Chapter 1



It is to you, dear Mother, that I am about to confide the story of my
soul. When you asked me to write it, I feared the task might unsettle
me, but since then Our Lord has deigned to make me understand that by
simple obedience I shall please Him best. I begin therefore to sing
what must be my eternal song: ”the Mercies of the Lord.” [4]

Before setting about my task I knelt before the statue of Our Lady
which had given my family so many proofs of Our Heavenly Mother’s
loving care. [5] As I knelt I begged of that dear Mother to guide my
hand, and thus ensure that only what was pleasing to her should find
place here.

Then opening the Gospels, my eyes fell on these words: ”Jesus, going up
into a mountain, called unto Him whom He would Himself.” [6]

They threw a clear light upon the mystery of my vocation and of my
entire life, and above all upon the favours which Our Lord has granted
to my soul. He does not call those who are worthy, but those whom He
will. As St. Paul says: ”God will have mercy on whom He will have
mercy. [7] So then it is not of him that willeth, nor of him that
runneth, but of God that showeth mercy.” [8]

I often asked myself why God had preferences, why all souls did not
receive an equal measure of grace. I was filled with wonder when I saw
extraordinary favours showered on great sinners like St. Paul, St.
Augustine, St. Mary Magdalen, and many others, whom He forced, so to
speak, to receive His grace. In reading the lives of the Saints I was
surprised to see that there were certain privileged souls, whom Our
Lord favoured from the cradle to the grave, allowing no obstacle in
their path which might keep them from mounting towards Him, permitting
no sin to soil the spotless brightness of their baptismal robe. And
again it puzzled me why so many poor savages should die without having
even heard the name of God.

Our Lord has deigned to explain this mystery to me. He showed me the
book of nature, and I understood that every flower created by Him is
beautiful, that the brilliance of the rose and the whiteness of the
lily do not lessen the perfume of the violet or the sweet simplicity of
the daisy. I understood that if all the lowly flowers wished to be
roses, nature would lose its springtide beauty, and the fields would no
longer be enamelled with lovely hues. And so it is in the world of
souls, Our Lord’s living garden. He has been pleased to create great
Saints who may be compared to the lily and the rose, but He has also
created lesser ones, who must be content to be daisies or simple
violets flowering at His Feet, and whose mission it is to gladden His
Divine Eyes when He deigns to look down on them. And the more gladly
they do His Will the greater is their perfection.

I understood this also, that God’s Love is made manifest as well in a
simple soul which does not resist His grace as in one more highly
endowed. In fact, the characteristic of love being self-abasement, if
all souls resembled the holy Doctors who have illuminated the Church,
it seems that God in coming to them would not stoop low enough. But He
has created the little child, who knows nothing and can but utter
feeble cries, and the poor savage who has only the natural law to guide
him, and it is to their hearts that He deigns to stoop. These are the
field flowers whose simplicity charms Him; and by His condescension to
them Our Saviour shows His infinite greatness. As the sun shines both
on the cedar and on the floweret, so the Divine Sun illumines every
soul, great and small, and all correspond to His care–just as in
nature the seasons are so disposed that on the appointed day the
humblest daisy shall unfold its petals.

You will wonder, dear Mother, to what all this is leading, for till now
I have said nothing that sounds like the story of my life; but did you
not tell me to write quite freely whatever came into my mind? So, it
will not be my life properly speaking, that you will find in these
pages, but my thoughts about the graces which it has pleased Our Lord
to bestow on me.

I am now at a time of life when I can look back on the past, for my
soul has been refined in the crucible of interior and exterior trials.
Now, like a flower after the storm, I can raise my head and see that
the words of the Psalm are realised in me: ”The Lord is my Shepherd and
I shall want nothing. He hath set me in a place of pasture. He hath
brought me up on the water of refreshment. He hath converted my soul.
He hath led me on the paths of justice for His own Name’s sake. For
though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I will fear
no evils for Thou are with me.” [9]

Yes, to me Our Lord has always been ”compassionate and merciful,
long-suffering and plenteous in mercy.” [10]

And so it gives me great joy, dear Mother, to come to you and sing His
unspeakable mercies. It is for you alone that I write the story of the
little flower gathered by Jesus. This thought will help me to speak
freely, without troubling either about style or about the many
digressions that I shall make; for a Mother’s heart always understands
her child, even when it can only lisp, and so I am sure of being
understood and my meaning appreciated.

