From a portrait by Canevari]

"Villefranche, which is about an hour's drive from Ars, is on our way to Lyons. If the road is not a heavy one, Auntie and I shall spend the Feast of the Immaculate Conception there next Thursday, and then proceed on our journey. The mistress of the hotel here has been backwards and forwards to Ars for upwards of twenty-five years, and constantly talked to the Cur? d'Ars and heard him preach. 'Vous ne pouvez pas vous imaginer,' she says, 'ce que c'?tait que d'entendre le Cur? d'Ars en chair; on fondait en larmes, on croyait entendre les paroles de notre Seigneur quand il enseignait le peuple. C'?tait peu de paroles, mais cela remuait jusqu'? fond de l'?me. "Oh, mes enfants," disait le Cur?, "_si_ vous pouviez voir le bon Dieu comme je le vois, combien peu de chose seraient ? vos yeux les choses de cette terre. Ah! si vous connaissiez l'amour de Dieu!" Et puis les larmes coulaient le long de ses joues. Il pleurait toujours quand il parlait de l'amour de Dieu. Ce n'?tait pas un grand orateur que l'on ?coutait. Oh! non, Mademoiselle, c'?taient seulement quelques paroles qui allaient droit au c?ur. Vous deviez l'entendre quand il faisait son cat?chisme ? midi, ? chaque jour un sujet nouveau. L'?glise ?tait toujours pleine. Il y'a vingt-cinq ans, il y a m?me trente ans, l'on parlait du Cur? d'Ars et on allait ? Ars. Le Cur? restait dans son confessional jusqu'? minuit, quelquefois jusqu'? une heure de matin. Alors il sortait de l'?glise pour prendre deux heures de repos. Quatre femmes de la campagne se mettaient aux quatre coins pour emp?cher le monde de pa.s.ser, car, au moindre bruit, M. le Cur?

se levait et sortait de suite: ces femmes de la campagne ?taient bien d?vou?es.

"'Un jour que j'?tais dans l'?glise d'Ars, le Cur? s'?criait, "Laissez pa.s.ser cette dame," designant du doigt une dame au chapeau verte--"laissez la pa.s.ser." Un jour une autrefois il me vit; il dit ? la foule qui se pressait autour de lui, "Laissez pa.s.ser cette dame, car elle n'est pas d'ici, il faut qu'elle parte,"--et ainsi j'ai pu m'approcher et lui parler. J'allais voir le Cur? d'Ars bien malade d'une maladie des nerfs ? la suite de la maladie de ma fille. "Vous ?tes bien souffrante," dit le Cur?, "vous ne voulez pas encore mourir; c'est pour vos enfants que vous desirez vivre: c'est bien," dit il, "c'est bien; vous serez encore malade aussi longtemps que vous l'avez ?t?, et puis vous serez bien." En effet, il y'avait huit mois que je souffrais, et huit mois apr?s je fus gu?rie--tel que M. le Cur? d'Ars m'avait dit.'

"'Le Vicaire-G?n?ral,' said the mistress,'m'a racont? ceci lui-m?me, avec des larmes aux yeux. Il a log? ici une nuit: c'est alors qu'il me l'a racont?. "Madame," dit il, "je ne pouvais croire ? tout ce que j'entendis d'Ars. Je croyais que ces paysans ?taient exalt?s. Je voulus donc voir en personne: je me rendis ? Ars.

J'arrivai donc ? Ars. Il y'avait beaucoup de monde. J'y suis rest?

deux jours. Voici ce qui est arriv?. Je quittais l'?glise avec M.

le Cur?. J'allais avec lui vers sa pet.i.te maison. En arrivant, la vieille cuisini?re ou bonne du Cur? vient ? notre rencontre. 'Ah!

M. le Cur?,' dit elle, 'nous n'avons plus rien, nous ne pouvons plus donner.'--'Donnez,' r?pondit M. le Cur?, 'donnez toujours.'--'Mais nous ne pouvons pas,' dit encore la vieille femme, 'il n'y a rien, _rien_,' r?petait elle. M. le Cur? ?tait vif. Combien il lui a cout? pour pouvoir se mod?rer--'Donnez, donnez toujours par poign?es,' dit il encore. 'Comment,' r?pondit la vieille, 'comment voulez-vous que je donne: il n'y a rien?'

