Story of a Soul. Thérèse of Lisieux
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 standing by another coffin, that of our holy Mother Genevieve,3 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 did not have 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 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 imitating Céline that I would 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 at ease only 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 acclimatized 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 toward them. I did not feel any grief at leaving my native town: children love change and anything out of the ordinary, 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 Buissonnets,4 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 that 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 would be among them; that in this blessed Carmel I would receive so many graces.
On returning home I learned 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 favorite amusements was making colored mixtures with seeds and the bark of trees. If the colors 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 that 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 would 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 especially 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 realized 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 around 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 raindrops, and we had to cross several fields to reach the road. Despite his fishing tackle, he carried me in his arms while I looked down in the beautiful jeweled 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 around 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 favors 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