord conferred great favors through His handmaid.\n\nOne must not judge of the servants of God by what their enemies say of\nthem, nor by their being oppressed under calumnies without any\nresource. Jesus Christ expired under pangs. God uses the like conduct\ntoward His dearest servants, to render them conformable to His Son, in\nwhom He is always well pleased. But few place that conformity where it\nought to be. It is not in voluntary pains or austerities, but in those\nwhich are suffered in a submission ever equal to the will of God, in a\nrenunciation of our whole selves, to the end that God may be our all in\nall, conducting us according to His views, and not our own, which are\ngenerally opposite to His. All perfection consists in this entire\nconformity with Jesus Christ, not in shining things which men esteem.\nIt will only be seen in eternity who are the true friends of God.\nNothing pleases Him but Jesus Christ, and that which bears His mark or\ncharacter.\n\nThey were continually pressing me to flee, though the Archbishop had\nspoken to myself, and bidden me not to leave Paris. But they wanted to\ngive the appearance of criminality both to me and to Father La Combe by\nmy flight. They knew not how to make me fall into the hands of the\nofficial. If they accused me of crimes, it must be before other judges.\nAny other judge would have seen my innocence; the false witnesses would\nhave run the risk of suffering for it. They continually spread stories\nof horrible crimes; but the official assured me that he had heard no\nmention of any. He was afraid lest I should retire out of his\njurisdiction. They then made the king believe that I was an heretic,\nthat I carried on a literary correspondence with Molinos (I, who never\nknew there was a Molinos in the world, till the Gazette had told me of\nit) that I had written a dangerous book; and that on those accounts it\nwould be necessary to issue an order to put me in a convent, that they\nmight examine me. I was a dangerous person, it would be proper for me\nto be locked up, to be allowed no commerce with any one; since I\ncontinually held assemblies, which was very false. To support this\ncalumny my handwriting was counterfeited, and a letter was forged as\nfrom me, importing, that I had great designs, but feared that they\nwould prove abortive, through the imprisonment of Father La Combe, for\nwhich reason I had left off holding assemblies at my house, being too\nclosely watched; but that I would hold them at the houses of other\npersons. This forged letter they showed the king, and upon it an order\nwas given for my imprisonment.\n\nThis order would have been put in execution two months sooner than it\nwas, had I not fallen very sick. I had inconceivable pains and a fever.\nSome thought that I had a gathering in my head. The pain I suffered for\nfive weeks made me delirious. I had also a pain in my breast and a\nviolent cough. Twice I received the holy sacrament, as I was thought to\nbe expiring. One of my friends had acquainted Father La Mothe, (not\nknowing him to have had any hand in F. La Combe's imprisonment) that\nshe had sent me a certificate from the inquisition in Father La Combe's\nfavor, having heard that his own was lost. This answered a very good\npurpose; for they had made the king believe that he had run away from\nthe inquisition; but this showed the contrary.\n\nFather La Mothe then came to me, when I was in excessive pain,\ncounterfeiting all the affection and tenderness in his power, and\ntelling me \"that the affair of Father La Combe was going on very well,\nthat he was just ready to come out of prison with honor, that he was\nvery glad of it. If he had only this certificate, he would soon be\ndelivered. Give me it then,\" said he, \"and he will be immediately\nreleased.\" At first I made a difficulty of doing it. \"What! said he,\nwill you be the cause of ruining poor Father La Combe, having it in\nyour power to save him, and cause us that affliction, for want of what\nyou have in your hands.\" I yielded, ordering it to be brought and given\nhim. But he suppressed it, and gave out that it was lost. It never\ncould be got from him again. The Ambassador from the Court of Turin\nsent a messenger to me for this certificate, designing the proper use\nof it to serve Father La Combe. I referred him to Father La Mothe. The\nmessenger went to him and asked him for it. He denied I had given it to\nhim, saying, \"Her brain is disordered which makes her imagine it.