JOT?-':;,:.-';" EUGENIE-DE "GUERIN- ^■89} H ■ ^ t »EgW*S raff WOW Rp iK£s uKl mmr 1 f JOURNAL OF EUGENIE DE GUERIN Journal OF Eugenie De Guerin EDITED By G. S. TREBUTIEN IN TWO VOLUMES Vol. I. NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY i393 iHnibrrsitg J)rcss: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. CONTENTS. VOL. I. Journal I. From Nov. 15th, 1834, to April 13th, 1835 II. From April 14th to Dec. 5th, 1835 • III. From March nth to April 15th, 1836 IV. From May 1st to June, 1S37 . . . V. From Jan. 26th to Feb. 19th, 1S38 . VI. From Feb. 19th to May 3rd, 1838 . . VII. From May 3rd to Sept. 29th, 1838 . Page I 65 117 134 163 i8 5 229 JOURNAL OF EUGENIE DE GUERIN. I. TO MY BELOVED BROTHER MAURICE. Je me depose dans votre ame. {Hitdegarde to St. Bernard.) Nov. 15, 1834. QINCE then you wish it, my dear Maurice, I ^ am going to continue the little Journal you so much like. 1 But as I have no paper at hand, I shall make use of a stitched copy-book, in- tended for poetry, of which I only remove the title ; 2 the rest, thread and leaves, are all left as they were ; and bulky though it be, you shall have it by the first opportunity. 1 We learn from the opening of the next book that this present Journal was the second ; the first has not been found. 2 The half-effaced word Poems is still to be deciphered at the head of the page. vol. I. — 1 2 Journal of I date from the lUh of November, exactly eight days since your last letter came. Just at this present hour I was carrying it in my bag from Cahuzac hither, together with an an- nouncement of a death, that of M. d'Huteau, which his family wished us to be informed of. How often joy and sorrow arrive hand in hand ! Thy letter gave me great delight, but this death saddened us, made us regret a worthy and amiable man who had at all times shown himself our friend. The whole of Gaillac mourned him, great and small. Poor women kept saying, while on their way to his death- bed, " Such a one as he should never have died," and they wept while praying for his peaceful end. This it is that renders one hope- ful about his soul : virtues that make us loved by men must make us loved of God. Monsieur the Cure saw him every day, and doubtless he will have done more than merely see him. It is from the Illustrious ' that we have heard these tidings, with others current in the Gaillac circle, and I for my part by way of amusement read them and think of her. 17//?. — Three letters since yesterday, three very great pleasures, for I am so fond of letters 1 This other sister was sometimes called by her family Mini i, Mint m, or Mary. Eugenie de Guerin. 3 and of those who have written them to me : Louise, Mimi, and Felicite. That dear Mimi says such sweet charming things about our separa- tion, her return, her weariness ; for she gets weary of being far from me, as I of being without her. Each moment I see and feel that I want her, at night more especially, when I am so accustomed to hear her breathe close to my ear. That slight sound sets me to sleep ; and not to hear it inspires me with melancholy reflections. I think of death, which also silences everything around us, which also will be an absence. These night thoughts depend somewhat on those I have had during the day. Nothing gets talked of but sickness and death ; the Andillac bell has done nothing but toll these last days. It is typhus fever that is now raging, as it does every year. We are all lamenting a young woman of your age, the prettiest and most re- spectable in the parish, carried off in a few days ! She leaves a young infant that she was still nursing. Poor little thing! the mother was Marianne de Gaillard. Last Sunday I went to bid farewell to a dying girl of eighteen. She knew me, poor young creature, spoke just a word and fell back to her praying. I wished to say something to her. but I did not know what to say ; the dying speak better than we. 4 Journal of They buried her on the Monday. How many reflections these new graves suggest ! Oh my God, how quickly we go out of this world ! At night when I am alone, all these dead faces come before me. I am not afraid, but all my thoughts put on mourning, and the world appears to me sad as a tomb ; and yet I told you that those letters gave me pleasure. Oh, yes. it is very true, in the midst of this mortality my heart is not dumb, and, indeed, only feels the more keenly what brings it life. Accordingly your letter gave me a flash of joy, or rather of true happiness, by all the good news of which it is full. At length your future begins to dawn ; I see before you a profession, a social position, some certainty as to material existence. God be praised ! this is the thing in the world that 1 most desired for thee and for me too ; for my future is linked with thine, they are brothers. I have had beautiful dreams on this head, and may perhaps tell them thee. But for the present good-bye ; I must write to Mimi. 18//1. — I am furious with the grey cat. The wicked creature has just robbed me of a young pigeon that I was warming by the fire. The poor little thing was beginning to revive. I had meant to tame it ; it would have got fond of me ; and now all this ends in its getting crunched up Eugenie de Guerin. 5 by a cat ! What disappointments there are in life ! This event, and indeed all those of the day, have occurred in the kitchen ; it is there that I have spent the whole morning and part of the evening since I have been without Mimi. It is necessary to overlook the cook. Papa too comes down sometimes, and I read to him beside the stove or in the chimney corner, out of the ' An- tiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church.' This great book struck Peterkin with amazement, Qud de monts aqui dcdins ! 1 That child is quite a character ; one evening he asked me if the soul was immortal, and afterwards what a philosopher meant. You see we had got upon lofty questions. When I replied that it was some one who was wise and learned : " Then, Mademoiselle, you are a philosopher ! " This was said with a simplicity and sincerity that might have Mattered Socrates, but which made me laugh so much that my solemn catechiser took himself off for the evening. This child left us one of these last days to his great regret ; his term was up on the festival of St. Brice, and there he is now hunting for truffles with his little pig. If he comes this way I shall go and find 1 In the patois of the district, " How many words inside it I " 6 journal of him out, to ask if he still thinks I look like a philosopher. With whom do you suppose I was spending this morning by the kitchen fire ? With Plato : I did not dare to say so, but he chanced to come under my eyes, and I determined to make his acquaintance. I am only at the first pages as yet. He seems to me most admirable, this Plato ; but one of his notions strikes me as sin- gular, that of ranking health before beauty in the catalogue of God's gifts? If he had con- sulted a woman, Plato would not have written thus : you feel sure of that, don't you ? So do I ; and yet, remembering that I am a philosopher, I rather incline to his opinion. When one is in bed and really ill, one would gladly sacrifice one's complexion or one's bright eyes to regain health and enjoy the sunshine. And besides, a small degree of piety in the heart, a little love of God, is enough to make one speedily re- nounce such idolatries ; for a pretty woman adores herself. When I was a child I thought nothing equal to beauty, because, I said to my- self, it would have made Mamma love me bet- ter. Thank God this childishness has passed away, and the beauty of the soul is the only one I covet. Perhaps even in this I am still childish as of yore : I should like to resemble the Eugenie de Guerin. 