SPIRITUAL DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE SOUL, THE BODY, SELF-LOVE, THE SPIRIT, HUMANITY, AND THE LORD GOD DIVIDED INTO THREE PARTS
In the first part St. Catherine relates in what
manner she was captivated by worldly allurements, and how, from this state, she
was entirely converted to God, and devoted herself to austere works of penance.
In the second, she describes the sublime perfection
of the spiritual life in which she is engaged.
In the third, she discourses of the divine love
and of its wonderful effects, and how she has experienced them all in herself.
FIRST PART
CONTAINING THE DISCOURSE OF THE SOUL WITH THE BODY AND SELF-LOVE; AND ALSO OF THE SPIRIT WITH HUMANITY
CHAPTER I
The soul and the body propose to travel in company, and to take self-love for a third party.
I saw, said the saint, a Soul and a Body conversing
with one another; and first, the Soul said: My Body, God has created me to love,
and to enjoy myself; I wish, therefore, to go where I can best accomplish this
design, and to have you accompany me in a friendly way, since it will be to your
advantage also. We will go through the world; if I find anything which pleases
me, I will enjoy it; you can do the same when you find anything which pleases
you; and let him do better that can.
The Body answered: Though I may be obliged to do
whatever pleases you, yet I see that you cannot accomplish all that you wish
without me. Therefore, if we are to set forth together let us come to a perfect
understanding before we start, in order that we may not fall out by the way.
For my own part, I agree to your proposal, but let each of us be satisfied with
the success of the other when he meets with anything that pleases him, for such
forbearance, will keep us in peace. I advise this beforehand, because I do not
wish that you should deceive me, and say whenever I find something that I like: "I
do not wish you to linger here, for I am going elsewhere to attend to my own
concerns," and thus I might find myself obliged to abandon my own plans
in order to follow yours. In that case, I assure you I should die, and our design
would be frustrated. To prevent this, I think it would be well to take with us
a third companion, some just person who has no share in our partnership, and
to whom all our differences could be referred.
Soul. I am well-pleased with this proposal;
but who shall this third person be?
Body. Let it be Self-Love, who lives with
us both; he will see that I have what belongs to me, and I shall enjoy with him.
He will do the same for you, and thus, both will be satisfied, each in his own
way.
Soul. What shall we do if we find food equally
gratifying to both?
Body. Let him eat who may. If there is enough
for both there will be no disagreement. If there is not enough, Self-Love will
give to each his share. But since our tastes are so different, it will be most
extraordinary if we should find food equally pleasing to both, unless one or
the other should change; which is contrary to the nature of things.
Soul. By nature I am more powerful than
you, and therefore I have no fear of your converting me to your tastes.
Body. But this is my home, where I have
so many delightful things to enjoy, that although you may be more powerful than
I, you could not possibly awaken in me the desire to be converted to yours. But
I, being, as I have said, at home, might more easily convert you to my tastes,
doing it from love and from a wish to please you, for you are seeking things
which you neither see, taste, nor understand,--nor do you even know where your
home is.
Soul. Let us try the experiment; but, in
the first place, we must make some agreement by which we may secure harmony.
Let us take alternate weeks. When it is my turn you must do whatever is pleasing
to me; and, in like manner, when yours comes, I will do whatever you wish, always
excepting, so long as I live, whatever would offend our Creator. If I die, that
is, if you induce me to offend him, I shall then be your servant to do your bidding,
for in that case I shall be wholly converted to your wishes, and shall take pleasure
in whatever pleases you. Being thus united, no one but God can ever interrupt
our union,for it will always be protected by free-will; and both in this world
and the next we shall receive together the reward of all the good and evil that
we do. A like fate will be yours, if I succeed in conquering you.
But here comes Self-Love. You have heard the whole.
Will you be our third party, our judge, and the companion of our journey?
Self-Love. I consent, and shall find it
greatly to my advantage. I shall give each of you what belongs to him, for this
will not injure me; and thus I shall live on equal terms with both. But if either
of you should wrong me, and deprive me of my support, I shall immediately have
recourse to the other, for on no account would I be deprived of my own subsistence.
Body. I am not one who would ever abandon
you.
Soul. Nor would I ever do so, especially
as we all agree and understand that, above all things, we are to avoid offending
God. Therefore, if either of us sins, the others will check the offender. Now,
in God's name, let us go, and I, being the most worthy, will take the first week.
Body. I am contented; guide me, and do with
me whatever reason directs. Self-Love and I yield to you.
CHAPTER II
The Soul and the Body take their turns, in which each enjoys itself according to its wishes and tastes.
Then the Soul said within itself:
Soul. I, who am pure and without a stain
of sin, will begin by considering my first creation and all the other benefits
I have received from God. I know that I was created for such blessedness, and
of such dignity, that I can almost soar above the choirs of angels, and I find
myself in possession of a mind all but divine; for I am always drawn by my pure
intelligence to the meditation and contemplation of divine things, and filled
with the constant desire to eat my bread with the bread of angels. I am, in truth,
invisible. I would have, then, all my food and all my delight in things invisible,
for to this end was I created, and here I find my rest. I have nothing to do
but to draw down from heaven the strength which I need, and to put all things
else beneath my feet; I will, therefore, spend this entire week in contemplation,
and take heed of naught else. Let him live thus who can do so; and he who cannot
must have patience.
But I see that my companions are growing restless.
I will go towards them. Well, my comrades, I have finished my week; do you, O
Body! treat me in yours as you see fit. But tell me, how has it fared with you
while I took my turn?
Self-Love. Not well; for into your regions
neither Self-Love nor mortal Body can enter. We have had not the slightest nourishment
and are nearly dead; now, however, we hope to have our revenge.
Body. Now it is my turn. Come, Soul, with
me. I will show you how much God has done for me. Behold the heavens and the
earth with all that adorns them; the sea with its fish, the air with its birds;
and then, so many kingdoms, principalities, cities, provinces, as well spiritual
as temporal: great dignities, numerous treasures; songs, sounds, and food of
every kind for my support in never-failing supplies to the end of time, as well
as innumerable other delights. And I can enjoy all these without offending God,
for he created them all for me. You have not shown me your country as I am showing
you mine. But as I cannot have my will unless you deign to indulge me in it,
I venture to remind you that you are under great obligations to me, and that
you must not think of going into that country of yours, and leaving me starving
on the earth. You cannot do it, for I should die, and it would be your fault;
you would offend God, and then we should all be your enemies. I have the advantage
of being able to enjoy all these things while I live, and in the next life of
enjoying your country also, saving myself, as I shall do, by your means. Remember
that I am concerned in your salvation, for I shall be always with you; and do
not believe that I desire anything contrary to reason, or displeasing to God.
Ask your comrade, Self-Love, if I am not speaking the truth. I would not be unreasonable
in my demands, and I will abide by his decision. I am sure that what I am seeking
for you, is not only needful, but also agreeable to the will of God.
CHAPTER III
How Self-Love blames both the Soul and the Body, and wishes to rule them himself.--The Soul complains, and the Body, adhering to Self-Love, demands what its needs require.
Self-Love. I see your motives, which seem to me
very reasonable when you do not go beyond the bounds of charity which God prescribed
when he said: "Love thy neighbor as thyself." But, in the first place,
the Soul has made no account of us, so that we have been actually in peril of
our lives; and, on the other hand, I have seen the Body making too great a display
to the Soul, of things that are unnecessary to both. In short, O Soul, you must
restrain your impulses, and condescend to the necessities of your neighbors,
your Body, and myself, if we undertake to live with you in that country of yours
I have found nothing for myself; it is, in good truth, the very last of all places
in which I should choose to take up my abode. As for you, O Body, it is enough
for you to have the necessaries of life, since superfluities are as injurious
to you as they would be to the Soul, were she to yield to you. But if you give
them up, each of you will be able to live moderately, and according to his taste;
I shall find it possible to remain with you, and being thus united, each will
enjoy, with discretion, the advantages belonging to the others. If you wish,
O Soul, to avail yourself of the Body, you must give it the requisite support,
or it will complain; if you nourish it, it will be quiet, and you can use it
as you please. In that case, both of you will be at peace, and I shall be obliged
to go away, for I could not live with you. This is my opinion.
Soul. I am greatly displeased and dissatisfied
to be obliged to condescend, in so many things, to the Body; and I fear that
feeding it, under this plea of necessity, will lead to my taking part in its
gratifications, and thus finally losing the greater for the less. Seeing both
of you so craving, makes me fear that you will give me so much to do, that you
will change me from spiritual into earthly; for, after tasting earthly things,
I shall lose my relish for heavenly ones. I fear, too, lest the intellect should
be defiled and the will corrupted. Help me, O my God!
