possible from Bordeaux to Arcachon, a most quaint little
watering-place. The hotel was a one-storied wooden house, with an
immensely broad West-Indian-like balcony, in which three or four
people could walk abreast, descending on one side to the strip of
silver sand which alone separated it from the wave-less bay of the
sea called the Bassin d'Arcachon;[253] the other opening into the
forest--sixty or seventy miles of low sandhills covered with
arbutus, holly, and pine. Near the village, quantities of
lodging-houses, built like Swiss châlets, are rising up everywhere
in the wood, without walls, hedges, or gardens, just like a fairy
story, and in the forest itself it is always warm, no winds or
frosts penetrating the vast living walls of green. If the mother
had been better, I should have liked to linger at Arcachon a few
days, but we could not venture to remain so far from a doctor. Here
at Pau we live in a deluge: it pours like a ceaseless waterspout;
yet, so dry is the soil, that the rain never seems to make any
impression. Pau is dreadfully full and enormously expensive. I see
no beauty in the place, the town is modern with a modernised
castle, the surrounding country flat, with long white roads between
stagnant ditches, the '_coteaux_' low hills in the middle distance
covered with brushwood, the distant view scarcely ever visible. We
are surrounded by cousins. Mrs. Taylor[254] is most kind--really as
good-natured as she is ugly, and, having lived here twenty years,
she knows everything about the place. Dr. Taylor is a very skilful
physician. Edwin and Bertha Dashwood are also here with their five
children, and Amelia Story with her father and step-mother.[255]
"Alas! my sweetest mother is terribly weak, and has hitherto only
seemed to lose strength from day to day. She cannot now even walk
across the room, nor can she move from one chair to another
without great help. We are a little cheered, however, to-day by Dr.
Taylor."
[Illustration: AT ANGOULÊME.[256]]
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
"_Pau, Feb. 12._--For the last two days my dearest mother's
suffering has been most sad, without intermission.... This evening
Dr. Taylor has told me how very grave he thinks her state, and
that, except for the knowledge of her having so often rallied
before, there is no hope of her precious life being restored to
us. God has given her back before from the brink of the grave, and
it might be His will to do so again; this is all we have to cling
to. Her weakness increases daily. She cannot now help herself at
all.... Her sweetness, her patience, the lovely expression of her
countenance, her angelic smile, her thankfulness for God's
blessings even when her suffering is greatest, who can describe?
These are the comfort and support which are given us.
"I do not gather that the danger is quite immediate; the dread is a
stupor, which may creep on gradually.... I am always able to be
cheerful in watching over her, though I feel as if the sunshine was
hourly fading out of my life."
_To_ MY SISTER.
"_Pau, Feb. 14._--My last account will have prepared you for the
news I have to give. My sweetest mother is fast fading away.... Lea
and I have been up with her all the last two nights, and every
minute of the day has been filled with an intensity of anxious
watching. The frail earthly tabernacle is perishing, but a mere
look at my dearest one assures us that her spirit, glorious and
sanctified, has almost already entered upon its perfected life. Her
lovely smile, the heavenly light in her eyes, are quite
undescribable.
"All through last night, as I sat in the red firelight, watching
every movement, it seemed to me as if the end was close at hand.
Her hymn rang in my ears--so awfully solemn and real:--
'It may be when the midnight
Is heavy upon the land,
And the black waves lying dumbly
Along the sand;
When the moonless night draws close,
And the lights are out in the house;
When the fires burn low and red,
And the watch is ticking loudly
Beside the bed:
Though you sleep, tired out, on your couch,
Still your heart must wake and watch
In the dark room,
For it may be that at midnight
I will come.'
When the Master does come, she will be always found waiting. Has
not my darling kept her lamp burning all her life long? Surely when
the Bridegroom cometh, she will enter into the kingdom.
"I cannot tell how soon it will be. I have no hope now of her being
given back to me. It is a solemn waiting. Oh! my Esmeralda, when
you hear that the hour _has_ come, pity, pray for her unutterably
desolate son."
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
"_Feb. 17._--There has been an unexpected rally. Two days ago, when
I was quite hopeless and she lay motionless, unconscious of earth,
Dr. Taylor said, '_Wait_, you can do nothing: if this trance is to
end fatally, you can do nothing to arrest it; but it may still
prove to be an extraordinary effort of Nature to recruit itself.'
And truly, at eight o'clock yesterday morning, after sixty hours
of trance, she suddenly opened her eyes, smiled and spoke
naturally. I had just left the room, when Lea called me back--'She
is talking to me.' I could scarcely believe it; yet, when I went
in, there my darling sat in her bed, with a sweet look of restored
consciousness and returning power.
"It was like a miracle.
"She remembers nothing now of her illness. She does not think she
has suffered. During the last night she says she was constantly
saying the seventy-first Psalm. Almost the first thing she said
after rallying was, 'I have not been alone: your Uncle Penrhyn and
your Aunt Kitty[257] have been here, supporting me all through the
night.'
"Our nice simple little landlady had just been to the church to
pray for her, and, coming back to find her restored, believes it is
in answer to her prayers.
"I did not know what the agony of the last three days was till they
were over. While they lasted, I thought of nothing but to be bright
for _her_, that she might _only_ see smiles, to prevent Lea from
giving way, and to glean up every glance and word and movement; but
to-day I feel much exhausted."
_To_ MY SISTER.
"_Pau, Feb. 21._--My darling has been mercifully restored to me for
a little while--a few days' breathing space; and yet I could not
count upon this even while it lasted; I could not dwell upon hope,
I could not look forward--the frail frame is so _very_ frail. I
cannot think she is given to me for long: I only attempt to store
up the blessings of each day now against the long desolate future.
[Illustration: PAU.[258]]
"Last Sunday week she fell into her trance. It lasted between sixty
and seventy hours. During this time she was almost unconscious. She
knew me, she even said 'Dear' to me once or twice, and smiled most
sweetly as she did so, but otherwise she was totally unconscious of
all around her, of day and night, of the sorrow or anxiety of the
watchers, of pain or trouble. A serene peace overshadowed her, a
heavenly sweetness filled her expression, and never varied except
to dimple into smiles of angelic beauty, as if she were already in
the company of angels.
"But for the last sixteen hours the trance was like death. Then
the doctor said, 'If the pulse does not sink and if she wakes
naturally, she may rally.' This happened. At eight the next
morning, my darling gently awoke and was given back into life. This
was Thursday, and there were three days' respite. But yesterday she
was evidently failing again, and this morning, while Dr. Taylor was
in the room, the trance came on again. For ten minutes her pulse
ceased to beat altogether.... Since then she has lain as
before--scarcely here, yet not gone--quite happy--_between_ heaven
and earth.
"I believe now that if my darling is taken I can give thanks for
the exceeding blessedness of this end.
