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University of Virginia Library
coe 2270;.G31;E5;1875
Letters / edited by G. S. Treb

Hnwan i

L?é TleEX LIBRIS

 

 

 

ORON JAMES HALELETTERS OF

EUGENIJE DE GUERIN.LETTERS. OF

EUGENIE DE GUERIN

EDITED BY G. S. TREBUTIEN

NS

A.

NEW YORK:
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY,

No. 9 WARREN STREET.Letter to

to
to

CON TES

Mdllc. Louse de Hagne. .. . ws
Mdile. Marie dé Guerin... .c «
M. Maurice de (gneve «.. «. «

to (ie Same 4c a le
to the Same

to
to

Mdlle. Louise de Rays ne
Mdlle. Irene Compayre

to the Same

to

Mdlle. Louise de Bayt ne

to the Same
to the Same ..
to the Same

to M. Maurice de Catvi
fo the Same .. « SS
to Mdlle. ‘A betes se Hoscct ey

to
to

M. Maurice de Guérin
Mdlle. Louise de Bayne

to the Same 5s. ss

to
to
to
to
to
to
to
to

Mdlle. Iréne Compayre ee
Mdlle. Antoinette de Boisset

M. Hippolyte de la Morvonnais
Mdlle. Louise de Bayne

the Same .. . ae me
M. H. de la, Morvonnais

Mdile. Louise de Bayne .. . «
the Same... on ecw a

to the Same

to
to
to

M. Limer ..
Mdlle. Antoinette ae a:
M. Maurice de Guérin

Mdlle. Antoinette de Boisset

  
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
   
   

PAGEVl

Contents.

Letter to M. Hippolyte de la Morvonnais

to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne ..

to Mdlle. Antoinette de Boisset ..
fo the Same ., cat ean
to Mdlle. Louise fe Bay! ne.

to Mdlle. Irene Compayre .. :
to Mdlle. Antoinette de Boisset ..
to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne ..

to Mdlle. Antoinette de Boisset

to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne ..

to Madame la Baronne de Maistre
to Mdlle. Antoinette de Boisset

to Madame la Baronne de Maistre
to the Same

to the Same ‘ of

to Mdlle. Louise fe Bay: ne

to Madame la Baronne de Maistre
to the Same

to Mdlle. Irene Bombay re

to M. de Guérin

to Madame la Baronne de iia
to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne

to Madame la Baronne de Maistre
to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne ..

to M. de Guérin

to the Same ‘

to Madame la Baronne Ae Matstre
to Madame de Sainte-Marie

to Madame la Baronne de Maistre
to Mdlle. Louise de Pay RE ns

to the Same : ;

to Mdlle. de eo

to M. de Guérin i“

to Mdlle. Louise de Pa neu.

to M. de Guérin 7 an

to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne ..

to Count Xavier de Maistre

to Madame de Ste. Marie

to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
     

PAGE
103
107
112
II4
114
122
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128
129
332
134
135
139
146
152
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158
163
165
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172
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187
190
197
200
202
204
208
214
218
232
226
229
233
234
237Letter to

Contents.

Madame la Baronne de Maistre .. ..
to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne

to Madame la Baronne de Maistre .. ..

to the Same

to the Prince de Wobenihe:!
to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne

°

oe ee ee

ee ee

to Madame la Baronne de Maistre .. ..

to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne

ee

to Mdlle. Antoinette de Boisset .. .. oe
to Madame la Baronne de Maistre...

to Mdll
t

o

e. Euphrasie Mathieu
Mdlle. Louise de Bayne ..

to Mdlle. Antoinette de Boisset .. ..
to Madame la Baronne de Maistre... ..
to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne ..

to the Same

to Madame la Baronne a Maes yest tw’

to the Same
to the Same
to the Same
to the Same
to the Same

—

to Mdlle. irene Gonna re

to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne ..
to Madame la Baronne de Maistre

to Mdlle.
t

i)

Antoinette de Boisset ..
Madame la Baronne de Maistre

to M. le Baron Almaury de Maistre

to Madame de Sainte-Marie

to the Same
t¢

\/

Madame la Sache ‘ds hie oatre

to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne -.
to Madame la Baronne de Maistre

tc
to the Same

/

M. Hippolyte de la Morvonnais  ..

to M. le Baron A. de ‘Seahiere oll ta 2

to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne
Madame la Baronne de Maistre

tc

o the Same

oe ce

 
  
  
 
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

tAGE
242
243
246
250
252
253
257
258
261
263
267
268
272
274

281Vil

9?
39

29

Contents.

Letter to Madame Ja Baronne de Maistre

to M. Hippolyte de la Morvonnais .. «.
to Madame la Baronne de Maistre

to M. H. de la Morvonnais

to Wide Guernn ~...° 4. sa ee
to Widlile. Marie de Guerim i... si us
to M.H. de la Morvonnais ..

to M. de Guérin ok,

to Mddle. Louise de Bayne ..

to M. H. de la Morvonnais ..

to M. de Guérin ,

to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne ..

to M. de Guérin

to the Same we oN

to M. H. de la Morvonnais ..

to Mdlle. Marie de Guérin .

to M. H. de la Morvonnais . ;

to Mdlle. Antoinette de Boisset ..

to Mdlle. Louise de Bayne ..

to M. H. de la Morvonnais .

to the Same

to the Same oe =

to Madame d’Assier de Tanus

to Mdlle. Antoinette de Boisset .

to M. Paul Quemper

to the Same Konia Re

to M. H. de la Morvonnais ..

to the Same ee te a

ted. Paul Quempers io. oo ak

to Mdlle. Antoinette de Boisset ..

to the Same ..

to M. de Guérin i

tothe Same . ee ae ay

co. the Same .. 2;

to the Same ene

to Mdlle. Antoinette de Boisset

to the Same

to the SameLEL LEAS OF

EFUCENIE DE GCUEEI

To Mp.iier. LovuIsE DE BAYNE, Chateau de Rayssac (Tarn).

Cayla, 12% July, 1831.
=#|OU think me now very far away from you, my
PA, dear friend, and yet I have never left you.
I am still in your room,—at the swing,—
at the church; in short, you would see me

 

constantly, if thought could be seen. Mine travels very
nimbly ; in less than a moment there it is on your
mountains which it enjoys so much. It will end by
taking root there. Really and truly, you'll come across
me some day, planted among your woods. Meanwhile,
here I am in those of Cayla, which also are far from dis-
tasteful to me. My journeys are all over,.except those to
Cahuzac ; indeed, I could not take any which would not
seem tedious after the one which afforded me so much

amusement. Why is Rayssac so far off? Why are you
B2 Letters of

twelve leagues from me? Why should what one loves
be so distant, and what one loves not, always too near?
It is because nothing in the world goes quite as one
would have it. Happiness and unhappiness, pain and
pleasure, walk hand-in-hand. After the greeting comes
the farewell; that sad farewell, which one has to say to
everything: first of all to one’s doll, then to one’s eighteen
years, then to this, then to that; but the saddest of all is
the farewell of departure, especially to a kind, tender
friend like you. My dear Louise, it cost me so much
to leave you that I have half a mind not to see you
again.

I went away very sadly after your last hand-clasp,
turning my head round in your direction from time to
time; but I could see nothing but the white walls of the
castle, which soon vanished, then the trees, then the
mountains, then everything. .... There I was at Ville-
franche, where at least I still had Fingal and Criquet:*
the latter was very affectionate ; he came and sat himself
on my knee. I caressed him, gave him his supper, and,
after a parting kiss, off he set, with a remembrance of me
on his neck and in his heart, too, I believe. ...-.

I don’t know why I have not told you before this that
Maurice is here. JI am the happiest person in the world
just now. He came last Monday, just a week after I
left Rayssac. We had been somewhat uneasy about him,
but now we have him near us and always with us. How-
ever, he means to leave us, and that to go and see you.
I say “ Yes” and “No,” when he talks of it to me, but

* A horse and dog belonging to Rayssac.Eugénie de Guérin. 3

at ‘last it will be “ Yes,” for I ought to prefer his pleasure
to my own. As he is only just arrived, he will not be
going off at once, and, besides, before then he has to
see grandmamma, great-aunts, great-uncles, and second
cousins. To-morrow is the arrival of the mail—after
the traveller a most welcome event: a store of books,
prose, verses, that one rifles as a thief does a strong
box. I know there is a share of the treasure for me,
and for Marie too. Just now Cayla is in high force:
everything laughs, sings ; even certain fowls, who, without
knowing it, sing their death-song, To the spit, to the spit!

I found Albi in commotion as to the choice of a
deputy. Nothing else was spoken of, not even by

 

Madame , who prefers discussing dress to politics ; but
in truth this subject comes home to the heart more than a
bonnet. In Paris they turn it into a jest; they laugh at
Philippe, but fear everything besides. Hence the deputy
for does not attend the Chambers for fear of the
windows, and waits to set out till the season when they
will be kept closed—the month of November... . .

I have been here now six days without finding any
messenger for Gaillac. At length the good muleteer of
last year informs me that he sets off to-morrow, and in-
stantly I take up my pen-cutter and the large paper you
told me to use. Here I am in my little room, téte-a-
téte with a pen, or rather with you, for a pen is only
a conversation. Will you answer me soon? After the
pleasure of seeing comes that of reading you, because
it brings you back to sight; therefore turn yourself into
note-paper until you can come and see me at Cayla in a
Ba4 Letters of

more satisfactory way. I have informed Marie that you
are to be with us this summer. Judge of her delight, she
who has not seen you for more than a year. She calls
out, ‘Come! come!” with all her might ; nor is she the
only one. Papa is not the last to congratulate himself
on this delight, and you must receive for you and yours
the homage and tender messages that he hopes soon
to offer you in person, accompanied by Maurice. As to
Marie, I don’t know whether she will set out just yet, in
spite of her desire to come and explore your mountains.
Not, though, that she is afraid of the roads. I praised
them as they deserved. I defend and shall defend them
against all attacks whatever. In short, I shall puff them
up to such a degree that the whole Cayla party will go
to Rayssac with more pleasure than to Paris.

I got up the day before yesterday at six o'clock to
make an expedition that was not so amusing as going to
see you. I went off to M. Bories, and it was high time,
after running about the world for two months. Accord-
ingly, my soul was less satisfied than my heart, which you
had used so well; but now it feels all mght again, for
it has what it requires. People may, if they like, say
that I am fond of the world; but they are wrong. It is not
there that I find happmess. I have told you so already.
I must have something besides excitement, amusements,
even a friend: I must have my God, and, as He 1s not to
be found in the world, I should never enjoy myself there
long. Adieu, dear Louise! you will tolerate these reflec-

tions of mine; I know that they do not displease you.Liugénie de Guérin.

To MDLLE. MARIE DE GUERIN, Cayla.

Rayssac, Tuesday, 5th September, 1831.
Already a week that I am far, very far, from thee, my
dear one; but I am so loved and welcomed that one
would be consoled for having come from the ends of the
earth. Louise and her sisters are most charming friends,
combining much attention and care with an absence
of all formality, which makes one perfectly at home with
them. But for all that, I think daily of leaving, only I
say nothing about it; they expect us to stay for some
time. Louise said to me yesterday, “‘I feel as if we
ought always to have you.” “And my Cayla, do you
suppose I could forget it?” Ihave been there very often
since I came here. Who knows what Mimi may be
about at this moment that I am writing to her? I wish
she could see me in my little room, with a bookcase
before me, and a mirror that I do not look into. I see
nothing but my inkstand. The weather is charming ; we
shall take advantage of it to go and visit the invalid,
who wishes to see me before she enters heaven, .
Pulchérie is quite inclined to come to Gaillac, but she
does not tell me when. Louise wishes it were to-morrow,
and so doI. Ishould rejoice to see her at Cayla, and
to return her a little of what she pours on me in such
full measure—kindness, affection, all that the heart can
give. We are always together, she and I: at dinner my
place is beside her. Sitting or standing, ’tis like the nght
arm and the left; but we are far away at night. I don’t6 Letters of

sleep in that bed so convenient for chatting. I have been
placed beside Maurice, in the most awful room in the
Castle, in that bed of fears that I told thee of. It is
there I sleep, and not without some fear. I do hear the
wolves sometimes, but only under my windows. One
of these last nights there was a terrific uproar; dogs and
wolves were waging war, as is everywhere the case just
now. M. de Frégeville told M. de Bayne yesterday
that they have had regular fights at Montpellier every
evening for a week past. Here they fight a little in the
public house, but it’s the wine that does it. I think our
country is the best of all; neither opinions nor wine
quarrel.

We are still fasting as to milk; all the cows are or
have been sick. ‘To-morrow the sixth is to be thrown to
the wolves. Sheep, horses, pigs, all are affected. J am
afraid of this murrain coming down to us. ‘They say
the cholera is at Toulouse. Very possibly; I am not
afraid with my medal. They have no medals here; if I
can get any at Albi I shall send them some.

I am going to breakfast, then to mass, this evening to
take a walk, and then I shall relate my day to thee.
Days pass here as sweetly as at Cayla. Our evenings
are very lively, and are kept up till midnight. We have
an encounter of wits, little battles with Maurice about
Victor Hugo and Lucretia.* Leontine is his sharpest as-
sailant: I call her the bee. Maurice is sometimes charming
on the battle-field:

* Lucretia Maria Davidson, a young American poetess, who died
in 1825, at the age of seventeen.

  
   
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
   

  

ee sn ease

ENRON emaiLugénie de Guerin. 7

- +... Tam just come, my dear, from the church,
whither we went, after our walk, to pray to the good
God for the living and the dead. It is thither we always
go to end the day, according to the custom of the moun-
taineers. The church is as full here in the evenings as
at Andillac on a Sunday, and everybody prays with a
truly delightful devotion; there are even simple women
as well versed in contemplation as Fathers of the Church,
who can repeat you any number of prayers without
knowing how to read.

Paul expects me at Rondille ; Lili,* too, is looking for
me; but you will easily understand that I cannot go
everywhere. Jam too anxious to get back to my Cayla
to find pleasure elsewhere. The poor Lili! If there
were any way of getting to Albi from hence, I should be
delighted to give her a few days; but ’tis impossible.
The horses come for me here. It is cold enough to-day
to numb one’s fingers, which rather interferes with our
outdoor enjoyments,

It is very reluctantly that I have refused the little
goat: she is a darling. Louise had been feeding her
with bread, and paying her a daily visit; now she has to
be weaned from all these indulgences, since no longer
destined to be ours. Adieu, my very dear one! I follow
thee about in thought, and long to do so in reality. Now
let me embrace Papa.

This, dear Papa, if you will allow it, is to serve as a
reply to your letter. I shall tell you nothing fresh, I

* Mdlle. Louise Mathieu, of Albi, a cousin of Eugénie’s, who
died in 1838.8 Letters of

have given Mimi all my news, and her letter is for all,
being long enough for everybody to take a share. Your
part is that where I say how much I long to see you all
again, which I repeat to make you thoroughly believe it.
If I were to heed Louise, I should spend my life kere,
and I would heed her if you were here; but so far! so
firt..*..., Lt: mean to return s00n. We often talk of
you with Louise; she tells me she is very fond of you.
As for me, I have no need to tell you so, but I greatly
need to see you again.

Maurice is just now busy surveying the mountain
with Charles and M. Carayon. ‘They are all three good
boys. Ours is not the richest, but he is the one who
gives the most. Everything here has something of his,
even the crickets.* One of his poems has been set tc
music by M. Carayon.

To M. MAURICE DE GUERIN, Paris.

Cayla, 944 Movenber, 1831.
How long time is when one is sad! Is it three
years or.three days since you went away, my dear
Maurice? As for me, I really can’t tell; all I know is
that Iam wearying to death. Positively this is the first
moment I take any pleasure in since your departure, and
this will be a very short one. Jules is in a hurry to leave

us for Paris. And so, my dear, this word or two will

* See in the works of Maurice de Guérin some pretty lines
addressed to the ‘‘ Cricket of the Rayssac hearth.”Lugeénte de Guérin. 9
follow you without your knowledge, as I have sometimes
gone behind you very quietly to catch you unawares.
But, good heaven! how far you are from us by this time !
There you go on rolling, ever further and further away,
and here have I to follow you without very well knowing
what road I am taking. I am afraid of your being upset,
and recommend you to the “ttle cross. I have great
confidence in its preserving you from every evil chance.
Be as devout to it as you promised me, and I shall be at
ease. JI am over head and ears in household matters,
but I left everything to take its chance that I might come
and have a word with thee in thy little room, where
I discover all sorts of memorials of thee, without counting
thy waistcoat and shoes. If thou wert dead they would
all turn to relics for me, but heaven preserve me from
such devotion,

I shall go to Cahuzac on Monday, to see the fair and
other things; the following Monday I depend upon
having tidings of you, if indeed you did leave Toulouse
the day before yesterday. Nothing has happened since
Sunday that deserves to be recalled. Rain, mud, wind,
that is all. I was forgetting a fowl

 

and to-day sunshine
that Wolf slaughtered, which procured him some cuts of
the whip that made him cry for mercy; I do believe
he was calling upon you. The poor fellow had good
reason to invoke his knight errant, for no one took his
part. Trilby* kisses and licks your hand. As for me, I
devour you. Good bye.

My influenza seems inclined to leave me, but does not

* A favourite dog at Cayla.10 Letters of

leave the house ; the herdsman has it as well as Maritorne.
People are dying of it at Franseilles; this is indeed
having death at our heels. But is it not always before
us, behind us, everywhere in short? Yesterday, at
Andillac, a little child went to heaven. If I were a
little child I should like to follow it, but when one gets
old, if one could help it, one would never die. Then
it is that the threads that once attached us to earth
become cables.

Papa sends thee ro francs as his subscription to the
‘European Review.’ For me, I send thee nothing but a
couple of hugs. I have no time to reply to my cousin
to-day. Give her my love. Adieu.

 

TO THE SAME.
Cayla, 24¢2 November, 1831.

Here we are then, back again at letters, my dear
Maurice. It is by no means what I would wish, but
I content myself with them since I cannot have you.
A charming prophetess has just been predicting that
before long I shall be consoled for your absence. It
she thinks I shall forget you she is a false prophet.
What, then, can she mean? ‘That you will return? But
that return is so far off. That you will write to me?
Trué, this consoles, but not quite. I have it, I have it ;
yes, you will write to me, but the letters will be printed,
gilt, bound.. There you are an author made rich by
fame, and there I am in Paris. That is the very thingLugénie de Guérin. iz
she meant to say; she knows what I wish, the venerable
little witch, and she could not mean to foretell me mis-
fortune. I accept the augury, which, besides, your letter
has just confirmed. At length you are launched in your
course, far, far from that Code which weighed you down
hke Mount Atlas, Papa is satisfied with your deter-
mination,

To-day we have seen M. Bories, who is going to sub-
scribe with Papa to the ‘Courrier de l'Europe.’ I am
longing to see thee in it. This will compensate us for
‘L’Avenir,’ but we shall make haste to take that again
as soon as it reappears, for no one doubts that our
pilgrim will soon return blessed and triumphant. It is
a measure indeed which cannot fail to have happy results,
be they what they may. Ifthe Pope approve, ‘ L’Avenir’
is thenceforth on a pinnacle; if he condemn, a thing
impossible (they say), Lamennais’ defeat will be a tnumph
for him as it was for Fénelon, for who can doubt that he
will submit. The Gaillac Abbés who had given you some
subscriptions are quite disconcerted; I suppose they have
written to you. Let them have the ‘ Courrier de l'Europe.’
If your articles should give you a nght.to send it to us as
well, it would be no bad thing to do. At present it is I
who am the reader ; every eyening we have readings aloud;
I work, I read, I write to some one, and the day is gone.
I was a good deal alone last week ; Erembert* was at
Lacage, and Papa here, there, and everywhere, as is his
way, you know, in fine weather. We had spring for four
days. The evenings were delicious, but I did not care

* yembert de Guérin, elder brother of Maurice and Eugenie.i Letters of

to go out to enjoy them all alone. I spent them in my
own room, my elbows resting on the window, and my chin
on my hands, and so I gazed and thought and regretted.
Just think of my finding myself alone with Trilby, the
only creature who came to smile at me, consequently
the little dog got many a caress. Gazelle has some idea
of taking to me, but it comes and goes like a caprice.
I am fonder of her, however, than she knows, on account
of the good milk she gives us.

My thoughts often go round the world in a second
of time. If legs could follow them, you know very well
where I should be. Indeed I often am beside your fire,
blowing and raking and sending you a spark or two in
case you should be too grave. I always fancy that your
chimney corners are somewhat like ours, and that you
recover your home feeling at my cousin’s.* At least
what you tell me of his wife makes me think so. Tell
me if that sweet face has not the calm expression that
I attribute to it, something in the style of Léontine.t

I have had a charming letter from

 

; she speaks to
me of Lucretia. That name she says will not soon escape
her. ‘‘ Whenever we are inclined to be dull Lucretia is
there to restore our cheerfulness. I own that in the place
of M. M. I should prefer to be an enthusiast about the
living rather than the dead; but it shows us that he does
not overlook merit.” Then she speaks of your future,

* M. Auguste Reynaud, Professor, and later Rector, at the Bour-
bon College, of whom mention is frequently made in Maurice de
Guérin’s correspondence.
t+ Mdlle. Léontine de Bayne, sister of Louise.Lugénie de Guerin. 12

and that after praises that you would not treat more
graciously than those of the Abbé, which is the reason
I do not repeat them to you. She adds, “ He will be
happy.” ‘Take the words as you will; I leave it to you to
comment on them, and above all to fulfil, for it depends
in part upon yourself to be happy. Not indeed with a
happiness that has no foothold on earth, which you
would, I believe, like, but with the happiness made for
man, that little portion of felicity which God gives him
nere below.

There is one part of your letter which has much edified
me. It is well to say to each other—Let us pray, pray.
Yes, I have prayed, poor little ant that I am; I have
prayed very heartily for our pilgrims’ prosperous journey.
God grant that they may return content !

I have no incident to tell you of; only politics still
keep stirring like the spinning-wheels in the village
evenings; those women spin politics capitally. Poor
Romiguitres is in for a quota of ten francs; he or his
asses. If all in France pay as much, that would go far
to comfort him. We are expecting Charles next week
with Armand. What do you wish me to send for you
to Rayssac. But you ought to write to M. de Bayne.
Console the poor man; that intelligence must have grieved
him, Mimi has written to me; she remains till New
Year’s Day at Toulouse. I fancy that Jules has arrived ;
certainly he must open very wide eyes in that great Paris.
My influenza has left me. This immense letter nto
you that one of these days I shall write to my cousin; I
should be very sorry that correspondence fell asleep14 Letters of

They say the cholera is in England. I could almost wish
it at Paris, to have you three coming here. Leave at
once if it approaches ; tell my cousin this from me, but 1
hope to see you here under better auspices.

To THE SAME.

22nd Fanuary, 1832.

It is Sunday, the day ofrest ; accordingly the only noise
I hear is that made by my pen on my paper. I am
thinking of you; you are not so quiet in your great
Paris, except in your own little room where you recover
Cayla beautified. Yesterday, when I saw the great oak
of Zéoulet, covered with hoar-frost, I thought of Maurice’s
great fir. Nothing prettier than these trees in their
winter dress, but long live that of summer all the same!
When one has nothing to see but trees, one would rather
have them green than white. For you who see so many
things, a little snow goes for nothing; for us here ’tis a
great event, was so especially when I used to make snow-
balls, but for some time back that has been a lost delight.
Winter gives me none now, except the gentle warmth of
the chimney corner’; ’tis the pleasure of the old. What
a distance between the doll and the tongs! And I’ve got
to these last. Next will come spectacles, a stick, loss of
teeth ; sad new year’s gifts these, for after all the years do
bestow them ; and hence, since time has left off bringing
me anything sweet, I would gladly send packing this first
day of the year like a bore who returns too often. As

*Lugénie de Guerin. 15

you say, it is strange that one should be so gay at this
time. That children should is natural enough, they come
in for donbons; but we... . Even if I could some
times give new year’s gifts to my taste. ....

I have had one welcome gift at all events, your letter,
None ever gave me more delight than this. Just when
I was picturing you more than ever wandering and
straying in the realm of the void, you inform me that,
shut up in your own room, you are bending yourself to
regular work ; why, what an advance you have made
in this, my dear friend! Frankly, I did not expect so
rapid a conversion. May God maintain it! Did I not
always tell you that will was power? You have willed,
and you have been able, been able even to resume the
Code. Iam much pleased with you and your courage.
Are not you well rewarded for your first effort by seeing
its result? ‘I can now intrepidly encounter the day.”
These are the very words you have kept me waiting for
so long, which I have preached about so often. Nothing
has given me so much pain as to see you on such bad terms
with life. You will find how far sweeter it is when one
knows how to manage it. Order in your thoughts is for
you the beginning of happiness ; little by little everything
will shape, harmonise, and arrange itself in your existence,
you will resemble our clock, which strikes very well in
fine weather. Long may it last, this fine weather that
shines on you now; and when the frost of discourage-
ment threatens to attack you, attack it as you have
already done. He who can give one blow can give ten,
can give a thousand. I can easily believe that those16 Letters of

fits of depression which come over you at times must
be terrible conflicts. If only I could cure or help you!

... Thomas 2 Kempis has one very true saying:
Often the fire burns, but its flame does not rise without
smoke. This is certain ; there does not arise in us a single
good thought, or good intention, which is not soon
mingled with a little smoke, a little human weakness.
But the good God blows upon it and it all goes
away.

We have had some days of cold that made the little
birds cry out. This, however, is less sad than to hear the
poor cry ; I can well believe that they spoil the pleasure of
your fireside, but it is a pleasure to me to find that they
do pain you. If ever I came to knock at your door, you
would not, I see, cldse it against me. You would very
often hear a va¢-fat at that door if it were not so far off.
For instance, I should forthwith have come to embrace
you on seeing you so wise, studious, and retired. You
make upon me the effect of one of the Fathers of the
Church, meditating in your tranquil cell on the Bible and
religious philosophy, though I doubt that any of the
former were as comfortably lodged. Really it’s a charm-
ing abode! I can understand your making pretty verses
there, arranging the embers the while. I am sure there
are verses everywhere about, on the tables, chairs, mantel-
piece, and here I am without any! At least tell me
what you are doing. Whereabouts is your drama? I
should be delighted with that ‘Peter the Hermit.’ You
wanted, I fancied, to present something to Lamartine ; if

you take my advice, you will. I am sure he would receiveLiugénte de Guérin. 7

you like an angel from whom you requested kindness
and encouragement.

I sent what you told me to Rayssac. No doubt of the
‘Blessed Nicholas’* being welcome. Who does not love
the ‘Lives of the Saints’? Icannot give you the ex-
planations you ask me for; how would you have me set
about obtaining them? Only in a Zéte-d-téte could I ask
anything of the kind; ever in a letter, question and
answer both would be too indiscreet. Meanwhile, con-
tent yourself, my dear, with the chiar oscuro, As for that,
Louise has not written to me since the great long letter ;
I sent you in my last a few lines which ought to satisfy you.
Charles made a great stir in this neighbourhood, os
in the city of goss7p.: ’twas for this, ’twas for that he had
come to Cayla. I was asked about his age and ‘a for-
tune. I could hear people saying at the low mass,
“Too young for her ;” and she was thinking the while,
“What have you to do with it?” But they have to do
with many things besides, from our clogs to our con-
science, at that sagacious tribunal; they know everything,
thoughts, words, actions, omissions, everything in short
except how vexatious such curiosity is. I am for liberty
of the press, but not for that of tongues. ‘There should
be a seizure made of some of these last about here

Really you are leading the most charming life in the
world. Our amusements are not much like yours, One
of these past days, when it was exceedingly cold, Mimt

Article on the ‘Blessed Nicholas de Flue,’ by Maurice de Guerin,
in the ‘European Review.’
Cc18 Letters of

and I went to take a walk in the woods and pay a visit
to the crows; but though very well clothed and well
hooded, the cold was too much for us, and fortunately
we fell in with a fire made by some young shepherds, who
very graciously gave us up the place of honour, a stone
larger than the rest, in front of the fire. These children
told us all they knew: one had just been eating some /7),
the other had fresh eggs at home laid by a yellow hen ;
and from time to time they threw a few handfuls of
brouquilels* into the blaze with a look of such satisfaction
that there is no king but would have sgid, “ Why am
I not one of you?” If I knew how to write verses I
should sing the ‘ Shepherds’ Fire.’

You would never guess what work I got for a New
Year's gift ; it was an author who did not, I believe, write
to be read by women—accordingly I shall not read him
—'tis Montaigne. ‘Tell me if the ‘Love of God,’ by
Count Stolberg, is a very expensive book. I should

like to have it.

To MbLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
2nd January, 1833.
What a New Year’s gift I should have bestowed. upon
myself yesterday morning, my very dear one, if I could
on rising have thrown my arms around your neck, wished
you a happy new year, told you that I loved you at the

* Little branches.Lugénie de Guérin. 19

beginning and end of every year, and put up for you
prayers without number! I should have been too happy.
What a sweet New Year's Day for me who am dying to
see you! I had hardly opened my eyes and made the
sign of the cross on waking, when your image came to me
on my pillow to tell me that you, too, were thinking of
me at the same moment, and that, if we could not see
each other, still our prayers and good wishes met on
the way to heaven. Yes, my dear, I prayed for you first
of all on waking, and then at mass, in the memento of the
living, at that place where God permits our thoughts and
our hearts to redescend for a moment to earth, to take
up the wants of those we love. I rank you among my
family ; and so I asked the good God to bestow on you
all that J wish for those I love best in the world: health,
peace of heart, head, spirit,—and finally, whatever you
require for your own happiness and that of all belonging
to you.

Do you know that you, by your silence, are making
me begin the New Year sadly? Not one word, not
a sign of life! I begin to fear that winter has frozen up
Rayssac, At first I accused the charcoal-makers, Gosse,
every one but you; and now I know not what to think,
I pray you write to me at once; take off this little icicle
that your silence has laid upon my heart. If it be indo-
lence which keeps you mute, surmount it; if forgetful-
ness, do not forget me, I have not deserved it. Perhaps
you suppose that I have received some of your letters
since I wrote last—not a single one, my dear. I ask; I
C 220 | Letters of

institute a search. No one has seen anything. Who
knows into what hands these dear tokens from my dear
Louise may fall! “ Poor letters of Louise! who can tell
where you are imprisoned? How I regret to see you
turned into rolls of paper for groceries, or food for rats!
What a pity! Here am [ losing all your sweet words. I
shall never know what you were bringing from her heart
to mine—-that heart that sends me such pretty messages,
tells me so much, and that has suddenly grown dumb.
Come, charming messengers! it is now that I have need
of you.”

You see, my dear, I talk to the paper. I would im-

 

plore everything—pen, inkstand, and those little fingers
which play at being dead just now; will not you take
pity on me? But, seriously, dear Louise, I am really
anxious: are you in bed, or from home? I do not
believe in your forgetfulness, but you might be ill. I
think of your teeth, your ears that made you suffer so
much, and I am sad. To believe you ill and weary, as
you must be of this dull winter season, afflicts, torments
me.

The first sunny day I set out for Gaillac; that is
decided. I must go and have the Toulouse gown made ;
I would much rather come and give you a hug. How
glad, happy, enchanted I am! I have just read one of
your letters. Thanks, dear friend, for the pleasure you
have given me, for your tenderness, your love for me.
ht of having broken

(
YO

My hand still trembles with the deli
the seal; but this little thrill of joy only speeds it theEugénie de Guérin.

faster. I wish I could send you on the wing the whole
swarm of pretty thoughts your pretty letter has occasioned
me. Just now I saw everything black ; now all is rose-
coloured. You have revived me, set me up. Your
recollection of me has had the effect of sunshine when
one is benumbed. I do not, however, the less regret

your stray letters, especially as they are full of many
é d ? / J

J

things, it seems; but I don’t despair of getting them as
soon as I can send some one to rummage Gosse’s
drawers, in which assuredly they are now sleeping.

Iam much obliged to you, my dear, for the pitcher of
water, the black bread, and the cavern. My heart is not
yet sufficiently penitent to lead me, like the Magdalen, into
the desert to weep for my sins. If you think I need it,
pray for this grace to be given me; I promise to follow
its leading, and to come and be the hermit of the grotto,
provided you sometimes come to see me there, and
promise, on your part, to guard yourself against the
wolves of the world as I against those of the desert. Do
not let us jest, my dear: recluse souls are far safer than
we in the world with the roaring lion going about us! I
think that St. Paul means by this the demon who
tempts us in such various ways, who drags us so far,
so far from heaven that we come to lose sight of it, and
God, who is good, so gracious, so perfect, to be always our.
last thought, What an inversion, my dear Louise, to give
the lowest place in our heart to Him who ought to
occupy the highest! to go over at once to the enemy,
and forsake the Friend, the Father, the Brother, the

Husband; for—Letters of

‘Under these names so dear,
Lord, thou to us draw’st near,”

as a poet says.

Will you not think it rather droll that I should so often
mount the pulpit, my dear friend? If I grow tedious,
say so; but I love you too much not to~ tell you what
you want to make you happy: it is piety. With that
the more, you would have many sorrows the less; not,
indeed, that one grows insensible, but resigned. If de-
pressed, one prays; if one regrets the world, if one’s mind
wanders off in the track of balls and amusements, one
checks it by reflecting that this is not the way that leads
to heaven. Do you know that we really are very blind,
very senseless, very stupid to occupy ourselves merely
with this world, to take root here below, and to forget
that other life, that glorious kingdom? We were talking
over this on Sunday with a gentleman, full indeed of
cleverness and dormant good feeling, but who pleads
guilty to not acting up fo his belief. These reflections
occurred to him @ fropos of a bit of the hair shirt of
Julie de Saint-Fons, which his wife had had given to
her. He said to us, while looking at the relic, ‘‘The world
at the sight of a thing lke that would call the devout
mad ; but ’tis we who are mad not to be devout.” Don’t
you think so too?

I should have set off, but for my African cousin,* who
has returned on a visit to our part of the country. Iam
not sorry to be detained; the pleasure of hearing and
questioning him will more than console me. Maurice is

* M. Philibert de Roquefeuil, of the Isle of France.Liugénie de Guérin 23

nappy as in Paradise in his La Chenaie solitude. All his
time is filled by study or prayer. For the rest, he is
leading the most easy life: a good breakfast, an excellent
dinner seasoned by a running fire of jests and witticisms.
chiefly originating with M. de Lamennais. It is thus
his genius escapes when he is not at work; from being
sublime he becomes charming. ‘There is no end to the
liveliest and raciest salies on his part; and M. Gerbert,
too, is pretty skilful in saligning. You are not the only
one. I, too, am fond of the midnight mass, but not
quite in your fashion. ‘The reason is, that I am a long
way off eight years of age. My dear child, when will you
leave off being a child? Adieu! I shall love you neither
more nor less when you do, since I love you now with all
my heart. I tenderly embrace your sisters while offering

them my New Year wishes and those of Marie.

 

To MpLur. IRENE COMPAYRE, Lisle-du-Tarn.

29th April, 1833.

Again a relapse, dear friend! Iwas on the point of
accusing you of forgetfulness, and asking whether you had
left your whole heart at Castelnaudary. But your kind
letter, this moment arrived, has scattered all the troop of
dark thoughts which were flitting across my heart like
wicked gnomes. “I will write no more to Eugénie: the
correspondence tires, bores me. What can she have to
tell me there in her woods? Accordingly, she draws
everything from her heart, and after the one word ‘love24 Letters of

there is nothing at all in her letters. I shall leave off
answering her; I am sick of that repetition.” .. .
That’s where I had got to, my dear, when your tender
strain arrived. ‘Thanks, and forgive me! I am very
penitent; here is the proof: I love you more than
ever.

But, then, why do you go and play the dumb? Iam so
fond of a speaking friendship that I should like always to
hear you. However, it is neither coldness nor forget-

 

fulness, nor being tired of me—that is a settled point—
tis only a little slumber that overtakes your heart every
now and then, and leads to your saying charming things
when it wakes up again.

You tell me nothing about your health. I see there
has been some disturbance in that particular amongst my
friends at Lisle, and I always fear for yours, which is
none of the strongest. But the journey to Castelnaudary
will have ensured you a provision of health and happi-
ness. I see you have spent your time there very agreeably,
and that everything in that neighbourhood pleases you. I
can understand your friend making everything delightful
to you, she herself is so delightful! I take great interest
in her well-doing and that of her family. What do they
call the little stranger? Not Yves, I hope: a pretty thing
should havea pretty name. Poor Augustine must be very
sad at seeing M. de Gélis ill ‘and being herself unable to
go to her sister and her little angel, who must be so pretty
in all those embroideries she worked, and would take
such pleasure in seeing him wear. Tell that dear, good

Augustine that I do pity her, and will, with all my heart,Leugénie de Guerin.

   

25

say one of those Pavers she is so fond of, in order that the

good God may cure her Papa, and soon grant her the

pleasure of embracing her little nephew.

Are there any tidings of M. Henri?

We were told

that he was in India. A distant return that to look

to! How many things we have in the distance, and

always what most we desire! But for the thought of

Providence, one would say that the world went all wrong;

but it is rather we who do not see right.

We complain,

we get frightened, just as though God were not there.

Never let us forget that it is He himself, and not man,

who guides us, else there would indeed be reason to

despair, and to set out, ike Columbus, in search of a new

world,

We have got the newspapers again, and they tell us no

more than you about our poor Princess.

My God! when

shall we see her away from there? I tremble lest she

should only leave to go to heaven. Fora long while back

the Bourbons die martyrs. I daily repeat the prayer that

Antoinette sent me, and think it very beautiful, especially

the psalm. Let us go on praying and hoping: it is the

only thing left to us.

I wrote last night to Mdlle. Lisette, and announced

the approaching journey of M. Bories to Lisle. I have

since heard that he is gone to see his mother, who 1s

seriously ill. I much fear he will have the sorrow of

losing her: she is very old. We spoke of you a great
deal on Thursday ; the Cahuzac clergy were dining here.

M. Bories regrets that you should be angry; he wili come

and see you, and, to punish you, will tell you nothing,26 Letters of

Are you afraid of that? . Thank heaven, my dear, the
time is not come to put in practice the excellent advice
you give me. Thecanons of Saint Flour no longer distress
me,* and, in return for the alarm they caused me, I
wish them a happy and long life, ke that of Methuselah,
that they may do so no more. By the way, I have to
scold you. I don’t remember now what it was I told
you on that head in my last letter, but it was repeated
, who had already

 

to me, before M. Bories, by M.
hawked it about in all the presbyteries of the canton,
He never would tell me from whom he had it at Lisle.
It was not from you; but you read my letter to a
friend, and she passed it on to another, and so from
mouth to mouth it has found its way here. I do entreat
you, my dear, not to make my letters public property: I
should be sadly taken in. Your former /ather of Secrets
promised me he would scold you for betraying my confi-
dence. JI implore you not to do it again. Don’t read
out my communications in open conclave as though they
were newspapers. ‘They require to be read in a little
corner of their own—if rather dark, so much the better—
into which neither brothers nor neighbours, male or female,
are ever to intrude.

Adieu, my dear! I embrace you, by way of punish-
ment. Do not prevent me from telling you that I love
you. My remembrances to your sister; and, as for you,
take as best you may this packet of dztter-szweet that yout
friend sends you.

* See the following letter._

sugénie de Guerin. 24

To THE SAME.

28th Fuly, 1833.

Your little epistle, my dear friend, has given me the
greatest pleasure. I see you are always good and loving,
and remember to write to me even while undergoing an
examination. I observe with joy that the soul does not
make you neglect the heart, and that you find time
for everything. What a thing it is to know how to
employ it well !

For the rest, be sure, my dear, that the time you give
to friendship is not lost, and that it will even count
as regards heaven. ‘The minutes you devote to me are
so many alms, which enrich me with kindnesses and a
thousand excellent things. Your dissertation on pride,
for instance, impressed me like a sermon. Go on;
mount the pulpit, play the Guyon; perhaps you will at
length convert me to humility. At present, however, I
am so far from it that you will have to preach a long
time. I am so blind, say what you will, I cannot
see that I have constantly to defend myself from the
demon of vanity. Where would you have him perch,
unless it were on our oak-trees? I find nothing that can
harbour him. I know, indeed, that he has a trick of
thrusting himself in everywhere, but I also see that in
examining your conscience you lay rather too much stress
on this capital sin. I don’t think so much about it or
dread it as you do.

What are you doing in. the town at this season? I
thought you were long since at Convers. The aix of the28 Letters of

fields is so sweet, and does so much good, why not go
and inhale it? I do, indeed, pity those who have not in
summer got a little mest under the leaves. One is so happy
in it. Long live the country! If we had the church
nearer at hand I should consider our woods Paradise.
But, if one likes to think it so, this little Sunday pilgrim-
age is but another charm; it makes a variety from other
days. One meets Sunday-dressed figures on the way ;
children who have grown during the week ; one receives
adistas from every side; all which amuses and pleases.
Very often my sister and I spend the Sunday with Fran-
coise,* the most gracious person you can possibly see.
We talk of Lisle and Cahuzac ; she, who knows all the
sisters of the presbytery, has always some holy anecdote
or other to tell us of.

I am truly sorry for that poor Antoinette, so often
ailing. ‘That little frame is so delicate it seems as though
the air must injure it. I have had no tidings of her
since those you gave. You must have disturbed her very
pleasantly the other day, since she told me such pretty
things afterwards. I know I would give something to be
often disturbed the same way. Just now, for instance, I
would throw my pen a hundred feet off, and jump into
your arms! I own that in that case a little pride might
sprout in me, I should have such charming thoughts on
seeing you! But even then it would occasion me no
scruple, friendship would wash all out.

Do you know what is occupying me? five ducklings

q

that have just been hatched and a lame chicken. I take

* Mdlle. Frangoise Limer, sister of the Andillac Curé.Liugénie de Guérin. 29

pity on whatever suffers, and make much of the poor
little creatures ; one can limp about now, and will soon
get as far as the spit.

The canonry no longer alarms us. Monseigneur de
Saint-Flour has chosen a quite young grand-vicar, who
will not give up his stall fora long time to come. So
much the better for us, for Cahuzac, and the whole
country. There is no one who would not have felt the
ereatest regret at seeing M. Bories leave. Adieu, dear
friend! my sister goes halves in my thoughts and my
affections. Adieu! Love her who loves you.

 

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
Festival of St. Louis, 25¢2 August, 1833.

The Sainted King made me think of you very early
this morning, dear Louise, and after having prayed to
him on your behalf, I come to wish you a happy anni-
versary. How rejoiced I should be if you could have heard
me and received my nosegay, accompanied by a kiss on
each cheek! Instead of this bit of paper that I am sending
you, I should have gathered all your prettiest mountain-
flowers, and should have come, at the break of day, to
wake you in the midst of fragrance and fondness. How
sweet that would have been, and what a beautiful morning
this must be at Rayssac! Dear mountains, when shall I
see you? Dear friend, when shall I be beside you? Do
not ask me the question, I know nothing about it; one

can’t do all one would, as you very well know.30 Letters of

The church bell is ringing, and my spirit saddens
at the knell of a young girl for whom the whole
parish is in tears. That poor Angélique was only
eighteen, and there she is dead, in spite of her youth,
her health, her freshness. One would have given her
a hundred years of life but a fortnight ago. How
quickly Death comes! It is enough to make us meditate
upon our fragile existence. My God! it holds to so
little, and we hold to it so much! To see how we
act and think, one would say that we believed ourselves
rooted in life for centuries like the oaks. This poor
child was unable to confess, having lost the power of
speaking and hearing. ‘They could only administer ex-
treme unction, which she received with perfect con-
sciousness but great regret at dying. When she saw
the preparations for her last moments, she took to crying
and wailing so sadly that M. the Curé himSelf sobbed.
The poor man was heartbroken, especially at being
unable to make her hear a single word of consolation.
She was a good creature, however. Poor young girl! my
heart is full of her. I saw her on Sunday, and did not
think it was for the last time. Who knows where her
spirit is now? One must be so pure to go to heaven!
But the good God is full of mercy—above all, for the
simple, ignorant souls who serve him as well as they
know. It is towards those who have received instruc-
tion, grace, assistance, that He must show himself severe.
We see what we ought to do, and do it not; without
actually departing from duty, we allow ourselves to be
led away by a thousand thoughts and cares, which pre-Lugénie de Guérin. zy

occupy the mind and divert it from God and the great
idea of salvation. As Lamennais says, there is always
something pressing that we cannot postpone; and under
this pretext, without any fixed intention, merely through

the stress of the occupations we have made for ourselves,

we neglect piety, devotional reading, prayer, the indis-

pensable duties of religion ; and this life glides away, full

of projects, cares, anxieties, in oblivion of the one thing

needful,

You utter a great truth when you say that over and
above the affections of this world the heart requires some-
thing spiritual. I feel, without being very well able to say
why this 1s, there are certain things of such an intimate
nature that they cannot be externally produced, but every
one is conscious of them. The Mother Abbess who
came to see you would have been better than any other,
able to tell you what that spiritual love is of which the
heart has need, and why she left the world. How much
I should have liked to see and hear her! There is nothing
I am so fond of as these veiled figures, these mystical
souls, all made up of devotion and love of God. Do
not you feel a longing to follow her to the Convent?
Those black robes have a sort of magnetism about them
which attracts you I think. I wish much I could see that
mountain Convent. We had been told that the Superior
was a remarkable woman both in mind and appearance.
Do people imagine that there are no charms behind the
grating? You assure me of the reverse too much to
allow me to doubt it ; but, indeed, I never doubted it. I

once dined with Madame Duterrail, wno gave me when

  
  
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
    

a42 Letters of

very young the highest idea of the conventual intel-
lect.

I know nothing of Gabrielle since I wrote to her more
than a fortnight ago. Marie will probably go and see her
soon ; I shall then be alone, and shall come and find you
in the little room, not being able to do so in any other
way. I did not tell Henriette that I should not go to
you, only that as yet it was impossible, because so long
as our farming operations last we can’t take a servant
away. It was only the day before yesterday that we
finished our threshing ; now they are beating aniseed, and
there are always a thousand things to occupy our people.
Soon all will be finished. It is through no want of will
that I am not already on the way. If you knew, my
dear, the pleasure, the happiness I find in being with you,

gyou would pity, instead of being angry with me.

We are expecting tidings from Brittany with great
impatience, some day I wili tell you why. We have
neither newspapers nor news of any kind, and the world
wags without our knowing how. MHave you heard any-
thing of the Duchess? It is strange that since her
arrival one should be just where one was as far as she is
concerned. When will this be cleared up? We live in
a time of strange occurrences.

Adieu, dear friend ! I had not intended to stop so soon,
but Erembert is just setting out for Cordes, where he will
meet with an opportunity of sending to Albi; and I must

* Well known in the south as having gathered together at Toulouse,
under the rule of the blessed Jeanne de Lestonnac, the nuns dispersed
by the first Revolution, and having founded several convents.Lugénie de Guérin. 33

not lose it, 1 find so few. Adieu, very dear and loved
one! may Saint Louis protect you, and take you with
him to heaven! Ihave prayed much to him both for you
and France, that has such need of saints. I do not forget

your sisters ; assure them of our remembrance.

To THE SAME,

23rd December, 1833.

I write to you, dear Louise, to the sound of the WVada-
Zet, to the merry peal of bells, announcing the sweetest
festival of the year. It is, indeed, very beautiful, this
midnight celebration, this memorial of the manger, the
angels, the shepherds, of Mary and the infant Jesus, of so
many mysteries of love accomplished in this marvellous
night. I shall go to the midnight mass, not in the hope
of a pie, coffee, and such a pleasant dish as your noc-
turnal cavalier; nothing of the kind is to be found at
Cahuzac, where I only enjoy celestial pleasures, such as
one experiences in praying to the good God, hearing
beautiful sermons, gentle lessons, and, in a quiet corner
of the church, giving oneself up to rapturous emotion.
Happy moments, when one no longer belongs to earth,
when one lets heart, soul, mind, wing their way to
heaven! Oh, how much better this than the amusements
of a party! Do you believe that Emile* would change
her moments of ecstacy for all the delights of the world?

* Mdlle. Emilie Vialar, granddaughter of Doctor Portal, Court
Physician, foundress of the Sisterhood of Saint Joseph in Africa,

D34 Letters of

Papa came from Gaillac the day -before yesterday,
bringing your letter to Marie. ‘Thanks in her name and
mine; for I have my share in whatever comes to her,
especially of this kind. This dear recovered letter com-
pletes the series of five that I have received since your
change of office. This has been a fortunate thing for us,
for me at least, to whom all your kind thoughts arrive one
after the other, like a flight of birds, into their nest. It is

because they know their home is here.

St. Fohn’s Day.

L left you rather suddenly the other day, for I know
not what occupation ; but this I know, it must have been
pressing, since it caused me to break off our pleasant
chat, which Saint John sees renewed to-day. He is one
of Papa’s patron saints, and, by way of a festival, ] mean
to write to you.

This morning at sunrise we were in the Andillac road,
on our way to hear the Mass of the Holy Evangelist for
our holy Papa; I think I may safely call him so, and say
to myself that both Louise and I shall have a father in
heaven. Do you remember that saying of M. Guyon’s,
“ He will go straight as a taper to heaven” ? ‘That taper
made a great impression upon me, and I look upon it as
a bull of canonisation. Yesterday M. Bories said, in
speaking of M. de Bayne, “ He is a man whose faith
is firm as a rock, IJ am not surprised that he should say
the Pope is right.” We were speaking of M. de Lamen-
nais, and M. de Bayne came next, like one page after the
other. We are, like him, entirely upon the side of Rome.Lugénie de Guérin. 35

All the world is questioning us as if we knew what was
doing and to be done, and most certainly all the world is
equally wise, the newspapers having given publicity to
these affairs. I was at Madame de C

 

’s one evening
when all this was warmly discussed, in consequence of
an article in the ‘Gazette. No sooner had it been
read than one heard on all sides, “‘ What will M. de Bayne
say now?’—“ Gentlemen, he will say whatever Rome
says.” —“ What will your brother do ?—where is he?” I
knew nothing about it then, nor do I now, and I find this
uncertainty no small distress. All we do know is that he
is no longer at La Chénaie ; he wrote to us from the house
of M. de La Morvonnais, one of his Bréton friends, that
he should be setting out soon either for Paris or Cayla.
Since then I take every rider that I see for Maurice, and
my heart begins beating, but not entirely with pleasure.
You can perfectly understand this, dear friend, and how
grieved I should be to embrace a Aeretic. God preserve
me from seeing, or even thinking this! But young men
are so easily seduced by whatever is brilliant and novel ;
and then, how escape the powerful attractive influence of
M. de Lamennais when one sees and hears him? May
God deign to open his eyes, and give him the virtues the
humility and obedience.

 

rebellious angel lacked

I left you with that poor brother in the musical night.*
Actually that thought occurred to me in church, and, in
spite of myself, I kept picturing Louise and her eccentric
companion; but however, my dear, you were the one
who most disturbed me, and you may without any excess

* The nocturnal cavalier of the early part of the letter.
D236 Letters of

=.

of vanity accept the preference, and believe that my mind
is not silly enough to dwell upon that thistle, for instance,
when it can have a rose. And besides, it is you I
straightway select out of a hundred thousand charming
things, as I run at once to your letters amongst a hundred
thousand writings. You should see when one is brought
me amidst a packet of others. I leave the packet and
seek out a corner to read and re-read, then I pass on to
the indifferent, to the lukewarm at most.

Marie writes to us pretty often, sometimes every week ;
I am fond of her little notes, all full of news and things in
general; but the last were very dismal, telling of three or
four most sudden deaths, that of poor Madame D——
the most distressing of all, Those two little children, that
poor heartbroken widower, fill me with pity. She died
of inflammation of the brain, after the joyous christen-
ing of a fine boy. My God! how short the duration of
the joys of this world! A poor beggar-woman died of
the same malady, leaving two children, and a husband
who swallowed poison very devoutly, making, he said, the
sign of the cross, as if about to take his soup. It was
perhaps that, which changed the poison in some way, for
it did not kill him, but afterwards he went and threw him-
himself into the water at Fédiés to drown his widowed
anguish. That widower ought to have a place given him
in the dictionary of illustrious men. He would be a good
model for husbands,

You ask me for news from the four corners of the
globe, as though I were in relations with the whole human
race; what news car yvu get from a poor recluse who- -f. a 2 Seal Pat
Liugénwe de Guerin. a5

does not inquire about the world, who hardly likes to
hear of it, and, with the exception of the affairs of her
family and her friends, takes no interest in any, no more
than in the bird that passes, or the water that runs by? I
shall seem to you very ice; yet I am not cold, not indif
ferent either, still less forgetful ; only ask me if I love you,
if I think of you, if I forget Rayssac, its kind inhabitants,
its rocks; why even Criquet has his place in my thoughts!
There can be nothing associated with you but I love it
warmly, and take infinitely more interest in it than in
politics, war, journals, news of the world, and gossip of
drawing-rooms. If in the relations of one family to
another, and in, society, there only reigned a little more
charity, or even a little indulgence, one might enjoy it,
and ligten with pleasure to what gets said; but people are
so malicious, so caustic; one flays the other with so much
skill, that all the pleasure of meeting and conversing is
spoilt by this intolerable ill-nature. What a tiresome fault
it is! Accordingly, I detest it more and more, and avoid
nothing so much as passing any one under review, for
fear of that pleasure of criticism, so easy, SO attractive,
so racy, and so cruel. Witticisms are fire-arms, that
make a noise and give pain; let us beware of them, my
dear, and use loving weapons alone ; those are mine, the
only ones I like, and which do no one harm. I must be
bent upon amusing you, my dear hermit, to go on chattering
thus, putting down whatever comes under my pen; but
we have long been upon easy terms, and with you I make

no effort of any kind.
What do you do with your long evenings? I should38 Letters of

better know if you were in the world. .You read, I sup-
pose, as we do. In the country it is with books one
converses, makes for oneself a society of dead and
living, which returns each evening at the same hour
with the fascination of new minds and new faces. I am
very fond of this variety in every page; just now we are
with the English, admirably painted by Dr. Lingard.
History is to my thinking the most interesting and in-
structive of all reading, because if makes us reflect so
much on this world and the other, and leads thought up
from men to God who governs them.

Since I have returned from Gaillac I know nothing of
Lisle ; Irtne has not written to me for an gge. She is idle
like myself, I suppose, and I excuse her. A pen is some-
times a very heavy thing, which you would not find out
from this of mine that trots over the paper at such length.
The fact is, that it fancies itself on the way to the
mountain, and Heaven knows if it be not prompt and
light when it sets off for your country. My dear Louise,
good bye; tell me of the midnight mass, and everything
you do. It is thus that hermits used sometimes to write
from their cells, and send each other news of the Desert,
just adding a few edifying words to sanctify the act.
But at this moment I have nothing very holy to say to
you; in thought I am yours only ; if I look up to the sky,
I see it dull and rainy. JI have a touch of influenza; the
will of God be done!vr ,

Liugénie de Guerin. 39

To THE SAME,

Albi, 1542 March, 1834.

I find myself alone for a moment, and in order to
spend it pleasantly come to join you, dear Louise, in the
little study. And yet I am not really alone there.
Together with your image a charming child is with me,
the sweet pretty little Marie, who follows me everywhere,
playing with her doll at this very time by my side, but so
quietly that I have to turn round to make sure of her
being there. I have just been arranging a vedic for her—
four or five flowers placed between a bit of glass and of
paper. How happy one is at that age! She was radiant
with her relic. Now that I have pleased Marie, I please
myself, and am as happy as she in looking at a paper all
filled with relics of friendship which came to me the other
day from you. But ’tis a short-lived joy, for you write to
me no longer ; fairs, markets, mountaineers, all these pass
and bring me nothing from you. Neither do I get a
word from Cayla, and so find myself in a famine of news
which depresses me, and I lose all the pleasure I might
have had with these kind relatives in thinking of those I
do not see. Why am I not written to? I have only had
one letter from Marie since Iam here. No doubt there
is one on the way, ‘but oh! that it would arrive! I long
to read, to know what they are doing, and how they are.
Perhaps they on their part are waiting in the same way,
for [ have been unfortunate in my despatches; a large
packet that I thought had reached its destination a week
ago, came back to me the day before yesterday. Judge40 Letters of

whether I was not properly disappointed, I, who thought
I had Cayla news, to find nothing but my own hand.
writing !

You know that I am nearer to you here, dear Louise,
waiting for some neighbourly tokens, as for a festival.
Why then do I not hear from you? Will you come and
speak a word to me during my retreat? I ~promised
myself so much pleasure in my visit, were it only that
I should be able to chat with you from a less distance.
Let us then chat, dear Louise, look for and resume that
pen that tells me so many sweet things, so many things
that I cannot dispense with. It is like the evening
sermons ; whenever they fail me I find the time long—my
soul as empty as a supperless stomach. This is what will
be my fate to-day, a day of rest for the pulpit; but I shall
go to the chapel to hear another lecture, the recollections
of which will fill the rest of the hours.

Here we have only men who come in in the evening.
I shall not try to tell you what they say. I listen to them
very little; I knit my stockings, it is my only task in the
absence of books, or anything more absorbing.

The time I spend here is one of rest ; God grant that I
may turn it to profit, and gather for heaven while I have
not to trouble myself about earth. It will certainly be
my own fault if I be not enriched, if I do not come away
the holier for this jubilee. Instructions, prayers, humilia-
tions, rain down constantly and from all sides upon my
soul, What happiness if this could always last, if once
having entered a church one need never leave it again!
Willingly could I settle myself in a niche beside theLugéuie de Guérin. AI

statues that surround the grand choir.* It is really a great
delight to pray in these great houses of God, where it seems
that devotion grows greater. Here everything disposes
to religious thought: the sight of the walls, the pavement,
the pious worshippers; in short, my dear, one feels as
though one’s soul were at home here, and breathed her
native air, which is not that of the world, whatever may
be said. ‘The latter, at least, does not give it life.

M. Roques still goes on conflicting with the world
and its vices; but for the last week we shall have a
course of morality, in which will be something to suit us
all. JI am longing for this, for until now his discourses
have been better adapted for men than for us. One day
he preached on education, and was generally approved by
all the right-minded; the following day on marriage, less
successfully, to my thinking; ’tis a delicate subject, diffi-
cult to treat, and requiring to be dealt with otherwise than
extempore—and M. Roques always extemporises. This
proves he has a great deal of talent; one would say he
was born in the pulpit, he is so perfectly easy and natural
and graceful there. On Sunday we shall have M. Calmels
for the evening, and we shall also hear him to-morrow at
mass, as well as the Abbé de Rivieres. I take great
interest in seeing this friend of Maurice’s in the pulpit, but
shall not do so without some feeling of envy and regret.
Adieu, my dear; Marie is getting up, she wants to go

to the fire, I must follow her, ‘Tull to-morrow!

* Of the Albi Cathedral.
+ Professor of Philosophy at the Albi Seminary, and a very dix

tinguished preacher.48 Letters of

The morrow has turned out happily; news, parcels,
letters for me from all, from everywhere. How sweet
these joys are, my friend! I have spent the whole day in
thanks, tender thoughts, and writing. Marie and Papa
are well, and have each told me so. Maurice, too, sends
me good news. God be praised! here is one beautiful
evening ; here is happiness for one day, for who knows

what may befall us on the morrow ?

17th.—More happiness, dear Louise; one of your
letters, a great budget, came to greet my waking. The
sweet morning! the worthy man of the mountain, who
thought of me rather than of his breakfast! ‘Thanks, my
dear; thanks for everything, for your loving words, your
farina, your seeds. ‘They shall set out this evening
to Cayla to tell them there how good and kind you all
are. Neither shall I, you may be sure, consider my
happiness complete if I cannot jump into your arms from
here. After the holy joys of the jubilee, the sweet enjoy-
ments of friendship will set me longing a good deal.
To be so near and not to see you, to return without
coming to embrace you, is an idea that painsme. Will

you have me?

 

TO THE SAME.
Albi, AZarch, 1834.
It was a great pleasure last night on coming in to find
your letter, dear friend. I read you beside Lil’s chimney
corner, fast, very fast, because I am always in a hurry toHugénte de Guerin. 43
read you, and next because I was expected to supper at
Emuilie’s. I told her on entering that I had you in my
bag, and that there were many messages for her from you
and the Countess, which were all very cordially received.
Emilie truly loves you; she told me she would much like
to have you here, and certainly she is not the only one.
Who, indeed, does not want you? You will say to me,
“Come, and we will believe you,” but ’tis not so easy.
How can I make up my mind to leave Lili, this poor
invalid, always alone with her pains? She gets cut of
spirits whenever I go away from her, and hence I hardly
do so at all, except to go to church. Charity before all,
and the care of the sick is a charity. Be ill, and I shall
soon come. But no, keep well, and let us wait till we can
meet. Let us leave it to Providence to order events as
we wish. I desire nothing better than to see you; I shall
not raise obstacles, but one must not want what is im-
possible. Whether I stay or go I shall always be deeply
touched by your affection for me, your longing to
embrace me, which would make me set off like a shot if

: Zf and but, life’s great impediments! Dear friend,
you, too, are well acquainted with some of these amidst
your rocks. But there you are, with Pulchérie, and I am
at ease. She is your good angel, listen to her, follow her
example, and you will not often require anything else.
I don’t say never, because there are times when more than
a sister, more than a friend is needed ; the heart has wants,
desires, that God alone satisfies. Love God. 1 2+: his
pity that I must leave you, just when we were in ful) talk.

But I shall soon return.Ad Letters of

It is past ten o’clock, my time for.sleep ; but my pen
is under my hand, your image in my heart; both the
one and the other prompt: Good night, Louise. I
yearned to say just this one word. Now I am going to
think of the good God, for at night everything should
sleep but the thought ef heaven. ‘To-morrow [I shall tell
you about sermons. We shall hear Abbé Roques. He
is still my favourite preacher, not but what the others
are excellent too. M. Caminade gave us a very good,
familiar discourse. J was longing to hear him preach in
a louder voice. But I won't goon. ‘Till to-morrow!

I shall now inform you that I have just left the chapel
of St. Joseph, much satisfied, much impressed with the
gentle and pious teaching of M. Caminade. He is an
internal man, what one calls a man of prayer. Sure and
experienced guides those who commune much with God.
What happiness for me to find some one to teach me the
love of God! I feel as though, indeed, I were learning
it, as though my holy father were imbuing me with
the fervour and charity of which he is himself so full. It
was only to-day that I told him who I was, because
a proper opportunity for doing so presented itself, else we
were indulging in the zwcogni/o. You wanted to know to
whom I addressed myself; but why do you say I made a
mystery of it? Mysterious towards you! It was only
that it did not occur to me when writing to you.

Did not you, too, think that I went to Bon-Sauveur
with conventual intentions? My dear friend, you know
whether I can leave my father. At all events, I beg you
not to speak of this: to myself as much as you will, andLiugtnie de Guerin. 45

even to your sister, but to no one besides. I don’t want
to scatter my idea of a vocation about the world. One
might be happy in that convent, life is peaceful there.
It is only the lunatics who would alarm me. ‘They are
not shown to any of the outside world. I should prefer
the care of the dumb, but you must enter there without a
will, the me is left at the door. JI. saw the Superior of
the hospital again—a good, strong intellect, spite of her
eighty years. I thought her charming, the good, holy
Mother.

Who should you think I have just seen and embraced
at the hospital? A sister I love, and have not seen for
fifteen years—sister Clémentine d’Yversen. She was
passing through on her way to Paris, and sent word to
Emilie that she could give her an hour. Off we ran to
the parlour, where were the Mother and M. Calmels in
conference, but they left us with our friend. What a
pleasure to see her, to give a kiss under that hood ! She
is the same as ever, lively, witty, and good. Maurice
perplexed her greatly. She wanted to know what
became of him after the dispersion of La Chénaie. I
reassured her.

M. Roques has been speaking admirably to us on
spiritual blindness, and the means of curing it. ‘These
means are meditation, reflections on the truths of salva-
tion, and our final destiny. ‘Go to the grave, meditate
on what it encloses; but push on further, follow the soul
into eternity. Behold it before God, between heaven
and hell. -Realise the flames that devour sinners. Ask
yourselves if you are not of the number of those ambitious,46 Letters of

those proud ones, those misers, those unbelievers, those
cowardly Christians that God condemns.” A stirring
preacher, Abbé Roques. Finally he concluded by a
meditation on the words, “If any man will be saved, let
him take up his cross and follow me,” and in its course
unfolded the great truth of self-abnegation, and of the
necessity of sufferings. ‘The whole discourse lasted for
nearly two hours, but the time does not seem long when
spent in listening to those who speak to us of God. Iam
sorry that this course of teaching is over.

I communicated the tidings of M. Cuq to those who
felt interested in the good missionary. He had been
reported dead. God spares him to save some soul.
Here are well-filled, well-employed lives for you. M.
d’Aussac has set off for foreign missions; three of his
sisters are in the hospitals. ‘This is what may be called a
holy family. The bells of St. Salvy, which are very
wailing, are ringing just now for a lady who died almost
suddenly, leaving a daughter surrounded with children, ill
and unhappy. Every one is pitying both mother and
daughter. ‘There is not a week, not a day, that does not
bring one some intelligence that saddens and reminds of
the other world. But these reminders are useful, without
them we should forget eternity. J am surrounded in
every way with means of edification, fed upon lectures
and sermons. What a good Lent I have had! Poor
Marie is less well off at Andillac. She contents herself
with the pastor’s simple instructions, which, indeed, are
very excellent; but you will feel that one must needs

have something very different here. My little cousin Eu-Lugénie de Guérin. 47

phrasie is much touched by the Countess’s remembrance,
and begs her to accept hers. The little girl has a good
heart, a very good one; she loves her little brothers, and
caresses them in a delightful way. She is my companion
by night and day. We sleep together, under the holy
keeping of an image of the Virgin, a vessel of holy water,
and a rosary, the cross of which Euphrasie kisses
vehemently on getting into bed. With all this you
can easily imagine that useless words and other tempta-
tions are kept at bay. We fallasleep. Lili is expecting
me; you will consent to my going to embrace her; I have

not seen her to-day.

To M. MAURICE DE GUERIN, at M. Vacher’s, The Park.
(Iure-et-Loire. )
Cayla, 15th Fuly, 1834.

Here are two welcome letters that have come to us;
thine, my dear Maurice, and one from Feélicité, telling us
of the situation offered thee at Juilly. You will not,
I hope, say no, unless it be for reasons to us unknown.
What could be more desirable as you now stand, than
a situation where you will be able to wait for something
to turn up without other outlay than a little will and
determination ? for will is needed, I should think, to play
the master, wherever it may be. Thus, one after the
other, all your faculties will be brought into play, and
when the opportunity comes, each will be ready for
its work, and reply, Here I am.
I like what you tell me of the family and country life48 Letters of

you are leading with your friend. JI remember that
he used to write from time to time while we had you,
and that he seemed devoted to you, and now he proves
to us that he really was so. Tell him from me how
I rejoice in the signal service he is rendering you, and
what gratitude I feel for his cordial affection. Has he
a mother living? has he sisters? As I know you like
to be reminded of us sometimes, I ask whether M.
Vacher has sisters who make much of him, who fondle
brothers and poultry as we do at Cayla.

Yesterday I witnessed the death of one of my delights,
my pets, murdered by a step-mother. I covered it up
with sugar and wine, but it died nevertheless, and the
poor little one is at present in the deep well, the great
charnel-house of hens and dead creatures. With the
exception of the poultry-yard, I have no live stock this
year—no birds’-nests nor sparrows. In taking care of
these little fledgelings one gets fond of them; then they
die, and one regrets them. One has troubles enough with-
out that, and ’tis a loss of time besides; and time is so
precious that I become more and more miserly about it,
and only afford reluctantly a few moments to mere amuse-
ment, though really I don’t know what that is, for every-
thing turns to the useful with me, even the pleasure of
writing to thee.

My correspondence continues as brisk as ever. Long
letters to the mountain, little ones to Gaillac, but often
to Lisle as well. _ My beautiful Antoinette cannot forget
me, and sends me graceful notes, charming gems of the
heart. I owe her an answer, as well as to many othersLiugéme de Guérin. 49

Yesterday I had seven letters to write; my quiet little
room is a very post-office. You know how comfortable
one is in it. At this moment I hear the grasshoppers
chirping, and every now and then the song of a nightin-
gale who has his nest down among the junipers, This
side of Cayla is rather spoiled by the fall of the great oak
and great cherry-tree which the wind blew down in
the winter, but this is nothing when one sees the Sept-
Fonts wood laid low

 

our dear avenue without shade, our
seats overturned, half broken, it pains me to look at, and
I go there now only to meditate. Where shall I be,
where shall we be, when those trees have grown up again P
Others will go and wander beneath their shade, and
watch, as we have done, the sweep of winds that are
to lay them low. In all time there will be storms upon
the earth.

I am reading Chateaubriand’s ‘ Etudes.’ After Lamar-
tine, he is my favourite poet; sometimes, even, I have
a fancy to tell him so. Perhaps I shall do so and send it
you. I am busy now for my friend up ¢here,* and, by way
of giving her a pleasant surprise, I should hke my poem
to come before her, as it were accidentally, in the ‘ Revue
Européenne.’ Her father takes it in, and Louise lately
told me she should always look for my appearance there.
I should be very much pleased if the piece I send you
could find a place. M. Cazalé will not refuse you, if
women’s poetry be admitted into his journal. I have
been told it is, and come to offer my flower. But
it must bear no name. I only wish to be recognised by

* Allusion to the Rayssac mountain.50 Letters of

Louise, who will require no signature to find me out.
Oh, how it would delight me! Iam going to work at it,
for ’tis not finished ; then I shall come back to tell you all
Papa wishes you to know.

There now, it’s done; my piece is completed, but not
as I should like it to be; there’s something wanted at the
end, but I leave a blank, not to delay sending off this
letter; you might think us too long in your debt, and
I should be sorry to make you say all we do when you
are dilatory. Auguste must be charmed with -this little
boy who is born to him. We thought you would be
godfather. Now this is Papa talking, or making me
talk. . . . . Adieu, dear friend; I recommend my poetry
to you. If you cannot get it inserted, tell me, and I
shall send it in manuscript. Eran is at Albi; Papa and
Mimi embrace you as I do, with all their heart.

On the subject of poetry, I have long had an idea that
Y am going to impart to you. Have you not observed
that while we are inundated with poems nothing gets
written for children? and yet their little minds have
their wants, and their little hearts their enjoyments. How
many pretty things there are to say to them! It seems
to me that poetry of this character is a thing lacking
amongst us, and would be welcomed. I have the inspira-
tion; what do you think of that? Am I to get rid
of my ideas by stifling them, or allowing them free scope ?
I do not know why I have them; may God enlighten me!
Answer me on this head, and tell me whether I need fear
loss of time, whether my ‘Infantines’ would succeed.
Then, no more indecision, I set to work at once; otherLiugéniwe de Guérin. 51

wise I would rather make stockings all my life long than
useless verses. When one thinks of the account we shall
have to render to God of all our actions, all our hours, one
may well be careful as to the use made of them. Life
is so short to gain Heaven in, that each lost moment
deserves tears.

I have a sorrow of conscience or heart. That holy
priest of whom I told you in my jubilary travels is leaving
the diocese. I regret him the more that he had per-
mitted me to write to him, and that I hoped much from
this spiritual correspondence. Do not let us speak of it.
Do you remember me in your prayers? We ought to
pray as well as love. You have both the one and the

other from me. Adieu.

To THE SAME.
13th September, 1834.

Raymond sets out in a month, and is to come and take
our parcels to thee, my dear Maurice. I shall hardly
give him anything beside the little manuscript book* in
which I mean to write every day till your frend’s
departure. It will only be a letter in thirty pages more
or less, according to events and the current of ideas, for
sometimes many things occur both in the soul and in the
house, and at other times nothing at all.

This week, for instance, Cayla has been roused out
of its habitual calm by the arrival of our cousins De

* This book was unfortunately not to be found.
rr 252 Letters of

Thézac and De Bellerive, who are come in sporting trim
to amuse themselves and frighten the game. They are
all tall young fellows by this time, which makes me
think—I who saw them born. My God, how fast we
grow!

They went away yesterday, our sportsmen, after such
briliant exploits, such killing and killing that the whole
country smells of powder like a battle-field. Here we
are quiet again ;-nothing stirs at this moment save my pen
on the paper and a fly that buzzes in my room. There is
something so sweetly agreeable in this calm that I would
fain enjoy it ever, and fall asleep in it as on a bed of rest.
Positively I must shake myself to get away. I am too
comfortable in my little room. I must leave it.

14¢4.—It is Sunday, the day of long walks at Cayla.
Accordingly, at sunrise, we, Mimi and I, were on the
heights of Saint-Pierre on our way to the early mass
at Cahuzac. Here I am returned and thinking of the
grand sermon of Father Bories. He is still our Massillon,
preaching better than any one else, and moralising to
perfection. It is not his fault if his hearers be not
already high in heaven. Instruction, exhortation, fortify-
ing counsels, nothing is wanting to me, and yet I am still
prostrate on the earth, not even having strength to change
my position, I do not know why it is thus with me, nor
whence this singular languor comes over my soul, which
should be so light, should spring Godwards as easily as a
bird on to a branch, for I know of nothing which keeps
me back or attaches me to the world. Neither should
the past have any more power to enchain me. HardlyLiugénre de Guérin. 53

has it left one memory too many on my conscience;
apart from which my life is much like that of a child.
You know me, my dear Maurice, but you have not been
aware of this, you never suspected that I was sometimes
sad to tears from pangs of conscience without knowing
why or being able to cure myself of them. To-day I am
happy, because I have been to the Communion ; I notice
with admiration how powerful a remedy it proves, and
that, according to the expression of St. Francois de Sales,
I feel that I have Jesus Christ in my heart, my mind, my
spirit, in all my being. May this calm endure! Then
everything is in health, soul and body; and poetry, too,
comes back to me. It is only in times of peace that
I sing. Do you understand this, dear friend?

 

To MDLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BoIssET, at Lisle-d’ Albi.
November, 1834.