Body. It seems to me that Self-Love has
settled the question, and we may go on joyfully in company. As far as you are
concerned, O Soul, do not forget that God would not have created the things that
he has created, if they were injurious to souls. The Soul was endowed with so
much power and dignity, that she cannot be held back without her own consent,
for her will is so much respected by God that He never forces it. Neither I nor
others, therefore, can take anything from you but by your own consent. You hold
the reins; give to each what he needs, and then let him complain who will.
The Soul. What are these necessities of
which you speak as indispensable? Tell me, that I may, once for all, provide
for them, and never think of them again; the mere idea of them greatly disturbs
me.
Body. I must have clothes, food, drink,
and sleep; and be served, and amused, if you wish me to be in a condition to
serve you when occasion requires; when you desire to occupy yourself with spiritual
things, you must not weary me, for if I am taxed too much I shall not be able
to attend to your affairs. But if you will look after my necessities, you can
entertain your mind with the thought that God, who has made so many delightful
things for this mortal body, has provided much greater goods for you, O immortal
Soul! Thus God will ever be praised, and each of us be satisfied in his own way.
If any difference occurs between us, our Self-Love, who is so wise, will adjust
it, and we shall all be able to live together in most holy peace.
Soul. Come, then; I will provide for your
necessities, since I cannot do otherwise; but I suspect that you have joined
against me. Yet your words appear so reasonable that I am obliged to submit although
I distrust you when I hear you so often refer to me, and say that you can do
nothing without me. Perhaps, by the help of God, I shall one day escape your
hands, and live in his service without you.
CHAPTER IV
The Soul, the Body, and Self-Love pursue their journey, during which the Soul cannot complete her whole week, and the Body encroaches upon it.--The Soul allows herself to be persuaded by Self-Love under pretext of the necessities of her two companions.--The Soul laments her condition and proposes not to take her turn again.
Body. Let us go straight forward on our journey,
and thus traveling through the world in harmony, each will accomplish his own
business, seeking, according to his condition, support, food, and pleasure.
Soul. My turn has come again, but alas!
I cannot do as I did at first. I find myself drawn to earth by the pressing necessities
of others, for which I am bound to provide; and thus my time passes only half-improved,
while I live with these my companions on the best terms I can. It seems to me
a heavy mortification to be obliged to leave so great a thing as divine contemplation,
in order to employ myself in providing food for animals; so that the difference
between this week and the other is as great as between light and darkness.
Body. This is my week, and I find myself
almost famished through the fastings imposed upon me by the Soul. Yet I see that
she condescends to my necessities, and therefore, I must take good care of myself
and gain all the strength I can. Indeed I feel better already. In this way, I
need not fear what the Soul may do to harm me during her week, especially as
she is not able to keep the high stand she took at first, and thus I have not
only my own week, but half of hers; and my needs, which she cannot but supply,
are growing greater every day.
Soul. O Self-Love! I see that I am robbed
of my rights by condescending to your endless necessities, and leaving the right
path by permitting myself to be led by you, who are so self-seeking; in the end,
we may find ourselves all astray. Will you, then, who are the umpire, tell me
candidly what you think?
Self-Love. Soul, you have, without any cause,
become so estranged from us, that you think it a great matter to condescend to
the needs of others, especially from the height to which you had ascended. By
degrees, however, you will become more settled; and keeping company with us will
not appear so great a hardship to you as it now does. Have no doubts--God will
provide. You are not to enjoy perfect happiness in this life, but in the next.
Now take what you can get, and do the best you can.
Soul. I see not how I can defend myself,
since I live with you, and you are united against me. It does me no good to take
my turn, for your wants are so incessant that you allow me not a day's rest,
and so engrossing that I have no time for myself.
And when your turn comes, you wish to have everything
according to your own pleasure and proclaim yourselves masters. I cannot but
be a loser in the end, and therefore, I think seriously that I will try this
plan no longer, but will let each one provide for himself, and find food where
he can. I shall try to bear myself toward each of you in the best way I am able,
since I have no choice in the matter, but must, perforce, remain with you.
Body and Self-Love. In our judgment
this will answer very well. We can all live peaceably without quitting our own
spheres, the more easily, since you, O Soul! have at length discovered your mistake.
CHAPTER V
The Soul yields to the allurements of the Body and of Self-Love, and falls into the depths of sin.--Of the little satisfaction she takes in earthly things, and the trifles that are sufficient to content the Body.--Of the troubles of the Soul.
And thus they went traveling through the world,
each seeking to gratify his own desires, and living according to his own pleasure.
The Soul looked after the Body, and granted it many things that it esteemed necessary;
but, day by day, its appetites increased, incited by Self-Love, which bound them
closely together, that they might not become divided. Everything appeared to
them reasonable and necessary. They were never willing to deny themselves anything,
and if they were not permitted to obtain every day something new, some fresh
nourishment, they murmured, and complained that they were injured. Thus was the
Soul finally led into an unfathomable sea of earthly love and delight, which
effected in her so great a transformation, that she could no longer think or
speak of anything, except according to the will of the Body and Self-Love. If
she wished to turn to her own concerns, overpowered by her disorderly appetites,
she dared not speak; and, in her discontent, she thus reflected within herself:
"If they should lead me as far into their
own country as I led them into mine, during the first week, who will rescue me
from their power? Without doubt, they will, under the plea of necessity, do with
me whatever they see fit."
Now this Soul, which still craved some support
for her life, in order not to fall into despondency, as she had been created
for love and happiness, trimmed her sail to the wind, although it was contrary,
and finding herself no longer able to live in her own region, she still sustained
herself, as best she could, saying, with some show of truth: "This beauty,
pleasure, goodness, grandeur, and delight, together with all that adorns created
things, furnish one means of knowing and tasting those that are divine;" and
when she had tasted them she exclaimed: "Oh, how beautiful must be celestial
things!"
And thus, still traveling with her two companions,
she daily lost something of her natural, divine instinct, and fed on the husks
for swine, as bestial as the body, so that, in a short time, the three found
themselves on very good terms with one another.
While they were journeying on, in such great love
and harmony, without any dissension, we may imagine what became of the rights
of the superior reason. Nothing more was said about it. All their attention was
turned to earthly things, to temporal pleasures, delights, and loves; and spiritual
things seemed so unpalatable to them that they had no desire either to speak
or hear of them, lest they should interfere with their earthly satisfactions.
Thus they continued for some time, until nothing remained to the soul but a little
compunction, which she seldom noticed, although at times she did so when it remained
her of the risk she ran of losing everything at death. This thought caused her
great fear, but when it left her she returned to the same course as before. One
thing alone was against her, and that was, that although her companions and herself
were all agreed to satisfy their appetites as fully as possible, yet they were
not able to do so; for the soul having a boundless capacity, all finite and earthly
things could neither satisfy her nor give her peace; the more she sought, the
more restless she became, because she wandered farther every day from God, her
true rest.
Yet earthly things so far blinded her that she
believed she found peace here below; she strove, therefore, to keep herself continually
occupied, in order to satisfy herself, and when she could not accomplish this
in the manner she proposed, she became disgusted, and, in her interior blindness,
tried something else. Thus passing from one thing to another, and from one hope
to another, she forgot herself; and losing her time in these pursuits, she never
obtained her wish, for so it was mercifully ordained by the Lord God. And certainly
if man could find rest on earth, few souls would be saved, for they would become
so absorbed in earthly things that they would make no effort to free themselves
from them. The Soul, by her natural instinct, seeks enjoyment; and when she is
blinded by the Body, she procures her pleasures through its means. So the Body
leads her on from one thing to another, as they seek their food together; and
though the Soul has an infinite capacity, and cannot, by means of the Body, find
aught that will content her, yet she foolishly allows herself to be led by it,
without receiving any satisfaction.
But the more the Body assimilates the Soul to itself,
the more ways has it to enjoy and please itself with earthly things, since all
its satisfaction comes through the condescension of the Soul; so that, if the
Soul did not give her consent, the Body would have neither enjoyment nor delight.
But as the Body is so closely united with the Soul, which cannot be contented
with the things of earth, and as it cannot further her wishes, nor yield her
the enjoyment she desires, therefore she is famished. And this is because the
tastes of the Body are capable of satisfaction; for when its wants, of whatever
nature, are appeased, the appetite is lost, and it can enjoy no more. It is true
that it does not lose the desire to seek new pleasures in accordance with its
natural tastes, but it can find nothing to satisfy it entirely; not, indeed,
that the Soul will not condescend, nor that the health of the Body will not permit,
but only because it has gone to the limit of its capacity, and hence both Soul
and Body are ill at ease.
