EUGÉNIE DE GUÉRIN.
Among those who seem to have been born for ministry, and who have been distinguished by their capacity for tender devotion, few deserve to be more lastingly and lovingly remembered than Eugénie de Guérin, the honoured sister of Maurice de Guérin. Few instances of sisterhood are more deeply interesting and pathetic.
The Guérins are descended from an old and illustrious family of the Venetian race who were settled in France early in the ninth century, when one of the name (then spelt Guarini) was Count of Auvergne. One branch of the family became Lords of Montagu and Earls of Salisbury, who counted among their number Guérin, Bishop of Senlis.
Eugénie de Guérin was a member of the branch who had for a long period been settled at Le Cayla, in Languedoc, in the sunny South of France, whose descent and nobility were fully recognised, but which had become very much impoverished during the troublous times of the Revolution. She was born in the year 1805, having a brother—Erembert, whose familiar name in the Le Cayla circle was Eran—a few years older. Next in order came Marie ("Mimi"); and when Eugénie was five years old, the youngest and most tenderly cherished—Maurice—was added to the little flock. Monsieur and Madame de Guérin were people of rare excellence, and they and their children were one and all bound by ties of the strongest affection, the example of loving self-denial set by their elders permeating the whole family.
Madame de Guérin was from the birth of Maurice in failing health; and in their earliest years the children, probably left much to themselves, were fond playmates, and learnt to love the dilapidated old château, which was their home, with its curious crannies and winding passages, no less than the solemn, whispering woods and smiling fields which surrounded it. But Maurice was a delicate child, and had during his babyhood but a feeble hold upon life. His sister has said that "his soul seemed often on his lips, ready to flee away," and he lay ill for a year. The tenderness always shown by Eugénie to this brother thus began with his earliest years, and continued until his hard-fought life was closed. It was not her position as elder sister that dictated this so much as the lovingness of her sensitive nature, her disposition to protect and cherish all things weak and suffering. When Maurice was about two years old, Eugénie, who had been staying away from home, brought a little frock she had made for him. After she had dressed him in it she led him out of the house, and induced him to make his first few tottering steps. Then running to the house in excited delight, she gladdened her mother with the words: "Mother, Maurice has walked! has walked alone!"
From her childhood Eugénie was remarkable no less for her intelligence than for her religious sympathies. From the journal which she began to keep many years after we catch some pleasing glimpses of her childhood and home life. She was, as might be expected, brought up in the Roman Catholic faith; but in the Le Cayla circle the Catholic religion was one of sincere piety. We see in the Guérins the better side of Romanism, the good without a large admixture of the superstitions of that faith; and the only evil effect, if any, it had on the life of Eugénie was the encouragement of too much introspection, with its necessary accompaniment of a tendency to the morbid. She mentions that in saying her morning and evening prayers she was taught to kneel before a picture of the crucifixion. Here she brought her childish troubles before the representation of the dying Saviour and received consolation. On one occasion, having stained a new frock, she asked the Saviour to take away the stains in order that she might be saved a scolding. As the stains disappeared she believed her prayer had been answered. Believing, as she did, in the Divine presence always surrounding her, she imagined an angel given to have charge of the nursery, which she called the "Angel Joujou." Among the friends of her childhood she mentions a cousin Victor, who being a frequent visitor at Le Cayla, became a great favourite, and helped very much to smooth for Eugénie the difficulties of learning to read, and then making her happy by wonderful stories and taking captive her warm and loving little heart.
She became passionately fond of Nature, both in its grander and more minute charms, by day and by night. She has recorded how, while on a visit to relatives at Gaillac, she would after going to bed often get up, open the window and lean out to watch the stars. As this was carrying her love of Nature a little too far, we cannot be surprised that, having one night been discovered, her aunts took the precaution of preventing her falling from the window by having it nailed up.
So long as the childhood of the little De Guérins lasted it was an intensely happy one. But the time came all too soon when, for Eugénie, the joys of childhood were to give place to almost mature care; when her childish affection for her brother Maurice was to be succeeded by an anxious and almost maternal solicitude. Madame de Guérin, for years an uncomplaining sufferer, was taken from them when Eugénie was thirteen, Maurice eight. The impression left upon her mind by her mother's death was so great, and her grief so profound, that we find her after a lapse of sixteen years recording her feelings thus in her journal: "To-day my whole soul looks from the sky to a tomb, for on it sixteen years ago my mother died at midnight. This sad anniversary is consecrated to mourning and prayer. I have spent it before God in regrets and in hope; even while I weep, I lift my eyes and see the heavens where my mother is without doubt happy, for she suffered so much! Her illness was long, and her spirit patient. I do not remember a single complaint escaping her, or that she cried out at all, notwithstanding the pain that tore her; no Christian ever bore suffering better. One saw that she had learnt it before the Cross. She would smile upon her bed like a martyr on the rack. Her face never lost its serenity, and even in her agony she seemed to be thinking of a festival. This surprised me who saw her suffer so much, and I myself who wept at the least thing and knew not the meaning of resignation under pain. And when they told me that she was going to die I looked at her, and her cheerful aspect made me believe she would not. She did die, however, at midnight on April 2, whilst I had fallen asleep at the foot of her bed. Her quiet death did not waken me; never did soul leave the world with more tranquillity…. I was led into another room."
