Chapter 1-24

As soon as I was a widow my crosses, which one would have thought should have diminished, increased. That domestic, whom I have spoken of, who ought to have been more gentle because she depended on me, became more violent. She had accumulated a great deal at the house, and I secured her a pension for the rest of her life, after the death of my husband, in consequence of the services she had rendered him. All this seemed bound to soften her; but quite the contrary happened. She was puffed up with vanity. The necessity of constantly watching an invalid had led her on to drink pure wine to keep up her strength; now as she became aged and feeble, the least thing went to her head. That became a habit with her. I endeavoured to conceal this defect, but it became so strong it was impossible to put up with her. I spoke of it to her confessor, in order he might endeavour judiciously to correct it; but in place of profiting by the advice of her director, she became furious, and there was no violence she did not exhibit towards me. My mother-in-law, who up to that had had great trouble to endure this defect in the woman, and who had even spoken to me of it, joined her in blaming me and excusing her. It was, who would cause me the most trouble. If company came, she cried with all her strength, I had dishonoured her; that I had driven her to despair; that I was damning myself, and would be the cause of her damnation. You gave me, O my God, despite the deplorable state I was interiorly in, a boundless patience towards her. I answered all her furies only with charity and gentleness, giving her even every mark of my affection. If any other maid came to serve me, she sent her away with fury, and reproached me that I hated her because she had faithfully served my husband: so that I had to make up my mind to be my own servant when it did not please her to come; and when she came, it was to cry and scold. These ways of acting, and many others, which it would be too long to tell, lasted up to a year before my departure. I had, besides, very severe and very frequent illnesses; and when I was ill this woman was in despair. I have always, therefore, thought you had caused all this only for me, O my Lord; for without a special permission she was not capable of such strange conduct. She did not even recognize faults so glaring, always believing she was in the right. All the persons you have used to make me suffer thought they did you service.

I went to Paris expressly to see M. Bertot. The urgent prayers I had caused to be made to him to direct me, joined to the death of my husband, at which he thought I should be very much afflicted, obliged him to conduct me anew. But it was very little use to me; for besides that I could not tell him anything of myself, or make myself known to him, because every idea was taken from me, even that of my wretchedness, when I spoke to him, your providence, O my God, permitted that when I was eager to see him from the extreme need I thought I had of him, it was then that I could not see him. I went twelve or fifteen times to see him without being able to speak to him. In the space of two months I spoke to him only twice, and then for a short time, of what appeared to me most essential. I told him the need I had of an ecclesiastic to educate my son, and to remove his bad habits and the unfavourable impressions he had been inspired with against me. These reached such a point that when he spoke of me he never called me “my mother,” but, “She has said;” “She has done.” M. Bertot found me a priest, who was a very good man, and who had been very well recommended to him.

I went to make a retreat with M. Bertot and Madame de C— at P—. God permitted that at the most he spoke to me less than ten minutes. When he saw I said nothing to him, and knew not what to say—and, besides, I never told him of the graces our Lord had bestowed on me (not through a desire of concealing them, but because you did not permit it, O my God)—he spoke to the souls that he thought more advanced in grace, and left me as a person with whom he had almost nothing to do. You concealed from him so well, O my God, the state of my soul, in order to make me suffer, that he wished to put me back into the considerations, thinking that I did not use prayer, and that Mother Granger was mistaken when she told him that I did. He even thought she had not had the gift of discernment, as he let me know. I did what I could to obey him, but it was entirely impossible for me. I was vexed with myself for it, because I rather believed M. Bertot than all my experiences. During my whole retreat, whatever efforts I made, not a thought came to my mind. My inclination, which I discerned only through the resistance I opposed to it, was to remain in silence and nakedness; and I thought I was obedient in so remaining. This made me still more believe I was fallen from my grace. I kept myself in my nothingness, content with my low degree of prayer, without envying that of others, of which I deemed myself unworthy. I, however, would have desired to do your will, O my God, and to advance in order to please you, but I utterly despaired it could ever be; and as I did not doubt it was through my fault I had lost my gift of prayer, I was content to remain in my lowness. I was yet, nevertheless, almost continually in prayer during this retreat; but I did not know it, and nothing was said to me that could lead me to think I was so: on the contrary, the lady who had led me into the retreat said to me that I appeared not so much defective as little advanced; and as she was reading a collection of the letters of M. Bertot, I recognized one he had formerly written to me on my state. I told her it was to me, but she would not believe me, asserting the contrary. The most spiritual writings were concealed from me, and I was told to apply myself to meditation; but it was impossible for me. O my God, how admirable was your providence to sink me in every way. Without this procedure I should still have subsisted in something.