The Soul is disquieted because she finds herself
in this vessel of the Body, so narrow and requiring so little to replenish it,
although whenever it is empty, all created things seem insufficient to fill it.
She is obliged to remain in it, although she is well nigh famished while urged
on by her natural instinct for enjoyment. This happens by reason of the sympathy
of the Soul when she wishes to procure enjoyment by means of the Body, for when
she finds that the Body is satisfied with a trifle, and that it cannot further
indulge itself because its desires are blunted, she is distressed by this, and
also, because she cannot herself enjoy what still remains to be enjoyed. The
more she gratifies her tastes, the less enjoyment she obtains from them; for
it is in vain that man strives to regain his lost appetites, since he endangers
his life thereby. Therefore the Soul addresses Self-Love, in the following words:
CHAPTER VI
How the Soul discourses further with Self-Love, proposing a new mode of action.--Of the nature of Self-Love.--Of the little required to satisfy the desires of the Body.--How the Soul falls into misery and despair.
Soul. O Self-Love! do you not see how we molest
each other, and how ill-fed we are? You have made me yield to your appetites,
and now I am wretched indeed. I no longer pasture in heaven, and you starve me
to death on earth: how is it with you?
Self-Love. I see that you are both dissatisfied,
and thus far, not without reason. Let us go on, however, and perhaps we shall,
by and by, find upon the road some good that may suit us all. I see plainly that
this Body can consume but little, so that I, too, am not supplied with all the
nourishment I am capable of taking. In one instant I devour what would satisfy
the Body for a year, and how must it be then with you, whose capacity so far
exceeds mine? This we will go: let us go in search of food better suited to us
than we have hitherto found, give the Body as much of it as it requires (which
is a trifle when compared to our needs), and then let it complain as much as
it likes.
Soul. On what do you nourish yourself, and
what can we find that will satisfy us both, and yet sustain the Body?
Self-Love. I have a great appetite; I feed
both on earthly and on spiritual food; but do not take me to that place where
you went the first week, but rather to any other spot. When I travel with any
one and find enough to live upon, I seldom abandon my company; I collect such
supplies that my followers are never in want, and I make them all rich.
Soul. I know that there is not on earth
food suited to us both, from the fact that there is not enough to satisfy us.
We have wandered so far from heaven (where there is food in plenty) that I know
and can find no way that will lead us thither again; and I see that God closed
the door of this grace at the moment when we deliberated whether we should feed
according to the tastes of his world, and has left us to gratify our appetites.
Now that we are perplexed and discouraged about our pasturage, we wish to return
to him for our own benefit, and not through true and pure charity, which the
Lord requires from us, and by which he always works in us. When I think of all
I have done for you, and of all that I have justly lost, I see that I deserve
to be abhorred by God, by you, by the world, and by hell. I am almost in despair
through shame at finding myself led by you into the midst of earthly things,
in which I believed I could find a supply for our joint necessities, while we
remained together in this world. But, after trying everything, I find that not
one of us could be contented or satisfied even if we had all we asked on earth.
I have witnessed and proved all your appetites, and I have found that your way
of quieting them greatly inflamed them; and yet, that they are so quickly satiated
that after even a little gratification they were disordered, although there had
been such an intense craving for that little. Yet, though blunted, they were
never appeased. They were always finding themselves in the same condition. When
they seemed satisfied I was famishing; and when I wished to return to my own
country, to gratify my instincts, I found no cooperation as at first, for I had
withdrawn from my first path, which was straight, clear, and open for all spiritual
operations. Having consented to this, by reason of certain disorders of the Body,
under the plea of supposed necessity, at once superfluity followed in the train
of necessity, and shortly I was buried in sin; and in this snare I lost grace,
became blind and dull; and from spiritual, wholly earthly. Now, alas! I am in
such a condition that I can only move earthward, whereby I am drawn into every
evil, like one who has wandered from his home. I leave myself to be led by you,
O Body and Self-Love, wherever it pleases you, and you have carried me so far
that I cannot even resist your appetites.
You have, by degrees, so changed me, or I might
rather say, perverted me, that I feed on the same food as yourselves; and we
are so united and agree so well, that I blindly fall in with all your desires,
and have, thus, from a spiritual soul become almost an earthly body. And you,
Self-Love, are so closely bound to us, and keep us so closely bound to each other,
that I, poor creature, am like one chained and stifled, and, as it were, dead
to spiritual things. As if deprived of interior light and taste, I go on, gazing
at and tasting things earthly and corporeal, and there is no good thing remaining
to me, except a certain secret remorse which leaves me but little rest. Yet I
continue neglecting myself, and enjoying, as I may, these earthly things which
I feed upon, and wasting my time, while daily I bring myself into greater slavery;
and the farther I withdraw from God, the more dissatisfied am I with my estrangement
from my natural good, which is God himself.
Thus did this unhappy Soul often bewail her wretchedness,
while yet she was ignorant of its cause. This was the divine instinct which she
naturally possessed; for the all-merciful God never abandons one of his creatures
while it remains in this life, but often visits it with some inspiration, by
which man finds himself aided when he listens to it, although, if he resists
it, he often becomes worse, by reason of his ungrateful neglect of preventing
grace.
This unhappy Soul soon became so burdened with
sins and ingratitude, with no visible remedy, that she lost all hope of being
delivered from them, and went so far as not only to take pleasure in sin, but
even to boast of it. The greater were the graces she had received, so much the
greater was her blindness of heart and her despair of doing right; so that it
was impossible that, by any human means, she should ever obtain relief. Nothing
remained but that God should rescue her by his infinite grace and goodness; for
she had now fallen so low that all her desires, affections, interests, and delights,
were fixed upon earthly objects. Everything else she hated and never mentioned,
for she was so perverted that what once seemed sweet to her, now appeared very
bitter, through the change of her taste from heavenly to earthly.
CHAPTER VII
Of the light which God gave to the Soul to discover all her faults, and the state into which she had sunk.--Of her submission, confidence, and conversion.
After God in his goodness had left the Soul to
wander for awhile among the things of this world until she became disgusted (for
she soon found by experience that such things could never satisfy her; but that,
on the contrary, they became daily more distasteful), this merciful God sent
a light which penetrated her intellect, and showed her all the errors and dangers
into which she had fallen, and from which God alone could deliver her. When she
saw just where she was, and what path she was pursuing, and that the death of
the body was on one side, and the death of the soul on the other, and found herself
in the midst of so many enemies whom she allowed to lead her like a beast to
the shambles, and even seemed to go joyfully on her way, terror seized upon her
and with a deep and piteous sigh she turned to God, and cried to him as best
she could.
Soul. O wretched creature that I am! who
will deliver me from all this misery? God alone is able: Domine, fac ut videam
lumen, that I may escape these snares.
No sooner had she directed her thoughts to God,
and implored his help, without which she saw she had no power to move, but could
only go from bad to worse, than suddenly her confidence in him became firm, and
she left him to do his own will in what manner, and so far as it pleased him;
and she added:
Soul. From henceforth all that befalls me
I will receive as from the benign hand of God, excepting my sins, for they are
all my own; committing them is always contrary to the divine will, and therefore
they are our own property; nothing is ours but voluntary sin.
This firm resolution, made by the Soul before God,
was secret and in her own spirit alone, without any outward demonstration. Now,
when God sees that man distrusts himself, and places his whole confidence in
Providence, he immediately stretches forth his holy hand to help him. He stands
ever at our side, he knocks, and, if we open to him, he enters; he drives forth
our enemies one after another, and restores to the Soul its baptismal robe of
innocence; and all this God does in different modes and ways, operating according
to the state in which he finds his creature. For the present we will speak of
his dealings with Self-Love, and how he purifies the soul from it.
CHAPTER VIII
Of many illuminations received by the Soul, and of the pure love of God.--Of conscience, and the remorse which God awakens in it.
When God wills to purify a soul from self-love,
he first sends her his divine light, that by it she may discern a spark of that
pure love wherewith he loves her, and how much he has done and still does by
means of this love; for he has need of us in nothing, not even the least thing.
We are his enemies, not only by our nature, which is inclined to evil, but by
our manifold offences, which we are ever ready to repeat.
He also discovers to her that our sins can never
excite his anger so far that he ceases to do us good while we are in this world;
rather does it seem that the more our sins remove us from him, so much the more
does he seek to draw us toward himself by many incentives and inspirations, in
order that his continued love and his benefits may keep us still in his love.
