"_April 8th, 1839._
"Rain and cold must have accompanied you all the journey, my dear
friend; they tell me that every day the weather has been horrid.
But, at the time of writing, I have the consolation of thinking
that for two days you have enjoyed rest after fatigue. In that
assurance my thought has left the road to Nevers to follow that
for Toulouse, where Eran is going, always with the same cortége
'of wind, of cold, and of rain.' Poor Eran! He left me with an
emotion that touched me very much. This journey to Paris, and all
that has happened in a few months, has drawn together and mingled
our lives (Eran's and mine) more than twenty years had been able
to do. We have always lived far away from each other, and our
characters have not helped much to make up for distance. At
length, events have hastened what must happen sooner or later, at
our age, and we parted with more feeling in our hearts.... I live
quite tranquil under my curtains, waiting with patience, thanks to
Caro's care, to books and dreams, the healing which the sun will
bring me. I like this almost complete retreat from the rest of the
world; for I am not such an enemy to solitude as you may fancy;
and there are in me quite strong tastes and needs which the
warmest lovers of a country life would not disavow. I hope that
God will cause these thoughts to be matured and, at the same time,
the means of realising them.
"M. Buquet came to see me the day of your departure, a few hours
after. He came again yesterday to _talk_ with me, as you wished.
He is to pay another visit next week; at length I hope all will go
on for the best." ...
An entry in the journal (May 19) of Mdlle. De Guérin affords us
another pleasant glimpse of Louise: "A letter from Louise, full of
interest for you, nothing but heart, spirit, charm from one end to the
other; a way of speaking that they only have amongst those heights of
Rayssac. The solitude causes this. Ideas come there, the like of which
there are nowhere else in the world--unknown, beautiful as flowers or
mosses. Charming Louise, how I love her! I find her this time in a
calm, a _désabusé_, which astonishes me; she generally has some
illusion. I am going to join the other Louise, who so much resembles
this one (do you not find it so?), and who prays for your recovery.
'The other day,' she writes to me (Louise de Rayssac), 'I was at the
Platér parish church with my aunt; I approached a saintly girl who
frequents this church from morning to evening, and who is greatly
respected for her piety. I raised a corner of her black veil, and said
to her very low: "Pardon, Mdlle., I wish to ask for prayers for a sick
young man, brother of the person whom I love the most in the world."
"Well, I will pray," she said to me, with that air of modesty which
raised her still more in my esteem. I have not seen her again. Is not
this a pretty, pious trait, my brother, this young lady seeking
prayers for you with an air of celestial interest? She is charming."
April 24, her journal contains this entry: "How all is laughing, what
life the sun has, how sweet and light is the air! A letter, news of
the best, dear invalid, and all is changed for me--within, without.
_I am happy to-day._"
Maurice, however, grew so alarmingly worse that it soon became
apparent that if he were to see his own old home again no time was to
be lost. Probably a presentiment of his approaching end made Maurice
desire to die at Le Cayla. During her travels Eugénie received
information that he had set out thither with his wife, and he wished
her to join them at Tours. Hastening thither, they proceeded by easy
steps to Le Cayla, arriving there on July 8, 1839.
As these two lives were so closely united, the rest of that of the
brother may be fittingly quoted from the sister's journal, written
some time after the bitterness of the last parting.
"It was on July 8, twenty days from our leaving Paris, at nearly
six o'clock in the evening, that we came in sight of Le Cayla, the
land of hope, the resting-place of our poor invalid. His thoughts
had been there only, as the one place on earth, for a long time. I
never saw in him a more ardent desire, and it grew more and more
keen as we approached. One might have said that he was in a hurry
to arrive, to be in time to die there. Had he any presentiment of
his end? In the first transports of joy at the sight of Le Cayla,
he pressed the hand of Erembert, who was by his side. He made a
sign to us all as of a discovery, to me who had never less emotion
of pleasure. I was contemplating sorrowfully everything in this
sad return, even my sister, and my father, who were at some little
distance, coming to meet us. Distressing meeting! My father was
dismayed; Marie wept at seeing Maurice. He was so changed, so
wasted, so pale, so shaky upon his horse, that he hardly seemed
alive. It was terrifying. The journey had killed him. If the
thought of arriving had not sustained him, I doubt whether he
would have accomplished it. You know something of what he had to
suffer, poor dear martyr! He embraced his father and his sister
without showing himself to be much moved. At the first sight of
the chateau he seemed in a sort of ecstasy; the perturbation that
it caused him was unique, and must have exhausted all his faculty
of sensation; I never saw him so keenly touched by anything again.
