Et la garder encore![[12]]
René procures me the most agreeable surprises. There has never yet been the least shadow of a cloud between us. You say well, dearest, that with him I shall have happiness everywhere; why, then, should I have hesitated to procure a like happiness for Marcella? I did not tell you that about a year ago this dear friend lost nearly the whole of her fortune, which was in the hands of a banker? Happily, we were the first to hear of it, and have concealed the disaster. Gertrude desired to join us in this hidden good work, and I have with all my heart paid the half of the amount. I am still more glad now to have done so. Hitherto the interest has been sufficient, but, lest the secret should be discovered, Gertrude undertook to arrange the matter with her banker. As it is a considerable sum, we are selling our carriages and one of René’s farms, lest it should make too much difference to our poor; my mother is surprised, but asks no questions. We shall try to live without carriages—so many people live happily, and yet always go on foot! I am certain that you will approve of this, dear Kate. Marcella is too proud to consent to marry M. de V. without any fortune of her own. René is delighted with this arrangement; I believe that he also is in love with the poverty of St. Francis. Oh! how good God is to us! All my kisses to you.
August 28, 1869.
Read yesterday some pretty things on Montaigne. The author of the Essays loved “with a particular affection” poetry, “in which it is not allowable to play the simpleton.” Marcella presented me with a charming poem on Friendship. Oh! I know very well that her warm affection is mine. Listen to this passage taken from a dramatic story which has come into Brittany: “There are redeeming souls, born for salvation. In the path of the divine Crucified One walk silent groups whose mission is to suffer for those who enjoy all the good things of life, to weep for those who sing at feasts, to pray for those who never open their lips in prayer. A large number of these mysterious flowers which perfume the King’s House are even unconscious of their destiny. They follow it, without asking what end is answered by their solitude, and to what purpose are their tears.”
You write to me too deliciously, dear Kate! It is very kind of you to ask after the two adopted little girls. They have been claimed by a relation, and left us after having remained a week. This fresh eclogue could not have had a better ending. The dear children write to Picciola. They are happy; their relative gave us a most favorable impression.
Yesterday a long walk with Margaret, who loves our heaths, our fields of broom, our reedy places, our customs, and who is always ready when there is a good work to be done. My mother is not well—“The effect of old age,” she says. Would that I could keep away all pain from that dear head! Mme. Swetchine says: “All the joys of earth would not assuage our thirst for happiness, and one single sorrow suffices to fold life in a sombre veil, to strike it throughout with nothingness.” How true this is!
St. Augustine is one of René’s patrons; you may imagine whether we have not prayed to him very much. Gertrude writes to me: “Here are some lines which I commend to your meditations: 'All passes, all vanishes away, all is carried away by the river of Eternity. The most sacred and sweet affections we see broken, some by absence—that sleep of the heart—others by a culpable inconstancy; many, alas! by death. The days of our childhood, the years of our youth, the friendships begun in the cradle, the more serious attachments of riper age, the affections of home, the bonds formed at the altar—all are touched, withered, annihilated by the inexorable hand of time.’ Dear Georgina,” continues Gertrude, “all lives again, all arises from its tomb, all becomes again resplendent with God! Hope, then! Excelsior.”
Lord William has brought us a most interesting book—Our Life in the Highlands, by Queen Victoria. What soul! What heart! Why is she not a Catholic? My poor Ireland, when wilt thou recover thy freedom? O Ireland! patria mia!
Thérèse regrets Anna’s approaching departure, but she is courageous. The babies do not take it in the same way, and Marguérite told Anna plainly: “All that you may say to me is of no use. I know Italian, mademoiselle: Chi sta bene, non si muove.”[[13]] I had to preach for an hour before I could persuade Marguérite to consent to apologize to the dear little Italian, who cried so much at being accused of inconstancy. These little people!
Good-by, dear Kate; Picciola sends you a kiss.