BEING, as I have said, at the Ursulines of Tonon, after I had spoken to the Bishop of Geneva, and saw how he changed as he was influenced by others, I wrote some letters to him and to Father La Mothe; but as I saw it was useless, and he was thereby more embittered, and the more I tried to clear up matters, the more trouble the ecclesiastic took to embroil them, I let things be, without further action. I saw the tempest about to break upon our heads without being able to prevent it. I had dreamed that I was drawing a cord which at first seemed of diamond, and afterwards appeared to me to be of iron, and at the same time seeing a terrible storm fall upon my head, I gave myself up to the mercy of the waves. I saw clearly the crosses which were springing up from every side, and my soul remained in a profound peace, waiting for the blows which she could not avoid. I had not done the least thing to draw it upon me, and I watched the torrent rushing down without having contributed to the storm. As I saw I had not contributed to it, and that there was nothing for me to do but to suffer, I kept quiet, without troubling myself as to success. One day they came and told me that this ecclesiastic had again gained over the poor girl I much loved, and who had already cost me much; at the same time they gave me a means of hindering him, but this human mode of acting was repugnant to my inmost spirit, and those words, “Except the Lord,” etc., were suggested to me. I sacrificed her as well as the rest to God. But our Lord, who had permitted this only to detach me from a love I had for her perfection, provided for the matter himself, and prevented her connecting herself with him in a manner the more admirable as it was more natural, and more contrary to their intentions. Afterwards God made this worthy girl see that he had extricated her with a quite fatherly goodness. I did not conceal from her what she had cost me, for assuredly the case was such that I would not have felt so much the death of one of my children as her destruction. While I was with her she was always vacillating, and one could not make sure of her, so that as regards her, one had to live by trust; but—O goodness and infinite power of my God, to save without us what we should lose without you!—no sooner was I at a distance from her than she became steadfast.
For me, there was hardly a day passed that they did not put upon me new insults, and make attacks quite unexpected. The New Catholics, on the report of the Bishop, the ecclesiastic, and the Sisters of Gex, stirred up against me all people of piety. I was not much affected by that. If I could have been at all, it would have been because everything was thrown upon Father La Combe, although he was absent; and they made use even of his absence, to destroy all the good he had done in the country by his missions and sermons, which was very great. The Devil gained much in this business. I could not, however, pity this good Father, remarking herein the conducting of God, who desired to annihilate him. At the commencement I committed faults by a too great anxiety and eagerness to justify him, conceiving it simple justice. I did not the same for myself, for I did not justify myself; but our Lord made me understand I should do for the Father what I did for myself, and allow him to be destroyed and annihilated; for thereby he would derive a far greater glory than he had done from all his reputation.
Every day they invented some new calumny; there was no trick or invention they did not use against me. They came to see me, to try and surprise me in my words, but God guarded me so well that they were themselves taken. I had no consolation from creatures, for the Sister who was in charge of my daughter became my greatest cross. She said I had come too late. There are persons who are only ruled by their lights, and when they do not see things succeed, as they judge only by the success, and do not like the affront of having their lights doubted, they seek elsewhere something to support themselves by. For me, having no light, I did not trouble myself about success, and I found success enough when things tended to destroy us. On the other hand, the maid I had brought, and who remained with me, gave me very great troubles; she was unhappy, and wished to return; she opposed and condemned me from morning to night, representing the wealth I had given up, and that I was useless there. She made me bear all the ill-tempers her discontent gave birth to. Father La Mothe wrote me that I was rebelling against my Bishop, that I remained in his diocese only to cause him trouble. Besides, I saw that there was nothing for me to do in this diocese as long as the Bishop should be opposed to me. I did what I could to win him, but it was impossible to succeed without entering into the engagement he desired, and that was impossible for me. This, joined to the defective education of my daughter, sometimes threw my senses into agony; but the central depth of my soul was so tranquil that I could neither wish nor resolve on anything, letting myself be as though these things had no existence. When some little ray of hope came to me, it was at once taken away, and despair constituted my strength.
During this time Father La Combe was at Rome, where, far from being blamed, he was received with so much honour, and his doctrine so esteemed that the Sacred Congregation did him the honour to take his views on certain points of doctrine, and found them so sound and clear that it followed them. While he was at Rome the Sister would not look after my daughter, and when I undertook the care of her, she was offended; so that I knew not what to do. On the one hand I did not wish to hurt her, and on the other I endured much in seeing my daughter as she was. I urgently entreated this Sister to look after her, and not to allow her to acquire bad habits; but I could not even get her to promise me to exert herself. I thought when Father La Combe returned he would put everything to right, or would give me some consolation; not that I wished for him, for I could neither be afflicted at his absence, nor wish for his return. Sometimes I was faithless enough to desire to examine myself, and see what I might wish, but I found nothing, not even to go to Geneva. I was like the mad people who know not what is fit for them.