Before her death Madame de Guérin had committed the delicate little Maurice to Eugénie's protecting love. Henceforth she regarded him as a sacred trust, and while deeply loving all her kindred, while befriending all who came within the range of her sympathy, it was to Maurice her heart's great love went out with a yearning desire for his well-being. As years went on, and Maurice advanced in intelligence, all causes seemed to combine to draw the bond yet closer. There was not only the passionate sister's love, but hearts and mind were cast in a similar mould, and as tastes and inclinations became developed, the sacred promise to the dead mother—the tenderness of heart which led Eugénie to care for all things feeble, were strengthened by the added charm of kindred thought and pursuit.
Eugénie has recorded that Maurice from his earliest years showed a remarkable intelligence. One of his first masters on being asked by his father his opinion of his pupil replied, "Ah, sir! you have there a transcendent child." His sister said a pater every day that he might know his lessons. When only nine years old he was passionately fond of history and spent much leisure time with Rollin. He wept for joy at his first lesson in writing. She adds: "Maurice was an imaginative and dreamy child. He spent long periods contemplating the horizon. He was particularly fond of an almond-tree, under which he took refuge from any distraction. I have seen him remain there standing for whole hours." One of his enjoyments was to improvise sermons in the open air, which he declaimed, always with his sisters for audience, standing on a bank in the wood, which they called the pulpit of St. Chrysostom.
The delightful personal intercourse of the young brother came to an end for a considerable time, when at the age of eleven Maurice was sent to school at Toulouse. "Then commenced," says Eugénie, "between us that intimate correspondence that ended only with his death." Two fragments of his letters at that time she gives: "Dear Eugénie, I am much touched by the sorrow that you feel on account of my absence. I also regret you and I should wish much that it were possible to have a sister at the school. But do not disquiet yourself; I am very content here. My masters love me, my companions are excellent…. I am advancing with full sails into the Latin country. You shall have a better master at the vacations. Take care of my turtle-doves. I sing at the chapel. Adieu. I embrace you, and pray you to embrace my father and all the family. Tell them I am quite content to be here."
Again:
"Dear Eugénie,—You will perhaps be astonished to see these two lines at the beginning of my letter. It is, so to speak, the text from which I wish to draw in order to better express the tender love that I bear you. The sentiment which inspired in Paul those words towards Virginia was not more sincere than mine. It is particularly to you that I give the Life of Voltaire. You will see there the genius and the perversity of that man, this coryphée of impiety, who put at the end of each letter: Let us crush the infamous thing, that is to say the Catholic religion. For me, I shall not cease to put there: 'I love you, I love you.'"
Both at Toulouse and at the College Stanislas at Paris, where he was removed a few years later, Maurice was remarkable for his ability and good conduct. "He attained the most brilliant success and formed distinguished and deep attachments."
During these school and college days Maurice was away from Le Cayla for five years, during which Eugénie passed from her seventeenth to her twenty-second year—the beautiful blossoming time of her life. Less dreamy and without the profound melancholy which became developed in her brother, and the fluctuations of spirit consequent thereon, she was contemplative, poetic, and decidedly religious. She delighted in committing her thoughts to paper. Nothing was too minute or insignificant for her felicitous description. The pleasure she derived from this occupation made her almost feel that it was of a character not to be encouraged. But she had also sweet household cares, which were never neglected, and loved the still repose of the country life where her lot was cast. Though not caring for society she had many friends and became a great correspondent, delighting those who received them with the charming and graceful style of her letters. It was about this time that she made the acquaintance of the most interesting family of Mons. de Bayne, who lived at Rayssac among the mountains, with one of whose daughters, Louise, she formed a close and lasting friendship.
A letter from Maurice to his sister, written from Paris, and dated October, 1828, shows so much of his inner life and of his feeling towards her that it should be given entire:—
"My Dear Eugénie,—Certainly much time has elapsed since I received any news from you or you from me; I ought to confess that I am very culpable, and that upon me should rest the fault of the silence which ought never to exist between us. It is time at last to break it, and to repair our forgetfulness, or rather mine, by an assiduous correspondence which should place us in that intimate relationship which ought always to exist between a brother and a sister; that is to say, that we come near to each other, notwithstanding the distance which separates us, and make ourselves enjoy a conversation all the more sweet that distance throws a double interest on what we tell to the cherished object.