If a little flower could speak, it seems to me that it would tell us
quite simply all that God has done for it, without hiding any of its
gifts. It would not, under the pretext of humility, say that it was not
pretty, or that it had not a sweet scent, that the sun had withered its
petals, or the storm bruised its stem, if it knew that such were not
the case.

The Little Flower, that now tells her tale, rejoiced in having to
publish the wholly undeserved favours bestowed upon her by Our Lord.
She knows that she had nothing in herself worthy of attracting Him: His
Mercy alone showered blessings on her. He allowed her to grow in holy
soil enriched with the odour of purity, and preceded by eight lilies of
shining whiteness. In His Love He willed to preserve her from the
poisoned breath of the world–hardly had her petals unfolded when this
good Master transplanted her to the mountain of Carmel, Our Lady’s
chosen garden.

And now, dear Mother, having summed up in a few words all that God’s
goodness has done for me, I will relate in detail the story of my
childhood. I know that, though to others it may seem wearisome, your
motherly heart will find pleasure in it. In the story of my soul, up to
the time of my entry into the Carmel, there are three clearly marked
periods: the first, in spite of its shortness, is by no means the least
rich in memories.

It extends from the dawn of reason to the death of my dearly loved
Mother; in other words, till I was four years and eight months old.
God, in His goodness, did me the favour of awakening my intelligence
very early, and He has imprinted the recollections of my childhood so
deeply in my memory that past events seem to have happened but
yesterday. Without doubt He wished to make me know and appreciate the
Mother He had given me. Alas! His Divine Hand soon took her from me to
crown her in Heaven.

All my life it has pleased Him to surround me with affection. My first
recollections are of loving smiles and tender caresses; but if He made
others love me so much, He made me love them too, for I was of an
affectionate nature.

You can hardly imagine how much I loved my Father and Mother, and,
being very demonstrative, I showed my love in a thousand little ways,
though the means I employed make me smile now when I think of them.

Dear Mother, you have given me the letters which my Mother wrote at
this time to Pauline, who was at school at the Visitation Convent at Le
Mans. I remember perfectly the events they refer to, but it will be
easier for me simply to quote some passages, though these charming
letters, inspired by a Mother’s love, are too often full of my praises.

In proof of what I have said about my way of showing affection for my
parents, here is an example: ”Baby is the dearest little rogue; she
comes to kiss me, and at the same time wishes me to die. ‘Oh, how I
wish you would die, dear Mamma,’ she said, and when she was scolded she
was quite astonished, and answered: ‘But I want you to go to Heaven,
and you say we must die to go there’; and in her outburst of affection
for her Father she wishes him to die too. The dear little thing will
hardly leave me, she follows me everywhere, but likes going into the
garden best; when I am not there she refuses to stay, and cries so much
that they are obliged to bring her back. She will not even go upstairs
alone without calling me at each step, ‘Mamma! Mamma!’ and if I forget
to answer ‘Yes, darling!’ she waits where she is, and will not move.”

I was nearly three years old when my Mother wrote: ”Little Therese
asked me the other day if she would go to Heaven. ‘Yes, if you are
good,’ I told her. ‘Oh, Mamma,’ she answered, ‘then if I am not good,
shall I go to Hell? Well, you know what I will do–I shall fly to you
in Heaven, and you will hold me tight in your arms, and how could God
take me away then?’ I saw that she was convinced that God could do
nothing to her if she hid herself in my arms.”

