FROM that time I was given an instinct of sacrifice and continual immolation; not in words, but by a silence that expressed all, and which had its real effect. I used to say to God, “O my Love, what could you desire of me to which I would not immolate myself willingly? Oh, do not spare me!” Then, conceiving in my mind what there was most frightful both in the cross and in humiliation, I immolated myself without reluctance. And as these immolations were accompanied by continual occasions of suffering, I may say, it seemed our Lord accepted all my sacrifices, and furnished me incessantly with new materials for making them to him. I used to say to him, “You are for me a husband of blood.” I could not hear speak of God or our Lord Jesus Christ, without being beside myself. What surprised me most is, I had extreme difficulty to say my usual vocal prayers. As soon as I opened my mouth to pronounce them, love seized me so strongly that I continued absorbed in a profound silence and in a peace beyond expression. I made new efforts, and I passed my life in commencing my prayers without being able to finish them. As I never had heard tell of this state, I knew not what to do; but the powerlessness became still greater, because love became stronger, more violent, and more absorbing. It made in me, without the sound of words, a continual prayer, which seemed to me to be that of our Lord Jesus Christ himself—prayer of the Word, which is effected by the Spirit, who, according to St. Paul, asks for us what is good, what is perfect, what is conformable to the will of God. I could not ask anything for myself or for another, nor wish anything but this divine will. I was consoled to find in St. Francis de Sales that when one would pray vocally, and that one feels one’s self drawn to something else, we should follow this attraction; for I could not explain in any way what I experienced.
I sometimes went to see Mother Granger, and she helped me; but my confessor and my husband forbade me to go. I dared not even write to her, and, if I had written, she could not have answered me, owing to the weakness of her sight, so that I did not get much help from her. When they knew I had been to her, there were never-ending quarrels. Yet I condemned myself to rigorous silence. My consolation was to communicate as often as I could; but, when this was known, which often enough happened, it cost me genuine crosses. My diversion was to go and see some poor sick people, and to dress the wounds of those who came to the house. That was the only consolation I had. I was like those drunkards or those lovers who think only of their passion.
I was some time in this way, after which prayer became more painful to me. When I was not engaged in it, I burned to be so. When I was in it, I could not continue so. I did violence to myself in order to remain more in prayer when painful than when consolatory. I sometimes suffered inexplicable torments. To relieve myself and cause diversion, I covered all my body with nett1es, but, although this gave much pain, what I suffered within was such that I hardly felt the pain of the nettles. As the pain and the dryness still increased, and I no longer found that gentle vigour which made me practise good with pleasure, my passions, which were not dead, were not slow in waking up again, and in giving me new exercise. It seemed to me I was like those young wives, who have trouble to get rid of the love of themselves, and to follow their friend into the battle. I fell back into a vain complaisance for myself. This inclination, which appeared to me dead when I was so smitten with my Love, revived, and it made me groan and pray God incessantly to take away from me this obstacle, and make me become ugly. I would have wished to be deaf, blind, and mute, in order that nothing might be able to divert me from my Love.
I went on a journey, where I shone more than ever, like those lamps which blaze up afresh when they are on the point of going out. Alas! how many snares were spread for me! I met them at every step. I committed infidelities; but, O my God, with what rigour did you punish them! The least look stirred you to anger against me, and your anger was more insupportable to me than death. Those unforeseen faults, where I let myself slip through weakness, and as it were in spite of myself, how many tears did they cost me! O my Love, you know the rigour you exercised on me, after my weaknesses, was not their cause. My God, with what pleasure would I have suffered all your rigours to escape being unfaithful to you! and to what severe chastisement did I not condemn myself! You know, O my God, you treated me sometimes like a father who pities the weakness of his child, and caresses it after its little slips. How many times did you make me feel that you loved me, although I had stains that appeared to me almost voluntary! It was the sweetness of this Love after my falls that made my truest torment. The more amiable and good towards me you appeared, the more inconsolable was I at turning aside from you, though it should be but for moments, and when I had inadvertently done anything, I found you ready to receive me, and I said to you, “O my God, is it possible you should be thus my pis-aller? What! I wander from you through vain complaisance and in order to dwell upon frivolous objects, and I no sooner return to you, than I find you waiting for this return with outstretched arms to receive me!”
O sinner, sinner, couldst thou complain of thy God? Ah! if thou still retainest any justice, admit that thou wanderest from him voluntarily; that thou quittest him in spite of him; that if thou returnest, he is ready to receive thee; that if thou returnest not, he engages thee by all that is most powerful and most tender to do so. Thou art deaf to his voice. Thou dost not wish to hear it. Thou sayest he does not speak to thee, though he cries with all his strength; because thou makest thyself each day more deaf, in order not to hear his amiable words and his charming voice. O my Love, you did not cease to speak to my heart, and to succour it at need!
