Life of St Teresa of Jesus, Teresa of Avila [top ten books to read TXT] 📗

away on its wings.

4. I repeat it: you feel and see yourself carried away, you know

not whither. For though we feel how delicious it is, yet the

weakness of our nature makes us afraid at first, and we require a

much more resolute and courageous spirit than in the previous

states, in order to risk everything, come what may, and to

abandon ourselves into the hands of God, and go willingly whither

we are carried, seeing that we must be carried away, however

painful it may be; and so trying is it, that I would very often

resist, and exert all my strength, particularly at those times

when the rapture was coming on me in public. I did so, too, very

often when I was alone, because I was afraid of delusions.

Occasionally I was able, by great efforts, to make a slight

resistance; but afterwards I was worn out, like a person who had

been contending with a strong giant; at other times it was

impossible to resist at all: my soul was carried away, and almost

always my head with it,—I had no power over it,—and now and

then the whole body as well, so that it was lifted up from

the ground.

5. This has not happened to me often: once, however, it took

place when we were all together in choir, and I, on my knees, on

the point of communicating. It was a very sore distress to me;

for I thought it a most extraordinary thing, and was afraid it

would occasion much talk; so I commanded the nuns—for it

happened after I was made Prioress—never to speak of it. But at

other times, the moment I felt that our Lord was about to repeat

the act, and once, in particular, during a sermon,—it was the

feast of our house, some great ladies being present,—I threw

myself on the ground; then the nuns came around me to hold me;

but still the rapture was observed.

6. I made many supplications to our Lord, that He would be

pleased to give me no more of those graces which were outwardly

visible; for I was weary of living under such great restraint,

and because His Majesty could not bestow such graces on me

without their becoming known. It seems that, of His goodness, He

has been pleased to hear my prayer; for I have never been

enraptured since. It is true that it was not long ago. [6]

7. It seemed to me, when I tried to make some resistance, as if a

great force beneath my feet lifted me up. I know of nothing with

which to compare it; but it was much more violent than the other

spiritual visitations, and I was therefore as one ground to

pieces; for it is a great struggle, and, in short, of little use,

whenever our Lord so wills it. There is no power against

His power.

8. At other times He is pleased to be satisfied when He makes us

see that He is ready to give us this grace, and that it is not He

that withholds it. Then, when we resist it out of humility, He

produces those very effects which would have resulted if we had

fully consented to it.

9. The effects of rapture are great: one is that the mighty power

of our Lord is manifested; and as we are not strong enough, when

His Majesty wills it, to control either soul or body, so neither

have we any power over it; but, whether we like it or not, we see

that there is one mightier than we are, that these graces are His

gifts, and that of ourselves we can do nothing whatever; and

humility is deeply imprinted in us. And further, I confess that

it threw me into great fear, very great indeed at first; for when

I saw my body thus lifted up from the earth, how could I help it?

Though the spirit draws it upwards after itself, and that with

great sweetness, if unresisted, the senses are not lost; at

least, I was so much myself as to be able to see that I was being

lifted up. The majesty of Him who can effect this so manifests

itself, that the hairs of my head stand upright, [7] and a great

fear comes upon me of offending God, who is so mighty. This fear

is bound up in exceedingly great love, which is acquired anew,

and directed to Him, who, we see, bears so great a love to a worm

so vile, and who seems not to be satisfied with attracting the

soul to Himself in so real a way, but who will have the body

also, though it be mortal and of earth so foul, such as it is

through our sins, which are so great.

10. Rapture leaves behind a certain strange detachment also,

which I shall never be able to describe; I think I can say that

it is in some respects different from—yea, higher than—the

other graces, which are simply spiritual; for though these effect

a complete detachment in spirit from all things, it seems that in

this of rapture our Lord would have the body itself to be

detached also: and thus a certain singular estrangement from the

things of earth is wrought, which makes life much more

distressing. Afterwards it causes a pain, which we can never

inflict of ourselves, nor remove when once it has come.

