LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.
FROM THE FRENCH.
June 1, 1868.
What a beautiful Whitsuntide, carissima! Only a minute ago Marcella was singing to me the Tarantella della Madonna, “Pie di Grotta.” Do you recollect the pretty child in rags who used to make such long trills and quavers as she tossed back her dark tresses? How far off now, dear Kate, seems our time at Naples!
Margaret sends me a summons to go to her. I answer by telling her how it is that we are detained in Brittany until July. You can understand what the family journey will then be. Oh! it is so sweet and good a thing to be together that it costs much to each one of us to absent ourselves from the rest even for a day.
We have had High Mass and Vespers worthy of a cathedral. On leaving the chapel Anna, whose musical organization leaves nothing to desire, threw herself into my arms, exclaiming: “It must be like that in Paradise!” We all had the same impression. What worldly festivities are worth ours?
This morning a walk with René in the woods, among the thyme and early dew. Made a resolution to go out in this way every day, quietly, before a single shutter is opened. We pray and meditate. René draws me on to heights of faith and love. If you heard him when he walks out with the twins! And how they listen to him, with their large eyes fixed on his!
Would you like to have news of
Isa? “She is very thin,” Margaret tells me, “but is still beautiful; she personifies the angel of charity. The good she does all around her will never be known. Make haste, then, dear, and come; it is not good of you thus to refuse yourself to our desires.”
God keep you, my dear Kate!
La Tarantella della Madonna, Pie di Grotta.
(Neapolitan Ballad.)
O lark that singest sweetly
At the rising of the sun,
Whose blithe wing bears thee fleetly
To where the day’s begun!
Rise, rise through rosy skies
To the gate of Paradise.
At that gate so fair
What should be my quest?
Shall I enter Paradise
With the angels blest?
Thou shalt pray our Mother fair,
With azure eyes and golden hair,
To touch our fruits with ripening hand,
And bless the harvests of our land.
By her soft eyes bending down,
Watching over field and town—
Eyes more fair than fairest day
That from heaven hath strayed away—
Entreat her from her throne above
Thus to recompense our love.
O my friends! I will do so,
At the gate of Paradise:
To Mary with the brow of snow
I will breathe your ardent sighs.
O lark that singest sweetly
At the rising of the sun,
Whose blithe wing bears thee fleetly
To where the day’s begun!
Rise, rise through rosy skies
To the gate of Paradise.
While at that gate so dear
Your Mother I do pray
To bless your hopes alway,
Friends, what will appear?
Thou shalt see our Mother there,
On her throne of rubies rare;
On her head the diamond crown
Set thereon by Christ, her Son;
Queen is she of Paradise.
Mercy raineth from her eyes,
Pity flows from out her hands
Unto all the furthest lands.
Heaven makes music round her throne,
Happiness dwells there alone.
Thou shalt see her shining fair,
More bright than envied princes are—
Our Queen all powerful, yet all sweet,
With the sun beneath her feet.
O friends! my heart would leave its place,
The brightness daze my eyes.
Were I to look on Mary’s face,
The Queen of Paradise.
O lark that singest sweetly
At the rising of the sun,
Whose blithe wing bears thee fleetly
To where the day’s begun!
Rise, rise through rosy skies
To the gate of Paradise.
And at that threshold dread
Where all the angels throng,
When the golden gates are open spread,
What theme shall wake my song?
To our Mother shalt thou say
That for her hearts burn alway;
That to us her love’s more sweet
Than native flowers to exiles’ feet;
That her image graven deep
On our hearts doth never sleep;
That gazing from this earthly shore,
Above its tumult and its roar,
In dreams that come like blessed balm,
We see her heaven’s unshaken calm.
I go, I go! Sweet friends, good-by;
For you to Paradise I fly.
Dearest, the French is not equal to the naive language of the brown little Neapolitan girl.
June 12, 1868.
I have been ill, my beloved sister. What trouble they have all been giving themselves on my account! Happily, it was nothing—fever, headache, and general indisposition. The doctor orders much exercise, and from to-morrow we organize a cavalcade. Adrien has had some superb horses brought here; what riding parties we shall have!
But sadness mingles with joy. Lucy’s mother is very ill. They have just set out; will they arrive too late? Oh! this journey, how full it will be of anxiety and apprehension.
A despatch.… Poor Lucy! the goodness of God has spared her that last moment, so full of cruel distress and yet of ineffable hope—she did not see her mother die! What mourning! Why is death like our shadow, pitilessly mowing down the existences which are dearer to us than our own? But to what purpose is it to ask why? There is more true wisdom in a fiat than in curious researches. On Whitsunday, at the “drawing” of the gifts of the Holy Spirit, my lot was the Gift of Piety—love of God and of all that belongs to his service; and the Fruit of Patience—generous acceptance of the crosses God sends us. Must I own to you that this gift made me afraid? Oh! if my happiness were to be destroyed. You will be scolding me for this dreaming, and you will say to me with Mgr. Landriot: “If you would keep mind and body in a healthy condition, avoid with extreme care these states of reverie—the habit of taking aerial flights in which the heart and understanding exhaust themselves on emptiness.” Dear Kate, my dreams speak but of heaven.
Marcella, so long a captive beneath the yoke of others, regards independence as the first of terrestrial benefits; on this subject our opinions differ. The poor Prisoner was quite right when he said to the swallows:
Il n’est dans cette vie
Qu’un bien digne d’envie:
La liberté![118]
Yes, assuredly, liberty is a great good, and therefore it is that our soul has been made free, perfectly free. And how sweet it is to feel one’s self free, and to bend generously beneath the yoke of love and sacrifice! One of our first instincts is
the need of liberty, and even the word alone has in it a magic which carries the mind away with it, and at critical times becomes the rallying word of revolutions. O my God! grant that I may love only the holy freedom of thy children—that freedom which can never be taken from me. Deliver the captives—the captives of the world, and above all of sin! Deliver also Ireland!
Visits: an entire family, antique in dress and appearance, but modern in language, grace, and heart. Good Bretons!—I love them. This valiant faith, this sublime indignation, these courageous protestations for the church and her Head in a race of granite, is an incomparable spectacle. Brittany has indeed done well to preserve its customs, its manners, and its ancient faith eternally young and living. One of these ladies questioned us about Paris, whither she wishes to accompany her son, who is attacked by the fever of the times. I admire her maternal devotion. Imagine the astonishment of this Bretonne in the capital of mud and gold!
