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 shall 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 Mamma, she always said our prayers
with us.” During the day, in spite of 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 leant
towards me and said: “We will not eat it, I will give it to
Mamma.” 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 Last Supper, promised to share with us in the
Kingdom of His Father.

The touching ceremony of Extreme Unction made a deep impression on
me. I can still see the place where I knelt, and hear my poor
Father’s sobs.

My dear Mother died on August 28, 1877, in her forty-sixth year.
The day after her death my Father took me in his arms and said:
“Come and kiss your dear Mother for the last time.” Without saying
a word I put my lips to her icy forehead. I do not remember having
cried much, and I did not talk to anyone of all that filled my
heart; I looked and listened in silence, and I saw many things
they would have hidden from me. Once I found myself close to the
coffin in the passage. I stood looking at it for a long time; I
had never seen one before, but I knew what it was. I was so small
that I had to lift up my head to see its whole length, and it
seemed to me very big and very sad.

Fifteen years later I was again standing by another coffin, that
of our holy Mother Genevieve,[1] and I was carried back to the
days of my childhood. Memories crowded upon me; it was the same
little Thérèse who looked at it, but she had grown, and the coffin
seemed small. She had not to lift up her head to it, now she only
raised her eyes to contemplate Heaven which seemed to her very
full of joy, for trials had matured and strengthened her soul, so
that nothing on earth could make her grieve.

Our Lord did not leave me wholly an orphan; on the day of my
Mother’s funeral He gave me another mother, and allowed me to
choose her freely. We were all five together, looking at one
another sadly, when our nurse, overcome with emotion, said,
turning to Céline and to me: “Poor little dears, you no longer
have a Mother.” Then Céline threw herself into Marie’s arms,
crying: “Well, you will be my Mother now.” I was so accustomed to
imitate Céline that I should undoubtedly have followed her
example, but I feared Pauline would be sad and feel herself left
out if she too had not a little daughter. So, with a loving look,
I hid my face on her breast saying in my turn: “And Pauline will
be my Mother.”

That day, as I have said, began the second period of my life. It
was the most sorrowful of all, especially after Pauline, my second
Mother, entered the Carmel; and it lasted from the time I was four
years old until I was fourteen, when I recovered much of my
childish gaiety, even though I understood more fully the serious
side of life.

I must tell you that after my Mother’s death my naturally happy
disposition completely changed. Instead of being lively and
demonstrative as I had been, I became timid, shy, and extremely
sensitive; a look was enough to make me burst into tears. I could
not bear to be noticed or to meet strangers, and was only at ease
in my own family circle. There I was always cherished with the
most loving care; my Father’s affectionate heart seemed endowed
with a mother’s love, and my sisters were no less tender and
devoted. If Our Lord had not lavished so much love and sunshine on
His Little Flower, she never could have become acclimatised to
this earth. Still too weak to bear the storm, she needed warmth,
refreshing dew, and soft breezes, and these gifts were never
wanting to her, even in the chilling seasons of trials.

Soon after my Mother’s death, Papa made up his mind to leave
Alençon and live at Lisieux, so that we might be near our uncle,
my Mother’s brother. He made this sacrifice in order that my young
sisters should have the benefit of their aunt’s guidance in their
new life, and that she might act as a mother towards them. I did
not feel any grief at leaving my native town: children love change
and anything out of the common, and so I was pleased to come to
Lisieux. I remember the journey quite well, and our arrival in the
evening at my uncle’s house, and I can still see my little
cousins, Jeanne and Marie, waiting on the doorstep with my aunt.
How touching was the affection all these dear ones showed us!

The next day they took us to our new home, Les Buissonets,[2]
situated in a quiet part of the town. I was charmed with the house
my Father had taken. The large upper window from which there was
an extensive view, the flower garden in front, and the kitchen
garden at the back—all these seemed delightfully new to my
childish mind; and this happy home became the scene of many joys
and of family gatherings which I can never forget. Elsewhere, as I
said before, I felt an exile, I cried and fretted for my Mother;
but here my little heart expanded, and I smiled on life once more.