”Marie loves her little sister very much; indeed she is a child who
delights us all. She is extraordinarily outspoken, and it is charming
to see her run after me to confess her childish faults: ‘Mamma, I have
pushed Celine; I slapped her once, but I’ll not do it again.’ The
moment she has done anything mischievous, everyone must know.
Yesterday, without meaning to do so, she tore off a small piece of wall
paper; you would have been sorry for her–she wanted to tell her father
immediately. When he came home four hours later, everyone else had
forgotten about it, but she ran at once to Marie saying: ‘Tell Papa
that I tore the paper.’ She waited there like a criminal for sentence;
but she thinks she is more easily forgiven if she accuses herself.”

Papa’s name fills me with many happy memories. Mamma laughingly said he
always did whatever I wanted, but he answered: ”Well, why not? She is
the Queen!” Then he would lift me on to his shoulder, and caress me in
all sorts of ways. Yet I cannot say that he spoilt me. I remember one
day while I was swinging he called out as he passed: ”Come and kiss me,
little Queen.” Contrary to my usual custom, I would not stir, and
answered pertly: ”You must come for it, Papa.” He refused quite
rightly, and went away. Marie was there and scolded me, saying: ”How
naughty to answer Papa like that!” Her reproof took effect; I got off
the swing at once, and the whole house resounded with my cries. I
hurried upstairs, not waiting this time to call Mamma at each step; my
one thought was to find Papa and make my peace with him. I need not
tell you that this was soon done.

I could not bear to think I had grieved my beloved parents, and I
acknowledged my faults instantly, as this little anecdote, related by
my Mother, will show: ”One morning before going downstairs I wanted to
kiss Therese; she seemed to be fast asleep, and I did not like to wake
her, but Marie said: ‘Mamma, I am sure she is only pretending.’ So I
bent down to kiss her forehead, and immediately she hid herself under
the clothes, saying in the tone of a spoilt child: ‘I don’t want anyone
to look at me.’ I was not pleased with her, and told her so. A minute
or two afterwards I heard her crying, and was surprised to see her by
my side. She had got out of her cot by herself, and had come downstairs
with bare feet, stumbling over her long nightdress. Her little face was
wet with tears: ‘Mamma,’ she said, throwing herself on my knee, ‘I am
sorry for being naughty–forgive me!’ Pardon was quickly granted; I
took the little angel in my arms and pressed her to my heart,
smothering her with kisses.”

I remember also my great affection for my eldest sister Marie, who had
just left school. Without seeming to do so, I took in all that I saw
and heard, and I think that I reflected on things then as I do now. I
listened attentively while she taught Celine, and was very good and
obedient, so as to obtain the privilege of being allowed in the room
during lessons. She gave me many trifling presents which pleased me
greatly. I was proud of my two big sisters; but as Pauline seemed so
far away from us, I thought of her all day long. When I was only just
learning to talk, and Mamma asked: ”What are you thinking about?” my
answer invariably was: ”Pauline.” Sometimes I heard people saying that
Pauline would be a nun, and, without quite knowing what it meant, I
thought: ”I will be a nun too.” This is one of my first recollections,
and I have never changed my mind; so it was the example of this beloved
sister which, from the age of two, drew me to the Divine Spouse of
Virgins. My dearest Mother, what tender memories of Pauline I could
confide to you here! But it would take me too long.

Leonie had also a very warm place in my heart; she loved me very much,
and her love was returned. In the evening when she came home from
school she used to take care of me while the others went out, and it
seems to me I can still hear the sweet songs she sang to put me to
sleep. I remember perfectly the day of her First Communion, and I
remember also her companion, the poor child whom my Mother dressed,
according to the touching custom of the well-to-do families in
Alenc,on. This child did not leave Leonie for an instant on that happy
day, and in the evening at the grand dinner she sat in the place of
honour. Alas! I was too small to stay up for this feast, but I shared
in it a little, thanks to Papa’s goodness, for he came himself to bring
his little Queen a piece of the iced cake.