7 angels, — this may displease God ; the motive is still the same, to be loved better by Him. How many things occur to me, only I must leave thee ! I have got to say my rosary ; night is at hand, and I like to end the day in prayer. 20th. — I delight in snow ; there is something heavenly about this white expanse. Mud, bare earth, displeases and depresses me ; to-day I see nothing but the tracks on the road, and the foot- prints of little birds. However lightly they set- tle, they leave their small traces, which make all sorts of patterns in the snow. It is pretty to watch those tiny red feet, like coral pencils drawing themselves. Thus winter too has its charms and prettinesses. Everywhere God sheds grace and beauty. I must go now and see what there is of pleasant to be found by the kitchen fire, — sparks at all events. This is a mere " good-morning" that I say to the snow and to thee on jumping out of bed. I had to put an extra dish on the table for Sauveur Roquier, who had come to see us ; it was a ham cured with sugar, which made the poor fellow lick his lips. Good things do not often fall to his share ; that was why I deter- mined to give him a treat. It is, as I think, the neglected to whom we should show these atten- tions ; humanity and charity teach us this. The 8 Journal of prosperous can do very well without them, and yet it is only they who meet with them in the world ; so made up of contradictions are we. No reading to-day ; I was making up a head- dress for the little one, and that took, all my time. But whether we work with our head or our lingers, it is all one in the eyes of God, who keeps account of everything that is undertaken in His name. I therefore hope that my head-dress may be accepted as a work of charity. I made a present of my time, of a little portion of my skin worn away by the needle, and of thousands of interesting lines that I might else have read. Papa brought me from Clairac the day before yesterday ' Ivanhoe' and the ' Life and Times of Louis XIV.' There are provisions for some of the long winter evenings 1 It is I who am the great reader, but only by fits and starts ; sometimes it's a key that I am asked for, — a thousand things are wanted, — often I myself in person, — and the book gets shut for the mo- ment. Oh, Mimm ! when will you return to help the poor housekeeper, who misses you at every moment ) Did I tell thee that yesterday I got tidings of her at the C . . . fair to which I had goner 1 How many yawns, to be sure, I left behind on that luckless balcony ! At last Mimi's letter was brought me just as if to be an Eugenie de Guerin. 9 antidote to weariness, and it was the only pleas- ant thing I saw at C . . . I put down nothing here yesterday ; better blank spaces than mere nullities, and they were all I should have had to say. I was tired and sleepy. Things are much better to-day ; I have seen the snow come and go away again. While I was preparing my dinner a bright sun broke out ; good-bye to the snow ; now blackness and ugliness are reappearing. What shall I see to- morrow morning ? Who knows ? The face of the world changes so suddenly. I have just come away in good spirits from the kitchen, where I remained longer than usual this evening to try and determine Paul, one of our servants, to go to confession at Christmas. He has promised me that he would. He is a good youth, and he will do it. God be praised ! my evening has not been lost. What joy could I but thus win every day some soul to God ! Good Sir Walter has been neglected to-night ; but what amount of reading would have been of the same value to me as this promise of Paul's ! It is nine o'clock ; I am going to sleep. 21st. — This day began radiantly: a summer sun, a soft air that invited one to take a walk. Everything urged me to do so, but I only took two steps beyond the door, and stopped short io journal of at the sheep-stable to look, at a white lamb that had just been born. I delight in seeing these tiny animals, which make us thank God for surrounding us with so many gentle crea- tures. When Peterkin came, I gave him break- fast and chatted a while with him, without getting the least tired of the conversation. How many parties there are of which one can- not say as much ! The wind blows : all our doors and windows groan! It is somewhat melancholy at this present time in my solitude, the whole house being asleep : they rose early to bake. I, too, was very busy the whole morn- ing with the two dinners ; after that came rest. I wrote to Antoinette. All this is very insig- nificant : blank paper would be as good as what I am writing ; but, were it only a drop of ink from here, you would take pleasure in looking at it ; that is why I am turning it into words. I don't know why, but last night I saw nothing but a procession of coffins. To-night I should iike less gloomy dreams, and am going to pray God to send them me. 24//1. — Three days blank, my dear friend. This is very long for me who so little approve empty space ; but I have not had time to sit down. I have only passed through my little room since Saturday. This is the first time I Euginie de Guerin. u have stopped in it, and I do so to write a very long letter to Mimi and two words here. Per- haps this evening I may add something, should it occur. For the moment all is calm, within and without, soul and house : a happy condi- tion, but giving me little to say, like peaceful reigns to the historian. This day began with a letter from Paul. He invites me to Alby. I cannot promise him this ; I should have to leave home for that, and I am becoming sedentary. Very willingly would I take the vow of seclu- sion here at Cayla. No place in the world pleases me so much as home. Oh, the deli- ciousness of home ! How I pity thee, poor exile, to be so far away from it ; to see thy own people only in thought ; not to be able to say to us either " Good-morning " or " Good- evening ; " to live a stranger without any home of thy own in the world, — having father, brother, and sisters, in one place ! All this is sad, and yet I may not wish thee anything else. We cannot have thee, but I hope to see thee again, and this consoles me. I am constantly thinking of thy arrival, and foreseeing how happy we shall be. While I was standing near the mill a poor little girl from Andillac brought me a letter from Mimi. " Many thanks, child ! here is a penny 12 Journal of for you." She takes the penny, and does not go. " What more do you want .-" •• Whv, the letter to be sure." "The letter is for me." " Yes, but you must give it back to me ; and see " (putting her finger on the seal), " you have gone and torn it ! " and she stared quite aghast at seeing me laugh over this catastrophe. At last, finding that I was quite determined not to return her her missive, she bade me adissias. Then sitting down upon a rail. I read the pret- tiest little sister-endearments. There is nothing so bright and clever as Mimin's affectionate heart. She is getting quite tired, wants to see us again. Gaiety gives her little pleasure ; we shall have her back on Friday. I am going to write to her by Eran, 1 who is about to visit the Huteaux. I, on my part, find myself alone, solitary, but half-alive ; as though, it seems to me, I had only half a soul. Just now it occurs to me that all this is but lost time ; that thou wilt find nothing attractive enough in these pages to open them all. What will they con- tain } Days that resemble each other; some little of a life that gives nothing to tell. Better that I should return to the cstoupas I was sew- ing. I leave thee, then, poor pen 1 1 Familiar abbreviation of the name of her brother Erembcrt. Eugenie de Guerin. 