Your sentence is pronounced, my dear Antoinette, but
do not be alarmed, it is not a very rigorous one. How be
severe with you, my fair suppliant, when you come and
tell me a hundred tender things, and then throw your
arms round my neck as though leaving the case to the
discretion of my friendship? With such a criminal, justice
resigns at once and lets the heart decide. Thus, then, it
becomes the judge, and your cause is gained. A two
months’ silence, apparent forgetfulness, indifference, every-
thing that cried dgainst you, is hushed ; I only hear what you54 Letters of

are tellmg me now. Thanks, my dear friend, thanks,
a thousand times, for this charming return of remem-
brance, tls pretty waking up of friendship, which has given
me so much pleasure in my solitude. Did not you know
that I was alone, and that nothing passed by but a few
crows, my only diversion? Happily you have come
to me at last, and I lay upon your conscience those
sweetest wanderings of thought you have occasioned
me in prayer, for I was going to my chafel when your
letter was given to me, and you certainly followed me
there.

I pity you most sincerely for having lost your Elix.
I quite understand how painful this separation must have
been, and how many regrets so amiable a child must
occasion you all, but especially you who seemed to me
his favourite sister. Have you heard from him; and how
does he get on with his new master and his seminary life?
Poor little fellow! Does he wear a cassock? I should
like to look at him; never could the Church have a
prettier figure. You must be very impatient to see him
again. I admire Madame de Boisset’s courage in con-
senting to the sacrifice thus early, but God who has made
a mother’s heart so tender makes it also very strong.
A sister’s is like it, is it not ?

I have often felt this, and hope to repeat the experience
if I live a year, for Maurice has just written me word that
he will come in the month of August. I am already
counting, and the months seem long; but meanwhile
the days glide away, and ‘hat day will come at length.
After so many events, you will understand what pleasureEugénie de Guérin. 55

it must be to see the poor exile again: for is it not
indeed an exile for young men to be separated from their
family, from home, where one is so happy? What place
in the world can be a substitute for home? I know none ;
it is true that I have not extended myself far, and that
a mole-hill seems to me a mountain ; but it’s all the same,
che little teaches us what the great must be. I am
content with the happiness of home ; and have enjoyed
it to my heart’s content for a whole year during which
I have hardly stirred hence, but just now I am without
Marie. What a blank she leaves! God forbid that
it should be for ever! At table, in the drawing-room,
the kitchen, my own room, the Cahuzac road, everywhere
I miss her. She is at Gaillac with our cousins, where
they treat her in a manner calculated to make her stay
there long.

You ask me about my chickens: I am still fond of
them, and prove it by leaving you a while to go and give
them their supper. They have all good appetites, have
my dear little chicks, but one came up with a broken
leg. The poor thing moved my pity—there it is in the
infirmary till it gets well, that 1s, in the kitchen, where I
shall pay it as many visits as a doctor. You will laugh
at me, but I am fond of living creatures dogs, poultry,
pigeons—of all animals except those that are big and

 

fat, and in no way appeal to the heart.
You want to know my life, dear Antoinette. It is always
much taken up with a thousand household

the same,
We have got

nothings, sometimes in making soup.
a cook of sixteen years old; the old one has left us, and 1s56 Letters of

going to take to herself a master to beat her, I much fear ;

but that is her affair, ours is to prepare our dinner. I am
rather fond of doing so, the kitchen chimney-corner and
the fragrance of the saucepans have a charm of their own.
However that may be, I like them, especially when I have
little Peter for a turnspit. He is a rather pretty child,

who amuses me by the questions he puts. One evening
when I was hearing him his Catechism he stopped me
short to ask me whether the soul was immortal, and, soon
after, what a philosopher was, and when I replied that it
was some one wise and learned, “ Then, Mademoiselle,
you are a philosopher.” This was said in such droll
innocent good faith that my Catechist gravity was upset
for the evening ; I thought I should have died of laughing.
What gave him that philosophical conception of me was
his seeing me open a large book and my knowing the
Catechism by heart.

Such are my winter evenings and their amusements,
very innocent ones doubtless, and having their ple easing
side. After dinner I generally go and pay a visit to new-
born lambs, tell them they are pretty, and bid them grow
as fast as they can; but then I see all this alone, and
that deprives it of half its value ; every pleasure should
be shared. At the head of all I place the pleasures I
derive from the letters of friends ; I prefer them even to
lambs, but I enjoy them more hs One would say that
Antoinette especially wants to accustom me to w aiting, but
my heart is too impatient. This is not a scolding, ’tis a
complaint that I make just as I leave you, in order that
out of compassion you may return the sooner.Lugtnie de Guérin.

Ilo M. Maurice pe Gu&rin, Paris.
1834.

An unexpected courier on his way to Albi reminds
me of our deputy, who you tell us will willingly take
charge of our letters. This will be a short one, an
abridgment, a nothing that I write in galloping haste
while waiting for Délern, our messenger. Papa came in
breathless from Pausadou to announce the opportunity,
and here are our pens set going, Mimi one side, I the
Other. She is replying to thy letter of the day before
yesterday, and I merely mean to add a word or two to
mine of Friday. The time is short ; I should like to write
to Louise by the same messenger, which will make me rob
thee of a few minutes. You will not be angry at that,
and besides, what could I tell thee to-day that I have
not told thee a hundred times? I get tedious, I repeat,
I am like old people, going over the same ground in the
evening that I did in the morning.

But here is something new, a reproach; don’t be
frightened, ’tis rather a complaint. I wanted to tell thee
that thy letter to Mimi would have given her much more
pleasure if it had been somewhat longer and did not
need the addition of a thousand things that are always
wanting in thy letters. Is it thy fault, or that of thy
man’s heart? Ours, methinks, is more skilled in matters
of affection, does not wait to be asked for kind words
and all one likes to see in a friendly correspondence.
These poor brothers, we spoil them, we are too fond58 Letters of

of them; we are so fond of them, that it seems an im:
possibility to them to feel the same for us. But I intend
to correct myself, and, instead of the long epistles I used
to write thee, thou shalt have nothing but abridgments.
This is a resolution taken till you write to me according
to my fancy. Adieu, therefore, to the little journal :
of what use is it? It does not make you write to me
at greater length. Nothing for nothing. I am never to
know a word about your life, because, say you, you
would be carried on so far that I should get tired of
following you. Where could you go then, were it to the
ends of the earth, that I should not arrive there with you?
It is nothing but a pretext, the excuse of idleness, or ofa
little frosty heart.

Now you will begin to be angry and to complain, but
why then do you write so briefly? But for this letter to
Mimi I should tell you much prettier things, sweeter
at least, for I have not much bitterness in my soul, and
already my mood softens. ‘This poor Maurice, who loves
us no doubt, what do I require of him, what would I
have? Instead of thanking him for all he is now
doing I am sending him a scolding. ‘That is not nght.
There, then, I say no more; let us embrace and all is
over.

How rich you are again, my friend, with your eighteen
hundred francs! God be praised, and blessed be thy
friends and that good M. Buquet. Be very sure that
Papa no longer forms “hasty judgments about them, and
that we are all gratitude for what they have done for thee.
Has thy dear Lefebvre anything to do with thy goodLugénie de Guérin. 59

fortune? You know how much I liked that friend. And
those in Brittany, are we never to hear any more of
them? Pray send me a word or two on that head, and
do not omit La Chénaie if you know anything about it.
Do you suppose that I forget it? Oh, no! but I never
taink of the fallen angel without a feeling at the heart
that I cannot express. Tell us what he is doing. Here
they say that he gruwmbles against Rome in his solitude,
and has just published his ‘ Philosophy ;’ but, however,
our papers have said nothing of this. True, however,
we only see the poor little ‘ Gazette de Languedoc,’ which
gives nothing but mere gossip. Hereis Délern. Adieu,
my dear friend ; I love you always, and have only time to
assure Félicité and her family of all my affection.

 

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE, Rayssac.

2nd January, 1835.

Do not look upon what I wrote to you on Sunday as a
letter, my dear Louise. It was a nfere chance word or
two given to a person who came from Albi to go back at
once. But whether long or short, I snatch the pleasure
of writing whenever I can, I do not say whenever I will,
—that would be often, every moment, always, but life
cannot get spent in enjoyment; a thousand things parcel
it out; one has not too much time for housekeeping,
walks, stockings, the distaff, a little reading, prayer,
sometimes writing. But I write little, the least possible,60 Letters of

except to you, dear friend. To love you and to tell you
so ranks among my occupations ; there you are classed
with all sorts of things, for who knows all that I do and
think in one day? One has so much time for thought in
the country! However occupied one may be, ’tis with
nothing that engrosses the mind, which works away on its
own account like a mill-wheel. Let us try to make it
turn to some purpose, give it good grain to grind, it
yields us what we intrust to it ; let our memory be filled
with beautiful things, and our thoughts will be beautiful.
Imagination takes the hue of what it dwells on.

I left you there the day before yesterday, my dear
friend, to give luncheon to a woman who had come to
my room to wish me a happy new year. After haying
thanked her, and talked, and chattered about me fiying,
she made me a curtsy, and I came back to think of
you. But I could not write, a thousand things kept me
away from my room. Yesterday I passed the morning
in grease, opening and cutting up our geese with Marie.
In the evening we went to Cahuzac, and on our return
were occupied with reading a long and very kind letter
from Brittany. Itavas full of tenderness and affection,
too much so perhaps for a stranger; but I am none
the less grateful; one is always pleased to be loved, above
all, gratuitously. Madame de La Morvonnais has been
long ill, which has prevented her writing to me. She
tells me of M. de Lamennais, whom she has been to see ;
“Never,” she writes, “ did he seem more cheerful or
more agreeable.” He took them all through the walks
his disciples had made for him through the woods, andLeugénie de Guérin. 61

beside the ponds; each tree, each blade of grass was the
subject of some lofty thought or some memory. He
also insisted on showing them the spot chosen for his
tomb beside the little chapel. ‘“ Seeing him so fragile,” she
says, “ one trembled at the idea that a trifle might lay
him in the place he pointed out so cheerfully.” He is
there alone with one of his pupils who has not forsaken
him, occupied entirely with his great work on philosophy,
which is to be published in two years, a work from which
great good is hoped. ‘“ God grant it!” This is the only
reflection added by this visitor of La Chénaie.

I could have wished her to have told me something
different, and that she should have found the poor
wanderer in less mirthful mood. My God! to have the
thunders of the Church on one’s head, and yet to smile,
and say, “I was never happier!” This pains one,
pains one much. We shall never see him return, And
yet all his friends are abandoning him: there is M.
de Montalembert, who has just given in his adhesion to
the Encyclical. I have one anxiety on this head, I am
afraid Maurice’s eyes are not yet opened. It would
indeed be unfortunate if with all his good qualities he
ran his head into error. The errors of the intellect are
fatal, still more dangerous than those of the heart. May
God preserve us from all and keep us in the nght road!
There are a thousand ways of erring, a thousand occa-
sions of falling, which should keep us on our guard, for
alas! we are so weak! A mere nothing sways us like a
blade of grass. Poor human heart! always falling on
one side or other: now ’tis sadness, now joy, now the62 Letters of

world, now solitude; everything has its dangers, and
Christian life is spent in alarms.

Am I wrong to look upon it in this light? Tell me, my
dear, you have every right over my soul. Do not you
consider it too fearful? I am told so, and I found it
out when I thought you no longer loved me because
I did not sufficiently know how to make myself loved.
But that’s over, let us leave our old sorrows to rest. I
am going to take a turn in the kitchen.

Sunday is a day of dispersion, and I am often left
guardian during the morning, after my return from the
early mass to which I often go. To-day it was to write
to you that I got up by candlelight, being anxious to
profit by an opportunity of sending to Albi this afternoon.
When the mass was over, I came as fast as ever I could
to tell you of my affection. So it was on Sunday, only I
was in too great a hurry to say much. Still ’twas happi-
ness to me, short though it was, to meet with an oppor-
tunity

 

a very rare thing just now.

Adieu, my dear! I must leave you, always too soon.
Twelve is striking, they are returning from mass, dinner
must be got ready, my letter leaves after it. JI shall write
to you at greater length for the fair. To-day good bye ;
an embrace as my new year’s gift to the two hermits, J
did not forget you in my new year’s prayers. Few words
and many thoughts, this is all I give you.Eugénwe de Guérin.

TO THE SAME.
oth February, 1835.

We are at Cahuzac, besieged by rain, and, while waiting
for the horses to arrive, I seat myself at the desk of a
notary to write to you so as to send you a remembrance
by M. Bories, who sets out to-morrow for Albi. The
good Father sent for me yesterday to give me a parcel, it
was your letter. ‘This dear friend, how she loves me!
That was what I read on the address, and my heart
responded with infinite tenderness, while I held your
letter on my knees, and chatted with M. Bories. I spent a
delightful hour with him, but once in my aunt’s great dark
room my sadness returned, and I began weeping again
for a dear friend of Maurice’s, who is just dead. [I shall
never write more to that kind affectionate Madame de
La Morvonnais, of whom I spoke to you the other day.
Even then she was dying, and my letter will reach her
tomb to-day or to-morrow.

Her poor husband is heartbroken, but, being pro-
foundly religious, he bears his anguish with resignation
and offers his sacrifice to God. Nothing but religion
can enable him to support a sad desolate life, disen-
chanted of all its former charms. There he is all alone
with his little Marie, who is only two years old. Maurice
writes me these sad tidings out of an aching heart, telling
me that this death turns all his thoughts to that other
world where one after another all our affections go.
My God! how can one cling to life when one sees it
depart so rapidly? This young woman was taken away64 Letters of

out of the midst of a family gathering, while she was
chatting and laughing as people do when they are
happy. She was so, beloved by her husband and every
one who knew her.

My dear Louise, I am really afflicted, and look with
tears at those few letters she wrote me so cordially.
Farewell to tidings of Brittany, La Chénaie, and so many
things that I took pleasure in hearing of. How I wish I
had never begun a correspondence that death has so
soon broken! But what is there it does not break? Do
we not know that little by little everything leaves, every-
thing escapes us, except eternal affection? M. Bories
was telling us this very eloquently yesterday in his
sermon upon perseverance addressed tothe children
about to attend their first Communion. The ceremony
was as beautiful as it could be at Cahuzac, where every-
thing except the Curé is small. I do not tell you of my
emotions during the ceremony, ’twas something too inti-
mate, too heavenly to be expressed. My dear friend, I
thought of you, that too was heavenly; I prayed God to
make you happy; to give you more and more love for
Him, to preserve you tomy friendship. With you, Louise,
I can console myself for all my griefs. In your letters,
your affection, your heart, I find all I need in all the
situations of life. ‘Thanks then, and ever more thanks,
for these proofs of your remembrance. I am just going
out of the office for a minute or two to repeat the
Angelus.

I resume by the kitchen fire; the inkstand in a niche
for matches, and Azor, my aunt’s pet, at my feet. ThisFugénie de Guérin. 65

would amuse me if I were not in so sad a mood,
Without ever having seen her, I now see that poor dead
friend everywhere. Tis that I had her in my heart,
with all her goodness, tenderness, affection for me.

I shall fill my page with regrets, and I have sweeter
things to say when I think of your friendship, amply
sufficient as it is to console me for all others that come to
an end. Together with this mournful letter came another,
also from Brittany in the first instance, but only sent
there on its way to me from the Isle of France. It was
from my cousin De Roquefeuil, who writes me the most
interesting details from his corner of the world. I wish
I could read it to you, I should be sure to give youa
pleasant half-hour in listening to it. You shall see it if I
come.

Here is my inkstand wanted. When I have everything
of my own about me in the little room, I shall spend
more time in telling you that I love you.

I look upon you as very wise, very resigned in your
solitude with Léontine. ‘Take me in between you, at the
fireside, under the limes, wherever you may go, for
everywhere I follow you. My very tender regards to the
traveller and to your companion. Marie embraces you,
and I repeat that all my heart is in yours. Good bye, I
am going to carry my letter to the parsonage. A shower
has detained me, but I have no more paper.Letters of

To MDLLE. IRENE COMPAYRE.

 

Saturday, 14th February, 1835.

Only see, dear Irene, how different our days are! On
Saturday a funeral letter came to me written at the very
same hour as the rose-coloured letter I have just been
reading. I admire how God sends consolation to succeed
tears. Here I am, less sad, now that you have laid your
affection on my heart; ’tis a very soothing balm for which
I am full of gratitude because it has done me good.
Your friendship and that of Antoinette, who also has
written to me, have made me for a moment forget that I
have a friend less on earth; I feel that with your affection
I might dispense with all others, but 1 do not the less
weep for what has just ended. No, it is not ended; the
soul must depart with its affections, and my poor Marie
inust love me in heaven as she did on earth. ‘This hope
which immortalises our feelings is very sweet. Oh how
the heart that would fain love always, rests in it! Accord-
ingly it is to satisfy this need that God wiils we should
love Him, for He is the only frend we do not see die,
and neither do we lose those that we love in Him. ‘This
is what makes me hope for a happy reunion in Paradise,
where I shall have you, my dear Irene, and very near
me too.

If I have not spoken to you of this friend who has just
died, ’tis because you did not know her, and she lived
very far away. She was attacked by brain fever in the
midst of a cheerful conversation with a circle of friends

and relatives, without even being aware of her danger.Lugénie de Guérin. 67

She was hardly twenty-six; and leaves a heartbroken
husband, and a little girl who is only two. The poor
child not long ago sent me a kiss in one of her mother’s
letters ; all these recollections are sad, and yet I like them,
and go over them one by one. I do not know what it is
that makes what death has consecrated dearer than ever.
My dear friend, forgive this mournful strain that I fall
into to-day in writing to you; I let myself run on and
have no disguises with you.

I approve your charity which preserved you from a
hasty judgment when you saw M. Limer arrive empty-
handed. Any one else would have called me idle, and
scolded me as I sometimes have you, dear friend. In
this you teach me a lesson of indulgence which I shall
remember with many others that I owe to your friendship ;
not, indeed, that I mean to allow myself to be guilty,
this would be false humility; I did not know of our
Pastor’s journey, else I should have wntten to you, as
well as to the angel. ‘Truly that Antoinette is as you say
a heavenly being, and to me to see her at church was
like a vision of Paradise. I recall, too, as a very happy
memory, the chapel companion with whom I used
sometimes to tell my beads. ’Tis two years ago, yet
it seems to me yesterday, so present is it to my heart,
and so fast, too, do the days glide away.

Your carnival enjoyments are charming ; they would
be mine exactly, for I am not fonder than you of those
whirlwinds of company that sweep the soul off no one
knows where. Our evenings too pass very quietly, in
reading, and caressing Trilby, our little pet ; when one
EF 268 Letters of

has no other diversion one takes to the.distaff, and the
little whirr of the spindle amuses one; in the country,
my dear, one grows clever in devising pastimes.

To-day we have mud, rain, cold north-east wind, a
winter day that prevents the pilgrimage you wot of. You
see, my dear friend, that my zeal does not brave everything,
not even a little rain. If you knew me better you would
form a very different judgment of one whom so small a
thing keeps back! Do not be afraid of my catching cold
in our wet roads, where I never walk but from necessity
when God wills I should, and then my health is under
the care of his providence. And, moreover, I do not
think one should lay such stress upon health as to
become its slave, or to provide for the body’s comfort
at the expense of the soul. Decidedly, my dear, I quite
approve your theology; even M. Bories refers to it.

 

To MDLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BOISSET.
14th February, 1835.

I have just been writing to Irene, and with my pen
still tinged with friendship I resolve to tell you, too, my
dear Antoinette, that I love you and thank you for
your most affectionate and sweet letter which reached
me this morning. It gave me much pleasure, first of all
because I delight in news of you, and next because it did
me good, being as I am in such affliction about the death
of a friend suddenly snatched from us. We lost her by
one of those lightning strokes, the very possibility ofEugénie de Guérin. 69

which we always refuse to believe in for those we love, as
though our affection consecrated the heads on which it
rested and could avert death from them. Alas! how
often it does the very reverse! God permits this, to detach
us from all beside Himself, and to teach us that happiness
has no abiding-place here below. This poor friend had
just written to me; she was cheerful, told me of her plans,
was occupied with the future as the young and happy are.
When I think of this, and of my letter finding her in her
coffin, I shed many tears. Even if she had had time to
prepare for death! but it came so suddenly, so unex-
pectedly! It was in the midst of a lively conversation,
in a party of friends and relatives, that this poor young
woman was seized with brain fever, which carried her
off in two days without her being aware hardly that she
was dying. I ask you, my dear Antoinette, for a prayer
for her soul; regrets are not enough before God. Every
one can weep, but we do not all know how to pray, and
therefore one appeals to those holy souls who can make
themselves heard of God. Pray then, my dear friend, for
my friend.

I was thinking of you just as I got your letter, and
wanted to write to send you messages, dated last August,
which have just arrived from the Isle of France. The
good cousin tells us all sorts of kind things. ‘These are
for all of you: “Do not forget to remember me to the
De Boissets ; knowing them as you do, you can judge how
much attached to them Iam. If I were with you, I should
make you go oftener to Lisle, where I had such pleasure
in accompanying you once,” Then he goes on to70 Letters of

mention a hundred pleasant recollections which have
followed him from your drawing-rooms to his island.
Poor man! he has great need that some cheerful memories
should divert him from his anxieties; there he is reduced
to poverty by the expenses of his journey, and the sad
state of the colony ; ’tis a lost country in every respect.

M. de Roquefeuil and all his family desire nothing so
much as to get away from it, but they have less hope of
this than ever. It is in the month of February that the
negroes begin to enjoy their liberty and will show us what
free men are. I thought I should please you, my dear
Antoinette, by this sample of the letter of our cousin who
loves you. I wish I could read it to you; you would not
find it tedious though long, you would find both charm
and feeling there. ‘This poor cousin is all heart; there is
a tender ‘‘ Memento” for the Canoness as well. Have
you any tidings of her? Here no one knows whether she
is in this world or the next.

Would one not say I was forgetting you in this review
of the world? Nota word yet about yourself, and yet I
have a great deal to say, and cause, too, to be angry.
This surprises you; but why do you begin by scolding
me, my dear, without my knowing why? If I said any
harm of my own letters I am not aware of it; and besides,
have I not a right to run them down without your charity
taking offence and constituting itself their champion?
However, I willingly submit to your authority, and receive
your sentence whatever it be, even if it consign me to
prison; only do not banish me, that is all I ask; I want
to preserve the hope of seeing you again.Liugénie de Guérin. 71

It will not, however, be this carnival, as you are kind
enough to wish. We shall probably spend it at home in
our accustomed pleasures ; amidst which I count that of
the distaff of which you revived the idea. Since your
letter came I have spun two spindlefuls, and really I
found, as you do, that ’tis impossible for time to hang
‘eavy while one is spinning. As to that, ’tis an old
pleasure that you have awakened, with which I was
familiar at the age of six, when I indulged in it at the
expense of a canvas door in which I made a hole to
extract its stuffing.

Have you taken the journey to Albi? What say you
of the forge and the terrifying Sawt de Sabo? No doubt
Mdlle. Laure will only go to Gascony in fine weather; I
should not advise her to travel in winter ; the wet roads
are dangerous, except for invzlnerables like you. Since
when have you so presumed upon health? I think Irene
says the same thing, but do not neglect yourself on that
account; spare your strength that you may always be able
to feel well. No doubt you will soon have news of Elix ;
is he already learning Latin? Adieu! I show great de-
pendence upon your friendship in sending you this packet
of words and bad paper; but I have no other, and then
you have told me you are not hard to please; to-day i am
going to put this to the proof. My love to your sister
and your friends. Adieu, dear Antoinette.

P.S.—You acquit yourself so well of the commissions
intrusted to you that I am going to trouble you further
with my remembrances to Mdile. de Sainte Colombe, te72 Letters of

whom I am much attached. Say so to her, I beg, you
who say everything so well. Again adieu! As last word,
let me embrace you.

 

 

 

To M. HippoLyTe DE LA Morvonnals, Val de l’Arguenon.

17th February, 1835.

How my last letter must have wrung your heart! This
one will not console you. I write you nothing but tears ;
but I want to weep with you, leaving it to God to com-
fort and be Himself everything to you, since He has
taken everything away. Each day I pray to Him for you,
I ask Him to pour on your wound the heavenly balm
that alone can do it any good. What can we do for
afflicted friends? When Jesus was sorrowful unto death,
an angel appeared, comforting him. May that same
angel support and strengthen you, for your cup is bitter
indeed!

God has willed it: His will be done! This sublime
expression is yours, in the anguish of your sacrifice ; it is
mine, too; I repeat it weeping! How many tears I
shed in thinking of you, of your little Marie, of her
mother who loved me! How dear to me her friendship
was, and how deeply the tokens of it that I received
touched my heart! Nothing can efface them any more
than the memory of her. I shall always recollect her, and
that her sweet spirit bent down to me to love me. HowLiugénie de Guerin. 72

much I loved her, too, and what a delight I took in our
correspondence !

O my God! and must all this be at an end? Must
there be no longer any relations between her soul and
mine, and all those who were dear to her? This cannot be,
for heaven is the abode of love and immortal affection.
Thus then our dear one loves us as she did on earth ;
she hears our prayers, she sees our tears, and communi-
cates to us something of Paradise. ‘There is no such
great distance between herand us. A little time separates
us from those who depart—a time of tears, a time of
sadness and solitude; but, that over, we go to rejoin
them and to enjoy with them the society of the blessed.
Oh, how sweetly the heart rests in this immortal hope!
how it hushes its sobs to listen to the voice that says, “I
am in heaven !”

You have doubtless heard this voice which tells you
that your beloved Marie is happy, that her soul has been
transported out of her pure bosom to that of God. This
is the only thing that can calm your regrets and give you
strength to endure a withered, broken, devastated life.
Will you continue at Val? What must that solitude be
to you now that she who filled it with the charms of
her heart, her mind, her whole personality, has carried
these all away with her! How I pity you! how many
tears I give you! I weep over your little child: . Howl
should like to take her on my knees and rock her as her
mother did! She would get almost as fond of me,
and then I should return her those kisses that the poor
child once sent me in a letter, every word of which will74. Letters of

be for me a regretful memory. I shall carefully preserve
that letter as the last token of a precious friendship, the
last utterance of a soul about to leave me.

What a heartrending surprise it was when Maurice
announced this loss; I was so far from dreaming of it!
But this is to trench too much on sorrowful recollections :
Jet us confine ourselves to prayer. I could not help
sending you some evidence of my grief and that of my
family. The blow that has fallen upon you has echoed
in our hearts, and plunged Cayla into mourning as well
as Val, for Cayla belongs to you, as you once told me
under happier circumstances; and thus encouraged, we
would fain hope to see you here. You would be received
as a brother, and perhaps our friendship, our beautiful
sky, our soft air, would do your sorrow good,

Adieu, Monsieur! receive the assurance of my pure
affection and of all the sentiments that I entertained
for your other self.

‘lo MDLLE.. LOUISE DE BAYNE.

30¢k March, 1835.”

In order not to lose an opportunity of writing to you, I
take advantage of a half-hour afforded me by a flour-
dealer from the direction of Albi, who will carry this
as soon as he can to Gosse, for I fear to overwhelm
M. Mathieu, to whom so lately as last Monday I sent
a letter from Cahuzac, where we were. My dear friend,
tis not you that I fear to tire out, but our post-officesLugénie de Guérin. 7

Be that as it may, however, let us go on writing, ’tis
a case in which charity begins at home.

To write to you I break off in the midst of a letter of
a sad letter

 

condolence to that poor M. Morvonnais
to plan and indite. What can be said to console under
such grief? One feels that human speech is inadequate ;
hence I address it to heaven. It is a comfort to be able,
in such cases, to employ religious consolations with a
hope of being listened to. The man of the world hears,
indeed, but does not understand you, for the language
of piety is not to be learned all at once, and it is piety
that is needed then; what is called religious sentiment
is too vague, penetrates the soul too little to be able to
comfort it.

My dear friend, see how different days are! On
Saturday I was reading a rose-coloured letter, full of
gaiety and details of festivals, written on the very same
day and hour as the funeral letter of which I told you.
There you have life strewn alike with tears and pleasures.

The cheerful letter was from Lisle, from our amiable
Antoinette, and there was another from Iréne, who has
written to me twice without my replying. ‘This zeal
on the part of good Iréne touches me. Really, people
are too fond of me; I should not know what to do with
so much affection, if ever affection could be burdensome.
But I do not think it can: my heart feels only too
comfortable in the midst of so many pretty nets that
surround it, only I fear that it will cost me too great
an effort to part with them when the time for parting
comes. The sweeter our ties the more we must cling76 Letters of

to them, and we ought, if possible, to be free at the
moment of leaving earth for heaven. You alone, Louise,
are enough to make me wish to live always. Let us both
try, you to be less loveable, I to love you less: that is, let
us do the impossible.

The young dinner-party at Madame Combes’ must
have been charming. It was a pretty gathering of
attractions, Pulchérie at their head. I know Mdlle.
Gaujon, and used to see her sometimes during my last
year’s stay at Albi. She is one of those I should like to
see more of; I delighted in her lively, intelligent expres-
sion, her sweet speaking eyes. Without being beautiful,
I admired her more than the beautiful R , who
wants grace in her beauty, though for the rest gentle
as an angel—a quality still more beautiful than grace.
I rub out the name, not knowing into whose-hands this

 

letter may fall ; when one writes, prudence should always
hold the pen. Let me take the occasion of paying you
a compliment, for you have made great advances in this
virtue ; your letters might almost be seen without any
risk, they contain nothing but what is pretty, what pleases
all the world.

If I were less hurried I would transcribe for you some
portion of M. de Roquefeuil’s letter, which would give
you an interest in his part of the world. He speaks
besides of Abbé Delmont, who still makes himself revered
at Bourbon, and of Abbé de Solages, who died on his
mission to Madagascar—poisoned, it is Supposed, What
men ‘these are who go and get killed for the salvation of
a few savages! This alone should make us fervent—weLugénie de Guérin. 77

who have so little to do—in at least saving our own souls,
since we have only ourselves to save. JI don’t know, my
dear friend, whether you may not find me too muck
given to preaching, after the manner of your cafettes, who
are always scolding people. It is not, however, that
I scold; ’tis that my thoughts naturally betake themselves
to the serious side of things, and I let them have their
Way. |

How do you stand with Alex? It is possible that
I may see her soon. My father means to go to Caylux,
and wishes to take me with him. It will be a week’s
excursion. I shall not see without some degree of plea-
sure a good old Chevalier of that part of the country,
who was very fond of me ten years ago. They will have
it he is fond of me still, and so too am I rather fond
of him, despite of time, for I am so through gratitude
and veneration for his fourscore years. Adieu, my
friend! I think that Marie tells you the news of the
world, I confine myself to that of the heart. What would
you like me to say to Alex, if I see her? I embrace
Léontine and the traveller, however far off she may be.
My respects, too, to M. de Bayne. Adieu ! the sacks are
filled. ‘Thot. pretty Criquet! has he ever dined upon
your hand, like Trilby on fried brains off mine? It was
‘6 soften his tongue, and afterwards give you a kiss

with it.Letters of

To THE SAME.
18th Fuly, 1835.

When I wrote to you the day before yesterday how
little I thought of the sad event that has just taken place!
I had not seen my grandmother for three days, and
believed her to be better; but on Thursday I found her
very much weaker, so much so that she could hardly
breathe or say a word to us, My aunt, Marie, and I
held a consultation, and determined to speak to her
about confession. She had no objection to it, but put us
off till the morrow. ‘My God! who is there that does
not depend upon life? Hers was on the point of dying
out. We took leave of her by pressing her hand. ‘That
was the last time. At nine o’clock that evening she had
fainting fits. The doctor announced danger, and pressed
M. the Abbé to administer the last Sacraments. You
know that M. the Curé is absent: this absence is unfor-
tunate for us under more than one respect. At last she
confessed, received the Viaticum, Extreme Unction, and
the Last Indulgence, and all was over.

There she is before God, that grandmother we had!
Thus one after another we vanish from earth—a small
misfortune, if we all meet in heaven again to form one
family there. I think of my mother who preceded us all
sixteen years ago. My poor mother, who loved us so
fondly, when shall we go and rejoin her? I wish it
might be soon. What have we to expect in this world?
Sorrows, tears, tombs. But oh, my God! how holy, how

pure one must be to enter heaven! When this thoughtLiugénie de GueFin. 79

occurs, we no longer want to die, because of the need of
explation we recognise in ourselves, and so we remain
bound to life like the criminal to his chain. The mis-
fortune is that one goes on sinning, and that in growing
older one grows no better. The Jmzfation tells us so:
‘““ A long life does not always avail to correct us.” Rather
the reverse. How sad to retrograde in the way to
heaven! All other advancement is indifferent to me;
but here I would have wings, would outstrip everything,
at least my faults, at least one of them. This is no easy
matter; one can get rid of a limb sooner than of one’s
cherished imperfections.

My mother was a perfect woman: accordingly, I
believe her among the blessed. Besides, she suffered so
much, and with such resignation! I cannot recall a
single complaint, but still see that always calm and
smiling face that then I could not comprehend. I used
to say to myself that she did not seem in pain, and that
no doubt it was nothing serious, that she would not die
as they said; and how great my mistake, poor child that
I was!

My grandmother was nearly eighty years of age. That
long life had its full share of evil days, My dear friend,
let us pray that she may be happy now. I give her
all my prayers. ‘To-day my father, Marie, Erembert—
the whole household, in short—are at Cahuzac, and
accompany that poor mother. I think of all that is
going on; I hear hymns, prayers ; Lam a.cofin, They
would not take me with them: I had depended upon
being alone and doing what I liked with myself, butPR

SO Letters of

ap

Hippolyte de Thézac arrived, so there was talk to be
carried on and a dinner to be got ready without any
assistance for poor me. Finally, we dined téte-a-téte at
one o’clock, I being servant and mistress both, When the
servant had done her work, the mistress went to sleep.
I was tired, ovcrdone, heavy, only fit to throw myself
upon the bed; I left ‘it to write to you. The letter that
M. de Bayne must have received was not enough for me,
I wanted to write to you as well. I tell you my joys and
sorrows ; all that crosses my heart reaches you.

You see very well that I cannot come to see you. But
for this I was, as it seemed, to have set out next week.
A sad result of the sad event; it will not be the only one,
but for me it is none of the least.

 

To M. H. pE LA Morvonnals, Val de l’Arguenon, near Plancoét
(Cdtes du Nord).
Cayla, 28/2 Fiuly, 1835.

Did you imagine, Monsieur, that I should not write
to you any more? O how mistaken you would have
been! It was your journey to Paris, and, after that,
other obstacles, which prevented my speaking to you
earlier of Marie. But we will speak of her to-day; yes,
let us speak of her, always of her; let her be always
betwixt us. It is for her sake I write to you: first of
all, because I love her and find it sweet to recall her
memory ; and then, because it seems to me that she isLugénie de Guérin, SI

glad you should sometimes hear terms of expression that
vividly recall her. I come, then, to remind you of that
sacred resemblance so sweet to myself when it strikes
you. How I bless God for having bestowed it upon me,
and thus enabled me to do you some good! This shall
be my mission with regard to you, and with what delight
shall I fulfil it!

Do not say that there is any merit or act of profound
charity in this acceptation. My heart goes out quite
naturally towards those who weep, and I am happy as an
angel when I can console. You tell me that your life
will no longer have any bright side, that I can elicit
rothing from you but sadness. I know this; but can
that estrange me—I, who loved the Marie you weep?
Ah! yes; let us weep over her; lean on me the while,
if you will, To me it is not painful to receive tears:
not that my heart is strong, as you believe, only it is
Christian, and finds at the foot of the cross enough to
enable it to support its own sorrows and those of others.
Marie did the same... . let us seek to imitate the
saints. You will teach this to your daughter beside the
cross on that grave whither you often lead her. Poor
little one! how I should like to see her, to accompany
her in that pilgrimage to that tomb beside the sea, and
under the pines, to pray, to weep there, to take her on
my knees and speak to her of heaven and of her mother.
This would be a joy to me: you know that there are
melancholy ones.

Will you bring me your little girl? O do bring her to

me, since I cannot come to Brittany. I want to see her,.

G

  
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

aT SAE URE FR hea a 5%Letters of

to enjoy her intelligence, her caresses, all her infantine
charms. Bring her to me; I want to enjoy this sweet
little creature, who belongs to me because I love and
because God gave me her mother. Do you consent to
the adoption, and to my giving your child a maternal affec-
tion, as it were? Her mother loved me, I love her; this
love will only have changed heart. Tell me of her pro-
gress in every way, and if she still speaks of going to join
her mother. Poor child! ’tis when she is older that she
will especially feel this desire. Once more to see her
mother is the sweet thought which remains to the orphan
till heaven opens at last. But that time is, perhaps,
distant for your Marie, and till then who knows?....
Jesus himself only entered upon his rest after having
followed the long way to Calvary. All we Christians,
great and small, walk in his train, each bearing his cross.
Yours is very heavy: I cannot contemplate it except while
praying for you. It seems to me my prayer helps you.
Nor is this an excess of faith, since God tells us that
prayer is so powerful; and besides, I can understand
nothing so well as prayer. For me to pray means to
believe, to love, to hope. ‘Therefore I pray for you, your
child, and Marie, at the Angelus of every evening; ’tis
the hour when I think of the dead, ever more and more
numerous as they become.

I have not told you that I am again in mourning, that
I have lost my grandmother. She left us ten days ago,
and went away to join almost her whole family. My
father is the only survivor of all her children. ‘There
she is now happy with the others in heaven. O howE ugénie de Guerin. 83

blessed we Christians are, we cannot lose each other! We
weep over our departed, but we hope; we weep, but we
look up to heaven. My family commission me to inform
you of this sad event, as well as to express their desire
that you should visit Cayla. Come here to console the
afflicted ; come here to pray with us. Yes; let us all,
relations and friends, pray for our mother. Let us pray:
it is now our best form of tenderness, the true tenderness
of Christians.

How did the Val strike you on your return? As
a tomb, no doubt; and there you are settled in it for
ever! And your brothers come and visit you in that
mournful Thebaid! Maurice goes on writing to you: what
do you think of his soul? It strikes me as depressed, with-
out any misfortune to make it so. It is a vague depres-
sion, a sickly condition that enervates the soul, enfeebles
it, and at length kills, if it do not struggle against its
disease; but it requires help in this, and I tell Maurice
to apply for it to God like a good and pious Christian.
He is religious, and yet complains! Oh, if he could but
pray! IfI only knew that he didso! Tell him that no
one is religious without prayer; no, nor happy either ;
tell him so, you to whom he listens so readily. Tell him
what you do, tell him what consoles you who have so
wept. Let him join himself to you. Let us look up, all
we who feel the anguish of life and the bitterness of tears.
See, the heavens are so near us we only need to lift our
eyes to see them. Blessed be God, who has thus sur-
rounded us with hope and brought our happiness within

our view!
G2Letters of

Adieu! Monsieur. I embrace your little daughter, and
pray you ever to believe me the tender and faithful friend

of her mother.

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
30th Fuly, 1835.

I wanted to write to you the day before yesterday; I
wanted to write to you yesterday, my very dear one, but
visitors took up all my time, and it was only in thought
that I could think of you. I like, you know, to think in
speech, What is it you are going to see? I have no
idea. I am tempted to write, and keep this paper; it
might be put over a pot of jam or mend some broken
panes: it would then be useful. But in that case you
would not know that I love you. Oh, yes, you do know
it. But you would not read my affection of the day:
I mean the tenderness flowing from the heart to this
paper, that conveys it to you like a small canal. Let it
reach you then, reach you as soon as possible. I am
impatient of postal delays now, I should like to find a
bird.

Do you know that I have some cause for being impa-
tient? first, about this letter I am wniting, and then to
know the state of things in Paris. Yesterday a passer-by
told me that there had been explosions, deaths, dreadful
disturbances there. We know nothing about it, but my
father, who saw the despatch at Cahuzac, assures us it is
true. Therefore here we are again in anxiety. Whata
misfortune to have brothers, friends, on that volcano of aLiugéne de Guérin. . 85

Paris!’ And we know nothing of Maurice, and tke post-
man does not come. He ought to have been here, and
the whole of to-day I am expecting him. I wrote last
night to Marie, who will, I fancy, be rather better in-
formed of the events of the day. The world might go to
pieces without our knowing anything about it here. It is
over-much calm at such a period; there are circumstances
in which repose does harm.

They say there are many families thrown into mourning
in Paris. God grant that we may not have any one to
weep! ‘The mourning we are in already is quite enough.
‘In connexion with this let me tell you, my friend, how
sensible I am of the tender interest you show for me and

for each one of us, Your sweet sympathy—the sweetest

 

I have received—did me good like a balm from heaven.

Tis that your words do flow thence as well as your true

and beautiful tenderness; the beautiful and the true come
from God. ‘Thus your friendship is a celestial gift to me,
and so is the kind little letter now before me. I can
see in it that you are sad on my account, that you have
prayed for me, that you are prompt to feel, to weep, to

console me. I see init... . Oh! what is there that

I do not see? Your whole image, in short, as in a little
mirror.

My poor grandmother was old, and her long hfe had
been much chequered; her eyes had shed many tears.
But do not let us speak of it. God had, no doubt, per-
mitted it. Let us pray for her: ‘tis our best consolation,
our best tenderness. Of what use is all besides? I
assure you, my own friend, that all that passes seems30 * Letters of

to me so much vapour; even the affections of our heart,

what are they unless we Carry them into heaven, unless
we raise them up to God? They, too, die. We must
for this world but the next, where
’twould be like two travellers

love each other, not
we are to abide; otherwise
attaching themselves to each other
Not worth the while, indeed! My dear Louise, do you
Ror thik asae Oh, yes! J should indeed have valued
the gentle teaching of Father Bories, who knows so well
how to soothe and strengthen me; but God has deprived
me of him, and chosen to leave me, as it were, tO
myself. I have had full experience of my weakness, my
nothingness. My God, what a reed this poor soul of

just to cross a road.

mine! Do not think me overwhelmed with sorrow; it is
not that; I am not so sensitive as you Suppose, besides,
death does not prostrate me, ’tis so natural. We ought
to be far more overwhelmed by sin than death. I fear
that M. Bories will not be back for the Assumption, and
I who love the Festivals of the Virgin shall be much
disappointed not to keep this one.
Emilie Vialar and three sisters were to set out last
Tuesday to Toulon, on their way to Algeria. There is a
beautiful instance of devotedness! Many people call her
mad, but almost all the saints have been mad in the eyes
of the world. ‘This establishment may do immense good
‘n those countries where Christian charity is as yet un-
known. ‘These sisters will take care of the poor, the
wounded, will shelter the newborn children that are cast
out like dogs. ’Tis M. Augustin who told my father this.

He has had the house got ready; when they arrive, theLeugénie de Guérin. 84

sisters will only have to set to work. ‘The little Rieunier
took lessons in dressing wounds from M. Rigal, who
himself provided all the apparatus necessary for broken
legs and arms.

Adieu! Embrace Léontine and the Countess, whom
I see beside you. Now happy you are! How did she
find the mountain on her retum? I know one who
would consider it very beautiful. I have a thousand
things to say from my father and Marie for you all and
for you only.

To THE SAME.

Cahuzac, 2nd September, 1835.
Here I am, dear friend, before a little lamp, leaning
on a little table, beside the room my grandmother has
just left, and thinking of you. Oh, how useful this swee
thought is in somewhat calming the agitation of heart
and mind that harasses me! I do not tell you what
causes it; you can infer it from the place whence I write
to you. Never has any letter that set out hence been
like the one I am much inclined to write now; but I
restrain myself, and my heart’s tendency shall not this
time drag me along whither I ought not to go. I bend
over to your side: or rather, 1 am passive in the matter,
for it is a natural inclination that costs me little effort.
Oh, how happy I am in you, dear Louise !
You will ask me what I am domg at Cahuzacr “fi
overlook the meals of the workmen who are repairing88 Letters of

the house, and as cook I have a good old maid, whom I
have no trouble in watching. When all is done I work,
sew, read, think. Oh! I think much at the sight of that
empty bed amid these rooms, all in disorder as when one
is dislodging. But I must leave you to go and see my
aunt. Good night!

I have just come from mass, and return to my little
room and to you. It is nine o’clock; the morning passes
quickly in church, and I rather enjoy it. Here is a
visitor.

It was an Andillac woman married here and my next-
door neighbour. I have others who also come to see
me, and would like much to see me settle among them.
But it is very well for a week and no more, this life of
separation, which I do not at all object to, because of
its novelty and the small pleasurable excitement that
some arrival from Cayla daily gives me. My father
generally comes over every afternoon; you cannot think
how much pleasure I find in embracing and receiving
him zz my own house. ‘Then I bid him good-bye with
sorrow, and fall to thinking gloomily of what a longer
separation would prove. JI had Marie this morning, and
have just accompanied her to the bridge; she will return
on Saturday, and Sunday I shall rejoin my family. De-
lightful return !

This makes me enter into the happiness you have
had in seeing Pulchérie again, that dear absentee, so
wanted and called for the last nine months by all who
cherish her, especially by you. Accordingly, you appear
radiant: your letter 1s one expression of joy. Louise,

%,Liugénie de Guérin. 89

now well you can love! Love me, and tell it me at some
little length, now that you have thoroughly heard and
seen and caressed your sister.

Thanks for the letter that shows me your happiness:
it does me good to think of it. Those little clouds that
sometimes cross your spirit sadden me, as*your joys
rejoice. But let me always see and know all your moods.
Fill the pockets of your mountaineers with those thick
packets that I love. It would be a blessing if one of
them came to me to-day when I need something loving
and loveable to revive me. I have the church at the
door; I have Fénélon that I read a little of. This does
me good, but it is not enough to keep me calm. Madlle.
dH
arrives early in church, confesses, and receives the Com-
munion with an angelic look that enchants and djs-
heartens me. How I envy her her soul, and how

 

comes every other day to edify me. She

beautiful to see a young girl of seventeen instruct us ir
piety! The brothers, too, are little saints; the eldest,
who has just been admitted to his first Communion,
hears two masses on Sunday and communicates at the
first. Is it not very edifying? I was told yesterday that

was dead. ‘This is possible: he received

 

Father T
the Sacraments on Monday, poor man! He returned
long since to religious sentiments that much console his
family. What but this one hope remains to us, my God,
in the long farewell of death? Without the thought of
another world I should not comprehend this.

You are free now from the fear of cholera. God be
praised! We began to tremble for Rayssac. But you90 Letters of

did not mean to leave it; you were bent on dying of the
disorder while nursing the sufferers. That was beautiful
in the sight of God, but sad for me who should have
wept you so bitterly, my dear defunct! Blessed are the
dead! you would have been in heaven. With that holy
thought, adieu! Adieu! I love you with all my heart,

and your sisters also.

To THE SAME.
May, 1836.

I arrived a week ago from Gaillac, where I made a
halt, after my Lisle retreat. You will look upon me as
a great wanderer, my dear Louise, you who live so retired,
are such a recluse in your mountains. I am not like you in
this respect. Though a solitary, I often leave my desert ;
I rush into the world, while you no longer appear there.
Have we, then, different vocations, and can it be that
God, who often inspires us with the same thoughts, bids
me to go and you to stay? I know not how it is in your
case, but, for my part, I assure you that missions have an
irresistible attraction for my spirit, and that I needs must
go where I can hear God spoken of.

Antoinette had written, and engaged me to spend with
her the week of privileges and instruction that was to
precede the planting of the Cross. That was a festive
invitation indeed ; accordingly I accepted, accordingly I
heard Father Gondelin again, accordingly I am one of
the congregation by him established, accordingly I haveLugénie de Guérin. gI

Saint Agatha de Gelis for President, Augustine for
Secretary, Antoinette for Prioress. In short, a thousand
spiritual advantages make me bless my pilgrimage to
Lisle,

I greatly value, too, the acquaintances I made with per-
sons who know you, and, above all, with a saint who likes
me, who loves you, who has conquered and charmed all the
“salons” of Lisle by her piety and her wit ; who is neither
young nor beautiful, but infinitely loveable and good, and
unsophisticated—at that you recognise Mdlle. de Gais.
I admire the way in which our acquaintance was made at
a party where she heard my name: ‘‘ Does Mademoiselle
chance to be the friend of Louise?” As I did not say
no to this, came such attentions, compliments, kind-
nesses, obliging ways; the saint would have ended by
spoiling me ; each time we met, all this began over again,
beginning by speaking of you; the sweet subject led me
far, and I enjoyed returning to it so much that I dogged
the steps of Mdlle. de Gais; I should like to have had
her always with me, I could have put her into my pocket.
In short, we love each other, we have even discovered
that we are cousins, and said a thousand tender things on
that head. If you write to her be sure to tell her that
her Cayla cousin preserves the recollection of her very
sacredly, and would rejoice to see her again. But there
are some of these meetings which never recur in life.
It needed a retreat, a Father Gondelin, to bring each of
us out of the desert, to come across the other for a
moment, that must last us till Paradise perhaps.

I should not, dear friend, like our meeting to be put92 Letters of

off so long; I should be very sad. Whatever charm I
may find in a new acquaintance, I always return to the
old, to Louise, my earliest friend ; it seems to me that I
have loved you for a hundred years; so strong, So rooted
is my affection, I compare it to an oak, while other affec-
tions are reeds.

Shall I tell you everybody I saw in that world of Lisle ?
These details amuse you, I hope. Oh! I have seen an
angel, really an angel in name and face, Angele de Saint
Géry. Iwas told of her piety, being so admirable and
so admired that the holy man cited it from the pulpit.
, full of intellect, oh, yes,

 

There I also saw Madame
full of it to the very tips of her fingers ; it is even said
that she was once alarmingly clever, but Father Gondelin
has changed her, and softened the over-pungency of her
wit. If you could hear her speak of the missionary, how
fervently, how tenderly she paints him! You see Father
Gondelin on her lips, so completely does she reflect his
eloquence. Picture to yourself that she goes from one
end of Toulouse to the other to hear him say mass.
There is enthusiasm; never would my admiration for the
frst orator in the world take me so far—to hear his
for otherwise I would betake

 

prayers, that is to say
myself to the Antipodes to hear a Guyon, a Deguerry, or
even a less degree of eloquence. z

Apropos of preachers, I admire our own Curé. His
style is simple, connected, precise, and touching; our
peasants are enchanted, and quite proud of him, Let
us hope he may do good. But I shall always regret

Francoise, the good and pretty sister of M. LimerFiugénze de Guerin. 93

Since she is gone we find the priest’s house empty, and
Andillac dull. Accordingly we only stay for church,
whereas we used to spend the Sunday there with infinite
pleasure. Francoise was gay and witty, and knew how
to amuse us by a variety of little stories connected with
churches, chapels, and village-life, which she related to
perfection. There she is now in your mountains. I
should regret her less were she near you; you would like
her, she is a charming “‘ dévote.” Since her exile she has
written to us regretting Andillac. Her letter enclosed a
mountain prayer ; I answered her, but sent back no prayer ;
we have not got any here to give.

Cahuzac is still as it was; that shows you there are
no changes that affect our consciences. I tell you of
this, knowing the interest you take in such a change.
Tell me, too, something of your fears on the same head,
for I, on my part, are much occupied about your soul. I
should not like to see it orphaned, though on one side
you might be better suited with a nearer substitute.
M. Amalric is much too far off; ’tis like a doctor who
only arrives when the illness is over.

Are you keeping the month of Mary? ‘This devotion
is spreading a great deai; and, in fact, how beautiful and
cheering it is! What can be sweeter than to pray amidst
flowers, and to feel one’s soul rise with their perfume before
God? Marie and I shall celebrate our month of Mary
‘1 the little room before an image of the Holy Virgin
and some flowers. We are told that by so doing one
may participate in the privileges of the month of Mary
when far froma church, There are three hundred days94 Letters of

of indulgence for every day ; this is not a thing to be
neglected. My God! we have such need of indulgence!
Adieu, my dear, you will be indulgent to this gossip; I
am going to look after my ducks.

I had meant to go on with my chat, but here is a
person going to Noailles, and I give him my letter that it
may reach Albi to-night. Adieu! I am very sorry to
leave you, I could say so much more. When Madame

Mathieu sets out you shall have the ekly packet.

To M. Limer, Curé at Angles.

Sir,— 25th Fune, 1836.

First of all, how much I thank you for having kindly
given us tidings of Francoise ; her foot made us uneasy,
and I was very anxious to know what had become of it;
I was almost afraid of her losing it on the way, and it was
not a little sad to think that Frangoise would only limp
in future, and could no longer cross the mountains to come
and see us. I am, therefore, enchanted with your good
news, being able to hope that the poor foot will yet make
its way in the direction of Cayla.

This does really delight me; but I have a grudge against
you, Six, who are the cause of this injury to the foot, and
of many others that you have pitilessly inflicted upon us ;
as, for instance, the depriving us of Francoise. Never
shall I forgive you your conspiracies, which you call slight
ingratitude, and which are nothing less than high treason.Eugénie de Guérin.

Accordingly I am inclined to inflict the penalty upon
you; but I remember what is due to the Church, and,
then, is it not our duty to forgive? You see that charity
disarms me, and so effectually that I feel disposed to
come and sign a treaty of peace at your house when-
ever I set out for the mountains. We have arranged
this, Francoise and I, but-I know not when it can take
place.

Papa is encumbered with workmen, and will not be
able for some time to accompany me to Rayssac, whence
I shall make my descent upon you. ‘This was our plan,
but who can control events? The departure of M. Bories
is a very sad one for this country and for ourselves; every
one regrets him ; I mean all worthy people, the other kind
always rejoice at the departure of a priest. Last night
new follies were sung to the Curé of Vieux. It was the
parting song of the conscripts of his parish. You, Su,
1ave not any of these demons in your mountains. Hence,
we ought not to complain of good souls who leave us
to go away with the saints; people only like their own
country; nevertheless you must not forsake us quite,
but afford us at least a remembrance in heart and
Permit my sister and myself to embrace

prayers.

Francoise on this paper, and to remind her of all her
promises. JZ. @ Andillac will also be pleased to receive

the affectionate regards of all of us. Nothing new in

his old parish.mS. alana See et oe ne en a
Yd

ve

i

Letters of

To MpLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BOIsseET, Liste.
2nd September, 1836.

I am just come from the mountains, from Louise, whoin
I had not seen for four years. You may imagine the
charm, the happiness of those three weeks, and the regrets
of the present time, my dear Antoinette. No longer to see
each other, to be so far away, to converse only in letters,
is sad for friends who would like to spend life together.
Pity me, you who are so kind, who can understand friend-
ship and the pain of separation. I remember how the
departure of your dear Blanche saddened you this spring.
Since then you have had many other griefs of the kind,
in which I have sympathised with all my heart, without
telling you so, because I, too, was going away. I wanted
to wait till my return to reply to your kind words, and tell
you of all the pretty things I had seen. 1am yours, then,
after the first family embrace; let us talk, talk of the
mountains; I am sure that country will please you; you
love what is amiable and holy.

But to form any idea of that pious district, so different
from its neighbours of the plain, one must have seen it,
_ What faith, what knowledge, what devotion in church!
To turn the head round during the service is so rare an
occurrence, that it is denounced from the pulpit as a pro-
fanation. The holy anger of the Curé at this peccadillo
very much edified me ; it testified to the habitual sulemnity
of deméanour ; and, in truth, these people are like praying
statues, so motionless do they remain before God, soEugénie de Guérin. 97

dead to all impressions of the senses. How we need
such model Christians in our district! I do not speak of
Lisle, where people are so wise, where there are sisters who
instruct the children, pious souls who edify others, con-
gregationalists who disseminate good books, and pray for
the righteous and for sinners. Grace abounds at Lisle,

and the good God has blessed you; but we, without aid,
with very few examples, and who have lost our great
luminary, M. Bories, oh, how much we are to be pitied!
What good right we have to the prayers of happier souls !

Therefore do you, filled with grace as you are, and your
sisters of the congregation, pray for us poor sinners ;
scatter prayers among us, as you do pious books amongst
others.

I should like to know what books you have received.
I could wish there were some to suit all minds, that those

who just know how to read, as w ell as the better instructed,
might be able to find in our library whatever their piety
required. I know that one must not be too particular,
and that everything that treats of God is good; but,
nevertheless, I remember the pietism of which Father
Gondelin spoke to us, What can you tell me of that
holy man, and of M. Verts? I should like to know if
at Toulouse or in heaven. Not though that
I am ready to go and find him, wherever it be, especially

In the mountains I learnt more than ever

the latter is <

not on high!
how one needs to pre

How happy I was there in every way!
a most tender Father, who had taken an
The worthy man! If it were not
H

pare oneself for heaven.
The church

two steps off; a
affection for my soul.98 Letters of

so very interior a matter, and rather long to tell, I should
relate one instance of his kindness to my conscience. In
short, I was spoiled there; everything amused me; the
excursions up and down by hill and dale with Louise and
Don Quixote,* mounted on Pierre-a-feu, his courser ; then
the luncheons of goat’s milk, barley bread, /romazjou,
which awaited us in the cottages around. How pleasant
all that was! Nothing can be more courteous, more
civil, than these mountain men and women, even down
to the little children, who get up almost out of their
cradles to curtsy to you. I do not speak of Louise, or
of her unspeakably kind and amiable family ; it is, indeed,
happiness to see and know them intimately.

Adieu, dear Antoinette! What of the health of Laure
and Augustine just now? All those who suffer interest
me. I believe you to be well, but I do not love you the
less. Yes, believe me always all your own.

 

To M. MAURICE DE GUERIN, Paris.

St. Eugene's Day, 6th September, 1836,
About a week ago I was coming down very sadly from
the mountains, thinking of Louise, my heart full of her
friendship, and regrets at our separation. How much it
costs us to leave a friend when one has found such hap-
piness In being together! Adieu is a word which makeg

* The same as the Vocturnal Cavalier of a former letter,Eugénie de Guérin. 99

one weep, which kills. Fenelon is very right in saying
that friendship, which constitutes the great delight of life,
inflicts inexpressible pain as well. We felt this, Louise
and I. ’Tis that at bottom the sweetest things of life
have their bitterness; I learn, I experience this ever
more and more. What is to be done? One must
become resigned, adapt oneself quietly to the current of
the world which flows on so diversely.

My friend, I thought of you everywhere while among the
mountains; under the limes, in the little drawing-room, in
the gallery, where they gave me some of your letters to read;
those dear letters that M. de Bayne preserves with other
precious documents. I think that you would please him
much by sending him more from time to time, and giving
him some account of what goes on in the literary world.
The worthy man 1s particularly attached to you. ‘The
name M. Maurice must be in his heart, he has it so often
on his lips. His affection ought to please you ; it pleases
me I know, and, so much the more, that I share some of
it, probably as being your sister. Indeed, I do not know
Bayne should treat me with such special

why M. de
d to come and converse, and tell me

favour, but he use
about his great authors and great thoughts ; we opened
every kind of book together—history, philosophy, legends,
poetry. His evening conversati
of literature, for it was in the evening we talked, he in his
back turned to the window, I on the great sofa
pecial corner, Léontine at the other end,
r me as possible, and Criquet
You would also have seen
H 2

 

ons were quite a course

arm-chair,
in the Countess’s S
Louise on a chair as nea
at her feet or on her knees.100 Letters of

the round table with books, pamphlets, journals, stock-
ings, heaped round a chandelier, and underneath it the
shade into which the cricket used to venture. All is just
as it was four years ago, minus you. Louise is not in
the least changed. She has the same look of youth, the
same gaiety, the same eye of fire. Whata glance it is!
I wish it had fallen upon Raphael; what would he not
have made of it? As for me, I have in my soul a charm-
ing picture of it, and a faithful one.

I was cut short there by the arrival of Miou, my pupil,
a gentle, pretty little girl, and a stupid, according to
Papa, who does not like her slowness, which makes him
judge my poor “ protégée” rather severely. A hail-storm
came down yesterday, to put an end to our grapes. It
was pitiful to see the poor broken vines, that had pro-
mised such an abundant vintage. We had not calculated
on less than seventy barrels: so much for calculating on
anything in this world !

To-morrow we expect the Raynauds, great and small.
Papa longs exceedingly to embrace Auguste, and his wife
and children. I was the first to have that pleasure on
my way to Albi. Judge of the delight, and how soon
acquaintance was made with Félicité. The look of old
friends that we had from the very first, surprised all who
were not aware that we were already known to each other
in heart. I find our cousin kind, simple, friendly ; very
fond of you, which makes me not a little fond of her.
We talked of you. “Tell me of Maurice; what is he
doing, does he think of us, will he come at last?” and
other questions, which I shall repeat some of these daysEugén 1e de Guérin. IO!

more at leisure. It rains, unfortunately, which will pre-
vent our going out and seating ourselves under some oak«
tree well adapted for telling secrets.

If only we had you, what happiness! Do not let us
think of it, since to do so merely occasions regrets. But,
however, recollect that I will, that we positively will, have
you next year; therefore arrange your plans accordingly,
or tell us that you do not choose to come. I see nothing
but the “ Aorégation » to detain you, but in the course of a
year you have plenty of time for preparation. Prepare
yourself, then, in time; present yourself without hesitation ;
a little courage, come; the courageous are the successful.
Think of the pleasure you will give us, the pleasure Papa
will feel, that dear father who loves thee so much that we
should be jealous had we not each our own share of

affection. A father’s heart is infinite.

To MpLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BOISSET.
29th September, 1836.
How I pity you, my poor Antoinette! How over-

whelming I consider the blow which has just fallen upon
I see you heartbroken,

you and your whole family !
and I, who would fain offer

weeping, needing consolation,
it you, can do nothi
with your affliction by acutely sharing in it. I feel my
insufficiency,

SOITOW.

ng, no, nothing but associate myself

and that of all human compassion, in such a

Our support comes from above, aS you once:102 Letters of

told me on a similar occasion. I love to recall ‘these
words, and the tender friendship that prompted them.
To me it was something heavenly, which makes me ask
God to-day to grant me the favour of returning you the
good you did me then. But, once more, what can |
do, my dear friend, except mourn with you, and pray
God to give you the resignation and the strength of which

 

you have such need in the sorrow He sends you now?—a
very bitter, very profound sorrow to you—I enter, into
and share it both as friend and sister. It is so sad to
lose a brother !

But it is God’s will that, sooner or later, we should be
separated the one from the other, and that in these sepa-
rations our heart should attach itself more strongly to
Him, and turn entirely towards the place whither those
we miss are gone. ‘The death of our loved ones teaches
us to detach ourselves from life, and all that goes on
in this poor land of exile, and to have no other than
heavenly hopes. It is when we are sorrowful that we feel
the need of Heaven; accordingly God promises it to
those that mourn, and calls them blessed because they
shall be comforted. Oh! fortifying promise! How
powerfully it helps us to bear our cross, heavy though it
be! Heaven is held out, but we must gain it by suf-
fering, and, like Jesus Christ, arrive at glory by the long
path of Calvary. You, my dear friend, who have so often
and so piously followed the way of the cross, have learned
resignation there, and strength in the afflictions of life.

In this affliction that God sends you now I depend
firmly upon your courage and your religious feelings,Eugénie de Guérin.

but I am anxious about your health, and that of your
dear Laure, so delicate, and so shaken by a blow like
this. Hence I shall long much for a word to set me at
ease both about you and Mdlle. Laure, and I expect it

from your friendship.

 

To M. HIPPOLYTE DE LA MORVONNAIS.

Cayla, 2nd February, 1837.

lt is two years to-day since a letter from Maurice
‘aformed me of the death of your dear Marie, a death of
which I thought on waking, and would solemnise the
anniversary by writing to you. I do not think I can
spend the day better than in speaking to you of her,
of your daughter, of heaven, where she is, and whence
she watches over all she loved. Marie prays for us, is
as if she

 

occupied with our happiness,—yours especially,
arth, and even more, for she loves us far

Hence I hope much for your soul ; it

were still on e
better in heaven.
will benefit, by graces obtained for us by the saints, those

friends that we have with God,—I mean those interior

aids that console and sustain the soul in its weakness,

and which are so necessary to you, as I observe from
your letters ; nor is it without pain that I still find you so
inconsolably sad. And yet you know that faith gives us

a Christian is not allowed to sorrow as

hope, and that < ;
those who know not God, for, for thy faithful people,

Lord, to die is not to lose life, but to pass to a better.
Let us then console ourselves by reflecting that thoseC2 et ae ere Le

   

104 + Letters of

 
  
 
 
    
  
 
   
   
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

who leave us are happier than we. The blessed dead say

 

to us, Weep not, rather follow the way which will bring
you where we are; one gets here by loving God, serving
Him with all one’s heart, through the mourning, the sepa-
rations, griefs, depressions, tears, that fill up the whole
of life. Heaven is-at the end; we must pass through
trials as the soldier does, without fainting or dismay, across
battle-fields, to glory.

How I wish I could see you attain to that strength

 

 

 

which comes from God, and is to be found in prayer,
pious reading, in the practice of religious duties so consoling
and so sweet. Why do not all the afflicted know how to

 

 

* have recourse to them? Why cannot they discover that

 

treasury whence all good things needed by the soul so abun-
dantly flow! My God, how little we know how to profit
by thy gifts! I know more than one of the afflicted who
is lost for want of seeking consolation where it is to be
found. ’T is not in study, nor in the contemplation of
nature, not in man, nor in anything created, that the soul
can find consolation ; but m God, in God alone, in his
Word, in the divine Scriptures, in a faithful and believing

life. Ah, Monsieur, who is there that kneeling down with
his heart full of tears does not rise comforted ?

You have experienced this, no doubt; it is not for me
to teach you these truths, but I love to speak of them,
because there is an infinite charm in these heavenly com-
munings, because they naturally flow from my heart
when I think that God has authorised me to console you.
What else, indeed, could I say? I know nothing besides,
{ have learned nothing from the world, both it andEugénie de Guérin. 105

its language are alike strange to me. I only know the
language of piety; you would find me dumb if you did
not understand it, but you will do so, I see, stace you
speak of prayers; only tell me, why do you add that your
soul is deteriorating more and more ? Those words distress
me; they are the expression of a sick faith, of a heart
estranged from God. It would be sad indeed ta see you
fall away thus, you whose trials have placed you so high
and near to Jesus on Calvary. Accordingly, I looked
on you as one of the elect, one of those of whom Jesus
Christ declares, ‘Blessed are they that moum.’ You
suffer so much: do not lose the fruit of suffering. Look
up, like Stephen, at the open heaven. Have faith, hope!
Let your soul soar, and it will not deteriorate ; let us
leave the earth, that soils, that tarnishes us, poor swans:

‘* For how retain the spotless white that was our heav’nly dower,
Amidst the mire and clay, the dust that flies around
And lights on all things here below, yes, even on the flower !
Oh fear, then, fear a stain contracted from the ground :
Virgins, doves, the Lord’s possession,
Little children, flakes of snow,
Poets, priests, a pure procession,
Thro’ a world corrupt that go,
Pass as a ray of light thro’ vapours dank and low !

« Tet us not date to linger on this globe of clay ;
Oh, whosoe’er we be, still let us lift our eyes
Where the sun lights with everlasting day
The home of men and angels in the skies.
What has the world, alas! to offer us in store ?
What is the earth, my God? a grave immense—no more !
Within which buried ages, monarchs, nations rest,
And oh! how many of the loved, once folded to our breast :
Pass we then, pass we on, like those who thro’ a churchyard tread :
Pass we on, shedding tears and prayers o’er our beloved dead.”106 Letters of

Yes, let us pray. I would repeat it in a thousand forms,
because prayer is what you need, because, as well as”
poetry, it consoles poor poets in their sorrow. Make
trial of God after poetry, and you will feel yourself better,
and your soul will no more go on deteriorating. Your
soul to deteriorate! what a misfortune! I pray God to
preserve you from it; what a grief to Marie if she were
after God, the
natural guardian of the child she has left you, of your

 

to see you! Be what she has seen you

dear little girl, for whose sake alone your soul should
keep itself pure.

Forgive me; I believe that you are still good; it is I
who go too far, who have been too ready to take alarm
at an expression imperfectly understood ; no, you are not
deteriorating, but you weep too much, you do not,
perhaps, believe enough. JI merely throw out ideas which
proceed from a great fear and great love for your soul.
What would not I do for its salvation, for that of all men,
those brothers redeemed by the blood of Jesus Christ ?
This is, indeed, to speak to you as a sister, but you have
given me that title, and I use it to express myself freely,
to thank you with all my heart for what you say so
kindly and graciously of me and mine. In the name of
all, I ask you to come and see us, and to bring us Marie ;
we long to caress her and hold her on our knees. Be good
enough to embrace her for me, dear little thing. Will you
also convey our remembrances to your sister Ad&le, and
tell her how her fear of me made me laugh? let her
be reassured and pleased to consider me within reach, in
order that I may embrace her very tenderly.Eugénie de Guérin. 107

As you say, Maurice is changed for better and for
worse ; in growing stronger his character has lost some of
its tenderness; he is no longer the same brother who
loved me like a child, and innocently told me everything.
He is silent and reserved now; why, God only knows.
It pains me, but I, too, am silent. Must we not resign
ourselves to everything? What good would complaining
do? I wait to see him. But, indeed, I am not sure
if I have rightly understood what you say of him, or
many other parts of your letter, not being very well able
to read your handwriting. Could you make it a little
plainer? I wish you could, because of the pleasure I
take in reading you.

Adieu! forgive me all my plain speaking, and always

believe in my devoted friendship.

P.S.—I long that every obstacle to the publication of
‘Wordsworth’ should be removed. My father and my
whole family enjoin me to offer you their affectionate

remembrance.

To MpLie. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
Albi, Tuesday, 4th April, 1837.
Cholet arrived just as I was going to church, bringing
me your sad letter, which I read close to the gate of
Sainte Cécile. This will tell you, dear friend, that
I took you with me before God, that I prayed Him to

enable you to support with resignation these heart griefs,108 Letters of

these losses, these deaths, which are constantly falling
upon us. Such is life, full of separations and _ tears.
"Tis sad, very sad to nature, but faith consoles, the soul
knows that when the earthly house of its tabernacle is
dissolved, it has one that is eternal in the heavens. This
passage of the ‘Preface to the Dead’ is sublime, and
more consolatory than all we can say to console ourselves
for the loss of those we love. Human language is very
cold, very powerless; ’tis only a mournful sound, like
that of the tolling bell. Let us go into the presence
of God if we would have what really comforts and fortifies,
I have observed that pious people, even the most simple
and ignorant, can find admirable things to say on such
occasions. Jeannette, who was alone with the dying
Madame de Faramond, exhorted her like a missionary.
“Tis that they are inspired by love and piety. Let us
love God, and we shall know how to speak of Him.

That poor ———— died without any other sacrament
than that of extreme unction, so rapidly did death come
at last ; not but what he had been very ill, but no one was
alarmed by a complaint in the foot, when all of a sudden
the pain mounted to the leg, then higher and higher
through all the body. M. the Curé, who was dining in
town, was sent for in all haste, and had only time to give
him extreme unction. I have these details from Madame
de Tonnac, and told you them in the letter I burnt,
together with a thousand things that I shall not repeat ;
they were nothings, words that fall from the pen and
leave no memory behind.

We might laugh a little over these conversations inEugénie de Guérin. 109

ashes, but this is not the time for it; the heart is only
disposed to sadness in the midst of the dead and dying ;
mine especially, which so regrets that good, amiable,
pious Laure, whose death I have just heard of. Poor
Antoinette, poor mother! how afflicted the whole family
must be, they loved their dear Laure so much!* She
was their joy, the treasure, the consolation of them all.
Intelligence, sweetness, piety, tender and thoughtful affec-
tionateness endeared her to everybody. Nota year has
yet passed since I saw her in her home, and admired her
good qualities, her cheerfulness in suffering, her angelic
piety. It cost her nothing to do or to endure what was
painful. Always God’s will and that of others! All Lisle
must mourn her. It was influenza that carried her off in
a few days; nor is it surprising in the state she was that
her fragile frame should succumb to the least shock. I
must write to Antoinette, and you can imagine how much
I dread it ; as you say, one trembles to renew anguish by
touching upon it. And yet friendship must needs lay tears
on these heart wounds. One thinks of God and heaven,
and piety makes such tears very sweet. Nevertheless, this
letter is hard to write; if you were near, I should say to
you, Help me—I should appeal to my good angel. Always
I had a foreboding that it would fall to me to console
Antoinette for her sister’s death. Dear friend, may God

spare me this office of consoler, which is so heartrending,

so very painful!
Poor world! thus it is one leaves it; now on this

* Mdlle. Laure de Boisset, who died the 30th of March in this

year.IIo Letters of

side, now on that, we see those we know go away from
our midst. Before long one finds oneself alone, isolated
amongst the new comers, like leaves of a former year
still clinging to the tree when those of spring arrive.
One often sees this on oak-trees. ’Tis sad, and many a
time has made me reflect in our woods. Everything may
be turned to profit by the soul, everything lifts thought
on high; the good God wills and approves that all should
have reference to Himself, and a dead leaf may utilise
apparently purposeless walks.

Yesterday, on getting up, I saw two swallows skimming
the steeple of Saint Salvy. These little heralds of the
spring are delightful; one thinks of fine days, of flowers,
fruits, grapes, of friends that one will go and see, a whole
series of smiling images come flying round with the
swallows. Euphrasie laughed a good deal, and almost
ridiculed my burst of joy, when I opened the window;
a child such as she is does not know at what she is
laughing, nor all that I saw at once—Cayla, Papa, Marie,
the mountains, Louise, my dear friend. This well deserved
a cry of joy.

Yes, I shall come to see, to embrace, to listen to you,
to do all that we did last year. What happiness, dear
friend! Be sure I shall not deprive myself of it, nor
afflict you by a refusal. As to delay, I cannot avoid that ;
forgive it; my poor father is too impatient to see me;
Marie is almost in tears, and says, “ You will go and see
Louise later.” What would you have me do? I shall go
and return, ‘This is what my father and your friend pre-
fers. Above all, do not go and imagine that Papa OpposesEugénie de Guérin. LYE

ny journey, he was the first to propose it to me. ae
speaks of it in every letter. Yesterday, again, he says, “ I
long very much to see you ; but for your good friend’s sake
I consent to spare you as long as you like, because there
is nothing I would not do for her.” How happy I am!
This dear father thinks he is doing great things in sending
you his daughter; he knows well that you love her.