Dear Kate, Marcella and René have some secrets to tell you. Love from us all.
June 16, 1868.
Our first ride has been most prosperous, dear sister. It was a nineteen—an unlucky day, declares the superstitious Marianne. What matters?—God protects us. “Who loves me follows me!” cried Adrien, and away we went, cantering after him through the thickets. Don’t suppose our expedition was for nothing but pleasure, however legitimate, but to make a wide circuit of poor. What store of benedictions we gathered on our way! A worthy tad coz[119] in his enthusiasm kissed the
hem of Marcella’s riding-habit, saying: “It is certainly a saint who is come to us.” (Marcella already speaks Breton as if it were Italian.)
We had taken provisions with us, and did not get home until nine o’clock, tired out, but so happy! My mother followed us in the carriage. She must be interested and have a little variety at any price; the death of her friend (the mother of our sister) has greatly impressed her. “It is,” she says, “the herald to warn me of the approach of my own death.” May God spare her to us!
Yesterday, soon after day-break, the carriages were in readiness in front of the entrance for a visit to the old divor, as the Poles would call it: a sort of pilgrimage … to the saint of the sea-coast. It is so distant that we accepted an invitation to stay the night, and are come home this evening, not at all fatigued. We are to go there again, but have meanwhile obtained a kind promise. The châtelaine of the lake will be here on the 2d of July. How shall I describe her to you? On our way back we were speaking of the prestige of beauty, and Adrien quoted the words of an educational professor who says: “I have passionately loved both nature and study; the fine arts have also made me feel the power of their charms; but among all things under the sun I have found nothing comparable to man when he unites noble sentiments to physical beauty. He is truly the chef-d’œuvre of the creation.” “I have often thought,” observed René, “that, God being infinite and sovereign Beauty, physical beauty is a reflection of the divine. Without sin man would never have been ugly or plain. We have in the soul the instinct of
beauty, the love of the beautiful under every form; and although we say and know very well that human beauty passes in a day, that it is nothing, nevertheless there is no one living who has not some time in his life experienced the unique and irresistible charm which is shed around her by a creature who to high qualities of mind and heart joins the attraction of beauty and regularity of countenance.” And my mother: “The saints have a kind of beauty which I prefer to every other; it is like a transfiguration. This miserable mortal envelope which covers the soul becomes in some sort transparent, so that one can see the peace, the calm and serenity, of this interior in which God dwells by his grace and love. The sight of a saint is a foretaste of Paradise. Oh! how beautiful must the angels be. Why cannot our mortal eyes behold those who are here, near to us?” “As Lamartine says,” added Marcella:
“Tout mortel a le sien; cet ange protecteur,
Cet invisible ami veille autour de son cœur;
L’inspire, le conduit, le relève s’il tombe,
Le reçoit au berceau, l’accompagne à la tombe,
Et portant dans les cieux, son âme entre ses mains,
La présente en tremblant au Maître des humains.”[120]
Dear Kate, do you not love these pious natures amongst whom God has placed me? “Great souls, great souls,” exclaimed a bishop—“I seek them, but I find them not; I call them, and none answer!” Yet some there are in France, and especially in Brittany.
In the midst of the refinement of luxury and effeminacy of the times in which we live, everything dwindles and diminishes; people act in the midst of narrow and despicable interests; the life of the heart is daily deteriorating, and “soon we shall know no longer how to love with that generous love which thinks not of self, but whose self-devotion places its happiness in the felicity of others.” How happy a thing, then, is it to take refuge near to God, and within a circle where he is loved!
I spoke of you to the saint of the sands. Let us love each other, dear Kate.
June 22, 1868.
Fénelon said: “Education, by a capable mother, is worth more than that which is to be had at the best of convents.” This often comes into my mind when I see Berthe cultivating with so much care the two choice plants whose fragrance mounts so sweetly up to God. The surname of duchesse is abandoned for ever. At Mass, on the 1st of January, Thérèse made the resolution to acquire humility; and she has attained it. How many charming actions the angels must have seen with joy! Her countenance, naturally haughty and self-asserting, has gained an expression of sweetness and gentleness. She is delightful; and what efforts it has cost her! Her mother has seconded, helped, and sustained her. Raoul, the greater part of whose time is absorbed in his literary labors, has not transferred to any one his own share in the education of his daughters. Kate, since my marriage I have regretted more deeply than ever that I never knew my father. I did not know before from what strength of affection we had been severed. Thank
God! so long as my mother lived her heart was enough for us. Kind, saintly mother! how I bless her memory. The twins no longer wear anything but white. It reminds me of the early Christians’ preparation for baptism. Their thoughtfulness is my admiration. They count the days with a holy eagerness; they ask us for the hymns of Expectation. We are making a retreat with them, and all our friends of Brittany will fill the chapel on the 2d of July. This is a memorable date in the family—the birthday of Raoul, Berthe, and the twins. What a coincidence!—the wedding-day of the former, and the anniversary of our mother’s First Communion. Marcella is singing:
“O jour trois fois heureux! O jour trois fois béni!
Viens remplir tous nos cœurs d’un bonheur infini!”[121]
Anna has this year shared in the life of the twins; she is only eleven years old. Her mother hesitated, but M. le Curé has just given his decision, and the delicate child embraced me with transports. She also will be at the holy table; she also, clothed in white. “Entreat Mme. Kate to pray for me.” Sweet little dove!
Evening.—Do you know what I have just heard? The good little hearts! Unknown to every one, even to the vigilant Berthe, the twins and Anna rise every night to pray; and, besides this, they regularly deprive themselves of their goûter[122] for the benefit of a poor child who is also preparing herself for her First Communion. This child has on her arm a horrible wound, and our little saints kiss it on their knees. Do you not think
you are reading the Acta Sanctorum?
Of the three, Picciola is still the most fervent. I am suspected of partiality with regard to her. Oh! if you saw her kneeling in the chapel, when a ray of sunshine plays upon her fair locks, you would say she was an angel. Dearest Kate, the great day draws near! I say nothing about our processions, our lovely reposoirs, the babies scattering roses—I should write until to-morrow. Pray with me.