"Meantime it is again a silent watching, and, as I watch, the
solemn music of the hymns that my darling loves comes back to me,
and I repeat them to myself. Now these verses are in my mind:--
'Have we not caught the smiling
On some beloved face,
As if a heavenly sound were wiling
The soul from our earthly place?--
The distant sound and sweet
Of the Master's coming feet.
We may clasp the loved one faster,
And plead for a little while,
But who can resist the Master?
And we read by that brightening smile
That the tread we may not fear
Is drawing surely near.'
And then, in the long watches of the night, all the golden past
comes back to me--how as a little child I played round my darling
in Lime Wood--how the flowers were our friends and companions--how
we lived in and for one another in the bright Lime garden: of her
patient endurance of much injustice--of her sweet forgiveness of
all injuries--of her loving gratitude for all blessings--of her
ever sure upward-seeking of the will and glory of God: and my eye
wanders to the beloved face, lined and worn but glowing with the
glory of another world, and while giving thanks for thirty years of
past blessing, shall I not also give thanks that thus--not through
the dark valley, but through the sunshine of God--my mother is
entering upon her rest?
"God will give me strength: I feel quite calm. I can think only how
to soothe, how to cheer, how to do everything for her."
"_Feb. 26._--It is still the same; we are still watching. In the
hundred and twelfth hour of her second trance, during which she had
taken no nourishment whatever, my mother spoke again, but it was
only for a time. You will imagine what the long watchings of this
death-like slumber have been, what the strange visions of the past
which have risen to my mind in the long, silent nights, as, with
locked doors (for the French would insist that all was over), I
have hovered over the pillow on which she lies as if bound by
enchantment. Now comes before me the death-bed scene of S. Vincent
de Paul, when, to the watchers lamenting together over his
perpetual stupor, his voice suddenly said, 'It is but the brother
that goes before the sister.' Then, as the shadows lighten into
dawn, Norman Macleod's story of how he was watching by the
death-bed of his beloved one in an old German city, and grief was
sinking into despair, when, loud and solemn, at three in the
morning, echoed forth the voice of the old German watchman giving
the hours in the patriarchal way--'Put your trust in the _Divine
Three_, for after the darkest night cometh the break of day.'
"Last night the trance seemed over. All was changed. My sweetest
one was haunted by strange visions; to her excited mind and renewed
speech, every fold of the curtains was a spirit, every sound an
alarm. For hours I sat with her trembling hands in mine, soothing
her with the old hymns that she loves. To a certain extent,
however, there is more hope, more of returning power. Is it a
superstition to think that she began to revive when in the churches
at Holmhurst, Hastings, Hurstmonceaux, Alton, and Pau prayers (and
in many cases how earnest) were being offered up for her
restoration?
"_Two_ P.M.--My darling has been sitting up in bed listening to
sweet voices, which have been singing to her; but they were no
earthly voices which she heard.
"_Ten_ P.M.--She has just declared that she sees Ruth Harmer (a
good, sweet girl she used to visit, who died at Hurstmonceaux)
standing by her bedside. 'It is Ruth Harmer--look at Ruth Harmer,'
she said. But it was not a voice of terror; it was rather like the
apostolic question, 'Who are these who are arrayed in white robes,
and whence come they?' There has also been a time when she has
spoken of 'dear Holmhurst, _dear_ beautiful Holmhurst,' in the
most touching way."
"_Feb. 27._--She has fallen into a third stupor, deeper than the
others; there is no sign of breath, the heart does not beat, the
pulse does not beat, the features have sunk. I _alone_ now declare
with certain conviction that she lives. The shadows are closing
around us, yet I feel that we are in the immediate presence of the
Unseen, and that the good Ruth Harmer is only one of the many
angels watching over my sweetest one. Years ago she told me that
when dying she wished her favourite hymn--
'How bright those glorious spirits shine,--'
to be sung by her bedside; was it these words which she heard the
angels sing to her? Oh! my Esmeralda, are you praying that I may
endure while it is necessary to do everything for her, only so
long? How strange that the scene which I have so often imagined
should be in a country hitherto unknown, the only relations near
having been strangers before; yet the simple French people here are
very sad for us, and there is much sympathy."
"_March 10._--It has been many days since I have ventured to write:
it has been so difficult to say anything definite, with the
constant dread of another relapse, which we have thought must come
every day: yet I think I may now venture to write in thanksgiving
that my mother is restored to me from the brink of the grave. It
seemed _quite_ impossible that she could come back, as if she
_must_ enter the world on the portals of which she had been so long
resting. Doctor and nurse gave up all hope; and at last the nurse
went out, saying all must be over when she returned in three hours'
time. In those three hours the remedies began to take effect, the
dead limbs to revive, the locked mouth to open, the closed eyes to
see, the hands to feel. It had been a death-like trance of a
hundred and ninety-six hours altogether--ten days and nine nights.
She remembers nothing of it now, and nothing of the illness which
came before, but a gradual revival and awakening of all her powers
is going on. It has been less painful to her throughout than to any
one, and it is so still.
"Dr. Taylor is made Sir Alexander. He and Lady Taylor have been
most kind to us--could not have been more so. It has been
interesting to see so much of her, the last survivor of our
father's generation in the family, and one who, living constantly
at Hurstmonceaux, was present through all the old family crises and
conflicts, which she narrates with much of sound sense and
observation. I shall hope to write down much of her recollections,
and shall begin in good earnest to collect the memorials of that
earlier family period, quite as curious in its way as many later
ones."[259]
"_Pau, March 27._--My sweet mother continues slightly better
certainly, but in a most fragile and harassing state of health. I
never feel happy in leaving her, even for half-an-hour. On some
days she is better and almost able to enjoy reading a few words, or
being read to a little: on others, as to-day, the trembling
increases to such a degree as to prevent her occupying herself in
any way. I need not say how beautiful are her faith and love, how
increasing the beatitude of her inner, her heavenly life. 'Oh, how
long it is since I have been at church,' she said last night. 'But
you are always at church in your soul, darling,' I said. 'Yes,' she
answered, 'that is the greater part of my day--meditation and
prayer, and in the night I say my hymns and texts.' On my birthday
she gave me a solemn blessing. Each day I watch her every look and
movement. Truly I feel as if the pulse of her life beat into mine.
She does not see many people, but our sweet little cousin Lady
Dashwood, Lady Taylor, and Lady Charles Clinton come occasionally.
"Pau is the most unattractive place I ever was in, and it pours or
snows almost incessantly. The 'society' is small, good, and
uninteresting, and snubs the immense remainder of the Anglo-Pau
world with hearty goodwill.
"For some days we have been very sad about dear Emma Leycester, who
has been terribly ill: at least I have been, for I think the mother
has scarcely taken in the great cause for alarm."