The better to effect this, he uses countless ways and means, so that every soul,
beholding what he has done for her, may exclaim, full of admiration: "What
am I that God seems truly to have no care for any one but me?"
And, among other things, he discovers to her that
pure love with which he created us, and how he requires nothing of us but that
we should love him with that same love wherewith he has loved us, and that we
should remain ever with him, expecting no return except that he may unite himself
to us.
And he shows her how this love was chiefly proved
in the pure angelic creation, and afterwards in that of our father Adam, created
in his purity and sincerity by that divine love of his, wherewith God desired
to be loved and obeyed; for if he had not required submission in something from
Adam and his posterity, such was the excellence in which they were created that
each one could have believed himself a god, by reason of the rare gifts bestowed
on both the body and the soul, and of the dominion given him over all created
things; but God placed him under a slight restraint only, in order that he might
ever know his Maker, and render him obedience.
God, moreover, made known to this Soul that he
had created man for the highest good, namely, that with soul and body he might
enter into his heavenly home.
He also showed her how great an evil is sin, into
which she had herself fallen, and for which there was no remedy but another manifestation
of his love, which he was obliged to make in her behalf. And he further instructed
her in that ardent love for us of which our Lord Jesus Christ gave such proof
on the earth, from the Incarnation even unto the Ascension, and all to save us
from eternal damnation.
All this did God, by his most pure act, reveal
in an instant to the Soul.
She then saw the liberty in which he had created
her, not subjecting her to any creature, but to her Creator alone; for he had
given her free-will, over which, while she remains in this world, nothing on
earth or in heaven has any power.
He allowed her to see the great patience with which
he had waited for her, and borne with so many of her sins, in which, if she had
died, she would have been lost forever.
He reminded her how often she had been in danger
of death; and how, through pure love alone, he had rescued her, that she might
have time to know her error and escape eternal damnation.
He also reminded her of the many inspirations he
had given her to save her from sin, and although she had not only disregarded,
but even gone contrary to his will, yet in his goodness, he did not cease to
send them, now in one way, now in another, and so allured her free-will, that
he had, as it were, forced her to do that which in his goodness he required.
And this, too, he did so gently and patiently, that no example of human love
was ever known on earth, which could compare with it.
God also made known to this Soul that, by reason
of the great love he bears him, his anger is never inflamed against man, but
that he always loves him, and is ever seeking to unite him to himself in love;
and that on his side this instinct never fails, so that his pure love, which
ever burns yet never consumes, is always active on our behalf, and he shows himself
terrible only toward sin. Moreover he hates nothing but sin, which alone prevents
his love from doing its work in us; for even the devils, if it were not for the
heinousness of their sins, would burn with divine love.
God made plain to her, also, how he is always waiting
to inflame and penetrate the hearts of men with burning rays of love, and how
he is thwarted by sin. Therefore, if sin is taken away, all things are in peace;
where sin is, there is never aught but strife.
She saw, likewise, the love of God for man, which,
however great a sinner he may be, is never so entirely extinguished as not to
bear with him while life lasts; beyond that, all is hatred and never-ending wrath.
She saw, too, a ray of his mercy shining into hell;
for the wicked deserve infinite punishment for an infinite time; but the divine
mercy has made the time only infinite, but has limited the extent of the punishment,
and therefore a greater one might justly have been inflicted.
This Soul also beheld a certain ray of love issuing
from that divine fountain, and darting towards man with a force as if to annihilate
him; and she saw that when it found impediments, then, if it were possible for
God to feel pain, he would suffer the greatest of all grief. This ray aimed only
to penetrate the soul, and it was her own fault if she were not penetrated by
it, for the ray surrounded her on all sides, seeking entrance; but the soul,
blinded by self-love, did not perceive it. And when God saw a soul self-condemned,
who through her willfulness would not give entrance to the light, he seemed to
say: "So great is the love which I bear to this soul, that I desire never
to abandon her."
This is because the Soul, deprived of divine love,
becomes almost as malignant as the divine love is good and gracious: I say, almost,
for God still grants it a little mercy. She heard these words, also: "So
great is the love I bear thee, that I would never willingly see thee lost; gladly
would I suffer for thee, if I could, but love and evil cannot dwell together,
and therefore I must abandon thee; and as through me thou wouldst have become
capable of all blessedness, so, abandoned by me, thou wilt be capable of all
wickedness." So many operations and effects of love were shown to this Soul,
that words fail to narrate them.
Touched by this ray, the Soul saw and felt a certain
flame of love proceeding from that divine source, which, for the moment, left
her like one bereft of sense, without understanding, without speech, without
feeling. In that pure and simple love, as God manifested it to her, she remained
at that moment wholly absorbed, and never more did this sight depart from her
memory; always she beheld that pure, divine love turned toward her.
She was then shown how she had lived without the
knowledge of this great love, and how great were the faults in which she saw
herself, and what she could do to correspond to this pure love; and so humbled
was she in her own eyes that she would have publicly proclaimed her sins through
the whole city, and could do nothing but incessantly repeat these words: "O
Lord! no more world, no more sin," with a cry of inward anguish which came
from the depths of her heart.
But all that she beheld did not prevent the other
vision of that first love infused by the ray from doing its work within her;
so that her mind was lost in that pure love in which she saw all things, especially
those imperfections which were to be removed. Yet she did not estimate her sins
according to the punishment they merited, but rather as committed against the
great mercy of God, for she saw his pure love for the Soul, and it remained always
in her heart, continually drawing her towards God, from whom it descended. This
love so melted her that all her actions were done with that purity which now
dwelt in her; and she continued so united with that ray, that nothing inferior
to God could come between that light and the soul, either as to the will or its
effects.
CHAPTER IX
The Soul speaks to Self-Love and the Body of the truth she had seen, and tells them that she should be lost if she followed them.--She warns them of her purpose to do to them what they had designed to do to her, namely, to subject them to herself.--Of the disgust they felt at this.
After the Soul had seen the many things so skillfully,
purely, and carefully wrought in her by love she paused, and said to the Body
and Self-Love:
Soul. My brothers, I have come to know that
God is about to do a work of love on my behalf and therefore I shall take no
more heed of you, your needs, or your words, for I surely know that if I heed
you I shall perish, although I would never have believed it, if I had not experienced
it. Under the appearance of good and necessity, you have wellnigh led me to the
death of sin, and have done all you could to bring me to perdition. Now I intend
to do to you what you have wished to do to me, and I shall hold you in no more
respect than if you were my deadly enemies. Never expect to be on good terms
with me again,--give up all hopes of it as if you were among the lost. I shall
strive to return to that path which I first entered, and from which you caused
me to swerve by your deceits. I hope, however, through the divine light, that
you will deceive me no more, and in the meanwhile I shall do all things in such
a manner, that the necessities of each will be satisfied. If you have led me
to do what I ought not, in order to satisfy your appetites, I will lead you to
what you do not desire, in order to satisfy the spirit. I shall not spare you,
even if you are worn out, even as you spared me not when I was so enslaved by
you, that you did with me according to your pleasure. I hope to bring you into
such subjection to myself as to change your natures.
The Body and Self-Love were greatly displeased
when they found that the Soul had received so much light that they could no longer
deceive her.
Body and Self-Love. We are subject
to you, O Soul! let justice be done, and be the rest according to your pleasure.
If we cannot subsist in any other way, we can live by violence; that is, you
will oppose us as much as you can, and we will do all we can to injure you, and
in the end each will be rewarded according to his deserts.
Soul. I will say one thing for your consolation:
for a time you will be greatly dissatisfied, but when I have deprived you of
your superfluities (which will distress you very much), you will be satisfied
with all I have said and done, and you will participate forever in my welfare;
dispose yourselves, therefore, to patience, for in the end we shall all enter
into the divine peace. At present I will supply your necessities only, but afterwards
you will have everything you desire. I will lead you to a joy so great and so
secure, that you will wish for nothing more even in this life. Hitherto you have
had nothing whatever in which you could take any satisfaction, and now, having
tried all things, I hope to bring you to a place of the greatest happiness, which
will have no end. It will begin, and go on increasing, until at length there
will be such peace in the soul that the body too will feel it, and it will be
enough to mitigate the suffering not alone of one, but of a thousand hells. Before
this can be attained, much remains to be done, but (with light and help from
God), we shall come out safely on every side; let this suffice for your encouragement.
Henceforth I shall not speak, but act.