"My dear Eugénie, the lines which I am going to write will astonish you without doubt; the conduct which I have maintained towards you up to the present presaged nothing like what you are going to read, but be persuaded that I speak to you sincerely; your surprise, I believe, will be agreeable. Up to now I have shown you little confidence; but why, you will say? The reason of it is not in my heart; woe to me that there was ever the least éloignement for you! It is the fickleness of the age, it is this continual distraction, heritage of infancy, which follows us to that age where reflection takes the place of sports, and casts the first clouds on the face where there have shone, up to that time only, the candour of innocence and the expression of happiness. But here I am arrived at an age where childhood is for me only a dream; all the illusions of life have disappeared, and sad realities have taken their place. It is then that one is no longer sufficient for himself; it is then that the man who grows pale with dread, and who feels, so to speak, his knees to sink under him in view of the path of life, of that rough road where 'they climb rather than march'; it is then, say I, that man has need of a support, of a helpful arm which sustains him in the trials that he is about to undergo. This want manifested itself to me as soon as, casting a look upon the future, I saw myself alone ready to face so many dangers. Then my heart immediately fixed upon you; and can one indeed find a better friend than a sister such as you are? Be willing, then, henceforth to be a great deal my confidant, and help me with your advice and your friendship. But you will say, 'Ought you to have any other confidant than a father? Is it not he who ought to be the depository of all your secrets?' You may well believe that I have made this reflection; but papa is so sensitive, he is affected with so little a thing that I would never dare tell him all that passes within me. Then you are the one of all the family whose character is the most conformed to mine, so much I have been able to judge by your pieces of verse, all stamped with a sweet reverie, with a sensitiveness, with a tinge of melancholy in fine which makes, I believe, the foundation of my character.
"This expression, so far as I can judge of it, will have caused you some surprise; but this is what I wish to say: I was only fourteen years old when I quitted you—at that age one knows one's self, so to speak, only by sight—my reason was not sufficiently developed, nor capable of an examination sufficiently serious to lay hold upon the traits of your character. I do not believe that you were any more able well to know me, because I was too young to have a decided character. But how many changes have four years brought? What revulsions in this poor heart. People generally believe that I am light, frolicsome, playful, or, at least, such was the opinion that they had of me when I quitted the country; but my character has taken a turn quite different. I am able to say even that it is completely changed, and that there remains for me nothing of my childhood.
"But as the development of a character demands details which could not be given in this letter, I will make my following letters the subject of it. I will trace for you the history of my heart since the age when one begins to reflect to the present; I will make known to you my sensations, my reflections, and what habitually occupies my thoughts. I dare believe that these details will not be without interest for you; and I invite you to make me share also all that passes within you, if that does not weary you. For myself, it seems to me that we should be able to have a most interesting correspondence; for I believe that, in order to love one another, it is necessary perfectly to know each other; and I conceive no greater charm in life than that converse of two hearts who pour continually into each other all their secrets, all their feelings. We will converse also of literature, for it is the only thing, after friendship, which can make an agreeable diversion from the bustle and from the weariness of life; it is the only thing which can console us in our misfortunes and give vigour to our dejected soul. Give me books and plunge me in a dungeon, provided that I can there see clearly enough to read them, I should know how to console myself for the loss of my liberty. You will think, perhaps, that that is pushing the thing a little too far; but it is to make you feel that books can take the place of many things for him who knows how to love them."
Eugénie's fervent response to this appeal was such as to give entire satisfaction to the heart-yearning for her confidence and advice. She expresses a desire for arms long enough to embrace her brother wherever he might be, and he in turn assures her how much the inspiration of Nature, and her happy and facile genius, have endowed her, that she knows much more than he, with all his classical attainments.
In 1829 Mdlle. de Guérin was plunged into profound sorrow by the death of her most dear friend, her Cousin Victor. She grieved for him passionately for a long period. So lasting was the impression produced by this loss, that being reminded of the event by another death ten years later, she refers to it in her journal, in which she speaks of her cousin as a friend tenderly loved—the charm of her childhood.
Maurice finished his course at Stanislas without having formed any definite plan for his future life, and made a prolonged visit to Le Cayla in 1831. This was a happy interlude in their intense lives. Maurice was then about twenty-one, a child of much love and hope, and his home-coming was a time of rejoicing to all who had known him in his childhood.
It was now, however, necessary for him, as the younger son, to decide upon a profession as a means of livelihood, the somewhat impoverished acres at Le Cayla being considered only sufficient for his elder brother. The future of Maurice, became, therefore a matter of some anxiety in the Le Cayla circle; for although of decided genius and brilliant attainments, he showed a disposition to be desultory in his pursuits and tastes, and to lack the inclination and continuous application necessary for the regular study of the law, which his father desired him to follow. Meanwhile he enjoyed to the full the society of his sister, going to and fro among the old walks, confiding to her his aspirations and difficulties. With her he visited the cultured home of Mons. de Bayne, where he speedily became a great favourite, discussing with the father matters literary, social, and political, and forming a still more tender friendship with the charming daughter Louise.
But these days of sunshine could not last. Maurice was obliged to bid farewell to Rayssac, and to the sister to whom, during a few months, he had been drawn so much closer by this brief personal contact.
So in November, 1831, Maurice returned to Paris for the study of the law, this time taking up his abode with his cousin, M. Auguste Reynaud, and his wife, Félicité, in the Rue d'Anjou. How his sister's love followed him, and how she endeavoured to stimulate him in the studies and the perseverance necessary for his career, and to console him under his disappointments, we find from her letters. These letters, at the same time, give glimpses of life in the old home at Cayla, and also of the outer and inner life of Eugénie herself.
"Cayla, November 9th, 1831.