In the place where I dwelt there was a person whose doctrine was suspected of [Jansenism?] He possessed a rank in the Church which obliged me to show a deference to him. As he learned at once the opposition I had for all persons suspected, and he was satisfied I had some credit in the place, he used all his efforts to win me over to his opinions. I spoke to him with so much force that he could give me no answer. This only increased the desire he had of winning me, and forming friendship with me. For two years and a half he continued to urge me. As he had a very amiable temper, much cleverness, and was very civil, I had no distrust of him, and because I felt a great interior strength, and that while speaking to him God was very present to me, I thought it was an infallible mark God approved my seeing him. During the two and a half years I was obliged to see him, I felt very great troubles, for, on the one hand, I was led, as it were, in spite of myself, to see him and to speak to him; and on the other, there were many things in him I could not approve, and for which I felt an extreme repugnance. God appeared irritated with me because I often, through faithlessness, followed the natural inclination I had to converse with him, although ordinarily it was only on good things, or at most, indifferent. But as I felt that my natural disposition led to these conversations, I saw the imperfection there was in following it. I often kept away from him, but he came to ask me why I was no longer visible, and so managed with his attentions to my sick husband, that I could not avoid his conversations. I thought the shortest way was to break once for all, but M. Bertot would not permit me until after the death of my husband; then, seeing at last the hostility he had to the spiritual life, and that I could not gain anything over his mind, I broke the connection I had with him. When he saw he could not renew it, he caused me strange persecutions, stirring up all those of his party. These persons had at that time among them a method such, that in a very short time they knew those who were on their side, and those who were opposed to them. They sent circular letters to the nearest, which they passed on, the one to the other, so that in a very short’ time these persons decried me everywhere in the strangest manner. My name was known to them, but not the person. They loudly condemned my piety. They circulated secret reports to discredit me in all the places they knew I was held in repute. However, the joy I had at seeing myself freed from this connection was so great that I little felt what he could do to me. I enjoyed so greatly my new liberty that my trouble was counted for almost nothing. I said to myself, “I will never connect myself with anyone, and I will maintain such a reserve I shall never more be at the trouble of breaking.” Fool that I was! I did not know that he who had freed me could alone hinder me from connecting myself. I still thought to be able to defend and guard myself, and my dismal experience had not yet perfectly convinced me of my powerlessness; for I fell again into a new connection, which lasted six months, but it did not cause me so much trouble, because this person was more devoted to God. The person with whom I had broken decried me then everywhere, which slightly injured my reputation. It was, O my God, the thing I most held to, and which cost me most to lose in the sequel. As I knew that people spoke of me, I watched myself with all my strength; but the blow was given, it had to take its course.

