Letters from England report that the English Ministry is much embarrassed. Lord John Russell's timid speech at Bristol, without satisfying the Conservatives has irritated the Radicals and the Irish Catholics extremely, and the Cabinet's very existence appears to be seriously threatened though the question is adjourned until the opening of Parliament.
The more I see of Count Pahlen, the new Russian Ambassador, the more excellent I find his disposition. I know on excellent authority that he has written to his Court in clear, simple, straightforward and kindly terms about what he has lately thought and seen. He did not conceal how much his social position was suffering owing to the instructions he had received, and he added that he did not feel bound to remain in such a position, declaring finally that his Government should either modify its first instructions or recall him. This declaration was sent off yesterday. The King and Madame Adélaïde are impatiently awaiting the answer, which of course will decide what relations there will be in future between our Government and that of Russia.
Paris, November 23, 1835.—Here are the leading points of a letter which I have just received from the Duke of Wellington. "We are still on the path on which we entered five years ago. All we can hope for is that the pace will not be too fast. To stop, and, above all, to return, is impossible. Robespierre was at least honest as regards money, his power was founded on disinterestedness; but those who intend to govern us and who are going to be our rulers will not be guided by the same considerations. At least I fear not."
Paris, November 24, 1835.—I spent a curious morning yesterday of which I wish to give a detailed description, but in order to be understood I must say a few words by way of preface.
I have a cousin named Louisa de Chabannes. In her early youth she was very pretty, and sang and painted. She was well bred but poor, and got no opportunity of marrying. She became retired, unsociable, weakly, and almost ugly. I used to see her three or four times a year, and I was always struck by the weariness of her manner, by her pallor and thinness, and by her silence and nervousness. Seven years ago I heard that she had joined the Grandes Carmélites. I was not surprised, for though she had never been exactly pious, it was quite clear that she was ill at ease in the world. However, like all her relations, I was quite convinced that the austerities of this severe Order would soon destroy that fragile and ailing organism. I heard, however, at long intervals, from her brother Alfred that she was still alive, and indeed much better than she used to be.
Yesterday morning I got a letter beginning, "My dear Cousin," and ending "Sœur Thérèse de Jésus." For a moment I did not understand; then I recollected Louisa de Chabannes. In this letter she said that having at last obtained permission to see me from her Superior she begged me to come at once. Yesterday was one of the very few days on which visits are allowed, and she added that in order that I should not be terrified she had as a great favour obtained permission to see me with her face uncovered and without witnesses. I should have been very sorry to disappoint the poor woman, and as I had business with the Archbishop, who lives in the same neighbourhood, I resolved to do both on the same day.
I left at two, and drew up at the end of the Rue d'Enfer before a doorway surmounted by a cross. The doorkeeper told me that Vespers were not over, for the nuns said the Great Office every day, and that I should go into the Chapel. I did so. At the end of the choir there is a grille armed with projecting points, behind which is a great brown veil, and the voices of the Sisters come from beyond this. Besides myself there were only two old ladies in the chapel, the only ornaments of which are a kneeling statue of Cardinal Bérulle in white marble and several portraits of S. Theresa. I did not know my cousin well enough to recognise her voice, but the Office came to an end almost immediately, and I went back to the doorkeeper's room, where I found the convent doctor, who had just called.
While they were away announcing his arrival and mine he saw that I was shivering, for in this house there never is any fire except in the infirmary and in the kitchen. The doctor then spoke to me of the régime of the establishment, which he declares is not unwholesome, and to prove it said that after numerous observations he had come to the conclusion that the average age reached by women outside was thirty-seven, whereas among the Carmélites it was as much as fifty-four. He left me to go to the infirmary and soon afterwards they took me to the parlour, which also was without a fire. A little cane arm-chair, on which was spread a mat also of cane, was drawn up to an iron grille lined with a wooden casing, and behind this double barrier there was a curtain of brown wool.
After a few moments I heard a lock turned and some one came forward to the grille and said in a clear voice, "Deo gratias." I did not know what to reply and was silent, when the same voice repeated "Deo gratias." Thereupon I had to say "I have not been told what answer I should give." A little burst of laughter disconcerted me—"My dear cousin, I only wanted to be sure that it was you." The curtain was drawn and I saw before me a round fresh smiling countenance lit up by two bright blue eyes. Instead of the feeble voice I expected I heard rich, animated, and rapid accents. The thoughts which she expressed were kindly and sweet, and the assurances she gave of her happiness and contentment were corroborated by her appearance, which certainly was strikingly reassuring in a nun so strictly cloistered. She is forty-eight and does not look thirty-six. She thanked me very much for having come, and handed me a little medal with an effigy of the Blessed Virgin, begging me to make M. de Talleyrand wear it without his knowledge. "This medal," she said, "brings back to the Faith even those who have wandered furthest from it." I did not refuse to do as she wished, as to do so would have been horribly unkind. Besides, there is something catching in a faith so sincere and so vivid! I said that I would look for a favourable moment for carrying out her blessed purpose.
I left much touched, and very thoughtful after saying adieu, probably for ever, to this charming and happy woman, who sleeps on a board, never has a fire, fasts the whole year round, and would be distressed if she did not say with S. Theresa, "may I suffer or else die."