"_Bologna, June 5._--Mr. Cummings says the great Church of S.
Petronio here reminds him of the great Church universal--so vast
the space, and so many chapels branching off, all so widely divided
that in each a separate sermon and doctrine might be preached
without distressing its neighbour, while yet all meet in the
centre in one common whole, the common Church of Christ.
[Illustration: PIAZZA S. DOMENICO, BOLOGNA.[419]]
"An old American lady in the train had passed a summer at
Vallombrosa. She said it was a place where to live was _life_ and
where one could be happy when one was _unhappy_."
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
"_Susa, June 8, 1870._--The Mother continued in a most terribly
suffering state all the time we were at Bologna--agonies of pain
which gave no rest. Yesterday afternoon it was so intense that she
implored me to try the railway as a counter-irritant, and we set
off at half-past ten at night. But the train shook fearfully, and
the journey was absolute torture to her. We have never had such a
painful time. Lea and I were obliged to sit on the floor by turns,
holding the poor hand, and trying to animate her courage to bear
up, but her cries were terrible. We reached Turin at 5 A.M., where,
in spite of all promises to the contrary, she had to be carried all
round the station; but fortunately for the next hour the train was
easier and she suffered less. She was carried by two men out of the
station, and down the wet muddy road here, where she has a good
room, and soon fell asleep from exhaustion. We arrived at 6.30
A.M., and shall stay till to-morrow morning. Her state is certainly
one of incomparably more suffering than at Rome, and she feels the
change of climate dreadfully."
"_Aix-les-Bains, June 9._--Last night, to my great relief, Colonel
and Mrs. Cracroft and Miss Wilson arrived at Susa, and were the
greatest possible help to us. We had obtained a _permesso_ for the
Mother to be taken straight through to the Fell railway carriage,
and her little procession started at 7 A.M., and she was carried
from her bed to her seat in the railway. The Cracrofts sat all
round us in the carriage, which was much better than strangers, and
Miss Wilson was most kind in keeping her hands bathed with eau de
Cologne, &c. She suffered much for the first two hours, but the
train was wonderfully smooth and easy, so that really the dreaded
Mont Cenis was the least distressing part of the journey. About the
middle of the pass she revived a little, and noticed the flowers,
which were lovely--such gentianellas, auriculas, large golden
lilies, &c. At S. Michel she bore the being carried about
tolerably, so we were able to come on here, and arrived about four.
Mother desires I will say to Charlotte, 'Hitherto the Lord hath
helped me.'"
"_Macon, June 12._--No farther on our way than this. Mother was
rather less suffering on Friday, and she bore the move from Aix and
the dreaded change at Culoz better than we expected, but in the
latter part of our four hours' journey she was fearfully exhausted,
and arrived here (at the hotel looking out on the Saone and the
wide-stretching poplar plains) in a sad state.... It is impossible
to move on yet.
"Yesterday, while she was sleeping, I drove to Cluny, the queen of
French abbeys. A great deal is left, and it is a most interesting
and beautiful place. I also saw Lamartine's little château of
Monceaux, described in his 'Confidences.' All his things and his
library were being sold under the chestnut-trees in front of the
house. I just came up in time to buy the old apple-green silk
quilt[420] from the bed of his saint-like mother, described in 'Le
Manuscrit de ma Mère.'"
[Illustration: CLUNY.[421]]
"_Montbard, June 13._--Mother was so anxious to attempt coming on,
that we left Macon at half-past eleven to-day, arriving here at
four. To our dismay, when she had been taken out of the carriage
and laid flat upon the platform, and the train had gone off, we
found the station hotel closed. However, she was well carried on a
chair down a lane to the so-called Hôtel de la Poste--an
old-fashioned farm-house in a garden of roses; everything clean,
pretty, and quaint; no sound but cocks and hens crowing and
cackling; delicious farm-house bread, butter, and milk. Montbard is
the place where Buffon lived in a very picturesque old château and
gardens. Mother seems revived by the intense quiet and fresh
country air. The old landlord and his wife are quite pictures--such
clever, kind old faces, reminding one of La Sarte in 'Citoyenne
Jacqueline.'"
