The Book of Divine Consolation of the Blessed Angela of Foligno

[Stone]

The Book of Divine Consolation of the Blessed Angela of Foligno
by Angela, of Foligno (1248?–1309);
translated by Mary G. Steegmann; with an introduction by Algar Labouchere Thorold (1866–1936)
Published 1909
Taken from here.
[All reformatting done by The Catacombs]

Introduction

What is the secret and so potent attraction of the Saints? Renan says somewhere that he would have given everything he had to have seen St. Mary of Egypt pacing the desert in ecstasy, half-starved and turned to the semblance of Nebuchadnezzar. And Renan liberally discounted the value, not only of Theology, but also of the particular virtue, the loss of which had driven that Saint to such an unusual mode of life. The interest in sanctity evidently survives theological and ethical pre-occupations. Indeed, to-day, the Saint is perhaps an object of higher intrinsic interest to "unbelievers" than to the faithful. For to the faithful he is primarily useful, either as being efficacious in various troubles of life or, on a higher plane, as a sort of spiritual agent, obtaining graces for his clients. O admirabile commercium! But, like everything else, this celestial intercourse suffers from the defects of its qualities. I do not wish to be understood as making light of superstition. The humblest blossom of that luxuriant garden is of infinite value, nor do the roots of our most highly rationalised opinions grow outside it. Nevertheless the important position of the Saint in the Catholic economy does tend to conceal his real personality from his worshippers. He inevitably tends to be considered more as a means to an end, than as an object intrinsically worthy of contemplation. In these circumstances the actual historical value of his personality is apt to be obscured by legend and fancy. Legend, of course, if at all contemporaneous, is of the highest value as illustrating his effect on those with whom he came in contact. We could ill spare in the life of St. Francis the Wolf of Gubbio. Modern devotional fancy is less illuminative. It throws no light upon the character of St. Anthony of Padua to learn that centuries after his death he recovered some papers lost by that devout man King Charles II. What then is it that constitutes the intrinsic interest of the Saint when his supernatural value has gone?

One reason, I think, for this interest is that the Saint represents, in a quite unique manner, the satisfaction of a desire which all men more or less obscurely feel. Ever since man emerged from amid the labyrinth of irrational forces, which, until his appearance, determined the evolution of life on the planet, he has sought for power. Power at first over the hostile or indifferent nature which surrounded him, over the stream, the spark of fire, the wild bear: then over his fellow-men, and, at length, when he began to turn his gaze inwards, over himself. It is noticeable that all the really primitive myths divinised various aspects of power, celebrated the triumph of force. As the social arts began to develop, and, among them, of sheer necessity, morality, men began to attribute moral qualities to the force which they felt around them, above them, and within them. "N'ayant pas pu faire que le juste soit fort, nous avons fait que le fort soit juste," says Pascal. This attribution, however, no less than morality itself, was an afterthought unconsciously conceived in the interest of his self-preservation — for, without morality of some sort, man would soon have disappeared before the wolf and the bear. And, by giving the ultimate sanction of force to his social rule of thumb, he naively betrayed his intuition that that ultimate force was the more fundamental reality. Now the Saint represents the achievement of this longing for power, carried to the highest and most difficult point, that of complete self-mastery. For while, to the primitive savage, the conquest of external foes of one sort and another is evidently the most pressing need of his position, a need recurring so constantly as to exhaust his store of energy, and veil from his attention other possible achievements, as life gets more secure and his attention is directed inwards, man becomes aware of those other dangerous foes of his own household, the appetites and caprices of his inherited brute nature. Turning to battle with these, he dimly but surely perceives one aspect of the ideal of sainthood. For the Saints of all religions, from the most elementary to the most highly developed, are ascetics. They live sparely and chastely, and the mortification of the twin appetites of hunger and love represent to the ordinary man the acme of self-control.

The Saint is also more than the ascetic. Asceticism is a refusal, a limitation, a constraint — in a word, a negation; and the Saint is eminently positive. Moreover, although negative qualities might impose on the imagination and create interest, they would not inspire the personal devotion that is invariably felt for him. The positive quality of the Saint is love, expressing itself in joy. Thus he is a fascinating combination of the familiar and the unfamiliar, for, if few of us are ascetics, we have most of us some experience of love. But the Saint drinks from the Castalian spring of his interior life while we hand about the Divinity to each other in treacherous and remarkably "earthen vessels." His love is not as ours at the mercy of circumstances, it is not susceptible of betrayal or death, for he has found his treasure beyond time and space, where neither satiety nor caprice can corrupt, nor can rivals break through and steal.

