Story of a Soul. Thérèse of Lisieux
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.5 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 around 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 toward 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 streetlamp 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 that 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 one 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 Saint 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 admit 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 next day 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 draughts6 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 today? Is God pleased with me? Will the angels watch over me?” The answer was always “Yes”; otherwise I would 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 would 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 nonetheless 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 the 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 that awaited him crossed my mind. But one day God showed