When I woke there were my sisters ready to caress me, and I said
my prayers kneeling between them. Then Pauline gave me my reading
lesson, and I remember that “Heaven” was the first word I could
read alone. When lessons were over I went upstairs, where Papa was
generally to be found, and how pleased I was when I had good marks
to show. Every afternoon I went out for a walk with him, and we
paid a visit to the Blessed Sacrament in one or other of the
Churches. It was in this way that I first saw the Chapel of the
Carmel: “Look, little Queen,” Papa said to me, “behind that big
grating there are holy nuns who are always praying to Almighty
God.” Little did I think that nine years later I should be amongst
them, that in this blessed Carmel I should receive so many graces.

On returning home I learnt my lessons, and then spent the rest of
the day playing in the garden near Papa. I never cared for dolls,
but one of my favourite amusements was making coloured mixtures
with seeds and the bark of trees. If the colours were pretty, I
would promptly offer them to Papa in a little cup and entice him
to taste them; then my dearest Father would leave his work and
smilingly pretend to drink. I was very fond of flowers, and amused
myself by making little altars in holes which I happened to find
in the middle of my garden wall. When finished I would run and
call Papa, and he seemed delighted with them. I should never stop
if I told you of the thousand and one incidents of this kind that
I can remember. How shall I make you understand the love that my
Father lavished on his little Queen!

Those were specially happy days for me when I went fishing with my
dear “King,” as I used to call him. Sometimes I tried my hand with
a small rod of my own, but generally I preferred to sit on the
grass some distance away. Then my reflections became really deep,
and, without knowing what meditation meant, my soul was absorbed
in prayer. Far-off sounds reached me, the murmuring of the wind,
sometimes a few uncertain notes of music from a military band in
the town a long way off; all this imparted a touch of melancholy
to my thoughts. Earth seemed a place of exile, and I dreamed of
Heaven.

The afternoon passed quickly away, and it was soon time to go
home, but before packing up I would eat the provisions I had
brought in a small basket. Somehow the slices of bread and jam,
prepared by my sisters, looked different; they had seemed so
tempting, and now they looked stale and uninviting. Even such a
trifle as this made the earth seem sadder, and I realised that
only in Heaven will there be unclouded joy.

Speaking of clouds, I remember how one day when we were out, the
blue sky became overcast and a storm came on, accompanied by vivid
lightning. I looked round on every side, so as to lose nothing of
the grand sight. A thunderbolt fell in a field close by, and, far
from feeling the least bit afraid, I was delighted—it seemed that
God was so near. Papa was not so pleased, and put an end to my
reverie, for already the tall grass and daisies, taller than I,
were sparkling with rain-drops, and we had to cross several fields
to reach the road. In spite of his fishing tackle, he carried me
in his arms while I looked down in the beautiful jewelled drops,
almost sorry that I could not be drenched by them.

I do not think I have told you that in our daily walks at Lisieux,
as in Alençon, I often used to give alms to the beggars. One day
we came upon a poor old man who dragged himself painfully along on
crutches. I went up to give him a penny. He looked sadly at me for
a long time, and then, shaking his head with a sorrowful smile, he
refused my alms. I cannot tell you what I felt; I had wished to
help and comfort him, and instead of that, I had, perhaps, hurt
him and caused him pain. He must have guessed my thought, for I
saw him turn round and smile at me when we were some way off.

Just then Papa bought me a cake. I wished very much to run after
the old man and give it to him, for I thought: “Well, he did not
want money, but I am sure he would like to have a cake.” I do not
know what held me back, and I felt so sad I could hardly keep from
crying; then I remembered having heard that one obtains all the
favours asked for on one’s First Communion Day. This thought
consoled me immediately, and though I was only six years old at
the time, I said to myself: “I will pray for my poor old man on
the day of my First Communion.” Five years later I faithfully kept
my resolution. I have always thought that my childish prayer for
this suffering member of Christ has been blessed and rewarded.

As I grew older my love of God grew more and more. I often offered
my heart to Him, using the words my Mother had taught me, and I
tried very hard to please Him in all my actions, taking great care
never to offend Him. And yet one day I committed a fault which I
must tell you here—it gives me a good opportunity of humbling
myself, though I believe I have grieved over it with perfect
contrition.