"How long is time when one is weary! Is it three years or three days since you went away, my dear Maurice? For me, I know nothing of it, for all that I know is that I am tired to death. Really, this is the only moment in which I have had any pleasure since you went; yet it will be very short. Jules is in haste to leave us for Paris. Thus, my dear, these few words will follow you without your having any expectation of them, as I have followed you sometimes quite softly to play you a trick. But, my God, how far away from us you are now! You ramble, are always rambling, further, and I follow you hardly knowing where I am going. I am afraid you will be upset, and I recommend you to the petite croix. I have great confidence that it will preserve you from all evil chance. Be devoted to it, as you have promised me, and I shall be tranquil. I am over head and ears in household affairs; but I have left them all to come to say a word to you in your little room, where I find strong reminders of you, without counting your vest and shoes. If you were dead these would be relics for me; but God preserve me from such a devotion.
"I shall go to Cahusac on Monday to see the fair and other things; the following Monday I expect to have news from you if you left Toulouse the day before yesterday. Nothing has happened since Sunday which is worth remembering. Rain, mud, wind, and to-day sunshine, that is all.
"I was forgetting a chicken that Wolf has killed, which cost him some blows with the whip which made him cry piteously. I believe that he called for you. The poor beast had reason for calling his wandering knight, for no one undertook his defence. Trilby kisses you, and licks your hands. For me, I hug you. Adieu.
"My influenza is leaving me, but it does not quit the house; the Shepherd has it yet, as well as Maritorne. People are dying of it at Franseilles; it is really to have death at one's heels. But have we it not always before, behind, and everywhere? Yesterday, at Andillac, a little child went to heaven. If I were a little child I should wish to follow him; but when one is old we never wish to die. It is because, then, all the little threads that bind us to the earth become cables. Papa sends you ten francs to subscribe for him to The European Review. I send you nothing but a couple of squeezes. I have not time to reply to-day to my cousin. Give her my love. Adieu."
"Cayla, November 24th, 1831.
"Here we are then again at our letters, my dear Maurice. It is not at all what I wish, but I content myself with it since I am not able to have you. A charming prophetess has just told me that I shall in a little time be consoled for your absence. If she believes that I shall forget you she is a false prophetess. Does she mean, then, that you will return? But this return is so far off! That you will write to me? That consoles me much, but not altogether. Behold, here it is! Yes; you will return to me; but it will be printed, gilded, bound. I see you an author, you rich in glory, and I in Paris. That is what she had wished to say; she knows that I wish it, this venerable little sorcerer, and she would not wish to announce misfortunes. I accept the augury, which, besides, your letter to me just confirms. You are at last launched in a career, far, very far, from that Code which weighed upon you like Mount Atlas. Papa is satisfied with your determination…. I was quite alone last week. Erembert was at Lacaze, and papa here and there, as you know he is with the fine weather. We have had a spring of four days. The evenings were delightful, but I did not go out to enjoy them all alone. I was then in my chamber, my elbows upon the window and my chin upon my hands; and I gazed, and thought, and regretted. Think of my being alone with Trilby, the only creature who comes to laugh with me. The little dog has had many caresses. Gazelle has also some desire to love me, but it comes and goes like a caprice. I like her, however, more than she knows for the good milk that she gives us.
"My thought often goes the round of the world in the twinkling of an eye. If my legs could follow it you know well where I would be. Truly I am often at the corner of your hearth, blowing and stirring the fire, and sending you a spark when you are too serious. I always imagine that your fireside nooks resemble our own a little, and that at the house of my cousin you find yourself at home again. At least, what you tell me of his wife makes me believe it. I am enchanted that we have so well divined. Tell me if that sweet figure has not that calm air that I think, a little in the style of Léontine.
"I have had a charming letter from …; she speaks to me of Lucretia. That name, she says, will not go from her thought. When we are inclined to weariness Lucretia is there to bring back gaiety. I confess that in the place of M. M., I would rather get into raptures over a living person than a dead one, but that shows that he does not forget merit. Then she speaks of your future, and this after praises that you could not entertain better than those of the Abbé; that is why I do not tell you them. She adds: "He will be happy." Take that word as you would desire; I leave you to think upon it, and especially to achieve it; for the being happy depends in part upon yourself. Not with that happiness which touches not the earth with its foot; but with that happiness of the manner of man, that little portion of felicity which God gives to him here below.
"There is a portion of your letter which has edified me much. It is well for us to say: Let us pray, let us pray. Yes, I have prayed, poor little ant that I am. I have prayed with very good heart for a happy voyage for our pilgrims. May God will that they return happy.
"I have not a single anecdote to tell you, only politics go always like spindles in the night studies of the hamlet. These women spin politics wonderfully. Poor Romiguires is taxed for ten francs—he or his asses. If every one in France pays as much, it will console the poor man. What would you wish that I should send to Rayssac? But you ought to write to M. de Bayne. Console the poor man; this news must have afflicted him. Mimi has written to me; she remains at Toulouse until the first of the year. I think that Jules has arrived safely. He must open his eyes very much in this great Paris. My influenza has left me: you will see this by this long letter. One of these days I shall write to my cousin. I should be much grieved if that correspondence falls asleep. It is said that the cholera is in England. I could wish it almost at Paris, in order to see you all three arrive here. Set out quickly if it approaches; tell my cousin so from me. But I hope to see you here under better auspices."
