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The Story of a Soul (L'Histoire d'une Âme): The Autobiography of St. Thérèse of Lisieux

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Title: The Story of a Soul (L'Histoire d'une Âme): The Autobiography of St. Thérèse of Lisieux

Author: Saint de Lisieux Thérèse

Translator: Thomas N. Taylor


        
Release date: September 28, 2005 [eBook #16772]
                Most recently updated: December 12, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16772

Credits: Produced by David McClamrock


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF A SOUL (L'HISTOIRE D'UNE ÂME): THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ST. THÉRÈSE OF LISIEUX ***




Produced by David McClamrock





ST. THÉRÈSE OF LISIEUX

THE STORY OF A SOUL (L'HISTOIRE D'UNE ÂME): THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF
ST. THÉRÈSE OF LISIEUX

WITH ADDITIONAL WRITINGS AND SAYINGS OF ST. THÉRÈSE

______________________________

NOTE TO THIS ELECTRONIC EDITION

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

Footnotes have been re-numbered sequentially in each chapter. They
are presented at the end of each chapter, and some have been
slightly modified for ease of reference. A few footnotes,
referring to page numbers in the original, have been modified or
omitted. Citations to the Psalms, many of which were numbered
differently in Catholic Bibles of St. Thérèse's time than they
commonly are today, have the "new" number in brackets next to the
"old" number from the original--e.g., "Psalm 22[23]:1-4." Footnote
numbers are shown in brackets, e.g., "[1]."

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

______________________________

SOEUR THÉRÈSE OF LISIEUX, THE LITTLE FLOWER OF JESUS

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

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

BURNS, OATES & WASHBOURNE LD.

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

______________________________

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

IMPRIMATUR EDMUNDUS Canonicus SURMONT Vicarius Generalis

WESTMONASTERII, die nonâ Decembris, 1912.

______________________________

CONTENTS

______________________________

DEDICATION

PREFACE BY H.E. CARDINAL BOURNE

PROLOGUE: PARENTAGE AND BIRTH

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Chapter   I. Earliest Memories
    "    II. A Catholic Household
    "   III. Pauline Enters the Carmel
    "    IV. First Communion and Confirmation
    "     V. Vocation of Thérèse
    "    VI. A Pilgrimage to Rome
    "   VII. The Little Flower Enters the Carmel
    "   VIII. Profession of Soeur Thérèse
    "    IX. The Night of the Soul
    "     X. The New Commandment
    "    XI. A Canticle of Love

EPILOGUE: A VICTIM OF DIVINE LOVE

COUNSELS AND REMINISCENCES

LETTERS OF SOEUR THÉRÈSE
   To Céline
   To Mother Agnes of Jesus
   To Sister Mary of the Sacred Heart
   To Sister Frances Teresa
   To Marie Guérin
   To Jeanne Guérin
   To Missionaries

PRAYERS OF SOEUR THÉRÈSE
   Her Act of Oblation
   A Morning Prayer
   Act of Consecration to the Holy Face
   Prayer in Honour of the Holy Child
   Prayer to the Holy Child
   Prayer to the Holy Face
   Prayer in Honour of St. Joan of Arc
   Prayer to Obtain Humility

DAYS OF GRACE

SELECTED POEMS
   My Song of To-day
   Memories
   I Thirst for Love
   To Scatter Flowers
   Why I Love Thee, Mary

SHOWER OF ROSES [omitted]

PROCESS OF BEATIFICATION [omitted]

LETTERS OF PIUS X AND OTHERS [omitted]

INDULGENCED PRAYERS [omitted]

SUPPLEMENT [omitted]

______________________________

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

______________________________

PREFACE

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

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

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

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

FRANCIS CARDINAL BOURNE, Archbishop of Westminster.

Feast of the Presentation of Our Blessed Lady, 1912.

