Chapter 2-7

As soon as Father La Combe was gone the persecution became stronger than before. The Bishop still showed me some politeness, as well to see if he could bring me over to his purpose as to gain time for ascertaining how things would go in France, and for prejudicing people against me, always taking care to prevent my receiving any letters. I let but very few be intercepted, and only those which were indispensable. The ecclesiastic and another had open on their table twenty-two letters which did not reach me; and in one of them was a very important power of attorney sent for my signature. This they were obliged to put in a new envelope to send to me. The Bishop wrote to Father La Mothe, and he had little trouble in making him embrace his interests. He was dissatisfied because I had not given him the annuity he expected, as he has many times plainly told me, and he was offended because I did not follow his advice in everything, added to which were some other personal causes. He from the first declared against me. The Bishop, who cared to humour only him, felt strong enough with Father La Mothe on his side, and even made him his confidant, while he circulated the news written by them. The general opinion was that what caused him and his brother to act in this way was the fear that I might cancel the deed of settlement if I returned, and that, having influence and friends, I might find the means of setting it aside. They were very much mistaken in this; for I never had the thought of loving anything else than the poverty of Jesus Christ. For some time the Father kept terms with me. He wrote me letters addressed to the Bishop; and they so well understood each other that he was the only person whose letters I received. Our Lord gave me very beautiful letters to write to him; but in place of being touched he was irritated at them. I do not think there could be more powerful or more touching.

The Bishop, as I said, kept some terms with me for a time, making me believe that he had consideration for me; but he wrote to people at Paris, and the Sister also wrote to all those pious people from whom I had received letters, in order to prejudice them against me, and to escape the blame that naturally would fall on them for having so shamefully treated a person who had given up everything to devote herself to the service of his diocese; and ill-treated her only after she had stripped herself of her property, and was no longer in a condition to return to France—to avoid, I say, a censure so just they invented every kind of false and fabulous stories. Besides that I was unable to make known the truth in France, our Lord inspired me to suffer everything without justifying myself. I did this with Father La Mothe. As I saw he twisted everything, and showed himself more bitter than the Bishop, I ceased to write to him. On the other hand, the New Catholics, who are in great credit, blamed and condemned me to excuse their violence. People saw only condemnation and accusation without any justification. It was not difficult to blame and cast imputations on one who did not defend herself.

I was in this convent. I had seen Father La Combe only on the occasions I have mentioned. Nevertheless, they circulated a story that I was running about with him; that he had taken me driving in a carriage at Geneva, that the carriage was overturned, and a hundred malicious absurdities. Father La Mothe himself retailed all this, whether he thought it true or otherwise. Yet even had he believed these things true, he was bound to conceal them. But what do I say, my God, or where am I wandering? Was it not you who allowed him and his brother to be impressed with these things, that believing them true they might be able to repeat them without scruple? As for his brother, I believe he accepted them only on the report of Father La Mothe, who made him believe them true. Father La Mothe further retailed that I had been on horseback behind Father La Combe, which is the more false, in that I have never sat in that way.

All these calumnies turned to ridicule persons who were previously esteemed saints. It is here we must admire the dealings of God: for what cause had I given for them to speak in this way? I was in a convent a hundred and fifty leagues distant from Father La Combe, and nevertheless they made out the most disgraceful stories of him and of me.

I did not know that things were pushed so far and so violently, for I had no news. I saw I did not receive letters from any quarter, neither from my friends nor from persons of piety; but as I knew all my letters were intercepted, I was not surprised at it. I lived in this House with my daughter very peacefully, and it was a very great providence, for my daughter no longer could speak French; among the little girls of the mountains she had acquired a foreign air and objectionable manners. She had forgotten the little she had learned in France. In regard to her I had many occasions for new sacrifices. As to cleverness and judgment, she was surprising, and had the best inclinations; but there were little tempers caused by certain unreasonable contradictions, and by caresses out of place. This arose from ignorance in education. God provided for everything in her case, as I will tell.

I could hardly say anything of the interior state I then was in, for it was so simple, so naked, so annihilated that things were in me as if natural. I could only judge of them by the effects. My silence was very great, and I had at the commencement leisure to taste God without distinct consciousness, in himself (dans l’inconnu de lui-meme), in my little cell. But afterwards that good Sister (as I shall tell) continually interrupted me. I gave myself up to whatever she desired of me, both from condescension and because of a certain central principle in me, which would have made me obey a child. Nothing, it seems, could interrupt me. All that tempest did not make the smallest alteration in my mind or my heart. My central depth was in a generality, peace, liberty, largeness, indestructible. And although I sometimes suffered in the senses owing to the continual upsets, that did not penetrate; they were only waves breaking on a rock. The central depth was so lost in the will of God that it could neither will nor not will. I remained abandoned, without troubling as to what I should do, or what I should become, or what would be the end of the frightful tempest, which was only commencing. The leading of providence for the present moment constituted all my guidance without guidance, for the soul in the state of which I speak cannot desire or seek a special or extraordinary providence; but I allowed myself to be led by the daily providence from moment to moment, without thinking of the morrow. I was like a child in your hands, O my God. I did not think from one moment to the other, but I reposed in the shadow of your protection without thinking of anything, without taking more care of myself than if I no longer existed. My soul was in such perfect abandonment, both interiorly and exteriorly, that she could take neither rule nor measure for anything. It was a matter of indifference to her to be in one way rather than another, in one company rather than another, at prayer, or at conversation. Before continuing, I must tell how our Lord worked to bring me to this indifference.

