Letter XI. To Madame de Chantal

On troubles of spirit.

jth March j 1608. At last I write to you, by Monsieur Fabre, my dear child, and still without full leisure, for I have had to write many letters, and though you are the last to whom I write, I have no fear of forgetting. I was sorry, the other day, to have written you so many things on this trouble of mind which you had. For since it was nothing in real truth, and since when you had communicated it to Father Gentil, it all vanished, I had only to say Deo Gratias. But, you see, my soul is liable to outpourings with you, and with all those whom I love. O God! my child, what good your hurts do me! For then I pray with more attention, I put myself before our Lord with more purity of intention, I place myself more wholly in indifference. But, believe me, either I am the most deluded man in the world, or our resolutions are from God and unto his greater glory. No, my child, look not either to left or right; and I do not mean look not at all, but look not so as to occupy yourself, to examine anxiously, to hamper and entangle your spirit in consideraticms from which you can find no outlet. For if, after so much time, after so many petitions to God, we cannot resolve without difficulty, how can we expect by considerations, some coming without any reflection, others from simple feelings and taste, how can we expect, I say, to decide well? So then, let us leave that alone, let us speak of it no more. Let us speak of a general rule that I want to give you: it is, that in all I say to you, you must not be too particular: all is meant in a large sense (grosso modo), for I would not have you constrain your spirit to anything, save to serve God well, and not to abandon, but to love our resolutions. As for me, I so love mine, that whatever I see seems to me insufficient to take away an ounce of the esteem I have of them, even though I see and consider others more excellent and more exalted.

Ah! my dear child, that also is an entanglement which you write to me about by Monsieur de Sauzea. This dreadful din.... which makes you afraid of.... O God, my child, can you not prostrate yourself before God when it happens to you, and say to him quite simply: Yes, Lord, if you will it, I will it, and if you wish it not, I wish it not: and then pass on to some little exercise or act which may serve as a distraction.

But, my child, what you do is this: when this trifling matter presents itself, your mind is grieved, and does not want to look at it: it fears that this may check it; this fear draws away the strength of your mind, and leaves the poor thing faint, sad, and trembling; this fear displeases it, and brings forth another fear lest this first fear, and the fright which it gives, be the cause of the evil; and so you entangle yourself. You fear the fear; then you fear the fear of the fear; you are vexed at the vexation, and then you are vexed for being vexed at the vexation. So I have seen many, who, having got angry, are afterwards angry for getting angry: and all this is like to the rings which are made in water, when a stone is thrown in: a little circle is formed, and this forms a greater, and this last another.

What remedy is there, my dear child? After the grace of God, the remedy is not to be so delicate. Look you (here is another pouring- out of my spirit, but there is no help for it), those who cannot suffer the itching of a ciron* and expect to get rid of it by dint of scratching, flay their hands. Laugh at the greater part of these troubles; do not stop to think about throwing them off; laugh at them; turn away to some action; try to sleep well. Imagine, I mean think, that you are a little St, John, who is going to sleep and rest on the bosom of our Lord, in the arms of his providence.

And courage, my child, we have no intention except for the glory of God; no, no, at least certainly not any known intention; for if we knew it, we would instantly tear it from our heart. And so, what do

• Ciron, a little insect; here, apparently, under the skin of the hand. Cotgrave gives hand-worm.

we torment ourselves about? Vive Jesus! I think sometimes, my child, that we are full of Jesus: at least we have no deliberate contrary will. It is not in a spirit of arrogance I say this, my child; it is in a spirit of trust and to encourage ourselves. I find it is nine o'clock of the night; I must make my collation, and I must say Office so as to be able to preach at eight to-morrow, but I seem to be unable to tear myself from this paper. And now I must tell you, in addition, this little folly, it is that I preach finely to my liking in this place; I say something, I scarce know what it is, which these good people understand so well that they would willingly almost answer me. Adieu, my child, my dearest child. I am, how truly, your, &c.