June 26, 1868.
Dearest, I feel tired after my walk on the sands, and would fain rest myself with you, and talk to you again of the twins and of Anna, whose joy makes me fear for her, so fragile is her pretty frame. Marcella has given me a holiday from my Greek; she and Berthe no more quit their darlings. And I, who have no maternal rights over these almost celestial souls, leave them a little to their mutual happiness, and isolate myself the more with René. Our subjects of conversation are always grave—God, heaven, eternity. We had visitors on the 24th; beautiful fires of St. John in the evening. O son of Elizabeth and Zacharias, voice of one crying in the desert, the greatest among the children of men! give me of your humility, your love of penitence and sacrifice.
Isa sends me a few lines, all enkindled with the love of God. Sarah, returned from Spain, is much amused at certain hidalgos, and quotes me the words of Shakspere: “Were it only for their noses, one would take them for the counsellors of Pepin or Clothair, so high do they carry them and so imposing is their mark.”
I have not told you of our fête
on the 19th for the twenty-second anniversary of the elevation of the holy and venerated Pius IX to the pontificate. What will arise out of all the trials of the Papacy? Solomon, after tasting every kind of enjoyment and happiness, exclaimed: “Vanity of vanities! all is vanity.” It is deeply sad hitherto, but consolation will come at last; it is like a ray from heaven. “All is vanity, except to love God and serve him.” Let us love, then, let us serve, God, who is so full of love. Everything is there! Isa writes to me: “When shall we say, Quotidie morior?” Alas! I have not arrived at this perfection.
My good René has published, in an English periodical, a remarkable article, about which I want to have your opinion. We are convinced here that no means ought to be neglected that may serve the cause of God, and that every Catholic’s sphere of action is wider than he thinks. Oh! how right you are, dear Kate. “All our actions ought to preach the Gospel.”
Was present at a funeral yesterday evening—a young girl of fifteen. I thought of the beautiful verses by Brizeux on the death of Louise. What a picture!—the poor and lowly funeral train amid the magnificence of Nature, who gave to the youthful dead that which was not afforded her by men. I seem still to behold the scene. The place, also, is suitable. I am in presence of God’s fair creation; a thousand birds are singing around me. Oh! these nests, these poor little nests, chef-d’œuvres of love. They showed me lately a goldfinch’s nest suspended as if by miracle at the extremity of a branch at an immense height.
Ce nid, ce doux mystère,
C’est l’amour d’une mère,
Enfants, n’y touchez pas![123]
Children have an innate inclination for destruction. There are very few who think of the mother of the nestlings when they take possession of the nests; and the poet has reason to say to them:
Ne pouvant rien créer, il ne faut rien détruire,
Enfants, n’y touchez pas![124]
May the angel of mercy spread his wing over the cradles and the nests, and may he protect you also, my beloved, and all of us with you!
June 30, 1868.
The retreat and the singing take up all my time, dear Kate, but I want to tell you that Lucy has come back to us, pale and weak, and recommends herself to your prayers. Gaston was asking for me down there. There is something so sad in this deep mourning; but Lucy looks above this earth. Edouard’s voice was wanting to our choir; it will be complete after to-morrow. Three poor children, clothed by your Georgina, will accompany our chosen ones.
The saint of the sea-coast arrives to-morrow. She will be lodged near to me. I wish she could be there always! Why cannot one gather together in one same place those whom one loves?
Kate dearest, René and all Brittany are for you.
July 2, 1868.
Quam dilecta tabernacula tua, Domine!
O Kate! what a day. And the vigil—the pious tears, the pardons, the benedictions, the watching of the arms in the chapel—how sweet it was! This morning Berthe asked me to be the mother of Madeleine. The sweet child was clad in her
virginal robes in my room. She was touched, but not afraid. When ready to go down, she asked my blessing. Oh! it is I rather who would have wished for hers. Then the Mass, the hymns, the exhortations; then, as in a dream, these fair apparitions prostrate before the altar, and God within our souls. What happiness for one day to contain!
The saintly châtelaine was there, absorbed in God. The day has gone by like a flash of lightning. It is now eleven o’clock, and I say with you the Te Deum. One of our neighbors was telling me this evening of a lady whose little daughter, pious as an angel, shed tears, the evening of her First Communion, for regret that the day was at an end. This circumstance inspired the happy mother to write a charming poem, which ended something as follows:
Peu de jours dans la vie offrent assez de charmes
Pour qu’on pleure le soir en les voyant finir![125]
Marcella wept in the chapel. Happy mother; beloved children; blessed house; incomparable day!
The saint is really a saint. Hear this: “Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament visits me every morning; I know not how it is that I do not die of love. God has allowed me everywhere to meet with souls who understand mine, and who have loved me!”
Good-night, my sister.
I whispered to my daughter:
My own sweet child, O soul all pure and fair!
Pray, pray with me where holy feet have trod,
And let thy sinless pleading on the air
Mount like a perfume upwards to thy God!
For the poor mother who her son doth weep
A last farewell in tears that rain like blood,
Let thy prayer, angel, mount the starry steep—
Mount like a perfume upwards to thy God!
For the poor orphan, who in dire distress
Alone by fireless hearth hath famished stood,
Oh! let thy prayer, with sister’s tenderness,
Like a sweet perfume mount towards thy God!
For the poor sinner who from God would flee,
Who dies and turns him from the saving Rood,
Oh! let thy prayer rise upward pleadingly—
Like a sweet perfume mount towards thy God!
For all the weary souls who weep and wail
To the sweet Virgin raise thy voice aloud;
Let thy clear tones for those who die and fail
Like saving perfume rise towards thy God!
I used to say this at Venice to the pretty little Rutti, the little American girl; do you remember her? Oh! how well she used to pray, this little dove from the New World. Dear, I should like to cross the ocean to have a nearer view of that unknown land which attracts me so much, with its freedom, its immense spaces, its splendid vegetation, and its beautiful sun! But, nevertheless, it is not Ireland, my country, and the land of memories!
God keep you!
July 6, 1868.
