CHAPTER XXVI

One day during my husband’s life-time, laden with
sorrow, and not knowing what to do, I wished to speak
to a person of distinction and merit, who came often
into the country, and passed for one deeply interior.
I wrote to request an opportunity with him, for that
I wanted his instruction and advice. But soon after I
felt remorse for it; and this voice spoke in my heart,
“"What, — dost thou seek for ease, and to shake off my
yoke?” Hereupon I instantly sent a note again to
desire him to excuse me, adding, “That what I had
written was only from self-love; and not necessity;
that as he knew what it was to be faithful to God, I
hoped he would not disapprove my acting with this
Christian simplicity.” Yet he resented it, which sur¬
prised me much, as I had conceived a high idea of his
virtue. Virtues he has, but such as are full of the life
and activities of nature, and unacquainted with the
paths of mortification and death. Thou, O my God,
hast been my conductor even in these paths, as with
admiration I have discovered since they are past.
Blessed be thy name forever. I am obliged to bear
this testimony to thy goodness.

Before I continue my narration, I must add one
remark, which the Lord gave me to make upon the
way by which he, in his goodness, was pleased to con¬
duct me; which is, that this obscure path is the surest
to mortify the soul, as it leaves it not any prop to lean

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upon for support. Though it has no application to
any particular state of Jesus Christ; yet, at its coming
out, it finds itself clothed with all his dispositions and
divine states, having truly put on Christ. The impure
and selfish soul, is hereby purified, as gold in the fur¬
nace. Full of its own judgment, and its own will
before, but now obeys like a child, and finds no other
will in itself. Before, it would have contested for a
trifle; now it yields at once, not with reluctance and
pain, by way of practicing virtue, but as it were natur¬
ally. Its own vices are vanished. This creature so
vain before now loves nothing but poverty, littleness
and humiliation. Before, it preferred itself above
everybody, now everybody above itself, having a
boundless charity for its neighbor, to bear with his
faults and weaknesses, in order to win him by love,
which before it could not do but with very great con¬
straint. The rage of the wolf is changed to the meek¬
ness of the lamb.

During all the time of my experiencing my miseries
and my deep trials, I went after no fine sights or
recreations. When others went, I stayed at home. I
wanted to see and know nothing but Jesus Christ. My
closet was my only diversion. Even when the queen
was near me, whom I had never seen, and whom I had
desire enough to see; I had only to open my eyes, and
look out to see her; yet did not do it. I had been
fond of hearing others sing; and yet I was once four
days with one who passed for the finest voice in the
world, without ever desiring her to sing; which sur¬
prised her, because she was not ignorant that, knowing
her name, I must know the charming excellence of her
voice. However, I committed some infidelities, in

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167

inquiring what others said of me by way of blame.
I met with one who told me everything. And though I
shewed nothing of it, it served only to mortify me, as I
saw I was yet too much alive to self, and that self-love
and nature had put me upon this inquiry.

I shall never be able to express the number of my
miseries; but they are so vastly surmounted by the
favors of God, and so swallowed up in these that I can
see them no more. One of the things which gave me
most pain in the seven years I have spoken of, especi¬
ally the last five, was so strange a folly of my imagina¬
tion that it gave me no rest. My senses bore it com¬
pany in such sort that I could no more shut my eyes
at Church. And thus having all the gates and avenues
open, I was like a vineyard exposed, because the
hedges which the father of the family had planted were
tom away. I saw then every one that came and went,
and everything that passed in the Church. For the
same force, which had drawn me inward to recollec¬
tion, seemed to push me outward to dissipation.

Laden with miseries of all sorts, weighed down
with oppressions, and crushed under continual crosses,
I thought of nothing else but ending my days thus.
There remained in me not the least hope of ever
emerging out of so distressing a state. But, notwith¬
standing, I thought I had lost grace forever, and the
salvation which it merits for us, I longed at least to do
what I could for God, though I feared I should never
love him; and seeing the happy state from whence I
had fallen, I wished in gratitude to serve him, though
I looked on myself as a victim doomed to destruction.
Sometimes the view of that happy period caused secret
desires to spring up in my heart, of recovering it

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again; but I was instantly rejected and thrown back
into the depth of the abyss, from whence I could
scarcely utter a sigh; I judged myself to be in a state
which was due to unfaithful souls. I seemed, O my
God, as if I was forever cast off from thy regard, and
from that of all creatures. By degrees my state ceased
to be painful. I became even insensible to it, and my
insensibility seemed like the final hardening of my
reprobation. My coldness appeared to me a mortal
coldness. And it was truly so, O my God, since I thus
died to self, in order to live wholly in thee, and in thy
precious love, as I am going to relate.

To resume then my history, a servant of mine
wanted to become a Bamabite. I wrote about it to
Father de la Mothe; he answered me, that I must
address Father La Combe, who was then the superior
of the Barnabites of Tonon. That obliged me to write
to him. I had always preserved secret respect and
esteem for him, as one under grace. I was glad of
this opportunity of recommending myself to his pray¬
ers. I wrote to him about my fall from the grace of
God, and that I had requited his favors with the black¬
est ingratitude; that I was miserable, and a subject
worthy of compassion; and that, far from having
advanced towards God, I was become entirely alienated
from him. He answered me in such a manner, as if he
had known, by a supernatural light, notwithstanding
the frightful description I had given of myself, that my
condition was of grace. But I could not then believe it.

In the midst of my miseries, Geneva came into my
mind, in a singular manner, which caused me many
fears. “What,”, said I, “to complete my reprobation,
shall I go to such an excess of impiety, as to quit the

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169

faith through apostacy ? (The inhabitants of Geneva
being generally Protestant Calvinists.) Am I then
about quitting that Church, for which I would give a
thousand lives? Or, shall I ever depart from that
faith which I would even wish to seal with my blood ?”
I had such a distrust of myself, that I durst hope for
nothing, but had a thousand reasons for fear, after the
experience I had of my weakness. Nevertheless the
letter, which I had received from Father La Combe, in
which he wrote me an account of his present disposi¬
tion, somewhat similar to mine, had such an effect, as
to restore peace and calmness to my mind. I felt
myself inwardly united to him, as to a person of great
fidelity to the grace of God. Afterwards a woman
appeared to me in a dream to be come down from
heaven, to tell me that God demanded me at Geneva
About eight or ten days before Magdalene’s day,
1680, it came into my mind to write to Father La
Combe, and to request him, if he received my letter
before that day, to pray particularly for me. And it
was so ordered, contrary even to my expectations, that
he received my letter on St. Magdalene's eve, and when
praying for me the next day, it was said to him, thrice
over, with much power, “ Ye shall both dwell in one
and the same place.” He was very much surprised, as
he never had received interior words before. I believe,
O my God that that has been much more verified, both
in our inward sense and experience, and in the same
crucifying events which have befallen us, pretty much
alike; and in thyself, who art our dwelling, than in any
temporal abode.

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THE LIFE OF MADAME GUTON.