I I IBRARY OF THE. UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS I6SZ A SISTER'S STORY. LOSDOK : PRINTED BY rOTTISWOODK AND CO., SKW-STREE'J AKD PARLIAMENT STREET A SISTEE'S STOEY BY MRS AUGUSTUS CRAVEN TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY EMILY BOWLES Fumlamenta sterna uuper pctraui solidam, et mandate Dei in oorde nmlicris sanct* ' ECCLKS. xivi. 24 FIFTH EDITION LONDON RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET JJublisbtrs in tfhbiir.irn lo *irr IHnirsiii tbr djucrn 1882 All rightt rciervfd TO LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON, * WHOSE NCMBERLKSS ACTS OF HIDDEN KINDNESS BK1NG COMFORT, AS HER FRIENDSHIP LENDS STRENGTH, Sb'is ^abour of obt is offtrtb ^J BY THE TRANSLATOR. MY GOD, TOT NAME IS THE FIKST WRITTEN AS I BEGIN THIS BOOK. I DESIRE THAT IT MAY MOVE MEN TO LOVE THOSE REMKMRKRF.D IN IT: BUT FAK MORE EARNESTLY I DESIRE THAT IT MAY KINDLE LOVE FOR TI1EE. A SISTER'S STORY. PART I. Give me the pleasure with the pain, So would I live and love again. JUCH are the words in which a modern poet embodied the feeling which leads us to cherish the most sorrow- ful memories, rather than bury in oblivion the joys and the griefs of the past. This has always been my own feeling, and I never could admit as a truth of general application the assertion contained in Dante's famous lines : Nessun maggior dolore, Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria. No ; I do not wish to forget either the joys or the sorrows I have known. I bless God for both, and I bless Him also that He has made me love to dwell constantly on the remembrance of those with whom it was so delightful to live. The thought of those happy days spent with them has ever been a joy, not a sorrow to me ; and far from wishing to lose the recollection of the past, my most fervent desire is to preserve it faithfully im- pressed on my mind, and to succeed in making others know and appreciate the beloved ones whose society imparted so great a charm to bygone days. I delight in thinking of them and speaking of them since their deaths, just as I used to delight in talking to them, and being with them, when they were on earth. My chief occupation has been to collect and arrange whatever papers and letters I could obtain that bore the stamp of their thoughts and minds ; and I must plead guilty to a feeling of affectionate pride in seeing even comparative strangers struck and interested by portions of these manuscripts, which I havo, as I said, undertaken to put together in a consecutive form. It will please me, I own, to extend the sweet influence of their ex- amples and of their memory beyond their domestic circle, and to make many acquainted with them who may have met them in the world without knowing, though, it mfiy be, not without noticing A SISTER'S STORY. them. If any of these should be ignorant of the love of God, this work may perhaps inspire them with a desire to learn more of the Divine principle which pervades every line of it and mixes with every thought. I cannot but hope that they would find in it some interest, and would not close the book without question- ing whether it can be really true that the pious habits of a Catholic life ' impede the development of the mind, enslave the soul,' * or harden the heart ; and if it is not, on the contrary, evident that those beings so devoted to God would have lost, even in the eyes of men, their greatest charm, had they lacked that piety which was the mainspring of their lives. I should be glad, indeed, if certain writers of our own day, who draw such repulsive pictures of women, would study this record in which all the feelings of youth are faithfully portrayed. Could they assert, in the face of it, that a heart, habitually under the influence of the Divine Presence, must necessarily be wanting in tenderness towards relatives and friends, or lack enthusiasm foi whatever is beautiful in nature and art ? Could they maintain that the habitual remembrance of the world to come must fill the mind with sadness and with affected solemnity, or suppose that the subjects of this memoir, whose manners and conver- sation delighted even strangers, were ever considered stiff and morose because of their piety ? It is precisely because they lived in the world and followed its ordinary customs, and were not recluses and inmates of the cloister, that I hope the history of their lives will prove useful to many who turn away dismayed and discouraged from examples of more austere sanctity. My chief diflficulty has arisen from the abundance of materials which the death of my beloved ones has placed in my hands ; from the perplexity of deciding what to Select and what to sup- press. Amongst these treasures there exists one so complete and interesting that in itself it would furnish materials for a separate work. I mean the story of Alexandrine, who, by her marriage with my brother Albert, became my sister ; a sister so dear and so intimately united to me, that the tie of blood could scarcely have bound us more closely together. When we first met in Russia, in the early days of our girlhood, and again in Italy, in the brightest period of our youth, Alexandrine was endeared to me by similarity of age, of tastes, and by all that inspires mutual affection between young people, as well as by sympathy in higher and holier joys. Our friendship remained one of those which nothing in life can change, and which death itself cannot weaken. When this beloved friend married into our family, she became so entirely one of us, that I do not think my mother could have felt * Lord Russell's Letter to the Bishop of Durham. A SISTER'S STORY. differently towards her had she been her o\vn daughter. Since that time Providence has allotted us some of the sweetest and darkest hours life can present. After sharing joys and sorrows such as are not often met with, our friendship was cemented by the strongest and most sacred of all ties. United as we had been by common tastes, feelings, and inclinations, we were at last bound together by the highest of all sympathies, that of a common faith. From that time forward, amidst our many and severe trials, we experienced consolations so deep and so Divine, that we both reckoned those years of our lives, without comparison, the most precious. Alexandrine's life was divided into two periods : one filled with varied incidents and strong emotions ; the other by God alone, sought and found in the perfect surrender and sacrifice of self ; a surrender so entire, and a sacrifice so sweet, that the word happiness can properly be applied only to this part of her exist- ence. The first dawn of that new happiness arose at the very time when it seemed to her that she was parting for ever with everything to which she had till then given that name. But before this consummation was arrived at, at a time when the world, with all that love, youth, and pleasure could add of attrac- tion, had vanished from her sight, and the future presented nothing but a gloomy prospect of bitter sufferings, unsustained by any consolation, Alexandrine found her greatest solace in noting down all she could recollect of her life from the first moment that she had met with Albert till the day of his death. She called this memoir, ' Our Love and our Life,' and filled it with such copious and minute details, that, though covering only the space of four years, it furnishes three thick volumes of manu- script. The first is entitled ' Love ; ' the second, ' Love and Marriage;' the third, 'Love, Marriage, and Death.' These three divisions comprise so much that is at once simple and sublime, passionate and romantic, pious aud heart-rending, all written in a charming, affecting, natural manner, that it seems almost a pity not to give it to the world in its fulness. Still there is no doubt that a narrative extending over a number of years, and filled in hour by hour, presents a photographic- biography which can be uninterruptedly interesting only to intimate friends. Besides which, the almost morbid truthfulness which was Alexandrine's peculiar characteristic, her anxiety to note down every action, word, and even thought, with scru- pulous exactness, her horror of exaggeration, her desire to relate the evil as well as the good with equal sincerity, made her indulge in an abundance of superfluous details, which prolong her narra- tive to a tedious extent. Many a time when, leaning over her 1! 2 A SISTER'S STORY. Bhonlder, I read what she had been writing, I used to entreat her to shorten and compress those pages in which we were equally interested. Little did I then think that I should survive all the principal actors in that sorrowful drama, and that it would be one day nay task to present it, not only to sorrowing friends, bat to that awful unknown world, the Public ! I intend, therefore, to give ample extracts from Alexandrine's manuscript, not only because it accurately relates what took place, but because the characters of those whose history it gives are best learned from its pages. Besides Albert's portrait, which none could have drawn as she did, there appears that of Eugenie, the charming beloved sister, whose image is always the dearest and brightest in my heart. Eugenie, whose love was my greatest treasure, and whose death, after so many years, still remains the keenest, most distinct, and ineffaceable of all my sorrows. She filled as great a part in Alexandrine's life as in mine, and her manuscript makes frequent mention of her. With Albert's death the record comes to an end, and I should have been greatly at a loss how to complete Alexandrine's history if the thread of the narrative had not been carried on by her own and Eugenie's cor- respondence, together with the letters of my young sister Olga, who rapidly trod the same upward path, and at the age of twenty gave up her soul like a young saint into the Hands of God. I have only to add that when, from time to time, I have intro- duced into these volumes what I had myself written in former days, it has been for the sole purpose of filling up interruptions in the narrative, or connecting together what would have been otherwise a series of fragments. If I am blamed for it, or if the style of these insertions should be found inferior to the rest of the book, I shall not be surprised or disappointed, provided that this work soothes the sorrows and touches the feelings of pious and gentle hearts, for whom alone it is intended. God forbid that any literary vanity or desire of praise should mingle with the motives which have influenced this publication. My brother Charles was not born until my parents had been married several years, and he was for a considerable time their only child. Later on they had as many as ten children, four of whom died young. The remaining seven grew up and attained a mature age.* * This was the ease at the time the above lines were written. Since then the two brothers who had survived Albert, whose life and death form the prin- cipal subject of the ensuing memoir, have been taken from us. Charles died in 1863, after a long illness, endured with Christian fortitude. Fernand, the A SISTER'S STORY. In 1819 my father was appointed French Ambassador at St. Petersburgh, and it was in that city that the early years of my childhood were spent. But, however pleasant, I do not care to dwell upon them, for at that time Eugenie, who was some years younger than myself, was almost a stranger to me. At that ago the difference of studies, hours, and occupations creates a real separation between sisters, and Eugenie, in after life, used to laugh and say that she had made my acquaintance only in 1829. It was in Italy that this acquaintanceship began, and I find it alluded to in some notes of my own, written at the time when I was first obliged to learn to live without her. I will make some extracts from these notes. 'Having left Paris in 1829, I proceeded to Italy with my father, then seriously ill, and after my mother and Eugenie had joined us, we established ourselves at the Villa Civitella, near Lucca, intending to spend the rest of the summer there. In the same place, but in another house, thirteen years later, my father and Eugenie spent the last summer of their lives ; but now, in 1829, long years of happiness seemed to be in store for us, and this one in particular, the first we passed in Italy, as I look back to it, appears to me radiant with enjoyment and delight. Eugenie's governess had remained in Paris, and it seemed to us as if for the first time in our lives we were really together. We had indeed a third companion in our cousin, Elizabeth do Bellevue, but she was not only no obstacle to our intimacy, but added a charm to it by the holy and good thoughts with which her mind was always stored. Eugenie had always loved me, but until the time I am speaking of she had never felt perfectly at her ease with me. Then began a strict friendship, and one that can never cease. I had already been introduced into society, and amused myself very much in that new world I had become acquainted with. Now I wanted Eugenie to share that amusement with me, but she shrank from going out, and wished neither to see nor to be seen. She had contrived to hurt her foot about the time that the Grand Duke was about to give a ball, and wanted to make this an excuse for staying at home. Her foot, however, became well enough to per- mit of her going to this ball. She found it less formidable than she had imagined, and we both amused ourselves extremely. From that night forward there were no parties worth anything to either of us unless we enjoyed them together. ' I began to read to her out loud, and I made her acquainted with some of my favourite English poets. She had always de- joungest, expired suddenly this very year whilst driving in the carriage with the Prince (the Comte de Chiimbord) to whom he had devoted his life. A SISTER'S STORY. clared that she was not clever enough to take pleasure in literature, and when she discovered how thoroughly she liked and appreciated everything beautiful, she confessed her surprise with the utmost naivete, maintaining with her characteristic humility that it was I who made her enjoy what without me she would neither have understood, appreciated, nor cared for. This fancy, which arose from her affection for me, and her very low opinion of her- self, is often reverted to in her letters, in the sweetest and most endearing manner, and that time spoken of as one of the most intense happiness. ' We remained at the Villa Civitella until September, and then set out with our excellent friends M. and Madame de Marcellus on an expedition through the North of Italy. We visited Venice, Milan, Como, and Lecco, and returning by Bellaggio to Lugano and the Lago Maggiore, went to Arona and Baveno, where we met the courier, who was bringing my father the news of his appoint- ment as ambassador at Rome. This circumstance hastened our return to France, which we reached by way of the Simplon. We crossed the magnificent pass for the first time, full of the joyous sense of present happiness, and the glowing anticipations of future delights We did not go directly to Paris, but to Montigny, not far from Vendome, on the banks of the Loire, an estate belonging to our parents, but which had been to us a home more in name than in reality. It had never seemed to us so attractive as during the last months of that year. In January my father started tor Rome with my brother Charles and our young sister-in-law, and I returned to Paris with our mother and Eugenie for the winter. It was not until the month of April, 1830, that we joined my father at Rome. To return to Italy was a greater pleasure than even to see it for the first time, and the delight of this joarney accordinglv surpassed that of the previous one. Besides, we were now for the first time on our way to Rome, the object of my longing dreams since my earliest childhood. It was the loveliest season of the year. I had my sister with me, to sympathise in all my feofrunL and we were looking forward to being once more with mv father, who was to take us into society, and to make us spend our time in the pleasantest manner possible. In short, not a cloud darkened the bright aspect of the present or of the future, and of all the happy periods of my life, this always remains in my mm as the very sunniest. . ... ' On the first or second of May we drove into Rome, in a thick fo, which the feeble light of the ^ oo \ c ^^^\ StrU ^ through. By this fitful gleam, however, I first beheld Rome, and as we g passed the Porta del Popolo, I felt deeply ^P^sed. The French embassy was then at the Palazzo Simonetti, in the Corso, A SISTER'S STORY. and there we soon arrived. My father and my sister-in-law greeted us with the warmest welcome, and we were led up along the broad staircase to the apartments, which he had arranged in t he most perfect manner for our comfort. During the short time of our stay at the Simonetti Palace, we were thoroughly happy, and often in after life our thoughts flew wistfully back to that too brief residence in Rome. We little imagined that those charming three months would be the last we should ever spend in the enjoyment of that degree of position and fortune. ' In July we left Rome for Naples, for my father was begin- ning to suffer from the heat, and was ordered to change the air. It had been at first settled that he was to go alone, in which case our subsequent life would probably have turned out a very different one, for if the news of the events of July had reached us at Rome, we should probably have left Italy immediately, and never seen Naples at all. As it was, we had all been settled there three weeks, when the tidings of the revolution of " the three days," the 28th, 29th, and 30th of July, burst upon us like a thunder-clap. 'My father instantly sent in his resignation, and we were all going back to Rome in order to pack up our things and leave Italy altogether, when suddenly my two little sisters, Olga and Albertine, fell so ill, that my mother was not able to leave them. Thus no plans could be made for the future, and everything that had been arranged was unsettled. My sister in-law, Emma (my brother Charles's wife), and I, accompanied my father to Rome. Again, after that short interval of three weeks, we beheld our dear home in the Palazzo Simonetti, now half unfurnished and dismantled, and filled with packages lying about in sad con- fusion. A pair of beautiful horses, and a caloche, which had been sent from Vienna for my father, were to be sold on the morrow. We took our single and last drive in it round the walls of Rome. That evening was melancholy enough. I regretted Rome exceed- ingly, and I regretted also the loss of the delightful position we had occupied there. But I did not allow myself to indulge in these feelings, for my father had always carefully prepared us for an impending change of circumstances, and thus strengthened us against the evil day. I quickly recovered my spirits, and de- termined not to be cast down by any change of fortune, nor to add one feather's weight to the sorrow my dear father felt on our account, and also for France. ' I returned to Naples in September, and was heartily glad to find myself once more with my mother and Eugenie. They had established themselves in a little villa at Castellamare, which Beemed to us very ugly and desolate after the charming houses A SISTERS STORY. we had left. The little room in particular where I slept, with Eugenie and Emma, appeared more dismal and shabby than even the rest of the house ; but the view from it was so mag- nificent, that we gradually became reconciled to its defects. There was one groat saloon, bare and empty, the windows of which looked full on the Bay of Naples and the heights of Castella- mare. Into this room we brought our tables and chairs, and Eugenie, Emma, Albert, and I, spent our mornings there, reading, wrltin^, talking, and laughing, though in utter ignorance of what was tobecome of us for the future. We fancied our fate might resemble that of our parents during the first emigration ; that we might be reduced to a state approaching to destitution, and on this prevision we formed our plans. Eugenie was to give music lessons, and I determined on taking a situation as nursery gover- ness. Despite these castles in the air, the beginning of the year 1831 found us established once more in a very pretty house on the Chiaja, next door to Sir Richard Acton's palace, where his mother, Lady Acton, used to receive. Instead of the lowly destiny we had been forecasting, we spent the winter in the most brilliant and agreeable society. Lady Acton gathered round her all the young people of her acquaintance, with whom we danced, sang, represented tableaux, and acted plays. Indeed, our evenings were spent in such incessant gaiety, that the retrospect gave Eugenie many fits of remorse, and later in life she used often to say that she did not like to look back to that time. But I, who am less scrupulous, must own that I do so with unalloyed pleasure. We were so happy together ! And then her humility was so genuine, her simplicity of heart so unspoilt, her gaiety so childlike and contagious, that I am sure she could have no occasion for self- reproach, even during what she called her worldly life. Compli- ments addressed to herself never gave her the least pleasure, whereas if something flattering was said about her darling Pauline, she was delighted. It offended her mortally to be told that anybody liked her better than me, or even that her eyes or teeth were prettier than mine. She could not endure to be asked to dance if I had not a partner, and what annoyed her particularly was, that the young king always danced with her, and never with me. During all that time I do not remember to have seen her in acy instance vain, frivolous, or occupied with herself, but was the same humble, devoted, unselfish being as ever. I therefore think and believe, that God passed a less severe judgment upon those days than she did herself. There were bright moments when we especially enjoyed the delight of being together. For in- stance, when at about five o'clock in the morning we went into the garden of the Acton Palace to gather flowers for our evening A SISTER'S STORY. banquets. We then conversed more intimately than ever, and very seldom did it happen that we did not say, over and over again, at those times, " Oh, how nice it is to be together ! " We often spoke, too, of God and of Heaven, for wo were never long without interchanging thoughts of this kind. I have often re- membered it since with pleasure, but I must honestly admit, that we talked also of the party of the preceding night, and of the friends we hoped to meet again in the evening. The perfume of the nosegays we made during those morning strolls remained associated with memories still sweeter than themselves. Neither of us in after days could smell the peculiar scent of those Neapo- litan flowers without being carried back to that palace garden ; without beholding again in imagination that southern sea, that cloudless sky, all the bright dreams and visions of our youth, which a sudden whiff of the familiar fragrance would stiU con- jure up, after the lapse of many sadder years. 