September 11th she marked with a white stone and kept ever after as one of the chief festal days of her life, but of the reason why there is here no record. The diary for the rest of the year is blank with the exception of a single leaf which contains these sentences:
“Celle qui a besoin d’admirer ce qu’elle aime, celle, don’t le jugement est penetrant, bien que son imagination exaltee, il n’y a pour elle qu’un objet dans l’univers.”
“Celui qu’on aime, est le vengeur des fautes qu’on a commis sur cette terre; la Divinite lui prete son pouvoir.”
MAD. DE STAEL.
* * * * *
Her Views of Love and Courtship. Visit of her Sister and Child. Letters. Sickness and Death of Friends. Ill-Health. Undergoes a Surgical Operation. Her Fortitude. Study of German. Fenelon.
The records of the next year and a half are very abundant, in the form of notes, letters, verses and journals; but they are mostly of too private a character to furnish materials for this narrative, belonging to what she called “the deep story of my heart.” They breathe the sweetness and sparkle with the morning dew of the affections; and while some of them are full of fun and playful humor, others glow with all the impassioned earnestness of her nature, and others still with deep religious feeling. She wrote:
My heart seems to me somewhat like a very full church at the close of the services—the great congregation of my affections trying to find their way out and crowding and hindering each other in the general rush for the door. Don’t you see them—the young ones scampering first down the aisle, and the old and grave and stately ones coming with proud dignity after them?... I feel now that “dans les mysteres de notre nature aimer, encore aimer, est ce qui nous est reste de notre heritage celeste,” and oh, how I thank God for my blessed portion of this celestial endowment!