Dear Kate, in two days we start for my dear green Erin, to the great joy of Marcella, who is an enthusiast about O’Connell. Margaret feels a thrill, she tells me, at the sound of a carriage. It is high time to make acquaintance with the handsome baby. René has left me to accompany the saint, whom I would fain have taken with us. She smiled sadly in answer to my proposal: “The aged tree that grows in lonely places cannot thus be rooted up.”
The Annales Orléanaises speak of nothing but deaths: the Abbé Debeauvais, Curé of St. Thomas d’Aquin, has just died at Mgr. Dupanloup’s; Madame de Bannand; the Abbé Rocher, almoner of the prisons, etc., etc. Prince Michael of Servia has been assassinated: it is almost ancient history. I must
see to my packages; so good-by for the present, until we are with la belle Anglaise.
July 19, 1868.
It is from England, and from Margaret’s magnificent residence, that I now think of you, dear Kate. A quick passage, splendid weather, everybody well and strong, including baby Gaston. Lord William was waiting for us on the pier; we were soon in the carriage, and next day in the arms of Margaret, who cannot fête us enough. The children have already become used to English ways, to this people of many footmen, to this pomp and splendor, and to the beauties of the Isle of Saints. Margaret is in the full bloom of her happiness; her child is superb, and resembles her.
Dear, dear Kate, how much I enjoy being here! What emotion I felt on setting foot on this soil, Breton also, but different from the other! I wept much, and feel ready to weep again. What is wanting to me? You, you, and the best beloved of mothers! But you are both of you with God—my mother in the heaven of heavens, and you in the heaven upon earth! Laus Deo, nevertheless, and for ever.
Marcella understood the inward grief I felt, and delicately offered me her friendly consolations. We shall soon see Isa. I shall undertake the pilgrimage of friendship with René, in which all the family will join us: Mme. de T—— has so arranged it, you can imagine with what thought. Meanwhile, we are enjoying Margaret’s splendid hospitality. Her mother-in-law pleases me. These few lines are only to say good-day.
July 24, 1868.
Adrien has brought here the numbers of the magazine containing the articles on “Notre Dame
de Lourdes,” by Henri Lasserre. We want to persuade our dear English friends to make this pilgrimage with us in November.
We have just come from London. How many things to see and to show!
This morning, our dear convent of ——. I was very happy and delighted; I love so much to meet friends again, and especially these convent meetings—there is something so heavenly about them. Under these black veils it seems as if nothing changes. When a child I used to wonder because nuns did not seem to me to grow older.
Ici viennent mourir les derniers bruits du monde:
Nautonniers sans rivage, abordez, c’est le port.[126]
This life of union with God, and devotion to souls, has within it something divine. We know not how great is the calm and serenity resulting from the lofty choice of these hearts. To belong to God in the religious life is heaven begun. Doubtless there, as elsewhere, there are sufferings, trials, and crosses; the separation from all those most dear to one, the crushing of nature, the complete and absolute separation from everything which can charm in this world, to give one’s self exclusively to God, in prayer and love, is a beautiful thing, but no one, I think, can say that it is free from pain. Assuredly the exchange of terrestrial affections for those which are imperishable cannot be regarded as a loss, and yet what tears there are in this last farewell of the religious, who while living consents to die to all her affections!
Dear Kate, we spoke of you. How they love us in this peaceful place of refuge!
Oui, c’est un de ces lieux, où notre cœur sent vivre
Quelque chose des cieux qui flotte et qui l’enivre;
Un de ces lieux qu’enfant j’aimais et je rêvais,
Dont la beauté sereine, inépuisable, intime,
Verse à l’âme un oubli sérieux et sublime
De tout ce que la terre et l’homme ont de mauvais![127]
16th.—Prayed much for France. “Since this morning,” my mother said to me, “I have continually before my eyes the scaffold and the pale and noble countenance of Marie Antoinette.” Poor saintly queen! what a life and what a martyr’s death. After the first days of enchantment which followed her arrival in France, what a long succession of troubles! This Dauphine of fifteen years old was so exquisitely beautiful that the Maréchal de Brissac could say to her, in his chivalrous language: “Madame, you have there before your eyes two hundred thousand men enamored of your person”; and a few years later the people cried, “Death to the Austrian!” Never had woman such a destiny. The Greeks could not imagine a great soul in a body that had no beauty, nor beauty of person without a noble soul. Marie Antoinette would have been their idol, their goddess. O holy martyrs of the Temple! pray for France.
The magazine contains a story still more interesting than Fabiola, if that is possible: Virginia; or, Rome under Nero.
19th.—Feast of St. Vincent de Paul, this man of miracles, this humble and great saint, whose memory will live as long as the world, who founded admirable works, who created the Sister of Charity—this marvel, whom even the impious admire, whom the poor
and needy, the aged, the infirm, the wounded, call “sister”; whom one finds tending abandoned children; at the asylum, the hospital, on the field of battle, and in the prison. O charity!
Letter from Sister Louise, who is, it seems to me, drawing near to her Eternity. She tells me that labor has worn out her strength, that she cannot write any more, and sends me two very beautiful little pictures, which have a sacredness in my eyes as the gift of a dying person. Is Heaven so soon about to claim this sweet cloister-flower?
Kate, darling, you see that I cannot lose my favorite habit of confiding to you my thoughts. Oh! why are you not here, admiring Margaret, resplendent with youth, freshness, and joy? She is going to write to you, to ask news of Zoë, etc.
God keep you, my beloved sister!
July 29, 1868.
Have I said anything to you about Margaret’s park? of her conservatory, worthy of Italy, and where Marcella would like always to remain? of her birds? of all the fairy-land which she knows so well how to make us enjoy? Lucy’s mourning prevents our hosts from issuing many invitations; but how much I prefer our home-party as it is!
Long excursions among the mountains. Many projects for next year. Margaret desires that a friendly compact should be agreed to, which would be a continual interchange of visits: Brittany, England, Ireland, Orleans, and Hyères would by turns receive our Penates. O dreams of youth, O balmy days, which never will return! stay with us long.
Yesterday Lord B——, who had
heard of my arrival, hastened to come and see us. “What! so soon grown up, Miss Georgina?” he exclaimed, to the exceeding amusement of Alix.
