Chapter XI: Home Life with the Mother (2)

"After he was living in Florence, Mrs. Browning told him one day
that she had just got Lord Lytton's new book 'Lucile.'--'Oh, God
bless my soul!' he said, 'do lend it to me.' In an hour he sent it
back. 'Who could ever read a poem which began with _But_?' However,
he was afterwards persuaded to read it, and shouted, as he
generally did over what pleased him, 'Why, God bless my soul, it's
the finest thing I ever read in my life.'

"Mrs. Browning did not think he was properly looked after at
Florence, and sent her excellent maid, Wilson, to care for him. But
it did not answer. Wilson cooked him a most excellent little
dinner, and when he saw it on the table, he threw it all out of the
window; it was too English, he said."

In returning north from Italy, we made an excursion to Courmayeur, driving in a tiny carriage from Ivrea along the lovely Val d'Aosta, and lingering to sketch at all the beautiful points. In France we had an especially happy day at Tonnerre, a thoroughly charming old town, where the people were employed in gathering the delicious lime-flowers which lined the boulevards, for drying to make tisanes.

]

There was a subject of painful interest to us during this summer, which it is difficult to explain in a few words. My sister's letter mentions how, when Italima was dying, there was one thing which she tried over and over again to say to the Dowager Lady Lothian, who was with her, and which Lady Lothian and the other bystanders vainly endeavoured to understand. It began with "Esmeralda" and ended with "her," but the intermediate words were lost. We naturally explained it to mean "Esmeralda will be very desolate when I am gone; you will look after her."

After Italima's death, Esmeralda had moved from Bryanston Street to a house in Duke Street, Manchester Square, which was kept by Mrs. Thorpe, the faithful and devoted maid of Italima's old friend Mrs. Chambers. Here my sister had every comfort, and might have had rest, but one day her brother William came to visit her, and broke a blood-vessel while he was in the house. His wife was sent for, and for several weeks he hovered between life and death; indeed, he never really recovered from this attack, though he was able to be moved in a month and lived for more than three years. The fatigue of her brother's illness entirely prostrated Esmeralda, who was already terribly shaken in health by the fatigue of the strange watchings, enjoined by Catholicism, which followed her mother's death.

It was about August that I received a letter from my Aunt Eleanor Paul begging me to come to London immediately, for something most extraordinary and trying had happened. When I went, I found my sister looking terribly ill, and my aunt greatly agitated. My aunt said that two days before Mrs. Beckwith had been to visit my sister; that, supposing she was come to talk of Catholic matters, she had not paid any especial attention to what they were saying, and, owing to her deafness, she consequently heard nothing. That she was suddenly startled by a scream from my sister, and looking up, saw her standing greatly excited, and Mrs. Beckwith trying to soothe her; that she still supposed it was some Catholic news which had agitated my sister, and that consequently she made no inquiries.

The next day, Esmeralda went out to drive with Mrs. Beckwith, and when she came back she looked dreadfully harassed and altered, so much so that at last my aunt said, "Now, Esmeralda, I am quite sure something has happened. I stand in the place of a mother to you now, and I insist upon knowing what it is."

Then my sister said that Mrs. Beckwith had startled her the day before by saying that, as she had been walking down Brook Street, Madame de Trafford had suddenly appeared before her, and, looking back upon all the events connected with the past appearances of Madame de Trafford, the news was naturally a shock to her. After driving with Mrs. Beckwith, she had returned with her to her hotel, and while she was there the door suddenly opened, and Madame de Trafford came in.

The malady from which Esmeralda had been suffering was an extraordinary feeling, a sensation of burning in her fingers. The doctor whom she had consulted, when this sensation became so acute as to prevent her sleeping, said it arose from an overwrought state of nerves, possibly combined with some strain she might have received while helping to move furniture to turn the room into a chapel, after her mother's death. When Madame de Trafford came into the room at the hotel, my sister instantly, as usual, jumped up to embrace her, but Madame de Trafford put out her hands and warded her off with a gesture of horror, exclaiming, "Ne me touchez pas, ma chère, je vous en supplie ne me touchez pas: c'est vos doigts qui sont en feu. Ah! ne me touchez pas." And then she became terribly transfigured--the voice of prophecy came upon her, and she said, "When your mother was dying, there was something she tried to say to Lady Lothian, which you none of you were able to hear or understand. I, in my château of Beaujour in Touraine, I heard it. It echoed through and through me. It echoes through me still. For three months I have struggled day and night not to be forced to tell you what it was, but I can struggle no longer; I am compelled to come here; I am forced away from Beaujour; I am forced to England against my will. When your mother was dying she saw the future, and said, 'Esmeralda will soon follow me: I shall not long be separated from her.' And you _will_ follow her," shrieked Madame de Trafford, her eyes flaming, and every nerve quivering with passion. "You _will_ follow her very soon. Only one thing could save you: if you were to go to Rome before the winter, that might save your life; but if not, you must--die!" And then Madame de Trafford, sinking down suddenly into an ordinary uninspired old woman, began to cry; she cried and sobbed as if her heart would break.