The only one now left to speak of is Celine, the companion of my
childhood. My memories of her are so many that I do not know which to
choose. We understood each other perfectly, but I was much more forward
and lively, and far less ingenuous. Here is a letter which will show
you, dear Mother, how sweet was Celine, and how naughty Therese. I was
then nearly three years old, and Celine six and a half. ”Celine is
naturally inclined to be good; as to the little puss, Therese, one
cannot tell how she will turn out, she is so young and heedless. She is
a very intelligent child, but has not nearly so sweet a disposition as
her sister, and her stubbornness is almost unconquerable. When she has
said ‘No,’ nothing will make her change; one could leave her all day in
the cellar without getting her to say ‘Yes.’ She would sooner sleep

I had another fault also, of which my Mother did not speak in her
letters: it was self-love. Here are two instances:–One day, no doubt
wishing to see how far my pride would go, she smiled and said to me,
”Therese, if you will kiss the ground I will give you a halfpenny.” In
those days a halfpenny was a fortune, and in order to gain it I had not
far to stoop, for I was so tiny there was not much distance between me
and the ground; but my pride was up in arms, and holding myself very
erect, I said, ”No, thank you, Mamma, I would rather go without it.”

Another time we were going into the country to see some friends. Mamma
told Marie to put on my prettiest frock, but not to let me have bare
arms. I did not say a word, and appeared as indifferent as children of
that age should be, but I said to myself, ”I should have looked much
prettier with bare arms.”

With such a disposition I feel sure that had I been brought up by
careless parents I should have become very wicked, and perhaps have
lost my soul. But Jesus watched over His little Spouse, and turned even
her faults to advantage, for, being checked early in life, they became
a means of leading her towards perfection. For instance, as I had great
self-love and an innate love of good as well, it was enough to tell me
once: ”You must not do that,” and I never wanted to do it again. Having
only good example before my eyes, I naturally wished to follow it, and
I see with pleasure in my Mother’s letters that as I grew older I began
to be a greater comfort. This is what she writes in 1876: ”Even Therese
is anxious to make sacrifices. Marie has given her little sisters a
string of beads on purpose to count their acts of self-denial. They
have really spiritual, but very amusing, conversations together. Celine
said the other day: ‘How can God be in such a tiny Host?’ Therese
answered: ‘That is not strange, because God is Almighty!’ ‘And what
does Almighty mean?’ ‘It means that He can do whatever He likes.’

”But it is more amusing still to see Therese put her hand in her
pocket, time after time, to pull a bead along the string, whenever she
makes a little sacrifice. The children are inseparable, and are quite
sufficient company for one another. Nurse has given Therese two
bantams, and every day after dinner she and Celine sit by the fire and
play with them.

”One morning Therese got out of her cot and climbed into Celine’s. The
nurse went to fetch her to be dressed, and, when at last she found her,
the little thing said, hugging her sister very hard: ‘Oh, Louise! leave
me here, don’t you see that we are like the little white bantams, we
can’t be separated from one another.'”

It is quite true that I could not be separated from Celine; I would
rather leave my dessert unfinished at table than let her go without me,
and I would get down from my high chair when she did, and off we went
to play together. On Sundays, as I was still too small to go to the
long services, Mamma stayed at home to take care of me. I was always
very good, walking about on tip-toe; but as soon as I heard the door
open there was a tremendous outburst of joy–I threw myself on my dear
little sister, exclaiming: ”Oh, Celine! give me the blessed bread,
quick!” [11] One day she had not brought any–what was to be done? I
could not do without it, for I called this little feast my Mass. A
bright idea struck me: ”You have no blessed bread!–make some.” Celine
immediately opened the cupboard, took out the bread, cut a tiny bit
off, and after saying a Hail Mary quite solemnly over it, triumphantly
presented it to me; and I, making the sign of the Cross, ate it with
devotion, fancying it tasted exactly like the real blessed bread.

One day Leonie, thinking no doubt that she was too big to play with
dolls, brought us a basket filled with clothes, pretty pieces of stuff,
and other trifles on which her doll was laid: ”Here, dears,” she said,
”choose whatever you like.” Celine looked at it, and took a woollen
ball. After thinking about it for a minute, I put out my hand saying:
”I choose everything,” and I carried off both doll and basket without
more ado.