When I was at Paris, and the confessors saw me so young, they were astonished. After I had confessed, they said to me that I could not sufficiently thank God for the graces he had bestowed on me; that if I knew them, I would be astonished; and that if I was not faithful, I would be the most ungrateful of all creatures. Some declared they did not know a woman whom God kept so close and in so great purity of conscience. What made it such was that continual care you had over me, O my God, making me experience your intimate presence, as you have promised us in your Gospel, “If anyone does my will, we will come unto him, and make our dwelling in him.” This continual experience of your presence in me was what guarded me. I experienced what your prophet said, “It is in vain one watches to guard the city, if the Lord does not guard it.” You were, O my Love, that faithful Guardian, who continually defended it against all sorts of enemies, preventing the smallest faults, or correcting them, when vivacity had led me to commit them. But, alas! my dear Love, when you ceased yourself to watch, how weak was I! and how my enemies prevailed over me! Let others attribute their victories to their fidelity; for me I will only attribute them to your paternal care. I have too well proved my weakness, and I have made too fatal an experience of what I should be without you, to presume anything on my care. It is to you I owe everything, O my Deliverer, and I have infinite pleasure in owing it to you.
While at Paris I relaxed my exercises, owing to the little time I had, and, besides, trouble and dryness had seized upon my heart. The hand that sustained me was hidden, and my Beloved had withdrawn himself. I committed many infidelities, for I knew the violent passion certain persons had for me, and I suffered them to show it; I was not, however, alone. I also committed faults in leaving my neck a little uncovered, although it was not nearly so much so as others had it. I wept because I saw I was growing slack, and it was a very great torment for me. I sought everywhere for him who was consuming my soul in secret. I asked news of him, but, alas! he was hardly known to anyone. I said to him, “O Beloved of my soul, if you had been with me, these disasters would not have happened to me! Alas! ‘show me where you feed your flock at midday, and where you rest yourself’ in the full day of eternity, which is not like the day of time, subject to nights and to eclipses.” When I say I said this to him, it is only to explain and to make myself understood; for, in truth, everything passed almost in silence, and I could not speak. My heart had a language which went on without the sound of speech, and it was understood by its Beloved, as he understands the profound silence of the Word, ever eloquent, who speaks incessantly in the depths of the soul. O language that experience alone can make conceivable! Let no one fancy it was a barren language, an effect of the imagination. Far other is the mute language of the Word in the soul; as he never ceases to speak, so he never ceases to operate. “He spoke, and they were made.” He operates in the soul that which he speaks there. Neither let any one think that this language of the Word is carried on in distinct speech. It would be a mistake. This must be here explained.
There are two kinds of speech—mediate speech, which is effected either by some angel, or which forms itself in the mind; and this speech, which sounds and is articulate, is mediate speech. But there is a substantial speech, expressive speech, which operates infinitely more than can be conceived—speech which never ceases, and which produces its effect, not in distinction, as a thing of the moment, but in reality of operation, which remains fixed and immovable; speech which is understood by him in whom it is spoken only by its effects: “He spoke, and they were made;” “He commanded, and they were created.” This ineffable speech communicates to the soul in which it is the facility of speaking without words. The speaking of the Word in the soul, the speaking of the soul through the Word, the speaking of the Blessed Ones in heaven, —oh, how happy the soul to whom this ineffable speaking is communicated! —a speaking which is understood by souls of the same kind, so that they mutually express themselves without speaking, and this expression causes an unction of grace, peace, and sweetness, and carries with it effects which experience alone can make conceivable. Oh, if souls were sufficiently pure to learn to speak in this way, they would participate beforehand in the language of glory. It was this divine speech of the Word that made itself felt by St. John, and which operated and expressed itself in him, as the Holy Virgin approached St. Elizabeth. Those two holy mothers, while approaching and uniting, procure for their offspring this divine communication, the Holy Virgin giving the opportunity to the little Jesus to communicate himself to St. John, and St. Elizabeth giving opportunity to St. John as she approached the Mother of God, to receive that communication of the Word of which she was full. Oh, admirable mystery, that the Word alone can operate, and that no creature should presume to procure for himself! for his silence being effected only by his effort, it will not have the effect of grace, as that of which I speak, since it will not have the same principle. Oh, if one knew the operation of God in souls that abandon themselves to his control, and which consent to let him act, one would be charmed by it!