I think the name of this most dear cousin, Emma Leycester (Charlotte's
much younger sister) has scarcely been mentioned in these memoirs, and
yet there was scarcely any one who had a tenderer place in our home life
and thoughts, or to whom we were more devoted. Perhaps the very fact of
omitting her shows how entirely she must have kept aloof from all family
squabbles and disorders, whilst rejoicing in all our pleasures and
sorrowing in all our griefs. She was never strong, and I always
recollect her as a semi-invalid, yet more animated and cheerful than
most people in strong health, and able, from the very fact of weakness
removing her from the general turmoil of all that was going on around
her, to give her full attention and sympathy to the things she could
participate in. Small in person, she was of a most sweet countenance,
with grey hair, a most delicate complexion, and bright eyes, full of
expression and humour--
"Her angel's face
As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright,
And made a sunshine in the shady place."[260]
As a child, in her visits to Stoke and Lime, I was quite devoted to her,
and in the persecutions of my boyhood was comforted by her unfailing
sympathy. When at Southgate, the greatest pleasure of my London
excursions was that they sometimes ended at "Charlotte and Emma's house"
in Wilton Crescent, and that I often went to have tea with the dear
Emma, who was already gone to rest upon the sofa in her own little
sitting-room. When I was at Oxford she came to visit me there; and
latterly the loss of her own brother and sister had drawn this
sister-like cousin nearer to my mother as well as to myself.
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
"_Pau, April 6, 1865_, 8 P.M.--I must write one little line of love
this evening: the sad news reached us two hours ago, and you will
know _how_ we are mourning with you. I had just a hope, and can
hardly feel yet that dearest Emma's sweet presence, her loving
tender sympathy and interest, are taken from us in this world: but
may we not feel that she is perhaps still near us in her perfected
state, and to you and to my darling mother even the visible
separation may be a very short one, it _can_ only be a few
years--long here, but like a moment to her, till the meeting again.
"I am glad to think of you at Toft, and of her resting there, where
we can visit the grave. I feel so _deeply_ not being able to be
with you, or to do anything for you, as dearest Emma so often said
I should do for her, if you were taken from her.
"The news came at tea-time. It was impossible to conceal it. The
mother had had a suffering day, and was utterly crushed. We put
her to bed at once, and very soon she literally 'fell asleep for
sorrow,' and I, watching beside her, heard her lips murmur, 'O
blessed are they who die in Thee, O Lord, for they rest from their
labours.'"
"_L'Estelle, April 8._--My mother continued so seriously ill up to
yesterday morning, that I was certain if she were not moved at
once, I must not hope she ever would be. Dr. Taylor declined to
take the responsibility, but I felt some one _must_ act; so I sent
for a large carriage, and had her carried down into it like a baby,
and brought off here, only two hours' easy drive from Pau. Before
we had gone six miles she began to revive, was carried to her room
without exhaustion, and to-day opens her eyes on a lovely view of
the snow mountains above the chestnut woods, with a rushing river
and the old convent of Bétharram in the gorge, which is a wonderful
refreshment after having lived in a narrow street, and seen nothing
but a white-washed wall opposite for eleven weeks. Already she is
better."
_To_ MY SISTER.
"_L'Estelle, April 9._--You will have heard of our great sorrow....
A week ago dearest Emma's fever passed and took the form of prayer,
which, as Charlotte says, 'flowed like a river.' Once she said, 'I
have been fed with angels' food; I did not _ask_ for it, I could
not, but I have _had_ it.' Her last resting-place is at Toft.
Charlotte was able to be present.... I feel that, though we have
many still to love, no one can ever fill the _same_ place in our
hearts."
[Illustration: BÉTHARRAM.][261]
During my mother's long illness at Pau, I naturally thought of nothing,
and saw scarcely any one, but her. In the last three weeks, however,
after her rally, and before the last alarm, I saw a few people, amongst
them very frequently Lady Vere Cameron, whose husband, Cameron of
Lochiel, had been known to my mother from girlhood. Through Lady Vere,
I was introduced to a remarkable circle then at Pau, which formed a
society entirely occupied with spiritualism. Most extraordinary were the
experiences they had to narrate. I have kept some notes of my
acquaintance with them:--
"_Pau, March 1865._--When I was at Lady Vere Cameron's, the subject
of table-turning was brought forward, and I then said that I had
been told that I was a medium, meaning merely with reference to
tables. We sat down to a table and it turned. Soon it began to rap
violently, and a scratching noise was heard underneath. This I
believe to have been owing to some ventriloquism on the part of
Ferdinand Russell, who was present, but it excited Lady Vere very
much.
"Some days after I had a note from Lady Vere to desire that I would
come to be introduced to her 'particular friend,' Mrs. Gregory, at
a party in her own house. As I knew that Mrs. Gregory was a great
spiritualist and much occupied with the subject, I naturally
supposed that this desire to make my acquaintance was due to the
table-turning at Lady Vere's, and I went expecting to find a
séance.
"But it was a large party, a great number of people whom I had
never seen before. Mrs. Gregory had the odd expression of always
looking for something behind her. She spoke at once of my being a
medium, and then said in an excited manner, 'But are you far
advanced? are you like me? when a friend is going to die, do you
see it written before you in letters of light _there_?'--pointing
into vacancy. 'No,' I said, 'certainly not: that never happens to
me.' Speaking of this afterwards to a Mr. Hamilton, he bade me
beware, for very unpleasant things often happened at Mrs. Gregory's
séances, or, if they did not happen, every one present believed
that they did--that hands appeared, &c.: that his cousin, Mrs. H.
of S., had received messages from her child who was dead: that
others also had received messages from their dead relations. The
meetings were always solemnly opened with prayer.
"At Mrs. White Hedges' I saw Mrs. H. She said that she also was
certain that I was a medium, and asked whether I did not frequently
have messages from the other world. I said 'No,' and that I did not
wish to have any. 'What,' she said, with a look of great surprise,
'you do not wish, then, for the regeneration of the world; for if
you did you would feel that it can only be brought about through
the instrumentality of spirits.'"
"_April 4._--At Lady Robinson's[262] I again met Mrs. Gregory, who
asked me to come on the 6th to help her to turn a table, and see if
I should receive any messages. I agreed to do so, understanding
that nothing more was intended than she said. Afterwards I sat by
Miss N. L., who said, 'I see that terrible woman has been getting
hold of you. Pray don't go. You don't know what you will see. Every
one who goes is beguiled by small pretexts till they see the most
appalling things. It can only be through the devil.'
"Persuaded by Miss N. L., I went to Mrs. Gregory and said, 'Mrs.
Gregory, do tell me exactly what you expect to happen on Thursday,
because I do not wish to _see_ anything.'
"'Oh, you are a coward, are you?' said both Mrs. Gregory and Mrs.
Alexander, who was sitting near her.
"'Yes, certainly I am a coward about trifling with the
supernatural. It is not because I do not believe that spirits can
return from the dead, but because I do believe it that I would
rather not come, if you expect to see anything.'
