May 3, 1868.
The month dear to poets, and still dearer to pious hearts, is come. Three Masses, visits, a walk on the Mall, a family concert after the month of Mary—this, dearest, is my day. Yesterday René set out at dawn on an excursion with Adrien. They have a passion for these long walks through the woods. While waiting until Marcella could receive me, I plunged into the History of St. Paula, which my mother-in-law has given me. This beautiful book is written by M. l’Abbé Lagrange. A disciple of the great bishop is easily recognizable in these magnificent pages. St. Jerome, whom M. de Montalembert calls the lion of Christian polemics, is there fully portrayed. “This ardent soul which breathes of the desert.” Remarked this passage in the introduction: “God has not bestowed all gifts upon them” (women), “nor spared them all weaknesses; but it is the privilege of their delicate and sensitive natures that the faith, when it has penetrated them, not only enlightens but enkindles them—it burns; and this sacred gift of passion and enthusiasm carries them on to wondrous heights of virtue.”
And elsewhere: “Will not the accents of St. Jerome, filled as they are, according to the expression of
an illustrious writer, with the tears of his time, wonderfully impress souls wearied by the spectacles with which we are surrounded, and which have within them, as the poet says, the tears of all things? For those who have other sadnesses and other tears, inward sorrows, hidden wounds, some of those sorrows of which life is full—these, at least, will not weary of contemplating a saint who has herself suffered so much, and who was transfigured in her sufferings because she had the secret of knowing how to suffer, which is knowing how to love.”
Do you not seem to hear Mgr. Dupanloup in this? “There are times when a struggle is necessary, and when, in spite of its bitterness and dangers, we must plunge into it, cost what it may. No doubt that, as far as happiness is concerned, tranquillity and repose would be far preferable—repose, allowable for timid hearts incapable of defending a cause and holding a flag, or of comprehending a wide range of view, or the generosity of militant souls; but we ought to know how to respect and honor those who engage in the combat—often at the price of unspeakable inward sorrows, and even at times giving evidence of weakness and human passion—in the cause of truth and justice.”
How fine it is! I want to read this book with René. Reading is a delightful relaxation. I sometimes read to my mother, who finds herself more solitary since I became so studious, and since the house is changed into an academy. Highly educated herself, she takes much interest in our studies, but is quickly fatigued. What pleasure it is to sit at her feet on a footstool which her kind hands have worked for
me, whilst she leans back her fine, intellectual head in her large easy-chair; to listen to her narratives, and to revisit the past with her! How truly she is a mother to me! Marcella has an enthusiastic veneration for her, and calls her by the same name that we do. Was not our meeting at Hyères providential, dear Kate?
Picciola is pressing me to go out. Good-by, dearest.
May 8, 1868.
What splendid festivities, dear sister! Sumptuous carpets and hangings of velvet have been sent from the crown wardrobe. The cathedral resembled the vestibule of heaven; and yet I prefer the austere grandeur of the bare columns to all this pomp. It was a beautiful sight, nevertheless, with the paintings, the banners, the escutcheons. It was imposing, but the presence of the Creator was forgotten in the vanities of earth; people were talking and laughing in this cathedral, usually full of subdued light and of silence.