In those days a halfpenny was a fortune, and in order to gain it I had not far to stoop, for I was so tiny there was not much distance between me and the ground; but my pride was up in arms, and holding myself very erect, I said, “No, thank you, Mama, I would rather go without it.”
Another time we were going into the country to see some friends. Mama told Marie to put on my prettiest frock, but not to let me have bare arms. I did not say a word and appeared as indifferent as children of that age should be, but I said to myself, “I would have looked much prettier with bare arms.”
With such a disposition, I feel sure that had I been brought up by careless parents I would have become very wicked, and perhaps have lost my soul. But Jesus watched over His little spouse and turned even her faults to advantage; for, being checked early in life, they became a means of leading her toward perfection. For instance, as I had great self-love and an innate love of good as well, it was enough to tell me once, “You must not do that,” and I never wanted to do it again. Having only good example before my eyes, I naturally wished to follow it, and I see with pleasure in my mother’s letters that as I grew older I began to be a greater comfort. This is what she writes in 1876: “Even Thérèse is anxious to make sacrifices. Marie has given her little sisters a string of beads on purpose to count their acts of self-denial. They have really spiritual, but very amusing conversations together. Céline said the other day: ‘How can God be in such a tiny Host?’ Thérèse answered: ‘That is not strange, because God is almighty!’ ‘And what does almighty mean?’ ‘It means that He can do whatever He likes.’
“But it is more amusing still to see Thérèse put her hand in her pocket, time after time, to pull a bead along the string whenever she makes a little sacrifice. The children are inseparable and are quite sufficient company for one another. Nurse has given Thérèse two bantams, and every day after dinner she and Céline sit by the fire and play with them.
“One morning Thérèse got out of her cot and climbed into Céline’s. The nurse went to fetch her to be dressed, and, when at last she found her, the little thing said, hugging her sister very hard: ‘Oh, Louise! Leave me here — don’t you see that we are like the little white bantams? We can’t be separated from one another.’”
It is quite true that I could not be separated from Céline; I would rather leave my dessert unfinished at table than let her go without me, and I would get down from my high chair when she did, and off we went to play together. On Sundays, as I was still too small to go to the long services, Mama stayed at home to take care of me. I was always very good, walking about on tiptoe; but as soon as I heard the door open there was a tremendous outburst of joy — I threw myself on my dear little sister, exclaiming: “Oh, Céline! give me the blessed bread, quick!”2 One day she had not brought any — what was to be done? I could not do without it, for I called this little feast my Mass. A bright idea struck me: “You have no blessed bread — make some!” Céline immediately opened the cupboard, took out the bread, cut a tiny bit off, and after saying a Hail Mary quite solemnly over it, triumphantly presented it to me; and I, making the Sign of the Cross, ate it with devotion, fancying it tasted exactly like the real blessed bread.
One day Léonie, thinking no doubt that she was too big to play with dolls, brought us a basket filled with clothes, pretty pieces of stuff, and other trifles on which her doll was laid. “Here, dears,” she said, “choose whatever you like.” Céline looked at it and took a woolen ball. After thinking about it for a minute, I put out my hand saying, “I choose everything,” and I carried off both doll and basket without more ado.
This childish incident was a forecast, so to speak, of my whole life. Later on, when the way of perfection was opened out before me, I realized that in order to become a saint one must suffer much, always seek the most perfect path, and forget oneself. I also understood that there are many degrees of holiness, that each soul is free to respond to the calls of Our Lord, to do much or little for His Love — in a word, to choose among the sacrifices He asks. And then also, as in the days of my childhood, I cried out: “My God, I choose everything — I will not be a saint by halves. I am not afraid of suffering for Thee; I fear only one thing, and that is to do my own will. Accept the offering of my will, for I choose all that Thou willest.”
But, dear Mother, I am forgetting myself — I must not tell you yet of my girlhood. I am still speaking of the baby of three and four years old.
I remember a dream I had at that age that impressed itself very deeply on my memory. I thought I was walking alone in the garden, when suddenly, I saw near the arbor two hideous little devils dancing with surprising agility on a barrel of lime, despite the heavy irons attached to their feet. At first they cast fiery glances at me; then, as though suddenly terrified, I saw them, in the twinkling of an eye, throw themselves down to the bottom of the barrel, from which they somehow came out only to run and hide themselves in the laundry, which opened into the garden. Finding them such cowards, I wanted to know what they were going to do; and, overcoming my fears, I went to the window. The wretched little creatures were there, running about on the tables, not knowing how to hide themselves from my gaze. From time to time they came nearer, peering through the windows with an uneasy air; then, seeing that I was still there, they began to run about again, looking quite desperate. Of course, this dream was nothing extraordinary; yet I think Our Lord made use of it to show me that a soul in the state of grace has nothing to fear from the devil, who is a coward and will even fly from the gaze of a little child.
Dear Mother, how happy I was at that age! I was beginning to enjoy life, and goodness itself seemed full of charms. Probably my character was the same as it is now, for even then I had great self-command, and made a practice of never complaining when my things were taken; even if I was unjustly accused, I preferred to keep silence. There was no merit in this, for I did it naturally.
How quickly those sunny years of my childhood passed away, and what tender memories they have imprinted on my mind! I remember the Sunday walks when my dear mother always accompanied us; and I can still feel the impression made on my childish heart by the sight of the fields bright with cornflowers, poppies, and marguerites. Even at that age I loved far-stretching views, sunlit spaces, and stately trees; in a word, all nature charmed me and lifted up my soul to heaven.
Often during these walks we met poor people. I was always chosen to give them alms, which made me feel very happy. Sometimes my dear father, knowing the way was too long for his little Queen, took me home. This was a cause of grief, and to console me Céline would fill her basket with daisies and give them to me on her return. Truly everything on earth smiled on me; I found flowers strewn at every step, and my naturally happy disposition helped to make life bright. But a new era was about to dawn.
I was to be the Spouse of Our Lord at such an early age that it was necessary I should suffer from my childhood. As the early spring flowers begin to come up under the snow and open at the first rays of the sun, so the Little Flower whose story I am writing had to pass through the winter of trial and to have her tender cup filled with the dew of tears.
Chapter II
A Catholic Household
All the details of my mother’s illness are still fresh in my mind. I remember especially her last weeks on earth, when Céline and I felt like poor little exiles. Every morning a friend came to fetch us, and we spent the day with her. Once, we had not had time to say our prayers before starting, and on the way my little sister whispered: “Must we tell her that we have not said our prayers?” “Yes,” I answered. So, very timidly, Céline confided our secret to her, and she exclaimed: “Well, well, children, you will say them.” Then she took us to a large room and left us there. Céline looked at me in amazement. I was equally astonished and exclaimed: “This is not like Mama; she always said our prayers with us.” During the day, despite all efforts to amuse us, the thought of our dear mother was constantly in our minds. I remember once, when my sister had an apricot given to her, she leaned toward me and said: “We will not eat it — I will give it to Mama.” Alas! — our beloved mother was now too ill to eat any earthly fruit; she would never more be satisfied but by the glory of heaven. There she would drink of the mysterious wine which Jesus, at His