AFTER Father La Combe had returned from Rome much praised for his doctrine, he performed the duties of preaching and confessing as usual, and as I had for myself a permission from the Bishop of Geneva to confess to him, I made use of him. He at once told me I should return, as I have said. I asked him the reason. It is, he said, because I believe God will do nothing by you here, and my lights are deceptive. What made him speak thus was that while at Loretto, at devotion in the chapel of the Holy Virgin, he was suddenly withdrawn from the way of illumination and put into the way of simple faith. Now, as this state causes a failure of all distinct light, the soul which finds herself plunged in it finds herself in a trouble so much the greater as her state had been more full of lights. It is this which makes her think all the lights on which she previously supported herself to be nothing but deceptions. This is true in one sense, and not in another, since the lights are always good and true lights when they come from God; but it is that in resting on them we understand them or interpret them ill: and it is in this lies the deception, for they have a signification known to God, but we give them a different sense; then the self-love, disgusted that things do not happen according to its lights, accuses them of falsity. They are, nevertheless, very true in their sense. For example, a nun had told Father La Combe that God had caused her to know that the Father would one day be confessor of his Sovereign. In one sense this might be taken to mean that he would be confessor or director of the Princess, and it was in this sense it was understood; but I was given to know that it meant the persecution, where he has had occasion to confess his faith, and to suffer for the will of God, which is his Sovereign. And thus with a thousand other things. Have I not also been daughter of the Cross of Geneva—which had been predicted to me—since the journey to Geneva has drawn upon me so many crosses? and mother of a great people, as will be seen in the sequel, by the souls which God has given me, and which he still gives me every day in the midst of my captivity?
I gave an account to Father La Combe of what I had done and suffered in his absence, and I told him the care that you, O my God, took of my affairs. I saw your providence even in the smallest matters, unceasingly spread itself over me. After having been many months without any news of my papers, and when people even pressed me to write, blaming me for my indifference, an invisible hand held me back, and my peace and confidence were so great that I could not interfere in anything. Some time after I received a letter from our domestic ecclesiastic, telling me he was ordered to come and see me, and bring my papers. I had sent to me from Paris a considerable package for my daughter. It was lost on the lake, and I could get no news of it, but I gave myself no trouble. I believed still it would be found. The man who had put it on board had for a month made search in all the neighbourhood, without being able to learn any news of it. At the end of three months a person had it brought to us. It was found in the house of a poor man. He had not opened it, and did not know who had brought it there.
Once when I had sent for all the money which had to supply my wants for an entire year, the person who had been to cash the letter of exchange, having placed the money in two bags on a horse, forgot that it was there, and gave his horse to a boy to lead. He let the money fall from the horse in the middle of the market-place of Geneva. I arrived at that moment, coming from the other side, and having got out of my litter, the first thing I found was my money, over which I walked; and what is surprising is that, though there was a great crowd on that spot, no one had seen it. Many similar things have happened to me, which I do not mention, to avoid tediousness, contenting myself with these examples to show the protection of God.
The Bishop of Geneva continued to persecute me, and when he wrote to me it was always with expressions of politeness and thanks for the charities I bestowed at Gex; on the other hand, he said I gave nothing to that House. He even wrote against me to the Ursulines, where I was staying, commanding them to prevent my having conference with Father La Combe, “for fear of disastrous results.” The Superior of the House, a man of merit, and the Prioress, as well as the Community, were so indignant that they could not avoid declaring it to himself. He excused himself by an outward professed respect, and a “I did not intend it in that sense.” They wrote him that I saw the Father only at the confessional, not in conference, that they were so edified by me that they were very happy to have me, and that they considered it a great favour from God. What they said out of pure love was displeasing to the Bishop, who, seeing I was loved in this House, said that I gained over everyone, and he wished I was out of the diocese. Although I knew all this, and that these good Sisters were much pained at it, I could feel none, owing to the fixedness of my soul, your will, my God, rendering everything alike to me. I find you as well in one thing as in another, and since your will is yourself, everything in this will is to me you, O my Love; so that all the pains which creatures can cause, however unreasonable and even passionate they may appear, are not regarded in themselves, but in God—not that the soul has this actual view, but it is so: and the habitual faith makes everything be seen in God without distinction. So when I see poor souls give themselves so much trouble for idle talk, being always on the watch beforehand, or clearing up matters, I pity them for their lack of enlightenment; and the more of grace souls have, the more strange that appears to me. Nevertheless, one has reasons which self-love makes appear very sound.