"'Well, I can only say that both seeing and receiving messages are
the greatest possible comfort to me: it is only that which keeps me
in my right mind,' said Mrs. Gregory.
"I answered that I should dislike being upset for the ordinary and
practical duties of life by being led to dwell constantly upon the
supernatural.
"'That is precisely what strikes me as the greatest advantage,'
said Mrs. Gregory; 'surely one cannot think too much of the other
world. To feel that spirits are constantly watching you, and
grieving or rejoicing over you, must surely tend to keep you from a
great deal of evil. I have known many infidels entirely converted
to a new and Christian life by what they have seen with me--Mr.
Ruskin, for instance. I asked Mr. Ruskin one day what he believed,
and he answered "Simply nothing." He afterwards came to my house
several times when I had séances, and then he took my hands, and
with tears in his eyes said, "Mrs. Gregory, I cannot thank you
enough for what you have shown me: it will change my whole life,
for because I have seen I believe." Mr. Pickersgill the artist was
another instance. Certainly hands often appear to me, but I like to
see them. If you had lost any one who was a part of your life,
would you not like to know that you were receiving a message from
those you loved? You need not be afraid of the messages I receive.
Just before I came here I received this message--"Keep close to God
in prayer." There was nothing dreadful in that, was there? Was not
that a beautiful message to receive. But sometimes the spirits are
conflicting. There are good and bad spirits. If the messages are
not such as we should wish, then we know the bad spirits are there.
All this is in the Bible, "Ye shall try the spirits, whether they
be good or evil." This is one of the means of grace which God gives
us: surely we ought not to turn aside from it.'
"Afterwards I asked Lady Robinson her experience. She said that she
had been at one of the séances, but nothing appeared and 'the
Indicator' gave nothing decided. She said it was conducted most
seriously, with all religious feeling. She described Mrs. Gregory
as not only praying at the time, but living in a state of prayer,
and she believed that the messages were granted in answer to real
faith. She said quantities of people had seen the hands appear.
Mrs. Gregory had a very large séance at Sir William Gomm's in
London, and Lady Gomm asked for an outward sign before she would
believe. A bodiless hand then appeared, and, taking up a vase with
a plant in it from a china dish upon the table, set it on the
floor, and then breaking a flower from the plant, came and laid it
in Lady Gomm's lap: all the company saw it.
"I told the Taylors what I had heard. Sir Alexander said that he
thought the chief good of such a clever physician as Mrs. Gregory's
husband (Dr. Gregory of the powders) appearing would be to write a
prescription for the living."
While we were at Pau, my sister wrote much to me upon the death of
Cardinal Wiseman, to whom she was greatly devoted, and whom I have
always believed to be a most sagacious and large-hearted man. His burly
figure upon the sands at Eastbourne used to be very familiar to me in my
boyhood. I heard Monsignor Capel, who afterwards attained some
celebrity, preach his funeral sermon at Pau.
"Thirty years ago," he said, "there were only six Catholic churches
in London; now there are forty-six. Then there were six Catholic
schools in London; now there are at least three in each of these
parishes--one for boys, one for girls, and one for infants. Then
there were only 30,000 Catholics in all England; now there are two
millions, one-ninth of the whole population of the country. Then
there were no religious Orders except the Jesuit Fathers, who had
lingered on from the Reformation, flying from one Catholic house to
another, and administering the sacraments in fear and trembling;
now there are in London the followers of St. Francis and St.
Dominic, the Passionist Fathers, the Redemptorists, and at least
twelve nunneries of English ladies. All this change is in a great
measure due to Cardinal Wiseman, the founder of the English
hierarchy. He entered on his labours in troublous times: with the
enthusiasm and love of splendid ritual which he imbibed as a
Spanish boy, with the ecclesiastical learning of Italy, with the
dogmatic perseverance and liberality which he drank in with his
English education. He chose as the title of his bishopric the see
of the last martyred English bishop, and he also thirsted for
martyrdom."
These notes are curious as showing how the rapid growth of Catholicism
in England, which we Protestants are so unwilling to recognise, had
advanced under Cardinal Wiseman's leadership.
At L'Estelle my mother daily revived, and was soon able to sit out on
the sunny balcony, for the valleys of the Pyrenees were already quite
hot, though the trees were leafless and the mountains covered with snow.
It was long, however, before I ventured to leave her to go beyond the
old convent of Bétharram, with its booths of relics and its calvary on a
hill. When she was stronger, we moved to Argelès, a beautiful upland
valley, whence excursions are very easy to Cauterets and Luz.
Afterwards we visited Eaux Chaudes and Eaux Bonnes; but though the snow
was too deep to allow of mountain rambles, the heat was already too
intense for enjoyment of the valleys. We had left Pau without a sign of
vegetation, and when we came back three weeks later, it was in all the
deadest, heaviest green of summer. So it was a great refreshment to move
at once to Biarritz, with its breezy uplands, covered with pink daphne,
and its rolling, sparkling, ever-changing sea, so splendid in colour. To
my mother, Biarritz was a complete restorative, and she was able there
to take up her drawing again, to enjoy seeing friends, and to enter into
the interests and peculiarities of the curious Basque country.
[Illustration: BIARRITZ.[263]]
We visited many of the Basque churches, which are always encircled
within by three galleries, except over the altar. These galleries are of
black oak. The men sit in the galleries, and the women below, and they
enter at different doors. In the churchyards the graves have all little
crosses or Basque head-stones with round tops, and they are all planted
with flowers. The houses all have wide overhanging roofs and external
wooden galleries. Bidart and Cambo are good specimens of Basque
villages. Bidart is a beautiful place on the road to S. Jean de Luz,
and has a church with the characteristic overhanging belfry and high
simple buttresses. A wide entry under the organ-loft is the only
entrance to the church. In the hollow below is a broken bridge reflected
in a pool, which is golden at sunset, and which, with the distant sea
and sands, and the old houses with their wooden balconies scattered over
the hillside, forms a lovely picture. Here I stayed one evening to draw
with Miss Elizabeth Blommart, an acquaintance we made at Biarritz
(afterwards our friend for many years), while my mother and Lea walked
on, and descended from the opposite hill upon the sands. We had often
been told of the treacherous waves of Bidart, but could not have
believed in danger--so distant, beyond the long reaches of sand, seemed
the calm Atlantic, glistening in the last rays of sunlight. To our
horror, when we had nearly finished our drawing, we looked up, and saw
my mother and Lea coming towards us pouring with salt water from cloaks,
bonnets, everything. They had been walking unsuspiciously on the sands
three-quarters of a mile from the sea, when suddenly, without any
warning, a great wave surrounded them. My mother was at once swept off
her feet, but Lea, with her usual presence of mind, caught her cloak and
rolled it round her arm, and plunging herself deep into the sand,
resisted the water and held her mistress till the wave receded, when
they made their escape. A few days afterwards an Englishman with his
little dog was walking in the Bay of Bidart; the man escaped, but the
dog was swept out to sea.