He, however, affectionately greeted the reapers who were cutting
our wheat, shook hands with some of them, and with all the
servants who gathered round us.
"When we came to the salon: 'Ah, how nice it is here,' said he,
sitting down on the couch, and he again embraced my father. We
were all regarding him with content. It was still a family joy.
His wife went to do some unpacking; I took her place beside him,
and kissing him on the brow, which I had not done for a long time,
said, 'How well you look! You will quickly recover here.' '_I hope
so_--I am at home.' 'Let your wife also consider herself as at
home; make her understand that she is one of the family, and do as
in her own house.' 'No doubt, no doubt.' I do not remember what
other things we said in those moments while we were alone.
Caroline came down, supper was announced, which Maurice found
delicious. He ate of everything with appetite. 'Ah!' he said to
Marie, 'your cooking is excellent.'
"My God! what followed takes hold of my heart. My life is there
only.
"I have a future only by faith, by bonds which are attached to
Maurice, and from him to the skies....
"But let us return to his life--to the last and precious
recollections of it which are left to me.
"We hoped much from the climate, from his native air, and from the
warm temperature of our South. The second day from our arrival it
was cold; the invalid felt it, and had shiverings. His finger-ends
were like ice. I saw clearly that there was not the improvement we
had hoped, that he could not recover so quickly whilst these
attacks returned. There was no fever after, and the doctor
reassured us. These doctors are often deceived, or deceivers. We
induced the invalid not to leave his room the following day,
attributing the chill he had taken to the coldness of the salon.
He resigned himself, as he always did, though somewhat
unwillingly, to what we wished; but it was so dull up there, and
it became so warm by-and-bye, that I myself invited him to come
down. 'Oh! yes,' he said, 'Here I am far from everybody. There is
more life below with you all, and then there is the terrace. I
will go there to take a walk. Let us go down.' That terrace
especially drew him to enjoy the outside air, the sun, and that
beautiful nature which he so much loved. I believe it was on that
day that he pulled some weeds round the pomegranate tree, and dug
some feet of Peruvian lilies. Assisted by his wife he stretched a
wire along the wall for the jasmine and creepers. That appeared to
amuse him. "So each day I will try my strength a little," said he,
on returning indoors. He never went out again. The weakness
increased, the least movement fatigued him. He only left his
armchair by necessity, or to take a few steps, at the prayer of
his wife, who tried everything to draw him from his lethargy. She
sang, she played, and all often without effect--at least, I was
not able to see any impression. He remained the same to
everything, his head leaning upon the side of his chair, his eyes
closed. He had, however, some better times some brief periods in
which there were flashes towards life. It was in one of these
moments that he went to the piano and played an air--poor air,
which I shall have in my heart always.