To relieve me a little from the fatigue which continual conversations caused me (I say fatigue, for the body was quite languishing from the strength of God’s operation), I asked Father La Combe on his arrival to allow me a retreat, and to say that he wished me to make one. He told them so, but they could hardly leave me in repose. It was then that I allowed myself the whole day to be devoured by love, which had no other operation but to consume me little by little. It was then also that I felt: the quality of “spiritual Mother,” for God gave me a something for the perfection of souls, which I could not conceal from Father La Combe. It seemed to me that I saw into the depth of his soul, and the minutest recesses of his heart. Our Lord made me see that he was his servant, chosen among a thousand to honour him in a special degree, and that there was not a man upon the earth at that time on whom he looked with such complaisance as on him; but that he wished to conduct him by total death and entire annihilation, that he wished me to help in it, and he would make use of me to cause him to travel the road, by which he had first made me pass, only that I might be able to conduct others by it, and to tell them the routes by which I had passed; that at present my soul was far more advanced than his, that God wished to render us one and conformable, but that one day he would pass her by a bold and impetuous flight. God knows what joy I had at it, and with what pleasure I would see my children surpass their mother in glory, and that I would willingly give myself over in any way that it might be so.
In this retreat there came to me such a strong movement to write that I could not resist it. The violence I exercised over myself not to do it made me ill, and took away my speech. I was very much surprised to find myself thus, for this had never happened to me. It was not that I had anything particular to write. I had absolutely nothing, not even an idea of any kind. It was a simple instinct with a fulness I could not support. I was like one of those mothers who have too much milk, and suffer greatly. After much resistance I told Father La Combe the disposition in which I found myself; he answered that on his side he had had a strong movement to command me to write, but owing to my weak state he had not ventured to prescribe it for me. I told him the weakness was only due to my resistance, and I thought it would pass away as soon as I wrote. He asked me, “But what do you wish to write?” “I know nothing about it,” I replied. “I wish nothing, I have no idea, and I think I should commit a great infidelity in giving myself one, or thinking for a moment on what I might be able to write.” He ordered me to do it. On taking up the pen I did not know the first word of what I was about to write. I set myself to write without knowing how, and I found it came to me with a strange impetuosity. What surprised me most was that it flowed from my central depth, and did not pass through my head. I was not yet accustomed to this manner of writing, yet wrote an entire treatise on the whole interior way under a comparison with streams and rivers. Although it was tolerably long, and the comparison was kept up to the end, I have never formed a thought, nor even taken any care where I left off, and, in spite of continual interruptions, I have never read over anything, except at the end, where I read over a line or two owing to a word having been left out; even then I thought I had committed an infidelity. Before writing I did not know what I was going to write. When it was written I thought no more of it. I should have committed an infidelity in retaining any thought to put it down, and our Lord gave me grace that this did not happen. As I wrote I found myself relieved, and I became better.