When my aunt heard what Madame de Trafford had said, she felt the injury it might do to my sister's impressible nature, and she was very angry. She felt that, whatever her impulse might have been, Madame de Trafford ought to have conquered it, and she determined to see her and to tell her so herself. Very early the next morning she went to the hotel where Madame de Trafford was and asked to see her. She was refused admittance, but she insisted upon waiting, and she did wait, till at last she was let in. Madame de Trafford was then quite composed and calm, very courteous, very kind, very like other people, and my aunt said that in entering upon her subject, it was like accusing a sane person of being perfectly mad. But suddenly, whilst they were talking, Madame de Trafford glided round the table, and standing in front of the fireplace, seemed to rise out of herself, and in her terrible voice, every syllable of which was distinctly audible to my deaf aunt on the other side of the room, exclaimed these words--"Votre nièce est malade; elle sera encore plus malade, et puis elle mourira," and having said this, she went out--she went entirely away--she went straight back to France. She had fulfilled the mission for which she came to England, and the next day she wrote from Beaujour in Touraine to pay her bill at the hotel.

Aunt Eleanor said that to her dying day that awful voice and manner of Madame de Trafford would be present to her mind.

Looking back upon the past, could Esmeralda and her aunt disbelieve in the prediction of Madame de Trafford? Had not my sister in her desk a warning letter which had told the day and hour of her mother's death? and how true it had been! Yet at this time her going to Rome seemed quite impossible; she could not go away whilst all her law affairs were unwound up, indeed even then in the most critical state: besides that, she had no funds. But in November, three suits in Chancery were suddenly decided in her favour. By two of these my sister recovered £8000 of her mother's fortune; by the third she secured £3000 from the trustees who had signed away her mother's marriage settlement. So she and her aunt immediately started for Rome, accompanied by Clémence Boissy, the old maid of her childhood, whom she had summoned to return to her immediately on her recovering an income. I will give a few extracts from Esmeralda's letters after this:--

"_Paris, Nov._--At last we did start. But what a packing! what a
confusion!... Yesterday I saw Madame Davidoff,[241] as enthusiastic
as ever, but she was so rushed upon from all quarters, that I could
not get a quiet talk. I also saw the Père de Poulevey, the great
friend of the Père de Ravignan, who wrote his life.... And now you
will say this is a very cheerful letter, and on the contrary I feel
very sad, and very sad I felt at the Sacré Cœur and at S. Roch
this morning. Everything I see brings back the past."

"_Dec. 8, 1864, Maçon._--How astonished you will be to see the date
of this place. 'Why are you not in Rome by this time?' you will
exclaim. Because I was so exhausted when we arrived here that
Auntie agreed that the only thing to do was to take a long rest,
give up the Mont Cenis, and proceed slowly by Nice and Genoa.

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 Curé d'Ars and heard him
preach. 'Vous ne pouvez pas vous imaginer,' she says, 'ce que
c'était que d'entendre le Curé d'Ars en chair; on fondait en
larmes, on croyait entendre les paroles de notre Seigneur quand il
enseignait le peuple. C'était peu de paroles, mais cela remuait
jusqu'à fond de l'âme. "Oh, mes enfants," disait le Curé, "_si_
vous pouviez voir le bon Dieu comme je le vois, combien peu de
chose seraient à 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'était pas un grand orateur que l'on écoutait. Oh! non,
Mademoiselle, c'étaient seulement quelques paroles qui allaient
droit au cœur. Vous deviez l'entendre quand il faisait son
catéchisme à midi, à chaque jour un sujet nouveau. L'église était
toujours pleine. Il y'a vingt-cinq ans, il y a même trente ans,
l'on parlait du Curé d'Ars et on allait à Ars. Le Curé restait dans
son confessional jusqu'à minuit, quelquefois jusqu'à une heure de
matin. Alors il sortait de l'église pour prendre deux heures de
repos. Quatre femmes de la campagne se mettaient aux quatre coins
pour empêcher le monde de passer, car, au moindre bruit, M. le Curé
se levait et sortait de suite: ces femmes de la campagne étaient
bien dévouées.

