LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER
FROM THE FRENCH.
December 12, 1868.
With the fall of the leaves of autumn the cemeteries become populous. The year 1868, as formerly 183-, will have been fatal to great men. Berryer is dead! A great voice silenced. “I shall not, then, see the happiness of France!” he said a little time before his death—this holy death which has worthily crowned the good and noble life of a man exceptionally great both as regards the intellect and the heart. How all things pass and fade away! Oh! how sad is this world, in which so many separations and farewells are the prelude to the last great separation at death. Violeau, the sweet Breton poet, in writing to his friend Pierre Javouhey, said:
Adieu, toujours adieu! C’est le cri de la terre.
L’homme n’est que regrets en son cœur solitaire:
Le bâton voyageur, le voile et le linceul
Dans l’ennui de ses jours l’ont bientôt laissé seul!
Adieu, always adieu! It is the cry of earth.
Man in his lonely heart is all regrets:
The traveller’s staff, the veil, and [last] the shroud,
In the weariness of his days, have left him soon alone.
Alone! It is one of the sadnesses of earth. On high is the great meeting again, and the great and eternal happiness!
It is not only the death of the great orator lamented by France which makes me write to you so sadly, dear; it is that Isa has taken the veil, and we are going away. I cannot be so selfish as to consent that my mother should spend a second 1st of January far away from her Brittany, which she loves with the same fondness that I love Ireland,
and I have myself fixed our departure for the 20th—only a week hence! I should like to hold back the sun. We all go to-morrow to Gartan.
Isa is already in heaven; her mother reproaches herself for not having divined her daughter’s longing, and resigns herself to this separation better than I could have believed possible. It is true that Lizzy is all that is delightful, and gives up to her the sweet little Isa almost entirely.
Sarah, the radiant Sarah, came to me yesterday in trouble; her sister writes to her distressing letters. Neither the enchantment of Spain, the brilliant position of her husband, nor the princely state in which she lives are able to satisfy this poor heart, to whom the first condition of human felicity—visible affection—is wanting. This was Sarah’s expression. “I understood her at once,” she said. Another disappointed life, unless, indeed, the dear young wife should courageously accept her trial. Will this ardent, simple, and perhaps too-confiding nature be altogether downcast at finding her hopes deceived, or will she cast herself on God, and serve him in his poor? We must help her to do this, must we not? The Père Charles Perraud, the Lent preacher of two years ago, is preaching the Advent at Sainte-Croix. The Annales quote the following words of Père Gratry: “It was this same Charles Perraud, this being so entirely of the same nature,
his equal in goodness, greatness, and intellect, who during the whole of his short life was his brother and companion-in-arms.”
Read an article by Alfred Nettement on the three La Rochejacquelein. More mourning! Mgr. Pie has presided over the last obsequies of the Comte Auguste, and Mgr. Dupanloup over those of Berryer. The Comte de Chambord thus sees those who have remained faithful to him disappear one by one. This great family of the Bourbons appears to have been predestined for the deepest sorrows. Don Carlos is at Paris; he was to have gone to hunt at Chambord, but the death of the Comte de la Rochejacquelein has made him give up his intention. Spain has had her ’93. The despoiled and exiled Jesuits are come into France. Queen Isabella is at Paris. How poor are the times we live in! It seems as if every noble enthusiasm were extinct, and the whole world eaten up with the frightful leprosy of selfishness. Sursum corda! Would that I could raise them all!
Shall I tell you of the immortal festival of the Immaculate Conception, this glory of our age and of Pius IX.—become to us an unforgetable day since the sacrifice of Isa?
What memories! The Mass, the hymns, the crowd that filled the chapel, the betrothed of Christ so beautiful beneath her veil, the sermon, the last kiss, the last embrace, the tears—all these things cannot be narrated.
Dear Kate, let us pray for Ireland.
December 18, 1868.
I want to write to you once more from this room, where I have so loved you, dear Kate.
Rorate cœli desuper et nubes pluant Justum.
Threw a rapid glance over an article in the Union—a sort of contrast between Berryer and Lamennais. From the first few lines I recognized the lion’s paw; it is only Alfred Nettement who can write thus. What a grievous difference between these two grand figures, and what an abyss of sadness in these lines: “The grave-digger asks, ‘Is there to be a cross?’ M. Bocher answers, ‘No’; Lamennais said, ‘Nothing shall be put over my tomb.’” In the Christian world nothing is talked of but an admirable letter of Mgr. Dupanloup upon the Council. I have read the letter of thanks of the Holy Father.