The pursuit chosen for Maurice by his father was distasteful to him, and from time to time he confides to his sister his struggles between duty and inclination—how much more he prefers history, religious philosophy, and poetry, and had hopes of a literary career. Writing to her early in January he says:—"From time to time discouragement, redoubtable discouragement, falls again on my soul like a weight of ice and paralyses all my courage and all my thirst for knowledge; but I struggle with all my strength; I call to my aid all that I have of hope and of ardour, and generally I raise myself up. These are, I assure you, terrible combats, profound shocks, these fits of dejection, these returns of the thought which becomes cold, gloomy, positive, desperate. It is a true malady of the soul."
Following this declaration of conflict and despondency we have a brighter picture: "My household life favours wonderfully my intellectual life. You know that I have a room, a very pretty room, where I have my bed, my fire, and my books; there I can work at my ease and in silence. I shut myself in this enclosure as in my empire, and, in fact, once the door is closed, the world is no more. I am alone with myself and my thoughts, with my poetry, my cherished books, and no one comes to trouble the secret of this sanctuary. Just now, for example, I am in one of my sweetest moments. It is half-past eight in the evening, it is cold outside, and a good fire burns in my chimney (the thought of the poor often spoils this pleasure for me), my little table is placed at the side, and I converse delightfully with you.
"When I do not pass my evening in my room, I pass it en famille with Auguste and Félicité. We talk as brothers and sister, or else we do some reading together. You see that my life sufficiently resembles that of Le Cayla, except all of you and the sweet face of the country, and the horizon which I loved to contemplate in the evening from the western corner of the terrace. It sets me longing when spring returns to give life to our little garden; the walk will not be so long as in our fields, but I shall always have verdure and the little path by the flowers. There is in the midst a great fir which is magnificent when it is covered with hoar frost; one should say, to see its overhanging and jagged branches—with grand silvered drapery." He then tells her that he has formed new friendships among the writers in The European Review, and that a contribution by him was accepted, and would appear in the next number. This review he asks her to send to Louise with an intimation that the essay was by him, and asks if she could obtain from her friend any indication of how he was regarded! Here is Eugénie's reply:—
January 22nd, 1832.
"It is Sunday to-day: the day for repose. So I hear no other sound than that which my pen makes on the paper. I am thinking of you. You are not so tranquil in your great Paris, except in your little chamber, where you find again Le Cayla in a more enjoyable form. When I saw yesterday the great oak of the Teoulet covered with hoar-frost, I thought of the great fir of Maurice. Nothing is more elegant than these trees in winter dress; but hurrah for their summer toilet! When one must only see trees, one loves better to have them green than white. For you, who see so many things, a little snow is nothing, and it is here a great event, especially when I used to make snowballs; but that has been for a long time a lost pleasure. Winter gives me only the sweet warmth of the chimney corner—that is the pleasure of the old. What a distance from the doll to the tongs! And there I am. And then will come spectacles, the cane, and the fall of the teeth—sad New Year's gifts! For at last the years make us all these presents. Since time brings me nothing sweet, I would willingly send back the first of the year as a tiresome creature who comes too often. As you say, It is strange that one is so gay at that period. That children are so very good, they catch bonbons; but we…. Yet if I could have New Year's gifts sometimes according to my fancy….
"I have, however, had one pleasing gift—your letter. Nothing gives me the pleasure of that. When I saw you more than ever wandering and straying in the land of the void, it is then that you show me that shut up in your room—confined to a regular work—what progress you have there made, my dear brother! Frankly, I did not expect so prompt a conversion. May God maintain it! I told you well that will is power. You have willed and have achieved; you have achieved even to the resumption of the code. I am quite content with you, and with your courage. Are you not well repaid for your first effort in seeing what it has produced? 'I now meet the day intrepidly.' It is the very thing for which you have made me wait so long, and it is that which makes me preach so much. Nothing gave me more pain than to see you so sick with life. You see how much sweeter she is when one knows how to lead her. It is for you the commencement of happiness to be able to think calmly. By little and little all will arrange itself, all will frame, all will harmonise in your existence. You will do like our old timepiece, which sounds very well when the weather is fine. Make it last, this fine weather that shines upon you now; and when the glacial discouragement shall come to fall upon you, fall again upon it as you have done already. He who gives one kick is able to give two, is able to give a thousand. I easily believe that these are terrible conflicts which these fits of dejection sometimes cause you. If I could cure you or help you. 'The Imitation' says something very true: 'Often the fire burns, but its flame rises not without smoke.' It is very true; there arises not in us a good thought, a good intention, that is not quickly mingled with a little smoke, with a little human frailty. But the good God blows upon it, and it all departs.