There have been all kinds of Saints, from St. Paul, the first hermit, to Father Damian, but the "active" Saints seem less interesting than the "contemplative." Certainly the Fathers of the Desert are very seductive. They lived in caves or on the tops of pillars, supporting their existences on roots and brackish water, while they exhaled their souls in a hymn of timeless ecstasy like Shelley's skylark. Solitude was to them as water to the fish, and they preferred the society of beasts to that of men. St. Paul had his attendant lions, and St. Anthony Abbot spent twenty years in a tomb with serpents who turned into evil spirits by night, and, in these unusual circumstances, became one of the most important personalities of his generation. The external conditions of their existence were often grotesque, almost always terrible. Their inner spirit was the most precious thing humanity possesses. For when everything else has failed a man, he arrives, if his courage holds out, at the joys of the spirit. The forces manifested in his experience, which succeeded in the long run in eluding his dominating grasp, answer submissively to the call of his mind in contemplation. Like fabled Adam naming the docile beasts, he sits in their midst, assigning to each its post and due perspective in the panorama of life. For he has arrived, if without the help of metaphysical analysis, by experience, at the conviction that nothing is real but thought which is the first — and perhaps the last — word of philosophy. Mystics and contemplatives of East and West of all creeds and rites have borne substantial witness to this truth. This is no doubt the reason why alike to the popular imagination as in the treatises of theologians the contemplative life is extolled at the expense of active virtue. For, to all of us, there come moments when we are aware of a psychological need, more profound, more urgent, than the desire for action. Before certain works of art, or occasional aspects of nature, or it may be at the exquisite climax of some mood of intimate personal emotion, a delicious paralysis steals over the will: we feel that we have done enough. In the calm that follows the whirlwind and earthquake of volition now, it seems, definitely stilled, we are conscious only of the beauty of the situation on which we gaze, we have no desire to modify it, we only wish to gaze on for ever. The aesthetic sense has entirely replaced ethical striving.

Blessed Angela of Foligno was a true daughter of this ancient line. Born in 1248, she entered the family of St. Francis as a Tertiary Hermit, and became, through the spiritual autobiography, which she dedicated to her confessor Fra Arnaldo, one of its most striking illustrations. St. Francis and his "Knights of the Round Table"* seem from the first to have struck a new note in medieval religion. The Monastic Order, whether Benedictine or Cistercian, wrapped in the aloofness of its splendid cloisters, frequently governed by abbots who were great feudal lords, represented, it might be said, the aristocratic principle in spirituality. The aims of the monks were lofty, unintelligible no doubt to the villeins of the soil, who were their dependents; they fed and educated their humble neighbours, but their own life remained exclusive, a thing apart. St. Francis brought the spiritual life down to the people, the popolo minuto, and he did so — here was his splendid originality — without lowering the values of what he brought within their reach. The religious democracy that he created remained an aristocracy of the soul. His logic was amazing because so simple. In most men, thought and action move on different planes; with them action implies at least some degree of compromise; but when St. Francis, stripping himself of his father's cloak, and flying naked to the Bishop's arms, proclaimed the divine royalty of poverty, that most unusual phenomenon was seen — a man's thought and action in perfect harmony. Something of that divine simplicity, of that exquisite unison of thought and will, is what constitutes the Franciscan spirit, distinguishing all his authentic children and, not least of them, the simple woman who unfolds her wonderful experiences in this small volume.

We know little of her life. Born within thirty years of St. Francis' death, she entered on the life of penance after a youth passed in moral disorder. She lived in solitude with a religious companion in the neighbourhood of the Church of the Friars Minor at Foligno, until the year of her death in 1309. Her "Visions," which are of the most touching and beautiful description, appear to have been all of the kind described by mystical theologians as "intellectual," that is to say they were unaccompanied by any sensible manifestations. Some of them, indeed, as she notes herself, occurred during sleep. They are an extraordinary blend of naive candour and passion. They indicate, with an accuracy which I feel tempted to ascribe at times to the editing of the possibly more analytical Fra Arnaldo, the moments of what may be called the dialectical process of sanctification. The point of departure of her conversion was a purely self-regarding dread of the penalties of sin: the contemplative mood of the love of God, to which she ultimately attained, absorbed all the intervening emotional categories. This little book may in fact be called, in the Hegelian sense of the term, the Logic of sanctity. It is certainly one of the most important documents we have of medieval psychology, and illustrates in a very remarkable manner the completeness of that system of Mysticism which was at once the root and the blossom of the medieval intellect. Only in Angela the intellect is hidden under a succession of emotional moments, which develop by their own spontaneous dialectic out of the whole mood of which each of them is the passing but necessary expression. That Mysticism is the finest and, on the whole, perhaps the sanest there has ever been. It is far from being exclusively Christian. Deriving from the lecture halls of Alexandria, as well as from the hills of Galilee, it has come down to us through a series of great experimentalists, who have furnished to those of like mind with themselves its justification in their own experience. It is the classic Catholic Mysticism, as the Roman Church has always understood and still understands the term.

Few systems of thought have swayed the imagination more profoundly. Remaining a true Mysticism by nature of its goal, the "Beatific Vision," it has succeeded in incorporating in itself the ethical aspirations of Western energy. It thus mediates between the passive ecstasy of Hindu Pantheism and the restless volitional activity of the white race.

The dogma of the Incarnation has here been of the greatest service. The Unknown and Unknowable All is contemplated by the Catholic Saint in the person of Christ. The dogma gives him a lens with which he can focus the rays of Divinity and unite them in a shaft of light on which he can gaze without faltering. In this way he is provided with an inexhaustible object, adequate to his mind and will. On the one hand he can never know the tragedy of satiety, for, although he may faint with fatigue, his object is inexhaustible, and, on the other, his will is not ruled out as an illusion, but fortified by the prospect of an infinite perspective of effort and achievement. For Catholic Mysticism may perhaps be best summed up, in the phrase by which a great philosopher of our day has described life itself, as a creative evolution. The acts of Virtue, of Faith, Hope, and Charity of a Saint, are not waste of time or of merely negative use; they do not merely serve the purpose of withdrawing him from temptation, they actually constitute the spiritual life within him, like the words of consecration in the Mass, they create in his heart the Divinity which they assert. The mystic gradually passes beyond this mood into that profound and eternal rest of the soul, which theologians call the Beatific Vision, and which is, according to the teaching of Aquinas, enjoyed by some still in life with an even greater intensity than by others who literally "sleep in the Lord."