Kate dearest, I am going away full of serenity and hope, since this departure is the will of God. We have seen almost everybody; these two last days are reserved for intimate friends. All our preparations are made. Most of the drawing-rooms are already closed, and this gives me an impression of mourning. Jack’s desire has been granted: he died peacefully yesterday evening while René was finishing the prayers for the dying. Thus there is nothing more to keep us. I could not bear the idea of leaving this good old man.
Margaret promises me to come from time to time to give a little life to this isolated spot and visit Edith, so sorrowful at our departure. Nothing would be easier, my dear, than to take her to Brittany, or even to Orleans; but the doctor is utterly averse to this project, and only undertakes to cure her on condition that she does not quit Ireland.
Edward at first manifested a sombre despair, but we have succeeded in calming him. The two Australiennes, whom we have tamed with so much difficulty, have their
eyes full of tears when they look at us.
Adieu dear Kate.
December 31, 1868.
No more of balmy Ireland! but still the family, kind hearts, pleasant society, walks and drives, concerts among ourselves, study, the poor, and that which is worth all else—prayer. Ah! my God, on the threshold of this new year I render thee thanks for the so many and great benefits with which thou hast overwhelmed me. How sweet, O Lord! is thy love. Bless the church, France, my country, my family. “When will eternity come, in which endless centuries will pass as one day?”
René wrote to you the morning of our arrival, and told you of the Christian calm of our adieux, so full of hope. Is it not a delightful and wholly unmerited happiness to have had this long sojourn in Ireland, when I had not expected to be able to remain there more than a month at the most?
Three happy things to-day. Kate, Margaret, and Isa are come to me in three letters, which I have just read over again to enjoy their charm. Margaret announces a resurrection. Lady R——, the recluse, whom no one remembered ever to have met anywhere, has been going out for a month past. I am rejoiced to hear it. I have so much desired it, and so often asked it of God. But side by side with this unexpected news is a shade—death; but death smiling, heaven opened, and an angel taking flight from earth to return to God, and to pray for those who remain in this vale of tears, where the love of God has spared her from a lengthened sojourn: our dear little Victoria G——, the interesting orphan, is gone
to heaven. What would she have done in this world without guide or parents?
Quand on est pur comme à son âge,
Le dernier jour est le plus beau![157]
Emmanuel grows, “and is determined to live.” Margaret is admirable in her goodness. It is this which I find so attractive in her; there is nothing in the world preferable to goodness. Lizzy has been in great distress for some days, her little Isa being threatened with the croup. Poor mothers!—always anxious and tormented while on earth. O the sorrows of mothers! Nothing touches me more; all my sympathy is for them. They have here below the most immense joys and the most heartrending anguish. What happiness must it be to have a child of one’s own, to pray by his cradle, to consecrate him to God from the dawn of his existence, and to see one’s self live again in him!
Kate, Kate, I do not tell you how greatly your pages touched me. What wishes shall I offer you this evening that I have not offered a hundred times before?—wishes for holiness, happiness in God, and of a blessed union in eternity. May every one of your days add a flower to your crown, my beloved!
January 3, 1869.
The year is begun; shall we see it close? Marcella was most particularly kind and sweet on the 1st of January. I sent to the nearest station an enormous package addressed to you, for your chapel and poor; have you received it? The three graces put into it some bunches of violets. Our Brittany is charming, notwithstanding the winter.
Edith has written a long and kind letter; she is regaining her strength. Mistress Annah, whom I asked to send me full details, tells me of the amiability of the two children, who are making real progress, and are scarcely to be recognized since the terrible brother is no longer there. Adrien takes him to-morrow to a friend who has some business at Paris. You cannot imagine what this child is. René assures me that there is in him the making of a saint. God grant it! He frightens me.
Picciola grows and grows—not only in height, but also in virtue. Thérèse and Anna follow her; but, in any case, my darling advances with wonderful rapidity. I have taken up Homer again, whom I am translating from the open book. How much I prefer reading Bossuet or Joseph de Maistre!
Lizzy sends me four pages of news—many particulars respecting Isa the saint and Isa the angel, about the mothers, friends, etc.; but the flower of the basket is that Mary Wells has entered a convent. Again another who chooses the better part!