"We have had some days of cold which makes the little birds cry. It is less sad than to hear the cry of the poor. I well believe that they spoil for you the pleasure of the fireside; but it pleases me to see that they cause you sorrow. If ever I come to knock at your door, I see that you will not close it against me. You would often hear rat-tat at your door if it were not so far off. For example, I would have come quickly to embrace you when I saw you so sage, so studious, so retired from the world. You have upon me the effect of a Father of the Church, studying the Bible and religious philosophy in your tranquil cell. I do not, however, think that any of them are as well lodged as you. But it is a charming abode! I can well understand that you make pretty verses within there, while stirring the fire. I feel sure that there are some everywhere in your room—upon the table, the chairs, at the corner of the fire; and I have nothing! Tell me, at any rate, what you are doing. Where is your drama? I should much love this Peter the Hermit. You would wish much, it seems to me, to present something to Lamartine. Do it, if you believe me. He will receive you, I am sure of it, as you would receive an angel, of whom you would ask encouragement and goodwill.
"I sent word to Rayssac, as you told me. There is no doubt that the Blessed Nicholas will be welcome. Who does not love the lives of the saints? I am not able to give you the explanations that you ask. How do you wish that I should set about it? It could only be in a tête-à-tête sometime that I should be able to ask it; in a letter never. Both the question and answer would be too indiscreet. In writing, content yourself, my dear, with the light and shade. Finally, Louise has not written since the long letter. I sent you in my last some lines with which you ought to be satisfied. Charles has made a great stir in the country, especially in the city of gossips; it was for this, it was for that, that he had to come to Cayla. They asked me what was his age, his fortune; and I heard it whispered, 'He is too young for her'; and she thought, 'What have you to bother yourselves about?' But they interfere with everything—from our wooden shoes to our consciences. They know everything—thoughts, words, acts, omissions, everything except how tiresome is their curiosity. I am for liberty of the press, but not for that of the tongue. They ought really to arrest some of those in this part of the country!
"Really you are leading the most charming life in the world. Our pastimes have but little resemblance to yours. One of these days, which was very cold, we went out, Mimi and I, to have a walk in the woods, and to pay a visit to the ravens; but, although well clothed, well muffled, the cold seized us. By good luck we found a fire of some young shepherds, who very graciously yielded to us the place of honour, a stone in front of the fire larger than the others. These children recounted to us all that they knew—one had just been eating some fry, the other had at home some fresh eggs laid by a red hen. From time to time they threw on the fire some handfuls of twigs, with an air of such content that there is no king who might not have said, 'Why am I not one of you?' If I knew how to make poetry I would sing 'The Shepherds' Fire.'"
The writing of articles for The European Review did not, however, form a means of livelihood for Maurice. He received no remuneration for them, and his endeavour to obtain more profitable employment failed. Having finally abandoned the study of the law, he returned home to Le Cayla in the spring of the year. The society of his beloved sister was not effectual to break the gloomy spell of his despondent thoughts. Though young and gifted, the melancholy natural to his peculiarly sensitive temperament was deepened by the result of his first struggle with his destiny; and he was unable to regard his future other than as one of failure and gloom. During this visit he began to write his journal, which became thenceforth, at intervals, a record of his struggles and hopes. It is a book of sweet sadness, containing at the same time many beautiful pictures of Nature, and thoughts of rare worth. The writing of journals at this time was probably an arrangement between Eugénie and her brother, as a mutual bond between them; for although that of the sister, which has been given to the world, was not commenced until two years later, it is only a continuation of a previous one which has not been found. In his perplexity the thoughts of Maurice now turned to the religious vocation, and he formed the project of joining a monastic institution at La Chênaie, conducted by Abbé de Lamennais. His father was reluctantly brought to give his consent, and, in the month of December, 1832, Maurice once more quitted Le Cayla, bidding another long farewell to his family for the solitude of La Chênaie.
It is not intended to trace the history of Maurice de Guérin except as it is associated with that of his sister. That it was so, however, to a great extent at every step, is indeed the fact. In so far as her yearning solicitude, her sisterly devotion, her almost maternal advice could make it so, they were never indeed apart. Her heart followed him, and when, during the succeeding year, he took, though with misgiving, the necessary vows initiatory to a religious vocation, she rejoiced at the promised fulfilment of her hopes concerning her beloved brother. But his subsequent course proved to be not in his own hands. The teaching of M. de Lamennais had become obnoxious to the authorities of the Church. The establishment was broken up. After being transferred for a time to a monastic institution at Ploërmel, the rigorous character of which was but ill suited to his fancy, an edict from the Bishop removing certain members, Maurice among the number, was welcomed by him as a release from toils under which his spirit chafed.
Upon leaving Ploërmel, Maurice did not return home, but after spending some time with friends at Mordreux, he set his face towards Paris, which was to be the scene of his future life. Here he, in the first place, turned his attention to literature, hoping to gain an entrance to the charmed circle of journalists. His experience only proved, however, to be that of many another young man both before and since. Not gifted with the dogged perseverance so essential in this pursuit above all, he found obstacles many and great, and the little remunerative employment he obtained not sufficient to keep the wolf from the door. After a struggle for a few months, an appeal was made to his father for assistance, while he was now looking about in the hope of obtaining work as a teacher. Two or three letters from his sister about this time show us that while absent from Le Cayla he was for ever present in her thoughts.