13 How beautiful must be the heaven of heav- ens ! This is what I kept' thinking during the time I have just been spending in contemplation under the most glorious winter sky. I have a habit of opening my window before going to bed, to see what sort of weather it is, and, if fine, to enjoy it. This night I looked longer than usual, so ravishingly beautiful was it ! But for the fear of cold I should be there still. I thought of God, who has made our prison so radiant ; I thought of the saints, who have all those beauteous stars beneath their feet ; I thought of thee, who wert, perhaps, looking up to them like me. All this might easily have kept me up all night ; but, however, one must shut the window upon that grand outer world, and shut one's own eyes under the curtains 1 Eran brought me two letters from Louise this evening. They are charming : enchanting and full of wit, soul, heart ; and all this for me ! I don't know why I am not quite transported and intoxicated with friendship. Yet God knows if I love her ! There, you have my day to its last hour ; nothing remains but my evening prayer and the waiting for sleep. I don't know whether it will come ; as yet it is far away. Possibly Mimi may return to-morrow; at this very hour I shall have her. She will be here ; 14 Journal of or, rather, our heads will be resting on the same pillow ; she talking to me of Gaillac, I to her of Cayla. l6th. — I did not write yesterday ; I did noth- ing but expect. At last she came in the even- ing — the dear Mimi ! Now then 1 am happy ; I begin over and over again the narrative of all I have done, said, and thought since her depart- ure. She tells me a thousand things about our friends, about people in general, everything she has seen ; and all this is so charming to say and hear. Oh, the happiness of meeting again ! Positively, it would almost be worth while to go away from time to time for this one pleasure of coming back. I made a beginning of a let- ter to thee yesterday, but I was not in writing mood ; my whole soul kept going to the win- dow. To-day, I return to myself and shall finish my page, but this only after dinner, by way of recreation. First of all, I must tell thee that I have just been enjoying the sun from the hill of Sept-Fonts. This is one of my favourite pleasures, as are all those that come from the sky. But the hill is melancholy now ; it is all one can do to see where the bench once stood. There were some remnants of it, some splinters not long ago ; but how fast even mere debris pass away ! Meanwhile, as I Eugenie de Guerin. 15 was thinking, looking, and regretting, I sat me down on a prostrate oak — my bench of to-day. It, at least, will not be carried off by the wind. There I waited for Mimi, who was gone on Pingembert, to take some pomegranate plants to the Vialarette for Marie de Thezac. Why cannot I thus find some one who would take something to thee ? 27//?. — I close Saint Augustine, my soul full of those soothing words, " Throw yourself into the bosom of God, as upon a bed of rest." What a beautiful idea ! and what refreshment we should find in life, if, like the saints, we knew how to rest in God ! They go to Him as children to their mother, and on His breast they sleep, pray, weep, abide. God is the home of the saints ; but we earthly-minded ones know no other than this earth — this poor earth — dry, black, and mournful, as a dwelling under a curse. Nothing came to-day, not even the sun ; this evening only a few crows have flown by. No walk, no going out, except in thought ; but my thought does not wander, it soars. This evening our reading will be the report of the famous Carrat case, which occupies the whole country ; but I am not fond of such affairs, and criminal celebrity has nothing about it interest- ing according to me. However, I am going to 1 6 Journal of give myself up to it. The wretched man has written from his prison to Mademoiselle Vialar, to ask her for an ' Imitation.' 1 Such an idea in this active spirit might lead us to hope for a con- version ; but it is to be feared that it only shows hypocrisy, since he continues to be a wretch, they say. Erembert is gone to Alby to hear the trial, which draws crowds. Whence can we get this curiosity of ours about monsters ? 28//?. — This morning, before daylight, my fingers were in the ashes looking for fire enough to light a candle. I could not find any, and was just going back to bed when a little bit of charcoal that I happened to touch showed a spark, and there was my lamp lit. Dressing got over quickly, prayer said, and we were with Mimi in the Cahuzac road. That unfortunate road, I so long took it alone, and how glad I was to take it with four feet to-day ! The weather was not fine, and I could not see the mountain ; that dear district I look at so much when it is clear. The chapel was engaged, which was a pleasure to me. I like not to be hurried, and to have time before I enter in there to raise my whole soul before God. This often takes long, because my thoughts find themselves scattered like leaves. At two o'clock I was on mv knees, listening to the finest teaching imaginable ; and Eugenie de Guerin. 17 I came out feeling that I was better. The effect of every burden laid down is to leave us re- lieved ; and when the soul has laid down that of its faults at the feet of God, it feels as though it had wings. I admire the excellency of confes- sion. What ease, what light, what strength I feel conscious of every time that I have said " It is my fault 1 " 29//1. — Cloaks, clogs, umbrellas — all the ap- paratus of winter — followed us this morning to Andillac, where we stayed till evening between the parsonage and the church. This Sunday life, so stirring, so active, how much I like it 1 We come upon each other in passing, and then chatter while walking on together about the poultry, the flocks, the husband, the children. My great pleasure is to caress these last, and to see them hide themselves, red as fire, in their mother's petticoats. They are afraid of las doumaiselos, as of everything unfamiliar. One of these urchins said to his grandmother, who was speaking of coming here, " Minino, don't go to that castle ; there is a black dungeon there." Why is it that castles have at all times inspired terror ? Is it because of the horrors that were committed in them of yore ? I think so. Oh ! how sweet it is, when the rain is heard pattering, to be by the corner of one's fire, vol. 1 — 2 1 8 Journal of tongs in one's hand, making sparks ! This was my amusement just now. I am very fond of it ; sparks are so pretty ! they are the flowers of the chimney. Really, there are charming thin going on amongst the embers, and when I am not occupied I like to watch the phantasmagoria of the hearth. There are a thousand little fairy shapes coming, going, dilating, changing, dis- appearing ; now angels, now horned demons, children, old women, butterflies, dogs, sparrows. One sees a little of everything in the embers. I remember one face, with an expression of heavenly suffering, which reminded me of a soul in purgatory. I was struck by it, and should like to have had a painter by my side. Never was there a more perfect vision. Remark the logs burning, and thou wilt agree that, unless we are blind, we ought not to find time tedious beside a fire. Listen, above all, to that little whistle which sometimes comes from below the burning half of the wood, like a singing voice. Nothing can be more exquisite or pure ; one would say it was some very diminutive spirit of (ire that was chanting. There, my friend, are my evenings and their amusements ; to which add sleep, which is by no means the least of them. 30//1. — I have been told a striking story of a sick woman at Andillac. After having swooned Eugenie Je Guerin. 