Chapter 2-2

OUR Lord had pity on my trouble and the deplorable state of my daughter, and caused the Bishop of Geneva to write to Father La Combe to come and see and console us, and that it would oblige him if he made no delay. As soon as I saw the Father I was surprised to perceive an interior grace, which I may call “communication,” that I had never experienced with anyone. It seemed to me that an influence of grace came from him to me by the very inmost of the soul, and returned from me to him, so that he experienced the same effect; but grace so pure, so unalloyed, so separate from all sentiment, that it made a kind of flux and reflux, and then went to lose itself in the Divine and Invisible Unity. There was in it nothing human or natural, but all pure spirit. And this union, so pure and holy, which has always subsisted and even increased, becoming ever more one, has never arrested or occupied the soul for a moment out of God, leaving her always in a perfect freedom; union which God alone effects, and which can take place only between souls who are united to him; union free from all weakness and all attachment; union which makes one rejoice over, rather than compassionate, the sufferings of the other, and the more we see ourselves overwhelmed with crosses and overthrows, separated, destroyed, the happier one is; union which for its subsistence has no need of bodily presence; which absence does not render more absent, nor presence more present; union unknown to any but those who experience it. As I had never had a union of this kind, it appeared to me then quite new, for I had never even heard that there was such; but it was so peaceable, so removed from all sentiment, that I have never had a doubt but that it was from God: for these unions, far from turning away from God, bury the soul more deeply in him. The grace which I experienced, and which caused this spiritual influence from him to me, from me to him, dissipated all my troubles and brought me into a profound calm.

God gave him from the first much openness with me. He told me the mercies which God had shown him, and many extraordinary things. I feared much this way of illumination. As my way had been by simple faith, and not in extraordinary gifts, I did not then understand that God wished to use me to withdraw him from the state of illumination, and to place him in the way of simple faith. These extraordinary things caused me fear at first. I dreaded illusion, especially in things which please, relating to the future, but the grace which came out from him, and which flowed through my soul, reassured me, besides that his humility was the most extraordinary I had yet seen; for I saw that he would have preferred the opinion of a little child to his own, that he did not cling to anything, and that, far from being puffed up, either by the gifts of God or his profound learning, one could not have a lower opinion of one’s self than he had. It is a gift which God had bestowed on him in an eminent degree. He told me I should take my daughter to Tonon, and that there she would be very well off. He told me at once, after I had spoken to him of the internal repugnance I had for the manner of life of the New Catholics, that he did not believe God required me to join them, that I should remain there without an engagement, and that God would let me know by the course of his providence what he desired of me, but that I should remain until God himself by his providence withdrew me from it, or by the same providence established me there. He determined to stay with us two days, and to say three Masses. He told me to ask our Lord to let me know his will. I could neither ask anything nor desire to know anything. I continued in my simple disposition. I had already commenced waking up so as to pray at midnight, but on this occasion I was roused up as if a person had awaked me; and on waking these words were suddenly put into my mind with some little impetuosity: “It is written of me that I will perform your will,” and this insinuated itself into my soul with a flow of grace, so pure, yet so penetrating, that I have never experienced it more sweet, more simple, stronger, or more pure. I should remark here that although the then state of my soul was permanent in newness of life, that new life was not yet in the fixedness it has since been in; that is to say, properly, that it was an opening life and an opening day, which goes on increasing and strengthening itself to the meridian of glory—day, however, where there is no night; life which fears no longer death in death itself, because death has conquered death, and he who has suffered the first death will never taste the second death.