"July 15th, 1834.
"Two good letters have come to us, yours, my dear Maurice, and one from Felicité, who tells us of the situation offered you at Juilly. I hope you will not have said 'No,' unless it be for reasons unknown to us. What can present itself better, in your position, than a place where you will be able to see the future at no other cost than that of a little will and character. It is necessary to have a will for any one to be master in whatever circumstances. Thus one after the other all the faculties will be brought into play, and, the occasion having come, each will be ready for its work and will reply, 'Here I am.'
"I like what you tell me of the country, and the family life which you lead at the house of your friend. I remember that he wrote to you when you were here, and that he seemed to me to be quite devoted to you. He proves to us now how true it was. Tell him from me what pleasure the signal service rendered to you gives me, and the gratitude that I feel for his cordial affection. Has he a mother? Has he sisters? As I know that you are pleased to find us again anywhere, I ask if M. Vacher has sisters who fondle him, who pet brothers and chickens as we do at Cayla? Yesterday I saw one of my enjoyments die, one of these little pampered ones, devoured by a wicked stepmother. I covered it with sugar and with wine, but it is dead no less, and the poor little thing is now in the deep well, the great tomb of dead chickens and beasts. I have no stock this year but the poultry yard; neither birds nests, nor sparrow. In caring for these little birds we are made to love them; but they die, and then one pities them. We have plenty of sorrows. Then it is also a loss of time. One finds it so precious that I become more and more greedy of it, and only with regret give a few minutes to pleasure. Really, I do not know what that is, for everything is changed into the useful for me, even the pleasure of writing to you.
"My correspondence always goes its pace. Long letters to the mountain, short ones to Gaillac, but often to Lisle as well. My beautiful Antoinnette cannot forget me, and sends me frequently pretty, gracious letters—charming heart-jewels. I owe her a reply, as well as others. Yesterday I had seven letters to write. My quiet room is a veritable post-office. You know how nice it is. At present I hear the grasshoppers singing, and from time to time a nightingale, who has his nest yonder among the juniper-trees. This side of Le Cayla is a little spoiled by the ruin of the great oak and the great cherry-tree, which were blown down in the winter; but this is nothing when we see the wood of Sept-Fonts all laid low—our dear walk without shade, our seats overturned, half broken; it makes me ill to see that, and I do not go there now, or I go only for reflection. Where shall I be?—where shall we be when these trees shall have become grown again? Others will go to walk under their shade, and will, like us, see winds which will make them fall. In all times there will be storms upon the earth.
"I am reading now 'Les Etudes de Chateaubriand.' After Lamartine, he is the poet I most love. Sometimes there comes to me a fancy to tell him so. Perhaps I shall do so, and I shall send it to you. I am working for my friend over there; and to cause her an agreeable surprise should like to make my piece fall under her eyes in the Revue Europeanne as by chance. Her father gets that journal, and Louise told me lately that she always looked for me there. M. Gazalé will not refuse you if the poetry of women is received in his journal. I am told it is, and I offer my flower. But let it be without name; I wish to be known only by Louise, who has no need that I name myself. Oh, that would give me pleasure! I am going to work at it, for it is not finished, then I will come again to tell you all papa wants you to know.
"There, that is done; my piece is finished; but not as I should like it; it wants something at the close, but I leave a blank, that I may not delay sending it to you…. Auguste ought to be happy with this little boy born to him. We had thought that you would be godfather. It is papa who here speaks, or rather makes me speak…. Adieu, my dear brother; I commend my poetry to you. If you are able to get it inserted, tell me; I will 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 had a thought for a long time which I wish to make you share. Have you not remarked that while we are inundated with so much poetry, there comes nothing for the children? Their little intelligence has, however, also its own wants, and their little heart its enjoyments. What pretty things there are to tell them! It seems to me, therefore, that a children's poetry is wanted by us, and would be welcomed. I have an inspiration: what think you of that? Is it necessary at last to get clear of my ideas by stifling them, or letting them go forth? I do not know why I have them; may God enlighten me. Reply to me on that subject, and tell me if I need fear loss of time, if my 'Enfantines' would succeed. Then no more hesitation. I am at the work, otherwise I shall prefer making stockings to useless verses all my life. When we think of the account we shall have to render to God of all our actions, of all our moments, we have need to remember the use that we make of them. Life is so short to gain heaven, that each moment lost should be the occasion of tears.
"I have a sorrow of conscience or of heart. The priest is leaving the diocese—he of whom I have spoken to you. I regret him so much more, because he had given me permission to write to him, and I had hoped so much for that spiritual correspondence. Let us not speak of it. Do you remember me in your prayers? We ought to pray as much as to love. From me you have both the one and the other. Adieu."
"September 13th, 1834.
"Raymond departs in a month, and is to come to take our parcels for you, my dear Maurice. I shall give him but little besides the little copy-book where I wish to write every day until your friend's departure. It will only be a letter of thirty pages, more or less, following events and the course of ideas, for sometimes many things happen in the mind and in the house, and at other times nothing at all!