19 away, and remained, as it were, dead for sixteen hours, this woman suddenly opened her eyes and called out, " Who has brought me back from the other world ? I was between heaven and hell ; the angels were drawing me one way, the devils the other. Oh God 1 how I suffered, and how awful is the sight of the abyss 1 " And, turning round, she began to repeat in a suppli- catory voice litanies of the Divine mercy that had never been read anywhere ; then took again to speaking of hell that she had seen and been close to, in her swoon. And when she was told that she should not keep thinking of such fright- ful subjects, " Hell is not for dogs," she said ; " I have seen it, I have seen it ! " Is not this a dramatic scene ? and it is quite true. It was Francoise, the sister of the Cur6, who told it to me, and who had herself watched beside the sick woman that very night. The sufferer was none of the most pious before, and now she is full of faith, fervour, and resignation. The Cur£ is the only physician she wants ; she says nothing to the other. May we not believe that God has had a hand in this ? Who knows all that a dying soul may see — When the next world appears before its gaze, Then .... But I won't write poetry. 20 Journal of Listen to a striking miracle that I have just been reading. It is one of Saint Nicaise, who, when evangelising in Gaul, found himself in a country ravaged by an enormous dragon. The saint, taking advantage of this event to make known to the people the power of the God he proclaimed, gave his stole to one of his disciples and sent him to meet the monster, which the disciple bound with this stole, and brought into the presence of the whole people, before whom he burst. I admire the simplicity of the narra- tive, and the grand prodigy in which I believe. Good-night, with Saint Nicaise ! 15/ December. — It is with the same ink that I have just written my letter to thee that I go on writing here ; the same drop, falling half of it in Paris, half on this page, will jot down for thee all manner of things — here tender words, there scoldings, for I always send thee what- ever passes through my mind. I am sorry to have only written thee two or three words. I might have sent thee this, and the idea did occur to me of detaching these few sheets ; but sup- pose they were to be lost in the public houses where Master Delaruc is sure to go and drink ! Better keep our chit-chat for a safe opportunity. It will be with the pie, then, that I shall send it, if I can without risk put papers into the case. Eugenie de Guerin 21 2nd. — I am vexed with myself for being weak enough to suppose thee indifferent to us and to me. And yet, absurd as this idea is, it occupied and saddened me yesterday the whole day. Accordingly you see how little I said to thee. Sadness makes me dumb ; forgive it me ; I prefer to be silent rather than to complain. It is thy letter to Mimi that has caused it all. I will tell thee why. When you read this, my friend, recollect that it is written on the 1st of December — a day of rain, gloom, and vexa- tion — on which the sun has not shown itself, when I have seen nothing besides crows, and had only a very short letter of yours to read. yd. — Nothing more than the date to-day. But no 1 I will not be a whole day without saying something to thee, were it only a good- night. It is seven o'clock — Marie is stirring the fire. I hear the brook. This is all I have to particularise just now, together with a beau- tiful star that I can see from here, rising above Les Merix. You have not forgotten that hamlet ? 4//1. — A rare and pleasant visit ; Madame de F has just gone away. We could only keep her a few hours, from ten to three. Her husband was with her, and carried her off in spite of our entreaties. The fact is, he him- -> -> Journal of self was obliged to return, and he can no more do without his wife than without his eyes. Happy woman ! to know how to make herself so indispensable! There she is now on the hill of Bleys — and here I am telling thee that she has been here — a great event at Cayla. a lady's visit, more especially at this season. I really must write to Gaillac. It is to that I shall write, but not as I do to thee or to Louise, at full length, freely, fully ; but briefly, as it were, in miniature. It is enough for one who only wants to make himself visible. I keep the large scale for intimates. Two visits, two letters written, and one received ; this is a great deal in the course of a Cayla day. The weather too was fine ; we went down to the meadow, and enjoyed the sun as we might have done in spring. >//;. — Papa set out this morning for Gaillac ; here we are sole " chatelaines." Mimi and I, till to-morrow, and absolute mistresses ! This ency is not disagreeable, and I rather enjoy it for a day, but not longer. Long reigns are tedious. It is enough for me to rule " Trilby," and to get her to come when I call, or to give her paw when I ask it. Yesterday a sad acci- dent befell " Trilby." As she was tranquilly sleeping under the kitchen chimney, a gourd Eugenie de Gun in. 23 that was hanging up to dry fell upon her. The blow bewildered her; the poor pet came run- ning to us as quickly as ever she could, to impart her distress. A caress cured her. Night has come. A knock makes itself heard ! Every one runs to the door, crying " Who is there?" It was Jean de Persac, an old tenant, whom I had not seen for a long time. He was heartily welcomed, and set down upon his first entrance to eat and drink ; after which we got him to talk of his present locality, and of his wife and chil- dren. I am very fond of such conversations and meetings. These faces of the olden time give peculiar pleasure ; they seem to restore one's youth. I fancied myself yesterday back to the time when Jean used to take me upon his knee. 6th. — I made Jean promise to call again this evening, so I shall see him once more, and then I mean to give him a letter for Gabrielle ; he is one of their farm tenants. Bri will not be sorry to get this unexpected " souvenir." I should else have written to her by the post, and thus I save her eight pence, which she will give over and above to her poor people. Therefore this is a good work on my part. Indeed, it has been a day of good actions, this. I am just returned from Cahuzac, as is invariably the case, j 4 Journal of wonderfully disposed to do right ; to do wrong on such a day seems to me impossible. And then there comes such a strange calm ! Just observe how tranquil my spirit appears on these occasions. It is so in reality, for I never dis- guise anything from thee ; but let drop on the paper whatever comes, even tears ! When my diary is prolonged, it is a sign that I am at my best. Great abundance, then, of affection and of things, to tell, — those that go on within the soul. As for external things, very often they are not worth mentioning, unless they ^o and echo within, like the knocker on a door. Then one speaks of them, however small they be. A bit of news, a gust of wind, a bird, a nothing will sometimes go to my heart, and would afford me subjects for pages. If I were to dwell upon what I am to do to-morrow ! But here prayers are better than words. If I speak to God, He will draw near; and thou, thou art so far away! Thou hearest me not, and the time that I devote to thee will not count in heaven. Almost all that we do for the crea- ture is lost, unless love be blended with it. Love is the salt that preserves affections and actions from the corruption of life. Here comes Papa ! 7//1. — Yesterday the evening was spent in Eugenie de Guerin. 