\" The\nman came back to me and told me his answer. The persons in my chamber\nbore witness that I had given it to him. Yet all signified nothing; it\ncould not be got out of his hands; but on the contrary, he insulted me,\nand caused others also to do it, though I was so weak that I seemed to\nbe at the very gates of death.\n\nThey told me they only waited for my recovery to cast me into prison.\nHe made his brethren believe that I had treated him ill. They wrote to\nme that it was for my crimes that I suffered and that I should put\nmyself under the control of Father La Mothe, otherwise I should repent\nit; that I was mad and ought to be bound; and was a monster of pride,\nsince I would not suffer myself to be conducted by Father La Mothe.\nSuch was my daily feast in the extremity of my pain; deserted of my\nfriends, and oppressed by my enemies; the former being ashamed of me,\nthrough the calumnies which were forged and industriously spread; the\nlatter let loose to persecute me; under all which I kept silence,\nleaving myself to the Lord.\n\nThere was not any kind of infamy, error, sorcery, or sacrilege, of\nwhich they did not accuse me. As soon as I was able to be carried to\nthe church in a chair, I was told I must speak to the prebend. (It was\na snare concerted between Father La Mothe and the Canon at whose house\nI lodged). I spoke to him with much simplicity and he approved of what\nI said. Yet, two days after they gave out that I had uttered many\nthings, and accused many persons; and from hence they procured the\nbanishment of sundry persons with whom they were displeased, persons\nwhom I had never seen or of whom I never heard. They were men of honor.\nOne of them was banished, because he said my little book is a good one.\nIt is remarkable that they say nothing to those who prefixed their\napprobations, and that, far from condemning the book, it has been\nreprinted since I have been in prison, and advertisements of it have\nbeen posted up at the Archbishop's palace, and all over Paris. In\nregard to others, when they find faults in their books, they condemn\nthe books and leave the person at liberty; but as for me, my book is\napproved, sold and spread, while I am kept a prisoner for it.\n\nThe same day that those gentlemen were banished, I received a letter de\ncachet, or sealed order to repair to the Convent of the Visitation of\nSt. Mary's, in a suburb of St. Antoine. I received it with a\ntranquillity which surprised the bearer exceedingly. He could not\nforbear expressing it, having seen the extreme sorrow of those who were\nonly banished. He was so touched with it as to shed tears. And although\nhis order was to carry me off directly, he was not afraid to trust me,\nbut left me all the day, desiring me to repair to St. Mary's in the\nevening. On that day many of my friends came to see me, and found me\nvery cheerful, which surprised such of them as knew my case. I could\nnot stand, I was so weak, having the fever every night, it being only a\nfortnight since I was thought to be expiring. I imagined they would\nleave me my daughter and maid to serve me.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\n\nOn January 29, 1688, I went to St. Mary's. There they let me know I\nmust neither have my daughter nor a maid to serve me, but must be\nlocked up alone in a chamber. Indeed it touched me to my heart when my\ndaughter was taken from me. They would neither allow her to be in that\nhouse, nor anybody to bring me any news of her. I was then obliged to\nsacrifice my daughter, as if she were mine no longer. The people of the\nhouse were prepossessed with so frightful an account of me, that they\nlooked at me with horror. For my jailer they singled out a nun, who,\nthey thought, would treat me with the greatest rigor, and they were not\nmistaken therein.\n\nThey asked me who was now my confessor. I named him; but he was seized\nwith such a fright that he denied it; though I could have produced many\npersons who had seen me at his confessional. So then they said they had\ncaught me in a lie; I was not to be trusted. My acquaintance then said\nthey knew me not, and others were at liberty to invent stories, and say\nall manner of evil of me. The woman, appointed for my keeper, was\ngained over by my enemies, to torment me as an heretic, an enthusiast,\none crackbrained and an hypocrite. God alone knows what she made me\nsuffer. As she sought to surprise me in my words, I watched them, to be\nmore exact in them; but I fared the worse for it. I made more slips and\ngave her more advantages over me thereby, beside the trouble in my own\nmind for it. I then left myself as I was, and resolved, though this\nwoman would bring me to the scaffold, by the false reports she was\ncontinually carrying to the prioress, that I would simply resign myself\nto my lot; so I re-entered into my former condition.