"C'est alors," dit M. le Vicaire-G?n?ral, "que j'ai dit au Cur?, 'Je ferai un rapport ? Monseigneur l'Ev?que, je suis s?r qu'il vous enverra pour vos pauvres.' Le Cur? ne r?pondit pas; il fit comme un mouvement d'impatience. 'Montez au gr?nier,' dit il ? la vieille cuisini?re, 'et donnez, donnez toujours aux pauvres.' Cette fois elle ob?it. Elle court, elle ouvre la porte du gr?nier. Elle descende aussi vite; le gr?nier ?tait tout plein. 'Ah, M. le Cur?, si c'est ainsi,' dit elle, 'nous pouvons toujours donner.' Ce fait," dit M. le Vicaire, "je l'ai vu de mes yeux, et les larmes remplissaient ses yeux en me le racontant."'

"Miraculous cures are still constantly occurring. Cl?mence is going to-morrow to find out for me a boy whose limbs were distorted and who was made whole. I wish to hear from his own lips about the wonderful cure; but here people are accustomed to all this, and any particular miraculous cure does not strike them as extraordinary.

The facts in this case are that the boy was the son of a baker, eight years old, who, with limbs all distorted and suffering acutely, was carried by his parents to Ars. The Vicar-General and several of the clergy were at the church-door when the carriage drove up with this poor cripple in it. His mother carried him to the altar-rail and endeavoured to place him on his knees, but the boy could hardly keep himself in a kneeling posture owing to his distorted limbs, and seemed to swing first to the right and then to the left. When ma.s.s was ended he said, 'I am better,' and was led, being supported, to the hotel, where he was laid upon a bed. His mother, remaining in the room, after a while saw him looking upwards intently, and for a long time he continued as if gazing at something above him. She called her husband and said, 'Come and see our child looking upwards; what is he looking at?' Suddenly the boy turned towards his mother and said, 'Lift me off the bed; I think that I am well and that I can walk,'--and so it was: she lifted him on to the floor, and the boy was cured, and has been well from that hour, and lives opposite this hotel at the baker's shop.

"The mistress told me--'Un jour le Cur? d'Ars alla voir un cur? de Lyon qu'on dit ?tre saint. "Vous prendrez ma place," dit il. "Vous ferez encore plus de conversions."' I am going to Lyons to try to find out this cur?. At Ma?on also there is a certain 'Cur? de S.

Pierre,' who is greatly beloved, and of whom many beautiful stories are told.

"I think of you at different times in the day, and try to picture you, sometimes in the study, sometimes reading to Aunt Augustus, sometimes late in the evening sitting on the large sofa, with all your ma.n.u.scripts on the table, and good Lea coming in to put up the curtains. When I think of all the late family troubles, I try to remember that G.o.d never allows anything to happen, however painful, unless it is for our good. It depends on ourselves to make use of every trial, so I trust that you may be able to forgive and forget--the last is the more difficult.

" ... You expect too much good from---- Do not expect too much. We must leave those to flutter like sparrows who cannot soar like eagles. It is S. Ambrose who says so."

[Ill.u.s.tration: ARS.[242]]

My sister next wrote from Avignon:--

"_Dec. 11, 1864._--Not further than Avignon! I was ill at Lyons and could not go on. There I had a most agreeable visitor, a M. Gabet, very zealous in the ?uvres de la Propagation de la Foi. He spent two evenings with us, and told us much that was very interesting.

He told me that he had lately received a donation from Dahomey, and he corresponds with missionaries in every part of the world.

Auntie went up to the convent to fetch two friends of mine who were staying there, and I have been given a small medal of the Cur?

d'Ars blessed by himself."

My sister did not reach Rome till the second week in January.