______________________________

PROLOGUE: THE PARENTAGE & BIRTH OF MARIE FRANÇOISE THÉRÈSE MARTIN

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

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

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

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

*   *   *   *   *   *

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

God gave ear to her prayer, and His Finger was visible in the
circumstances which led to her becoming the wife of Louis Martin,
on July 12, 1858, in Alençon's lovely Church of Notre Dame. Like
the chaste Tobias, they were joined together in matrimony--"solely
for the love of children, in whom God's Name might be blessed for
ever and ever." Nine white flowers bloomed in this sacred garden.
Of the nine, four were transplanted to Paradise ere their buds had
quite unfolded, while five were gathered in God's walled gardens
upon earth, one entering the Visitation Convent at Caen, the others the
Carmel of Lisieux. From the cradle all were dedicated to Mary
Immaculate, and all received her name: Marie Louise, Marie Pauline,
Marie Léonie, Marie Hélène, who died at the age of four and a half,
Marie Joseph Louis, Marie Joseph Jean Baptiste, Marie Céline, Marie
Mélanie Therèse, who died when three months old, and lastly, _Marie
Françoise Thérèse._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*   *   *   *   *   *

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

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

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

*   *   *   *   *   *

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

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

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

*   *   *   *   *   *

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

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

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

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

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

The Editor.
______________________________

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

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

[3] Francis Thompson.

______________________________

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SOEUR THÉRÈSE OF LISIEUX, ENTITLED BY
HERSELF: "THE STORY OF THE SPRINGTIME OF A LITTLE WHITE FLOWER"

______________________________

CHAPTER I
EARLIEST MEMORIES

It is to you, dear Mother, that I am about to confide the story of
my soul. When you asked me to write it, I feared the task might
unsettle me, but since then Our Lord has deigned to make me
understand that by simple obedience I shall please Him best. I
begin therefore to sing what must be my eternal song: "the Mercies
of the Lord."[1]

Before setting about my task I knelt before the statue of Our Lady
which had given my family so many proofs of Our Heavenly Mother's
loving care.[2] As I knelt I begged of that dear Mother to guide
my hand, and thus ensure that only what was pleasing to her should
find place here.

Then opening the Gospels, my eyes fell on these words: "Jesus,
going up into a mountain, called unto Him whom He would
Himself."[3]

They threw a clear light upon the mystery of my vocation and of my
entire life, and above all upon the favours which Our Lord has
granted to my soul. He does not call those who are worthy, but
those whom He will. As St. Paul says: "God will have mercy on whom
He will have mercy.[4] So then it is not of him that willeth, nor
of him that runneth, but of God that showeth mercy."[5]

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

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

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

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

I am now at a time of life when I can look back on the past, for
my soul has been refined in the crucible of interior and exterior
trials. Now, like a flower after the storm, I can raise my head
and see that the words of the Psalm are realised in me: "The Lord
is my Shepherd and I shall want nothing. He hath set me in a place
of pasture. He hath brought me up on the water of refreshment. He
hath converted my soul. He hath led me on the paths of justice for
His own Name's sake. For though I should walk in the midst of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evils for Thou are with me."[6]

Yes, to me Our Lord has always been "compassionate and merciful,
long-suffering and plenteous in mercy."[7]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is quite true that I could not be separated from Céline; I
would rather leave my dessert unfinished at table than let her go
without me, and I would get down from my high chair when she did,
and off we went to play together. On Sundays, as I was still too
small to go to the long services, Mamma stayed at home to take
care of me. I was always very good, walking about on tip-toe; but
as soon as I heard the door open there was a tremendous outburst
of joy--I threw myself on my dear little sister, exclaiming: "Oh,
Céline! give me the blessed bread, quick!"[8] One day she had not
brought any--what was to be done? I could not do without it, for I
called this little feast my Mass. A bright idea struck me: "You
have no blessed bread! --make some." Céline immediately opened the
cupboard, took out the bread, cut a tiny bit off, and after saying
a Hail Mary quite solemnly over it, triumphantly presented it to
me; and I, making the sign of the Cross, ate it with devotion,
fancying it tasted exactly like the real blessed bread.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[3] Mark 3:13.

[4] Cf. Exodus 33:19.

[5] Cf. Rom. 9:16.

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

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

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

______________________________

CHAPTER II
A CATHOLIC HOUSEHOLD

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

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

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

Fifteen years later I was again standing by another coffin, that
of our holy Mother Genevieve,[1] and I was carried back to the
days of my childhood. Memories crowded upon me; it was the same
little Thérèse who looked at it, but she had grown, and the coffin
seemed small. She had not to lift up her head to it, now she only
raised her eyes to contemplate Heaven which seemed to her very
full of joy, for trials had matured and strengthened her soul, so
that nothing on earth could make her grieve.

