July 2, 1869.
Anniversary of the First Communion of the Three Graces. We have observed it as a solemn festival: general Communion, Benediction, largesses to the poor.
Write to me often thus, dear Kate. Your letter set me afloat again. I was nearly stranded. Oh! yes, God is good, a thousand times good, even in those things which we unjustly call his severities. Well, and what matters life? I say this, but an hour hence what shall I say? Human misery! It is the weight of the body which holds us back; we are too material, we live too much by the senses. Sursum corda! Would, Kate, that my life were a sursum corda continually!
Besides, can our angelic invalid make us think of anything but heaven? Her state is really inexplicable. The doctor at Hyères thought that the chest was affected, but we are assured that this is not the case. To all her mother’s questions Mad invariably answers: “I am not quite well—that is all; don’t be uneasy, dearest mother.” But day after day she grows more transparent, more delicate; and in watching her the same idea struck Gertrude and myself: she resembles the Angel spreading his Wings painted by Marcella. To console myself, I read the most beautiful of books,—the Gospel and the admirable Imitation. Dear Kate, tell me again to look up to heaven!
Madame Bourdon has written some noble pages upon Lamartine. Would you like to have the flower of them? “Never, perhaps, did any name of man or any human destiny, pass through more varied phases
than the name of Lamartine, or than the destiny of this poet, who lived long only to see the better how inconstant is earthly glory, and how quickly fade the palms awarded by men. Forty years ago the name of Lamartine expressed an ideal of poetry, purity, and sublime aspirations; eighteen years later the name of Lamartine personified the Revolution—moderate, perhaps noble, but always alarming to thoughtful minds and believing hearts. From the date of this epoch a shadow fell on the brightness of this name; poverty with its humiliations, old age with its feebleness, isolation engendered by political enmities, overwhelmed the poet and the tribune. He drank long draughts from the cup of bitterness. Now the cloud rises, and over the tomb of Saint-Point burst forth praises and applause, the regrets so long denied to the unfortunate man, the genius broken down beneath the troubles of life. But before man had returned God was there. He had purified, pardoned, comforted, and lulled to sleep on his divine bosom that poet’s brow which never should have known affronts.” “From the past of him who was a traveller, tribune, and statesman, the poet will remain after all the rest; and when our time shall have become history, Alphonse de Lamartine will take his place among sad and noble figures, beneath Homer and Dante, side by side with Tasso and Camoëns.”
Do you remember the beautiful verses by Elise Moreau on the death of Julia?
“Moi, je sais la douleur, inconsolable père,
Je suis jeune, et pourtant j’ai déjà bien pleuré.”[188]
How we shall miss this exquisite creature, too perfect for this world! O Kate! how I love her. She goes to God with so much candor, simplicity, and boldness—with the effrontery of love, as Father Faber expresses it. O powerlessness of affection! O weakness of that which ought to be most strong! O nothingness of all that is ourselves—to be able to do nothing, nothing, but offer barren desires and longings for those we love!