that now tells her tale, rejoiced in having to publish the wholly undeserved favors bestowed upon her by Our Lord. She knows that she had nothing in herself worthy of attracting Him: His Mercy alone showered blessings on her. He allowed her to grow in holy soil enriched with the odor of purity and preceded by eight lilies of shining whiteness. In His Love, He willed to preserve her from the poisoned breath of the world — hardly had her petals unfolded when this good Master transplanted her to the mountain of Carmel, Our Lady’s chosen garden.
And now, dear Mother, having summed up in a few words all that God’s goodness has done for me, I will relate in detail the story of my childhood. I know that, though to others it may seem wearisome, your motherly heart will find pleasure in it. In the story of my soul, up to the time of my entry into the Carmel, there are three clearly marked periods; the first, in spite of its shortness, is by no means the least rich in memories.
It extends from the dawn of reason to the death of my dearly loved mother; in other words, till I was four years and eight months old. God, in His goodness, did me the favor of awakening my intelligence very early, and He has imprinted the recollections of my childhood so deeply in my memory that past events seem to have happened but yesterday. Without doubt, He wished to make me know and appreciate the mother He had given me. Alas! His Divine Hand soon took her from me to crown her in heaven.
All my life it has pleased Him to surround me with affection. My first recollections are of loving smiles and tender caresses; but if He made others love me so much, He made me love them too, for I was of an affectionate nature.
You can hardly imagine how much I loved my father and mother; and, being very demonstrative, I showed my love in a thousand little ways, though the means I employed make me smile now when I think of them.
Dear Mother, you have given me the letters which my mother wrote at this time to Pauline, who was at school at the Visitation Convent at Le Mans. I remember perfectly the events they refer to, but it will be easier for me simply to quote some passages, though these charming letters, inspired by a mother’s love, are too often full of my praises.
In proof of what I have said about my way of showing affection for my parents, here is an example: “Baby is the dearest little rogue; she comes to kiss me, and at the same time wishes me to die. ‘Oh, how I wish you would die, dear Mama,’ she said, and when she was scolded she was quite astonished, and answered, ‘But I want you to go to heaven, and you say we must die to go there’; and in her outburst of affection for her father she wishes him to die too. The dear little thing will hardly leave me; she follows me everywhere, but likes going into the garden best. When I am not there she refuses to stay, and cries so much that they are obliged to bring her back. She will not even go upstairs alone without calling me at each step, ‘Mama! Mama!’ And if I forget to answer ‘Yes, darling!’ she waits where she is, and will not move.”
I was nearly three years old when my mother wrote: “Little Thérèse asked me the other day if she would go to heaven. ‘Yes, if you are good,’ I told her. ‘Oh, Mama,’ she answered, ‘then if I am not good, will I go to Hell? Well, you know what I will do — I will fly to you in heaven, and you will hold me tight in your arms, and how could God take me away then?’ I saw that she was convinced that God could do nothing to her if she hid herself in my arms.”
“Marie loves her little sister very much; indeed, she is a child who delights us all. She is extraordinarily outspoken, and it is charming to see her run after me to confess her childish faults: ‘Mama, I have pushed Céline; I slapped her once, but I’ll not do it again.’ The moment she has done anything mischievous, everyone must know. Yesterday, without meaning to do so, she tore off a small piece of wallpaper; you would have been sorry for her — she wanted to tell her father immediately. When he came home four hours later, everyone else had forgotten about it, but she ran at once to Marie, saying: ‘Tell Papa that I tore the paper.’ She waited there like a criminal for sentence; but she thinks she is more easily forgiven if she accuses herself.”
Papa’s name fills me with many happy memories. Mama laughingly said he always did whatever I wanted, but he answered: “Well, why not? She is the Queen!” Then he would lift me onto his shoulder and caress me in all sorts of ways. Yet I cannot say that he spoiled me. I remember one day, while I was swinging, he called out as he passed: “Come and kiss me, little Queen.” Contrary to my usual custom, I would not stir, and answered pertly: “You must come for it, Papa.” He refused, quite rightly, and went away. Marie was there and scolded me, saying: “How naughty to answer Papa like that!” Her reproof took effect; I got off the swing at once, and the whole house resounded with my cries. I hurried upstairs, not waiting this time to call Mama at each step; my one thought was to find Papa and make my peace with him. I need not tell you that this was soon done.
I could not bear to think I had grieved my beloved parents, and I acknowledged my faults instantly — as this little anecdote, related by my mother, will show: “One morning before going downstairs I wanted to kiss Thérèse; she seemed to be fast asleep, and I did not like to wake her, but Marie said: ‘Mama, I am sure she is only pretending.’ So I bent down to kiss her forehead, and immediately she hid herself under the clothes, saying in the tone of a spoiled child: ‘I don’t want anyone to look at me.’ I was not pleased with her, and told her so. A minute or two afterward I heard her crying and was surprised to see her by my side. She had gotten out of her cot by herself, and had come downstairs with bare feet, stumbling over her long nightdress. Her little face was wet with tears: ‘Mama,’ she said, throwing herself on my knee, ‘I am sorry for being naughty — forgive me!’ Pardon was quickly granted; I took the little angel in my arms and pressed her to my heart, smothering her with kisses.”
I remember also my great affection for my eldest sister Marie, who had just left school. Without seeming to do so, I took in all that I saw and heard, and I think that I reflected on things then as I do now. I listened attentively while she taught Céline, and was very good and obedient, so as to obtain the privilege of being allowed in the room during lessons. She gave me many trifling presents that pleased me greatly. I was proud of my two big sisters; but as Pauline seemed so far away from us, I thought of her all day long. When I was only just learning to talk, and Mama asked “What are you thinking about?” my answer invariably was: “Pauline.” Sometimes I heard people saying that Pauline would be a nun, and, without quite knowing what it meant, I thought: “I will be a nun too.” This is one of my first recollections, and I have never changed my mind; so it was the example of this beloved sister that, from the age of two, drew me to the Divine Spouse of Virgins. My dearest Mother, what tender memories of Pauline I could confide to you here! But it would take me too long.
Léonie had also a very warm place in my heart; she loved me very much, and her love was returned. In the evening, when she came home from school, she used to take care of me while the others went out, and it seems to me I can still hear the sweet songs she sang to put me to sleep. I remember perfectly the day of her First Communion, and I remember also her companion, the poor child whom my mother dressed, according to the touching custom of the well-to-do families in Alençon. This child did not leave Léonie for an instant on that happy day, and in the evening at the grand dinner she sat in the place of honor. Alas! I was too small to stay up for this feast, but I shared in it a little — thanks to Papa’s goodness, for he came himself to bring his little Queen a piece of the iced cake.
The only one now left to speak of is Céline, the companion of my childhood. My memories of her are so many that I do not know which to choose. We understood each other perfectly, but I was much more forward and lively, and far less ingenuous. Here is a letter that will show you, dear Mother, how sweet was Céline, and how naughty Thérèse. I was then nearly three years old, and Céline six and a half. “Céline is naturally inclined to be good; as to the little puss, Thérèse, one cannot tell how she will turn out, she is so young and heedless. She is a very intelligent child, but has not nearly so sweet a disposition as her sister, and her stubbornness is almost unconquerable. When she has said ‘No,’ nothing will make her change; one could leave her all day in the cellar without getting her to say ‘Yes.’ She would sooner sleep there.”
I had another fault also, of which my Mother did not speak in her letters: it was self-love. Here are two instances: One day, no doubt