Body. You appear so terrible to me, and
have made so deliberate an attack on me, that I fear you will go to some excess,
to the injury of us all. I wish, therefore, to recall some things to your remembrance,
and discourse with you concerning them, and then I will leave you to act your
own pleasure. I would remind you that after the love of God, comes the love of
the neighbor, which begins with one's own body and its concerns, and you are
bound to preserve it not only in life but in health. If you fail to do so, you
cannot succeed in your designs. I am necessary to your existence, for when I
am dead, you will have no means of adding to your glory, nor time to purify yourself
from all your imperfections, and purgatory must do this for you. That kind of
penance you will find very different from bearing with a body in this world.
As to health, when the body is sound, the powers of the soul and the bodily senses
are in a better state to receive divine light and inspiration, even through the
sense of taste, which, in the soul's esteem, passes for a superfluity. Now, if
I am infirm, these things and many others that I could name would fail you, even
as time fails me to enumerate them. I have said to you what seems to me most
important both for your interest and mine that each may have his due, and both
reach the port of salvation, without reproach in heaven or on earth.
Soul. I am made aware of all that is needful
to me, interiorly by the divine light, and exteriorly by your reasons, and many
more that might be thought of. But, henceforth, let me hear no more reasoning,
or external persuasions, for I wish to give my attention to superior considerations,
which are of such a sort that they can do injustice to no one, but will rather
give to each all that he needs, so that none can complain, except of his own
imperfections. Whoever complains, shows that he is not yet well-ordered, and
that his appetites are not in subjection to reason. Leave all this to me, O Body,
and I will make you change your opinion. You shall live in such content that
you could never believe it, did you not experience it.
I was once mistress, when I first turned my thoughts
to spiritual things; but afterwards I was deluded into making myself your equal,
and we made with Self-Love a compact to do good, but only in such a manner that
one should not take advantage of the other; by degrees, however, you so contrived
that I became completely enslaved, and could do nothing but what was pleasing
to you. Now, I am determined to be mistress again, with this understanding, that
if you are willing to become my servant, I shall be contented, and you shall
want for nothing that a servant needs. But if you will not be my servant, I shall
compel you to become my slave, and so completely my slave, that you will be willing
to serve me for love, and thus will all our opposition end, for in every way
I will be served, and will be mistress.
CHAPTER X
Of the view which the Soul has of the goodness and providence of God.--Of her faults and imperfections.--Of her esteem of herself and hatred of her Humanity.
And thus this enlightened Soul began to see all
her irregularities and the perils, both of the spirit and the flesh, which she
had unawares encountered, and to which she would have fallen a victim, had not
the divine Providence interposed. She was overwhelmed with astonishment at the
great mercy of God towards a being so deeply plunged in sin. But when man begins
to see the goodness and providence of God, then God shows him also all his defects,
for which he will supply the remedy, and the soul perceives them in an instant
by that divine light, the light of pure love. The Soul, having these two clear
views, so definite and precise, the one of the goodness of God in his bounty,
granted in virtue of love, and the other of herself, plunged in sins, and voluntarily
acting in opposition to the infinite goodness of God, took thought and said:
Soul. O Lord! never more will I offend thee,
nor do anything in opposition to thy goodness; for this thy great goodness has
so overpowered me and drawn me so closely unto thee, that I have resolved never
more to withdraw from thy disposal, even should it cost life itself.
Then this Soul looked within, and seeing all her
defects and evil instincts, said:
Soul. Does it seem to you that you are prepared
to present yourself before your Maker? How is it with you? Who will deliver you
from all your difficulties? Now you see how wretched and vile you are, although
you believed yourself so beautiful and good. And this happened because you were
so blinded by Self-Love, that you believed in no other paradise than that of
sensual delights. And now, behold how all these things appear in the divine presence--truly
no better than the work of the devil!
Then this Soul turned with a deep and bitter hatred
toward Humanity, and said:
Soul. I warn you, O Humanity! that if henceforth
you speak to me of aught unseemly, you shall suffer for it. For the future, I
shall treat you as if you were an evil spirit, for you have ever been, and ever
will be, diabolical in your behavior, since nothing else is known to you. And
as you now see as well as I what a terrible thing it is to offend God, I know
not how you will ever have the courage to think or speak according to your own
natural appetites, when you know that you are thereby acting contrary to his
will; however, should you do so, I shall inflict a penance upon you that you
will not speedily forget.
When Humanity heard the Soul utter these words,
and became conscious of the greatness of her offences, she answered not a word,
but stood with downcast looks, like a criminal led to justice.
CHAPTER XI
How the Soul turns to God and perceives her own sinfulness, and also what she would have become had she continued her former course.--Almost in despair she bewails her offences.--Of the confidence with which our Lord inspires her, appearing to her spirit; and of the wound she receives.
The Soul then turned towards God, and in that clear
light spoke thus:
Soul. O Master! what has moved thee to give
such light to this Soul, so blind and so corrupt, thy enemy, who goes astray
from thee, ever feeding upon sensual things, and who is so unwilling to be lifted
out of that condition, that she always shuns whatever would elevate her? I am
stupefied when I consider myself--a creature so entirely vile!
And while in this condition it was given her to
see where she was, whither she was going, what would have been her end, and what
she would have carried with her to that end had she persevered in her course.
She saw at a glance all these things as they were, and as they would have been
if God had not interposed. At which sight she was beside herself with fear and
agitation, and could do nothing but weep, and sigh, and inwardly lament, thus
bewailing her sad condition:
Soul. Oh, wretched and most miserable! had
I continued in this course, how many trials and sorrows should I have brought
upon myself in this world; and in the next have found myself the enemy of God,
and condemned eternally to hell!
For a time this vision remained with her, and caused
her such interior suffering that she could neither think of other things nor
perform any cheerful action, but remained in a settled melancholy, and knew not
what to do with herself, for she could find no rest; neither in heaven, which
had no place for such as she, nor on earth, for she merited that it should swallow
her up; nor did she feel that she had a right to appear among men, or to take
heed of aught that concerned her comfort or discomfort. She saw that she alone
had done all the evil, and earnestly desired that alone, and without help from
any other creature, she might make satisfaction to the extent of her power; and
for this reason she said:
Soul. I see that hell is my place, but I
cannot reach it except through death. Alas! my God! what will become of me? I
know not where to hide myself: I wander on, lamenting, and find no place of rest,
for I am so stained with sin that I cannot appear where thou art, and yet I find
thee everywhere. In this condition I am insupportable to myself. What, then,
shall I do with this foul and tattered garment in which I find myself clothed?
Tears are useless, sighs do not help me, contrition is not accepted, penances
are fruitless; for nothing will satisfy for my sins if God will not be merciful
and come to my assistance.
Thus the Soul remained almost in despair, powerless
to make satisfaction, unable to have recourse to the mercy of God (for she found
in herself nothing which could give her confidence, yet was not able wholly to
despair), tormented within herself at the sight of the heavy burden which she
carried, in agony of spirit at the evil she had done; she grieved interiorly,
yet was unable to shed a tear, only heaving secret sighs which wellnigh consumed
her life. She could neither speak, eat, sleep, smile, nor look up to heaven.
She had neither spiritual nor natural feeling; nor did she know where she was,
whether in heaven or on earth, but was like one stunned and senseless; gladly
would she have hidden herself that she might not be found, nor be obliged to
enter into the company of others.
So abstracted was she, and lost in this vision
of the offended God, that she no longer seemed a rational creature, but like
a frightened animal. And this happened because it was given her to see the greatness
of her sins and the ruin that they caused--a sight which, had she beheld it longer,
would have consumed her body had it been adamant.
But when God had left her to contemplate it until
the impression could never be forgotten, he came to her assistance as we shall
here relate.
One day in her dwelling our Lord Jesus Christ appeared
to her interior vision, bleeding from head to foot, so that the blood seemed
pouring in a stream from his body as he passed; and in secret she heard these
words: "Seest thou this blood? it is shed for love of thee, and in satisfaction
for they sins." At these words she was pierced with a deep wound of love
for him, our Lord Jesus Christ, and at the same time her confidence returned
and banished her despair, so that she began to rejoice a little in our Lord.
CHAPTER XII
How God once more manifested to the Soul the love with which he had suffered for her.--She sees the malice of man and the pure love of God.--Of the offering, which she makes of herself to God, and of the wound she receives.--Of the five fountains of Jesus.--Of his constant and jealous watchfulness.
Another sight was shown her, greater than the first,
so much greater that no tongue could describe, nor intellect imagine it, and
it was this: God showed her the love with which he had suffered for love of her.
