We had taken provisions with us, and did not get home until nine o’clock, tired out, but so happy! My mother followed us in the carriage. She must be interested and have a little variety at any price; the death of her friend (the mother of our sister) has greatly impressed her. “It is,” she says, “the herald to warn me of the approach of my own death.” May God spare her to us!
Yesterday, soon after day-break, the carriages were in readiness in front of the entrance for a visit to the old divor, as the Poles would call it: a sort of pilgrimage … to the saint of the sea-coast. It is so distant that we accepted an invitation to stay the night, and are come home this evening, not at all fatigued. We are to go there again, but have meanwhile obtained a kind promise. The châtelaine of the lake will be here on the 2d of July. How shall I describe her to you? On our way back we were speaking of the prestige of beauty, and Adrien quoted the words of an educational professor who says: “I have passionately loved both nature and study; the fine arts have also made me feel the power of their charms; but among all things under the sun I have found nothing comparable to man when he unites noble sentiments to physical beauty. He is truly the chef-d’œuvre of the creation.” “I have often thought,” observed René, “that, God being infinite and sovereign Beauty, physical beauty is a reflection of the divine. Without sin man would never have been ugly or plain. We have in the soul the instinct of
beauty, the love of the beautiful under every form; and although we say and know very well that human beauty passes in a day, that it is nothing, nevertheless there is no one living who has not some time in his life experienced the unique and irresistible charm which is shed around her by a creature who to high qualities of mind and heart joins the attraction of beauty and regularity of countenance.” And my mother: “The saints have a kind of beauty which I prefer to every other; it is like a transfiguration. This miserable mortal envelope which covers the soul becomes in some sort transparent, so that one can see the peace, the calm and serenity, of this interior in which God dwells by his grace and love. The sight of a saint is a foretaste of Paradise. Oh! how beautiful must the angels be. Why cannot our mortal eyes behold those who are here, near to us?” “As Lamartine says,” added Marcella:
“Tout mortel a le sien; cet ange protecteur,
Cet invisible ami veille autour de son cœur;
L’inspire, le conduit, le relève s’il tombe,
Le reçoit au berceau, l’accompagne à la tombe,
Et portant dans les cieux, son âme entre ses mains,
La présente en tremblant au Maître des humains.”[120]
Dear Kate, do you not love these pious natures amongst whom God has placed me? “Great souls, great souls,” exclaimed a bishop—“I seek them, but I find them not; I call them, and none answer!” Yet some there are in France, and especially in Brittany.