Now, it is well to say here that though the soul be in a state void of movement, and that she participates of the unchangeable, without the soul leaving her sphere or her heaven, steadfast and motionless, where there is neither distinction nor change, God, however, when it pleases him, sends from this very central depth certain influences which have distinctions, and which make known his holy will, or things about to happen; but as this comes from the central depth, and not by the intervention of the powers, it is certain, and not subject to illusion, as are visions and the other matters of which I have a1ready spoken. For it should be known that such a soul as that I speak of receives all immediately from the central depth, and thence it spreads itself over the powers and the senses as may be God’s pleasure; but it is not so with other souls who receive mediately: that which they receive falls into the powers, and thence reunites in the centre, while the former souls discharge themselves from the centre over the powers and the senses. They let everything pass, without anything making impressions either upon their mind or their heart. Moreover, the things which they know or learn, such as prophecy and the rest, do not seem to them extraordinary, as they appear to others. The thing is said quite naturally, without knowledge of what one says, or why one says it, without anything extraordinary. One says and writes what one does not know, and in saying and writing it one sees that they are matters of which one had never thought. It is like a person who possesses in his central depth an inexhaustible treasure, without even thinking of the possession of it. It does not form part of his riches, and he pays no attention to it, but he finds in his central depth all that is necessary when he has use for it. The past, the present, and the future are there in way of the moment, present and eternal—not as prophecy, which regards the future as a thing to come; but in seeing everything in the present, in way of the eternal moment, in God himself; without knowing how he sees and knows; with a certain faithfulness in saying things as they are given, without plan or reflection, without thinking whether it is of the future or of the present one speaks; without troubling one’s self whether the things come to pass or not, in one way or the other, whether they have one interpretation or another. It is from the central depth thus annihilated miracles proceed; it is the Word himself  who effects what he says: “He spoke, and they were made;” without the individual soul knowing what she says or writes. In writing or speaking, she is enlightened with certainty that it is the word of truth which will have its effect; as soon as it is done, she thinks no more of it, and takes no more interest in it than if it had been spoken or written by another. This is that which our Lord in the Gospel has said, “That the man brings from the good treasure of his heart things new and old.” Since our treasure is God himself, and our heart and will is without any reserve entirely passed into him, it is there one finds a treasure which is never exhausted; the more one distributes from it, the richer one is. After these words had been put into my spirit, “It is written of me that I will do your will,” I remembered that Father La Combe had told me to ask God what he desired of me in this country. My recollection was my request; immediately these words were put into my spirit with much quickness: “Thou art Pierre, and on this stone I will establish my church; and as Pierre died on the cross, thou shalt die upon the cross.” I was convinced this was what God wished of me; but to understand its execution was what I took no trouble to know. I was invited to place myself on my knees, where I remained until four o’clock in the morning in very profound and peaceful prayer. I said nothing about it in the morning to Father La Combe. He went to say the Mass; he had an impulse to say it from the service for dedication of a church. I was still more confirmed, and I believed our Lord had made him know something of what had passed within me. I told him so after the Mass; he answered that I was mistaken. Immediately my mind gave up all thought and certainty, thinking no more of it, and remained in its ordinary frame, rather entering into that which the Father said than into that which he had known. The following night I was awaked at the same hour and in the same manner as the previous night, and these words were put into my mind: “Her foundations are in the holy mountains.” I was put into the same state, which lasted until four in the morning, but I did not think at all on what this meant, paying no attention to it. The next day after the Mass the Father told me that he had a very great certainty that I was “a stone which God destined to be the foundation of a great edifice,” but he knew no more than I what that edifice was. In whatever way the thing is to be, whether His Divine Majesty wishes to use me in this life for some design known to him alone, or whether he wishes to make me one of the stones of the celestial Jerusalem, it seems to me that this stone is not polished except by blows of a hammer. Methinks that from this time out they have not been spared to it, as will be seen in the sequel; and that our Lord has indeed given it the qualities of stone, which are firmness and insensibility. I told him what had happened to me in the night.

I brought my daughter to Tonon. This poor child conceived a very great friendship for Father La Combe, saying that he was the good God’s Father. On arriving at Tonon, I there found a hermit named Friar Anselm, of the most extraordinary holiness that had been known for a long time. He was from Geneva, and God had brought him out of it in a very miraculous manner at the age of twelve years, after having made known to him at the age of four years that he would turn Catholic. He had, with the permission of the Cardinal, then Archbishop of Aix in Provence, at nineteen years assumed the habit of an Augustinian hermit; he lived alone with another friar in a small hermitage, where they saw no one save those who came to visit their chapel. He had been for twelve years in this hermitage, eating nothing but vegetables and salt, sometimes with oil; he fasted continually without a moment’s relaxation in the twelve years. Three times a week he fasted on bread and water, never drank wine, and ordinarily made only one meal in twenty-four hours. He wore a shirt of coarse hair, made with great cords of hair, which reached from top to bottom, and he lay only on a board. He had a gift of continual prayer. He prayed specially for eight hours a day, and said his offices—with all this submissive as a child. God had worked through him many striking miracles. He came to Geneva hoping to be able to gain his mother, but he found her dead.