It was the month of May, 1878. My sisters decided that I was too
small to go to the May devotions every evening, so I stayed at
home with the nurse and said my prayers with her before the little
altar which I had arranged according to my own taste. Everything
was small—candlesticks, vases, and the rest; two wax vestas were
quite sufficient to light it up properly. Sometimes Victoire, the
maid, gave me some little bits of real candle, but not often.

One evening, when we went to our prayers, I said to her: “Will you
begin the Memorare? I am going to light the candles.” She tried
to begin, and then looked at me and burst out laughing. Seeing my
precious vestas burning quickly away, I begged her once more to
say the Memorare. Again there was silence, broken only by bursts
of laughter. All my natural good temper deserted me. I got up
feeling dreadfully angry, and, stamping my foot furiously, I cried
out: “Victoire, you naughty girl!” She stopped laughing at once,
and looked at me in utter astonishment, then showed me—too
late—the surprise she had in store hidden under her apron—two
pieces of candle. My tears of anger were soon changed into tears
of sorrow; I was very much ashamed and grieved, and made a firm
resolution never to act in such a way again.

Shortly after this I made my first confession.[3] It is a very
sweet memory. Pauline had warned me: “Thérèse, darling, it is not
to a man but to God Himself that you are going to tell your sins.”
I was so persuaded of this that I asked her quite seriously if I
should not tell Father Ducellier that I loved him “with my whole
heart,” as it was really God I was going to speak to in his person.

Well instructed as to what I was to do, I entered the
confessional, and turning round to the priest, so as to see him
better, I made my confession and received absolution in a spirit
of lively faith—my sister having assured me that at this solemn
moment the tears of the Holy Child Jesus would purify my soul. I
remember well that he exhorted me above all to a tender devotion
towards Our Lady, and I promised to redouble my love for her who
already filled so large a place in my heart. Then I passed him my
Rosary to be blessed, and came out of the Confessional more joyful
and lighthearted than I had ever felt before. It was evening, and
as soon as I got to a street lamp I stopped and took the newly
blessed Rosary out of my pocket, turning it over and over. “What
are you looking at, Thérèse, dear?” asked Pauline. “I am seeing
what a blessed Rosary looks like.” This childish answer amused my
sisters very much. I was deeply impressed by the graces I had
received, and wished to go to confession again for all the big
feasts, for these confessions filled me with joy. The feasts! What
precious memories these simple words bring to me. I loved them;
and my sisters knew so well how to explain the mysteries hidden in
each one. Those days of earth became days of Heaven. Above all I
loved the procession of the Blessed Sacrament: what a joy it was
to strew flowers in God’s path! But before scattering them on the
ground I threw them high in the air, and was never so happy as
when I saw my rose-leaves touch the sacred Monstrance.

And if the great feasts came but seldom, each week brought one
very dear to my heart, and that was Sunday. What a glorious day!
The Feast of God! The day of rest! First of all the whole family
went to High Mass, and I remember that before the sermon we had to
come down from our places, which were some way from the pulpit,
and find seats in the nave. This was not always easy, but to
little Thérèse and her Father everyone offered a place. My uncle
was delighted when he saw us come down; he called me his
“Sunbeam,” and said that to see the venerable old man leading his
little daughter by the hand was a sight which always filled him
with joy. I never troubled myself if people looked at me, I was
only occupied in listening attentively to the preacher. A sermon
on the Passion of our Blessed Lord was the first I understood, and
it touched me deeply. I was then five and a half, and after that
time I was able to understand and appreciate all instructions. If
St. Teresa was mentioned, my Father would bend down and whisper to
me: “Listen attentively, little Queen, he is speaking of your holy
patroness.” I really did listen attentively, but I must own I
looked at Papa more than at the preacher, for I read many things
in his face. Sometimes his eyes were filled with tears which he
strove in vain to keep back; and as he listened to the eternal
truths he seemed no longer of this earth, his soul was absorbed in
the thought of another world. Alas! Many long and sorrowful years
had to pass before Heaven was to be opened to him, and Our Lord
with His Own Divine Hand was to wipe away the bitter tears of His
faithful servant.