When it was known at home that I was at the Ursulines, and had left Gex, and that I was much persecuted, M. de Monpezat, Archbishop of Sens, who had a great kindness for me, knowing that my sister, an Ursuline of his diocese, was obliged to go to the waters for a species of paralysis, gave her his authority to go there, and also to go into the diocese of Geneva, to remain with me at the Ursulines, or to bring me back with her. On the other hand, the Ursulines of Tonon expressed a wish to adopt the constitutions of those of Paris, and that my sister should bring them. She came then, and God made use of her to bring me a maid whom he desired to give me of his own pleasure, to fashion in his mode, and to be suitable for me. My sister came to me with this good girl in the month of July, 1682. Our Lord sent her to me quite at the right moment for teaching my daughter to read, and looking after her a little. I had already taught her so that she read even in Scripture, but during the time I had left her they had given her such a bad accent that it was piteous. My sister mended all that; but if she procured me this advantage in the care of my daughter, she caused me many crosses, for from the first she took a dislike to the Sister who looked after my daughter, and the Sister to her, so that they could not agree. I did what I could to reconcile them, but besides that I could not succeed, the very care I took made my sister believe I had more affection for that Sister than for her, which hurt her extremely; although it was not at all the case, for I had much to suffer from her myself, of which I said nothing; but it grieved me to see a disturbance where I had tasted so profound a peace. The maid I had brought, and who was discontented with that Sister and with being there, because she wanted to return to her relatives, embroiled things still more. She made my sister share in her disgust. It is true my sister practised virtue, and endured certain things which seemed to outrage reason; for she could not understand that, seeing she was a very aged Sister and a stranger, she ought to submit to a Sister still in noviciate, who was in her own House and of very humble origin. I made her see what Jesus Christ had suffered. What astonished me extremely was, that I succeeded better with my sister, who was not at all spiritual, than with the other, who thought herself very exalted in gifts and illumination, and yet whom it was impossible to make change when she had once taken up an idea.
I have learned, O my God, from her, that it is not the greatest gifts which sanctify, if they are not accompanied by a profound humility, and that death to all things is infinitely more useful to us; and this very girl, who believed herself at the height of perfection, has seen from the experiences which afterwards befell her, that she was very far from it, O my God, how true it is that one may have your gifts and be yet very imperfect and full of self; but how necessary it is to be pure and small to pass into you, O true Life! Jesus Christ has told us with a sigh, “Oh, how narrow the gate that leads to life!” Oh, how narrow is the gate which leads to that life in God, and how necessary it is to be small and stripped of all to pass by it! But as soon as one has passed through this narrow door, which is nothing else than death to ourselves, what largeness one finds! David said, O my God, that you had placed him in a large place, and that you had saved him. Salvation is found in the loss of all things. “You have led me,” he says, “into spacious places.” What are these spacious places if it is not yourself, Infinite Being, principle of all being, where all beings end? But in what manner, David, have you been led into these spacious places? Through the mud, nothingness, elevation, and abasement. He says it: “You have lifted me up to the clouds, then you have broken me altogether. I have been in a depth of mud, from which I could not get out. I have been reduced to nothingness, and I have not known it.” He was ignorant of himself. Is it not said elsewhere, “I am destroyed”? It is, then, through ways so bare, so annihilating, that one finds this immense largeness; it is through the “nothing” that one finds “the all.”
After Father La Combe arrived he came to see me, and wrote to the Bishop to know if he approved of my making use of him, and confessing to him as I had done before. The Bishop sent me word to do so, and thus I did it in all possible submissiveness. In his absence I always confessed to the confessor of the House. The first thing he said to me was that all his lights were deceptions, and that I might return. I did not know why he said this. He added that he could not see an opening to anything, and therefore it was not probable God had anything for me to do in that country. These words were the first greeting he gave me. They neither astonished me nor caused me any trouble, for it was a matter of indifference to me to be good for anything, or not to be; that God wished to employ me on anything for his glory, or that he did not wish to employ me for anything—all was alike to me, whether he made use of me or of another. Wherefore these words only confirmed me in my peace. What can a soul fear which wishes nothing, which can desire nothing? If she could have any pleasure, it would be to be the plaything of providence.
The Bishop of Geneva wrote to Father La Mothe to engage him to cause me to return. Father La Mothe sent me word of it, but the Bishop assured me that it was not so. I did not know whom to believe. When Father La Combe proposed to me to return, I felt some slight repugnance in the senses, which did not last long. The soul cannot but allow herself to be led by obedience, not that she regards obedience as a virtue, but it is that she can neither be otherwise, nor wish to do otherwise; she allows herself to be drawn along without knowing why or how, as a person who should allow himself to be carried along by the current of a rapid river. She cannot apprehend deception, nor even make a reflection thereon. Formerly it was by self-surrender, but in her present state it is without knowing or understanding what she does, like a child whom its mother might hold over the waves of a disturbed sea, and who fears nothing, because it neither sees nor knows the danger; or like a madman who casts himself into the sea without fear of destroying himself. It is not that exactly, for to cast one’s self is an “own” action, which here the soul is without. She finds herself there, and she sleeps in the vessel without dreading the danger. It was a long time since any means of support had been sent me. Untroubled and without any anxiety for the future, unable to fear poverty and famine, I saw myself stripped of everything, unprovided for, and without papers.