"I wish to tell you, also, how much this dear brother has given me
consolation in regard to his Christian sentiments. This dates, not
from his last days only; he had kept Easter at Paris. At the
beginning of Lent he wrote to me: 'The Abbé Buquel came to see me;
to-morrow he will come again to talk with me as you desired.' Dear
friend! Yes, I had desired that for his happiness, and he had done
it for mine, not conceding for complacency, but doing it from
_conviction_; he was incapable of the appearance of an act of
faith. I have seen him alone at Tours, in his room on Sunday
reading prayers. For some time he had enjoyed works of piety, and
I have been thankful that I left with him Saint Theresa and
Fénélon, which have done him much good. God ceased not to inspire
me for him. So I had the fancy to bring for the journey a good
little book, pious and charming to read, translated from the
Italian--'Father Quadrupani'--which gave him much pleasure. From
time to time he asked me to read him a few pages: 'Read me a
little of Quadrupani.' He listened with attention, then signed to
me when he had had enough, reflected thereon, closed his eyes and
rested, impressing upon his mind the sweet and comforting holy
thoughts. Thus every day at Cayla we read to him some sermons of
Bossuet and some passages from 'The Imitation of Christ.' He also
wished to have some entertaining reading, and having nothing new
in our library, we began Scott's 'Old Mortality.' He went through
one volume with some appearance of interest, and then gave it up.
He was soon fatigued with anything; we did not know what to do in
order to divert him. Visits brought him little relief; he talked
only with his doctor--a man of intelligence, who pleased the
invalid and sustained his interest. I noticed these moral
influences, and even in his greatest prostration that intelligent
nature rose up with every kindred touch. Thus the evening, or
evening but one, before his death he laughed heartily at your
_feuilleton_, so pleasantly witty: _Il faut que jeunesse se
passe_, with which he was charmed. He wished to have it read over
again: 'Write to d'Aurevilly,' he said to me, 'and tell him it is
a long time since I have laughed as I have just done.' Alas! he
laughed no more! You gave him the last intellectual pleasure that
he had. Everything was enjoyable that came to him from you.
Friendship was the sweetest and strongest of his sentiments, that
which he felt the most deeply, of which he loved best to speak,
and which, I can say, he has taken with him to the tomb. _Oh! yes,
he loved you to the end._ I do not know on what occasion, being
alone with him, speaking of you, I said to him: 'Do you like me to
write to your friend?' '_Do I like it?_' he said, with his heart
in his voice. The same day, on leaving him, I sent you a bulletin.
"We thought him very weak; however, I hoped always. I had written
to the Prince of Hohenlohe. I expected a miracle. His cough was
easier, his appetite sustained him. The fatal evening he yet dined
with us: the last family dinner! There were some figs which he
wished for, and which I was unkind enough to forbid; but the
others having approved, he ate one, which did him neither good nor
harm, and I was saved from the bitterness of having deprived him
of something. I wish to tell everything, to preserve every
incident of his last moments, much grieved not to remember more. A
word that he said to my father has stayed with me. My poor father
returned from Gaillac quite hot, with his medicines. When Maurice
saw him he said, holding out his hand to him, 'One must confess
that you love your children well,' And, indeed, my father did love
him well! A little time after the poor invalid, rising with
difficulty from his chair to go into the adjoining room, 'I am
very low,' he said, speaking as to himself. I heard him, that
sentence of death from his mouth, without answering a word,
without, perhaps, quite believing it. But I was struck. In the
evening they carried him with his chair into his room. While he
was going to bed I talked with Erembert: 'He is very feeble
to-night, but his chest is freer, the cough is gone. If we can get
on to the month of October he will be saved.' It was the 18th
July, at ten o'clock at night. He had a bad night. I heard his
wife speak to him, rising often. All was heard in my room--I
listened to all. I went soon in the morning to see him, and his
look struck me. It was a fixed look. 'What does it mean?' I said
to the doctor, who came early. 'It means that Maurice is worse.'
Ah, my God! Erembert went to tell my father, who came quickly. He
went immediately out, and consulted with the doctor, who had told
him it was necessary to think of the last sacraments. The Curé was
sent for, also my sister, who was at church. My father begged the
doctor, M. Facien, to prepare Caroline for the terrible tidings.
He took her apart. I went to join her immediately, and found her
all in tears. I heard her say, 'I knew it.' She knew that he must
die! 'For three months I have been preparing myself for this
sacrifice.' Thus the stroke of death did not terrify her, but she
was disconsolate.
"'My poor sister,' I said, putting my arm round her neck. 'This is
the dreadful moment; but let us not weep; we must tell him, he
must be prepared for the sacraments. Do you feel strong enough for
the duty, or shall I do it?' 'Yes; you do it, Eugénie--you do it!'