The Roman Church has ever regarded Catholic Mysticism as the kernel of the Depositum Fidei of which she is the guardian. It was for it she fought through the long and wearisome controversies which brought to the birth at Nicea the orthodox dogma of the Incarnation. For, as has been said, without that dogma, Catholic Mysticism would have missed its specific and characteristic note and would have become a mere variant of Neo-platonist theurgy. The inherent tendency that all Mysticism has to Pantheism, indeed to Nihilism, would have inevitably asserted itself. Nothing short of faith in the descent of the Infinite into the finite could have saved the wavering lines of human personality, turned inwards to gaze upon itself. All, including that personality, would have become an unstable illusion, the web of Maia woven by the fallacious dreams of human desire. And European religion, at least at the point of its highest individual development, would have been indistinguishable from Buddhism. When Schopenhauer drew his parallel between Catholic and Buddhist Mysticism, he failed to see the enormous difference made by belief in the dogma of the Man-god. It is perhaps not without significance that he dwells so much on the value in that connection of Madame Guyon, whose Quietist tendencies, resting ultimately on a Docetic view of the Incarnation, were the cause of her difficulties with Bossuet.

At first sight perhaps the visions of the Blessed Angela may seem to have only an archaic value for us. The world in which she lived seems so remote from ours, the circumstances of her life so different from anything that could possibly occur to us, that her experience seems hopelessly irrelevant to our own needs. But this is a superficial view. The human heart is always the same: there exists a law of what may be called sentimental constancy. And nothing that has ever been believed by anybody is without value. It is enough if the faith and the experience were really genuine. Angela is an authentic specimen of a clearly-defined class of human beings. Mystics are very rare, but they exist. Moreover they are only rare in the West. Oriental bazaars are crowded with them; they prophesy at the corners of streets surrounded by yellow dogs, picturesquely clad disciples, and occasional European tourists. Quite a considerable number of human beings pass their lives in a state of more or less constant inspiration. We are apt to forget this and limit the possibilities of all experience to our own. It is therefore enlarging to our minds to step sometimes into other people's worlds. In the world of Blessed Angela we shall find much to interest and astonish us, and perhaps to excite our admiration. We shall at all events enjoy the commerce of a pure and candid soul.

The translation here offered to the reader is that of the first Italian version which was made in 1510 from the Latin of Fra Arnaldo. This version is one of the rarest books in the world, and has a special value as being one of the earliest popular devotional works printed in the vernacular in Italy. It takes its place with the "Dialogo" of St. Catherine of Siena and the "Fioretti" of St. Francis, among the attempts to popularise Mysticism, which represented a too little known side of that complex movement which we call the Renaissance.

---

* "Isti sunt fratres mei milites Tabulae rotondae." *Spec. Perfec.*, p. 72.

[Stone]

Preface by the Old Italian Translator


Unto all Readers Beloved in Jesus Christ,

Although in the Holy Gospel our most loving Lord hath plentifully shown unto us the means and the way whereby we may attain unto the perfection of Christian life, yet hath His consoling spirit (giver of all comforting and spiritual grace) nevertheless not ceased, nor ever will cease, to reveal unto us continually by means of His most worthy instruments — the which are saints and devout persons — divers ways and conditions of finding the most perfect and consummate union possible unto wayfarers in this life. And although by the facility of printing there hath been put forth an infinite number of books, so many that they do obscure the sun of justice upon earth (seeing that there are more evil books than good), because by reason of their perverse judgment and voluptuous desires men do delight more in imagining and in hearkening unto hurtful things rather than unto wholesome ones, and because through the world's abuses evil men are more favoured than are good men, yet cannot malice overcome wisdom, neither can the many overcome the few.

For this reason, also, hath God elected the weak to confound the strong, and thus in our own times hath He inspired many women of exalted spirit, and they did lead most holy and exemplary lives, walking upon the short and straight road. Amongst these is the Blessed Angela of Foligno, who, although a woman (and therefore of the weaker sex), did, nevertheless, by means of her humble, patient and steadfast despising of the things of this world and by her chosen and beloved poverty, overcome all the strong and powerful of her time. Unto whomsoever shall truly read and prudently consider them, her conversion, penitence, temptation, and doctrine (as set forth in this book), will be of exceeding profit for walking in the way and service of God, until he attaineth unto the happiness of glory. This book hath already been printed in Latin, divided into three treatises, namely — of penitence, of visions, and of doctrine. But because it was neither elegant nor learned in that language, it was neither read by scholars nor understood by the simple, and for this reason hath it been deemed well to translate it into the vulgar tongue, that it may be universally understood and be profitable unto a greater number of persons.

The writer hath not sought to put it into elegant language, nor yet into the Tuscan or the courtly tongue, but only to render it intelligible. Wherefore each one is exhorted to read it solely for his profit and for the good of his soul, which he will the more obtain the more he doth carefully read and digest, and put into practice that which he hath read and digested. For it is not the readers, but the doers, of good works who attain unto grace. And although it is to be believed that the writers of that time put down everything in the order in which it pleased God to recall it unto the memory of the Blessed Angela, yet hath it seemed more convenient in this translation into the vulgar tongue to put the treatise of doctrine into the second place, the which in Latin is given the third place, and to put here as third treatise that of the visions and consolations, which in Latin hath the second place.