[Illustration: CLOISTER OF FONTENAY.[422]]
"_Paris, June 14._--This morning was like a respite! Mother lay so
quiet that I was actually able to draw as in the old days, which
now seem in the far distance; and I took a little carriage to the
lovely cloistered château of Fontenay, which I had long wished to
see, and where I had luncheon with the charming owner, Madame de
Montgolfier, and her two sons, people who own immense factories in
the valley and devote their whole lives to the good of their
workpeople. On my return I found Mother so far better that we could
prepare her for the one o'clock express. She had a bath-chair to
the station, and bore it well; but she was terribly tried by the
five hours' journey, and being very ill carried at Paris, arrived
at the hotel utterly prostrated. We _hope_ to go on to-morrow, but
all is most uncertain."
"_Dover Station, June 16._--We are here, with intense thankfulness.
Mother looked so ill and aged this morning we did not hope to move
her, but she had a sudden rally in the middle of the day, so at 6
P.M. we were able to prepare her, and had her carried through the
station to a carriage before the mob of people came.... We dreaded
arriving at Calais, but she was carried in an arm-chair to the
steamer, which was fortunately at the near quay and no steps. Of
course our little procession was the last to arrive, and every
place was taken; but Miss Charlotte Cushman,[423] who had
comfortably established herself in the cabin, with a calm dignity
which is irresistible at once directed the men to put Mother down
in her place, and went up on deck.
"The sea was like glass--lovely moonlight and sunrise, and we
seemed to be at Dover before we left Calais. A sailor carried
Mother in his arms to the railway carriage, in which we were
allowed to go as far as the station platform, and here we are. A
porter has fetched cups of tea, and we have four hours to wait.
"We shall be glad of a visit from you as early as you like to come
next week. I should not like you to defer coming long, as, though I
have no _special_ cause for apprehension, still in Mother's
critical state every day is precious. You will find her terribly
altered in all respects, though the mind and memory are quite clear
_at the moment_. None of her doctors give any hope whatever of
amendment; but you will understand the position much better when
you see it, only I am anxious that you should help me to face what
is inevitable, instead of striving after what cannot be. Let us
seek to alleviate suffering, not struggle after an impossible cure
which may hasten the end."
_To_ MISS WRIGHT.
"_Holmhurst, June 17._--I know you will truly rejoice with and
_for_ us that we have arrived in safety, and that my poor suffering
Mother has her great wish of seeing her little home once more. You
will imagine what the journey has been, as she is now utterly
helpless, nearly blind, and never free from acute suffering in the
spine and arm, which is often agony. At Rome it was generally
thought quite impossible that she could survive the journey, and
nothing but her faith and patience, and her self-control, have
enabled us to get through it. We never could make a plan, but just
seized the happy moment when she was a shade better, and at once
pushed on a step. She was, of course, carried everywhere, and
people were wonderfully kind; we had always somebody to go with us
and smooth the difficulties of the railway stations--either old
friends or people who were at my lectures at Rome and met us
accidentally.
"When we arrived, all the old servants were terribly overcome to
see their beloved mistress carried in so changed and helpless. She
is still very ill, but unspeakably thankful to be here, and to feel
that the journey is done. My life is, and must continue to be, one
of constant watching."
"_July 21._--Our letters are now our only intercourse with the
world beyond the gates of Holmhurst, which I never leave; but
indeed I can seldom leave the house before 8 P.M., when I walk
round the fields while Mother is prepared for the night. Though it
is now the only thing I ever think of, it is very difficult to
occupy and cheer her days, for she cannot bear any consecutive
reading. Sometimes I read, and tell her what I have read as a kind
of story. She is seldom up before 3 P.M., and then is carried down
to the lawn in her dressing-gown, and up again at four, when she is
sometimes able to look at a book for a few minutes. That which is
oftenest in her hand is the little 'Invalid's Friend' which you
gave her, and she desires me to tell you how often she finds
comfort in it.... For the last fortnight we have been entirely
alone, which has been really best for her, as, though she has
enjoyed seeing those she loved, each _departure_ has made her
worse.
"I write much at my 'Walks in Rome' in her room, and my ancient
history is so imperfect I have plenty to study, which acts as a
sort of mental tonic."
_From my_ JOURNAL (The Green Book).
"_June 26._--My darling often _talks_ to me in her hymns. To-night,
when I left her, she said with her lovely sweetness, 'Good-night,
darling.
"Go, sleep like closing flowers at night,
And Heaven your morn will bless."'
