IT was after this, my husband, having had some relief from his continual illness, wished to go to Orleans, and thence into Touraine. On this journey, my vanity triumphed, to disappear for ever. I received many visits and much applause. My God, how clearly I see the folly of men, who let themselves be caught by a vain beauty! I hated passion, but, according to the external man, I could not hate that in me which called it into life, although according to the interior man, I ardently desired to be delivered from it. O my God, you know what this continued combat of nature and grace made me suffer. Nature was pleased at public approbation, and grace made it feared. I felt myself torn asunder, and as if separated from myself; for I very well felt the injury this universal esteem did me. What augmented it was the virtue they believed united with my youth and my appearance. O my God, they did not know that all the virtue was in you alone, and in your protection, and all the weakness in me. I went to confessors, to accuse myself of my unfaithfulness, and to complain of the revolts I endured; but they understood not my trouble. They esteemed, O God, what you condemned. They regarded as virtue what appeared to me detestable in your eyes, and what made me die of grief is that, far from measuring my faults by your graces, they regarded what I was in relation to what I might be; so that, far from blaming me, they flattered my pride. They justified me from that of which I accused myself, and they hardly regarded, even as a trifling fault, what in me—whom you had foreguarded with very great mercy—was infinitely displeasing to you, O my God. We must not measure the gravity of faults by the nature of the sins, but by the state of the person who commits them. The least infidelity of a wife is more grievous to her husband than the great errors of his servants. I told them my trouble, because I had not my neck entirely covered, although I was much better than other women of my age. They assured me I was dressed very modestly, and that, as my husband wished it, there was no harm. My internal Director told me quite the contrary, but I had not the strength to follow him, and to dress myself, at my age, in a manner, that would appear extraordinary. Besides the vanity I had furnished me with pretexts which appeared to me the justest possible. Oh, if confessors knew the injury they cause women by these soft complaisances, and the evil it produces, they would show a great severity; for if I had found a single confessor who had told me there was harm in being as I was, I would not have continued in it a single moment; but my vanity taking the part of the confessors, and the maids who served me, made me think they were right and my troubles were fanciful.
On this journey we met with accidents and perils which would have frightened any other than me. But although I had fallen into the weaknesses I have mentioned, it was not in my power to fear dangers that appeared inevitable, and which frightened everybody. Without thinking of it, we got entangled in a place the river Loire had undermined, and the road which appeared sound from above was without support. We only perceived the danger when it was impossible to turn to the right or left, and it was necessary to keep on, or to be precipitated into the river. One side of the carriage rolled in the air, and was only supported by the servants, who held the other side. Nothing could exceed the terror. As for me, I felt none of it, and I found myself so abandoned to God for all the events his providence might permit, that I felt even a distinct joy at perishing by a stroke of his hand. However, I had a certain secret confidence no accident would happen, and this proved true, although, after this, we met with another accident that appeared more vexatious. The Holy Virgin, for whom I always had a great devotion, delivered us from these dangers. I had a very strong faith she would not allow persons to perish who had undertaken this journey only to honour her in her church of Ardilliers; for my husband had set out on this journey with much fervour, and these devotions were to his taste.
