CHAPTER I
EARLIEST MEMORIES

It is to you, dear Mother, that I am about to confide the story of
my soul. When you asked me to write it, I feared the task might
unsettle me, but since then Our Lord has deigned to make me
understand that by simple obedience I shall please Him best. I
begin therefore to sing what must be my eternal song: "the Mercies
of the Lord."[1]

Before setting about my task I knelt before the statue of Our Lady
which had given my family so many proofs of Our Heavenly Mother's
loving care.[2] As I knelt I begged of that dear Mother to guide
my hand, and thus ensure that only what was pleasing to her should
find place here.

Then opening the Gospels, my eyes fell on these words: "Jesus,
going up into a mountain, called unto Him whom He would
Himself."[3]

They threw a clear light upon the mystery of my vocation and of my
entire life, and above all upon the favours which Our Lord has
granted to my soul. He does not call those who are worthy, but
those whom He will. As St. Paul says: "God will have mercy on whom
He will have mercy.[4] So then it is not of him that willeth, nor
of him that runneth, but of God that showeth mercy."[5]

I often asked myself why God had preferences, why all souls did
not receive an equal measure of grace. I was filled with wonder
when I saw extraordinary favours showered on great sinners like
St. Paul, St. Augustine, St. Mary Magdalen, and many others, whom
He forced, so to speak, to receive His grace. In reading the lives
of the Saints I was surprised to see that there were certain
privileged souls, whom Our Lord favoured from the cradle to the
grave, allowing no obstacle in their path which might keep them
from mounting towards Him, permitting no sin to soil the spotless
brightness of their baptismal robe. And again it puzzled me why so
many poor savages should die without having even heard the name of
God.

Our Lord has deigned to explain this mystery to me. He showed me
the book of nature, and I understood that every flower created by
Him is beautiful, that the brilliance of the rose and the
whiteness of the lily do not lessen the perfume of the violet or
the sweet simplicity of the daisy. I understood that if all the
lowly flowers wished to be roses, nature would lose its springtide
beauty, and the fields would no longer be enamelled with lovely
hues. And so it is in the world of souls, Our Lord's living
garden. He has been pleased to create great Saints who may be
compared to the lily and the rose, but He has also created lesser
ones, who must be content to be daisies or simple violets
flowering at His Feet, and whose mission it is to gladden His
Divine Eyes when He deigns to look down on them. And the more
gladly they do His Will the greater is their perfection.

I understood this also, that God's Love is made manifest as well
in a simple soul which does not resist His grace as in one more
highly endowed. In fact, the characteristic of love being
self-abasement, if all souls resembled the holy Doctors who have
illuminated the Church, it seems that God in coming to them would
not stoop low enough. But He has created the little child, who
knows nothing and can but utter feeble cries, and the poor savage
who has only the natural law to guide him, and it is to their
hearts that He deigns to stoop. These are the field flowers whose
simplicity charms Him; and by His condescension to them Our
Saviour shows His infinite greatness. As the sun shines both on
the cedar and on the floweret, so the Divine Sun illumines every
soul, great and small, and all correspond to His care--just as in
nature the seasons are so disposed that on the appointed day the
humblest daisy shall unfold its petals.

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 favour 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 Mamma,' 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, 'Mamma! Mamma!' 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, Mamma,' she answered, 'then if I am not
good, shall I go to Hell? Well, you know what I will do--I shall
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:
'Mamma, 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 wall paper; 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."