"'I never wish to leave you,' she said the other day. 'I never wish
for death; always remember that. I should like to stay with you as
long as I can.' And another day, 'I must call you "my
daughter-son," as Mrs. Colquhoun did hers: as long as I have you, I
suppose I can bear anything; but if you were taken away, or if I
had never had you, my life would be indeed desolate: I could not
have lived on.... I try so not to groan when you are here, you must
not grudge me a few groans when you are out of the room.'"
"_July 18._--'I had such a sweet dream of your Aunt Lucy last
night. I thought we were together again, and I said, "How I do miss
you!" and she said she was near me. I suppose I had been thinking
of--
"Saints in glory perfect made
Wait thine escort through the shade."
I think perhaps I had been thinking of that. Dear Aunt Lucy, how
she would have grieved to see me now!'"
"_July 19._--'Yes, I know the psalms; many in your Uncle Julius's
version too. Many a time it keeps me quiet for hours to know and
repeat them. I should never have got through my journey if I had
not had so many to repeat and to still the impatience.'"
_To_ MISS WRIGHT.
"_Holmhurst, July 31, 1870._--I continue to work on steadily at my
book in the sick-room. I have just got Murray's Roman Handbook, and
am amazed to see how much better it is than I expected; but I am
glad I have not seen it before, as, though I have already given
even all his newest information, I have told it so _oddly_
differently.
"The sweet Mother continues much the same. She is carried out each
fine afternoon to sit for an hour near the weeping ash-tree on the
lawn, and enjoys the sunshine and flowers.... In this quiet garden,
and never going beyond the gates, everything seems very _far_ off,
and I am beginning to have quite a sympathy with the hermits, and
to wonder the race does not continue: it is certainly more
reasonable than that of the monks. A great peace seems to have
fallen upon us. As I see my helpless Mother's quiet happiness, and
share it, I think of Richard Crashaw's lines--
'How many unknown worlds there are
Of comforts, which Thou hast in keeping!
How many thousand mercies there
In Pity's soft lap lie a-sleeping!
Happy she who has the art
To awake them
And to take them
Home, and lodge them in her heart.'"
_From my_ JOURNAL (The Green Book).
"_August 8._--It is inexpressibly touching to me how Mother now
seems to have an insight into my past feelings which she never had
before, and to understand and sympathise with childish sufferings
which she never perceived at the time, or from which she would have
turned aside if she had perceived them. To-day, after her dinner,
she said most touchingly, watching till every one went away and
calling me close to her pillow--'I want to make my confession to
you, darling. I often feel I have never been half tender enough to
you. I feel it now, and I should like you to know it. You are such
a comfort and blessing to me, dearest, and I thought perhaps I
might die suddenly, and never have told you so. I cannot bear your
being tied here, and yet I do not know how I could do without you,
you are so great a blessing to me.'
"And oh! in the desolate future what a comfort these few words will
contain! But I said--'No, darling, I am not tied: you know it is
just what I like. I know you could not do without me, but then I
could not do without you, so it is just the same for both of us.'"
"_August 26._--To-day is the anniversary of my adoption, what
Mother used to call my Hurstmonceaux birthday. She remembered it
when I went to her, and said touchingly--'God be thanked for having
given me my child, for having preserved him, for having
strengthened him. May he live to His glory, and may I die to His
praise.... Pray that He may forgive the past, watch over the
present, and guide the future.' Later she said--'It is very seldom
that a woman's future is settled at thirty-five, as mine was. I was
not only a widow, but my adopting a child showed to all the world
that I should never marry again.... I can only make a meditation,'
she said; 'I have no strength to make a prayer.... I have long been
obliged to pray in snatches--in moments.... I am so glad that I
know so many psalms, hymns, and collects; they are such a comfort
to me now. I could think of nothing more, but these I dwell
upon.... Sometimes when I can think of nothing else I take the
Lord's Prayer, and lie still to make a meditation upon each
separate clause.' When I left her at night she said
fervently--'Good-night, my own dear love, my blessing: may I be
your blessing, as you are mine.'"
In our quiet life, the news of the war in France, the siege of Paris,
&c., reached us like far-off echoes. My mother cared little to hear of
it, but shared with me in anxiety as to the fate of the excellent people
we had so lately left at Montbard and Fontenay, which were overrun by
the Prussians. On September 8 the Empress Eugenie took refuge at
Hastings, and two days after walked up the hill past our gate. She was
joined at Hastings by the Prince Imperial. I little thought then that I
should afterwards know him so well.