Following this declaration of conflict and despondency we have a brighter picture: "My household life favours wonderfully my intellectual life. You know that I have a room, a very pretty room, where I have my bed, my fire, and my books; there I can work at my ease and in silence. I shut myself in this enclosure as in my empire, and, in fact, once the door is closed, the world is no more. I am alone with myself and my thoughts, with my poetry, my cherished books, and no one comes to trouble the secret of this sanctuary. Just now, for example, I am in one of my sweetest moments. It is half-past eight in the evening, it is cold outside, and a good fire burns in my chimney (the thought of the poor often spoils this pleasure for me), my little table is placed at the side, and I converse delightfully with you.
"When I do not pass my evening in my room, I pass it en famille with Auguste and Félicité. We talk as brothers and sister, or else we do some reading together. You see that my life sufficiently resembles that of Le Cayla, except all of you and the sweet face of the country, and the horizon which I loved to contemplate in the evening from the western corner of the terrace. It sets me longing when spring returns to give life to our little garden; the walk will not be so long as in our fields, but I shall always have verdure and the little path by the flowers. There is in the midst a great fir which is magnificent when it is covered with hoar frost; one should say, to see its overhanging and jagged branches—with grand silvered drapery." He then tells her that he has formed new friendships among the writers in The European Review, and that a contribution by him was accepted, and would appear in the next number. This review he asks her to send to Louise with an intimation that the essay was by him, and asks if she could obtain from her friend any indication of how he was regarded! Here is Eugénie's reply:—
January 22nd, 1832.
"It is Sunday to-day: the day for repose. So I hear no other sound than that which my pen makes on the paper. I am thinking of you. You are not so tranquil in your great Paris, except in your little chamber, where you find again Le Cayla in a more enjoyable form. When I saw yesterday the great oak of the Teoulet covered with hoar-frost, I thought of the great fir of Maurice. Nothing is more elegant than these trees in winter dress; but hurrah for their summer toilet! When one must only see trees, one loves better to have them green than white. For you, who see so many things, a little snow is nothing, and it is here a great event, especially when I used to make snowballs; but that has been for a long time a lost pleasure. Winter gives me only the sweet warmth of the chimney corner—that is the pleasure of the old. What a distance from the doll to the tongs! And there I am. And then will come spectacles, the cane, and the fall of the teeth—sad New Year's gifts! For at last the years make us all these presents. Since time brings me nothing sweet, I would willingly send back the first of the year as a tiresome creature who comes too often. As you say, It is strange that one is so gay at that period. That children are so very good, they catch bonbons; but we…. Yet if I could have New Year's gifts sometimes according to my fancy….
"I have, however, had one pleasing gift—your letter. Nothing gives me the pleasure of that. When I saw you more than ever wandering and straying in the land of the void, it is then that you show me that shut up in your room—confined to a regular work—what progress you have there made, my dear brother! Frankly, I did not expect so prompt a conversion. May God maintain it! I told you well that will is power. You have willed and have achieved; you have achieved even to the resumption of the code. I am quite content with you, and with your courage. Are you not well repaid for your first effort in seeing what it has produced? 'I now meet the day intrepidly.' It is the very thing for which you have made me wait so long, and it is that which makes me preach so much. Nothing gave me more pain than to see you so sick with life. You see how much sweeter she is when one knows how to lead her. It is for you the commencement of happiness to be able to think calmly. By little and little all will arrange itself, all will frame, all will harmonise in your existence. You will do like our old timepiece, which sounds very well when the weather is fine. Make it last, this fine weather that shines upon you now; and when the glacial discouragement shall come to fall upon you, fall again upon it as you have done already. He who gives one kick is able to give two, is able to give a thousand. I easily believe that these are terrible conflicts which these fits of dejection sometimes cause you. If I could cure you or help you. 'The Imitation' says something very true: 'Often the fire burns, but its flame rises not without smoke.' It is very true; there arises not in us a good thought, a good intention, that is not quickly mingled with a little smoke, with a little human frailty. But the good God blows upon it, and it all departs.