When the Soul saw this most pure and strong love wherewith God loved her, she
was pierced with a wound so deep, so keen, that it made her despise every other
love and everything that could interpose between herself and God, except it were
God himself. In the light of this love she saw the malignity of man the the benignity
of the pure love of God. These two visions never again faded away from her memory,
and the one revealed to her the other; for, beholding the infinite mercy of God
performing such works of pure love towards man, the Soul would have fainted from
excess of delight if any more had been manifested to her. Such a vision, moreover,
made clear to her the malice of man, seeing that great love of God continually
employed in her behalf, almost, as it were, in spite of herself; for God, looking
not at the sins that she committed, never ceased in his mercy to do her good
in many ways, being moved by none of her offences but rather with pure love repairing
them, always watchful for her benefit. Hereupon the Soul, turning towards herself,
saw how sinful she had been in acting in opposition to the great goodness of
God. And then she began to see the nature of man, with all his malice, as bad
almost as God is good. But at this sight she fell into despair of herself, for
man seemed to her the demon, with all his malignity; and if God had not in part
veiled the sight, both Soul and Body would have fainted with fear. Hence as at
the former vision of the divine love towards man she despaired within herself,
as believing it to be irremediable, and wishing to lose no more time in seeking
for a remedy, she turned, as her sole confidence, to God, her Love, and said
to him:
Soul. Lord! I give myself to thee. I know
not what I am fitted for but to make a hell by myself alone. O Lord! I desire
to make this compact with thee: I will give this sinful being of mine into thy
hands, for thou alone canst hide it in thy mercy, and so dispose of me that nothing
of myself can any more be seen. Occupy me wholly with thy love, which will enlighten
in me every other love and keep me wholly lost in thee, holding me so engrossed
by thee that I shall find neither time nor place for self.
Her most sweet Lord made answer that he was content,
and from that moment all thought and memory of self was lost, so that it never
more disturbed her peace. On the other hand, a ray of love so burning and penetrating
was infused into her heart and wounded her so deeply that in an instant it bereft
her of every attachment, appetite, delectation, and natural quality that ever
did or ever could belong to her. She was shorn of everything, though not without
her own consent, by virtue of her correspondence with the love revealed to her,
and by this she was so powerfully drawn that it astonished, absorbed, and transformed
her. She sighed and lamented far more than when she beheld what a sinful creature
she was.
This ray of love passed into her soul with the
impression of the five wounds of Christ, as five fountains from which were flowing
forth drops of blood and burning love for man. God gave her also the power to
discern readily the nature of man; and she beheld alternately the one sight and
then the other, so far as she could look upon them then the other, so far as
she could look upon them and live. The sight of herself caused her no suffering,
for her merciful God had relieved her of all sorrow on that account, and yet
she saw herself plainly, and in what manner she was upheld by God. If ever God
had left her to herself, she comprehended that she would have been ready to fall
into all manner of wrong doing, for she saw herself as perverse as the evil spirit
himself; but, finding herself in the hands of God, it was not possible in such
good hands to feel any fear.
But the sight that tortured and consumed her was
of that burning, divine love towards man; she said that no human tongue could
describe how inflamed she was with that glowing fire. The love that God manifested
to her made her instinctively reject whatever was displeasing to him, with a
jealous watchfulness against the least defect; and her eyes were opened not to
her sins only, but to her slightest imperfections and unnecessary practices.
She heeded not the world, the flesh, nor the devil. All the devils who opposed
her were not so strong as this soul in her union with God, who is the true strength
of those who fear, love, and serve him; and so much the more because she did
not perceive how she could be injured by self, it being in the hands of God and
upheld by his goodness.
CHAPTER XIII
Of the instinct which led her to cast off every superfluous thing, and even that appear necessary.--Of her instinct for prayer and her mortification.
An instinct was given her to despise herself, and
to hold everything under heaven in no more esteem than if for her it did not
exist. This love gave her the further instinct to deny the body not only all
superfluous food but also many things that appeared needful, and the same with
regard to clothing, and all society, whether good or bad. She was led into solitude
of mind and body, and was reduced to herself alone. An instinct for prayer was
also given her, so that she would have remained for hours together, on her bare
knees, to the great discomfort of Humanity, which, although it resented and disapproved
of this, did not refuse to serve the Soul, and to follow wherever she led.
All these instincts were called into action by
God alone, for the Soul had no wish or aim but God, who had taken the direction,
and wished to regulate all her desires and inclinations, and free her from all
those that were human and worldly by giving her contrary ones. She was deprived
of the use of fruits for which she had a natural inclination and an especial
fondness. She ate no flesh nor anything superfluous, and when she needed food,
that which she might eat appeared to be always at hand. That she might lose all
relish of what she ate she was taught to carry always about her some dust of
aloes, and when she found herself taking pleasure in any food or preferring one
kind to another she secretly sprinkled it with a little of the bitter power before
eating it. Her eyes were always cast down; she never laughed, and recognized
no one who passed her, for she was so occupied with what was taking place within
that her sense of exterior things was, as it were, dead.
She seemed ever discontented, yet was ever most
content. She tried to rob herself of sleep by placing rough objects in her bed,
but God would not permit this, for however she resisted it, sleep overcame her
against her will. When Humanity saw all this spiritual ardor, and that itself
was no more esteemed than if it were not, and that there was no help for it,
it was greatly dissatisfied, yet, like a thief in prison who dares not utter
a word in his own behalf because he knows the crime he has committed, it feared
to make the matter worse, knowing that Christ, the Judge, was in anger against
it. One hope it could have (and but one was possible), as when it is raining
there is hope that bad weather will soon be over, and with this poor hope it
waited in patience; but the Spirit in its vehemence restrained Humanity by so
many bonds that it could find no relief but in sleep, and became withered, colorless,
and dry like a stick; on this account the following conversation took place one
day between the Spirit and Humanity:
CHAPTER XIV
Of the words that passed between the Spirit and Humanity.--Of the complaints made by Humanity against the fervor of the Spirit which she thought she could endure no longer.
Spirit. Tell me, Humanity, what think you of this
mode of life?
Humanity. It seems to me, Spirit, that you
have entered upon this course so vehemently that you will hardly be able to persevere
in it; I hope that death, or at the least, infirmity, will not fail to follow,
and that perhaps sooner than you think; and thus you will not be able to attain
what you are seeking in this world, but will be obliged to go to purgatory, where
you will suffer more in a moment than you would here in a whole lifetime. I shall
be in the grave, and that will be far better for me than to live in this world.
You will go into that fire where it will be worse with you than with me. Retrace
your steps; I have no more to say.
Spirit. I hope that neither death nor infirmity
will follow: at present, however, you are at the height of your misery. From
this time forth you are purged of all bad humors; abstinence has been good for
you; I see that your color and flesh are gone; the divine love will soon have
consumed everything; I know that if I do not provide you with food you will wither
away, but I will make such provision that everybody will be satisfied without
calling on death or infirmity.
Such light was given to the Spirit that she perceived
the least thing that might be injurious to her, and at once removed it. Humanity
did all that was required of it without offering any resistance, for the spirit
was so powerful that otherwise it would have fared all the worse. Finding itself
in this situation and wholly without comfort, it said within itself:
Humanity. If I could have a little nourishment
from spiritual things, and were able to content myself with what satisfies the
Spirit, it would comfort me; otherwise I know not what to do, nor how to remain
patient, thus tormented and imprisoned.
While occupied with these thoughts it chanced that
the saint found herself in a church, and received communion, and there came upon
her a ray of spiritual light with such force that both Soul and Body seemed to
have entered together into life eternal (according to those words: Cor meum
et caro mea exultaverunt, etc.). So great was the illumination and the feeling
of divine things which they enjoyed that even Humanity feasted upon them, and
said:
Now in this way I could live, but when that moment
had passed, and this new vision had been seen by her in the light of pure love,
she began to exclaim: Oh, Master, Master, I ask no sign from thee. I ask not
for sensible delights, rather would I flee from them as from demons, for they
are hindrances to pure love, which should be bare, lest man should with spirit
and with body attach himself to it under the pretext of perfection. I pray thee,
Lord, give not such things to me, they are not for me, nor for him who desires
pure love in its simplicity.
CHAPTER XV
Humanity complains that the Spirit does not keep its promises and the Spirit defends itself against this charge.--Of the perils of spiritual delights under the semblance of good, and how they are more dangerous than bodily pleasures, which are evidently contrary to the Spirit.--Of the threats of the Spirit against its Humanity.
