March 11, 1868.
Dear Kate, again there are separations and adieux!
George and Amaury are entering La Trappe!—an unmistakable vocation, I assure you. Adrien and Gertrude are so far above nature since they have seen Pius IX. and suffered for him, that they gave their consent at once. Grandmother clasps her hands and utters the fiat of Job. Brothers and sisters wonder and admire. Happy family! All three chosen, all three marked with the seal of God! I should regret them, if I were their mother—so young, so handsome, rich in every gift of heart and understanding. O life of mothers!—Calvary and Thabor!
I knew nothing of it; they feared I should feel it too much. We all went to Communion this morning, and this evening they leave us.
What! have I not yet spoken to you about Benoni, who says my name so prettily, and who is growing superb? It is an unpardonable forgetfulness on my part. It was
a pleasure to see this baby again, and his parents also, so sincere in their gratitude for the little that a kind Providence has allowed me to do for them!
Evening.—They are gone. Adrien accompanies them; and Gertrude, whom I have just been to see, said to me simply: “Dear Georgina, now I can say Nunc dimittis. Will you thank God with me?” I knelt down by her side, breathless with admiration. O this scene of the adieux! Those two noble heads bent down to receive their grandmother’s blessing; the assembled family; the emotion of all; the last pure kisses—all this may be felt, but cannot be described. I know, I understand, how the Christian cannot render too much to God, who has given him all; but my heart is struck by the contrast between La Trappe and the world. On the one side austerities, silence, anticipated death, manual labor, and forgetfulness of earth; on the other a great name, a large fortune, easy access to any position, renown, and glory. Oh! how well they have chosen.
How I love you, dear Kate! How I love Ireland! I speak of it to the children, and love to hear them say to me, as the multitudes of Ireland said to our great O’Connell: “Yes, we love it; we love Ireland!”
March 14, 1868.
Before going to rest, my beloved sister, I want to tell you that I was this morning at Saint-Euverte, and that I have heard the great bishop. Marcella was with me, especially happy, she said, because of the joy which she read in my looks. I sent back the horses, and we came home by the longest way, as the charming Picciola says, under a bright sun, which illuminated