Cambo is two hours' drive from Biarritz--a most pleasant watering-place
on a high terrace above the Nive, with pergolas of vines and planes, a
churchyard which is a perfect blaze of lilies and roses, and an
inn-garden which is full of lovely flowers. Close by is the opening to
the Pas de Roland, a grand little gorge where the Nive rushes through
the mountains--a finer Dovedale. A rocky path ascends by the side of the
stream and climbs a succession of steeps to _la roche percée_, through
which it passes to a little hamlet and old bridge. Eighteen miles
farther is S. Jean de Port, whence one can ride to Roncesvalles.
[Illustration: THE PAS DE ROLAND.[264]]
The whole of this Basque country is full of memorials of the Peninsular
War, the events of which in this district are wonderfully well described
in the novel of "The Subaltern." There are deep woods and glens which
ran down with blood; green lanes (as at Irogne) which were scenes of
desperate combats; tombs of English officers, as in the churchyard at
Bidart and in the picturesque mayor's garden between Bidart and
Biarritz, where a flat stone commemorating three English officers is to
be seen under the old apple-trees, overlooking a wide expanse of
country. The most dreadful slaughter was near the Negressa Station,
where the two armies, having occupied the ridges on either side the
lake, suffered frightful carnage. It might have been spared, but in both
armies it was then unknown that Napoleon had abdicated, and that peace
was proclaimed. Between S. Jean de Luz and the Behobia is a picturesque
old château, which was taken by the English after an easy siege, the
inhabitants having been forced to fly with such precipitation that
everything was abandoned, even the mail-bags which they had just seized
being left behind and the contents scattered about on the floor. The
first letter the English officer in command picked up was directed to
himself and from his own father! He took nothing from the house but a
Spanish dictionary from the library, but returning that way three weeks
afterwards, found it completely pillaged by the Spanish camp-followers.
The peasantry of the Basque country are most interesting to talk to, and
it is strange that more should not have been said and written about
them, as their conversation is more full of ancient proverbs and
folk-lore than that of the inhabitants of any other part of France. I
remember an old Basque woman saying that her language was not only the
best, but far the oldest in the world--in fact, it was that which Adam
and Eve spoke in Paradise!
Twice, while we were at Biarritz, I made excursions into Spain, crossing
the Bidassoa close to the Isle of Pheasants with intense interest. In
all the Spain I have seen since, there is nothing more utterly Spanish
than the tiny walled town of Fontarabia, with its wooden balconies piled
one above another, and its lookout over a blue estuary. Most striking
also is Passages--a land-locked bay of the sea with a very narrow
opening, which is passed on the way to S. Sebastian.
[Illustration: S. EMILION CATHEDRAL DOOR.[265]]
Our return journey to England in the late spring was very delightful. My
mother, in entire enjoyment of her marvellously restored health, and
delighting to drink in the full beauties of nature and antiquity, was in
no hurry to return to the turmoil of English life. We lingered
everywhere, making short half-day journeys, and spending quiet
afternoons sketching in the grass-grown streets of half-deserted cities,
or driving out in little carriages to grand old châteaux. Thus we first
saw S. Emilion, that marvellous place, where the buildings are so
mingled with the living rock, that you scarcely can tell where the work
of man begins, and where each sculptured cornice glows in late spring
with a glory of crimson valerian. In one of the quietest streets of
Poitiers, before a cottage door, we bought an old inlaid table, which is
one of the pleasantest memorials of our journey. At Amboise we stayed
several days in a most primitive but charming hotel, the vision of my
dear mother in which often comes back to me, sitting with her psalm-book
in a low room with white-washed walls and brick floor, and with a
latticed window looking out over the great river glistening in the
sunset. My mother liked and admired Amboise[266] more than almost any of
our thousand resting-places, and she delighted in the excursions to
moated Chenonceaux and to Chambord, where we and Lea had tea and
bilberry jam at a delightful little inn which then existed on the
outskirts of the forest.
[Illustration: AMBOISE[265a]]
On the 27th of May we reached Holmhurst. One of those curious incidents
which are inexplicable had occurred during our absence, and was narrated
to us, on our return, by our servants, neighbours, and by Mrs. Hale,
the wife of our Hastings doctor. During my mother's illness at Pau, two
of our maids, Alice and Jane Lathom, slept, according to their custom,
in one of the spare rooms to the front of the house. In the middle of
the night they were both aroused by three piercing terrible screams in
the room close to the bed. Petrified with horror, they hid under the
bed-clothes, and lay thus more dead than alive till morning. With the
first streak of dawn they crept down the passage to John Gidman's room,
roused him, and told him what had happened. He felt it was certainly an
omen that the death they expected had occurred; took the carriage and
drove down at once to St. Leonards to Mrs. Hale. Dr. and Mrs. Hale were
at breakfast when John Gidman arrived and sent in word that his mistress
was dead. When they went out, they found he had received no letter, but
had only an inward conviction of the event from what had happened.
It was the same hour at which my mother, waking from her second trance
in her room at Pau, had uttered three long piercing screams in her
wandering, and said, "Oh, I shall never, never see my dear Holmhurst
again!"
There is no explanation to offer.
* * * * *
We had much enjoyment of our little Holmhurst this summer and a constant
succession of guests. Amongst those who now came annually were Arthur
Stanley and his wife Lady Augusta. To my mother, Augusta Stanley was
always a very tender and dutiful niece, and to me a most kind cousin.
She rejoiced to aid my mother in acting as a drag to Arthur's
ever-increasing impression that the creed of progress and the creed of
Christianity were identical. Many people thought that such an intense,
almost universal warmth of manner as hers must be insincere, but with
her it was perfectly natural. She took the sunshine of court favour, in
which they both lived, quite simply, accepting it quietly, very glad
that the Royal Family valued her, but never bringing it forward. She was
indeed well worthy of the confidence which her royal mistress reposed in
her, for though the Queen wrote to her daily, and though she generally
came in to breakfast with several sheets in the large well-known
handwriting, not one word from them ever transpired to her nearest
relation or dearest friend.
What Lord Beaconsfield called "Arthur Stanley's picturesque sensibility"
made him care more than Augusta about having royal (_i.e._ historic)
friendships, though he had less personal feeling than she had for the
illustrious persons who made them. He was, however, quite devoted to the
Queen, to her own personality, and would certainly have been so had she
been in any other position of life. The interests of Westminster made
him very happy, and he rejoiced in the duty which fell upon him of
preserving the Abbey as he received it, furious when it was suggested
that some of the inferior and ugly monuments might be removed, or that
the peculiar character of the choir (like a Spanish _coro_) might be
altered. Always more a lover of moral than of doctrinal, or even
spiritual Christianity, at this time he was beginning to be the victim
of a passion for heretics which went on increasing afterwards. The
Scotch were delighted with him: they thought he had an enthusiastic
admiration for their Church. But he almost equally admired all
schismatics from the Church to which he officially belonged, and was
almost equally interested in them, and if he could get any one with ever
so slight a taint of heresy to preach in the Abbey, it was a great
delight to him: he thought it was setting an example of Christian
liberality.