This hath been done because these consolations and visions are things most high, and it hath seemed right to leave them unto the last to be read by those who are more perfected and instructed, and first to set down her teaching (which is likewise that of Jesus Christ), as being more universally profitable, and especially unto beginners. The treatise of doctrine is further divided into several chapters, which was not done previously, in order that it may be more easy and less wearisome unto the reader, because certain of the chapters were exceeding long. Each one is now prayed and exhorted that (for his own good) he weary not of reading this most excellent book, wherein he will find pointed out that straight highroad (the road of poverty, of pain, and of contempt), whereby it is easy to find God, and from which none can excuse themselves as they might do from the contemplation of the incomprehensible Trinity. And it will be unto him a joy to hear and know of those sufferings and other ills which Christ and the saints did willingly endure for our sakes, piously praying God that He will open the treasures of His mercy unto all. Amen.

[Stone]

Treatise I. Of the Conversion and Penitence of the Blessed Angela of Foligno and of Her Many and Divers Temptations


As I walked (said the Blessed Angela) by the way of penitence, I did take eighteen spiritual steps before I came to know the imperfection of my life.

The first step was that I did begin to reflect upon my sins, the knowledge of which did fill my soul with so great a dread that, fearing to be condemned unto hell, I wept bitterly.

The second was, that I did begin to be so exceeding ashamed of those my sins that for shame I could not fully confess them; wherefore many times did I communicate whilst yet unconfessed and with all my sins did I receive the Body of our Lord. Being day and night reproached by my conscience because of this thing, I did pray the Blessed Francis that he would grant me to discover a confessor meet for my needs, who should be well acquainted with my sins and unto whom I could fully confess myself. In that same night did the Blessed Francis appear unto me and say: "Sister, if thou hadst prayed unto me sooner thy prayer would have been sooner granted; that which thou hast asked hath been done." Upon the next morning, therefore, I went into the church of Saint Francis and found there a friar preaching in Saint Feliciano, which friar was chaplain unto the bishop and did hold his authority; and to him I did determine to make my confession immediately that the sermon should be ended. Wherefore I did confess myself most fully and was absolved of all my sins. And in this confession I did feel no love, but only bitterness, shame, and pain.

The third step was that I did consequently persevere in the performance of the penance imposed upon me, and as yet I was filled with pain and misery without any other consolation.

Fourthly, I did begin to consider and to know the divine mercy which had granted me the aforesaid grace and saved me from hell. Here did I begin to be enlightened and I did now weep and lament more than heretofore, forcing myself to do more severe penance, of the which I will not speak here.

The fifth was that, being thus enlightened, and finding nothing save faults in me, I did condemn myself, as one who knew and was most assuredly convinced that she was worthy of hell; whereat I did again weep bitterly. It must be understood, however, that between the one step and another there was a space of time, and I did ever weep and dolefully lament; and there was nothing else vouchsafed unto me, only I did have some consolation in that I could weep, but truly it was a bitter consolation.

Sixthly, there was given unto me a constant and certain illumination of grace, whereby I was made to know my sins so profoundly that, having offended the Creator, I saw that I had likewise offended the creatures made for me. Therefore I did recall unto my memory all the sins which I had committed and in the confession (which I did make unto the Lord my God) I did most profoundly ponder over them. Wherefore I did beseech all the saints, with the Blessed Virgin, that they would intercede for me, and I did pray the merciful Lord (who had vouchsafed unto me so many good things), that He would have pity upon me, and, seeing that I did know myself to be dead in sin, that He would raise me to life again through His grace. Moreover, I did pray all creatures (seeing how that I had offended them inasmuch as I had offended the Creator), that they would not accuse me before God. Thus did it appear unto me that all creatures and all the saints did have compassion upon me, wherefore with a greater fire of love did I apply myself to praying unto God more than was customary.

The seventh was, that by an especial grace I did begin to gaze upon the Cross, whereon I did behold (as much with the eyes of my heart as with those of my body) Jesus Christ who had died for us, and I did feel great grief at that sight, notwithstanding that this vision and meditation were as yet but little understood of me.

The eighth was, that as I did gaze upon the Cross I was granted a greater understanding how that Christ had died for our sins. Whereupon I did so clearly perceive all mine own sins, and with such exceeding great grief, that I did feel that I myself had crucified the Lord. Nevertheless I did not yet know how great a blessing was the Passion of Christ, nor did I understand as clearly then as I afterwards did, how that He had redeemed me from my sins and converted me unto repentance, and had died for me. In this beholding of the Cross I did so burn with the fire of love and remorse that, standing before the Cross, I did divest myself of everything and did thus offer myself unto Him. And although I feared greatly, I did nevertheless promise to observe perpetual chastity and not to offend with any of my members, accusing my members one by one of past sins. And I did pray Him that He would make me to keep this my promise, that is, to preserve chastity and to keep guard over my thoughts; for upon the one hand I did greatly fear to promise, and upon the other hand the aforesaid fire compelled me, and I had no power to resist.