To-morrow the Saint of the Seacoast is coming here; we shall try to keep her. What an enjoyable life it is in this Brittany, the sister of Ireland! We have installed with the keeper a blind old man, to whom René reads every day, and who is a model of patience. If his eyes are closed to earth, they are truly open to heaven, of which he speaks luminously.
I speak to you but seldom of Hélène. She lives but for sacrifice, and has entirely broken with the outer world since the day of which René told you. Every three months a sign of life to her mother. O Gertrude! her life is a martyrdom!
God guard you, dear Kate!
January 12, 1869.
Visit to M. le Curé with Picciola. This poor presbytery, close to the church and the resting-place of the dead, reminds me of Lamartine:
“Là jamais ne s’élève
Bruit qui fasse penser;
Jusqu’à qu’il s’achève
On peut mener son rêve
Et le recommencer.
Paix et Mélancolie
Restent là près des morts,
Et l’âme recueillie
Des vagues de la vie
Croit y toucher les bords.”[158]
We are reading the Chronicles of Brittany for the instruction of the children. What quantities of warm knitted articles are made during our evenings! The good aunt of M. le Curé often comes to our manufactory. She is a very amiable woman, most charitably indulgent, something of an artist, and enjoys an opportunity for conversation; my mother is always pleased to see her. The good curé is scarcely ever in his presbytery; he is a Breton: and what need I say more?
René is unwell. He has a superb indifference about his health, and this makes me uneasy. Tell him to suffer himself to be taken care of, and to forget the outside world a little. He has a truly apostolic soul—always seeking out some good to do, and utilizing even his moments of leisure. How far I am behind him!
Our life is become an encampment; and, as Raoul says, we only want turbans and bournous to be Arabs altogether. Already there are sounds of departure, and yet it is so pleasant here! The Saint of the Seashore remained with us two days. “Adieu until
eternity!” These words made me start: has she had any warning of death? I have made her promise to write to me on the slightest symptom of illness. Picciola offered her some violets. “Thanks, dear child; I shall guard them carefully and lovingly. I am passionately fond of flowers, because I see in them an emblem, and because all the hearts of men are the flowers of the garden of God.”
Letter from Margaret, who is sighing after our next meeting, and complains of my silence and, what is a more serious matter, of that also of Kate. Marcella writes to you; she is perfection.
Dear Kate, here is Isa’s photograph. Is it not herself, with her gentle look, full of deep melancholy, and her graceful and dignified attitude? Every one here says that she is made to look older than she does; but to my eyes she is always charming. Her little hands, the prettiest that an artist could dream of, can only be guessed at under the well-represented folds of her wide sleeves. Lizzy has just lost her father-in-law—dead from a sudden attack. Would that I could turn aside all the sadness of a soul so worthy of happiness as hers! I have read to Picciola the Evening Prayer on board Ship, and feel a sort of envy at such emotions. To behold the ocean, and find one’s self a small and feeble creature between sea and sky, a mere speck in immensity; to see other skies, other shores; to contemplate the wonders of the New World, the virgin forests and unknown regions, nature in her primitive and magnificent beauty—all this must enlarge the soul. Distant voyages would indeed be enjoyable, were it not for the departures and farewells.
I salute your good angel, my very dear Kate.
January 22, 1869.
Listen to what my brother is reading to me: “Learn to dwell in the Wound of the Heart of Jesus. Would you develop your desires, and bring forth good works? It is the nest of the dove. Do you love meditation? It is the retreat of the solitary sparrow. Do you love tears and sighs? It is there that the turtle-dove makes her moan. Are you hungry? You will there find the heavenly manna which fell in the desert. Are you athirst? There you will find the fountain of living water which flows out of Paradise, and sheds itself abundantly in the heart of the faithful.”
Kate dearest, my heart is always with you. We shall be at Orleans on the 1st of February. It is a great pity to leave the country, where everything is green and flourishing. My brothers wish to go to Paris, and I wished very much also to go thither with them; but René has asked me to employ the money that this journey would have cost in clothing a whole family from the South, just arrived here in a pitiable condition. To refuse would have been to show myself unworthy of him or of you. Thus our meeting again is indefinitely postponed. A saint once said: “Not to do good enough is to do a great harm.”
Anna, the attractive Anna, is feverish again, and it is partly on her account that my mother presses us to go to Orleans, where we shall consult several physicians. May not our temperature disagree with this southern flower? What a poor thing is life, in which anxiety is always at the side of happiness!