There I went to confession to a man who caused me much trouble. He wanted to know the intention I had had in getting married: and as I answered him that I had had only that of obeying, he told me it was worthless, that I was not properly married—I must be remarried. He would have caused a breach between my husband and me, that we would never see each other again, if I had been credulous, and if God had not assisted me; for he condemned as mortal sin what was absolute duty, so that what with his proclaiming that all was mortal sin, he would have caused us much trouble if God had not assisted us. Under pretext of instructing me, he informed me of sins that up to then I had been ignorant of, and because in marrying my intention had not been to have children, but to obey, he gave me excessive penances. But a Father of the Company of Jesus, whom I went to see at Orleans on my return, released me from them, assuring me I had not committed even a venial sin, which much consoled me; for as that other had made mortal sins of all that to which my duty obliged me, he would have placed me under the necessity either of failing in my duty, or of doing things which he assured me were mortal sins. I further committed faults on this journey in looking at what was curious when I was taken sight-seeing, although I had the idea of turning away my eyes; this, however, rarely happened. On my return I went to see Mother Granger, to whom I related all my frailties and my slips. She restored me, and encouraged me to resume my former course. She told me to cover up entirely my neck with a handkerchief, which I have ever since done, although I am the only person in this style. Yet you had, O my God, concealed your anger over a long series of infidelities; but you shut your eyes to them for a time only, to make me pay for them with extreme rigour. You acted towards me like husbands, vexed at the waste their young wives make of the treasures they had confided to them only to render them good economists. You determined to despoil me of all, that I might no longer abuse a good you had given me to glorify you therewith. A hundred times I had had a longing to take money and go off into some convent, believing it permissible, because I imagined it was impossible that in the world I could respond to God with the fidelity I owed him; for I felt clearly that opportunity was my ruin—without the opportunity I did well, but it no sooner presented itself than I experienced my weakness. I would have liked to find some cavern to bury myself alive in, and it seemed to me the most frightful prison would have been more sweet to me than so fatal a liberty. I was as if torn asunder, for on the outside my vanity dragged me, and within, the divine love; and as in this time of my infidelities I did not entirely turn to one side or the other, I endured a division which, while tearing me, made me suffer more than I can tell.
I prayed you, O my God, to take away the liberty I had of displeasing you, and I said to you, “Are you not strong enough to hinder this unjust division?” For as soon as I had the opportunity of exhibiting my vanity, I did it; and as soon as I had done it, I returned to you; and you, far from rejecting me, received me often with open arms, and gave me new proofs of love. That was my bitterest pain, for although I had this miserable vanity, my love was such that, after my falls, I loved better your rigours than your caresses. Your interests were more dear to me than my own, and I could not suffer that you should not do justice to yourself. My heart was penetrated with love and grief, and what rendered it very keen was that I could not bear to displease you, O my God, after the graces I had received from you. That those who do not know you should offend you, I am not surprised; but that this heart, which loves you more than itself, and which has felt the strongest proofs of your love, should let itself be carried away by tendencies it detests, oh, it is that which makes its cruellest martyrdom; and a martyrdom so much the more afflicting, as it lasts the longer. O my God, I said to you, when I felt most powerfully your love and your presence, “What! do you throw yourself away on such an infamous creature, who pays you only with ingratitude?” For if one reads this life attentively, on the part of God there will be seen only goodness, mercy, and love; and on the part of this creature, faithlessness, nothingness, sin, and weakness. If there is anything good, it is yours, O my God; as for me, I have nothing to boast of but my weaknesses, since in the union of indissoluble marriage you have made with me, the only portion I have brought is weakness, nothingness, and sin. O Love, how I love my poverty! and how grateful is my heart. What joy it has, to owe all to you, and that towards it you make manifest the treasures and the infinite riches of your patience and your love! You have acted like a magnificent King, who, desiring to espouse a poor slave, forgets her slavery, and gives her all the ornaments he wishes her to have to please him. He pardons her even with pleasure all the faults her rudeness and bad education cause her to commit: that is your conduct towards me, O my God; therefore at present my poverty is my riches, and I have found my strength in my extreme weakness.
I say, then, to return to my subject, that your caresses after my infidelities were much more difficult for me to bear than your repulses. Oh, if one knew the confusion in which they place the soul! It is not conceivable. That soul would wish with all her strength to satisfy the divine justice, and if one allowed her, she would tear herself to pieces. The martyrdom of suffering nothing is then the most cruel of all martyrdoms. O Love, sweet and painful at the same time, agreeable and cruel, how difficult thou art to bear! I made verses and hymns to express my plaint. I practised penances, but they were too light for so great a wound; they were like those drops of water which serve only to render the fire more fierce. One would wish to be consumed and punished. Oh, conduct of love to an ingrate! Oh, frightful ingratitude towards such goodness! A great part of my life is only a tissue of similar things, which ought to make me die of grief and love.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MADAME GUYON 