* * * * *
My sister left Rome with her aunt at the end of May (1865). At Pisa she
took leave of her beloved Victoire, who remained at her own house. When
she reached France, weakness prevented her intended visit to Paray le
Monial, whence the nuns sent her the following rules for the employment
of "The Holy Hour" in acts of reparation for insults offered to our Lord
by the sins of men:--
{ Short acts.--"Lord, I believe, help
1. Unbelief { thou mine unbelief."
{ Faith.--"Lord, increase our faith," &c.
2. Ridicule, mockery. Secret prayers for the scoffers.
3. Irreverence.--Special reverence towards the Blessed Sacrament.
4. Rash judgments.--Acts of reparation to the Sacred Heart.
5. Unlawful opinion.--Silence upon things settled by authority.
6. Careless life.--Act of offering morning and night against
frivolous and immoderate words and actions.
7. Love of ease and pleasure.--Simple acts of mortification
and self-denial in the course of the day.
Esmeralda was detained for some time by serious illness at Dijon, with
the strange symptoms which, three years later, attended her final
illness, and which were then inexplicable to all around her. On her
recovery, Madame de Trafford met her at Paris, and insisted that she
should follow her to her château in Touraine. Hence Esmeralda wrote:--
"_Château de Beaujour, June 1865._--You will have heard from Auntie
of our arrival in this fairy château.... I have heard much that is
wonderful, but what is most striking is to watch the perfect
simplicity of a life so gifted as Madame de Trafford's--the three
virtues, Faith, Hope, and Charity, that faith which can move
mountains, and with it great humility. Madame de Trafford is deeply
interested in any details I give her of the last six years: she was
really attached to Mama. Here, in her château, she saw that Mama
was dying. She turned suddenly round to Mr. Trafford, who was here,
and said, 'Ah! elle va mourir--sortons.' She could not bear it, and
felt that she must go out into the open air.
"We shall be in London some time next week, with endless affairs to
settle. I quite dread the lawyers' deeds, days and weeks of worry,
never ending and still beginning.
"I think of you once more in your study, as if a new life were
given you, and dear Aunt Augustus in her arm-chair, and everything
bright and beautiful around you."
Of this, her first visit to Beaujour, Esmeralda has left a few
remarkable notes.
"_July 1865._--Madame de Trafford came off to receive us at Paris
as soon as she heard we were on our way. Then, when she heard I was
so ill at Dijon, she often telegraphed there four times a day to
Auntie, to the master of the hotel, to every one, so that they
thought at Dijon that I was quite 'une grande personage.' At last,
when I was better, we went to Beaujour. Madame de Trafford sent to
meet us at Blois, but not her own horses, because they were _trop
vifs_. It was a long drive, though we went at a great pace, for
Madame de Trafford had told the coachman he was to drive as fast as
possible. At last, in the avenue of poplars, the ruts were so deep
that I thought we should have been overturned. Beaujour is a large
square house with wings to it. Madame de Trafford herself opened
the door, with a handkerchief over her head. 'Ah! vous voilà,' she
said, 'c'est bien; il y'a longtemps que je vous attends.'
"The lower part of the château is unfurnished and vast. This Madame
de Trafford considers to represent chaos, the chaos of nations. On
the upper floor, each room represents a nation. Where she considers
there is something wanting to the nation, there is some piece of
furniture wanting to the room. When she considers that a nation has
too much, the room is over-crowded. Thus in England, Canada,
Gibraltar, and Malta are _de trop_, but India she allows for.
"For us she had a whole suite of rooms newly furnished. I had a
bedroom, boudoir, dressing-room, and bath-room, and Auntie had the
same. They contained every possible luxury. My bed was the most
delicious I ever slept in. Madame de Trafford's power of
second-sight had enabled her to see exactly what I liked best.
"All morning we sat in Madame de Trafford's bedroom or mine, and in
the evening in the sitting-rooms. All day she talked of the future
of Europe. 'Je plane sur l'Europe,' she used to say; and, when she
was about to see anything--'Mon second être s'en va.'
"Madame de Trafford is frequently in conflict with the devil. At
such moments she is perfectly awful--quite sublime in her grandeur.
She will repeat _sotto voce_ what he says to her, suggestions of
pride, &c.,--and then, raising herself to her full height, in a
voice of thunder will bid defiance to the evil spirit. She spoke of
the many things in connection with herself which made people say
she was mad, and said she did not feel it safe to have people to
stay with her in consequence. I told her that this would be quite
impossible, for that even in the week which I had spent with her, I
had seen much which others never ought to have the opportunity of
seeing and misjudging. She often spoke most severely of my faults,
and said that I lived too much for myself. 'Prenez garde,' she
said, 'que vous ne passiez pas par cette petite porte, que j'ai vue
une fois.' This was the gate of hell. She saw it in a most awful
vision--the judged souls, 'qu'ils baissent leurs têtes et passent
par cette petite porte.'
"One day the Curé sent up word that the village procession was
coming to the gates of the château. On such an occasion an altar is
always expected to be prepared. There was a dreadful fuss and
hurry, but it had to be done. A foundation of barrels was covered
with coloured cloths, on this rose a higher platform, and on that
the altar. Workmen were immediately employed to dig up trees and
plant them around it, and Clémence was sent to the garden to dig up
all the lilies she could find. When the procession arrived, all was
ready and the people were delighted."
During this and succeeding visits at Beaujour, Madame de Trafford
dictated many remarkable passages in her life to my sister. This she did
walking up and down the room, often with her eyes flaming and her arms
extended, as in a state of possession. At such times she would often
break off her narration and suddenly begin addressing the spirit within
her, which answered her in the strange voice, not her own, which
sometimes came from her lips. Some of the stories she narrated at these
times are of the wildest description, and are probably mere
hallucinations, but a vein of truth runs through them all; and her
complete biography, as I still preserve it, is a most curious document.
Almost all her stories are tinged by her enthusiasm for the Bonaparte
family, with whom she had some mysterious connection. They are mingled
with strange visions and prophecies, many of which have undoubtedly come
true, and her second-sight caused her to foresee, and in one case to
prevent, an attack on the life of Napoleon III. She was constantly
occupied in works of benevolence--in fact, her whole life was a contest
between good and evil. "On joue sur moi," she said, "ce sont les bons et
les mauvais esprits." Sometimes, when Esmeralda happened to go suddenly
into the room, she would find Madame de Trafford, with livid face and
glaring eyes, in horrible personal conflict with an evil spirit--"Prince
de cette terre, adore donc ton Créateur et ton Dieu." In a late Life of
Jeanne Darc, whose early existence amongst spiritual influences is much
like that of Madame de Trafford, Catherine de l'Armagnac, the great
friend of Jeanne, is described as resembling her, and the observation is
made that this extraordinary power remains in the Armagnac family
still. Madame de Trafford was _née_ Martine Larmignac (de l'Armagnac).
