As the Archbishop was not willing to have the worst of it, and my enemies, on seeing themselves powerless to hurt me, were only the more embittered, they resolved to inform the King that I could not be released until certain formalities had been observed. They wished to draw up a deed such as to make it appear that they were in the right, and to screen themselves from all inquiries that might hereafter be made against them; and also to avoid the lie being given to them as to the forgeries and the reports they boasted of having against me, and their assertions that I had written and executed acts of retractation. The Official came on Wednesday, October 1, 1688. After having taken the testimony of the Mother Superior as to my conduct in their convent, which she gave in the most distinct and favourable manner possible, he sent for me, and told me I must sign a deed which he had previously drawn up, and which he had had copied by his secretary. He produced two papers I had in truth myself given him on the 8th of February of the same year, 1688, which had been used by me as memoirs, to answer certain things he asked me, and which papers he had inserted at full length in my interrogations; but these he would never publish, lest my innocence should thereby be known, and people should see the frightful falsehoods which had been concocted against me, and for which reparation was due. Moreover, these papers contained the assurance and the protestations I had made of never having wandered from the sentiments of the Holy Church—my good Mother, for which I was ready to give a thousand lives. In the deed which they presented to me, he had inserted that I had given him two deeds. I refused to sign it, and, on my refusal, the Doctor, who accompanied him, told him that this word “deed” was not proper for simple papers; that they must put “papers.” He would not consent. It was necessary to put “memoirs” that I had recognized as coming from me. I saw clearly there was here some trick, and it was only for some evil purpose they brought me back two papers otherwise useless, since they were inserted at full length in my interrogation. Wherefore reproduce the two papers and suppress all the interrogations, unless to overreach me in some way? I said I would willingly sign that I had placed in his hands two memoirs of the 8th of February, 1688, provided they wrote the contents of the said memoirs; but to say simply that I had given two memoirs, without explaining what they were, I would not do it; that after all they had forged in my name, I ought to fear everything. He would not allow any explanation. He gave way to fearful violence against me, saying I should sign it, and swearing I was ruined if I did not do so. I had to waive this, in spite of all my reasons, to avoid their violence and withdraw myself from their hands. I requested that at least the Doctor who accompanied him should sign my papers, in order that they might not be able to substitute others in their place. He would not allow this. He signed them himself; but what use was that to me, since they remained in his hands? They told me if I signed all they requested of me the door of the convent would infallibly be opened, but if I refused there was no longer any safety for me. They wished to put into their deed that I had been in error; and, in order to oblige me to sign a thing which I would rather have given my life than sign, they told me that everyone makes mistakes—that this is what is meant by errors. I asked him if he meant to say “errata,” as we read in books; I would willingly do this, but as for “errors” I would never consent to that. He said to me gently enough, I should not make any difficulty; that it was for my good; that he asked this of me as the infallible means of withdrawing me from prison; that besides, St. Cyprian, whose fete was next day, had died in error, and he was none the less a saint; that he himself, on becoming priest, had made a kind of abjuration of error, which he repeated to me in Latin. But when he saw I persisted in saying that I had never been in error, and that I would never sign if they inserted the word “error,” he got into a frightful fury, declaring by his faith I should sign, or he would know the reason why, with frightful outbursts of violence to prove to me I was in error.
They told me that the letter of Father Falconi de la Merci was prohibited at Rome, and that it had been inserted in the later editions of my book as if to support it. I answered that this letter, not being mine, was no proof that I was in error. I wished to make them write that I protested I had never wandered from the faith, and that I would give a thousand lives for the Church. They would not. He spoke to me again about my books, although I had submitted them, and asked me if I did not condemn them of error. I said that if sentiments that were not altogether orthodox had slipped in, I submitted them, as I had always done. He wanted to have put in, and he put it in spite of me, that I renounced all sorts of errors. I said to him, “But why put in that?” He said if I did not put it he would say I was a heretic. Finally I had to waive that objection. He added, that I forbade all booksellers and printers to sell and distribute my books. I stopped him there, and said to him, if the books were not good let them forbid them, that I agreed to it; but that, as for me, not having contributed to their printing, I had nothing to do in the matter. The Doctor, who saw the Official rise up in a strange fury, told me to let it pass, making me understand it was more important for me to get out of their hands. He told me afterwards he would give me, if I wished, a deed signed with his own hand, to the effect that he had advised me to sign. I was about then to sign, and I skipped one side of the sheet in order to have time for consultation.
As the Abbess had permission to come and bring to me anyone she pleased, I took advice; for they had brought me back the paper which I had signed on one side, thinking it was a mistake. I was told I must at any price be got out of their hands, provided I did not insert that I had been in error. I said this was not in the deed, but that “if in my books and writings there was error, I condemned them with all my heart.” They had thought to take me by surprise, but my God has not allowed it, making me see their end, in all they demanded of me. They wished to make me put, that if there was error in my books, as well those which openly appeared as in those which did not appear, I detested them. I said I had not written any book which did not appear. I knew they had set going a rumour that I had printed books in Holland, and they desired by this deed to make me admit that it was so. I said, then, I had not made any other book. To excuse himself, the Official said, that my writings were thick enough to pass for books, and he put “writings.” The Doctor, who hardly dared to speak, told him, however, I was right. If he had insisted upon putting “I had errors” I would rather have let my head be cut off than sign it.
