Are all apostles? are all prophets? are all teachers? are all workers of miracles?
Have all the gifts of healing? do all speak with tongues? do all interpret? …
Though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it pro fiteth me nothing.
Charity suffereth long and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up.
Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil.…
Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
Many had read these words before Thérèse, but few had grasped as she grasped the possibilities of their extreme application.
“Seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, beareth all things, suffereth long.…” It was charity, then, charity and love, which should provide the key to her search. “My vocation is love!” she exclaimed. “At last I have found it! I will be love itself! O luminous lighthouse of love, I know how to reach you…. Love has chosen me for its holocaust; me, weak and imperfect creature… I have no means of proving my love save by throwing flowers, that is to say by neglecting no little sacrifice, no glance, no word, but to profit by the slightest actions and to perform them for love. I want to suffer through love and even to rejoice through love.” Through the whole of this ecstatic and even frenzied passage the key-word is the same; it is the widening circle of the love she had yielded to Jesus the first time she received Him and which was now to embrace every circumstance of life as she encountered it.
It does not seem to have occurred to her that she might practise her philosophy in the ordinary world: her burning desire was concentrated solely on getting into Carmel there to abandon herself utterly to her Beloved. There was no question of fear in her mind, no devils threatening, only a devouring impatience to run, to run, to be gathered to His heart. That was her goal, but many intolerable obstacles stood in her way of reaching it. There was her age, and then there was the necessity of obtaining her father’s consent. From Céline she had no opposition to fear, but she could not bring herself to broach the subject to her father. His two elder daughters had already left him for the same reason; Céline was destined to take the veil before long; he was no longer young; he had already had one attack of paralysis which might at any moment be renewed; a poisonous insect had bitten him on the neck during one of his fishing expeditions, leaving him with a painful and apparently incurable growth. The poor white-haired widower was in no condition to receive such a request. Thérèse hesitated and hesitated. By Whitsuntide she had made up her mind to speak. M. Martin was sitting innocently in the garden, contemplating the beauties of nature; Thérèse, always sensitive to nature, describes the evening: the setting sun was touching the tops of the high trees and the birds were singing their evening prayers. Her eyes full of tears she went and sat beside him on the bench.fn4
They both wept; M. Martin began by saying that she was much too young to take so grave a decision, but finally, picking a flower he gave it to her saying that God had made it bloom and had preserved it until that day. Unlike Don Alonso de Cepeda, he had given his consent. This difficulty overcome, and her uncle’s consent having also been obtained after a struggle, the next blow came in the shape of a message from the Superior of Carmel, M. le Chanoine Delatroëtte, to the effect that she could not be allowed to enter before the age of one-and-twenty. Thérèse had not expected this—it will be remembered that the Mother Superior had told her, when she was nine, that she must wait until she was sixteen, and it seems indeed that M. Delatroëtte was mistaken in his rigidity, for the rules of Carmel laid down no definite age limit for the novice as such, but insisted only that she should not make her solemn profession until she was seventeen. It was in vain that the Prioress endeavoured to persuade him. Her attempt produced an explosion of rage. “That girl again !” cried M. Delatroëtte. “One would really believe, to hear you, that the well-being of the community depended on the admission of that child. The establishment is in no danger. Let her stop with her father till she comes of age! Do you suppose, anyway, that I am refusing my consent without having consulted God? Let me hear no more of this affair !”
Thérèse prevailed upon her father to take her into the presence of the obstructive cleric, who received her very coldly with a categorical No. But being a conscientious man he added that he was, after all, only the delegate of the Bishop of Bayeux, and that if Monseigneur chose to give his consent he would have nothing more to say. The Bishop was very kind indeed when Thérèse, accompanied by her father, penetrated into the episcopal palace. They were at first welcomed by the Vicar-General, M. l’abbé Révérony who, although he had himself arranged for the interview, seemed slightly surprised to see them. He too, however, was most friendly. Perceiving tears in Thérèse’s eyes, he said, “Ah! I see diamonds. You mustn’t show those to Monseigneur!” Thérèse was very much frightened by all the grandeur, and said that she felt like a tiny ant after being conducted through all those vast drawing-rooms, nor was her confusion diminished when M. Révérony made her sit in an enormous arm-chair, which could have accommodated four people of her size, in front of a brightly burning fire. She had hoped that her father might speak for her, but no, she had to plead her cause for herself and ended up by telling the Bishop that she had desired to give herself to God ever since she was three years old.
Les Buissonnets, Lisieux
St Thérèse at the Convent of Lisieux
It is evident that the Bishop was surprised, touched, and rather amused, especially when M. Martin explained that in order to make herself appear older than she was she had put up her hair for the first time that morning. Thérèse was discomfited by this disclosure, and wished that Papa had not been so indiscreet, but the Bishop was sympathetic; he caressed her when in spite of M. Révérony’s warning he saw tears in her eyes; he promised that he would speak to M. Delatroëtte, thereby causing Thérèse’s heart to sink, for she knew well what the reply would be; he even escorted them down to his garden, told her that he was very glad to hear she was going on a pilgrimage to Rome with her father, and promised that she would have his answer on her return from Italy. She left, not having obtained much satisfaction, but another idea had already germinated in her mind.