"This week, for example, the habitual calm of Cayla has been broken by the arrival of our cousins from Thezac and Bellerive, who have come for the hunting. They are all quite big young men now, which makes one think, I who have seen them born…."
"September 14th, 1834.
"It is Sunday: day for long walks at Cayla. So at sunrise Mimi and I were upon the heights of St. Pierre, going to the first mass at Cahusac. Now I am back, and thinking of the grand sermon of Father Bories. He is always our Massilon, speaking better than any other, and moralising marvellously. It is not his fault if those who hear him are not always very high in heavenly things…. To-day I am well because I have taken the Communion. I remark with admiration the grand remedy which I find therein, and wherein, following the expression of St. Francis de Sales, I feel I have the Saviour in the heart, in my head, in my spirit, and all my being. May this calm last with me! Then all is in health—the soul and the body; and poetry also comes to me again. It is only in times of peace that I sing. Do you understand that, my dear brother?"
"1834.
"An unexpected messenger passing at La Croix for Albi reminds me of our deputy, who, you have said, will willingly take charge of our letters. This will be short—an abridgment, a nothing, that I write at full speed in waiting for Delern, our messenger. It was papa who came quite out of breath from Pausadon to announce this departure to us, and behold pens in train, Mimi on one side and I on the other. She replies to your letter which came the day before yesterday, and I am only going to add a souvenir, after my courier of Friday. There is not much time, and as I should wish to write to Louise by the same means, that will make me rob you of a few minutes. You will not be sorry for it; and, besides, what should I say to-day that I have not said a hundred times? I say things over again. I repeat. I am like the old, repeating in the evening what they have said in the morning.
"But here is something fresh, a reproach; do not tremble, it is a complaint. I wish to tell you that your letter to Mimi would have given her much more pleasure if it had been longer, and if it had not failed to add a thousand things which are always wanting in your letters. Is it your fault or that of your masculine heart? Ours, it seems to me, understands better in friendship, and waits not to be asked for tenderness and all that one loves to see in a friendly correspondence. These poor brothers, we spoil them; we love them too much. We love them so warmly that to do the same seems impossible to them. But I wish to correct myself, and in place of the long epistles I have been accustomed to write you shall have only short ones. That is a resolution taken until you write to me according to my fancy. Adieu then to the little journal—of what use is it to me? You write to me no longer because of it. Nothing for nothing. I shall never know a word of your life because, say you, you would extend yourself so far on that subject I should grow weary in following you. Where would you then go, even though it should be to the end of the world, that I should not arrive with you? It is only a defect, an excuse for idleness, or for a heart a little frozen. You are going to be vexed, to complain. But why do you write so briefly? But for that letter to Mimi, I should say the most pretty things, or the most sweet at least, for I have not much bitterness in my soul, and already the sweet softness comes to me again. This poor Maurice, who without doubt loves us; what do I want from him, what am I demanding from him? Instead of thanking him for all that he does now, I am chiding him. That is not well. Then I am silent; let us embrace, and all is ended.
"How rich you are again, my brother, with your 1,800 francs! God be praised, and your friends blessed, and that good M. Buquet! Be well assured that papa forms no more rash judgments on them, and that we bear for them all the gratitude in the world for what they have done for you. Has your dear Lefebvre anything to do with your good fortune? I should like to know that he has. You know how I loved this friend of yours. And those of Brittany, shall we know no more of them? Answer me a word on their account, and do not forget La Chênaie if you know anything of it. Do you think that I have forgotten about it? Oh, no, but I never think of the fallen angel but with a feeling of the heart I am not able to express. Tell us what he is doing. For here it is said that he grumbles against Rome in his solitude, and that he has just published his "Philosophy." Our journals, however, have said nothing of it. It is true that it is only the poor little Gazette du Languedoc, that says nothing but gossip. Here is Delern. Adieu, my dear brother; I love you always. I have only time to assure Félicité and her family of all my affections."
The project mentioned by Mdlle. de Guérin of writing a book of children's poetry was not carried out. An over-sensitive and unhealthy conscience led her to believe that because she derived from the occupation great pleasure the desire should be discouraged. As a matter of self-sacrifice she abandoned the writing of poetry, whilst passionately loving it, and whilst she felt at the same time she was gaining power and inspiration, thinking it better for her soul's health to teach a word of catechism to little children than to write a volume of poetry. This must be regretted, as the few pieces which Mdlle. de Guérin composed of her proposed Enfantines are full of promise and of subtle charm. Writing on the subject she says: "There is no poetry for the children—poetry pure, fresh, laughing, celestial as their own souls, a poetry for their age. What is put into their hands is nearly always above their capacity, and is also not without danger, as the fables of La Fontaine. I would remove many of them from the collection for the first age, to whom is due so much reverence. Children are the angels of the earth. One ought to speak to them only in their language, to create for them only things pure, to paint for them in azure blue. Religion, history, nature offer rich pictures. But who will be the Raphael?"
As a specimen of the projected poems the following may be given. As a little girl Eugénie had imagined that an angel presided over their play. This she called the Angel Joujou, and afterwards put the idea into verse:—
L'Ange Joujou.