Ninthly, there was given unto me the desire to seek out and know the way of the Cross, that I might stand at its foot and find refuge there where all sinners find refuge. Unto which end I was enlightened and instructed after this manner: that if I did desire to find the way and come unto the Cross, I must first pardon all those who had offended me, and must then put away from me all earthly things, not only out of mine affections but likewise in very deed, and all men and women, friends and kindred and every other thing, but more especially my possessions must I put away, and even mine own self. And I must give my heart unto Christ (who hath done me such great good), electing to walk upon the thorny path, which is the path of tribulation. So then I did begin to put aside the best clothing and garments which I had and the most delicate food, likewise the covering for my head. But as yet it was a shameful and a hard thing for me to do, seeing that I did not feel much love for God and was living with mine husband. Wherefore was it a bitter thing for me when any offence was said or done unto me, but I did bear it as patiently as I was able. In that time and by God's will there died my mother, who was a great hindrance unto me in following the way of God; my husband died likewise, and in a short time there also died all my children. And because I had commenced to follow the aforesaid way and had prayed God that He would rid me of them, I had great consolation of their deaths, albeit I did also feel some grief. Wherefore, because that God had shown this grace unto me, I did imagine that my heart was in the heart of God and that His will and His heart were in my heart.

Tenthly, seeking to know from God what thing I could do, the which would be most acceptable unto Him, He did of His mercy many times appear unto me, both sleeping and waking, and appearing fastened upon the Cross He did bid me gaze upon His wounds, and in a marvellous manner He did make me to know how that He had borne all things for me; and this happened many times. And when He had showed unto me one by one all the things which He had borne for me, He said, "What canst thou do for Me that will suffice?" Likewise did He appear unto me many times when I was awake, but in a manner more pleasing than when I was asleep (although I did always perceive His great grief and suffering), and He showed unto me the pains of His head and the hairs plucked from His eyebrows and His beard, counting over unto me all His scourgings and showing them unto me in the places where they had been inflicted, saying unto me, "All this was for thee." Then did I most clearly recall unto my memory all my sins, by the which it seemed unto me I had wounded Him afresh and therefore had cause for great lamentation, and I did doubtless feel much more sorrow than before. Thus showing His Passion unto me, He did say, "What canst thou do for Me that will suffice?" Then did I weep and shed such burning tears that they did burn my flesh, wherefore it behoved me to lave it with cold water that it might be cooled.

The eleventh was, that because of my sins I was moved to do penance more severely, of the which it is not meet to speak here. And as I reflected and did oblige myself to wish to do this, it seemed unto me at last that I could not sufficiently do penance the whiles I was possessed of worldly things, wherefore in order the more freely to do this and to come unto the Cross as I had been inspired to do, I did determine most certainly to forsake everything. The which determination was marvellously sent unto me by God after this manner. In mine imagination I did cherish a great desire to become poor, and such was my zeal that ofttimes I did fear to die before I could attain unto this state of poverty. Upon the other hand I was assailed by temptations, the which did whisper unto my thoughts that I was youthful and that begging for alms might lead me into great danger and shame, and that if I did this I should be forced to die of hunger, cold, and nakedness. Moreover all my friends did dissuade me from this thing. But at last the Divine mercy did send a certain great illumination into mine heart, wherefrom I did derive a certain assurance, the which, as I believed then and do believe now, I shall not lose even in eternity. Wherefore I did dispose and determine that, even though I should be forced to die of hunger, cold, and shame, because such a thing was pleasing or might be pleasing unto God — I would by no means leave from my purpose, even though I were certain that these aforesaid evils should befall me, choosing to die willingly for the love of God rather than to fall short of mine intention. So then I did resolve in good earnest.

The twelfth was, that I did afterwards pray unto the Blessed Mother of Christ and the Blessed John the Evangelist that (for the sake of the suffering which they had endured), they would obtain for me a certain sign whereby I might always keep in memory the Passion of Christ.

The thirteenth was, that, persevering in the aforesaid prayers and desires, a dream was granted unto me wherein was showed me the Heart of Christ, and it was told me that in that Heart there is no falsehood, because therein all things are true. And it seemed unto me that this sign was sent because I had mocked at a certain preacher.

The fourteenth was, that being once at prayer, Christ did show Himself unto me as I kept vigil, more clearly and giving me greater knowledge of Himself than heretofore. Then it was that He did set me free, and it was after this manner. Firstly, He did question me; then He did say unto me, "Put thy mouth into the wound in My side." Then methought that I did put it there and did drink the blood which was running freshly from out of His side, and in the doing of this it was given me to know that I was cleansed. And here I did begin to receive great consolation, albeit I grieved when I did meditate upon the Passion. Then I did pray the Lord that He would cause my blood to be shed and poured out for His love's sake, as His had been shed for me, and I did desire that for His love all my members should suffer affliction and death, more vile and more bitter than His Passion. Wherefore I bethought me and did seek to find one who should put me to death, in order that I might suffer for the sake of His faith and love. But I knew that I was not worthy to die as the holy martyrs had died. Nevertheless, I did desire that He would cause me to die, and by a death more vile and more slow, and more bitter. I could not bethink me of a death as vile as I did wish for, or one that would differ from the deaths of the saints — for I did most surely deem myself unworthy of dying their death.

The fifteenth step was that I did fix my mind upon the Virgin Mother of God and upon Saint John, keeping them in my remembrance and praying them that (for the suffering which they had endured because of the Passion of our Lord) they would obtain for me the grace that I should always feel the pain of the Passion or at least of their sufferings. And they did obtain this grace for me in such a degree that one time Saint John did put upon me so great a pain that never did I feel a greater. Then did I perceive that the sufferings of Saint John and of the Mother of Christ (the which they did endure because of the Passion) were in very truth more than martyrdom. Then was it that the desire was given unto me to revile myself with all my might. And although I was much assailed by the devil and ofttimes tempted that I should not do this thing, and was forbidden by the Brothers Minor and by all from whom it was meet I should seek counsel, nevertheless by nothing either of good or of evil that could be done unto me was I prevented from giving all my possessions unto the poor. And if I had been hindered from doing this I would at least have forsaken all things because methought I could not keep any thing for myself without greatly offending Him who did thus enlighten me. Nevertheless I was yet sunk in bitterness because of my sins, neither did I know if the things which I did were pleasing unto God; but with much weeping I cried, saying: "Lord, even though I be condemned, nevertheless will I not cease from doing penance, and I have put away all things from me in order to serve Thee." But being, as I have said, still sunk in bitterness because of my sins and not yet feeling any divine sweetness whatsoever, I was changed out of this state in the manner hereafter written down.

