LITMIR.BIZ

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age, the simplicity of our hearts was unspoiled. Like the spring flowers they unfolded, glad to receive the morning dew, while the same soft breezes swayed their petals. Yes, our joys were mutual. I felt this especially on the happy day of Céline’s First Communion; I was only seven years old and had not yet begun school at the Abbey. How sweet is the memory of her preparation! Every evening during its last weeks my sisters talked to her of the great event. I listened, eager to prepare myself too, and my heart swelled with grief when I was told to go away because I was still too young. I thought that four years was not too long to spend in making ready to receive Our dear Lord. One evening I heard someone say to my happy little sister, “From the time of your First Communion you must begin an entirely new life.” At once I made a resolution not to wait till the time of my First Communion, but to begin with Céline. During her retreat she remained as a boarder at the Abbey, and it seemed to me she was away a long time; but at last the happy day came. What a delightful impression it has left on my mind — it was like a foretaste of my own First Communion! How many graces I received that day! I look on it as one of the most beautiful of my life.

      I have gone back a little in order to recall these happy memories; but now I must tell you of the mournful parting which crushed my heart when Our Lord took from me my little Mother whom I loved so dearly. I told her once that I would like to go away with her to a far-off desert; she replied that it was her wish too, but that she was waiting till I was big enough to set out. This impossible promise I took in earnest, and what was my grief when I heard Pauline talking to Marie about soon entering the Carmel! I did not know the Carmel; but I knew that she was leaving me to enter a convent, and that she would not wait for me.

      How can I describe the anguish I suffered! In a flash I saw life spread out before me as it really is, full of sufferings and frequent partings, and I shed bitter tears. At that time I did not know the joy of sacrifice; I was weak — so weak that I look on it as a great grace that I was able to bear such a trial, one seemingly so much beyond my strength, and yet live. I will never forget how tenderly my little Mother consoled me while explaining the religious life. Then one evening, when I was thinking over the picture she had drawn, I felt that the Carmel was the desert where God wished me also to hide. I felt this so strongly that I had not the least doubt about it; nor was it a childish dream, but the certainty of a Divine Call. This impression, which I cannot properly describe, left me with a feeling of great inward peace.

      Next day I confided my desires to Pauline. They seemed to her as a proof of God’s Will, and she promised to take me soon to the Carmel, to see the Mother Prioress and tell her my secret. This solemn visit was fixed for a certain Sunday, and great was my embarrassment on hearing that my cousin Marie — who was still young enough to be allowed to see the Carmelites — was to come with us.⁹

      I had to contrive a means of being alone with the Reverend Mother, and this is what I planned. I told Marie that, as we were to have the great privilege of seeing her, we must be very good and polite, and tell her our little secrets; and in order to do that, we must go out of the room in turns. Though she did not quite like it, because she had no secrets to confide, Marie took me at my word, and so I was able to be alone with you, dear Mother. You listened to my great disclosure, and believed in my vocation, but you told me that postulants were not received at the age of nine, and that I must wait till I was sixteen. Despite my ardent desire to enter with Pauline and make my First Communion on her clothing day, I had to be resigned.

      At last October 2 came — a day of tears, but also of blessings, when Our Lord gathered the first of His flowers: the chosen flower who, later on, was to become the Mother of her sisters.¹⁰ While Papa, with my uncle and Marie, climbed the mountain of Carmel to offer his first sacrifice, my aunt took me to Mass with my sisters and cousins. We were bathed in tears, and people gazed at us in astonishment when we entered the church, but that did not stop our crying. I even wondered how the sun could go on shining. Perhaps, dear Mother, you think I exaggerate my grief a little. I confess that this parting ought not to have upset me so much, but my soul was still far from mature, and I had to pass through many trials before reaching the haven of peace, before tasting the delicious fruits of perfect love and of complete abandonment to God’s Will.

      In the afternoon of that October day, 1882, behind the grating of the Carmel, I saw my beloved Pauline, now become Sister Agnes of Jesus. Oh, how much I suffered in that parlor! As I am writing the story of my soul, it seems to me that I ought to tell you everything. Well, I acknowledge that I hardly counted the first pains of this parting in comparison with those which followed. I, who had been accustomed to talk with my little Mother of all that was in my heart, could now scarcely snatch two or three minutes with her at the end of the family visits; even these short minutes were passed in tears, and I went away with my heart torn with grief.

      I did not realize that it was impossible to give us each half an hour, and that of course Papa and Marie must have the largest share. I could not understand all this, and I said from the depths of my heart: “Pauline is lost to me.”

      This suffering so affected me that I soon became seriously ill. The illness was undoubtedly the work of the devil, who, in his fury at this first entry into the Carmel, tried to avenge himself on me for the great harm my family was to do him in the future. However, he little knew that the Queen of heaven was watching faithfully over her Little Flower; that she was smiling upon it from on high, ready to still the tempest just when the delicate and fragile stalk was in danger of being broken once and for all. At the close of the year 1882 I began to suffer from constant headaches; they were bearable, however, and did not prevent me from continuing my studies. This lasted till the Easter of 1883. Just then Papa went to Paris with my elder sisters, and entrusted Céline and me to the care of our uncle and aunt. One evening I was alone with my uncle, and he talked so tenderly of my mother and of bygone days that I was deeply moved and began to cry. My sensitiveness touched him too; he was surprised that one of my age should feel as I did. So he determined to do all he could to divert my mind during the holidays.

      But God had decided otherwise. That very evening my headache became acute, and I was seized with a strange shivering which lasted all night. My aunt, like a real mother, never left me for a moment; all through my illness she lavished on me the most tender and devoted care. You may imagine my poor father’s grief when he returned from Paris to find me in this hopeless state; he thought I was going to die, but Our Lord might have said to him: “This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God” (Jn 11:4).

      Yes, God was glorified by means of this trial — by the wonderful resignation of my father and sisters. And to Marie especially what suffering it brought, and how grateful I am to this dear sister! She seemed to divine my wants by instinct, for a mother’s heart is more knowing than the science of the most skillful doctors.

      And now Pauline’s clothing day was drawing near; but, fearing to distress me, no one dared mention it in my presence, since it was taken for granted that I would not be well enough to be there. Deep down in my heart, however, I firmly believed that God would give me the consolation of seeing dear Pauline on that day. I was quite sure that this feast would be unclouded; I knew that Our Lord would not try His Spouse by depriving her of my presence — she had already suffered so much on account of my illness. And so it turned out. I was there, able to embrace my dear little Mother, to sit on her knee, and, hiding myself under her veil, to receive her loving caresses. I was able to feast my eyes upon her — she looked so lovely in her veil and mantle of white. Truly it was a day of happiness amid heavy trials; but this day, or rather this hour, passed only too quickly, and soon we were in the carriage that was to take us away from the Carmel. On reaching home I was made to lie down, though I did not feel at all tired; but the next day I had a serious relapse, and became so ill that, humanly speaking, there was no hope of recovery.

      I do not know how to describe this extraordinary illness. I said things I had never thought of; I acted as though I were forced to act in spite of myself; I seemed nearly always to be delirious — and yet I feel certain that I was never, for a minute, deprived of my reason. Sometimes I remained in a state of extreme exhaustion for hours at a time, unable to make the least movement — and yet, despite this extraordinary torpor, hearing the least whisper. I remember it still. And what fears the devil inspired! I was afraid of everything: my bed seemed to be surrounded by frightful precipices; nails in the wall took

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