\n\nMonsieur Charon the Official, and a Doctor of Sorbonne, came four times\nto examine me. Our Lord did me the favor which He promised to His\napostles, to make me answer much better than if I had studied. Luke\n21:14, 15. They said to me, if I had explained myself, as I now did, in\nthe book entitled, Short and Easy Method of Prayer, I would not now\nhave been here. My last examination was about a counterfeit letter,\nwhich they read and let me see. I told them the hand was no way like\nmine. They said it was only a copy; they had the original at home. I\ndesired a sight of it, but could not obtain it. I told them I never\nwrote it, nor did I know the person to whom it was addressed; but they\ntook scarcely any notice of what I said.\n\nAfter this letter was read, the official turned to me and said, \"You\nsee, madam, that after such a letter there was foundation enough for\nimprisoning you.\" \"Yes, sir,\" said I, \"if I had written it.\" I showed\nthem its falsehoods and inconsistencies, but all in vain. I was left\ntwo months, and treated worse and worse, before either of them came\nagain to see me. Till then I had always some hope that, seeing my\ninnocence, they would do me justice; but now I saw that they did not\nwant to find me innocent, but to make me appear guilty.\n\nThe official alone came the next time, and told me, \"I must speak no\nmore of the false letter; that it was nothing.\" \"How nothing,\" said I,\n\"to counterfeit a person's writing, and to make one appear an enemy to\nthe State!\" He replied, \"We will seek out the author of it.\" \"The\nauthor,\" said I, \"is no other than the Scrivener Gautier.\" He then\ndemanded where the papers were which I wrote on the Scriptures. I told\nhim, \"I would give them up when I should be out of prison; but was not\nwilling to tell with whom I had lodged them.\"\n\nAbout three or four days before Easter he came again, with the doctor,\nand a verbal process was drawn up against me for rebelling, in not\ngiving up papers. Copies of my writings were then put into their hands;\nfor I had not the originals. I know not where those who got them from\nme have put them; but I am firm in the faith that they will all be\npreserved, in spite of the storm. The prioress asked the official how\nmy affair went. He said, very well, and that I should soon be\ndischarged; this became the common talk; but I had a presentiment of\nthe contrary.\n\nI had an inexpressible satisfaction and joy in suffering, and being a\nprisoner. The confinement of my body made me better relish the freedom\nof my mind. St. Joseph's day was to me a memorable day; for then my\nstate had more of Heaven than of earth beyond what any expression can\nreach. This was followed, as it were, with a suspension of every favor\nthen enjoyed, a dispensation of new sufferings. I was obliged to\nsacrifice myself anew, and to drink the very dregs of the bitter\ndraught.\n\nI never had any resentment against my persecutors, though I well knew\nthem, their spirit and their actions. Jesus Christ and the saints saw\ntheir persecutors, and at the same time saw that they could have no\npower except it were given them from above. John 19:11.\n\nLoving the strokes which God gives, one cannot hate the hand which He\nmakes use of to strike with.\n\nA few days after, the official came, and told me he gave me the liberty\nof the cloister, that is, to go and come in the house. They were now\nvery industrious in urging my daughter to consent to a marriage, which\nhad it taken place, would have been her ruin. To succeed herein, they\nhad placed her with a relation of the gentleman whom they wanted her to\nmarry. All my confidence was in God, that He would not permit it to be\naccomplished, as the man had no tincture of Christianity, being\nabandoned both in his principles and morals.