To-morrow we start for Ireland, for my own home, where everything is in readiness for our arrival. What a sorrowful happiness! Gertrude lets me look through her manuscript books; the following lines which I found there you will read with as much admiration as myself:
“This morning Hélène asked to speak with me, and this day and hour I shall ever remember. The beloved child of my soul, of my thoughts, and of my heart desires to become a daughter of St. Teresa; she wishes to go, and speedily. I shall, then, see her no more but at long intervals and behind a threatening grating; another mother will give her her love, other hands than mine will guide her towards God. But she will be thine, O Lord! and, while yet young, I have felt too much the sorrows of this world not to be happy at seeing thee give to her the better part. Her avowals, her innocent confidence, her purity of soul and intention—all these appeared to me so peaceful that I also experienced an ineffable sense of inward peace. Go, then, since God calls thee, sweet angel of this home, in which thou wilt leave so great a void—go; father and mother will not refuse thee to God, and our prayers and blessings will follow thee!”
After these heavenly thoughts, dear Kate, I leave you.
August 6, 1868.
I have received your letter, dear sister, joy of my soul, and to-day must not pass away without my writing to you. O deliciosa! I behold
Ireland again, my country, my universe, the first place in my heart, where I have loved my mother and you. O these memories!—the past and present uniting their happiness, their harmonies, and their sweetness.
The house is the same as ever—a bit of heaven fallen upon the earth! Prayed on our dear tombs. The rose-trees flourish which you planted there. The good Reginald does everything as well as possible, as he always does. But oh! to live here without you, to see your room—a reliquary which no one enters without me, and where I have put together whatever belonged to you. Dear, dear Kate, you say well that God has given me other sisters—sisters loving and beloved, but who cannot replace my Kate.
All the village came out to meet us. There were no songs—there were tears: the Irish understand one another. Poor martyr-country! I am seized with a longing desire to stay here to console these poor people. Our dogs were wild with delight, like that of Ulysses. Dear friend and sister, do not be uneasy; that which surmounts all else in my heart is peace, and peace founded on hope, as on a foundation of gold. God will deliver Ireland! He will give us back our forests and our hills, and we shall no more return to the condition of the proscribed. Do you remember the last book we read together, in the great drawing-room on the venerated spot where we used to see our mother? This book is still on a side-table, marked at the last page. It is Rosa Ferrucci, the charming Italian, who so loved Milton. Nothing is changed; the wide meadows, the splendid landscape, the sunsets behind the giants of the park, the gold-dust gleaming through the foliage, the
decline of day which we used so to admire together—I have seen it again in its fantastic magnificence—all is there, even to the smallest tufts of ivy: but the absent and the dead!
“And they also are present,” René assures me. “They wish you to be courageous and truly Christian. Death does not separate souls.”
A fraternal letter from Karl. “My heart feels all the impressions of yours in Ireland. I pray God that he may shed happiness upon your path, and I join in all your memories.”
Isa, Lizzy, Mme. D——, and all our friends must come in turn, and all together. Isa is with me, pale as a marble Madonna, with a heavenly expression in her eyes. Her mother almost adores her, and clings to her in order to live. Mme. D—— fainted away on seeing me. Lizzy has recovered her gayety and petulance, and would fain enliven Isa. Where have I read some words of a Breton who, in speaking of a young girl called to the religious life, says, “Her heart is like a desert”? Such is Isa, athirst for God, in love with the ideal, a soul wounded with the thorny briers of life.
Margaret takes in several French newspapers. We are reading in the Ouvrier, Les Faucheurs de la Mort—the “Mowers of Death”—a historical drama of unhappy Poland. It is heartrending. Poland and Ireland, the two martyrs, understand each other. Will not God raise them up a liberator?
Darling Kate, what benedictions are showered upon you in return for your liberalities! What touching questions are put to me! O these good people! how I love them.
For the first time I am mistress of the house. René calms my scruples, and tells me that he is proud of me. O the evening
prayers in our own tongue! Yesterday I thought I saw you in your old place, and nearly cried out.
Send me your good angel, O best-beloved of sisters! Send him to me in the land of O’Connell—
“First flower of the earth, first gem of the sea.”
Dear Kate, I am going to enclose in my letter some beautiful lines by Marie Jenna, the sweet poetess who delights me so much. This poetry is almost Irish to my heart:
Le Retour.
Oui, je te reconnais, domaine de mon père,
Vieux château, champs fleuris, murs tapissés de lierre,
Où de mes jeunes ans s’abrita le bonheur;
Votre image a partout suivi le voyageur.…
Vous souvient-il aussi des quatre têtes blondes
Qui si joyeusement formaient de folles rondes?
De nos rires bruyants, de nos éclats de voix,
Nous faisions retentir les échos des grands bois,
Sans craindre d’offenser leur majesté sereine,
Et plus insouciants que l’oiseau de la plaine.
Mais, ainsi qu’un parfum goutte à goutte épanché,
Le bonheur s’est tari dans mon sein desséché.
De ces bois, chaque été rajeunit la couronne,
La mienne est pour toujours flétrie au vent d’automne;
Au murmure des vents dans leurs rameaux touffus,
Au concert gracieux de leurs nids suspendus.
Au doux bruit du ruisseau qui borda leur enceinte,
Aujourd’hui je n’ai rien à mêler qu’une plainte:
Je ne ris plus.…
Puis sous le marronnier voici le banc de pierre
Où, pour nous voir de loin, s’asseyait notre mère.
Oh! comme elle était belle et comme nous l’aimions!
Oh! comme son regard avait de chauds rayons!
J’étais le plus petit: souvent lorsque mes frères
Gravissaient en courant les coteaux de bruyères,
Bien las, traînant des fleurs et des branches de houx,
Je revenais poser mon front sur ses genoux.
Alors en doux accents vibrait sa voix chérie,
Et dans mon sein d’enfant tombait la rêverie.
Et maintenant traînant mes pas irrésolus,
Parmi les chers débris de mes bonheurs perdus,
Et les pieds tout meurtris des cailloux de la route,
Je me retourne encor, je m’arrête et j’écoute:
Je n’entends plus.…
Et ce vieux monument, c’est toi, ma pauvre église,
A l’ombre d’un sapin cachant ta pierre grise.
J’ai salué de loin le sommet de ta croix
Qui scintille au soleil et domine les bois.
