[13] St. John of the Cross.

[14] 1 Cor. 12:31.

[15] St. John of the Cross.

[16] Cf.  Luke 16:9.

[17] Luke 16:8.

[18] St. John of the Cross.

[19] Isa. 38:14.

[20] Matt. 9:15.

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END OF THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY

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EPILOGUE:  A VICTIM OF DIVINE LOVE

“Many pages of this story”—­said its writer—­“will never be read upon earth.”  It is necessary to repeat and emphasize her words.  There are sufferings which are not to be disclosed here below; Our Lord has jealously reserved to Himself the right to reveal their merit and glory, in the clear vision where all veils shall be removed.  “My God,” she cried on the day of her religious profession, “give me martyrdom of soul or body . . . or rather give me both the one and the other!” And Our Lord Who, as she herself avowed, fulfilled all her desires, granted this one also, and in more abundant measure than the rest.  He caused “the floods of infinite tenderness pent up in His Divine Heart to overflow into the soul of His little Spouse.”  This was the “Martyrdom of Love,” so well described in her melodious song.  But it was her own doctrine that, “to dedicate oneself as a Victim of Love is not to be dedicated to sweetness and consolations; it is to offer oneself to all that is painful and bitter, because Love lives only by sacrifice . . . and the more we would surrender ourselves to Love, the more we must surrender ourselves to suffering.”

Therefore, because she desired to attain “the loftiest height of Love,” the Divine Master led her thither by the rugged path of sorrow, and it was only on its bleak summit that she died a Victim of Love.

. . . . . . .

We have seen how great was her sacrifice in leaving her happy home and the Father who loved her so tenderly.  It may be imagined that this sacrifice was softened, because at the Carmel she found again her two elder and dearly loved sisters.  On the contrary, this afforded the young postulant many an occasion for repressing her strong natural affections.  The rules of solitude and silence were strictly observed, and she only saw her sisters at recreation.  Had she been less mortified, she might often have sat beside them, but “by preference she sought out the company of those religious who were least agreeable to her,” and no one could tell whether or not she bore a special affection towards her own sisters.

Some time after her entrance, she was appointed as “aid” to Sister Agnes of Jesus, her dear “Pauline”; this was a fresh occasion for sacrifice.  Therese knew that all unnecessary conversation was forbidden, and therefore she never allowed herself even the least word.  “O my little Mother,” she said later, “how I suffered!  I could not open my heart to you, and I thought you no longer knew me!”