VI
THRILLED THOUGH SHE naturally was by her journey—the splendours of Paris, the wild scenery of Switzerland, the cathedral of Milan, the cries of the gondoliers in Venice, the tongue of St. Anthony at Padua, the body of St. Catherine at Bologna—Thérèse kept her head and her judgment. “How interesting is the study of this world,” she observed, aged fourteen, “when one is on the eve of quitting it.” Nevertheless Rome was a tremendous excitement. All her desire for martyrdom flared up as she knelt to kiss the dust empurpled by the blood of the first Christians; and in the church of St. Agnes a minor miracle happened, which filled her with delight. She was beseeching the guide, in vain, to give her some relic of the saint for her sister Pauline who had taken the name of St. Agnes of Jesus, when a little piece of red marble broke away from a mosaic and fell at her feet. “Wasn’t that charming?” she writes. It was charming indeed, but the supreme moment was yet to come. Thérèse was even more alarmed than when she had sought out the Bishop of Bayeux, but at the same time she was absolutely resolved not to falter, for she knew that if she failed here there was no higher appeal on earth. The Prioress, M. Delatroëtte, the Bishop, and now the Pope….
The scene amid the gilded splendours of the Vatican was impressive enough to the child from Les Buissonnets. Leo XIII, with his fine old eagle face, was seated in a raised chair, dressed in a white soutane and white tippit. Around him stood priests and ecclesiastical dignitaries. No one spoke; the pilgrims passed in single file, kneeling to kiss first the foot, then the hand of the Pontiff, and to receive his benediction. They were then silently moved on by two Papal Guards and their place taken by the next pilgrim.
Thérèse had formed the startling resolve to break this silence
when her turn should come, a proof of no little courage considering the place, the occasion, and the reverential awe with which she of course regarded the Supreme Head of the Temporal Church. Fortunately, Papa had gone ahead and was already out of sight in the next room; but less fortunately M. l’abbé Révérony, the Vicar-General of Bayeux, was standing at the Pope’s right hand; already acquainted with Thérèse, he had some inkling of this determined child’s intention. As she approached the throne, he said suddenly and audibly that it was absolutely forbidden to speak to the Holy Father. Thérèse turned in distress to Céline who was just behind her.
“Speak!” Céline said.
The rest of the scene can be described in Thérèse’s own words. “The next instant, I was at the Pope’s knees. When I had kissed his slipper, he presented his hand to me. Then, raising towards him my eyes swimming in tears, I besought him in these terms, ‘Most Holy Father, I have a great favour to ask of you.’
“Immediately, bending his head down to me, his face almost touched mine; it was as though his black and profound eyes wanted to penetrate me into the recesses of my soul.
“‘Most Holy Father,’ I repeated, ‘in honour of your Jubilee, allow me to enter Carmel at fifteen!’
“The Vicar-General of Bayeux, surprised and displeased, now intervened.
“‘Most Holy Father, this is a child who desires the life of Carmel, but the authorities are looking into the question already.’
“‘Well, then, my child,’ said His Holiness to me, ‘do whatever the authorities decide.’
“Clasping my hands then and pressing them down on his knees, I essayed one last effort.
” ‘O ! Most Holy Father, if only you would say yes, everyone would be willing.’
“He looked at me very fixedly and pronounced these words, weighting each syllable in a penetrating tone,
“Come now … come now … you will enter if God wills it.’ “
Thérèse was about to speak again, when the Papal Guards required her to get up, but seeing that she would not move they each took her by the arm. The Vicar-General came to their assistance as she still remained with her hands clasped on the knees of the Pontiff. They took her away, but not before he had pressed his hand against her lips, blessed her, and watched her right out of sight. Thus the aged Pope and the little saint crossed once in their lives, met for an instant, and then were parted for ever.
VII
De la Suisse et de l’ltalie,
Ciel blue, fruits d’or, m’avaient ravie,
J’aimai surtout le regard plein de vie
Du saint viellard, Pontife-Roi, Sur moi.
MEANWHILE THE BISHOP of Bayeux had been busy on Thérèse’s behalf—though, disappointed at finding no word from him on her return to Normandy she did not omit to send him a note of reminder—and in April 1888 she finally entered Carmel. Her admittance comes almost as an anti-climax after all the turmoil and the struggle, and it is noteworthy that she herself, indefatigable recorder and analyst though she was, makes a relatively brief allusion to it. One would expect her to set down her finest shades of feeling, according to her custom, as she went through the ritual of initiation : the embrace given by every nun in turn, the few moments’ solitude allowed her in her cell, the general prayer for her in the postulants’ room, the donning of the black robe and veil, the shutting of the door against the familiar world. This ritual was not so awe-inspiring, certainly, as the ceremonies which would follow later, but the very fact of finding herself at last as an inhabitant within the sacred walls should have sufficed to rouse Thérèse to several pages of her lyrical outbursts. Not so. She seems to have taken it as a matter of course, as the inevitable. She records the human pang : “I threw a last glance towards Les Buissonnets…. I shed no tears, but, walking ahead to reach the cloister door, my heart was beating so violently that I wondered if I were going to die. Ah, what a moment! what an agony ! It must be experienced to be believed.” No more. For the rest, she had arrived in harbour and was embraced by the two sisters already anchored there.