Ici, je m’en souviens, j’eus de bien belles heures,
Qui me faisaient rêver des celestes demeures;
Je contemplais, ravi, les séraphins ailés,
Les gothiques vitraux, les lustres éloignés.
J’entendais à la fois la prière du prêtre,
Et les petits oiseaux jasant à la fenêtre,
Les cantiques de l’orgue et des enfants de chœur,
Et l’ineffable voix qui parlait dans mon cœur.…
Oh! que Dieu soit béni! que les mains de l’enfance
Au pied de son autel, sainte arche d’alliance,
Des fleurs de nos sentiers répandent le trésor!
Qu’on brûle devant lui l’encens des urnes d’or!
Que tout vive et tressaille et chante en sa présence!
Le bonheur en fuyant m’a laissé l’espérance:
Je prie encor.…[128]
Translation of the foregoing.
Yes, domain of my father, well I know thee again—
Old château, flowery fields, walls tapestried with ivy,
Which sheltered the happiness of my youthful years;
Everywhere your image has followed the wanderer.…
Also, remember ye the four flaxen headed children
Who danced so joyously their merry rounds?
Our noisy laughter and our cries and shouts
Made the wide woods re-echo; nor did we fear
Thus to offend their majesty serene.
More careless we than wild birds of the plain;
But like a perfume poured out drop by drop,
So happiness is dried up in my breast.
Each summer, of these woods renews the crown,
The autumn winds for ay have withered mine.
With the breeze murmuring in their tangled boughs,
With the sweet warblings from their hanging nests,
With the soft ripple of their engirdling stream,
Now can I mingle nothing but a moan:
I laugh no more.
See the stone bench beneath the chestnut shade,
Where mother sat, and watched us from afar.
How beautiful she was, and how we loved her!
And what warm rays beamed on us from her eyes!
I was the youngest; often, when my brothers
Climbed up and ran upon the heathy banks,
I, wearily dragging my flowers and holly boughs,
Would go and lean my head against her knees,
And hear the gentle accents of her voice,
While on my childish heart a reverie fell.
Now I return again, I stop and listen;
But hear no more.…
And this old building—it is thou, poor church,
Hiding thy gray stones ’neath the pine-tree’s shade.
The summit of thy cross I hailed from far,
In sunshine gleaming, rising o’er the wood.
Here, I remember, happy hours I spent,
Which made me dream of heavenly abodes;
I gazed, admiring, at the cherubim,
The Gothic windows, candelabra high.
I heard, together with the prayer of the priest,
The little birds about the windows chirping,
The organ, and the children of the choir,
And the ineffable voice within my heart.…
Blessed be God! Ever may childhood’s hands,
Before his altar, the sacred Ark of the Covenant,
Scatter the treasure of our way-side flowers!
May incense burn in golden urns before him!
May all things live, sing, gladden in his Presence!
Happiness, fleeing, still has left me hope:
And still I pray.…
I have wept over every line, dear sister; but as for me, I laugh still, alas! Oh! what a treasure of memories hoarded within my soul of those fair years which your love made so sweet.
Would you like to have one of my relics, dearest?
Souvenir d’Enfance.
C’était dans un bois, à l’ombre des chênes
Et de nos sept ans, fières toutes trois,
N’ayant pas encor ni chagrin ni peines,
Nous remplissions l’air du bruit de nos voix.
Nous chantions toujours, cherchant l’églantine,
La fraise sauvage et le joyeux nid,
Jouant follement sur la mousse fine,
Et dans ces ébats la nuit nous surprit.
Tremblantes de peur, dans la forêt sombre,
Et pleurant tout bas, craignant de mourir,
Quand autour de nous s’épaississait l’ombre,
Nous ne songions plus à nous réjouir.
Dieu! quelle terreur! Tout faisait silence.
Sur le vert gazon tombait par instants
Un rameau jauni, pour nous chute immense!
Ah! quelle épouvante et quels grands tourments!
Mais un cri lointain, le cri de nos mères,
Un appel du cœur parvint jusqu’à nous;
Nous vîmes là-bas briller des lumières.
Oh! que ce moment pour toutes fut doux!
Quels tendres baisers, quels aimés sourires
Calmèrent soudain nos folles terreurs!
Après les sanglots nous eûmes les rires,
Et de nos récits tremblèrent nos sœurs.
Seigneur, que toujours, à l’heure d’alarmes,
Quand gronde l’orage, un ange gardien,
Une mère tendre arrête nos larmes,
Et pour nous guider nous donne la main![129]
What memories, dear sister! I had lost my way with Lizzy and Isa. My mother was living then! How pale and trembling she was when I fell into her arms! And you—you, my Kate!
August 12, 1868.
You have comforted me, dear sister. This place pleases me: everybody likes it. Saw yesterday Karl’s family, as well as that of Ellen; the day before yesterday, the W——’s. Fanny is going to marry a German with a great name, a fervent Catholic, in love with England, where he intends to remain.
Our evenings are delightful. I had promised Margaret not to read Père Lacordaire, by the Père Chocarne, without her. It is admirably fine. The introduction is the definition of the priest such as is given by the great orator of Notre Dame himself: “Strong as the diamond, tenderer than a mother.” There are a thousand things in this book which make my heart beat: “O paternal home! where, from our earliest years, we breathed in with the light the love of all holy things, in vain we grow old: we return to you with a heart ever young; and were it not Eternity which calls us, in separating us far from you, we should be inconsolable at seeing your shadow daily lengthen and your sun grow pale!” “There are wants for which this earth is sterile.” What a spring there is of faith and love in words like these: “Riches are neither gold nor silver, nor ships which bring back from the ends of the earth all precious things, nor steam, nor railways, nor all that the genius of men can extract from the bosom of nature; one thing alone is riches—that is love. From God to man, from earth to heaven, love alone unites and fills all things. It is
their beginning, their middle, and their end. He who loves knows; he who loves lives; he who loves sacrifices himself; he who loves is content; and one drop of love, put in the balance with the universe, would carry it away as the tempest would carry away a straw.” The Père Lacordaire speaks admirably of cloisters: “August palaces have been built, and magnificent tombs raised on the earth; dwelling-places well-nigh divine have been made for God: but the wisdom and the heart of man have never gone further than in the creation of the monastery.” The first disciple and brother of Père Lacordaire, the saintly young Hippolyte Réquédat (whose soul was so pure that when, at twenty years of age, he threw himself at the feet of a priest, owning that he had never, since his First Communion, been to confession, having nothing of which to accuse himself, unless that he wished much evil to all the enemies of France) used every day to say to the Blessed Virgin: “Obtain for me the grace to ascertain my vocation—to learn the way in which I could do the greatest possible amount of good, lead back the greatest number of souls to the church, and be most chaste, humble, charitable, active, and patient.”