The sixteenth was, that I did come again into the church to ask of God that He would bestow some mercy upon me. And whilst that I was praying and saying the Paternoster, God did implant that Paternoster in mine heart with so clear an understanding of the Divine goodness and mine own unworthiness that I could in no way describe it. Each word was written upon mine heart and I did speak it with great and enduring contrition and compunction. So that, although I wept because of my sins and mine unworthiness (the which I did here perceive), I did nevertheless have great consolation and did begin to taste somewhat of the Divine sweetness, because in the Paternoster I did see the Divine goodness better than in any other thing, and here likewise did I find it best. But because my sins and mine unworthiness were showed unto me in the aforesaid prayer, I did begin to be so greatly ashamed that I did not presume to raise mine eyes either to heaven or to the Crucifix, or any other thing, but did commend myself unto the Blessed Virgin, that she should implore and obtain mercy for me and forgiveness of my sins, seeing that I was yet sunk in the bitterness of sin. Oh, sinners, how beset with difficulties and full of heaviness is the way of the soul unto repentance! How art thou bound with strong chains and thy feet shackled! How evil are thine helpers, or rather they who hinder thee, the world, the flesh, and the devil! Ye must know that I did halt in each one of these aforesaid steps a good space of time before that I was enabled to move from the one unto the other; albeit I did not remain equally long in each, but in some more and in some less time.

Then at the seventeenth step were these things made manifest unto me, that the Blessed Virgin had obtained for me the grace of a more than human faith; wherefore did it seem unto me that until that time my faith had been almost dead, when compared with that which had been newly given unto me. Likewise did it seem unto me that the tears which I had hitherto wept had been shed almost unwillingly when compared with those which I now shed. Wherefore I did now lament for the Passion of Christ and for the sufferings of His Mother more earnestly than I had done before. And now everything which I did, howsoever much or great, did seem unto me but of little account. And I did desire to do greater penance, and I did fill mine whole heart with Christ's Passion, because unto me had been vouchsafed the hope that I might thereby be redeemed. I did now, moreover, begin to find consolation in dreams, for I did have fair and pleasant dreams, so that I was thereby consoled. I did likewise now begin to feel the sweetness and consolation of God within mine heart, and outwardly in my body continually, both sleeping and waking; but because I did not yet feel any assurance, my joy was mingled with bitterness, neither did my heart take any rest, but ever desired further mercies from God.

The eighteenth was, that I did at last begin to have the understanding and the visions and the words of God, and I so greatly delighted in prayer that I did forget to eat. Wherefore did I wish that there were no need for eating, in order that I might be ever at prayer. This desire did occasion a certain temptation not to eat, or, if I did eat, that I should eat but a small quantity. But I perceived this to be a snare; and there was such a great fire of love in mine heart that I did never weary of being upon my knees, or of doing other penance. After this I was filled with a yet greater fire and fervour of Divine love, in such a degree that if I did hear any man speaking of God I did cry aloud, and even had there been one with an axe ready to kill me I could not have refrained. The first time that this happened unto me was when I did sell the little piece of land which was mine to give the money unto the poor (this was the best possession which I had), but in the beginning I did mock at myself for this crying, as one mocketh at Petruccio; then I perceived that I could by no manner of means do otherwise. Wherefore it did ofttimes happen that, hearing God spoken of, I did cry aloud, albeit that I was in the company of other persons, no matter who they might be. And when those persons did say unto me that I was disordered in that I should do such a thing, I did answer that I was sick and overwhelmed, and that I could not do otherwise. Neither could I convince those who spoke evil against me because of this thing, but I did feel greatly ashamed. When I beheld the Passion of Christ painted in a picture I could scarce contain myself, but was seized with a fever and fell into a sickness; for the which reason my companion did hide such pictures of the Passion from me whenever it was possible, in order that I might not behold them. During the times of these cryings I did have many illuminations, understandings, visions, and consolations, of the which several will be written down in the following treatises.

[Stone]

Chapter I. Of Her Many and Various Temptations


In order, therefore, that I might not feel myself exalted by the magnitude and the number of the revelations, visions, and conversings with God, and that I might not be puffed up with the delight thereof, the great tempter was sent unto me, who did afflict me with many and divers temptations, wherefore was I afflicted both in my soul and in my body. The torments of the body were verily numberless and were administered by many demons in divers ways, so that I do scarce believe that the sufferings and infirmity of my body could be written down. There remained not one of my members the which was not grievously tormented; neither was I ever without pain, without infirmity, or without weariness. Always was I weak and feeble, and full of pain, so that I was compelled to be almost continually lying down. All my limbs were as though beaten, and with many troubles did the demons afflict me.

