Kate dearest, my soul unites itself to yours, seeking strength to support this trial, if it is to be imposed upon me. And I shall not be the only one who suffers. I read yesterday these words, which seem made for me: “Do not loosen too much the reins from this strong and yet impassioned little heart; affections are sweet, but you know what Pascal says: ‘We shall die alone.’” When men fail us, as sooner or later they surely will, what matter? God remains to us. There is truly within us a source of mysterious sadness which makes us realize, perhaps better than any other reason, our condition as exiles. When life is sad and oppressive, repose uncertain—when happiness appears impossible—we weep,
were it even over the happiness of others, and love to prostrate ourselves before the cross with this admirable prayer of Mme. Swetchine on our lips: “My God, I throw myself, body and soul, blindly at thy feet!”
Dear Kate, may God and the holy angels guide us to you! My mother would like to see you, but she grows weaker in health; walking fatigues her. How I love you, my beloved sister! When, then, will heaven come for us all? How sweet it would be to go thither together! Death would lose its horror, if there were in it no more separation.
Good-by for the present, soon to embrace you, my Kate!
June 18, 1869.
I am, dear Kate, in all the joy of expectation; only two days, and Margaret will arrive. O human life, full of separations and of meetings again! Dearest, I feel you present with me, and you know whether I have not need of this. The sight of Picciola tortures me. These words of the medical celebrity are ever resounding in my ears: “An inexplicable malady, strange, nameless, without remedy!” Oh! let us supplicate Heaven—so young, so fair, so beloved!
Her increasing weakness has become evident to all, and everybody attributes it to a too rapid growth. No more study, no more any exciting occupation. She lets it be so, always smiling, giving herself to all, but reserving for her mother and for me the depth of her heart—a treasure which we are never weary of contemplating. Kate, I have the conviction that in asking the health of this child I am asking a miracle; but will not the love of Mary grant it me?
The baptism is for the 24th. Unite yourself with us, dearest.
June 21, 1869.
Margaret sends you a most affectionate greeting. What a delight to possess her! The baby is of dazzling freshness; Lord William is crazy about him. What a happy household! We shall keep them, I hope, all the summer. Marcella makes the delight, the joy, and the union of our interior. “Are you not afraid that she may leave you?” This question of Margaret’s greatly surprised me. “But why?” I asked. “Well, I do not know; she might marry, for instance.” What an idea! What do you say to it, dear Kate? Is this another dark speck on my horizon?