But it was not only in Jeanne Darc that there was a similarity to the
visions, the voices, the inspirations of Madame de Trafford: exactly the
same appears in the histories of St. Bridget, St. Catherine of Siena,
and Savonarola. The child-prophet Samuel also heard such voices calling
to him.
In her "Life," Madame de Trafford says that she was brought up at
Saumur, where spirits surrounded and talked to her in her childhood.
When she was hungry, she believed that they brought her food. She was
starved and ill-treated by her nominal mother, but her nominal father
was kind to her. She always loved the poor, and they loved her. She once
stole a loaf to give to a poor family. She was dressed in the richest
child's frocks and lace till she was seven years old, then they were
taken away and poor clothes were given to her. In her solitary life at
Saumur she fancied that every one else like herself talked to
spirits....
To escape from a marriage with a French Count, and, as she believed, in
obedience to the spirits, Martine Larmignac went with the family of
Sharpe as governess to England. Here she eventually became the second
wife of Mr. Trafford of Wroxham Hall in Norfolk, but even then she never
expected happiness in her life. She said that a spirit announced to her
before her marriage, "Ton nom pour toi, ta fortune pour les autres, et
_tu_ ne seras jamais heureuse." She had two children by Mr. Trafford.
She foresaw the deaths of both by her second-sight, and had the agony of
watching the fatal hour approaching even when they were well and strong.
During the Crimean war, Madame de Trafford went out to Constantinople
with some Irish Sisters of Charity. She was with them during the
earthquake which overwhelmed Broussa. At the moment when the Emperor
Nicholas is supposed to have died, she alarmed those who were with her
by starting up and in her fearful voice of prophecy exclaiming,
"Nicholas! arrête toi! tu n'est pas mort: tu as disparu." She always
maintained that the Emperor did not die at the time at which his death
was announced as having taken place.
One day Madame de Trafford was sitting in her room at Paris, when the
spirit told her she was to go--not where she was to go, or why, but
simply that she was to set off. She caught up her bonnet and shawl and
bade her maid Annette (for she had servants then) to follow her. She
went out: she walked: she walked on till she arrived at the
railway-station for going to Lyons (Chemin de Fer de Lyon). She still
felt she was to go on, but she did not know whither, so she said to the
guard that she must pay for her ticket when she left the train, for she
could not tell where she should get out. She went on till the railway
came to an end, and the railway in those days came to an end at Toulon.
Then she got out and went to a hotel and ordered rooms for herself and
her maid Annette, and dinner--for they were famished after the long
journey. But still she felt restless: she was still convinced that she
was not in the right place.
"J'avais arrêté un appartement pour une semaine, mais une voix me
dit, 'Pars,' et je savais qu'il y'avait du danger. Je fis appeler
la maîtresse de l'hôtel. Je lui dis, 'Je vous payerai tout ce que
vous voulez, mais je dois partir. Faites attendre dix minutes la
malle-poste pour Marseilles.' J'arrive à Marseilles fatiguée. Je me
repose sur un lit. Il faisait déjà nuit. J'appelais ma femme de
chambre et je lui dis, 'Je veux sortir.' Je sors. J'avance. Je
retourne. Ah, mon Dieu! qu'est ce que c'est? J'ai peur: je tremble:
je ne sais pourquoi. 'Annette, suivez-moi,' je dis. J'avance
encore. Je monte les rues étroites de Marseilles. J'arrête. Oh, mon
Dieu! qu'est que c'est que je vois--une _rue_! Je ne puis plus
avancer, mais qu'est que c'est cette rue? Je tourne: je monte la
rue en frémissant. 'Annette, suivez-moi.' J'arrête. Je vois une
maison--une fenêtre. La maison est fermée. C'est ici. Je mésure la
distance de cette maison à la maison vis-à-vis. Une, deux, trois,
quatre. La police me suivait. Ils soupçonnaient quelque chose, mais
je disais, 'Qu'est que c'est que cela--une maison, une fenêtre?' La
police entre dans la maison, dans cette fenêtre elle y trouva une
machine infernale. Napoleon était sauvé: il devait y passer le
lendemain."
From her extraordinary powers of second-sight, supernatural gifts were
attributed by ignorant persons, and to her own great distress, to Madame
de Trafford. The poor around her, both in Touraine and at Paris, often
implored her to heal their sick, insisting that she could do so if she
would, for she had the power.
"J'allais à la Madeleine un dimanche pour la messe. La fille de mon
cocher avait ête bien malade depuis longtemps. Je demandais à mon
cocher en descendant à l'église comment se portait sa fille. 'Elle
a demandé Madame de Trafford,' disait-il en pleurant, 'jusqu'à son
dernier moment.'--'Comment, Florimond,' lui dis-je, 'que voulez
vous dire?'--'Elle est morte,' disait il en sanglotant: 'elle est
morte hier à minuit.'--'Ah,' disais-je, et je descendais de la
voiture. 'Florimond, pourquoi ne m'avez-vous pas fait appeler?'
J'entrais à l'église, mais je ne pouvais rester tranquille. Je
sentais que je ne pouvais rester pour la messe, et je sortis. Je
remonte en voiture. 'Florimond, au grand trot,' lui dis-je, 'chez
vous.'--'Chez moi, Madame,' dit-il; 'ah, il est trop tard; ah, si
vous étiez venue plutôt, Madame, mais le pauvre enfant a déjà
changé,' et le pauvre homme pleurait; ah! combien il aimait cet
enfant. Nous arrivons. Je descends vite. Je monte. J'entre. J'ouvre
la porte. Déjà on avait placé un linceul sur le corps de la jeune
fille: on se preparait à l'ensevelir. La mère et la garde-malade
étaient dans la chambre. Je fis sortir la garde. J'approche le lit.
Je jette par terre chapeau et mantelle. Je lève le linceul. Ah! je
n'avais jamais vu un mort: je ne puis vous dire l'effêt que cela me
fit. Déjà depuis si peu d'heures! Il avait treize heures qu'elle
était morte, et les levres étaient serrées: tout le contour de la
bouche était décoloré. Je m'approchais. 'Seigneur,' dis-je, 'je ne
vous ai rien demandé jusqu'à ce jour: je vous demande aujourd'hui
la vie de cet enfant. Oh, Seigneur, c'est la fille unique, rendez
donc, je vous en supplie, rendez donc cette fille à sa mère.' Alors
une voix d'un mauvais esprit me dit, 'Tu peux rendre la vie: tu as
le pouvoir.' Mais je répondis, 'Moi, je ne puis rien, je ne suis
rien; mais, Seigneur, vous avez le pouvoir, vous seul pouvez tout;
rendez donc, je vous supplie, rendez donc cette fille à sa mère.'