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

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

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

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

The next day they took us to our new home, _Les Buissonets,_[2]
situated in a quiet part of the town. I was charmed with the house
my Father had taken. The large upper window from which there was
an extensive view, the flower garden in front, and the kitchen
garden at the back--all these seemed delightfully new to my
childish mind; and this happy home became the scene of many joys
and of family gatherings which I can never forget. Elsewhere, as I
said before, I felt an exile, I cried and fretted for my Mother;
but here my little heart expanded, and I smiled on life once more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shortly after this I made my first confession.[3] It is a very
sweet memory. Pauline had warned me: "Thérèse, darling, it is not
to a man but to God Himself that you are going to tell your sins."
I was so persuaded of this that I asked her quite seriously if I
should not tell Father Ducellier that I loved him "with my whole
heart," as it was really God I was going to speak to in his person.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My sisters were all together in an adjoining room. Hearing me call
"Papa!" they were frightened themselves, but Marie, hiding her
feelings, ran to me and said: "Why are you calling Papa, when he
is at Alençon?" I told her what I had seen, and to reassure me
they said that Nurse must have covered her head with her apron on
purpose to frighten me. Victoire, however, when questioned,
declared she had not left the kitchen--besides, the truth was too
deeply impressed on my mind: I had seen a man, and that man was
exactly like my Father. We all went to look behind the clump of
trees, and, finding nothing, my sisters told me to think no more
about it. Ah, that was not in my power! Often and often my
imagination brought before me this mysterious vision, often and
often I tried to raise the veil which hid its true meaning, and
deep down in my heart I had a conviction that some day it would be
fully revealed to me. And you know all, dear Mother. You know that
it was really my Father whom God showed me, bent by age, and
bearing on his venerable face and his white head the symbol of his
terrible trial.[4]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

______________________________

CHAPTER III
PAULINE ENTERS THE CARMEL

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

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

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

After Céline, who was, so to say, indispensable to me, I sought
the company of my little cousin Marie, because she left me free to
choose the games I liked best. We were already closely united in
heart and will, as if God were showing us in advance how one day
in the Carmel we should embrace the same religious life.[1]

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

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

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

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

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

Next day I confided my desires to Pauline. They seemed to her as a
proof of God's Will, and she promised to take me soon to the
Carmel, to see the Mother Prioress and to tell her my secret. This
solemn visit was fixed for a certain Sunday, and great was my
embarrassment on hearing that my cousin Marie--who was still young
enough to be allowed to see the Carmelites--was to come with us.[2]

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

At last the 2nd of October came--a day of tears, but also of
blessings, when Our Lord gathered the first of His flowers, the
chosen flower who, later on, was to become the Mother of her
sisters.[3] Whilst Papa, with my uncle and Marie, climbed the
mountain of Carmel to offer his first sacrifice, my aunt took me
to Mass, with my sisters and cousins. We were bathed in tears, and
people gazed at us in astonishment when we entered the church, but
that did not stop our crying. I even wondered how the sun could go
on shining. Perhaps, dear Mother, you think I exaggerate my grief
a little. I confess that this parting ought not to have upset me
so much, but my soul was yet far from mature, and I had to pass
through many trials before reaching the haven of peace, before
tasting the delicious fruits of perfect love and of complete
abandonment to God's Will.

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

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

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

But God had decided otherwise. That very evening my headache
became acute, and I was seized with a strange shivering which
lasted all night. My aunt, like a real mother, never left me for a
moment; all through my illness she lavished on me the most tender
and devoted care. You may imagine my poor Father's grief when he
returned from Paris to find me in this hopeless state; he thought
I was going to die, but Our Lord might have said to him: "This
sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God."[4]

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

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

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

But if God allowed the devil to approach me in this open way,
Angels too were sent to console and strengthen me. Marie never
left me, and never showed the least trace of weariness in spite of
all the trouble I gave her--for I could not rest when she was
away. During meals, when Victoire took care of me, I never ceased
calling tearfully "Marie! Marie!" When she wanted to go out, it
was only if she were going to Mass or to see Pauline that I kept
quiet. As for Léonie and my little Céline, they could not do
enough for me. On Sundays they shut themselves up for hours with a
poor child who seemed almost to have lost her reason. My own dear
sisters, how much I made you suffer! My uncle and aunt were also
devoted to me. My aunt came to see me every day, and brought me
many little gifts. I could never tell you how my love for these
dear ones increased during this illness. I understood better than
ever what Papa had so often told us: "Always remember, children,
that your uncle and aunt have devoted themselves to you in a way
that is quite exceptional." In his old age he experienced this
himself, and now he must bless and protect those who lavished upon
him such affectionate care.[5]

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

One day Papa came into my room in the deepest distress, and I
watched him go up to Marie and give her some money, bidding her
write to Paris, and have a novena of Masses said at the shrine of
Our Lady of Victories,[6] to obtain the cure of his poor little
Queen. How touching were his faith and love! How much I longed to
get up and tell him I was cured! Alas! my wishes could not work a
miracle, and it needed one to restore me to health. Yes, it needed
a great miracle, and this was wrought by Our Lady of Victories
herself.