M. Delatroëtte had considered it his duty to be present, but, for all the amiability he displayed, might have spared himself the trouble. He had been worsted, and he was not pleased. Making no attempt to accept his defeat with a good grace or to manifest the spirit of loving-kindness proper to his profession, he addressed the assembled nuns as follows : “Well ! my Reverend Mothers, you can sing a Te Deum ! As the delegate of Monseigneur the Bishop, I present to you this child of fifteen, whose entry you have desired. I trust that she will not disappoint your hopes, but I remind you that if it turns out otherwise, the responsibility will be yours alone.” Thérèse herself was too charitable to record these remarks in her autobiography.
Her prise d’habit took place nine months later, when M. Martin, unexpectedly recovering in time from a second stroke, was able to be present, and Thérèse passed into the chapel on her father’s arm. She was dressed, at his desire, in white velvet trimmed with swansdown and Point d’Alençon, a sheaf of white lilies in her hand and her long curls floating loosely over her shoulders. She was just sixteen. This second ceremony must be impressive and moving enough, yet again Thérèse makes no reference to it beyond dismissing it in the words “after the ceremony,” without describing anything of her emotions or of what had taken place. We know what took place. The new novice is escorted into the convent by a procession chanting the Magnificat; she sees an avenue of white-habited nuns bearing lighted candles; the Cross is held out for her to kiss; kneeling before a grille, she listens to the voice of a priest emphasising the harsh life she must expect : the renunciation of all pleasures of the senses and even of the most innocent human pleasures, the hard work, the harder privations, the silence, the cold, the loneliness, from now onwards until death. She is then led away to have her hair cut short to her head, and is dressed in the brown tunic and the white veil, with the sandals on her feet; the black belt, symbol of servitude; the scapular, symbol of Christ’s yoke; finally the great white cloak, symbol of candour and purity of heart. She will make no other change now, save that when she ceases to be a novice and takes her final vows, the white veil will be replaced by a black one and she will be given the long rosary and the big crucifix. Robed as a novice, she prostrates herself on the ground, her arms symbolically extended in the shape of the Cross.
Not M. Delatroëtte but the Bishop of Bayeux in person was present at the ceremony and again displayed a truly paternal benevolence towards Thérèse. He must have been a very charming man. In front of everybody he teased her, reminding her of her visit to the Palace and of how she had put up her hair for the first time that morning in order to appear older; then taking her shorn head between his hands, he gently caressed it. He could scarcely have foreseen then that thirty-four years later his successor in the Episcopal See would be celebrating the beatification of this child in St. Peter’s, in the presence of forty-five archbishops and bishops, of all the ambassadors accredited to the Vatican, and an overflowing crowd of people.
It would seem, then, as though nothing remained to relate; as though the curtain came quietly down, leaving Thérèse in her bare cell, awaiting only the day when her profession should be complete. It was not likely that she would avail herself of the liberty which was still hers, to desert her calling and return to the world. No further events, in the worldly sense of the word, could happen to her now, except the greatest event of all which would begin in the convent infirmary and would end with her finding the entire perfection she sought. The rigours of the Carmelite life, so terrible to the lay mind in their severity, may here be indicated in order to give some idea of the daily detail of her existence, bearing in mind always that Thérèse had been accustomed to a comfortable home; to the blazing fires and soft beds of Les Buissonnets; to the homely comfort of the well-to-do bourgeois; the solid dining-room table with the good and plentiful food; the come-and-go and chatter of her sisters and cousins; the liberty of the garden; the presiding benevolence of her father
, the friendly servant who gave one a candle-end as a special treat; the security which is the need of every child. In outward circumstances at least, Thérèse had always been suitably spoilt. Even when invited to kiss the ground for the bribe of a sou, she had not been compelled against her will to comply. All this was now exchanged for the austerity of Carmelite rule. There was now none of the frivolous laxity which had softened the days when Teresa had entered the Encarnacion; none of the gallant parties and conversations in the parlour; no peeping through doors, no receiving of titillating messages. Awakened at 5fn5 by the dry clappering of castanets in the corridors,—a curiously Spanish sound which could not fail to evoke the image of the great reformer of Avila,—the recluse opened her eyes upon the denudation of her cell. She must not even think of it as “my cell,” but as “our cell,” since all private possession is forbidden. The walls are whitewashed; the window barred. The bed is a board placed across two trestles, with a paillasse and no linen, only woollen sheets, a woollen pillow, and a coarse blanket of felt. There is no chair, no washstand, but since extreme cleanliness must be observed, a jug of water and a basin are placed on the floor. A writing-desk carries a work-basket and some devotional books. A crucifix, a holy water-stoup, and a religious picture hang on the walls, also a notice giving the constant reminder, “My daughter, what are you doing here?” A narrow wooden bench, and that is all. The cell measures nine feet by nine.
The Eagle and the Dove Page 15
