ated my
very soul and have enveloped me so completely that I cannot even
picture to myself this promised country . . . all has faded away.
When my heart, weary of the surrounding darkness, tries to find
some rest in the thought of a life to come, my anguish increases.
It seems to me that out of the darkness I hear the mocking voice
of the unbeliever: "You dream of a land of light and fragrance,
you dream that the Creator of these wonders will be yours for
ever, you think one day to escape from these mists where you now
languish. Nay, rejoice in death, which will give you, not what you
hope for, but a night darker still, the night of utter
nothingness!" . . .

Dear Mother, this description of what I suffer is as far removed
from reality as the first rough outline is from the model, but I
fear that to write more were to blaspheme . . . even now I may
have said too much. May God forgive me! He knows that I try to
live by Faith, though it does not afford me the least consolation.
I have made more acts of Faith in this last year than during all
the rest of my life.

Each time that my enemy would provoke me to combat, I behave as a
gallant soldier. I know that a duel is an act of cowardice, and
so, without once looking him in the face, I turn my back on the
foe, then I hasten to my Saviour, and vow that I am ready to shed
my blood in witness of my belief in Heaven. I tell him, if only He
will deign to open it to poor unbelievers, I am content to
sacrifice all pleasure in the thought of it as long as I live. And
in spite of this trial, which robs me of all comfort, I still can
say: "Thou hast given me, O Lord, delight in all Thou dost."[13]
For what joy can be greater than to suffer for Thy Love? The more
the suffering is and the less it appears before men, the more is
it to Thy Honour and Glory. Even if--but I know it to be
impossible--Thou shouldst not deign to heed my sufferings, I
should still be happy to bear them, in the hope that by my tears I
might perhaps prevent or atone for one sin against Faith.

No doubt, dear Mother, you will think I exaggerate somewhat _the
night of my soul._ If you judge by the poems I have composed this
year, it must seem as though I have been flooded with
consolations, like a child for whom the veil of Faith is almost
rent asunder. And yet it is not a veil--it is a wall which rises
to the very heavens and shuts out the starry sky.

When I sing of the happiness of Heaven and the eternal