"_Jan. 16, 1865._--We arrived late on Tuesday night, coming _voiturier_ from Leghorn, two long days, and very fatiguing. When we arrived at Leghorn a violent storm was raging, and we were obliged to give up going by sea, only sending Leonardo with the luggage. Auntie, Victoire, Cl?mence, and I travelled in a tolerable carriage. There are so few travellers that way, that at Orbetello, where we slept, the excitement was intense, the women wishing to examine dress and coiffure, to know the _ultima moda_. The carriage was quite mobbed, the _voiturier_ having declared it was a _gran signora_. 'La vogliamo vedere,' the people cried out, and pushed and struggled. It seemed so strange to return to a country where so little could create such an excitement. I was carried upstairs, so terribly tired with the incessant shaking. We slept also at Civita Vecchia, whence Victoire and Cl?mence went on to Rome by an early train, Auntie and I following late. It was quite dark as we drove up to the Parisani, and the streets seemed perfectly silent. The porter came out saying 'Ben tornata,' and then his wife, with a scarlet handkerchief over her head, exclaiming 'Ben tornata' also, and we came upstairs without being heard by any one else. I rushed through the rooms, throwing open one door after another. In the little sitting-room Cl?mence and Victoire were sitting together, a look of misery on both faces. When I reached my own room I fell upon a chair: I could scarcely breathe. I heard Victoire cry out,'Mon Dieu! courage; c'est la volont? de Dieu: l'heure de votre m?re a sonn?, l'heure aussi du mari de Cl?mence a sonn?.' She poured something down my throat and rubbed my hands, and brought me round by degrees. Cl?mence was sobbing violently for the old husband, whose death she had learnt on her arrival; Auntie was standing looking from one to the other, as if she did not realise how terrible was that evening: she had hoped that the joy of seeing Rome again would make me forget what was sad. Poor Victoire had made one great effort, and then she could scarcely speak for hours.

I never saw such devotion to the memory of a relation or friend as her devotion to the memory of dear Mama; and then there was so much to remind her also of the good F?lix, gone to his rest since our Roman home was broken up. I had dreaded this arrival for months, and had been glad to put it off from week to week, till I could put it off no longer. Now it is a pleasure to Victoire to unpack Mama's things and bring them to me, one after another, her eyes often filled with tears, and then she says, trying to compose herself, 'Que la volont? de Dieu soit faite.' And yet I cannot wish dear Mama back again. What I had lived for was that deathbed--that it should have G.o.d's blessing and that her soul should be saved. I used to think _how_ glorified that soul might be, after so much suffering, if only at death resigned. But now I am going back to past thoughts, instead of telling my Augustus about the present.

"The old beggar-woman at San Claudio rushed towards me. 'L'ho saputo,' she said,'quella benedetta anima!' and she cried also, and then the sacristan of San Claudio, and he told me how Mama had died on one of the great days of San Claudio--the feast of Notre Dame de Bon Conseil--our Lady's altar under that t.i.tle being the altar where Mama had knelt for so many years: all have been struck by this."

"_Feb. 9._--It is, as you say, a gathering up of the fragments that remain. I am beginning to feel the sense of loneliness in these desolate rooms less, though I still feel it very much. I do not wish that anything should be different from what G.o.d has willed it I used to tell Mama when we were so poor how strange it was that I never _felt_ poor. She used to say that was the great difference between herself and me, that she felt poor and I did not; why not she could never understand. I feel quite certain that Mama would never have liked Rome again; probably she never would have returned here, and perhaps it was necessary that through suffering she should be prepared for death by being detached from the things of life.

"Most of the Romans have called, some paying long visits--d.u.c.h.ess Sora, Princess Viano, Prince Doria, Dukes Fiano and Sora. In fact, a day never pa.s.ses without two or three visitors. I have made three devoted friends--the Princess Galitzin; the Padre Pastacaldi, a venerable ecclesiastic of Pisa, who is anxious to further my views in establishing a particular a.s.sociation for raising funds for the Church; and lastly, Don Giovanni Merlini, the friend of 'the Venerable'[243] for thirty years, who has already paid me four visits. These visits are quite delightful: I always feel I am in the presence of a saint. His language is most beautiful. Yesterday he gave me his blessing in the most solemn, earnest manner, laying his hand on my head. I have heard from him so much of the Venerable del Bufalo.... A great storm has swept over the nuns of the Precious Blood: it nearly swept them out of England, but instead of that they are to move to the Italian Church of S. Pietro in Bloomsbury. I have had a great deal of correspondence about them."