\n\nTo induce me to give up my daughter they promised me an immediate\nrelease from prison and from every charge under which I labored. But if\nI refused, they threatened me with imprisonment for life and with death\non the scaffold. In spite of all their promises and threatenings, I\npersistently refused.\n\nSoon after, the official and doctor came to tell the prioress I must be\nclosely locked up. She represented to them that the chamber I was in,\nwas small, having an opening to the light or air, only on one side,\nthrough which the sun shone all the day long, and being the month of\nJuly, it must soon cause my death. They paid no regard. She asked why I\nmust be thus closely locked up. They said I had committed horrible\nthings in her house, even within the last month, and had scandalized\nthe nuns. She protested the contrary, and assured them the whole\ncommunity had received great edification from me, and could not but\nadmire my patience and moderation. But it was all in vain. The poor\nwoman could not refrain from tears, at a statement so remote from the\ntruth.\n\nThey then sent for me, and told me I had done base things in the last\nmonth. I asked what things? They would not tell me. I said then that I\nwould suffer as long and as much as it should please God; that this\naffair was begun on forgeries against me, and so continued. That God\nwas witness of everything. The doctor told me, that to take God for a\nwitness in such a thing was a crime. I replied nothing in the world\ncould hinder me from having recourse to God. I was then shut up more\nclosely than at first, until I was absolutely at the point of death,\nbeing thrown into a violent fever, and almost stifled with the\ncloseness of the place, and not permitted to have any assistance.\n\nIn the time of the ancient law, there were several of the Lord's\nmartyrs who suffered for asserting and trusting in the one true God. In\nthe primitive church of Christ the martyrs shed their blood, for\nmaintaining the truth of Jesus Christ crucified. Now there are martyrs\nof the Holy Ghost, who suffer for their dependence on Him, for\nmaintaining His reign in souls and for being victims of the Divine\nwill.\n\nIt is this Spirit which is to be poured out on all flesh, as saith the\nprophet Joel. The martyrs of Jesus Christ have been glorious martyrs,\nHe having drunk up the confusion of that martyrdom; but the martyrs of\nthe Holy Spirit are martyrs of reproach and ignominy. The Devil no more\nexercises his power against their faith or belief, but directly attacks\nthe dominion of the Holy Spirit, opposing His celestial motion in\nsouls, and discharging his hatred on the bodies of those whose minds he\ncannot hurt. Oh, Holy Spirit, a Spirit of love, let me ever be\nsubjected to Thy will, and, as a leaf is moved before the wind, so let\nme be moved by Thy Divine breath. As the impetuous wind breaks all that\nresists it, so break thou all that opposes Thy empire.\n\nAlthough I have been obliged to describe the procedure of those who\npersecute me, I have not done it out of resentment, since I love them\nat my heart, and pray for them, leaving to God the care of defending\nme, and delivering me out of their hands, without making any movement\nof my own for it. I have apprehended and believed that God would have\nme write everything sincerely, that His name may be glorified; that the\nthings done in secret against His servants should one day be published\non the housetops; for the more they strive to conceal them from the\neyes of men, the more will God in His own time make them all manifest.\n\nAugust 22, 1688, it was thought I was about coming out of prison, and\neverything seemed to tend toward it. But the Lord gave me a sense that,\nfar from being willing to deliver me they were only laying new snares\nto ruin me more effectually, and to make Father La Mothe known to the\nking, and esteemed by him. On the day mentioned, which was my birthday,\nbeing forty years of age, I awaked under an impression of Jesus Christ\nin an agony, seeing the counsel of the Jews against Him. I knew that\nnone but God could deliver me out of prison, and I was satisfied that\nHe would do it one day by His own right hand, though ignorant of the\nmanner, and leaving it wholly to Himself.\n\nIn the order of Divine Providence my case was laid before Madame de\nMaintenon, who became deeply interested in the account given her of my\nsufferings, and at length procured my release. A few days afterward I\nhad my first interview with the Abbe Fenelon.