4 In May, 1831, we made a delightful expedition to the Villa Sora, to stay with M. Lefebvre,* whose eldest daughter Flavie (Marquise de Raigecourt) was Eugenie's greatest friend. Often separated during life, they were singularly brought together towards its close, and dying nearly at the same time, are now doubtless united in their eternal home. Charles and Emma had left us before this visit, after which we went again to Castellamare, and remained there till the end of the summer. Fernand was away, and Albert, the only one of my brothers who stayed on with us, sympathised so entirely in all my tastes, that I was scarcely more attached to Eugenie than to him. I need not describe Albert, for the work I have undertaken will, as it goes on, amply make known his character. But though I had always loved him as the kindest and gentlest of brothers, I did not at first discern how much there was to be admired in his mind and character. He had enjoyed, perhaps, even more than we did, our stay at Naples, but it had been a more dangerous visit to him than to us. Several times during the course of that winter he had said that it was not good for him to remain in a place where a serious kind of life was impossible, and that he would soon leave us for a while, to fortify his soul in some solitude. This he actually did in the course of the follow, ing autumn. I found him one day walking alone, and sad, on the terrace before the house. We paced up and down together for a long time, and he told me he was very much out of spirits, and dissatisfied with himself; for that he really wanted to be good, and to fill his mind with great and noble desires, but that at Naples it was too easy to lose sight of all thoughts of this * The Comtc do Balsorano. 10 A SISTER'S STORY. kind ; that he had not strength enough to keep his resolutions, and that he had been saying the same thing to his father, who had consented to his leaving us, so that he was really going away for a time. ' I felt very sorry to hear this ; I liked to be with him better than with any one else in the world, and his absence would make, I thought, a sad blank in our home circle. He did go about a week afterwards to Florence, to join his friend M. Rio, with whom he made an expedition into Tuscany, visiting every place of reli- gious or historical note in that part of Italy. The interest these scenes inspired and the amount of reading requisite in order to make this tour a profitable one, speedily restored to Albert the energy which Naples had weakened. When he returned to Florence he made a sort of retreat, at the close of which he approached the sacraments, and fixed on a rule of life which he never ceased to observe till the day of his death. These resolu- tions, and the desire to regulate his future life, were confirmed by the acquaintance he made that year with Count Charles de Montalembert.* From that time forward a strict friendship united them. With his two excellent companions [Montalembert and Bio], Albert made some further stay in Florence, and went with them to Rome in January, 1832, where, as if to reward him for his good resolutions, he found in Alexandrine, whom he there saw for the first time, the true love, the object and the happiness of his life.' And here begins the actual story of Alexandrine ; not hers alone, indeed, but that of many others, especially in the first part of her narrative. Her memoir is somewhat desultory, con- sisting as it does of all the papers she could collect connected with the four years over which it extends ; of her journal and Albert's, of their letters to each other, and those they wrote to intimate friends, connected more or less by remarks suggested by her husband, or by the thoughts which occurred to herself as she wrote. It may be as well to mention here, that Alexandrine was the daughter of a German mother and a Swedish father,f and nevei lived in France before her marriage. This fact will account for * M. de Montalembert was then about to meet Messieurs de Lamennais and Lacordaire, in order to submit to the Holy See certain opinions advocated in the Avenir. t Count d'Alopeus, Kussian Minister at Berlin, and Jeanne de \Venkstern. who afterwards married Prince Paul Lapoukhyn. Alexandrine's godfather being the Emperor Alexander, she was immersed at baptism according to the rite of the Greek Church. It was in consequence not considered necessary to give her conditional baptism when she was received into the Church. A SISTEIt'S STORY. her having been brought up in habits of greater independence than is allowed to French girls. If the expediency of previous ac- quaintance and the existence of mutual affection before marriage could be decided by the strength of a single instance, I cannot but think that the story of Albert and Alexandrine would throw a preponderating weight in the scale of that side of the question ; and that a marriage such as theirs, preceded by a love as noble as it was pure, is of all others the most likely to create a tender and lasting union, eLcing in the more sacred and indissoluble ties of an eternal home. ALEXANDRINE'S STORY. ' ON one particular Friday (sacred to the Guardian Angels), while I was still in deep mourning for my father, at Rome, in 1832, I saw Albert for the first time. He came to pay a visit to my mother. I was in another apartment engaged in conversation with a friend who lodged in the same house with us (Casa Mar- gherita). I did not go up to our salon for some time, though I had been told that Pauline de la Ferronnays' brother was there. I had a great wish to know him, however, and fancied we had seen him at Church the evening before. At last I went into our drawing-room and met him with indifference. He did not strike me as handsome, though I liked the expression of his eyes, and he left me altogether with rather a pleasant impression. I heard from him since that he fell in love with me that first day, and had told his friends how much I had captivated him ; but they had made a joke of it, and he never mentioned me to them again. ' February 5th. I went with my young friend, Mary M , to hear the nuns sing at the Trinita da Monte. There I saw M. de la Ferronnays (as I called Albert in those days), on his knees. Something about him interested me in a way I could not account for ; and I must have felt some confidence in him, for, finding myself near him as we went out of the Church, 1 said I should have liked to kneel down as he had done, and that if his sisters had been there I should have done so. " Then why not have done it now?" he replied. "Why give way to human respect?" This straightforward way of speaking in a young man of twenty pleased me. No one before had made me that sort of sensible answer. As he was going down the steps of the Trinita with as, I looked more attentively at his face and countenance. I wanted him to come to us in the evening, and he did so. ' February 9th. I had been spitting blood a little. My throat was still weak in consequence of an illness I had at Berlin. I 12 A SISTER'S STORY. I summoned them. to nevertheless, great pleasure i used to laugh at his own singing, and but when did he ever think much of anything he did ? Still he always sang when I asked him, without making any stupid ab ' February 24th._Albert and I, with my mother and M Rio ef and looking at that wonderful view, we spoke _qm e freely Sirion of eternity, and of the sweetness that might attend r fteSf amidst scenes such as those we were then gaimg Thtsco^rtation, so unlike the frivolous talk winch weaned with which e m the Corso was tnen filled, Albert threw me one day an > enormous usay -M. de Montalembert came to us this -no given b y Princess ZenaHe light. How I longed to go with him ! A SISTER'S STOItY. 13 * March 31st. Catiche* came to wake me early, and said that M. Rio was come to beg me to write to Albert, who was very ill, and would not see a doctor. I got up quite frightened, and with Mamma's consent, I wrote a few hasty lines to Albert, entreating him to be prudent, and to take care of himself for his family's sake, and for ours. The next day he was worse, and M. Rio came in the evening and gave me a little note from Albert, with an air of mystery which put me a little out of countenance. However, I took it from him and read it immediately, in or^er that my mother might see it at once, though I would much rather have had my note and the pleasure of it to myself. It contained these words : "It is not a dream, then ! I have read your note a hun- dred times since yesterday, and I shall read it again every day after my morning prayers. You will find that I am obedient now, for what I refused my best friends, I have done at a word from you. How come you to have such influence over me ? Can no one influence you on the one point which makes you now so often sad and restless ? Let us at least unite in begging of God the grace which brings happiness with it. It is very good of yon to pray for one so undeserving as I am, and I must ask you to continue to do so,*for indeed I need prayers. ALBERT." ' my God, Thou art witness that in these his first written words to me, he spoke more of his desire for my conversion than of his own love, and revealed the intensity of that greater desire before he showed me the strength of his affection. Reward him, my God, with Thy best blessing, for this singleness of heart, or rather let the blessing fall on me, for I have more need of it in Thy sight than he has now ! ' M. Rio left me rather embarrassed, and then M. de Monta- lembert came to tell us that Albert was worse, and that he was going to be bled. I suffered very much that evening. I felt confused, and anxious about Albert ; but so touched that he had written to me when he was so ill. And then I was a little doubtful how my mother would take that allusion to religion. I dreaded showing her the note, though delay made it only worse, and the longer I put it off the more difficult it seemed to be. I was glad that I had to go out the next day as soon as I was up to see Cardinal Fesch's gallery. But my mother expressed some surprise that I had not yet shown her the note, and I went to my room to fetch it ; but, as I again felt great misgivings as to the religious part of it, I tried to cut it out. In my hurry I ran the scissors into my finger, and some drops of blood stained the paper, which gave me a sad feeling of superstitious fear. I went * A niece of Madame d'Alopeus, who lived with thorn. A SISTER'S STORY. out altogether upset, and could not enjoy a single picture in the gallery. When I gave the note to my mother, I remember pray- ing that she might be more struck with its beginning than the end, which really did happen, for all she said was, that it was rather too affectionate. ' March 27th. Albert came to see us quite well, and in such spirits he could hardly contain himself. Neither have I forgotten how he kissed my mother's hand and mine. I only found out long afterwards that about that time he went out very ear]y in the morning, and barefooted, in the Roman pilgrim's garb, and made the round of the Seven Churches to obtain my conversion.* ' My room had a delightful view. On one side it looked on all Rome and St. Peter's, which is rather below us. Above, on the other side, stands the Trinita da Monte and its obelisk. A group of rose trees under my window completed the charm of this pro- spect. Albert often walked on the Pincio that he might see my window, and sometimes complained that I was myself so seldom to be seen there. ' April 5th. A grand picnic at Princess Wolkonsky's. Albert came to take me downstairs to Miss M , my English friend's room, with whom I was to go. I thinfc it was then, as we were going down the stairs, that he said to me, " We are now like a brother and sister."' We all met at the Porta Maggiore, and the fete was at Terra Nuova. Far away between the trees stretched the mountain- line of Albano, touched with its own magical hues. At dinner Albert sat by me, and his other neighbour was Louise Vernet, who was so beautiful that I quite envied her. He was rather attentive to her, but it did not make me at all jealous or anxious. I was not then in love with him, though now I can scarcely think there was ever a time when I did not care for him. ' We played at all sorts of games, and then walked to look at the view, and on one of the hills where we were all standing I do not exactly know how it came about but he asked me to call nim my brother. I did so with great pleasure, and it made him very happy. We did not get into the carriage again till it was nearly dark. Albert was sitting opposite me, and, looking up to the glorious starry sky, he said, " Let us for a moment both thank God for the happiness you have given me to-day." I was surprised, for until then, I had been accustomed only to the con- versation of worldly people. But I liked this feeling in him, * He also offered his life for the same intention. Alexandrine, herself, when confirmed in the Lutheran Church at the age of fifteen, had made a solemn offering of the happiness of life, that she might obtain in return a clear know- ledge of Divine truth. A SISTER'S STORY. 16 and we raised our hearts together to God. Only I thought Albert estimated my friendship for him too highly. ' I had been collecting for a long time all our visiting cards, and pasting them into a book. Albert sometimes helped me. Under his own, he wrote " It is like the sweet beginning of an eternal existence, to live in the hearts of those who regret us." They seemed to me strange and solemn words to write in an album full of nonsense. A few days afterwards, M. de G , while turning over the pages of this album, saw this card. He read the words under it, and said to me, laughing, " That youth is quite mad ! " A long time afterwards, Albert tore out that card (but I kept it), and stuck a blank one in its place. ' About that time I began to think that even if Albert were not Pauline's brother, I should like him very much ; but I still maintained that what I felt for him was only friendship. ' Wednesday in* Holy week, April 18thf I went with the M 's to hear the Miserere, in the Sixtine Chapel. Albert was with us. Hiding behind Miss M , I knelt down, so that her aunt whose remarks I dreaded could not see me, and it pleased me to think that perhaps Albert would. ' Thursday, April 19th. I went again with the M a and Albert to hear the beautiful Jlftserere, in the Choir Chapel at St. Peter's. I felt so much more intimate with him than with my friends, though I talked most to them. We saw many of the ceremonies at St. Peter's that evening, so that we did not get home till nine o'clock. Albert and I dined together on what had been put aside for me. It so happened, that the pedantry and severity of were talked of. He was quite surprised at the impatient and irritable manner in which I spoke, and said that his sister would make me gentle, she was so gentle herself. I am always touched by the way in which he speaks of his sisters. ' Whilst Albert's society pleased me every day more, that of my English friends grew less and less agreeable to me. I went, how- ever, to St. Peter's with them. M. de G gave me his arm in the Church. I was vexed not to be taken care of by Albert, especially in so sacred a place, and I thought that it annoyed him also. As we were coming out of the Church, he told me how painful it had been to him, and a long time afterwards, when we had been married several months, he told me that he had never forgotten that disagreeable feeling. That evening, on the steps of St. Peter's, in the lovely twilight which was shedding its soft beauty on all that glorious scene, he said to me : " Even in friendship there is jealousy." It was on those same steps of St. Peter's, on the next or the previous day I am not certain which ^-that he said to me : " Oh, I am very happy, for I have been to 16 A SISTER'S STOEY. Communion this morning, and I love you ! " This startled me a little, though it was said as if he meant only that brotherly love of which he was always talking. 'April 25th. On that day we set out for Naples. Albert had' started two days before. Though I was sorry to leave some of our friends at Rome, I felt great joy at the idea that I was going to live with Albert's sisters and near him. That charming road especially beyond Terracina was scented with orange blossoms. The weather was beautiful, and the glorious approach to Naples, which delights the most indifferent eyes, has always filled me with ecstacy. ' We drove to the Casa Paretti, on the Chiaja, and before the carriage stopped, I saw Albert close to the door, which made me very joyful. He looked beaming, and came up stairs with us, and then went to fetch Pauline, with whom he soon afterwards re- turned. That evening I wrote in my journal : " I thank thee, my God ! I am at Naples, and I have seen Pauline de la Fer- ronnays again." ' The next day I saw all the family. Eugenie, whom I had left a girl of thirteen, is very handsome now. Every day we took long rambles together, and then they all went and established themselves at the Vomero, in the charming Villa Trecase, and after much hesitation my mother engaged a villa close to theirs, for the remainder of the summer. It was not a pretty house, and the garden was rather gloomy, for the magnificent view from the crest of the Vomero was only visible from the terrace which formed the roof of the house. But we spent such happy days there, that we ended by thinking it charming, and have always looked back to it with the same feeling. ' May 9th. Spent some delicious hours with Pauline, on the terrace of the Villa Trecase. The day was perfect, and we looked upon a view which has no parallel on earth. Albert had gone to Amalfi with M. de Montalembert and M. Rio, who had just arrived. Pauline had found a little book, in which Albert wrote some of his own thoughts, as well as extracts from books. She brought it, and read what follows : " A day like the one which is just ended fills my heart with gratitude to God. Pauline and I spent some moments together, and I felt that the most complete sympathy existed between us. I had never before so thoroughly realised the sweetness of the tie between a brother and sister. I understood exactly what she felt, by what I felt myself. Why, then, did I sigh ? Why do I crave after something more ? " ' " I begin to see that friendship is in a certain sense more selfish, more exacting than that other kind of affection which makes us forget ourselves, and think of nothing bat the A SISTER'S STORY. 17 object of our love. Under the influence of this last mentioned feeling, we are capable of making the most incredible sacrifice ; that of life, if it were called for .... ' " I felt when I had left Pauline, that what seemed, almost to satisfy my heart had done nothing but prepare the way for stronger emotions. But the end of that day did not correspond with the beginning I saw her, however, and was happy. But when I went away I was sad, and she seemed so cheerful." ' Under this passage the following verses of Tasso were written and underlined : Brama assai poco spera nulla chiede Ne sa ecopirsi o DO ardisce : ed ella lo sprezza, o nol vede, o non ' accorde. Cosi finora, il misero ha servito non visto o mal noto, o mal gradito.* ' St. Augustine's exclamation, " Everything that ends is so short," is also written a little further on, and repeated four times. Pauline, who was thus letting me into the secrets of her brother's heart, thought she was making up for her indiscretion by not allowing me to have the book in my own hands. But I got hold of it, and found fastened to one of the pages the little nosegay, tied with a red ribbon, that I had thrown to Albert in the Corso, at Rome. Alas ! it is lying there before me. Poor nosegay ! it still remains where he placed it. 