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

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

Indeed her prayers had gained me this unspeakable favour--a smile
from the Blessed Virgin! When she saw me with my eyes fixed on the
statue, she said to herself: "Thérèse is cured!" And it was true.
The Little Flower had come to life again--a bright ray from its
glorious Sun had warmed and set it free for ever from its cruel
enemy. "The dark winter is past, the rain is over and gone,"[7]
and Our Lady's Little Flower gathered such strength that five
years later it opened wide its petals on the fertile mountain of
Carmel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[4] John 11:4.

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

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

[7] Cant. 2:11.

______________________________

CHAPTER IV
FIRST COMMUNION AND CONFIRMATION

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

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

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

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

Our Lord made me understand that the only true glory is that which
lasts for ever; and that to attain it there is no necessity to do
brilliant deeds, but rather to hide from the eyes of others, and
even from oneself, so that "the left hand knows not what the right
hand does."[1] Then, as I reflected that I was born for great
things, and sought the means to attain them, it was made known to
me interiorly that my personal glory would never reveal itself
before the eyes of men, but that it would consist in becoming a
Saint.

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

I must now continue my story where I left off. Three months after
my cure Papa took me away for a change. It was a very pleasant
time, and I began to see something of the world. All around me was
joy and gladness; I was petted, made much of, admired--in fact,
for a whole fortnight my path was strewn with flowers. The Wise
Man is right when he says: "The bewitching of vanity overturneth
the innocent mind."[2] At ten years of age the heart is easily
fascinated, and I confess that in my case this kind of life had
its charms. Alas! the world knows well how to combine its
pleasures with the service of God. How little it thinks of death!
And yet death has come to many people I knew then, young, rich,
and happy. I recall to mind the delightful places where they
lived, and ask myself where they are now, and what profit they
derive to-day from the beautiful houses and grounds where I saw
them enjoying all the good things of this life, and I reflect that
"All is vanity besides loving God and serving Him alone."[3]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

During the afternoon I read the act of consecration to Our Lady,
for myself and my companions. I was chosen probably because I had
been deprived of my earthly Mother while still so young. With all
my heart I consecrated myself to the Blessed Virgin Mary, and
asked her to watch over me. She seemed to look lovingly on her
Little Flower and to smile at her again, and I thought of the
visible smile which had once cured me, and of all I owed her. Had
she not herself, on the morning of that 8th of May, placed in the
garden of my soul her Son Jesus--"the Flower of the field and the
Lily of the valleys"?[4]

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

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

I made my second Communion on Ascension Day, and had the happiness
of kneeling at the rails between Papa and Marie. My tears flowed
with inexpressible sweetness; I kept repeating those words of St.
Paul: "I live now, not I; but Christ liveth in me."[5] After this
second visit of Our Lord I longed for nothing else but to receive
Him. Alas! the feasts seemed so far apart. . . .

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

I had one other great wish; it was to love God only, and to find
my joy in Him alone. During my thanksgiving after Holy Communion I
often repeated this passage from the _Imitation of Christ:_ "O my
God, who art unspeakable sweetness, turn for me into bitterness
all the consolations of earth."[6] These words rose to my lips
quite naturally; I said them like a child, who, without well
understanding, repeats what a friend may suggest. Later on I will
tell you, dear Mother, how Our Lord has been pleased to fulfill my
desire, how He, and He alone, has always been my joy; but if I
were to speak of it now I should have to pass on to my girlhood,
and there is still much to tell you of my early days.

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

When these delightful feasts, which can never be forgotten, were
over, I had to resume my life as a day scholar, at the Abbey. I
made good progress with my lessons, and remembered easily the
sense of what I read, but I had the greatest difficulty in
learning by heart; only at catechism were my efforts crowned with
success. The Chaplain called me his little "Doctor of
Theology,"[7] no doubt because of my name, Thérèse.