You see, dear friends—for I love you all, and my fond
words are addressed to you equally—one must not have a
divided heart if one would be happy anywhere, were it
even in heaven. In my Rayssac paradise I should just
now be thinking a great deal of Cayla; therefore give me
2 little more time, I entreat you ; do not be angry with me
if I refuse to embrace you at present, ’tis but to hold you
longer by and bye. Therefore it is settled to our mutual
satisfaction, is it not? I have but to occupy myself with
my commissions, and my return, which will be on Monday
next.
__that is the right word—by friends and relations. ‘The

I am going away much made of, much spoiled

good Mathieus and Emilie load me with kindness ; dear
cousins, how grateful I am for their kind reception, and
then for so many benefits to my soul as well! I am going
away nourished with sermons, means of edification, all
sorts of holy things. ;

If Cholet had not told me that the charcoal-burners
set off at eleven, I should dwell at length on the cere-
mony at Bon Sauveur, a beautiful, touching sight, which
makes one admire, indeed, but also makes one weep.
No help for it when, after the vows, the young professed
stretches herself out beneath the funeral pall to the soundite Letters of

of the requiem for the dead; but how loveable religion
is! While every one is weeping, two children cover this
celestial tomb with flowers: and after a little time—like
that we shall pass in the grave—the pall is gradually
folded back, and reveals the radiant saint, who rises to
the chant of the Te Deum, and, led by the Mother
Superior, goes round to give a kiss to each of the sisters.
This overcomes, then electrifies. Neither the world nor
anything in it is worth what passes under that flower-
covered funeral pall. ‘They say that whatever the nun
asks from God at that moment is granted her. One

 

prayed to die—she died. Do you know what I should
ask? that you might become a saint. M, ———, the
almoner, gave us a sweet and pious discourse. But

adieu !

To MDLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BOISSET.

Albi, 1174 April, 1837.

May God console you, my poor Antoinette ; may He sus-
tain, may He succour you! ‘Your sorrow is beyond your
strength, beyond all that can be said to you. Accordingly, I
say nothing. I can only write tears, and how overwhelmed
I am by the loss you have just had. What a thunderbolt!
but God strikes us when He wills, as He wills, and in the
dearest places. He is a Father; He knows why He
afflicts us, and takes from us those we love. Let us enter
into His views, let faith help us in these sacrifices im-
possible to nature; let us look up to heaven, where go
those that leave us, where we shall join them for ever,‘ fiugénie de Guérin. rig

after a short separation. We all pass rapidly on earth;
happy they who, like your dear sister, take with them
a pious, holy life, a life of suffering and resignation, so
conformed to Jesus crucified. ’Tis to such souls as
these that he says at the moment of his death, “‘Come
unto me.” Your Laure is in heaven, dear Antoinette,
everything leads us to hope it. She was so pious, so
angelic, and the good God is so good! He has promised
heaven to those who suffer, to those who give a cup
of water in his name ; He has surely rewarded her whose
life was all made up of suffering and of charity. This
consoles, consoles greatly ; a Christian cannot sorrow as
those that have no hope. Let us weep, but be resigned ;
weep, but see the heavens opened. It is Fénélon who
says this to afflicted ones like you, and I repeat his
words which I find soothing. My dear friend, I feel that
I can do nothing, that all my friendship and all human
things are powerless in such sorrow; but I turn to God,
I pray to Him for you, for your poor brother, for all
of you, mourners that you are. I pray also for our
departed saint, almost invoking her the while.

Adieu ! I dare not continue and touch longer upon your
grief. Who knows what you are doing, or what becomes
of your health? How I pity you, how I share your
tears! I am writing to you from Albi; when you are
able write to me at Cayla.

More than ever entirely yours, dear Antoinette.Letters of

To THE SAME.
Cayla, 19th April, 1837.

write to you again, my dear Antoinette, to reply
to your letter that I found here, and to express to you
once more how much I feel for your sorrow. It is great,
very great! It is one of those blows that can only be
supported by God’s help ; but He does not fail you, He is
there sustaining your broken heart, giving you those
strengthening and consoling thoughts of heaven that I
find in your letter. My dear friend, how much touched
I am by the believing sentiments that prevail in your
heart, all torn though it be! I bless God for them, and
pray Him very fervently to continue them to you, to
increase them in proportion as you more and more keenly
feel your loss.

Your dear sister leaves a blank that you will find
greater every day. ’Tis ever so with these dear ones who
leave us, and whom nothing canreplace. ‘‘She was neces-
sary to your happiness, she was the joy of the family.”
Touching words that make me weep, that will lead me
as long as I live to pity you for so sad a separation. To
lose a sister, to see her no more, live with her no more,
my poor friend, oh! I can well believe you are desolate.

But say, say ever, “ We shall meet again in heaven, and
there nothing will come to separate us. Oh, joy of an
eternal reunion! how that a/ways consoles for an instant
of separation. What calm and strength the Christian
soul finds therein! You, especially, who may truly say to
yourself that your Laure is in heaven. Do not grudgeLugénie de Guérin. 115

her to the angels, she makes their happiness as on earth
she made yours; a holy soul is the joy of heaven. She
leaves you very sad, but from the bosom of God she says
to you, “Do not weep, I am happy, and I will send you
many consolations.” Believe this, you will owe much
grace to her; she prays for her family, protects, and will
be to you all that St. Francis d’Hiéronimo was to her,
everything encourages us to hope it; you are the sister
of a saint,—her pure life, her holy death, assure you of it,
and cause you, as you say, only to weep for yourself.

Iam very grateful to you for having written to me
in such a sorrow; ’tis a proof of friendship for which
I daily thank you by love and prayers—I who owe you
both by so many titles. I showed your letter to Marie,
who shares in all my feelings for you, and J am expressly
bid to say so, both by her and my father. We pray
you to accept the expression of our sympathy for each
and all, beginning with M. and Madame de Boisset.
What a daughter they have lost! My God! must their
heart indeed be thus often and intimately wrung? How
admirable your parents are in their faith and resignation !
How happy one is to have Christian parents! Oh, how
true it is, my poor Antoinette, that God blesses you, and
gives you everything in them!

I should not leave you so soon, but that I fear to
weary you. Tell me if you would like longer letters, you
shall have them. I love to console those that mourn, but
very often people like to weep alone. Let me again
thank you for having written to me, and given me details
respecting this holy death. They edify me, and make me
i116 Letters of

love God the more, that I too may die with this calin,
this joy of the saints. Indeed, what is there for them to
fear? Hence St. Theresa said at her death, “Why
should I dread to die ? I am going to fall into the arms of
Him whom I have loved above all.” Our Laure felt the
same. ‘This makes one long for Divine love, long to be
very very pious. ’*Tis on the cross that we become so, that
we learn with Jesus Christ all that pertains to salvation.
Oh yes! the cross, the cross ! Courage, you who carry it ;
from Calvary we go to heaven. Dear friend, how happy
you are to the eyes of faith. You only need strength ;
nature gives way, sinks, but even Jesus fell thrice on the
road to Calvary. I pray him to be your support.

Tell me of your health, of your mother, of Mdlle.
Blanche, you all interest me. I remember that when I
was with you a year ago you were all so good to me.
The congregation was then forming, and I am indebted
to an angel for having been admitted into it. This will
remain in the heart all life through, and beyond it.

Adieu ! my dear Antoinette, be very sure of my attach-
ment. Assure your sisters, too, of my affection for them.
Rousou * has prayed, the holy girl that she is, and will
again.

What is Irene doing, and your cousin De Gélis? No
doubt they will not leave you; were we less distant, you
would have another friend by your side. I came back
last night from Albi, where I was also with an afflicted
one, my poor cousin Mathieu, infirm and ill for a yeat
past. ©! this world is indeed a vale of tears.

* Rose la Marguilliere of the ‘ Journal.’Lugénie de Guerin.

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.

Was ever such ill luck, dear friend! ‘Two oppor-
tunities this very day, without my being able to write to
you ; and after having bewailed myself thereupon through
a whole page, I find I have gone and written upon the
back of a game called Game of Wolf. Vile wolf, that
eats up my letter! It was folded like a sheet of paper,
so that I wrote on in perfect security till on turning
the page I discovered my stupidity. Always some acci-
dent is happening to my letters. You will accuse me of
carelessness, I deserve it; I treat my own paper rather
cavalierly, but assuredly not so yours, none of that has
ever fallen into the fire. The moment I get hold of it I
lock it up in my desk, but first of all in my heart.. Thus
I preserve you from the Wolf. Tis a game’ of ag
pastor’s which we are to have pasted on a board, so
I shall have to show it with my writing. This would
annoy me if there were any secrets, but there is nothing
to see but affection; so much the better, let all certify
themselves of my love for you. The pastor has some
acquaintance with you, and will not wonder at my tender
strain; and then you know he is conversant with my
heart, or at least my conscience, which makes me less
reluctant to show him my thoughts.

My friend, I was thanking you in that lost page for
your two letters and the seed, and so many other things for
which I thank you again and again. I have had the seed
sown ; the kind words, too, shall be cast not to the winds,
but into good ground, into that heart that fondly loves you

aaa auuNEaaan118 Letters of

 

We want to go and see , Marie and I, provided
the weather settles, for one cannot very well go any
distance in this rain and cold wind, it is just like winter.
To-day our labourers are shivering in the fields ; perhaps
you have snow, I feared so this morning on seeing thick
clouds pass your way, and thought to myself, ‘ Poor
Louise!” I know you are not fond of the white prison
that the snow builds up for you in those mountains. It is
not cheerful But patience! spring will be here by and
bye, May will end by smiling upon us. The approach
of fine days and verdure is very tardy! ’tis melancholy
to see the nightingale singing beneath dead leaves ; our
woods are dry and bare as in January ; ’tis a calamitous
time for all, especially for those poor who are without
bread and employment; crowds of them are passing by
from all directions ; not long ago there came a woman
from Castres. Happy the full purses, this is the moment
for emptying them !

Mdlle. de Villeneuve must be a great help at Castres.
I know her costume, there is one singular thing about
it, her head-dress; she has adopted, I am told, the
Cascoul of the mountains. It seems that the head-
piece is the most difficult point to adjust in the reli-
gious attire. M. Charles, who often goes to Castres,
must know if there be any truth in this story of the
Cascoul, I picture to myself La Mathane in convent
costume! I think I also heard of Mdlle. de G-
entering at Mdlle. de Villeneuve’s. All these instances
of devotion are beautiful, and make me very hopeful
as to religion in France. Whatever may be said, faithEugénie de Guérin. 119

will always abide ; if it goes down on one side it rises on
the other, like a divine balance. |

Send me the rule of St. Jerome, pray. I know his
letters, they are much to my taste. That M. Fournier
was leading you to perfection at high speed. Do you
know that one could soon attain to it, by following the
plan that he traced out for you in play? In truth, visitors,
news, excursions, useless conversations, frivolous reading,
all those things that he suppressed, would set the heart
free and leave room for God. If He be not more within
us, tis that our soul is enc imbered with a thousand
earthly things. You will consider me severe, but I am
on M. Fournier’s side. Those good priests are very under-

standing as to the inner life, that life that makes saints.

 

I used sometimes to see at my cousin Mathieu's ;
her visits amused us; she is intelligent, very pious, and a
thorough Bretonne. What vivacity to be sure! She has
rather a longing to return to Brittany. It is indeed quite
a country to see, especially when one was born there. It
is a long time since M. de La Morvonnais has written to
us; he is just the man to bury himself more and more
‘1 his sorrow and his Val till he dies there of isolation
and gloom. Those Bretons do nothing like other people ;

they are in fact a race apart, strange characters, alas !

only too many among them! May God take pity on
such and change them! Many prayers g0 UP for this,
s get shed. M. Gerlich has showered them
ages in which he opposes his friend with
You have seer

and many tear
over those sad p
all the force and tenderness of his heart.

this in the ‘ Chronique.’120 Letters of

Who told you that we were building a chapel at the
castle? Would it were so! but we are a long way off
it as yet. We can only do what is indispensable ;
accordingly we still turn the little room into a chapel.
This May we have embellished it with a rather pretty
Statue of the Virgin, and some flowers on the table
which serves as an altar. You see that we are keeping
the month of Mary. At Albi I bought for the purpose a
little book sent for by M. Cuq, ‘New Month of Mary,’
by Abbé Le Guillou; a little book I exceedingly like,
sweet and fragrant as May itself, all full of flowers
and devotion. Any one who got it thoroughly worked
into his heart would be well pleasing to God and the
admiration of angels. To resemble Mary! what could
there be more holy and beautiful than this? This « Month
of Mary’ contains the virtues and the life of the blessed
Virgin, together with instances of her special protection
and of the love certain souls have felt for her. Do read
it, "tis something heay renly.

One must needs allow that piety bestows many sweet
things upon us; if the world knew this it would be
jealous, poor world which lives upon so much that is bit-
ter! I defy the delights of a Carnival to equal those of the
month of Mary; only ask a dancer and a dev out soul ;
methinks I see two before me, one of whom Says, “ NG
happiness passes away ;” the other, “ Mine does not.”
Upon which I leave you, embracing you very fery ently to
show you that I love you. That does not pass away
either, it is not a worldly ha appiness; oh, no! rather a
divine one, thus to love one another tenderly and piouslyEugénte de Guérin. 121

My father wishes me to add his affectionate homage as
a postscript. You and he have got on confidential terms,
I think. “You talk of secrets that you will keep for him ;
do you mean from me, to whom you tell so many

If I find another sheet we will go on chattering.

Here is paper enough to detain me a little longer with
you, dear Louise. What shall I tell you now? My short
bulletin is soon ended when once | turn to facts. My
desert gives one little to say or think, unless one lays
one’s heart open; there is plenty then to be said, and
this it is which makes up our correspondence and is
the charm of it for both. O! the pleasure of seeing
and hearing each other intimately, ’tis what friendship
loves !

One word about the world; we are not yet quite dead
to it; what goes on there sometimes interests us.

I know nothing more. . Oh, yes, I am wrong, another
great piece of news for you; the arrival of M. Vialar, the
African, with an Arab prince! To any one who knows
how to see events in men, there is something very
significant in this arrival of a son of Gaillac from Africa,
and of an African at Gaillac. Providence, who orders
we may be sure, brought the Arab

everything, has not,
Emilie remains on at

out of his desert for nothing.
Algiers.

Now this time everything is really said, except that
L love your sisters and you.

I should much like to hav
I told you that bad weather or the influenza prevented

All my Mentors were ill, and I could not go alone.

e gone to Salits, but I think

me.122 Letters of

What is the typhus doing? I earnestly implore it not to
attack you ; don’t let the doctor have to feel your pulse.
Here we are wonderfully well, but surrounded by the
epidemic, and people are dying of it.

 

 

To MpLLe. IRENE Compayry, Lisle.

25th May, 1837.
Antoinette tells me that you complain of:my silence,
my dear Irtne, which is telling me that you are very
kind, and I very negligent towards a friend I love ; for
do not suppose that I have forgotten you during this long
period of silence. There are occasions when the heart
speaks without being even heard. I have silently told
you many a thing, but knowing that you were still suffer-
ing I refrained from writing, lest my letters should fatigue
you. At such times manuscript is wearisome, the aching
rik head only wants to rest; but since you summon me,
| here I am; I never say No to friendship, to yours for
| instance which is so good and kind about me. I wish
| I were near enough to reply to it otherwise than by
a few written words. We should often meet if I were at
Lisle, but with fifteen miles between us ’tis only possible

to see each other in heart and thought.

In this manner I often come to join you. I have seen
you very sad, very much bereaved by the death of that
dear Louise, and I have truly shared your regret. Who

is there indeed that has not regretted that good and holyEugénie de Guérin. 123

and loveable friend that the good God has taken from
us? But she is in Heaven; this thought comes to soften
our regrets and lift the heart higher than this poor earth,
where everything passes away. Our soul detaches itself
from it more easily when it sees those it loves depart.
One whom we miss changes the world completely; no
longer any charm, no longer any happiness here, and
then we think of heaven. ‘Thus it is that affliction leads
to God. Let us bless Him for having ordered our eriefs
as means of salvation ; this is making us like Jesus Christ,
who only entered heaven through suffering. It seems
to me, dear friend, that these believing views soften and
make everything endurable. What becomes of those
who do not hold them—what remains to them? ‘They
are very unhappy, and deeply to be pitied. That holy
family de Boisset is admirably resigned; together with
their broken hearts one sees in them a wondrous spiritual
strength which sustains them under the cross.

It is time that I should say something of another
afflicted one, of you, my dear, who are so severely tried
in every way. Tell me when you can how your health
really is, that delicate health, so roughly treated by shocks
Mine is good, but Iam sad ; we have had bad
My brother is ul, sufficiently ill for his
It seems that the

like these.
news from Paris.
doctor to send him to his native air.
cold of Paris, influenza, and over-work, hay
his health. Poor child—what happiness for us to sce
him! But God wills that this happiness should be a very
I do not exactly know when to expect him ; he
a friend’s house to break the fatigue of the

e undermined

sad one.
is to hait at124 Letters of

journey. I tell you this knowing the interest you take in
me ; and, besides, you ask for our news,—there you have
it, such as it is, Pray for me and for the invalid.

 

 

To MDLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BoIsseEtT,

Sth Fune, 1837.

I am very happy to-day, my dear Antoinette, now that
I'am at ease about my brother. He has just written to
us: his health is recovering, that dear health which has
so terrified us the last fortnight. I have not told you of
it, but we have had our poor Maurice very ill in Paris,
so far away from us; it was indeed sad. Fortunately we
have excellent relations there who took the greatest care
of him; and thus rest and the hope of returning to us
helped on his recovery. It was the influenza and over-
work that gave us this alarm about his chest ; the physicians
he has consulted declare that there is no danger. May
God grant it, and be gracious enoug
seeing my family in mourning !

h to preserve me from

We have had nothing but a threat, and that is enough

to make one unhappy: I feel more keenly than ever for
those who actually experience these terrible losses. Over

and over again I have thought of you, dear friend, of
your afflictions coming in such rapid succession, of those
two most painful losses! Poor Antoinette, how much to
be pitied, how stricken you seem to me! but

at the same
time I bless God for the strength I obser

ve in you, forEugénie de Guérin. 125

his grace in sustaining you under the cross. Without this

heavenly aid you must have succumbed, you must have
died of grief. Do not make any effort to conceal it from
me; rather open your heart, weep, speak of all that most
this does good and relieves the
elief, and after the consolations
Nothing on earth

closely concerns you;
soul ; God permits us this r
of faith grants us those of friendship.
is sweeter, and our divine Saviour seem
this in choosing to have at the foot of hi

s to point us to
s cross the

disciple whom he loved.
I shall not tell you how precious are these tokens of

friendship that you send me, and above all the holy

I have too lofig delayed thanking you; to-day
this expression of a pious
a sacred thing, a relic
Here are rea-

image.
I do so with all my heart, by
gratitude, for to me this image is
of you and the one who is in heaven.

sons that may well make it precious to me.

ee

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
21st Fuly, 1837.
Erembert has just told me that he had a fancy to go to
the fair at Albi, a charming fancy which inspires me with
You know, dear friend, this is one

that of writing to you.
ation, the passage of

I often have; on the slightest provoc
e something ready to send, ‘tis So

whatever passes, I hav
ords. It costs

sweet, so natural to send you loving W
me no effort to draw them from my heart, ort

spring from it spontance

ather they

usly and flow like water on the126 Letters of

paper. Were I writing to any one else the page would
be different, though indeed I hardly write to any one
whom I do not love; but affections differ, and I da
believe that the one I feel for you is like no other.

Mdile. Lisette,* my old friend, has written me word of
the marriage of one of her nieces; a good match, but
which took me by surprise; believing, as I did, that
Clotilde had devoted herself to heaven. But as to that,
so much the better that pious women should matty ; it is
they who make good wives, good mothers, far better than
the worldly ones, who enter into that state without having
any idea of duty ; hence God knows what sort of house.
hold! This very modest wedding has made little sensa-
tion ; only friends have taken a cordial interest in it, and
you know that Mdlle. Lisette is much beloved.

Antoinette has not written to me since: ; and, besides,
her letters only treat of sacred subjects ; of the congre-
gation, sermons, indulgences,—then of her sister, whom
she cannot forget, and Antoinette is ‘a soul quite out of
this world ; when I have read a letter from her something
seems to draw me heavenward: she is a saint.

Our pastor brought me last week two letters of yours,
one long, the other short. I have already answered
them, but thanks once more; one is never tired of
thanking you for so many tender, lovi ing words,
rarities, and novelties, and sweetnesses your he

for the
art sends
me. Dear Louise, go on writing to me; the more you

write, the more I want to fread: “Leis peace: greediness,

satisfy it; this kind is not one of the seven deadly sins,

* Mdlle. de Sainte-Colom!] be, cousin and friend of E. de Guérin,

>Eugénie de Guérin. i2g

Oh, it is so sweet to write to each other, and so lawful,

when we only say what is good. Let us write on ; I don't

think that we are burdening our consciences.

What would Father Pernet say about it were we to
consult him? ‘ My father, two friends, separated by a
great distance, wish to know whether it is permissible
to write often to each other, to write tenderly, and a
great, great deal, to write interminably in short. ‘Pheir

correspondence is a blending of all sorts of different

things : God and the world, neighbours, convents, parties,

kings, people, authors, preachers, missionaries, are all to

be found in it; you, my father, might chance to meet
with yourself sometimes. What do you think of such
letters? They contain no backbiting of our neighbours ;
they speak well of missionaries. Oh! there is no harm
in them ; but to speak of the world, its pleasures, its gay
doings, to depict a whirlwind that sweeps us away, is
not this dangerous, my father?” ‘“¢ Very dangerous, very
reprehensible ; the pen resembles Christian lips, that
should only utter words of edification. Rodriguez cites
a4 monk who after a long ‘nterval received letters from
his family, which he threw unread into the fire, for fear
tation, some regretful memory of the world.
h shows us how much saints dread
ngth God gives them to break
t reading them! that

of some temp
Admirable act, whic
the world, and what stre
with it.” To burn letters withou
e heart, the poor human hear
d never bring itself to it,
o the fire without reading them!

t, mine, for in-

amazes th
To throw

stance, that coul

letters from Louise int

impossible! but then—I am not 2 nun.Letters of

To MDLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BOISSET.

September, 1837.

What do I not owe you, dear Antoinette, for your let:
ter with its pretty details, for the images, the indulgences,
for so many kind and sacred things that you have sent
me! This dear packet gave me much pleasure ; I wanted
to thank you for it at once, and I only do so very tardily.
But Iam entirely taken up with our invalid, which will
be reason enough for you, who know what it is to be a
sick-nurse, and who are so indulgent besides. So here I
am, quite at ease on that head, and ready to tell you,
according to your request, all that is giving me pleasure
and pain just now.

The pleasure will soon be told; ’tis generally the shortest
of life’s chapters ; nay, sometimes it is totally absent, as
at present 1s my case. One sorrow spoils everything to
me—that of seeing Maurice ill. How I can pity you, now,
my dear friend, you who have had this grief so often
and so long! It ismy turn now: crosses pass round
from one to the other; happy they who bear them as
they ought. I hope that the good God does not deny
this grace to me. It is very sad to see a person suffering
and thinning under one’s eyes, without being able to
remedy it. Oh! how it makes one feel the very little
we can be to each other. Of what use is the most in«
tense affection? I ask myself this question a hundred
times by the side of my poor brother whom I would so fain
cure. Nothing does him good ; fever and cough run their
course, and make terrible ravages in the poor face: he isL:ugénie de Guérin. 129

hardly recognisable. I fear I know not what ; a thousand
heartbreaking thoughts come into my head. Dear friend, ‘|
how I wish that the good God would cure him for us! [ a
now recommend him to your prayers, and to those of the {
congregation who will have the charity to interest them- 3
selves in this poor invalid. ’Tis for a friend of their
sister ; tell these good souls that, and how we form only
one family before God. I shall be very grateful to them,
and to you also, my dear Antoinette.

Your journey is delightful ; I followed you to Viviers,
to the pool, to Gaix, to Castres, everywhere in short ;
I stop to return Mdlle. Coralie’s gracious remembrance. Mt
She is a charming person, one of those who please from I
tne very first. JI wish that another retreat, or some-
thing else, might bring us together again. When will
t be? There are things and persons one never sees
twice. I hope for something better with regard to your-
self, but I am sure I know not when. Here I am till a
Maurice recovers. Louise claims me, and I had pro- ~ )
mised her another autumnal visit, but our projects fall a

‘ke dead leaves.

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.

6th October, 1837.
At lengta [ am able to write to you. For some time
past a leisure moment has been for me a rare thing, one of i
those moments that one can dispose of as one likes. It i
required a Sunday to give me one ; tis the day of res*, rest
K130 Letters of

from gowns, Capes, Caps, and a thousand other smart things,
that our ladies are making up forus. We still have our
Indians. Caroline* does not get at all tired of us, and
often says that she should prefer the country to Paris.
But this is all very well to say in summer, when th sun
shines, and the roads are bordered with flowers. ‘To-day,
that one had to put on clogs and pick one’s way through
the mud to go to mass, out of doors was less charming,
Is it not true, Louise, that the country is little attractive
just now?

Dear friend, I am much afraid of your being out of
spirits, especially if you have lost the Countess, whose
departure leaves so great a blank to you all. In your
last letter you told me that she was gone to Lastours;
that visit may be a long one; Madame de Lastours will
want to keep your sister, who is so amiable, kind, and com-
forting. Were I afflicted I should wish for her. Oh! what
an excellent thing a Christian friend is when one weeps.

We are very happy for the moment here at Cayla: our
invalid recovered,t the leg getting nght again, perfect
friends, music, singing, laughing, a look of joy on every
face ; it is all so bright that I am continually dreading
something or other; one must not trust too much to hap-
piness.

It is true that from time to time comes a passing cloud,
some sorrowful tiding or sudden death, like that of our

* Madlle. Caroline de Gervain, whom Maurice de Guérin married
a little later, had come to Cayla with her aunts. See ‘Journal,’ p.
183.
+ M. de Guérin the elder.Eugénie de Gueriit.

cousin at Toulouse. She, poor girl, is gone to enjoy
her reward. Her life was full of good works.

We also regret another friend, and a good one; worthy
Lisette de Sainte-Colombe, with whom I used to stay
at Lisle. Thus our acquaintances depart ; this last is
deeply regretted by young people, as well as by her own
cotemporaries ; she knew how to make herself beloved
by all. Poor Lisette! how can I realise no longer finding
her in that old house, beside that poor, infirm sister,
who had seen nothing but her for more than thirty years ?
erves to be pitied, but I do not
imagine that she can long survive sucha shock. Yet Antoi-
nette tells me that Mdlle. Poulotte sustains this loss with
'T is that God sustains her now, as

She is the one who des

wonderful courage.
He has sustained her during sixty years of frig... =.

There I stopped eight days ago, having thrown my
ing-box which stopped on the way, and

letter into a travell
am, in spite of wind and rain,

I at Cayla. At last here I
* . . 5

at my Gaillac cousins ; and only see how unfortunate !

\is morning for Montels. It disappoints

they are to set out t]
a few hours with these kind friends

me to remain only
that I have not seen
things have detained me at Cayla this summer! Our
Indians are also leaving Us ; just now I am going to
he road to Albi, which these ladies

Oh! my dear,

for eighteen months. So many

join them, and take t
h to see,—that is to say, the cathedral.

wis
1 mine has been for a month!

what a life of agitatior
But let me rapidly pass on to the pleasure I had in

meeting M. Charles at my cousin’s yesterday evening,

and reading your dear letter.132 Letters of

Adieu! I am stealing a moment from the good God to
write to you in, for I have abridged my prayers. I will
not have M. Charles go back to you without some token
from your neglectful friend, who, however, loves you
very much. A thousand kind messages to your sister.

8th October, six o clock in the morning.

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.

Gaillac, 4th December, 1837.

MapaAME,—Your letter has just come to me from Cayla.
I hasten to reply, and yet I shall have kept you waiting
Jong, which distresses me. Happily I have good news to
send, Maurice is going on well, very well; he has taken
a new lease of life, and visibly proves the fallacy or
medical decrees, This makes me very happy, very
grateful to the friends who have taken so much interest
in him,—to you, Madame,—to God above all, who has
restored me my brother, who will, I trust, preserve him
to me.

Since this wonderful recovery I have great faith in
prayer, I. delight in it. Oh! prayer is so good, so
beneficial, so sweet to these poor women’s hearts of ours!
it was all I had when my brother was so ill, We need
superhuman consolation when made to suffer by the
objects of our love ; in God alone is love without tears,
and of eternal duration.

I would that all the world knew this, that the sick, theEugénie de Guérin. E34

afflicted, that all sufferers whatever, went to draw from
the great fountain of comfort—they would be much less
to be pitied. I tell this to Maurice, who also needs
something from heaven. What happiness, Madame, if
you were to bring back my brother to religious principles,
to win over’a beautiful soul from the world and lead it
to God! This task would be a noble one, and well
worthy of you. What a reward it would entitle you to,
and how I should bless you! Try; your words have so
much influence over him. I recognise, as you do, all my
brother’s fine qualities, and feel myself in perfect sympathy
with those who appreciate them. I should dearly love
one who helped him to make these qualities promote his
happiness in this world and the next.

This is saying enough about him, I think, to calm your
anxiety; I have still to express my gratitude for your
lively interest, and to recommend your own health to
your care, in the name of your relations, nay, in God's
name, who loves you, and wills that you should live to
love Him in return. May I venture to take any part
‘1 this recommendation? No doubt I may, since you
have told me that you love me, and that I wish you
nothing but good.

Adieu, Madame; be assured of my affection and
gratitude, and permit me to conclude by embracing your

charming Valentine.Letters of

To MDLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BOIsSET.

25th Fanuary, 1838.

Maurice is on the point of going away. I want to give
him your book, dear Antoinette, but I have hardly time
to tell you how much I thank you for this pious reading.
At the moment of a departure, a leave-taking, perhaps
for very long, you can understand how heart and time
both are taken up. I have filled that trunk as though it
were a coffin that was just about to set out. But this
is too strong an expression, for I do hope and ‘trust
I shall again see the dear trunk that I am so fond of
unpacking. Your commissions will get executed rather
late; the cold has detained Maurice a fortnight, but the
day after his arrival he will go and see sister Clementine
and will give her your packet.

And now a word of thanks for your letter and the
images, Come, I see you still approve of me, which
pleases me much. I shall always endeavour to deserve
these images and the title of good congregationist that
you give me. It will be well if I do not owe it to your
indulgence ; but be that as it may, I congratulate myself
thereupon, and say Thank you.

A few days after your letter we had one announcing
the death of Madame de Tholosany, and we have even
been told that her poor sister followed her the same
day. Let us hope that they are in heaven. We have
a destructive epidemic around us here, a sore throat
which attacks women and kills them. M. Rigal hasEugénie de Guérin. 135

been, we are told, at Vaour, for a fortnight past, in
order to examine this new cholera. ’Tis singular that
it should only fall upon us. Are we the most wicked ?
Who knows! I never doubt the existence of sin in either
half of the human race. But there is enough to depreciate
the joys of this world, in these diseases, these deaths,
these leave-takings, too. Adieu, my dear friend! Father
Geramb thoroughly understands how small a thing is
life and all under heaven. His is a detached spii
indeed !
Always all your own.

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.
Albi, 12¢h ALarch, 1838.
Just as it happened the time before, there I was at
Gaillac and your letter at Cayla. I am sorry for this
delay, and write to you at once , I will write every day,
tis so sweet to do good,

since my Jetters do you good ;
God knows what happi-

especially to a soul like yours.
ness I take in it, how much I delight in your corre-
spondence, and in being called your friend / Give me that
name and I give you no other; believe me, my dear
Marie, ’tis worth more to the heart than ceremony ; let
us by all means throw that aside as you say and do.

Oh yes, the date of your letter made me tremble,
so much do I fear, dear friend, that the air of Paris
should do you harm. It cannot indeed be healthy, since

I have seen so many return from it ill, and you are abou’136 Letters of

to re-enter the scene of your sufferings, to re-encountet
the cause of your heart-attacks and all those deplorable
derangements of health! I would much rather know
you were in the country, far, far from the world. But
you promise me to take great care of yourself, to avoid
all emotion, all excitement; to refuse all that might do
you harm or change your tastes. I don’t know how it is
that the world personifies itself in my thought as a being
that you have loved, a loveable but dangerous being, with
whom one cannot be free from danger. See what mischief
it has done, see the state of your health, the state, too,
of your soul, as suffering as the body. Alas! what
disturbance, what discomfort, what a distaste for every-
thing !

“Alas!” once exclaimed a saint in this condition,
“what a weight of sadness the world has made up for
me, what bitterness it bequeaths us on leaving!” All
those it has seduced say the same from the moment
that God enlightens them.

This light 1s a grace, and a very great ones it visits
you, dear friend, and you are about to profit by it;
you must open heart and soul to receive it from all
sides, just as one throws wide every window in a house
to let the sun stream in. How soon you will be a quite
altered person, more tranquil and more happy! I long
to see you so! You will come to it, be sure; you are
not far from a Christian life. ’Tis not the being lost
in God's love and Living only in heaven, as you imagine
about me. ‘This sublime piety is not my condition,
nor is it what God requires from a poor weak creature,1 4 O90 vot cai fae
LugeéKte {LG 4720s 6/2. L347

hardly able to lift herself from earth. Our duties are
not so lofty ; God places them within the reach of men,
not of angels. Which of us is there who cannot pray,
give alms, comfort others, take care of parents, bring up
children ? which of us cannot struggle with his incli-
nations, overcome his tastes, cease to do evil, learn to
do well? Is there anything in this that transcends
human powers? And this is Christian life, the love of
God, which is nothing more than the fulfilment of our
every duty.

Oh! if people were but acquainted with piety, they
would not fear it so much, or give it so unattractive
a character; ’tis the balm of life, and perhaps in the
world it is believed to consist of bitterness, harshness,
uncouthness ; but, take my word for it, nothing is more
gentle, more yielding, more loving than a pious soul.
I know some who suffer all, forgive all, love all, who are
capable of whatever is great, noble, generous, who would
be the admiration of the world if only the world knew
them. This is what I observed while very young, and it
Glled me with love and veneration for that religion which
rendered men so perfect, made them such kind and gentle
creatures. I have had instances of this under my own

eyes; I have seen my mother; and each recollection

of her, of |
and suffering, engraves more and more deeply in my
ligious sentiment from whence proceeded her

ier resignation and courage in misfortunes

heart that re
strength.
Think, dear Marie, whether it be not a special grace

that God has granted me to have been thus earlyreo Letters of

J

instructed and preserved. ‘Then I have seen but little of
the world since. Had I seen much of it, it would have
seduced me like any other, no doubt; thus my four talents
may easily be reduced to one, a state of preservation, for
the which, however, I owe deep thankfulness to God, since
thus resembling somewhat the Gospel vine with a hedge
about it. How good you are to think me indulgent, and
to wonder that I should descend into my own conscience
to find excuses for the errors of others. Is not this what
charity teaches us, what ought to be the reciprocal
practice of Christians? A hermit, called to pass judg-
ment upon one of his brothers, came forward with a
basket of sand on his back, and when asked what he
meant to do with that burden, ‘I am carrying my faults
behind me,” he replied. Admiurable reply! so soon as we
have to do with the faults and weaknesses of others, each
should remember his own basket of sand.

The state of your health grieves me much. Oh! had
I been one of those friends who came to see you during
the Carnival I should not have left you fora ball. That
is the way of the world, which knows not how to give up
a pleasure ; ’tis sad to contemplate and to experience.

There is one part of your letter which wrung my
feelings ; ’tis where you speak of gaiety, pleasure, parties,
with a dead heart, and then add, “If I am to die young,
if I am not to know you in this life... .”* Oh! do not
speak thus; you will recover I hope, we shall see each
other. It is probable that I shall come to Paris: Maurice
wants me, and many reasons draw me thither.

* Mme. de Maistre and Mdlle. de Guérin had not yet met.Eugénie de Guerin. 139

Adieu! I am very glad that you have a habit of prayer;
that sweet fruit of the spirit. Each morning we are
together before God and the Blessed Virgin; believe that
you will get good from it. I have intrusted Maurice
with a pious keepsake for you; a book* that 1 beg of you
to read, You will find charm and consolation therein.
Believe me, my dear Marie, wholly yours; do not leave
me too long in suspense; remember that your health

makes me anxious.

To THE SAME.

Thanks, my kind Marie, thanks for the good news you
send me of the invalid.t I believe you, I am at rest on
that head, but about you, you, 1 am very far from being
so. In bed for, a fortnight past, always in a suffering
and precarious state! My God! when will you recover ?
when will you prove to me that my letters do you good,
as you say? I believe they avail you very little, that
I can do nothing more to relieve you; friendship does
not suffice you, you need a more powerful remedy. In
ne of Heaven, turn for help towards God, I implore
you to do this; believe me when I tell you that health,
life, happiness, are there. If I knew of anything better I
art it, for I love you, my dear sufferer, and

the nar

would imp
wish you nothing but good.

* The ‘Introduction to a Devout Life,’ by St. Frangois de Sales,
+ Maurice de Guérin, again ill in Paris.140 Letters of

Nevertheless I hurt you sometimes it seems; how does
that happen when I never intend to send you a bitter
word? But let us see ; may it not be because you translate
my thoughts incorrectly? For instance, amongst other
things, what struck you so much regarding the difference
of nature and education—I meant to convey by that
that my education was rather a wild one, such as is got
in the woods, and that my retired tastes would have little
charm for a woman of the world, which made me fear for
myself. . . . Was there anything in that sentence to make
a dragon of? Come, come, you are subject to alarms ;
another difference between us, for I have no fear of your
friendship, and would have it know, timid as it is, that,
after I have once bestowed affection, ’tis done once for
all; there it is till Heaven, where we go on loving. When
God wills that we should love, ’tis eternally : holy friend-
ship is nothing but an overflow of that charity that never
faileth.

Now, then, will you be satisfied? Will you repeat
without hesitation the Credo of friendship? Oh! throw
aside doubts, those cares of the heart; be very sure that
afary can never forget AZartha, whom God has confided
to her. She loves her, will do all she can to console her,
to bring her back to the Saviour when believing hersel
repulsed by him. But is it not rather she who retreats,
leaves him for others, goes off into various agitations,
and then complains that Jesus does not speak to her
heart? Does she not know that God speaks only to the
soul that keeps itself lovingly tranquil to hear Him, that

at least makes an effort to detach itself from the world:Eugénie de Guérin. 141

Listen: “Oh, when shall I be sufficiently disengaged
from earth to see thee, oh Lord my God, and to taste
thy sweetness? Now I can do nothing but groan and
painfully endure my misery.” Thus exclaims the ‘ Imi-
tation,’ in that beautiful chapter that converted La
Harpe. Would you like to see it? tis the 21st of the
third book.

What an admirable work it is! what knowledge of the
heart! There are in it passages suited to all situations of
the soul, remedies for every passion, a divine gentleness.
I meet with a great many things adapted to your case,
and I say to myself, ‘ Were she but there thou shouldst
read her that passage.” Any one whatever might read
that book with profit; I should recommend it alike to
the sick, to the world’s happy ones, to persons given up
to the darkest despair. Had Judas read it he would
never have been able to hang himself.

You read a great deal I imagine,—could you not find
room for some pious books? It would do you good,
would calm you; nothing is so sweet as those saintly
voices that speak to us of God; nothing is so beautiful as
what God inspires. Romances make on me the im-
pression of gunpowder; they burn, blacken, rend the
heart; religious works enlighten, sustain, nourish it. Good
books are the manna of the people of God, the celestial
food of souls on their journey to heaven; let us gather it
up. The world does not know the taste of it, but you

will tell me if it be not made for you, if that tender heart,

that ardent ‘intellect of yours, do not appreciate things

divine. My dear friend, 1 am enchanted to be with you,142 Letters of

but yet must leave you now to go with my sister to see
a sick man.

The 5th.—I resume, to the song of a nightingale
singing under my window; ’tis delightful to hear him, to
write as it were to his dictation. Sweet musician! I wish
he were in your room in Paris, you would be charmed
with him; but these bards of solitude will not leave us;
they make up the concerts we hermits have; God will
not let us be without pleasures of our own. ‘The fields
are full of such; flowers, verdure, beautiful plants at
every step; birds everywhere; and then an air, an air all
perfumed! What a delight to walk about, to wander
as partridges do.

Yesterday we went to see the invalid, a poor friend of
ours, suddenly attacked with a brain fever. It was piteous
to hear him rave, and his poor wife and little children cry.
Oh, my God! it was heartrending indeed; but there is one
way of consoling these poor souls; ’tis to speak to them
of God, who afflicts in this world to make us happy in
another. ‘They seize hold of that at once; one has only
to point out where consolation is to be found, faith
enables them to find; sweet religion calms and reconciles
them to everything. What would become of these poor
creatures, without bread, without linen, without necessaries
even, if God did not remain to them? Accordingly, as if
to forearm himself, this poor sufferer asked for M. the
Curé, and received the holy viaticum in the night. The
next day delirium came on. He seemed to have a pre
sentiment of it, and made haste to prepare his soul; ;

E “ 7 << e
1{POPWILC , 4047907

Lugente Cté Cruer@ieH. 143

A tittle time ago I was with another invalid, a cousin,
a fciend who is now in heaven.* She was a saint, a most
beautiful soul indeed. Oh, yes! my dear Lili is happy;
she had suffered so much, and suffered so well, On
Calvary for ten whole years she said with Jesus, “ My
God, thy will be done.” Accordingly God abundantly
comforted and sustained her in her last agony. I saw
that agony, I know how saints die; and how beautiful
and angelic she was with her hands crossed and her
crucifix on her lips! That was her last kiss! She went
away, as says St. Theresa, with the one she had loved
best. ‘The impression that death made will long abide
with me; I shall long remember that failing form, that
bed against which I leant repeating prayers for the dying,
and above all, that moment when the priest came to say
in the night, “ Depart, Christian soul, depart out of this
world.”

Oh! if that soul had not been ready! My God, how
many there are who without being ready depart into
‘Tis harrowing to think of poor, unhappy
souls! I own to you I look upon those as mad who live
without faith, without practice, who go away hence without
thinking that God is waiting for them. To neglect the
only thing needful, ‘; not this inconceivable in beings
endowed with reason, in Christians instructed in the
truths of that Gospel which tells us, ‘What shall it
profit a man to gain the whole world, and to lose his own
To lose! When one meditates on that word
on what it is that is lost, the soul grows terrified

eternity !

soul ?”

Jose, and
* See ‘Journal,’ p. 192.144 Letters of

hke one who finds himself on the point of being cast
into the sea, and attaches itself to God who saves;
learns to love, to serve Him, to obey His law. Fear is
the beginning of wisdom.

Forgive me so many serious reflections, my dear, but
they occur to me, and between friends ’tis out of the
abundance of the heart one speaks. Nowa pleasant word
or two ; let us talk of Mdlle. de Rivitres. Have you still
that kind friend with you? What you tell me of her and
her good influence makes me wish she should long remain.
Speak of me, I am very glad you should, ’tis telling me
you love me; but don’t go too far, I beg of you; you do
not know me; you view me in too favourable a light.

**’'Too often Love embellishes the loved.”

I fear the effect of reality when you actually see me as [
am. But who knows when that may be? My journey
to Paris depends upon events still to come. And then
to leave my family, my father, the dear father, the dear
desert where I have always lived—all this keeps me
back.

I put up many prayers for your health. If you only
knew how flourishing I would have it, and how free
I would have you from this enthusiasm for ugliness !
What can make you suppose that thus pulled down and
suffering, you would please me better, than fresh, healthy,
and handsome, since God has made you so? To like
ugliness is contrary to a woman’s nature ; you cannot like
it, nor I either; it always seems to me as though ’twere
sin that had made it. I should like to see you asEugénie de Guérin. 145

oO

beautiful asa saint. Therefore tell me: “1 am better
Recover as fast as possible if you want to please me, dear
one. Suffering and thinness will not take you to heaven,
tis through the heart we get there.

Go back then to taking proper care of your health; do
as you told me the other day: Z will only occupy mysel}
with my recovery. ‘Think of your mother, so afflicted by
your condition ; think of your friends and your children.
That little Valentine! I would not have her make you
uneasy about her health, or any thing else ; yet all mothers
have these uneasinesses, but then they have so many joys

a child is such a pretty, innocent, tender thing.

 

as well !
What happiness to kiss, educate, teach them, to make
them loving little souls for God! I long to see a baby
that I may play the mother, may rock and

It would be a great delight to me to have

little creature, to bring it up; I should
uture, its happiness, the

in this house,
caress at will.
the care of a

be entirely occupied by its
development of its nature. My heart would be absorbed

in this. What blessedness God confers on mothers in

giving them a child ; how precious a treasure !

Adieu! I do not know Italian, and therefore could
not understand the end of your letter, nor did what went
before help me much. Will you have two Cayla flowers
*n remembrance of our spring? One is for Mdlle. de
Rivitres, as a friend's friend. We call them Lades of
cleven oclock, because they open then. We have others
rs, pretty field timepieces.
sme; tis Holy Com-
feel that He is the
L

that open out at other hou
One thing alone calms and sustain

munion. God has enabled me to146 Letters of

sovereign comforter, the only support of a sick soul
nh! but for that what would become of one? what could
be done with a broken heart, too ready to run away
every moment after the creature? If God do net keep it
all is lost. I can comprehend despair in the absence
of faith; but with it, with this divine aid, everything
changes within us; one does not suffer less, but one
suffers as a Christian, one suffers in God and for God,
one suffers while loving, which softens everything. My
dear and much loved one, I open out to you my whole
soul, which is indeed an object of pity. If you prayed,
[ should say, pray for me; but yes, you do pray, it
is impossible that you should not more than ever have
recourse to prayer. Oh, we want heaven, want the other
life to console us for being upon earth! Unhappiness
alone is sufficient to make us believe in immortality !

To THE SAME,

Sth Fune, 1838.

Poor child! poor mother! how I pitied both you
and Valentine during those three days of suffering,
anguish, agony! It was a trial that God was submitting
you to; He willed that like the mother of Jesus a sword of
sorrow should pierce through your soul. But your child
is saved, she is given back to you, the dear little one, the
precious treasure, you so much love; oh happiness, two-
fold happiness, for you too are given back to me! |
seemed to see you dead beside that mournful little bed.Eugtnie de Guérin. 147

How I bless God, my friend, for this recovery when I
think of that fearful faculty of suffering that is in you!
Alas! this it is that consumes you, that destroys your
health, your always having something to suffer ;—without
speaking of what you add, by your way of thinking, to yout
moral sufferings. No doubt it is well to look upon our
pains as trials, chastisements that God sends, for they can
be nothing else; I am comforted to see you thoroughly
understand this; but now I fear your going too far, and,
instead of submitting with resignation, sinking into despair.
I meet with that word in your letter, and do not like it—
God does not allow that fearful despair in the mouth of a
Christian. ’Tis the language of hell; never use it again, I
pray you, you who ought to have so much hope, whose
heart is turning more and more heavenwards, who are so
evidently loved and sustained by God.

Such as I see you, you appear to me a very miracle of
Divine help. Without it, could you have resisted so many
assaults of all kinds, falling one after the other, now
on the heart, now the health? Stronger than you have
succumbed ; something superhuman 1s keeping you up,

I speak morally and physically.

enabling you to live.
ay this when the faculty

One may, indeed, venture to s
d medical science is wholly at fault.

give you up, an
Must we not believe that there is a higher faculty that
>? But you think

takes care of you, and prolongs your life t
s been of use to you; very well then, let

that science ha
eave you now alone; it would

her go in peace, and |
better, I think, not to afflict yourself with so

rent kinds of treatment. Only you suffer, and
i 2

be much
many diffeLetters of

remedies must needs be sought for. My dear invalid,
you will find them in calm,.in heart-peace, in the cessa-
ation of all that has disturbed, deranged, destroyed your
health. In you, as in so many others, it is the soul that
kills the body.

However, you are better, much better than a short
while ago; even the enthusiasm for ugliness is passing
away! ’Twas a reaction from another extreme, that is
the light in which I view it, however good the mood in
which it appears to have visited you. The love of beauty
is too natural to us to change thus suddenly into a love of
ugliness, unless in the case of a miracle of conversion
such as has been seen in saints. Sublime transformation,
unveiling of the Divine beauty which ravishes the soul,
makes it forget the beauty of the body, nay, even hate it
as an occasion of sin; but what purity, what detachment
this! Which of us women has got so far? J, who am
not pretty, cannot wish’ to be ugly. You see where
I stand with my sublime contemplations; they have not
been able to raise me above vanity.

Oh, dear friend, do not let us talk of contemplation,
that is the state of the blessed in heaven; for us poor
sinners it is much to know how to humble ourselves before
God in order to groan over our wants and sins. It
may be beautiful to soar, but looking into one’s heart is
very useful. One discovers what is going on within, a
knowledge indispensable to our spiritual progress—indis-
| pensable to salvation. Is this not much better worth than
ecstacies and transports, than a piety of the imagination,
which rises as in a balloon, to touch the stars, and thenEugénie de Guérin. 149

collapsing, falls back to earth ? There is an ideal side in
devotion which has its dangers, which fills the fancy with
heaven, angels, seraphic thoughts, without infusing any
solid principle into the heart, or turning it to the love
of God, and the practice of his law. Without this, even
if we spoke with the tongue of angels, we should still be
nothing better than sounding brass and tinkling cymbals.
This passage of an epistle has always impressed me,
and made me fear to speak about piety without having
my soul sufficiently imbued with it; but you keep assuring
me that my letters do you good, which encourages me
and leads me to think that God wills me to write to you.
I will not, therefore, be any longer ungrateful, but happy
to believe that I render you happy, all inconceivable
as that may be. I should never have suspected it, nor
that I had scattered flowers over the arid hours of your life.
How can this have happened? Charming mystery, that
the heart can at once solve: you love me, I love you;
that gives a charm to everything, even to my little
Lady of eleven o'clock, poor floweret of the field, quite
bewildered and overjoyed with all the pretty speeches
made to it by you and your friend. But you may praise
it without flattery, ’tis a lovely flower. I am very fond
of it. If 1 ever come to your Coques garden, I should
be much inclined to plant some for you; it would be
a something of that Cayla that you so like, where you
sometimes dwell, where you take refuge from the world.
You saw me quite correctly in my little room, writing,
reading, looking out from my window upon a whole valley
of verdure, where sings the nightingale. That was quite150 Letters of

right for a little while, but afterwards see me out of doors,
surrounded by hens and chickens, or spinning, sewing,
embroidering with Marie in the great hall. We are much
occupied with household matters; from one thing to
another the day gets filled up; life passes; afterwards will
come heaven, I hope.

Meanwhile I find myself happy where I am, elsewhere
I should perhaps be less so. I acknowledge that, as you
say, [am born to inhabit the country. God has placed
me well; He orders all things lovingly and wisely ; He does
not bid the violet spring up in the streets. ’Tis in my
nature to be happy here, far from the world and its
pleasures, with no need of courage to change what you
call my misfortunes into happiness. What misfortunes ?
I cannot see that I have any. I have only known family
sorrows. Do not go and imagine that I must have
suffered much to have arrived at my present state, at the
calm condition that you look upon as a victory. It is
that of the soldier who is not called out under fire,
nothing more. There is no moral in it, or very little, for
always there is some little warfare to carry on in one’s
own heart.

My dear Marie (am I to call you Henriette or Marie ?),
you would have been the same if you had lived far from
the world. The double woman would no longer be seen.
The one who discerns the emptiness of all pleasures,
despises them, sighs after an invisible good unknown here
below, who understands that there are no true enjoyments
save in the love of God—Oh! that one, that woman
after God’s heart, would prevail over the woman of7 a a - geek 7”
E “VE #tle ae Crile } It. PS!

the world, full of vanities, proud of her triumphs,
searching after every sort of enjoyment, and, in short,
preferring pleasure to ennui. What an expression ! how
well it tells what the soul craves,—failing God, pleasure :
Well then, this double nature, whose conflicts you feel so
keenly, which we all bring with us into the world, -would
be changed into a good one, had you nothing wherewith
to sustain the bad. It is-the world that feeds it; that
is why the Gospel says, “Woe to the world, because it
destroys souls.” Happy they who are far from it! Only
see how true this is, and consider whether that friend of
yours who used to be called the angel of angels would have
received that appellation had she lived in the whirlpool ot
Paris. She knew nothing of the world; happy ignorance,
which will have taken her to heaven, where nothing
enters but what is pure as a little child.

But is there no safety except in a desert? Letras
beware of affirming this, or limiting heaven. We may
save our souls everywhere, serve and love God every-
where; even the throne has had its saints. We need
only recall St. Louis to believe in the most difficult of
calvations. I read with especial delight the history of his
sister, that blessed Isabelle, so humble in the midst of
grandeur, so averse to pleasures, so innocent and penitent,
confessing so frequently, giving to the poor what she
might have spent in decking herself, the delight of her
brother and of his court, through the gentleness and

gracious qualities which made her wept by all when

she retired into her house of Sainte Claire, at Longchamp,
to die. Lofty and touching instances these of what grace152 Letters of

can effect in willing hearts, of the triumphs of faith over
the world. We who see them should despair of nothing,
however perilous our position may be. We are never
tried above our strength. In the matter of salvation
will is power, according to the motto of Jacotot. Who
was that Jacotot? Some one, no doubt, who thoroughly
understood the potency of the will, that mighty lever that

can raise men to heaven.

 

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.

22nd Fuly, 1838.
Dear and very dear friend, it is with tears of affection,
sorrow, and emotion of all sorts that I reply to your
letter of the roth of June. Such is the date it bears,
though it has only just now been brought tome. ‘That
is why I yesterday wrote you a letter that may perhaps
have pained you, because it will show you that I feared I
was forgotten by you, by you, my intimate friend—by
you, Louise, whom I love more than any friend I have.
The idea of your forgetfulness, your indifference, is in-
supportable to me, and the heart’s sad experience makes
one sometimes tremble without any reason. 1 was wrong
then, very wrong, to place yours amidst the number of
friendships that pass away wth time. Yes, J was wrong ;

so much the better, I feared so much that you were so.
How touching your letter is! how full of sorrow, of
regrets, so true that I felt them as I readit. You havex 2 7 ‘ 7 CS
feucénte de Guerin. i532

cr

made me weep for your father, that kind frend of mine ;
you have taught me to feel what a similar loss would be to
me. Poor friend, how [ pity you when.you look at that
arm-chair set apart, that empty place at table, in church,
everywhere where you used to have your dear, excellent
father with you, and where now you let fall your tears ! Tis
all nature can do, to weep, to lament! But faith! faith
imparts strong and consoling thoughts, shows you your
father in heaven with God. Heaven is the home of our
spirits ; let us remember that whenever we see any depart
hence. As you say, we shall soon follow them.

Oh how satisfied I am with your letter in a religious
aspect! Never has your mind appeared to me so much
turned heavenwards. One sees, indeed, that religion
towards which you say you were not going has itself come
to you. ‘This is shown by your resignation to the will of
God, which does not, however, prevent tears. Submission
is a heart affair, and it is the heart that prays “ Thy will
be done,” as Jesus did in the Garden of Olives. Console
yourself thus, dear friend, draw strength and comfort
from their source in God, in God alone. Become pious ;
see how you feel the need of it, how God has taught you
that you must not depend upon the joys of earth, Indeed,
what disappointments there are for you now! I have
very often thought of this reverse.

Dear friend, how I would I could see you! but I
cannot. In my next. letter I hope to tell you why, and
to acquaint you with many heart-interests.

Adieu! through necessity. I have only had a minute
given me. Let this convey to you more than I say. Myr

154 Letters 07

love to your sisters. Dear orphans of the mountains, you

are greatly loved at Cayla.
Say something endearing to your sister Marie ; I almost
confound her with you. .[ wish much I knew her, you

represent her as so good and amiable. God has sent her
to you to be your angel of consolation.

Always all your own, dearly loved one.

St. Magdalen’s Day.

 

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE,
3rd August, 1838.

Vou have been sweeter than yourself to me, Nothing so
true as this expression when I apply it to you, when I
feel the delight you confer on me now, and ever since I
had your last letter two days ago: a charming, loving,
consoling letter ; such as one now never sees. My friend,
what a friend God gives me in you! Oh! howI ought
to love you, to love you well! I do so with all my soul
as a duty ; I mean a celestial, sweet, and sacred duty. I
devote myself to your happiness, to all that I can do
for you; I know not very well what that may be, but
say it were only to dispel some one little cloud from your
stormy sky !

A word, a nothing, will sometimes suffice to restore
serenity ; and calm, my friend, is a great gain; I wish I
could see you attain to it, but ’tis difficult with your
moral and physical constitution. Both alike throw you
into an almost permanent state of fever by their constantEugénie de Guérin. 155

reaction. Now it is the soul that kills the body, now
the body that tortures the soul; a state common, alas !
to us all, more or less, but which in you, with your ex-
treme nature, turns into violent conflict, positive com-
bustion, and leads to what you call your stormy sky.
This is what often makes you so ill, so suffering every
way ; how much I pity you! but how I hope for a better
state; everything promises it, I discern it on several
sides, more especially in your anxiety to recover. Facts
prove it. Courage and confidence, my friend! Obe-
dience to the doctor brings its reward; God will help
you, will maintain you in the favourable condition in
which the happy crisis has placed you.

See how many blessings received from God! The
morning after that might I saw an invalid that I love as I
do you, at the holy table. And I saw her there as by a
miracle, so entirely had her sufferings shut her up, dis-
tracted her, and kept her away from all external relations
with God. How true that God is the life of the.soul 2
used to see her languish and fade away, while at present
she is full of life and energy. I cannot express the joy
this gives me, it is so sweet, SO comforting, to see those
one loves on the way to heaven. My God, what a boon!
And, oh! if all those I am thinking of at this mo-
ment were in this blessed way ! They will come to it,
God is so gracious ; He is so reluctant to see

perhaps ;
en throw themselves away, that

creatures made for heav
He does everything to reclaim them, employs all manner
of means to lay hold of them, even by their passions

when there is no virtue left. One sees this in the con156 Letters of

version of the saints, and nothing makes one love God so
much as these instances of mercy. Accordingly I seem
to love Him better since the change in our friend, who,
however, was not a lost soul ; far from it, only led astray,
seduced, swept away by the whirlwind of the world. Of
all those past pleasures she tells me now that friendship
suffices ; words made up of letters of pure gold for me ;
so precious are they to her own happiness. Then she
adds that “the consolations of prayer, tears before God,
are denied her.” Poor friend, who is not aware that
weeping is not loving; God looks far more at what
comes from the heart than from the eye.

I left you for a moment, but what a charming inter-
ruption! A letter from the charming Indian,* with a
magnificent altar-cloth and a picture of the Virgin for
our church at Andillac. I tell you this most joyfully,
because I love Caroline and everything that comes from
her, and because you will see by this that she is going
to be my sister. Yes, she will be in spite of reverses of
fortune, because she is an angel of virtue and goodness,
and will make Maurice happy. They will not be rich,
but we have known how to dispense with fortune, and
are, I can certify you, happy with the happiness ot
family union and family love. Maurice will do like his
ancient race; will put his trust in God, and place his
happiness elsewhere than in wealth. Nevertheless I will
own to you that this reverse distressed us much at first,
fearing there might not be enough to raise them above

* Mdlle. de Gervain, betrothed to Maurice de Guérin. See
‘Journal.’Liugénie de Guérin. 157

want; but all things explained, it appears that the family
is still in honourable circumstances, so the marriage is a
settled thing, and soon to take place.

These numerous details are in response to your tender
interest, my friend! This dear brother gives me much
anxiety, but much affection as well, which repays a
hundred fold. He wishes to have me at his marniage ;
I too want to be there, and cannot set out, cannot
go away from here, and leave my sister and my father
for a long time. That saddens, saddens and makes
me say No. All agree that I needs must go, yet
I know not who will be able to tear me hence. If
Maurice came to fetch me I should be less reluctant ;
then, too, I should see you, could make a halt at the
Coques, embrace you, become acquainted with you, which
would be a happiness for me too. As for you, do not
paint me too fair; expect to see nothing but a pale, fra-
gile girl, little accustomed to society, thoughtful rather
than conversible, all concentrated in her heart-life. ’Tis
by that I love you, think of you, cling to you; ’tis thence,
in short, that springs what makes me loved by you.

The little present you speak of gives me extreme
pleasure. How slow printers are! They don't know
what the expectation of women and musicians means.
Those musicians are no doubt much taken up with your
pious chants. Oh! sing, sing for the Church; sing for
God like a celestial bird; you will get a return in grace,
in divine emotion, that will overcome your depression.
The soul identifies itself with the subject that occupies it

so as to lose itself therein; to lose oneself in God, what158 Letters of

bliss! ’Tis to this that religious music leads, or should
lead. Selflove may indeed come and blow some of its
soap-bubbles over your work; but nevertheless it is not
through vanity that the work is undertaken, and the
attempt made to regenerate religious music. No doubt
some celebrity results from it, seeing one’s name in the
newspapers, hearing churches resound with one’s melo-
dies, but human triumph is very small, and heavenly very
great. Let us choose the best, like Henry IV.

Adieu; everything proves to you that I am yours with
all my heart. <A kiss, and two for Valentine. My
remembrances to Mdlle. de Rivitres. Yes, talk to me
about Valentine and her twin sister, those two children
that must make your happiness, your maternal happiness.

Reply soon; it is possible that I may have set out ina
fortnight or three weeks, if I leave with a party of country
travellers. I know nothing positively as yet. Maurice
writes and does not tell us that he is coming to fetch
me.

Adiousias—Adieu in my dialect. M. de Chateaubriand
has passed by on his way to see our beautiful Alby
Cathedral. How I should have liked to see the great

genius in the great church!

 

To THE SAME.

Moulets, 30¢% August, 1838.
It is from an old castle in the mountains, in the midst
of elms and chestnut-trees, that I date the beginning of- Eugénie de Guérin. — 159

my letter, for I shall finish it to-morrow in another
manor-house at Rayssac, the house of my friend Louise
de Bayne. I am only here for a few days’ rest with my
good cousins.* And thoroughly now rested, I am about
to jump into my friend’s arms. Do you know, other and
true friend, the reason of this journey, this departure from
my desert? Tis that I mean to come and see you, and
that I wanted beforé I set out to make a heart pilgrimage,
a visit to-our Lady of the Mountains, to my dear
and very amiable Louise. The poor child! it was but
fair to come and see her; for two years past she has been
calling me, saying so tenderly, ‘Come, I love you, I am
sad, orphaned; come and see me weep.” She logt her
father a short time ago—a father she much loved. All
this it was that induced me to leave Cayla, and so your
letter, my dear one, reached me on my way as though it
dropped from heaven. Oh yes, indeed, from heaven, as
to the happiness I get from it, that I hold in my heart
and carry away with me. You will follow me during my
whole journey ; and were it possible to write in the saddle,
I should, while riding on, write you many tender things,
but, being unable to do any better, I scribble here on an
old desk something, I know not what, which means
affection, tenderness, thanks to be heard at Coques, so
loudly and fervently does my heart utter them.

Oh! if only my pen would write! But there is always
something wanting on one’s travels. I left my inkstand
in my little room; here I find my heart my only re-
source; that does very well to love with, but one wants

i . x ,
* The De Thezac ladies. See ‘Journal.iGo Letters of

in addition to be seen and heard by a friend. What
a divine thing writing is, speaking to each other from
a distance! a delight which is about to escape me, for
I am scrawling in a manner to make you lose eyes
and patience both, that friendly pazzenza that I have so
much interest in preserving.

After this, judge whether I go to Paris or not! I owe
this journey too much to you not to take it; I should do
so even had I no other heart-reasons. But I have,—the
dear Maurice who wants me, the dear sister who calls
me, and then the conventional motives that you have
expounded to me: all this impels, draws, carries me to
Paris. Paris, which is so far from Cayla! Do not let
us think of distances, departures, of those one leaves,
else one would never set out. You cannot imagine how
much I need to be confirmed in this plan of going away.
We are so little accustomed to leaving each other that we
don’t know how. But when the tree will not give way
tis torn up by force; and so with my poor heart, which
would not give way either if I listened to it.

But God wills it; at this thought I take up my staff
and depart. Pilgrim of friendship, I shall come in the
first instance to knock at your door. Oh, the delight;
the sweet welcome! I see you smile at me, I feel myself
embraced ; and- your family, too, will receive me with
cordial kindness. J am very fortunate, and say to myself,
‘¢ Whence comes such good fortune? I cannot understand
it, tis a dispensation of Providence.” God be blest, and
bless you, kind, good, excellent friend !

Do not imagine that Louise prevents my loving you,E ugénie de Guérin. 163

do not indeed; the heart has more than one chamber.
I compare mine to a honeycomb, all made up of litle
cells filled with honey, the honey being you, being Louise,
sweet friends that God has granted me to find in my life-
path. You say that I am a poet; I am not very sure
what that means, nor what it is I have within me, but I
feel a nameless something for you which could shape
itself into pages of writing, words, tendernesses, kisses on
your cheek, prayers to God.

Adieu for the present; to-morrow morning Ae rose-
Jooted dawn will find me with you again.

This evening I love you dearly, my fair early riser.

At Rayssac—Here I am on the mountains, with
their camel-humps, their brows bristling with forests and

rocks, a wild, rude nature that I love. Wherever tie .

eye marvels and the soul admires one must enjoy oneself.
I shall not however be here long, eight or ten days at
most, in spite of the “ Stay longer” of Louise. The dear
friend! How fond you would be of her did you know
her, could you hear her racy intellectual conversation,
and see how tender, loving, and devoted her heart!
She is you in many points, in ardour and elevation
of character, in faculty of suffering, in I know not how
many respects, that cause me to love you in her and
her in you. When at the Coques I will tell you about
this Rayssac affection.

Put I entreat of you to recover yourself, heart and head
both ; don’t let the sun tan you any more, let me find you

beautiful with health, rosy as the dawn, not in order to
M162 Letters of

please me more, but to make me happier. ‘To find you
ill would be a sorrow to your friend. You amuse me very
much with your fairy Carabosse, and encourage my self-
complacency in my appearance, which is sure to please
you then, be it what it will. A delightful assurance for
my pallor, though for the rest it has never afflicted me.
Whatever the form, the image of God lies beneath, and we
all have a divine beauty, the only one that does not pass
away, the only one we should love and keep pure and fresh
for God who loves us. Adieu! I am sure of your affec-
tion ; depend equally on mine, that common-place is, and
ever will be mine. Here is Louise; I quit friend for
friend.

One word to you after my excursions, confidences,
and lamentations over a fall from horseback. “T'was
my friend and I who had that fall, and a poet sang our
disaster, a very common kind of accident, but not always
so happy in its result, if it be happiness to be sung.
There is a pleasant witty party here, which gives a
charm to all that goes on; each imparts his ideas and his
brightness. For this evening a visit is proposed to
certain ruins, and to a church hid ina valley.* ’Tis a pity
that I cannot draw and collect all these picturesque
mountain views to show you. I picture to myself your
Coques as very different, all amenity instead of asperity.
To each place its charm, to each hemisphere its stars ;
admirable variety, which leads us to admire its Author.

I am going to ask Maurice what he decides about the.
journey. The marriage is only postponed on account of

* ‘The little church of St. John de Jaunes.Lugénie de Guérin. 163

my eldest brother, who cannot leave Cayla earlier: per-
haps he will not be able to leave it at all. Our future
sister has made pretty presents to the church and to
us, and all this with a touching sweetness. I shall be
truly happy on the day that makes her my sister indeed.
You will consider me very garrulous to-day: ’tis the fault
of women and friends; therefore I shall be forgiven,
and in any case I embrace you. My caresses to your

children.

 

To MDLLE. IRENE COMPAYRE.

15th September, 1838.

We are too good friends, my dear Iréne, for me to
omit telling you all that gives me pleasure, and therefore
I inform you that my brother Maurice is about to make a
charming match. He is to marry a good, amiable, and
pretty girl that the good God has brought from very far
to make him happy. ’Tis the Indian of whom you have,
perhaps, heard speak last year, who came from the banks
of the Ganges to live in Paris, and will belong to us
shortly. The marriage is to take place in November,
and, as there is no doing without a sister, I am wanted
there, and set out the 2nd of next month. See where
Providence leads me from my desert! into the world, the
world of Paris!

I shall probably spend the winter at my sister-in-law’s.
If during that time and in that locality I can be of any
use to you, consider me at your service. Friendship does

M 2

a164 Letters of

not change with change of place; thus you may be very
sure that I shall think of you in Paris, dear Irene. You
will, perhaps, be rather surprised at this translation of
your hermit friend: but Iam passive; events dispose of
me, guide me—or rather Providence, who often sends us
the most unexpected things. Could I ever have supposed
that a sister would come to us from India!

I am very sure that these tidings will give you pleasure,
that you wili take part in my happiness as you did in my
anxieties last year about this same brother then ill. How
little days resemble each other! now sadness, now joy.
For all alike let us bless the will of God, who does no-
thing but for our good.

I hope, my dear, that the air of Couvers suits your
health; and your brother and invalid sister, are they
thoroughly recovered? I inquired for them, and wrote
to you not long ago. Often letters get lost, and make us
suspect our friends: this happens to me with Louise. By
the way, I must tell you that I have just seen her for a
ninute, z. ¢ ten days, that passed like a lightning flash.
I could not resist the delight of this glimpse of her before
my great journey.

Adieu, my dear friend! Marie embraces you. My
love to your family, and believe me at all times and in all

places your friend.Eugénie de Guérin.

To M. pE GUERIN, Cayla.
Paris, 842 October, 1838.

Oh, how well I have slept in the pretty little pink bed
beside Caroline! Dear Papa, I wanted to write before
going to bed, but they would not let me, and, besides,
the post only went out this morning, and you would not
have heard from me any sooner. But I longed so much
that you should hear, that I would have written at every
stage had it been possible. I kept saying to myself,
“ Papa is anxious; Mimi, Euphrasie, Eran are thinking
of the traveller.” And how occupied I was with you all!
You followed me throughout the whole of the way. At
last here I am, out of dust, diligences, drawbacks of
travel, and welcomed, loved, treated in a manner to
compensate a thousandfold for all the fatigue I under-
went during these four long days. 1 want to tell you
everything, but there are so many things—so many
things, dear Papa—when onexgoes away, when one leaves
you, when one rolls on towards Paris, when one finds
oneseif there, when one falls into a dozen arms at once!
Oh! why were not you there, in ‘hat Place Notre Dame
des Victoires, at the moment when, setting off im a
hackney-coach with Charles, I saw Maurice, Caro, and
aunt calling and running to me, all of them embracing,
one through this window, the other through that? Ch,
delight!

Never was there a sweeter entry into Paris! We soon

got to the Rue du Cherche-Midi, chatting, laughing, talking166 Dealers OF

of I hardly know what with Maurice and Caro and aunt,
a hundred thousand things and questions about Cayla:
“How is Papa? how is his leg? Is he as fresh as last
year?” ‘That poor dear Maurice! he wept while speaking
to me, seeing me, and asking me all this. And Mimi
and Eran, all—all of you—you are loved and inquired
for. As soon as I got down I delivered your letter; then
came breakfast, which I wanted; and then, breakfast
half-over, there was Auguste, rather surprised to see me
arrived so soon and full of affectionate kindness for me
and all of you. His wife is very well; the children have
hardly recovered from colds on the chest that followed
whooping cough. That good Auguste came to beg these
ladies, as a great favour, to leave me all this week with
Félicité. I could not refuse; the more that the confine-
ment is so soon expected, and that then I shall no longer
be able to see Félicité freely. I shall be very glad to find
myself with her for a few days.

I thought I should have arrived battered and bruised,
and here I am as if just out of cotton-wool. We had,
however, dirt enough to suffocate us in that terrible Sou-
logne, that goes on for ninety miles; and a noise lke
thunder on the road from Orleans to Paris, which is
paved throughout. Impossible to sleep that night. On the
other nights I had dozed and even slept for some hours.
Last night I slept all through. And what a difference
between the slumbers of the pink bed and that of the
diligence! One is shaken, knocked about, swept along,
and still it is the better when one does go fast. What a
torture it is in the Soulogne sands, where one can onlyLEugénie de Guérin. 167

travel tortoise pace! However, fortunately it did not
rain; when it does, the travellers have sometimes to push
the wheels along.

After breakfast I was able to go to mass at St. Sulpice,
and then to the Tuileries, which we visited in the King’s
absence. Oh, how grand, how royal, it all is! The
throne is splendid. In my mind’s eye I saw Louis XIV.
and Napoleon seated there. We were a large party of
visitors, English, brothers of the Christian schools, &c.
A friend of Maurice’s had got him tickets of admittance
for yesterday, and, as I have not often the oppor-
tunity of seeing palaces, I accompanied these ladies with
pleasure.

Adieu! dear Papa; to-day I only tell you these few

-

words about my arrival. . . . . Maurice embraces you all +

as he embraced me yesterday; aunt and Caro the same.
This is for Mimi and Eran. I add a hundred thousand
loves for Euphrasie, both from myself and Maurice, who
‘s charmed to know that she is at Cayla, All sorts of
things to the Parsonage, and particularly to the makers
of gimblettes,* which have been highly approved. The
attention gave great pleasure to these ladies, who asked
me if Augustine was mischievous and grown? I an-
swered Yes and No; Yes, as to the question of growth ;
for the rest, No, since the first Communion. She is
all goodness. M. Augier is there, wishing me Good
morning. We have already made acquaintance. He isa
good young man, in looks and in reality. M. d’Aurevilly
comes this evening. I positively must leave you, deat

* Dry cakes, in the shape of crowns, for which Albi is noted.168 Letters of

Rapa. Keep well, take care of yourself, have neo
anxiety about the absent one, who suffers from nothing
except not seeing you and remembering that we are
separated by six hundred miles. Oh, six hundred miles!
but my thoughts make nothing of them, and return every
minute to Cayla. We are in such quiet quarters that I
fancy myself in the country, and slept without waking
till six o’clock this morning. Tell Jeanne-Marie and
Miou that inquiries have been made after them. My
compliments to the whole house, and to each and all
who may inquire for me.

 

TO MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE, Chateau des Coques.

Paris, 9¢h October, 1838.

How I have longed, my friend, to write this date, to
tell you that at last I am with the charming Indian:
loved, made much of, treated like a sister by her and
every one. Oh, the delight of being once more with
Maurice! This is not to be told; but you will under-
stand it, you who understand all heart affairs; but you
must also understand that neither his delight, nor many
others besides, nor the whole of Paris, can make me forget
es Cogues. Jam there in thought every moment.

*¢ Would I a swallow were ;

Swift would I cleave the air,
Perch on thy castle’s towers!”