25 talking about Gaillac, of these, and those, and a thousand things going on in the little town. I do not care much for news ; but news of friends always gives pleasure, and one listens to it with more interest than to news of the world and of tiresome politics. Nothing makes me yawn so soon as a newspaper. It was not so formerly, but tastes change, and the heart de- taches itself from something or other every day we live. Time and experience too disabuse ; as we advance in life we at length gain the proper position whence to judge of our affec- tions and know them in their true light. I have all mine now present before me. First I see dolls, toys, birds, butterflies, that I loved — sweet and innocent childish affections. Then come reading, conversation, dress in a slight degree, and dreams, beautiful dreams ! . . . But I am not going to confess. It is Sunday. I have returned alone from the first mass at Lentin, and I am enjoying in my little room the sweet- est calm in the world, in union with God. The happiness of the morning penetrates me, flows into my soul, and transforms me into something that I cannot express. I leave thee. I must be silent. 8th. — I never read .any book of devotion without finding in it admirable things, and, as 26 Journal of it were, made on purpose for me. Thus, for instance, " They that trust in the Lord shall find their strength renewed day by day. When they think themselves powerless and exhausted, suddenly their wings shall sprout like those of the eagle. They shall run, and not be weary : they shall walk, and not faint. Advance, then, pious soul, advance ; and. when you believe yourself at the last gasp, redouble your zeal and courage, for the Lord will sustain you." How often we need this support ! Oh, poor weak, wavering, fainting soul ! say what would become of thee, without the Divine help r" These words are Bossuet's. I have hardly opened any other book to-day. The hours have passed in everything but reading, in matters that are nothing, are nameless, and which yet run away with all one's time. Good-night, my friend ! <;//?. — I have just been warming myself by every fireside in the village. This is a round that we make with Mimin from time to time, and which is by no means without its attrac- tions. To-day it was a visiting of the sick ; accordingly we discussed medicines and infu- sions. " Take this ; " "Do that ; " and we are listened to as attentively as any doctor. We prescribed clogs to a little child that had made Eugenie de Guerin. 27 itself ill by walking barefoot, and a pillow to its brother, who with a violent headache was lying quite flat ; the pillow relieved him, but will not cure him, I think. He seems to be suffering from an affection of the chest, and these poor people in their hovels are like cattle in their stalls ; the bad air poisons them. Re- turning to Cayla, I find myself in a palace compared to their cottages. Thus it is that, having habitually to look beneath me, I always find myself fortunately placed. io//i. — Hoar frost, fog, icy prospect ; this is all I see to-day. Accordingly I shall not stir out, and am going to curl myself up in the chimney corner with my work and my book ; now one, now the other — the alternation amuses me ; and yet I should like to read all day long, but I have other things that must be done, and duty goes before pleasure. I call pleasure all reading that is in no way essential to me. There is a flea ! — a flea in winter ; it is a present from " Trilby." Indeed it seems that in every season insects are devouring us, whether dead or alive ; the least numerous of them being those we see ; for our teeth, our skin, our whole body, is, they say, full of them! Poor human body ! to think of our soul having to dwell in such an abode ! No wonder it finds 28 Journal of little pleasure therein, so soon as it takes to reflecting about where it is ! Oh. the glorious moment when it issues thence, when it enjoys life — heaven — God — the other world! Its amazement, I think, would resemble that of the chicken coming out of its shell, if only the chick had a soul. I was talking to you about reading ; in the evening it is a ' History of Russia ' that we are reading out, and by day I am occupied with the ' Siecle de Louis XIV.' They tell me that this work of Voltaire's is fit to be read, and so it doubtless is ; but one often finds the Voltairian spirit in it, every time, for example, that the subject of religion comes up ; but this does me no harm. Accordingly I go on, thinking it well written. I have now nothing new to read. The reports of the Carrat case are over, and I do not regret them. These horrors that take place under our eyes are more horrible than any others. The three murderers are sentenced to death, and will be executed at Gaillac. It is true that Carrat thinks of the next world, and reads ' Thomas a Kcmpis,' and this does not surprise me in a soul now under the scaffold, which had introduced the idea of heaven even into its plans of murder. He never set out on any of his expeditions without providing himself Eugenie de Guerin. 29 with a rosary I Strange idea I "I went back the night of the crime," said he, " to fetch my rosaries that I had forgotten ; and I ran to Courtaud's house." It was there that he as- sassinated three persons in a most frightful man- ner, a man and two women ; but let us turn away from these horrors. A beautiful slice of mullet is awaiting me on the gridiron. I am going to join it. nth. — Fog again ; same sort of weather as yesterday, only my bird is singing, which ! know to be an augury of sunshine. I am sure we shall soon see it. It is now only nine o'clock ; before twelve it will have made its way through the clouds, and we shall have a bright day, which will rejoice me as well as my bird, for I do not like gloom. Evening. — I was right in saying that my bird foresaw sunshine. It came, but pale and cold ; the fireside was far before it. Accord- ingly we did not leave it, except, indeed, Papa, who went out to make an offer of marriage in the village. Strange to say, he was refused ; but it is out of vexation at not having been able to say Yes to some one else, that the fair lady said No to-day. You know her ; it is the one about your own age, and who was waiting for you as you are aware. But that passed over, 30 Jon nuil of and her recent expectations were fixed on another who equally escaped her. The poor girl, whose heart was in it, is now quite un- happy, and replied to the suit of another wooer that she would not fetter herself. This may be to avoid wearing two chains ; and, if so, she is right. Regret is so heavy ! A poor stranger has passed by ; then a little child. This is all that has shown itself to-day. Is it worth telling of it :- 12//;. — I begin by putting down the date, and then we shall see what comes for my daily chronicle. Doubtless not much, unless it be some unexpected occurrence, which I hardly desire ; or unless there be a letter from thee, or from the mountains, which always makes me happy. Nothing to say, nothing to write, nothing to think ; the cold seals up even the soul. It seems in winter as though one's thoughts no longer circulated, but froze in one's head like icicles. This is what I feel often, feel just now ; but let something pleasant come to me — a letter, a book, a feeling that revives — the thaw sets in at once, and the waters flow. Two mendicant friars have gone by. These poor perished people looked on me as happy to be by the fireside, and to have something to Eugenie de Guerin. 31 give them. Now that you are rich, you must often give alms. I know you like to do so. I remember your telling me that you never met a poor man without giving him a penny if you had one. That penny brought you good luck. Give one sometimes for me. What I give here will not count, because I have nothing exclu- sively my own ; it is the gift of the whole community. I have a share in it, but it is a very small one. Help me. If I were at Paris, I should often put my hand into thy pocket. The reign of Peter I. has held us fast the whole evening. It is an interesting reign. One likes to see all that can be done by genius and . . . There it is just as I left it a week ago ! I don't know who came to call me off, and since then how many new ideas, how much to say ! But everything ought not to get said. Of what use were it ? God only can understand all, and console the heart when sad. Last day of December. — A fortnight has passed without my adding anything here. Do not ask me why ? There are times when one does not want to speak, things one does not desire to tell. Christmas is over, beautiful fes- tival, my favourite of all, which brings me as 32 Journal of much joy as to the shepherds of Bethlehem. Truly the whole soul sings aloud at this glad advent of God, which is announced on all sides by carols and the pretty nadalet. 