To go back to the description of our Sundays. This happy day which
passed so quickly had also its touch of melancholy; my happiness
was full till Compline, but after that a feeling of sadness took
possession of me. I thought of the morrow when one had to begin
again the daily life of work and lessons, and my heart, feeling
like an exile on this earth, longed for the repose of Heaven—the
never ending Sabbath of our true Home. Every Sunday my aunt
invited us in turns to spend the evening with her. I was always
glad when mine came, and it was a pleasure to listen to my uncle’s
conversation. His talk was serious, but it interested me, and he
little knew that I paid such attention; but my joy was not unmixed
with fear when he took me on his knee and sang “Bluebeard” in his
deep voice.

About eight o’clock Papa would come to fetch me. I remember that I
used to look up at the stars with inexpressible delight. Orion’s
belt fascinated me especially, for I saw in it a likeness to the
letter “T.” “Look, Papa,” I would cry, “my name is written in
Heaven!” Then, not wishing to see this dull earth any longer, I
asked him to lead me, and with my head thrown back, I gazed
unweariedly at the starry skies.

I could tell you much about our winter evenings at home. After a
game of draughts my sisters read aloud Dom Guéranger’s Liturgical
Year, and then a few pages of some other interesting and
instructive book. While this was going on I established myself on
Papa’s knee, and when the reading was done he used to sing
soothing snatches of melody in his beautiful voice, as if to lull
me to sleep, and I would lay my head on his breast while he rocked
me gently to and fro.

Later on we went upstairs for night prayers, and there again my
place was beside my beloved Father, and I had only to look at him
to know how the Saints pray. Pauline put me to bed, and I
invariably asked her: “Have I been good to-day? Is God pleased
with me? Will the Angels watch over me?” The answer was always
“Yes,” otherwise I should have spent the whole night in tears.
After these questions my sisters kissed me, and little Thérèse was
left alone in the dark.

I look on it as a real grace that from childhood I was taught to
overcome my fears. Sometimes in the evening Pauline would send me
to fetch something from a distant room; she would take no refusal,
and she was quite right, for otherwise I should have become very
nervous, whereas now it is difficult to frighten me. I wonder
sometimes how my little Mother was able to bring me up with so
much tenderness, and yet without spoiling me, for she did not pass
over the least fault. It is true she never scolded me without
cause, and I knew well she would never change her mind when once a
thing was decided upon.

To this dearly loved sister I confided my most intimate thoughts;
she cleared up all my doubts. One day I expressed surprise that
God does not give an equal amount of glory to all the elect in
Heaven—I was afraid that they would not all be quite happy. She
sent me to fetch Papa’s big tumbler, and put it beside my tiny
thimble, then, filling both with water, she asked me which seemed
the fuller. I replied that one was as full as the other—it was
impossible to pour more water into either of them, for they could
not hold it. In this way Pauline made it clear to me that in
Heaven the least of the Blessed does not envy the happiness of the
greatest; and so, by bringing the highest mysteries down to the
level of my understanding, she gave my soul the food it needed.

Joyfully each year I welcomed the prize day. Though I was the only
competitor, justice was none the less strictly observed, and I
never received rewards unless they were well merited. My heart
used to beat with excitement when I heard the decisions, and in
presence of the whole family received prizes from Papa’s hands. It
was to me like a picture of the Judgment Day!

Seeing Papa so cheerful, no suspicion of the terrible trials which
awaited him crossed my mind; but one day God showed me, in an
extraordinary vision, a vivid picture of the trouble to come. My
Father was away on a journey, and could not return as early as
usual. It was about two or three o’clock in the afternoon; the sun
was shining brightly, and all the world seemed gay. I was alone at
the window, looking on to the kitchen garden, my mind full of
cheerful thoughts, when I saw before me, in front of the
wash-house, a man dressed exactly like Papa, of the same height
and appearance, but more bent and aged. I say aged, to describe
his general appearance, for I did not see his face as his head was
covered with a thick veil. He advanced slowly, with measured step,
along my little garden; at that instant a feeling of supernatural
fear seized me, and I called out loudly in a trembling voice:
“Papa, Papa!” The mysterious person seemed not to hear, he
continued his walk without even turning, and went towards a clump
of firs which grew in the middle of the garden. I expected to see
him reappear at the other side of the big trees, but the prophetic
vision had vanished.

It was all over in a moment, but it was a moment which impressed
itself so deeply on my memory that even now, after so many years,
the remembrance of it is as vivid as the vision itself.