Thus was I perpetually sick and swelled, and in all my limbs I did suffer pain, so that it was difficult for me to move myself. Nevertheless was I not weary of lying still, neither was I yet able to eat sufficient. In short, the sufferings of the body were great, but those of the soul were beyond all comparison more bitter and more numerous, and all were inflicted by the same demons. I can only liken myself unto one who is hanged by the neck, his hands tied behind his back and his eyes bound, and who is left hanging by a rope upon the gallows; and although he hath no help or remedy or support, he doth nevertheless continue to live in that torment and cannot die. And I do affirm that even more desperately and with greater cruelty was I afflicted by demons, for they hanged my soul and all its strength was overwhelmed and departed from it. And seeing how that I had no power to oppose them, my grief was so great that at times I was scarce able to weep for rage and for grievous suffering. Moreover, I wept without obtaining relief, and ofttimes was my rage so great that I could scarce refrain from rending myself and beating myself most grievously, thus causing my head and all my members to swell. When my soul beheld itself cast down and all its virtue departed from it, then it made great lamentation, and then did I cry unto my God.

After this I did endure another torment, for every vice was re-awakened within me. Not that — albeit re-awakened — they had power to overcome my reason, but they did occasion me much tribulation. And not only did I remember those vices which assailed me in times past, but many others which I did never before know entered into my body and did inflame me and cause me the utmost suffering. But because they had no lasting power over me they did afford me great consolation when they began to weaken and leave me. This was the work of the demons into whose hands I perceived I had been delivered, but when I do remember how that God was afflicted here below and in poverty, I would that mine own sufferings might be increased twofold.

At times was I thrown into a most horrible darkness of spirit by the demons, wherein it did appear that all hope of good was withdrawn from me. Then those vices which were dead inwardly in the soul were revived outwardly in the body, both those which I did never before feel and those which I did have aforetimes. And I did suffer so greatly that I was constrained to put actual fire upon my body in order that it might quench the burning of desire; and this I did continue to do until my confessor forbade me. And when I was in that darkness of spirit methought I would have chosen rather to be roasted than to endure such pains. Wherefore did I cry aloud and call upon death, desiring that it should come in any form whatsoever if only God would permit me to die. And unto God did I say: "Lord, if Thou wilt send me into hell, I pray Thee tarry not, but do it instantly, and since Thou hast abandoned me, make an end of it now and plunge me into the depths." Presently I perceived that this was the work of demons and that such vices exist not in the soul, for never would I have consented thereto. Howsoever, the body doth suffer violence, and so great is the grief and pain that if it should endure the body would not be able to bear it. Moreover, the soul doth find that all its strength hath been taken from it, and albeit it doth in no wise consent unto vice, yet can it not resist. And seeing that it doth act contrary to the will of God, it loseth all hope of being able to resist and is tormented by those vices.

Among others, God did permit one vice to enter into me the which I had never known before, but I did clearly perceive that it entered into me by Divine permission, and it was so great that it did exceed all the others. Upon the other hand was there given unto me a certain virtue, manifestly wherewith to oppose the aforesaid vice and by means of which God did most potently set me free. Wherefore even if I had not already possessed a sure faith in God, this one thing alone would have inspired me with such a faith and a certain hope, of the which I could in no wise doubt. For virtue did increase and vice did diminish, and I was so upheld by that virtue that I could not consent unto wrong-doing, and likewise by means of that virtue was I so enlightened and strengthened that not all the men who were in the world, nor all the demons, could have persuaded me to commit the smallest sin. Hence proceedeth the aforesaid faith in God. The aforesaid vice was so great that I am ashamed to speak of it, and of such potency that if the virtue had tarried in coming to succour me, neither shame nor suffering nor any other thing whatsoever would have sufficed to restrain me from instantly falling back into sin. And all this did I bear for the space of more than two years.

Furthermore, beside this, was there a continual conflict betwixt humility and a certain pride, the which did increase in my soul and grievously vex it. The humility was because I did see myself fallen from all goodness and void of all virtue and grace, perceiving in myself such an infinite multitude of sins that I could not believe that God would ever desire to have me for His own. I perceived myself to have become an habitation of demons, their creditor and their child. Likewise methought that I had strayed from the right way and from all truth, and finally that I was worthy of the nethermost depths of hell. It must be known that this humility brought no contentment unto my soul, neither any understanding of divine truth and goodness, but was a certain humble dejection the which was the cause of innumerable evils. For I did perceive the backsliding of both soul and body, on account of which I did know in my soul that I was surrounded by demons.

Then was God hidden from me in all His power and grace, neither could I by any manner of means recall Him unto my mind, because He would not permit it. Thus did I perceive myself to be condemned, but I could not believe that I had been mine own damnation, because I did more grieve and lament for having offended my Creator than for any other thing. For this reason did I strive with all my members against the demons, that I might overcome the aforesaid vices, but I was not able, neither could I find any remedy or any way whereby I might escape or help myself, so deep did I perceive myself to have fallen. Wherefore was I ofttimes plunged into the abyss of this humility, wherein I did behold my sins and the superabundance of mine iniquities, but I did see no way whereby they might be made manifest and known unto all.