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

Observing that some of the girls were very devoted to one or other
of the mistresses, I tried to imitate them, but I never succeeded
in winning special favour. O happy failure, from how many evils
have you saved me! I am most thankful to Our Lord that He let me
find only bitterness in earthly friendships. With a heart like
mine, I should have been taken captive and had my wings clipped,
and how then should I have been able to "fly away and be at
rest"?[8]

How can a heart given up to human affections be closely united to
God? It seems to me that it is impossible. I have seen so many
souls, allured by this false light, fly right into it like poor
moths, and burn their wings, and then return, wounded, to Our
Lord, the Divine fire which burns and does not consume. I know
well Our Lord saw that I was too weak to be exposed to temptation,
for, without doubt, had the deceitful light of created love
dazzled my eyes, I should have been entirely consumed. Where
strong souls find joy and practise detachment faithfully, I only
found bitterness. No merit, then, is due to me for not having
given up to these frail ties, since I was only preserved from them
by the Mercy of God. I fully realised that without Him I should
have fallen as low as St. Mary Magdalen, and the Divine Master's
words re-echoed sweetly in my soul. Yes, I know that "To whom less
is forgiven he loveth less,"[9] but I know too that Our Lord has
forgiven me more than St. Mary Magdalen. Here is an example which
will, at any rate, show you some of my thoughts.

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

The father, aware that a dangerous stone lies in his son's path,
is beforehand with the danger and removes it, unseen by anyone.
The son, thus tenderly cared for, not knowing of the mishap from
which his father's hand has saved him, naturally will not show him
any gratitude, and will love him less than if he had cured him of
a grievous wound. But suppose he heard the whole truth, would he
not in that case love him still more? Well now, I am this child,
the object of the foreseeing love of a Father "Who did not send
His son to call the just, but sinners."[10] He wishes me to love
Him, because He has forgiven me, not much, but everything. Without
waiting for me to love Him much, as St. Mary Magdalen did, He has
made me understand how He has loved me with an ineffable love and
forethought, so that now my love may know no bounds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am very sorry for souls who lose themselves in this way. It is
so easy to go astray in the seductive paths of the world. Without
doubt, for a soul somewhat advanced in virtue, the sweetness
offered by the world is mingled with bitterness, and the immense
void of its desires cannot be filled by the flattery of a moment;
but I repeat, if my heart had not been lifted up towards God from
the first moment of consciousness, if the world had smiled on me
from the beginning of my life, what should I have become? Dearest
Mother, with what a grateful heart do I sing "the Mercies of the
Lord!" Has He not, according to the words of Holy Wisdom, "taken
me away from the world lest wickedness should alter my
understanding, or deceit beguile my soul?"[11]

Meanwhile I resolved to consecrate myself in a special way to Our
Blessed Lady, and I begged to be enrolled among the Children of
Mary.[12] To gain this favour I had to go twice a week to the
Convent, and I must confess this cost me something, I was so shy.
There was no question of the affection I felt towards my
mistresses, but, as I said before, I had no special friend among
them, with whom I could have spent many hours like other old
pupils. So I worked in silence till the end of the lesson, and
then, as no one took any notice of me, I went to the tribune in
the Chapel till Papa came to fetch me home. Here, during this
silent visit, I found my one consolation--for was not Jesus my
only Friend? To Him alone could I open my heart; all conversation
with creatures, even on holy subjects, wearied me. It is true that
in these periods of loneliness I sometimes felt sad, and I used
often to console myself by repeating this line of a beautiful poem
Papa had taught me: "Time is thy barque, and not thy
dwelling-place."

Young as I was, these words restored my courage, and even now, in
spite of having outgrown many pious impressions of childhood, the
symbol of a ship always delights me and helps me to bear the exile
of this life. Does not the Wise Man tell us--"Life is like a ship
that passeth through the waves: when it is gone by, the trace
thereof cannot be found"?[13]

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

But before reaching Our Father's Home in Heaven, I had to go
through many partings on this earth. The year in which I was made
a Child of Mary, Our Lady took from me my sister Marie, the only
support of my soul,[14] my oracle and inseparable companion since
the departure of Pauline. As soon as I knew of her decision, I
made up my mind to take no further pleasure in anything here
below. I could not tell you how many tears I shed. But at this
time I was much given to crying, not only over big things, but
over trifling ones too. For instance: I was very anxious to
advance in virtue, but I went about it in a strange way. I was not
accustomed to wait on myself; Céline always arranged our room, and
I never did any household work. Sometimes, in order to please Our
Lord, I used to make my bed, or, if she were out in the evening,
to bring in her plants and seedlings. As I said before, it was
simply to please Our Lord that I did these things, and so I ought
not to have expected any thanks from creatures. But, alas! I did
expect them, and, if unfortunately Céline did not seem surprised
and grateful for my little services, I was not pleased, and tears
rose to my eyes.

