December 2.
Here we are, home again, in the most Advent-like weather that ever was. We have seen beautiful things; we have lived in the ideal, in the true and beautiful, in minds, in scenery, in poetry, and music—in a feast of the understanding, the eyes, and the heart. But with what pleasure we have again beheld our home, so calm, so pious, and so grand! It is only two hours since I took possession of my rooms. We found here piles of letters; René is reading them to me while I am saying good-morning to you—Kate, dearest, you first of all; this beautiful long letter which I reverently
kiss, which I touch with delight; it has been with you; it has seen you! How I want to see you again!
A letter from Ireland from Lizzy, who is anxious about Ellen.
Alas! her anxiety is only too well founded. Karl writes to me that Ellen grows weaker every day; strength is gradually leaving the body, while the soul is fuller of life and energy than ever before, and preparing for her last journey with astonishing serenity, and also preparing for it him who is the witness of her departure. In a firm hand she has added a few lines to the confidences of Karl: “Dear Georgina, will you not come and see me at Hyères? Your presence would help me to quit this poor earth, here so fair, which I would always inhabit on account of my good Karl. The will of our Father be done! Tender messages to Kate and to your good husband. Pray for me.”
Poor, sweet Ellen! How can I refuse this last prayer? But there is no time to be lost; René will consult my mother. Ah! my sister, pray that this journey may be possible, and that the angel of death may not so soon pluck this charming flower which we love so much.
Evening.—How good God is! We are all going; my mother wishes it to be so. “I do not,” she said to me, “want to have any distance between you and me.” The winter is so severe that my sisters are glad to get their children away from the season which is setting in. I am writing to Lizzy and to Karl. We shall be at Hyères next week. Pray with us, beloved.
December 12.
Arrived, dear Kate, without accident, and all installed in a beautiful chalet near to that of Ellen, who welcomed us with joy. Karl had
gently prepared her for this meeting. How thin she has become!—still beautiful, white, transparent; her fine, melancholy eyes so often raised, by preference, to heaven, her hands of marble whiteness, her figure bending. She would come as far as to the door of her room to meet us, and there it was that I embraced her and felt her tears upon my cheek. “God be praised!” These were her first words. Then she was placed on her reclining-chair, and by degrees was able to see all the family. I was trembling for the impression the children might make upon her; but she insisted. Well, dearest, she caressed, admired, listened to them, without any painful emotion or thought of herself; one feels that she is already in heaven. Every day, by a special permission granted by Pius IX., Mass is said in a room adjoining hers. The removal of a large panel enables her to be present at the Holy Sacrifice. This first moment was very sweet. In spite of this fading away, which is more complete than I could have imagined it, to find her living when I had so dreaded that it might be otherwise, was in itself happiness; but when I had become calm, how much I felt impressed! Karl’s resignation is admirable. René compels me to stop, finding me pale enough to frighten any one. Love me, my dearest!