Would you like to have the following
from Gertrude’s journal? It was written at the time when she was beginning to divine Hélène’s desire: “Grant, O my God! that this sacrifice may be possible to us; place my child at a distance from her cup of sorrow, take her in the morning of her life, all white, young, fair, loving, and beloved, my God—so ardently and piously beloved!”
Read Alix, a beautiful book by Mlle. Fleuriot. It is a book which gives one repose—a story of our Brittany: Paula, Mme. de Guenharic, two strong-minded women, the Beatitudes, so attractive, the grave Raymond, the fiery Tugdual, interested me intensely. Then this beautiful and poetic Alix, the lily of Goasgarello, too early plucked; this sweet young girl who was too well loved to die—how much her story touched me! And this book is fact. Alix personifies the lily of St. Brieuc, the beloved pupil of Mlle. Fleuriot, the chosen one of her heart. Ah! how death is everywhere snapping the purest affections.
Picciola spends part of her recreation-time with The Children of Captain Grant. She praised the book so much that it made me wish to read it, and truly I find it full of interest from beginning to end. What a talent for description and contrasts!
Dear Kate, pray for us and for Anna, that there may not be another violent separation. My mother is writing to you. I have news of Margaret from Lord William, who is like another brother to us.
I have made Marcella, who did not know any of Lady Georgiana Fullerton’s works, read Ladybird. This book has astonished our dear Italian, because she did not expect to find in it so much powerful emotion, but she considers it admirably
written and only too painfully probable. The beautiful Gertrude—a noble intellect, but entirely without direction—who through so many storms preserves her purity; the father devoid of affection; the Spanish mother, consumed by suffering, but whose mind would have exercised so powerful an influence over that of her daughter; M. d’Arberg, a hero and martyr of Christian self-devotion; the angelic Mary, whose gentle character beams throughout all the narrative like a reflection of heaven—all this is interesting, perhaps far too much so. René, to whom I mentioned Marcella’s impressions, said in answer: “I do not like these exciting dramas, but rather such readings as give rest to the mind, and I can understand what St. Augustine meant by saying that he could not enjoy any book in which there was not to be found the name of Jesus. ‘The name of Jesus is a name of delight,’ says St. Bonaventure; ‘because, meditated upon, it is nourishment; uttered, it is sweetness; invoked, it is an unction; written, a reparation of our powers, and in all that we do it is a guide and support.’ St. Philip Neri also says: ‘The name of Jesus pronounced with reverence and love has a particular power of softening the heart.’” Dear and beloved sister, pax vobis et nobis!
January 29, 1869.
The corridors encumbered with packages, the windows without curtains—everything shows that we are going away. Anna constantly has this fever, and the poor mother a sword in her heart. The twins pray earnestly, our poor make novenas. How impatient I am to be at Orleans! The good doctor from Hyères, the devoted friend of Marcella, will be there also on the 3d, to give
his opinion respecting the dear child’s state. May God be with us!
Have been out with René. Marcella never leaves her daughter. My sisters are busy with their children. Gertrude helps my mother in her correspondence. Visits to our dear neighbors who do not move about. The Southerns are installed in a tolerably comfortable cottage, the father has found some work, the young daughters will be employed as needle-women by our kind neighbors and in the village; all is satisfactory with regard to them. Edward writes heartrending letters to his good friend René. He declares that he will run away, and other things of the same sort. Pray for this little volcano, dear Kate.
A letter from Karl, whose first steps in the priesthood are rewarded by joys truly celestial. Oh! what grandeur is in the sacerdotal life; but also what sacrifices. I forgot at the time to tell you of a visit we paid the old English Homer, whose daughter was the involuntary cause of Margaret’s trouble. Oh! how beautiful she is. Tall, very tall, with black eyes full of mental vigor, luxuriant hair, remarkable purity of diction. Another flower for the cloister. Will not so many excellent souls obtain the redemption of England?
Kate dearest, with you I ask of God: Trahe me post te; or rather I would say. Trahe nos. A thousand kisses.
February 10, 1869.