The first Lent that I passed at the Ursulines I had three times a very painful affection of the eyes, for the same abscess that I had had before broke out afresh three times. The air and the badly shut room where I was, together with the Lenten fare, contributed materially thereto. It is true that all this time I suffered very severe pains, my head was horribly swollen, and with that neither help nor consolation. But what am I saying? My joy and my consolation, was it not in my pain and in the most strange desolation? Yes, surely. It was a peculiar thing to see numbers of good souls who did not know me, love me and pity me, and all the rest animated against me like mad people, without knowing me, and without knowing why they were so. For the crown of my affliction my daughter fell dangerously ill. My sister had not yet come; there was apparently no hope of her life, and then her mistress also fell ill. The doctors had exhausted their remedies. I saw everything we had hoped thereby overthrown; nevertheless, I could not suffer nor have any care for the future. My abandonment without abandonment devoured everything.
Amidst so many trials, which increased each day, and which, far from appearing on the decline, seemed only commencing—as it turned out, in fact—amidst such trials, I say, my soul continued in the same immobility. She desired neither succour nor assurance; the abandonment of creatures, and even of God, constituted all my strength, without strength of my own. O God, when you are the absolute master of a heart, it can have neither trouble nor anxiety; it is you alone who fill all its desires. The heart which you fully possess has none, and it is so peaceable that peace is all its food. It seems that this soul is herself peace. St. Catherine of Genoa had experienced this when she said that she was so penetrated with peace that it went to the marrow of her bones. This peace itself, as I have already said, is quite different from that of previous times; for formerly the peace was more savoury and more perceived, but here it is no longer perceived; none the less, it is infinitely more extended, more stable, more at its source, since, as I have said, this peace is God himself. O expanse of the soul! O wonderful vastness! Thou canst indeed comprehend, but of God alone wilt thou ever be comprehended! O Love, though there should never be other recompense for the little services we render than this fixed state, above all vicissitudes, is it not enough? The senses are sometimes like vagabond children which run about, but they do not trouble the central depth, which is quite annihilated, quite stripped, no longer hindered by anything, as it is no longer supported by anything. The way by which God here conducts the soul is so utterly different from what is ordinarily supposed, that unless God himself makes it known, it cannot be understood.
When I speak of a state fixed and firm in the central depth, I do not pretend that one may no longer fall or stumble (which is true only of heaven); I call it permanent and fixed in relation to the states which have preceded, full as they are of vicissitudes and variations. Nor do I mean to exclude a state of suffering in the senses and the inferior part, or which comes from some superficial impurity, that remains to be cleansed, and that may be compared to gold which has been thoroughly purified in the substance, but which may contract some dirt on the outside. This gold no longer needs purifying in the fire, for it has undergone all the radical purification that he who uses it thought proper for the use to which it is to be put; but as it is tarnished outside, it sometimes needs to be cleaned externally. That was my then state.
There is still a suffering in this state inflicted by God himself, and which can come only from him. All external conflicts are incapable of causing the least suffering in the centre, however light; they only pass lightly and touch the skin. These souls can suffer no pains but what are inflicted by the hand of God, as was the case with Jesus Christ; no sufferings but those God operates, either to make them conformable to him, or for the neighbour’s sake, as I shall hereafter explain. The practice as from the selfhood of the least good deed, or resistance to anything God should wish of them, would be the source of terrible pains. But the self-surrendered soul, which does not resume her selfhood, has nothing to suffer in the state which she has here reached, either from men or devils, although they discharge on her all their rage. It is against such a soul that all hell is stirred up. All this, however, does not properly constitute suffering, and those enemies would have no power, if it was not given them from on high. The true suffering is the application of the hand of God as in Jesus Christ. The Father applied all the force of his arm to make him suffer. He bore the weight of all the avenging justice of a God, and it needed a God to bear the weight of a just and avenging God. It needs, therefore, a soul transformed in God to bear the weight of Jesus Christ, Man-God, crushed by the weight of the justice of his Father. These are the souls which are destined to be victims of the justice of God, to bear all its weight, and to finish “what remains wanting of the suffering of Jesus Christ.” But what was wanting to your suffering, O my Lord? Has not all been finished? You have said it yourself. Oh, it was the extension of your passion in your members. The souls of which I speak bear very strong sufferings without the peace of their central depth being altered or interrupted in the very least, and that peace, however great, does not diminish anything of the force of the suffering; for it is necessary to bear Jesus Christ, Man-God, the most suffering and the most happy of men, since he was God of glory, yet suffering. There may be at the same time perfect peace and contentment, and an excessive suffering. Jesus Christ in the garden is the expression of it, where he suffered excessively from the abandonment of God the Father, and the weight of the sins of all men. There are even sufferings so excessive that the senses weep and cry, and desire their deliverance, without, however, taking anything from that central depth of peace and unity with God’s will, which is the greater as it is less perceived.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MADAME GUYON 