'On the same page there were also some verses of Victor Hugo's ; this one, which was underlined, struck me : Je m'en irai bientot au milieu de la Fete. * And further on, " We fear death less when we are not afraid of what will follow death." Hassillon. And again, "I die young, and this is what I always wished. I die young, and yet I seem to have lived a long time. I would not disturb the peace of her sleep or of her heart. No, no ; I only ask for a few tears, anil one of those remembrances that last as long as life, but do not embitter it." * Besides these sentences, he had written " A terrible fit of spleen. I feel as if I lived through centuries instead of days. * Sophronia, she, Olindo hight the youth, IJoth of one town, both in one faith were taught ; She fair ; he full of bashfulness and truth, Loved much, hoped little, and desired nought, He dared not speak by suit to purchase ruth ; She saw not, marked not, wist not, what he sought. Thus loved, thus served he long but not regarded. Unseen, unmarked, unpitied, unrewarded. Wrighfs Ttuto. f I shall soon depart, in the midst of th festival, C 18 A SISTER'S STORY. Nothing rouses me, not even the thought of her. I feel like a dead person, though I breathe and walk about. What is this deadly languor that sometimes makes me imagine I am no longer susceptible of any passion, nor even of any strong excite- ment, and which makes me envy commonplace people, because they seem to attach importance to the most trifling things." ' On the following page I found these words : " Rome, March 30th, 1832. Ah ! my dear father, people are called romantic by men of the world, when they choose to live only for what makes life honourable ; and enthusiasm, according to their notions, is only a dangerous kind of fever. Fools ! they dare not seek hap- piness from God. They ask only for the pleasures of the world, and end by being rejected both by God and the world." ' He had written on the 5th of April, 1832 : " Walked in the Campagna with ." It was the day I had called him brother, and he had added : " There is something so pure and sweet in the name of sister, that it seems to sanction the feeling, tender beyond that of friendship, which takes shelter beneath it. Every- thing strengthens her increasing affection for me; everything feeds my passion for her. But to her the world remains un- altered, whilst for me everything is changed." ' " A Portrait," is written in very small letters, followed by these sentences : ' " She possesses everything combined which inspires strong passion ; grace, timidity, modesty, and one of those souls whose life is love ; a mind enthusiastically devoted to everything good ; a delicate frame, a disposition to lean on others, but a spirit so courageous and generous, that it would face death for virtue's sake." ' There was not a passage in which, directly or indirectly, I did not find something that had reference to myself. The last one I read was this : ' " Vomero, May 3rd, 1832. It gives me a particular pleasure to find, in prose or in verse, anything that expresses my own feelings, for lately I have been quite unable to do so myself. I am in such a disturbed and anxious state, that I cannot fix in my mind any of the numerous thoughts which come into it. Wishes, anxiety, regret, joy, are all mixed together in a confused manner, and agitate me so much, that I am afraid of going out of my mind." ' Oh, what great pleasure this little book gave me ! I did not disguise it from Pauline. I went away much happier than I had come, and I thought the view, and the matchless blue sea and sky, more lovely than ever. I felt a great interior delight in the sense of existence, and in being where I was, and yet if any one A SISTER'S STORY. 19 had asked me if I was happy, I should perhaps have said no. I did not yet acknowledge it to myself, but I felt as if the dawn of a glorious day was about to break upon me. ' Long afterwards I read what Albert was writing at that very time in his journal at Amalfi : ' " What blasphemy it is to say that we are doomed by God to nothing but misery in this world, Who most certainly created man to be happy ; and how can such an absurd idea enter the minds of those who love Him ? How ungrateful it is, also ; and how often have I myself sinned in this way. Oh, thon whom I name only in the secret of my heart, I see thee everywhere, and I behold God, as it were, through thee ! ' " Amalli, the 11 th of May. How I should have liked to spend many days here, at the foot of these magnificent mountains. I admired their immeasurable height, and wondered that I could still soar above them, and rising higher than their golden sum- mits, find them little, compared with my own thoughts, for my enraptured heart was entirely filled with the Presence of God. ' " Those enchanting scenes seemed to me made on purpose for her and myself. Oh, delusive visions, doomed to premature destruction! To-morrow I return to Naples, and when I see her again, my happiness and dreams will vanish like smoke. I shall see her gentle, charming as ever, and treating me as a friend and a brother ; but as to a mutual understanding, without the aid of speech, or a union of hearts felt and not expressed ; these are blessings I cannot hope for. And when tremblingly I address her in a few agitated words, her indifferent manner will freeze me at once, and tell me that I have been cheating myself with vain fancies." ' A few days after their return from Amalfi, Albert's two friends left him, and on the 18th of May he wrote the following letter to M. de Montalembert, who had gone to join M. de Lamennais at Rome: ' " My Dear Friend, How I long to hear of you or from you. I cannot say how sorry I was not to go with you, for I am novr so used to your society, that I do not feel able to do without it. There is a remarkable sympathy between us. We understand one another perfectly, and love one another dearly ; your man- ner to me is never cold or sneering. Since you went, I feel to want you so much, for my unfortunate attachment is increasing terrfbly. Yes, my dear friend, I did not know how much I loved her. What can I do ? Perhaps I ought to go away, but even if it was not for other reasons impossible, I do not think I could bring myself to do so. My life is here. But write and say you c2 80 4 SISTER'S STORY. understand me ; that you do not think me quite mad. I have just made a resolution, but I do not know if I shall have courage to keep it. I will not see her for a few days. I shall perhaps find out that the affection which appears to me so deeply rooted in my heart, has only slightly touched it. And now I am really afraid that you will think me childish and absurd. You will lauo-h, I am afraid, at what may very well appear ridiculous, but which nevertheless makes me suffer. Farewell. I am feverish and miserable. I cannot describe how much I miss you. Give me some hope of seeing you soon again, for I really want you. I leave my letter open that I may tell you if I have had the courage to do what I intended. Do not laugh at me, for I am unhappy." * On the 26th of May, he writes again to M. de Montalem- bert: ' " I have received your welcome letter.* It has done me more good than I can describe. Write to me often. Give me strength and courage. If you were with me, how many thoughtless acts you would save me from committing. Oh, if she could know what I feel when she speaks, when she sings. She is so charm- ing ! That shyness, that fragile look, those childlike manners, that apparent helplessness, at the same time that passionate ardour for everything good, and so great a leaning to our religion, that I regret you had not time to become better acquainted with her. ' " I really feel this is insanity, but when a man is in love, hope dies in his heart only when love itself decays. After all, I have obtained what I have always prayed for to love as ardently and * This was the letter he speaks of : M. I.E COMTE DE MONTALEMBEBT TO A1BERT. Albano: May 19th, 1832. My Dear Friend, You cannot imagine how I have suffered during the last two days at the total overthrow of all our plans. I see that the whole of my journey supposing I do not give it up will be spoilt by it. I wanted to write to you at length on this subject, and to give you some idea of the emo- tions which swell my heart to bursting. But there is no time for it ; the courier is just starting. I can only tell you, and over and over again repeat it, that my affection for you is as strong as possible. I did not think I could have attached mvself so warmly to a new friend. I hope that you will not forget me, and that under the seductive sky of Naples, you will not lose those strong religious and political convictions which, to my great joy, I saw increasing in your mind. Good-bye. I will write to you more amply from Eome and Frascati. I repeat my old injunctions. Take care of yourself and of your health, for the sake of your family, of your sisters, of one whose happiness will one day be in your keeping, and also a little out of regard for me, who have already lost so many of those I loved. A thousand affectionate remembrances to Alexandrine and her mother. CHAHLES DB MO^TALEMBEKT. A SISTER'S STORY. 21 devotedly as it is possible to love, even if that love was never to meet with the least return. Hitherto I have been able to repress all outward expression of what I feel, but I am sure that if I were alone with her, I never could help telling her everything, even at the risk of foregoing all my hopes." ' A few days after this letter was written, I had been to see Pauline, on a Sunday, the 3rd of June, and had been with her a long time in the garden. Madame de la Ferronnays called her daughters to go to Benediction. I walked with them, and Albert joined us. The church was half way between their villa and ours. As I was obliged to go home, I took leave of them at the church door, and went on, accompanied by Albert. In the little lane which begins at the Villa Belvidera, and before arriv- ing at the Floridiana, Albert, after a long silence, said to me : * "I am desperately in love with you ! " ' This was the way in which he first told me of his love, whilst his mother and sisters were praying at church, and per- haps praying for us. ' Albert wrote in his journal the following day : * " June 4th, 1832. How this state of tepidity fatigues and irritates me. The heart longs to feel those emotions which it can so seldom enjoy, and it does not know how to overcome the secret obstacle which stands in their way. For some time past I have lost all those delightful feelings which the love of God, and nothing but that love, used to give me. I should like to be alone for some days. I feel that my soul requires to be strengthened. I really think that habits are more powerful than principles. At Rome I was certainly a better man than here. I took so much pleasure in fulfilling all my duties. I used to feel such devotion when I entered a church, and such a living faith filled my soul. Now everything in me seems weakened. And what a difference, too, in my love ! Then I should never have dreamt of doing what I did yesterday. I found happiness then in silently admir- ing her. It was an enjoyment to study her soul, and a pure, unselfish, delightful feeling filled my heart with enthusiastic de- votion. Why did I disclose my love to her ? Has the nature of it changed ? Why did I want her to read my heart ? How could I act such an insane part in my own interest, as to cease to look upon her as on a paradise never to be obtained ? I am ashamed of myself. How she must have despised me, and how surprised she must have been ! " ' The 5th of June : * * On the same day M, de Montalombert wrote from Rome to Albert : I can never tell you enough how grateful I feel for your confidence, and 22 A SISTER'S STORY. ' " It is in vain to try to school myself. I cannot succeed when I speak to her, or when she shakes hands with me ; I altogether forget what I am doing. I am afraid that there must be ex- aggeration in these feelings, and that they cannot prove lasting ; and yet I do think I never saw anybody in the world to be com- pared with her, unless, perhaps, my sister Pauline. But Pauline is if anything a little too reasonable. It is perhaps wrong to say so. But what I find so captivating in Alexandrine is precisely her naivete; and that she is a little unreasonable, a little ex- aggerated sometimes, but so charming. She really wants a friend a protector she is so delicate. What a picture I am drawing ! and what a fool I am ! " ' " June 6th. Give me back, I beseech Thee, my God, the fervour I have lost. It is such happiness when one can pray well, and tJiat is the happiness which I have lost. All the vague and impetuous feelings of youth find something in religion which calms and satisfies the soul. O, my God ! I have forgotten that language of the soul which those only understand who love none but Thee that language which is only used in a church or in solitude. It was familiar to me once, and I thought it so sweet. Grant me, my God, to speak it again, as in those happy days which now seem to me so far distant, when I was going every moment into a church to pray for her, and felt as if I must be heard. 0, my God, when I asked for her conversion, offering in exchange my own life and all my happiness, was the joy of loving Thee included in the sacrifice ? Save her, my God ! save her : but save me also. Take away from me, if it be Thy will, every enjoyment which enthusiasm can give, but leave me the love of holiness ; let me never lose it again." ' The 8th of June, 1832 : ' " There was a time when the words ' our country ' used to set the hearts of men on fire ; but now that the coldest selfishness, as a general rule, prevails in the world, we find our true country wherever we can feel and practise what is good and great ; and our fellow citizens are those who understand and desire to lead this sort of life." ' On the same day Albert wrote to M. de Montalembert : for the proofs of it which your last letters afford. If it was a comfort to you to open your heart to me, and to speak of your sufferings, it was a real satisfac- tion to read what you wrote to me. Only do not make so many apologies do not keep on repeating that I shall think you insane. Speak to me always with openness and simplicity, and be sure that I can both understand and feel for your sorrows. You know how particularly well I understand y5 A SISTER'S STORY. ' "The other day I was on the point of having to fight a duel for the greatest nonsense in the world. On the day after the quarrel I met my adversary at Pompeii, where there was a great breakfast. We had a final interview, and the matter was made up During all that time Alexandrine did not lose sight of me. She was weeping, sobbing. I can't tell if it was joy or pain I was feeling. You can imagine the state I am in. Is this agitetioi a terrible foreboding, or only the fear, the terror of losing her f Of losing her, my soul, my life, my all. My dear Charles, I can hardly be said to live. I am afraid of each coming day. I should like to stop the progress of time. Each day is so full of bkss. I have never feared or understood sorrow as much as now, whe happiness fills my soul. Are these fair blossoms of joy doomed to fade and perish? Oh ! no, they are a foretaste of Heaven. Heaven beginning on earth ! < You will again say that I exaggerate, but no, my dear friend, Ihe delightful calm which fills my soul is a token of the depth and reality of my happiness. To-morrow she will give me a lock of her hair. I shall carry it in a locket round my neck as a charm against all evil. I am in a fever. Joy fills my soul with too intense a life. Her mother knows it all. She is so good, so lovin- You did not know her much, and yet you were beginning to love her. When shall I see you again ? I do want you so much ! I have a pining for home. It vexes me to be doing nothing useful. I should like to become worthy of the great happSessinstoreforme. Your friend for life, ALBEBT." < We left Castellamare on the 29th of September. I do not know why, but as we were going away, I began to cry a little Nobody saw it but Albert, and his gentle pity soothed me. But I could not tell him what made me shed tears, for I was to see him again next day. Perhaps I grieved because a beautiful chapter of my life was closing, or because we were leaving a place where we had for the first time spoken to each other without disguise. One evening whilst at Castellamare, we were sitting together on a balcony, looking at the sunset sky and the blue sea" Mamma, even, was not in the room. We seemed to be left alone with God. Albert's eyes were fixed with an enrapturec gaze on the setting sun, and he said, " Oh, if we could go where the sun is going ! It would be so delightful to follow it, to see a new world.'' I think he would have liked to die at that moment. I admired his enthusiasm, but did not quite share his feelings. ] was thinking of him, whilst he was thinking of Heaven. It was through him I approached God, but he went straight to Him. Such moments as these seemed to sanctify the whole of the A SISTEH'S STORY. 3) ensuing evening. I dressed with a feeling of quiet joy in my heart, liking to adorn myself, in order to give pleasure to him, who was teaching me to be good.' The story of Albert and Alexandrine has abounded up to this time in expressions of feeling, which some may consider too romantic and impassioned. I could not think, however, of sup- pressing any of these passages. I felt it expedient to show what that love was which afterwards became so sacred and so holy. Let those who are inclined to say that the very attractiveness of the picture makes it dangerous, only suspend their judgment and read on. If they will finish the narrative, they will see how the love of God grew stronger than human affection ; how faith over- came and sorrow hallowed earthly passion ; above all, in what way those who had loved so well bore suffering and met death. I must now myself most reluctantly resume the thread of the story, and, passing over some of the details carefully noted by Alexandrine, relate that after our stay at Castellamare we went back to the Vomero, and remained there till the end of October ; and then returning to Naples, we found, by a singular piece of good luck, that we could secure two sets of apartments in the same house in the Chiaia, and we all established ourselves there for the winter ; Madame d'Alopeus and Alexandrine on the first floor, and we all on the second. Fernand had now been with us for two months, and since the day of the breakfast at Pompeii had formed an intimate and brotherly friendship with Alexandrine, which never altered in the least. He was devotedly attached to Albert, and was inclined to approve everything he either did or wished ; so that Alexandrine could not have had a more sym- pathising or discreet friend. Ever since that scene at Pompeii, my father and mother, Ma- dame d'Alopeus, and even Prince Lapoukhyn who was now engaged to Alexandrine's mother, and had, therefore, a right to be interested in her daughter's affairs had been discussing the question of their marriage and the means of facilitating it. And though, later on, difficulties occurred which were so many trials for the lovers, no one ever really contemplated any other eventual lot for them. But my father wished the strength of Albert's attachment to be tested by a temporary absence, and it was agreed that he should spend in Rome part of that winter which we had begun so joyfully under the same roof at Naples. We scarcely knew at that time what real sorrow is, and thought the slightest disappointments trials. We accordingly considered this decision a very rigorous one, and were all, except Albert himself, inclined 3 g A SISTER'S STORY. to grumble a little. He was eager to prove the strength of his attachment, and wished in every way to please his father. He thought he had occasioned some anxiety to his parents on this subject, and this grieved him, at the same time that he felt deeply orateful for their kindness in lending themselves to his wishes in a matter which could not be arranged without much difficulty and even sacrifices on their part. I ought to mention that, even before the day of the breakfast at Pompeii, he had opened his heart to his father. The following note was written at the Vomero, probably after the evening when at the Floridiana he had said, ' I love you,' to Alexandrine : 'My dearest Father, I have been thinking, for some time past, that I ought to be open with you, and tell you honestly and simply what are my present feelings. But the fear that you will laugh at what is perhaps ridiculous, but nevertheless makes me unhappy, has prevented my speaking when you have asked me if I had anything on my mind. I tried to look unconcerned. Any- thing on my mind, why I am sometimes almost out of my mind ! But you know all about it. Why should I not own to you that I am in love ? I cannot say whether the feverish excitement from which I suffer is the cause or the result of this feeling. For three months I have tried to subdue it by hard work. But far from succeeding, the very means 1 employ for that end only seem to stimulate what I am endeavouring to conquer. I am like the Koman race-horses ; the more efforts I make to get away from the spur, the deeper it seems to gall me. ' I had thought of going to join my two friends, but in my pre- sent state of mind they would drive me mad. If you had anything for me to do at Paris, the stir and excitement there would perhaps be of use to me, and I could come back with Charles [his brother]. In short, my dear father, you see I must try to get out of this state of mind. I have endeavoured to reason with myself, and Pauline has striven, too, to help me. I know that I do wrong to indulge this passion, and particularly wrong to let Alexandrine see it. She knows now what I feel. I have told her of it, and I am frightened at what I have done. And yet I cannot control myself. What will you say to this confession? Will you be vexed with me, or sorry for me ? I don't know what you ought to feel, but I know that I am very unhappy. I would have told you all this, but I cannot yet speak about it. I have many things I long to say, and if we talk together, I hope to open my heart entirely to you. I am glad to have written. I could not exist without perfect confidence in you, my dearest father. If you feel inclined to laugh, spare me, for my heart is very sore jvc* now.' A SISTER'S STORY. Albert, as I have already said, was so happy at being allowed to hope for the eventual accomplishment of his most ardent wishes, that he accepted his exile and submitted to the trial of absence with greater resignation, perhaps, than Alexandrine. He was to leave Naples on the 4th of November. I leave her to describe the eve of her departure : ' Albert was to have gone away in the evening. I was scarcely to see him at all, for we were going to the opera. Whilst I was dining alone with Mamma, I burst into tears. She was most dear and kind. She said she understood my feelings, and gavo me hopes. Still when I arrived at San Carlo, sorrow completely transformed the whole aspect of the house, the stage, the lights, and everything. Instead of the bright, fete-like look I used to think it had when I was quietly enjoying Albert's society, it seemed to me now like an illuminated sepulchre. But this im- pression was soon dispelled when Albert came and said to me : " I do not set off this evening. I am going to-morrow night. I have obtained one day's reprieve." This delay gave us strength and resignation. We were even tolerably cheerful the following evening. He started at five o'clock in the morning.' During his absence there was only one exception to the reso- lution they had both taken, not to communicate directly with each other. Fernand, who had no scruples where there was question of giving pleasure to Albert, obtained a few lines one day from Alexandrine to enclose in one of his own letters. This is the note : ' Fernand, after trying in vain to persuade me to write to you, told me at last that you wished it, and thus induced me to do so. For God's sake, and if you love me, try at any cost, even at my expense, in any way you can think of, to be happy, provided you do not offend God. You must not vex your father ; you must do all he wishes, and as he wishes. I care not if you love another, so that you are happy. I assure you I should like it better than that you should love me and be unhappy. Tour happiness will always constitute mine. I hope you will not object to my making a confidential friend of Fernand. He loves you so much ; even more so than your sisters, I think. It makes me very fond of him, and it is the greatest comfort to me to talk to him about you. I am vexed not to be able to tell Pauline what I am doing, for if she questions me, I shall be obliged to say what is not true, that you may not be placed in the same difficulty. I do entreat you not to write to me at all. You can tell Fernand anything you wish me to know. Your father told Pauline that he should not believe in the strength of our attachment until we had been two 40 A SISTEK'S STOEY. years without meeting or writing a line to one another. We must not be deceitful ; this is the last time I shall ever write to you in secret. Adieu ! My best prayers are those I put up for you. I hope God will hear me, and that you will be happy. Do not be afraid of unsettling me. If you forget me and yet are happy, I shall be content. I cannot seal this note, but it does not signify, Fernand will not read it.' Fernand was writing at the same time : ' You will be furious, but remember that 1 am the only guilty person. I send you a note from Alexandrine. I induced her to write by pretending that it would give you pleasure, and that you had told me so. My dear good Albert, do not be too angry. I thought it would be such a comfort to you. I am so dull and sad since you went. I have just seen Alexandrine. She says my father has written to tell you not to come back at present ; but, upon my word, if you had seen her you never could have helped coming. The post is going out, and I can only send these few words. I promised Alexandrine to write to you, and I was bent on keeping my promise, and telling you at the same time how earnestly I desire your happiness and hers. Write to me, I beseech you. Alex begs you will do so very often. She likes to see me. I talk about you, which has made us confidential friends, of which I am not a little proud. Adieu. I love you with all my heart. Come back soon. FERNAND. ' I need not say that I have not read the enclosed.' To this letter Albert wrote the following reply : ' My own dear Brother, It is very wrong indeed, but I lovo you more than ever. You can hardly know the good you did to a poor solitary fellow, far from those he cares about. That beloved note was like a drop of cold water to a wretch dying of fever. But for all that she must not write to me again. I try to cheat my thoughts, but if I succeed in the day, when I come home in the evening I feel that I love her, that I am not in the least changed, and as I lie down to sleep I pray for her and for myself. Not that I have slept yet. I am, however, quite satisfied. I can bear any suffering God chooses to send me. I have had more than my share of happiness. I can defy future misfortunes, for I have lived, and ray life has been blessed by her love. One thing only could break my heart, which would be to know she was unhappy. I would even rather lose the recollection of those rap- turous days, the only happy ones I have known, than see her grieve. I had written her a long letter, but I tore it up. She A SISTER'S STORY. charges me not to answer her note, and it is better I should not do so. We shall one day meet again, and then she will learn all the sufferings of a heart for ever devoted to her. As she says herself: " We must not be deceitful." Therefore, my best Fernand, great as is the sacrifice, do not extort from her any more letters for me. We must try to do without this consolation. If she should forget me, it will be better for her. I shall then be as one dead to the world, and living only on the remembrance of the happy past. ' Be very affectionate to Alexandrine. Win her confidence, and speak to her often of me. Tou will be surprised, perhaps, at what I am going to say, but I do not intend myself to act in the same way. This is the last letter in which I shall make such frequent mention of her. But tell me, what is the matter with you ? Tour last letter was quite a sad one. Try, my dear bro- ther, not to give way to low spirits, especially before our dear father and mother. It increases their sorrow to see us unhappy, and they have enough of it as it is. Set to work in some way or other. The weariness which an idle life creates is a great source of dejection. I am preaching to you, and I ought rather to preach to myself. I try all I can, but find it impossible to fix my atten- tion for one hour together on the same thing.' Our life returned to be much the same as during the preceding winters ; less gay, perhaps, but more enjoyable, because of Alexan- drine's companionship. I find in my journal, from which I have already quoted, that at the hour when Eugenie and I used in former years to gather our bouquets, we now went up to the ter- race at the top of the house, and, looking over the lovely view and the blue sky, said our Rosary together. When the day was closing, we generally met in Madame d'Alopens' salon. To the number of her daily visitors were now added the Count Maurice Putbus, an excellent and devoted friend of Alexandrine and her mother, and the Count Malte Putbus, his nephew. The former will often appear in this narrative. The latter, like so many of the younger members of that family circle, was carried off by a severe illness, soon after Albert's death, to whom he was much attached, although very unlike him in every respect. In one of Albert's letters to Eugenie, he says : ' You give me a charming account of the way in which you all live together. You seem so happy, so intimate ! Do not talk to me so much about it, for it makes me envious.' Madame d'Alopeus, who was often ill, entrusted Alexandrine to my mother, and we used to go out together like three sisters. At last, about a month before the time which had been fixed for Albert's absence, our dear parents 42 A SISTER'S STORY. relented and agreed that he should return. To our great joy, on the 7th of January, 1833, he came amongst us again. I now have recourse to Alexandrine's manuscript, which carries on the narrative up to the time of our separation, three months afterwards. SEQUEL TO ALEXANDRINE'S STORY. ' This is what I find in my journal at the date of the 7th of January, 1833. I was sitting upstairs with Pauline, when all of a sudden the door opened, and Albert rushed in. Tes, there he was, kissing Pauline affectionately with all his warmth of manner, and looking so delightfully happy ! I had not seen him for two whole months ! We had no secrets from Pauline, still we did not, before her, show more than a very little bit of the joy we felt at being once more together. And, indeed, we could hardly at first realise our happiness. It required time to take in the idea that those pleasant days were actually going to begin again, after such a long separation. Two whole months ! I felt that first day a kind of embarrassment with Albert, on account of his knowing now so well how much I loved him. But it was all very pleasant. We went to a ball in the evening. I felt full of life and spirits, and everything I saw seemed transformed as if by magic. When I was waltzing with Albert it made me indeed a little shy to think that people were looking at us, and perhaps joking and saying with a smile : " Ah ! they are quite happy now ! " But nothing could spoil my enjoyment. I did not care the least what was said, and was too happy to give it even a thought. During the cotillon, which I also danced with Albert, I went up to Pau- line and whispered to her, in a kind of ecstacy : " Pauline, I am so happy." She was quite touched. * I went home at three o'clock in the morning with the La Ferronnays. Eugenie sent up some tea to my room. It made me feel like one of the family. I had before me the prospect of a most delightful time, and not looking beyond it, I went to bed enraptured. ' I was very happy for several days, though we led a worldly, unsettled life ; but for me it was filled with Albert. There were several balls, and one in particular, a fancy ball, to which I went dressed in black and gold, with pearls and a veil. This costume was taken from a print of Francesca da Rimini. This is a note which I wrote a few days before that ball from our drawing-room, where I was alone, to my friends upstairs. It amused them all, and Albert kept it ; I found it afterwards amongst his letters : * "Dear People, When you have done your dinner, you will give me great pleasure if you will come down in a body, but the A SISTER'S STORY. 43 body must be as quiet as if it was only one person, for the door of Mamma's room is wide open. Be so kind, Eugenie, as to bring me the gold lace, and everything of gold you possess. If you have time, Pauline, I want you to come and see me, and to say how well I should have looked at Lady Drummond's ball.* Mind all of you, if you come, not to make more noise than one." ' Oh, what a pleasant, home-like life we were already leading then ! To live in the same house with Albert's parents, to see him from morning to night, and to know, though we did not speak of it to each other, that arrangements were in progress for our marriage. I used to awake with the thought that in a few hours I should see him, and those few hours were spent in plea- sant musings, in my interminable toilette,f and in talking a little at breakfast with Mamma. Even to hear the voices or the foot- steps of the dear people upstairs was a pleasure. And then at last came the moment when I could expect to see Albert. Sometimes he was present at my singing lesson ; at other moments I found him in his sisters' room. I almost always saw him once in the course of the morning, and then again at that delightful twilight hour when our intimate friends assembled round our fire. We parted for a short time for dinner, and then met again to spend a long evening together. When we had only friends with us, I used to work at my cross stitch, or sing, or copy out favourite passages from the books I was reading. I have those passages now before me, and some words are underlined that express the feelings which were then, and have since been, my own. 1 " Methinks it is Heaven only to gaze upon him ... to set down as food for memory every look and every movement." Ah ! I was right in thinking that it was well for me to treasure up all Albert's looks and words ! ' I see that the date of Saturday, the 9th of February, is under- lined, which means that something of consequence happened that day, and I remember what it was. ' My mother and Albert's parents were dining with Count Stackelberg, and I was allowed to dine upstairs with Albert, Fernand, and their four sisters. This we thought great fun. After dinner Pauline and Eugenie had to go and dress for a party before I went down stairs. Their two little sisters were playing * She was to have gone to this ball with us, but had given it up on account of her mother's indisposition. f Alexandrine, neither then nor later, ever cared for dress. But she had nevertheless a habit of spending a very long time about it; and at a different period of her life, in spite of all her efforts, and even when her dress had be- come more than simple, she never could arrive at getting through the process j quickly. 44 A SISTER'S STORY. a duet on the pianoforte. Fernand, finding himself en trio with Albert and me, declared it was very awkward, and, joking about it, pretended to go to sleep, and covered his face with his pocket liandkerchief. Albert and I stood conversing near the chimney- piece. After a little while I wanted to go away, for it did not seem to me quite proper to remain there alone with my friends' brothers and the two little girls. While I was lingering, Albert just touched my forehead with his lips ; so suddenly that I was taken by surprise. I felt very angry, and without saying a word took my shawl and left the room. When I was alone in mine, I kept thinking over what had passed, and I was really much annoyed. It seemed to me as if our pleasant existence had undergone a change, and that a disagreeable one. At that moment I did not feel quite certain that I loved him as much as I did before, and I hoped he would not come down till Mamma was at home, or some other visitor had called. Malte Putbus came, and soon afterwards Albert, looking very much out of spirits. As soon as he could do so, he told me that he had been deeply grieved by my reproachful glance. He seemed very penitent, and did not attempt to excuse himself; but he spoke so well and feelingly, that before the even- ing was over my resentment had vanished. ' Saturday, February llth. I went with Albert's parents to the ball at the Academy. When we came home I went upstairs with them to have some tea. Pauline and Eugenie ran to their rooms to take off their cloaks, and I remained alone with Albert in the drawing-room, drinking my tea in haste, for I wanted to go down again. He was admiring, I think, my long curls. He took one of them in his hands, and pressed it gently to his lips. I was displeased, but not so much as that other time. It did not seem to me quite so bad. ' Shrove Tuesday. We spent the morning in the Corso, where the noise, the crowd, and the wild frolic raised my spirits to the highest pitch. Prince Laponkhyn had engaged a balcony whence we could throw sugar plums. We had been ourselves deluged with them during a drive with Pauline and her father. We stood there to see the king pass in his illuminated car. At last, tired with waiting, I sat down to rest in the little room to which the balcony belonged. The king did not go by till seven o'clock, and we had then to hurry home for dinner, and to dress for the ball. I can remember so well the glad feeling in my heart whilst I was in that little room, half dozing and half watching for the passage of those pretty illuminated cars. Albert was there, and I was to meet him again in the evening at the ball. Though I was not at all sorry that Lent was coming, yet I liked that all that appear- ance of gaiety and those numerous festivities should mark, as it A SISTER'S STORY, 45 were, the hours I spent with him. My overflowing happiness made me enjoy these amusements, and I took a sort of triumphant delight in multiplying them. Oh, poor human weakness ! ' When once Lent had begun, I felt happier every day. We conversed much more seriously than whilst the balls were going on. He talked to me a great deal about God, of the Angels, and of his dear religion, for which I felt an increasing attraction. I enjoyed a happiness so complete, so unexpected, so much beyond what I had ever even dreamt of, that it filled my heart with gra- titude towards God, and made me more kind and indulgent to every one. I used to thank God that Albert was so much better than other people, and I thought myself far more fortunate than so many women who are loved in a frivolous manner, and who, I dare say, never thought of envying me. ' Holy Tuesday, April 2nd. I felt to-day a great love for God, and for Albei-t also ; and I wrote in my journal the first letters of the words " For ever," and " Maj God be always with us." ' Holy Thursday. My mother gave me leave to go with my friends to the Tenebrce in the royal Chapel. The music was beau- tiful. Notwithstanding r^y frivolity, there was something in that lovely Chapel, the singing, and above all, perhaps, in the feeling thatl was kneeling by my Albert's side, which made me pray with devotion. I was glad to look like a Catholic. Long before my conversion this used to please me. M. de la Ferronnays came to fetch us away. The walk home was perfect ; the moon shining brightly, and the Neapolitan spring beginning to embalm the air. We stopped at several Churches on our way, to pray before the sepulchres. It is the custom in Naples to visit seven Churches on that day. Albert and I knelt down side by side on the pave- ment. There was in this something inexpressibly sweet to me. I do not know exactly what I prayed for, but I know we both raised our hearts to God with a full reliance on His goodness. I walked with him and his sisters ; M. and Madame de la Ferronnays fol- lowing us. Thus we went down the whole length of the Villa Reale, by the light of the moon and the stars, our hearts full of adoring love for God and affection for one another.' ' About that time Albert wrote a letter to the Abbe Martin de Noirlieu, a great friend of his, and received the following answer, which he showed me : A SISTER'S STOR1. THE ABB MARTIN DE NOIRLIEU* TO ALBERT. ' " My dear Friend, I have received the books yon returned to me. And so you copied out yourself the whole of the little volume ! This is indeed a proof of the zeal which true affection inspires. And it inclines me to believe that the lady, for whom you accom- plished this work of love is intended by Providence to become the partner of your life. God's ways are so wonderful and merci- ful that we should never be discouraged by earthly obstacles. Persevere, my dear Albert, in your solicitude for that soul which is so dear to you. If you bring it to the knowledge of the truth, you will have made a conquest for God, and she will be yours not for time only but for eternity. It is especially to prayer that you must have recourse in this important matter, for light comes down from above, and thence must also proceed that courage which is so necessary when we have to overcome early prejudices and impressions imbibed in infancy. I am not surprised at what you tell me of the agitation which Mademoiselle feels at the idea of a change of religion. It seems to her as if in taking this step she had to cross an abyss, and, however courageous a person may be, it is natural to draw back on the brink of an unfathom- able abyss. Protestants erroneously suppose that in renouncing heresy they are compelled to trample under foot and anathematize those they leave behind. God forbid that this should be the case ! We condemn error, but we feel only love and pity for those whom it enthrals. By the fact of her reception into the Church she will simply declare that she returns to the faith which her ances- tors held for fifteen centuries, and renounces the errors which separated from Catholic unity those amongst them who lived three hundred years ago. She will leave it to God to decide on individual cases, for He alone can judge who are and who are not in good faith in their heretical or schismatical position. In short, my dear friend, tell her that there is no salvation except for those who are in Catholic unity, or else for those who having been born in heresy are entirely in good faith, and would be ready to become Catholics at once if they thought that in so doing they would please God. But as to those who have doubts and will not seek instruction, or, which is still worse, who maintain that their fore- fathers sinned in breaking the unity of the Church, and yet per- severe in remaining themselves out of its pale, they are fearfully guilty. ' " That soul interests me deeply, my dear Albert. I have al- * The Abb Martin de Noirlieu, who was the first priest Alexandrine ever knew, is now Cure of Saint Louis d'Antin, Paris. It was this excellent and venerable friend of Albert's who, a few years later, received Alexandrine into the Church. A SISTER'S STORY. 