11. I should like very much to explain this great pain, and I

believe I shall not be able; however, I will say something if I

can. And it is to be observed that this is my present state, and

one to which I have been brought very lately, after all the

visions and revelations of which I shall speak, and after that

time, wherein I gave myself to prayer, in which our Lord gave me

so much sweetness and delight. [8] Even now I have that

sweetness occasionally; but it is the pain of which I speak that

is the most frequent and the most common. It varies in its

intensity. I will now speak of it when it is sharpest; for I

shall speak later on [9] of the great shocks I used to feel when

our Lord would throw me into those trances, and which are, in my

opinion, as different from this pain as the most corporeal thing

is from the most spiritual; and I believe that I am not

exaggerating much. For though the soul feels that pain, it is in

company with the body; [10] both soul and body apparently share

it, and it is not attended with that extremity of abandonment

which belongs to this.

12. As I said before, [11] we have no part in causing this pain;

but very often there springs up a desire unexpectedly,—I know

not how it comes,—and because of this desire, which pierces the

soul in a moment, the soul begins to be wearied, so much so that

it rises upwards above itself, and above all created things. God

then so strips it of everything, that, do what it may, there is

nothing on earth that can be its companion. Neither, indeed,

would it wish to have any; it would rather die in that

loneliness. If people spoke to it, and if itself made every

effort possible to speak, it would be of little use: the spirit,

notwithstanding all it may do, cannot be withdrawn from that

loneliness; and though God seems, as it were, far away from the

soul at that moment, yet He reveals His grandeurs at times in the

strangest way conceivable. That way is indescribable; I do not

think any one can believe or comprehend it who has not previously

had experience of it. It is a communication made, not to

console, but to show the reason why the soul must be weary;

because it is far away from the Good which in itself comprehends

all good.

13. In this communication the desire grows, so also does the

bitterness of that loneliness wherein the soul beholds itself,

suffering a pain so sharp and piercing that, in that very

loneliness in which it dwells, it may literally say of

itself,—and perhaps the royal prophet said so, being in that

very loneliness himself, except that our Lord may have granted to

him, being a saint, to feel it more deeply,—“Vigilavi, et factus

sum sicut passer solitarius in tecto.” [12] These words

presented themselves to me in such a way that I thought I saw

them fulfilled in myself. It was a comfort to know that others

had felt this extreme loneliness; how much greater my comfort,

when these persons were such as David was! The soul is then—so

I think—not in itself, but on the house-top, or on the roof,

above itself, and above all created things; for it seems to me to

have its dwelling higher than even in the highest part of itself.

14. On other occasions, the soul seems to be, as it were, in the

utmost extremity of need, asking itself, and saying, “Where is

Thy God?” [13] And it is to be remembered, that I did not know

how to express in Spanish the meaning of those words.

Afterwards, when I understood what it was, I used to console

myself with the thought, that our Lord, without any effort of

mine, had made me remember them. At other times, I used to

recollect a saying of St. Paul’s, to the effect that he was

crucified to the world. [14] I do not mean that this is true of

me: I know it is not; but I think it is the state of the

enraptured soul. No consolation reaches it from heaven, and it

is not there itself; it wishes for none from earth, and it is not

there either; but it is, as it were, crucified between heaven and

earth, enduring its passion: receiving no succour from either.

15. Now, the succour it receives from heaven—which, as I have

said, [15] is a most marvellous knowledge of God, above all that

we can desire—brings with it greater pain; for the desire then

so grows, that, in my opinion, its intense painfulness now and

then robs the soul of all sensation; only, it lasts but for a

short time after the senses are suspended. It seems as if it

were the point of death; only, the agony carries with it so great

a joy, that I know of nothing wherewith to compare it. It is a

sharp martyrdom, full of sweetness; for if any earthly thing be

then offered to the soul, even though it may be that which it

habitually found most sweet, the soul will have none of it; yea,

it seems to throw it away at once. The soul sees distinctly that

it seeks nothing but God; yet its love dwells not on any

attribute of Him in particular; it seeks Him as He is, and knows

not what it seeks. I say that it knows not, because the

imagination forms no representation whatever; and, indeed, as I

think, during much of that time the faculties are at rest.

Pain suspends them then, as joy suspends them in union and in

a trance.

16. O Jesus! oh, that some one would clearly explain this to you,

my father, were it only that you may tell me what it means,

because this is the habitual state of my soul! Generally, when I

am not particularly occupied, I fall into these agonies of death,

and I tremble when I feel them coming on, because they are not

unto death. But when I am in them, I then wish to spend