Here are the contents of the paper I had given them February 8, 1688, of which, through the mercy of God, I had kept a duplicate, in order that those into whose hands these writings may fall may see the difference there is between these and those which have been foisted upon me.
“I urgently intreat you, gentlemen, to write two things: first, that I have never deviated from the most orthodox opinions of the Holy Church; that I have never had private opinions of my own; that I have never taken up with any party; that I am ready to give my blood and my life for the interests of the Church; that I have laboured all my life to strip myself of my own opinions, and to submit my intelligence and my will. The second, that I have never pretended to write anything which was not conformable to the opinions of the Holy Church; that if through my ignorance anything not conformable to its opinions has slipped in, I renounce it, and I with all my heart submit to its decision, from which I never wish to deviate. That if I answer the interrogations put to me upon the little book, it is purely through obedience, and not to maintain or defend it, as I submit it with all my heart.”
I gave in that before the interrogation, and the one that follows some days later. It is without date. It was upon a matter they tried to persuade me of, namely that all souls who have attained to union with God, fall into ecstasy, and that this union only took place in ecstasy. “God can give a soul the same graces which produce ecstasy, although she does not lose the use of the external senses as in ecstasy, which only comes from weakness; but she so loses all sight of self in the enjoyment of her Divine Object that she forgets all which concerns her. It is then that she no longer distinguishes any operation on her part. The soul seems then to do nothing but receive what is profusely given to her. She loves without being able to give an account of her love, and without being able to tell what passes in her at that moment. Only experience can make comprehensible that which God operates in a soul faithful to him. While receiving with all her heart, she corresponds so far as she is capable to the operations of her God, sometimes observing him act with complaisance and love, at other times she is so lost and hid in God with Jesus Christ that she no longer distinguishes her Object, which seems to absorb her in himself.” There is also added in the paper which is not signed what follows: “I declare I am so much confused when interrogated, through fear of lying without thinking of it, or, rather, of making a mistake, that I know not what I say. It seems to me all interrogation ought to cease, since I give up everything and submit them entirely; besides, not having the little book with me, I cannot mention the passages which justify and explain the propositions that might seem hard—as, for example, on the subject of penitences, I remember there is in the same chapter a passage where it is said, ‘I do not pretend to disapprove penitences, since mortification ought to proceed at an equal pace with prayer, and even our Lord imposes on these persons penitences of all kinds, and such as those who are not conducted by that way would not even think of doing.’ There may be many propositions which, in strictness, are open to condemnation, but which, after one has seen the sequel explaining them, appear very good. I do not say this to support those which may not be approved, but to point out that there are many which carry their explanation within them.”
I have forgotten to say that, when it was seen the nuns spoke much good of me and declared their esteem, my enemies and some of their friends came and told them that the fact of their having esteem for me was very injurious to their House: that it was said, I had corrupted them all and made them Quietists. They took alarm at this. The Prioress forbade the nuns to speak good of me; so that, when I was again imprisoned, it was thought they had discovered much evil, and that made even my friends doubtful. I then saw myself rejected by all, and so abandoned by the whole world that it was only with pain they tolerated me in the House; and even my friend, fearing the esteem she had for me might be injurious to her, gradually withdrew and became cold. It was then, O my God, that I could well say you were all things to me. I saw the nature of human respect, which leads one to betray the known truth; for at heart they esteemed me, yet, to keep themselves in repute, they pretended the opposite. Father La Mothe went and carried to the Jesuits forged letters of a frightful character that he said were from me; and he said he was in despair at being obliged to speak against me; and that it was through zeal for religion he renounced the friendship he owed me. Thereby he gained over Pere de la Chaise and almost all the Jesuits.
I forget many circumstances which would be extremely pertinent, but my memory has not recalled them. If I could remember all your mercies, O my God, and your conduct of me, one would be astonished and ravished at it, but you will that many things shall remain concealed in you. As you withdraw them from my memory, I will not seek them, for I should be grieved to write anything but what you give me, without my seeking it by reflection. I have again forgotten to say that, when I told the Official that with reason I was not willing they should insert that word “error,” because I felt certain it was a snare, owing to their boasting they had in their hand a retraction, he told me he must have been a great fool not to make me put it in, and that the Archbishop would dismiss him, trying to make me understand they wanted that word for their justification. Five days from that, he came to make me sign the second page. I would not have done it, being quite indifferent whether I remained as I was, provided I did your will, O my God: but Madame de Maintenon sent me word to sign, and that she would inform the King of their violence; that it was necessary to get me out of their hands. I signed then. After which I had the liberty of the cloister.