And in order that I might make known my dissembling and my sins, it came into my mind to go throughout the cities and open places with meat and with fishes hanging about my neck, and to cry: "This is that woman, full of evil and of dissembling, slave of all vices and iniquities, who did good deeds that she might obtain honour amongst men! And especially when I caused it to be told unto those whom I had bidden to mine house that I did eat neither fish nor meat, and when — being the while full of greediness, gluttony, and drunkenness — I did feign to desire naught save what was needful. I did diligently make an outward show of being poor, but I caused many sheets and coverings to be put there where I lay down to sleep, causing them to be taken up in the morning in order that none might see them. Behold, therefore, the devil of my soul and the iniquity of mine heart; hearken unto a daughter of hypocrisy and pride, a deceiver and an abomination of God who did feign to be a child of prayer. I was given over to pride and to the devil, but I did feign to have God in my soul and His consolation in my chamber, whereas I had the devil alike in my soul and in my chamber. And know ye, that during all the time of my life I have studied how that I might obtain the fame of sanctity, but verily I say unto you that through the iniquity and the hidden dissembling of mine heart have I deceived many, and have been the murderer of many souls, and of mine own soul likewise."

Then, being still sunk in this abyss, I did turn me towards these my brothers (who are called sons), saying: "Henceforth, oh my sons, ye will no longer believe in me; do ye not see how that I am possessed of the devil? Pray ye that the justice of God may compel the demons to go forth out of my soul, and that they may make manifest their most evil works in order that God may be no more dishonoured by me. See ye not that all that which I have told unto you is false? See ye not that if there were no iniquity whatsoever in the world, I should fill it out of the abundance of mine own iniquity? Wherefore must ye no longer put faith in me, neither must ye worship this living image; but pray that the justice of God may cause it to be cast down and broken asunder, so that its devilish works may be made manifest, its lies and its painted and gilded words, the which I did colour over and conceal with divine words in order that I might be adored and honoured as a thing of God. Pray ye finally that the devil may go forth out of this idol, and that by this woman the world may be no longer deceived. And I will pray unto the Son of God (whom I dare not name) that if it pleaseth Him not to show forth my sins Himself, that He will cause the earth to witness unto them by opening and swallowing me up, making of me such an example that men and women will say: 'Lo, how was she painted in false colours and a dissembler within and without!'"

At times I had a mind to put a rope about my neck, verily a strong band, and to cause myself to be dragged through the city and the open places, crying: "This is that woman who during all the time of her life hath showed the false in place of the true," and that all persons then should say: "Behold a miracle of God, for He hath caused this woman to reveal her sins of her own self and to declare her iniquities which have heretofore been hidden!" Yet did this not suffice unto my soul, for I was fallen into a desperation such as had never before been seen in this world, the cause thereof being that I did despair of God and all His benefits by reason of having made conflict betwixt me and them.

For which reason, also, was I certain that in the whole world there was no person more full of all manner of wickedness and more worthy of condemnation than was I. And all that which had been given me of God had been granted for the increasing of my despair and my condemnation. Wherefore pray ye unto God that He tarry no longer, for my head is already breaking, my body fainteth, and mine eyes are dimmed because of the abundance of my tears. And lastly, all my members are loosened and can no more give proof of the wickedness of my soul, but I do rejoice that it hath been made manifest in part." And all this did I perceive in mine humility. Thou must know, however, thou who hast written down these matters, that what thou hast written is but a small thing in comparison with all mine iniquities and mine abuses, for I was yet very young when I did begin to do wrong. These and other like things was I constrained to say when I was sunk in the aforesaid humility.

After this came pride. Then was I filled with wrath and vanity, with melancholy and bitterness, and all puffed up with pride. Thereto was added another bitterness concerning the benefits which God had bestowed upon me, because I remembered no more any good thing of them whatsoever, but only remembered injuries and dolorous grief, marvelling that there had been any virtue whatsoever in me and doubting whether in truth there had ever been any. Neither did I perceive any reason wherefore God should have permitted this, and for this cause was all goodness shut away from me and hidden. The temptation of this thought did make me to be filled with pride and anger, most bitter sadness and affliction and a grief greater than I can declare, so that if all the wise men of the world and all the saints of paradise had given me every assurance to comfort me and had promised me every blessing which could be named, not even they could have done aught for me or rendered me any help, if God had not changed my soul and worked differently within it. Neither should I have believed in them, but all would have worked together to increase mine anger, affliction, sadness, and pain more than I could possibly declare.

Wherefore, if God would but have liberated me from these torments and temptations, in lieu thereof would I willingly have suffered every ill and would have borne all the infirmities and suffering which have ever been known, and verily do I believe that they would have been less hard for me to bear than were the aforesaid torments. Wherefore have I ofttimes said that, if only I might be set free from them, I would gladly have endured every form of martyrdom. This state of torments and temptations did begin some little while before the time of the pontificate of Celestino and did last more than two years, during the which I was ofttimes tormented, nor am I even yet entirely freed, albeit I do now feel it but seldom, and that only outwardly, not inwardly as heretofore. But when I am in that state I do perceive that in betwixt that evil humility and that pride there is a great purging and purifying of the soul, by which and through which is acquired that true humility without which none can be saved; so that the greater the humility, the greater is likewise the purification. Thus came I to know that betwixt those two aforesaid extremes my soul must be burned and martyred, and through the knowledge of mine offences and my sins (which knowledge it did obtain through that same true humility) my soul became purged both of pride and of demons. For the which reason doth it come that the poorer the soul is made and the more profoundly humiliated, the more doth it abase and purify itself in order that it may be cleansed. And in no other way can a soul be cleansed save by deep humiliation and by being most profoundly implanted and rooted in veritable and true humility.

Here endeth the Conversion, Penitence, and Temptation of the Blessed Angela of Foligno.

---

¹ Petruccio was evidently some noted personage of the time, whose identity it is impossible now to trace. *(footnote referring back to the previous chapter's mention of Petruccio)*