47 ready prayed for her this morning at Mass. I sincerely com- passionate her mental sufferings. Tell her to hope, and, above all, to pi-ay much. Ask her what she would do if she knew that the Mother of Our Lord was on earth and living near her. I have no doubt she would go at once and ask for her prayers. Let her, then, have recourse to this good Mother in Heaven. If she invokes her with confidence, she is sure to be heard." ' The book which the Abbe Martin speaks of formed a thick manuscript in Albert's handwriting. He wished me to read it during the time of our approaching separation. It was to be his parting present. I received it with great pleasure and interest. It was my first book of instruction in Catholicism. ' On the llth of April our friends made an excursion to Paestum. Albert went with them, though he was suffering from a bad ear-ache, to which he did not pay any attention. Nobody was ever more courageous about bearing pain than Albert. His health was not good even at '.hat time, but I felt no anxiety on the subject. I sometimes think that pitying Angels drove away from me all sad forebodings, for even up to the last months of his life, I was strangely unconscious of his danger. I now re- member that at this very time, at Naples, he used often to tell me that he had fever at night ; but as he was fretting very much about our approaching separation, I thought this sufficiently ac- counted for it. How we should ever be able to live apart we could not imagine. But we generally tried to comfort each other by hopes for the future, and by looking forward to the time when we should meet again, and then never to part any more ! ' During these last days, when every moment was precious, my mother, who was a little unwell, used to have the door of her room open, and until she went to bed, Albert was allowed to remain with me in the drawing-room. I was anxious not to annoy her, and I was afraid she would be displeased if he stayed too long ; so I used sometimes to urge him to go away. I had done so one evening, and then when he had left I found that Mamma was not nearly ready to go to bed, and I was vexed to have lost a few minutes of his society. I wrote on a little bit of paper : " Dear friend, I have lost a few minutes. Mamma is not gone to bed yet. God bless you ; " and I threw it from the balcony to Albert. A carriage was passing at that moment,, and I was afraid he would be hurt as he threw himself forward to pick up the paper ; but with his quick eyes and usual dexterity, he saw tho note and secured it. This romantic little scene amused us, and the other day, more than a year after his death, A SISTER'S STORY. I found that little scrap of paper ir. one of his books. I did not even know that he liad preserved it. ' April 28th. I wrote in my journal : " I cannot realise the fact that we are actually to start to-morrow. I have always found it difficult to believe in any happy time of my life coming to an end. Surely this is a token that there is a life, and that a happy life, to come." Pauline wrote that same day in my journal : " May God take us all under His care," and " Grant us the blessing soon to meet again, all happier than in this parting On the last evening Albert stayed with me a long time. At first with Fernand, Eugenie, and Malte, and this was almost as good as being alone together. Afterwards we were by ourselves. I hardly can tell whether we felt most at that moment the sorrow of parting, or the joy which it gave us to know that we loved each other so tenderly. His sisters came down again. We four sat a little while together, talking rather sadly, and then they went away. That night was such a wretched one, that though it has been followed by many joyous ones, and by others a thousand times more terrible and sad, I cannot yet think of it without pain. It was, in fact, our last earthly separation. We met once more, and never parted again until death came ; a more awful, but perhaps less bitter, separation, than earthly farewells. - * I said good-bye to him from the balcony, and when towards morning f went to bed, I most fervently begged of God to take pity on us ; and I think that prayer gave me strength. 'On the following morning Tuesday, Apnl 30th, 1833, the day of partincr we were determined to be courageous and hopeful. We felt it would never do to look on this separation in its worse lio-ht At eight o'clock in the morning Albert's sisters were in my room. Afterwards I went up with them to see their mother, who gave me a turquoise ring, which made me burst into tears. At two o'clock we all went together to the Crocelle, an hotel at Chiatamone, where Prince Lapoukhyn had invited us to dinner. But what a sad dinner it was ! I could not any longer restrain my tears and sobs. I was sitting by Eugenie, who entreated me to control myself, for she was afraid my mother would be dis- pleased by this excessive grief. ' At last, at a quarter to four, we had taken leave of everybody, aud were seated in our travelling carriage. As we were going downstairs Albert asked me to give him full permission to hope. -* -i T A "L* ^A , n -OTi-mc? gi< ^ ^^^ j^ ~~~ - T I looked at him quite surprised that he should still need such an assurance, and answered affirmatively. Those were our last words before that long separation. Albert and Fernand followed A SISTER'S STORY. 49 us for a long time in an open caleche in the pouring rain, which must have drenched them to the skin. I saw them a little longer in tin's way, but we could not speak to one another. At last, after a great waving of hands, their carriage stopped, and we lost sight of it. This rain, which did Albert so much harm, delayed the departure of the Sully, in which he was to have sailed that night for France, with his mother and Pauline and Eugenie. M. de la Ferronnays was to travel with them only as far as Civita Vecchia, and from thence proceed to Borne with his two youngest daughters.' As Alexandrine said, our departure was delayed till the next day, the 1st of May. We were all very low, first on account of the parting with Alexandrine, also from the fear that our absence from Naples might prove longer than we wished, and chiefly be- cause we were to lose our dearest father and our little sisters at Civita Vecchia. My mother was going with us to France, on business. My father was taking my sisters to the Convent of the Trinita da Monte, at Rome, where they were to spend three months, and Olga to make her First Communion. As we were all to meet again in Rome on that occasion, we were not looking forward to a long separation ; but in those days we were so used to happiness, that it made us exacting. And now this state of things was about to be interrupted, and we were for the first time to experience serious anxiety. Albert had not been strong for some time, and the wetting ho had had on the evening of Alexandrine's departure, had done him far more harm than we were aware of. During the first part of our passage he looked ill, but we attributed it to the sorrow he felt in parting with her. When the evening closed in, the sea grew rough, and we all went to lie down. On arriving at Civita Vecchia, Albert asked my mother to let him remain there for a couple of days, as he wished to be bled. He would then follow us to Paris, he said, and arrive there as soon as we did. He had, unfortunately, lately adopted that common and injurious Italian practice of having recourse to bleeding, on the most trifling occasions, and whenever his head or his chest felt uncomfortable, he insisted on being bled, without even taking medical advice. Though my mother had not the slightest idea how ill he felt, she would on no account have left him alone ; but as his father and his little sisters were to land at Civita Vecchia, this seemed the safest and most prudent course. Indeed, there was no time for discussion, for the boat was alxrat to start. My father decided that Albert should remain with him, and that we E 60 A SISTER'S STORY. should continue our journey. So at three o'clock in the morning we went on board again, with heavier hearts than on the pre- ceding day but still without any idea of the sorrow which was hftmrm* over us. Our boat was not out of sight, when Albert was seized with so violent a fever and inflammation of the lungs, that the physician pronounced his life to be in imminent danger. I have often thought that my mother, who was to go through so many subsequent trials, was in mercy spared the sight of this illness. Though she felt the parting with Albert, and was un- easy about him, she did not know the urgency of the danger till it was in a great measure past. It may be easily imagined with what feelings she received the following letter two days after our arrival in Paris : FROM M. DB LA FERRONNAYS TO HIS WIFE. 'In order to give you the account which I know you are im- patiently expecting, I ought to put my own thoughts into some kind of arrangement, which is not easy. First of all, do not be uneasy The danger is past. We might have been indeed wretched at this moment. Thank God ! for He it is who puts wise thoughts into our minds, that I decided on keeping our child here. He would not have arrived alive at Leghorn. And -thank Him also, that Miss McCarthy* was on board the same steamer, and that there was a man-of-war in the harbour. But for all these circumstances, God knows what would have hap- pened ! You remember that just before starting, the little doctor came in to say that Albert had only caught a chill. After putting you on board, I asked him to go back with me to see him again We had been away barely twenty minutes. Imagine what I ielt at seeing the little man, after only just glancing at him, throw off his coat, take out his lancet, and at once bleed him in the arm. All aghast, I asked him what was the matter. " The matter ! he said, " only just feel his legs, and you will see." They were as cold as ice. A few moments more and our son would have been dead. That bleeding saved his life. The blood began to circulate again, and he fell asleep. We owe his safety to that Since that moment, good excellent Miss McCarthy became my teacher and my guardian angel. You know what a skilful nurse she is, but you can hardly picture to yourself what has been her devotedness, her tender care of Albert. I did my best under her direction, and you can imagine the night we spent by his bedside, or in the room of our poor little girls, who were fre- * Eugenie's former governess. A SISTER'S STORY. 61 quently startled out of their sleep by their brother's meanings. But I will not enlarge upon it now. More than once I thanked God that you were spared this suffering. In the morning the fever had abated, and being somewhat re-assured by the doctor, and at the same time anxious as to the effect of this agitation upon the children, I thought it best to take them at once to Rome, and leave them at the convent. Lapoukhyn camo to mo there, and most kindly proposed just what I most wished, that is, to send his own physician to Albert. I will tell you another time about that dear, sweet Alexandrine. She loves him too well to have been able to conceal her distress. Her secret is no longer a secret now ; but what does it signify ? If, as the Abbe Martin thinks, this marriage is made in Heaven, it will take place, and prove a blessing. They both deserve to be happy. ' In the afternoon I left Rome, carrying off with me that good, skilful physician, Sauvan. We found Albert less well than when I left him, in a high fever, and with a dry hacking cough. Sau- van immediately bled him, and applied mustard poultices to his feet. My dearest love, I cannot tell you what I went through in seeing the sufferings of our beloved and patient child. At eight o'clock this morning, Sauvan found it necessary to bleed him once more, and now, as I am sitting writing by his bedside, he seems nearly himself again. 'I did not write by yesterday's post, for I had nothing but anxious fears to impart. I was almost out of my mind with grief, aud should have talked nonsense. I am miserable when I think that it will be a wliole fortnight before you receive this letter, and that during all that time you will be fearing and suffering. Oh,it has been indeed a trial ! I can never be grateful enough to that dear, old Miss McCarthy. All the money I can give her, and all the affection I can show her, will never repay one-half of our debt of gratitude. How we feel to love one who is helping us to save a beloved child from the jaws of death. How charming and clever we think them. I think I should have quite lost my head but for this good woman. Even as it was, I could hardly control myself. Poor dear woman, she has never taken off her clothes since she was lying on the deck of the steamer. She has scarcely eaten or drunk, or slept for more than half-an-honr, for four days, all for the sake of our child. Our poor boy's changed face looks sadly wan and pale. He is dreadfully thin, and his eyes so large and sunken. Still, he is better; he feels so, he says, and he wishes me to tell you, and to add that ho dotes upon you and on his sisters. His only grief is not to be with you. He can speak now ; he coughs less, and breathes more easily, and I hardly know whether to grieve or rejoice. He is, I think, out of danger, E2 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 52 A SISTER'S STORY. but it is terrible to see him looking so dreadfully ill. I see BOW there is nothing one would not go through for one's children. How glad I should be to take our Albert's place on that bed of suffering ! Well, I trust Almighty God will not try us any fur- ther. He will hear our prayers, and yours especially, who have always received with resignation and sweetness every cross He has laid upon you. Ah, this has been a great trial, my dearest wife, and a great escape ! I promise to bless God for it with all my heart. ' I will tell you another day what I felt when the boat took you all away. How my heart ached whilst I stood gazing on it with hot, dry, tearless eyes, until it lessened and then disap- peared. For a long time I could still discern the faint trail of the smoke, then that too passed away, and I found myself alone; alone with my dying boy. Oh, my dear Albertine, when I see you and my girls again, I may perhaps forget what I have suf- fered, and what I am still going through ; but till then ! . . . . Well, on the whole, Albert is better. I would not tell you so if it were otherwise. The doctor made me very happy just now by giving me full directions about his mode of life during his reco- very, and our journey to Home. This shows he is sincere, when he says he is out of danger. I fully believe it, and so will you. 'I have agreed with Madame Barat* that Olga should com- mence at once to prepare for her First Communion, but not to make it till the time when we hope all to be with her, at that im- portant moment of her life. Tou would have been pleased to see me watching over our little girls, and looking at them in their beds. Farewell, my dearest wife. You must forgive this inco- herent letter, for my head, my heart, and my body, are almost worn out. I am nearly in a fever myself. The next time I write, I hope to do so in a more rational manner. Farewell, my dear love. Kiss, for me, my darling girls, my dear, good Charles, and all our dear ones. Love me always, and above all pray for me and for Albert. Poor dear Albert, how much he has suffered ! Once more adieu.' FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. ' Civita Vecehia : May 10th. * My dear Wife, Albert is out of danger. Be happy, and thank God ! He was much worse again on Monday, the 6th, and we had no medical men but those of Civita Vecchia, who showed, however, more skill than I expected. The crisis came on about the middle of the day. It was terrible while it lasted, and had it * Madame Barat was the foundress of the Order of the Sacred Heart, and who died lately a holy death, at Paris, at the advanced age of eighty-seven. A SISTER S STORY. 6? continued a few hours longer, I should have been obliged to send you to-day nothing but the heart-breaking announcement of the loss of the dearest and best child ever given to any parents. But God has had mercy on us. In less than two hours Albert's pulse rose to 170, with a dreadful difficulty in breathing. I sent for the two doctors, who immediately bled him. This produced some relief, but there still seemed reason to apprehend another crisis, which our poor child could not have lived through. We remained in agonising suspense from three to seven o'clock. At that time an abundant perspiration came on, which till then the physician had vainly endeavoured to bring about. This was the one thing to be desired, and oh, with what ardour I poured forth thanks- givings from the very depths of rny soul ! You will understand it, for you love our children as much as I do. How everything seems to change about us when we see an improvement in a be- loved patient ! As the favourable symptoms increased, Albert's countenance resumed a more natural expression ; his sufferings diminished ; he looked serene and almost cheerful. The perspi- ration lasted till one o'clock in the morning. When it began to abate, preparations were made to remove him into another bed, and he had scarcely b^en placed in it, before he fell into a refresh- ing sleep, which lasted till morning. ' I had written to Fernand at the outset of Albert's illness, leaving it to him to come or not, as he wished, and this morning he arrived at full speed. I was very glad to have him, and Albert was pleased. I dare not dwell for the present on the difficulties that may arise. Good Miss McCarthy goes away to-morrow, quite knocked up, and we shall feel her loss sadly, though she has pretty well taught me to be a good nurse. And I have got a servant ! Why should I not indulge myself whilst fortune smiles upon us ? * This expense was necessary, and therefore not un- reasonable. I must send Albert to Ems, where he will find friends. We shall have to spend plenty of money, and be too happy to have only that to complain of. But meanwhile some other plans may come into my head, and in that case I will act upon them, presuming on your approval. 'Dear Albertine, these cares and trials oppress and disturb me, but at the same time they call forth an energy which I thought I had lost, and I feel I shall have strength to bear a great deal more yet without giving way. Do not be anxious about my health. I fancied myself enfeebled in body and de- pressed in mind, but on the contrary, though I have led a trying * The reader will recollect that it was barely three years since M. de la Ferronnays was French ambassador at Borne, and accustomed to every luxury of an affluent position. 54 A SISTER'S STOEY. life since we parted, I have not for a long time felt so well. Happiness dulled my powers, but suffering revives me. ' Let me hear about the girls. I am pining for news about them. Tell me if they are looking well and blooming. Oh, do beg of them not to be ill. It is so dreadful to see one's children suffer ! It is only then that we feel how much we love them. Would that I could always suffer every pain instead of them, and guard them from every sorrow. ' You will remind me that we may soon not have a place where to lay our heads. I can only reply, " God will provide." He knows it is not through any fault of mine that we are so situ- ated. He is able and willing to assist us, and will no doubt do so when we have no other help to turn to. Good-bye, my dear and most beloved wife. Get back to me as soon as possible, for without you I am not worth a straw. Kiss, not once, but a thousand times, my darling Pauline, and my Jane,* Charlie, his pretty Emma, and all our dear ones, and love me, if you can, as much as I love you.' THE SAME TO THE SAME. Civita Vecchia : May 12th, 1833. 'Albert is going on well. His recovery must be slow, but there are no bad symptoms, and the fever has quite subsided. He will not be allowed to get up for some days. We cannot be too careful. It is delightful to see Fernand's devotion to his brother. If I can possibly send Albert to Ems, I will do so, not only for the sake of his health, but also to make him happy, and to turn his mind from the gloomy thoughts he indulges when away from Alexandrine. I know what comments this will give rise to, but after all, what does it signify ? Having gone so far in this matter, it will be hard that it should not end as they both wish. We must make up our minds to it. They will be poor, of course, but they will also enjoy some years of happiness, and I do not think you will take a sterner view of the subject than I do. It is quite certain that as long as they are both free, neither one nor the other will marry any one else. Why, then, should they be condemned to wither apart, spending life in endless regrets ? I have therefore resolved, if you do not object to it, to enable Albert to go and take the waters at Ems.f ' I have only just received your letter from Leghorn. Poor darlings, how ignorant you were of our anxieties, when you spoke of sending back Albert to mo from Paris ! The doctors say, and * Eugenie. t This plan was unfortunately given up, the doctors having subsequently decided that the waters were not necessary for Albert. A SISTER'S STORY. 65 I am inclined to believe it, that so sharp an illness at the age of one-and-twenty, will serve to establish his health, and that he will be a great deal stronger than before. Poor dear boy ! It would grieve you to see him looking so tall, thin, and pale ; nevertheless, I rejoice to see him pale. He was anything but pale three days ago. I shall never forget his crimson face and sparkling eyes. Oh, dearest, I feel nothing but happiness to- day ! Do you, who know so well how, return thanks to God for yourself and for me, and implore Him to afflict me in any other way rather than through my children's sufferings. Our little girls' letters brought tears into my eyes. I like to hear them say they cannot do without me, and yet it saddens me too, for by this time they ought to have had other protectors than their father. Give them a thousand kisses. I shall write to them as soon as I can. Their letters do me a world of good, but do not tell them to write. Let them do so when they are inclined. Good-bye, my beloved wife. Best love to all.' FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. Civita Vecchia : May 14th. ' My dear Wife, I am just come back from Home, where I have been spending a day and a night. This is the best proof I can give you of Albert's improved condition. The doctors are quite surprised at his rapid recovery. During my absence he was left in Fernand's charge, who is a stricter gaoler than myself, and obeys orders with scrupulous exactness. He is a capital nurse. It is charming to see him with his brother. He amuses him, makes him laugh, and pets him like a child. He has had his bed put alongside Albert's, and when I came back to-night, 1 found them both fast asleep. ' You must have had an enchanting passage from Genoa, with the view of the Riviera, and the mountains in the background in sight the whole of the day. All that bright, grand, luxuriant country forms a marked contrast to the barren and desolate coast of Provence, with its dull grey colouring, and ugly mountain line. This is by no means pleasant to our French feelings, and we have need to call to mind the poet's words A tous les coeurs bien n&5, que la patrio est ch&re ! not to experience something like disappointment in approaching the coast of France. ' For the next four months the past days will be the only ones which will enable me to get through the others. My only interest will be your letters. Now that my fears about Albert are at an 56 A SISTER'S STORY. end, I begin to be a little alarmed at the heavy expenses I have incurred, and still shall have to meet. My little fund at Naples will be well-nigh exhausted in a month. But when I think of the escape we have had, I can do nothing but thank and bless God, Who has spared me the greatest of sorrows, and only tries me with regard to money matters. He will provide. Kiss my beloved darlings for me.' CONTINUATION OP ALEXANDBINE's JOURNAL. 