July 18, 1869.
Adrien read to us yesterday an appreciation of the works of Rossini by a poet—Méry. Picciola had laid her head on my knee and seemed to sleep. I have mentioned to you Adrien’s talent as a reader. He was reading the following passage: “In this Stabat Rossini has sung the graces of the Redemption, the joys of hope, the beams from the gate of heaven, opened by the Blood shed on Golgotha; he has scattered over this page of desolation all the flowers of the celestial garden, all the garlands of Sharon, all the vistas of the Promised Land; he has been mindful of that great Christian expression of St. Augustine, ‘Death is life’; he has written his divine elegy in the Campo Santo of Pisa, where the tombs are bathed in azure, crowned with lilies, and smiling in the sun. And now, after so many works accomplished, posterity will not ask whether Rossini could have done more; it will regard that which he has done as the most marvellous work of human genius.” Here the sweet little Mad raised herself up, her eyes beaming with a deep joy. Since then she has been frequently repeating, “Death is life!” Kate, Fénelon was right when he said that “nothing is more sweet than God, when we are worthy to feel it.”
Margaret is charming in amiability. But what a difference between last summer and this! We still
make parties to go on expeditions, but always with some pious end—pilgrimages, when we pray for our beloved sick one. Gertrude comforts me in the same way that you do, dear Kate. I see, I know, I understand that God wills it thus. But the time passes away. Mme. Swetchine wrote: “Time is the riches of the Christian; time is his misery, time is earth; time is heaven, since it can gain heaven. Time is the fleeting moment; time is eternity, since it can merit eternity; and it is time which endangers eternity. At once an obstacle and a means, it is in an especial manner a two-edged sword, powerless in itself, and yet the most powerful of auxiliaries, nothing is done either by it or without it.”
Picciola is like the Angel of Charity among us, it is to her that the good curé addresses his requests. And how well she knows how to ask! Oh! what are not children—the treasure of the house! Our casket was so rich, so resplendent, so precious, and now the fairest pearl, the purest diamond, is about to be taken from us!
I am writing in haste, my riding-habit over my arm; the horses are snorting in the court. It is at Mad’s entreaty that we are all going to a miraculous fountain near a chapel of the Blessed Virgin, at some little distance off. This child must have extraordinary courage to struggle as she does against her suffering, and to try to make us believe that it is nothing. Dear Kate, I repeat with you the Fiat of Gethsemani, and lovingly embrace you.
July 23, 1869.
Margaret appears to have been a prophetess, Kate. I have learnt from Edouard that the doctor of Hyères was not entirely disinterested
in his devoted attention: he would fain become Anna’s father. Although the thought of a separation had never occurred to me, I now perceive from this information the possibility of another future for Marcella. It seems that she has refused him; but the doctor does not consider himself beaten, and he has just installed himself in a little manor in ruins in our neighborhood. He has himself announced this to Edouard, who finds him very intelligent and likes him much. Marcella turned pale when Lucy communicated this piece of news to us all this morning: Anna appeared overjoyed. I do not know what to think.
Our excursion of the 18th led to an unexpected result: we found near the chapel two little girls in rags, their feet bare and bleeding. Their story is touching. Being left orphans, they set out on foot from the furthest part of Cantal to seek hospitality in Brittany from an uncle, whom on arriving they found was also dead. They have thus been wandering among the fields of broom, sleeping under trees, and have not ventured to ask for alms. Picciola embraced them as if they were sisters, placed them with a farmer’s wife, and has obtained leave from grandmother to bring them to the château. Adrien wrote the same evening to the priest of their parish. The answer is most satisfactory: the orphans belong to a great family now decayed, and are worthy of interest; their pastor was at Rome when the poor children lost their father and, with the inconsiderateness of youth, undertook so long a journey. The elder is thirteen, a graceful little fairy, with piercing eyes; the younger nine, as tall as her sister, which however, is not saying much.