"'Un jour que j'étais dans l'église d'Ars, le Curé s'écriait,
"Laissez passer cette dame," designant du doigt une dame au chapeau
verte--"laissez la passer." Un jour une autrefois il me vit; il dit
à la foule qui se pressait autour de lui, "Laissez passer 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 Curé d'Ars bien
malade d'une maladie des nerfs à la suite de la maladie de ma
fille. "Vous êtes bien souffrante," dit le Curé, "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 été, et puis vous serez bien." En effet,
il y'avait huit mois que je souffrais, et huit mois après je fus
guérie--tel que M. le Curé d'Ars m'avait dit.'

"'Le Vicaire-Général,' said the mistress,'m'a raconté ceci
lui-même, avec des larmes aux yeux. Il a logé ici une nuit: c'est
alors qu'il me l'a raconté. "Madame," dit il, "je ne pouvais croire
à tout ce que j'entendis d'Ars. Je croyais que ces paysans étaient
exaltés. Je voulus donc voir en personne: je me rendis à Ars.
J'arrivai donc à Ars. Il y'avait beaucoup de monde. J'y suis resté
deux jours. Voici ce qui est arrivé. Je quittais l'église avec M.
le Curé. J'allais avec lui vers sa petite maison. En arrivant, la
vieille cuisinière ou bonne du Curé vient à notre rencontre. 'Ah!
M. le Curé,' dit elle, 'nous n'avons plus rien, nous ne pouvons
plus donner.'--'Donnez,' répondit M. le Curé, 'donnez
toujours.'--'Mais nous ne pouvons pas,' dit encore la vieille
femme, 'il n'y a rien, _rien_,' répetait elle. M. le Curé était
vif. Combien il lui a couté pour pouvoir se modérer--'Donnez,
donnez toujours par poignées,' dit il encore. 'Comment,' répondit
la vieille, 'comment voulez-vous que je donne: il n'y a rien?'
"C'est alors," dit M. le Vicaire-Général, "que j'ai dit au Curé,
'Je ferai un rapport à Monseigneur l'Evêque, je suis sûr qu'il vous
enverra pour vos pauvres.' Le Curé ne répondit pas; il fit comme un
mouvement d'impatience. 'Montez au grénier,' dit il à la vieille
cuisinière, 'et donnez, donnez toujours aux pauvres.' Cette fois
elle obéit. Elle court, elle ouvre la porte du grénier. Elle
descende aussi vite; le grénier était tout plein. 'Ah, M. le Curé,
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. Clémence 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 mass 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 Curé d'Ars alla voir un curé de
Lyon qu'on dit être saint. "Vous prendrez ma place," dit il. "Vous
ferez encore plus de conversions."' I am going to Lyons to try to
find out this curé. At Maçon also there is a certain 'Curé 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 manuscripts 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 God 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."

]

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 œuvres 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 Curé
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, Clémence, 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 Clémence 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 Clémence 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 volonté de Dieu: l'heure de votre
mère a sonné, l'heure aussi du mari de Clémence a sonné.' She
poured something down my throat and rubbed my hands, and brought me
round by degrees. Clémence 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 Félix, 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 volonté 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 God'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 title 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 God 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--Duchess
Sora, Princess Viano, Prince Doria, Dukes Fiano and Sora. In fact,
a day never passes 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 association 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 passing 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 God 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 Mass 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 Duchess Sora were living in a sort of honourable banishment, the Duke's parents, the Prince and Princess Piombino, having been exiled to Tuscany. The Duchess 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 God 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 God 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 God, remembering the words of St. Ignatius, that 'having
received everything from God, 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 God's love, let me seek
to detach myself from everything, exterior and interior, that
separates me from God.'

"Self-love must be overcome by mortification of self, by asking of
God to give us His love, to fill us with His love, for if the love
of God _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 _indwèlling_ 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 God 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 God. 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 God 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 God, and can only exist in those souls
which unite themselves entirely to God."

"_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."