My sisters were all together in an adjoining room. Hearing me call
“Papa!” they were frightened themselves, but Marie, hiding her
feelings, ran to me and said: “Why are you calling Papa, when he
is at Alençon?” I told her what I had seen, and to reassure me
they said that Nurse must have covered her head with her apron on
purpose to frighten me. Victoire, however, when questioned,
declared she had not left the kitchen—besides, the truth was too
deeply impressed on my mind: I had seen a man, and that man was
exactly like my Father. We all went to look behind the clump of
trees, and, finding nothing, my sisters told me to think no more
about it. Ah, that was not in my power! Often and often my
imagination brought before me this mysterious vision, often and
often I tried to raise the veil which hid its true meaning, and
deep down in my heart I had a conviction that some day it would be
fully revealed to me. And you know all, dear Mother. You know that
it was really my Father whom God showed me, bent by age, and
bearing on his venerable face and his white head the symbol of his
terrible trial.[4]

As the Adorable Face of Jesus was veiled during His Passion, so it
was fitting that the face of His humble servant should be veiled
during the days of his humiliation, in order that it might shine
with greater brilliancy in Heaven. How I admire God’s ways! He
showed us this precious cross beforehand, as a father shows his
children the glorious future he is preparing for them—a future
which will bring them an inheritance of priceless treasures.

But a thought comes into my mind: “Why did God give this light to
a child who, if she had understood it, would have died of grief?”
“Why?” Here is one of those incomprehensible mysteries which we
shall only understand in Heaven, where they will be the subject of
our eternal admiration. My God, how good Thou art! How well dost
Thou suit the trial to our strength!

At that time I had not courage even to think that Papa could die,
without being terrified. One day he was standing on a high
step-ladder, and as I was close by he called out: “Move away,
little Queen; if I fall I shall crush you.” Instantly I felt an
inward shock, and, going still nearer to the ladder, I thought:
“At least if Papa falls I shall not have the pain of seeing him
die, for I shall die with him.” I could never say how much I loved
him. I admired everything he did. When he explained his ideas on
serious matters, as if I were a big girl, I answered him naïvely:
“It is quite certain, Papa, that if you spoke like that to the
great men who govern the country they would take you and make you
King. Then France would be happier than it was ever been; but you
would be unhappy, because that is the lot of kings; besides you
would no longer be my King alone, so I am glad that they do not
know you.”

When I was six or seven years old I saw the sea for the first
time. The sight made a deep impression on me, I could not take my
eyes off it. Its majesty, and the roar of the waves, all spoke to
my soul of the greatness and power of God. I remember, when we
were on the beach, a man and woman looked at me for a long time,
then, asking Papa if I was his child, they remarked that I was a
very pretty little girl. Papa at once made a sign to them not to
flatter me; I was delighted to hear what they said, for I did not
think I was pretty. My sisters were most careful never to talk
before me in such a way as to spoil my simplicity and childish
innocence; and, because I believed so implicitly in them, I
attached little importance to the admiration of these people and
thought no more about it.

That evening at the hour when the sun seems to sink into the vast
ocean, leaving behind it a trail of glory, I sat with Pauline on a
bare rock, and gazed for long on this golden furrow which she told
me was an image of grace illumining the way of faithful souls here
below. Then I pictured my soul as a tiny barque, with a graceful
white sail, in the midst of the furrow, and I resolved never to
let it withdraw from the sight of Jesus, so that it might sail
peacefully and quickly towards the Heavenly Shore.
______________________________

[1] This holy nun had been professed at the Carmel of Poitiers,
and was sent from there to make the foundation at Lisieux in 1838.
Her memory is held in benediction in both these convents; in the
sight of God she constantly practised the most heroic virtue, and
on December 5, 1891, crowned a life of good works by a holy death.
She was then eighty-six years of age.

[2] This house, an object of deep interest to the clients of Soeur
Thérèse, is much frequented by pilgrims to Lisieux. [Ed.]

[3] This first confession was made in the beautiful church of St.
Pierre, formerly the cathedral of Lisieux. [Ed.]

[4] It seems advisable, on account of the vague allusions which
occur here and elsewhere, to state what happened to M. Louis
Martin. At the age of sixty-six, having already had several
partial attacks, he was struck with general paralysis, and his
mind gave way altogether.