Yes, indeed, I would be where you are, for I love youEugénie de Guérin. 169

truly and long to see you much—much—much. I could

go on endlessly affirming this, but you believe me without

‘+ What is the use of repeating it to you? My friend,

what grieves, distresses, torments me, and spoils this

delight of my visit to you, is that it appears a long
way off—very long to me who would have it happen to-
morrow. Always postponed festivals! tis not my fault,

nor that of afy one else; ‘tis the course of events,
weddings, baptisms, &c. Let me explain all this. You
know, perhaps-—or, at all events, Iam going to inform
you—that Maurice is to be married the 5th of November.
We are now nearly in the middle of the present month:
see how little time I should have to come and stay with
you! Alas! we should be obliged to part again in a
week; that is much too soon, is it not? At least I should
consider it so. But even this is not my only hindrance.
I have been here but two days, and already I am chosen
as godmother by one of my cousins, who is much attached
to us, and I could not refuse her the pleasure she re-
quested of seeing me hold her baby at the font. She
expects her confinement in about a fortnight; the day is
not fixed, but nevertheless here I must remain, waiting
the arrival of the little angel.

Most certainly I never looked forward to this festival,
but how many unexpected things I come in fornow! I
no longer recognise my life, up to the present time so
uniform, hidden, peaceful, far from the world, from cities,

_-and here I am in Paris! Accordingly, what surprises
all is to see myself here, as the Doge said.

me above
They show me wondrous things. I have been over the170 Letters of

Tuileries, have gazed on that throne, those halls, that
palace where so many kings have passed. One comes
away from it with sad and lofty thoughts. Poor Marie
Antoinette! Poor Royal Family! I have crossed the
Place de la Révolution, and how can I tell you my
emotion in thinking of the 21st of January! What
different Impressions one receives in these Paris streets!
There a church, here a theatre, there again a hearse.
These funereal cars freeze my blood. Oh! death in the
Il midst of such animation crushes one: I am not accus-
il tomed to contrasts of the kind. But, nevertheless, no-
thing surprises me over-much; when one has made up
one’s mind to expect the unknown it astonishes less.

In the midst of all this I think of Cayla, of the dear
father, the dear sister, who parted with me so regretfully;
I think, too, of you. Maurice showed me a house you
once occupied, which caused me to say, “Would to God
she were still there!” I should not then be no one knows
how long without seeing you. We have talked all over,
vill and arranged how it,is to be. As soon as the baptism
| i | and the wedding are over I shall set out for Les Coques,
| and there remain with you as long as you like to have
me. Nothing then will prevent the two friends from
being together. Just now it would be impossible for
more than a week. I prefer later and longer; be of my
mind in this, my dear. Do not be vexed; let your
friendship repress its impatience. I suffer enough from
these postponed festivals of mine, for the happiness of
knowing you is everything tome, That is why I say my
festivals, The others, too, will be very sweet ; the happi-Eugénie de Guérin. 17

ness of Maurice is quite my own, and I believe it secured

with the angel that God is giving him. The more I see,

the more I love her, and the more I appreciate the qualities

of her heart, of her very, very sweet character. She loads
me with kindness, makes me charming presents, decks
me out, dresses my hair, transforms me. T shall come to
you a Parisian, but with the Cayla heart,—that change-
less thing bound to you by so many spells. My friend,
if you only knew how I have been trying to write to you!
Not a single moment for two days past; visits to pay and
receive, dressmakers, jewellers; in short, I don’t know
what else; which is not to be compared to the delight
of sitting down and taking up a pen, to give you a sign
of life and entreat you to write to me. Think for how
many days I have been without a sight of your hand-
writing, and that I love it as my daily bread! One word
r too many for your friend. Caro-

 

a thousand—neve
line is to sing me one of your melodies; I am going to

listen to her as to a nightingale. When will you sing them

to me at Les Coques? My thoughts always revert to that.
Adieu, my friend! 1 write and leave you hurriedly.
This is a mere how do you do? a word on arriving. But

I am glad to have written to you; My heart’s conscience

reproached me too much for not doing so. The first
moment I could I wrote to my family, the second to you.
All homage from Maurice to both “chateaux.”* The
sister unites with the brother, and embraces you her-

where Mme. de Maistre lived ; and of

* That of Les Coques,
s, M. and Mme. de Sainte

Saint Martin, the home of her parent

Marie.[72 Letters of

self. Find me out a name for my godchild. This
occupies us a good deal; we consult all the litanies
without making up our minds. Your health—do tell me
what is still threatening? My God! how many prayers
there are for your recovery! Do not tell me the case
is incurable, Everything may be cured with God’s help.
Ever yours.

 

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.

Paris, 1522 October, 1838.

Alas! my dear friend, here I am in Paris, full of. sad-
ness in the midst of joy, surrounded by friends, loaded
with presents and all sorts of pleasant things. But
Maurice, my dear Maurice, is ill! This is enough to rob
me of all happiness, all pleasure. What a pang I felt
when I saw him looking so pale as he ran to me across
the Place Notre Dame des Victoires when I got down!
It was such a delight to see each other, and now this
delight is very sad, but only to me, for he believes
himself quite well, and begins to laugh when I tell him to
take care of himself. If we were in summer, I should
make him set out, immediately after the wedding, for
Cayla, where the air is milder than here; but the nights
are too cold for that delicate chest. My God! what
mourning I foresee in this marriage! I open out my
heart on this subject to you only, but fears and very dark
forebodings oppress me. Caroline, too, is very. pale and
weak, no appetite, no strength, and less pretty than lastEugénie de Guérin. I73

year, when. she was so rosy. Her brother coughs, their
aunt complains of her leg; a sympathetic suffering affects
them all. It is only I who am well, who have no other
pain except to see them, the dear ones, in so sad a state
on the eve of their happiness. But as for that, this does
not sadden them the least in the world. No one knows
so well how to take life as these ladies, who have known
so many of its phases. Hence I lean upon their cheer-
fulness and laugh with them; but alone or in church
I return to my own way of thinking. I will not say all
that comes into my mind: I speak of it only to God and
my good cousin Raynaud, my other brother.

I am writing to you from his house, where I have
been for a week. The morning after my arrival this
kind relative came to see me and to request leave to carry
me off with him and keep me some days. As it 1s vaca-
tion time, he has busied himself in showing me Paris,
and with him one learns as well as sees: he gives you
the ‘history of the building and other things. We have
traversed Paris in every direction, have taken daily walks
of three and four hours, and that without my feeling any
fatigue, without even remembering that I was walking.
One has no body, one has only a soul to see and admire.
What marvels to be sure! In the first place, our ascent
to the lofty towers of Notre Dame, whence one sees
the great city as a whole, whence the panorama of Paris
admirably unrolls itself before your eyes. Standing there,
one observes the public buildings, churches, steeples, the
s of the Seine, Montmartre, Mont Valérien on

the distance royal dwellings and the

two arm

the horizon, and in174, Letters of

dwelling of the dead, the Pere la Chaise, where rises 2
white obelisk,—some monument, no doubt. JI have not
yet visited that side of the town, which is very far off; we
have confined ourselves to the centre, to the churches,
which in general are very fine, and the palaces which
abound.

But the grandly beautiful features of Paris are the
edifices, the churches, the ancient and wonderful Notre
Dame, St. Eustache, the Sainte Chapelle, which ravishes
eyes and mind; yet nothing excites admiration so much
as the dome of the Invalides. They tell me ’tis the
finest architectural work that there is; all full, too, ot
sculpture and paintings, and these explained by an old
““Invalide,” himself another old glory. It made a great
impression upon me. From the dome we went to see
the kitchen, where dinner was being prepared for three
thousand men. ‘The saucepans were like tubs—Mario-
nette’s is a miniature in comparison. ‘The salad was
steeping in an um as large as the max in which
Marionette still kneads barley-bread. On leaving we went
through a garden bordered with cannons; I observed
some splendid ones from Algiers, into which I thrust
my arm.

From thence we skirted the great and famous Champ
de Mars and got up to the Bois de Boulogne. ’Tis a
very pretty scene: gentlemen mding, and even a few
ladies. But the fashionable world has not yet taken up
its winter-quarters in Paris, and yet there are crowds
everywhere: streets, promenades, churches, theatres, all

are thronged. This ocean overflows on all sides. JEeugénie ae Guérin. 175

have been much edified in the churches, which are much
frequented, and where there is every appearance of devo-
tion. ‘There is a larger attendance at the parochial mass
than in our churches. I just arrived in time on Sunday
to hear mass at St. Sulpice. Yesterday—another Sunday
—I was at St. Louis,* the parish of my Raynaud cousins.
Here I heard a perfect discourse in the. morning, and at
St. Roch, in the evening, the famous Abbé Deguerry.
We were not well placed, though, for hearing, and the

reverberation of his loud voice made us lose three parts
a subject of the

 

 

of his sermon, which was on progress,
day, but above his audience, which was partly composed
of ladies. ‘There were many of the clergy there, tie
Archbishop of Bésangon quite close to us. Everything
is mixed up together in Paris; at St. Cécilef an arch-
bishop would not have been among the crowd. Here
‘whoever will may lose himself. The music was en-
There was an angelic procession of young
girls in white and with veils down to the waist; it was
beautiful, very beautiful. M. Deguerry’s style was quite
> io me: © preiee fie lecture of St. Louis to the
Eeenon of Sti Rock. This morning again I have just
been to a mass of the Holy Spirit, and an address to the
he College Bourbon by M. Abadie, who spoke

pupils of t:
very well to those youths. You see that I have no want

chanting.

of spiritual things.

d, I want for nothing, my friend.
the kindest marner at my future sister’s,
he and his wife vie as to

Indee I am loved

and treated in
and here, at my good cousin's

* St, Louis d’Antin. + Ste, Cécile d’ Albi.176 Letters of

who shall make most of me. My sister-in-law arranges
my dress, gives me a pink bed, and, by the side of my
room, a gem of an oratory, where it is a pleasure to pray!
Oh! there is enough to make one happy; and yet, my
dear, I find myself getting weary, and saying privately
that happiness is nowhere. Write tome. ‘Tell me what
you do in the mountains. JI am impatiently expecting
news from home; I long to know what they are all doing
there, and to see them again in thought. Write some-
times to Marie: you will please her as well as Papa, who
loves you, as you know. Do not tell them anything about
Maurice’s health: I do not mention it; it would only
alarm them, and perhaps it will improve. I hope it from
his youth and the mercy of God. This Paris city is not
healthy, I see none but pale faces. ’Tis not the life
that one leads with these ladies that can do the mischief ;
no parties, no sitting up late: at ten o’clock we say Good
night. Positively, I am quite perplexed by this poor
health of theirs.

 

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.

Paris, 237d and 24th October, 1838.
Yes, no doubt, dear friend, I have always in the midst
of my festivals leisure to think of you, but not to write
whenever I wish. This must explain my delay, nay, my
silence, and all besides, which will not have raised me in
your estimation. But no, you are too good, sweet friend,
to form hasty judgments. ‘This is how itis. To beginEcugénie de Guérin. 177

with: I got your two letters, the first at my cousin’s of
the baptism during days of incessant walks and excur-

sions. I hardly ever sat down except at table ; impossible

to write, unless I could do so running about. ‘Then,

hardly at rest with our dear Indian, a Curé in the environs

of Paris engages these ladies to spend a long-promised

Sunday with him, and I had received your last letter, and

had a morning of mingled pleasure and regret, for I was

obliged to give up hearing your Salve.* It was not that

we had any lack of music at the Bagnolet Vespers; organ,

and bass-viols, and choristers did their utmost; but your

Salve, your music that I might have heard, was per-

petually recurring to me; in mind and wishes I found

myself at St. Eustache. Indeed, this country excursion
would have given me much more pleasure on any day
when I had not another pleasure in my head. The one
spoilt the other.

A sweet spot it was, however ; a beautiful church, good
Curé, excellent dinner, charming garden, still full of
flowers and greenery ; and such weather !—a soft, bright,
smiling sky, like that of the South. When I looked
round I fancied myself at Cayla. This fine air did us all
good, Maurice especially, who needs so much care on
account of his chest. You speak of his cough, that cough
identified with himself, which distressed me so much when
I first saw him again in Paris. But at present I am more
at ease. I hear hardly any cough; I see that it was
only a passing irritation, brought on by imprudence and

* Performed at St. Eustache; the first composition of Mme. de

Maistre eve: executed in public.
N178 Letters of

parties. If he wishes to have good health he must be a
hermit, must say farewell to the world, that wicked world
which would soon kill him. Am I not nmght, my
friend ?

I delight in being approved by you; but, after all, I
nave not to complain of proofs of assent. We shall always
understand each other I hope, whether far or near ; above
,we are going to understand each other near. Ah,
what happiness! I often long for it, and all the kind
things you say would make me take wings if I could to
arrive sooner. But we shall arrive at last. My eldest
brother, whom we are expecting for the marriage, might,
perhaps, accompany me to your house on his way home.
He would not, I am sure, say No. But the marriage is,
on more than one account, put off to the middle or
November, which will bring our meeting a little later.
Things go on so slowly in this Paris. Nothing is eve1
ready. ‘The papers have occasioned all sorts of diffi
culties. But yours, yours! were we going to forget them?
Have I not got to tell you that your engraver has done
nothing because M. Dietsch has not taken anything to him?
This seems strange after what you tell me. You have
made all your arrangements, and these printing gentlemen
don’t seem to know what one is talking to them about!
Only they declare that they will set to work as soon as
they get the manuscript. If we had the address of this
M. Dietsch we would have an explanation with him. I
am very sorry for this mistake, both for you and Nevers;
but, fortunately, there is some time yet to St. Cécile’s Day,
and if you write to me at once we shall be able to recoveraN pane gts
Lugénie de Guerin. £79

your music: ’tis an instance of artistic absence of mind ;
but really it is rather too bad.

I have already seen several churches old and new. I
am for the old. Notre Dame, Saint Eustache, Saint
Roch, and others of which I have forgotten the names,
please me better than the Madeleine, with its pagan
forms, a church without a steeple, without confessionals,
the expression of an age without faith; and Notre Dame
de Lorette, pretty as a boudoir. I like the churches
which make one think of God, whose /ofty arches dispose
to meditation, where one neither sees nor hears the world,
I find my taste suited at YAbbaye-aux-Bois, a small,
simple church, that almost reminds me of that of Andillac.
It is our parish, that is why I have chosen it; and besides
I have found in it just such a priest as I like; gentle,
pious, enlightened, a disciple of M. Dupanloup. I should
like to have addressed myself to him, but they told me
he was far off, and I want something close at hand, for I
am still like a bird just out of its cage, not daring to put
my foot out of doors; 1 should lose myself a hundred
times in our own “ quarters” if I had not always some
one with me. And yet I have run about finely and
explored Paris in every direction. In the first place we
went to the top of Notre Dame, upon the towers, where
the eye stretches over the immense city, and takes in its
plan. From thence they took me to the Invalides, the
Louvre, the Bois de Boulogne. The dome of the In-
valides, Notre Dame, and the picture-galleries, are the

things that have struck me most. You ask about the

a
1g.

impression Paris makes upon Bi

Rp 2

     

One admires, but180 Letters of

nothing amazes, At every step eye and mind are
arrested ; but in my own country I used to pause over
flowers, blades of grass, and wonderful little creatures.
To each place its own marvels; here those of men, there
those of God. Oh! those last are very beautiful, and will
never pass away. Kings may see their palaces fall, but
the ants will always have their dwellings. Upon which
reflection I leave you, to go and sewa gown. I must
not forget that Maurice lays his homage at your feet; as
for me, I throw my arms around your neck, charging you
to give my respects to the rest of your family. JI have
been asked for news of your brother; will you tell me
where he is, and if you hope to see him soon again? I
shall go on Sunday to St. Eustache. How are you? One
may say this as one says a how do you do; but in this
case it is not a mere polite formula.

 

To MDLLE, LOUISE DE BAYNE.

Paris, Al Saints’ Day, 1838.

Louise, my dear friend, do not you hear me, out of the
midst of Paris, calling to you, saying, “‘ Write to me’?
1 am expecting news of you, I think of you every day. I
ask myself why it is that I hear nothing, that more than
a month passes away in silence. This grieves me; do
not you know that I have the same anxious heart in Paris
as at CaylaP I can endure it no longer, and, though it
Se All Saints, I begin to write, and shall write on from
now to vespers.Lugéiwe de Guérm. Idk

?

But before all, amidst all, above all, I want to know,
my friend, why my friend does not write to me. Let's
see; are you ill, attacked with sick headache, or tooth-
ache, or with some torpor of the fingers? 1 say nothing
of the heart, the good little heart of Louise, which is
incapable of being cold and dead all of a sudden. I do
not accuse that, am not angry with that; I only ask it why
it will not say a word to me? to me, who made such a
festival of your letters, who promised them to others ; for
I talk of you here, I tell my sister from India that my
mountain friend is very loving and much loved. ‘The
answer made me is, “‘ When shall we have a letter from
her?” My friend, do write to me; your letters are neces-
saries of mine; I feel the want of them in Paris, where I
have so many things. But nothing replaces the old habits
of the heart; for the last eight years our friendship has
been an accustomed thing; we must have our messages,
our chats, our letters every day ; they are our cups of
coffee, spiritual coffee. Do you remember laughing at
that expression in one of the long corridors, where I hap-
pened to use it in talking of something or other that I

have forgotten now? I am glad to find it recur to

memory Apropos of you, very dear one, and of your
very dear letters that I enjoy in hope. Do not wean me
from them, I pray; recollect my address, Rue Cherche-

Midi, 36.
ads me to hope that Maurice will be

Everything le
happy with the charming little wife God has brought to
“This is a providential

him from such a distance.

affair,” said one of our friends to us, nor is it possible to182 Letters of

see it in any other light. I am not very fond of looking
at these matters with.a human eye, which always fixes
itself below. I am going to leave you at the first stroke
of the bell of my church, ’Abbaye-aux-Bois. ’Tis there
that I have my chapel, whither I go daily to mass, and
just now to vespers. We shall have a sermon and music,
that church music I so delight in. This is one of my
Paris enjoyments, in which one may often indulge. All
the services are solemnly performed. ‘To-morrow the
Abbé Deguerry is going to preach to us upon the dead.
I shall go and hear him, and we shall see in what new
manner he will treat this old subject. My memory would
fain retain something of it for you; I should like, dear
friend, to make you hear what I hear, see what I see, and
to share all my Paris with you.

What I send you of it, however, is not much; I ought
to write simultaneously what goes on without and within
me to give you any insight into my life; this would be
charming to write to you; but time fails me, time which
flies like a bird, and sweeps us along with its wing. In
the morning—church, breakfast, a little work; in the
afternoon—a walk, dinner at five, a little conversation,
a little music, and the day is over; nine, ten o'clock,
surprise one, without one’s having been aware how the
hours were passing. We go to bed at ten. Just as in
the dear province, in this and many other things I con-
tinue the usual habits of my life, which is why I am in
Paris as though I were not. Adieu! the bell mngs.

Seven o’clock.—Here I am, pen in hand, the fire on

one side of me, people reading around, the piano playing,Eugénie de Guérin. 183

Pitt (our Criquet) settling himself to he down, and your
memory, amidst so much besides, in this Paris drawing-
room; but what is there of pleasant that I can tell you
now? I hardly know; ’tis always and everywhere the
rarest thing of all.

Let us discuss the sermon if you like, which was no
rarity either ; I found it long, the longer that I was afraid
of keeping back these ladies’ dinners by remaining
to the end. ‘These services are of eternal length, from
three to half-past five or six o’clock. This would be all
very well were I alone, but I fear deranging these ladies’
ways, and that takes away my pleasure in going to church.
At this moment, were I free as at Rayssac, I should go to
the service for the dead, which 1s celebrated with full
pomp, and must be beautiful at night.

It is very evident that I date from a holy day, for If
only talk of church. I shall add a little news, and teil
you that, since my last letter, my god-daughter has
arrived, and is to be called Berthe-Marie. You know
already that Madame Raynaud would make me god-
mother. ‘The baptism will not take place till Sunday.
Why are you not nearer? I should send you “ bonbons.”
I like to share all my sweet things with you. Do you
remember the butterfly? Oh! I shall never forget the
epoch when I sent you that! It was on an autumn day,
when I was much occupied with you; but what am I
about to recall? ‘You did not, perhaps, receive it, or you
have forgotten; a butterfly passes so quickly, a sug iw
butterfly especially.

This is not “Apropos,” but | take my memories 4s184 Letters of

they come, and I must not omit to
the sweet pleasure, you gav
Museum of Painting

tell you the pleasure,
© me yesterday, at the Spanish
, Where I found you restored to me.
It was your very self, Louise; an animated head, oval

face, arch expression, your eyes looking at me, your

cheeks, that I should have kissed but for a bar ACTOSS,

I was struck with the resemblance, and so charmed that

I went there again on purpose to have another look
at my dear Spaniard. Decidedly you have something
Spanish about you since I discovered you in St, Theresa,
and in this other woman, whose name I do not know.
She is richly and statelily dressed,

That museum amused me a good deal
terested me, for one is not exact]
beautiful pictures—amongst the

, Or rather in-
y amused in presence of
m admirable monks, most
ascetic figures—that Compose this museum. And what
shall be said of the mummies, of those myriad E
gods of strange and grotesque aspect, cats and crocodiles ;
a whole paradise of idolatry, which gives one not the least
inclination to enter in? J looked long
five thousand years old, mus]

gyptian

at linen four or
in, and a very small ball of
thread, all framed under glass. What centuries above
them! I should never come to
learned and could describe a tl]
antiquities,—Etruscan vases ch
One would s

an endif I were more
1ousand curiosities and
arming in form and colour.
ay they were finished yesterday. Th
ancients had the secret of making their works eternal.
Such is my life: to see, to admire, then to retire into
myself; there to seek those I love, in order to te

what I have seen and what I feel. If ] could, I should

a
oi

ll themros CQ
eo

as Bi oe ee : oo (
2blOciile Qe Guéi tt. los

a™

be always writing to you, which means very often. Who
knows what I should scribble to you? Who knows what
I am scribbling? Remember that I am wniting sur-
rounded by musicians and under the eye of Maurice, who
laughs at my Journal, and, to embellish it, adds his
homage to all the Rayssac ladies. It was he who pointed
out that picture to me, which he had been the first to
observe. He is sure to know what will please me, and
takes me to it.

We always go out together whenever it is fine ; now to
the Tuileries, now to the Luxembourg; but I go by pre-
ference to the Tuileries, where there are so many pretty
things to see,—sculptures, flowers, children at play, and
swans in the artificial water ; and all this dominated by the
royal dwelling, and lighted up by the setting sun, produces
a very beautiful effect towards the evening. I begin to be
a little acquainted with the streets and gardens; I look
upon it as a great triumph to be able to find my way all
alone to PAbbaye-aux-Bois, which is very convenient for
the week-day mass, where I go now without taking any
one with me, which used to hamper me ; indeed, one can
eo out without any risk, as at Albi or Gaillac. I had
been frightened about the dangers of Paris; there are
none except for the imprudent or the insane. No one
says a word to those who go quietly on their way. At
night it is different. Not for the world would I venture
out then, especially on the Boulevards, where they say
the devil has his own. We sometimes pass through them
at night in returning from Madame Raynaud. Nothing

struck me but the blaze of gas in the cafés; and the per-186 Letters of

spective of the streets, with their brilliant lines of lights,
is very fine; but I affronted a Parisian by saying that our
glowworms in the hedges had just as beautiful an effect.
“You are insulting Paris, Mademoiselle, by such a
remark.” ‘This made us laugh, for one laughs at trifles
every now and then. I have still to go toaconcert. I
may go there, and I shall; I want to know what music is,
and I will tell you.

We went in a body, the whole Indian household at
once, to see the Yversen sister, who is charmed with our
bride elect. “Why, I already love you much, Made-
moiselle ;” and there was our Caroline all delight at this
religious declaration. We hope that the good sister will
attend the wedding mass, which is fixed for the 15th.
We expect Erembert ; his coming is not very certain, but
probable. ‘Then the dear Papa and Marie are all alone.
You ought to write to them; do so, ’tis a work of charity
and kindness. I am going to bed, wishing you good
night, assuring you that I love you, and forget neither the
Countess nor Léontine, nor your sister Marie, nor any
inhabitant of the mountain. ‘Tell this to M. Charles, and
even to M. le Curé. Marionette and Marie the little
nun are also present to me.

This letter is of old date; I will not finish it till after
the marriage, that I may give you some details. I have
received yours, so long expected, and took great delight
in reading it on a bench in the Tuileries Gardens. It
vas Rayssac in Paris, Louise with me.7 , . 7 an °
ty? 749 Poa { aco y
LUGE! dé Guerii. To

To M. pE GukRIN, Cayla.

Paris, 5¢2 Moveniber, 1838.

Never was there a more beautiful day; begun with
seeing Erembert, and ended in writing to you, dear Papa.
I know not which gives me most pleasure, or whether I
am in Paris or at Cayla, so thoroughly do I feel with you
all, so much do I read your letters, and see you, and hear
you, and embrace you, and find myself in your midst.
This would be unmixed happiness but for the anxiety
that I gave you, or rather that the delay of the postman
did. And yet I wrote to you it seemed to me sufficiently
soon after your letters came, and even hurried myself to
do so because of your paternal impatience, that I so well
know, and also, it must be owned, somewhat on account
of the turkeys, which, spite of all, have arrived.

The wedding-day is fixed for the r5th of this month.
Last Sunday concluded the publishing of the banns at
lAbbaye-aux-Bois: one of these days we will go and
deliver up the papers Erembert has brought. As for that,
there is no difficulty; ’tis enough that some one known
should know you, and certify that you have been bap-
tized. ‘This is what was told me by M. PAbbé Legrand,
to whom I spoke on the subject, and who was quite
willing to believe upon my word that my brother was
neither Turk nor Moor. This worthy Abbé is the one
who has to do with marriages. I told you that he was
one of the vicars of our parish, and my father Sez-¢oLetters of

rights. You inquire with so much interest about my
conscience, my dear Papa, that I will tell you everything—
everything that can be told, that is, for your holy curiosity
does not extend to the private affairs of the soul I ima-
gine, very little interesting as these generally are. You
wish, then, to know whether I have all I want, if in every
particular I am satisfied with my Paris life. Yes, dear
Papa, quite satisfied, and, above all, as to this point. I
admire the way in which Providence takes care of us, and
surrounds us with aids. Nowhere are aids to piety found
as they are here in Paris: they abound; each day ser-
mons one side or another, associations, benedictions. If
the devil reign in Paris, God is, perhaps, better served
there than anywhere else; good and evil alike find their
supreme expression; ’tis Babylon and Jerusalem both. In
the midst of all this I lead my customary life, and find all
I want in my Abbaye. M. Legrand is a friend of the
Abbé de Riviéres, hike him holy and zealous, and un-
equalled in kindness. He furnishes me with books and
good gentle instruction ; it will not be his fault if I do
not get better. One may work out one’s salvation any-
where. te

But here I am only talking church: I belong, however,
to the world, and have much to tell you about it which
interests you. First of all, there is born to us at Auguste’s
a fine little god-daughter, whose birth I am commissioned
to announce to you. Félicité is going on perfectly well ;
we have just been to see her. I embraced her for
Mimi, and the dear cousin returns it to her. I don’t

know when the. baptism will take place; meanwhile theEugénie de Guérin. 189

little girl is called Berthe. I should have liked Valentine
better, but the other name was preferred, to which I shall
add that of Marie. We have been to see her at her
nurse’s at the Fontainebleau barriers, through pouring
rain; such weather! Oh! the Andillac roads are “ par-
quets” compared to these. The environs of Paris in
that direction are frightful every way.

Our quarter of Cherche-Midi is charming. M. d’Aure-
villy calls it Zrouve-bonheur. Tis not ill appropriate as
regards Maurice. He will be happy, as happy as he can
ever be: at all events everything leads us to hope so.
Tis impossible to ally oneself with better souls, Caroline
is an angel. Religion and piety fill that pure and tender
nature, You will be pleased with this, and with Maurice
too, who, to be sure, does things a little slowly, in his own
way. But still we have to bless God for this conduct,
which is rare among the young men of Paris. M. Buquet
gives us a very good report of him ; he means to bless
the marriage, which is a satisfaction to us all. That day
occupies us in a thousand ways, that great day which is
to begin a new hfe for our Maurice. He, however, is the
one who takes it most quietly, who looks on all these
things and on his future with wonderful composure. The
agrégation does nothing for him. M. Buquet himself
he will endeavour to find him something

has told us so ;
at him in the good nest in which Provi-

else. So look

dence has placed him, without making yourself uneasy.
Have I told you everything, made you see every-

words, and actions—in the way you

thing—thoughts,
ng me write.

like? Maurice is there on one side watchi190 Letters of

Eran is reading the ‘Gazette’ and warming himself;
everybody embraces you, and Caro sends you her
filial love. You will do well not to go to Rayssac while
it is cold and wet. Now, having given both bulletin and
advice, I give you a hug, and pass on to Mimi.

My dear Mimi, I thank you a hundred times more than
I can say for your night letter stolen from your sleep. Poor
Mimi, how busy and harassed you are, while I am playing
the Princess in Paris! This thought, which occurs to me
many times a day, a little interferes with my repose, my
sweet guzctude. I keep saying to myself that our hours
are differently employed, but I help thee in heart. We
are as comfortable as possible, both at Auguste’s and
here. Do not let Euphrasie leave you, I implore her;
your solitude would be too great without her laughter and
affection. J embrace her with both arms to retain her.
M. le Curé pleases me much by coming to see and
amuse Papa. "Tis an act of charity and friendship which
I shall remember in his favour. Give my regards to him
as well as to Mariette. The same to Augustine, Jeanne-
Marie, the shepherd, Paul, Gille, to all, in return for
their messages. Eran wants a little room. Adieu! I
embrace thee for Maurice, Caro, and myself.

 

TQ THE SAME.

7th November, 1838.
I mean to write to you every day till I get your letters,
and to show you that I do not forget you, dear inhabitantsEugénie de Guérin. 191

of Cayla. The whirl of Paris will not sweep me away just
et. That expression of Papa’s made me laugh, and
howed me he does not know me. I am very sure that
you, Mimi, never had such a notion. I told you that
I was leading here the same life as at Cayla, and better
still, having no worries, the church close by, and perfect

WA

WM

liberty. We are all engaged in spiritual affairs just now,
these ladies on their side, I on mine. Maurice is relegated
to the Sunday, M. Buquet’s only free day. Everything
eoes well in that direction; Caroline is edifying, she iS
very near following in Mimi’s steps. In this, too, I
admire how Providence has made this marriage a means
of salvation.

It is fine to-day, one of those fine days so rare in Paris,
where the sky is almost always dull and low. That
struck me at first; now I am accustomed to it as to all
else I see. JI have even got accustomed to the carriages,
and am no longer any more afraid of being crushed by
them than by Gille’s cart. We shall take advantage of
this sunshine to go and see Auguste, and I know not who
besides ; when once one has set off there is no lack of
people to visit. On their way to the cousins at M. Laville’s,
trembert and Maurice met M. de Lastic, who is in
Paris with his family. It is surprising how many
acquaintances one meets in this great world where one
believed oneself unknown.

Here there are always Indians dropping in. A friend of
Maurice’s, M. Le Fevre, has been spending the evening,
a nice-looking lttle young man with a gentle and acute
expression. He asked me when I was going to see my192 Letters of

good friend Madame de Maistre. The fact is, he himself
is a friend of M. Adrien, who, as for that, is disporting
himself in the snows of Norway. He will not be able to
attend the marriage. We shall be a pretty large party,
though it is made up only of indispensables.

Lhe 8th.—We have just been, Maurice, aunt, and I, to
M. Legrand’s, to take him the Andillac banns, and arrange
the marriage ceremonials: We shall have the organ and
great pomp, all at least that can be had in the simple
Abbaye-aux-Bois. A word that I let fall made M. Legrand
cry out, “What, you know the Abbé de Rivi&res!”
“Certainly, and very well too; we have him in our
neighbourhood.” And there we were discussing the Abbé,
and his zeal, and Cordes, and how anxious all had been
to keep him in Paris. I thought that this title of friend’s
friend might not be without use to us, and it gave a
little impetus to conversation between strangers,

Accordingly, after that, we launched forth on churches
and music. We spoke of Saint Roch, where opera
choruses are sung at mass; very beautiful but very
worldly. ‘This gentleman had travelled in Switzerland,
Germany, Belgium ; he had intended to pay a visit to his
friend at Cordes, only there was no time for it. I believe
him to be very learned and _ lofty-souled, and to have
a capacity for great things under his almost infantine
aspect. He is my ideal of Saint Louis de Gonzague.
Raynaud tells me that he has done incredible things in
the parish he has just left. Generally speaking, the
clergy of Paris are very zealous and active in doing good,9940-61772 110 ee
Eugénie de Guérin. 193

Here more than elsewhere, even, it is by the priests that
faith and piety are upheld.

At last a letter from Louise ! I throw aside everything.

It was on a bench in the Tuileries gardens that I read
the mountain ‘Gazette.’ - Others were reading political
ones, much less charming, doubtless, than mine, which
was all made up of heart and talent. I shall tell you no
more about it than that. We have no lack of letters, they
pour in just now on account of this wedding, and there
is one for me every now and then amongst the number.

rozt?.—A holy Sunday, spent almost entirely in church.
In the morning at St. Thomas d’Aquin, where Caroline
goes to confession and performed her devotions ; and the
evening to vespers and the sermon of Mer. d’Algiers.
We came home much pleased with the services and the
preacher, who preached with a quite contagious en-
thusiasm. He is the most missionary-spirited missionary
I have ever heard, the true Oriental priest, full of fire
and poetry. It is possible we may hear him again, as
he intends to hold a retreat at Stanislas, where he
was brought up. M. Buquet sent us word of this by
Maurice. So you see good care is taken of our souls.
Preachers abound. I wait till evening to add something
more ; perhaps we may g0 out if the weather, which is
very bad, holds up. tran scours Paris more than we do.
13th.—We have just come from the Pantheon, that

church which has passed over from God to the devil,

from Ste. Genevieve to the heroes of July, to Voltaire and
©194. Letters of

Rousseau. It is still, however, a magnificent structure ;
the interior—the dome, the crypt, that sombre, remote
crypt deep down underneath arches, and lighted here
and there by lamps—produces a certain effect upon the
mind, ‘The imagination might easily be terrified in this
gloom of death, or glory if you will, for there are only
illustrious dead there, as in the Elysée, of which Voltaire
and Rousseau are the gods. At the end of the crypt one
sees the statue of Voltaire, which seems to smile at his
tomb, all covered as it is with magnificent emblems.
Kousseau’s is severer in style: one sees a hand co: ang
out of the sarcophagus holding a torch, which Zghts and
ever will light the world, according to our guide, a
cicerone about as luminous as the lantern he carried.
The summit of the dome is of prodigious height, twice
that of the steeple of Sainte Cécile. Paris is very fine
seen thence, but the picture wants sunshine, and we had
none. Adieu! to-morrow, at this hour, Maurice will be
married at the Mayor’s—the day after to-morrow, in
church.

16//.—Yesterday was the great day, the solemn day,
the beautiful day, for Maurice and Caro, for all of us.
We only wanted you, dear Papa, and Mimi, to complete
our happiness. We all said and thought so with infinite
regret. You would have been enchanted with this family
festival, the prettiest I have ever seen. Everything
went off perfectly ; the weather was mild and pleasant ;
the good God seems to approve this marriage, so
Christianly and. decorously was everything conducted,Eugénie de Guérin. 195

How charming Caro was in her bridal robes, her orange:
flower wreath’ and Indian veil! And Maurice, too,
looked very handsome. M. Augier wanted to paint
them as they were in church, kneeling on their crimson
Prie-Dieu,; so delighted was he. The church displayed
all its pomp—the organ played very well during the mass.
It was M. Buquet who gave the blessing and said mass,
assisted by the Abbé Legrand. We had a great deal of
a dozen carriages

 

company, and good company too,
stood round the church; the Yversen sister was to be
there. M. Laurichais, the confessor of these ladies, in
short, all friends and relations whatever, came to unite
their good wishes and prayers at this ceremony. I send
you M. Buquet’s discourse, which every one agrees 1s
perfect. Would that I could send you as well the cordial
sound of his voice, and his look of joy and tenderness in
speaking to Maurice, whom he truly loves!

You will like, dear Papa, to know all that happened

during this memorable day, which I take such pleasure

in talking to you about; it seems to me as though
you would be able to take part in it, and to see your
children in church, at table, and during the evening
party. The dinner was a success like all the rest, very
well and fashionably got up, with meat, fish, cakes, wine,
&c.; the turkey, ornamented with truffles, being the
king of the table. We drank Madeira and Constantia
copiously and joyously, and everything went off as well
as at the Marriage of Cana. I sat between Auguste and
M. d’Aurevilly, two chosen neighbours ; and so we chatted
and laughed away. Auguste scolded me for the absence

© 2196 Letters of

of poetry, which he professed himself ready to read aloud,
but we had none, nor had even thought of writing any.
There is something better than that in store for Caro:
what springs from the heart is and will always be hers.
How modest she was in the church, and pretty in the
evening ! She was quite the queen of all. We had a dozen
ladies, all of them very elegant, and I know not how
many gentlemen, many of them fnends of Maurice. They
were very gracious to me, and all insisted on dancing
with me—yes, dancing! Let M. the Curé take his holy-
water sprinkler and exorcise me. “It was imperative, and

 

I could not have refused without making myseif con-
spicuous and having to sit out drearily all alone. Auguste
fulfilled his paternal functions to perfection. He charged
me to say a word or two from him, I might well say
a hundred about his friendship and devotion to us. He
and I talk sense a great deal when we are alone. Our
dear bridal pair retired to their own room at two o'clock,

rather tired with the fatigues of the day. This morning
' Caro read a chapter of the ‘ Zzifation’ in her bed, and then

got up and came to embrace us. ‘That is better than
the sows. Your new daughter wishes to write to you
in this envelope, so I stop short not to make it too
voluminous,

One other word. I know not how to stop. I should
like to tell you, to make you see, to send you our yester-
day’s happiness, the friendly faces round, the flowers we
wore. ‘This must be for when we meet again, for Cayla,
ail this minuteness of detail, the thousand small things that

will get said when talking to one another again, after theEugénie de Guérin. 197

marriage of a son and a brother and a six months’ absence !
Here is one and a half of the six already gone! Ina
fortnight I shall be setting out to the Nivernais, another
absence in absence, for in leaving Paris just now I shall
seem to be leaving Cayla, so much at home here do
I find myself with a sister and two brothers. Eran
carried off the prize as a waltzer, but there were only
two ladies who showed off his talent. I had no idea
of what a ball was like, ’tis a pretty piece of childishness.

I wish M. Bories had come, you would have had so
much pleasure in seeing this good friend and taiking with
him about Maurice. The dear Maurice! you will be
pleased with him and his angel of a wife. Last might
I was contemplating them both kneeling in their oratory.
Did I tell you that the morning after her marriage Caro
read, before rising, a chapter of the ‘ /mitation’ to her
husband? I repeat perhaps, but these are things one
likes to tell over again. Adieu! Let us bless God,
whose goodness is evidently displayed in this event.
My pen can no more. Our remembrances to M. the

Curé and to Cahuzac.

 

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.
Paris, 19¢2 November, 1838.

I am really unfortunate in happiness, dear friend ; the

baptism—there is still the baptism that awaits me and

postpones the pleasure of seeing you.

I should have been able

But for that

le to set out a week after the198 Letters of

wedding ; my brothers, my sister, and your friend had so
arranged matters—but there is that little girl still there
to disturb my plans. But, however, heaven before all,
and to make her a Christian what is there one would not
sacrifice? It is this godfather who keeps us all waiting
that I am annoyed with; and accordingly, unless he
brings very pretty “‘ bonbons,” I shall owe him a grudge.

It is really a misfortune for me to arrive after the
departure of Madame de Sainte-Marie, who is good
enough to wish toknow me. A very natural wish, which
will not, I hope, be baulked, unless Saint Martin be at
the end of the world, and even then! Impossible is not
French, is not 4earf. You have been the first to prove
this to me by bringing about for me a sight of Paris and
yourself—two of the most impossible things, as far as I
was concerned, a year ago. Oh! there is a Providence,
and a great deal of Providence. I like to look upon
what happens on earth as coming from heaven.

But the journey—there is still the journey ; we must
turn to that and tell you all about it. There are obstacles
in the way—what is to be done? Trample them down;
that is what I am going to do by setting out alone. My
brother, on whom I had depended, cannot. accompany
ne, Maurice ought not to leave his wife, so there I am
without any fellow-traveller. But the journey is not long,
and the one to Paris has initiated me ; I know what rolling
in a diligence is; so away with doubt and anxiety, we
shall meet in spite of all.

I shall write to you as soon as I am able to set out.
I can no longer dispose of myself: events drag me fromEugénie de Guérin. 199

place to place, from festivity to festivity, from one thing
to the other, and always my heart keeps turning towards
you, and I ask myself, “ When wilt thou be with that
friend?” For I give you no other name, creature of
reason though you be. I don’t know how to deal
metaphysically with those I love; I instantly see them
heart and face both, so to make them more wholly mine.

I have very often pictured you, and a sweet picture
I have made. ‘You really lay me under the obligation to
be wise, you praise my wisdom so much, which however
makes me laugh. You will be able to judge of it, but
very certainly it will not judge you, whatever you may say,
or however you may place your /o//es in opposition, Has
not every one got his? Could we be morally dissected,
do you think many organs would be found perfectly
healthy? You, at all events, possess that physical
advantage, upon which I compliment both you and your
doctor. But alas! where is the use of science and per-
fection? With all that, you are ill, The state of your
health is a painful mystery, which, joined to those of
Calvary, will bring about your redemption, for it 1s
suffering that has redeemed the world. Blessed are
they that mourn, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.
Not however that I wish you to suffer, oh my poor
dear invalid, but only to reap the fruit of your sufferings.

After that we may converse about festivities. Let us
do so. The one follows the other in this world; now
tears, now joy. Thus life wears away under different

aspects. Thursday was a very sweet, full, important day

to me. I saw in it the accomplishment of so many’200 Letters of

prayers! A new epoch, a life for my dear Maurice
beginning under the benediction of Heaven. Oh! how
deeply moved I was by his side before God, before the
priest who united them! The ceremony was really
beautiful ; a great many people, many friends, the bride
charming through her modesty and grace. In the evening
she was quite the queen of the party. The other women,
most of them coquettish, were far from pleasing as she
did, were not half so pretty as her simplicity. There was
dancing, and I danced for the first time in my life. Now
I know what 2 ball is; a pretty piece of child’s play, and
as 1 dam tot 2 child ; : .. But let us leave m tniconr
mented upon as an episode in my life. Thanks for the
prayers you have put up for our young couple; do not
call them the widow’s mite, I know their value in God’s
sight. Before I come to my last word let me send many
to your mother, with the expression of my regret at letting
the time pass by when I might have met her at your
house. You will feel this absence a good deal, after
being accustomed for three months to her maternal care,
to that tenderness you tell me of. How happy I think
you in having a mother to love! Adieu! I embrace
Henriette, Valentine, and the mother.

 

To MADAME DE SAINTE-MARIE.

MADAME, Paris, 26¢2 Movember, 1838.

Had I only my own heart to consult I should long ago
have been with your dear and amiable daughter, but ILugénie de Guerin. 201

depend, or have at least depended, on several things
which have detained me hitherto far from her andsfrom
you, Madame, whom I include in the happiness that
awaits me at Les Coques. I hope much to see you there,
if it be possible for you to postpone your journey a
few days, I ask it as.a favour; let me become acquainted
with you, let me find you at Les Coques, let there be
nothing wanting between your daughter and me. It
would be so sweet to me to receive her from your hands,
to thank you for her, to replace her mother/ JI rejoice

in the high charge, the maternal mission that God and ©

you intrust to me, and which I promise to fulfil in the
best way I can in spite of my age; there is indeed no
such thing for the heart, for friendship ; it is mother, sister,
—it is all that exists of most tender and loving.

I hope to prove this to my dear Henriette both soon
and ever. Weddings, baptisms, and all other festivities
over, I now think only of that of joining you, Madame, and
responding to your equally flattering and touching expres-
sions toa poor unknown like myself. I was going to write
off this to my friend when your letter came, Madame, still
more to press my early departure. I should really consider
it a heart-siz to defer it any longer. After executing a few
commissions for some of my countrywomen to-morrow, I
shall go and take my place in the diligence, and will
announce the exact time of my arrival to Madame de
Maistre. I hope it will be towards the end of this week,
either Thursday or Friday, that I shall set off.

As to the time of my return, it in no way occupies me
nor need disturb you. Whatever the happiness that202 Letters of

awaits me with our dear Parisians, it will be replaced by
an equal one; friends by friends, sister by sister; this 1s
the name I give to my dear and amiable Henriette :
a name she has won from me by her cordial and precious
affection. I can understand, Madame, how you must
love her as well as the only son who remains to you.
Maurice is fortunate in being his friend, as I in being the
friend of his sister, and in this character the object of
your benevolent regard, an advantage that I highly prize
and long to enjoy beside you.

Meanwhile, pray receive the assurance of my respect,
and a great deal of love to my friend.

P.S. My new family desire me to express their senti-
ments, and my own often speak to me of you.

 

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.
Paris, Friday, 30th November, 1838.

At last, then, I shall see you on Tuesday next, my dear
friend, or I shall be dead, for nothing more can interpose
itself betwixt us. Maurice has just taken my place in the
diligence, that place occupied in heart so many days
back. One would say that something envied me my
delight in coming to you—always some difficulty or other
in my way. Yesterday I thought I should tell you that
I was to set out to-morrow, when a gown came to get itself
made up for me and to put off my departure. I was
ready to inveigh fiercely against dress, but the dear sister
was bent upon having me nice to go to you, and I couldLugétnie de Guerin. 203

not say no. ‘This fancy, then, is the reason why I can -

only set out on Monday, but on Monday most certainly,
at three clock in the afternoon.

Maurice tells me that I shall arrive about the same
hour on the following day at La Charité, and shall be
able to reach Les Coques that evening. What a sweet
“sood evening!” and how I long to arrive, to wish it
you, to embrace you for the first time! It will be the anni-
versary of our acquaintance that I shall come to celebrate
with you. It is just a year since that first letter of yours
that took such hold of my heart. What a pleasure together
to see the season return! to find myself in the scenes
from whence you have dated so much that is kind and
charming! I should like a language made expressly for
the heart, capable of uttering all one thinks and feels, that
‘I might speak it with you.

Madame de Sainte-Marie will, I imagine, have received
the letter I sent her yesterday, and will you be so kind as
to repeat my respectful and tender sentiments to-day?
Shall I have the happiness of finding her with you, and
of receiving you from her hands, as I entreated? If I
were likely to be heard I should ask this again while
asking pardon for letting myself be so long waited for.
Indeed I am not worth it; at least, I should say so if
you did not love me; but affection gives value, which
makes me quite proud when I think: She is expecting me.
To be expected, what a joy! to be expecting is no small
one either; and here I am between the two till Tuesday.
Adieu! a beautiful day, a beautiful night ; never mind how
late it may be, it will be one of the sweetest of my life]

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

DRT VALS NSB LMA SOAP Gf a ig St lpia en 44 Z
ene a ar eae Se ee Se eee ete ane ScanLetters of

Everybody presents respects and homage to all. I shall
wait at the “ Grand Monarque,” at La Charité, for the
carriage you kindly send for me.

All your own, my friend, and please do not be too ull.

 

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.

Paris, 1s¢ December, 1838.

M. de Frégeville is the most gracious, amiable, obliging
of men. At length I have found him out; I recovered
his address, and left my parcel there with a little note for
him, to which he immediately replied, and came to see
me on the morrow. The worthy man gave himself
infinite trouble to find out my address, even applying to
the police! This idea made us laugh. In short, here we
are brought into contact, but without my being able to
avail myself of it, nor of his offers of service for all within
his power,—such were his expressions to these ladies,
for I was out when he came. Fate has a spite against me.
Mdlle. Laforét* found him very pleasant, and exquisitely
polite. I shall leave him this little sowvenzr for you, dear
friend, and avail myself to the last moment of the oppor-
tunity of writing to you.

I am going to set out and to see green fields once
more: another Rayssac, for Les Coques is on the
mountains. Will there be another Louise there? She
has, I do believe, much in common with you; but, my
friend, you will be my friend always, I will write to you

* Aunt of Maurice’s wife.Eugénwe de Guérin. 205

thence if you like. Who knows what I am going to see,
who are expecting me? Everything promises most
pleasantly, and yet I approach these unknown ac-
quaintances with timidity. Pity my wandering life—
dragged from place to place. No, do not pity me, tis
Providence wills it so. We have only to be passive, and
without disputing to follow the hand that leads; this
alone sustains, consoles, and turns everything to profit as
regards Heaven. I feel myself more disenchanted, more
disgusted with the world than ever. Oh, how far more
calm and happiness there is behind Sister Clementine’s
door than in all worldly scenes! I went to call upon
her yesterday ; she is in retreat till Monday, a loss to me
who love to see and hear these good nuns, these souls
apart from the world.

Is it true that M. and Madame de Bayne have left for
Goritz? I pity you in your solitude, you at least do not
like it as your sister does ; I wonder neither at her taste
nor yours. Dear friends, who comes to amuse you now?
Have you Léontine, at least, the three sisters together at
all events? If she is with you, tell her I love her ; if she
is away, tell it her all the same.

I should like to send you some pleasant news worthy
of Paris, but the pleasant is rare everywhere, so much so
that I have none of it to-day. I have, however, seen
Versailles, but only the exterior, for, the King being ex-
pected, the doors were shut against us. Have I told you
of this and our voyal fury > Perhaps so in my last letter.

I should have had to tell you about this morning’s
concert if Maurice, who was to have taken me there, had206 Letters of

not had an attack just as we were setting out. Pain
instead of pleasure, a sudden transition very freqnent in
life! His little wife, flushed with emotion, took to nursing,
sugaring, composing him, and everything grew calm
beneath that sweet influence. Maurice will, I hope, be
happy with her. I know no woman with such a cha-
racter, heart, and face. She is a stranger: I study her, I
examine her, in order to grow more intimate, to enter
into her, if she cannot enter into me. We all owe each
other concessions of taste and opinion for the sake
of family peace and affection; this is everywhere the
case, and we shall find them easy where there is so
much goodness and generosity. Nota day that I do not
receive marks of affection from this charming new sister.
People always talk of her as the Indian. Madame de
Lamarlitre pronounced her much to her taste, pretty, and
well dressed. ‘That very day a bulletin of the visit and
the toilette was despatched to Gaillac, and I am sure it
has gone the round of the town, and that every one
knows that the Indian wore a dress of brocaded silk, a
black satin shawl trimmed with blonde and lined with
blue, a lace collar, and a black velvet bonnet with an
ostrich feather, astounding heaven and earth, according to
Madame de Lamarliétre’s expression.

Adieu, my friend! I embrace you and say, Love me,
think of me, believe in me, write to me, speak of me.
Always all your own.

One other word: ’tis with you I especially like to con-
verse, because we understand each other I think. I am
going very soon to wish you good bye; it is str'kingLugénte de Guérin. 207

two, and I have an appointment at my Abbaye-aux-Bois
chapel. I should like to set my conscience in order
before going away. Alas! I know not to whom I shall
have recourse in the country, so far away from a church.
Happily we are to go and spend Christmas at Nevers,
and I shall try to get myself calm, for I am not so to-day.
I tell you this believing you to be alone with Pulchéne,
whom nothing surprises. Pray in your Rayssac chapel
for your poor friend the Parisian, who will repay you in
kind as well as she can. Adieu, adieu! till when?

I cannot help postscripts with you, dear friends. I
have to tell you, each and all, that the General is your
devoted friend. He came again to see me, not having
found me on Tuesday. He took me out of the chapel
just as I was going to pass the grating, which made us
laugh a good deal afterwards, about my leaving the
church for a Protestant. It is a great pity to see so good
a soul in error; but it does not prevent his partiality for
mountain Curés, those at least of his time, who he tells
us were delightful. And his castle neighbours, oh! there
were no bounds to his praises of them! A hundred ques-
tiohs were put to me respecting each of you ladies, the
little Henriette, whom we call Louise, and the Countess,
who rides so well, &c. J cannot tell you all we said
during the hour and a half that he remained chatting.
He admired our Indian, and spoke of my journey to the
Nivernais to visit Madame de Maistre, who is advote.*

[aistre of whom the General spoke,

* It was Mme. Armand de }
to whom the letters in this volume

not Mme. Almaury de Maistre,
are addressed.208 Letters of

‘The General knows that family: who is there, indeed, he
does not know? He offered to accompany me to the
interior of the Palace. We shall see when I return. I
am sorry not to have been able to avail myself earlier of
so much ob/igingness. ‘Thanks to Pulchérie for her recom-
mendation. - I see she must have spoken very 2/7 of me
to him.
Of necessity I leave you.

 

To THE SAME.

Christmas Eve, at Nevers, 1838.

I have hardly time to do more than date this letter,
dear friend, being summoned by the bells to midnight
mass. I listen to their loud voices, and think of the little
bell at Andillac with its pretty tinkle, tinkle. Who would
have told me last year that I should be so far away?
Thus God leads us whither we know not. I am going
then to the Cathedral to pray for those I love, I need
not say for you.

Two days have passed since those lines were written ;
two days of festivals, prayers, offices ; letters written and
received ; all these! things that took up my time without
preventing my being with you, dear, very dear friend.
There is a way.of seeing each other in everything and
everywhere ; ’tis in the heart and before God. We shall
never have a better way of meeting, nor indeed any other
for a long time to come. I shall only return to Cayla in
fine weather, when we have flowers and a blue sky to showLn noo
frugénie de Guérin. 200

our Indian. And we are still far enough from that, as I
need only look up to the pale sky, and white earth a!
frost and snow, to convince myself of.

As everything, or most things at least, remind me of
those I love, this weather turns my thoughts to your moun-
tains, dear friend; I see your white rocks, and you, poor
prisoner, in your chimney-corner, eyes and heart wander-
ing away. Come sometimes where I am, where you
have seen me so loved and happy, beside my charming
Baroness, who loves you too, and often says to me, “ Let
us talk of your friend Louise,” and we talk of you. This
happens more than once in the course of the day; for
you know the heart has a way of returning again and
again. to what it prizes. After Cayla, Rayssac ; nothing
in a worldly life pleases me so much as these thoughts of
family and friends. I delight to rest in them, and con-
stantly revert thither both in thought and words. "Tis
with Henriette especially that one talks of one’s country.
What is agreeable to me is sure to occur to her; she has
that fine instinct of the heart that guesses whatever
pleases. Accordingly I have no want unfulfilled, I have
almost too much happiness, for it is about to end; and
what regret we shall feel at parting, at no longer seeing
each other at every moment, we who have been accus-
tomed to live together for a month!

We are, you see, at Nevers; we were at Les Coque
when I got your first letter, the seeing, reading, and
talking of which was no small pleasure. The passage
about Goritz and Madame de Montbel touched every-
body, the more that the Montbels are well known to210 Letters of

Madame de Maistre, who used to attend the soirées of
the Toulouse Minister, while her father, M. de Sainte
Marie, was intimately connected with him politically. You
are in a familiar neighbourhood ; I have been talked to a
great deal about the marriage of those poor orphans,
asked whether they were rich, and various questions
prompted by sincere interest. Henriette was charmed to
hear that one of these young ladies had become your
sister. How you would love my friend, dear Louise!
how amiable, kind, attaching, and highly intellectual she
is! I congratulate myself more and more on loving and
being loved by her. It is a happiness in my life for
which I bless God, for there is something providential
in our meeting, and in the good I do this dear invalid.
It is what I cannot understand, but there is no mis-
taking it; what I say to her, read to her, whatever, in
short, I do when we are together, pleases, makes her
cheerful and less suffering, so that she is already much
better than when I came, and that, beyond a doubt, her
family love me. Her father takes such care of me as to
come into my room to see whether I have a good fire
when I say my prayers. He is afraid of the northern air
doing me harm, and said laughingly, during some severe
cold that we had, ‘The Flower of the South will be
frozen.” Excellent and holy man that he is! I am
very fond of him; he reminds me of your father. He
has the same way of thinking, the same information; he
has read everything, and wntten as well. He was good
enough to read me some parts of his works, which one
would have attributed to a Benedictine. He is intimatelyLugénie de Guérin. 20

connected with Carmelites, Trappists, charitable institu
tions, with all that is pious and learned. Charles X. wag
partial to him, and saw much of him. If only he had
listened to him!

We have visitors here from Goritz, amongst others a
hee Ch , who comes and goes for the exiles from
St. Petersburg to Vienna, sometimes into Spain, from

 

court to court, indeed, and who charms you by his narra-
tives. JI have never seen a more agreeable, handsome,
witty, and learned man. A great geologist, he examines
excavations, descends into volcanoes, establishes himself
amongst ruins. He slept and lived for a week in the
chamber of Sallust at Pompei, drove through its streets,
went into its theatre; had excavations made in presence
of the Duchess de Berry, and saw a thief surprised by the
lava in the act of carrying away a purse. ‘This caused a
good deal of laughter, and made us all own that iniquity
was sure to be found out sooner or later. I have seen
his cabinet of natural history and mineralogy, as well as
his cabinet of antiquities. I have seen the borders of
the walls in Cicero’s dining-room, charming paintings
of inimitable or unimitated delicacy. With so many

other qualities, M. de Ch combines those of the

 

thorough Christian. He turns all his studies and dis-
coveries to the support of religion, proves that science
and faith harmonise, that geology and the Book of
Genesis agree. You will think me very learned, ’tis that
I hare seen Paris, and that at Paris intelligence is in’the
air; nevertheless it is in the neighbourhood of Les
Coques that I have learnt all this.212 Letters of

Madame de Maistre has charming surroundings, which,
unfortunately, her health and the badness of the roads
prevent her enjoying as she would like. As to the roads,
they are left mere rock and swamp. We have hardly been
able to walk to mass in the village. No week-day mass.
Here I have all I want, two churches right and left, quite
close to us, and a white-haired father, a saint, one of
those who escaped the Nantes zoyades, who speaks of
God like a martyr. I went to him with Henriette; she
was in the vestry, I behind the most closely-curtained
grating. I pitied my poor friend for having this broad-day
téte-d-téte ; but she cannot confess in any other way, being
unable to kneel. It is double penance and double merit.

Nevers is an ancient city, famous for its dukes and
their palace; and the Cathedral, too, is very fine. I
have seen the Sisters of Charity, and among them one
sister who was much amazed at seeing me, Elisa Viguier
of Gaillac. I really thought she would have fainted.
‘Oh, Mdlle. Eugénie, where do you come from ?”—* I
am coming to join you.” But one glance at my bonnet
with flowers, my gay attire, led her to another conclusion.
I told her of the marriage, and of what brought me to
Nevers. But all the same, is it not wonderful to see me
there, and this life I am leading just now?

Louise, dear friend, whatever I do, whatever becomes

of me, you will be always in my heart. Your two letters

 

gave me much pleasure ; the one brought by M. de C
reached me one of these last days. He was gracious
enough to leave a card at the same time, which well

‘deserves a call from my brothers. ‘They will go and seeLiugénie de Guerin. 212

him and thank him for his kindness. I very often have
letters from Caroline; this good little sister is full of
attentions and affection for me. Maurice tells me that he
observes her qualities develop more and more, her piety
strengthen, and that he shall be happy with her. Every-
thing goes well, except this dear brother’s health. As for
me, I am as at Cayla, changed only in externals—smart
dress, hair curled, a thousand pretty little things, sweet
little books, magnificent collars: so much for the outward
woman; and for the mind, distinguished acquaintance—
M. Xavier de Maistre, author of the ‘ Leper,’ whom we are
to see in Paris, and other celebrities of the day with whom
Madame de Maistre is connected. She is bent on making
her friends known to her friend, nor do I say no.

We return to Paris early in January, and then it 1s that
I shall see the world’s grandeurs; as yet I only know
the pleasant, pretty, simple side of it. Now, however,
baronesses, duchesses, princesses, and as many geniuses
as you like. They amuse me to look at, as would a
gallery of pictures; but, my friend, let us not fix our
hearts, still less, our souls there. God and the world do
not harmonize. Alas! how little one thinks of heaven in
its whirl and glare! This is what [am told by my friend,
who krfows and is detaching herself from it.

Adieu, dear Louise! I do not know where you will be
found by this letter, which takes you my new-year wishes—
heart and soul wishes that I daily form and pour out before
God, now that another year is at hand, with increased
fervour. How sad the closing one has been to you,
dear friend! This day last year you could embrace the214 Letters of

father for whom you can now only pray! This reccllection
occurred to me in thinking of you, and I prayed God to
console you under these sorrows, and all the others which
life brings. Embrace your sisters if you are together, and
tell them that I comprehend them, and all belonging to
you, in these good new-year wishes. ‘Thanks to the
Pastor for his blessing on Babylon, ’twas not ill placed.
What do you know of the travellers? ‘That good sister
and dear brother, what news of them ?

 

To MDLLE. DE GUERIN.

Nevers, 12/2 Fanuary, 1839.

Still at Nevers, but not for long. We shall set out one
of these fine days, and I want to leave thee, dear Mimi,
a last “‘souvenir’—a long account of all I have done,
aid, and thought; as Papa says, of all those little details,
that sand of everyday life that the pen tries to grasp.
"Tis, however, when I return, when we meet again, that I
shall relate all particulars, small and great, of my journey,
that I shall be able to tell what there is no writing,
what can only be painted by the voice: such as the
countless kindnesses of Henriette, the goodness to me of
M. de Maistre, my conversation with Madame de Sainte-
Marie, my whole intercourse with this excellent and
amiable family.

I have thought much of thee and of Papa during the
recent festivals. On Twelfth-Night I could see you
turning box-leaves for the absent, for their return, and soLiugénie de Guérin. 215

many Other pretty things staked on those turning leaves.
‘The account of this Twelfth-Night evening, of the box-
leaves, and the cake with the bean in it, much amused
these ladies, who do not know our customs. Henriette
takes pleasure in hearing me talk of the South, which she
has always wished to visit. We shall see her, if her
health permits, and from Cayla she will go into Italy, to
Venice, to Nice, where her cousin de Maistre is governor ;
and she will take me with her. What say you of our
plan, Papa? and thou, Mimin, dost not thou think one
separation is already quite enough? O, no doubt it is!
But while far away from you I hke to travel on paper
and follow Henriette.

Fortunately, we shall not be far, for Paris, and I
have promised her the Thursday out of every week.
Then it is that she will introduce me to her distin-
euished friends. Madame de Vaux, a most marvellous
woman as to energy, stature, and intellect, who carries
on a controversy with Lamartine in writings full of truth

 

and power—for she is very pious—used to correspond
with M. de Lamennais before his fall. Maurice, who
knows her, has introduced Caroline, who writes me word
that she is enchanted with the Baroness de Vaux. |
long to see her in her own house: I have often done so
in church. Then I have still got to know the Duchess
de Damas, a correspondent of Henriette’s; M. de Neu-
ville, who wanted to write to me; and the excellent and
unfortunate M. Xavier de Maistre, who has lost his four
children, and is accordingly much out of spirits.

Here I have paid some visits, seen some company,216 Letters of

and even dined with Monseigneur, who is very agree:
able. As he comes from the South, and was told I did so
too, he talked to me of our neighbourhood, even of Cayla,
which had been pointed out to him on his way to Gaillac,
and asked me whether there was not a bishop in our
family. ‘‘ There was, Monseigneur; but I never saw him.”*
It was a charming evening. ‘There is a very select circle
at Nevers, all made up of great names. I was introduced
to drawing-rooms, churches, and convents. M. de Sainte-
Marie took me to see the Mother Superior of the Sisters
of Charity ; and on the same occasion, I asked for Elisa,
whom it is not very easy to get down into the parlour,
but that day we spent a whole hour together, talking of
our own country, to which she desires kind messages,
her brother, M. the Curé, and Cayla imcluded. She is
very happy, and will win her wager if God grant her life.
From thence we went to the Carmelites, and I had
long chat with a young lively nun, who ended by in-
quiring my age—reckoning upon,a candidate, perhaps.
This sacred conversation, carried on, through the cur-
tained grating, without our seeing each other, had a charm
of its own. M. de Sainte-Marie has passports for all
convents: for the last twenty years he has been the
temporal father of the Carmelites, so you may imagine
the greetings and compliments that went on.

This sheet is like a journal, all full of my own news;
and yours—yours, dear Mimin: how much pain and
pleasure both it gave me! ‘That poor Euphrasie left
you so suddenly and unexpectedly! I much regretted

* Mgr. Naudo, B sishop of Nevers.Tn _ , ° ~4 °
Eeugénie de Guerin. D107

her departure: she shortened the time, cheered you by
her mirth; you were not alone. Poor recluses, how oftet
I think of you! How constantly I place myself between
you, as Wolf does! We must look forward to my return.
Not that Iam dull, or very seldom, my life is so varied ;
but yours, all alone, without any variety this wintry
weather, distresses me, and I think of it very often. I
long that you should have Erembert again, and fancy
you will soon be recalling him: but still I should be very
elad to find him in Paris, and he too, I expect, is waiting
my return.

Caro, the charming, presses me very tenderly to come
home. JI shall no longer find good M. Augier there ; he
is gone to Boulogne, and Maurice will miss him at dinner
and in the evening. There is a charming little nephew of
his, who is a great favourite with us all. This little Bz// is
very pretty, and a great friend of mine: he is ten years
old. Caro, too, is very fond of him. Maurice writes
me word that he daily discovers new qualities in her;
that her piety becomes more énlightened ; that she iS
charming in her gentleness and attention ; and that he
foresees happiness with the httle woman. God be
praised! We have been so anxious for this.

The news of the day is made up of glory and mourn-
ing both: the capture of Vera Cruz by our troops, and
the death of the Princess of Wurtemberg—the young
Princess Marie of Orleans— whom everybody regrets.
She was good, beautiful, attractive, and pious. We have

ome Goritz visitors here, who tell us wonders of Henri V.

3 the whole, however, our politics are calm.218° Letters of

> And my poor aunt came in the bullock-cart! Tell her
how this idea pleases me, and that I think of her when
with an aunt of Madame de Maistre, who is aged and
amiable, and who likes me. I make conquests of old
men and old women—'tis very easy. My remembrances
to Marie: we shall resume our correspondence in Paris.
Louise speaks of having had two letters from you. I
embrace you both four times. Elisa* has been very good
in giving you three weeks; accordingly, she shall have a
beautiful watch. Mine will soon point to eleven o'clock.
Good night! Iam going to bed. Kind messages to all
the neighbourhood.

 

To M. DE GuErIN, Cayla.

Paris, 20/2 January, 18309.

[ have written you a word or two almost daily, my
dear Papa; to-day I want to write at greater length.
The good General came to see me as soon as he knew I
had returned from Nevers. ’Tis not—truth to tell—entirely
on my account these visits are made. Caroline suits him
so well, he thinks her so pretty, and likes so much to
say so, that I cannot doubt that our Indian has a large
share in the friendship of the dear old man. One of
these last days he was here when Caro was making up an
Indian doll for the little De Maistre girls. He was suffi-
ciently enchanted to take to working at the doll himself

>
and to wish to remain till the completion of the toilette,

* Mdlle. Elisa Fontenelles, a cousin of Eugénie’s.Liugénie de Guérin. 219

which unfortunately was interrupted by visitors; so the
Marquis left us, and the next day Caro wrote him word that
the Indian lady was ready and would be charmed io be
presented to him, and at once the worthy man returned
to us, spent the afternoon here, and offered to accompany
us to-day to M. Aguado’s museum of paintings, which is
said to be very fine, and to which we mean.to go. From
thence we shall visit the interior of the Palais Royal.
Nothing is too much to expect from the good Marquis.
Pulchérie did us a great service in introducing him: I-
have thanked her for it. A letter to Rayssac will accom-
pany this.

My dear Papa, we have no lack of friends in Paris.
What shall I tell you of that good, perfect family that I
have just left? Always some fresh kindness on their part.
To-morrow, Saturday, a large brilliant evening party at
M. de Neuville’s, to which I was invited ; but I shall give
up my place to Eran, who will accompany Madame de
Maistre. ‘There is to be a sort of gathering of beauties
of all lands—English, German, Spanish, and the lovely
ambassadress of the United States. "Tis a pretty sight
for one who is fond of society. I refuse, as much as
possible, to go out, but I shall not be able to excuse my-
self from going to M. de Neuville’s, who has been so kind
to Erembert. I have seen the Baroness de Vaux, the
Joan of Arc of Henn V., who in 1830 only asked an
officer of the royal guard for fifty men, in order to get rid
of Philippe, she herself to head them sword in hand.
This woman is a man in energy and stature ; now she 1s
entirely devoted to God, visiting prisons and exhorting220 Letters of

those sentenced to death, and this combined with a charm-
ing simplicity. I am to be introduced to others, too, of
whom I shall tell you. But all this does not prevent my
thinking a great, great deal of Cayla, and impatiently
waiting the month of May; I shall even set out, if I can,
with Erembert the beginning of Lent.

Mesdames. de Maistre and de Sainte-Marie send you
all manner of kind messages. They think Caro charming
—the most enchanting creature that can possibly be seen,
Henriette says. The evening she saw them first s
really was radiant: she is prettier than before her
marriage. She is an excellent little wife, full of little
attentions to Maurice, as is Maurice to her. They are
happy. Maurice behaves perfectly. He is worth a
hundred times more than last year, as he himself tells
me. There is always the same confidence in me, and
we often have private chats. This dear Maurice longs to
see you, and often reverts to the AZzmin. We shall all
be happy to meet again at Cayla. On Saturday I shall
be thinking of thee, Mimin, at St. Thomas d’Aquin, where
I go to hear M. Dupanloup, who, by the way, is to preach
there during Lent. There is no lack of godly teaching in
Paris, but the taught are very rare. The more one sees of
the world, the more one is struck with its ignorance of
things needful. The Yversen sister comes to see us every

 

now and then. She told me of Madame L who
would like to know us, but we have already so many
people to go and see that I lose the wish of making new
acquaintances. All the time goes in dressing, in visits

to be paid or received; there is hardly any left forEugéme de Guérin. 22

reading or writing. The Lastics are here, Madame de la
Renauditre, the Barrys, an English family who are very
fond of Maurice, and an infinity besides, whose very
names I do not know. ‘Then there are the De Maistres
and those they introduce me to—more than enough
for me.

Oh, how I shall rest at Cayla! The contrast will
be all the more appreciated because so striking from
the whirl of Paris to the calm of the country; from the
roll of carriages to the low rumbling of carts ; from the
Paris sounds to the cowcouroucou of our hens. iy see
great charm in that, my dear Papa, to say nothing of you
and Mimin. How much I long to embrace you! They
go on treating me very well here: everywhere, indeed, I
am quite a spoilt child. My health is good: have no
anxiety of any kind about me. How are you getting
through the winter in the new drawing-room? Better, no
doubt, than in the hall. Is Wolf banished from it?
Maurice wishes to know. Passing thence to the kitchen,
tell me if our servants are well. I regret the partridge.

Thank M. the Curé for having drunk my health—'is a.
proof of remembrance. How I long to returm it him in
Here we drink Bordeaux. However the
wine may turn out, you will do well to send a barrel.
Here I have got far away from M. the Curé, and I
wished before I left him to recommend myself to his
prayers, and ask him why the chapel is still open?

Adieu! luncheon is ready, and then we must set out.
aillac, to wherever our friends

Cayla wine !

Much love to my aunt, to G

going to write to Antoinette. Louise tells

are, -1f am220 Letters of

me you are soon to be at Rayssac; I advise you to wait
for her return from Castres, and, besides, it must be very
cold just now in the mountains. What do you hear of
Euphrasie and poor Pulchérie? I take it for granted
that Madame Facieu and every one at Andillac are well.
Impossible to write more. Caro and all of us embrace
you.

 

To MbLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
Paris, 9¢k March, 1839.

Why are not my arms long enough, my beloved Louise,
to embrace you wherever you may be? Always good and
affectionate, you write to me from Lastours ; you find time
to think of coming to divert me in the midst of all your
own diversions. You discovered that I was sad: it is true,
my friend, I was so, and still am. Maurice, my so dear
Maurice, has long made me uneasy. Fever, emaciation,
pallor, sleeplessness, loss of appetite: my God, what
suffering all this causes! Shall we have to lose this dear
brother ? This dread is within my heart, and feeds itself on
presentiments, absurdities that it goes on raking up—such
as having dreamed of coffins as soon as ever I fell asleep,
every night during my journey to Paris, and meeting on
the day of the marriage a funeral procession that had to
make its way through our bridal carriages. Tis in vain
that I dismiss all this, sweep it away ; it remains with me
like a vision. Say what you like of my dark fancies, and
pray God for your Paris friend.

I was uneasy about you, in suspense, and your dearEugénie de Guérin. 228

note does me infinite good just now. It is so sweet, so
comforting to hear you. Your narratives have a charm
that you liberally bestow on me. O thanks, frend,
thanks! it is so precious to be thus loved. After God,
there is nothing better on earth, I assure you. I have
made trial of the world, which has no value forme. One
finds in it nothing but emptiness and show. My ideas
have greatly enlarged on that head, and more than ever
my tastes tend to the country, a retired life, the small home
circle. If only there be no blank made there! If God
wills it, we shall be all together this summer at Cayla.