While I was still in my own house, without other director than his Spirit, however possessed of him I might be, or however intently engaged in prayer, as soon as one of my little children knocked at my door, or the most insignificant person came to me, it was his will that I should break off. And once, when I was so penetrated by the Divinity that I could hardly speak, one of my little children knocked at my closet, wishing to play near me. I thought I should not break off for that, and I sent away the child without opening. Our Lord made me understand that all this was an assertion of the selfhood, and that which I thought to preserve was lost. Another time he sent me to call back those whom I had dismissed. It was necessary for me to become supple as a leaf in your adorable hand, O my God, so that I might receive all alike from your providence. Sometime they came and interrupted me for things without a shadow of reason, and that, at every moment; I had to receive them alike the last time as the first, all this being alike to me in your providence.

It is not, O my God, actions in themselves which are agreeable to you, but obedience to all your wills, and a suppleness that clings to nothing. It is by little things that insensibly the soul is detached from everything, and holds to nothing; she is suited for whatever God wishes of her, and ceases utterly to resist. O will of God, indicated by so many petty providences, how good it is to follow you, for you accustom the soul to recognize you, to cling to nothing, and to go with you into whatever place you lead her.

My soul was then, it seemed to me, like a leaf or a feather, which the wind carries where it pleases. She yielded herself to the operation of God, and all that he did externally and internally, in the same manner; allowing herself to be led without any choice, content to obey a child as readily as a man of learning and experience, seeing only God in the man in God, who never permits the soul entirely abandoned to him to be deceived.

I cannot tolerate the injustice which most men are guilty of, who make no difficulty of giving themselves up to another man, and regard this as prudence. They give themselves up to men who are nothing, and they boldly say, “That person cannot be deceived, for he relies on such a one, who is a very honest man;” and if one speaks of a soul entirely abandoning herself to her God, and following him with fidelity, they say loudly, “This person is deceived with his abandonment.” O Love and God! do you lack strength or faithfulness, or love, or wisdom to conduct those who abandon themselves to you, and are your dearest children? I have seen men bold enough to say, “Follow me; you will not be deceived or led astray.” O my Love, how these people are themselves led astray by their presumption, and how far sooner would I go with him who feared misleading me, who, trusting neither in his learning nor his experience, supported himself on you alone! Such was, O my God, the Father you had given me, who was not willing to conduct souls by his own ways, but by abandonment to your divine guidance, endeavouring to follow your Spirit in them.

Immediately on my arrival at the Ursulines of Tonon, our Lord made me see in a dream two ways by which he conducted souls under the figure of two drops of water. The one seemed to me of a brilliance and beauty and clearness unequalled; the other seemed also to have brilliance, but it was all full of little fibres or threads of mud, and as I regarded them attentively it was said to me: “These two kinds of water are both alike good for quenching thirst, but this is drunk with pleasure, the other with something of disgust. The way of faith, pure and simple, is like this very brilliant and clear drop of water; it is highly pleasing to the Spouse, because it is utterly pure, without anything of the selfhood. It is not the same with the way of illumination which does not equally please the Spouse, and is not nearly so agreeable to him.”

It was then shown me that this pure way was the one by which our Lord had had the goodness to conduct me hitherto; that the way of illumination was that by which some illumined souls were proceeding, and that they had led Father La Combe into it. At the same time he appeared to me clothed with a garment all torn, and I suddenly saw that this garment was mended on me. At first was made one quarter of it, and then another quarter; then after a long interval the other half was all made, and he was clothed anew magnificently. As I was troubled to know what this signified, our Lord told me that without my knowing it, he had given him to me, drawing him to a more perfect life than hitherto he had led; that it was at the time of my attack of small-pox he had given him, and that the price to me was that illness and the loss of my younger son; that he is not merely my Father, but my son; and that the other quarter of the garment was made when, passing by the place of my residence, he was more keenly touched, and embraced a life more interior and more perfect; from which time out he has still continued; but now everything must be completed, God willing to make use of me to bring him to walk in the way of simple faith and destruction of the self: which has taken place. The next day this Father, having come to say Mass at the Ursulines, and having asked me, I did not venture to tell him anything —although our Lord very strongly urged me to do it—owing to a remnant of selfhood, which formerly would have passed for humility in my mind. However, I spoke before the Sisters of the way of faith, how far more, glorious to God, and more advancing to the soul it was, than all revelations and assurances, which still keep alive the soul in herself. This at first shocked them and him also, somuch as to raise a feeling against me. I saw they were hurt, as they afterwards acknowledged. I said no more then, but as the Father is most humble, he ordered me to explain what I had wished to say to him. I told him a part of the dream of the two drops of water; he did not, however, then take in what I said to him, the hour not being yet come. But when he came to Gex to conduct the retreats, our Lord made me know, while I was praying at night, that I was his mother and that he was my son; he confirmed the dream I had had, and ordered me to tell it to Father La Combe, and for proof of what I said, he should examine at what time he was touched with a strong contrition, and see whether it was not the time of my small-pox. Our Lord further made me know that he gave to some souls numbers of persons without their knowing it, except sometimes, and that he had given me another, to purchase whom he had taken from me my daughter; which exactly fitted in with that time.