\n\nComing out of St. Mary's I retired into the community of Mad. Miramion,\nwhere I kept my bed of a fever three months, and had an imposthume in\nmy eye. Yet at this time I was accused of going continually out,\nholding suspected assemblies, together with other groundless\nfalsehoods. In this house my daughter was married to Mons. L. Nicholas\nFouquet, Count de Vaux. I removed to my daughter's house, and on\naccount of her extreme youth, lived with her two years and an half.\nEven there my enemies were ever forging one thing after another against\nme, I then wanted to retire quite secretly, to the house of the\nBenedictines at Montargis, (my native place) but it was discovered, and\nboth friends and enemies jointly prevented it.\n\nThe family in which my daughter was married being of the number of Abbe\nFenelon's friends, I had the opportunity of often seeing him at our\nhouse. We had some conversations on the subject of a spiritual life, in\nwhich he made several objections to my experiences therein. I answered\nthem with my usual simplicity, which, as I found, gained upon him. As\nthe affair of Molinos at that time made a great noise, the plainest\nthings were distrusted, and the terms used by mystic writers exploded.\nBut I so clearly expounded everything to him, and so fully solved all\nhis objections, that no one more fully imbibed my sentiments than he;\nwhich has since laid the foundation of that persecution he has\nsuffered. His answers to the Bishop of Meaux evidently show this to all\nwho have read them.\n\nI now took a little private house, to follow the inclination I had for\nretirement; where I sometimes had the pleasure of seeing my family and\na few particular friends. Certain young ladies of St. Cyr, having\ninformed Mad. Maintenon, that they found in my conversation something\nwhich attracted them to God, she encouraged me to continue my\ninstructions to them. By the fine change in some of them with whom\nbefore she had not been well pleased, she found she had no reason to\nrepent of it. She then treated me with much respect; and for three\nyears after, while this lasted, I received from her every mark of\nesteem and confidence. But that very thing afterward drew on me the\nmost severe persecution. The free entrance I had into the house, and\nthe confidence which some young ladies of the Court, distinguished for\ntheir rank and piety, placed in me, gave no small uneasines to the\npeople who had persecuted me. The directors took umbrage at it, and\nunder pretext of the troubles I had some years before, they engaged the\nBishop of Chartres, Superior of St. Cyr, to present to Mad. Maintenon\nthat, by my particular conduct, I troubled the order of the house; that\nthe young women in it were so attached to me, and to what I said to\nthem, that they no longer hearkened to their superiors. I then went no\nmore to St. Cyr. I answered the young ladies who wrote to me, only by\nletters unsealed, which passed through the hands of Mad. Maintenon.\n\nSoon after I fell sick. The physicians, after trying in vain the usual\nmethod of cure, ordered me to repair to the waters of Bourbon. My\nservant had been induced to give me some poison. After taking it, I\nsuffered such exquisite pains that, without speedy succor, I should\nhave died in a few hours. The man immediately ran away, and I have\nnever seen him since. When I was at Bourbon, the waters which I threw\nup burned like spirits of wine. I had no thought of being poisoned,\ntill the physicians of Bourbon assured me of it. The waters had but\nlittle effect. I suffered from it for above seven years.\n\nGod kept me in such a disposition of sacrifice, that I was quite\nresigned to suffer everything, and to receive from His hand all that\nmight befall me, since for me to offer in any way to vindicate myself,\nwould be only beating the air. When the Lord is willing to make any one\nsuffer, He permits even the most virtuous people to be readily blinded\ntoward them; and I may confess that the persecution of the wicked is\nbut little, when compared with that of the servants of the church,\ndeceived and animated with a zeal which they think right. Many of these\nwere now, by the artifices made use of, greatly imposed on in regard to\nme. I was represented to them in an odious light, as a strange\ncreature. Since, therefore, I must, O my Lord, be conformable to Thee,\nto please Thee; I set more value on my humiliation, and on seeing\nmyself condemned of everybody, than if I saw myself on the summit of\nhonor in the world. How often have I said, even in the bitterness of my\nheart, that I should be more afraid of one reproach of my conscience,\nthan of the outcry and condemnation of all men!