We had intended to set out in the spring, but business
and his poor health keep us back. He will be incapable
of bearing the journey for some time to come. He is
getting over the attack, his doctor reports him better
every day. There is hope still. Hope! What would
life be without it? ‘The little wife nurses her husband
with admirable care. Love and devotedness make up
this Indian angel, to which add fervent piety, and you
will have an idea of the charming creature. The world
which she would enchant in no way enchants her. She
‘5 almost an ideal being. A quick wit, a penetrating
intellect, large eyes that see everything: happily, they
are blue, the colour of the sky, which renders them
celestial, and is why . . . I will tell you this zy, which
concerns myself, and will not write it. I was going to
do so, but there it is safe back into the quill. This quill
contains many a thing, else what should we have for our
téte-a-téte P

But you—your fall, your double fall—and have I224 Letters of

said nothing about it then? Forgive me, dear friend, my
bad charity began at home. Tell me, do tell me, what
traces you and the Countess still bear of all those upsets,
scratches, and bruises. Do you know that it is frightful to
think of your being run away with by the horses, and over-
turned, flung I know not where in the dark? My God,=
what a misfortune might have resulted from it! I am
going to say a Te Deum, for if you are alive it is through
special mercy. Your good aunt must have been much
alarmed at those cut faces; but what care, attention,
kindness !—remedies that cure everything. You enjoy
your life at Castres in that worthy and intellectual family
of Lastours. I am glad to know that you are there.
Stay there long ; comfort the afflictec—that poor mother
who cannot console herself. This will be both a Christian
work and a diversion from your own sorrows, from that
mourning which has prevented your taking pleasure in. the

pleasures of the world. These words of yours picture to me

your heart, all full of regret and zworld-qweaned, ‘“‘ Prayer,”
you add, “comforts me; when I have prayed I feel
better.” May God bless you for thus speaking, for having
been made to feel experimentally that He is the soul’s only
support. . We are advancing in piety, my friend ; foster
it by regular reading night and morning. ‘There must be
order in all things. ‘The religious in their monasteries
only sustain themselves by rule; so it 1s with every soul,
and still more with those who are much in the Werld and
rather excitable and changeable by nature.

This reminds me that there 1s now at Castres a pious
gitl, whom I know well and am fond of, Francoise Limer,Leugénte de Guerin. 225

the sister of our former Curé. She would be pleased to
see you, and you would please me much by taking her a
message from me. You will find her in Mdlle. de Ville-
neuve’s house.. Tell her that in Paris I forget no one.
Never doubt this, Louise. Oh, my friend! could I but
see you, speak with you, find some lime-tree avenue to
walk in, I should tell you and ask you many things;
you know how we blend ourselves, give and take in
our conversations. So we do with my Louise here,
Madame de Maistre, with the difference not of affection
but of broken health—an organization which compels me
to take the most delicate, most timid precautions. My
least griefs do her harm. This good family is about to
leave Paris, and my dear Henriette-Marie presses me to
follow her to the country, promising that Maurice shall
join me there on his way to Cayla. I had another plan,
of going back with Erembert, who is about to leave us.
Out of Paris my thoughts take pleasure only in Cayla,
and my Paris is not the great city, it consists of three
persons. Affection urges me to follow one of these, my
charming invalid. I do not know what I shall do, but
one thing is certain—I shall soon leave. Do not reply
to me till I tell you where I am. My dear Cayla hermits
will not be sorry to see me again. What happiness if we
could all arrive there at once! These Benjamins one
leaves behind a good deal spoil the delight of returning
to one’s father. Such is life—thorn and flower!

I attend churches and sermons as much as possible;
they do one good, one always comes away with some holy
thought and better courage. On Sunday w2 heard M.
Q226 Letters of

de Ravignan at Notre Dame. ’Tis a curious thing to see
such an assembly of men, a sea of heads flooding the
immense cathedral, to listen to a voice; but what a
voice! From time to time some smitten soul, some
young man in doubt or under conviction, seeks out the
orator that he may confess. As to that, however, people
flock with equal ardour to the play, and Mdlle. Rachel
attracts at least as great a crowd at the theatre as M.
de Ravignan at Notre Dame. Jam not surprised at the
infatuation of the Castres people for this young marvel :
those who have seen her are enraptured. Yet she is
ugly: I hear this from those who have seen her near.
Alas! how profane what I am writing in Lent! .

I do not forget the dear sisters in the mountains.
Adieu! Love me, and write at once if you wish to find

me in Paris.

 

To M. DE GUERIN, Cayla.
Paris, March and April, 1839.

This fragment of a letter will tell you, my dear Papa,
that I am by the side of my poor invalid friend, awaiting
the arrival of M. Dupanloup. It is while thus waiting
that seeing an inkstand I continue to write to you at the
expense of the vestry. But I shall put a penny into the
box for my ink and paper, &c., for I stole a sheet to
follow this, if we are left long alone. From time to time
some peaceable abbé or sacristan passes through, looks
at us, and seems rather perplexed by this improvised

office in a vestry. But the protection of M. DupanloupLeugénte de Guérin. 207

is Over us: we have but to name him here as a univer:
sal safe-conduct. He has already been, and has left us
for the retreat at the seminary of which he is the superior.
I shall ask him to let me see the little Combes. This will
make you laugh, ’tis an episode in my Paris life that I
shall remember.

Never was there such a holy week—always excitements,
excursions! Andillac is more favourable to meditation
than Paris, but God is everywhere and in all, if one is
bent on finding and seeing Him there. My poor dear
Papa, I have prayed much for you in these beautiful
fanes of Notre Dame, St. Roch, and others that we
have visited. I have thought of the simple little Andillac
chapel where you were. ‘The new chapel will, I ima gine,
have served for tomb, or Paradise, as they call it here.

If ever there was anything unconnected and scribbled,
tis assuredly this letter, begun, left off, taken up again
in so many different places, Just now at Maurice’s, after
sitting five hours for my portrait; that good M. Augier
was quite determined to take it for you. It was for you,
too, that I let myself be taken, that I might at least
return to you in some fashion! My dear Papa, you will
see a painted me arrive with Eran, who also has been
painted, and, more fortunate than I, is about to see you
again, to embrace you, talk to you of Paris, of so many,
many things, of his journey and long absence.

Mine is going to be prolonged further than I had in-
tended, but you see yourself, could I refuse these kind
friends what they requested with so good a right fo expect?
They will thank you for it, assure you.

Q 2228 Letters o rf

I shall bring you back the little copybook* which
you so much value. It is now in the hands of Count
Xavier, which will constitute its highest distinction. I
have, you see, been presented to this celebrated man,
and he appeared to me as charming as he is good. He
is fond of his cousin, and under her patronage I was sure
to be well received. We found him alone in his room,
reading the Offices of the Holy Week. The worthy
brother of his brother Joseph, he ought to be religious.
It is thus he consoles himself for his paternal sorrows,
for the three children he lost between the ages of eighteen
and twenty.

The very evening of this visit I was taken to Valen-
tino, to the great concert of eighty musicians, which I
had heard once before. I have still a good deal to see,
but one might spend a thousand years in Paris without
having seen everything. I lay great stress upon acquaint-
ance made with persons, even more than with things.

Your health makes me anxious, however well cared for
it be by Mimin. Do nurse yourself, therefore, I pray
you, that I may not be unhappy about you. Adieu, very
dear Papa! adieu, very dear Mimin! Ihave not time to
write to thee. Maurice sends Papa ‘Reflections on the
Gospel,’ by M. de La Luzerne. Goodbye to all. I send
a waistcoat to Pierril, and an apron to Jeanne; to thee,
foal, all that the heart can devise. That kind M.
Augier! do thank him well in your next letter to
Maurice. My portrait will be finished at Cayla. I found

* A book in which Mdlle. de Guérin had written down some of her
poems.Eugénie de Guérin. 229

it impossible to sit to-day. I do not like leaving you ;

ba, for ail that, adieu! Lf will write from Nevers.

Erembert is delighted at the thought of seeing you again.

I already picture to myself the happy day of his arrival.
Svening of the 2nd of April.

To MpLiE. LovIsE DE BAYNE.
Nevers, 1322 April, 1839.
Again at Nevers, my dear Louise, again remem-
bering you in my encampments and travels. Never did
Arab lead a more wandering life. Monday in Paris ;
to-day here; in a few days somewhere else. But that
will be at Les Coques, in the country, in repose, In a
place most completely to my taste. There will be no-
lacking but a church, which is too distant for daily

thing
Something is always wanting to travellers, but

visits.
God can make up for all, as was told me by my holy
Curé of St. Cyr, the old man of the Nantes boats, of
whom I think I spoke to you at the time of the Christmas
festivals. Who would then have told me that I should
gee and hear hima again? I fully believed I had said
sood-bye to him till we met in heaven, and should never
more find myself at Nevers. I little thought then that my
dear Maurice would again be ill at the time fixed for my
departure ; that he would be unable to set out with us.
Erembert is gone off alone to Cayla, and I am waiting
here till Maurice and his wife come to take me up on

their way. Madame de Maistre and her family haveLetters of

arranged it all, and I left it to them, finding pleasure in
pleasing them, and also in being still near Maurice, able
to have frequent tidings of him, and to go and see him,
if necessary, in case of his becoming worse. Who knows,
my God! The doctors have pronounced him in a very
critical state: two cauteries and the air of the South are
the only chances of safety held out to us. I say nothing
of the care lavished on him in every way, of the perfect
devotion of his wife. Alas! if that could cure, if the
heart could confer life, we should have no anxiety. Is it
not too sad to see him in this state since his marriage?
My dear friend, pity me. Do better still—pray for
him and me. Our best hope is in God. I believe this: I
have experienced it, and that everything in life is illusory,
and yet I do not feel the consolations of piety ; my heart,
which is weaned from the world, cannot attach itself to
heaven. I appear to have no feeling left, like one com-
pletely stunned. My dear friend, write to me; words
of yours will do me good. Do you suppose that I am
losing friendship too? That is a thing which never
passes away. Jam determined to make you believe it.

See how I love you, and tell you all that grieves, all that

goes on inme. My last letter was very unreserved, very
miserable, rather too much so; I reproached myself for
having written it. What is the use of communicating
sufferings that can hurt others? Tell me the effects of
it—that I pained you? I believe I did; I know what
your heart is towards me, and then, from my further know-
ledge of it, I fear J may have done you harm in another
way, may have thrown you into the state of excitementEugenie de Guérin. 231

and sadness in which I myself was. We ought to guard
against this. Whatever happens, our soul ought to rest
so firmly upon God as neither to be troubled nor over-
whelmed.

I left my dear invalid surrounded by friends: among
them I number the d’Yversen sister, who has given us
many proofs of real interest, and the Baroness de Vauss
of whom I told you—that energetic woman, full of
devotedness and religious feeling. She goes to the
prisons, to exhort the condemned ; on her way she will
visit our invalid, and speak of the good God to him. I
have had tolerably good accounts since I came here, but
there have so long been these alternations of better and
worse that one can trust to nothing. Erembert must be
arrived at Cayla; I can fancy the embraces that are
going on and the joy of the two recluses. They had
depended on seeing me too. I wrote them word that I
should arrive with Maurice, who had a fancy to keep me,
and that I was spending a few days at Madame de
Maistre’s country-house, waiting till we should all set out
together. One must not tell them everything. What is
the use of knowing all when one can do nothing?

I am writing very egotistically: not a word of you
or about you, just as though I were forgetting you. Very
far from it, however, for I think of and speak of you
with Henriette, one friend leads to another ; sometimes
too she has a way of looking like you which charms me,
for then I see two in one. I make this remark to her,
and she congratulates herself, knowing how loveable
(omke is i my eyes. One might go further, but

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
      

 

Bea eh i ren tine lame233 Letters of

conscience checks. the heart: it is not right to expose
any one to the danger of vanity. You tell me I once
told you so, and I hold to my principles. My dear
Louise, one word, two words, a thousand words from
you, I beg, of your life at Lastours or at Castres. How
has your time—your Lent—been spent? Mine has been
the most disturbed, the most mortifying possible: morti-
fying, that is, in a spiritual sense, for we eat meat half
the week ; but God has given me my dry bread—my peni-
tential diet—in the form of anxiety. My poor friend,
how I have experienced what the Jmz¢azion tells us, “‘ The
cross will follow you everywhere.” Paris was to be my
Calvary

 

Paris, where I expected so much happiness.
You have not, doubtless, written to Rue de l’Arcade ?
Do so to Les Coques, near La Charité (Niévre). I have
a longing for tidings of you, of your sisters, of M. Charles,
and Marie. How about their journey to Goritz? Will
you present my regards to Madame de Gélis and the
family that loves your? ....

Does M. Louis de M happen to be in Paris?
The shadow of an acquaintance becomes noticeable in

 

that world of strangers. Poor Paris, my promised land !
how hast thou deceived me! Let us only reckon with
certainty on Paradise. We must remember this, my dear
friend :—

Happiness will flit,

Fool who trusts to it!
Variation on a saying of Francis I. But let nothing
prevent you trusting friendship and the friend who will
never charge,Lugénie de Guérin. 233
To COUNT XAVIER DE MAISTRE,
MONSIEUR, Les Coques, AZ77l, 1839.

‘* A rose-leaf is never in the way,” was the saying of, I
think, a Persian poet. <A graceful idea, which might
seem yours, with which this sheet of paper invests
itself in order to form part of the bouquet addressed to
you by my friend. Will you deign to accept it, and also
my grateful homage touching those manuscript poems that
you have been so indulgent as to read? Nothing more
felicitous could befal them, and your flattering opinion
will ever be my fairest poetic crown. I did not hope for
so much, and could never aspire to more. I have no
wish for fame, and the advice you are good enough to
give me on that head is in perfect accordance with my
own ideas. Celebrity is not happiness, as more than one
great man can testify: and to woman, more especially,
wide spheres are unsuited.. God has made them small
for us, as for the flowers. Oh! I would not exceed
mine, but I had been told that God made nothing in
vain, and that every mental gift should subserve His

praise, or else was thrown away.

Oh! sing, sing then, you whom He made to sing.

It was thus the thought of my Lxfantines arose: little
poems within the scope of children, a useful aim for my
inspirations, and then a hope, too—the hope of poor
Homer—‘“Give something for my songs.” A_ useful
resource this to my father, a secret idea that I nurse in
my heart, as Prascovie did that of going to Moscow.234 Letters of

Such, Monsieur, is my little dream, which you have
flattered by your favourable opinion till it almost turns
to a reality. You impart life to the talent you have
found ; it learns from your lips that it is able to do wha*
it wills, and is quite proud and very strong in your
expressed approbation.

Accept, I pray you, the homage of all my hoped-for
laurels, and—what is more certain—the feelings of pro-
found respect with which I have the honour to remain

your very humble servant.

To MADAME DE STE. MARIE.

Les Coques, May, 1839.

This time the vose-deaf shall be for our dear mamma,
since she likes them, asks for them, accepts them so

graciously, and says such pretty things. ”Tis enough to

lead me to make up a large paper nosegay, which will
be easily done if I gather all my heart holds for you,
all that I feel, think, and say of your very great kindness.
O thanks, then, thanks for the note of tender reproach
and for the little cap with Aope-coloured ribbons (the colour
I have adopted since I have been with you) that you
have bestowed on me, together with so much besides !
This cap delighted me: I received it as from the hand of
my mother, who interested herself in my head as well as
my heart, which you do not deck out unsuccessfully
either with all. your affection.

I find myself quite happy, just now, thanks to you. myfiugénie de Guerin. 238

heart’s mother, to your loving Henriette, and to the good
news I have had from all quarters, I must tell it you.
Maurice is much better: he says so himself, and writes
me a letter of convalescence, spring-time, life, after a
walk in the Bois de Boulogne. There is hope! ‘There
is something to bless God and Ste. Philoméne for! Halle-
lujah ! hallelujah! .... ’Tis a resurrection! And then
again his Indian brother-in-law, M. Dulac, is on his way
to Europe, and comes to settle affairs. Everything is
turning out better than we expected for our dear Maurice.
I was longing to tell you this. Happiness and unhap-
piness both get told to friends, and no one deserves that
name better than you.

One word of our life, our sweet life at Les Coques, in
the open air, amzdst the flowers and verdure, like La Fon-
taine’s rabbit. A great delight to all and to me to find
myself here, to enjoy it beside the queen of the place and
of my heart, as says some tender author, not a whit more
trathfully than I. In truth, I love your loving and love-
able daughter ever better and better, and can no more
conceive our two lives separating than I can my two
eyes. Do not let us think of what I see still far, far off,
and would postpone to the end of the world. It is so
happy to be together, to be with one so full of heart,
intellect, and charms of every kind !

Would you believe, in spite of this, that she has still
to complain, to pronounce me too veasonable? Wha
would have supposed it? And thereupon we dispute
frantically, and also upon 7ose-buds, and Andryane the
republican Adonis, whose face I find the only thing to230 Letters of

admire in him. JI am reading those Memoirs of his
which have been so praised, reading them without
any enthusiasm, always expecting it to rise, and with
a prejudice against republicans which perhaps prevents
it. Prejudices are so powerful! Our Henriette is indig-
nant at such “sang froid,” especially when I tell her I
would gladly spin the rope to hang republicans and
republic both. -Oh! then it is you should hear her,
should see her throwing her indulgence over

The gibbet

And the gibbeted.
Thus arguing, disputing, time flies its fastest in this castle,
in the little drawing-room, seated on the sofa, before a
table covered over with books, stockings, tapestry-work,
music, a confusion continually worse confounded. We pass
from one thing to the other. Man likes to spend his life
in change, and so do women, as far as their fingers go.
This reminds me of St. Martin, which I am very anxious to
see—not for the sake of change, but to rejoin you and
with you enjoy those beautiful gardens and flowers I hear
of. M. de Sainte-Marie will tell you whether this be not
true, and how much we yearn to embrace you. We con-
sider that he is leaving us too soon, which is what I
should always say on seeing him go away.

Adieu ! a word I do not like to say to you, kind and
dear mamma. Do not be angry with me, I pray you, for
not having written to you; ’tis too kind to complain of
it, and then I know what is for #77 and what for you.
The dear child, how I embrace her! Her papa has told
you how pretty and happy she was at Saint-Martin.Liugénie de Guerin. 227

Titine is not a little so, either: always trotting about,
and also very good and very well. ’Tis only the poor
mammas who suffer. I did not fail to sympathise in all
your anniversary sadness. Can youloveme? Love me
for my happiness, and accept my respect and affection.

 

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
Les Coques, 22d May, 1839.

A letter from you at last, dear Louise! ’Tis a real
happiness to me, who love you at all times and in all
places, to find that I too am loved by you. I hardly
knew what to think of this long long silence in return
for two such great letters and all that I confided to you
about Paris and myself. My ftiend here used to ask me
whether you were dead, and I assured her there was no
danger of that, for you would never have left this world
without announcing it to your friend. I had partly
guessed what prevented your writing during your Castres
life: visitors, talking, expeditions. I know how time
passes in society. ‘There were days in Paris when I had
hardly time to look into my own room.

That agitation is over; now, a life of complete calm
externally, for within ’tis still much the same: anxieties,
increasing alarm about our poor invalid. But for that I
should be happy here, where affection, care, most loving
attentions abound, to which add intellectual delights—
books to any amount, an enchanting country, the view of
the Loire and an immense horizon, a room with a white23 Letters of

muslin bed, a desk to write at, and you may believe that
I am fortunately placed here. ‘This hill is for me a
Mount Tabor, a place of vision, where a voice tells me
‘Vou are beloved.” There is nothing comparable to
this tender friend and all her excellent family. M. de
Maistre is a model of goodness, a type of devotedness ;
neither his wife nor children are ever ill without his
spending the night by their bedside, warming linen and
giving them draughts. JI admire him, and ask whether
he was the sick-nurse of his regiment. ’Tis one of the
cases where the heart teaches.

This brings me back to my habitual thought, to that
other invalid that I would fain nurse, that I long to see.
Another does so, does so perfectly, with all the devoted-
ness of conjugal affection. Poor dear sister! I fear she
will injure herself by over-fatigue and not save him. She
wrote to me lately, ‘‘All my hope is in God. He will
have pity on me, I trust ; meanwhile I submit to all.”

It is really admirable, the piety of this young woman,
brought up almost among heathen — not, -indeed, her
own family, who are thorough Catholics, but the people
of her country. If you could but hear her speak of the
month of Mary, how much charm she finds in the
services, the instructions, which are so well done in
Paris! ‘That is one of the things I regret; but I have
had a room given me here, which the little ones fill with
flowers, where master and servants come every evening
to pray to the Blessed Virgin. In the country one does
what one can. The church is very far off. Madame de
Maistre can never go: the roads are so bad there is ncLeugénte de Guérin. 239

taking a carriage there. Accordingly, she is a prisoner
in her pretty house and her beautiful desert. All that
she has done has been to go out once in a sort of litter ;
but it makes so much fuss, she must have so many men
about her, that she has little pleasure init. But we two
alone—she leaning on my arm—do sometimes walk a
few steps into the wood, where we seat ourselves in the
shade. This reminds me of being with you under the
limes.

My dear Louise, we often talk of Rayssac, of you, and
your sisters. In absence, the thought of those one loves
keeps recurring, and one likes to utter it aloud. There
is no sweeter enjoyment, especially when shared. Have
I told you how much Henriette loves you? As much as
one can love a charming unknown. And for me, who
know you well, I love you neither more nor less than of
old. There are some things which cannot increase: how
add to what is already full?

There you are, my dear sheep, back in the fold, to the
mountain pastures, under the care of the Pastor Amalric,
who will be charmed to see you return so white. You
have done wonders in-your La Platée chapel,” and your
soul seems to me in a condition that I much approve—
more calm, more free from illusions than cyer, ~O
marvel! Courage, friend! Perseverance! perseverance!
as Father Guyon used to say, as your Castres father has
said to you. Calm within, affection without ; a family
gathering, always so sweet a thing; methinks I see you

happy now with your good sisters and that dear Marie

* One of the principal churches at Castres.Letters of

that you were longing to embrace. Yes, there you are
nappy, but uneasy about her state. So it is always; but
let us hope that this little angel will arrive safe without
causing you too many tears. I promise to pray for your
dear sister. This child will be your delight. I had
hoped for the same, and wished it much, for Caroline and
for all; but I hear nothing of it, and in my brother’s
distressing state dare no longer give it a thought. What
would become of that poor little woman, who is so deli-
cate, and, though made strong by courage, so afflicted?
The weight of anxiety is almost beyond her strength.
Alas! you see, dear friend, I do not tell you that he is
better, as you hoped to hear. Very far from it: the
complaint goes on increasing, and I receive more and
more alarming accounts. After a momentary improve-
ment he has fallen back again ; had frightful relapses,
which make me miserable. I do not know their full
consequences ; they conceal his state from me, or, at
least, think they do so, by vague expressions which do
not mislead me; and, besides, other letters confirm my
fears only too much. Yesterday, good General de Fré-
geville wrote me word that he had seen my brother the
evening before, and had thought him very ill, or words
to that effect. They talk of Eaux-Bonnes; but how is
he to get there, how set out, when he does not leave his
bed? If it be possible—if only he can be got into a
carriage —I shall go and join him at Orleans. Sad
return! In a few days I shall know what there is to
hope. He is dying to set off, to find himself once more

cr

ut Cayla, at home with his father and all of us. ParisEugtnie de Guérin. 241

can no longer be anything to him, as you truly say; ’tis
the place for the healthy and gay. My poor Maurice!
shall we have to take him back dying to our poor father ?
You may write to them now about his illness, it is im-
possible to conceal it any longer. O have him prayed
for, dear Louise! lift some other young girl’s veil to
recommend to her intercession this young invalid, the
brother of your best friend. I am inexpressibly grateful
to you for all the interest you have shown and felt, and
for having led me to think of the Prince Hohenlohe. I
am going to write about it to Paris, to a friend who will
perhaps be able to inform us how we may get at the
Prince. We have already had a novena at Nevers to
the relics of Ste. Philomtne which have just been sent
over from Rome. I believe in the power of the saints ;
I depend upon the succour of our friends in heaven and
on earth, and on God, who is wholly good, and knows
all our needs, whether of life or death. His will be done!
I do not know whether I perform this act of submission
rightly. Adieu! all kind remembrances to your three
sisters, whose prayers I also request. One can never
have too many pious ones. All your own.

P.S. In reading the newspaper I came upon the
Algiers article, and saw the death of poor Zoe Mazné-
jouls, crushed by a beam! Death has all sorts of ways
of striking us ; but this death, at all events, was not unex-
pected. ‘Thirty years of preparation have led that soul
to heaven. I hope much from the Christian sentiments

of my dear invalid. My respects to the pastor.
R

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
     

epee Ae242 Letters of

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE, Chateau des Coques.

Tours, 227d Fune, 1839.
At length at Tours, dear friend, and the dear invalid
not so ill as I thought. God be praised! ’Tis a mercy
to have any diminution of anxiety! He is, however, very
pale, very thin, much changed, with a loud hollow cough,
no voice at all, and given up by M. Petros. He would
not undertake the case. You used to tell us that he was
an alarmist. But M. Buquet and Providence brought
unexpected help: a doctor, who, having heard of the
young invalid, asked to see him as a friend of M.
Buquet’s. At once a complete change of treatment:
ether thrown to the dogs, almost cold baths—of which
the good doctor was himself kind enough to regulate. the
temperature—drying the invalid with his own hands,
and paying him six visits in the course of the day, so as
to watch the disease in all its hourly phases. Was he
not indeed, my friend, sent from heaven? The proof
of it is that Maurice is sensibly better. He came to me
in the drawing-room, and seven or eight days before, he
tells me, his legs could not support him; and now comes
the journey, which amuses without over-fatiguing him.
We shall travel by Bordeaux with post-horses, so [
know not when we shall meet again at Les Coques. I
shall write to you at greater length from Bordeaux ; this
is a mere line on arriving, hastily dashed off in an hotel
room where I am alone—alone indeed, I give you my
word, after having left you! My brother, his wife, and
Charles are at Mesdames Mansell’s, handsome, elegant,ap tae h3 Pith
Liugénie de Guérin. 243

‘
i

y

eraceful Englishwomen, who received me too most kindl

Ges
we

but had no bed to give me. If I had known that they
meant to spend three or four days here I should not have
left Les Coques, my paradise.
Adieu, my angel! I never left any one so suddeniy
nor more tenderly. All sorts of love to all Saint-Martin.

P.S. The invalid remembers you all, and tenders you
his homage. He has seen your brother often. Oh! what
heat! I put up many entreaties tothe clouds, Ever yours.

The rose-tree is quite well.

 

To MpLie. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
Angouléme, Saturday, 29th Fune, 1839.

Your letter reached me just at the moment of my
departure from Les Coques, dear friend, as though to
comfort me for the loss of a friend. You always arrive
opportunely, but never more so than when I am sad and
need consolation. You speak so me so sweetly, tenderly,
and piously, that there is charm and profit in listening to
you, and some suspension of sorrow. All the time that I
was reading your letter I fancied myself at Rayssac, by
your side, during one of our confidential conversations,
which you know I like; then I folded up your loving
words in my heart and my pocket, and set off on my

journey in the diligence towards Tours, where I rejoined

my poor brother.

What a mournful journey! To begin with my de-
Ri2Letters of

parture from Les Coques, my farewell to the kindest
friend, the resource of my heart, of everything, my con
soler during six months of sorrow: in short, she to whom,
after God, I owe everything! It is only when we are
together that I shall be able to tell you how indebted I
am to this friend and her family. Her mother insists
positively on my returning to them next year. The
heart says Yes; but how can I promise? .My whole life
depends on my poor Maurice, so closely are we bound
one to the other by family ties. My God, if he were to
be taken from us!. I cannot dwell upon this thought,
which yet occurs to me with every heart-beat. Without
being actually despaired of, his state gives the greatest
alarm. He suffers from hunger, and cannot eat. I
dread the throat ending by being entirely closed. Such,
my friend, is the state of the poor traveller whom we
are taking by short stages to his native air, to that dear
Cayla for which he sighs.

Since Tours, where we remained eight days, we have
done nothing but sleep at an hotel. We have passed
through Chatellerault, celebrated for its knives; Poitiers,
whose battles you are familiar with; to-night here we are
at Angouléme, where you have an abbé who will not, I
think, make the place famous, but whom I would go to
see had I time. I write to you in my room, ready to go
to bed that I may be up to-morrow at five. We travel
early in the morning to avoid the heat, and post, the
the most convenient way of transporting an invalid, but
ruinously dear. Nothing less than the Indian purse ig
required to meet these expenses.Leugénie de Guérin. 245

The poor loving wife would give all the gold of Bengal
for her husband’s health. Her devotedness knows no
bounds: always with him night and day, and often getting
out of bed. She writes daily reports of the sufferer’s state
to the doctor who is treating him. This new doctor, only
recently consulted, has changed the whole treatment, done
away with blisters and all that could exhaust, and substi-
tuted baths and good broth, forbidding bleeding, which
had been abundantly tried. Some slight improvement
has resulted from all this—a little more strength ; but the
chest fills, the throat gets inflamed. My God! do Thou
come to our aid. What an alarm we had when we saw
him spit blood in a wretched wayside shed, where our
only resource was water and a fresh egg! This little
woman is an angel of piety and resignation. You would
love her dearly. We expect to get to Bordeaux the day
after to-morrow, and, when we can, to Cayla, the last
station on our Via Dolorosa.

Pray for us, my dear friend, and do me the kindness of
writing me word at Cayla, as soon as possible, what steps
will enable us to apply to the Prince Hohenlohe. The
priest to whom I wrote is at Rome; I have therefore
been unable to send my request for prayer, not knowing
how to set about it. Be good enough to tell me this,
and soon, that I may do so on my arrival at Cayla.
There is no time to lose in asking for a miracle and a
recovery.

Adieu! my very dear Louise. Tam exceedingly touched
by your letter, by what it tells me of yourself, though I
do not quite approve of all. Oh! how hard I am to2406 Letters of

please! for you are really on the way to perfection, and
edify.me like a preacher. But I love calm, even with
God. This is not so easy as people suppose. My love
to your dear sisters: I do not forget their affection for
me. Never did I need marks of interest more than now,
and I ask them for these in church especially. I include
you in this request, dear friend, and leave you after a sad
embrace.

In a week or so we shall be at Cayla. What a bridal
return! Alas! poor life of ours, if God did not sustain.
Wnite to me immediately, if you please. Let us try all
means of saving this poor brother. I kpow it would be
happiness to you to contribute to this. That poor Elisa
Lafont is to be pitied. I have just heard, too, of the
death of a young wife of nineteen, who was at Maurice’s
wedding, very pretty and very healthy. But what of
that? Death stops at nothing. Let us be ready; the
misery 1s only for those who are not prepared. Every
day Maurice asks me for some religious reading. Nothing
but these sentiments consoles me.

At ten o’clock at night, and always yours.

 

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.

Hotel de Nantes, Bordeaux, Tuesday, 2nd July.

At length at Bordeaux, dear friend: very far from
you, and still far from Cayla, merely a station of rest
and full of charm for the eyes. A delightful country, a

oS

~

large. handsome, populous, animated town, the Paris ofEugénie de Guérin. 245

the South, with a more beautiful sky. We are going out
to have a look at all this and walk about a little; but
friendship before everything. I think of you more than
of buildings and curiosities. You have never left me
during the whole of our journey, my dear fend. I
seemed to see you making the fifth in our carriage, or
else we were at Les Coques, on the sofa, or in the wood
or the dairy, but, at all events, always together, you in
me and I in you. Distance only separates bodies, and
that, alas! is quite enough.

Why is there not a telegraph for purposes of friend-
ship? You should have known at each moment what
was befalling us on our way, our alarms or our calm,
according to the state of the invalid. He has borne the
journey very well—I even think the motion .of the
carriage good for him, as he seems to suffer more as
soon as he leaves it. We have only had very intense
anxiety once, when he spat blood in a state of extreme
prostration, with the throat so irritable as hardly to be
able to bear a drop of water. This was ina village tavern,
where we could get nothing but a fresh egg and some
water. He swallowed the egg, and got better. The
simplest remedies are often the best: this, I believe, 1s
the secret of homceopathy. My poor Maurice would
not be so ill if he had begun by it. They have exhausted
him with bleeding and cauteries. The present treatment
‘+s much better: to do nothing but rest, take nothing but
broths and nourishing things, beef, mutton, and poultry.
Is this not sensible, and completely in-accordance with
your system? You do only good. Certain it is that248 Letters of

t

this new treatment agrees with the invalid. May God
be pleased to spare him to ais! I do not know whether
he will go to the waters: we wait the orders of the
doctor, who could not decide upon anything before we
left. M. Petros would not undertake for so short a time
a case that he might perhaps have successfully dealt with
six months ago. Why was it not thought of sooner?
Incurable misfortune! Oh! let us take hope from
what still remains—a little life, country air, and peace
of mind.

. . Oh! my frend, how often I return to Les
Coques and to you! How I live there since I have left!
The Jordan could not remount more rapidly to its source
than the heart to the place it loves, which for me means
beside you, where we have been together, where you
are. I picture you at Saint-Martin, where you have
arrived, I suppose, from Nevers, after having embraced
Did
you give any message from me to those ladies, whom I

 

rour aunt and the interesting Madame de R.
J g

well remember? Ihave met many in these parts of the
werld where we are travelling, but none equal, none of
your family.

At Tours, however, I much admired Mrs. Mansell and
Miss Melina, her sister, two pretty and agreeable Eng-
lishwomen, with distinguished manners, who received us
with most cordial hospitality. They, too, are Indians,
but they remind one of the noble and interesting
women in Scott's romances. They are friends of
Lady Bentinck, the wife of the Governor-General of
India. You see we were fortunate in our acquaint.Liugénie de Guérin. 249

ance. ‘These ladies are very fond of Caroline and her
aunt. Nothing can be more captivating than our
Indian: she is beautiful as a May rose, with her fresh
cheeks and fresh toilette! It is a happy thing to be
young: one can glide over sorrows in which the old sink.
Caroline, though always beside her husband, seeing him
suffer continually, getting up often in the might, most
active in her devotedness, is yet in perfect health. The
fact is, she is not aware of the full extent of his illness.
She goes on hoping, and does well. Hope is so good for
us! All mine is in God. When I see him so pale, so thin,
I have hardly any human confidence left. He is there
beside me in his bed, sometimes sleeping, sometimes
saying a word or two tome. Jam alone: Caro has left
me to be sick-nurse for a few hours, which I lke as well
as seeing the town of Bordeaux. That can be done later.
We are to go and see the vessel in which M. Dulac, the
brother-in-law, is to embark, This will be a pleasure to
me: I shall talk of sails and rigging; I shall have seen a
little of everything when I get back to Cayla. ’Z7s thus
in travelling we learn, The rest of the couplet does not
concern me.

Shall I soon hear from you? Oh! that is what does
indeed concern me intimately. Give me full particulars
of yourself, "your health, your (1 may say our) dear
mamma, who must be happy to have her two children
with her! You will soon see M. Adrien. If he is with
you, give him much love from Maurice, after accepting
his affectionate regards for Madame de Sainte-Marie and
yourself, Adieu! This is a sad word compared to those250 Letters of

we have been exchanging of late. My best respects to
your father, and warmest remembrances to your perfect
husband. Is he still solitary? How I caress the little

ones, and embrace you and your mamma !

P.S. We are here until Friday: too long, and not long
enough, since I shall not have time to receive a letter
from you. A year ago I was writing to you on this very
day, the 2nd of July. Who would have said then that
the same date would be penned from here? Life is full

of the unforeseen.

 

To THE SAME.
oth Fuly, 1839.

What is it you think, what is it you fear, dear friend,
from the infrequency of my letters? Misfortunes, per-
haps; and, if so, you are right. We have had papa very
ill; this sorrow, and others which press upon us on our
Maurice’s account, together with the occupations conse-
quent upon them, have slackened my correspondence
with you—with you whom I so much love, and to whom
I want to tell everything.

My kind friend, how often I speak to my family of
your tender mother, of all those dear distant friends that
God has given me! I admire how you have been sent to
us at a season of trial, in days of affliction, as if to console
us; as it were a balm at the foot of the cross. Already I
feel this cross very heavy; but courage! God helping,Lugénie de Guerin. 251

one reaches Calvary at last, and from thence heaven.
Yes, heaven, my very dear friend: let us look nowhere
else: ’tis the only prospect that comforts and sustains
when the heart sinks and fails.

Yours suffers, suffers much from the same sorrows as
mine. I am sure of it. I know you; know how truly
you love me. Oh, my friend, what joy and regret this
causes me! On no account would I increase your
sufferings—alas! great enough already—and yet I do so
every time I speak to you, every time I pour out what I
feel. What would you have proceed from me but tears ?
That is why I hesitate to write to you, that I write so
little to-day. Write to me you. Oh! you will do me
no harm; you know that my health is good and strong.
I can suffer without dying. ‘Tell me, then, what you are
doing at Saint-Martin, that beautiful place, so replete for
you with memories of childhood, which please so much,
which for a moment can console for the sad and bitter
present.

For my part, Cayla charms me: not a tree, not a path,
not a little chink in a wall, to which my heart does not
cling. As yet I have been out little, I have merely gone
round the house; always occupied as a sick-nurse, and
how long one would like to be so! There are sorrows
that make themselves very dear. Alas! one so enjoys
tending those one loves! My poor father is out of
danger but still weak, and so he will be for some time to
come. The fever is not yet over; but for the last two days
he takes a little chicken-broth. With cooling diet and

much care we shall save him, I trust. W hy cannot I sayLetlers of

252
the same about another sufferer? but for him we can
no longer have any other than a heavenly hope. M
Adrien must have told you what the doctors thought. I
cannot speak any more of this. May God sustain us,
my dear friend! God loves us, and afflicts us in this
world to make us happy in another. This is what faith
teaches us: ’tis my support, my strongest consolation.
Let us share it, my friend, as we share our sorrows; let
us unite our souls as we unite our lives. It is not for
nothing that one is a Christian, Pere Quadrupani was
very sweet and comforting to us on our journey, that long
Via Dolorosa. Adieu ! I embrace you and those who love
you. Let us hear soon.

 

To THE PRINCE DE HOHENLOHE, Germany.

MONSEIGNEUR,

The miracles of healing worked by the saints lead me
to hope everything from your intercession. Permit me,
with so many others, to implore it, to commend to your
influence with God a beloved and dying brother, for
whom we have few human resources left: those of faith
are the best, and will, I believe, be efficacious for the
sufferer, aided by your chanty. . As to the Christian
the soul is more precious than the body, I recommend
to you that of our dear Maurice. Not but that he lives
a Christian life, but can one ever have love and faith
enough? Let your charity, Monseigneur, deign to accept
my prayer, and also to indicate the day on which weLugénie de Guerin. 253

may unite with you in order to obtain from God the
mercy we desire. But, whatever happens, we beforehand
accept the will of God; and in the same sense I pray
you, Monseigneur, to receive the homage of my gratitude
and the assurance of my deepest sentiments of respect
and admiration.

 

To MpDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE,

10th Fuly, 1839.

Dear Louise! dear friend! I arrived yesterday, and
have this moment received your letter—two happinesses
of which I want to speak to you at once. JI have quantities
of things to tell you, of the journey, its troubles, fatigues,
fears, and of the rest of this present time—rest as of the
promised land. Oh! how far away it all seemed, this Cayla,
this good father, this dear Marie, Erembert, and you too,
my very dear friend. It is something, at least, not to be
at different ends of the world, though ’tis merely an idea
when once one is separated. But in that so far off there
is an additional sadness for the heart, which does not like
distance. My God! what must the separation made by
death be, when those one loves are no longer to be found
in any part of the earth? ‘Then one turns to heaven,
but all the hopes of paradise will not console us for those
dear vanished ones; one weeps for them, which God does
not forbid.

Who knows whether I shall not have to pass through
this trial? I sometimes hope, sometimes despair. We254 Letters of

have been hovering for three months between life and
death. This poor brother! I am always speaking to you
about him; I can speak of nothing else, and with you
there is no restraint; ‘tis as with a sister who shares
family griefs. You show me this by your affectionate
letter. God comforts us, at least, by the interest evinced
in us. What am I to say to that kind Pulchérie, who
hastened to write to Madame de Cazes on the subject of
the Prince Hohenlohe. ‘This has touched us much, as
well as the details that Madame de Cazes has had the
goodness at once to transmit to me with expressions of
cordial sympathy. This letter, which I found at Cayla,
had arrived by an express from Cordes from my uncle
Fontenilles, which I do not very well understand. ‘The
Providence of Heaven and of your friend has brought it
How I bless them!

dear Pulchérie for the proof of affection she has given

about. How grateful Iam to my
me on this occasion !

If I were not so afflicted I should have reason to be
happy ia all that surrounds me now. You can compre-
hend the paternal jubilation on seeing me again and the
delight of Marie, but our poor Maurice struck them very
painfully. They had not thought him so ill, though I
At last
here he is arrived, and saved from the many dangers of

had tried to prepare them for that dying aspect.
the journey. J was always dreading to see him sink on
the way, but, on the contrary, the motion and the open
air did him good. It is only now that he again droops:
no sleep, and a derangement of stomach which, combined

with sore throat, prevents him from eating. Poor martyr !Liugénie de Guérin. 255

But he is very calm, very resigned. Before he set out he
received the Holy Communion in his bed ; that is a con-
solation, not, at least, to have to tremble for the soul. I
have just written to the Prince, and I address it under
cover to Madame de Cazes, who offers to forward it. When
you write to her, do tell her of my gratitude and of the
happiness she gave by telling me of the two cures in her
own family wrought by the prayers of the saint. I think
it was in her brother’s case. You tell me so, I believe.

I am so busy, so cumbered, what with unpacking,
visitors, and numerous letters received, that I am writing
inahurry. Need I tell you that the good General recently
charged me to lay him at your feet, that he is one of
our true friends, and that, as a proof of it, he got mea
hundred francs from the Queen for our church? The
last courier brought me the order of the Queen’s secre-
tary, payable at the receiver’s at Gaillac in ready money,
which makes our new chapel thrill with joy. The idea
occurred to me of writing to the Queen, who is said
to be good and pious. I was not mistaken: thanks,
however, to the obliging recommendation of the Marquis,
who is a favourite at Court. God be praised! good
comes from everywhere. After that, a letter from my
loving and loveable Madame de Maistre, and then yours,
dear Louise. Here is enough to occupy pen and heart.

We have spent a day at Gaillac, and in that short time
our Indian made a conquest of the whole town. All who
saw her are taken, dazzled by her beautiful eyes. In
truth, she is charming. Our cousins are delighted with
ner; Madame de Paulo put on her most gracious face,256 Letters of

How I regret your being so far away! It is to you all,
to my best friends, that I long to show off our dear
marvel. She surprises me in everything; I cannot
understand how she bears grief and fatigue so well. She
is the only one who watches her husband at night, and
he does not allow her much sleep. I heard her get up
three or four times last night. God gives her strength ;
she is so pious.

We remained six days, I think, at Bordeaux, half a day

 

at Toulouse: in all, ’twas a twenty days’ journey—an
endless time for an invalid and for us on his account.
But for that these halts would have been pleasant: they
rested one, and showed one sights, but I could only take
a hurried glance at anything. All the time at Bordeaux
was spent in Maurice’s room. When the weather was
mild enough to have the window open I used to look
out at the port, the omnibuses, and passers-by. In the
evening, aS we were opposite the theatre, Caroline and
I used to amuse ourselves with watching the actors and
actresses dress, turning themselves into kings and queens,
and kicking each other the while. Poor wretches! A
little further on, by way of contrast, was a charming
church, where we used to go, one after the other, to mass.
This is all I saw.

And now again the dear Cayla, which shall have me
long. I want rest, retirement, want to return to my
primitive way of life. These eight months seem a dream:
I ask myself whether it be really true that I have just
come from Paris? Alas! yes. Maurice proves it to me.
One only wish remains—to see you. My heart is deadLugéure de Guerin. 257

to everything but friendship. -I embrace your three
sisters: Madame de Bayne will permit me to do so.
Pray for me and for him. All your own.

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.

19th Fuly, 18309.

I adore, oh! my God, thy eternal and impenetrable
decrees, and submit to them willingly for love of Thee!
There are now three years, dear friend, that I have put
up this prayer, that it has upheld and prepared me for
the most cruel sacrifice. The moment is come; no hope
left ; the doctor has pronounced the terrible ‘‘ Nothing to
be done,” and spoken to us of the last Sacraments. We
very easily got the sufferer to consent. I alluded to
them in connexion with the prayers of Prince Hohenlohe,
and, as he had duly kept Easter, his conscience did not
terrify him. ‘There he is confessed. I write to you
during the preparations for the Holy Viaticum and Ex-
treme Unction. I do not know why I am not in mortal
agony of grief. Doubtless, I still hope. Oh! my friend,
my poor friend, let us pray God fervently for this dear
soul. Amidst all this I think of you; I could not help
writing to you, uniting you with my heart, my tears, with
a whole afflicted family. Let us think of heaven. I will
have nothing more to do except with the other world.
My God, thy will be done! I say it in tears, but tears
are prayers.

Flow at this moment I feel the need of faith, the help

s258 Letters of

of piety. Oh! what will become of me? Your LeuteE
reached me yesterday; I did not expect to answer it so
sadly. Exhaustion, sinking, came on suddenly. Perbaps
it is a crisis; perhaps we shall save him. But at all
events let him be ready; let him prepare as a Christian
for departure at whatever hour it takes place. Let us place
ourselves together at the foot of the cross: it is there I
leave you, my beloved friend, afflicted as I myself am.

I press you and your tender mother to my heart.
Adieu! We must be prepared for everything. Whatever
happens, I will wnte to you.

 

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE, Chateau de Rayssac, Varre (Tarn),
22nd Fuly, 1839:

You must already know, dear friend, the loss we have
sustained, but I too want to speak to you about it. I
have to tell you of my grief, my affliction as sister, as
intimate friend of this poor Maurice. Dear brother!
there he is dead, dead! How describe what that word
is to me, all of incomprehensible pain that it contains !
No; I cannot reconcile myself to this thought of eternal
separation, never more to find him anywhere upon earth.
Oh! how our affections disappear! God wills that we
should raise them higher than earth, and therefore takes
those we love to heaven. He, my brother, is there, in
heaven, amongst the blessed. I hope so, for he died
the death of the elect. God be praised, who, in His
mercy, willed to save the soul and let the body die,—thatLeugénie de Guerin. 259

human semblance we so much love, which appears to be

the man and only conceals him. ‘Thus it is the Christian .

eye sees these things, and looks towards the life to come
when the present breaks our heart. For me there is an
end of all that one calls happiness. This death kills me,
takes from me every charm that bound me to the world.
My future was in his: his children would have called me
mother. J had invested everything in him; too much
so, perhaps. God does not choose that we should lean
so heavily on the creature, a reed that breaks under the
hand. My poor soul often suspected this, but in vain;
we only attach ourselves more strongly to what is about
to escape us.

It_is all over, then. There he is in heaven, and I
on earth. Oh! sudden disappearance! Was it not
yesterday that his wedding took place? Alas! all con-
nected with that past seems to me an illusion, as our
poor Caroline says: ‘I feel as though my marriage were
a dream.” <A very sorrowful dream. One month after
set in the fears, the falling away, and all those sufferings
which have brought him to the grave. Poor Maurice!
I can say nothing but that name. For me it contained so
much happiness, something electrical in its effect on the
heart. Nor was this the case with me alone. The whole
family were under the same influence ; he was the delight
of us all. My father used to say this child was his pride.
Every oné spoke well of him; nothing but tears and
praises over his coffin. It was the day before yesterday,
that sorrowful, lugubrious, heartrending, and latest parting
‘n the cemetery. We all accompanied him thither—our

$ 2260 Letters of

dear Maurice !—-we were with him as long as possible in
this world. Oh, what a descent that of the coffin into
the grave. I followed it with my eyes while praying God
for the dear soul of my brother. I can no longer see
anything, love anything, except that mound of earth.
There we every day go to kneel with his poor widow.
How dear this young woman is to us—this half of our
Maurice, this marvellously energetic, strong nature,
always with him, devoted to the dead as to the living.
Poor young woman! an angel in prayer and tears for
two days beside that bed, now holding the hand, now
kissing those cheeks, that mouth... . . Alas! alas!
what a sad enjoyment! My poor Maurice! How we
could not leave him! O my God! lying there so cold;
the eyes dim—those eyes that were so brilliant, so beau-
tiful! What death makes of us! We shall all come to
that. My poor friend, what should we do with eternity
on earth? Just to prepare ourselves well, and to go
when God wills: that is all. There are blows that pros-
trate, leave nothing standing but faith. Pray that God
will give me much faith; never did I need it more.

If you could come to see me, Louise! As for me, do
not look for me; I could not endure to be anywhere but
here, in these rooms where he passed away, in this house
where everything recalls, everything mourns for him; and
besides, we are not too large a family—my poor father
has only three children now. How afflicted he is, never
more to see his dear son, his Benjamin! This sacrifice
is very great: may God accept it! We place ourselves
at the foot of the cross. When the Prince puts up hisLEugéne de Guérin. 2601

prayers he will not cure him. Itis toolate: why not have
thought of it sooner? I shall always feel this regret, but
who could have believed death so near? JI hoped he
would last until autumn without knowing why, for I thought
him very ill; but never, never did I believe I should see
him end so soon. He sank, very gently, in five minutes
after having received the Holy Viaticum. Up to that
moment he was fully conscious: what proves it is, that
after his confession he called back the Curé to speak
to him of his relation with M. de Lamennais, in the form
of a retractation. Oh, what misery had he died at that
time! In everything there is some cause to bless God:
this cross, this death, bears the evident marks of salva-
tion! that is what consoles us on the side of faith, and
ought we not to view everything as Christians?

Adieu, dear friend! I ask the remembrance and the
prayers of your three sisters while announcing this sorrow
to them. You were to be written to the day before yes-
terday ; but there is more of the heart in this, this is
from me to you. Marie desires to go along with me in my
letter word for word and heart for heart. Her thinness
and the change in her looks afflict me. This is the season
of sorrows. How is Madame de Bayne?

 

To MpLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BOISSET, Lisle d@’ Albi.
23rd Fuly, 1839.
Pray for him, my dear Antoinette; pray for the
brother, the friend of your friend, Here we are parted:262 Letters of ,

he is in heaven and I on earth, where I no longer behold
anything of his but his tomb. O sorrowful disappear-
ance! I cannot make up my mind to it, cannot believe
that Maurice is no longer of this world, that he will never
more return as one of us to this place, that arm-chair,
that room, that bed! Oh! God, my God! it is true,
nevertheless, and Thou hast willed it so; Thou hast
taken this dear child from us, doubtless with some
merciful design. How should we doubt this, after so
many tokens of salvation, after his holy and blessed
death? Yes, my dear friend, his end was the most sweet,
most consolatory imaginable: the priest who attended
him,—everybody, tells us that he is in heaven. Oh! how
this comforts. But do not let us neglect to pray for this
dear soul. Who knows? one must be so pure to see
God. It is, therefore, as much to recommend him to
your pious interest as to announce my own sorrow that I
send you these lines.

Alas! I wrote you so different a letter so short a time
ago—a wedding letter! .... How swiftly the things of
this world change! God will not have us attach ourselves
to earth, and only sends us shadows of happiness here.
You have felt this as well as I, dear friend. You mourn
a sister, I mourn a brother, both so loveable and beloved,
the joy of their family. Maurice! to all of us it was a
delight merely to think of him, merely to speak his name!
All that dead! Poor dear sister !—I mean his wife—the
most interesting creature to us, and, indeed, that can
possibly be seen. We admire and wonder at her: so
much courage, energy, and self-control in so young aLiugénwe de Guérin. 263

woman! Never was there a more beautiful example of
the power of faith and piety. Oh! what an angel God
had given to my brother! The blow that separates them
is fearful. A widow and an orphan at twenty! “If I
lose my aunt, who will be my stay here below?” And
then she commits herself to God, her great resource. I
should not be surprised if she entered a convent, such is
her piety and detachment from life. This marriage, this
Paris visit, this death, all seem to me‘a dream. IT lose
myself in these events, these memories, these realities,
Providence has inexplicable designs for us. Crosses at
the end of everything ; tokens of salvation that I adore.
Adieu, dear friend! Pray to God for the brother and
the sister who will never be otherwise than one.

Be so good as to impart our affliction to your own
family, to our friends de Gélis, and to Trene. I cannot
write to them to-day.

Your heartbroken friend.

 

 

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE, Chateau de Saint-Martin
(Nievre).
Friday, 26th Fuly.

For the last eight days since he has left us, since he

‘s in heaven and I upon earth, I have not been able

to speak to you of him—not able to be with you, my

tender friend, you who are also so dear to me. Shall we

. 5 7 4 L 4

never have done with our human affections? Neither
. e o é e 1

grief, nor disruptions, nor death, nor anything can cnange

aes ryastnintdentmnland oe anno dunt Us pase Eerie =
ar esd hme Se nS ease tee ee ee A Nae 7264 Letters of

us. One must love on, love even what is in the grave;
love remains, clings to the body which once held the
soul; but that soul! one knows it to be in heaven. Oh,
yes! up on high, where I see thee, my dear Maurice!
where thou art waiting for me, whence thou callest,
“ Eugénie, come up here, where with God one is happy !”
My dear friend, it is all over with happiness on earth: I
have told you so before; I have buried my heart’s life, I
have lost the charm of my existence.

I cannot say all I found in that brother, nor what
happiness I derived from him. A future, hopes, my
after-life spent beside his, and then a soul that under-
stood me! He and I, we were the two eyes of the same
brow. And now, here we are separated, God has placed
Himself betwixt us. His will be done. God took up
His station on Calvary out of love for us: out of love for
Him let us remain at the foot of His cross. I find this

 

cross very heavy—all circled, indeed, with thorns—but so
was that of Jesus. May He help me to carry mine! At
last we shall reach the summit, and from Calvary to
heaven the way is not long. Life is short, and what
should we make of eternity on earth? My God! so only
we be holy, so only we profit by the grace to be derived
from trials, tears, tribulation, and anguish,—the Chris-
tian’s treasures! O my friend, we have but to look at
these things, at this world, with the eye of faith, and
everything changes. Happy Father Imbert, who so
eminently possesses that eye! O that I had something
of that spirit of his, so full of faith, so radiant with love!
I need support, and I often wish for this holy man, whoLugénie de Guérin. 265

would instil into me an enthusiasm for martyrdom and
the cross. Alas! he has been prophetic. He told me,
“Vou are the child of sorrow! make up your mind to

)

many trials.” I, who at that time was not, as it seems to
me now, speaking to him of anything sad, I was struck
with those words, which God has just fulfilled.

My friend, I have thought much of you in all this.
The share you take in whatever concerns me, that oneness
which there is between our hearts, made me feel that you
were suffering too, that you were stricken and torn as
well as I. I have prayed God for you. I am calm: I
write to you without weeping ;'I throw myself into your
arms. We have quantities of visits, but none are like
what yours would be; and yet they are from friends,
relatives, and neighbours, who are all very sincerely
afflicted. But to have to occupy oneself about dinners,
about daily household details, to be surrounded by the
ordinary course of words and things, when everything
within is changed, when one realises so great a void,——
this is killing. And then the agonising contrast, the bitter
thought that will keep occurring: “All these persons
would have come to see him with wedding faces and
congratulations !” Six young girls, yesterday, cousins
of ours, with whom he would have laughed! How
things change! Let us too change, my friend; let us
wean ourselves from the world, from the creature, from
everything. As for me, I ask for complete indifference.

He passed away without any struggle, quite easily, as
if falling asleep, just after he had received the Holy266 Letters of

Viaticum. M. the Curé assures us that he is in heaven.
But let us pray for this dear soul: we can do nothing
else for him now. It is consoling to pray, is it not? tc

e able thus to succour those we love, to follow them
with our affection even into another life. I pity those
who have only tears to bestow upon the dead. It is
very well to weep, but not without praying also. Prayer
is the dew of purgatory: let us pour it out in floods ; we
shall do so much good thereby. How I love to do so
now: How comforting faith is to me! Dear friend, I
wish you its sweet divine influence !

Write to me. Iam anxious; I am not dead to you,
God knows! May your health be good, not too much
upset! Tell me of all, of your dear mamma, who is
also very dear to me. I recommend my Maurice, my
Alphonse,* to her pious mother-heart. Dear mamma!
I am heavily afflicted, and my father and all of us. He
was the most affectionate of the whole family. You
understand me, and sympathise, I am sure, in our erief,
Why are we so far away? else I should this moment be
in your arms. Adieu! very dear mamma, speak to your
son of my brother who loved him. I pray M. de Sainte-
Marie to remember this dear child before God.

Adieu! my dear Henriette. I return to you to leave
you again: we do little more in this life. Love to M. de
Maistre.

In heart and soul and thought eternally yours! Tell
me of Sophie’s brother, and remember me to her.

* The name of a son Madame de Sainte-Marie had lostao
Eeugénwe de Guerin. 207)

I cannot refrain from mentioning our admirable Caro:
line, angel of devotedness, courage, and piety that she
is! Near him, with him, in him to the very tomb. Oh!
how this binds us to her!

 

To MpLie. EUPHRASIE MATHIEU, Albi.
Saturday night, 27th Fly, 1839.

It is to the sound of the bell ringing for the Novena of
our poor Maurice that I come to speak to you of him and
of our grief, my dear Euphrasie. I.can speak of nothing
else ; my heart, my soul, my thoughts, everything in me is
absorbed in this dear brother. You can understand this,
you who knew him, who were aware of my attachment
to him, of all the love that bound us to each other.
God has separated us, has placed us at a great distance :
one in heaven, the other on earth. But we shall soon
meet again: life is not long, and crosses are what detach
us from it and from everything, dear Euphrasie. You
have experienced this before now. To each his season
of trials, of tears; a precious season; a treasure to the
Christian, when we take it as we ought. Oh! how
soothing faith proves then! how happy are we to be able
to console ourselves in the presence of God. Let us pray
much, dear friend, for our loved Maurice, for those dear
souls who leave us. Prayer is all we have to give them.

I thank you warmly, dear Euphrasie, for your toching
expressions of friendship and of sympathy in our sorrow.
Like us, you regret that dear, amiable Maurice. His268 Letters of

name, that I used to be so fond of hearing, now wrings
my heart, and yet I keep continually repeating it men-
tally. My God, what a sacrifice! what a mournful return
froma wedding! ‘Thus it is that everything changes!
Providence has other views than ours: let us bless them,
however sad they may seem. What now makes us weep
will perhaps be one day our joy. In heaven all will be
changed ; but what will never change in my heart is the
affection I have given you, dear Euphrasie. Mimi em-
braces you.

 

To MpLLE LOUISE DE BAYNE.

12th August, 1839.

What are you doing? where are you? what are you
thinking of at this moment, my friend? My heart has
suddenly transferred itself to Rayssac—where it often is,
for the matter of that, but more so than ever now that I
have just been reading one of your letters, which, poor
thing, had been relegated unread to my pocket. I put it
there on opening it and seeing the date and the few first
words treating of the Prince’s prayers, alas! on the 12th
—seven days before his death. It was only to-day that
I found myself able to read this letter, kind and loving
about me as it is.

My father brought it me from Albi, whither he went
to implore the Bishop to leave us our dear pastor, A
useless and most unfortunate journey! My father, over-
whelmed by sorrow and fatigue, fell ill, and was threatenedEugénie de Guérin. 269

with an attack. For several days we were very much
alarmed, but God has taken pity on us: our good and
tender father is restored to us; he is better, much better
now. Jam writing to you by the side of the sofa on
which he is resting.

O my friend, what dark passages there are in life!
seasons when sorrows heap themselves upon the soul
and seem to crush it outright! God permits this out
of mercy. We have need of trials and afflictions, as the
earth of hail and tempests. My poor dear friend, I
maintain myself in these believing views as much as
possible, but do you help me: I need a pious friend.
I am weary; everything seems a desert, a churchyard. I
find myself isolated in the midst of my family. My dear
Maurice has left this blank to us all; to me, perhaps,
more than to any other, owing to our habit of being
together, and to the sympathy between our lives. He and
I were the two eyes of one brow. ‘This was too sweet, too
much enjoyed by me. God has deprived me of what
most delighted me on earth: accordingly, all I now see
is utterly indifferent; yet I like writing to you, ’tis a
heart-indulgence that I have long felt necessary, especially
when I am unhappy. Iam so in a human sense only,
for, as a Christian, I am anything else. ‘These afflictions,

 

all transitory things—are gifts of God

 

partings, rendings
for heaven. I keep telling myself so, and that this dear
brother has been taken away from a vale of tears, ‘“ Why
weep for him?” you ask. Oh! how much good those
words did me, my friend! One needs to be recalled
to God, to be lifted towards heaven; every moment the270 Letters of

soul falls back into its grief; always I find myself at that
grave, regretting what it contains. Oh! my friend, he is
there! When I take to insisting on this terrible idea of
death, I distract, I lose myself, I call out, “‘My God,
have pity on me!”

In your letter of the 12th you said, while speaking of the

)

beauty of Caroline, ‘Contemplate her long.” Alas! how
short it was! There she is, gone away, that dear sister,
that admirable woman ! Her soul is as enchanting as her
face. Every one admires her, even the holy Abbé de
Rivitres, who simply told us that she had made a con-
quest of him—a conquest of a saint by an angel. In
everything Caroline is an exceptional creature. Her
aunt came to fetch her, fearing for her health in that
room that she never left, in this place, amidst these
associations fraught with him. Accordingly, here we are
parted from her who seemed to have come from the ends
of the earth to be made ours, to unite herself to our
Maurice. Of this most brilliant and marvellous marriage
nothing is left but a tomb! O nothingness of human
things ! sudden swiftness of Death, flying on festal wings.
It was yesterday—was it not—but yesterday we were
celebrating a wedding? What sorrow, dear friend, for
your friend, in that past, in this present! My God! all
vas being arranged according to an eternal purpose !
Louise, I would I could see you! I love you! I only
care to write to you and two others ; not but what I would
write to many, and with much affection, too, but not with

 

my whole heart—a heart that pours itself out, weeps,

falls down on this paper. My dear Louise, you will| Dp ae oe ? A for7 ey,
Lugénie de Guérin. 271

forgive me for selecting you for my sadness, for con-
versing with you so mournfully; but you enter so
thoroughly into my feelings that it seems to me ag if
in speaking to you I were speaking to myself, to a
stronger, a more sustaining, more pious self. Yes, you
are more pious than I, and I bless God for it. You will
be the less unhappy, the more ready for the trials that
may come or are come; for, when all is seen and tried,
there is no strength but in this. All human support is
but so much sand; tell me not of it, and yet I am not
yet detached therefrom. My God! what lessons have I
still to learn! I keep dwelling upon his memory, his
remains, upon all that I have recovered of his.

My Coques friend and her mother have been mother
and sister to me. Like you, they have had prayers
and masses said. Oh! he has no lack of prayers: all
the priests of the district have come over to say mass.
The holy Abbé de Rivitres was also bent on praying
near the remains of his friend. There is no end to
visitors and letters. They occupy, but console little,—
with the exception, indeed, of some friends and some
writing that do one infinite good. Our former curé was
with us to-day: that kind friend and gentle pastor, the
one who received our Maurice’s last sigh—there he is,
removed far from us! His successor is a young priest
from Albi, a perfect stranger to us. Tell my troubles to
M. Massol,* that he may pray for us. We are infinitely
grateful to him for his mass and his kind remembrances,
and equally so to you. A fortnight after his death I

* The Rayssac Cure.272 Letters of

received the Prince’s reply. Oh, my God! I had delayed
too long. I have written again to that most kind
Madame de C——. Oh! that I should in no case have
forgotten to do. Tell me of your sisters and of Madame
de Bayne, who is, we are told, at Toulouse. Lose no
time in sending me tidings of the birth, and the state
of this dear sister.

I embrace you with a heart broken, indeed, but aliv

to you.

 

To MpLLe. ANTOINETTE DF BOISSET.
17th August, 1839.

I know not, my kind friend, why I have so long de-
layed sending an account of myself to you who asked me
for it in so touching a manner, who wrote me a letter,
every word of which is graven on my soul. Oh, you
love me truly! I see you do, you speak to me so affec-
tionately, so sorrowfully. You tell me that we are sisters
in affliction. Oh, yes! sisters, my poor Antoinette, that
we may weep—you, your brother and sister ; I, my brother
—_that we may help each other to bear this cross as God
wills it should be borne. What a sacrifice, what a means
of salvation is to be found in these losses for which there
is no consolation on earth! It is thus God means to
detach us from everything here below. ‘These are blows
sent in mercy, both for us who remain and those dear
souls who have left us. Let all things be seen from the
point of view of eternity ; perhaps later our dear MauriceLugénte de Guérin. 273

might have been less well prepared. There were evident
signs of grace in his death which make me bless God
and console me on the side of faith, for the heart still
remains very sad, very desolate. We were so united, we
lived so in each other! Poor, dear love! Oh, that he
may be happy! We shall meet again. Life is not long;
in our trials we have at least glorious hopes, How happy
to be Christians! it is in affliction that we feel this.
Have you not experienced this as well as I, alas! and
twice for my once? Let us unite at the foot of the cross.
My dear Antoinette, let us pray together for those we
have lost. We can do nothing more for them here
below, but how consolatory to relieve them in the other
life! I therefore recommend this dear brother to you ;
pray for him as I have prayed for yours. I know I am
saying what is unnecessary, but I like to say it: I like to
ask you for the very things you do. You had foreseen
my misfortune, then, the day of your visite  Alaspiat
had long apprehended it, but not so soon; and then I
know not what hope, what faith in miracles and in lie,
kept up my illusion, Even the very evening before his
death I was saying to Erembert, “If he can go on till the
month of October we shall save him; he will spend the
winter here.” . . . . My God, how badly one calculates
in this world! .. . . Let us leave off calculating on any-
thing but death—it is the only certainty.

As afflictions follow each other, we had my father very
ill two days later; and then that good Curé who con-
soled him, who had just received his son’s last sigh, was

suddenly snatched from us. Write to me, who am very
T274 Letters of

lonely in my solitude: speak to me of heaven, of God,
of those pious subjects you treat so piously and of which
I have need ; this is the moment for them, ’tis a time of
trial, God be praised !

Adieu, dear friend! Be so kind as to express all my
attachment to your mother, who loves me, and in her pro-
found sensibility pities me. Oh! I am much touched by it.
My father andthe rest bid me tell you how they appre-
ciate the share you all take in our affliction. Our Caroline
is gone; her aunt, who was alarmed about her health,
came to take her aawy, but with the promise of returning
next year. What a return of a wedding party! ‘Tis
heartrending.

My love, if you please, to your sisters, to all friends.

Adieu! love and pray.

 

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.
237a@ August, 1839.

You complain that you do not get letters from me;
you tell me bitter things, my sweet friend. Sadness and
bitterness, to know you sad and to be the cause! Alas!
must I too, then, make you suffer—I, who would undergo
martyrdom to free you from your pain—I, who am always
thinking of you, and who often write! And yet you
think that I omit writing to you! What can have become,
then, of three letters addressed to you and one to your
mother since the mournful rgth? My poor friend, blame
the post, the officialk—I know not who, the whole worldLiugénie de Guérin. 275

—rather than believe that I forget you. Then recollect
that it takes sixteen days before an answer by return of
post can be received. It was only the day before yester-
day that I got your note from Nevers, together with the
letter from Sophie—two very kind, very touching, unex-
pected ones. Blessed be such surprises, which charm
and comfort! Come often! come, my friend, to your
friend’s side; come, dear letters, my favourites of all!
No one enters so thoroughly into my suffering as you:
you are my sister by tears; this is as sweet as being a
sister by blood, and dearer still to the heart, for sorrow is
the strongest of ties, nothing attaches more closely.

We love each other, therefore, more than ever. More
than ever I think of you, long to see you, to hear you, to
be with you. And all this can only be in spirit, so far
away arewe. Why is there not some one spot, some home
for friends onearth? Oh! I for my part should never go
away from it; I should live there with very few persons,
but those very dear, very amiable, very sweet, very intel-
ligent: a little paradise, of which you should be queen.
Alas! my friend, let us not look for this on earth—that
scene of dispefsion, of death, where one hardly catches a
glimpse of those with whom one would fain spend one’s
life. We just touch hands and separate, and go and die
apart. It is not worth while—no, it is not worth while
to form affections and plans here below. We know,
indeed, that we are strangers and pilgrims, and that those
are mad who would seek to fix themselves during their
journey. We know this, but we forget it; and so God

sends us these great lessons of death. Let us profit by
T 2Letters of

them; let it not be in vain that we are addressed by the
voice of the tomb. For a month past I never cease
thinking of death, meditating thereon in the morning
and in the evening, repeating a De Profundis beside the
bed on which he died. If it distresses you to hear such
melancholy things, tell me so; I will not mention them
again, dear friend! I do not sufficiently spare you; I
forget that you are not, like me, in good health, and
apable uf enduring the strongest impressions. I live in
gloom, on a grave, and yet I live! Oh! how much
strength there is in us for sorrow; far more than is
supposed, we are so made for suffering !

Let us talk of yourself, of Les Coques, whither I follow
you, and now see you on the sofa, thoroughly tired by
the journey, and shaken as much in body as in mind, for

“the one depends on the other. What are you occupied
with ? not even any music? I should much like to see
you return to it; I should listen to you, I should hear
you from here ; zhe ear of the heart is exquisitely fine. If
you would like some poetry to set to music I will send it
you. We ought, as much as possible, to ward off de-
jection, which is good for nothing — fhat consuming
dejection which destroys the heart, leaving it without hfe
or strength. And yet strength and life are necessary
while we go on breathing, for sorrows do not absolve us
from duties.

How are your children? Is Valentine delivered from
her short cough and her loose teeth? I hope she is very
good and keeps her little mamma company like an angel.

Are you beginning lessons in good earnest? But thereLugénie de Guérin. O77

is your unfortunate health, which cuts everything short!
At all events, M. Adrien remains to you. Oh! how
much I like him to be near you, that good, amiable
brother! Let him not leave you! there are departures
enough, alas! I entreat him earnestly to suspend his
roving tendency for your sake. th

Adieu, my friend! I am incapable of telling Sophie e
how penetrated I am by her affection ; however, I am
about to write to her, little in the vein thotgh I be.
Once more, a thousand kind things to all belonging to
you, father, mother, children, and the perfectly good
husband, My whole soul loves and kisses you. My
father is asleep on the sofa, Erembert is at Gaillac,
Marie at Cahuzac, I am alone in a cloister of me-

naman enone ee eee

mories. O my God! my God! how events change
places! Cheerful Cayla, how sad thou art grown! I fi
should have drunk too deeply of happiness. Let us learn

 

to dispense with it for a while, in order to possess it for
ever. Nothing but the other world can console us for
this,

We expect M. Raynaud the first days of September.
Of all our visitors he is the most longed for—good and
dear cousin that he is, the friend of my father, a father to
Maurice. All the curés of the district came of their own
accord to say mass; one, in particular, came from a dis-
tance, the Abbé de Rivitres, his friend from childhood, |
He came twice, and has written us the most affectionate ie
letters. Oh! if all this could console, consolations have not |
failed; the whole country has gone into mourning, and27 Letters of

it does good to see that one is loved and that others

loved those one sorrows for.

P.S.—That little green copybook which went off to
America,* I was going to ask for it from M, d Aure-

villy. Maurice’s wife has everything else.

To MpDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
27th August, 1839.

Yesterday I received your letter, your kind “write to
me immediately,” and I write to you to-day.. Thanks,
dear Louise, for this tender interest in my father and for
so much affection for myself. ‘Thanks for the one and
the other, for they are one and the same. You have,
then, felt for us much, thought that we were much to be
pitied? In truth, ternble afflictions have befallen us,
but God knows what we need. After the great sorrow
comes a great mercy. My father is restored to us: I
may indeed say restored, for death had laid hold on him
too. For some days the doctor did not know what to
do, and said to others, who have since told us, that he
dreaded to see two graves open. Oh, my God! one is
enough ; but Thy will be done. Do we even know what
we mean by our own will, imperfect and short-sighted
as itis? I endeavour to detach myself from mine, which
would fain not have consented to what has happened, to
what afflicts, to what causes so much regret and so much

* The manuscript of Maurice’s Journal.279
suffering. Human feelings all these! We find this out
when we stand still in the presence of God, when we read
what is said of hopes and afflictions. A book that I am
fond of, the ‘ Holy Desires of Death,’ is of great use to
me, soothes me, shows me what death is to the view of
faith, and how the Christian, instead of weeping, should
rejoice over this passage from earth to heaven.

Alas! and yet how difficult to me it still is to rejoice
in the loss of my friend! How difficult not to say to
God, “My God, wherefore take him from us? wherefore
Separate us so soon in this world?” ’Tis the heart which
does this, the weak and suffering heart which bemoans
itself. The good God will forgive me, I hope. Did not
Jesus weep for Lazarus, his friend? I seek to justify
myself by divine examples, which perhaps condemn me.
Conscience throws itself on the heart, the heart on the
conscience. J know not what I do, nor in what state of
mind Iam. No one to enlighten me! M. Fieuzet has
been gone for three weeks, and his substitute has as yet
only said mass on Sunday and gone off again, so that we
are a flock without a shepherd. O Pastor of heaven,
euide us thou!

My dear friend, experience makes me feel how good it
is to lean on God, on God only. This is the one thing
needful: all else is transitory and often deceitful. Look
at our illusions of the month of Septermber—where are
they now? In the grave or in oblivion, Oh! HED:
eight months have taught me more than my whole He at
Cayla. I am sixty years old. In the same way my sister,
the sorrowful widow, said, cn the morrow of her husband’sLetters of

death, that she was thirty. “I have aged ten years
beside this corpse ;” for she had so contemplated it, had
left it so little. Strong-minded and admirable woman |
Her own hands prepared and dressed him for the coffin ;
alone with the curé, there on her knees, there kissing
him, and praying for four-and-twenty hours. Angel of a
sister that she is! She is to return next year ; she has
left her easel for painting behind her. It is possible
that business may take her aunt to India, and, if so,
Caroline will spend the time of her absence quietly with
us at Cayla. It is so arranged, for the young woman
does not wish to travel, nor does her aunt dream of
taking her. Delicate and fragile, and worn out besides
ie | as she is, what has she to do but take care of herself?
| iH There is much to be feared for that health of hers, which
| was so constantly risked for six months. Alas! alas!
Hi my poor Maurice! his wife will ever be to us a sister,
| a sacred sister.

HH How I shared your alarms about your dear Marie,
I rumbling and jolting along your mountain roads! ‘There
she is, at rest now! What do you know about the
) other parts of the journey? When will the dear little
it expected one arrive? I shall remember his mother
before God, and you, too, my friend. Let us address
ourselves to the Almighty for everything and everybody.
Jlow happy I am made by the Christian tenderness you
express! Always speak to me of piety, of the love of
God, that this love may absorb me. Let heaven cover
earth. When shall we meet? I should like, oh! howl
should like to see you! but, as I have already said, I amLugtnie de Guérin.

not going hence. My poor heart, my poor father, every-
thing detains me. Send my affectionate remembrances
to the Countess, and tell her I am sorry to know that she
Was so near us, and thinking of us too, without coming
to us. What pleasure I should have had—yes, pleasure
(if such a word can be used)—pleasure in seeing and
embracing that dear Pulchérie! Be sure you tell her
how we regret her short stay. Adieu! to you and to
Léontine, whom I love and embrace for Marie as well as
myself. My father is sufficiently recovered to think of
your kind interest in him and to lay his homage at
your feet, ladies. As soon as he can he will come and
see you.
Adieu in God.