My difficulty was to tell this to the Father, whom I hardly had any acquaintance with. I wished to dissemble with myself, and say that it was presumption, although I perceived very well that it was the self-love which desired to escape, to avoid confusion. I felt myself painfully pressed to tell it to him. I went to see him as he was preparing for the Mass, and having approached him as if for confession, I said to him, “My Father, our Lord desires me to say that I am your mother-in-grace, and I will tell you the rest after the Mass.” He said the Mass, during which he was convinced of what I had said to him. After the Mass he wished me to tell him all the particulars of everything, and of the dream. I told them. He remembered that our Lord had often made known to him that he had a mother-in-grace, whom he did not know, and having asked me the time I had had the small-pox, I told him on St. Francis’ Day, and that my younger son died a few days before All Saints. He recognized that it was the very time when our Lord touched him in such an extraordinary way that he was near dying of contrition. This caused him such an interior awakening that, having retired to pray, he was seized with an interior joy and great emotion, which made him enter into what I had said of the way of faith. He ordered me to write for him what the way of faith and the way of illumination were. It was at this time and for him that I wrote the paper “On Faith,” which was considered good. I have no copy; I believe, however, it is still in existence. I neither knew what I was writing, nor what I had written, no more than in the rest which I have since written. I gave it to the Father, who told me he would read it on the way to Aosta. I tell these things without order as they occur to me.

To resume my narrative, as soon as I left Gex they commenced tormenting in a strange way that good girl who had given herself to God, and on account of whom the whole tragedy was played. The ecclesiastic attacked her more vigorously than ever, and to succeed the better, he depicted me in a contemptible aspect in order that, as she has cleverness, the ridicule into which he turned me should make her lose the esteem she entertained for me, and lead her to give herself to his guidance. She still confessed to him, but she was not willing to enter into anything more special with him; on the other hand, the Sisters represented the friendship she had for me as a frightful crime. They tried to make her say what was not fact; she was persecuted incessantly. The Bishop wrote to her to put full confidence in that ecclesiastic. She said that in the height of her trouble she used to see me every night in a dream, that I encouraged her to suffer, and told her what answers she should make. As they have no vows, particularly in the matter of obedience, and she had not been forbidden, she found means of writing a note to me. They discovered her. There was nothing in it beyond a little friendship. The ecclesiastic refused her for a month both absolution and the Communion owing to that note. The Sisters, on the other hand, caused her very great troubles, but God gave her the grace to suffer all. We could have no communications; however, Our Lord still supported her.

After Easter of the year 1682 the Bishop came to Tonon. I had an opportunity of speaking to him when by himself, and our Lord caused that when I had spoken he was satisfied; but the people who had stirred him up against me returned to the charge. He strongly pressed me to return to Gex, and become Superior. I answered him that as to the Superiorship, none could be Superior without having been novice, and as for the binding myself, he himself knew my vocation, and what I had told him both at Paris and Gex; that, notwithstanding, I spoke to him as a Bishop, who held the place of God, and he should be careful to think only of God in what he should say to me; that if, holding this place, he told me to bind myself, I would do it. He remained quite confused, and said to me, “Since you speak to me in this way, I cannot advise it. You cannot go against your vocation; but I pray you confer benefit on that House.” I promised to do so, and when I received my annuity I sent a hundred pistoles, intending to continue the same as long as I remained in the diocese. He withdrew, well pleased, for surely he loves good, and it is a pity he allows himself to be governed as he does. He even said, “I love Father La Combe; he is a true servant of God. He has told me things I cannot doubt, for I felt them in myself. But,” continued he, “when I say this, I am told I deceive myself, and that he will be mad before six months.” It was the discontented monk, the friend of the ecclesiastic, who had said that. This weakness astonished me. He told me he was very well satisfied with the nuns whom Father La Combe had conducted, and was as far as possible from finding any such thing as had been told him. I took the opportunity thereupon to say to him he should in all things rely on himself, and not on others. He agreed. Hardly, however, had he returned, when he again took up his former suspicions. He sent me word by the same ecclesiastic that it was his opinion I should bind myself at Gex. I requested that ecclesiastic to tell him I held to the advice he had given me; that he had spoken to me as from God, and at present they were making him speak as man.