“My son, let not thy soul give way beneath the labors which thou hast undertaken for me, neither suffer thyself to be discouraged by affliction, but at all times let my promise strengthen and comfort thee.” René has just read me
these words, by way of consolation for Marcella’s departure. Alas! yes; she left us yesterday, very tearfully, with the doctor. She will again inhabit her châlet. I would willingly have offered her the one consecrated by the death of Ellen, but this association! Anna is so pale and weak, apparently undermined by the fever which never quits her. The doctor shook his head in a manner which did not augur hopefully. I questioned him apart. “You have carried away this pretty little one from us too soon, madam,” he said. “She needs the sun, the Mediterranean, the orange-trees, and the perfumes of the South. I do not conceal from you that I greatly dread for her the isolation in which she will shortly find herself.” I was dreading it also. René had an inspiration: “If Madeleine were to go as well?” “The graceful young girl who always looks at me with tears in her eyes?” “The same.” “If you will believe the testimony of my medical experience, monsieur, this child is also threatened.” I could not restrain a cry of pain: “O my God! my God!” “Pardon me, madam,” said the good doctor; “on no account whatever would I afflict the family of Mme. de Clissey, but if you love this pretty creature, do not keep her here.”
I was obliged to make a strong effort over myself to conceal the terrible impression these words had made upon me. I obtained from the doctor, who wanted to start immediately, a few days’ delay. God aided me, dear Kate. Lucy, who is just now very much indisposed, suggested that Edward should accompany Marcella, and, as Anna was inconsolable at leaving us, Berthe confided her daughter to the care of Lucy. The four set out to-morrow;
see how our home-party is lessened. You will perhaps wonder that we are not all going to Hyères. My generous mother had thought of it; but, besides the fatigue she feels, notwithstanding her green old age, from these frequent changes of place, her sons have important reasons for passing the winter here, and I cannot leave her, even for Marcella. Moreover, my purse is quite exhausted, and I shall find it necessary to be rigorously economical in order to provide for the needs of my poor. I have been considering what retrenchments I could make in my own expenses. What do you advise me, dear Kate? I am afraid of mistaking superfluities for necessaries.
You can understand the grief of my heart. Marcella and I were as one single soul, and this morning, in my meditation, I was considering whether I had not loved her too much, and sacrificed more useful occupations to the pleasure of being with her. I spoke about it to René, my other conscience. “I do not think so,” was his answer.
Let us pray for the travellers, dear and excellent Kate.
February 20, 1869.
Comme un agneau cherchant le serpolet qu’il broute
Laisse un peu de sa laine aux buissons de la route,
Sur le chemin des jours est-il un voyageur
Qui ne laisse en passant un débris de son cœur?[159]
Margaret writes to me, regretting Marcella for my sake, and promising to spend the summer with us. Marcella sends me beautifully long letters every day, so that I am, as it were, present with her in her daily life. In order that Anna may
not be fatigued, the party makes lengthened halts; the doctor is like a father to the poor little one. Lucy is installed, charmed to have Picciola. You understand that the dear and devoted Lucy is in our secret, and is going to attend carefully to this other beloved invalid. But Lucy is so lively; she has no experience, none of that sorrowful experience which gives one the habit of taking care of others, and therefore, in order to be quite at ease, I am sending Marianne, whom I have temporarily replaced by a young Bretonne. Will it not be better thus? And, then, I can count upon the doctor. Pray and get prayers for us, dear Kate! Picciola has been growing too fast. Berthe has not the shadow of a suspicion; she has seen in this an opportunity of doing good, and also of preparing the twins for the sacrifice which circumstances may demand of them later on. Teresa occupies her thoughts by study; the good abbé is alarmed at her progress. Alix and Marguérite are charming; but where are the absent? I do not like empty places.
The Annals publish some letters on the Catechism by Mgr. Dupanloup. They are the most delicate and beautiful revelations, and show in all its excellence this apostolic soul. He depicts in his unique style his emotions as catechist at Saint-Sulpice, and we find here that love of souls, and especially of the souls of children, which has produced his finest pages upon education. There is an admirable passage upon Albert de la Ferronays, speaking of his fervor. And then the great bishop returns to the subject of this child grown into a young man, and assisted by him in his last moments: “He had been always faithful. Possessing a mind
full of vivacity, and the most tender of hearts, he kept them both in subordination, giving them only to God and to a creature angelic as himself whom he met with on his way and married in Italy. She did not then belong to the Catholic Church, but, being led onward and persuaded by the virtues and example of her husband, and perhaps also by sorrow, she made her first communion by the death-bed of Albert, who thus had the ineffable and supreme consolation of making his last communion together with her whom he had loved best upon earth.” He adds that “these two souls were like two angels, and an apparition in this world of the beauty of heaven.” The Père Meillier, Superior of the Lazarists of Angers, is preaching the station at Sainte-Croix, and the Père de Chazournes, author of the admirable life of the Père Barrelle, preaches at St. Paterne.