 

TO THE SAME.
4th September, 1839.

Sad as the solitary Night-Heron, I come, my friend, to
converse with you, to pour myself out, to tell you of
those nameless moods that pass over a crushed spirit.
What torrents of regrets, memories, sorrows sweep
across me! <A year, very soon a whole year, since
I was with you in the mountains, talking to you about
my journey to Paris, the marriage, the future of that
poor brother, of all things hoped for—except those that
have come to pass! O treacherous human eve OF
grievous catastrophe! My God, Thou hast willed it so

in mercy I do not doubt.sat

282 Letters of

One of these last days I found in a religious work, the
‘Sufferings of Jesus Christ,’ a very comforting thought :
“Do you suppose that God, who loves us, would send
us either suffering or death, if they were not the germ
and the earnest of eternal life?” How true this is when
one comes to think of it! But—unhappy that we are!—
we do not think of it, and we groan over what ought
to constitute our joy. Oh! were I sure he was in heaven,
how tranquil I should be! But, my poor Louise, I am
sometimes seized with -terror in reflecting upon that
awful eternity. ‘The holiest tremble before God. How-
ever, we must rest upon infinite mercy, and do all we can
to help our poor departed ones.

My life, my thoughts, everything is changed within me
and without. I pray God to confirm me in Himself,
who is immutable. To see what one loves, what one
leant on, sink out of sight, and to remain behind, is fnght-
fully painful: one is like a shipwrecked sailor left alone
on the ocean. I am not alone, indeed, with a father,
brother, and sister who love me, and yet I am conscious,
as it were, of an immense solitude. I am wniting you_
this from my little room, that beloved little room, turned
into’ a vault by the objects and recollections it encloses.
How many subjects of meditation in presence of this cross
before which I write! How everything turns to dust and
ashes! My friend, it is here that I listen to that great
lesson of death, which teaches us more than all books
whatsoever. They are nothing without experience.

Through all this my heart turns to you, and wanders
off in the direction where it is loved. Alas! nothingsugénte de Guerin. 283

can divert it from this; this will be its tendency so
long as I remain on earth. I have a hope of tidings
from you to-morrow, brought by the mountaineers, and
perhaps you are at this very moment in the gallery
writing to me. There is nothing unusual in friends
meeting thus in thought. What is going on in your
solitude? Do you know that we are three friends in
three separate deserts—Rayssac, Les Coques, and Cayla?
One might make a rather pretty novel, entitled ‘ Three
Solitudes,’ were one to take to writing down whatever
of pleasant or of sad passes in these places. Sometimes
the idea of writing comes across me, just to amuse my-
self, for a stocking is not enough forme. We are with-

out books, without occupation, now that our visitors are ~

gone. And you, dear friend, what have you to tell me
of yourself, your life, your soul, your Toulouse sister, and
those nearer at hand? ‘Ta each and all my tender love,
and, if you will be so good as to add it, my regards to
Salits. What Madame de Cazes did for me attaches me
for ever to her. My God! why did not we undertake it
earlier ?
Adieu ! much loved one of a very dead heart.

 

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE,
My little room, 9th September, 1839.

To the sound of the wind, and of I know not what
that moans in the air or in the soul, I come, my plaintive
friend, to converse with you and about you, to talk to

   
  
   
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
   
     
  
   
 
 
   

ae284 Letters of

you of your last letter, which reached me on the 5th, the
eve of Saint Eugéne, as if to make a festival of the day.
Alas! as to festivals, there are no longer any on earth, if
it be not those of the saints. But then, are not these the
true festivals to the eye of faith? Their joy, at least, is
not merely for a day, as is the case with those of the
world. My Saint Eugtne, who from being Bishop of
Carthage came all the way hither to die for the faith,
gives me the holy hope that from an earthly neighbour-
ship we shall pass to a heavenly one amongst the blessed.
I am quite rejoiced to have the relics of my patron saint
so near me, to see the ruins of the monastery he built
on the banks of the Veré, whither St. Carissime of Alby
came to take refuge from the world’s pursuit. Oh, how
sweet and poetic this sacred story! Why is there not
still a Eugene, with a cell in the woods ready for the
Carissimes who might wish to take refuge there? One
of these last days I was saying to my father that I was in
a manner bound by duty to go over into Africa, whither
my two patron saints Eugene and Augustin called me,
like two loud voices, to join the sisters of Saint-Joseph,
who are converting the Arabs. What do you think of
this, my friend? You think like my father: I observe
that your opinions often tally.

This dear father is touched, melted, penetrated by
your affection for him, and the filial kiss you promise
him “om cone to Cayla. “Oh! tell her to come.”
Come then, dear friend, come, come! I wish that a
speaking-trumpet could convey our voice to Les Coques
Do not say that you begin to be doubtful about it: doubtak
+

Liugénie de Gutrin. 285

LS,

is good for nothing. Believe, and believe firraly, as 1
do, that we shall meet again. Amidst so many ideas
that we have to banish from our hearts, let us at least
preserve the innocent and cheering. I turn out a great
many, but none that are connected with you. God
does not forbid friendship. Oh! were that the case, one
might indeed say, “ Lord, thou requirest the impossible.”
But, how far from that! Look at Jesus, with his beloved
John, with Martha and Mary, whom he loved. What
tenderness! how his life was bound up in them even up
to Calvary, where he chose to have them still! His holy
mother, Mary Magdalen, the other women whom he
loved, and the beloved disciple remained standing at the
foot of His cross. Divine model of affection, of union
in sorrow!

I observe that the more we meditate on Calvary, the
more we find there all we need, all that enters into the
life of the-Christian imitators of Christ. I go on feeding
increasingly upon the sufferings of Jesus Christ—ineffable
intercourse of love and grief between the soul and its
Redeemer! How much God has taught me during the
last month and a half! What a sudden experience I
have had of life and death! Iam sixty years old, and
yet I still find myself young. There is one side of the
heart which learns nothing: God knows which it is, and
how I both would and would not have it changed.

My friend, you too in your mountains have your own
experiences, and I do believe no one will ever be more
skilled in sorrow than you. Poor victim! poor martyr!
Oh, it is indeed you who are most to be pitied, who are286 Letters of

the largest link in the chain of suffering! Not even any
music? that is too sad! Do compose some music. I
had promised you some poetry, but, alas! what can you
draw from a lute all wet with tears? Nevertheless, if
you will, I can send you tears. You are going to have
with you your dear and loving mother, who will delight-
fully relieve tedium and solitude. Then there are the two
little girls, with their mirth, pretty ways, and games. If
you could but go out this fine autumn weather! I never
see the sun without thinking of you, my beloved recluse.
How is it, dear friend, that those who would fain be
together should be separated? Oh! ’tis because there is
a place of reunion not to be found upon earth.

My superhuman sister-in-law, poor child! is suffering
very humanly, having taken hence attacks of fever, ac-
cording to what her aunt tells us. She herself only says,
‘““T am always cold.” In her last letter there was no
mention of her health: I trust that it will only be an
alarm. You inquire for one who is also very dear to us—
for that good, kind friend of our Maurice; M. d’Aure-
villy. He writes to me, he calls me his sister, and
Erembert his brother. His letters—on a large scale, like
his heart

 

are remarkably beautiful in feeling and ex-
pression. My father is charmed with them and with
that tender and deep friendship felt for our poor loved
one which bound those two young men together.

Dear friend, have I asked you to throw my arms around
your mother’s neck and to caress the little girls for me?
All manner of respectful speeches to M. de Sainte-Marie
and M. de Maistre. My father presents you his affec.Fe eee ee ts .
eS Na
SE

      
  
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
     

Liugénie de Guérin. 287

Jonate nomage. The only thing that he has still to
complain of is the swelling in his legs. Marie is re-
covering her fine colour. On my arnval I found her
frightfully thinned; presentiments had been consuming
the kind sister. One suffers less, I think, from the
reality, alas!

TO THE SAME,
16th September, 1839.

Thunder, hail, commotion, calamity without, gloom,
sadness within. Were the sky to fall, it would add
nothing to my dejection, It is not because we are
experiencing another reverse that I find myself in this
nood: it is the tendency of my nature, do what I will. iM
It would require an angel to divert me from it: accord- tt
ingly, I come to you, my friend—you, who have been
sent me from God. I write for the sake of writing, just
to be with you in heart, the only way possible. As soon
as I suffer I think of you, who suffer far more ; I drive
away my egotistical compassion, that plaintive me, that
harasses us. But it is difficult to get md of if: this 1
feel ; let me then bring it to you to-day.

Yes, my friend, it is very ecolistically that I write to

 

you, seek you, call you, want you. E need to be con: |
soled. Alas! why are you so far away? else we should ie
have spent this day together. You would have replaced |
a friend who has just gone away, who has bequeathed

I allude to M. Raynaud, that kind and

us many tears.288 Letters of

perfect relative. Never did he show himself so affec
tionate, so attached, so one with us as on this occasion.
Affliction experienced or shared brings out the qualities
of the soul: it is only on this black ground that man
shows himself as he really 1s.

The fact is that our cousin has proved himself the
most admirable of relatives, as well in what concerns the
feelings as in the matter of other interests where so many
dignities stumble and fall. ‘There he is gone for who
knows how long! Who can depend upon meeting again ?
and yet he has promised to return, and thinks of bringing
us his children. God grant it, and also that the hope he
entertains for me may get accomplished: it is that or
having me with him again in Paris, which—being at Les
Coques—TI shall reach in one bound, he says. He-built
this little enjoyment on that which I built on you, when
I told him that I hoped to revisit you some day or
Ocber.

News of you and all your family were asked and given
with lively interest. Why have I not daily some one to
come and talk of you to me? I know of nothing that
gives me pleasure; my heart is dead; but still in your
direction it has living chords—vzbrating, I should say,
were I Sophie, the gracious, the too flattering. What do
you hear of that other poor friend? Does St. Quentin
console her for Vienna? And her brother—that fallen
brother?

As for us, my friend, we are vowed to misfortune. I
do not know whether the hail will have left anything
for you to drink on your arrival, But never mind, onlyLugénie de Gutrin. 289

me}; we will have caw sucrée—a sweet compensation.
Why is there not such a one for all misfortunes? This
hail came to make some variety in our calm, I listened
to the noise of it, and should have enjoyed it but for the
thought of its ravages. My poor little Nivernais rose-
tree excited my compassion when I saw it, shattered,
stoned to death, as it were, blossomless and broken—no
possibility of rescuing it, the storm came so suddenly.
We were at dinner, when a-few claps of thunder were
heard, and instantly a shower of stones, fortunately with-
out wind, which makes me hope the damage done will be
less great ; but all the country is white, as in winter, with
half a foot of hail. The corn-crops were ruined by the
heat, there is a failure of potatoes, everything foretells a
calamitous winter for the poor, for,- after all, it is they
who suffer. We shall not lack bread. In every sorrow
there is a worse close at hand. God, who knows what
trials each of us requires, distributes His gifts as His
providence sees best. These terrestrial vexations cannot
elicit a tear from me. After sword-strokes pin-pricks
go for nothing. My friend, what are you doing? How
fares that heart of so many storms, so many throbs 700
many? I should like daily bulletins of your health, and
how rare they are, though you often write to me. What
goes on at Les Coques interests me more than anything in
the world: ’tis my home, the home of the heart. Iam
seldom away from you, I assure you. “What is she
doing ? where is she?” I even constantly add, ‘ What
is she thinking of?” ‘Tell as much as you will of all this
to your inquisitive friend, who is unceasingly and end.
U290 Letters of

lessly occupied about you. And the little girls and your
dear mamma, everything around you interests me, more
than that, touches me: my heart is init. Let me, then,
have tidings of all that belongs to you, the flowers, the
garden, and the gardener. ‘That poor farmer (tiresome
pen !), that poor man, how is his bad leg going on? You
see that I make the round of your solitude, passing
through both thorns and flowers. But ’tis the flowers I
pause at. Adieu! I stretch out my arms towards you.
Why have I not that long neck that Valentine endowed
me with? I should reach, should kiss you and her too,
the dear child, and all the cheeks that would permit me
to do so. I throw this into the post, with no other reason
than the pleasure, the necessity I feel of being with you.
After God there is nothing, oh, my friend! so sweet as 3
friend. Although this be between ourselves, your gooc
father and good husband always have a place in ow
converse as in our memory. Your mamma knows that
she is mine too.

P.S.—Have you any tidings of Madame de Vaux?
Caroline sees a great deal of her. ‘The poor mourner
has made a good choice of a friend in this strong and
tender woman. I should dearly like to have the books
and other things that she has carried away, but she lays
as much stress upon them as I, and therefore I ought not
to say anything ; besides, so much was done for him, ancl
even for us.Liugénie de Guérin.

TO THE SAME.

Lind of September, 1839.

I thought your music very religiously sad. Go on
pouring your soul into your chaunts, like God’s minstrel,
David. Your compositions are much talked of here ;
one of my cousins has copied out your Ave Regina,
which is to be performed with due pomp at Gaillac.

You pass for a great author, not in music only but
books. You are associated with Count Joseph by reason
of the talent and industry you display, and are spoken of
as his wife. I rectified that anachronism, which rendered
you too venerable. As to the praise... . praise does
not age; you may accept it all; the De Maistres are
associates in genius. It is in vain you call me flattering ;
but, my friend, the fact is that I come in for a sweet
vaft of the incense offered you, that people say of me.
“Tt is that lady who is her friend.” Oh, yes! indeed a
friend, beyond all they imagine: amidst all that flatters
they know not what flatters most, and that it is much
more as regards the heart than the mind that I feel proud
of being loved by you. I have not been to Gaillac, nor
anywhere else, though our friends claim us, and we have
had a shower of visits. I have no wish to see anything
or take any journey with the exception of one, and after-
wards that to heaven, where friends will no more leave
each other. Consoling future! my bright hope! fairer
than that of going Zo Persia, What a vagabond mood
has got possession of your pleasant brother! ‘There are
U2202 Letters of

people who do notiing like others, and I am not sur-
prised at this in M. Adrien, who is an exception amidst
the exceptional. If he is with you, do not argue with him
any more: his is a dangerous kind of reasoning I see,
since it wzseated yours, made you jump up behind him,
galloping after a thousand chimeras, contagious follies,
witty and attractive. Nothing is so catching.

Let us dwell for a moment upon our dear little girls.
Riri and Titine, if you are there, I embrace you both,
and Titine twice for her pretty little letter; but I am
going to answer her separately. That charming child’s
miniature gave me a very sweet delight: dear little one,
who loves.me, who writes to tell me so! I at once
recognised her hand, her way of saying things, and the
little idleness that came over her half-way down the page.
What you tell me about her studies, amiability, and piety
affects me inexpressibly.

The Duchess of Orleans was passing by yesterday, four
or five miles from here, nothing announcing the fact but
a few pounds of powder wasted. A sad kind of journey:
at Toulouse—city of ice—no stir, no cheers, no on-
lookers to be had for money even! What does a northern
Princess come to seek in the south? At Alby she visited
the cathedral with the doors closed.

 

To THE SAME,

The postman was very rich, very kind, the day before
yesterday: five letters came. One from our old cousin,Eugénie de Guerin.

two others, and those from Les Coques, which I now
come to talk about, and say “Thank you! thank you!”
to your dear mamma, and to you, my friend. I write to
her and you at the same time, in the same parcel, with
the same pen, and in the same words. I love you! yes,
I dearly love you both. ‘Tidings from you are what gives
me most pleasure or most pain, according to their import.
I am tolerably satisfied this time. JI hope everything
from time both for you and for me—not for my health,
which cannot be better, but for other things which are
not so well ; for my conscience, which is without a guide,
which ever since the departure of our good pastor has
always been a stray sheep, going to seek afar what I
cannot find here. You know how important a place «.
director holds in my life, especially now that I need
a support. Everything fails me at the same time, and
sometimes I am sad, overwhelmed. JI am wrong: for
God, who sends me these trials, only permits them for
my good. And then He, the good God, never fails us,
He is near to the afflicted heart; but often this heart
is unable to see or feel Him, and then it complains. It
was in one of these dark moments that I wrote you that
sad letter which must have pained you. I was sorry for
it afterwards. My friend, do not let yourself be affected
by things that do not last. You well know the variations of
the soul: mine now rises, and now falls back. One would
fain have some stability, but ’tis impossible till we get to
heaven. Oh! there we shall ever abide in the true, the
good, the beautiful. This alone can console. All our
hopes are there, all our happiness, our lost happiness294 Letters of

even: for where eternity resides one recovers even the past.
I leave you to go and join two cousins who await mein

 

the drawing-room. Of all the places in the house ’tis
my own little room that I prefer, but I often have to
leave it. What a pity to do so now that I am in it with
you!

 

| Since yesterday we have had a tempest,—a fearful
nocturnal storm which shook the earth. Our young
people were alarmed at it, and so even was an old soldier
of Napoleon’s, who had not, he told us, been nearly so
much frightened at Jena and Austerlitz. He got up, lit
his fire and a consecrated taper, and went on praying
to God all the time the thunder lasted. I thought this
touching: an old Christian warrior on his knees during a
It storm, beside a little taper, the simple object of a simple
| faith, We again heard hail, but without trepidation,
| having nothing more out of doors. Do not pity us too
ik | much: the other day we only lost a third of our grapes,

WW which appears to us miraculous after so much hail. But
Hi i the leaves saved them.

Those added lines of yours, those Sunday lines gave
FT me great pleasure. ‘“‘ How shall we arrange our winter?”
nh say you. Ah! my friend, it rests with you to do this, ta
make me happy by coming south, to our mild tempera.
ture, which cannot fail to do you good as well as Valen-
tine. ‘To Nice, to the Eaux-Bonnes,—these are long
journeys for your poor back. I have been thinking much
about it, and trembling lest it should be unequal to the
effort of reaching Cayla. Take care of yourself, make

your plans, set out, and come here—here to this solitude,Lugénte de Guérin. 205

both well known and unknown, whither so many hermits
are summoning you.

The greatest happiness I expect, the only one, it
seems, that remains to me, is that of seeing you, my
friend. ‘This can only be here, for I cannot think of
leaving my father for some time to come at all events.
Returning to Paris got casually talked of as one of the
impossible possibilities of life. No doubt IT should go
back to it with interest

 

a very sad interest, alas !—but
never mind that; I should go back there to find tears,
which attach so much. Nothing is settled on that head
for this winter, or the next, or any other. Do not let
this influence you the least; let -#e have nothing to do
with you. Only come, if it be possible. This is all I
desire. We will arrange future plans afterwards. Now,
then, that is settled, you will come to us after Eaux-
Bonnes.

Adieu, my dear one! Remember me to all, and em-
brace the little girls. If my visitors allow me time, L
shall write to your mamma by this same courier ; if not,
assure her of all my affection.

P.S.—In order not to keep back my letter, begun,
interrupted, returned to, I send it off alone to-day ; im-
possible to write any more except by fits and starts, and
when I am with your mother I like to remain there long.

Good-bye for the moment.Letters of

TO THE SAME.
25th November, 1839.

All your little papers reached me yesterday, deat friend.
I do not say “Thank you” for this packet of manuscript
tenderness, amiability, and so many heart-treasures—no,
not “Thank you,” but ““Givyel pive!” Go on siving
me your letters, your tidings, your life, all that I so love
and would fain receive incessantly as the air I breathe.
Sweet relations of friendship ! is there anything better in
the world? Are you not of my opinion, my friend? Do
you not thoroughly prove to me that you are, you who
are so loving, so good in writing, so desirous to have
news of me? Well, then, we resemble each other: there
is a sympathy between us. I love to believe it! I feel
it without inquiring whether ’tis wisdom or folly. That
which binds souls is always mysterious.

As to the ‘‘olly of the cross” that you attribute to me,
would to God it were true! You would no longer need
to wish me happiness. ‘Those insane saints ask nothing
from earth, their heart'is fixed higher. Alas! you see
that your friend is still far from that, however Arabic *
she be; but have you really taken this seriously, my
timorous friend? You fear lest I should quit you. You
tell me this so tenderly, that, had I one foot already
in Africa, the other would return to Les Coques—yes,
Les Coques—'tis home, ’tis a second Cayla, as you so
gracefully say. I read that out to my father, who also

* See the letter of the 9th September.Liugénie de Guérin. 567

loves me too well, and will not any more than you
consent to my going off to Saint Eugtne and Saint
Augustine.

Nevertheless, let us allow that it would be a beautiful
thing, too, to go to Africa, to nurse sick soldiers there
and to

 

—those new crusaders of a new Holy Land
teach the Catechism to little Moorish children. I have
always been very fond of Moors, and to save one of
them, some little child-soul, would be my delight. Con-
cede me this dream, my friend—-hermits have so many
dreams! We have little work going on just now; ’tis
holiday time for the imagination, and, by way of amuse-
ment, it takes to building cells,—sometimes, too, other
things, for I would not deceive you. We often leave
the desert, we return to Paris, to the world, to the parties
where I went with you. As was the case with Saint
Jéréme, Rome comes to us in our solitude, but Rome in
mourning. Alas! my past is all in tears. My God, tis
thou hast willed it so! I might be yet more unhappy ;
there is no unhappiness to the eye of faith. Broken ties,
dead hopes, lifelong regrets! what is there here but what
happens to numbers? but providential trials sent for our
future good? Everything for eternity : this is the grand
view the Christian takes. Let us not forget that this
world is but a stage towards the next; earth is only a
stepping-stone to heaven, according to somebody’s ex-
pression. When the soul turns thus towards the celestial
side of things it grows calm, it can console, support itself
I know nothing else for it.

Interrupted by vespers yesterday, by preserve-making298 Letters of

to-day, Monday, and by a visitor,—I hardly know how the
thread of our conversation is to be resumed,—a very
slight difficulty either when connected with you. But
what is to be said fit for you, sufferimg and alone as you
are? It is not easy for me to do you good, in spite
of my ardent desire of doing so. What a useless friend
you have chosen! Accordingly, I advise you to let me
wander off wherever I think fit, whether to the Caffres
or the Moors; but, notice this, I shall begin with Les
Coques. Dear Coques! dear Coques! ‘This journey,_
however, will only take place after yours to Cayla. My
father, who wants to see you, decides the matter thus.
My father, the loving, loves you ; he does but return you
what I have received from your family and yourself. Oh,
come! ‘Take care of yourself for this purpose, for I am
always trembling lest your delicate health should prevent
it. I can foresee nothing happier than to see you. God
will, I hope, permit this very legitimate enjoyment... ..

TO. THE SAME.
14th December, 1839.
My last letter will have made you uneasy, dear friend.
I was myself very much agitated. All is perfectly calm
now. Erembert appears to be rather better, though he
recovers slowly. So many shocks one after the other
had overwhelmed me, I was quite prostrated. You will
more than once have cried, ‘‘ Poor Eugénie!” You, dear
friend, who feel all that I suffer, share all my afflictions!Liugénie de Guérin. 29G

How much I should have longed for you, only I try to
console myself with God, who is the friend of the afflicted!
There is, indeed, no other that can sustain. Have not
you experienced this?

It is now my turn to be impatient to hear from you:
impatient to know what becomes of you in the great
solitude of your desert since the departure of your mother
and brother. In you I am saddened by this absence,
this blank left around you by those dear relatives,
However M. de Maistre and Valentine may try, they
cannot make themselves four, and restore you the activity
of Madame de Sainte-Marie and the sound and stir of
M. Adrien, for I picture him to myself as restless and
frolicsome as a sprite. Don’t go and tell him so: I do
not like men to know the opinions I form of them,
because it makes me appear so observing. In this case
it is you who have revealed him to me by your letters
and by the recent conflagrations at Les Coques. And so
then, my friend, this fine architect and designer makes
and unmakes flower-beds and gardens, transplants shrub-
beries and lawns, and you applaud the enchanter’s wand.
I dwell at length on this because of the interest I
attach to your solitude, to its improvements, to all indeed
that you have and see, woods, flowers, blades of grass,
that beautiful grass-plot where your little feet no longer
wander. ’Tis no longer weather for walking, but that
will return by and bye, and then you will be able to go
out, This unfortunate sprain will not, let us hope, chain
you to rest, the eternal rest of the sofa. You can hardly300 Letters of

believe how this addition to accidents and sufferings
distresses me. How often I think of it! ...

My friend, my dear Henriette, how immediately you
and I understood and entered into and loved each other,
and became sisters! God bestowed on my heart the
consolaion, on my life the happiness, of meeting with
you on earth. If I, on my side, have done you any
good, if I am in any degree a pleasure to you, | may
sing Vunc dimittis. ‘There is really something of heaven
in our friendship. Oh, how much I think, speak of it!
Oh, what prayers I put up for you! Louise is equally
united to me, but in a different manner: in youth, at the
age of sixteen, by bows of rose-coloured nbbon; you
later, in sorrow, by a mourning crape, which binds so
closely !

Are you busy with your music just now? I should like
often to see you at your piano, and sometimes in prayer
over some good and pious book; lke every suffering
soul, you need this, need it even more than others.
Always these counsels, sent you from my heart! It is,
you see, because spiritually I love you so much. I can-
not understand an affection content to terminate here.
I have nothing to read just now. I am re-reading Pascal,
which may well afford one subjects forsmeditation. ‘This
passage, for instance: ‘“‘It is a fearful thing to feel our
possessions constantly slipping away, and to attach cur-
selves to them without seeking to find out whether there
be not a something permanent.” It is you who g-ve me
a taste for this book.Lugénie de Guerin.

Speak of me to Sophie. Be yourself my letter; I should
never write so pretty a one. I have already told you I
have too much correspondence for my taste; besides,
what interest can be thrown into it by a sad-hearted
anchorite like me? It is only to you that I can be
attractive. Oh, how much so you are to me! Love
and respects from all at Cayla to Les Coques and Saint-
Martin.

 

To Mpuur. IRENE Compayrg, VIsle d’Albi, near Gaillac.
157k December, 1839.

May God console you, my dear Irene! This is all
that can be said in these cruel afflictions and separations
wrought by death. I have learnt and can certify you of
this, as well as of the share I take in your sorrow, so
similar to the sorrow I experienced that I can measure
the one by the other. I lose a brother, you a sister,—
sad mourning resemblance! God strikes us in the same
place, my poor friend ; we can sympathise in grief. Let
us unite at the foot of the cross: that will be better still,
more Christian. Prayer is of greater value than tears:
at least, those poor departed souls are helped thereby.
I retum to your sister what you did for my brother. 1
recommend her to God, though as for her we may indeed
hope that she is already in heaven. She had suffered so
much! Nevertheless, my friend, there can never be
positive certainty ; God ordains that these shadows should>

02 Letters of

Co

rest on the other life for the trial and exercise of our
faith. Let it be ours to adore, to pray, to expect heaven
for all. © the blessed day when we shall be reunited
there, shall recover all we love, never to lose them again !
The happiness of heaven will be very different from that
of earth, which is so short, so transitory. You know
this, and better, perhaps, than I, my poor much-tried
friend ; but one likes to blend words and thoughts about
sentiments shared and common sufferings.

By, writing yourself on this sad occasion you have

 

given me a very touching proof of your friendship—a
friendship that you have always entertained forme. You
have thus increased the value it already had, for which
mine would fain repay you if it could. If I write to you
less frequently than in time past, do not suppose that
I am changed towards you. Oh, no! it is 7 who am
changed towards myse/f. If I can decide upon leaving
my desert, I may perhaps come to I’Isle to prove that I
love you. It would be a delight to me to see you again,
as well as dear Antoinette, an angel who must sometime
be with you. The afflicted are her friends.

Adieu, my dear Irtne! You tell me nothing of your
health, which I am anxious about, for so great a shock as
this must have impaired it. I would say, “‘ Take care of
yourself,” as the phrase runs, if that could in any way
avail the body when the heart is suffering. The best
restorative and support is God, is your own piety, which
tears will but make to grow.

My father and all my family desire to express the sharehugénie de Guérin. 303

they take in your grief, of which they assure both you
and all your circle.

I embrace you, and always with my whole heart.

 

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.

15th January, 1840.
Will this letter be more fortunate than the one written
m St. Cecilia’s day? Will it find any one of you at
1iome, my friend? But this heartpafger is not selfish, and,
vithout getting or expecting anything, wends its way
towards you as often as it can. - So was it in the past, so
is it in the present, so will it be in the future, be always :
friendship knows no change in its habits and feelings.
Yes, my dear Louise, I hope that you think sometimes—
nay, often—of your friend the recluse, that you would
have written to her had you been able, had not the bell-
ringer chanced to ring at the very moment when you
were going to take pen in hand.
I return to that bell-ringer because he amused me, and
I thought this strange excuse for not writing to me very
droll indeed. Everything is allowable in the case of
friendship, and all reasons are good between you and me.
Nothing should ever offend us; and if ever I happen to
weary you, just tell me, “ You weary me.” I should lke
it. Does not Fénélon somewhere say that we may tell
God this? Oh, yes! perfect openness; let the soul be
just what it is, both to God and to friends. This is why,
Louise, I am under no restraints with you, and sing out304 Letters of

to you all my tones. Do not you understand them all,
enter into all? How I wish this could be nearer at hand,
and otherwise than by letters! It is very sweet indeed
to write, but still it is talking to each other from a dis-
tance, and there are so many things one does not want
to speak out aloud. ‘Low-voiced talk ‘is best. This 1s
the case even with God, who says to the pious soul, “I
will lead thee into the wilderness, and there I will speak
comfortably to thee.” Divine intimacy this, recovered in
some measure in human intimacy, for whatever is good
comes from above.

Send me, therefore, something or other down from
your mountains; tell me whether or no you have set off
for your enjoyments at Castres. There you will again
meet charming acquaintance, those merry conversable
young people you told me of. ‘This relaxation cannot
fail to do you good after the grave meditations of the
retreat, which so absorbed you in serious subjects.
Seriousness is useful : it is well for the soul to dwell upon
the solemn thoughts of faith, but God permits some
diversions even to saints, and St. John had his partridge.
My dear friend, I rejoice at your journey to Castres, I
look upon you as almost too earnest now, you whom I
used formerly to think not earnest enough. But that
jormerty, where is it? All things change with time, and
it is with rapture that I see you change zz God.

But you have not all you want at Rayssac. Like me,
you lack a guide, nay, even more than me, for I have
one—not, indeed, the Abbé Legrand of |’Abbaye-aux-
Bois, but still one, and near at hand too, while yourLiugénie de Guerin. 305

Father Amalrie can only give you advice from afar.
This is very uncomfortable. What is to be done? ‘The
soul as well as the heart has its sacrifices, and God ac-
cepts and appreciates them all lovingly. This love it is
which will supply all we lack, even our love, which is so
small. Let us, however, try to increase it all we can.

I talk to you, my friend, as I do to that other friend,
and indeed I care little for dwelling upon the things of
this world ; they are so slight, so transitory, so empty at
last. She replies, ‘Speak to me incessantly of God.”
There is no soul that does not feel this want, and hers
more than any other—sensitive, lofty, and suffering as it
is. The kind creature! There came to me by coach
a box, and in this box a valise, and in the valise some
foulard silk for an apron, a gold medal, and a lovely
statuette of the Virgin. These were my New Year's gifts
com the Nivernais. Last year I had a gown, a watch,
books, and I know not how many more pretty things ;
but what I liked best of all was that we were together.
How many ¢ogethers lost.since then ! Is it net the case
with you whom I have not seen again, and who no longer
take your journeys in our direction? I had been de-
pending so on your going to Toulouse! Why have not
we got that little girl that attracts you? Always tell me
about her as well as her happy mother; | imagine that
you will end by going to embrace her. The month ot
May is 2 long way off, do you know, when one is waiting
for it?

Yesterday we had tidings too from my poor Paris

The letter is full of details respecting Monsignor
x

sister.

a a Ase306 Letters of

de Quélen, whom she went to see lying dead in Notre
Dame, and of prognostics about the year ’40. It had
been foretold that Monsignor would not see it open, and
also that the Faubourg St. Germain (ours, you know) is
to sink into the Catacombs. Abyss of the future! who
knows what it contains for us? Then Caroline adds:
“T have no fear; God is with us.” Oh, yes! with her,
at all events. She-has sent us a head of Maurice, drawn
from her imagination. Poor young woman! Her aunt
is still ill, her brother coughs a great deal; so that she is
incessantly in tears, or on the brink of tears.

Now for a contrast. Marie, the happy Marie *—Marie
the betrothed—has arrived from Toulouse with exqui-
sitely tasteful and lovely dresses. The wedding takes
place the end of the month. Poor child! with my whole
soul I wish her all Heaven’s best blessings, as much happi-
ness as she deserves. Marie is full of good qualities of
heart and mind. I shall pay her a visit after the gaieties,
and even then it will be an effort to me to go away from
here. No oyster clings so firmly to its rock as I to
Cayla. In the same way, my heart clings to your heart,
my cheek to your cheek. Adieu! Louise. Be sure to
tell your sisters that I love them.

P.S.—My respectful regards to the pastor. He ought
not to preach so loud or so long, if he wants to live; but
he prefers converting.

* Mdlle. Marie de Thézac, cousin of Eugénie de Gnérin, married
to M. d’Assier de Tanus.a ee p Be ge ot
Lugéitce de Guerin.

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE,
Aly little room, 27th Fanuary, 1840.

O woman of sorrows! poor sufferer: poor mother! I
had no idea of the agony in which you had been plunged
for a week beside your dying Valentine. My God, how
rapidly illness comes on! But God cures it also rapidly.
You will only have had a great shock, a terrible alarm.
It is not for the little one that I am fearing now; but for
you, who must have been so shaken by this attack. Tell
me soon, and at great length, what have been, as regards
yourself, the consequences of this distressing trial. Per-
haps you have not left Nevers, perhaps you are in bed,
perhaps your heart has relapsed into its bad ways, as it
will do after excitement. In short, my frend, tell to
your friend all that concerns your health.

It is true that the second page of your letter reassures
me about you in reassuring me about Valentine. A
mother and a child are so closely connected that every-
thing, whether good or bad, passes from the one to the
other ; therefore, the amelioration in the dear little girl’s
state constitutes yours, I fancy. But how then was it
she fell sick? Do not let her run about at will, whatever
the weather, as I have seen her do at Les Coques. It is
true that there is a difficulty in keeping a child indoors
all day long, that it is even an excess of care to con-
fine them to a hothouse; but Valentine is so fragile, so
delicate, that what would be too much for another child

‘; not so for her. I hope that the good God will spare
x2a
i
Ba

 

   

308 Letters of

her to you, since she is so patient, so pious. She will be
a little model of sanctity to your whole house. ‘The dear
child! JI embrace her for being so good while suffering,
for praying as she does for her mother and her mother’s
friends. All you tell me on that head is really charming.
Do not be uneasy; leave that hell of Dante, to which
you compare your life. I don’t know what this hell is ;
but, be it what it may, ’tis not for you: Christians should
have none. It is heaven we should see underlying our
life.

My poor friend, I oppose you. I am always running
counter to your ideas and sensations, almost to your
tears. What a wicked friend I must be! Can you love
me? Nay, I really do not understand what it is you
find in me; my reason gives it up. ut the heart has its
reasons which reason does not comprehend, to quote once
more your friend Pascal.

How you make me love this Pascal! I have just
parted from it with regret: I am always sorry to see
a book go away, and feel almost as if it were a pleasant
visitor. ‘This is so much the more true that we only
have books on a visit, and that rarely, so far are we from
libraries. When this lack of reading gets painfully felt
I take up my distaff, I come here and write, I do what I
can to prevent ev occupying the empty space—ennuz !
that most dire enemy of the soul, the demon of recluses!
Oh! try hard to guard yourself from it, my companion in
solitude. I wish I could be at hand to help you. Alas!
we. are so far. All I can do is to think for you at your
piano, to accompany your music, to give you something> ame

f Ore 17 a Js
3 Lei le ae

rilerin. 309

to sing. This idea of working for you seems to have
come to me from heaven, encourages me. I make it
serve my purpose as well as amibition would: but, alas !
even it will sometimes desert me. I say to myself,
“Pooh! what can she do with this poetry? Will there
be any possibility of arranging it for the piano? Will
my inspirations accord with hers? We are sisters in
heart far more than in talent.” There I am! when once
I doubt, there is an end of me; no support left. I must
have hope in you, be able to associate your notes with
my hymns.

But really and truly, my friend, I have a rage for being
useful, for devoting myself to somebody or something.
If it cannot be to you, I shall go off to the Arabs rather
than continue good for nothing. I seem to myself a
useless being, and the thought makes me sad. Perhaps,
though, it is vanity to want to be something. If so,
away with it, by all means; I am content to be nothing.
Is it not enough to have the working out of our salvation
for life’s long business? He who should reduce his wishes
to this would be very wise and very happy. Let us
make our desires concentrate in this desire.

That of seeing you, however, has somewhat akin to
it, methinks; *twas something from heaven which first
united us and will rejoin us, and always for our good. Oh,
how grieved I should be to do you harm! God knows
how dear your soul is tome! If you were to come here,
we should talk a great deal ; there is no saying what we
should not do. I look to this as to one of the chief
joys that remain to me in life, but, as you say, I do not310 Letters of

depend upon it; you have always so many hindrances,
Nevertheless, let us hope and believe, spite of obstacles.
Those who believe the impossible are the happiest.

Therefore nurse yourself for this journey—a useless
thing to say, I know, but one likes to say useless things.
What importance they assume when I connect them
with you! Oh! you are right, quite right, to begin your
letters by yourself. Set forth the good wine first, as at
the marriage in Cana :* quench my thirst about you, my
friend ; what is there that can interest me more? You
apologise for a fault that pleases me so well, I would
have it occur at the beginning, middle, and end of your
letters. Yes; always tell me of yourself, your sufferings,
your interests. Am I not your receptacle? Oh! I no
longer call myself useless if you can repose on me, if
God grant me to be a moment’s comfort to you. Write
me long letters when it does not fatigue you too much.
Think a litle of the pleasure of her who is to read them,
and who always finds they come to an end too soon.
The last came to me at daybreak, before I was up, the
day before yesterday. A charming surprise and sweet
awaking! ‘The postman had slept on the way, and came
with the dawn like a rare and swift messenger of joy.
It is seldom one has so good a thing in such good time.
You sweetened one whole day for me; I spent it more
pleasantly than I had done for a long time past.
There is nothing equal to loving words for putting the
heart into a good mood; after God, nothing is more
potent.

® Sic,Lugénie de Guérin. 311

P.S.—My father, my dear father, has expressly enjoined | i)
me to say something very tender and affectionate from him.
IT add a little song for Valentine, which you will sing to if
the piano for the poor invalid.

To LITTLE VALENTINE (weve zl). i i

Oh, when I see thee spend in. pain |
Thy sweet child-years, —

See thee, instead of early flowers,
Gathering tears, —

A bitter thought will sudden flit
Across this heart of mine—

How, if thy mother’s suff’ring lot, al
Dear child, be also thine?

When languor-bent as bends a reed
Thy head I see

Droop like the tender youthful shoots ie
From willow-tree ;

Thy cradle turn to martyr’s rack,
Whereon to writhe and pine—

Elow, if thy mother’s suff’ ring lot,
Dear child, be also thine? i

 

When like a saint thou seem’st to me—
No tears, no cries,

Through all thy weariness and pain, /
Seeking the skies,

Gazing, where dies on Calvary
The Sacrifice Divine—

How, if thy mother’s suff’ring lot,
Dear child, be also thine?

i TS

To MDLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BOISSET.
3rd February, 1840.

Thank you, my dear Antoinette, for writing to me and
telling me of your affection. I never doubted it, but this312 Letters of

renewed assurance has its charms. We like to see over
and over again what pleases. Only your letter has been
very long indeed on its way; it might have come from
China in the time. ‘The truth is, our post little regards
the impatience of friendship. It was but the day before
yesterday that I got your letter; and I answer immedi-
ately, hoping to find some messenger to Cahuzac who
will not, I trust, travel tortoise pace.

I long, dear friend, that you should know how I par-
ticipate in this fresh grief that Providence sends you.
That poor Camille, how I pity her, and you through her!
Misfortunes, then, positively rain in our families. May we
not indeed say that we have a fellowship in grief? Let
there be also fellowship in prayer. This is what I try
to keep up on my;side, dear friend, as you on yours,
Each day I unite myself to the prayers of the Novena,
thanking you before God for the intention towards me
and my family combined with it. Oh! we are all most
grateful for this, and I in particular am much affected by
this sweet proof of Christian regard from my dear An-
toinette. May the good God preserve your sister to you!
I have great faith in the power of the Holy Intercessor.
Alas! how poignant a remembrance this awakens. I too
had written about Maurice, but tod late. God had
already taken him away when asked to spare him to us!
I only received the answer after his death. Why were we
so long before we thought of the miraculous? Poor human
nature! first of all to have recourse to human aid, and then
so to deceive oneself as not to see the danger under one’s
very eyes! One fancies that what one loves cannot die.Liugénie de Guerin. 313

My dear Antoinette, tell me of your poor invalid, for
this only brings me back to you and her. They had
written me word from Gaillac that she was worse. My
God, thy will be done! For a long time back this poor
child has made you uneasy, but yet I did not know she
had come to this point. Disease works swiftly. And
that Saint Lisbine,* but for you should I ever have heard
that she had left you? Happy child! called by God to
the religious life. ’Tis far the safest as regards heaven,
and perhaps it is the sweetest as well. Yes, I do indeed
believe that the world’s crosses are a hundred times
heavier than those of the cloister. True, I hardly
know either, save by hearsay ; but one can easily discern
the difference between them, and also that God helps us
everywhere. Let us make no exceptions as to graces,
means, or salvation. Is she with the Lisle sisters P= dif
so, you can see her, and her family has not lost her as
yeu

I had heard much that was good about Madame A. ;
canonised by you, this young woman seems to me still
more saintly, quite worthy of the family she has entered.
You are a community of saints at Lisle. Accordingly,
my poor soul would much like to go and be edified there ;
but, my dear Antoinette, I can no longer drag myself
hence, even to see you, my sweet magnet. My little life
prefers to pass away in the smallest space possible,—here
where I have my all, my beloved living ones and beloved

dead.

* Sister of Mdlle. Augustine de Gélis, a member of the Sisterhood
of St. Vincent de Paul, who died at Hing-Po in 1863.214 Letters of

Adieu! wherever I be, behold there one who loves
you. My affectionate homage to the poor mother who is
so afflicted in heart, Write to me, pray for me, love me.

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.

17th February, 180.

Your letter reached me in church during vespers, and,
as I had to keep it there unread, I gained some con-
ception of waiting in purgatory. Oh, how much one
must suffer, near to a happiness one may not possess,
near to heaven! This, my friend, was what the little
paradise of your letter, which I would not open, made me
think and feel for two whole hours—hours of self-sacrifice ;
but should we not do as much for God? I was glad
to have this to offer Him, and actually I chanced to be
reading in the Jitation these words in the chapter on
patience: “God will not leave unrewarded any pain,
however slight, that we may have endured for His sake.”
‘ Courage !” said I, looking at my letter; “if I were one
day called to greater sacrifices, I should have the more
strength for them.” One can practise oneself in willing.
If I had to leave you! There are a hundred ways of
separating on earth: not, indeed, that I have any one of
them in view ; but, sooner or later, have we not to leave
everything, to part one from the other? We are only
here below as in an inn on a journey. Let us, then, have
the feelings of travellers. We should think a man very
strange who attached himself much to his inn. The wiseLugtnie de Guérin. 315

Christian will rot do this. Do you not consider that I
have profited a good deal by the mountain mission, and
that Saint Louise herself would hold no other language ?
It is true, indeed, that I do learn many things from her
and from time, and especially that we ought to think of
heaven, and, moreover, to think about it as we think of a
fortune, in striving to gain it. Alas, my God! the greatest
lessing is the only one for which we make no effort,
vhich, it would seem, we expect to be ours by a miracle.
The greatest miracle would be to arrive where we are not
going, to reach the south in the direction of the north.
Nothing is so irrational as conduct like this, as faith with-
out practice, as a baptized heathen.

My friend, you must ascribe this singular page to a
secret anxiety of mine, and bear with it; just as I
allow you your ideas, your dreams, your griefs, so you
too must allow me mine and the perfect spontaneity of
my style when I talk to you. It is not with you, besides,
that I should ever think of constraining myself; with
no one, indeed, when I write. Without too closely calcu-
lating their range, needs must that my conv ictions explode.
I am sure they will not wound you. My poor friend,
I should be so grieved to do you harm! I repeat once
more this expression which seems to have struck you
so much, that must ever be mine about friendship, every
relation of which should tend to good. For my part, I
have no remorse on that head. God preserve me from
yours; from what you would feel if you happened to
do me harm! What a twofold calamity, and how ill we
should fulfil the purposes of that Providence which brought316 Letters of

us into contact; for, my friend, it was not pure chance
which led to our meeting. I see in it some divine in-
tention of Him who directs even the flight of birds, and
who, it seems to me, has led us by the hand one to the
other. Let us, then, make for ourselves a friendship
agreeable to God, like two Sisters of Mercy. Let us
take care of each other, dress our wounds, and reject
what flows from thef’_—the corruption of the human
heart.

‘This is what I try to do in the case of my dear invalid.
Accordingly, I do not think that you ought to charge
yourself, as though it were caught from you, with that de-
pressed mood you have thought you observed of late, Alas!
you know it well, sadness is the groundwork of human life.
"Tis mine sometimes, but rarely; and then owing to my
state of health, much more to the body than the soul.
Sometimes I need the sun; if a fine day comes, I revive .
I become once more not indeed gay, but serene. A fine
creature though, one that a drop of rain can cast down!
What nothings we are! I learn this ever more and more,
and how great our need of strength from above.

Do not think of sending me books, kindest one: the
carriage would make them too dear; and then I know
how to do-without. Nothing is essential to me; and, in-
deed, I have no lack of anything in my dear, peaceful,
and much-loved Cayla. Some obliging neighbours throw
open their libraries to us, and every now and then I take
out whatever I like. I am now occupied re-occupted,
having read them before—with the works of Bernardin de
Saint Pierre: sweet simple author, whom it is well to read? ° ™@ e
Fiugénie de Guérin. 217

in the country. I could fancy next Wotre Dame de Paris,
but I dare not. Those romances make such ravages that
I dread their influence; merely to see the effects they
have on certain hearts terrifies me. Mine is so calm, it
would fain remain as itis. If that word “calm” surprises
you, remember, my friend, that God gives peace. J am
not deceiving you!

 

To M. LE BARON ALMAURY DE MAISTRE.

Easter Tuesday, 21st April, 1840.

Your letter, Monsieur, has given me too much pleasure
not to be acknowledged at once. JI was so uneasy! At
length, then, our dear Henriette is better, and it is she
herself who commissions you to tell me so! Amiable
friend! amiable you too, her secretary, to tell me this in
your own way, fraught with feeling, and interesting details,
which I devoured with all the eagerness of a keen appe-
tite, I was dying of hunger of Henriette ; her last letter
had left me in the greatest need of further tidings. What
surmises, visions, apprehensions since that sad note! Alas!
Monsieur, how much I love your wife! shave felt this
very painfully. The feeling lasts, but ‘tis much modified :
there is a great difference between loving in tears and
loving in hope. Thanks to you, tis this last I now ex-
perience. Yes, I hope everything from God, from your
care, and the present improvement. I do not know that
(as you suppose) my prayers have had anything to do
with this favourable change; but one thing is certain, I318 Letters of

implored the whole of heaven for her, poor dear sufferer |
and was full of hope. The good God is so good! He ts
Love omnipotent. What may we not then expect from
Him, even though our petitions be not always granted ?
But, then, do we always know what is best for us? Alas,
that better tidings from Les Coques must be blent with
such bad news from Saint-Martin and Nevers! ‘There are
special seasons of calamity for families; the whole of yours
is a hospital. I believed your mother with Henriette;
and there she was, all alone and suffering herself. No
doubt, it was anxiety which gave her those dreadful head-
aches. ‘Tell me of her, and her of me, I pray you, with-
out omitting either to mention me to that good M. de
Sainte-Marie, whom I pity much on account of his fever.
Alas! alas! how sad for you all to be thus ill and scat-
tered! Believe me, I too consider myself at far too great
a distance; believe that I would fain replace, or rather
second you in your care of Henriette. How full of anxiety
and distress I picture you! No doubt you must have
been terribly uneasy. At last the crisis is over! How I
shall yearn to hear further! But I will not have the dear
friend fatigue herself; m her weak condition the pen is
heavy. I shall content myself with a direction as now.
Tell her it was very kind to write it. She well. knows
what terror any other handwriting from Les Coques would
have caused me at this juncture.Eugénie de Guéerin.

 

To MADAME DE SAINTE-MARIE.

7th May, 18409.

It was only yesterday that I received your letter: that
letter of yours, my dear adopted mother, which gave me so

 

much pain and pleasure both. You say, Come, and I can-

ial Viele hk Gig) cymes
al ripanerec wen ea a

not come: notyet, atleast. ‘The nun has set out, and that
so suddenly that I found her gone when I went over to
see her and talk to her about my commissions, Always
there are hindrances, and more than are supposed ; for
you must not think ghat this was an obstacle to my

 

 

journey, or that travelling alone could terrify me. Were I
that all, you would soon see me in my dear Henriette’s Ne
arms. But alas! ’tis not enough to wish it; I feel this
too keenly just now, when a something stronger than 4a
myself keeps me back. Business, melancholy business,
absolutely necessitates the presence of the whole family
at Cayla. !

But I shall come by and bye, let us hope! God will "
not forsake us; God will reunite us after so many trials,
and we shall tell each other how we have borne and how
we have profited by them. ‘They are so many stepping-
stones towards heaven.

Adieu, you whom I can only call Mother. My whole
family desire to be remembered to you in the most |
affectionate manner. I embrace the dear little girls and i
their dear mamma. My best respects to M. de Sainte- |
Marie, whom I long to know to be well and with you all |

again. M. de Maistre will, no doubt, have received my| | 320 Letters of

  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

ti letter. I add nothing but my regards to-day. Always
| and very lovingly your daughter in heart.

 

To THE SAME,

 

an 31st Day, 1840.

i | il Shall I arrive at Coques, my poor afflicted ‘mother, in
time not to console but to embrace you, to clasp you
lovingly in my arms, to tell you, to vepeat to you, as you
say, that I have been painfully affected in reading the

 

account of my friend’s sufferings?* Oh! I knew only too
| well, from the absence of her handwriting, that there was
P| sad news inside. My God! how quickly I broke the
Wut seal to read, and how broken down I was myself by the
| reading! ‘Poor friend, within an inch of her end! And
what pain, anguish, terror, martyrdom for a whole week!
| I saw, felt, pitied, I hardly knew which most, the victim
ih or her mother. Is it indeed possible to say which was
WW the greatest sufferer? In short, you are fearfully tned,
iH and no doubt there was danger, and extreme danger, in
this unfortunate accident ; but you give hope ; you tell me,
my mother, that this misfortune may do good, that through
it our beloved invalid may be freed from a part of her
| complaint. May God listen to you and the doctors,

i whom I do not often hold to be true prophets.

But let us rely upon Providence, which acts by human
means—very painful ones, sometimes; but pain consti-
tutes one-half of all things under heaven. And after your

tears, throes, terrors, to see your daughter better and per-Lugénie de Guérin. 251

haps eventually cured, oh! is this not enough to make up
for all? enough to sing Ze Deum over, both for you and
me, and all who are interested in this dear Henriette ?
This idea, this dawning hope of health, filled me, as it
were, with joy—I, who no longer have any joy of my own.
Yes! call me your daughter: Iam so, my mother. I am
the sister of your Henriette. I cling to her as I do to no
one else, in a way that only God knows, and that comes
so close to my family affection that no one intervenes
between my dear relations and Henriette. Louise is also
dear to me, but in another way. Nothing so strong as
what is born in tears.

And you, and M. de Sainte-Marie and M. Adnen, all
of you, were round that bed of pain, and I was not!
Your heart noticed this, and led you to mention it to me
in a very touching manner. ’Tis balm poured on wounds
to be spoken to thus; to see myself, without knowing why,
so tenderly and truly loved by you and yours. How
much my father feels it! Accordingly, he said, after I
had read him your letter, “ This dear family ! I must make
a point of letting you return to them so soon as business
permits.”

God be thanked! God be praised for everything, and
for the mercy He shows us in the midst of afflictions!
Never did I know so sad an Easter in one respect, not
so blessed in another, in the matter of faith, life’s most
important matter, it 1s so full of benedictions for those
I love! How my Henriette comforts me! I foresaw so
many difficulties for her, so many material and spiritual

embarrassments at Coques, that I was very uneasy about
YD2 Letters of

her. But God has given her an Ananias, that Abbé of
Nevers, that holy, enlightened, and consoling young
priest, who came, like the angels in the Garden of Olives,
to sustain our Henriette in her agony. Poor friend! how
much good she derived from it, as is ever the case with
all who seek their support in God! and not only she, but
you also shared the benefit by enjoying it through her.
Happy they who, like you, my mother, and like M. de
Sainte-Marie, draw down blessings on their family. God
never fails, sooner or later, to grant their requests. This
is the only support adequate for the soul’s needs, and
then, as you say, everything counts for eternity. It is
with reference to this that we find written, ‘‘ Blessed are
they that mourn.”

I am much delighted with what you tell me of the little
girls. You will please to embrace them both on the part
of their second little mamma. And as for their sick
mamma, what am I to say to her? All that can proceed
from a heart full of sorrow and affeetion for her, and that
refers itself to yours.

Adieu, dear mamma! I am all your own, like another
Henriette. I have no room for all the affectionate
messages from my family to yours, and to yourself in
particular. ;

Let me soon hear, if you please. Thanks for the
flower of the Month of Mary: although faded, what a
perfume of Coques it brought me!Liugénie de Guerin.

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.
(Vo date.)

Since you are able to write me two or three words,
dear friend, you will also be able to read a few in answer
to your infinite kindness and the infinity of proofs of it
that you so frequently afford me. ‘Thanks! thanks, a
million times! I consider myself too unfortunate in not
being able to profit by them at once. But insurmount-
able difficulties detain me: nothing less than these over-
powering cables would suffice to prevent me from flying to
you, to that bed of suffering whence your sad and tender
voice cries, “Come! come!” Oh, how I wish I could,
with my papers and everything that could interest you!
We are expecting to hear from Paris; I shall press M.
Raynaud to hurry on this business: meanwhile I implore
you not to afflict yourself too much about a visit post-
poned. Everything arrives in the end, and especially
friends. And I, who was depending upon seeing you at
Cayla! Alas! how many disappointments !

Adieu! always adieu! nothing but adieu! But the
meeting will come, depend upon it, my dear. Do not
leave me without tidings. Iam very grateful to all who
write to me and to the hand that writes the address.

Yours ever.Letters of

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
St. Fohn’s Eve, 23rd Func, 1840.

Your precious missive has reached me, dear friend, by
a messenger who is going to return immediately. Wearied
as I am, I wish to give him these few lines of thanks for
your friendly interest, your search for my sake, amongst
melancholy documents.* Your letter—in short, every-
thing that comes from you—is dear to me, as usual. It
is well, my friend, to meet again, as you say, or rather
for you to come and rejoin me ; for you it was who were
lost to me, and for far too long! If I did not complain
then, or if you did not hear my complaints, ’tis that by
dint of suffering one grows accustomed to suffer. My
heart-sufferings are still very great, and at this moment
all revived by a sad but sacred occupation—the revision
of the letters and poems of that beloved one, for notices
which they ask me for in Paris. Therefore your parcel
could not have arrived more opportunely. Madame Sand
has written a very high-toned, very eloquent article ;+ but
it is incomplete and even inaccurate in a religious point
of view. Maurice is made to appear almost like a
Werther or a Byron, and some friends are anxious to
draw a truer and purer portrait of him : a homage this to
his Christian memory which we receive with profoundest
gratitude.

* Mdlle. de Bayne had been sending her friend the letters of
Maurice de Guérin found amidst her father’s papers.

+ Allusion is here made to the striking article published in the

‘Revue des Deux Mondes’ (May 15th, 1840), in which 7he Centaur
appeared.Liugénie de Guérin. 325

My dear friend, I am writing in too great a hurry to
tell you all to-day; but just two words: your return to
Rayssac and to the solitary Léontine rejoices me for her
sake and mine, as now that we are nearer I shall hope
to hear oftener from you. As to meeting, alas! ’tis the
finale of all prospects with me just now. Erembert will,
perhaps, go to the Waters; my sister-in-law will, perhaps,
be coming here; perhaps... . Oh! these perhaps!
there are so many of them, unfortunately, in my life and
on the way to Rayssac!

Thanks for your kind recollection of my Baroness.
Another letter !—alas! and a very sad one. Ihave had
afflicting tidings, fatal tidings almost, on account of a
little creature which chose to be prematurely born. This
terrible casualty overwhelmed my poor friend with pain
and depression. ‘It would have been a son,” she wrote
me word; “I had built so many hopes on his life!” It
is only the last week that I have begun to see her dear
handwriting again. I used to get bulletins of her health
from her mother or M. de Maistre.

You tell me nothing of yours. I imagine it at its
best on your return from that fine air of ‘Castres,
which so pleases and profits you. And now there is the
pretty little niece, who will turn Rayssac into a paradise.
for it will have an angel. Adieu, my dear one! May
you be very happy in this family happiness. My remem-
brances to your Marie, love to Léontine and to the
absent Countess. Pray for and love me; 1 have need

of both.Letters of

P.S.—You ought to have some other poems of Maurice’s:
The Storm and Sainte Pulchérie. Once more, thanks for
those you have sent.

Receive my father’s paternal affection. Of necessity,

adieu !

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.
8th Fuly, 1840.

Where are you? on land or sea? in bed or on a
journey? In what place, in short, that I cannot discover,
whence nothing comes to me from you, sweet frend?
This silence torments me; it is now more than a month
since you have written, and since then how much may
have happened! Misfortune strides on fast, especially
in your case. I am afraid you must be worse; for I so
earnestly implored you to write to me, my heart being
impatient and oppressed about you. ‘Terrible distance!
to see nothing and know nothing! Why are there not
telegraphs in the service of friendship? I should not
be now inquiring what can be going on at Les Coques.
Are you there? are you not there? All these questions
answered by fear! Wherever you may be, you must be
suffering, and suffering so much that you are unable to
tell me so. My friend, or whoever there may be about
you—if it were merely Antoinette

 

take pity on your
friend, who entreats for tidings. Let me have tidings

of you, of you. If you are at Chambon, you have surelyes ae
Eugénie de Guérin. 327)

some of your family with you there; M. de Maistre or
Madame de Sainte-Marie. I beg and entreat them to
write to me, to recollect your friend, who is ill in and
through you. Your last letter grieved meso! When I
believed you on the way to recovery, you tell me the
reverse. Poor friend! one would say that you have taken
a vow of perpetual suffering, of suffering or dying, like
ot. Theresa. But at least let me know it, in the name
of that intimate fellowship of ours in God and in every-
thing. My father, who is very fond of you and your
letters, was observing to me last night that your pleasant

}

‘“causerie”” was long in coming. From thence we went
on to discuss a little my not always reading your letters
aloud or only showing fragments of them ; for my father,
who delights in what is pretty, would like a share in all
you write. He pretends that a daughter ought to read
everything to her father, and that the contrary custom 1s
quite wrong. I, on the other hand, declare it is quite
right, justifying myself by that maxim of Fenelon, “ Be-
tween friends there is no secret but the secret of others :”
a sentence which at once makes your confidences excep-
tional, and your letters, which no one ever touches, sacred.
They, with those of Louise, are the only ones thus privi-
leged. That is why the subject got discussed, but so
pleasantly that it was rather talking about you than any-
thing else.

This would come under the head Friendship in that
journal you ask me for. Sut, my friend, I shall not
always have Sisters of Charity by whom to send you my
every day, and it would cost too much by the post. And|
}
)e
i
tf
te

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

328 Letters of

when I myself—a living, talking journal-—am with you,
what need shall we have of the other? But when will
this meeting be? I cannot yet fix it; you know how
slowly all business gets carried on. Nothing is further
advanced than when I wrote last. Since then I have
been sadly afraid of having to take another journey, much
less to my taste than the one to Coques. It is the lot of
almost all of us to have our life crossed to the very end.
Has yours been anything else than a, torrent of griefs ?
Oh, how often, my Henriette, I think of this, and how I
wish I could offer you some remedy! But, instead of
this, on account of your extreme sensitiveness, what you
receive from me only afflicts you, and this rends my
heart. I say to myself it might have been better that you
should not have known me, since I add to your suffer-
ings. But yet, my friend, do not let us part; let us place

 

the cross between us as a support to both—a strong sup-
port, I assure you: the only one that bears up all and
bears up ever. There is this of divine in religion,—it is
gentle to those who suffer.

What would you say if I told you nothing about a
publication that closely concerns us, one that Madame
Sand has just brought out at the recommendation of M.
Sainte-Beuve >—a publication that had given me some
pleasure, changed just now into bitterness, alas! like
everything else in the world. Not but that there is much
charm and grace in this notice, but it is spoiled by philo-
sophical views, and I am distressed by it and by the
noise it will, they tell us, make in party journals. Con-
tests such as these are little worthy of the occasion, andLugénie de Guérin. 329

very distasteful to us respecting a sacred memory, which,
moreover, never asked publicity. Perhaps you may have
seen something of this in the Gazefve and the Quotidienne,
which both mention it, we are told. What do we know
here in our desert ?

Adieu, very dear one! ‘What interests me above all is
to know what you are doing, where you are, whether you
love or forget me ? To forget—impossible! Then you are
ill: and of two such misfortunes which is one to choose?

Love and regards to all around you. I embrace the
little girls. Write! write! Eternally yours.

P.S.—Will you ever tell me a word of Sophie?* I forget
nothing and no one that-is dear to you. Whata good
effect the waters have had! May all your pains be
drowned in them! You will tell me that this would
require an ocean. If to-morrow you were to regain
strength to walk, I should be very happy to hear and still
more to see it. Oh, to see it!

 

To M. HIPPOLYTE DE LA MorvVonnals, Val de l’Arguenon.

19th Fuly (the day of his death), 1840.

God be praised, Monsieur! We have not then lost
you either by death or by forgetfulness, but your silence
had led me to fear and believe both the one and the
other. Else do you suppose I should not have written
you word of our sorrow? that I should have left it toa

* Mdlle. Sophie de Riviéres.i
i '
Hea |
it
i }
A
Va
Hane 4
i"
lf
ial
1B

 

330 Letters of

newspaper to apprize you of the loss of a friend? Alas !
no! More than once in my tears I thought of you, for I
knew you loved our poor Maurice; but no longer re-
ceiving any letters, any replies from you on any occasion,
I was forced to conclude you were no longer in the
world. When I was in Paris I saw Maurice announce
his marriage to you; but neither then nor ever after had
we a word from you! To whom at Val could I.then
announce his death? Your little girl is too young to ask
her for anything but kisses, to inquire from her, “‘ Where
is your father?”

And so you are still there, widowed, solitary, and sad.
God knows how I have desired consolation for you, the
sweet and powerful consolation of heaven: for there is
nothing else availing, nothing adequate to sustain the
soul. Oh! I feel, I see, I know this in my own case,
under crushing sorrow caused by the death of Maurice,
my beloved brother, my heart’s intimate friend. His loss
is irreparable: there is, as it were, a void within me that
God alone can fill. Formerly you used to speak to me
of prayer, and I prayed for you. Oh, pray for me now!
Pray for Maurice as I prayed for Marie and as I still
pray, for I have forgotten nothing.

My greatest consolation is derived from his pious
death, from sentiments of pristine faith expressed in
prayer and the reception of the Last Sacrament, as well
as in that last and ardent kiss given to the crucifix. I
reveal this to your friendship, to that Christian interest
that follows the soul into the other life. Let us hope—
hope that it is a very happy one to our Maurice. HisLiugénie de Guérin. 300

was such a beautiful spirit! Oh, God will surely have
opened His paradise to him: God, who is only love, will
have held this soul of Maurice dear. If you write a
memorial of him—the thought of which deeply affects
me—let it be impressed strongly with signs of faith, that
pure and Catholic faith in which he died. This is wanting
in the notice by Madame Sand, and the want has much
grieved me. It is true that she did not know my brother,
and only traced his portrait from scattered lineaments ;
but all of you, his friends—you who did know him—do
better than this, and remove, I pray you, from this Chris-
tian figure all philosophical and irreligious clouds whatever.
Will this funeral tribute appear in the Université Catholique,
of which, I am told, you are one of the editors? We
should be deeply interested in seeing it, and as a family
we offer you the expression of our profound gratitude.

I equally thank you for the two publications that you
have been good enough to send me, but which I have
not received. Madame de Guérin will, I am sure, be
much touched by this tribute. Send her, Monsieur, the
Thébaide des Gréeves,—fall as it is of Maurice, whom she
still mourns. ‘You are right in believing that the wife he
chose must be a remarkable woman. She is indeed an
interesting creature as to beauty, endowments, and virtues
—a charming Eve, come from the East for a paradise of
a few days. Death parted them at the end of eight
months. No child is left. This young woman was an
Indian, brought up at Calcutta,—who came to Paris three
yearsago. She is still there, in the same house where I saw
her so happy, for, as I have already told you, I was ati the marriage. I remained eight months in Paris, and we
ay returned hither last July with our dying Maurice. His
widow left us soon after, but she writes to us. I have no
doubt that your book and your visit both will give her
Hi great pleasure. You will find this dear sister at 36, Rue
| du Cherche-Midi.
And now let me embrace your dear little Marie: that
| child whom Maurice used to kiss and fondle in her cradle
Hi and on her mothers knees. Alas! alas! how much
| | | sorrow has come since then! ‘The groundwork of life is
ii all black and very sad; but God wills it thus, in order
that we may look up to heaven.
Adieu, Monsieur! receive once more the assurance of
feelings which have been necessarily silent, but have in
no way changed,

 

i Mi To THE SAME.

HF | Cayla, 644 August, 1840.

| I have just received your two poetical communications,
and now that I have looked over and partly read them I
feel a thousand grateful acknowledgments that want to
get themselves expressed; but what words can convey
the speech of the heart? Hence, monsieur, I can only
bless you. I bless God for your inspiration, and you too
for having allowed me to enjoy it. It is very good and
amiable to pass on to others whatever one possesses of
sweet and soothing, and I owe you both pleasure and
profit. In my hours of sadness I shall read you like a bookEugénie de Guerin. 330

of prayers, for your strains are full of God. With what
a melancholy pleasure I contemplate this Zhebazd, filled
with celestial objects, with so many memories of Marie the
mother, Marie the child, and of my much-loved Maurice :
alas! almost all of them in heaven now who once
were there! Thus it is that everything passes! thus fade
away from this world those lives that made its happiness !
Hence we can only bear to look up to heaven, where we
recover them, where we know them to be with God.

The death of friends detaches the heart from all
below, and makes us comprehend the need of an im-
mortal affection, the necessity of loving God, the Fnend
who never dies. I am very sure that your soul becomes
more and more religious since you are more and more
alone, widowed and afflicted. Time only deepens grief,
I fancy, at Val, as in other abodes of mourning. But
courage! As we used to say formerly, ‘“‘ Courage and
faith !”—these two strong supports of man. With them
we do not, indeed, suffer less, but we suffer as Christians,
in union with Jesus in His agony of sorrow even unto
death—Jesus who entered heaven through Calvary. I
know nothing more sustaining than the cross. One is
comforted to see it planted in your Thebaid, and watered
by prayers and tears. Your little Marie is the angel of
that chapel: pious child, full of the love of God and her
mother. It is thus you bring her up, no doubt ; and your
daughter will be your most pure and celestial poetry,
your crown of glory before God. Unfortunately, we have
no child at Cayla, and in this our desert is still sadder
than yours. My eldest brother is not yet married, and334 Letters of

the other is wholly dead. ‘Thus divine Providence has
willed it. It is afflicting, but the bright side of things is
the one we do not see in this world, but for all that it
exists.

Adieu, Monsieur! and once more permit the expres-
sion of a gratitude less expressed than felt. What can I
give you in return for your touching gift? Will you
accept a lock of Maurice’s hair? ‘The sister of your friend
has nothing more precious to offer.

 

To M. LE BARON A. DE MAISTRE.,

31st August, 1840.

Alas! Monsieur, how much I thank you for your letter,
and how much it gneves me! Poor friend, in what a
state you paint her forme! She must be very ill, not to
write to me herself, for she knows how sad any other
handwriting on these bulletins makes me; but continue, I
pray you, continue to send me them ; you will thus gratify
my tenderest interest, and you minister to it so well!
Your letters are dated from her bedside; through you I
have all the pangs of our dear sufferer sent me from the
fountain-head—all at least that can be witnessed of them
transmitted to me,—and I deeply value this mournful
satisfaction. I live in what I suffer. When, then, shall
we see some assuagement to her trials? May God be
our helper! I hope much more from Him than from
human aids and appliances: those of science are enough
to terrify one. What a state she has been plunged intoLeugénie de Guérin. 335

by so many doctors, and latterly by that fatal M. ——!
I say fatal and doubly fatal, for he seems to have been
imposed upon our dear invalid by ill luck. You were all
unanimously against her in this matter, as I should pro-
bably have been had I found myself amongst you. There
is regret enough, I assure you! she reproaches herself as
well as you for having wished to do right. To deceive
oneself or to be deceived is sometimes terrible.

I do not tell you how I participate in this fresh mis-
fortune: a friendship like ours has no need to speak.
Why cannot I act in reality and in person, as I do in
sympathy and heart ?—that mwrsing heart of mine, which
nevertheless cannot divide with you the care of our-nvalid.
But I have a hope, a possibility of travelling to you.
Repeat this to our Henriette, for I have already told it
her. May this hope be sweet to her! may our meeting
bring her the pure pleasure that God has attached to
friendship! Poor friend! tell her I shall not scold her.
I have been rather severe lately, but I love her so much
that I tell her everything—perhaps too much so—that
occurs to me about her. Just then I had a grudge
against her imagination, *hat mad member of the house-
hold, as St. Theresa has it. But I see that it is not
merely her imagination that runs mad, and that she really
has frantic and too real pains, alas!

When is the Lyons pilgrimage to take place? I long
to know that she has set off: first of all, because that
will prove her better, and also because I hope better
results from this journey than from medical treatment.
Send me word always of what is doing and to be done,

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
     

 

Eg ae eS336 Letters of

I answer you immediately, that I may the sooner have
tidings, which, nevertheless, will be a full fortnight on
their way. ‘This is long for one who waits patiently for
patience. Here we, like you, are broiling beneath the
most fiery heat the skies ever sent down. However, our
healths keep up. I am going to take great care of mine,
now I have this prospect of travelling. May God pre-
serve us all. I commit affections and afflictions to Him.
Tell me soon that she is better. Tell her I love her,
Tell her I would fain cure her; tell her I would do im-
possibilities for her; tell her that I embrace her, all that
is her, soul and body, the other and the animal,—a pretty
animal, indeed, and more to my taste than any spirit in
the world. Very cordially yours.

 

 

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.

4th September, 1840.
Would it be disturbing you, my friend, to present you
with a token of loving and constant remembrance—
a remembrance of long date and always full of trust,
like those old friends who return again and again to
visit you? I cannot forget your love or your heart,
and, whatever the silence within, I shall knock outside:
my little knocks will surely make themselves heard. You
will answer me, Louise, at last ; very tardily,—but never
mind.
I do not fancy that you are away from home, as I know
that Gabrielle de Paulo is gone to see you. I should like toEugénte de Guérin. 337

have done so too, for you know whether or not I love the
mountains, but so many things keep me back. I have
told you some of them. Since then we have been ex-
pecting Caroline, who now informs us by Charles de
Thézac that she will not come; but, however, I have
written to her all the same for a final decision, knowing
that plans may change when they depend upon health or
other varying circumstances. Hence I do not yet despair
of seeing this poor sister again, and I cannot leave when
she comes, or till I know something definite. This of
itself would prevent my paying any rather long visit, such
as one to Rayssac would be; for you may-well imagine
I should not come to you merely for two or three days.
Have we not so much to say to each other, so much of
the past to recover?

My friend, this will get done some day, when I can,
when God vouchsafes to bring us once more together on
earth. Meanwhile I should like to know something of
what you are doing, whether you did write me that’an-
nounced letter which never arrived. For several months
past I have heard nothing of you. I have received
nothing since that most interesting packet full of Maurice’s
I instantly sat down to thank you for it, butt
choose my messengers very ill, since they never bring me
back an answer. I am vexed with them for it. I love
all that you would send me of loving and pleasant, which
I listen to in spirit. I must no longer hear it in words,—
‘fice added to others, alas! that you lay upon me.
news, I have to tell you that Marie, my
t of returning from Montauban,

Z

things.

a Sacr
By way of
sister, is on the poin

 

a a ‘ fo328

 

Letters of

whither Gabrielle* carried her off. We expect her to-
morrow. JI am impatient to see her again, although [I
have Euphrasie Mathieu here to relieve my solitude.
Madame de Tonnac is much better; Charles is arrived
from Paris, this is all I know of Gaillac.

Adieu, my dear silent one! I love you always and
embrace you as usual. Keep, keep as long as you can
the good and loveable Gabrielle,t who gives you so much
pleasure. See, I always wish you happiness.

My best love to your sisters far and near, and believe
me all your own.

To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.

Cabanes, near Cordes, 26¢h September, 1840.

Friend! friend! your life on earth is then to be nothing
but a perpetual conflict, an endless trial! Oh, I believe
it, I feel it! but, without going on with this Job’s lament
—which is only too well stiited to your case—I have to
reply to your letter—dear letter, so long expected! How
I yearned to see your handwriting again. I had had
lugubrious dreams, which, added to what I knew and
what I did not know, alarmed me. Thank God! you
live, you love me! What more do I need ?—more, that
is, just now? for I do not limit myself to this alone for
you or myself. Alas! we need so many things besides,
and I, for my part, shall only cease to wish when you
cease to suffer.