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

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

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

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

[1] Cf. Matt. 6:3.

[2] Wisdom 4:12.

[3] _Imit.,_ I, ch. i. 3.

[4] Cant. 2:1.

[5] Gal. 2:20.

[6] _Imit.,_ III, ch. xxvi. 3.

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

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

[9] Luke 7:47.

[10] Luke 5:32.

[11] Cf. Wisdom 4:11.

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

[13] Wisdom 5:10.

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

______________________________


CHAPTER V VOCATION OF THÉRÈSE

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

On that blessed night the sweet Infant Jesus, scarce an hour old,
filled the darkness of my soul with floods of light. By becoming
weak and little, for love of me, He made me strong and brave; He
put His own weapons into my hands, so that I went from victory to
victory, beginning, if I may say so, "to run as a giant."[1] The
fountain of my tears was dried up, and from that time they flowed
neither easily nor often.

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

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

On this night of grace, the third period of my life began--the
most beautiful of all, the one most filled with heavenly favours.
In an instant Our Lord, satisfied with my good will, accomplished
the work I had not been able to do during all these years. Like
the Apostle I could say: "Master, we have laboured all night, and
have taken nothing."[2]

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

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

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

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

After receiving this grace my desire for the salvation of souls
increased day by day. I seemed to hear Our Lord whispering to me,
as He did to the Samaritan woman: "Give me to drink!"[3] It was
indeed an exchange of love: upon souls I poured forth the Precious
Blood of Jesus, and to Jesus I offered these souls refreshed with
the Dew of Calvary. In this way I thought to quench His Thirst;
but the more I gave Him to drink, so much the more did the thirst
of my own poor soul increase, and I accepted it as the most
delightful recompense.

In a short time God, in His goodness, had lifted me out of the
narrow sphere in which I lived. The great step was taken; but,
alas! I had still a long road to travel. Now that I was free from
scruples and morbid sensitiveness, my mind developed. I had always
loved what was noble and beautiful, and about this time I was
seized with a passionate desire for learning. Not content with
lessons from my teachers, I took up certain subjects by myself,
and learnt more in a few months than I had in my whole school
life. Was not this ardour--"vanity and vexation of spirit"?[4] For
me, with my impetuous nature, this was one of the most dangerous
times of my life, but Our Lord fulfilled in me those words of
Ezechiel's prophecy: "Behold thy time was the time of lovers: and
I spread my garment over thee. And I swore to thee, and I entered
into a covenant with thee, saith the Lord God, and thou becamest
Mine. And I washed thee with water, and I anointed thee with oil.
I clothed thee with fine garments, and put a chain about thy neck.
Thou didst eat fine flour and honey and oil, and wast made
exceedingly beautiful, and wast advanced to be a queen."[5]

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

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

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

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

        Treading within Thy Footsteps
        Young maidens lightly run upon the way.
        From the spark's contact,
        And the spicèd wine,
        They give forth aspirations of a balm divine.

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

Very sweet is the memory of our intercourse. Every evening we went
up to our attic window together and gazed at the starry depths of
the sky, and I think very precious graces were bestowed on us
then. As the _Imitation_ says: "God communicates Himself sometimes
amid great light, at other times sweetly in signs and figures."[6]

In this way He deigned to manifest Himself to our hearts; but how
slight and transparent was the veil! Doubt was no longer possible;
already Faith and Hope had given place to Love, which made us find
Him whom we sought, even on this earth. When He found us
alone--"He gave us His kiss, and now no one may despise us."[7]

These divine impressions could not but bear fruit. The practice of
virtue gradually became sweet and natural to me. At first my looks
betrayed the effort, but, little by little, self-sacrifice seemed
to come more easily and without hesitation. Our Lord has said: "To
everyone that hath shall be given, and he shall abound."[8]

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

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

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

When a gardener gives special attention to a fruit which he wishes
to ripen early, he does so, not with a view to leaving it on the
tree, but in order to place it on a well-spread table. Our Lord
lavished His favours on His Little Flower in the same way. He
wishes His Mercies to shine forth in me--He Who, while on earth,
cried out in a transport of joy: "I bless Thee, O Father, because
Thou hast hidden these things from the wise and prudent and hast
revealed them to little ones."[9]

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

        On that happy night
        In secret I went forth, beheld by none,
        And seeing naught;
        Having no light nor guide
        Excepting that which burned within my heart,

        Which lit my way
        More safely than the glare of noon-day sun
        To where, expectant,
        He waited for me Who doth know me well,
        Where none appeared but He.