1 Now in Paris nothing gives one the idea of its being Christ- mas. You have not even the midnight mass. We all went to it, with Papa at our head, by an enchantingly fine night. Never was there a more beatiful sky than that midnight one, so that Papa kept putting his head out from his cloak from time to time to look up. The ground was white with hoar frost, but we were not cold ; and, besides, the air was warmed before us, as we went, by the bundles of fagots that our servants carried to light us. It was charm- ing, I assure you, and I wished I could have seen you walking along, as we did, towards the church, through roads bordered with little white bushes, that looked in full blossom. The frost makes beautiful flowers. We saw one sprig so pretty that we wanted to make a nosegay of it for the Blessed Sacrament, but it melted in our hands. All flowers are short-lived. I much regretted my bouquet ; it was sad to see it melt and shrink drop by drop. I slept at the par- 1 Name given to a particular way of ringing the bells during the fortnight preceding Christmas I^ay ; which, in the dialect of Languedoc is called Nodal. Eugenie de Guerin. 33 sonage. The good sister of the Cure kept me there, and prepared me an excellent riveillon 1 of hot milk. Papa and Mimi returned to warm themselves at home by the great fire of the Souc de Nadal. 2 Since, there has come cold, fog, everything that darkens the sky and the soul. To-day, that the sun shines again, I revive ; I expand like the pimpernel, that pretty flower which only opens to the sun. Here, then, are my last thoughts, for I shall write nothing more this year. In a few hours it will be all over ; we shall have begun the new year. Oh, how fast the time flies 1 Alas 1 alas I would one not say that I am regretting it ? My God, no ; I do not regret either time, or what it takes from us. It is not worth while to throw one's affections into the torrent. But the empty, careless days, lost as regards heaven, these are what make one cast a regretful glance on life. Dear brother, where shall I be on this same day, at this same time, same instant, next year? Shall I be here or elsewhere? Here below, or in heaven above ? God knows ; and here I stand at the gate of the future, resigning myself to whatever may issue thence. To-mor- 1 Meal taken by Catholics after returning from the mid- night mass on Christmas eve. 2 Yule-log. vol. 1. — 3 34 Journal of row I shall pray that thou mayest be happy ; pray for Mimi, for Papa, for all 1 love. It is the day of gifts : I shall take mine to heaven. It is thence that I derive all my blessings; for, truth to tell, on earth I find but few things to my taste. The longer 1 live in it the less I enjoy it ; and accordingly I see, without any regret, the approach of years, which are so many steps towards the other world. It is neither pain nor sorrow which makes me feel thus ; do not sup- pose it. I should tell thee if it were ; it is only the home-sickness which lays hold of every soul that sets itself to thinking of heaven. The hour strikes, the last that I shall hear while writing to thee. I would have it interminable, like all that gives pleasure. How many hours have sounded from that old clock, that dear piece of furniture that has seen so many of us pass, with- out ever going away ; as it were a kind of eternity ! I am fond of it, because it has struck all the hours of my life, the fairest ones when I did not listen to them. I can remember that my crib stood at its foot, and I used to amuse myself in watching the hands move. Time amuses us then ; I was fuur years old. They are reading pretty things in the parlour. My lamp is going out ; I leave thee. Thus ends my \car beside a dying lamp. Eugenie de G uer in. 35 ^rd January, 1835. — A letter from Brittany reached me this morning, like a sweet New Year's gift. I have spent the whole day in think- ing of Madame de La Morvonnais, and in deci- phering the handwriting of her husband, which is by no means a plain one. Now, however, I have made it out, and perfectly understand his idea, but I cannot respond to it. The poetess he takes me for is an ideal being, quite apart from the life that I lead, a life of occupation, of housekeeping, which absorbs all my time. How can it possibly be otherwise ? I know not ; and, moreover, this is my duty, and I will not depart from it. Would to God that my thoughts, my soul, had never winged their way beyond the narrow sphere in which I am forced to live. It is in vain to talk to me thus ; I cannot rise above my needle or my distaff without going too far. I feel, I believe this. I shall therefore remain where I am placed, whatever may be said about it. My soul will inhabit high places only in heaven. <)th. — My dear friend, for two days I have said nothing to thee. This may often occur ; now for one thing, now for another ; but, if words fail, thought is always at work, ever- turning wheel that it is, and turning very fast to-day. I ask myself whence so much move- 36 Journal of ment comes. It amazes me, sometimes even saddens, for I am so fond of repose ; not in- action, but that calm in which a happy soul abides ! Saint Stylites, the saint of to-day, is admirable up there on his column. I look upon him as happy, to have thus made himself a dwelling on high, and not even to touch earth by treading on it. These lives of the saints are wondrous ; charming reading, and full of instruction for a believing soul. I hear a young hen of ours cackling ; I must go and look for her nest. 6th. — A beautiful day, sunshine, Boubi ! one of thy letters. Hast not thou forgotten this Boubi ! these wishes of children on Twelfth Night ? I don't very well know what they mean, or why this day should be devoted to wishes for wine, for that is what the children keep crying, while we give them walnuts and apples in return for the good wine they wish us, and they go away quite pleased. It was •• La Ratiere," thy old friend, who brought us thy letter, not omitting to inquire first if it was from M. Maurice; and next, how he was, and whether he was still very far off, and all this with a show of interest which pleased one. I do believe that if you had been there she would have found some nuts in her pocket. With us Eugenie de Guerin. 37 it was different ; it is only to friends nuts get given. Thy letter charmed me by its cheerful tone ; the fact is, thou art now out of the tem- pests and shocks that have so long harassed thee. God be praised for this, and may He keep thee at anchor 1 I always hoped that some good fortune would befall thee. 17th. — I have just been writing to Felicite. It is always pen or books that I lay hold of on rising ; books to pray, think, reflect over. This would be my occupation all day long if I followed my bent, that something in me which impels me to meditation, to internal contempla- tion. I am fond of dwelling upon my thoughts, of bending, as it were, over each one of them, to inhale and enjoy them before they evaporate. This taste came to me early. When I was quite a child I used to indulge in little soliloquies, which would be full of charm could I recover them ; but 't is in vain to go and look after childish things : — " Go ask for water from the fount run dry." The little Morvonnais sends me a kiss, her mother tells me. What shall I give her in re- turn for a thing sosweet, so pure, as her childish kiss? It seems as though a lily had touched my cheek : — 38 Journal of Fain would I run, dear child, when thou dost call ; Saving, " I love thee, I would thee caress ; " Spreading, like two white wings, thine arms so small, To fold me in a soft embrace. Oft my white lambs caress me in their play, My dove oft pecks my lips with playful beak ; Hut when o'er me a child's warm kisses stray, 'T is as a lily bent to touch my cheek Fragrant my face with innocence like thine. My spirit made at length all pure and mild, Ineffable delight and joy divine ! Would that I had thy kisses, blue-eyed child ! 