In the autumn, while I was staying with Mr. Stephen Lawley at Escrick near York, I had much conversation with his charming old mother, Lady Wenlock.[247] Here are some notes of what she told me:--

"I once saw Lord Nelson. It was when I was quite a little child.
The maids took me to church at St. George's, and there I saw the
wonderful little man, covered with orders and with one arm. They
told me it was Lord Nelson, and I knew it was, for his figure and
prints were in all the shop-windows.

"I remember well the battle of Trafalgar. It was the _Euryalus_,
Captain Blackwood, that brought the news, and, oh dear! the
sensation. I was seven years old then, but I knew the names of all
the ships and captains. My sister was then the mistress of my
father's house, and I was sent for down to her. She was not up,
and the newspaper was lying on the bed. 'Oh, my dear,' she said,
'my father has sent me up the newspaper, and we have taken twenty
ships of the line, but--Nelson is dead!' Child as I was, I burst
into tears; one had been taught to think that nothing could go on
without him.

"I cannot quite forgive Dean Trench his book.[248] Nelson was the
one hero of his time, and it was a pity to bring up the bad vulgar
side again and not to let it sleep.... The Lady Carysfort the book
mentions was my aunt. My cousins were quite devoted to Mrs. Trench,
and have often told me how enchanted they felt when she came back
to England."

* * *

"King George III. used to be very fond of driving about in
Berkshire with the Queen and visiting the families in the
neighbourhood of Windsor--those whom they used to honour with their
notice. He often came to my grandfather,[249] who was gouty with
the gout of that day, which prevented people from rising, so that
he was not able to get up when the King came in. The King and Queen
always came quite simply in a carriage and four with the prickers
riding before in crimson liveries. There was a particular point in
the avenue at which the prickers were visible from the windows, and
when they were seen, my grandfather used to ring the bell and ask
if there was a round of beef in the house. He was generally
answered in the affirmative, and then it was all right, for none of
the royal party took luncheon, only the Queen used to have a
particular kind of chocolate brought to her: my father generally
offered it on a tray, after they had been about half-an-hour in the
house. They used to take an interest in everything, and if any one
ventured to rehang their pictures, they would say, 'Mr. So-and-so,
why have you rehung your pictures?' I remember the King one day
asking my grandfather if he had read the memoirs which every one
was talking about at that time. They were those of the Duc de St.
Simon, La Grande Mademoiselle, &c., and my father said no, he had
not seen them. The King came again within the fortnight, and my
grandfather did not see him coming down the avenue, nor did he know
the King was in the house, till there was a kind of fumbling
outside the door, and the King, who would not let any one come to
help him, opened the door, with a great pile of volumes reaching
from his waist to his chin, saying, 'Here, Mr. Grenville, I have
brought you the books we were talking about.' But as the King came
through the door, the books slipped and fell all about on the
floor: my grandfather could not move, and the King began to pick
them up, till some one came to help him and put them on the table
for him.

"The scene on the terrace at Windsor on Sundays was the prettiest
thing. It was considered proper that every one in the neighbourhood
who could should go; those who were in a position of life to be
presented at court stood in the foremost rank. The presence of the
King was announced by the coming of 'Lavender,' a kind of
policeman-guard, who used to clear the way and always preceded the
royal family; he was the only kind of guard they had. The Queen
wore evening dress, a sort of cap with a string of diamonds, and a
loose flowing kind of gown; there was no such thing then as
demi-toilette. After her came the princesses, or any of the princes
who happened to have come down from London, or, on fine days, some
of the Cabinet Ministers. The royal family stopped perpetually and
talked to every one. I remember the King coming up to me when I was
a very little girl, and dreadfully frightened I was. 'Well, now,'
said the King, 'and here is _this_ little girl. Come, my dear, take
off your bonnet,' he said (for I wore a poke), and then he added,
'I wanted to see if you were like your mother, my dear.'

"It was Miss Burney who gave the impression of Queen Charlotte as
being so formidable. Nothing could be more false; she was the
kindest person that ever lived, and so simple and unostentatious.
The fact was that Miss Burney had been spoilt by having been made a
sort of queen in Dr. Johnson's court. The day 'Evelina' came out
Dr. Johnson said to her, 'Miss Burney, _die_ to-night,' meaning
that she had reached the highest point of fame which it was
possible to attain. Queen Charlotte made her one of her readers,
for she was passionately fond of being read to while she worked.
But Miss Burney was one of those people afflicted with _mauvaise
honte_. She could not read a bit, and the Queen could not hear a
word she said. 'Mama the Queen,' said the Duchess of Gloucester to
me, 'never could bear Miss Burney, poor thing!' So the Queen
invented some other place in her extreme kindness to Miss Burney,
to prevent having to send her away, and in that place Miss Burney
was obliged to stand.

