Life of St Teresa of Jesus by Teresa of Avila (paper ebook reader .TXT) 📖

plainly.

12. I am now speaking of the water which cometh down from heaven

to fill and saturate in its abundance the whole of this garden

with water. If our Lord never ceased to pour it down whenever it

was necessary, the gardener certainly would have plenty of rest;

and if there were no winter, but an ever temperate season, fruits

and flowers would never fail. The gardener would have his

delight therein; but in this life that is impossible. We must

always be careful, when one water fails, to obtain another.

This water from heaven comes down very often when the gardener

least expects it.

13. The truth is that, in the beginning, this almost always

happens after much mental prayer. Our Lord advances step by step

to lay hold of the little bird, and to lay it in the nest where

it may repose. He observed it fluttering for a long time,

striving with the understanding and the will, and with all its

might, to seek God and to please Him; so now it is His pleasure

to reward it even in this life. And what a reward!—one moment

is enough to repay all the possible trials of this life.

14. The soul, while thus seeking after God, is conscious, with a

joy excessive and sweet, that it is, as it were, utterly fainting

away in a kind of trance: breathing, and all the bodily strength,

fail it, so that it cannot even move the hands without great

pain; the eyes close involuntarily, and if they are open, they

are as if they saw nothing; nor is reading possible,—the very

letters seem strange, and cannot be distinguished,—the letters,

indeed, are visible, but, as the understanding furnishes no help,

all reading is impracticable, though seriously attempted.

The ear hears; but what is heard is not comprehended. The senses

are of no use whatever, except to hinder the soul’s fruition; and

so they rather hurt it. It is useless to try to speak, because

it is not possible to conceive a word; nor, if it were conceived,

is there strength sufficient to utter it; for all bodily strength

vanishes, and that of the soul increases, to enable it the better

to have the fruition of its joy. Great and most perceptible,

also, is the outward joy now felt.

15. This prayer, however long it may last, does no harm—at

least, it has never done any to me; nor do I remember, however

ill I might have been when our Lord had mercy upon me in this

way, that I ever felt the worse for it—on the contrary, I was

always better afterwards. But so great a blessing, what harm can

it do? The outward effects are so plain as to leave no doubt

possible that there must have been some great cause, seeing that

it thus robs us of our bodily powers with so much joy, in order

to leave them greater.

16. The truth is, it passes away so quickly in the beginning—at

least, so it was with me—that neither by the outward signs, nor

by the failure of the senses, can it be perceived when it passes

so quickly away. But it is plain, from the overflowing abundance

of grace, that the brightness of the sun which had shone there

must have been great, seeing that it has thus made the soul to

melt away. And this is to be considered; for, as it seems to me,

the period of time, however long it may have been, during which

the faculties of the soul were entranced, is very short; if half

an hour, that would be a long time. I do not think that I have

ever been so long. [7] The truth of the matter is this: it is

extremely difficult to know how long, because the senses are in

suspense; but I think that at any time it cannot be very long

before some one of the faculties recovers itself. It is the will

that persists in the work; the other two faculties quickly begin

to molest it. As the will is calm, it entrances them again; they

are quiet for another moment, and then they recover themselves

once more.

17. In this way, some hours may be, and are, passed in prayer;

for when the two faculties begin to drink deep, and to perceive

the taste of this divine wine, they give themselves up with great

readiness, in order to be the more absorbed: they follow the

will, and the three rejoice together. But this state of complete

absorption, together with the utter rest of the imagination,—for

I believe that even the imagination is then wholly at

rest,—lasts only for a short time; though the faculties do not

so completely recover themselves as not to be for some hours

afterwards as if in disorder: God, from time to time, drawing

them to Himself.

18. Let us now come to that which the soul feels interiorly.

Let him describe it who knows it; for as it is impossible to

understand it, much more is it so to describe it. When I

purposed to write this, I had just communicated, and had risen

from the very prayer of which I am speaking. I am thinking of

what the soul was then doing. Our Lord said to me: It undoes

itself utterly, My daughter, in order that it may give itself

more and more to Me: it is not itself that then lives, it is I.

As it cannot comprehend what it understands, it understands by

not understanding. [8]

19. He who has had experience of this will understand it in some

measure, for it cannot be more clearly described, because what

then takes place is so obscure. All I am able to say is, that

the soul is represented as being close to God; and that there

abides a conviction thereof so certain and strong, that it cannot

possibly help believing so. All the faculties fail now, and are

suspended in such a way that, as I said before, [9] their

operations cannot be traced. If the soul is making a meditation

on any subject, the memory of it is lost at once, just as if it

had never been thought of. If it reads, what is read is not

remembered nor dwelt upon; neither is it otherwise with vocal

prayer. Accordingly, the restless little butterfly of the memory

has its wings burnt now, and it cannot fly. The will must be

fully occupied in loving, but it understands not how it loves;

the understanding, if it understands, does not understand how it

understands—at least, it can comprehend nothing of that it

understands: it does not understand, as it seems to me, because,

as I said just now, this cannot be understood. I do not

understand it at all myself.