Je passais la main sur la figure de l'enfant: je le prends par la
main. 'Lève-toi,' lui dis-je, et la jeune fille se levait en
sursaut! mais ses yeux étaient encore fermés, et tout doucement
elle dit ces paroles, 'Madame T.. r.. a.. fford.. je.. vais..
dormir.' Les couleurs revenaient tout doucement dans ses joues. Je
me retournais à la mère: 'Votre fille dormait,' dis-je. Je quittais
la maison. Je commandais qu'on lui donnait à manger. 'Florimond,'
dis-je à mon cocher, 'vous pouvez monter: votre fille n'est pas
morte--elle dort.' Je quittais Paris sur-le-champ."[267]
The generosity of Madame de Trafford knew no bounds. Once she went to
Bourges. She arrived at the hotel and ordered dinner. The waiter said
dinner could not be ready for an hour. She asked what she could do to
occupy the hour. The man suggested that she could visit the cathedral.
She said she had often seen the cathedral of Bourges: "what else?" The
man suggested the convent of Ursuline nuns on the other side of the
street. "Yes," she said, she was much interested in education, she was
much interested in Ursuline nuns--she would go to them.
A nun showed her everything, and she expressed herself much pleased; but
the nun looked very sad and melancholy, and at last Madame de Trafford
asked her what made her look so miserable. "Oh," said the nun, "it is
from a very peculiar circumstance, which you, as a stranger, could not
enter into."--"Never mind," said Madame de Trafford, "tell me what it
is?"--"Well," said the nun, "since you insist upon knowing, many
convents were founded in the Middle Ages by persons who had very
peculiar ideas about the end of the world. They believed that the world
could not possibly endure beyond a certain number of years, and they
founded their institutions with endowments to last for a time which they
believed to be far beyond the possible age of the world. Now our convent
was founded on that principle, and the time till which our convent was
founded comes to an end to-morrow. To-morrow there are no Ursuline nuns
of Bourges: to-morrow we have no convent--we cease to exist."--"Well,"
said Madame de Trafford, "but is there no other house you could have,
where you could be re-established?"--"Oh, yes," said the nun, "there is
another house to be had, a house on the other side of the street, which
would do very well for a convent, but to establish us there would cost
£3000. We are under vows of poverty, we have no money, so it is no use
thinking about it."--"Well," said Madame de Trafford, "if you can have
the house, it is a very fortunate circumstance that Mr. Trafford sent me
a bill for £3000 this morning: there it is. You can have your convent."
This story my sister had from the nuns of Bourges: it was her
second-sight of the trouble overhanging them which had taken Madame de
Trafford to Bourges.
Amongst the most extraordinary of the dictations of Madame de Trafford
are those which state that she was really the person (accidentally
walking and botanising on those mountains) who appeared out of a dense
fog to the two children of La Salette, and whom they took for a vision
of the Virgin.
People who have heard our histories of Madame de Trafford have often
asked if I have ever seen her myself. I never did. The way in which I
have been brought nearest to her was this. One day I had gone to visit
Italima and Esmeralda at their little lodging in Chester Terrace, in the
most terrible time of their great poverty. I was standing with my sister
in the window, when she said, "Oh, how many people there are that I knew
in the world who would give me five pounds if they knew _what_ it would
be to me now. Oh, how many people there are that would do that, but they
never think of it." Esmeralda thought no one was listening, but Italima,
who was sitting on the other side of the room, and who was then in the
depths of her terrible despair, caught what she was saying, and
exclaimed, "Oh, Esmeralda, that is all over; no one will ever give you
five pounds again as long as you live."
Three days after I went to see them again. While I was there, the
postman's knock was heard at the door, and an odd-looking envelope was
brought up, with a torn piece of paper inside it, such as Madame de
Trafford wrote upon. On it were these words: "As I was sitting in my
window in Beaujour this morning, I heard your voice, and your voice
said, 'Oh, how many people there are that I knew in the world who would
give me five pounds if they knew what it would be to me now! Oh, how
many people there are that would do that, but they never think of it.'
So I just slipped this five-pound note into an envelope, and here it
is." And in the envelope was a five-pound note.
"J'étais là; telle chose m'advint." I was present on both these
occasions. I was there when my sister spoke the words, and I was there
when the letter came from Madame de Trafford sending the five-pound
note, and repeating not only my sister's words, but the peculiar form of
reduplication which she so constantly used, and which is so common in
Italy when it is desired to make a thing emphatic.
Esmeralda spent the greater part of the summer at Mrs. Thorpe's, where I
frequently visited her. She was soon deep in affairs of every kind, far
too much for her feeble frame, as she added incessant religious work to
her necessary legal worries. She would go anywhere or bear anything in
order to bring over any one to the Roman Catholic Church, and was
extraordinarily successful in winning converts. Her brother William had
already, I think, been "received," and her little sister-in-law, Mrs.
William Hare, was "received" about this time. Esmeralda's most notable
success, however, had been in the case of Mr. and Mrs. T. G. When she
was living in Sloane Street, she heard accidentally that Mrs. G. was
wavering in her religious opinions. Esmeralda did not know her, but she
drove immediately to her house at ten o'clock in the morning, and by
four o'clock that afternoon not only Mrs. G., but her husband, had been
received into the Roman Catholic Church.
Still, Esmeralda never believed that all those who were without the pale
of her own Church would be lost. She felt certain of the salvation of
every soul that had died in union with God by the indwelling of the Holy
Ghost.
Amongst the persons whom I frequently saw when staying with my sister
were the singular figures, in quaint dress with silver ornaments, with
long hair, and ever booted and spurred as cavaliers, who were known as
the Sobieski Stuarts. Their real names were John Hay Allan and Charles
Stuart Allan, but my sister recognised them by the names they gave
themselves--John Sobieski Stolberg Stuart and Charles Edward Stuart. I
believe that they had themselves an unfailing belief in their royal
blood. Their father was said to be the son of Charles Edward Stuart and
Louise of Stolberg, Countess of Albany, born at Leghorn in 1773. Fear of
"the King of Hanover" was described as the reason for intrusting him as
a baby to Admiral Allan, whose frigate was off the coast. Allan brought
up the boy as his own, and he lived to marry an English lady and leave
the two sons I have mentioned. The elder brother died in 1872, and the
younger on board a steamer off Bordeaux on Christmas Eve, 1880.
Upon her return to England, Esmeralda found in completion the beautiful
monument which she had caused to be erected to her mother in the
Catholic Cemetery at Kensal Green. It represents "Our Lady of
Sorrows"--a figure of life-size, seated under a tall marble cross, from
which the crown of thorns is hanging.