"We have had some days of cold which makes the little birds cry. It is less sad than to hear the cry of the poor. I well believe that they spoil for you the pleasure of the fireside; but it pleases me to see that they cause you sorrow. If ever I come to knock at your door, I see that you will not close it against me. You would often hear rat-tat at your door if it were not so far off. For example, I would have come quickly to embrace you when I saw you so sage, so studious, so retired from the world. You have upon me the effect of a Father of the Church, studying the Bible and religious philosophy in your tranquil cell. I do not, however, think that any of them are as well lodged as you. But it is a charming abode! I can well understand that you make pretty verses within there, while stirring the fire. I feel sure that there are some everywhere in your room—upon the table, the chairs, at the corner of the fire; and I have nothing! Tell me, at any rate, what you are doing. Where is your drama? I should much love this Peter the Hermit. You would wish much, it seems to me, to present something to Lamartine. Do it, if you believe me. He will receive you, I am sure of it, as you would receive an angel, of whom you would ask encouragement and goodwill.
"I sent word to Rayssac, as you told me. There is no doubt that the Blessed Nicholas will be welcome. Who does not love the lives of the saints? I am not able to give you the explanations that you ask. How do you wish that I should set about it? It could only be in a tête-à-tête sometime that I should be able to ask it; in a letter never. Both the question and answer would be too indiscreet. In writing, content yourself, my dear, with the light and shade. Finally, Louise has not written since the long letter. I sent you in my last some lines with which you ought to be satisfied. Charles has made a great stir in the country, especially in the city of gossips; it was for this, it was for that, that he had to come to Cayla. They asked me what was his age, his fortune; and I heard it whispered, 'He is too young for her'; and she thought, 'What have you to bother yourselves about?' But they interfere with everything—from our wooden shoes to our consciences. They know everything—thoughts, words, acts, omissions, everything except how tiresome is their curiosity. I am for liberty of the press, but not for that of the tongue. They ought really to arrest some of those in this part of the country!
"Really you are leading the most charming life in the world. Our pastimes have but little resemblance to yours. One of these days, which was very cold, we went out, Mimi and I, to have a walk in the woods, and to pay a visit to the ravens; but, although well clothed, well muffled, the cold seized us. By good luck we found a fire of some young shepherds, who very graciously yielded to us the place of honour, a stone in front of the fire larger than the others. These children recounted to us all that they knew—one had just been eating some fry, the other had at home some fresh eggs laid by a red hen. From time to time they threw on the fire some handfuls of twigs, with an air of such content that there is no king who might not have said, 'Why am I not one of you?' If I knew how to make poetry I would sing 'The Shepherds' Fire.'"
The writing of articles for The European Review did not, however, form a means of livelihood for Maurice. He received no remuneration for them, and his endeavour to obtain more profitable employment failed. Having finally abandoned the study of the law, he returned home to Le Cayla in the spring of the year. The society of his beloved sister was not effectual to break the gloomy spell of his despondent thoughts. Though young and gifted, the melancholy natural to his peculiarly sensitive temperament was deepened by the result of his first struggle with his destiny; and he was unable to regard his future other than as one of failure and gloom. During this visit he began to write his journal, which became thenceforth, at intervals, a record of his struggles and hopes. It is a book of sweet sadness, containing at the same time many beautiful pictures of Nature, and thoughts of rare worth. The writing of journals at this time was probably an arrangement between Eugénie and her brother, as a mutual bond between them; for although that of the sister, which has been given to the world, was not commenced until two years later, it is only a continuation of a previous one which has not been found. In his perplexity the thoughts of Maurice now turned to the religious vocation, and he formed the project of joining a monastic institution at La Chênaie, conducted by Abbé de Lamennais. His father was reluctantly brought to give his consent, and, in the month of December, 1832, Maurice once more quitted Le Cayla, bidding another long farewell to his family for the solitude of La Chênaie.
It is not intended to trace the history of Maurice de Guérin except as it is associated with that of his sister. That it was so, however, to a great extent at every step, is indeed the fact. In so far as her yearning solicitude, her sisterly devotion, her almost maternal advice could make it so, they were never indeed apart. Her heart followed him, and when, during the succeeding year, he took, though with misgiving, the necessary vows initiatory to a religious vocation, she rejoiced at the promised fulfilment of her hopes concerning her beloved brother. But his subsequent course proved to be not in his own hands. The teaching of M. de Lamennais had become obnoxious to the authorities of the Church. The establishment was broken up. After being transferred for a time to a monastic institution at Ploërmel, the rigorous character of which was but ill suited to his fancy, an edict from the Bishop removing certain members, Maurice among the number, was welcomed by him as a release from toils under which his spirit chafed.