What I suffered was terrible, for the estrangement of my God was still greater. All creatures joined with you, O my God, to make me suffer; and I had such an impression it seemed to me they were avenging the outrages I had done to their Creator. I had neither relative, friend, nor confidante. It appeared to me everyone was ashamed of me. I further bore a state of inexplicable humiliation; for the powerlessness in which I was of performing exterior acts of charity that I used to do, such as going to the holy Sacrament, burying the dead, remaining a long time at church, served as pretext to that person to condemn me. When he saw I no longer performed all these practices, he proclaimed it was through his means I had done them, and when I no longer saw him I had given up everything. He wished to attribute to himself the merit of what you made me do, O my God, by your grace alone. He went so far as publicly to preach of me as a person, who, after being an example for a town, had become its scandal. He, many times, preached hurtful things; and although I was present at his sermons, which were such as to overwhelm me with confusion (for they scandalized all who heard them), I could not feel pained: on the contrary, I rejoiced at them, for in my central depth I bore a condemnation against myself that I cannot express, and it appeared to me that this person, by the public confusion he procured me, repaired the faults and the infidelities I had committed. It seemed to me I deserved infinitely more, and if all men had known me, they would have trampled me underfoot. My reputation then suffered more and more by means of this person, and I inwardly suffered a greater confusion than if I had committed all possible evils. It was, who would cause me most insults. He turned against me all those who passed for being pious, after which he said, “You see, she has no one for her. So and so, who are saints, are all against her.” I thought they were right in behaving thus. I did nothing whatever either to regain their esteem, or to show I was troubled at having lost it. On the contrary, I kept myself aloof and confused as a criminal who dares not lift his eyes. I was sunk before you, my God, in the deepest depth of abjectness. I regarded the virtue of others with respect, and saw the world without defect, and myself without any virtue. But although I thought myself so remote from the good I saw in others, I yet dared not, nor even could, desire their state. I deemed myself unworthy of all the graces of God, which I believed I had lost for ever through my unfaithfulness. I was content, O my God, to see you served by others, being unable to do it myself. I entertained respect for all those who served you, and beside them I felt myself smaller than anything. When through chance anyone praised me, I felt a weight that plunged me back into my nothingness, and I said to myself, “They do not know my abjectness,” and I blushed deeply. I sometimes used to say, “Oh, if people could understand from whence I am fallen!” When they blamed me I saw they were right. Nature, indeed, would have liked sometimes to have escaped such strange abjection, but there was no means, and if I endeavoured to exhibit an exterior righteousness by the practice of some good, my heart secretly gave the lie to my action; I saw it was hypocrisy to appear what I was not; and you, O my God, did not permit it to succeed. Oh, how beautiful are the crosses of providence! All others are not crosses. That which I then bore from the weight of my abjectness, was far more terrible to me than all others. If I had not believed myself guilty, I would have taken credit for my pains, but I felt so filthy I was a horror to myself.

I was often very ill, and in danger of death. I knew not what to do to prepare for death. I did not even see what I could do, and I let myself be devoured by grief. I hardly dared show myself, owing to my trouble. It seemed to me everyone must know my abjectness, and the state from which I believed I had fallen. Even the pleasure of drinking my confusion was taken from me; there remained to me only the confusion itself, which I could no longer bear: for I did not feel, in myself, the least inclination to good, but, on the contrary, a tendency to every evil, and this involuntary tendency, without any effect, appeared to me a crime. God so permitted it. I deemed myself more filthy and ugly than the Devil, and yet at confession I knew not what to tell, except certain infidelities I committed, and that I felt natural sensibilities. For, as I have said, I did nothing marked. It was an experience of abjectness, and an inconceivable sentiment ofmy paltriness, which made me treat the sentiments of the heart as sins. I did not believe there was in the world a more wicked person than myself, and I suffered such confusion, I dared not show myself. People of piety, who had known me, wrote to me as if they had believed what those persons said, and I did not justify myself, though I was innocent of what they accused me. One day that I was more desolate than usual, and there was nothing on earth capable of consoling me—being, as it were, beside myself from the excess of the trouble, which deprived me of food and sleep—I opened the New Testament without thinking what I was doing. I found these words: “Virtue is made perfect in weakness; My grace is sufficient for thee.” This consoled me for some moments, but the consolation passed away in an instant, and served only to render the pain more severe, for there remained to me neither idea nor trace of these things.