* Mdlle. Gabrielle de Bellerive, cousin of E. de Guérin.
+ Mdlle. Gabrielle de Paulo, now Mme. de Labroquére.Eugénie de Guerin. 339

My dear friend—my dear other self, so near and dear
are you to me—you seem to me better. Your letter
has been a balm to me, so much was I suffering
mentally through you. The last tidings of you were
so heart-breaking !—I allude to M. de Maistre’s bulletin
—a detail of agony. On arriving at Cordes, where I
still am, I recommended you to the prayers of a holy
priest, the Abbé de Rivitres, whose very name should do
you good. God knows how much benefit I expect you
to derive from his influence with God, from his Satur-
day’s mass !

My poor friend, this shall not be a sermon. [am dis-
tressed to have been a source of something like bitter-
ness, and I ask myself how it could be—I who would
only be sweetness to you? Butif I failed in this, pardon
me; ‘twas that I was speaking to the disease, not to the
sufferer—to that disease which I saw torture, destroy you
so atrociously. And then, my friend... . But no, ]
will say no more on that head. You suffer, I suffer ; that
is all. This powerlessness, this new form of pain, oh,
how I share it, believe this, my friend. I should wish
really to suffer what those I love are suffering.

This entirely human sentiment helps me to understand
in a2 measure why God. took our eriefs on Himself. It
was because He loved us, and willed to be as one of
us. Oh, how I recommend you to His divine tender-
ness! You will experience it, you will suffer less ; you
will be consoled, I hope, by a hope which is not like so
many others, all of which, as you truly say, get annihi-

d. Life is nothing but a deception—except, indeed,
Za

lateLetters of

that portion of it which leans on faith. I see this more
as I advance; hence this train of thought, too grave,
perhaps, for a poor invalid, whom I would fain divert
from her pains. My friend, can it be that I have poured
you out all my honey, and can now only prove an empty
vase? Oh, no! no! As muchas I desire to be of some
use to you, so much do I dread not being so, and, never-
theless, I feel my heart full of tenderness for you. Are
you content with it ? ifso, Iam contented too. Come back
to me soon, to tell me of that poor dear health of yours.
they have killed you. Did I not write word that the
doctors were killing you? And now another of them!
May he repair the mischief done, and cure you, at all
events, of some one ailment, and he will be dear to me
as the apple of my eye. Send me information on this
point at once, I am impatient for it.

It is strange, too, that I should not have touched on
that hope about my journey I wanted to impart to you,
and in which you will come to believe one of these days,
my dear unbeliever. You are, as always, too kind to your
poor friend on this subject. You say things that are enough
to make me take flight at once, in order to fall into arms
that give such tender embraces, Why am I not in them
already ? We have discussed this journey a good deal in
the family conclave: my father is going to write you a
few lines about it—my kind father, who bids me tell you
that he loves you very warmly, and greatly regrets his
small chance of ever becoming acquainted with you. Zhat
poor young woman, I shall never see her so long as Lt live!

He would, if he could, accompany me: this would be anEtugénwe de Guérin. 341

inexpressible pleasure to him, but his health alone, were

4
iieiatintipastaiaeas eT eT Soe ge nl ie :
Lexar ts .
mee

it only that, precludes from such a journey, and there are
many other obstacles. Hence I should come alone: but i
it has been pointed out to me that you may probably

be going this winter to Paris. Tell me, my friend, what

do you wish to do? Will you stay or go? Shall it be

Les Coques, or elsewhere? J am ready to follow you

everywhere, but I should not like to be a travelling

encumbrance. ‘Talk this over with your mother. I

should like to know that she was with you. Write to

her poor mother, she will be so delighted to see some-

thing in your hand. Send her word that you are ex-

pecting me; oh! how I regret being unable to say, “I

am setting off.” Why are not events as prompt as hearts ?

Why are there always so many things to be considered ? | |
Why? All these whys would never come to an end. 4
Shall we at length exhaust all those that separate us?
Try, see, arrange. On my side I have nothing to in- ie
fluence me but my devoted attachment. Unfortunately,
though, everything does not depend upon that.

This will not suit your notions. This will seem to you Me
an excuse. Oh! nothing of the kind, believe me. Iam
unfortunate. I give you pain. ‘There is some comfort, «
however: it is to know you are looking well, hardly at all
thinned. What delight! I had been picturing to myself
thinness and hollow cheeks like mine, and that saddened
me. I like all my friends to be prettier thanl.....

 

 

 

Cayla.

Here are three great, large pages: three fatigues, per-342 Letters of

haps, for your delicate eyes. Oh! tell me too about
those eyes, it is so long since I have heard anything about
them. Are they less spared? Erembert has seen how
much interested you are, now and always, in his health,
and prays you to accept his most ardent wishes for
yours. I must now finish this medley, begun yesterday
at Cabanes but written everywhere alike under the in-
spiration of the heart, my familiar—which is quite as good
as the demon of Socrates—Papa takes the pen out of my
hand.

After all that has just been said to you by my angel, my
Lugénie, my second self, and much more,—what remains
jor me to say, madame? TL will also say my very dear and
excellent friend, if you do not consider the expression too
familiar. But however that may be, and though I would
on no account aisplease you (which can hardly be the case
since L know you appreciate genuine feeling), I will tell
you that L£ love you, both you and yours; and in proof
of this assertion I consent, so soon as it is possible, to let
you have my Eugénie, without whom IL am but a poor
creature, however great the support I find in her sister and
Lirembert. Why cannot L accompany her, to tell you much
more than Lf write, to see, and Rnow.you? This is what I
dare not hope, unless you can come and visit your friends at
Cayla.

DE GUERIN.

Again I, always I who follow you like your shadow,
my inseparable. Pray, say many affectionate things to
M. de Maistre, so good, so excellent to you that I mustEugénue de Guérin. 343

needs love him were it only for that! The paper fails me
here ; no room for all I feel.

 

To THE SAME.

My kind, dear friend, I am packing up; and knowing
the pleasure you would have in seeing me do so, I write
you word of it. Can I too soon give you the assurance
that at last we are about to meet again? Dear meeting!
has it not been delayed, hindered, like everything in the
world that has any semblance of happiness? But at
length I am setting off. God brings me back to you, my
perfect friend—back to your sufferings, to soothe them if
I am able, to associate myself with them in that intimate
and present way which makes them half one’s own. Oh,
my friend, how this thought consoles, supports me in
thinking of my departure! It will be on Monday the
16th that we shall reach Toulouse; Erembert accom-
panies me so far, my cousin not being ready for the
journey. I shall wait no longer for any one. I suffer
too much from your suspense. I realise too much your
palpitations at the opening of every door. I know all, I
know to what an incredible degree you love me. How
happy should I be if you did not suffer so much from it,
poor friend, in whom everything turns to sorrow! Iam
coing to pray God that those pains may be eased, that
your heart may grow calm, your face animated, that
I may find you better, as you lead me to hope, as344 Letters of
I so ardently desire. You know how bent I am on
miracles.

The letters of M.-de Maistre and Madame Sainte-
Marie have done nothing but increase my depression
about your health: no progress, nothing about you that
is not heartbreaking. My friend, how shall I find you?
This is what I shall keep thinking of the whole way.
Never did any interview so completely occupy a heart.
Once away from here, I declare to you that no place
will have any charms for me nor be able to detain me.
Nevers! Nevers! will be my only goal, my only aspira-
tion: just as the Crusaders used to cry, ‘‘ Holy Land!
Holy Land!” Adieu! you will soon welcome your pil-
grim. I embrace and quit, without quitting you.

 

To THE SAME.
Toulouse, 19¢2 Movember, 1840.

Your friend, my friend, is galloping on. Here I am at
Toulouse, and now about to set off again. I write, as I
promised to do; but I do not yet know the morning or
evening of my arrival at Nevers. I shall inform myself
on this head, if possible, at the diligence-office. All that
I do know is, that at Chateauroux I shall change into
another diligence, and from that into yet another at
Bourges, which last will take me to Nevers. All these
changes will occasion some delay, but at last I shall get
to you, as I believe, on Saturday. We have been a dayLugénie de Guérin. 345

here, exploring the city, visiting the museum and the
antiquities of the place. A charming town this Toulouse
of ours, our Troubadour town.

But adieu, very dear one! I cannot discourse longer.
I write standing up, my hand on the icy marble slab of a
commode: anything serves for desk and leaning place
to travellers. I have just come from La Dalbade, a
church two steps from hence, in which I’ remembered
you.

In every place all your own.

P.S.—It will be Friday evening that we shall reach
Chateauroux ; there we sleep, and from thence to La
Charité, where I shall take the Clermont conveyance.
My itinerary being traced, adieu once again, and off I
set. My respects to your family.

The weather is radiant; the sun will, I think, be my
pleasantest travelling companion.

Erembert, who is here, presents his homage.

 

To M. HIPPOLYTE DE LA MORVONNAIS.
Nevers, étel Sainte-Marie, 4th December, 1840.
It is by the bedside of a gentle sufferer, of another dear
Marie, that I reply to your most kind and touching letter,
which reached me at the moment of setting out, in the
midst of the cares and anxieties of a parting; but I did
not part with it, nor with anything that had reached me
at Cayla. Wherever it may go, the heart carries with it

   
 
   
   
  
  
   
  
 
   
 
   
  
 
 
 
  
 
 

aaa icc es a eshoas Ree ire ee

Pe, Retain

SB ie aries Blea pi6le SK 5*246 Letters of

what it loves, and lives on its own stores. I feed on
memories, books, on that remnant of the past in which you
so largely share. What you now add affects me no less
than its forerunners, and I shall never be able adequately
to express the feelings excited by each new notice of
Maurice. I even prefer your article im the Université
Catholique to anything that has yet appeared: doubtless
because it corresponds with my own ideas and to what is
due in a Christian sense to that beloved memory. Art
had already made our Maurice very beautiful, but the
heavenly side was wanting. Madame Sand could not
attain to that, however exalted her intellect, because she
lacked the wings of faith. For you, poet and Christian
friend both, this task was reserved, and you have ac-
complished it perfectly. You speak so well on sacred
subjects !

I garner in my heart your beautiful poem,* those celes-
tial aspirations, those songs on tombs, which make one
weep, but make one hope also. It is thus you will sing of
our Maurice, and we will bless you—we who love him as
angels are loved—I, his sister, and she, his friend, that
Marie of whom I spoke just now, who like yours, only
somewhat later, received and comforted him in days of
misfortune ; amiable as she is to all the world, and to him
a source of happiness, which now reverts to me, but alas!
in tears: for my friend is a martyr, her life but one long
agony. Iam come here to see and seek to soothe her,
to love her near at hand. How sadly sweet my post
beside her, my dear and loveable invalid! In speaking

* Tq Thébaide des Greves.Liugénte de Guérin. 347

to her of Brittany I have told her of Val, which she
sightly knew, and of your poems, which she did not
know. She has been charmed with them, and this, Mon-
sieur, is true praise, believe me. Never could a finer
intellect admire yours, never could a woman’s voice
discuss a poet better... .. But of all your poems the
one she heard with most pleasure was The Voice of the
Wend—most beautiful mdeed, to be ranked with the
loftiest hymns of Lamartine, if poets allow of compari-
sons, but we may compare glones. Madame de Maistre
charges me to transmit to you her admiration as an artist
and her thanks as a friend, both of which have been
called forth by your poems and your papers on Maurice.

I have heard nothing as yet of your communications
to Madame Sand. ‘This subject remains a mystery to
me, but I know some one who plans publishing all that
remains of Maurice. You tell me that you possess some
of the sweetest expressions of his remarkable talent, and
this delights me. We shall have many beautiful things. If
these last may be seen, will you entrust them tome? This
is, perhaps, asking a great deal; I feel the secrecy of your
intimate correspondence, but mine would be the only eyes
to look into it, and there was no great distance between
the brother and sister, you know. Nevertheless, I do not
desire the impossible and refer it entirely to you.

Perhaps my sister-in-law has now returned to Paris, and
will have found your parcel there. She has said nothing
about it to me. With much superiority of every kind, it
is possible that, owing to difference of nature, she may

not enjoy your works as we do.

  
 
  
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

 

ited Gpapbiretanione "5.2 2Shae Letters of

i) 3
| Adieu! although we plan going to Paris this winter I
ae shall hope to receive what I ask you for here, and in any
ant | case one of your letters. I embrace our little Marie, and
ai am always and everywhere your devoted friend.

eee To MADAME LA BARONNE DE MAISTRE.
Hi Saint Martin, /viday, 17th December, 1840.

Dear friend, here I am far from you, but near in heart!

 

Hii Souls never part. You have experienced this, and I want
an. | | to prove it to you again. Unfortunately, it will not be at
tt any length this time; the bearer is waiting, and I, who
et did not expect him, write these few words in haste to add
| them to those our mother is writing you. IJ may well say
| our, for she has welcomed and embraced and treated me
Vi as her daughter’s sister. We have talked of you a great
deal, and shall not cease to do so while we are together,
then when we are with you we shall talk on all the same.
i Titine is charming and enchanted.

Your mother’s letter is gone without waiting for mine,
for which I am glad and sorry both. ‘The bit written
to-day goes for nothing, indeed, but to-morrow I shall
send a budget. I shall tell you everything that occurs, my
very dear one. In the first place, know that this morning
it snows, which clothes Saint Martin with a fine white robe,
by no means unbecoming. It changes the melancholy,
barren aspect of the country in winter. The snow, and
the trees which fling their great black arms across the
whiteness, form a contrast that I much like.Lugénie de Guérin.

A transition! I pass from the white snow to the white

sheets that cover my poor invalid’s bed. . . . . That sad
bed that never changes: I have very often approached it
since I went away. Each evening I embrace you ; each
morning I say to myself, “Has she had any sleep?”
Oh! how one feels the want of a spiritual messenger in
the heart’s service! I learned, on my way from Cayla,
that it was a lover parted from the one he loved who
had invented the telegraph, as I had always thought.
There are things one guesses when one has not found
them. Why cannot I, too, find something? It should
neither be gold nor silver (though this is an urgent
want, too), but a thing most precious to you and me:
that which made a king exclaim, “ Alas! without health
what care I for a kingdom?” Am TI not to have some
tidings of that dear health which you have not got? A
word about yourself, please. ’Tis too long to be kept a
week in ignorance. ‘The bell is ringing for breakfast!
Tiresome bell! which obliges me to put down my pen.
No one has come here as yet, and, indeed, who is
there that thinks of travelling just now unless it be the
crows? And yet this morning, soon after daybreak, I
heard under my window a little song of a little bird,
which pleased me. I was sorry not to be a musician to
note down this music amidst snow, and to take back with

a place which tells me so

 

me a voice from Saint: Martin
Your home, your Cayla, your solitude, where i
My friend, I see more

much !
am so surprised to find myself!
snd more that God has given us to each other.
father and mother are infinitely kind to their daughter’s

Your350 Letters of

friend, and I am deeply sensible of it. All that is wanting
is to be here with you. We shall soon be together again,
| hope.

The little a are too happy: they never cease
lay

o, This morning they were chirping

laughing and playing.

away like larks on a. snow. It required a prohibition

from grandpapa to prevent a cold being caught.

To M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.

Nevers, 1372 January, 1841.

First of all, monsieur, let me thank you for your letter,
which would have been a great pleasure to me but for
the news it brought. You have beenill! Alas! I have
seen so much suffering, I still see so much, that I should
have learnt to sympathise, even if compassion were not
natural. This feeling, however, is inherent from our
birth, like so many others that God gives us, and when
we exercise them it seems as though it was then they
first came. I pity you as much as a poor solitary suf-
ferer can be pitied, and, if wishes could confer health,
you would already have recovered yours. ‘The state
of my sweet friend has made me very uneasy for the
last three weeks, and though there is some improve-
ment, it is still so far from being satisfactory that we are
not yet free from alarm. I tell you this in return for
the kind interest with yetch Madame la Baronne de
Maistre S
with equal cordiality, buf which can ollie express itself

                                                   

dLiugéne de Guérin. 351

through me. That correspondence you appear to desire
—and which could not have been refused to so gentle an
entreaty—that correspondence, alas! is an impossibility
to the feeble hand which for more than three months has
never been raised from a bed of pain. ‘Tell M. de La
Morvonnais,” my amiable invalid said to me, “that I shall
receive with much pleasure whatever he is good enough
to send me; but that as to writing to him, I can hold
no correspondence in my present state except with
heaven.” ‘These are her own words, too sadly true.

And yet, in spite of all, she feels herself equal to going
to Paris. The change of air, we hope, will do her good.
With my watch over this dear friend I shall combine
watching over our dear publication, and give you all

information as to its progress. JI accept the share you

 

wish to take in it—a tribute of affection, of which I can
never have too many like yours offered to that beloved

Maurice. JI am very sorry for what you tell me on this

 

head of Madame If I read aright, she proceeds

against you! Unhappy misled spirit! Alas! how much
one pities this woman who came forth so gifted from
God’s hands! What a painful admiration she inspires!
She seems, moreover, to have thrown herself now into
politics of an abominable kind. Thus deep calls unto
deep, and this is what comes of forsaking the faith. O
let us hold fast to it! we, poor human beings, let us hold
to the sure anchor! It breaks my heart that there should
be so many lost souls; [ seem to see an ocean covered
with dismasted, sailless ships, with leaks sprung in all
'Tis thus the world appears to me:

ae

parts of them.Letters of

HW enough to make one say, “ Happy they who have left
| | it; who on some fair day landed on the heavenly shore !”
i | ) If you, in your depression, picture to yourself a lovely
Hi country with a sweet friend, and find consolation in so
ny doing, so much at least we may always possess in our
Ran guardian angel, that celestial friend: a somewhat spiritual
HAE | consolation, if you will, but is not this best? Alas! others

 

i 1 are so often imperfect.

yl Hi At last M. Quemper is returned from America. He
1 little knows how I have been calling out for him in order
ay ail to ask him for that dear, precious green manuscript book.
at Wi I hope we shall see both the book and M. Quemper in
matt | Paris. You might also give him the manuscripts you
Pitt promise to send me, or else (if they have not already set
out) have the goodness to address the whole to M.
Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly, Hotel de Neustrie, 9, Rue Port
Mahon. He is the friend who undertakes the publica-
tion. I much fear our short stay at Nevers would hardly

 

give us time to receive your papers, and therefore I hasten
i C to write to you in a hurried moment and wish you an
ih abrupt Good-bye, that I may not lose the post.

I shall try, when in Paris, to procure / Université

Catholique, which will interest me for its own sake.

To M. DE GUERIN, Cayla.
Nevers, 18¢2 Fanuary, 1841.

Saint Petersbourg, Odessa, Pera, Milan, Rome, the Isle
of France, and other places,—all this I have seen sinceEugénwe de Guérin. 353

the departure of my last journal. I begin this one on my
return from a voyage round the world that I have just
been making on the ducal ‘ Place’ of Nevers at the Lemple
@’LHuston—an illusion so perfect that one really does get
a sight of the places and objects represented in their own
natural size and colours. Accordingly, I am now ac-
quainted with Russia, its pale sky and’ snow-covered
ground, its sledges and reindeer, as well as with the fiery
soil of Africa. With what interest I contemplated I’Isle
de France, and that Port Louis, so full of memories for us!
and then Milan, where there was a different kind of in-
terest in that magnificent cathedral, of which Papa has
told us, and which was exactly as he saw it, with the
shrine of San Carlo Borromeo on the high altar. But
nothing came up to St. Peter’s in Rome, represented
at the time of the Pope’s consecration. One never
wearied of gazing at it, and fancying oneself amidst the
cardinals at the foot of the pontifical throne. Poor
hermits of Cayla, what were you doing at the time? At
every moment, in every place, I find myself reverting

to you.

19¢2.—I have just been paying my farewell visit to
that pious Breton priest of whom I have told you, and
taking him back quantities of books that he had lent me.
He is the kindest man in the world, one who would give
his life’s blood to serve and save a fellow-creature. We
had a long conversation, all about our invalid, in whom
he takes an indescribable interest, something akin to the
2A354 Letters of

ineffable tenderness of the Saviour for the afflicted. We
set out the day after to-morrow.

Sunday, 24th (Paris).—Perhaps you are returning from
vespers at Andillac; perhaps on your way you are think-
ing of Paris and your absent one, who also on her way
was thinking of you as she returned from stately St. Roch.
Alas! yes; I thought of my own place in this place so
distant from mine; of all of you, from whom I am re-
moved so far by a singular fate. It seems like a dream
to find myself once more in Paris. Poor Paris! In
crossing a bridge on arriving, I saw Caroline ; but without
being able to speak to her. I shall go and see her one
of these fine days. Her aunt is in a very suffering state.
Meanwhile I have written to her.

When shall I have news from Cayla? Ever since I
have been here, I begin each day and night with this
intense longing. It includes you all, my dear Papa, my
dear Mimin, my dear Eran. Affections accompany the
heart, go where it will, and nothing can divert me from
constant thought of you all, especially as it will soon be a
month since I have had letters from you. Happily, how-
ever, Auguste tells me he has heard lately, which some-
what comforts me. Perhaps you have written to me at
Nevers ; and, although I left my address, the letters may
possibly be delayed or get lost. At all events, write to
give me pleasure, if not to relieve me from anxiety.

I should already have finished my letter, but that I
wait to see Caroline, that I may tell you about her. To:Lugénie de Guérin. 355

morrow, at latest, I shall post this, which will perhaps
cross yours; for you cannot be long without writing to
me, can you, my dear Papa? you, who think so much of
your daughter while others enjoy her, according to the
expression of Louise, who knows your tenderness well.
That dear Louise! you will be having a letter from her.
She promised me this, and quite of-her own accord: for I
don’t go begging favours, which are sure to come to you
naturally. But I am glad of it, knowing how pleasant
her correspondence is, and that you have not very often
pleasant things coming to you, my poor recluses.

Not having been able to go and see Caroline after all,
I throw my letter into the post without further waiting.
Cadars, who has just written, does not say a word of
Cayla or any of you; can it be that he has not seen you
then? Can any of you be ill? I torment myself with
conjectures, and hasten to write them down on returning
this evening to my little solitary room—solitary, though
surrounded by people, and lit all night by neighbouring
lights. From time to time I look out, and see pretty
things to describe : for instance, some one who is reading
behind a white curtain, and only shows her book and her
hand; but I am not in the vein to write anymore. Adieu!
I am going to bed, after praying God that no misfortune
may have happened to you.Letters of

To MpLLE. MARIE DE GUERIN.
Paris, 1642 February, 1841.

Nothing could come quicker than your letter this time,
posted only three days ago. The interval is so short
that the paper still retains all the perfume of Cayla.
Thanks, my dear, for having, in the midst of your occu-
pations, found leisure to write me so many details of
your feelings and of our country both. I imagine you
quite overdone, unable even to go to mass the following
morning.

At that same hour I was at St. Roch, listening to M.
YAbbé Cceur, who gave us a fine discourse upon waiting
for Jesus Christ. Oh! there is no lack of sermons in
Paris ; nor indeed of anything for all needs and all tastes,
whether of earth or heaven. If only we might enjoy
health! I allude to our dear invalid, who continues in
very much the same state. Your good wishes and love
are always acceptable to her, and she responds to them
with all her heart.° We very often speak of my sister
Mary, my dear JZimi. This last appellation, anti-Parisian
as it is, made her laugh.

But let us come back to Cayla and your letter, line
by line. Is Paul* come? Is Papa gone to Alby? <Aze
the disturbances in the commune quelled? Interesting
matters all. I should especially rejoice to hear that these
eternal electoral debates had come to an end: I fear tha
they will make Papa ill. Last night I dreamed of dis-

* M,. Paul Mathieu, judge of the Civil Tribunal at Albi.Eugénie de Guérin. 357

asters, not political but physical ones: of inundations
like those at Lyons, of a sea rolling mountains high, and
nevertheless I saw you saved. O power of the imagina-
tion! It was the narrative of the floods which recurred
to me in my sleep, amalgamated, in dramatic fashion,
with—I know not why—recollections of Cayla, although
generally that dear train of thought is carried on very
naturally and very sweetly.

Now, then, I am at ease about your letters. The one
from Nevers is come at last ; I answered it immediately by
a private hand to Toulouse, and wrote at the same time
to Elise and to Antoinette. J do not wish to neglect any
one, and consequently I have a great deal to get through
in the way of correspondence. One of these last days
I wrote to M. Lacordaire, whom my dear invalid wished
to see. We expect him this afternoon. I have already
heard him at Notre Dame: he is admirable. Unfor-
tunately, I could not catch all he said, for we were very
ill placed, although M. de Maistre and I went there three
hours before the service began.

I should like to do something for our church. But
for that I need the help of the good General. No one
has heard anything of him for the last six months, not
even Caroline. ‘The rest of our acquaintance are well:
I want to see them all. One of these days I shall write
word to M. Augier to come and take me out to Mont-
rouge, to embrace little Billy.

Of all our cousins Paul is the most cordial : I wrote
in his envelope to Gabrielle. Cadars, you tell me, 19Letters of

bringing me a letter from Marie. ‘This poor Marie prin-
cipally occupies me. JI am very glad that you should
have passed some days at Gaillac, where they are so fond
of you. Those Thézacs are so kind! That mznet has
been given you most opportunely for your cold experi-
ences on the Andillac road, if you have had the same
cold we have. Adieu, my dear Mimin! for every one of
your lines I give youa kiss.

And you, my dear Papa, what shall I do to you?
What shall I say to you, in return for all of tender affec-
tion I receive from you, both for myself and those who
love me. ‘This dear friend is most grateful, and never
speaks of you except as that good AZ. de Guérin that she
always so much wants to know.

Since I began this letter M. Lacordaire has been here
in his Dominican garb, which suits his ascetic, humble,
and inspired face to perfection. I know nothing com-
parable to his expression, radiant with intellect ; but the
most beautiful thing of all is his holy and consoling
conversation. Our invalid has had an hour’s conference,
with which she is enchanted. He is to return and to bring
her some of his writings. On hearing my name he was
reminded of poor Maurice—a young man, he told me,
of so much promise. ‘This reminiscence touched me.
It is in the neighbourhood of Bordeaux that M. La-
cordaire has founded his monastery, which already con-
sists of twelve fellow-workers. As for him, he is going
back to Rome.

And you, my dear Papa, are you too going to becomeSi a e ‘ bs oe ne
Eugénte de Guérin. 250)
o> Ow

a founder? From the way in which things get carried
on, it would really show a noble devotedness to public
affairs ;* I am always afraid you should be made ill by
them, either through travelling or other worries. Do
take care of yourself; attend to Mimin, the wise coun-
ellor of your health. Alas! once lost, it is often for
ver! Another thing that you are not to torment your
f about—the falls and accidents that the newspapers

| you of, and which generally befal only the awkward,

1e absent-minded, or the dead-drunk. Now, as I find

iyself included in none of these catagories, I may, with
erfect confidence, defy all the impediments of Paris ; I
walk about the streets with as much safety as in the
Andillac roads. So do not be: uneasy, my dear Papa.
Thanks for having thought of sending me the letters ;
but they are too confidential to be exposed to the chances
of a journey: keep them. Good night, dear papa! when

shall we say this face to face?

There will surely be room for an embrace in this
corner, dear Eran, as well as for the remembrances of all
your acquaintance. No such a small matter, either; but
a sign will represent them. Adieu, my dear! T ake
more than these two or three lines; my letter is also for
you, for alt,

prospect of M. de Guerin being made Mayor ofLetters of

To M. H. DE LA MoRVONNAIS.

Paris, /70¢el Sully, Rue du Dauphin,
20th February, 1841.

Here I am in Paris! that Paris where I no longer have
Maurice, but where I am still occupied about him. On
arriving I informed myself about the publication, and am
collecting materials for it. This is the time, monsieur,
for you to send us the precious manuscripts and the
green book which came from America. M. d’Aurevilly
has not received anything, which makes me anxious as
to the fate of the parcel that I begged you to direct to
him just as I was leaving’ Nevers. Canit be that you did
not get my letter, or are you ill? Alas! one may well
fear misfortune when it strikes on every side! My friend
is more and more suffering. I have nothing but sad
presentiments, in which you are sometimes included, and
which the past state of your health too much justifies.
If, then, you are indisposed, be kind enough to tell me
so, that I may, at least, get rid of suspense—suspense,
which is often worse than reality.

I have seen my sister, but not yet sufficiently to say
all I have to say to her, or to ascertain whether she has
received your poems. As for that, she has been absent
from Paris for six months, which accounts for her silence
respecting a tribute which could but affect her deeply.
But perhaps ere now you have received her reply and
thanks. How much gratitude have I not in my heart for
all you have done for Maurice! But when will it beLiugéute de Guerin. 361

given me to enjoy it? To read 2 Université Catholique
and to possess those copies that you are giving yourself
the trouble to make? This is, indeed, a great under-
taking, too laborious; and, if it fatigue you, you had
much better send me the originals, which, as soon as
transcribed, shall be faithfully returned to you. An idea
this that occurs to me owing to your delicate health
and my wish to abridge your labours.

I am to tell you what I do in Paris? Alas! nothing
but remain quiet in my poor invalid’s room: a sweet, sad
life, which gives scope for so much thought and so much
suffering. I know not when I shall regain my peaceful
Cayla,—that cloister in the desert; better for the soul, I
think, than being cloistered in the noisy world. But all
places to which God leads us are good; from each and
all of them we may go to heaven. ‘This thought is my
gentle consoling companion on this poor earth of ours.
I would I could bestow it on all the afflicted. I imagine
it yours, too, in your Thebaid. And you also carry
on your poetic studies there: spiritual enchantresses
these; and then the little Marie is ever there to smile
at you. You have suffered much, but God has still left
you some happiness—enough to make you bless Him as
we all do :—

‘© Yes, in the bitter cup from which we drink our life,
Some drop of honey ever intermingles,”
as our Lamartine has sung.

M does not appear to have received your papers,
or else she keeps them. Be so good as to tell me how
the case stands, in order that I may recover those dear633d prernes LTR si N

ca regard.

 

 

aaa D

 
 
  
    
   
  
   
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

i | | 3262 Letters of
relics, wherever they be. Caress for me the wily and

pink child, and receive the renewed assurances of my

To M. DE GUERIN, Cayla.

sf Paris, 237d February, 1841.

WV [his morning I was in the Carmes sacristy, having a
Hi talk with that good M. Buquet. What a man of God,

i Pl and how he loved Maurice! We recalled the past,
HE eh Eh

a ye Stanislaus time. He promised me some curious

apers belonging to that period; and what is more, we
ee nay get others by means of his intervention. Nor was

al Cayla forgotten ; he several times spoke of you, my dear

pa, and of all. In short, I left him quite delighted
if with our meeting, and carrying with me a permission to
pend a day out for young Belmont, who will come to us
-morrow, as well as all Auguste’s little ones. We shall

i | ‘ake them to see the Beuf Gras and other wonders of

wt he Paris Carnival, well fitted to gratify childish curiosity.
Hitt a. : c

Hl Eleven o’clock. JI have just returned from Auguste’s,
t - oO 7

i where we were a family party at dinner and talked of our

own neighbourhood; we only wanted the inmates of
Cayla to complete our party. Auguste asked me what
you were doing on your Shrove Tuesday? I assured
him that you had the pastor with you and were eating
pancakes! Was this true? Good night! Oh, how far
away we are!

25/#.—Another visit from Father Lacordaire: the last,
unfortunately! He sets out for Rome sooner than heLugénie de Guérin. 363

had expected, and therefore he could only carry on a
little general conversation with our invalid, in which I
shared. He speaks but little, but his glance says so
much! I see in him the inspired and radiant brow of
Saint Dominique. God grant that he may revive the
Order with equal benefit to society! It needs it now
as much as did that of the middle ages: but M. Lacor-
daire is very hopeful about it, and especially about

7c

Diaice.

March.—Since I left off I have dined with Caro-
line. She wrote me a very affectionate note and received
me, too, most graciously, and so did her aunt. Kind
M. Augier drove with me there. Here I am, as usual,
by my friend’s side. A very singular kind of practitioner
has presented himself, a prince, a king, the Dauphin
risen up from the Temple, that Baron de Richemont,
fellow-prisoner of Pellico, chief of a savage tribe in
America, physician in India, and I know not what in
Paris. He goes everywhere, can do everything, hears every-
thing, like the ‘Solitaire’; and above all, he amuses us by
his narratives, all inlaid with anecdotes. We have had
three long visits, during which my time for believing in
the royal visitor never came! What is striking enough,
however, is a decided resemblance to the profile of

Louis XVI.

13¢t,—How much has arrived to-day from Cayla,
Port Mahon, and Brittany—things to fill the soul in the
first place, and next a thousand reams of paper! M.
d’Aurevilly has brought me compositions in the style of

    
   
  
  
 
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
    
  
 
   
   
 
 

a a i RE LL HI a

a ee ee

Se eaeLetters of

the Centaur and enchanting letters. Nothing is wanted
but to strike out private allusions. The packet from
Brittany also contains treasures, that good M. de la
Morvonnais has given himself much trouble in copying
out. His notice has appeared in 7 Université Catholique,
—a good and beautiful notice that I shall try to send
you. Oh! thanks, thanks, Papa, for the long letter that
you have sent me by M. de Rivitre. To-day has been
quite too fortunate! But let us not complain of happi-
ness, even when itis sad. ’Tis thus I designate all these
papers of Maurice; your letters, too, gave me all the
pleasure in the world, showing me that you are all well,
and as contented as I can wish you to be.

This page replies, my dear Papa, to the first part of
your letter. I shall add in conclusion that I have not
seen M. Charles, having been out when he called, but
that I am to dine with him to-morrow at Auguste’s.
There I shall find the remainder of the papers sent me.
This publication is certain to appear, and is anxiously
expected. Friends vie with each other in offering to see
it through the press. ‘Ten copies are ordered in Brittany.
You will be pleased with this, dear Papa, sufficiently so
not to desire any more fame: a desire besides that I
cannot indulge with any hope. Publications are no easy
matter, and even if they were, my name will never appea
in the literary world.

Oh, pater bonus that you are! How return you your
infinite tenderness, save by assuring you that I love you
as much as it is possible to love! Adieu, and thirty-six
thousand embraces!Eugénie de Guérin.

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.

Paris, Hotel Sully, Rue du Dauphin,
237d February, 1841.

You told me, dear Louise, to write to you so soon as
my heart moved me. You must have thought this move-
ment was very tardy, for it is a long time now since your
letter came—long, that is, for a friend’s letter. But, my
dear, I am obliged to suspend the greater part of my
correspondence, and you will not be angry with me for
a momentary silence, the result of my present position.
Once out of Paris, and back again at Cayla, my life and
my thoughts will resume their accustomed course and my
letters their way to the mountains as often, and oftener,
if possible, than in the past. Why have we not our black
messengers * here? I should load’ them with Parisian
trifles, those little nothings that have only the charm of
the moment about them, with a journal of every day,
which would, I am sure, please you far more than this
rough sketch of a month.

It is a month exactly since we left the Nivernais, to
find ourselves here, alas! as elsewhere, shut up in a sick-
room with medicaments and medical men. Such is our
life! very sad, both for the one who suffers and those
who have to witness it. My poor friend will, I fear, be
amongst the number of incurables and martyrs, and yet,
as she is young and strong and prayed for by all the
Saints, one may hope for a muracle, and I do hope.

* The mountain charcoal-burners.

ey eens366 Letters of

Meanwhile I remain at her bedside, assisting in his
ministrations that perfect and indefatigable nurse M. de
Maistre, the model of devoted husbands.

These last days we have had in addition a sister of
Bon Secours, charming and cheerful, full of the love of
God and of interesting anecdotes. She goes here, there,
and everywhere ; to the Tuileries, to a duchess, to poor
people. Nothing can be more varied than the life of
these good Sisters, watching by night all kinds of sick-
beds, young and old. I am going to tell you a dreadful
story of a young Sister who was in charge of a sick man
who died. After having remained three hours alone
with him she prepared to wrap him up in the winding-
sheet, and, as she drew near for that purpose, the two
arms of the corpse suddenly closed upon the Sister with
a horrible pressure. The monster had counterfeited
death! ‘The poor girl dropped down dead from terror.
“3s “thus,” -said Sister Isabella ‘to “us, “ that *we are
sometimes recompensed here below; but our reward is
above.” Such devotedness, indeed, can never find its
price on earth.

I know another story of hers, but it would be too long
to send you now. I will reserve it to tell you, I must
write of other than these conventual matters, else you
would not believe me in Paris; and, in fact, it is very
much the same as though I were not there: all walls
resemble each other. We are every day waiting for an
improvement that never comes, to take our poor invalid
out. A drive in the outer air would do her so much
good, and she has to languish and suffer in bed: a singu-Eugénie de Guérin. 367

larly unfortunate destiny, of which we can only say, “It
is God’s will.” That was the last word of comfort from
Father Lacordaire to our invalid, while promising to pray
for her recovery for a whole year in Rome, where he
is just gone. With how much interest I used to see this
young saint, for a short period intimate with Maurice,
at the school of La Chenaie! But, what was still better
than seeing him, I heard him preach, and have read some
of his works: the Zzfe of Saint Dominic and the History of
the Preaching Friars, an Order that he is going to revive.
A certain set in Paris is much taken up about this: for
there is a set for everything here. No orator addresses
himself to the present epoch more successfully, or ex-
presses religious and social truths in a manner so con-
sonant to its taste.

M. de Ravignan, another eloquent apostle, is also
preaching at Notre Dame ; we had him lately at St. Roch.
Oh! there is no lack of sermons: assure M. Massol of
this, in return for the interest he takes in my soul and its
conversion. ‘Tell him it requires it less than he supposes,
and that I have reason to be anxious about his, since he
is deficient in charity. This message is to be accom-
panied by respectful remembrances.

How I enjoy myself at St. Roch, at the end of 4
dimly-lit, out-of-the-way chapel, where one might believe
oneself in the Catacombs! It is nm a confessional
there that dwells a seraph who directs me gently
and sublimely towards heaven. I have blessed God
for giving me this holy consolation, which I need:

for alas! I often have to cry Alas’ in the world. Paris368 Letters of

has no longer any charm for me, or very little, after what
I have lost there.

This brings me to my sister-in-law, ever more and
more celestial She wanted to become a nun, but I
believe her strength was not thought sufficient ; and then
how can she leave her aunt and her young brother, who
have but her in the world? Iam a long way from the
Rue Cherche Midi, which renders my visits rare, and
besides I do not leave my dear invalid much. There is a
crowd of acquaintances that I am neglecting: Sister
d’Yversen, Lisbine, and others belonging to Paris, that I
no longer see because I have left off going out.

I should require nothing less than you, my dear Louise,
to draw me out of my solitude, and you would do so
irresistibly. How Paris would delight you! This stir,
this brilliancy, this society, this intellectuality—all that
one sees nowhere else—the distinguished men, the
elegant women; in a word, Paris would charm you,
and every now and then I find myself wishing you were
in my place, for I am unworthy of it—I, who am more
touched by the song of a thrush on the juniper trees of
Cayla than by the Valentin concerts. Judge if this be
not thought strange, if I do not cause a laugh, and never-
theless they are all very fond of me—spoiled child of
the heart that I am! ‘This, amongst other things I tell
you will give you pleasure to hear, you who first taught
me the sweetness of friendship !

My dear Louise, will my letter give you this time the
same little thrill of pleasure the other did? No doubt it
will as you open it; but while reading it Iam not sosure,Lugénie de Guérin. 369

xX

for I feel very stupid and somewhat akin to the sky that
is above our heads—dull and morose. It is scarcely
worth while to send you such a letter from so far, but the
heart prompts it and wafts it to you. Look upon it as
an evidence of my strong and unvarying affection.

Why have you not written to Marie, my poor solitary
sister, to whom your letter would give a sweet moment of
pleasure. I should be tempted to scold you, did I not
know that your silence is not forgetfulness, did I not see
that you neglect all your affections, even society, even
Gaillac, where you used to laugh so much formerly. But
now, oh! how time changes us! Should we know each
other again, you and I? No doubt we should by our
tenderness, that side of ourselves which is not touched by
time.

Adieu! I scribble too. badly on this transparent paper
to go on wniting; hold the page singly when you read it.
All sorts of things to your three sisters: things that I
feel for them wherever I may be. Have you, then, been
weaned from your little niece? Oh, I can enter into your
regrets and into the charm that child had for you! But
you will see her again: absence is not death, and then—
make a little sacrifice for the good God who accepts it so
graciously! Dear Louise, adieu! I have not yet been
able to enquire for your Abbé Caire. I go no more out
than a Carmelite; but if a charming Sophie de Rivieres,
whom we expect, arrives, I shall do so a little with her,
as she knows Paris as well as her own room, and loves
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Letters of

To M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.
Paris, 10¢2 March, 1841.

The sweetest words would fail, monsieur, to give you
back the sweetness I find in yours when you speak of
spiritual things and, as in your last, of Maurice. On
receiving your letter I ran off to the office of 2’ Universite,
and I now possess and treasure in my heart your precious
notice, so beautiful as to feeling, expression, and truth.
Thanks to you, our Maurice is seen there in his life of
poetry and faith, and beneath the heavenly aureola which
until now he had been deprived of. However highly
they had exalted his talent, it was not up to heaven, its
native place. Praise be to you, who, like a friendly
angel, have raised him on your wings before the eyes of
those who did not discern that he could soar so high!
And then how much I delight in those unknown beau-
ties of his mind that you reveal, those divine reveries 1n
Brittany by the side of the ocean, in the great forests, in
that beloved Val: treasures these that I owe to you:
May God bless you, my kind poet! It ds to Him J
remit the proof of my gratitude, which neither my soul
nor anything else can sufficiently testify to you. What
can my weak woman’s language express? Nothing, |
feel, or very little, although you flatter it by calling it
very poetical. To make it so, you must hear it through
the medium of kindness, through Maurice, its brother.
Yes, that dear object, invests me with its own charms in
the eyes of his friends, and I am proud and happy itLiugénie de Guerin. 37a

should be so; as also there is on my side a return ot
affectionate and enduring sympathy towards them.

And yet does this correspond with your devotedness
and your most kind letters? If I have not sooner told
you how much they touched me, ’tis that I have been
unable to wnte. I do so at my first leisure. I say
leisure, because this is a quiet moment, in which one
may dwell on what pleases, as a weary man will throw
himself on moss in some retired spot. You who take
solitary walks have, I dare say, done this before now.
As for me, a few steps knock me up in Paris, this world
of fatigue to the mind, where nevertheless I find a sad
enjoyment in life and death. For me Paris encloses so
much that is dear, so many joys, so many pains! It is
paradise in mourning!

M. Quemper came to see me with an amiable alacrity,
which I keenly appreciate. This good young man at
first sight justifies your praise of him, and deserves the
title of friend from all who confer it upon intellectual
superiority and goodness of heart. Madame de Maistre,
who is eminently correct in her appreciation of character,
passed the most favourable opinion on M, Quemper, and
he is one of the men with whom she would like to grace
her drawing-room. But alas! her drawing-room 1s a bed
of pain, at the foot of which M. Quemper has once been
seated. On another occasion I received him alone in
a ‘salon, without fire or external charms of any sort ;
but for all that there was a charm for me in con
versing about the past, about Maurice, Brittany, friends
in those regions, the sea, your little Marie, and much

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Letters of

372
besides. The streams of the soul are not easily
checked.

You have quoted charming things in your notice,
fraught with a nameless perfume! What a rich hope
this excites as to the promised collection, the dear
treasure that the diligence is rolling towards us! M.
d’Aurevilly is going to occupy himself incessantly with
the work, with this monument for France and ourselves
to which you have so largely contributed by the labour
of heart and mind. I should much like to be here at
the time of publication, but there is little likelihood of
that, although our departure is still uncertain. I shall be
sure to speak about your ten copies; and do not be un-
easy about the course of our poet; his channel is already
hewn out in slopes where flow streams of gold, and he
has but to burst forth. Indeed, this book is devoutly
expected. There are still many things to be collected,
which I discover here and there. He was wont to scatter
himself abroad with an unjust carelessness, was my poor
Maurice ; he valued nothing of his own, and went away
without enjoying any of the gifts with which he was so
richly endowed. It is we who are to enjoy them, but there
is in this a profound sadness that nothing can console.

I had got so far in my letter to you when the parcel
arrived by the diligence. Beloved relics of my beloved
Maurice! Oh, thanks! thanks! a thousand times, my
kind friend! I have hardly seen or read anything as
yet, but I have them all in my heart, and I must at once
express its feelings to yours, which has done so much for
me; almost too much, if I dared to complain of seeingLugénie de Guérin. 278

xX

my name by the side of Maurice’s, beneath the aureola
that you.so piously place on his brow in 2 Université
Catholique.

Adieu, and infinite gratitude.

P.S.—I find another letter from -you in the parcel.
Will you take this as a reply to all, oh! too kind-friend ?
Madame de Maistre accepts with the graciousness of her
grace all your graceful homage. Now as always, I kiss
the child.

 

To M. DE GUERIN, Cayla.
Paris, Holy 2hursday, 8th April, 1841.

I have just come from St. Roch, from the midst of
crowds, sermons, music, and prayers, too; for in all this
there is surely something that tends God-wards. In
general, however, there is but little devotion in these
comings and goings. To preserve myself from distrac-
tion, I took refuge at the bottom of the dark and silent
Calvary. It was sweet as Paradise, and I kept thinking
there of the Andillac chapel, where you, my dear far-
away ones, doubtless were, thinking of Paris, I believe.
There are times and places where hearts are sure to
meet. To-day we shall most certainly have prayed for
each other on this holy festival of Holy Thursday that
for some years past I have so seldom spent at Cayla.
Three years ago I was at Albi, with that poor Lilt; the
year after I was here; and this year here again, A374 Letters of

singular destiny mine! connected with so many unex-
pected things, according to a providential purpose, no
doubt! We have all a mission in this world: mine is to
go far to witness suffering.

Good Friday.—I shall not say much this evening, being
tired with my day in church. Once in St. Roch, there is
no getting out, such is the succession of sermons and
services. This morning, meditations at six o’clock ; then
the Passion, by M. le Curé, who spoke divinely ; at nine
the office, the Adoration of the Cross by from two to
three thousand souls; at twelve until three o'clock, the
words of the Agony alternating with the music, which was
in perfect keeping this time: finally, the darkness and
the Stabat at seven o’clock. Was that not a day after
Rousou's* heart? Oh, how radiant she would have been
during it! I saw her very image at the Calvary: a girl
with the same headdress as hers, devout as she is, always
kneeling like her. Had it been right, I should have
asked her where she came from—from the South, I am
very sure, from her costume. Tell this to our Rousou,
and how a thought of her occasioned both interruption
and edification. Good night! after this holy day. Do
not go and fancy that I passed the whole of it in church ;
I left it both for breakfast and dinner, but the priests, I

imagine, sustained themselves on holy water.

Since I left off then some days have passed; your
letters and the fearful affliction of the De Thézacs have
reached me. What a thunderbolt! I cannot get over

qj

* ’ ’ Rm 7, -09 st] D942 ~- Py
Rouson, Rose la Marguilliére, see Journal,Liugénie de Guérin. 208

—~s

t. Hippolyte, who was so young, so healthy! What
is the strongest life! I spent part of yesterday with
Charles, after announcing the terrible tidings to him.
M. Cadars came to fetch me for this purpose, as he
was commissioned to do by the family. The worthy
man and his home circle were as much affected as if they
had lost a relative. Gabrielle de Paulo wrote to me in
perfect consternation ; she told me that he died of croup,
—a singular complaint at his age! In short, he is gone,
that powerful young Hyppolyte ; and God alone, and the
pious sentiments he evinced, can console his mother. ie
died with the resignation of an angel, Gabrielle told me.
God be praised that in so brief an interval this poor
young man was able to think of his soul!

Let us turn to something else: from death to life, to
(he important announcement of a drive taken yesterday
with our invalid to the Bois de Boulogne, an excusion
which will be followed up by going to the sea, provided.
this improvement continue. :

And so our prince appears to you a very suspicious
character, and you do not like to think of my being with
him, in-doors or out, and nevertheless we shake hands
like good friends. He has such a frank, kind, sincere
look, that one believes him all he likes to be thought,
perhaps though not exactly what he is. However that may
be, he asks for nothing, and moreover he is received by
all the most distinguished royalists, amongst others by
MM. de N and De la Rochejacquelein. M. de Sainte
M considers him very remarkable as fo political

tone and information.37¢ Letters of

The book has not been found as the Sibyl foretold ; I
rather begin to mistrust the oracle. And yet I am as
sure of the existence of the manuscript as of having two
hands, but where can it be? M. Quemper made over to
me one that had traversed America from north to south.
I can tell you nothing but what you already know about
this publication, and, besides, it is some time since I
have seen M. d’Aureyilly.

The other day I went to a party to hear Lablache, who
never came, and I got very weary listening for three
hours to other singers; Auguste was with me. He
took me on almost all the Sundays in Lent to hear M.
de Ravignan at Notre Dame. Sermons have been my
great delight; God grant that they may have been my
salvation as well. Adieu, dear Papa; in spite of myself
I have to leave you.

P.S.—Another acquaintance made! that of Maurice’s
copyist ;* that devoted young man, who for the last six
months has given up all his time to this writing out. I
made over to him a remarkable heart out-pouring to M.
Buquet, which M. Buquet had made over to me.

 

To Mp.Lue, LOUISE DE BAYNE.
Paris, 29¢h April, 1841.
Why not scold me, dear Louise, as you were inclined
to do? It would have amused me; nothing prettier than
affectionate reproaches, passing through your bright mind,
more particularly when lost in air, for they find in me

* Charles-Auguste Chopin, a devoted friend of Maurice de Guerin.E ugtnie de Guérin, 377

nothing on which to alight, do these little black butter-
flies. I offer them neither forgetfulness nor indifference ‘
only a little of that dilatoriness which somewhat belongs
to my character and to Paris life. The time passes here in
the most unoccupied way ; in trifling visits, conversations,
and then, and then ...a thousand details, which slip
away like sand, and, nevertheless, fill up the space of a
day. ‘This morning I spent three hours in church for
nothing : my seraph was confessing a legion of angels,
who left no room for my poor soul; so I shall have to
try again this evening, which will give me six hours of
waiting. What time shall I have for anything with the
company that we are expecting to dinner? Therefore,
my friend, I begin by writing to you, even though I
should have.to break off and resume.

And, first of all, thanks for your two letters, dear tokens
of your dear friendship. I was going to reply to the
first when the second arrived, that second one written in
the beginning of a vexation which I should not have
found out. Everything inspires you pleasantly, my plea-
sant one. I had also had tidings of you from my father,
who wrote to me about his journey to Rayssac. For his
own pleasure’s sake I wish he may have carried it out,
but I fear he has not; so many causes—business or
health—detain him at Cayla, that my father seldom has
his time at his own disposal. But, if in any degree he has,
it will be disposed of in your favour: we give to those
we love, and my good father loves you deeply and con-
stantly ; he will, therefore, go and see you as soon as
possible. You will renew those tite-a-tcle conversations o£

   
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

ST a378 Letters of

the olden times, that both were so fond of; you \hat
you might talk, he that he might listen to you. But I
would have you know that your confidential communi-
cation soon reached me, and that the seal of secrecy is
not kept with your friend the angel, who 1s rather spoiled
by her father, both in name and everything else.

I cannot tell when I shall rejoin this dear father ; nothing
gets said on this subject by our invalid, and I know not how
to talk to her of departure. And yet a good opportunity
presents itself of returning to our part of the world with
M. Charles de Rivitres, but he will go away with nothing
more of me than my letters! We talked for a moment
of you all in the parlour of Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet,
with Lisbine, who I was at length able to go and see.
She gave me a truly saintly reception, was genchantingly
beautiful and gracious. What innocence ! what a smile !
what a peaceful soul under that white head-dress.
I said to her “How happy you must be!” “ How
should I not be so? I have done God’s will.” Indeed
this is the only thing that can ensure happiness, ‘he doing
God’s will in whatever position we may be, whether in
the cloister or the world, but in the world it seems to be
more difficult, and yet there is no lack of grace, or merit
either, there ; as, for instance, when we meet temptations
in order to conquer them—open St. Jerome in a drawing-
room when we might read a romance; but St. Jerome
has grave and profound beauties that please thoughtful
souls, and looking at your present mood I doubt not that
you have great delight in this said St. Jerome. It is the

beginning of a serious vocation. And yet, see the strength

Y
-Lugénute de Guerin. 279

of early impressions ; I cannot picture you to myself other
than laughing, chatting, diverting, dancing; I only see
my Louise of former days, and not very remote ones
either, for we cannot go back quite a hundred years like
the Sleeping Princess.

Sleep reminds one of death—I shall not attempt to tell
you how thunderstruck I was by that of poor Hippolyte.
My God! what then is the strongest and youngest life?
In two days, in no time, there he is—gone, poor young
man! I had to go and break the terrible tidings to
Charles, who was in Paris recovering from a cold in the
chest. Heaven grant that he may not have had a relapse
on his way home! His mother could not do without
seeing him at once. Marie and Gabrielle de P. gave me
the details of the peaceful, happy end ; for which I have
heartily blessed God, and that in so few hours the poor
young man was able to think of his soul. He did so,
and in the most Christian manner possible. M. Louis
de Combette was the one to recommend his soul to
God, and he too showed himself full of faith and devo-
tion. Oh! a Christian education is sure to save sooner
or later.

As to that poor General
because of his Protestant death. May God have taken
pity on his soul and his sincerity! A few days before, he
had been to see me; after that I wrote to him, and the
answer was his death. Nothing else is spoken of in life
just now. A lady of our acquaintance has just lost four
grown-up lovely daughters in an appalling way ; one fell
from a precipice in the Pyrenees, another was crushed

 

, | doubly regretted him380 Letters of

by a carriage, the third died of brain fever, the fourth in
her confinement. The poor mother is stunned with grief.
Beautiful Saint Roch, where I daily, go is always hung
with black, and so is my soul sometimes. And, indeed,
there is nothing to enliven one in this perpetual sick-
room, not even the splendid marriage that my friend’s
brother is about to make. ‘The bride is an angel in face,
mind, and piety, and has an income of forty thousand
francs. The festivities are to take place in the country,
and we shall be here on our bed of suffering. Here I
am installed as Sister of Mercy for the spring, perhaps
for the summer too. ‘The favourite plan is to take me
back to Cayla.

We shall not have my sister-in-law, whose aunt is setting
out for India. The young woman remains in Paris, in
order not to leave her brother of eighteen alone there. I
sometimes see her, but we are a long way off, besides
which I go out but little, and soon get tired in this great
Paris. One of my sadnesses is going out alone, finding
myself isolated in the midst of crowds. M. de Maistre
never leaves his wife, so that I have not an arm to take
here, where, alas! I once had one.

Amongst the singular acquaintances one makes in this
singular Paris I must tell you of the most striking of all,
that of the Duke of Normandy, the pretended Dauphin,
an astonishing man as to wit, information, and political
acumen, in profile reseemblng Louis XVI., and charm-
ingly genial in manner. It is curious to hear him speak
of the Temple, the King, the Queen, and his own abduc-
tion, as though he were really the Dauphin. I don'tLiugénie de Guérin. 381

believe in him much, but he amuses me like one of the
Arabian Nights. I do not mean Landorff, but the Baron
de Richemont, the fellow-prisoner of Pellico. Adieu;
I am in dreamland, except when I think of you, and tell
you that I love you.

P.S.—My respects to the good pastor ; tell him that I
ask him for prayers, without saying why—for one of the
converted if he lkes,

 

To M. DE GUERIN, Cayla.
Paris, 29¢h Agril, 1841.

What a beautiful place the Palais Royal is at nine
o’clock in the evening, with its lights, its walks, its ver-
dure. O! if there were a continuance of days like this,
the dead would arise out of their graves; the air has
resurrection in it. All the birds of Paris, caged and free,
sing their loudest. The Tuileries are resplendent in
verdure, and send us“wafts of perfumery, blended odours
of lilacs, jonquils, pinks, and I know not how many
flowers besides, full blown in that great royal garden.
As I followed St. Mark’s procession to Saint Roch
thought how beautiful it would have been in those mag-
nificent avenues. And you, Mimi, you were taking the
path to Andillac, and wondering perhaps where I was.
Let me, in the retirement of my cell, tell you all about

my day.

Sleep cut me short the day before yesterday. Since382 Letters of

then I have had your letter, and the terrible news of the
affliction at Cayla. Can it really be true? I seem to be
under the influence of a night-mare, dreaming only of
deaths. That poor Adolphe, that poor Misy, how I
grieve for them! Here is a presentiment fulfilled! She
said to me the last time I saw her, “I am too happy,
I tremble lest something should befal me.” Poor young
woman, who was so fond of her Adolphe, what will be-
come of her? I am going to pray God to sustain her,
and I shall even write to her. However painful it may
be to write such letters, we .owe this to each other.
You did well, Mimi, to go and see these dear afflicted
friends. So, then, you only pay mourning visits, while I
remain with an invalid, which is somewhat the same
thing ; and thus we continue sisters in matters of friend-
Ship and Christian charity.

Twenty-eight degrees of heat, this is excessive for
Paris on the 1st of May, but everything runs to extremes
in this Paris. This evening we shall, perhaps, have rain,
together with the fire-works that, celebrate the King’s
birthday. JI saw the preparations as I passed by the
Tuileries, which, probably are all I shall see of St. Philip.
I am not fond of these crowds, and,: besides, I am in no
mood for gaiety, thinking of those poor vanished friends.
Adolphe had always a tendency to blood in the head, and
a sun-stroke, out shooting, may probably have brought on
brain fever.

That meeting of the De Rivitres made us laugh, and
gives me reason to regret that I cannot enjoy the two.
The Duke of Normandy is in the drawing-room, whichhugénie de Guerin. 383
will make you laugh, especially if I add that we like him
as Cagliostro was liked, that cleverest of all jugglers,
What an interesting and incomprehensible man! Adieu
for the present. I shall go on writing, but you will get
the letter by the Alby or the Gaillac post. I do not
know whether I have duly answered everything: at all
events, this will not be the short letter that Papa com-
plains of, though without cause I think; his reproach,
therefore, strikes me as a compliment. Dear Mimi and
dear Eran, take your share of it. I wnte to you col-
lectively, but I offer especial congratulations to Mim:
about the chickens and Pitw7t,* whose flourishing condi-
tion assures me how well he is cared for. I embrace you

all. Adieu.

To THE SAME.
Paris, Wétel des Bains de Rivoli, 8th Fune, 1841.

At last you are free from your perplexities, my dear
Papa, and thoroughly convinced that I am alive, and very
much alive, to our mutual satisfaction ; for it would be
a pang to me to pass from this world to the other, far
from you, dear Papa, and all those I love at Cayla: God
will rejoin us, I hope, before this final separation. As
to my departure hence, it is always in my thoughts,
but not yet upon my lips. The time for actually settling
it is not yet come ; and where would be the use of sad-
dening this poor friend beforehand? I content mysel

* Her goldfinch.384 Letters of

by acquainting her with the strong wish you feel to see
her, which I fear will not be gratified for a long time to
come, certainly not this year. We had, as I mentioned,
planned going into Brittany; M. Quemper had told us
of a delightful station in a village near Val. It sounded
very pleasant and promising; but now good-bye to all
travelling, owing to the impossibility of bearing the move-
ment of a carriage : I am speaking of our invalid. How
you would love and pity her, dear Papa! You love her
without seeing her ; what would you feel could you but
see her! We are in the midst of great wedding pre-
parations for the little girls, who are not going to be
inarried, but going to their uncle’s marriage. To-day
the contract was signed. My friend and I remain here
during the festivities, which M. de Maistre is to attend.
Mdme. de Sainte Marie is come in spite of her suffer-
ings. We-have had a great deal of family talk; have
talked a little of Cayla too ; this whole family is perfect
in its feeling for us: the misfortune is to be so far off;
but are we not far from heaven also? It is always so
with what we love best.

Have you been to Rayssac? Iam much touched by
Louise’s remembrances and fears. You may assure her
that 1 io mot forset her; I wrote to her by M. de
Rivitres, begging him to execute a commission about
books which she had given me. She has letter and
books both by this time, I imagine. And afrofos ot
books, M. d’Aurevilly brought me one to-day in which
is a beautiful poem to Maurice’s memory, and also th2
announcement of the early publication of his manuscripts,Liugénie de Guérin. 385

This pleased me. My chief happiness in Paris is con-
stantly hearing Maurice spoken of with tender admi-
ration,

Adieu, my dear Papa. You are not maltreating the
brook, which, inconstant by nature, was possibly weary
of its old channel. But let me once more compliment
Erembert about that vine, so speedily planted, under the
terrace. It is one of the most perfect improvements of
Cayla; I am delighted with it.

You are leading a patriarchal life, digging wells and
planting vines. Oh, what a beautiful existence is that of
an agriculturist! Can Cecile draw water from the well’?
That would be as good and pleasant for her as is the
basin in the Tuileries, which for the last two days I have
had under my eyes, for me; I am constantly plunging
into it as it were, indulging myself freely in gazing at it,
and inhaling the fine fresh air. Our invalid determined
to bestow upon herself the pleasure of a new apartment
and the sight of green trees. From her very bed we have
the finest prospect imaginable: opposite us the Invalides,
to our left the Tuileries, and everywhere the immense
garden and its world of promenaders. It is delightful,
and our rooms magnificent. Last week we had frantic
heat, ‘To-day is fresh and pure: you know the variations
of a Parisian atmosphere ; but it matters little to me, now
that I can see a wide expanse of sky from my window.
Adieu, dear; go on planting and embellishing. How
delighted I shall be to see it all ! 7

And you, Mimin, you too are making chicks and
ducklings grow for your part. It is only I who 2m use-
2 ¢386 Letters of

less as regards Cayla; but, alas! what can one do in
absence? If I had the gift of doing whatever I liked, I
would make Cayla perfectly resplendent for you on my
arrival, like /eau-d’Ane, when she used to put on her
sun-coloured gown. What beautiful things there are
in this Paris! Sophie was saying to me: “What a
torment scarcity of money is in Paris!” Very true, my
dear; but scarcity of bread is much worse. This
wretchednesss that, in the midst of luxury, one sees and
meets at every step, prevents one complaining; and be-
sides, I have so many enjoyments that I have nothing
to complain of. Adieu, dear; assure the pastor of my
respects, and Marie of my remembrance. I embrace
you all.

 

To iM. H, DE LA MoRVONNAIS.

24, Rue de Rivoli, 12th Fuly, 1841.

What have you thought of my silence, and what shall

[ say to you about it, monsieur? An embarrassing
question, yet only as regards the first clause; and then
I have sufficient reliance upon your kind, gentle way of
judging to presume upon indulgence. At all events,
grant it now to a rather serious indisposition—to a stitch
in the side that has kept me in enforced and absolute
repose beneath the curtains of my bed; and go on grant-
ing this same indulgence to a little cough and a great
lassitude, my habitual companions for some time back—
to the far niente of a life that can no more for anythingLugénie de Guérin. 39

whatever. My will would fain have it otherwise-—would
wish for the mind a little possibility of action ; but however
it may strive, the spirit sinks with the sinking of the body.
And this is profoundly sad ; and it is this perhaps which
made St. Paul exclaim, “Who shall deliver me... ?”
Which of us is not familiar with that passage—which of
us has not suffered? To ask this is to address you, my
brother in sorrow; it is appealing to your sympathy, and
expressing mine. Receive it, and believe in it in spite of
its rare proofs. The little that is shown sufficiently attests
the sentiments of the heart, as a few footprints do a
passer-by. It is thus I would have you think of me; and
thus I think of you when you are long without writing.
Your last letter is very kind, and makes full amends
for past silence. At the same time it reassures me about
your health, which had made us anxious. M. Quemper
told you this, as I had begged him to do ; but he did so
vith a charm all his own. Your friend has an infinity
of talent and feeling. We much like seeing him and
talking with him of Brittany, the sea, Val,—those known
and unknown scenes that have so much interest for the
sister of Maurice. Mdme. de Maistre, my sister in heart,
also delights in these fancied excursions, keenly regretting
her inability to take any others. Her health is still in a
deplorable state, no hopes of travelling ; and thus adieu,
without having seen them, to the banks of L’Arguenon,
the shore of the ocean, whence so many sweet things
come to us. Adieu to the poetic solitudes we pilgrims
were to traverse! My friend will remain in Paris, and I

shall regain my Cayla.

2.6) 2

 

fi

Ht388 Letters of

And further, if I leave soon, I shall not carry away
with me what I came so lovingly to seek for, the dear
works of Maurice, which I expected to have. They will
not appear till the beginning of winter. M. d’Aurevilly
found it impossible to get the publisher's consent to a
shorter delay ; but, however, he is very promising as to
all besides. I do not forget the interest you take in this
publication, nor the ten copies you ordered. We shall
have a satisfactory work, both as. regards Maurice and
ourselves. You have enriched us with admirable trea-
sures. M. Quemper, too, has brought his offering in a very
touching manner. ‘Thanks, friends, to you all. Accept,
too, my very lively gratitude for that same incrusted in
La Ville des Mers, and for the feeling that placed it there.
Sweetest thanks, oh, my poet !—but when are we to have
your poetry? M. Quemper, who is always talking of you,
makes us long much for it, and you increase this longing
by your letters.

Adieu, my good hermit. Always tell me of your angel,
and accept, in order to give her, an image of my patron
saint. Children are fond of images, which makes me
find pleasure in what may please Marie, to whom it would
be nothing but for that.

Mdme. de Maistre begs to renew the assurance of her
most cordial feelings; to which I add the affectionate
expression of my own.E ugénte ae Guérvin.

389

To MpLLE. MARIE DE GUERIN, Cayla.
Paris, Amgust, (1841 ?).

It is you, my dear Mimin, to whom I mean to write
to-day. Every one in their turn; and Papa has had his
so often that he will consent to yours coming round.
Besides, Papa will be no loser, since the substance of my
letter is forall. If I have not answered yours before now,
tis that I depended upon mine reaching you about this
time. I emphatically charged Raymond to send them off
immediately from Alby: he himself will visit you later.
His intention was to go in the first instance to M. Robert,
and thence to make a descent upon Cayla. This delay
will give our fruit and our grapes time to gild themselves,
and our pigeons and poultry to grow. All these matters
occupy me; a thousand times a day I look in at Cayla ;
and soon I shall be there in reality; the next month will,
I trust, see us reunited. Auguste has told you, or will
tell, how difficult I find it to tear myself away from hence ;
but, however, we must all leave each other some day or
other: God permits no eternal union here below.

I have seen Caroline several times since her return
fom Bordeaux. She spoke to me regretfully of not
having written to you; but I told her that since she had
done so to Papa that was enough. Everything goes on
as usual with her. Hier life is spent in prayers and good
works ; one may call her a saint. Nothing short of such
conduct would suffice to screen her from the dangers and
the gossip of the world, all alone, young and pretty as

she Is,390 Letters of

So at last Lucie has been to see you as well as her
cousin. This visit pleased me on your account. I shall
go and return it on my return; but first of all I shall
take a long rest at Cayla, dear Cayla: What does
Mdme. P. call her little girl? The names of the newly
born interest me.

I shall soon belong to you again, dear Papa. Com-
pose yourself, I beseech you; you worry yourself too
much about your children. After having done all you
can, leave the rest to Providence. I was very sure that
you would be much pleased by the article of M. Morvon-
nais. ‘That good recluse sends us kind words from time*
to time, both by letters and by M. Quemper. He has
even introduced my name in a work about to appear—
La Ville des Mers. J hear it highly spoken of. If I pass
through Bordeaux, I shall endeavour to see Elisa; I do
not think, though, that one stops there. I wish I could
travel to you by steam: where could I pause with any
pleasure >—only beside you, my dear Papa; on that sofa
where my fancy so often reclines. Mimi, Mimi, what
happiness to be together again! Adieu, I embrace you
all,

 

To M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.
Cayla, 14¢ October, 184.
Poets never die—nor friends either, I assure you, mon-

sieur. Neither death nor silence in reality change the

soul, Maurice is still Maurice, and to you I am alwaysEuvcénre de Guérin 2901
oO =s : 39

his sister. If I have delayed replying to all"that your
two letters to M——— informed me of, ’twas for only too
good reasons, which, however, would take up this paper
to no purpose; and I[ want it all for you—not for myself
—for you and “zm, for him who loved you here
on earth, for you whose friendship follows him into
heaven. Holy affection, that I have so often blessed in
evil days of his that you rendered sweet—those days
of charming hospitality spent under your roof, in ¢hat
room, that retains for you so touching a memory of
Maurice. Alas! must everything pertaining to him be
no more than a memory! Oh, what are we, what are the
noblest and dearest of created beings? What anguish
this blank would cause if the soul did not emerge from
it! But it does emerge, but it sees the heavens opened ;
but one weeps, but one hopes! How sweet is faith to
sorrow !

This sentiment that sustains me is one you have
the happiness of sharing, and you express it exquisitely
in your pictures of Brittany ; the Petit Péatour is fragrant
with that pure and simple piety which one might call
natural faith. ‘This put into poetry is very beautiful. Wf
I only quote this piece, ’tis because others charmed me
equally, and I should be only repeating myself. I much
applaud you in my heart, you poet, who consecrate your
voice to God, and fulfil the mission he has assigned to
poets—a mission of religious harmony. It is thus they
do good to men, and perform, after the manner of angels,
that duty of love and charity we owe to our brethren.

 

   
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

a nao392 Letters of

Once more I say this is very beautiful, and I delight in
seeing you thus befriend Maurice; and how much too
I delight in his being sung by you. For really it is a
song upon him that you pour out in your letters to G.
Sand—a hymn to his memory which will have echoed far
and wide, J hope, as well as within my own soul ; for I am
ignorant of what goes on without. I have not been able
to discover what became of those papers you so reli-
giously preserved, and sent as an offering to his tomb.
Oh, how much that affected me, and how you have
won my pious gratitude by producing these pious writings
of my brother! Sooner or later they will be seen, and
will cover the errors of that first notice—a rehabilitation
which we all, relations and friends, owe to this Christian
memory. Happy they who can contribute to it; and
this happiness I shall owe to you. I, on myside, occupy
myself in collecting what I know to be scattered here
and there, and which ought to form part of the publication.
Alas! to me nothing is more sad and sweet than collect-
ing these remains. ‘This work concluded, I shall have
hardly anything of an attractive nature left to do on
earth: all my thoughts are turned. towards heaven, that
other world where God and all our hopes await us. It is
very consoling, very sustaining in this poor life, to believe
in the next, to enter it already in heart—to say to oneself,
“Behold the price of my sufferings, my trials of a few
days.” These are your thoughts too, pious recluse, in
your Thebaid. I observe this with comfort, and that

you endure your griefs, your great desolation, in a godlyLugénte de Guerin. 393

manner. In olden times ’twas thus your hermit brothers
bore themselves under afflictions, valhant men by faith
that they were.

Adieu. Embrace for me your dear little Marie, whom
I love without seeing or knowing; but ’tis thus we love
the angels. I pray you once more to receive the expres-
sion of my feelings in return for your touching communi-
cations. Your books, and the two journals, will be
religiously preserved by a family who owed you much
before, and are attached to you by a sacred tie, the pure
memory of Maurice. In him and for ever your devoted

friend.

P.S.—You have a sister, Mdlle. Adtle, whose kind
message of remembrance I retain; and, encouraged
thereby, would have her accept mine! All my family
unite in thanks and feelings of affection.

 

To MDLLEe ANTOINETTE DE BOISSET.
Cayla, 1122 Movember, 1841.

When your last letter reached me, my dear Antoinette,
I was on the point of leaving Paris, and I waited to
reply from a shorter distance. To reply in writing, that
is, for the heart does so at once, and nothing is so in-
stantly appreciated as your touching kindness. Receive,
dear friend, the tender assurance of my feelings for you ;
feelings which follow me everywhere, from the world to
the desert. In the delights of my home, amongst my

   
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

ee nae cee oT ae394 Letters of

much-loved family, my thoughts turn to you. I come to
seek you out at Lisle, whither, no doubt, you have re-
turned,—to say, ‘‘Here I am again! let us resume our
neighbourly correspondence, the bulletins of our two
districts. What is going on at Lisle? What is going on
at Cayla?”

For the present we have nothing to think of here but
the joy and rapture of my return, endless accounts ex-
changed of travel and localnews. ‘Then to see everything
over and over again, to retake possession, as it were, with
inexpressible delight, of one’s home: this lasts at least a
fortnight. And then I receive so many visits and curtseys
from the good women of Andillac, as much out of affec-
tion as curiosity, to see that wonderful doumarsélo dé
Faris, Can you picture me holding my court and re-
celving more compliments than the Queen, or at least
more sincere ones? But the great, the ineffable happi-
ness, 1s the inexpressible tenderness of my father, of
Marie, and of Erembert. Oh! this is enough to make
one forget a thousand years of anxiety and absence.

At last the good God has reunited us and preserved
us all: a great mercy, when so many sorrows have fallen
upon others. I left Madame de Maistre mourning her
father, the amiable and excellent M. de Sainte Marie.
She herself is still very suffering. My sister Caroline
is better than when I first arrived in Paris, but still
stronger in soul than in body. The advanced season
prevented her following me and coming to pray over the
tomb of her dear Maurice. She charged me with this
pious duty, as well as to express her regard for all whoEugénie de Guérin. 395

feel an interest in her; and you were specially named,
dear Antoinette.

I have a thousand messages for you from the good
Yversen sister, whom I left nearly recovered from her
accident. I only got a note from Sister Marie de Gélis,
having been prevented seeing her by a cold, which almost
always interfered with my going out. I was often vexed
at this, on account of visits I had it at heart to pay, as,
for instance, to the holy, gentle, pretty Sister Marie.
When I saw her she was flourishing, and had the radiant
look of Paradise. Pray tell all this to her friends (to
whom I should else have written), and add my warm
regards. Adieu, my dear one! Love and respects to
your family. I do not forget Irene.

Adieu! I embrace you very tenderly.

 

To MDLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
Cayla, 31st December, 1841.

My unending affection comes to end the year with you,
my dear Louise, and with you only ; for I am quite alone
at Cayla, which ensures to you exclusively loving words,
such as I have not sent you for a long time, at least not
outwardly. You know, however, the place you occupy
within, and how my heart reverts to you, OF rather dwells
there, like a fish in water. Nothing has drawn me away

thence, my pretty one, for others may have surrounded

Louise’s dear niche, not entered in. Some think that the

  
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

I396 Letters of

world has a good deal changed me. ‘They, however,
know nothing about me; and I should be sorry that
such an error were shared by you, especially as regards
feelings of mine too well established, too profound, to
be susceptible of any influence. Do believe this, Louise ;
believe that your Paris friend is the same as your Cayla
one, who at this moment would be far more enchanted
to see you again than to see the capital. Yes, if Paris
came to me on one side and you on the other, it is most
certainly you whom I should embrace.