'After travelling all night, we arrived on Wednesday evening, the 1st of May, in Rome, through that enchanting Lateran Gate. My affection for my good and pious Albert made me look upon Rome in a new light, and it was pleasant to be once more in the holy city which he loved so well, and where our love had begun. We drove to Serny's Hotel. From our windows I could see our old abode, the Casa Margherita, and the French Academy bril- liantly lighted up. All these places had now a peculiar charm for me and what I cared little about before now became precious in my eyes. The next day (the 2nd of May) I went to see the jy[ S- When I found myself in their room a strange sense of the changes that happen in life seized me. Everything concern- ing myself had so altered since I was last with them. I was very glad to hear from M that I was looking younger, and that my complexion was much improved. She spoke of Albert, but this embarrassed me. I liked better to talk of him with Malte Putbus, who knew all about our affairs, and took an interest in ' In the night of May the 3rd, I had so fearful a dream that as soon as I was up I went to Mamma, who was in bed, to tell her of it It had seemed to me that I was with Albert and Mamma on the edge of a deep hollow, which was filled with a number of graves with Crosses upon them. Albert said to me, " Have you the courage to walk amongst all those Crosses ? " I felt strangely frightened, but answered interiorly, " Since he asks me to do so, I will." Then I took Mamma's hand and went down with her amongst the graves, from whence I could see Albert standing above us. I felt glad to have had the courage to do in my dream what I had shrunk from till Albert proposed it. I said to Mamma that I was afraid this dream was a bad omen, and this led us to speak of Albert. She told me that in her opinion the state of his health would be a sufficient objection to our marriage, even if no other hindrances existed. But this I would never allow. ' On the same day I went to the Villa Pamphili with the M s . How many pleasant thoughts of the past, and at that A SISTER'S STORY. moment of the future also, it brought to my mind ! A few hours later, after dinner at the M s, I remarked that Count Maurice Putbus had left the room, and some one told me he had been fetched out. He came back and spoke to Mamma, who looked agitated, and I suspected that something had happened which they were keeping from me. I heard, or thought I heard, the words, " French vessel." Immediately the thought of an accident at sea crossed my mind. My mother got up, and we went away. She would not say anything till we were alone, but in the car- riage she told me that Albert was ill at Civita Yecchia, and that his father had come to Rome to fetch a physician. At first I felt a sort of relief, for I had dreaded something worse. But shortly afterwards a terror seized me that my mother had not told me the whole truth. I knew that M. de la Ferronnays was in the same hotel with us, and I was dying to see him ; but by a series of misunderstandings the evening passed without our meeting. When I was left alone, quite in despair, I wrote to Pauline the following lines, not that I thought of sending them, but only because I had no one else to speak to : ' " Pauline, I am too wrenched. I write to you because I have no one here to whom I can pour out my anguish. Oh, why are you not here ? And only imagine that in this moment of dread- ful anxiety, Mamma has just told me that she may perhaps feel herself bound in duty not to let me marry a man whose health is BO failing ; when I know that it is grief that kills him, and that nothing but happiness can do him good. ' " ! my God, I do not ask Thee to take my life, for that would make him miserable, but in any other way let me suffer everything Thou wilt, in soul and body, and let him be happy for a very long time on earth, for the sake of our Lord Jesus Christ. Pauline, I shall go out of my mind ! May God help me, and not punish me for my too great love for Albert ! " ' Every time that my mother tried to convince me how terrible it would be to see my husband ill, and that it would be worse then than now, I answered : " Oh ! no, if I were his wife, I could nurse him myself, and that would lessen the suffering ! " I said this so earnestly that it made Mamma for the first time under- stand the strength of my feelings for Albert, and from that mo- ment she resolved to do all she could to forward our marriage. She told us this afterwards. Albert's father, also, during his ill- ness, became convinced of the depth of our attachment, and we have often said to each other that to this illness we were indebted for our marriage and all our happiness. This was true, but, alas ! we were not aware at that time of the fatal results it left behind it, and which only manifested themselves long afterwards. I had 58 A SISTER'S STORY. news that same day of Eugenie and Pauline from their father, and he gave me also my little book of thoughts which I had left with Albert. At the time when his breathing was so oppressed that he could hardly speak, he said to Eugenie : " Look in the vessel for Alex's little book. You will find it on my bed, and also the cushion she worked for me. Take care of them both." Eugenie gave the book to her father, who was seeing them off, under the idea that it would be immediately returned to Albert ; but when M. de la Ferronnays got back to the hotel he found his son almost at death's door. From the window that poor father happened to catch sight of the vanishing steamer, and he felt as if he would have liked to cry out: "Albert is dying! Come back! come back ! " The sight of my little book filled me with sorrow- ful surprise. Albert was to have kept it till we met again. Had he been conscious he would never have parted with it. The Abbe Martin came to see us. Mamma told him of Al- bert's illness, and he was so grieved that I felt a greater regard for him than ever, although even before I knew him I had looked upon him as a friend. If I could have spoken to him alone that day, I think I should have opened my heart to him, and told him how much I loved Albert and Albert's religion. If, indeed, he did not know it already. He must have seen my eyes full of tears, for I had no wish to hide them from him. I was gifted at that time with extraordinary calmness, and a firmness and cour- age which had not hitherto belonged to my character, so that I dTd not care for the remarks and opposition of the world. I felt sure of Albert's love, and of mine for him ; and certain that ours was a right kind of love. When M. de la Ferronnays returned to Civita Vecchia, taking with him M. Sauvan, Prince Lapouk- hyn's physician, Mamma and I went with him to the top of the staircase to bid him goodbye. What a parting it was. Would Albert be alive the next time we should meet ! Not knowing how to express what I felt, I kissed his hand. In the afternoon I went to the Trinita, da Monte with Mamma, to see Olga and Albertine. That was also a spot full of sweet, sad recollections. Olga came to us in tears. Whilst Mamma was trying to comfort her about Albert, I took one of the nuns aside, and gave her an alms for the poor, begging her to get prayers for the brother of these poor children. ' Prince Lapoukhyn was in the same hotel with us. His room was near mine, and he told me never to scruple sending for him if I felt too anxious. I did not do that, but sometimes very late, before I went to bed, I used to speak to him through the door, and say, "What do you think of him ? He was better, you know? Sauvan will do him good." I wanted to hear from somebody A SISTER'S STORY. 59 words of hope. Oh, those nights ! If there is one thing more terrible than the sickness and death of those we love, it is to be absent from them at the time. Sometimes the thought would flash across me that at that very moment Albert was dying. Nevertheless the hoars of anguish which I spent on my knees at the open window were more bearable than those which I dragged out in the company of others, and obliged to exercise self-control. Yet on those nights the very splendour of the stars seemed to me ominous ; those gleaming orbs, the sight of which used always to soothe me, now appeared to threaten evil. The whole world would be so dreadful if Albert were to die ! Once again, in my after life, one terrible night, the moon had the same ghastly effect upon me. I do not know if my heart quite acquiesced in the prayer my lips uttered, but I know I kept repeating, with all the strength of my will : " My God, Thy will bo done ! " Once when I was thus praying in one of those moments of bitterest grief, I was suddenly filled with an irrepressible joy. I felt certain I should see Albert alive, and that we should once more be glad. Then the stars shone again as brightly as of old, and everything spoke of delightful happiness to come. Fearing to lose this joy- ful feeling, I went at once to bed, that my last thoughts might be impressed with it. * We went to the Trinita again to see the two children. It was the time I liked best in the day. As we went in I heard at a distance the singing of hymns to the Blessed Virgin. When we came home we found better news from Civita Vecchia. They told us that the Princess Zenaide Wolkonsky had called whilst we were out, and had waited some time for us. I found a bit of paper on which she had been scribbling these words, written over and over again : " La speranza non si deve mai abbandonare.'* I felt glad, for at that moment the least trifle seemed to influence me. * May 6th. We dined with Princess Wolkonsky at her villa near the Lateran. How sadly I gazed on the beautiful Roman Campagna ! Yet I was not without hope. When we returned in the evening we found M. -Sauvan, who brought us a better ac- count. But Albert has been so dreadfully ill that he cannot be brought to Rome in less than a week's time at the soonest, and so the small hopes I had of seeing him vanished. I wrote the same evening to Pauline and Eugenie, but without letting them know the whole extent of what I had feared and suffered : ' " My dear Friends, " May the joy I felt last night continue and increase ! Till this morning I had some little hope of re- * We must never give up hoping." A SISTER'S STORY. maining here until after Albert's arrival, but it now seems decided that we leave the day after to-morrow. If he is but well, I do not care. I have learnt to endure absence. God's will be done ! All He does is well done. I should indeed be ungrateful if I were to murmur now, when, notwithstanding all I have gone through, He has made me a hundred times, nay a thousand times happier than I deserve." 'That same day Fernand unexpectedly walked in. He had ridden the whole way from Naples, and was on his way to Civita Vecchia, to help nurse his brother. Soon after his arrival I went with him to the Trinita to see his sisters. Whilst waiting for them we went into the Church, where I had often been with Albert to hear the exquisite singing. It was a great comfort to pray with Fernand for Albert, and to pray on my knees. It pained me so much not to be always able to do this. ' When Olga came to us she looked quite surprised at seeing Fernand, and said: "Oh, is it you, Fernand? I thought it must be Charles and Emma, for they told us that M. . and Madame de la Ferronnays were here." This made us smile, and I thought it a good omen. After dinner Fernand sat down on the sofa by my side, to arrange about a letter to Albert, which he was to give him as soon as he was well enough to read it. This was my note: ' " It is hardly necessary that I should write to you ! but it will give you pleasure to see my handwriting, and perhaps what I shall tell you may be a comfort. I am sure I need not say that I love you, my beloved Albert, and that I think I have never loved, and certainly never will love, any but you. I can endure our separation when I am certain you are well, but for God's sake try as much as you can to recover. Do try to spare me such terrible anxiety. Take care of yourself, as you would wish to take care of me. If you love me, follow the advice of your friends. It is better to be too prudent than not to be prudent enough. Thank God a thousand times that you are really better ! To-morrow evening Fernand will send us an account of you to Viterbo. God grant it may be a good one. Have you heard that the waters of Ems are prescribed for you ? You must not make any objection to this plan, indeed you must try to promote it, for Ems is only one day's distance from Kissingen, where we are going, and in this way we might meet in about seven weeks. Only think, dearest Albert, how pleasant that would be ! Oh, yes ; I think God loves us. I feel a little distressed at writing to you before everybody. Well, never mind. What I meant to pay is this ; if you wish me to do anything in the world for you A SISTER'S STORY. 1 which I can do, be sure I will do it ; of course I do not mean anything wrong. If this promise can give you pleasure, bear it always in mind. Farewell, beloved friend. Let us beg of God to look on us with mercy, and promise Him to be as good as possible. May we soon meet again with His help Who orders all things for the best. Al ." ' I found this note, and all those I have ever written to Albert, in a little pocket-book which he always carried about him. To- gether with these were his First Communion ribbon, a prayer his mother had sewed in the lining, and a relic of St. Alphonsus Liguori. At eleven o'clock in the morning of the 7th of May, Fernand went on to Civita Vecchia. He took leave of me with the most brotherly affection, and I felt myself thoroughly his sister. He understood all we felt so well, and in a few hours he was to see Albert ! And when should I see him again ? I kept saying this to myself as I took leave of Fernand. What a sepa- ration it was ! and not a creature to whom I could tell my thoughts ! 4 1 was a little comforted, however, by Fernand's visit, and at thinking he was with him, and that he would give him my letter. The next day we left Rome, and slept at Viterbo. There I heard of a young man who had died, and was lying in the church close to the Inn. It made me sorrowful. I could not bear anything which suggested the idea that Albert might die. Such was my folly at that time. I believed indeed in Heaven, but cared only for earthly joys. Our letters were brought to us early the next morning, and the accounts, thanks to God, were good.' Albert recovered rapidly. A fortnight after Alexandrine's departure he was at home, almost quite well again, and wrote thence the following letter to his mother : ALBERT TO HIS MOTHER. ' At last, my dearest mother, I am allowed to write a few words to you. I can hardly believe yet in all that has happened. You are at Dangu, and I am here in Rome again ! * It is certainly very strange ! The sad part of the affair is the anxiety I have given my dear father. One half hour more of that fever, I am told, would have prevented my ever seeing you again. Does it not seem incredible, dearest mother ? For my own part, I had not the least notion of it. The minutes went by, and I took no notice of them. That week when I was so ill I felt strangely without pain. I may have forgotten my sufferings. 62 A SISTER'S STORY. but I certainly am not conscious of them when I look back, and I was on the point of departing from this life with little previous expectation of it. God has mercifully delayed a departure for which I was ill-prepared. But He has shown me that we ought to be ready at any moment to obey His summons. I thank Him with all my heart for this knowledge. I am going to spend the summer quite quietly with my dearest father and my good Fernand, but longing, pining for you to come back. Do not keep us waiting too long. Do all come very soon, Emma and Charles included. Tell them that although I am bad about writing, I love them nevertheless, with all my heart. Good-bye, my darling mother. I love you more than I can express. Oh, why am I not with you and my dear sisters ! "Write to me as often as you can, and love me always. ' Your ALBERT.' FROM MY FATHER TO MY MOTHER. ' Absurd as it may seem, I have not time to write to you to-day more than a few words. Albert has borne perfectly well our journey of eight hours. He has not coughed once, and does not seem at all tired. I have given him leave to write to you a short letter. I think he is going on very well. There could not have been a more rapid and satisfactory recovery. Now what we have to avoid is imprudence, and this is no easy matter. It is on this account I do not leave him T I hope he will continue to be as good and tractable as at present. He is as excellent a creature as ever lived. The children are charming, and getting on beau- tifully. Good-bye, my dearest wife. I will write you a real letter the day after to-morrow.' ALBERT TO M. DE MONTALEMBERT. 'Eome: May 30th, 1833. ' Well, my dear kind friend, we make plans, and God overrules them. I expected that by this time we should have met and spent many happy days together. Instead of which, I am at Rome for a short time, and then I go to Castellamare with my father and Fernand. I have been neither more nor less than dying. A few more minutes, and it would have been all over with me. God has ordained it otherwise. So much the better. But when shall we meet again ? Do write often. I fear our friend- ship will have to stand the test of a prolonged absence. I have not heard from you for ages. I am allowed to write very little at a time. Is it true, as M. Bunsen tells us, that dear Rio is about to marry a wealthy and amiable English lady ? I hope it is so, and that he will be as happy as he deserves to be. ' And you, dear friend, what are you doing with yourself? If A SISTER'S STORY. 63 only yon would not keep so much aloof, and control your imagi- nation, which makes you see things differently from what they are, and aim at impossible results. Do not suppose that when I accuse you of exaggeration, I allude at all to your affections and feelings. No, I mean politics, which wear your life out. For my own part, I honestly confess that I have no decided political opinions, for I nowhere see perfect prosperity or perfect tran- quillity. The worst of it is that we live in a period of transition, and have by no means emptied our cup to the dregs. I comfort myself with the thought that religion, the foundation of all happi- ness, can never perish, and that in these trying times it alone seems fated to triumph over all its enemies. With regard to political parties, I look with sorrow and something of contempt on their virulent animosities, and the insults and anathemas which they hurl at each other. To what results do those loud vocifera- tions, those miserable intrigues tend? The Revolution in the midst of which we live will run its course if left to itself. There is but one line I can take ; but I will own to you that even in that quarter also the future seems to me pregnant with storms. A dynasty which has been three times overthrown has, I fear, served its time. I acknowledge that there alone exists the right- ful claim ; but will a child brought up out of France, and with ideas opposed to those of the present century, secure to us what we want ? I have misgivings on that point. We must be patient ; we cannot see into futurity. Possibly that last remaining vestige of the old principle of authority is destined to raise us from our present state of anarchy. In the meantime, religion nourishes, and if we are fated to see a new restoration, God grant that our clergy may not make themselves subservient to the Government. The people with us are always apt to mistrust those in power, and to look upon priests with suspicion, if they unite themselves too closely with them. I hope our clergy will give up politics. They have surely a higher mission. ' I dare say I have written many foolish things, for which you will perhaps severely condemn me. Well, I can only wait, and hope that God will guide me. Of one thing I am certain, and that is, that I will never go against my conscience. So como what may, I am prepared. ' Good-bye. Write to me at Naples. Tell me about Rio ; we have both been negligent about writing, but he knows my friend- ship for him is unchanged. As to you, I love you more dearly than ever. Let me know your plans for the winter. 