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\n\nAt this time I had my first acquaintance with the Bishop of Meaux. I\nwas introduced by an intimate friend, the Duke of Chevreuse. I gave him\nthe foregoing history of my life, and he confessed, that he had found\ntherein such an unction as he had rarely done in other books, and that\nhe had spent three days in reading it, with an impression of the\npresence of God on his mind all that time.\n\nI proposed to the bishop to examine all my writings, which he took four\nor five months to do, and then advanced all his objections; to which I\ngave answers. From his unacquaintance with the interior paths, I could\nnot clear up all the difficulties which he found in them.\n\nHe admitted that looking into the ecclesiastical histories for ages\npast, we may see that God has sometimes made use of laymen, and of\nwomen to instruct, edify, and help souls in their progress to\nperfection. I think one of the reasons of God's acting thus, is that\nglory may not be ascribed to any, but to Himself alone. For this\npurpose, He has chosen the weak things of this world, to confound such\nas are mighty. 1 Cor. 1:27.\n\nJealous of the attributes which men pay to other men, which are due\nonly to Himself, He has made a paradox of such persons, that He alone\nmay have the glory of His own works. I pray God, with my whole heart,\nsooner to crush me utterly, with the most dreadful destruction, than to\nsuffer me to take the least honor to myself, of anything which He has\nbeen pleased to do by me for the good of others. I am only a poor\nnothing. God is all-powerful. He delights to operate, and exercise His\npower by mere nothings.\n\nThe first time that I wrote a history of myself, it was very short. In\nit I had particularized my faults and sins, and said little of the\nfavors of God. I was ordered to burn it, to write another, and in it to\nomit nothing anyway remarkable that had befallen me. I did it. It is a\ncrime to publish secrets of the King; but it is a good thing to declare\nthe favors of the Lord our God, and to magnify His mercies.\n\nAs the outcry against me became more violent, and Madame Maintenon was\nmoved to declare against me, I sent to her through the Duke of\nBeauvilliers, requesting the appointment of proper persons to examine\nmy life and doctrines, offering to retire into any prison until fully\nexculpated. My proposal was rejected. In the meantime, one of my most\nintimate friends and supporters, Mons. Fouquet, was called away by\ndeath. I felt his loss very deeply, but rejoiced in his felicity. He\nwas a true servant of God.\n\nDetermined to retire out of the way of giving offense to any, I wrote\nto some of my friends, and bade them a last farewell; not knowing\nwhether I were to be carried off by the indisposition which I then had,\nwhich had been a constant fever for forty days past, or to recover from\nit.\n\nReferring to the Countess of G. and the Duchess of M., I wrote, \"When\nthese ladies and others were in the vanities of the world, when they\npatched and painted, and some of them were in the way to ruin their\nfamilies by gaming and profusion of expense in dress, nobody arose to\nsay anything against it; they were quietly suffered to do it. But when\nthey have broken off from all this, then they cry out against me, as if\nI had ruined them. Had I drawn them from piety into luxury, they would\nnot make such an outcry. The Duchess of M. at her giving herself up to\nGod, thought herself obliged to quit the court, which was to her like a\ndangerous rock, in order to bestow her time on the education of her\nchildren and the care of her family, which, till then, she had\nneglected. I beseech you, therefore, to gather all the memorials you\ncan against me; if I am found guilty of the things they accuse me of, I\nought to be punished more than any other, since God has brought me to\nknow Him and love Him, and I am well assured that there is no communion\nbetween Christ and Belial.