20. In the beginning, it happened to me that I was ignorant of

one thing—I did not know that God was in all things: [10] and

when He seemed to me to be so near, I thought it impossible.

Not to believe that He was present, was not in my power; for it

seemed to me, as it were, evident that I felt there His very

presence. Some unlearned men used to say to me, that He was

present only by His grace. I could not believe that, because, as

I am saying, He seemed to me to be present Himself: so I was

distressed. A most learned man, of the Order of the glorious

Patriarch St. Dominic, delivered me from this doubt; for he told

me that He was present, and how He communed with us: this was a

great comfort to me.

21. It is to be observed and understood that this water from

heaven,—this greatest grace of our Lord—always leaves in the

soul the greatest fruits, as I shall now show.

1. See ch. xi. § 11.

2. Ch. xvi. §§ 7, 8.

3. Ch. xvii. § 5.

4. § 3.

5. See ch. xx. § 10; and Relation, viii. § 10.

6. See ch. xiv. § 12.

7. See Anton. a Sp. Sancto, Director. Mystic. tr. iv. § 9, n. 72.

8. Thomas à Jesu, De Contemplatione Divina, lib. v. c. xiii.:

“Quasi dicat: cum intellectus non possit Dei immensam illam

claritatem et incomprehensibilem plenitudinem comprehendere, hoc

ipsum est illam conspicere ac intelligere, intelligere se non

posse intellectu cognoscere: quod quidem nihil aliud est quam

Deum sub ratione incomprehensibilitatis videre ac cognoscere.”

Philip. à SS. Trinitate, Theolog. Mystic. Disc. Proem. art.

iv. p. 6: “Cum ipsa [S. Teresa] scire vellet, quid in illa

mystica unione operaretur intellectus, respondit [Christus] illi,

cum non possit comprehendere quod intelligit, est non intelligere

intelligendo: tum quia præ claritate nimia quodammodo offuscatur

intellectus, unde præ altissima et supereminentissima Dei

cognitione videtur anima potius Deum ignorare quam cognoscere.”

9. Ch. x. § 1, and ch. xviii. § 16.

10. See Inner Fortress, v. ch. i. § 11.

Chapter XIX.

The Effects of This Fourth State of Prayer. Earnest Exhortations

to Those Who Have Attained to It Not to Go Back, Nor to Cease

from Prayer, Even if They Fall. The Great Calamity of

Going Back.

1. There remains in the soul, when the prayer of union is over,

an exceedingly great tenderness; so much so, that it would undo

itself—not from pain, but through tears of joy it finds itself

bathed therein, without being aware of it, and it knows not how

or when it wept them. But to behold the violence of the fire

subdued by the water, which yet makes it burn the more, gives it

great delight. It seems as if I were speaking an unknown

language. So it is, however.

2. It has happened to me occasionally, when this prayer was over,

to be so beside myself as not to know whether I had been

dreaming, or whether the bliss I felt had really been mine; and,

on finding myself in a flood of tears—which had painlessly

flowed, with such violence and rapidity that it seemed as if a

cloud from heaven [1] had shed them—to perceive that it was no

dream. Thus it was with me in the beginning, when it passed

quickly away. The soul remains possessed of so much courage,

that if it were now hewn in pieces for God, it would be a great

consolation to it. This is the time of resolutions, of heroic

determinations, of the living energy of good desires, of the

beginning of hatred of the world, and of the most clear

perception of its vanity. The soul makes greater and higher

progress than it ever made before in the previous states of

prayer; and grows in humility more and more, because it sees

clearly that neither for obtaining nor for retaining this grace,

great beyond all measure, has it ever done, or ever been able to

do, anything of itself. It looks upon itself as most

unworthy—for in a room into which the sunlight enters strongly,

not a cobweb can be hid; it sees its own misery; self-conceit is

so far away, that it seems as if it never could have had any—for

now its own eyes behold how very little it could ever do, or

rather, that it never did anything, that it hardly gave even its

own consent, but that it rather seemed as if the doors of the

senses were closed against its will in order that it might have

more abundantly the fruition of our Lord. It is abiding alone

with Him: what has it to do but to love Him? It neither sees nor

hears, unless on compulsion: no thanks to it. Its past life

stands before it then,