This good hermit had many intimations of the designs of God for me and Father La Combe; but God made him see at the same time that he was preparing strange trials for us both. He knew that God destined us both to help souls. He once during his prayer, which was all in gifts and illumination, saw me on my knees, clothed in a brown mantle, and my head was cut off, but immediately replaced; and then I was clothed in a very white robe, with a red mantle, and a crown of flowers was placed on my head. He saw Father La Combe cut into two pieces, which were soon reunited; and while in his hand he held a palm, he was stripped of his clothes, and reclothed in the white garment with the red mantle; after which he saw us both near a well, and that we were quenching the thirst of numberless people who came to us.

It seems to me, O my God, that this mysterious vision has already had its accomplishment in part, as well in the divisions he has suffered, and I also, however without pain, as in the confidence I have, that you have stripped him of himself to reclothe him in innocence, purity, and charity. Yes, my God, it appears to me that the love you have put into me is altogether pure, disengaged from all self-interest, a love which loves its object in himself and for himself, without any reference to itself; it would fear a self-regard more than Hell, for Hell without self-love would be for it changed into Paradise. Our Lord also has made much use of him and of me to gain souls; but I do not know what design he may have for us in the future. I know that we are his without any reserve. A little after my arrival at the Ursulines of Tonon, Sister M— spoke to me with much openness, following the order Father La Combe had given her. She told me at once so many extraordinary things that I became suspicious, and I thought there was illusion in her case; and I felt angry with myself.

I commenced to feel exceedingly troubled at having brought my daughter; and with regard to her I thought myself indeed an Abraham when Father La Combe accosted me with the words, “You are welcome, daughter of Abraham.” I saw no reason for leaving her there; and I could still less keep her with me, for we had no room, and the little girls they brought to make Catholics of were all mixed up with us, and had dangerous ailments. To leave her there also appeared to me madness, considering the language of the country, where they hardly understood French, and the food which she could not take, being quite different from ours.

I saw her daily grow thin and fade away. This put me in an agony, and I felt as if one was tearing my vitals. All the tenderness I had for her sprung up afresh, and I regarded myself as her murderer. I experienced what Hagar suffered when she put away from her in the desert her son Ishmael, that she might not see him die. It appeared to me that though I had been willing to expose myself without reason, I ought at least to have spared my daughter. I saw the loss of her education, and even of her life, inevitable. I did not mention my troubles on this head, and the night was the time which gave scope to my grief that daily became more violent: because you permitted, O my God, you who have always desired of me sacrifices without reserve, that during the whole time I was there, they provided her with nothing which she could eat. All that kept her alive were some spoonfuls of bad broth which I made her take against her will. I gave her up to you, O my God, an entire sacrifice; and it seemed to me that, like another Abraham, I was holding the knife to kill her. I was not willing to take her back, because I was told it was the will of God I should leave her there; and this will of God was for me preferable to everything, even the life of my daughter; besides, she would have been still worse off for food at Gex. Our Lord wished me to be utterly plunged in bitterness, and to make a sacrifice to him without alleviation.

On one side, he caused me to see the grief of her grandmother if she learned of her death, and that it seemed I had taken her away from her merely to kill her; on the other, the reproaches of the family. All her natural gifts were like arrows which pierced me. It would be necessary to experience what I suffered to understand it. With her natural disposition it seemed she would have done wonders if educated in France, and that I was depriving her of all this, and putting it out of her power to be fit for anything, or to find in the future proposals of marriage such as she might hope for, and that I could not without sin let her die thus. For thirteen days I suffered a trouble almost inconceivable: all that I had given up seemed to have cost me nothing in comparison with what the sacrifice of my daughter cost me. I believe that, O my God, you caused this to purify the too human attachment I had for her natural gifts; for after I had left the Ursulines they changed their mode of diet, and gave what was suitable for the delicacy of my daughter, so that she recovered her health.