She was stifled with sobs. I passed immediately to the bed of the
invalid, and, praying God to sustain me, I leant over him, and
kissed him on the moist forehead. 'My brother,' I said to him, 'I
want to tell you something. I have written for you to the Prince
of Hohenlohe. You know he has done some miracles of healing. God
works by whom He wills and how He wills. He is, above all, the
sovereign healer of the sick. Have you not confidence in him?
Supreme confidence' (or _full_, I do not remember which). 'Well,
my friend, let us ask in all confidence His mercy; let us unite in
prayers, we with the Church, you in your heart. We are going to
have Mass with Communion. You will have it with us. Jesus Christ
went to the sick, you know.' 'Oh! I wish it much, I wish to unite
in your prayers.' 'That is right, my brother; the Curé is coming,
and you will confess. It will not pain you to talk to the Curé?'
'Not at all.' The Curé came. Maurice asked him to wait a little,
not being quite ready. We saw him entirely collected and
meditative. Alas! last meditation of his soul! In about ten
minutes he called for the priest, and remained with him for nearly
half-an-hour, conversing, we were told, with all the lucidity and
calmness of mind he had when in health. We made the arrangements
necessary for the Communion. His wife, with the sadness and piety
of an angel, recited to him the prayers for the Communion, which
are so beautiful, and those for the dying, which are so touching;
then he asked for those for the extreme unction, calmly and
naturally, as for a thing expected.
"He was hungry and faint, and asked me for his cordial, which I
brought him. As he perspired much, I said to him, 'My dear, do not
put out your arm; I will feed you like an infant.' A smile came
upon his lips, where I laid the spoon, where I made to pass the
last food he took. Thus I have been able to serve him once more,
to give him my care another time. He was given back to me dying. I
marked it as a favour of God, granted to my love as a sister, that
I have rendered to this dear brother the last services to the soul
and body, since I prepared him for the last sacraments, and made
his last nourishment: food for both lives. This seems nothing, is
nothing, in fact, for any one else. It is for me alone to observe
it, and to thank Providence for these relations taken up again
with my dear Maurice before he left us. Sad and indefinable
compensation for so many months of passive friendship! Was I wrong
in wishing to serve him? Who knows?...
"The invalid, it seemed to me, was better. His eyes, open again,
had not the startling fixed appearance of the morning, nor was his
intellect feeble; he appeared morally revived, and in full
enjoyment of his faculties throughout the ceremonies. He followed
everything with his heart, very devoutly.... He pressed the hand
of the Curé, who continued to speak to him of heaven, put to his
lips a cross that his wife offered him, and then began to sink. We
all kissed him, and he died, Friday morning, July 19, 1839, at
half-past eleven. It was eleven days after our arrival at Le
Cayla--eight months after his marriage."
With the life of her brother the brightness of that of Eugénie passed
away. Though they had been destined to be so much separated, she had
lived for him. After he was gone she was possessed by thoughts of him,
and a desire to do justice to his memory and genius became the
dominating power of her life. Returning from his graveside, she sits
down to open a fresh page in her journal, heading it: "Still to
him--to Maurice dead, to Maurice in heaven. He was the glory and the
joy of my heart. Oh, it is a sweet name and full of dilection, the
name of brother." On this, his burial day, she writes: "No, my
brother, death shall not separate us, nor take thee from my thought:
death separates only the body; the soul instead of being there is in
heaven, but this change of abode takes away nothing of its affections.
They are far from that, I hope; they love better in heaven, where all
is glorified. Oh, my dear Maurice, Maurice! Art thou far from me? Dost
thou hear me?"