Benoni is charmingly beautiful. I make him pray for our invalids, and go myself daily to Notre Dame des Miracles. Oh! surely no more death, dear Kate.
February 27, 1869.
Our Italians have again found their beautiful sunshine, and for two days past Anna has had no fever, and Picciola is less pale. Marianne has been charged to send me every three days an exact bulletin of every hour and every minute. The devoted attention of the doctor is unequalled; he regulates everything, meals, sleep, and the times of going out. Marcella says, “This man is to me, as it were, an apparition of Providence.” Think how she must suffer, especially when she reflects that so long a sojourn in the North has been injurious to the delicate chest of her child. Oh!
I cannot believe it, when she has so much loving care. Alas! what can affection do. Just now I was told about Madame de C——, left a widow a year ago, whose husband was insane, and who has now lost her child, the only happiness of her life. The angels who take flight are not those who are to be pitied.
March 5, 1869.
Tolerably good news of the exiles. But I have painful forebodings. René gently scolds me for my sadness. Pray for our sick ones, dear Kate.
The great poet Lamartine is just dead. Doubtless at his last hour his mother’s God, the God of his earliest years, consoled and softened his dying moments. Oh! these great minds misled, these sublime dreamers who wander out of the right way, what sorrowful pity they inspire. How everything passes away and dies! I was reading this evening that M. Guizot, writing to one of his friends, and telling him that he is teaching his little children to read, adds: “I know of only three lives here below: family life, political life, and Christian life; I am leading the first, with the memories of the second, and the hopes of the third.”
Read Anne Séverin, by Mrs. Craven, author of the Récit d’une Sœur. The style is perfect. The angelic women who appear in it, the Catholic youth of Guy, the fragrance of Christian sentiment which pervades the impassioned descriptions of these pages, combine to make them present a beautiful whole. Mme. Bourdon has reproached this work with having shown us three generations living by love alone; she recalls the answer made by Alexandrine when reminded of the happy days she had spent with
Albert: “I no longer think of those days.” Alexandrine was, as it were, transfigured by the love of God, and such sacrifices as hers are not required of every soul.
Did I tell you of my happiness at again seeing Sainte-Croix? I prefer our cathedrals of stone to the most beautiful churches of Italy, always excepting Saint Peter’s at Rome. It is so calm, so solemn, so Catholic! I cannot resist the pleasure of transcribing for you a fine passage by the eloquent Abbé Bougaud, in one of his discourses, I do not now remember which: “There is in the grandeur of Christianity at Orleans, in the touching beauty of its influence, in its permanent union with the destinies of the city, a monument which speaks more than any words. Whether Orleans was reached, as formerly, by ascending the Loire by steamboat, or whether, as now, by descending upon it on the railway, the first objects which attract observation are the spires and towers of Sainte-Croix. They have changed in form and aspect, and have been by turns ogival, romanesque, perhaps Byzantine—splendid always. In the full Middle Ages they were called by a historian ‘the eighth wonder of the world,’ and still, at the present time, whoever has seen them once loves to see them again, and whithersoever our studies, our reveries, or business take us, we never fail to return to them with pleasure or to salute them with emotion. Place near to this grand basilica, like two satellites, St. Euverte on the one side, with the tombs of its ancient bishops and its triple cemetery, Gallo-Roman and Christian, and on the other St. Aignan, with its precious relics, borne at times on the shoulders of kings, and its
crypt, visited by all Christendom, and you will have some idea of what Christianity has been at Orleans, or, if you like it better, what would have been wanting to this city had not Christianity been there with its mysterious beauty and its touching influence. Throughout the whole of this edifice, constructed at a period when men no longer knew how to build anything similar, in this cathedral, which must have cost efforts so prodigious, and which has been so justly called ‘the last of the Gothic cathedrals,’ appear engraven in indelible characters the two qualities which make the glory of Orleans, Fidelity and Courage.”
I do not talk to you about the sermons, not having been able to go and hear any at present. We have all had severe colds on the chest. My life is quite changed since I no longer have Marcella and Picciola. Perhaps I have been wrong to give up my heart in this manner. Oh! but then it is because the heart is so vast. Happy they who have asked God alone to fill it! This is what I say in my sadness, and it is wrong, since God’s goodness and mercy to me have indeed been marvellous. O dear Kate! if separation from a friend is so painful to me, what, then, would it be if Heaven were to deprive me of the sweet and strong support which it has bestowed? How much I hold to this world! Scold me, dearest, but love me.