"_March 4._--The friend of the Venerable[244] came to-day, and we planned together work for the nuns in London,--a great work I have wished to see established since early in 1858. Again he gave me his solemn blessing. He spoke of poverty--voluntary poverty, but said that all were not called to that '_spogliamento_.' Then I told him that I had also been poor, and he looked around at the decorations of the room and said simply 'Iddio ci ha rimediato.' His is certainly a beautiful face from its expression; there is so much light about it, and such simplicity and humility. Pierina[245]

certainly ought to be saint-like, since she has been trained to a religious life by such a man."

"_March 9._--During my mother's illness I often thought of the 80,000 who die daily, and who have to appear before the judgment-seat and who are found wanting. Sometimes, when I am alone, I think how in every moment which I am idling away a soul has been judged, and perhaps a prayer could have saved that soul.

Oh! in your watchings beside the sick-bed, ask forgiveness for the souls that are then pa.s.sing away from the earth, that they may be counted amongst the blessed for eternity.... It is strange what mental agony one can live through. A sort of supernatural strength is given when it is required, and is it not another proof of the watchful tenderness of our Blessed Lord? It is so true, that when a soul is ready for the change, death is only an entering on the perfected life.... I believe that G.o.d has still blessings left for my brother: His blessings can never be exhausted."

"_May 3._--How you will envy me when you hear that the saint of Acuto, the Rev. Mother-General of the Precious Blood, is coming to Rome at the end of the week and is coming to see me. The Father-General came to give me this welcome news, when I was wondering and planning how I could get to Acuto with my weak back.

I have begged for two visits at least.... I have constant letters from the Rev. Mother of the Precious Blood in London about the new work of her nuns. I have been thinking of writing the life of the Venerable del Bufalo. Don Giovanni Merlini, the Father-General, promises help and materials, and the Italian life is very poor. The Taigi and Bufalo lives would come out so well together, as they lived at the same time, and died, I believe, in the same year, though quite independent of each other; but I have not the gift of writing--_there_ is the difficulty.

"On the 25th there was an anniversary High Ma.s.s and a very beautiful choir for dearest Mama, Monseigneur Level attending, and many friends. Mrs. Monteith sat next to me, and felt it so much, she cried nearly the whole time. It is so beautiful this love for the dead in the Catholic Church.

"I have had a letter from Mrs. Wagner, who says just that which struck me in one of Father Galway's sermons, when he spoke of parents' sorrow at the loss of their children, that they are to look upon them as gifts _lent_ for a time. She says, 'We do not repine, but render back with thankfulness the gift lent us for a season.'

"To-day I had a beautiful simple note from the Father-General of the Precious Blood. I wrote to thank him for several things he had sent me. His answer was, 'Do not thank me; it suffices me that you love our Lord Jesus Christ. I bless you from my heart. Pray for me miserable.' I thought how my Augustus would have liked this note."

My sister during the whole of this winter very seldom left the house, and never went into society. Political differences, however, rendered Roman society at this time less pleasant than before. Esmeralda wrote--"The usual conversation goes on, but all parties are divided and contradictory: the Pope (Pius IX.) alone is perfectly calm, and trusts in Providence whilst the world is raging and storming and plotting." If Esmeralda went out, it was generally to the Villa Ludovisi, where the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess Sora were living in a sort of honourable banishment, the Duke's parents, the Prince and Princess Piombino, having been exiled to Tuscany. The d.u.c.h.ess Sora used to talk to my sister of the patriarchal life in her great "villa," where there were so many small farmhouses and cottages within the grounds, that it gave her occupation enough to visit their inmates and learn their characters. She said that she brought up her children amongst the people within the walls of the villa, that they might thus early learn to know thoroughly those who would depend on them afterwards. She let them call one man after another to work in their little gardens, that they might thus make individual acquaintance with each. On Good Friday, when the chaplain called in all the work-people to prayer, there were seventy in the chapel, including the Duke and herself, and all, as it were, one great family.[246]

One of the people who most rejoiced over Esmeralda's return to Rome was Giacinta Facchini, commonly known as "the Saint of St. Peter's." This extraordinary woman lived for forty years in St. Peter's without ever leaving it, devoting herself to incessant prayer and sleeping in a cell in one of the pillars. When people had any particular object in view, they used to go down to St. Peter's and ask her to pray for it.