'ALBERT.' A SISTERS STORY. ALBERT TO OLGA. * My darling Sister, My father is too busy to write to you before the post goes out, and has asked me to send you not only a letter but also a kiss, and I execute his orders on my own account as well as his. This ... Do not puzzle over that word. 1 had beur favourite airs once, for since that day I have been too unwell, y the way, do not be uneasy about a little manuscript-book you left on Albert's writing-table the one which contains the pretty passage out of " Corinne," and another by the Comte de Maistre. It is in safe hands in ours, I mean and we will take some opportunity of sending it back to you, unless you will let us keep it. I wish you had left the little black book behind. ' Madame de C called the day after you left, and was most gracious. Modesty will not allow me to repeat all she said about my apparition at the ball. Our servant has not yet arrived. I care less about it now, for what I had looked forward to was the fun of laughing at his installation with you. Maria carries the letters to the post now. The day after you left we took the same drive as we all did the last day you were here ; that is, by the Florence road and the Capuchins ; and on our way back we left one of your cards, with " P.P.C." on it, at the Countess Mastiani's. We met Therese * as we came home, who made a mournful gesture in speaking of you. She raised her arm and struck her forehead in quite a despairing manner. These are all the little souvenirs of Pisa, dear Montal, which you wished us to write. They are still present to your mind, but you will not be long in Paris before your great interests throw them into the shade. You know the state of our writing-table, so I will not make any apologies for this scrawl. How I do hope we shall meet again this year. I shall never forget the kindness of your last words. May God bless you ! Pray for us, and remember me to the Rios.' The 21st of January had been Albert's twenty-third birthday. My mother had written a letter to him that day, in which I find these words : ' It is twenty-three years ago that I gave you my first kiss. * A servant who had waited on M. de Montalembert while he was at Pisa. A SISTER'S STORY. 129 It seems to me as if it was only yesterday ; and since that day there has not been a single one in which my heart has not been full of you. You have always been so good that not the shadow of a cloud has saddened that tenderness, or the least irritation existed between us. I cannot, therefore, express, my beloved child, how dear you are to me, and how intensely anxious I am to know you well arid happy.' Albert wrote in answer : 'January 30th. ' I begin on this large sheet of paper without knowing whet her I shall fill it. At this moment it seems to me too small to hold all the love and tenderness my heart pours out to you, my dearest mother. You did not forget the 21st of January, and I never felt on my part such deep affection for you, and the happiness of l>eing so loved by you and my dear father. Is it because I so wish to have a child myself that I feel deeply touched by what you say about the twenty-three years which have elapsed since I received your first kiss, or is it only the remembrance of your uninterrupted tenderness which so moves me ? This last reason would be enough to account for it, and that other feeling would only be its natural consequence. I must long to bestow on a child of my own all that tender affection which you have lavished on me. You say that never has the least irritation existed be- tween us. Oh, I thank God for it ! Nothing, my beloved mother, could have made me happier than to hear this. I have often been afraid that I had, on the contrary, been guilty of ingratitude by my want of gentleness and docility to your and my dear father's advice.' It was in the month of February of that year that Albert began to keep a regular journal, in the form of letters addressed to (I think) the Abbe Martin de Noirlieu, but without any intention of sending them. ALBERT'S JOURNAL. 'Pisa: February, 1835. ' You know, my dear friend, that you have often accused me of trying to appear worse than I am. If you knew the whole of ray life you would, I am sure, view the matter differently, and come to the contrary conclusion that my good reputation is sadly undeserved. So much so that I am sometimes tormented by the fear that there must be something false in my character. It is no doubt true that I have never been really wicked, or alto- gether stifled the bright but transient lights which have flashed through my soul. But perhaps this only increases niy blamo. 130 A SISTER'S STORY. Dante describes these hesitating souls as shut out from both Heaven and hell. I take up everything at first with ardour, and almost immediately afterwards I feel indifferent and disgusted with the very thing I bad been most keenly anxious for. Often before my marriage, even when at the height of my passionate love, I felt a sort of despondency come over me, I could almost have wished to put off the moment which I yet felt was the only one which could secure my happiness. I did not know what I wished except to get away. The only thing that seemed to do me good, was to ride very fast on the sea-shore. It gave me a sense of relief and freedom. Once I went alone to Amain for some days, and felt almost unwilb'ng to return to Naples. ' I ascribe this waywardness in a great measure to the weak- ness of my health and the irritability which it produces, and also partly to a desultory kind of education. My father made every possible sacrifice for my advantage in that respect, but the people with whom he placed me did not fulfil their trust. I was na- turally gentle and diligent, and if I had been treated differently I might perhaps have committed more faults, but I should have grown up with greater energy of character. When I left their care, 1 had lost that youthfulness of soul which some happy natures retain long after their entrance into the world, and yet I was as shy as a child. Then I came to Italy, which on the whole has done me more harm than good, for its climate increased the irritability of my constitution, and over-excited my imagina- tion. Ever since I have been a prey to the inward strife of the two natures we carry within us ; sometimes feeling good and aiming at the highest degree of virtue I could hope to reach, and at others letting myself go wherever the inferior part of my nature chooses to lead me. I cannot master these conflicting influences so as to make them minister to my physical and moral improve- ment. This prolonged struggle brought on the inflammatory illness which carried me to the brink of the grave. Ought I to regret that it did not do so ? ' I need not dwell on the three past years of that love which has secured my happiness, for you know God has blessed it. Henceforward I have only to speak of the present and the future, and day by day I intend to do so, not so much for the sake of con- versing with you as to see whether by analysing them I can succeed in mastering my contradictory impulses.' ' Monday, February 9th. ' Though I had resolved to write in this book how every day had been spent, the thoughts which occurred to me, and the resolutions made, I have not done so for three days. I do not A SISTER'S STORY. 131 know if it is the fault of the weather or of my weakness, but I have been in a state of nervous irritation which precluded all regular thinking. To-day I am better, and I have scarcely coughed at all. My poor Alexandrine has been ill also for two days. She is very delicate, and I get frightened when the leas*, thing is the matter with her. She so easily looks ill. I have sent for the doctor, and I hope it will be nothing. I have little to record. Nearly the whole day has been spent in struggling against that unaccountable, indescribable nervous suffering. It is twelve o'clock. God be with us ! ' ' Thursday, February 1 2th. ' I make fresh strides every day towards health and strength. and trust by God's mercy to be soon delivered from the need of taking these tiresome precautions. I think it is the coming of spring, which gives me such a desire for fresh air, movement and life. You know, I am sure, the feeling which causes both body and soul to long for activity, the heart to spring up, as it were, with faith and hope, which makes us hunger and thirst after God, and cry out prostrate in adoration for the Bread of life. ' Our plans for a sea- voyage are being matured, but we shall meet with some difficulties in bringing them to bear. This even- ing I finished ' Les Souvenirs,' by Nodier. They have interested me very much. I admire the youthful enthusiasm and boldness of this writer. His earnestness reconciles us with mankind, and we feel the need of it after wading througli all the miseries de- scribed in his journal. It has renewed my regret that during his best years my father should be obliged to give up public service in France ; for Nodier truly says in his epilogue, " It is indispen- sable to society that honest men should coalesce, whatever be the political creed which chance or circumstances have assigned them." But the oath of allegiance is an insuperable barrier for sensitive consciences. If once that mockery of an oath were abolished, my father could resume bis place in the Chambers.' 'Friday, February 13th. 1 I am quite proud of being able to read and understand Shakespeare. I am reading Hamlet, and thrill with delight as I read. I had no idea of this sort of writing, and I look forward to much enjoyment from it. My quiet life alone with my angelic wife is indeed enviable. Last night the thought of Sorrento brought tears into my eyes. What a charm clings to all the reminiscences of the last three years ! I am not blase. My heart is still alive to all the beauty and value of life and poetry. Yes, you may envy me, for I fully feel the value of all 132 A SISTER'S STORY. that God has given me. I am reading " Ayesha," which interests me ; and then it is the East again, and I do love the East.' ' Saturday, February 14th. ' My passion for travelling increases daily. There are moments when the soul seems to pant after unknown lands, where it appears as if everything must be more beautiful than what we see about us. Is not this desire of change, of progress, the wish so to speak of getting rid of one's self, this yearning after boundless space and freedom, a sort of indication of our eternal destiny ? Byron says : * ' " Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace ; Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, And life that bloated ease can never hope to share ! ' ' You blame, I know, these sort of fits of enthusiasm, my dear friend, and you have told me more than once that the soul is indeed called to a,n immortal destiny and the knowledge of the infinite, but only when stripped of its earthly shroud. But can Ave hinder the soul, unable to cast off at will this miserable body, from sometimes striving to drag it upwards towards its Heavenly home ? ' It is very long since I have been in so steady a state of activity and fervour, as at present. My weak and slothful nature has been more thoroughly mastered than usual, and I suppose this comes from my improved health. My friends used to find fault with my taste for solitude. But how will it now be increased ? How shall I ever endure the noise of crowded draw- ing-rooms, after learning by experience the unspeakable sweetness and fulness of life's best joys ? Is there anything in the world to be compared to Alexandrine's beloved face, seen by the dim light of our dear old lamp ? ' 'Monday, February 17th. ' A melancholy sight met my eyes this morning. Eight galley slaves were sweeping the street before our door. They were fastened to each other by a heavy chain, and dressed in red, a sign that they are condemned for a limited number of years. Two only were in yellow, which means that they were sentenced to the galleys for life. These wore a badge on the breast, on which was written : " Robbery with violence." Judging from the newness of their clothes, they must have been recently con- demned, and are probably the same men who were publicly exposed and sentenced the other day for that crime. It is a * Ghilde Harold, Canto I. A SISTER'S STORr. 133 dreadful thing to look at these men, banished from society, and never more to meet with anything at its hands, but contempt and dread, or, at the best, pity. What bitter feelings must fill their souls. ! most just and merciful God, grant them sub- mission and the hope of another life ! May the example of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the thought of His Passion, His patience, His strength, and His love, make them accept their bitter chalice. ! my Lord Jesus, when Thou wert forsaken by men, Angels came to strengthen Thee, their Divine Master, and to shed tears over Thy sufferings. Unworthy as these poor creatures are, let them also be comforted by Angels now they are scorned by men. They have none to help them but Thyself. Have mercy on them, Blessed Lord. Soften their hearts before they die ! It is not the severity of the sentence, awarded either justly or unjustly by society, which I most apprehend, in their cases, but the misery entailed by the ill-usage of the gaolers, who are too often them- selves the refuse of society. In such an office the most sublime charity ought to be exercised, and hope, patience, and love in- fused into hearts which have nothing to look to on earth, but the hatred and execration of their fellow-men. ! God, increase the number of Thy sacred ministers, the true shepherds of Thy poor sheep ! ' 1 Tuesday, 17th. ' I found an article yesterday in a number of the Presse Britan- nique on railways. How remarkable it is, that just at the time when vague but new and important ideas of fusion are occupying the minds of men, industry and fresh discoveries second them so admirably. It would be presumptuous, I think, not to recognise a Divine agency in this coincidence. Experience has already shown how much prejudice and national animosity disappears, in consequence of the increased modern facilities for travelling, and how many bonds of union have thus been formed between nations once bitterly antagonistic. The spirit of nationality, and even patriotism, in itself a noble feeling, but still too narrow and selfish if considered from the highest point of view, will by degrees give way, I am convinced, to a spirit of union which will embrace all Christian nations. But this immense change will be more certain and immediate, if the material interests of men find in it such advantages as are undoubtedly obtained by that incon- ceivable rapidity of communication which has not by any means reached the perfection to which steam will bring it. But can many nations be formed into one ? No, I do not look forward to the existence of a single nation, or a single kingdom. The unity I contemplate would consist of such an intimate association between different nations, as should satisfy their moral and 134 A SISTER'S STORY. material wants. Men's interests will soon make them understand this truth. Yet I look back, I own, with a sort of regret to those distinct nationalities, which are gradually about to dis- appear ; and the total change I have spoken of can of course only succeed some period of confusion, through which we dimly discern its probable results. We live in an age of transition. We seem to belong neither to the past, nor the future. We stand, as it were, at a point,' whence on the one hand we look wistfully at the bright hues of the setting sun, and on the other at the dawning beauty of a new day. I sometimes feel quite lost in thought, absorbed in the contemplation of this strange vision, and a melancholy feeling comes over me as I meditate on our inevitable farewell to that poetic past, whose monuments bear such glorious witness of generosity, enthusiasm, and faith ; that past whose treasures are about to vanish, and give place to a new society, over which union, simplicity, and equality, will reign.' ' Wednesday, February 18th: ' Do you happen to remember that poor child whom I once mentioned to you ? Alexandrine and I went this morning to buy some string of his mother, and found the boy dying. He was almost speechless. I sent our physician to see him. The poor parents are miserable; their little home is in confusion, their work is interrupted, and all their happiness at an end.' ' Friday, February 20th. ' The poor child was still alive this morning ; he was even a shade better. I am afraid he is not well cared for, and his poor parents keep talking incessantly before him of their fears. They were to have fetched Maria (Alexandrine's maid) this morning, but nobody came. I shall send the first thing in the morning to inquire. May God spare him to his parents. ' My Alexandrine was looking too beautiful this evening. She little knew it, or what I feel when I look at her. She is always lovely, but there are moments when the expression of her face and countenance quite astonishes me. Dear angel ! how gentle and patient she is ! And yet you would not believe it, but even from her I cannot bear the least opposition, the least contradic- tion. If this irritability does not altogether proceed from ill- health, and does not disappear when I get well, I shall be a perfect ' The chapter we read to-night, in the " Imitation of Christ" was on the test of real love. It is admirable, but describes too exactly our misery and weakness. " ! my Lord, without Thee, without the Holy Spirit, we can do nothing. Strong as we may be when Thy grace sustains us, we are utterly undone and help- A SISTER'S STORY. 135 less when Thou dost withdraw it. Strengthen our poor weak nature, my Lord and my God, and let me hope to receive Thee into my soul. For without Thee, what am I ? And with Thee I can do all things." ' 1 Sunday, February 22nd. ' That poor child died last night. At ten o'clock they came to toll us he was still alive. About midnight his soul went to God. The father left the house with a little girl they have, to get away from the sight of the corpse. The mother remained with it. We went there after Mass. The funeral will take place this evening. Poor little angel, his face was looking quite calm again. He was dressed in white, covered with pink ribbons, and surrounded by a garland of flowers.' ' Monday, February 23rd. ' We have been to the cemetery to see the poor child's grave. Part of the burial-place is set apart for children. The custode said to us: "Here, they are all Angels." How many little Angels have thus flown away, leaving their mortal remains behind them. There seemed to me something especially holy in that spot. In another part of the enclosure, separated by a low wall from the children's burial-place, is the portion set apart for per- sons who have died without the Sacraments. I can scarcely say why this touched me. Perhaps it was the thought that all thoso innocent souls might possibly be pleading for the guilty or wretched ones, whose remains lie so near their own.' Albert received, about this time, a letter from my father, which must have expressed some uneasiness on a subject which often made him anxious. Albert answered it in these words : ' My beloved Father, I am quite grieved at your uneasiness about the small ness of our fortune. I know we are not immensely rich neither Alex nor I thought of marrying for the sake of wealth ; but I must say I have not found out that we are so very badly off. There are not many young people, I fancy, who manage to put by a little as we have done, during the first year of our marriage. Whatever be the amount of fortune they start with, is it not generally the case that the income of the second year goes to make up the deficiencies of the first ? You, my dearest father, who know how simple our tastes and habits are, should not be so anxious on this subject. Even here we lead a kind of lite which does not at all look like poor. There are very few people, for nstance, who have a carnage every day, and we have no difficulty in meeting the expense of two doctors, one of them a first-rate physician. . . . Good-bye, my dear father. Love always 136 A SISTER'S STOliY. your Albert, and rely upon it that nothing can exceed our happi- ness.' On the same day, Alexandrine wrote to Eugenie : 'Fancy your dear father writing to Albert, that lie, really sheds tears when he thinks how badly off we are / .... And that when we shall actually have saved 4,000 or 5,000 francs at the end of this first year.* And yet we have had a great deal of outlay, phy - sicians, travelling expenses for ourselves and the servants we have sent for. Indeed, I am very glad that I have seen your father get into these fidgets about others, without reason, for I should other- wise be so vexed that he should torment himself about us. Mon- talembert positively thought us rich, and, indeed, we have every- thing we can possibly want, especially for two people on a journey.' It is touching to see how perfectly satisfied they were with an income which would have been considered very insufficient by most persons in their condition of life. This shows with what method and economy they regulated their little household affairs, and proves that matter-of-fact people, who have no imagination and are incapable of enthusiasm, do not possess that monopoly of good sense which they are so ready to claim, as a set-off, probably, against all their other deficiencies ! ALBERT'S JOURNAL (CONTINUED). ' Wednesday, February 25th. 4 We have quite a spring morning to-day. What a climate it is ! We went out in the open carriage, and drove through the woods and fields. There is nothing to be compared to one of these first days of spring. We could hardly bring ourselves to come in. We pine more than ever to travel, and soon, I hope, shall leave Pisa. I shall, however, always preserve a grateful recollection of this place, where I have spent so many pleasant hours and enjoyed such unmixed happiness. But I carry away with me the source of all this enjoyment, and you know what a perfect delight it is when two people who sympathise in the most complete manner travel together. You will not, therefore, look upon my passion for travelling as a proof of inconstancy. How often, in former days, I used to envy a young couple travelling in a comfortable caleche, and lost in a paradise of youth, hope, and love ! Well, I now possess that happiness, and I find I was not mistaken, and that the joy I used to see in the countenances of those I so much envied, was but a feeble expression of the ecstacy which filled their hearts ! * 160 or 200. A SISTER'S STORY. 