This place was Carmel, but before I could "sit down under His
Shadow Whom I desired,"[10] I had to pass through many trials. And
yet the Divine Call was becoming so insistent that, had it been
necessary for me to go through fire, I would have thrown myself
into it to follow my Divine Master.

Pauline[11] was the only one who encouraged me in my vocation;
Marie thought I was too young, and you, dear Mother, no doubt to
prove me, tried to restrain my ardour. From the start I
encountered nothing but difficulties. Then, too, I dared not speak
of it to Céline, and this silence pained me deeply; it was so hard
to have a secret she did not share.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About this time Our Lord gave me the consolation of an intimate
knowledge of the souls of children. I gained it in this way.
During the illness of a poor woman, I interested myself in her two
little girls, the elder of whom was not yet six. It was a real
pleasure to see how simply they believed all that I told them.
Baptism does indeed plant deeply in our souls the theological
virtues, since from early childhood the hope of heavenly reward is
strong enough to make us practise self-denial. When I wanted my
two little girls to be specially kind to one another, instead of
promising them toys and sweets, I talked to them about the eternal
recompense the Holy Child Jesus would give to good children. The
elder one, who was coming to the use of reason, used to look quite
pleased and asked me charming questions about the little Jesus and
His beautiful Heaven. She promised me faithfully always to give in
to her little sister, adding that all through her life she would
never forget what I had taught her. I used to compare these
innocent souls to soft wax, ready to receive any impression--evil,
alas! as well as good, and I understood the words of Our Lord: "It
were better to be thrown into the sea than to scandalise one of
these little ones."[12]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[2] Luke 5:5.

[3] John 4:7.

[4] Eccl. 1:14.

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

[6] Cf. _Imit.,_ III, ch. xliii. 4.

[7] Cf. Cant. 8:1.

[8] Luke 19:26.

[9] Cf. Luke 10:21.

[10] Cant. 2:3.

[11] Sister Agnes of Jesus.

[12] Cf. Matt. 18:6.

______________________________

CHAPTER VI
A PILGRIMAGE TO ROME

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

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

To begin with, Céline and I found ourselves in the company of many
distinguished people. In fact, there were scarcely any others in
the pilgrimage; but, far from being dazzled thereby, titles seemed
to us but a "vapour of smoke,"[1] and I understood the words of
the _Imitation:_ "Be not solicitous for the shadow of a great
name."[2] I understood that true greatness is not found in a name
but in the soul. The Prophet Isaias tells us: "The Lord shall call
His servants by another name,"[3] and we read in St. John: "To him
that overcometh I will give a white counter, and on the counter a
new name written which no man knoweth but he that receiveth
it."[4] In Heaven, therefore, we shall know our titles of
nobility, and "then shall every man have praise from God,"[5] and
he who on earth chose to be poorest and least known for love of
his Saviour, he will be the first, the noblest, and the richest.

The second thing I learnt had to do with Priests. Up to this time
I had not understood the chief aim of the Carmelite Reform. To
pray for sinners delighted me; to pray for Priests, whose souls
seemed pure as crystal, that indeed astonished me. But in Italy I
realised my vocation, and even so long a journey was a small price
to pay for such valuable knowledge. During that month I met with
many holy Priests, and yet I saw that even though the sublime
dignity of Priesthood raises them higher than the Angels, they are
still but weak and imperfect men. And so if holy Priests, whom Our
Lord in the Gospel calls the salt of the earth, have need of our
prayers, what must we think of the lukewarm? Has not Our Lord
said: "If the salt lose its savour wherewith shall it be
salted?"[6] Oh, dear Mother, how beautiful is our vocation! We
Carmelites are called to preserve "the salt of the earth." We
offer our prayers and sacrifices for the apostles of the Lord; we
ourselves ought to be their apostles, while they, by word and
example, are preaching the Gospel to our brethren. Have we not a
glorious mission to fulfill? But I must say no more, for I feel
that on this subject my pen would run on for ever.

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

I was well aware that during this journey I should come across
things that might disturb me; knowing nothing of evil, I feared I
might discover it. As yet I had not experienced that "to the pure
all things are pure,"[7] that a simple and upright soul does not
see evil in anything, because evil only exists in impure hearts
and not in inanimate objects. I prayed specially to St. Joseph to
watch over me; from my childhood, devotion to him has been
interwoven with my love for our Blessed Lady. Every day I said the
prayer beginning: "St. Joseph, Father and Protector of Virgins"
. . . so I felt I was well protected and quite safe from danger.