\"\n\nI sent them my two little printed books, with my commentaries on the\nHoly Scriptures. I also, by their order, wrote a work to facilitate\ntheir examination, and to spare them as much time and trouble as I\ncould, which was to collect a great number of passages out of approved\nwriters, which showed the conformity of my writings with those used by\nthe holy penmen. I caused them to be transcribed by the quire, as I had\nwritten them, in order to send them to the three commissioners. I also,\nas occasion presented, cleared up the dubious and obscure places. I had\nwritten them at a time when the affairs of Molinos had not broken out,\nI used the less precaution in expressing my thoughts, not imagining\nthat they would ever be turned into an evil sense. This work was\nentitled, 'THE JUSTIFICATIONS.' It was composed in fifty days, and\nappeared to be very sufficient to clear up the matter. But the Bishop\nof Meaux would never suffer it to be read.\n\nAfter all the examinations, and making nothing out against me, who\nwould not have thought but they would have left me to rest in peace?\nQuite otherwise, the more my innocence appeared, the more did they, who\nhad undertaken to render me criminal, put every spring in motion to\neffect it. I offered the Bishop of Meaux to go to spend some time in\nany community within his diocese, that he might be better acquainted\nwith me. He proposed to me that of St. Mary de Meaux, which I accepted;\nbut in going in the depth of winter I had like to have perished in the\nsnow, being stopped four hours, the coach having entered into it, and\nbeing almost buried in it, in a deep hollow. I was taken out at the\ndoor with one maid. We sat upon the snow, resigned to the mercy of God,\nand expected nothing but death. I never had more tranquillity of mind,\nthough chilled and soaked with the snow, which melted on us. Occasions\nlike these are such as show whether we are perfectly resigned to God or\nnot. This poor girl and I were easy in our minds, in a state of entire\nresignation, though sure of dying if we passed the night there, and\nseeing no likelihood of anyone coming to our succor. At length some\nwaggoners came up, who with difficulty drew us through the snow.\n\nThe bishop, when he heard of it, was astonished, and had no little\nself-complacency to think that I had thus risked my life to obey him so\npunctually. Yet afterward he denounced it as artifice and hypocrisy.\n\nThere were times indeed when I found nature overcharged; but the love\nof God and His grace rendered sweet to me the very worst of bitters.\nHis invisible hand supported me; else I had sunk under so many\nprobations. Sometimes I said to myself, \"All thy waves and thy billows\nare gone over me,\" (Psa. 42:7). \"Thou hast bent thy bow and set me as a\nmark for the arrow; thou has caused all the arrows of thy quiver to\nenter into my reins\" (Lam. 3:12, 13). It seemed to me as if everyone\nthought he was in the right to treat me ill, and rendered service to\nGod in doing it. I then comprehended that it was the very manner in\nwhich Jesus Christ suffered. He was numbered with the transgressors,\n(Mark 15:28). He was condemned by the sovereign pontiff, chief priests,\ndoctors of the law, and judges deputed by the Romans, who valued\nthemselves on doing justice. Happy they who by suffering for the will\nof God under all the like circumstances, have so near a relation to the\nsufferings of Jesus Christ!\n\nFor six weeks after my arrival at Meaux, I was in a continual fever,\nnor had I recovered from my indisposition, when I was waited on by the\nbishop, who would fain have compelled me to give it under my hand, that\nI did not believe the Word incarnate, (or Christ manifest in the\nflesh). I answered him, that \"through the grace of God, I know how to\nsuffer, even to death, but not how to sign such a falsehood.\" Several\nof the nuns who overheard this conversation, and perceiving the\nsentiments of the bishop, they joined with the Prioress, in giving a\ntestimonial, not only of my good conduct, but of their belief in the\nsoundness of my faith.