137 ' The father and mother of the poor child came to see us this evening ; but just imagine how superficial and transient are the feelings of these Italians. When they left us, they were actually going to the play ! ' Alexandrine relates that Albert had reproached his servant Julien, because he seemed to doubt the extent of these poor pa- rents' grief. She also mentions their having had a visit from Father Luigi Galligani, Albert's Confessor, who, in the course of conversation, spoke of a young Englishwoman who had become a Catholic, and who said she felt in Paradise. Alexandrine re- marks : ' I was very much surprised at this, for I was so earthly that it seemed to me a great stretch of imagination to find one's happiness in invisible things. I could not at all understand it, and it used to astonish me also when Albert said, " Oh, if you only knew what happiness it is to receive absolution ! " But the expression of his countenance when he said it, is still imprinted on my mind ! ' A few days afterwards they went to the Franciscan Convent at Santa Croce, Albert wanting to speak to Father Luigi. Whilst he was inside the house, a good lay brother, Fra Clementino, brought Alexandrine some coffee, who swallowed it with mingled feelings of gratitude and disgust. The good brother was advising her all the time to become a Catholic, and promised to give her his Jerusalem beads, if ever he saw her one.* ALBERT'S JOURNAL (CONTINUED). ' We may, perhaps, go to Russia by Vienna, and in that case we shall possibly see , whom Alexandrine has never met since she gave me her love, the joy of my life. This evening we talked of him, and these reminiscences seemed to interest her. Dear angel ! she did not know ho\v eagerly I listened. It is not, however, the first time she has thus revealed her inmost soul to me. It is so with her father's death. The least word which * ' Five years afterwards,' Alexandrine says, ' alone, and in a widow's weeds, I went to the same convent. Meeting a brother carrying his baig, I asked him if Father Luigi Galligani was at home. He told me he was absent. I then inquired after Fra Clementine. I was speaking to himself ! He recog- nised me, and his joy at seeing me again was as great, h said, "as if his ,other had risen from the dead." He hastened to fetch his Jerusalem beadc, and gave them to me as he had promised. He too had grieved for Albert, and tears of compassion and tenderness fell from his eyes as we spoke of him. Joy was, however, the prevailing feeling in our hearts during this interview, for our beloved faith makes up for every sorrow, and only destroys sin." And yet five years before, Alexandrine could not even understand that it was possible to find happiness in invisible things. 138 A SISTER'S STORY. reminds her of that great trial leads her to describe the various emotions which she went through at that time. Oh, how I feel with and for her ! She need not be afraid of tiring me. The tears which rash to her eyes will always be sure to call forth mine. Nor need she fear to dwell on that other period of her life which she remembers so well, for in it I find that same heart which has so entirely given and opened itself to me for time and for eternity. God bless her for never thinking I could be troubled at her saying that she once thought she had loved that man. Oh, no ! I feel at those moments a sort of fatherly protecting tender- ness which makes me only love her the more, and I also have a few little cherished tears lying at the bottom of my heart. And she, too, listens when I tell her all that has occupied my thoughts before I knew her. She knows there are recollections which one would not for the world discard, by rubbing out, as she says her- self, the landmarks of the past, and thus forestalling the work of death. Oh, she is right ! As long as the heart is full of love, let us believe and hope in Grod.' ALEXANDRINE TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. ' Dear Montal, It is several days since Albert received your dear letter from Alessandria and Geneva, and we wanted to answer it much sooner. We are impatient to hear of your having arrived in Paris. (Oh, what dreadful paper, pen, and ink !) I write to you to-night instead of to-morrow, because to-morrow I must work. You cannot imagine what a passion I have taken for needlework. I am very sorry it did not begin when you were here ; first, because there is nothing so pleasant as to work while somebody reads to you ; and then because you would have admired the really enchanting things I make ; and finally, because you would have conceived a more favourable opinion of me had you seen me so femininely employed, and it would have convinced you that it was not out of pedantry that I used to read instead of sewing. You think of me, however, only too favourably. I suppose you did not expect I should read your letters to Albert. I did read every word of the last, and felt pleasantly ashamed of the praise you give me. Still, whether out of vanity or only from a real knowledge of my own character, I do maintain that though I am not nearly so good as you think, I reflect a great deal more than you suppose. Then, I must add, that I was a little shocked at the words dissipated and dangerous which you use in reference to the life 1 led before my marriage. I feel it on account of my parents. My dear friend, I always think you too severe on the poor world. It has many dangers, I grant, but also more virtues than you seem inclined to think ; and when this is the case, is not A SISTER'S STORY. 139 the merit greater than when they are practised in a quiet life ? Mine has been the usual existence of all the young girls of our time. You will, perhaps, reply that this is no excuse, but, after all, many a one far better than I am has led it. And to return to my parents. They are not responsible for the three hundred and seventy-nine admirers, or any other name you may choose to give them, whicli you suppose me to have had. If it were any- body's fault it was my own ; but that simplicity of affection which you say belongs to my character, that I inherit from my parents. It has often and often touched and delighted me in my father, who up to the very end of his life liked what children like, and enjoyed all that children enjoy. And my mother ! what tender- ness of heart she possesses, what a sweet, open, unaffected cha- racter ! Oh ! I assure you that if there is any tenderness, any gentleness, any simplicity of heart in my disposition, it is to them I owe it. ' Dear friend, I like to think you pray for me. I have great need of it ; but do at the same time pray for my father's departed soul, and for those I love on earth. Those are the prayers I like the best, and as I have a great reliance on yours, I earnestly beg for them, and I am sure you will grant my request. You are too true a friend not to do so. ' Albert has given me the beautiful Spina in alabaster. I should like to leave it with you whilst I travel. I must work something for you whilst I am in the humour, but you are so hard to please that I am sure you will think it ugly. Write to us as often and as much at length as possible. By-the-way, our Jocrisse has ar- rived. His name is Julien. He is tolerably civilised. He cer- tainly says, " M'sieu," as you predicted ; but then he says, " Ma- dame's dinner is served," which is rather elegant, and " Madame" is still an amusing novelty to my ears. He cannot read or write, but he gets on pretty well without it. He is very ugly. Albert says he is humpbacked. It is your own fault that I send you all these particulars. You would have them. Adieu. I have no more room. May God give you all the happiness I wish you.' The journey to Odessa, which had been for some time contem- plated, was at last resolved upon. Alexandrine was by this means to visit her mother, and spend a part of the summer with her at Prince Lapoukhyn's magnificent estate, between Odessa and Kiev. The doctors approved of this plan for Albert, because of the long sea voyage, and after some discussion it was settled that they should come to us at Naples, and embark thence for Malta, then go on to Constantinople, and so on to Odessa. It waa 140 A SISTER'S STORY. a great undertaking, and involved a long separation from us, but hopeswere entertained that itwould greatly benefit Albert's health, and Alexandrine was of course delighted to pay a visit to her mother. They neither of them the least dreaded the length of the journey. Count Putbus, with that devoted friendship which he on every occasion evinced, as soon as he heard of their plan, offered himself as their companion and protector for the journey. He was to meet them at Naples, where we were all looking forward with joy to their arrival, and with sadness to the parting which was so soon to follow it. A day or two before leaving Pisa, Albert wrote a long letter in Italian to Father Luigi Galligani, who kept it, and five years afterwards gave it back into Alexandrine's hands. The first part of it was lost, but here is what remains : ' I feel it impossible to doubt that God looks on my beloved wife with those eyes of mercy and love which He fixes on all up- right and sincere souls really seeking the truth. You have seen enough of Alexandrine, my dear Father, to be convinced that such is the case with her, and you notice how full she is of tenderness and charity. It is God's infinite goodness which has made her what she is, and granted me the blessing of meeting with her and making her my wife, the treasure and joy of my existence. I shall never cease to thank Our Blessed Lord, and to hope everything from His mercy. I shall carry away from Pisa very precious recollections, and can never forget your affectionate and fatherly kindness to us. I beg your blessing, my dear Father ; I assure you that we are both your grateful children, and that as long as we live we shall preserve that respectful attachment which on so many accounts we owe to you. 'ALBERT DE LA FERRONNAYS.' Alexandrine, on reading this letter five years afterwards, ex- claimed : ' Oh, my Albert, with what partial eyes you looked upon me ! but your faith and that certainty you felt that God would have mercy upon me have met with their reward. ! my God, my God ! Finish the work Thou hast begun. I am not yet safe. My angel, plead for me ! ' No, she was not yet safe, for she was still on earth. But now that I am copying her words, I feel a joyful confidence that she has attained the final, unalterable blessedness of endless peace and light. On the 23rd of March they embarked on board the* Sully for Leghorn ; and on the 26th Eugenie wrote in large letters in the ' Journal of Family Events, 1 which she began to keep on the day of Alexandrine's marriage : ' Arrival of the Alberts ! At eight A SISTER'S STORY. 141 o'clock my father gave us notice that the ship was in sight, and that they were coming. Emma, Mamma, my father, and I rushed to the port. Great joy at meeting, and bringing them home with us. Albert is much better ! ' ALEXANDRINE TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. ' Naples : March 28th. ' My dear Montal, Here we are happily arrived at Naples. The Sully brought us from Leghorn, and Albert is well, thank God ! We are neither of us sick, and it evidently agrees with htm. We shall probably make our great start from Malta, but we wait for Putbus, who has given up his Paris journey. You may imagine how delighted I am at seeing my sisters again. I have just time enough to think of you, but not enough to write. I am very elegante ; it is a pity you cannot see me. I have not made any blunders yet. Good bye, my dear good friend. I have, and always shall have, a great affection for you. Your friend, ALEX.' Albert wrote in the same letter : 'My dear Friend, We have been so unsettled lately that I could not answer your last letter, and indeed I cannot do so now, so near the time when the boat leaves. I am afraid that I shall be ordered to spend next winter also in Italy. My father is, however, going to France at the end of this month, to see about a place in the country, which will, I hope, hold us all. I long to get there, for my home-sickness increases every day. Remember me to the Abbe Lacordaire. What would I not give to hear his conferences, and to find myself in the midst of those wholesome excitements of the heart and mind which are so little known in Italy ! Dear, good friend, we are going to be again a long time parted, but you must always look on Alex and me as your most devoted friends. Write to us often. In my next letter I will tell you where to direct to us. Shake hands with Rio for me, and remember me to his wife. If you see the Abbe Martin, speak to him of my unalterable attachment.' ALBERT'S JOURNAL (CONTINUED). Naples: March 29th, 1835. ' The last days of our stay at Pisa were so full of bustle and business, that it is only now I have resumed my journal. We had a most excellent passage, and very few passengers on board. My wife was alone in the ladies' cabin. Neither of us were ill. It was the first time we had travelled quite alone together. We stopped at Civita Vecchia. How full of recollections are all 142 ^ SISTER'S STORY. these places ! When -we reached Naples I could scarcely believe my eyes. The sight of that coast, where every spot is associated with the most vivid remembrances, that perfume which is like the soul of Naples, and exists nowhere else, all those charming outward impressions tallied with those equally charming remi- niscences which seemed to meet and welcome me, as if seeking to efface the recent emotions awakened amidst other scenes. You know my weakness ; I gave myself up at once to those dear de- lights. Oh, Naples ! Naples ! no place on earth has ever made my heart beat with such joy as thou ! ' How many different shades there are in enjoyment. I en- joyed Pisa, and that sort of pleasure must have been more grateful . to God than what I feel here. The thought of God was mingled there with all I saw, and I was not so feverishly excited. Why did everything at Pisa make me think of God ? I enjoyed no- thing without Him. At Naples the natural beauties which surround me, bewitch the senses, and my soul seems lost in the loveliness of creation. Still, I do not think that God condemns this sort of enjoyment. It is more earthly, no doubt, but after many a struggle, after wading through many obstacles, the cry of the soul is still directed to Him ; and may He not make it pure, in spite of all it has passed through ? This too fair, too bewitching scenery, is a stumbling block here. The poor weak heart loses itself amidst all this ecstatic beauty It ceases to seek God, for it seems already to have found Him.' ALEXANDRINE'S STORY (CONTINUED). Friday, April 3rd. I went out with Albert. We found that good, excellent Monsi^nor Porta in bed, and ill. He thanked me so much for my visit, and repeated very often his favourite saying about Albert's family : " Son tutti Santi " (they are all Saints), and he told me that I too am to be a Saint. Then we went to M. Valetti, the Protestant clergyman. He received us very civilly, and talked of some poor Trappists whom he assists. ' Sunday, April 5th. Albert and I went to see a doctor who is Btayino- at the Cointesse de Maistre's ; then I breakfasted with Pauline, and the conversation turned on the difference between various kinds of affection . It soon became an argument. Albert called for me just when the dispute was at its height, and carried me off to the Villa Eeale, where we took a little walk. He scolded me, said that he hated disputes, and in everything loved peace. ' In the evening we had music and company. I liked then to be well-dressed, and to move about from one corner to another A SISTER'S STORY. 143 of that great drawing-room of the Palazzo Gallo. Albert, on the contrary, used to go to his room when people came, and often re- gretted Pisa. ' Monday, April 6th. I was with Pauline at a party at the Duchess of San Teodoro's, and that was the last time we went out together. This made Pauline always remember the dress I wore that night ; she has often reminded me of it. I had on a black velvet gown, and in my hair, round my neck, and on the front of my dress, pink rubies set in black enamel. ' I am not sure which day it was, but about that time Albert complained once quite seriously, that I had left him for five hours. I had been out on some necessary business, and I exclaimed, " How could I % help it ? Was it to amuse myself? " And pro- voked at Albert's injustice, I scratched his finger, as a little cat might have done. He laughed, and looked at- his finger in such a funny manner, that I saw the quarrel was made up. But I was very much ashamed of my bad temper, and I went and accused myself of it to Pauline, who burst out laughing. ' Saturday, April llth. I was very sad on account of a letter Albert wrote to Montal. This is it : ALBERT TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. ' " Dear good Friend, You say in your last letter that you are ashamed not to have answered ours of the 8th of February. How much more ought I to reproach myself for my unpardon- able silence. How is your brother ? What is he going to do ? And you ? Are you still so out of spirits ? When shall we lead again our dear Pisa life ? I am threatened with the necessity of spending another winter in Italy, but I do not allow myself to think of it, for I have an intense desire to go back to France. The longer this sort of exile lasts, the more I fear it will prove fatal to me. There is at this moment a spirit stirring among the young men in France, which I am always regretting does not influence me. This new life ; this craving for faith ; this bright dawn of awakening religion, which infidelity had for a while ob- scured. Nothing can equal the beauty of all this, and in contrast with it, Italy resembles some fair corpse ! ' " In the meantime, we sail for Constantinople the end of the month. It is a beatitiful journey, and I shall long for you at every step. We shall put in at Palermo, Girgente, Malta, Smyrna, &c., and towards the end of August wo shall return the same way, and then God knows where we shall spend the winter ! Do pray that this journey may prevent the necessity of my being longer away from France. Dear friend, you can understand better than any one how intensely I desire to return, for it can only be at the A SISTER'S STORY. close of our interminable wanderings that I can hope to see that act accomplished without which my happiness can never be com- plete. At this Easter time I suffer in a way which you, to whom alone I say it, will well understand, in seeing my Alex unite her- self in spirit only with the feelings which fill every heart in these blessed days. That state of mind which is neither one thing nor the other, that feeling of uncertainty, doubt, and transition, is dreadful. She ought to see one of such priests as are to be found in France, but are not to be met with here. What I suffer from the thought of spending another year in this state, you can easily fancy ; and again I say it, I look to France alone for the person who will make her feel the necessity of a fixed belief, the absence of which, if prolonged, must exercise a disastrous effect in the Ion? run upon her religious feelings. '" Remember me to the Abbe Lacordaire. Tell him how I envy all who are present at his conferences. There is no place like Paris for satisfying those inner wants of the soul, without which it vegetates, but cannot be said to live. The strong emo- tion which lifts it up to God can only be felt, ordinarily speaking, where love is an active principle. Here indolence and dream- iness prevail on every side. Italy certainly suggests loving thoughts but it is love of an enervating kind. Even in the intercourse of the soul with God, there is something weak, cow- ardly, and vague. Nothing is clear or positive. How is it pos- sible that this general tendency should not affect the very ground- work of all ideas ? The whole country exhales a perfume which none but vigorous souls can resist, and even these must be soon overcome by it, if they breathed it too long, and did not at times re-nerve their energy amidst the labours of more active charity, and in the atmosphere of a sterner love. ' " What you tell me of the Abbe de Lamennais must break the hearts of his friends. But what really are his ideas at this mo- ment? Every one construes the state of his mind according to his own fancy, and his enemies, availing themselves of the uncertainty in which he leaves us as to the exact form he would give his Utopia, ascribe to him the most disastrous views. Tell me also what is the work Rio is engaged in. You can easily sup- pose that I take the greatest interest in it. I must bid you good-bye, my very dear friend. Pray for my Alex pray for us ! * This letter made me very sorrowful. I could not think of it without tears. As I had never even thought of going to a Pro- testant Church at Pisa, Albert naturally enough could not under- stand why I acted differently at Naples. I knew very well that I wenb because I was afraid my mother might hear I had not A SISTER'S STORY. H5 done so, and out of human respect on account of M. Valetti and the Protestants at Naples. I felt restless and miserable, and sat up till three o'clock with Eugenie, who kept comforting me to the best of her power, and assuring me, in spite of my tears, that it would all end well. We opened together a little volume of texts, which my mother had given me when I married, and I was glad when my eyes fell upon this passage : " Surely Ephraim is an Jionourable son to me ; surely lie is a tender child ; for since I spoke of him, I will still remember him. Therefore are my bones troubled f