We left Paris on November 7, after our solemn Consecration to the
Sacred Heart in the Basilica of Montmartre.[8] Each compartment of
the train was named after a Saint, and the selection was made in
honour of some Priest occupying it--his own patron or that of his
parish being chosen. But in the presence of all the pilgrims our
compartment was named after St. Martin! My Father, deeply touched
by this compliment, went at once to thank Mgr. Legoux,
Vicar-General of Coutances and director of the pilgrimage. From
this onwards he was often called "Monsieur Saint Martin."

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

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

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

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

The "Campo Santo"[9] charmed us. The whole vast enclosure is
covered with marble statues, so exquisitely carved as to be
life-like, and placed with an apparent negligence that only
enhances their charm. You feel almost tempted to console the
imaginary personages that surround you, their expression so
exactly portrays a calm and Christian sorrow. And what works of
art! Here is a child putting flowers on its father's grave--one
forgets how solid is marble--the delicate petals appear to slip
through its fingers. Sometimes the light veils of the widows, and
the ribbons of the young girls, seem floating on the breeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

St. Cecilia is like the Spouse in the Canticles. I find in her the
Scriptural "choir in an armed camp."[10] Her life was one
melodious song in the midst of the greatest trials; and this is
not strange, because we read that "the Book of the Holy Gospels
lay ever on her heart,"[11] while in her heart reposed the Spouse
of Virgins.

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

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

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

The Gospel for that day contained these touching words: "Fear not,
little flock, for it hath pleased your Father to give you a
Kingdom."[12] My heart was filled with perfect confidence. No, I
would not fear, I would trust that the Kingdom of the Carmel would
soon be mine. I did not think of those other words of Our Lord: "I
dispose to you, as my Father hath disposed to Me, a Kingdom."[13]
That is to say, I will give you crosses and trials, and thus will
you become worthy to possess My Kingdom. _If you desire to sit on
His right hand you must drink the chalice which He has drunk
Himself._[14] "Ought not Christ to have suffered these things, and
so to enter into His glory?"[15]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[1] Joel 2:19.

[2] _Imitation of Christ,_ III, xxiv. 2.

[3] Isa. 65:15.

[4] Apoc. 2:17.

[5] 1 Cor. 4:5.

[6] Matt. 5:13.

[7] Tit. 1:15.

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

[9] Cemetery.

[10] Cf. Cant. 7:1.

[11] Office of St. Cecilia.

[12] Luke 12:32.

[13] Luke 22:29.

[14] Cf. Matt. 20:22.

[15] Luke 24:26.

______________________________


CHAPTER VII
THE LITTLE FLOWER ENTERS THE CARMEL

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

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

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

Everything in the Convent delighted me, especially our little
cell.[1] I fancied myself transported to the desert. I repeat that
my happiness was calm and peaceful--not even the lightest breeze
ruffled the tranquil waters on which my little barque sailed; no
cloud darkened the blue sky. I felt fully recompensed for all I
had gone through, and I kept saying: "Now I am here for ever."
Mine was no passing joy, it did not fade like first illusions.
From illusions God in His Mercy has ever preserved me. I found the
religious life just what I expected, and sacrifice was never a
matter of surprise. Yet you know well that from the beginning my
ways was strewn with thorns rather than with roses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until then I had not appreciated the beauties of the Holy Face; it
was my dear Mother, Agnes of Jesus, who unveiled them to me. As
she had been the first of her sisters to enter the Carmel, so she
was the first to penetrate the mysteries of love hidden in the
Face of Our Divine Spouse. Then she showed them to me and I
understood better than ever, in what true glory consists. He whose
"Kingdom is not of this world"[2] taught me that the only royalty
to be coveted lies in being "unknown and esteemed as naught,"[3]
and in the joy of self-abasement. And I wished that my face, like
the Face of Jesus, "should be, as it were, hidden and
despised,"[4] so that no one on earth should esteem me. I thirsted
to suffer and to be forgotten.

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

At the end of May, Marie, our eldest, was professed, and Thérèse,
the Benjamin, had the privilege of crowning her with roses on the
day of her mystical espousals. After this happy feast trials again
came upon us. Ever since his first attack of paralysis we realised
that my Father was very easily tired. During our journey to Rome I
often noticed th

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