When Humanity found how hateful to the Spirit was
that food upon which it fed and hoped always to feed, it was greatly dissatisfied
and turned again to address her. It seemed to the body that there was no just
cause why nourishment should be refused it, and especially now that it had become
spiritual, for the Spirit had promised that the time would come when it too should
be satisfied with the things that were according to the spirit; but, finding
the contrary to be the case, and that the Spirit had no desire even for spiritual
food and unwilling to regale the body with it, Humanity spoke as follows:
Humanity. You do not keep your promises,
Spirit, and it will be impossible for me to persevere in such austerity without
some nourishment, either natural or spiritual.
Spirit. You complain, and, as you think,
with reason: I will, therefore, explain myself. You have misunderstood me. I
did, indeed, promise that in the end you should be contented with what contents
me, but you are looking for what will fatten, and not for what will satisfy;
and not for what will satisfy; and because I am not pleased with this sensible
delight, nay, even abhor it, I would have you abhor it also. You still have natural
cravings for this pleasure, and you think I ought to gratify them; know that
I wish to deaden and to regulate them that they may desire only in accordance
with my pleasure: it is plain that you are unfirm, and I shall treat you as a
sick person should be treated. What you desire would injure your health; and
since you affirm that spiritual delights are given by God and cannot do harm,
know that your intellect partakes also of sensuality and therefore you are not
a good judge; my desire is to devote myself to love, pure and simple, which attaches
itself to nothing which can excite either a natural or a spiritual sentiment
or feeling, and I declare to you that I dread far more an attachment to a spiritual
than to a natural delight.
This is because the spiritual recaptures man under
the pretext of being a good, and it is impossible without great difficulty to
make him understand that it is not one; thus he continues to nourish himself
on that which weans him from God. But in good truth I tell you that these hinges
must of necessity be shunned by him who wishes to enjoy God as simply and purely
as may be, for they are like venom to the pure love of God; and spiritual pleasure
must be fled from as from the devil himself; because wherever it fastens itself
it produces incurable infirmities which man does not perceive; but, believing
that he is well, sees not that he is hindered from perfect good, that is, God
himself, pure, simple, separated from all things human.
But natural gratifications, being evidently contrary
to the spirit, cannot be disguised under the appearance of good, and I do not
fear them as much. The contentment and the peace that will give you are that
which will satisfy me, and which, I am certain, will also satisfy you; but it
is impossible that you should yet attain it, being still far too impure.
I wish first to cleanse the house and then to adorn
and fill it with good things, which will satisfy us both but nourish neither.
And because you say that you cannot endure this, know that I must compel you
to endure it; what cannot be done in one year can be done in ten. I am not sorry
to combat with you, being willing to subdue you by any means; I wish to free
myself from this constant goading at my heels, for otherwise it will never be
well with me. You are gall and poison in every viand that I attempt to taste,
and until I have destroyed you I shall never be at peace, for you seem bent upon
doing your worst. I too shall do what is possible to free myself quickly from
you; yet the worst that I can do to you will but redound to your benefit and
advantage. I warn you not to get angry with me, for you can never obtain your
desire and purpose in that way, but rather the contrary; console yourself with
patience unmixed with hope. Conform for the present to my will--hereafter I may
do yours.
CHAPTER XVI
Humanity prays the Spirit to act justly and with equity, reminding her that she had been the first to sin and that the body had been merely the instrument.--The Spirit proves the contrary, and shows who has been the cause of their fall.--The Spirit demonstrates also the necessity of purification here, and that it is better to suffer for a thousand years in this world than one hour in purgatory.
Humanity. I am, as you see, very dissatisfied and
unhappy; I can escape from what you wish neither by reason nor by force; yet
I implore you to satisfy me in this matter, and then you may continue what you
have begun and I will have what patience I can. Oh, Spirit, you who are bringing
me to justice, I pray you deal justly with me. You know that I am only a body,
bestial, without reason, without prayer, without will, and without memory; because
all these are in the spirit, and I work as an instrument and can do nothing but
what you will. Tell me; have you not been the first to sin, with the reason and
with the will? Have I been more than the instrument of sin, truly conceived and
resolved upon in the spirit? Who, then, deserves the punishment?
Spirit. Your reasoning seems at the first
sight to be very good; yet I believe I can refute it satisfactorily, as I intend
to do.
If you, Humanity, never have sinned and never can
sin, as you maintain, God, who has made the body to accompany the Soul wherever
she goes, to heaven as well as to hell, must be as unjust judge; for, whoever
does neither good nor evil should have neither reward nor punishment; but, since
it is impossible for God to be unjust, it follows that my reasoning is sound.
I confess I was the first to commit sin, for, having free-will, I cannot be constrained
against it, nor can either good or evil be done if I do not first consent. If
I resolve upon the good, heaven and earth yield me their support, and on every
side I am encouraged to perform it; it is not possible that I should be impeded,
either by the devil, or by the world, or by the flesh.
If I am bent upon evil, I find also support on
every side, from the devils, the world, and myself, that is, from the flesh and
its malignant instincts; and since God rewards all that is good and punishes
all that is evil, it follows that all who aid in doing good will be rewarded,
and all who aid in doing evil will be punished. You know that in the beginning
I wished to follow my spiritual inclinations, and commenced with great impetuosity;
but you assailed me with so many reasons and under the plea of such pressing
necessity, that we were in continual conflict with each other; then Self-Love
came as a mediator, disagreed with both, and led us so far astray that to please
you and supply your needs I left the right path, and for this we shall be justly
punished. It is true that if that great misery, mortal sin, is found among us,
which God forbid, I, as the chief and the most noble, shall be more sorely tormented
than you, but we shall both wish that we had never been created. Therefore it
behooves us to purify ourselves, not alone from every stain of sin, but also
from every smallest imperfection which we have contracted through our evil habits.
I will tell you, moreover that God has given me a light so subtle and clear that
of a surety, unless I fail before I leave you, there will remain in me no single
taint of imperfection either of soul or body.
Note this well: How long, think you, will this
season of purification last? You know well that it can endure but a short time.
In the beginning it seems terrible to you, but as it goes on you will suffer
less, because your wicked habits will be destroyed; do not fear lest you should
want powerful support, for know that God, by the decree of his goodness, never
allows man to suffer beyond his strength. If we regarded our own proper good,
it would seem better to us to suffer here for a little than to remain in torments
forever; better to suffer for a thousand years every woe possible to this body
in this world, than to remain one hour in purgatory. I have briefly made this
little speech for your comfort.
CHAPTER XVII
God pours into and diffuses throughout the soul a divine sweetness, whereat she complains, not desiring any proof of love.--God, notwithstanding, leaves her plunged in a sea of divine love.--He gives her, also, a vision of pure Love, and another of Self-Love and of her own evil inclinations.
When the Spirit had thus satisfied Humanity, it
left her and returned to its first simple and pure object, steadily pursuing
that intimate and penetrating love which was so interiorly restrained that it
left Humanity scarcely any breath for either natural or spiritual things, so
that she seemed like one beside herself.
From the time that God established her in pure
and simple love, he began to try this, his creature, with suitable temptations,
mostly spiritual. He infused into her the great sweetness and divine tenderness
of a most sweet love, and both Soul and Body were so overpowered by it that they
could scarcely live. But as the eye of love sees all, suddenly the Soul beheld
these great things, and she commenced to grieve and to say that she did not wish
for such sweetness and delight in this present life, nor desire these proofs
of love because they corrupt love itself.
I will guard myself, she said, as far as I am able,
and neither approach them nor provide any quiet and solitary spot where I might
feed upon these things, for they are poison to pure love. Yet God pursued her
and kept her in the fountain of this divine sweetness; and however much the soul
might protest against these proofs of his love, she nevertheless remained plunged
in them as in a sea; not always in one vision, but in many and diverse.
One of these visions was that God showed her a
ray of that purest love wherewith he himself loved the Soul; and the sight was
such that if he had not tempered the amorous flame with a vision of Self-Love
with which, the Soul saw herself stained, she could not have lived.
He showed her at another time a vision of herself,
that is, of her evil inclinations, so contrary to pure love, and thus tempered
that devouring flame; for after beholding it she would have rather died than
offended his love in the least, not alone by sin but by imperfection. The Soul,
thus occupied, neither thought nor even wished to think of her body any more
than if she had none, and in this way was relieved from its annoyances, and habituated
it to do her will.
CHAPTER XVIII
Humanity laments and asks for something to do.--The Spirit consents and enjoins upon it that it should be obedient to all things, stopping at nothing for any pleasure or displeasure that it might feel therein.--Of the rules he wishes to observe; and of the prohibition he imposes upon it of forming no particular friendships.
