St. Thérèse of Lisieux Enters Carmel

The carriage wheels struck the last loose stones before the convent lane and then fell quiet on the packed earth. I kept my hands folded on the edge of the seat so they would not shake. Louis Martin sat opposite me, his shoulders drawn forward as though the coat were suddenly too heavy. Céline and Léonie sat on either side of him, their faces turned toward the window though nothing moved outside. Thérèse had taken the forward seat alone. She watched the high wall approach without blinking.

We reached the side door of the chapel just as the bell finished. Inside, the nuns were already in choir. The family filled the front benches while I stood at the back with two parish women who had been allowed to come. The priest began the transferred Mass of the Annunciation. When the moment for Communion came, the rustle of habits stopped and the only sound was the soft tread of the sisters returning to their places. Then the sobs began, first from Marie, then from the others, until the bench in front of me trembled with it. Thérèse remained upright. Her hands stayed joined. Only the line of her shoulders showed how hard she worked to keep still.

After the last prayer the prioress led everyone through the sacristy passage to the grille door. The air there was colder, smelling of damp stone and the wax that had dripped from the candles the night before. Canon Delatroette stood waiting in his black cassock, his face set. He looked at the group once, then spoke without lowering his voice.

“Well, my Reverend Mothers, you can sing a Te Deum. As the delegate of Monseigneur the bishop, I present to you this child of fifteen whose entrance you so much desired. I trust that she will not disappoint your hopes, but I remind you that, if she does, the responsibility is yours, and yours alone.”

No one answered him. Thérèse stepped forward. She kissed each sister in turn, then knelt before her father. Louis lowered himself to the floor as well. His hands shook as he made the sign of the cross over her head. The tears on his cheeks caught the light from the single lamp above the door. He stayed on his knees after she rose. She turned once more toward the family, then walked through the opening. The heavy door swung shut behind her with a sound like a chest lid closing.

I stayed where I was. The family did not move for several minutes. When they finally turned to leave, Louis walked with one hand on Léonie’s arm. Outside, the April light had turned thin and white. The carriage stood where we had left it. No one spoke on the way back to Les Buissonnets.

In the weeks that followed I heard small things through the grille when I brought linen or messages. The postulant mistress sent Thérèse to weed the garden each afternoon at half-past four. The girl worked without gloves, the gravel cutting her palms. At recreation the older sisters sometimes asked her to recite the prayers she had written at home. She answered in a voice so low that only the nearest bench could hear. Once, when a cobweb was found in the cloister, the prioress pointed it out before the whole community and told her a fifteen-year-old should know better how to hold a broom.

I returned to the parlor only twice more that spring. The second time the prioress mentioned that Thérèse had asked to spend her free hour at needlework instead of prayer, thinking that would please her superior. She sat with her head bent over the stitches until the bell rang, never lifting her eyes. The prioress had not known about the change until months later.

Louis Martin’s health gave way before the year ended. He was taken to an asylum in Caen and then brought home again, quieter than before. Céline remained at Les Buissonnets until she too asked for the habit. Léonie tried the Poor Clares and returned, then tried again. The house grew emptier each season.