March 10, 1869.
You have wound me up again, dear sister; a thousand thanks. Oh! how cowardly I was; I was afraid of suffering—that friend of the Christian, that visitor from God, that messenger from eternity!
Four letters: first, Marcella, who blesses Providence for the improvement
of her child—the fever has disappeared; second, Picciola, my delicious flower, who says to me the prettiest things in the world; third, Margaret, who is counting the days by the side of Emmanuel’s cradle; fourth, Edith, who feels herself stronger. By the way, the fiery Edward is becoming reasonable; his professors entertain the best hopes in his regard. Marianne wrote to me yesterday. She is not yet reassured respecting our sick child. You may imagine what precautions are taken to be careful about her without her knowledge. Dear, sweet little soul! she spends all that her purse contains for the benefit of the indigent. The amiable colony writes to us en masse. Nothing can be prettier than these gazettes. I had thought of sending them to you, but my mother makes them her daily reading. Edouard herborizes, composes music, sings, occupies himself with history, rocks the babies—that is to say, he amuses and plays with the children. Marcella organizes parties of poor people, gives lessons to two young girls without fortune who have been recommended to her by the doctor. Lucy is at the head of the household affairs; arranges and regulates everything with her graceful vivacity, and heartily enjoys this pleasant life. Anna and Picciola (according to the same chronicle) study a little and amuse themselves much. Gaston is becoming a man. Then we have details, incidents, stories about birds, flowers, lambs, children. Edouard, the editor, assures us that our presence alone is wanting to complete the charms of the South.
Gertrude has entered the Third Order of St. Francis. The days are not long enough for the duties she has created for herself; there
is not a single pious work with which she is not in some way connected; she writes and receives innumerable letters, and spends, without reckoning, her gold, her time, and her heart. With all this, she is always serene; never is there a shadow on her beautiful brow, never a sorrowful glance towards the past. Adrien is even more ardent than she, if that could be possible; there is no kind of sacrifice which they do not both make for the good of souls. A few days ago, on entering Gertrude’s room, I observed that her time-piece, which is a valuable work of art, had disappeared, and remarked upon it to her. She blushed, and turned my attention to other things. I have since learnt from René that this time-piece has been sold to a rich Englishman, and its price sent to the missions. No more expensive toilets, no more amusements, no more frivolous expenses. Gertrude does not even see any more the things of which she once was fond. I suspect that Adrien also has joined the Third Order.
The name of Johanna does not often occur in my letters, nor yet that of Paul. This is unjust, for both of them love my Kate. You will be so good as to pray especially for this sister of your sister on the 15th and the 20th. Marguérite, Alix, and Thérèse, the tall and serious Thérèse, scarcely ever leave me. And how pretty also is Jeanne when she sends kisses to Madame Kate! O youth! how sweet a thing thou art, with one’s family and country.
I wept with you for the Prince Royal of Belgium. The thought of Picciola makes me forgetful of many subjects when I write to you. “By as many languages as a person knows,” said Charles V., “so many times he is a man.” “By so many
times as any one is a father,” adds some one else, “so many times over does he live.” In reading the account of this death, I thought of all the hearts who are weeping or who have wept by a cradle from whence a life has fled.
The beatification of Madame Elizabeth is under consideration. The Cathedral of Orleans possesses a treasure which may soon become a precious relic, an alb in guipure which was formerly a robe-de-fête worn by the pious princess. At Notre Dame des Doms at Avignon is preserved a chasuble made out of the last dress worn at the Conciergerie by Marie Antoinette. Paul and Johanna have seen this chasuble.
Could you have fifty Masses asked for at Notre Dame des Victoires, dear Kate, on behalf of my mother? We are getting some said almost everywhere.
May the blessings of Jesus and Mary be with you!
March 15, 1869.
René is writing to you, and, quick! here I am, dearest. Good news from everywhere. My correspondence is inexhaustible. I attended yesterday upon a worthy man, somewhat peevish, who declared to me that I was clumsy. I begged his pardon for it. The fact is he suffers fearfully from a cancer in the leg. And he is poor, with a family! It was my good angel who led me thither; no one visits them, and they are so embittered by misfortune that pity is, to them, insupportable. I took Marguérite and Alix with me this morning, and they were so sweet and amiable that I obtained permission from the peevish man to do whatever I like. And plenty there is to be done! The most indispensable things have
been sold. Pray for these unfortunates, dear Kate, and receive my tenderest affection.
