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_5 February, 1896._
My dear Lucie:
The mail has arrived, and it has brought me no letter. I need not tell
you what bitter disappointment. I could tell you what deep grief I feel
when this only consolation, your dear beloved words, do not come to me.
But, as I have said before, of what importance are sufferings--I dare
even call them tortures--however atrocious, however horrible they may
be, for the object which you are now pursuing dominates everything, it
is above all else, and beyond all else--the honor of our name, the honor
of our dear, adored children.
As for me, dear Lucie, you are my strength, my invincible strength, so
high are you in my love, in my tenderness. Like my children, you dictate
to me my duty. Say to yourself that if often the violence of feelings,
that are at times atrocious, wrings a groan from my heart and makes my
brain reel; if at times the unending hours and the climate exceed my
strength of forbearance, and my very flesh cry out, my determination
remains unshaken.
But you must realize all that I suffer on account of your martyrdom,
from the unmerited dishonor cast upon our children, upon all our family.
You must feel all that I suffer from such a condition of soul, striving
here against many elements united; what a determination, what a power I
feel within me to see the light--oh, no matter at what price, no matter
by what means! Often in this solitude the tempest rages in my brain;
oftener yet the blood boils in my veins with impatience to see the end
of this incredible martyrdom. The more atrocious my sufferings the more
they increase as the days roll by, the less willing we should be to give
way to grief or to rebuffs, the less inclined we should be to give
ourselves over to fate. And since our tortures are to cease only after
the light dawns full and entire, and since we must have it through and
against everything for ourselves, for our children, for us all, our
wills should strengthen as difficulties and obstacles increase.
Therefore, dear and good Lucie, courage, and more than courage; a strong
will, a daring will that knows how to be determined and to succeed, a
will strong enough to attain its object, no matter how, an object as
praiseworthy as it is elevated--the truth. This has lasted too long, too
many sufferings are crushing down innocent beings.
Kiss the dear children often and fondly for me. Ah, indeed, dear Lucie,
there is nothing that can be called an obstacle where our children are
concerned. Remind yourself that there are no obstacles; that there
cannot be any; that the truth must be known; that a mother has all
rights, as she ought to have all courage when she is called upon to
defend that by which alone her children can live--their honor.
And each time when I write to you I cannot bring myself to close my
letter, so brief is this moment when I come to talk to you; so wholly is
all my being with you; so entirely all I say fails to express the
feelings that agitate me and fill my soul; so inadequate to express this
desire, stronger than all else, which is in me--a desire for the truth
and for our honor and the honor of our children, or to express my deep
love for you, my love increased by unbounded reverence.
I hope, indeed, that what I have said to you during so many long months
is being translated by you all into strong and vigorous action, and that
I shall hear soon that the sufferings of us both are to have an end.
I embrace you as I love you, and also our dear children, with all my
heart, with all my soul, while I wait for tidings from you all.