"An instance of Queen Charlotte's extreme kindness was shown when
she made Lady Elizabeth Montagu one of her ladies-in-waiting, out
of her great love to Lady Cornwallis. When Lady Elizabeth arrived
at court, the Queen sent for her and said, 'My dear, you have no
mother here, so I must beg that you will consider me as your
mother, and if you have any trouble or difficulty, that you will
come to me at once.' When Lady Elizabeth went to her room, she
found the bed covered with new things--new dresses, a quantity of
black velvet to make the trains which were worn then, and a great
many ornaments. 'My dear,' said the Queen, 'you will want these
things, and it will be a year before your salary is due; I thought
it might not be convenient to you to buy them just now, so you must
accept them from me.'

"Another day, when Lady Elizabeth had been ill in the evening and
unable to go with the Queen to a concert, early in the morning she
heard a knock at her door while she was in bed, and the Queen came
in in her dressing-gown, with what we called a combing-cloth (which
they used because of the powder) over her shoulders, and all her
hair down. 'May I come in, Lady Elizabeth?' she said. 'I heard you
were ill, and there is nothing stirring to-day, so I came to beg
that you will not think of getting up, and that you will send for
everything you can wish for. Pray think of everything that it is
right for you to have.'"

* * * * *

"Mrs. Fry came to Escrick once, and was pleased to see our gardens
and the few little things we had to show her. 'Friend Caroline, I
like thy pig-styes,' she said."

During this and the following summer I was often with my sister in London, and saw much of her friends, persons who have been entirely lost to me, never seen again, since the link which I had to them in her has been broken. Thus at Esmeralda's house I often saw the gentle sisters of the Precious Blood and their sweet-looking Mother, Pierina Roleston. She was utterly ignorant of worldly matters, and entirely governed by her priests, but her own character was of a simplicity much like that of the Curé d'Ars. She once described to me Maria de Matthias, and the story of the foundation of her Order.

"Oh, I wish you could see the Mother-General: she is so simple,
such a primitive person. When she wants anything, she just goes
away and talks to our Blessed Lord, and He gives it to her.
Sometimes the nuns come and say to her, 'What can we do, Mother? we
have no flour, we cannot bake;' and she answers, 'Why should you be
troubled? Are not the granaries of our Master always full? We will
knock at them, and He will give us something.'

"One day there was nothing at all left at Acuto: there was no
bread, and there was no money to buy any. But Mother-General had
just that simple faith that she was not at all troubled by it, and
she even brought in five additional persons, five workmen who were
to make some repairs which were necessary for the convent. When
they came, she made the nuns come into the chapel, and she said,
'Now, my children, you know that we have nothing left, and we must
pray to our Master that He will send us something;' and she
herself, going up to the altar, began to talk to Our Blessed Lord
and to tell Him all her needs. 'Dear Lord,' she said, 'we have
nothing to eat, and I am just come to tell you all about it, and to
ask you to send us something; and I am in debt too, dear Lord. I
owe twenty-five scudi for your work; will you send it to me?' and
so she continued to talk to Our Blessed Lord, just telling Him all
she wanted.

"At that moment there was a knock at the door, and a young man put
a paper into the portress's hand, only saying these words--'Pray
for the benefactor.' The portress brought the paper to the
Mother-General in the chapel, and she opened it and said,'My
children, give thanks; the Master has sent us what we asked for.'
It was the twenty-five scudi. Mother-General was not surprised. She
_knew_ that our Blessed Lord heard her, and she felt sure He would
answer her. Soon after the convent bell rang for the dinner-hour.
The nuns were coming downstairs, but there was nothing for them to
eat. The Mother-General said, however, that the Master would send
them something, and indeed, as they reached the foot of the stairs,
the door-bell rang, and a large basket of food was left at the
door, sent by some ladies in the neighbourhood. 'See how our Lord
has sent dinner to us,' said the Mother-General.

"The Mother-General is an educated person, really indeed quite
learned, considering that in the time of her youth it was not
thought well to teach girls much, for fear they should learn
anything that is evil.