March 19, 1869.
Communion at St. Paterne, where there was a multitude. Beautiful singing. The organ, and a little exhortation by the Père de Chazournes for the closing of the Paschal retreat. On returning, great joy; a little child is born to us, and to us a son is given. Johanna is doing well. Paul is in transports. The house is upside down.
Jeanne is asking to see the angel who brought her brother. At eleven o’clock, to do honor to Saint Joseph, I took the young ones to Sainte-Croix, then to the Calvaire and Recouvrance. There was in the two latter churches exposition of the Blessed Sacrament. A profusion of flowers and lights, and an unwonted splendor, which delighted me, I had so much to ask, so much to pray for. Pray with us, dear Kate, for this pretty innocent who is just arrived, that he too may become a saint!
Gertrude’s forgetfulness of self is admirable. Berthe and Johanna wonder unceasingly at her disinterestedness and detachment from this world. Little by little she despoils herself of all worldly superfluities; sells her jewels one after another, her collections also, of which, some time ago, she was fanatically fond. Kate, in her place I think I should be dead. I should never console myself, if I were a mother without children. And what a mother she is! If you could only see her by the cradle of the little new-born babe, or when she is teaching anything to the other children! What sweetness of language! What tenderness of expression! Ah! poor broken heart which has twice given
up its universe. God is with her!
My cross man has consented to change his lodging; and now they are installed, eight in number, in a healthy and airy street, where I have furnished three small rooms. The new abode is bright in its cleanliness; the mother wept for joy on entering it. The poor man, who still shows some repugnance to my attentions, was carried thither. His wound is frightful. I have found work for the young daughters, and the little ones go to the Christian Brothers. The mother, worn down by grief and privations, with her sight weakened by weeping, is incapable of any employment. Thérèse helped me to install them, and we shall go and see them frequently. That which I am most anxious about is to draw them nearer to God.
Picciola is no better; Anna is very well. Let us continue to pray! All that I do, thoughts, prayers, actions, go to one end—these two cures. Shall I be heard?
Found in the Annals a good article on “Eugénie de Guérin.” The flower of it is this: “There is an interior and private literature; this is as superior to the other as the soul is to the body; it is that of Eugénie de Guérin. This literature of the heart has pages which no other can ever equal. It [the Journal] is an attractive book, and one of the best which could be offered to the human soul. It bears a double character of mystery and of intimacy which centuples its value. What pleasure the reader finds in believing himself also regarded in the light of a confidant!
To have this intimate secret is to live alone with the writer; it is to have a species of love which is charmed with what is whispered into the ear, and with what it confidentially answers itself. The soul of Eugénie de Guérin truly resembled the first created by God, a living soul, taking from and giving to all things around her that life whose divine fire she possessed in the highest degree. It was a soul open to heaven, a winged soul, which rested a moment upon all things in succession, but always to rise again towards heaven, singing like the lark, or else moaning like the dove.”
“The faith which penetrated all the faculties of Eugénie de Guérin,” says M. Nicolas, “had in it nothing romantic, nothing dreamy, nor even ideal; it was a clearly defined and positive faith, the faith of a good woman in a nature of the highest distinction; it was the nature of a child and of a bird, springing and warbling, gathering all the happiness it met with, and carrying it home to be enjoyed in its nest. The sorrow in which she was plunged by the death of Maurice was extreme. This sorrow arose, as it were, from its bed and beat upon her faith as the sea beats upon its shores. But her Journal was eminently secret; she there freely poured out, in the bosom of God alone, the grief which she restrained within herself before men. This Journal was to her a Garden of Olives, where she went apart to faint.”
Kate dearest, I will no longer disturb your solitude but with a joyful Alleluia. All here love you dearly, beloved sister of my life.
TO BE CONTINUED.
When one is pure as at her age
The last day is the fairest.
[158] “There never stirs a sound which inspires thought. One can carry on a reverie to its end, and over again. There, near the dead, Peace and Melancholy make their abode, and the meditative soul, amid the waves of life, believes itself close upon the shore.”
[159] “Even as a lamb, seeking the wild-thyme on which he browses, leaves a little of his wool on the bushes along his way, so, on the pathway of life, is there a wayfarer who leaves not as he passes some fragment of his heart?”—Violeau.