Our Lord made me understand that the only true glory is that which lasts forever; and that to attain it there is no need to perform brilliant deeds, but rather to hide from the eyes of others — and even from oneself — so that “the left hand knows not what the right hand does” (cf. Mt 6:3). Then, as I reflected that I was born for great things, and sought the means to attain them, it was made known to me interiorly that my personal glory would never reveal itself before the eyes of men, but would consist in becoming a saint.
This aspiration may very well appear rash, seeing how imperfect I was — and am even now, after so many years of religious life. Yet I still feel the same daring confidence that one day I will become a great saint. I am not trusting in my own merits, for I have none; but I trust in Him Who is Virtue and Holiness itself. It is He alone Who, pleased with my feeble efforts, will raise me to Himself and, by clothing me with His merits, make me a saint. At that time I did not realize that to become one it is necessary to suffer a great deal — but God soon disclosed this secret to me by means of the trials I have related.
I must now continue my story where I left off. Three months after my cure, Papa took me away for a change. It was a very pleasant time, and I began to see something of the world. All around me was joy and gladness; I was petted, made much of, admired — in fact, for a whole fortnight my path was strewn with flowers. The Wise Man is right when he says, “The bewitching of vanity overturneth the innocent mind” (Ws 4:12). At ten years of age the heart is easily fascinated, and I confess that in my case this kind of life had its charms. Alas, the world knows well how to combine its pleasures with the service of God! How little it thinks of death! And yet death has come to many people I knew then — young, rich, and happy. I recall the delightful places where they lived, and ask myself where they are now, and what profit they derive today from the beautiful houses and grounds where I saw them enjoying all the good things of this life; and I reflect that “All is vanity besides loving God and serving Him alone.”13
Perhaps Our Lord wished me to know something of the world before He paid His first visit to my soul, so that I might choose more deliberately the way in which I was to follow Him.
I will always remember my First Communion day as one of unclouded happiness. It seems to me that I could not have been better prepared. Do you remember, dear Mother, the charming little book you gave me three months before the great day? I found in it a helpful method that prepared me gradually and thoroughly. It is true I had been thinking about my First Communion for a long time, but, as your precious manuscript told me, I must stir up in my heart fresh transports of love and fill it anew with flowers. So each day I made a number of little sacrifices and acts of love that were to be changed into so many flowers: now violets, another time roses, then cornflowers, daisies, or forget-me-nots — in a word, all nature’s blossoms were to form in me a cradle for the Holy Child.
I had Marie, too, who took Pauline’s place. Every evening I spent a long time with her, listening eagerly to all she said. How delightfully she talked to me! I felt myself set on fire by her noble, generous spirit. As the warriors of old trained their children in the profession of arms, so she trained me for the battle of life, and roused my ardor by pointing to the victor’s glorious palm. She spoke too of the imperishable riches that are so easy to amass each day, and of the folly of trampling them underfoot when one has but to stoop and gather them. When she talked so eloquently, I was sorry that I was the only one to listen to her teaching; for, in my simplicity, it seemed to me that the greatest sinners would be converted if they but heard her, and that, forsaking the perishable riches of this world, they would seek none but the riches of heaven.
I would have liked at this time to practice mental prayer, but Marie, finding me sufficiently devout, only let me say my vocal prayers. A mistress at the Abbey asked me once what I did on holidays, when I stayed at home. I answered timidly: “I often hide myself in a corner of my room where I can shut myself in with the bed curtains, and then I think.” “But what do you think about?” asked the good nun, laughing. “I think about the Good God, about the shortness of life, and about eternity: in a word, I think.” My mistress did not forget this, and later on she used to remind me of the time when I thought, asking me if I still thought. Now I know that I was really praying, while my Divine Master gently instructed me.
The three months’ preparation for First Communion passed quickly by; it was soon time for me to begin my retreat, and during it I stayed at the Abbey. Oh, what a blessed retreat it was! I do not think one can experience such joy except in a religious house; there, with only a few children, it is easy for each one to receive special attention. I write this in a spirit of filial gratitude: our mistresses at the Abbey showed us a true motherly affection. I do not know why, but I saw plainly that they watched over me more carefully than they did the others.
Every night the first mistress, carrying her little lamp, opened my bed-curtains softly and kissed me tenderly on the forehead. She showed me such affection that, touched by her kindness, I said one night: “Mother, I love you so much that I am going to tell you a great secret.” Then I took from under my pillow the precious little book you had given me and showed it to her, my eyes sparkling with pleasure. She opened it with care and, looking through it attentively, told me how privileged I was. In fact, several times during the retreat the truth came home to me that very few motherless children of my age are as lovingly cared for as I was then.
I listened most attentively to the instructions given us by Father Domin and wrote careful notes on them; but I did not put down any of my own thoughts, as I knew I would remember them quite well. And so it proved.
How happy I was to attend Divine Office as the nuns did! I was easily distinguished from my companions by a large crucifix that Léonie had given me, and which, like the missionaries, I carried in my belt. They thought I was trying to imitate my Carmelite sister, and indeed my thoughts did often turn lovingly to her. I knew she was in retreat too — not that Jesus might give Himself to her, but that she might give herself entirely to Jesus — and this on the same day as I made my First Communion. The time of quiet waiting was therefore doubly dear to me.
At last there dawned the most beautiful day of all the days of my life. How perfectly I remember even the smallest details of those sacred hours! — the joyful awakening, the reverent and tender embraces of my mistresses and older companions, the room filled with snow-white frocks in which each child was dressed in turn, and, above all, our entrance into the chapel and the melody of the morning hymn: “O Altar of God, where the angels are hovering.”
But I would not and could not tell you all. Some things lose their fragrance when exposed to the air; so too, one’s inmost thoughts cannot be translated into earthly words without instantly losing their deep and heavenly meaning. How sweet was the first embrace of Jesus! It was indeed an embrace of love. I felt that I was loved, and I said: “I love Thee, and I give myself to Thee forever.” Jesus asked nothing of me and claimed no sacrifice; for a long time He and little Thérèse had known and understood each other. That day our meeting was more than simple recognition: it was perfect union. We were no longer two. Thérèse had disappeared like a drop of water lost in the immensity of the ocean; Jesus alone remained — He was the Master, the King! Had not Thérèse asked Him to take away her liberty, which frightened her? She felt herself so weak and frail that she wished to be forever united to the Divine Strength.
And then my joy became so intense, so deep, that it could not be restrained; tears of happiness welled up and overflowed. My companions were astonished, and asked each other afterward: “Why did she cry? Had she anything on her conscience? No, it is because neither her mother nor her dearly loved Carmelite sister is here.” And no one understood that all the joy of heaven had come down into one heart, and that this heart — exiled, weak, and mortal as it was — could not contain it without tears.
How could my mother’s absence grieve me on my First Communion day? As heaven itself dwelt in my soul, in receiving a visit from Our Divine Lord I received one