René is writing to you; everybody would like to do the same.
April 3, 1868.
Feast of the Compassion. Stabat Mater Dolorosa! Have I mentioned to you the new frescoes of Recouvrance, dear Kate?—the birth and espousals of the Blessed Virgin. The first does not impress me; but the second! The high-priest is admirable; his purple robe gleams like silk. Mary is not so beautiful as in Raphael’s pictures. I have undertaken a painting on ivory which I wish to send to the amiable Châtelaine in Brittany, whom I think you cannot have forgotten. I am making
Anna sit for her portrait, she looks so sweet.
Mgr. de Ségur, author of the poem of St. Francis, has just written a tragic poem, St. Cecilia. What a fine subject, and how well the writer has been inspired! Isa must read it. You see whether my life is occupied or not. God, the poor, the family, friendship, study—my mind is full!
The language of Homer no longer appears to me so difficult as at first. But Latin—oh! this is charming, and I delight in it; in the first place, because I am still at rosa and rosarium. What a head Marcella has! She has learnt everything, and sings like Nilsson. If only you could hear her in La Juive! This is profane music; but we have pious also, and Marcella enjoys Hermann.
This note will be slipped into the envelope destined for Karl. Lizzy announces to me her visit. Good-night, carissima sorella.
April 5, 1868.
And so we are in Holy Week, my sister. I have here a blessed palm, sweet and gracious souvenir of the Saviour’s entry into Jerusalem. O King of Peace! bring peace to souls. Have pity upon us; assemble together at thy holy table both the prodigal sons and the faithful; grant peace to thy church! To all troubled hearts, to all those who suffer, to those who are oppressed and persecuted, give the hope of heaven—of that eternal dwelling where all tears will be wiped away, where all lips will drink of the stream of delights, and where every heart will receive the fulfilment of its desires. Why does Lent come to an end? I could listen for ever to the lovely chants of the Miserere, the Attende, the Stabat Mater, and the Parce Domine.
No sermon, to my mind, equals the Stabat Mater, sung alternately by the choir-boys, with their pure, melodious, aërial voices, and the men who fill the nave, and who, varying in their social position, fortune, and a thousand things besides, are one in the same faith, the same hope, and the same charity.