How right you are to remind me of the old proverb: Lock the door of your heart. I ought to open it to God alone; but this is perfection, and I am far from that.
Love me, dear Kate!
July 12, 1869.
The Prince de Valori has just published the Letters of a Believer (Lettres d’un Croyant). It is admirable. The last is on St. Peter’s at Rome: “This is the sole temple worthy of the Eternal; this is the marvel of all the marvels of art; this the monumental miracle of the faith, the miracle of Christian genius, the apotheosis of the transformation of stone into a chef-d’œuvre, into grandeur, elevation, and harmony, at the breathing of Bramante, of Raphael, of Michael Angelo, of Carlo Maderno, and of the Bernini. This, this is St. Peter’s of Rome, Paradise in miniature, the concentration of all that one can dream of grand and sublime; the incomparable mosaic in which is found all that is worthy of admiration in the temples and museums of the universe; the New Jerusalem, made of lapis-lazuli, jasper, porphyry, gold, silver, and precious stones; a city of altars and sanctuaries, of domes and canopies; a blessed city, whose streets are of precious marbles, where streams of
holy water flow, where the air one breathes is myrrh and incense, where is the King enthroned on the altars, and for his footstool the tomb of the apostles.
“St. Peter’s at Rome!—the greatest work of human architecture, before which Solomon’s Temple, Saint Sophia, Versailles, the Alhambra, Westminster, are mere nothings; monument of glory and immensity, in which there is neither fault nor defect; where Providence has willed that each of the great artists who wrought there should correct his predecessor, down to Carlo Maderno, who had the signal honor of rectifying Michael Angelo.”
Picciola is fading away, gently, gently, without one complaint. Who would have imagined that this healthy blossom would have faded away so soon? Her voice is feeble—feeble as a distant harp; but what eloquence there is in her look! Yesterday I had left her alone for a few moments with my beautiful godson; on coming back I stopped at the partly-open door. She was rocking the little darling on her knees, and saying: “Look at me well, little Cousin Guy, because soon I shall go away to the land from which you came. Before the leaves fall Madeleine will go away, but you at least, my little Guy—you will not weep for my departure. And I shall be the happiest!”
This morning I wanted to curl her beautiful hair. “You love me too much, dear aunt; but I also love you very much. When I am no longer here, you will love Alix instead, who is so pretty and sweet when she raises herself on tiptoe to try and kiss you.” She said this simply and seriously, and, as a tear fell from my eyes, she added:
“Then you do not wish me to speak to you of my death, that I may console you for my going away? But remember that the good God will let me see you from Paradise, and that I shall pray to him for you and for my kind Uncle René!”
Oh! how weak I am, dear Kate. Pray for me!