When Humanity perceived that its path became daily
narrower, it again addressed the Spirit, and said humbly and with great fear
and reverence:
Humanity. I find that you have deprived
me of every human, external consolation, so that I may count myself as dead to
the world; and if you persevere in this strictness, I see that the time will
come when I shall desire death rather than lead any longer such a life.
Spirit. I am willing to give you something
external to do, but it will not be agreeable. You will even abhor it, but if
you complain it will be the worse for you.
Humanity. I shall be entirely satisfied
if only I can have some employment.
Spirit. I warn you in the outset that I
wish to teach you what it is to be obedient, in order that you may become humble,
and subject to every creature; and that you may be trained to this, you shall
labor for your own support. I wish, further, that whenever and wherever you are
called to perform works of mercy, you should go to the infirm and to the poor
of every condition. I wish you never to refuse.
You will do, as if by instinct, all that I command
you, even to nursing the most loathsomely diseased persons, and whenever you
are called to this duty, even should you be conversing with God, I wish you to
leave all and go quickly to your work and wherever you are led; never regard
either the person who summons you or the work you are to do. I wish you to have
no choice; rather let the will of every other creature be yours; let your own
be always thwarted.
In these exercises, so terrible to you, it is necessary
to employ you, because I wish to extinguish in you every inordinate pleasure
or displeasure which it is possible to feel in this life. I will root out every
imperfection, and allow you to pause for either pleasure or pain no more than
if you were dead. This I will see for myself, for it is necessary to try you,
and therefore I shall put you to every needful proof; when I give you something
abhorrent to you to do, and see that you so feel or regard it, I shall keep you
at it until you do neither. I shall do likewise in those things from which you
might obtain any consolation. I will force you from them until you lose all sense
of pleasure or pain that might proceed therefrom. And to try you in all possible
ways, you shall always be occupied in that which is either pleasurable or painful.
Moreover, you will neither form any friendship
for any one, nor retain a special regard for your own kindred; but you will love
every one without partiality and without affection, the poor as well as the rich,
friends as well as kindred. I would wish you not really to know one from another,
to make friends with no one, no matter how religious or spiritual, or to seek
intimacy with none. Let it be enough for you to do your duty, as I have told
you, and in this way I wish you to conduct yourself in your conversation with
creatures on the earth.
CHAPTER XIX
Of the poverty in which the Spirit compelled Humanity to live.--How she was obliged to visit the poor and sick.--Of the suffering she found among them.--Of the oppression and interior distress which she experienced.
After the Spirit had thus discoursed with Humanity,
she found everything ordered for her in the following manner: In the first place,
she was reduced to such poverty that she could not have lived, if God had not
provided for her by alms.
When the Ladies of Mercy requested her, according
to their custom, to visit the poor for various charitable purposes, she always
went with them among these wretched beings, many of whom were intolerable from
the filth and vermin with which they were covered, and some of them in their
misery and want would break forth in fearful exclamations of despair, so that
the entrance to their dwellings seemed like the entrance into a sepulchre, frightful
to every human being. In spite of this she was eager to draw near and even touch
them, that she might do something for their bodies and their souls.
There were some among the infirm who, beside their
uncleanness and offensiveness, were always complaining of their attendants and
loading them with abuse.
She visited, too, the poor of St Lazarus, where
the greatest suffering was to be seen, as if the Spirit sent her there in search
of all sorts of misery and woe. She found her task far worse than she believed,
and was assailed, as it were, on both sides, namely, on the side of Humanity,
which loathed these miseries, and by the Spirit, which was so lost to every external
impression as to be unable to hold converse with creatures.
Humanity was so overawed by the Spirit, and thrown
into such consternation by all these things, that she knew not what to do. For,
on the one hand, when she was assailed by the Spirit, she would have done anything
to escape its power, and when she afterwards beheld the misery of these poor
creatures, she would gladly have fled from them, and yet could not. Everything
was distressing to her, especially when she found that the Spirit required of
her to devote herself to her work, without agitation or disgust, as she would
take bread and put it into her mouth when she was hungry. And thus poor Humanity
had all these difficult affairs on her hands, without a single remedy. No one
could have looked upon her, in such fearful conflicts, without great compassion;
but because these things were done for the attainment of liberty of spirit, everything
that was required of her became easy of execution.
CHAPTER XX
Humanity having tried both exterior suffering and interior distress, the Spirit allows her to choose between them.
When the Spirit had given Humanity a trial of all
the misery above described, and made her to understand all that was to be done,
he thus addressed her.
Spirit. Now that you have seen for yourself
what before you had only heard of, what will you do? You have tried both ways,
and one of these you must pursue. You may choose for yourself, however, but with
the condition, that I will make you live with creatures in a state of great subjection,
as long as it shall please me; in subjection so great that you will have no place
in the world where you can turn for the least repose, and I shall look to it
that this shall soon begin.
Humanity. I have seen and tried the two
extremes, and however great and terrible are the miseries I have witnessed, heard
of, and endured, yet I would choose rather to live in the midst of them than
in the piercing light of that divine ray. I fear both exterior suffering and
that interior divine light which terrifies me still more; and hence I am in great
perplexity.
Spirit. If you choose one of these you will
not have the other; but still I warn you that you will lose everything superfluous,
in order that I may live, so far as possible, pure and disengaged, as I was created;
to accomplish this, I shall disregard whatever opposes me.
Humanity. Since you are so determined, all
further talk would be a loss of time. I submit to all you require, and give myself
up into your hands, as one dead yet still alive. Would that I were dead.
The Spirit, wishing to annihilate Humanity yet
further, and finding that to approach the filth and vermin of the poor, and to
touch them, overcame her with disgust, said to her: "Take some of this vermin,
put it in your mouth, and eat it, if you wish to free yourself from this loathing."
When Humanity heard this, she was aghast for a
moment; but she resolved at once to obey, and so doing was hence forward free.
These things were so contrary to Humanity, that
no effort of nature could make them endurable; yet when she had forced herself
to comply, her contentment was so great that it gave her courage for the future,
and she was able to endure the outcries and complaints of impatient persons,
and practice every kind of self-denial.
Thus the Spirit exercised her for about three years,
all the while occupying her interior in such a manner that she performed all
these acts without any interior consciousness of them, and she was made to persevere
until she ceased to care for them.
CHAPTER XXI
The Spirit brings Humanity to consent to take up her abode in a hospital, where she served the sick in the humblest manner, doing everything that she was ordered to do.--When she became accustomed to whatever she naturally most abhorred, she was made directress of the hospital, and was gifted with the prudence necessary for this office.--How the burning flame of love ever increased within her.
The Spirit now obliged Humanity to take another
step, requiring great submission of mind and body; namely, she was directed to
live in the hospital, with her husband, and devote herself to the service of
the sick; and here she was under the authority of these who governed, as if she
had been their servant, hardly daring to speak, living quietly in one of the
apartments, and obedient to all that was imposed upon her. When a charge was
given her she fulfilled it with alacrity, although she was held in no esteem
by the inmates. But of all this she had no interior recognition, for she was
wholly lifted above herself, and hereupon said to the Spirit:
Humanity. If you wish me to perform these
works, give me the power to do them. I refuse none of them, but they must of
necessity be done with some little accidental love, or they will be ill done.
Accordingly some interest in her work was granted
her, for which and with which she continued it, but it was only given just at
the point where the work in which she was engaged required it, then it was taken
from her, together with the memory of the work; and in these employments, and
in great poverty, the Spirit left her for many years.
When the Spirit had disciplined Humanity, by such
trials and humiliations, until she was able to look not only without disgust
upon things which at first she naturally loathed, but busied herself unweariedly
and willingly with whatever was most offensive, she was put to another trial,
being placed as superior in charge of this hospital, that it might be seen if
her humanity would anywhere discover itself, by reason of this elevation. She
was tried by the Spirit, in this way, for many years, aided by him, however,
with all needed hints and suggestions, without which she could not have fulfilled
this charge. And with all these employments she remained recollected in that
love which was secretly increasing as Humanity was destroyed, for just so far
as she became rid of Self-Love, did she become possessed by pure love, which
penetrated and filled her in proportion as she became dead to self. And thus
this soul, burning with pure love, melted in that divine flame, and as this continually
increased, the soul was always consuming with love; therefore she discharged
all her duties with alacrity, never resting, that she might forget the flame
that devoured her more and more. She never could speak of this to any one, but
she talked of it to herself, unheard by others.
Now the Spirit having thus taken possession of
her, said: "I will no longer call her a human creature, so entirely do I
behold her in God, and with nothing human remaining."