8th. — It is not worth while to say anything about to-day ; nothing has come, nothing has stirred, nothing has got done in our solitude. My little bird alone has kept jumping up and down in its cage while warbling to the sun. I often looked at it, having nothing prettier to see in my room. I have not left it ; all my time has been spent in sewing a little, in read- ing, and then reflecting. What a beautiful thing thought is, and what pleasure it gives when it lifts itself on high ! T is its natural direction, which it resumes as soon as it is freed from terrestrial objects. There is a mysterious attraction between us and heaven. God wants us, and we want God. I don't know what bird this is that keeps Hying about my head. I hear Eugenie de Guerin. 39 it almost without seeing it ; it is dark. It is not the season of night birds. This is enough to disturb me, and break the thread I was wind- ing. How little suffices ! This small appari- tion makes me leave my room, not, though, from fright. I am going to tell Mimi to come and see this bird. c)lh. — What, I wonder, was that bird of yes- terday evening ? It disappeared like a vision the moment that I brought the candle, and I got well laughed at by them all. They said it was my fancy ; that I had seen it in my head. But, for all that, it was most decidedly with my eyes that I saw it. I watched it for more than five minutes, and it was the noise that it made in flying that first made me notice it. ist March. — It is a long time now that my journal has been neglected. I came upon it in opening my desk, and the idea of leaving a word or two in it recurred to me. Shall I tell thee why I gave it up ? It was because I looked upon the time spent in writing as wasted. We owe an account of our moments to God ; and is it not spending them ill to trace down here days that go by? and yet I find a charm in it, and afterwards like to look over the path of my life through my solitude. On re- opening this book, and reading some pages of it, 40 Journal of it occurred to me that in twenty years, if I lived as long, it would be an exquisite pleasure to me to re-read it, to find myself once more here, as in a mirror that should retain my youthful fea- tures. I am not young, however ; but at fifty I shall consider that I was young now. There- fore I will give myself this pleasure ; if a scru- ple returns, I will put the book by at once. But the good God may, perhaps, be less strict than my conscience, and forgive me this small pastime. To-morrow, then, I will resume my journal. I must record my happiness of yester- day, — a very sweet, very pure happiness, a kiss from a poor creature to whom I was giving alms. That kiss seemed to my heart like a kiss given by God. jrrf. — Everything was singing this morning while I was at my prayers — thrushes, (inches, and my little linnet. It was just like spring ; and this evening here we have clouds, cold, gloom, winter again — melancholy winter. I don't much like it ; but each season must be good, since God has made them all. Therefore, let frost, wind, snow, fogs, clouds, weather of every description, be welcome ! Is it not sinful to complain when one is warm and comfortable beside the lire, while so many poor people are shivering out of doors r At twelve o'clock a Eugenie de Guerin. 41 beggar found great delight in a plateful of hot soup that was given to him at the door, and did perfectly well without sunshine. Surely, then, so may I. The fact is, one longs for something pleasant this day of general amusement, and we wanted to keep our Shrove Tuesday in the sun, out of doors, and in taking long walks ; whereas we have been obliged to limit ourselves to the hamlet, where every one wanted to feast us. We thanked, without taking anything, as we had had dinner. The little children came about us like chickens. I made them prick some nuts that I had put into my pocket to give them. Twenty years hence they will remember our visit, because we gave them something good, and the memory will be pleasant. Those were well employed nuts. I did not write yesterday, because I thought it was not worth while to write down nothings. It is the same, however, to-day. All our days are pretty nearly alike, but only as to what is external. The life of the soul is different ; nothing more varied, changing constantly. Don't let us speak of it ; there would be no end of it, if it were only about one single hour. I am going to write to Louise : this by way of fixing myself in a happy mood. 4 //i. — This morning I hung up beside Papa's bed a little cross that a little girl gave him yes- 42 Journal of terday, out of thankfulness to him for having placed her in the convent. It was Christine Roquier. Her pious present was very pleasing to us, and we shall preserve it as a relic of grat- itude. Papa's cup of holy water shall be placed between this cross and a picture of Calvary. This picture, torn as it is, I have a value for, because I have always seen it there, and that when a child I used to go and say my prayers before it. I remember to have asked many favours from the holy image. I used to state all my little griefs to that sad figure of the dying Saviour, and always I found consolation. Once I had spots on my frock that distressed me greatly for fear of being scolded about them ; I prayed my picture to make them disappear, and they disappeared. How this gracious mir- acle made me love the good God I From that day I believed nothing impossible to prayer or to my favourite image, and I asked it for whatever I wanted : once that my dull might have a soul ; but on that occasion I obtained nothing. Per- haps it was the only one. "//(. — To-day a new hearthstone has been placed in the kitchen. I have just been standing upon it, and I note down here this sort of con- secration of the Stone, of which the stone will retain no trace. It is an event here, this stone, Eugenie de Guerin. 43 somewhat like a new altar in a church. Every one goes to see it, and hopes to pass pleasant hours and a long life before this hearth of the house (for all gather there, masters and servants). But who can tell ? . . . I myself shall perhaps be the first to leave. My mother departed early, and they say that I am like her. 8th. — Last night I had a grand dream. The ocean came up under our windows. I saw it ; I heard its billows rolling like- thunder, for it was of a sea in storm that I had this vision, and I was terrified. A young elm springing up, with a bird singing on it, dispelled this terror. I listened to the bird : no more ocean and no more dreams. 9//?. — The day broke mild and beautiful ; no rain or wind. My bird was singing all morning long, and I too, for I felt cheerful, and had a presage of some happiness for to-day. Here it is, my friend : it is a letter from thee ! Oh, if I only got such every day 1 I must now write to Louise. While I was writing, the clouds and wind all returned. Nothing more variable than the sky and one's own soul ! Good-night ! 