He died of consumption at the age of twenty-two, and his death made a deep wound in the heart of the Père Lacordaire. “Réquédat was a soul as impassioned in its self-devotion as others are in selfishness. To love was his life, but to love to give rather than to receive; to give himself always, and to the greatest number possible—this was his dream, his longing, his martyrdom. Devoted to an ardent pursuit of that which is good, tyrannized over by this noble love, he had not
time to see any evil.” A friend of his was Piel, an eminent architect, who joined him to become also a son of St. Dominic—“A lofty soul, an heroic heart, incapable of a divided affection, and from the first moment aspiring after the highest perfection, admirably formed to be a great orator as well as a saint, of whom his friends used to say that his language reminded them of the style of Pascal.” With the Père Lacordaire was also Hernsheim, a converted Jew, a frank, intelligent, and profound mind, from whence issued from time to time thoughts which had a peculiar charm about them, mingled with a sweet and penetrating unction. The Père Besson, an artist like Piel, and the Fra Angelico of France, was also of the number; and, lastly, the Père Jandel, now general of the order. Mme. Swetchine was like the good genius of Père Lacordaire: “Who does not know this, now?” asks the Père Chocarne. “Who has not read the life and works of this woman, whom death has crowned with a glory all the more pure and radiant because she had so carefully concealed it during her life? Who does not know this Russian with a heart so French, this convert to the Catholic faith, so gentle towards beliefs and opinions differing from hers, the masculine understanding in the woman’s heart, the spirit of Joseph de Maistre in the soul of Fénelon, the charity, so delicate and tender, of this woman who said of herself: ‘I would no more be made known to the children of men but by these words: She who believes; she who prays; she who loves’!”
This is beautiful. Can you picture to yourself the impression made upon us while Adrien is reading this aloud? Every one is breathless; the twins and Anna, their eyes wide
open, their hands joined, seem to devour this eloquence. The soul of the orator of Notre Dame has passed into that of his son in Jesus Christ. All is magnificent, and makes one deeply regret that the grand figure which appeared among us with the double aureole of sanctity and genius so soon disappeared from the world. A great and wonderful history is this, too little really known! Have we not heard the most absurd fables told in reference to Père Lacordaire?
I want your prayers, dear Kate, for a grand project: we wish to bring Isa’s mother to agree to live with her sister. Lizzy would be the daughter of the two, and the Lord’s dear chosen one would go to “the place of repose which she has chosen.” It will be difficult to manage, but I have a presentiment of victory.
Good-by, dear Kate, for the present.
August 20, 1868.
O Temps! suspends ton vol, et vous, Heures propices,
Suspendez votre cours;
Laissez-nous savourer les rapides délices
Des plus beaux de nos jours.[130]
We have been singing this while floating on the lake. Picciola proposes to take up her abode for a year at Aunt Georgina’s. I have installed her as dame and mistress of my little school. What joy!
Isa’s mother is beginning to understand. I have been getting so many prayers for this! She yesterday said, after having listened very calmly to what I had to say: “Dear Georgina, I feel that God inspires you; but only think how I have been broken down, and what need
I have of Isa!” Poor mother! O these vocations!—a terrible secret which rends so many souls. “Let the dead bury their dead!” I need all my faith in the Gospel to admit that these words were said by our merciful Saviour. St. Bernard, the saint of Mary, the honey of Mary, will succeed in gaining this material heart, which hesitates before the greatness of the sacrifice.
We have finished our splendid reading. This evening we shall take Klopstock. We all find that nothing equals this intellectual pleasure of interchanging our impressions while reading together. We separate at eleven. I am taking some views, being desirous of transporting my part of Ireland into France.
Margaret has written to Mistress Annah to offer her the post of governess to the charming baby. We expect her answer to-day. The baptism took place on the 15th. It was splendid.
Have seen Sarah, whose son has been ill—always amiable, with a tinge of melancholy, caught, no doubt, by the side of the cradle.
My duties are so multiplied that I should be quite unequal to them without René. What a pleasure it is to do for others what they have done for me!
Send me always your good angel, my best beloved.
August 26, 1868.
What a fête for my mother, the evening of the 24th! All the echoes resounded with it. In two days hence we are to go to Fanny’s marriage, which takes place in Dublin. Great preparations; but Anna is unwell, and this spoils our joy. Marcella has suffered so much that she trembles at the least shock. Lucy will remain here with our Italians; we cannot return for a
week. But the great piece of news I have to tell you is this: Isa enters the convent of —— on the 8th of October. I have obtained this exchange. Carmel alarmed the poor mother too much; and, besides, the health of our friend is too much shaken to be able to support the austerities of St. Teresa. The two families of the D—— will go with us to Dublin, and we shall accompany Isa. What a Te Deum we ought to sing! The timid child had never owned to her mother the ardor which consumed her; the death of George—the nephew so passionately loved, sole heir of so noble a name, and betrothed to Isa from childhood—appeared to Mme. D—— the death of everything, and she lived “extinguished.” Oh! how I rejoice at this success. Margaret and Isa, both once so sad, and now with their hearts in an eternal spring!
Let us bless God together, dear Kate! Do you recollect Mgr. Dupanloup’s words: “One breathes, in this land of Ireland, I know not what perfume of virtue which one finds not elsewhere.”
August 31, 1868.
René is writing to you. We know that Anna is well, and we are enjoying the worldlinesses of Dublin. Fanny was touching under her veil. Your dear name, my beloved Kate, was mentioned, I know not how often. O kind Ireland! If I had to tell you all the graceful things that were said to me, I should fill my paper. How pleasant it is to be loved! Fanny did not weep on seeing me; she and her mother are unequalled in their serenity; consolation has been sent them from on high. A vision is spoken of. I did not like to ask any questions, but it is certain that
something extraordinary has occurred.