\n\nThe bishop some days after, brought me a confession of faith, and a\nrequest to submit my books to the church, that I may sign it, promising\nto give me a certificate, which he had prepared. On my delivering my\nsubmission signed, he, notwithstanding his promise, refused to give the\ncertificate. Some time after, he endeavored to make me sign his\npastoral letter, and acknowledge that I had fallen into those errors,\nwhich he there lays to my charge, and made many demands of me of the\nlike absurd and unreasonable nature, threatening me with those\npersecutions I afterward endured, in case of non-compliance. However, I\ncontinued resolute in refusing to put my name to falsehoods. At length,\nafter I had remained about six months at Meaux, he gave me the\ncertificate. Finding Mad. Maintenon disapproved of the certificate he\nhad granted, he wanted to give me another in place of it. My refusal to\ndeliver up the first certificate enraged him, and as I understood they\nintended to push matters with the utmost violence, \"I thought that\nalthough I were resigned to whatever might fall out, yet I ought to\ntake prudent measures to avoid the threatening storm.\" Many places of\nretreat were offered me; but I was not free in my mind to accept of\nany, nor to embarrass anybody, nor involve in trouble my friends and my\nfamily, to whom they might attribute my escape. I took the resolution\nof continuing in Paris, of living there in some private place with my\nmaids, who were trusty and sure, and to hide myself from the view of\nthe world. I continued thus for five or six months. I passed the day\nalone in reading, in praying to God, and in working. But the December\n27, 1695, I was arrested, though exceedingly indisposed at that time,\nand conducted to Vincennes. I was three days in the custody of Mons.\ndes Grez, who had arrested me; because the king would not consent to my\nbeing put into prison; saying several times over, that a convent was\nsufficient. They deceived him by still stronger calumnies. They painted\nme in his eyes, in colors so black, that they made him scruple his\ngoodness and equity. He then consented to my being taken to Vincennes.\n\nI shall not speak of that long persecution, which has made so much\nnoise, for a series of ten years imprisonments, in all sorts of\nprisons, and of a banishment almost as long, and not yet ended, through\ncrosses, calumnies, and all imaginable sorts of sufferings. There are\nfacts too odious on the part of divers persons, which charity induces\nme to cover.\n\nI have borne long and sore languishings, and oppressive and painful\nmaladies without relief. I have been also inwardly under great\ndesolations for several months, in such sort that I could only say\nthese words, \"My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me!\" All creatures\nseemed to be against me. I then put myself on the side of God, against\nmyself.\n\nPerhaps some will be surprised at my refusing to give the details of\nthe greatest and strongest crosses of my life, after I have related\nthose which were less. I thought it proper to tell something of the\ncrosses of my youth, to show the crucifying conduct which God held over\nme. I thought myself obliged to relate certain facts, to manifest their\nfalsehood, the conduct of those by whom they had passed, and the\nauthors of those persecutions of which I have been only the accidental\nobject, as I was only persecuted, in order to involve therein persons\nof great merit; whom, being out of their reach by themselves, they,\ntherefore, could not personally attack, but by confounding their\naffairs with mine. I thought I owed this to religion, piety, my\nfriends, my family, and myself.\n\nWhile I was prisoner at Vincennes, and Monsieur De La Reine examined\nme, I passed my time in great peace, content to pass the rest of my\nlife there, if such were the will of God. I sang songs of joy, which\nthe maid who served me learned by heart, as fast as I made them. We\ntogether sang thy praises, O, my God! The stones of my prison looked in\nmy eyes like rubies; I esteemed them more than all the gaudy\nbrilliancies of a vain world. My heart was full of that joy which Thou\ngivest to them who love Thee, in the midst of their greatest crosses.\n\nWhen things were carried to the greatest extremities, being then in the\nBastile, I said, \"O, my God, if thou art pleased to render me a new\nspectacle to men and angels, Thy holy will be done!\"\n\nDECEMBER, 1709.\n\n\nHere she left off her narrative, though she lived a retired life above\nseven years after this date. What she had written being only done in\nobedience to the commands of her director. She died June 9, 1717, at\nBlois, in her seventieth year.","title":"The Autobiography of Madame Guyon","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":98508}