Esmeralda used constantly, during her prosperity, to go to visit her in St. Peter's, and she would remain with her for hours. At length one day the confessor of the saint came to her and said that now, though she had lived in St. Peter's for forty years, she would be showing a far more real devotion to G.o.d and a more lowly spirit if she were to break through the life which was beginning to make her celebrated, and return to the humble service of G.o.d in the world. Giacinta Facchini obeyed, and after that she often used to go to see my sister at the Palazzo Parisani. But she still spent the greater part of her time in St.

Peter's, where I have often seen her quaint figure, in a half nun's dress, bowed in prayer before one of the altars, or perfectly prostrate on the pavement in silent adoration of the Blessed Sacrament.

Here are a few extracts from Esmeralda's private meditations at this time:--

"Let me offer myself continually with all I have for the greater glory of G.o.d, remembering the words of St. Ignatius, that 'having received everything from G.o.d, we ought to be ever ready to render back all that He has given us.' The propensity most opposed to the reign of Jesus in our souls is the want of resolution in all matters connected with spiritual advancement. Kneeling at the foot of the cross, let me make war against all my evil propensities; that I may be purified and strengthened in G.o.d's love, let me seek to detach myself from everything, exterior and interior, that separates me from G.o.d.'

"Self-love must be overcome by mortification of self, by asking of G.o.d to give us His love, to fill us with His love, for if the love of G.o.d _fills_ our hearts, self-love must be rooted out. Let me ask of our Lord that I may have the same resolution in spiritual matters, and in the carrying out and _on_ of a spiritual life, which I have where a temporal matter is concerned. Oh! with what zeal and earnestness can I pursue a temporal object, with the same zeal and earnestness may I carry out my resolutions for a spiritual life."

"_Jan. 14, 1865._--Unless we can build up a solitude in our hearts, completely detaching ourselves from the love of everything in this world, we can never hope to attain to that spiritual joy which is a preparation for the life of Jesus in our souls, a preparation for the resurrection to eternal life."

"_March 4._--Where there is such a strong attachment to this life, my will cannot be perfectly united to the Divine. Oh! _how_ many steps there are in the ladder of a spiritual life! Detachment from this life must gradually lead to the union of my will with the Divine and to the entire _indw?lling_ of the love of Jesus in my soul."

"_March 17._--By the light of the wounds of Jesus Christ, may I search the innermost folds of my heart, and cast out all that is contrary to charity and humility. 'We must study in the book of Charity more than in any other: that book teaches us all things;'

these are the words of S. Dominic."

"_March 30._--May filial love of G.o.d take the place of servile fear in our hearts; then will our Lord draw nigh to us and replenish us with His grace. When filial love has closed the door against all earthly thoughts, then shall we return into that inward solitude in which our Lord loves that we should dwell, to seek Him and commune with Him."

"_April 1._--I ask for the grace of a pure love of G.o.d. The more we can leave off thinking of ourselves, the nearer we shall attain to that union with our Lord which the saints speak of--loving Him only and entirely, because He first loved us. In proportion as our confidence in G.o.d increases, and we can lay aside all confidence in ourselves, we shall attain purity of intention in all our thoughts, words, and actions. Let us seek that purity of intention which can only follow confidence in G.o.d, and can only exist in those souls which unite themselves entirely to G.o.d."

"_April 22._--Day by day I leave at the foot of the cross something more of myself. I cannot live again the time that is no longer mine. We are constantly journeying on to our last end, so let us strive in our spiritual life truly to lay at the foot of the cross something of that which binds our wills to ourselves and to creatures, and thus free our will from all that hinders its perfect union with the will of our Lord Jesus Christ."

I have been making a long digression from my personal story, but Esmeralda, in her gentle patience and ardent search after all things high and holy, had become so greatly endeared to us in the last few years, that her life was almost ours. And indeed all those things are ever a part of life which are a constant part of thoughts and conversation.

In the summer of 1864 we had a delightful visit at Holmhurst from Dean Alford and his family. He read Tennyson's "Guinevere" aloud to us in the garden, and was at his very best, full of anecdote and fun. I remember his description of a trial for murder which resulted in a verdict of manslaughter owing to the very effective evidence of a Somersetshire peasant. "He'd a stick and he'd a stick, and he hit he and he hit he, and if he'd ha hit he when he hit he, he'd ha killed he and not he he."