This childish incident was a forecast, so to speak, of my whole life.
Later on, when the way of perfection was opened out before me, I
realised that in order to become a Saint one must suffer much, always
seek the most perfect path, and forget oneself. I also understood that
there are many degrees of holiness, that each soul is free to respond
to the calls of Our Lord, to do much or little for His Love–in a word,
to choose amongst the sacrifices He asks. And then also, as in the days
of my childhood, I cried out: ”My God, I choose everything, I will not
be a Saint by halves, I am not afraid of suffering for Thee, I only
fear one thing, and that is to do my own will. Accept the offering of
my will, for I choose all that Thou willest.”

But, dear Mother, I am forgetting myself–I must not tell you yet of my
girlhood, I am still speaking of the baby of three and four years old.

I remember a dream I had at that age which impressed itself very deeply
on my memory. I thought I was walking alone in the garden when,
suddenly, I saw near the arbour two hideous little devils dancing with
surprising agility on a barrel of lime, in spite of the heavy irons
attached to their feet. At first they cast fiery glances at me; then,
as though suddenly terrified, I saw them, in the twinkling of an eye,
throw themselves down to the bottom of the barrel, from which they came
out somehow, only to run and hide themselves in the laundry which
opened into the garden. Finding them such cowards, I wanted to know
what they were going to do, and, overcoming my fears, I went to the
window. The wretched little creatures were there, running about on the
tables, not knowing how to hide themselves from my gaze. From time to
time they came nearer, peering through the windows with an uneasy air,
then, seeing that I was still there, they began to run about again
looking quite desperate. Of course this dream was nothing
extraordinary; yet I think Our Lord made use of it to show me that a
soul in the state of grace has nothing to fear from the devil, who is a
coward, and will even fly from the gaze of a little child.

Dear Mother, how happy I was at that age! I was beginning to enjoy
life, and goodness itself seemed full of charms. Probably my character
was the same as it is now, for even then I had great self-command, and
made a practice of never complaining when my things were taken; even if
I was unjustly accused, I preferred to keep silence. There was no merit
in this, for I did it naturally.

How quickly those sunny years of my childhood passed away, and what
tender memories they have imprinted on my mind! I remember the Sunday
walks when my dear Mother always accompanied us; and I can still feel
the impression made on my childish heart at the sight of the fields
bright with cornflowers, poppies, and marguerites. Even at that age I
loved far-stretching views, sunlit spaces and stately trees; in a word,
all nature charmed me and lifted up my soul to Heaven.

Often, during these walks, we met poor people. I was always chosen to
give them an alms, which made me feel very happy. Sometimes, my dear
Father, knowing the way was too long for his little Queen, took me
home. This was a cause of grief, and to console me Celine would fill
her basket with daisies, and give them to me on her return. Truly
everything on earth smiled on me; I found flowers strewn at every step,
and my naturally happy disposition helped to make life bright. But a
new era was about to dawn.

I was to be the Spouse of Our Lord at such an early age that it was
necessary I should suffer from my childhood. As the early spring
flowers begin to come up under the snow and open at the first rays of
the sun, so the Little Flower whose story I am writing had to pass
through the winter of trial and to have her tender cup filled with the
dew of tears.

[4] Ps. 88[89]:1.

[5] This statue twice appeared as if endowed with life, in order to
enlighten and console Mme. Martin, mother of Therese. A like favour was
granted to Therese herself, as will be seen in the course of the

[6] Mark 3:13.

[7] Cf. Exodus 33:19.

[8] Cf. Rom. 9:16.

[9] Cf. Ps. 22[23]:1-4.

[10] Ps. 102[103]:8.

[11] The custom still prevails in some parts of France of blessing
bread at the Offertory of the Mass and then distributing it to the
faithful. It is known as pain benit. This blessing only takes place at
the Parochial Mass. [Ed.]