As the way by which God was leading Father La Combe was very different from that by which he had hitherto walked, which had been all light, ardour, knowledge, certitude, assurance, feelings, and that now he made him go by the narrow path of faith and of nakedness, he had very great trouble in adapting himself to it; which caused me no small suffering, for God made me feel and pay with extreme rigour all his resistance. Who could express what he has cost my heart before he was formed according to yours and according to your will? On1y you, O my God, who have done it, know. The more precious that soul is in your eyes, the more dearly have you made me pay. I can indeed say that it is upon me the robe of the new life you have given him has been remade. Iwas subjected to a double pain; the one was that the possession which God had of my soul became every day more strong, so that sometimes I passed the day without it being possible for me to pronounce a word: for God then wished to bury me more deeply into himself, and to annihilate me more in him, in order to make me pass into him by a complete transformation. Although my state was without sensibility, it was so profound, and God became more and more so powerfully the master, that he did not leave me a movement of my own. This state did not prevent me from condescending to my sister and the other nuns; however, the useless things in which they were occupied could hardly suit my taste, and this was the reason which led me to ask for keeping a retreat, that I might let myself be possessed to the good pleasure of him who held me closely clasped in an inexpressible manner. At this time he purified a remnant of nature, very subtle and delicate, so that my soul found herself in extreme purity. It was then the partitions of which I have spoken were consumed. I have seen nothing of the kind since, for the intimate union of lover and loved took place, so that both were made one and identical.
It was then it was given me to write in a purely divine manner. All I had written formerly was tested, was condemned to the fire by Love, the examiner, who found defects in all that appeared the most perfect. I resisted, as I have said, but God became so powerfully the master that he harassed me to death when I resisted in the least thing. O God, how I then experienced those words, “Who can resist God and live in peace?” I was not yet experienced in the way he makes himself obeyed by a soul which he perfectly possesses. Owing to this I did not surrender at first, but finally I followed the movement of the Spirit in what he caused me to do, and although I did not take thought to arrange the matter, nor even as to what I was writing, it was found as connected and as correct as if I had taken all imaginable care to put it in order.
You desired, O my God, in order to accustom me to the suppleness of your Spirit, to exact of me for a time things which cost me much and caused me serious crosses. Our Lord bound me more closely with Father La Combe, but by a union as pure as it was spiritual. He willed that I should tell him the minutest of my thoughts, or write them to him; for as he was often absent either on missions, which he was continually engaged in, or for the business of the House, he was not often at Tonon. This cost me much, for it was a thing I had never done when formerly I might have conveniently done it, while I was still in myself, and when I could speak to directors; but now it appeared to me mere loss of time. I imagined even for lack of experience that it could not be done without reflection, and as reflection was entirely opposed to my state, it would be very injurious to me. I said with the Bride, “I have washed my feet; how shall I soil them? I have put off my robe; how shall I put it on again?” My mind, which is naked, shall it again be filled? After having been subjected to God alone, must I be so to the creature? For I did not then understand the design of God therein. If I had been mistress of myself, I would have gladly escaped, but I could not; for besides that our Lord chastised me very rigorously when I resisted him in the least, my mind remained always occupied by the thought until I had obeyed, and, far from having its former clearness, it defiled itself by these particulars; and although they were good things, or at least indifferent, that pure and clear void was thereby spoiled. If you stir up water with a rod of gold or of wood, it is none the less disturbed; but as soon as I had mentioned the thought my mind resumed its former peace, its clearness and its emptiness. I was surprised to see that the need of writing to him increased each day in the design and order of God: but what reassured me was, that I was so disengaged from any feeling or attachment in respect of him, that I was astonished. The more powerful the union became, the more we were united to God, and removed from human sentiments. I was still more led to pardon nothing in him, and to desire his self-annihilation, that God alone might reign. With much fidelity I told him all that God gave me to know he desired of him, and this I would gladly have evaded. The obligation God imposed on me to tell him the radical defects of the Sister who had charge of my daughter (as he was prejudiced in her favour, owing to the illumination she had told him she had) irritated him against me several days. When I told him anything, this produced in him disgust for me and alienation. Our Lord made me painfully feel it, although he said nothing to me. I experienced that our Lord obliged me to keep hold on him, and made me pay by suffering for his infidelity. On the other hand, if I wished to say nothing to him, and to keep back views which only served to offend him, our Lord harassed me to death, and gave me no rest until I had declared to him both my pain and my thought; so that I suffered thereby a martyrdom exceeding anything that can be told, and which has been very protracted.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MADAME GUYON 