The guardian of my children went to expedite the “lettre de cachet.” You permitted, O my God, by your providence, this letter to go astray for five days through a misunderstanding: that caused me again in this House ups and downs; as for my heart and my soul they remained always at the same level. I have even had more perceptible joy on entering my prison than on leaving it. At last, on the eve of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, the “lettre de cachet” was brought to me. I saw clearly, O my Love, you wished the Cross to be exalted in me, and when I saw the “lettre de cachet” came at that time, it was to me a good augury. I saw the continual miracles of your providence, and how you were conducting me bit by bit and with the hand. I saw you were taking care of me in the smallest matters, as a husband takes care of the wife he loves uniquely. Although all the time of my imprisonment had been each day an exercise of strange upsets, sometimes up and sometimes down, it is certain that the greatest was about the time of my release. My soul has never changed her situation, except as I have described. I have learned since I am at liberty, and even before, that a person who persecuted me had obtained an order to send me two hundred leagues from here, into a prison where I should nevermore have been heard of. You waited to save me, O my God, until things were utterly desperate. I learned one morning that no one was willing to meddle in my affair—neither Madame de Maintenon nor my cousin. From that I received a very great joy; and when the affair has been most desperate, then I have felt again a renewal of joy. Here, then, was I very happy, even when I learned they were striving to have me placed in perpetual imprisonment—and the measures were so well taken for it, that when the “lettre de cachet” was demanded from the secretary, after His Majesty’s order had been given to set me free, he inquired if it was not for that lady whom they were about to transfer. O God, how you overthrow the designs of men! O my Love, already I see the commencement of your promises accomplished: I do not doubt for the rest.
The Abbess and my children’s guardian came to fetch me, and manifested great joy; as did all my friends. It was only the others who were extremely vexed at it. I went out, without feeling I was going out, and without being able to reflect on my deliverance. Yesterday morning I was thinking. But who are you? what are you doing? what are you thinking? Are you alive, that you take no more interest in what affects you than if it did not affect you? I am greatly astonished at it, and I have to apply myself to know if I have a being, a life, a subsistence. I do not know where I am. Externally I am like another; but it seems to me I am like a machine that speaks and walks by springs, and which has neither life nor subsistence in what it does. This is not at all apparent externally. I act, I speak like another; even in a manner more free and more large, which embarrasses no one, which pleases all; without knowing either what I do, or what I say, nor why I do it, or say it, nor what causes me to say it. On leaving the convent they took me to the Archbishop, as a matter of form to thank him. It was indeed due to him for what he had made me suffer, for I do not doubt my God has been glorified by it. Then I went to see Madame de Miramion, who indeed was rejoiced at a thing to which she had not a little contributed. I there providentially found Madame de Montchevreuil, who manifested much joy at seeing me delivered, and assured me Madame de Maintenon would have no less: which Madame de Maintenon herself showed every time we met. I wrote to her to thank her. A few days after my release, I went to St. Cyr to salute her. She received me most kindly, and in a marked manner. A few days before, she had declared to my cousin how much my letter had pleased her, and that in truth our Lord gave her for me sentiments of particular esteem. I returned to see the Archbishop. He begged me to say nothing of what had passed. Father La Mothe, however, was in despair at my release; but he always pretended the contrary to those—who had access to me. He sent persons to spy me, and to surprise me in my words. I do not yet know what effect this will have. The Official begged Madame de Miramion not to receive me into her Community, and he came to tell me not to go there. That had not much effect, for this lady still declared her intention to take me to her House, where I am at the present moment. If God wills it, I shall one day write the continuation of a life which is not yet finished. This 20th of September, 1688.
The desire I have had to obey and to omit nothing will have doubtless caused some repetitions; they will at least serve to show you my exactness in what you order me, and that if I have omitted anything, it is either because I have not been able to express it, or through forgetfulness.
Some days after my release, having heard mention of the Abbe de F—, I was suddenly with extreme force and sweetness interested for him. It seemed to me our Lord united him to me very intimately, more so than any one else. My consent was asked for. I gave it. Then it appeared to me that, as it were, a spiritual filiation took place between him and me. The next day I had the opportunity of seeing him. I felt interiorly this first interview did not satisfy him: that he did not relish me. I experienced a something which made me long to pour my heart into his; but I found nothing to correspond, and this made me suffer much. In the night I suffered extremely about him. In the morning I saw him. We remained some time in silence, and the cloud cleared off a little; but it was not yet as I wished it. I suffered for eight whole days; after which, I found myself united to him without obstacle, and from that time I find the union increasing in a pure and ineffable manner. It seems to me that my soul has perfect rapport with his, and those words of David regarding Jonathan, that “his soul clave to that of David,” appeared to me suitable for this union. Our Lord has made me understand the great designs he has for this person, and how dear he is to him.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MADAME GUYON 