O dear Kate! how fair is life. I was saying so yesterday to René while we were looking at the stars; for the night was splendid. Do you know what he answered? “Heaven is fairer; earth is but its echo, its far-off image, its imperfect sketch; and it is death which opens heaven to us.” Words like these from the lips of René make me shudder. Oh! to die with him would be sweet, but not to live without him. Père Lacordaire said: “Death is man’s fairest moment. He finds assembled there all the virtues he has practised, all the strength and peace he has been storing up, all the memories, the cherished images and sweet regrets of life, together with the fair prospect of the sight of God. If we had a lively faith, we should be very strong to meet death.”
Fanny starts to-morrow for France, Switzerland, and Germany—a long journey; we remain at present, so as in some measure to fill up the void a little. Why are you not here to witness our reunion? Oh! how strong is the love of one’s country. I am inebriated with my native air; we sing our old ballads; we turn over with Adrien the history of the past. Ask of our good God that this may last a long time, dear Kate! Erin mavourneen! Erin go bragh!
September 6, 1868.
Mistress Annah is come, dear sister. I wept with all my heart on embracing her. Dear old mistress Annah! how wrinkled and thin she has become; always upright and stiff as an Englishwoman, and her memory enriched with Italian stories which will charm baby’s childhood. Margaret has chosen for the beautiful innocent the name of Emmanuel—a
blessed name, which well bespeaks the happiness of our friend. Lord William made royal largesses to the poor in the name of the new-born heir. Twelve orphans will be provided for at the expense of Emmanuel. Mistress Annah is longing to see and hear you. Margaret promises her this happiness for next spring. You may be sure that no fatigue will be imposed on the dear old lady. The pension given her by Lord William made her independent; but our belle Anglaise feared the isolation of old age for her devoted heart, and it will be a happiness to both to watch the growth of baby. A messenger has just arrived. Te Deum, dear Kate!—a little daughter is born to Lizzy. Everybody is delighted; they have sent for us; I am going with René.
7th September.—In an hour the baptism, so that Isa may be present; then she says farewell to her family, and we take her away. The angel fallen from heaven is to be called Isa. Marcella, Adrien, and Gertrude have joined us. Joy and grief meet at this moment. You will be astonished at the sudden departure of our Isa; but Lizzy wishes it thus, hoping that the poor mother will let herself be interested by the festivities and the visitors.
The last number of the magazine has caused me a sensation. In it is an account of the beautiful scene on the Pincio, in October, 1864, “at the hour when the sun, sinking towards the sea of Ostia, lights with a golden gleam the cross which surmounts the dome of St. Peter.” Do you remember, dear Kate, the Pope appearing in the midst of the crowd, which bent before him with so much reverence, and the long shouts of Viva Pio Nono which
saluted his departure? O Rome, Rome, my other country, the eternal country of those who believe, hope, and love—Rome of St. Peter and of Pius IX.—I salute thy image and thy memory!
Dear sister, Lizzy requests your prayers. She is well, radiant, and full of gratitude to God. Her good husband is in transports, and the little one so pretty under her gauzy curtains. She has not cried yet, so we think she will resemble Isa, her godmother. Do you not like this prognostic?
Let us both pray, dear Kate! Adrien has again read us the two fair contemporary pages about Ireland—Mgr. Dupanloup at St. Roch, and Mgr. Mermillod at St. Clotilde. O these words!—“The first powers of our time, the two most illustrious and rich, are a Prince despoiled and a people in rags—Pius IX., who extends to you his royal hand, and Ireland, who asks you for bread!”
[118] There is in this life but one possession worthy of envy—Liberty.
[119] Good or worthy father (old).
Each mortal has his own; this protecting angel,
This invisible friend, keeps watch around his heart;
Inspires and guides, uplifts him if he fall,
Receives him at the cradle, stays by him to the tomb,
And, bearing up to heaven his soul within his arms,
Presents it, trembling, to the Lord of all.
[121] O thrice happy, thrice blessed day! come to fill all our hearts with infinite happiness.
[122] A slight refreshment taken by French children between the morning and evening meal.
[123] This nest, this soft mystery, is a mother’s love. Children, touch it not!
[124] Being unable to create anything, you must destroy nothing. Children, touch it not!
Few are the days in life which offer charms enough
To make us weep when evening brings their close.
Hither the world’s last echoes come to die:
Land, shipwrecked mariners; the port is here.
[127] “Yes, ’tis one of those abodes where our heart feels itself enlivened by something of heaven which floats around it—one of those abodes which as a child I loved and of which I used to dream, whose beauty, serene, inexhaustible, penetrating, sheds upon the soul a serious and sublime forgetfulness of all that is evil on earth or in man.”
[128] Marie Jenna, Elévations Poétiques et Religieuses.
[129] Memories of Childhood.
’Twas in a wood, in the shadow of the oaks,
We children three, all proud of our seven years,
Unknowing yet of trouble or of care,
With our resounding voices filled the air.
Singing we wandered seeking the eglantine,
Wild strawberries, and nests of singing birds,
Gambolling wildly on the fine, soft moss,
Till night o’ertook us in our careless play.
Trembling with fear, within the forest dark
We wept in silence, fearing we should die;
And when around us thicker shadows fell,
Never, we thought, should we see joy again.
Heavens! what terror. Everything was still.
On the green, mossy turf at times there fell
A withered branch, to us a fall immense;
For oh! what fear and torment were we in.
But hark! a distant cry, our mother’s call,
And loving voices reached our listening ears,
While through the wood we saw the gleam of lights—
Oh! to us all what sweet relief and joy.
What tender kisses, and what welcome smiles,
Now quickly tranquillized our foolish fears!
After our sobs, we laughed for very joy,
E’en while our sisters trembled at our tale.
Lord, grant that ever, in our anxious hours
And stormy days, an angel guardian,
A tender mother’s hand, may dry our tears,
And guide our steps along the path of life.
O Time! suspend thy flight, and ye, propitious Hours,
Suspend your course;
Suffer us to enjoy the swift delights
Of these our fairest days.