Sometimes we were high up the mountain side, while at our feet an unfathomable abyss seemed ready to engulf us.  A little later we were passing through a charming village with its cottages and graceful belfry, above which light fleecy clouds floated lazily.  Farther on a great lake with its blue waters, so calm and clear, would blend with the glowing splendour of the setting sun.  I cannot tell you how deeply I was impressed with this scenery so full of poetry and grandeur.  It was a foretaste of the wonders of Heaven.  Then the thought of religious life would come before me, as it really is, with its constraints and its little daily sacrifices made in secret.  I understood how easily one might become wrapped in self and forget the sublime end of one’s vocation, and I thought:  “Later on, when the time of trial comes, when I am enclosed in the Carmel and shall only be able to see a little bit of sky, I will remember this day and it will encourage me.  I will make light of my own small interests by thinking of the greatness and majesty of God; I will love Him alone, and will not be so foolish as to attach myself to the fleeting trifles of this world, now that my heart has had a glimpse of what is reserved for those who love Him.”

After having contemplated the works of God, I turned next to admire those of His creatures.  Milan was the first Italian town we visited, and we carefully studied its Cathedral of white marble, adorned with countless statues.  Celine and I left the timid ones, who hid their faces in fear after climbing to the first stage, and, following the bolder pilgrims, we reached the top, from whence we viewed the city below.  When we came down we started on the first of our expeditions; these lasted the whole month of the pilgrimage, and quite cured me of a desire to be always lazily riding in a carriage.

The “Campo Santo"[9] charmed us.  The whole vast enclosure is covered with marble statues, so exquisitely carved as to be life-like, and placed with an apparent negligence that only enhances their charm.  You feel almost tempted to console the imaginary personages that surround you, their expression so exactly portrays a calm and Christian sorrow.  And what works of art!  Here is a child putting flowers on its father’s grave—­one forgets how solid is marble—­the delicate petals appear to slip through its fingers.  Sometimes the light veils of the widows, and the ribbons of the young girls, seem floating on the breeze.

We could not find words to express our admiration, but an old gentleman who followed us everywhere—­regretting no doubt his inability to share our sentiments—­said in a tone of ill-temper:  “Oh, what enthusiasts these French people are!” and yet he also was French.  I think the poor man would have done better to stay at home.  Instead of enjoying the journey he was always grumbling:  nothing pleased him, neither cities, hotels, people, nor anything else.  My Father, whose disposition was the exact opposite, was quite content, no matter what happened, and tried to cheer our friend, offering him his place in the carriage or elsewhere, and with his wonted goodness encouraging him to look on the bright side of things.  But nothing could cheer him.  How many different kinds of people we saw and how interesting it is to study the world when one is just about to leave it!