"When the Mother-General was a young person, as Maria de Matthias
in Vallecorso, she was very worldly and gay. But she heard 'the
Venerable' (Gaspare del Bufalo) preach in Vallecorso, and, as he
preached, his eye fixed upon her, he seemed to pierce her to the
very soul. When she went home, she cut off all her hair except the
curls in front, and turned her gown inside out, and wore her oldest
bonnet. She thought to please our Lord in this way, and she
remained for seven years shut up in her father's house, but all
that time she was not satisfied, and at last she went to 'the
Venerable' and asked him what she was to do, for she wished to do
something for our Blessed Lord. And the Venerable said to her, 'You
must go to Acuto, and there you will be told what you must do.' She
had never heard of Acuto, but she went to a friend of hers, also
named Maria, and inquired where Acuto was, for she was ordered to
go there. The friend said she would go with her, and ordered out
her horse, but the horse was a wild horse,[250] and she did not
know how to ride it. Maria de Matthias, however, went up to the
horse and patted it, saying, 'You must not be wild, you must become
calm, because it is necessary that we should go to Acuto: you and I
have to go in obedience, and I cannot walk, for it is twelve
hours' journey.' When the Mother had thus spoken to the horse, it
became quite mild, and, hanging down its head, went quite gently,
step by step, and the Mother rode upon it. When they had gone
half-way, she wished that the other Maria should ride, and the
Mother got off, and Maria climbed upon a wall to mount the horse,
but with her the horse would not move an inch, and then Maria felt
it was not our Lord's will that she should mount the horse, and the
Mother continued to ride to Acuto. When they arrived, and the
Mother got off the horse, it became again immediately quite wild,
and when Maria attempted to touch it, it was in such a fury that it
kicked and stamped till the fire came out of the ground.

"The priest of Acuto was waiting to receive the Mother, and she
remained there teaching a school. She believed at first that this
only was her mission, but in a short time the children began to
call her 'Mother,' and to ask her to give them a habit. The first
nun who received the habit was a little child of eight years old,
who is now Mother Caroline, Superior of the Convent at Civita
Vecchia.

"The Mother-General often preaches, and she preaches so powerfully
that even the priests crowd to hear her. When the people see her
come forward to the edge of the altar-steps and begin to speak,
they say 'Hark! the great Mother is going to talk to us,' and there
is fixed silence and attention. She generally begins by addressing
them as 'Brothers and Sisters,' and then she teaches them.

"The Mother-General cannot write. When she is obliged to write a
letter, she kneels down and kisses the feet of the Crucifix and
asks Our Lord to help her, and letters of hers which she has
written in this way, in the most beautiful hand, are preserved.
When there are no flowers for the altar she says, 'Our Master's
flowers are always blooming; He will send us some;' and that day
flowers come.

"After her death Sister Caterina appeared three times to Sister
Filomena, and begged her to tell the Mother not to be troubled, for
that the Sisters would suffer yet for four months longer, and then
that they would have all that they needed. That day four months
Lady Londonderry gave us a house.

"'The Venerable' left a prophecy that an English subject should
come to join his Order in Italy, and then go back to found the
female Order in England. When I took the veil, it was remembered
that the Venerable had said this.

"Don Giovanni Merlini used to accompany 'the Venerable' on his
missions. 'The Venerable' used to say, 'Take care of Don Giovanni,
for he is a saint.' Don Giovanni is still living at the little
church of the Crociferi near the Fountain of Trevi."

At this time my sister went frequently to see and consult Dr. Grant, the Bishop of Southwark. She believed him to be quite a saint, and fancied that he had the gift of healing, and she delighted to work for others under his direction. But Esmeralda was always willing to believe in or to find out saints of the nineteenth century. It was by Dr. Grant's advice, I believe, that she went to visit a nun of saintly attributes who lived near him, the Sœur Marie Anne. Of this visit she wrote: "Sœur Marie Anne was quite full of canonizations and of all that was going on about the Venerable Labre, because she said that, when she was a child, she had once seen him as a venerable pilgrim, going through a village, when the boys stoned him. She had been so struck, so _saisie_ by his appearance, that she went up to him and said, 'Forgive me, but I hope that you will not refuse to tell your name.'--'Labre,' he said, and the name Labre had stuck by her to that day. She implored me to get up a special veneration for the Venerable Labre, but I said that I really could not, for he was _too_ dirty."