will, the very essence of our strength and reason,
the guardian of our tranquillity, to be absorbed by an all-devouring
love.

I have spoken elsewhere of the few but splendid examples exhibited
throughout the middle ages in the persons of learned nuns, who combined
science with piety. Their instructors seem to have entertained no
apprehension in developing both their reason and their will. But
science, it is said, fills the soul with uneasiness and curiosity, and
removes us from God. As if there were any science without Him; as if
the divine effulgence, reflected in science, had not a serene virtue, a
power diffusing tranquillity in the human heart, and imparting that
peace of eternal truths and imperishable laws, which will exist in all
their purity when worlds will be no more.

Whom do I blame in all this? Man? God forbid! I only censure the
method.

This method, which was termed Quietism when once it was reduced to a
system, and which, as we shall see presently, is, generally speaking,
that of the _devout direction_, is nothing else than the development of
our passiveness, our instinct of indolence; the result of which, in
course of time, is the paralysis of our will, the annihilation of the
essence of man's constitution.

St. Francois de Sales, was, it would seem, one of the most likely
persons to impart animation to this lifeless system. Nevertheless it
was he, the loyal and the pure, who introduced the system at this
period; it was he who in the seventeenth century pointed out the road
to _passiveness_.

We are, as yet, in the earliest dawn of the century, in all its morning
freshness, and invigorated by the breeze from the Alps. Yet see,
Madame de Chantal sickens and breathes with difficulty.... How will it
be towards evening?

The worthy saint, in a delightful letter, describes himself as being
one day on the lake of Geneva, "on a small raft," guided by Providence,
and perfectly obedient "to the pilot, who forbids him to stir, and very
glad at having only a board three fingers thick to support him." The
century is embarked with him, and, with this amiable guide, he sails
among breakers. These deep waters, as you will find out afterwards,
are the depths of Quietism; and if your sight is keen enough, you may
already perceive Molinos through this transparent abyss.

[1] See St. Francois, OEuvres, viii. 336, April, 1606; and Tabaraud,
Life of Berulle, pp., 57, 58, 95, 141.

CHAPTER I