But in all simplicity, without compliment or ceremony,
I love you, and nothing equals the delight of seeing what
one loves. When will this delight be mine, dear friend ?
You have led me to hope for it, and I do hope, hoping
fervently that Time—that old deceiver !—will not pass
away at Cayla this winter without you. Yes, at Cayla, as
I declared to you before. I shall come and fetch you:
at Gaillac, but I positively will have you here. It is only
here that I shall be able to possess you; at Gaillac you
will belong to everybody rather than to me. We shall
neither be able to meet nor chat. Follow me, then, into
my country freedom. ‘‘I know nothing sweeter,” said a
lady, “than a beautiful sorrow in a beautiful meadow.”
I quite agree with her, changing sorrow into ‘ causerie.’
Sorrows, in my opinion, are always ugly, place them
where you will; and I am not acquainted with any
of the bucolic order, unless they be those of some shep-
herd about his lambs. Accordingly, I please myself
with the thought of walking with you in my woods, my
nymph ; or, if the outer air be too keen or too cold, weLugéne de Guerin. 397

will establish ourselves over the fire, and prattle away, in
the warmth of the hearth, like two Trilbys.

How many conversations have the ashes of our chimney
corner covered over since my return from Paris! My father
especially is never weary of listening to and questioning
me. ‘The moment we are alone we fall into a confi-
dential mood. ‘This good father,—I speak to him as
openly as to a confessor, and he knows my whole life.
He left me two hours ago, to go and confess in his turn
at Andillac. At present my soul is tranquil and well
directed by M. Rieunand. One of these last days I
came across this note amongst my papers: “To-day,
October 19th, 1841, I confessed to the new curé of An-
dillac, a man of great faith and sound judgment. Perhaps
it may be he who will commend my spirit into God’s
hands, Who knows? who knows?”

That which is always the most certain of all things is
death. How many I have seen die during this year!
How many graves, and those the most unexpected !
Poor Hippolyte; poor Adolphe; the brother of M. Verdun ;
Olympe; and that amiable, holy M. de Sainte Marie,
with whom I was staying this time last year! ‘To-morrow
year I left; I said adieu, apparently for ever, to Saint-
Martin ; but how little I thought the master of the house
would leave it so soon! He was so vigorous, so strong,
mind and body! But there is no resisting that mighty
stroke of death that strikes us all at our appointed hour.
My poor friend, the Baroness, 1s almost as dead as her
father ; she no longer writes ; I only hear of her through
her mother, another incurable. Thus lives and ties die

it398 Letters of

out, and this world is, after all, nothing but a great
grave !

My poor sister-in-law has recently lost one of her
brothers, a young man of twenty-three. This loss has
replunged the young woman into deep affliction, out of
which, indeed, she has never entirely emerged since the
great sorrow. But she mourns and comforts herself with
God. I know no piety more deep and fervent. Oh!
how well she has done to choose for the portion of her
lacerated heart that religion which has sustained martyrs !
Caroline is saintly in her whole life. At the age of two-
and-twenty, pretty and bewitching as she is, to be dead
to the world, to go only from her house to church and to
live all alone too in Paris, is a very rare example. I do
not know whether we shall see her next year; she leads
me to hope it, but I have lost so many hopes that I no
longer believe in any but those of heaven.

Do not you, too, say the same, dear friend? Have
not many bright prospects come to break against those
Rayssac rocks? Poor Louise, how often I have thought
of your sufferings! In my Cayla calm I am able to offer
you some alleviations, and they consist in piety, the true
life of women. I say in my Cayla calm, because amidst
the agitations of the world one does not so well perceive
what is necessary to the soul and to true happiness.
Send me, dear friend, your thoughts and feelings: send
me your sedf Mine can intimately unite itself therewith ;
mine has suffered, mine knows how to sympathise. They
tell me that you are rather sad. Is it the mature appear-
ance you pretend to wear, or sorrows that bring thisLugénie de Guérin, 399

about? Whatever their nature, I make these sorrows
mine, and, as though for my own self, I put up prayers,
some against these very sorrows, and others for all sorts
of happinesses during the next year—all in submission,
however, to the gracious will of God.

Assure the Countess and Léontine that I include them
in my wishes for those I love, and embrace them by way
of New Year’s gift. How goes on the little love, about
whose health you were uneasy? And his mother, is she
beside the cradle? Tell me all about your family, for
anything and everything interests me. I told you that
Marie had taken flight to Caylux; Erembert, too, is
away; so here I am keeping house with my father, and
much disposed to continue in retreat until the spring,

 

when I shall go and see my relations. I have not yet
been out, and find great difficulty in stirring, so absorbed
am I in'Cayla. Antoinette wants me at Lisle. She
writes me all manner of sweet things, by which I am
greatly touched. Antoinette is a pearl of a soul, anda
soul of pearl, Adieu, my friend! I know a heart of
gold, which I preserve most sacredly in mine.

 

To M. H. DE LA MoRVONNAIS,
Cayla, 2nd Fuly, 1842.

I have been waiting for the letter you led me to expect
from M. Quemper, and therefore delaying to answet
yours, kind, perfect friend of Maurice. But that letter
does not come, and I will no longer put off thanking you'

SS ELATED IIE IE

oat tibia,

eC

*
pO PATA

 

 

  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

4.00 Letters of

for your devoted zeal in the matter of these dear manu-
scripts. I relied upon it, and therefore took the liberty
of appealing to it in my need, and I did so with all the
confidence of our mutual interest as brother and sister in
this legacy of Maurice and the efforts required to realise
it; but shall we succeed, after all? I very much fear
not, and that the whole of it will be for ever lost. What
a regret! a second loss of Maurice to me who felt a
nameless delight in the prospect of, as it were, again
seeing him in his genius, in the works of his mind
brought to the light of day! This we seemed about to
enjoy; the copies were made ; I saw them ; nothing was
wanted for the publication, except a notice requested by
M. , some anecdotes, recollections of childhood,

 

account of our family, and these I sent off in January
and never received any reply. Nothing can explain
, who was ill at

 

this silence except the death of M.
the time. I say this, because I know for certain that he
was about to publish. I had another conversation with
him on the subject just before my departure, and he
answered me in a way that left no doubt as to his in-
tentions. ‘This was some time after his meeting with
M. Quemper, and, though certain of M.

 

’s ways of
thinking pleased me as little as they did him, I had con-
fidence in his promises. I could not doubt a friend of
Maurice’s. As I told you, I could more easily believe
in his death; and this is what I want to ascertain, that
we may reclaim our papers. . My father is determined to
write to his family. Everything will be attempted rather
than lose and leave in oblivion the most precious portionLiugénte de Guerin. 401

that remains to us of our Maurice, of the dear and beats
tiful soul, according to your expression, my gentle poet.
Oh! how you sing this soul; make it, as it were, your
own, by memory and contemplation! How I love your
admiration and your still remembering the day when
Maurice wrote beside your hearth in that blue book!
Days and books both lost! This gives us too much to
regret! J can only reconcile myself to so many sacri-
fices by reflecting that from this world, where everything
dies, everything passes away, I shall go to heaven to rejoin
Maurice and all that I have lost ; for where eternity resides
even the past ts recovered, appy hope!

Meanwhile, here is a sweet joy I want to tell you of:
a melancholy yet delightful surprise; an album that I
opened by chance in a neighbouring house, and in which
I found the death of Maurice. How touched I was to
meet there, on those secret pages in a young girl’s
journal, a record made and kept in the depths of a
heart—an unknown and very delicate tribute to the
memory of Maurice! I read in it these words, “Ae was
their life,” alluding to our family. All those who knew us
would say the same. There are some of those beings,
those loving natures, who afford so much to others it
seems as though others lived on them. And such was
Maurice to us. From him there flowed to me affection,
sympathy, counsel ; life was made sweet by his sweet inter-
course and intellectual aid ; in short, he was the sustenance
of my soul. This great friend lost, I need nothing less
than God to replace him. Or rather, God was already
there, but He now comes forward more prominently in the

2Dia |
Nit
UT
{4

 

   

402 Letters of

empty space. There you have the whole of my life:
smitten, but sustained ; and, in addition, family tender-
ness, domestic consolations, a church to pray in; all this
gives one enough to thank God for, and to make one
pass serenely the days that remain.

You asked me about my health, my kind recluse,
which is why I have spoken to you of my soul; of the
balm instead of the vase, which is not worth talking of.
Nevertheless, since you take an interest in it, 1 may
inform you that my poor little health goes on well. No
more cough, thanks to the healthy country air and to the
milk that I drink so freely. May you be able to send
me an equally good bulletin of yourself—too often in-
yalided! The influenza, I trust, has taken its departure,
and will not prevent your writing at rather greater length
than the last time.

Send me some of your literary and other news, and,
above all, never doubt the interest I take ih it. . “There
are too many ties between you and me, between Val and
Cayla, for us not to live a good deal in each other. Ac-
cordingly, your publications will have a very warm recep-
tion, Iam in continual expectation of Le Alal du Lays.
Farewell, poet! may God and poetry console you! “They
are potent aids: God especially, who lifts the soul up to
Himself and communicates His own life thereto, while
poetry sheds it abroad in magnificent streams. Flow,
then! flow, sacred poetry, over this arid earth !

I put Marie’s white arms around my neck, and very
tenderly kiss her pink cheeks. Dear child ! tell her that
far, very far away from Val, little Marie is tenrlerly loved,Liugénwe de Guérin. 403

that we wish for her all childhood’s joys, and that she
may always be a joy to her father,

If you are writing to M. Quemper, or if he be with you,
pray recall me to his remembrance, and thank him for
theesteps which he has no doubt taken, whatever may be
their result.

Again adieu, after much writing, which pray accept as
a token of still more affection.

 

To THE SAME.

Cayla, 20/2 October, 1842.
A traveller bound for your part of the country will
carry you, my good hermit, these greetings from Cayla
these kind thoughts and tidings sent from my Thebaid to
yours. ‘Thus, in former days, the Cenobites in their desert

 

used to correspond when a rare opportunity offered.
But I shall not imitate that one of their number who kept

his friend’s letters unopened—an admirable instance of

 

self-denial, but above my strength. To have and to read
are one and the same with me when a loved handwriting
appears. So is it with yours, which, however, costs me
some effort to decipher, unskilful as I am in matters of
any difficulty, and in too great a hurry to see what gives
me pleasure. But let not these impediments in the way
of my reading prevent you from writing to me whenever
your numerous occupations permit. Steal from the Muses
a few moments to give to friendship, which will be truly

grateful.404 Letters of

Nor is it I only, but my whole family who thank you
for your kind thoughts of us, and expressly charge me to
tell you so. I set about doing this by thanking you, in
the first place, for your last letter, because it is ever with
the heart that I begin. My good father is greatly touched
by your affection for our much-loved Maurice and your
devotion to his memory and his talents. They were
very, very great, very high. To collect and publish their
achievements is a holy work ; a homage to the dear, true
poet, and to God, the Father of intelligence. Blessed,
then, be all those who take part in this design ; and
blessed more than any other be you, Maurice’s devoted
friend. ‘Thanks to that devotedness and to the trouble
you are willing to encounter, I still hope for this publica-
tion, my heart’s one ardent desire. Whether or not we
recover the copies, we still have the autographs: not all
of them, it is true, which is very grievous, because, after
all, our edition will be incomplete ; but never mind,
better fragments of such a treasure than nothing at all.

And besides, I depend a good deal upon certain nego-
tiations that I have begged one of my relatives to enter
into with M. ——, who is not dead, as I had concluded
from his silence. Incomprehensible conduct! I will
not judge it, but I suffer from it. I had relied upon the
loftiest promises. I looked for that publication as cer-
tainly as for the rising of the sun. And there everything
remains standing still, without my knowing why. This
becomes unbearable; accordingly, we are determined to
bring it to an end and relieve ourselves from suspense.

We should have done so already, had we known theLugénte de Guérin. AO5

direction of M. ——.,, but neither M. Quemper nor any
one else can give itme. But my cousin has undertaken
to find it out; and then he will instantly go and ascertain
what the obstacles are, or reclaim otir manuscripts. In
the latter case you will procure them from him in Paris,
and I shall make them over to your care and to the
interest of the friends of genius. You advise me to
come to terms with a publisher; but how manage this, or
who apply to? Ihave not any idea of my own on this
head, and got no information when in Paris, depending
as I did entirely on. M. ——.

And now what is it I must do about my poor dear
relics? Whatever it be, I will save them from oblivion :
we will save them, for I reckon on your pious assistance.
I shall have something very precious to give you, where-
with to enrich Maurice’s works: ’tis a portrait of him, a
drawing of his fine head, which we owe to an artist
friend, who did it in secret for himself, and who showed
and gave it to me when he knew I was in Paris. What
_a treasure ! Maurice is there, very like, in a calm
thoughtful attitude, suffering marked on the brow, the
eyes closed, the expression of a lakist. This drawing
will, I am sure, please you; as for me, L rejoice int:
the shadow even of what one has loved is so dear!
And yet all this is not he: ’tis but his image, his
thoughts that remain to us! The reality is elsewhere.
This it is that raises the soul above the poor sad
world, so profoundly imperfect in its happiness, where
what might have made it happy dies or fails us. In this
we see a divine purpose, which we should adore while406 Letters of

contemplating for our consolation the joys that faith
presents, and saluting them from afur.

Iam delighted at the ushering into the world of Za
Famille des Ames, and above all at the prospect of seeing
it arrive at Cayla. I promise it a loving reception, as to
whatever may come to me from Brittany—noble country
that I love. Your literary gifts will be to me like those
wondrous fruits of a distant island, sent by a prince to his
friends in a gold box, which preserved them for ever. I
shall bequeath your books to my nephews, if I have any.

This brings me to my family joys, in which you will, I
know, share. What can I tell you but that we live here
in the love and concord of angels, in the sweet peace of
Vallambrosa? Nothing is wanting to us but a little
child, a young life in ours, such as you have in Marie.
That dear little girl must be the sweetest charm of your
solitude. But I can conceive that when a little older she
will be a still greater source of happiness ; she will then
be able to understand you, to share your thoughts and
feelings, to be your intellectual companion. One day
Marie will become this to her father, and then your
isolation will be less; then you will say, less bitterly than
you do, Woe to all loving hearts! Yours has suffered
much, and still suffers, I see, from the state of things
around it. But how meet that state except by bearing it as
a Christian, and in hope of that better world where every
one will be in his right place? May God always console
you for all things! I often pray to Him for you, my
gentle poet. Adieu! may your health continue to im-
prove. I very tenderly embrace Mari:.Eugénie de Guérin.

TO THE SAME.
Gaillac, 2772 Fanuary, 1843.

Here I am, very dilatory indeed, my good recluse, but
not oblivious. ‘That is an impossibility between us, as
you know and I like to repeat. Occupations, absence
from Cayla, and then the expectation of those dear
manuscripts, are all reasons that will plead for me with
you. Certainly, friends are sufficiently rare not to be
neglected; they are life’s best comforters. Nothing is
sweeter than sincere and sympathetic relations, and you
may easily judge, therefore, how dear mine with you_are
to me. I often regret, and so do my family with me,
that Languedoc and Brittany are so far from each other.
Our deserts ought to touch, as our souls do. But is
anything here below exactly as we would have it? Dis-
tance separates, destiny divides; the whole world is a
place of exile and valley of tears, which would be over-
whelmingly sad indeed did not heaven cover earth. Oh,
the glorious mysteries veiled there that await us for our
bliss! When I raise my eyes above, I know not what
kind of joy I derive from it; but it is joy indeed and
supernatural life which makes me forget the present, or at
all events support it easily. What are brief sufferings in
prospect of eternal felicity? What is a bitter drop, com-
pared to an ocean of delights ? And then this is not like
one of our deceitful human hopes: it is a divine promise.
Oh! God is a good friend indeed, and good friends
somewhat resemble and flow from Him, as do all our

blessings.408 Letters of
You were very kind in sending me the G ’s direc-
tion. Lat once availed myself of it to write to M. ——,, but

with no more success than before. It is true that things
turned out unfortunately, and that the person I desired
to take measures has not yet done so nor delivered my
is to be found at

 

note. I am not sure whether M.
the offices of the G , or whether his address is to be had
there; but the fact is that he has not been got at, which

 

exceedingly annoys us. If I were not afraid of troubling
M. Quemper, I should beg him to be so kind as to call
at the G——, but you yourself have often told him of
this unsuccessful search, and that keeps me back. ‘This
is why I have not rephed to you sooner, nor inquired
whether you have been a sick-nurse long. I hope soon
to be a daby’s nurse, which is a much pleasanter post.
My gentle sister-in-law has announced this happiness
to me. Alas! I had promised it myself long before
from another marriage, that was also rich in hopes as
regarded my heart, and that bequeathed it nothing but
tears. Since then the world and life are changed to
me, and whatever happy event may occur it bears this
sad impress. My family is still a centre of affection, but
its keen interest is wanting. You understand me, you
who have lost, you who mourn. But yet I speak of this
only to God and to you who knew Maurice intimately.
My gentle poet, sing me this death in your pious strains.
How are your publications getting on? I put up hearty
wishes for their success, and at the same time for their
arrival at Cayla. Should you have anything for me from
Paris, you might have it left at M. Raynaud, 27, Rue deEugénie de Guérin. 409

Arcade, as he has frequent opportunities of sending to
our part of the world.

Adieu! Always give my love to little Marie, the
angel of your solitude, and accept for yourself the old,
yet ever new, expression of my friendship.

P.S.—I have been absent for some weeks from my
loved solitude, but I can assure you that you are aftec-
tionately remembered by its inhabitants.

 

‘To MADAME D’ASSIER DE TANUS, Véze (Aveyron).
Cayla, 27th April, 1843.

I know that you are well, my dear Marie, and that
Ninette continues pretty and uproarious. I have just
heard all this from your mother, and I come to tell you
how much pleasure it gives me. I had been longing for
news of you, for it is already a considerable time since
you left Gaillac, and, above all, since I have seen you,
my good Marie. I had got so accustomed to the plea-
sure of being together when we were staying with your
mother that I can hardly reconcile myself to the idea of
your being no longer there and to my having to go all
the way to your mountains to seek you out. But how-
ever, here I am, seeking you out: for were you at the
antipodes my friendship would follow you there.

It will not be my fault, I can assure you, if I fail to do

this some day in a less spiritual fashion than now. ‘ToAIO Letters of

meet in imagination is pretty much like dining in ima-
gination, and I like the one as little as the other. I
intend, therefore, to come and see you in good earnest,
and my plan is as follows: to avail myself of the first
spring day to go as far as Madame de Faramond ; when
here, in the course of conversation we shall naturally
get upon Madame de Tanus, and the pleasure it would
give me to see her again and to have a seat in Madame
de Faramond’s carriage, when she goes to Valence.
Here I am, you see, at Véze. But, really, what delight
it would be to spend a few days with you under your
own roof, to become acquainted with your country, your
woods, your mountains.

I am very fond of mountains, probably because I have
had friends among them. But how far away some of
them now are! Poor Louise* is pretty nearly lost to
this country. I deeply regretted seeing her depart for
Africa, where Heaven knows what her fate may be! But
just now everything smiles, everything pleases her. Max
renders her perfectly happy! it is only the yataghan of
Abd-el-Kader which can cut short their bliss. Those
Arabs frighten me. ‘There was a pretty sharp encounter
with them a little time ago; I believe that Adrien’s regi-
ment was engaged, but nothing has happened to him this
time. Louise writes me a very long letter, very Oriental
and very affectionate, which is still better. The most
brilliant descriptions are not worth one heart-word. To
my mind, the especial charm of Louise lies there, over

* Mdlle. Louise de Bayne, married to M. de Tonnac.Liugéntwe de Guérin. ALI

and above all the other charms she possesses. She
inquires for all her friends, sending a message to one
and all, and you are to have a share in the cake.

At last, then, your health is good, and you have left off
suffering from that horrible pain. May it be a long, a
perpetual respite! It is too dreadful to have it to endure.
and I pray the good God not to rank you amongst the
holy martyrs, if such be His will.

 

To MpDLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BOISSET.
18th August, 1843.

I am writing to you, my dear Antoinette, beside a
cradle, in which sleeps a blue-eyed angel, which is tanta-
mount to telling you that Iam anaunt. I had no idea
that this delight, with which you are familiar, could be
so sweet, or that the heart could rejoice so much at the
birth of such a little creature. This child was, it is true,
ardently desired by our whole family, and we never cease
blessing God for one another’s joy. May our darling
live and grow and resemble its mother in charming
qualities! For some days past I live only in the future
and in my little Marie. We have given her this name
of celestial augury, and I hope infinite good from it.
Already the little one promises first to remain in the
world, next to have good health init. I know not what
else this little life may contain, but I accredit it with

many blessings.
I also depend with perfect assurance upon your parti-. cere NM
peieencirereenanoe

“
So MILLE IIL

aR BRN LIOR Ec Ne

 

AI2 Letters of

cipating in my happiness, dear Antoinette. I associate
you with all my feelings, and your friendship never fails
to share them. Would to God you could do so in
person as well as heart! The pleasure of mutual rela-
tions is doubled by presence, and to see you would be a
sweet privilege to me, my Celestial friend. A visit to
Gaillac has got put off till winter, though if I listened to
my cousins and to my own desire of seeing them, it
ought not to be so late. But a thousand causes bind one
to home, and hinder one when one wishes to leave it.
’Tis ever this, that, or the other: for me, it 1s often my
father’s suffering state. May you, dear Antoinette, have
no more alarms on the subject of health! I am very
anxious that this charming holiday time should pass over
with you free from all bitterness, except that of the de-
parture, which must always be bitter. Speaking of
departures, we have had one which was very painful
to me: I allude to that of my beloved Paris sister for
India. She has returned to her own country, whither
she was summoned by her aunt and a brother whom she
fondly cherishes. The farewell was full of affection and
regret, and leads us to hope that we may see her again.
But will that ever be? May God grant it, and preserve
this angel !

Adieu, my dear Antoinette! pray for her and for me.Eugénie de Guérin.

To M. PAUL QUEMPER, Paris.
SIR, Cayla, 222d September, 1843.

Kind M. Morvonnais writes me word that you are in
there, and that I need not

 

Paris, that you met M.
hesitate to beg you to recover from him my brother's
manuscripts. Accordingly, I do not hesitate to charge
you with this commission, which, moreover, seems na-
turally to belong to you because of the friendship you
entertained for Maurice and the regard you still have for
his memory. ‘To gather together all that remains to us
of him, the beautiful thoughts of his soul, is a pious task
that the friends of the poet should delight to share.
In this character you were one of the first to undertake
your part of the task, and I saw you evince a very
affecting interest in occupying yourself With 1 [teas
to this interest.I now appeal, and rely on its reco-
vering the treasure possessed by M. He has
doubtless forgotten all about it. 1 cannot understand
this conduct, nor will I express myself further about this
friend of my brother. All I would say is, that I positively
insist on Claiming the dear manuscripts. This deter-

 

mination transmitted by you would, no doubt, suffice ;
but I support it by the accompanying letter from my
father, which will serve you as credentials in case of
need.

And now I have to make a thousand apologies for the

liberty I take and the trouble I am about to give you:

but you struck me as being benevolence and kindness414 Letters of

itself, even during the few moments which I had the plea-
sure of, spending with you in Paris. I have retained
a very agreeable recollection of those interviews, with
sentiments of interest and esteem for you personally,
which I am delighted to have the opportunity of ex-
pressing to-day.

Be pleased to accept them with the assurance of my
perfect regard.

P.S.—In order fully to succeed in the steps you are
about to take, it will be necessary not only to obtain the
manuscripts but the copies taken. These I saw a few
days before I left Paris. M.—— will surely not refuse
them. ‘The journal which came from America, and was
delivered to me by you is also there; I place the highest
value upon it, upon everything, in short, that remains of
that beloved brother.

When once you have the papers, M: Morvonnais tells
me you will set about their publication ; he depends a
good deal upon the co-operation of a M. Pitre* (if I
read the name correctly), who lives at 34, Rue de Ver-
neuil,

I might also perhaps get another coadjutor to associate
with you, the Comte de Beaufort, who made us most
flattering offers of publication. ‘This was two years ago,
but I then declined, having but few materials. Since
then we have made many discoveries, thanks to you and
M. Morvonnais. ‘This M. de Beaufort used to write in
the Revue de Paris: he offered to publish without any

* M. Pitre-Chevalier.Lugénie de Guérin. A15

expense on our part. If you think it advisable, I will
write to him; he used to live at 50, Rue St. Nicolas
\d Antin.

Once more adieu! You see how I rely upon your

kindness.

 

To THE SAME.
SIR, Cayla, 20¢h September, 1844.

I come again to occupy your attention with a matter
that is always occupying mine, and in which you have not
ceased to feel an interest: those dear papers of Maurice.
I know how much trouble you have taken to collect
them, and what researches you have made. If success
necessarily followed zeal, I should long ago have had
nothing to do but to thank you for the possession of my
treasure. But, although it be still undiscovered, I am
none the less full of gratitude for your pious endeavours.
Pray accept the liveliest expression of my feelings, and
permit me to commend to you those papers that I have
recovered, and which may perhaps compensate in a
measure for the losses we deplore.

Do not you think that with these and the Cevfawr,
which is found entire in the Revue des Deux Mondes, we
might venture to publish? I would also point out an
article of Maurice’s in the Revue Europtenne (January
rsth, 1832), entitled Lzfe of the Blessed Nicolas de Flue;
and another in La Frauce Catholique on the Chapelle
expiatoire of Louis XVI. 1 do not exactly know when it
appeared, but it must have been between 1830 and 1834416 Letters of

I make this suggestion very timidly, without venturing
to build too much on it; but the least hope on this
subject is too dear to me not to be grasped at and
shared with the kind friends who are ever ready to receive
with pleasure any fragments of the work.

My cousin Raynaud will give you the packet of papers
to which I allude, and. gladly talk over its contents with
you.

I do not know whether M. Morvonnais has returned
to Paris or not; but if he is still there, pray assure him
of my affectionate remembrance, and tell him that I
regret not having received those volumes of his works
which he shad kindly intended to send me on arriving in
Paris. It was with reference to them that I gave him
M. Raynaud’s address, of which I would again remind
him if it be in that good M. Morvonnais’s power to let
me have the books.

I seem to be always charging you with commissions,
but I know your indefatigable zeal, and moreover, you
may depend upon my gratitude.

To M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.

Chateau du Cayla, 372 Fanuary, 1845.
As I was expecting to hear from you, my dear poet, I
did not write; but here is the season of good wishes
round again, and I come to offer you mine, or rather to
tell you of those I address on your behalf to Heaven;
for it is from above that happiness comes. I would fain1 OENTL at VT.
Liugénie de Guérin. 417

see all that God can bestow descend upon you—that is
infinite happiness. Indeed it would be no more than
I desire for you; but in this the heart’s petition is not
often granted, not at least in the course of earthly life.
God has never promised to render that happy since we
lost Paradise. My wishes therefore do not limit them-
selves to time; they claim celestial blessings for you:
these last are the only ones which seem to me worthy of
belonging to you, or in harmony with your poetical and
Christian soul whose voice I know, and it seems to me
one raised far above our lower world: it is a bird that
soars while it sings.

And speaking of your songs brings me to my regret at
not having received the works you so kindly promised
me. ’Tis now a jong while ago, I always remember dates
connected with the heart. My fear is, not of any forget-
fulness on your part (between Brittany and Cayla there
can be no such thing) ; my fear then is that there may
have been some unfortunate hindrances to this intention
of yours. You led me to hope the work would be sent
from Paris last June. Perhaps your journey thither was
prevented by illness ; your health is sufficiently fragile to
lead to melancholy interpretations of your silence ; and in
me the thought of death readily occurs ever since I have
seen a loved one die. Deliver me then from anxiety, my
gentle poet ; write me one of those kind Breton letters
that I love, and that my friendship for the friend of my dear
Maurice craves for. O,my dear Maurice! he could have
made me love a serpent ; judge then of the feelings he
2 E418 Letters of

bequeathed me for you who were so tender and kind to
him,

I do not know why M. Quemper does not notice a
parcel I sent him containing a portion of our dear
Maurice’s works. Despairing of ever having the com-
plete collection of them, it struck me that these might
make a small volume of very choice things ; amongst them
were all his poems, his letters to you, and several written
to different persons during his stay at La Chénaie. I
requested M. Quemper to lay these papers before M.
Pitre, and to take counsel with that gentleman and with
you about their publication. If there were no way of
accomplishing this, I should have to resign myself to
silence, to locking up for evermore these precious writings,
this soul of the poet’s soul, in a funeral urn beside his
tomb. But I still look for a letter from M. Quemper.
I am so sure of his kind readiness to oblige and his de-
votion to Maurice’s memory, that his silence surprises me
much.

I have already told you how I felt about yours, and
that will give you to understand the welcome your letter
will receive. Tell me of your dear little Marie, whom I
.ove ; nor is this love any new thing. Not long ago, in
looking over a journal that I used to write for Maurice,
I came upon a long page about that child of Val.

 

With what a sad pleasure I paused over that pretty image,
and pretty passage !

The days pass by, but time will never efface the charm
of dear and holy memories to me,Eugtnie de Guérin. AIO

Adieu, my gentle poet. Believe me, at the beginning
as at the end of the year, your friend.

P.S.—What of the health of that brother of yours
about whom you were anxious?

To THE SAME.
Cayla, 15¢h Pune, 1845.

I entirely excuse you, my gentle poet, for your delay
in writing to me; for not only are the reasons you allege
excellent ones, but I never accuse your silence ; nor,
however long it may last, does the thought of your for-
getting me ever come to trouble me. We are too
sacredly and too closely bound to each other for that, I
think. What belongs to the soul can know no end.

Therefore, as far as that goes, be at rest, dear poet, as
to the consequences of your silence. May I not myself
be rather to blame this time? But you told me that
your health was not good, that your correspondence in-
creased, and your strength grew less. T hat made me
feel timid about writing to you, lest I should add to your
fatigues. Why cannot I see my thoughts wing their way
to you like those little flights of birds that pass from
one hemisphere to another? You would then but need
to raise your eyes, while as it is you are wearied perhaps
by any effort. I should be very glad to be reassured
about your health. I am sure that such solitude is bad
for you, and much regret that your charming Marie

2 fh 2420 Letters of

Ae
should not be living with you; she would make a sweet
diversion in your life of study and solitude. But J
can also understand how dear this child must be to het
grandmother, and that for this reason you should often
leave your angel with her. And, besides, a regard for
her education may have much to do with this sacrifice
of separation, which Heaven will no doubt bless ; for it
blesses all sacrifices made by the paternal heart. I feel
full confidence in the delight you will have in your dear
Marie. Her future interests me exceedingly. I have
always felt for this child a peculiar affection, transmitted
to me by Maurice.

Well, then, how do we stand now as to those blessed
manuscripts? Do not you tell me that M. Quemper is
really upon their track, and that the plan is to come to

 

an understanding with M. A thousand thanks,
my excellent friend, for this good news! At last we
shall be able to get hold again of these dear papers
And yet M. Quemper has not written to me, as you led
me to hope. Who knows what may have happened
There are still many chances. I have been told that

these manuscripts have lain for a long time past at the

 

publisher of M. , who could not get them away
again without a lawsuit. This would explain the delay
in the publication; but nothing can explain the silence
of the one who took such exclusive charge of it. Oh,

Again you are in mourning, have had a loss that I
have felt much for you! I allude to the death of your
poor brother. Alas! what is this life but a continualLiugénie de Guérin. 421

separation? But we have heaven for meeting-place! It
is there that we shall have neither mourning nor tears—
there that the society of the saints will console us for
what we have suffered in the society of men. You con-
sider that the latter 1s in a sad state. What would you
have? Perhaps it will yet improve. Meanwhile is
there anything for us to do but to humble ourselves, as
the Apostle says, ‘‘ wader the mighty hand of God that he
may exalt usin due time, casting all our care upon him, for
he careth for us.”

Adieu. I pray Him to take care of you.

P.S.—In expectation of your works, I send to invoke
them Saint Theresa's Brother, a melancholy inspiration
that visited me four years ago, over a grave.

 

To M. PAUL QUEMPER, Paris.
Cayla, 227d August, 1845.

Be at ease, my dear sir; I am not hurt at your silence,
There were only too good reasons for it ; and some of them
seem to me so painful, that I have nothing but feelings
of sympathising sorrow to express. - You have lost your
mother! Alas, what a loss! How crushed you must have
been by the blow, and dead to all interest, all business in
the world! In less than four-and-twenty hours of illness to
have her taken away—that good mother whom you loved
so tenderly, to whom you were united both in thought
and feeling, which is, as you say, so rare a union, and so
fraught with happiness. Accordingly, what afflictionSe a
=o ns et ST i

}

 

   

422 Letters of

 

when one comes to lose it !—what isolation on earth
where the soul keeps continually seeking its other soul!
This is the state in which you now are: it is one that
I perfectly understand, into which I enter very /razernadly,
I assure you, praying God, the only comforter, to comfort
you. Yes, that is the office of Heaven; and I will not
therefore say any more on this head, but Just express my
heartfelt gratitude to you for not having, in the midst of
such sad preoccupations, lost sight of the pious mission
entrusted to you by me. Blessed be your affection for
my beloved brother! I shall owe it much. I already
owe it a hope to which my whole heart clings—we shall
recover those dear manuscripts, that precious green book
that I hardly read, but where I glanced at much that was
admirable. ‘Thanks to your efforts, I shall be able to
enjoy it. Blessings on your pious zeal, and that of our
excellent friend in Brittany. JI am not the only one
whose thanks you have to receive; my family, who all
know you; my father, long an invalid, who now, in the
retirement of his sick-room, rejoices to anticipate the
precious collection of his son’s thoughts,—thank you as
I do.

At length you have discovered M.——-! You have
perhaps even met him ere this! Is it possible that he can
have refused us our papers? At all events, you will not
fail to occupy yourself with those now in your possession,
and to arrange about having them published. It wasa
good inspiration, then, of mine, the sending you those
treasures. JI confess to you I felt rather shy about doing
so; but there is a happiness in laying oneself open toLiugénie de Guérin. A23

noble minds, and confiding secret thoughts to one who
receives them so graciously. ‘This tells me in a very
touching manner how dear to you is the memory of
Maurice.

Receive, my dear sir, in return the assurance of his
sister’s most true regard.

 

To MDLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BOISSET.
4th Ganuary, 1846.

Your letter of the year’s last day gave me much pleasure,
my dear Antoinette. It told me that your friendship had
not departed with the flight of time. Alas! as it is, he
takes away enough from us without our letting him rob
us of what is sweetest in life, our affections. Ours for
each other is so deeply rooted, we need not fear to lose
it in any other way than by the breaking of the vase that
holds it; but even after death this celestial flower of
friendship goes to blossom in heaven, ‘This is what re-
assures me in our intervals of silence, makes me wait
quietly for a letter from you. I have one at length! T
hasten to reply, and to renew those dear conversations
interrupted, I hardly know how, which you so gracefully
recall to me.

Well, then, let us converse, dear friend; and first of
all, let us speak of you, my poor afflicted one, so often in
mourning now. I had heard a part of your eriefs, but I
was not aware of the fresh loss your family had sustained
in your mother’s only sister. All these deaths make uspred ka AM

ea penr rene .
nnatcnerahet re Pe SETI STE Ba nn Ee

“
oo

A24 Letters of

think of our own, and prepare our souls for the summons
God may send them when we least expect it. Who
knows if it will not be this year? And indeed I think
the best wish that Christians can exchange is that of
dying well. This is the true happiness ; and of what use
is it to wish each other that of this life, which never
gets fulfilled? Accordingly, I have left off forming vain
aspirations after felicity for any one, even for you, my
dear. My wishes reduce themselves to prayers ; and I
have full trust in these being accomplished. There is no
doubt of your loving the good God, and adorning your
soul ever more and more in His sight with those virtues
that make saints.

You on your side, I am sure, desire the same happi-
ness for me, for which I thank you, as well as for all your
other good new-year wishes. If it pleased God, I could
desire the new year to bring better health to my father.
He is a great invalid, as you know. ‘There are three years
now that his nights have been spent without going to
bed, except fora few hours, and then he does not undress.
So that on all sides I see nothing but suffering ; for how
long a time this has been the case! ‘This brings me to
my Indian sister, about whom you are kind enough to
inquire. We are expecting letters from her; and I heard
lately that the dear sister herself was well, but that her
aunt—her mother by adoption—was very much out of
health. This would be another irreparable loss for the
poor young woman. I do not know if we shall ever
see her again—Calcutta is very far from France. ‘To do
so would be one of the sweetest joys left on earth for me;Eugéne de Guérin. 425

but we ought to have none other than in sacrificing
everything to God.

Adieu, my dear and kind Antoinette. I should much
like to see you, but I leave home seldom, and for a short
time only. If, however, the melancholy charm that retains
me here were ever broken, perhaps I might be able to
get as far as you.

 

TO THE SAME.
23rd April, 1846.

In your last letter, dear Antoinette, you express the
wish to see me in so kind a manner that I am really
much touched and much tempted too to comply with it ;
but you know my hindrances and will judge me with
charitable equity. The eyes of your heart at once saw
straight into mine, and recognised that nothing less im-
portant than the precious healths which bound me to
Cayla could prevent my sometimes reaching you. During
the few days I spent at Gaillac shortly before Easter, I
too, on my side, was watching for some opportunity of
meeting. The eloquence of the worthy Gélis would not
have had much difficulty in deciding me to make an
expedition to Lisle, but that dear spot is become a land
of promise for me.

And in truth I am always promising myself a return
thither, for I was so happy there, and shall always preserve
a sweet and grateful memory of the kindly welcome I
met from every one, and more particularly from you andti

   

426 Letters of

your amiable family. I should much like a renewal of
that week I spent with you there, dear Antoinette ; but
there are things that do not repeat themselves in life,
and I much fear that the Lisle retreat, and Father Verrés
and the delight of being with you for some days together,
have passed by for ever. What would you have? Every-
thing passes by in this world: our sweetest enjoyments
__those flowers of life—first of all. We must offer them
up in sacrifice to God.

And speaking of sacrifices, what it has cost me to lose
that dear, loveable Louise! You keenly regret her, dear
Antoinette—you, to whom she was only an acquaintance ;
but I, who loved her, can find no consolation except m
God for the death of so cherished a friend. I have had
the most comforting details of her last moments, which
were full of piety, faith, trust in God, and sublime
courage. Poor, dear Louise! I cannot realise that it is
all over with our hope of meeting. We were widely
parted indeed, but I did not think it was for ‘ever. So
Providence had ordered it! God had numbered my
friend’s days, and was throwing heaven open to her just
when I calculated upon embracing her once more. She
was to have come in March. . The meeting must
now be above with my dear Louise, as well as with other
loved souls whom we have also seen go away from us
very early.

I could go on indefinitely on this subject, but I must
say Good-bye, not, however, without congratulating you
on your father having won his lawsuit. You are right in

believing that I take a friend’s part in that as well as in allLiugénie de Guerin. 427

else that interests you. Accordingly, I dove for you that
charming little niece, your delight, and wish her a happy
arrival of a brother or sister. We think our Caroline a
gem. Some one who has seen your angel told us that

ours resembles her. Upon which pretty speeches adieu,
my friend !

To M. DE GUERIN, Cayla.
Cauteres (Hautets-Pyrenées), 1172 Fuly, 1846.

Here I am, my dear Papa, in those Pyrenees which
seemed to us to be so far from Cayla, and through the
mercy of God Ihave reached them without any drawback
or accident whatsoever. All my travelling companions
are perfectly satisfied. Marie is writing to her mother.
Louise * is there, holding a conversation with the excel-
lent and attractive Mademoiselle Pons, and I sit down as
soon as possible to give you an account of my journey.

We have only just arrived and found lodgings, which
is no easy matter. After an hour of going in and coming
out of houses, we are very tolerably settled. My room
has a charming view towards one of the finest mountains
in the Pyrenees. ‘There is something magnificent in the
aspect of this gigantic range, all covered with firs and
furrowed with torrents which, owing to the height they
fall from, look like mere threads of water. We have had
this superb spectacle the whole of this day, which began
at Tarbes.

Tarbes is a very pretty town. In order to become

* Mdlle. Louise de Thézac, now Madame Brémont d’ Ars.428 Letters of

somewhat acquainted with it, I went out early, and
while these ladies were .naking their arrangements paid
a visit to the cathedral. A good woman who served as
cicerone having placed me within sight of the church pro-
ceeded to say, “‘ There, madame, is the Church, opposite
you have the Prefecture, further off the Hospital, and
down yonder the Barracks.” You may judge how I
laughed as I dismissed and thanked her. I had no wish
indeed to be shown everything, and therefore walked
off to the market-place to buy some fruit, but the hail
which had fallen a few days before had ruined it all.
On our way we saw nothing for three leagues but de-
vastation. This threw a melancholy over the fine road
which ran through a plain as rich and more varied than
that of Gaillac, full of the productions of mountain
and valley both; vines spreading from tree to tree,
fields of corn and fields of millet, chestnut and fruit-
trees: a blending of riches which seemed like a corner of
a terrestrial paradise. What would you say, Papa, to
tall millet two or three feet high, the rows planted very
close, with potatoes flourishing in the furrows? How |
should have enjoyed pointing this out to you, and much
besides. It was the most agreeable journey I ever
took.

These Pyrenees are an infinitely more beautiful sight
than Paris, which, however, is very beautiful too. But
there is the difference between the works of man there
and those of God here. ‘This indescribable architec-
ture of mountains and valleys without end gives a

very lively impression of Divine power. I intenselyEugénie de Guerin. A29

enjoyed the whole of the journey, begun at Tarbes
amid vines and flowers, and continued along the sides of
pyramidal rocks and above a torrent which rushes and
leaps under one’s eyes as far as Cauterets. The road is
cut perpendicularly up this fabulous Gave, and would
have done honour to the Romans: it is marvellously
steep. I kept saying, “If from Cayla they could see us
ascending this path for eagles, great would be their
astonishment; and Papa, who is afraid of seeing me
mount a donkey, would call out to me to stop.” But
how is that to be done? And besides, one must needs
reach those marvellous waters to which you were so
anxious to send me. May I find health in them!....

Adieu! we needs must part. It is late, and I have no
paper.* My first visit was to the Cauterets Church, to
thank God for my prosperous journey. The population
seems a pious one. We have priests in quantities and a
few bishops, amongst others Monseigneur of Paris. M.
Vergnes is expected one of these days, and finally, Mdlle.
d’Hautpoul and her brother the Abbé are also among the
bathers. I shall go and see her.

I embrace you all on this triangle of paper, which will
remind you that I live by borrowing and that our trunks
are still closed. Our room is a chaos, but there is room
in it for Cayla, including you Papa, Mimi, Eran, Anais,
and little Caro. I long to have news of youall, May
it be good, miraculous. In short, God alone knows all
that occupies me about you all, you dear absent ones,

* What follows is written on a flap of paper in the form of a
triangle or Zea#, which explains the last words of the letter.SEEPS EEE TES tn
SEV EES z

 

      
   
   
   
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
    
 
    

430 Letters of

and especially about you, Papa. Send me a faithful

account of everything that goes on. ’Tis to you, dear
Mimin, that I apply for news of whatever happens at
Cayla; and I, on my part, will tell you what happens at
Cauterets. ‘The company here seems to me a strange
medley, but I had a mere flying glance at it. My re-
membrances to the pastor and the whole parish. Once
more good-bye to you all. ‘This peak terminates in a

kiss.

 

To THE SAME,

DEAR PaPsa,— Cauterets, 13¢2 Fuly, 1846.

Being unable to write to you by the post as often as I
should like, I mean, by way of compensating myself, to
put down for you my every-day in this little book, which
will reach you in the form of letters. This is a continua-
tion of the one I despatched on my arrival. That was
Saturday. The next morning we began by hearing mass
to your intention. It was in a pretty little chapel to
the Virgin, at nine o’clock, exactly at the hour when a
saint was praying for you in Bavaria. Cauterets is a
long way from thence, but from all places alike we may
meet in God.

The mass being over, we went to pay a visit to the
baths.
La Raillére that we mounted: a pretty steep ascent of
twenty minutes, accomplished by some on horse or

donkey back, by some in chaises a porteurs, and by great

There are several establishments, but it was toLiugénie de Gucrin. 431

numbes; in all ways. There is a whole world of in
valids, crippled, catarrhal, &c., crowding around these
baths, as the paralytic around the miraculous piscina.
But, for my part, it is not there I make my plunge. I
I have been taken down to a far more comfortable
establishment, two steps from this house, called the
Grand Cesar. ‘This triumphal name seems of happy
augury ; atleast I shall be able to say, “‘I came, I drank,”
and perhaps too, “I conquered.” ‘These baths are ad-

all
marble ; I fancied myself looking at one of those Italian

 

mirably managed, and the building magnificent

palaces that used to delight you so much. As to that,
however, marble is very common here, and almost all
the better class of houses are fronted with it, which gives
the town a certain air of elegance and distinction rather
rare in France; and, above all, it is the perfection of
cleanliness; but then, to be sure, it may be washed
without any trouble. Water springs and flows every-
where, limpid as a crystal, with this only difference—that
here it is boiling instead of congealed.

We have had a visit from the d’Yversens and An-
toinette.* I went to see Mdlle. d’Hautpoul. ‘They are
all in this neighbourhood, and we have the church, too,
quite at hand. It is not otherwise than prettyish, but
too small, especially for the priests who crowd the choir,
the famous Petre de Place among their number. He is
said to be remarkably agreeable, and, as he is much at
the d’Yversens, I hope to meet him. This evening the

* Mdllg, Antoinette de Boisset.—_ ‘.
a a i p
pe : ceenel eee
eet EY

   

432 Letters of

Duke de Nemours arrived, his entry being quite as quiet
as that of any common bather.

14¢.—A storm has brought on rain. Wet weatlrer is
very tiresome here, but I must add that it does not last
long. ‘The temperature is most variable; and therefore
when we have anything to complain of we may comfort
ourselves with expecting a sudden improvement. And
so it has been in this case, for the unpromising morning
has been succeeded by a very beautiful day: it was quite
hot till evening. We paid some visits. I have made
acquaintance with a lady from Rio Janeiro, who is
come here that her daughter may take the waters. Poor
mother! It seems very doubtful that the result of her
voyage will be a happy one. We lodge in the same
house with her, and her daughter comes to play with
little Albert.. There are not many people immediately
around; it is a rather out-of-the-way quarter, but suited
to us because of its proximity to the church.

I have a very small room, with a few chairs and the
table at which I am writing to you. The window looks
upon one of the most wooded mountains of the Pyrenees.
In the morning I hear the birds sing and the bathers sum-
moned. We are a good deal scattered. Henri is sent off
miles away, my cousins not quite so far. When shall we
all be united at Gaillac, or better still, at Cayla?

The Duke de Nemours passed under our windows on
his return from hunting, bowing with all the grace he
could get out of his grey felt hat. Very little was dis-
played on returning his bows. ‘They say that the countryEugénie de Guérin. 433

people detest him, because he is the cause of the high
nobility going away to avoid meeting him. A singular
reception to be given in Béarn to a descendant of
Henri IV. !

15¢#.—St. Henri to-day. A few persons celebrated
this festival quite quietly in their hearts and in the
church. I was one of them. And now I am thinking
that you too may have had hail; the storm of which we
saw such sad traces at Tarbes extended as far as Cordes.
A man and some sheep were killed by lghtning at
Cabanes. Iam longing to know how you fared at Cayla
—longing, above all, to have news of yourselves. Anais
and Eran will set out very late from Gaillac: I should
almost be afraid of the /oup-carow. Here there is a
good deal of talk of a white bear, who seems to require
the baths of La Railltre, for he has been prowling about
them for the last two years. The Prince’s hunting expe-
dition was directed against him, and it is said that an
under-prefect and a tailor hit him, but he fled into the
mountain gorges. But whether or no, don’t go and be
alarmed about me. Our baths are down below, and
the bear is high above, miles off: we have nothing in

common.

16¢.—Picture to yourselves a snow-white and sky-blue
torrent, rolling, leaping, foaming along from the top of an
inaccessible mountain, which it cleaves in two. It is the
cascade of Mahourat. Never did I see anything com-
parable to this horribly beautiful fall. We contemplated
2.¥a agen f.

eer

pe CLLLTE TEI a

ae:

 

 
 
   
  
    
  
  
    
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
    

434 Letters of

it in admiring wonder, but without venturing too near its
edge. An Englishman who was fishing there fell in, but
by singular good fortune was saved ; the water in its re-
bound flung him out like a straw on the rocks that form
the basin of the torrent, and thence the fisher was fished
up : that happened last year. On our way I visited one
of the springs, a hollow in the rock, with a little canal,
and underneath it an orifice, whence comes insufferably
hot air: it is all one can do to endure it, even through
one’s boots. After having drunk, ascended, and de-
scended, gathered flowers and strawberries, here we are
back at our hotel, enjoying a delicious rest.

17¢,—Rain, no walk ; we take to our work to while
away the time. ‘The Brazilian has been down with her
daughter. She is an excellent woman, with the Creole
tone and manners. ‘There are people from all parts of
the world here; but this crowd of company is only to be
seen at parties, ball-rooms, and other places that we
leave to the lovers of noise and pleasure. We con-
stantly see Mademoiselle Pons, and not unfrequently
Antoinette, who, however, in her character of bather, is
less at liberty than our friend from Brittany. We have
just had a visit from M. the Curé of Cauterets, accom-
panied by his vicar and the mayor. These gentlemen
were collecting for the poor. I liked the Curé’s look; I
had heard him say mass, and knew him again. He is an
angel at the altar.

13th.

 

At last, then, I have got this Cayla letter that ILiugéne de Guérin. 435

was so longing for! Thanks, my good Mimi, for your
promptitude in writing. I had hardly ventured to hope
for a letter so soon as to-day, and am made quite happy.
by it. I have read and re-read it, and found only good
news, and I do indeed believe that you would not
deceive me. It is only the disasters made by the storm
that I grieve over, though we ourselves were spared.

You want a bulletin of my health, here it is: My appe-
tite has rather decreased, and I feel the effect of the
waters a little, which is the case with every one. ‘The
doctor has told me not to take mountain excursions, has
limited my walks to the park, a pretty spot quite near at
hand, well wooded, laid out in avenues, with chairs to
rest on, and filled with gay company, who walk, sit, read,
sleep, and work at will. All this may be done for the
sum of one penny, if one takes achair. It is pleasant
enough ; but mountain excursions amidst torrents, flowers,
pines, and heather would be far more to my taste. I
hope to obtain leave to undertake some, but meanwhile °
I punctually obey the stern prescriptions of the doctor.

He is a worthy man, exceedingly polite in manner, with
a high reputation; a visit to him is looked upon as
indispensable, in order to learn which of the waters
one should take,—this depending, of course, on disease
and temperament. An American has come here merely
to bathe his eyes in an unctuous stream that flows like
honey. Antoinette goes up to the skies to drink, and
descends to the centre of the earth to bathe. How often
I think of Papa, with such a longing! But the tempera-
ture is so variable it would be almost impossible for Papa
a 2+
ee P
8 IS RTE OE IOC DA Hi sm

Te

roe

436 on Leliews OF

to endure it. There are hours of the day when one has
to clothe oneself as in winter, a few moments later one 1s
stifled; but this is out of doors,—the houses are always
cool.

I had intended to hear Monseigneur Affre’s mass, but
he no longer says it. He is reported to be much out
of health, and moreover he is everywhere quite the
churchman and student. The day the Prince arrived it
was noticed that his shutters remained closed. Marie
neans to go and see him, as being a country woman, and
Henri as the school-fellow of one of Monseigneur’s rela-
tives. If this visit does take place I shall be of the party,
though I hardly know by what title my presentation can
be justified.

As to priests they abound more andmore. This morning
an additional altar was improvised in a side aisle of the
church. I have, however, seen no acquaintance of mine,
nor have I made any acquaintance. I was aiming at
Father de Place, and, as ill luck will have it, he isill in bed.
But, as for that, here one may put in practice St. Francois
de Salis’ maxim, and choose among a thousand. There-
fore do not let Papa be uneasy on this head any more
than on that of railroads. Why, dear me! where would
you have them run if not in mid-air? Picture to your-
self mountains and nothing else, immeasurable mountains
with narrow valleys at their “base. This town alone
nearly fills one of these last, and thence the roads wind
along perpendicular rocks. Cauterets is a pretty place,
about the size of Rabastens, and during the whole bathing
season quite Parisian as to elegance. ‘The dresses are reallyEugénwe de Guérin. 437

dazzling. Mine are, as you observe, most simple, but
not ridiculous, which is all I want.

To-morrow, my dear Papa, ends the Novena for your
health. Let us hope that it will not remain without some
happy effect; it is not in vain that saints pray to the
good God. A holy soul of these parts has taken a
fervent part in our devotions. Madame Facieu, too, was
to join them, and she is another friend of Heaven's. In
short, my dear Papa, I wish you all manner of blessings
and diversions too.

I embrace Eran, and Nicette, and Caro. ‘There are
some children at the baths, but I have not seen any so
pretty as our little treasure.

To THE SAME.
Cauterets, 20/2 Fuly, 1846.

I had depended upon having something to tell you
about preachers at the Baths. We had been led to hope
for an orator among so many priests; but no sermon
at all, not even a lecture! These gentlemen are ill,
or taking their holiday. Poor Father de Place has no
voice, Monseigneur Affre no strength, we have not even
had his benediction. Here, as in the desert, we are re-
duced to preaching to ourselves. Happily I brought with —
me Fénelon, with whom I spend a few moments of pious |
meditation. And then that holy Madlle. Pons comes from
time to time to edify us with her conversation and her
example. She is excellent to us all, and I in particularoem. “YT ’

i
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i
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Sean aN IRE PRISE

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438 Letters of

have had sweet tokens of her affection. Oh, what a beau-
tiful spirit is hers! The d’Yversens are very happy to
have found so admirable a person to direct the education
of their daughters. Antoinette is living with the d’Yver-
sens, and Mademoiselle d’Hautpoul lodging in the same
house, so that we are able to see the whole party of friends
at once, nay, we can even, without going out, look at each
other from our balconies, which almost touch. Mon-
seigneur’s apartments occupy the corner of our block, so
that it is impossible to be nearer neighbours. Our visit
has still to be made, and will probably continue in prospect,
which I shall prefer. I do not fancy that Monseigneur
receives women; in which case it would be awkward to
present ourselves.

21s¢t—What shall I tell you to-day, my dear Papa? I
really do not know; what is there to be said now I no
longer explore the mountains ?. They are the features of
the place most interesting to see and describe ; the people
are much the same as everywhere else, only, perhaps,
there are more marked and numerous varieties among
them. But the mountains, the chalets, the outline of the
peaks, are what one only sees here. All the Yversen
colony made an ascent to Queen Hortense’s grange,
one of those little dwellings I told you of, hanging from
the mountain-side like eagles’ nests. This one, belonging
to the Queen of Holland, is much visited, and gives rise
to all manner of opinions regarding that princess; some
finding in it a taste for extravagance, others for lofty

things. As to me, I deduce from it that the princess hadFiugénte de Guérin. 439

good legs of her own, and also that small things survive
great ; this poor grange has lasted longer than the throne

of Holland.

24th.—A letter from Humbeline has brought us good
news of Gaillac and Cayla. Mimi had written to her on
the Friday, and said all was going on well. Such as-
surances are needful for our tranquillity, and even for
the efficacy of the waters; as we are told that mental
uneasiness negatives their effects. The doctor even
recommends one not to move about in one’s bath, accord-
ingly I lie there in perfect repose as if in my bed. I will
not have to reproach myself with the least departure from
rule. It shall not be my fault if I do not return to you
m better looks.

As the event of our day we have had a magnificent
thunderstorm. ‘Those who like the sound may enjoy it
in perfection here without any dread, for the thunderbolts
only strike the mountains, procuring abundance of rain
for the valleys. But may it not have been hailing else-
where? Toulouse was ravaged on Sunday last by a
terrible storm. I am always afraid of hearing of somte
disaster to our vines. Arsene has had a sad loss, the
lightning killed four of his oxen in their stable.

25¢,—This morning between two and three o’clock I
woke up from a nightmare. I had dreamed that you
were ill. Without having any faith in dreams, this parti-
cular one has harassed me, and I crave for news of you
to tell me that dreams are false. This 1s Friday, I cannotgc TEI

en ae |
PTE.

acne tts.

Se ROAR TA

 

  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
  
 
 
 
 
    

440 Letters of

have a letter before Monday or Tuesday next. I am
longing much to know how you are, and whether Heaven
has granted our prayer for your recovery.

We have had a visit to-day from M. Barthey, the Curé
of Villefranche, a frequenter of the baths. Father de
Place had been dining with him ; I could have envied him
that guest, who is said to be charming in mind and every-
thing else. Now, however, he is gone, and consequently I
betook myself to knock at the ear of the Cauterets Curé,
who, without being a Jesuit, has a value of his own, he is
very pious, and much devoted to the Church, where he
passes half his life.

The people here are very fond of going to confession,
the processions to the confessional sometimes continuing
till ten at night. ‘They are a race apart in manners and
costume: the women’s’ dress is remarkable for a large
mantilla, black, white, or red, which they wear in all
weathers, it is called a cafwlet, and being made of wool,
when it is hot the unfortunate creatures must be smo-
thered under it. But it resembles the veil of the Orientals :
to go out without a capulet would be a disgrace.

Sunday, 26¢h.—Two eminences in church to-day, and
accordingly the offices were pompous. There was such
a crowd at vespers that we could hardly make our way
in, and I could not get achair. But I had not time to
feel tired ; there were neither complines nor sermon, but
a-great many benedictions by the officiating bishop. It
was not Monseigneur Affre ; he completely effaces himself.
Here I am in my room after a little visit from Antoinette,Liugénie de Guérin. 441

We talked Lisle and Cayla over, and often agreed that
we longed to return thither.

27th.—Here is the much-expected letter, thy dear
letter, dear Mimin. You can have no idea what fits of
impatience come over the heart in these mountains. In
vain they enchant, amaze eyes and mind—mind and eyes
keep reverting to one’s own dear home, to those one has
left who are expecting one back. However, Papa is not
worse ; my dream was only a dream, thank God. I see
you wrote on that very Friday morning. I depend upon
your word; and then Papa writes to me as well, which
sets me quite at ease.

Yesterday I was low; these mountains weighed on me
with all their weight ; but to-day your letter and splendid
weather have quite set me up.

Mdlle. d’Hautpoul leaves on Thursday. I shall give
her a letter; but that you may not be kept too long
waiting, this shall go by the post. It will give you some-
thing to read at all events, though nothing interesting,
since I have seen nothing. I defy M. the Curé to dis-
cern anything of Chateaubriand this time, unless he can
fnd a mountain in a grain of sand. By the way, my
affectionate compliments to the good pastor.

 

 

 

To THE SAME.
Cauterets, Sunday, 2nd August,

You will no doubt, my dear Papa, receive my Wednes-
day’s letter to-morrow. Malle. d’Hautpoul tells me she will442 Letters of

go over herself and deliver it to you. This attention pleases
me, for you will be charmed to see and talk over the baths
with her. Let us have a few more words about this place
that I am to leave ina few days. I have no great things to
say about it: we have had detestable weather ; fogs like
London, and, by way of change, storms and floods. One
does not know what to do when there is no going out,
or even breathing the air on the balconies ; and so one
gets dull and weary, and falls sick.

As to me, I still find the waters agree with me; the
only tiresome part is the taking them. Picture me to
yourself, at six o’clock in the morning, carried up by two
men, in a chair, to the mountains, where almost all the
world goesto drink. ‘This road reminds me of the streets
of Paris, there is such a crowd going up and down—
ladies, priests, women in various costumes, Spaniards
in their draperies, and chairs, which are the carriages
of this street of the Pyrenees. As soon as I get there,
I drink one glass; twenty minutes later another; and
then I slowly walk down the mountain, sometimes with
Antoinette, sometimes alone, as to-day, for instance.
The mass that I heard before going up made me late in
setting out.

But with all this I have never been able to go to high
mass, and shall go off without knowing what sort of
sermons they give in this country. As to that though,
a poor curé, from the neighbourhood of Bayonne,
preached to us very solemnly one of these last days.
He died almost in a moment. Unlike the silent inter-
ment prescribed for strangers in general, he was buriedLugénie de Guérin. 443

with great pomp. All the priests, and many of the in-
habitants of the town, accompanied him: this no doubt

“« was owing to his profession. It poured with rain, so

I did not follow the procession. Iwas made melancholy
enough by hearing the dirges which went on long at the
house door of the departed, close to which was too
striking a contrast, a display of ball wreaths! The world
is everywhere the same. Here the offices are Roman in
style. Funerals are profoundly solemn; they smg much
more at them than with us. One might fancy oneself at

a Good Friday service.

Monday, August 3rd.—I1 was just waking from my
second sleep this morning when Henri came into my
room with your letter in his hand. You may judge
of the reception he got! ‘These tidings from dear Cayla
almost surprised me. I was not expecting them so soon
—not till to-morrow, or even the day after. But the
sooner the better when the news is good. I am en-
chanted with your report of the state of all. One could
hardly expect anything more satisfactory, though Papa's
health is not perfect. But then it has been so much
worse, that his present condition seems almost a recovery.
I was afraid that the election journey would have checked
the improvement; that was almost sure to be the result ;
accordingly I am pleased to find from the end of the
letter that Papa remained at home.

Here we are indeed occupied with affairs of state, but
much less than with those of the waders. Our doctor is
the only person who has talked with any animation ofpage
on

go yma
Sep
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Re RLS NEI:

NLT OF

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

444 Letters of

elections, having come back from Tarbes, where some
disturbances took place. People collared and becudgelled
each other, and a poor elector, upon crutches, was dis-
armed and thrown down for dead by his antagonist. But
we are going far away from all such tumults ; our horses
are waiting to take us an excursion to the Blue Lake.
They say it is magnificent. We shall see.

Before all, however, let us return to Cayla, and to the
first page of your letter. And so Mdme. Facieu com-
plimented you upon Papa’s good looks. I expect to find
him flourishing, and quite well by day if not by night.
We must not be surprised at the effect of the heat, which
always disagreed with him. Here it is the cold we are
complaining of. I have hardly ever been out without
ny shawl. The mountains are glorious, the country a
very interesting one to see, but the climate is the worst
in the world—a mixture of rain, fogs, and heat (which is
the least lasting of the three), very prejudicial to delicate
constitutions. Many precautions are necessary to avert
ill effects.

On Sunday we had lovely weather. A bright sun
shone out to embellish the prettiest popular festival I
ever saw. It is an annual custom for the young bathers
on a certain day to give a ball, and go to the expense of a
‘ fete champétre, which consists of races to the mountains,
pitcher-races, donkey-races, running in sacks, and the
dances of the district, all which are pretty and amusing, and
conducted with perfect order. ‘The dancers are all young
men. Monseigneur of Paris was looking on as well as we.
We were admirably placed for the enjoyment of the spec-Eugénwe de Guérin. AAS

tacle, which went on under the windows of the d’Yver-
sens. Picture to yourself a broad, brawling torrent, then
a small meadow, then a mountain, and in this framework
a gathering of several thousands arranged around a rope
barrier, the actors occupying the central space. In the
first place women, with their pitchers on their heads, run to
a certain spot, which they must reach without letting them
get broken. Very few carry off the prize; and at every fall
of a pitcher you may imagine the shouts of laughter among
the crowd. Next the runners set off to carry off flags
placed some way up the mountain ; and I can assure you
the contest is a rude one. A flourish of trumpets greets
the winners. ‘The donkey-race succeeds to the flag-race.
In this country the donkeys follow the conquerors, but
they throw over a good many of the competitors. ‘They
appeared to me very indifferent to glory, and at least
quite as obstinate as Bécaire, who moreover would have
carried off the palm for beauty. I saw very few as hand-
someashe. ‘The overturns accomplished, and the asznzne
victors crowned, the next thing is the breaking of some
dangling bottles, which does not sound very difficult ;
but one has to hit with bandaged eyes, and many a blow
is wasted on air.

The bottles broken, the dance began. ‘This was the
prettiest feature of the féte. Handsome young men (the
bathers), in white trousers, white jackets, and red floating
scarves, arrange themselves in lne all round the circle.
Suddenly they turn and face each other, and each couple
carries on a characteristic dance, which they accompany
by a play of white sticks, the noise of which blends ina
ee 3
eon P

Ste

sein cease ENE TS

4

 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
   

446 Letters of

perfect time with the sound of the instruments that ac-
company the dance. This goes on for a while in the
meadow, and continues through the streets of the town
till night. In the evening a magnificent ball gathered
together eighty women, among whom you may guess who
was not. The amusement is kept up as long as possible,
then comes the fatigue.

I have still to tell you of the excursion to the lake ;
but that is not a thing to be described, it should be seen ;
you must pass over those roads in the air to have any
idea of them. Imagine ropes hanging down the moun-
tain sides ; that is their appearance from below. Even
though they had been improved a little for the Duchesse
de Nemours to traverse them, I am astonished to have
my neck unbroken; but all do bring theirs safely back.
The fact is, one is mounted on hinds; the horses here
are marvellous, they thread those paths, ascend and
descend those perpendicular stairs without a stumble.
At the end of it all I saw beautiful beauties indeed,
amongst others a waterfall with three rainbows. The
effect of this, and the strange charm of the situation, are
inexpressible. Next came the Pont d’Espagne, ‘an im-
mense cataract. ‘There we found some fourteen or fifteen
equestrians, ladies and gentlemen, and we went on together
to the lake. A profound solitude, an immense sheet of
water amidst mountains, bare, precipitous, and gloomy as
death; and, to complete the picture, a funereal monu-
ment on the borders of the lake, put up in memory of an
I‘nglish lady and her husband who were drowned when
boating here about ten yearsago. ‘The waters are icy cold,73 FE ° : ~ oe ° 3
Eugénie de Guerin. AAq

so that whatever falls in dies almost immediately. This
lake has its source in the Vignemale, the glaciers of
which one sees. This is one of the highest peaks of the
Pyrenees, and on its other side lies Spain.

We saw a hunt, too. I touched a wild goat or a
hind. And after that, from the edge of the lake rose a
little bird, who went on flying before us as if to court our
admiration. He was indeed the gem of the desert, a
flying flower, offering himself to our sight as though to
console us for so much desolation. But for all that a
very cheerful woman lives there in a kind of wooden tent.
We carried our luncheon with us, and ate it during a
storm—rain, hail, and thunder, and all on a grand scale.
This weather was gracious enough to accompany us a
short way on our return ; but the fir-trees sheltered. us. 1
observed one with these words carved on it—“ Fear God ;”
and the inscription is well placed amidst those gloricus
divine works—those mighty trees which bid you fear the
hand that planted them. We had a very beautiful and
successful expedition ; but now I am thinking of another,
and leave you to prepare for my departure. I shall post
this letter from Toulouse the day after to-morrow. Adieu,
dear, far awayones. I do not yet know the day I leave
for Gaillac. Elisa is to go to Cabanes before long; and
it is possible that she may detain me to travel with

her.

Toulouse, oth.—Here I am with Elisa, resting myself
after two sleepless nights. In other respects I had a

good journey. We set out after dinner for the country,A48 Letters of

shall return here on the Eve of the Assumption, and on
Monday, the 1742, hope to find ourselves at Gaillac.
My aunt’s carriage will meet us, and put me down at
Cahuzac, where I shall wait for BU&dah.* Adieu.

 

To’ MDLLE. ANTOINETTE DE BOISSET.

Cayla, 17th September, 1846.

I remember, my dear Antoinette, and have pleasure
in remembering, that you most affect¥onately expressed a
wish to hear from me when I bade you good-bye at
Cauterets. Here I am therefore writing to you to satisfy
your friendship as well as my own; for I have as much
pleasure in giving as you in receiving. But what will you
have to receive, my dear? Nothing pretty, nor interest-
ing, nor profitable, except that I think myself in Paradise
ever since my return to the midst of my own family
circle.

The Pyrenees are indeed the most magnificent Bastille
in which one can possibly be shut up, but time hangs
very heavily there, in my opinion. With what rapture did
I find myself outside them agam! And yet I have nothing
but good to say of that district, except as regards the
cutting wind and the fogs, which gave me cold so liberally.
And indeed I will not say much harm even of that cold
of mine, for several reasons, and principally because ‘it is
going away. ‘Thanks be to God, and to the inexpressibly

* The Cayla horse.Eugénie de Guerin. 449

good nursing ‘of my incomparable sister, my tender,
loving Marie, here I am nearly convalescent, with no
other remnant of my troubles except weakness. I begin
to hope we may meet again in this world, my dear
Antoinette; where, I know not—perhaps in the most
unlikely of places, as of late in the Pyrenees.

Meanwhile I begin by writing to you, and also by
saying good-bye. My head is not yet very strong;
although my heart would fain aid it, it totters still. I
will not, however, leave you without inquirmg whether
your health continues in the flourishing condition im
which I left it? This is my warmest wish; for expe-
rience teaches me how much enjoyment there is in
health.

I embrace you as tenderly as usual. Many kind mes-
sages to your dear parents, who must have been as re-
joiced at your return as you at rejoining them. One
must allow that these bitter separations end very sweetly.
I have come to the bitter just now, since I have to leave
you.

Infinite love to Irene and your dear Augustine. Give
me a letter, if you please, and give me your prayers as

well.

 

TO THE SAME.
23rd November, 1846.

I hope, my dear Antoinette, that you are not too angry

with me, and that at all events my letter will meet with

pardon and kindness from your kind heart. My silence,
2G450 Letters of

it is true, is almost unpardonable. This I meekly confess,
and yield it up to your clemency, only humbly imploring
you to make allowance for a poor creature dead to the
world, even to the finger ends, so much so, that since the
month of August I have hardly written to any one. But
beware of supposing yourself forgotten, my dear An-
toinette ; on the contrary, the less I say the more I think,
which will give you an idea how much I must have thought
of you. :

But to-day I emerge from my affectionate silence to ask
how you are—how fares it with that flourishing health
brought back from the waters? I should have great
pleasure in hearing that it continues, and that you aré
careful of it; it 1s such a blessing to be well. Assuredly
you are well acquainted with both health and sickness,
those two widely different modes of life. But this is the
trying season for delicate chests; and this sowr tempera-
ture, as your mother calls it, makes me dread some attack
of cold for you, for I do not imagine that you spare yourself
overmuch, or that anything interferes with your going out
to visit the good God and your friends. It is very tedious
no doubt to have to calculate one’s every step; and I
can well understand braving frost and snow so long as
one is not firmly chained to the walls of one’s room—I
was going to say, of one’s prison.

Between my father and my sister, mine is very sweet to
me; but my two guardian angels are extreme in their
vigilance, and I cannot escape them even to have a look
at the sky, which for the last fortnight I only peep at
through the window of my room. I have not been toEugénie de Guérin. 451

mass for these three last Sundays. Happy they who have
the church nearer tothem! Ishould not be able to com-
fort myself about this distance, so full of disadvantages to
the soul, did I not know that God disposes of health and
roads, and places churches where He sees best ; and after
all I appropriate the proverb, “Zen dé a gleyso, prep @ et
cel,” which was originally said by some pious peasant-
woman far from her parish church.

As I no longer leave home, I have only local news to
give you. You probably know as well as I that Louise
de Thézac is still with Gabrielle. I fancy that the an-
nouncement of a new arrival will take her away before
long. Methinks I see from here your dear Blanche’s
little angels smiling upon your knee ; Marie must be very
pretty. My little niece, too, is coming on nicely, and
her small rays of intelligence charm me.

Adieu, dear Antoinette, adieu. Between this and the
new year I shall hardly write again; therefore receive
now the same wishes that I ever address to Heaven for
you and your excellent family. Pray, tell dear Augustine
also of her share in my good wishes and my affection.

I embrace you as tenderly as I possibly can, as a per-

petual friend.

 

To THE SAME.

27th February, 1847.

Here is my sister, who will convey my letter, dear
Antoinette—not indeed to you, but to your neighbour-
hood, to Gaillac, her frst Lent station. A second one to
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45 . Letters of

Lisle would much delight her; but one cannot go every-
where one likes in this holy season, or any other. It
is only a Sainte Lisbine,* to whom God gives both
power and leave to traverse the world and the sea to

1

follow her inclinations. And what inclinations! O
heavens! how sublime it is and how happy for China
to see such angels come to speak to it of God! It is
a very evident token of mercy and conversion for that
happy country. :

[ cannot tell you how much this departure of our
much-loved missionary has affected me. Whata sacrifice,
added to those she has already made! But, also, what
good will result thence to the glory of God! What do we
in this world, useless that we are, or at least I? Forgive
me this generalisation, which reduces itself to my own
poor person, quite given over to ‘tisanes’ and other
delicacies which fill up my vocation of invalid, the most
barren possible in good works, except as regards those
kind souls who make it the occasion of exercising their
own charity.

In this way I have caused the laying up of rich trea-
sures by my dear and most ferfect nurse. She has so
well succeeded as to have rendered me able to dispense

with her attentions, which she is now going to bestow
on her own soul at Gaillac for a part of Lent. They
speak of a preacher from Lyons. His eloquence would
require the impetuosity of the Rhone itself to sweep along
with it the cold spirits of the Gaillac people. Father

Bonet used to reproach them with that fault. Alas! it

* Mdlle. Elisabeth de Gélis.Eugénte de Guérin. 453

is extending in many other places; charity and zeal for
salvation are getting sensibly chilled. - How much the
world needs St. Lisbines!

Thank you for the very interesting néws you give me ;
to me, in my desert, nothing can be more agreeable and
useful than such edifying examples. ‘There is, however,
one thing more that I could wish; I allude to news of
your health. You say nothing about it in this letter, your
heart is so full of anxiety about mine. ‘This affects me
much, and I thank you for it, praying you to believe that
[ return you much of what you give me so lavishly.

Adieu, dear friend. You see that we are in Lent, and
that I am correcting myself of one thing at least, I mean
my indolence about writing. But I am not indolent in

loving you.

TH2 END.

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