(From "The Life of Jesus," by Ernest Renan. Translated by C.E. Wilbour.
Copyright by George W. Carlton, 1863.)
TO THE PURE SPIRIT OF MY SISTER HENRIETTE, WHO
DIED AT BYBLUS, SEPT. 24, 1861.
Do you remember, from your rest in the bosom of God, those long days at
Ghazir, where, alone with you, I wrote these pages, inspired by the scenes
we had just traversed? Silent by my side you read every leaf, and copied
it as soon as written, while the sea, the villages, the ravines, the
mountains were spread out at our feet.
When the overwhelming light of the sun had given place to the innumerable
army of stars, your fine and delicate questions, your discreet doubts,
brought me back to the sublime object of our common thoughts.
One day you told me you should love this book, first, because it had been
written with you, and also because it pleased you. If sometimes you feared
for it the narrow judgments of frivolous man, you were always persuaded
that spirits truly religious would be pleased with it.
In the midst of these sweet meditations Death struck us both with his
wing; the sleep of fever seized us both at the same hour. I woke alone!...
You sleep now in the land of Adonis, near the holy Byblus and the sacred
waters where the women of the ancient mysteries came to mingle their
tears.
Reveal to me, O my good genius, to me whom you loved, those truths which
master Death, prevent us from fearing, and make us almost love it.