To return to my subject, from which I have wandered, through yielding to the impetuosity of the spirit which makes me write (which may sometimes happen to me, and therefore, Sir, I beg you to excuse the want of continuity in this narrative, you have desired from me, as I am not able to write in any other manner). I say, then, that when I saw I defiled myself through too much intercourse with creatures, I laboured to finish the business that kept me at Paris, in order to return to the country; for it seemed to me, O my God, you gave me sufficient strength to avoid the occasions, but when the occasion offered, I could not guarantee myself from complaisance and numerous other weaknesses. The pain I felt after my faults was so great I cannot explain myself. It was not a pain caused by a distinct view, motives, or affections; but it was a devouring fire, which did not cease till the fault was purified. It was a banishment from my central-depth, whence I clearly felt the Spouse in anger rejected me. I could not have access to it; and, as I could not find repose elsewhere, I knew not what to do. I was like Noah’s dove, that found no rest for its feet, which was constrained to return to the ark, but on finding the window closed, it only flew round about, unable to enter. Through an unfaithfulness which will render me for ever condemnable, I have sometimes wished, in spite of myself, to find means of satisfaction without, but I could not. This attempt served, O my God, to convince me of my folly, and to make me understand the weakness of the pleasures that are called innocent. When I forced myself to taste them, I felt an extreme repugnance, which, joined to the reproach of my infidelity, made me suffer much, and changed for me diversions into punishments. I said, “O my God, it is not you; there is none but you who can give solid pleasures.” Never has creature experienced more the bounties of God, in spite of my ingratitudes. You pursued me, O my God, incessantly, as if the conquest of my heart must have constituted your happiness. In my astonishment I used sometimes to say to myself, “It seems that God has no other care and no other business than to think of my soul.”
One day, through infidelity as much as through complaisance, I went to take a turn at the promenade, more in order to have myself looked at through excessive vanity than to enjoy the exercise. O my God, in what a way did you make me feel this fault! Some carriages separated to come to us; but far from punishing me by letting me enjoy the pleasure, you did it by preserving me, and pressing me so closely, that I could pay attention only to my fault, and the dissatisfaction you exhibited to me at it. Some people wished to give me an entertainment at St. Cloud, and had invited other ladies. and, though ordinarily I took no part in any of these pleasures. I allowed myself to go there through weakness. and also through vanity; but, O my God, how tinged with bitterness was this simple diversion, which the other ladies present, though discreet, enjoyed! I could not eat anything whatsoever; yet the feast was most magnificent. My disquietude appeared upon my countenance, though they were ignorant of the cause. What tears it cost me! and how rigorously you punished me for it! You separated yourself from me for more than three months, but in a manner so harsh, that there was no longer for me anything but an irritated God. I was on this occasion, and during another journey I made with my husband in Touraine before my small-pox, like those animals destined for slaughter, that are decked out on certain days with flowers and greenery, and so marched through the town before being slaughtered. This weak vanity, then on its decline, cast out new fires, but it shone thus only to extinguish itself more promptly.
During all this time I endeavoured to stifle the martyrdom that I felt within, but it was useless. I lamented my weakness. I made verses to express my trouble, but they served only to augment it. It was such that it must be experienced to be understood. I prayed you, O my God, with tears, to take away this beauty, which had been so disastrous to me. I desired to lose it or to cease to love it. As you pressed me so closely, O my God, I could not resist. In spite of myself, I was obliged to leave everything, and to return in the greatest haste. Yet, notwithstanding my infidelities, you had, O my Love, a care for me that cannot be understood, as the instance I am about to tell will prove.
One day that I had resolved to go to Notre Dame on foot, I told the lackey in attendance to take me the shortest way. Providence allowed him to lead me astray. When I was on a bridge, there came to me a man very badly dressed. I thought he was a poor man, and was about to give him alms. He thanked me, and said he did not ask it, and drawing near me he commenced his conversation on the infinite greatness of God, of which he told me admirable things. He then spoke to me of the Holy Trinity, in a manner so grand and so exalted, that all I had ever heard said on it up to this time, appeared to me shadows compared to what he told me. Continuing, he spoke to me of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, of its excellence, of the care one should have in hearing it and assisting at it with respect. This man, who did not know me, and did not even see my face, for it was covered, said to me then, “I know, Madame, you love God, that you are very charitable and give much alms,” and many other things of the qualities God had given me, “but yet you are very much astray. God desires something else from you. You love your beauty.” Then, giving me a simple but true picture of my defects, my heart could not deny what he said. I listened to him in silence and with respect, while those who followed me said I was conversing with a mad man. I well felt he was enlightened with the true wisdom. He told me, moreover, that God did not wish me to be content to work, like others, to secure my salvation by merely avoiding the pains of hell; but that he further wished me to arrive at such a perfection in this life, that I should avoid even those of purgatory. During this conversation the road, though long, appeared to me short. I did not notice it till my arrival at Notre Dame, where my extreme fatigue made me fall into a faint. What surprised me is that when I arrived at the double bridge, and looked on all sides, I no more perceived this man, and I have never seen him since. On hearing him speak in this way, I asked him who he was; he told me he had once been a porter, but he was so no longer. The thing did not then make upon me anything like the impression it has since done. I at first related it as a story, without telling what he had last said to me; but having conceived there was something divine in it, I spoke of it no more.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MADAME GUYON 