10th. — Oh, the beautiful moonbeam that has just fallen on the Gospel that I was reading ! nth. — To-day, at five o'clock in the morn- 44 Journal of ing, fifty-seven years had elapsed since my father came into the world. We all went — he, Mimi, and I — to church as soon as we were up, to celebrate this anniversary and to hear mass. To pray God is indeed the only way to celebrate anything here below. Accordingly, I have prayed a great deal on this day, when the most tender, most loving, best of fathers was born. May God preserve him to us, and add to his years so many more that I shall not see them end ! My God ! no, I would not be the last to die ; to go to heaven before all the rest would be my delight. But why speak of death on a birth- day ? It is because life and death are sisters, and born together like twins. To-morrow I shall not be here. I shall have left thee, my dear little room ! Papa takes me with him to Caylus. This journey gives me little satisfaction : I do not like going away, changing place, or sky, or life ; and all these change when we travel. Adieu, then, my con- fidant ! thou must wait for me in my desk. Who knows when we shall meet again r I say in a week ; but who can reckon upon anything in this world ? Nine years ago I spent a month at Caylus. It will not be without pleasure that I shall see the place again, as well as my cousin, her daughter, and the good chevalier who used Eugenie de Guerin. 45 to be so fond of me. They will have it that he is still so ; I am going to find out. It is pos- sible that he may be the same, but he will find me much changed since ten years ago. Ten years are a whole age for a woman ; so we shall be about contemporaries, for the worthy man is over fourscore. 12th. — It was a real distress to me to go away ; Papa discovered it and left me behind. He said to me last night, " Do as you like." I wanted to stay, and felt quite sad, thinking that to-night I should be far away from here, far from Mimi, from my fire, my little room, my books ; far from Trilby, far from my bird ; everything, down to the merest trifle, presents itself when you are about to leave, and so twines itself around you that there is no breaking loose. This is my experience, whenever there is any talk of a journey. Like the dove, I like to return every evening to my nest. No other spot attracts me. I love but the flowers our own streamlets keep bright, But the meadows whose grass I have oft trodden down, But the woods on whose branches our own birds alight, But my every-day sky, my horizon long known. Nine o'clock ! this is the hour that the pious soul hears strike with most recollection. It was at the ninth hour, the Gospel tells us, 46 Journal of that darkness covered the earth while Jesus hung upon the cross. It was also at the ninth hour that the Holy Spirit descended upon the Apostles. Accordingly, this hour has been blessed by the Church, and consecrated to prayer. It is then that the canons begin their services. 14//2. — This has been one of my happy days : of those days that begin and end sweet as a cup of milk. God be praised for this day, spent without any sadness ! Such are so rare in life ; and my soul, more than any other, afflicts itself about the least thing. A word, a memory, a tone of voice, a sad expression of face, a name- less nothing, will often disturb the serenity of my spirit — small sky, that the lightest clouds can tarnish. This morning I received a letter from Gabrielle, that cousin who is dear to me on account of her gentleness and her sweet disposition. I was anxious about her always delicate health, having heard nothing of her for more than a month, and thus her letter gave me so much pleasure that I opened it before my prayers ; I was in such a hurry to read it. To see a letter and not open it is a thing impossible. So I read it. Amongst other things, I saw that Gabrielle did not approve my taste for retire- ment and renouncement of the world. The Eugenie de Guerin. 47 reason is that she does not know me ; that she is younger than I, and has not discovered that there is an age when the heart becomes indif- ferent to whatever does not give it life. The world may enchant, may intoxicate it ; but this is not life, which is only found in God and in one's self. To be alone with God, oh, happiness supreme ! At Cahuzac I had another letter given me. This last was from Lili, another sweet friend, but one quite out of the world : a pure soul, a soul like snow in its innocence, so white that I am dazzled when I look at it — a soul made for the eyes of God. She bids me go to her, but I will not leave home before Easter. After that I shall go to Rayssac, and on my way back shall remain as long as I can with Lili. I was return- ing from Cahuzac quite pleased with my letter, when I saw a little boy beside the fountain cry- ing in a heartbreaking way. It was because he had broken his jug, and the poor child was afraid of being beaten by his father. Not that he himself told me so ; he was sobbing too vio- lently ; but some women did who had seen the jug fall. Poor little fellow ! I saw that I might easily console him by an outlay of sixpence ; and, taking him by the hand, I led him to the crockery shop, where he replaced his jug. 4^ Journal of Charles X. could not be happier if he regained his crown. Was this not indeed a sweet day ? i <)th. — Mud, rain, a wintry sky — inconve- nient weather for a Sunday ; but it is all one to me, just the same as sunshine. Not through indifference though : I prefer fine weather ; but all weather is good. When there is serenity within, what matters the rest r I went to Lentin, where I heard very bad preaching, as I thought. That beautiful Word of God, how disfigured it gets passing through certain lips ! One needs to know beforehand that it comes from heaven. I am going to vespers in spite of the weather. I brought back a flower from Andillac, the first I have seen this year. There were some like it at the altar of the Virgin, whose feet they perfumed. It is the custom among our village girls to offer her the first flowers of their gardens — a pious and charming custom : nothing better adorns a country altar. I leave my flower here as a souvenir of the Sunday nearest to spring. 1 6th. — Another letter from G ; a letter to announce her marriage. How little I thought of it ! She is so young, so delicate, so fragile ! One sees only a spark of vitality in that little childish frame. My God, how much I desire her happi- ness ! but do not feel sure ... I see nothing Eugenie de Gueriii. 49 bright in the prospect of her marriage. I must, however, offer her my congratulations : it is the custom. I have spent the whole day thinking of her, trying to picture to myself her future, and pondering those words in her letter, " / am calm only when on my knees." \-jlh. — It is an entirely fresh heart this of G— — -'s, and therefore she may be happy if her husband prove amiable, because she will love him with all the charm of a first affection. I am listening to the shepherd whistling in the valley. This is the most cheerful sound that can proceed from human lips. This whistle denotes an absence of care, a sense of well- being, an / ani content, which pleases me. These poor people must needs have something or other : they have cheerfulness. Two little children are also singing while making up their fagot of branches among the sheep. From time to time they interrupt themselves to laugh or play, the sense of their responsibilities escaping them. I should like to watch their proceedings, and to listen to the blackbird singing in the hedge beside the brook ; but I mean to read. It is Massillon that I am reading, now that we are in Lent. I admire his Friday's discourse on prayer, which is really a hymn. i8//i. — This morning the shepherd informed vol. 1. — 4 5