In the midst of her profound grief it was a source of great
consolation to Eugénie that her brother had returned to the faith and
love of his early days. Her letters to her friends are henceforth full
of Maurice. Memories of him throng her thought, and find outlet only
in outpourings of tender love; reflections on the sadness, the
partings of life, the hopes of reunion in the life to come, which
alone sustained her; prayers for the peace of the departed soul. Her
life for the future was to be more intensely spiritual. One earthly
care only was left--her brother's memory. She continued her journal
for some months, still writing to Maurice as if for his eye. This may
seem to be unnatural, arising from an oversensitive and morbid state
of mind. She, indeed, came to this conclusion herself; and, after a
time, addressed her journal no longer to her brother, but to his
latest friend at Paris.
The genius of Maurice de Guérin, so slowly recognised during his life,
began to be acknowledged after his death. Madame Georges Sand wrote an
appreciative review in an essay upon his life, poems, and letters in
the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ of May, 1840. Other articles followed. His
contributions, journal, letters, and fragments were collected, as far
as possible, with the idea of publishing a book of his literary
remains. Eugénie herself made a journey to Paris for the purpose of
furthering the design. She rejoiced in the idea of justice being done
to her brother's memory, and the true side of his character presented
to the world. Her hopes were, however, doomed to disappointment. The
latest entry in her journal is made the last day of the year 1840, and
is: "My God, how sad is time, whether it be that which goes or that
which comes! And how right the saint was when he said, Let us throw
our hearts in eternity."
Difficulties in the way of the publication of her brother's writings
arose from one cause or another, and, after a long sojourn in Paris
and Nevers, she was obliged to return home to Le Cayla with the
remaining ambition of her life unfulfilled. A large collection of
papers, which had been placed in the hands of her brother's friend,
were neglected, and difficulty was experienced in getting them
returned. When eventually, through the intervention of a friend, they
were restored, the design had been abandoned.
Time, meanwhile, brought its inevitable changes in the quiet home of
Le Cayla. Her friend Louise de Bayne left her home among the mountains
to be married to a husband whom she accompanied to Algiers, Caroline
returned to India; her brother Erembert married, and baby feet came
again to resound within the old walls. But Eugénie's heart was in the
tomb with her dead brother and her buried hopes. Her health declined.
She died at Le Cayla on May 31, 1848. A short time before she died, it
is said that she gave the key of a certain drawer to her sister,
requesting her to burn the papers she would find there, and adding,
"All is but vanity."
What the devoted sister failed to see accomplished during her life
has, happily, been done since. The surviving sister, with the help of
friends, set herself to the task not only of rescuing from oblivion
the writings of Maurice, but also those of the gifted Eugénie herself.
The "Journal, Letters, and Poems" of Maurice published in 1860, has
passed through many editions. This was followed by the journal of
Eugénie, and afterwards by her letters, both of which have had a still
greater popularity than the works of Maurice. These books contain
truly the record of a soul's life. Their character is to some extent
shown by the extracts contained herein; but their real value is only
to be seen, and their charm enjoyed, by a loving perusal. Her letters
have a grace entirely their own. Her journal reveals a depth of
thought, a wonderful insight into and appreciation of truth and
beauty, a store of devotional reflection, which render it a work of
rare worth. Literary fame was far from her thoughts. If she wrote at
all it must be gracefully. She says: "I often ask myself, of what
profit is all this writing, but that it pleases Maurice, who finds his
sister there. Still, if it affords me innocent amusement; pauses of
rest in the day's work. If I garner these my flowers, gathered in
solitude, my thoughts, my reflections, that God sends me for
instruction and comfort, there is no harm in it. And if some one finds
here and there a true thought, and feels it, and is better for it,
though only for a moment, I shall have done good--the good I want to
do."
It is, however, in Eugénie's memory as a sister that this record of
her is here given. And she stands out for all time as an example of
one of the world's most devoted sisters. Her depth of love, her
intense sympathy, her self-sacrificing zeal, her unswerving purpose,
her deep piety, were all directed or intensified by the master passion
of her soul--the love of her brother--and we cannot but believe that
such love brings its reward, that is not only for time, but that,
immortal as its origin, it has, at last, been fully satisfied.
_W. Speaight & Sons, Printers, Fetter Lane, London._
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._